#Tree Tunnel Gate

[sterlingsheehy]

Cult Statue Sunset

Hanging with the cyclographicult hommies at the statue, aka James A. Garfield, in Golden Gate Park. Looking west towards a lovely late summer sunset over the conservatory of flowers lawn. Good times

[himasgod]

Hiiii could I request a Rapunzel type reader with Vil? Nothing too specific just maybe the long hair and a Rapunzel-ish personality! Do whatever you please with it really <3

VIL X READER

Where you look like Rapunzel

Where you transfer as a new student from RSA, and Vil can't take his eyes off you after you join Pomefiore and make a mess of things.

probably one of my favorite vil things i have <3

“Who is that?”

The words left Epel’s mouth with the kind of innocent wonder that usually earned him a glare. And sure enough—

“Do not gawk like a bumpkin,” Vil drawled, casting an icy look at the first-year. “It’s unattractive.”

Epel winced. “Sorry, Vil. It’s just—look!”

Pomefiore courtyard was usually serene—prim apple trees, elegant hedges... Which made the sight of you even more surreal. You were standing near the bushes, humming softly to a group of birds perched on the gate, and your hair—

Saints, your hair.

It cascaded down your back in endless waves, golden and glossy, trailing nearly to your ankles. It swayed behind you like a living creature, each strand almost impossibly perfect.

“Is that enchanted?” Rook asked from nowhere, eyes gleaming. “C’est magnifique.”

“She’s a transfer student from Royal Sword Academy,” Rook explained, leaning in. “I heard her magic channels through her hair. Something about magic saturation from birth.”

Vil blinked. “That’s absurd.”

“Still pretty,” Epel mumbled.

And Vil Schoenheit scoffed.

You looked untouched. Like someone who hadn’t been bent to fit any mold. Like you didn’t even realize the attention you drew.

Naive. Unrefined. And absolutely radiant.

Vil frowned. That could be a problem.

You were, by every measurable social metric, a disaster.

You got lost three times your first week. You called Professor Crewel “sir puppy-coat” by accident and then tried to braid Jack's tail because you thought it was “pretty.” You asked if alchemy classes included painting.

And when you walked into Alchemy with a loose braid, Vil nearly had a coronary.

“Darling, what is that?” he hissed, grabbing your arm.

“What’s what?”

“Your hair. It looks like you rolled out of bed, tangled yourself in curtains, and then got caught in a wind tunnel.”

“Oh,” you said thoughtfully. “That’s kind of poetic.”

“It’s horrifying,” he corrected.

You didn’t seem offended, just tilted your head.

“I like when it’s free. It gets sad when it’s pulled too tight.”

“Your hair gets sad?”

“Yes. Don’t yours?”

Vil stared at you. You stared back.

Then, completely seriously, you said,

“You’re very shiny. Are you royalty?”

“…Close enough,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

Vil tried to ignore you.

He tried.

But then you joined the Pomefiore dorm (“A perfect match for your magic affinity,” said Crowley, likely after throwing a dart at a wall) and began leaving strands of hair everywhere—on the banister, the staircase, the library chairs, even once trailing behind a moving tea cart like a golden ribbon.

And yet—despite the chaos—you were impossible to stay annoyed at.

You complimented everyone with alarming honesty. You greeted Rook’s dramatic entrances with claps and sparkling eyes like he was performing just for you. You offered to brush Epel’s hair “to make it extra floofy,” which he weirdly didn’t hate.

You braided flowers into your own braid and left extra ones for anyone who looked like they needed one.

And every morning, you smiled like the world was a gift.

Vil caught you one evening humming as you combed your fingers through your hair under the moonlight.

He sighed and stepped closer.

“You missed alchemy today.”

You turned to him, eyes wide.

“I didn’t mean to! I was helping a dust bunny out of a bookshelf and then I got distracted—”

“Enough,” Vil waved a hand. “I’m not here to scold you. Much.”

“You’re always very… sleek.”

“Thank you?”

“You remind me of a mirror, very shiny. And kind of cold.”

“That’s not a compliment most would take kindly.”

“I meant it nicely.”

And damn him, he almost believed you.

You’d float into the lounge while Vil was doing skincare, and he’d pretend not to look when you sat nearby, trying to braid your hair with too many ribbons.

He’d tut when you forgot conditioner, roll his eyes when you used flower water as toner, and scold you endlessly when you tried to trim your hair with hedge clippers.

But Vil realized something.

You took his advice to heart, asked thoughtful questions, even showed up at his mirror one morning with a shy,

“I tried the thing with the satin pillowcase. My hair didn’t cry today.”

He’d never wanted to scream and laugh at the same time before.

“You are…” he said one day, fingers brushing through your golden strands as you sat between his knees, “a complete mess.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

You twisted to look at him, eyes bright. “But I like the way you say it.”

Vil rolled his eyes and refocused on your braid.

“Why do you let me do this?”

“Because it’s preferable to watching you destroy your own scalp.”

“But you don’t have to,” you pressed. “You’re Vil Schoenheit. You’re busy and glamorous and probably have a million better things to do.”

He looked at your reflection in the mirror. The way you watched him— something softer.

“I do it, because you listen. Because you make this place…” he paused, searching for a word. “…brighter.”

You beamed. Vil groaned.

“Don’t look so pleased. I’m trying to be serious.”

“You’re being sweet.”

“I’m never sweet.”

You turned around on the stool, facing him. “Maybe just with me.”

And Saints help him, he didn’t deny it.

And you kissed him first.

Not dramatically, not in a burst of emotion.

He’d just finished pinning the final flower into your braid. You looked up at him and whispered, “You’re my favorite part of NRC.”

And then, without waiting, you leaned up and kissed him.

It was gentle. Like the way sunbeams feel through a window after rain.

Vil didn’t speak for a full minute.

“You are a menace.”

You smiled.

“…Yes,” he sighed finally, brushing your hair from your face. “My radiant menace.”

[mothmiso]

Baie de Somme (2) (3) by Lorenzo Sponza

[noirscript]

04; the forsaking

Pairing: Yandere!Billionaire x Undercover!Reader Description: You gave up chasing the truth when no one cared to hear it—until Micah brought you a name you couldn’t ignore, and a company where people vanished behind glass walls and golden promises. Now the garden is locked, Micah is gone, and you understand far too late: you were never investigating him. You were chosen. Warning/s: Yandere | Manipulative Behavior | Emotional Coercion | Betrayal | Forced Proximity | Implied Captivity | Unsettling Intimacy | Power Imbalance | Toxic Devotion | Possessive Behavior | Gaslighting | Cult Undertones Note/s: Apologies for not posting this part yesterday. My left eye was aching (there's still something there today T^T). Um... I hope you enjoy it! Also, updating sanctum later. Enjoy reading and let me know what you think!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

You almost don’t open the envelope.

It feels wrong. Not in the way a forgotten or a mistake in the address might feel—but in the way that your skin knows something before your mind does. It sits in your mailbox like it doesn’t belong to this world. Off-white. Cleanly folded. No postage. No return address. A silence wrapped in paper.

Your fingers hesitate above it, reluctant. But you take it. You always take it.

The texture is smooth but stiff, the kind of paper you’d find in law offices or wills. And it’s cold. Not from the weather, but from something deeper—like it’s held in a room with no light, no breath, no sound. The faint scent that clings to it slithers up your nose: cedarwood, yes—but beneath it, something metallic, something wet. Like blood licked from a knife.

Your throat tightens.

Inside, there’s only one note. A single slip of thick, expensive paper with a short message in a hand you could recognize even blind. Micah’s. Steady. Careful.

Glass garden. 7:30. Be calm. Just you and him. –Micah

You reread it. Once. Twice. A third time, hoping something will change, hoping the words will blur into something more mundane. But they don’t. They stay exactly as they are—clean, precise, damning.

You stare at the envelope in your lap long after you’re home. The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tick of your wall clock. The gentle groan of old pipes. Even your own breathing sounds intrusive. You glance at the drawer across the room—the one where the last shred of control lies tangled in wires.

The bug. The mic. Your shield.

You open it slowly. The metal catches the light like a sliver of ice. It looks so small now. So stupid.

Your fingers brush it.

Then, withdraw.

You close the drawer.

You don’t bring it.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The drive is a blur of black roads and blinking yellow lights, your headlights carving tunnels through the dark. The city peels away behind you in layers—first the noise, then the lights, then the illusion that you are not complete and utterly alone. Trees crowd in around the road as the miles unspool. Their limbs look like claws. The stars vanish. Even the moon keeps its distance.

By the time you reach Zachary Quinn’s estate, your breath is shallow and cold in your chest. The gate doesn’t wait for you. It swings open soundlessly, the wrought iron parting like jaws.

You drive through them. Of course you do.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The garden gleams ahead—glass walls aglow with golden candlelight, soft and flickering. It looks peaceful from a distance. Safe, even. But the closer you get, the more you feel it: that wrongness coiled inside the glow, the too-perfect symmetry, the way the hedges seem to lean in when you’re not looking.

You walk the path slowly, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You pass a fountain shaped like a cupped hand, water falling in perfectly timed droplets. It sounds like a clock ticking down. Like something waiting to begin.

Micah sits at the far end of long stone table. The candlelight dances across his skin, turning him pale and bruised-looking. He doesn’t lift his head as you enter, though you can see the way his shoulders rise and fall.

You step closer. Your heartbeat pounds against your ribs like it’s trying to get out. The air inside the garden presses against your skin, hot and thick and fragrant—sweet herbs, overripe flowers, and something beneath it all that makes your stomach clench.

Rot.

He finally lifts his head.

“Micah,” you whisper.

His eyes are red. Exhausted. Haunted.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, the words scraped from his throat. “I thought I could stall him. If I gave him just enough truth, maybe he’d…” He hesitates, then looks up fully, and the shame there is worse than rage. “I thought he’d go easy on you.”

You stare at him, but the words don’t land. They dissolve in your ears like ash.

“No,” you say. Quiet. Sharp. A thread of denial. “You told him?”

“I told him it was me,” he says, faster now, like he can fix it by forcing it out. “That I dragged you into it. That you didn’t mean anything by it. That you were innocent.” He swallows hard. “I begged.”

“No,” you say again. You’re shaking your head and you don’t remember starting. “You wouldn’t…”

“I didn’t think he’d—” Micah’s voice cracks. “I thought that maybe he’d still—”

But you already know. You knew when you opened the letter. When you crossed the threshold of the garden. When the gate opened without a sound. You knew this was never a meeting.

It was a sentencing.

“He’s already here,” you whisper.

Micah freezes.

Your breath hitches. Your skin prickles, not from cold, but from the knowing—he’s here. Not just nearby. Not just on his way. Zachary is here already. In the garden. Watching. Waiting.

Like an apex predator hiding in plain sight, letting you circle the snare.

Micah’s eyes flicker toward the shadows for the briefest moment. A betrayal in a glance.

You take a slow step back, away from the table. You feel like the air is closing in, thickening around your ankles like smoke.

“You should have run,” you say, voice hollow.

“I couldn’t,” Micah whispers. “He… I thought he loved you enough to stop.”

He steps closer, then stops himself. His hand lifts, then falls.

“I thought I could protect you,” he says, quieter now.

You want to scream at him. Shake him. Break whatever fantasy he’d been clinging to. But it’s too late. His body is already sagging with defeat.

Then, like some twisted mockery of comfort, he leans in and kisses your forehead. The touch lingers like ash, warm for a moment, then cold as it fades.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

Micah turns and walks past you, leaving the garden with slow, rigid steps. The doors whisper closed behind him.

You’re alone.

But not really.

You feel it—behind you, beneath you, around you. A pressure, an absence of sound that hums louder than noise ever could.

Then, he’s is there.

You don’t hear him arrive. There’s no footfall, no shift in air. One moment, the space behind you is empty. The next—it is filled.

You turn, and Zachary stands in the doorway.

He wears black. As always. Tailored to perfection. No loose threads. Not a single wrinkle. His collar open, hands casually relaxed at his sides. As if this were a dinner party. As if you were guests.

He smiles. Slowly.

“Micah,” he says, “is sentimental.”

The sound of his voice makes your skin crawl. It’s rich and warm and completely without empathy. Velvet stretched over knives.

“That’s what makes him so… useful.”

You try not to flinch, but it’s hard. Your libs feel to light. Your heart has started pounding again, loud enough to fill your ears.

Zachary steps closer. Measured. Controlled. Like a lion that’s already cornered its prey and sees no need to rush the kill.

“But you,” he continues, “you’re colder. You think. You play the game.”

He stops in front of you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—subtle spice, warm woods, and underneath it, something sharp and predatory.

“You wanted to understand me. Dissect me.” His smile deepens. “And now, you have.”

Your voice comes out brittle. “What do you want?”

Zachary raises his eyebrows slightly. “Everything.”

Then his fingers trail along your arm—just a whisper of touch—and the shiver it sends through you is immediate, involuntary.

“I want you to stop pretending,” he murmurs. “Stop running. Stop hiding behind lies.”

His hand moves beneath your chin, tilting you face up. He doesn’t grip. He positions. Like you’re a figure to be adjusted.

“I want you to stay,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“I forgive you,” he adds, as though he’s offering a blessing. “For trying to betray me. For thinking you could win.”

He steps behind you. His breath warms the curve of your neck.

“You didn’t choose me,” he whispers. “But I’m choosing you.”

Then—click.

The garden doors lock.

Zachary’s hand settles on your shoulder. Gentle. Absolute.

And you—frozen, heart thundering, body tense like a wire drawn too tight—you know there is no escape.

His voice brushes your ear like silk spun from a spider’s web.

“So now,” he says, “let’s talk about the truth.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya

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[ramp-it-up]

Sugar High

Simple Sugar | Sugar is Sweet | Sugar, Cubed

Summary: I revisited Sugar and the boys from the Sugar is Sweet séries, and let me tell you. Bucky and Steve sure have grown up from their college days. Bucky left and lied; Steve stayed and lied. Tony sends you to Tokyo with Steve and well... On a weekend trip to Kyoto, you and Steve have a real talk on Fushimi Inari

Word Count: 1.6 K

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader; mention of Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Beta’d. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Roommate/Co-worker au, ANGST!, Steve apologizes, lots of angst, talk of hurt and Bucky suffers. Another tattoo! Basically, you are doomed.

A/N: This is related to the Sugar is Sweet and Sugar, Cubed au, but can be read alone. This comes after Simple Sugar. I was reflecting on the fact that @yenzys-lucky-charm is really interested in this unfinished series of mine, and the fact that this time last year, I was on a plane back to the US from Japan. A time was had. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka, Hokkaido. We had a blast. But one of the most magical moments was when we hiked Fushimi Inari. I did it with a UTI. 🙃 But it was amazing. Mr. Inari is magic, so I had to include it here. Pics of the torii gates and the overlook at Kyoto mine. Let me know if you like this bit of angst.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself

-------

Mt. Inari Trail, Kyoto

Rain turned the mountain path into a river of silver.

Droplets slid down moss-slick stone and drummed softly on the endless red torii gates climbing toward the clouds. You were soaked through your hoodie and leggings, but it was peaceful.

You ducked beneath the low eaves of a wayside shrine. A fox statue kept silent guard, its granite fur jeweled with rain.

Steve jogged up a heartbeat later, cap dark with water, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.

“You good?” 

“I love it. The quiet,” you said, steam curling from your lips.

“No crowds. No noise.”

He smiled.

“Magic. Feels like a place you can start over.”

You didn’t answer, not at first. Rain rattled the bamboo gutter. Steve’s gentle gaze searched your face.

“I keep playing that night in Tokyo on repeat,” he said, voice dropping. 

The words vibrated through the wood at your back. 

“Every sound you made. Everything I failed to say.”

Your pulse thudded. 

“That’s the problem, Steve. You lied to me about Bucky. And what you didn’t say, in the elevator, still screams louder than what you did say in bed.”

He flinched. Rain pattered off his brim and down the rigid line of his jaw.

“I didn’t tell you he was injured because I was too afraid you’d leave for him once you knew how bad he was hurt. Too selfish to share. And I should’ve shut him down in that elevator,” he admitted.

“But I froze. And it damaged you.” 

His breath fogged between you. 

“Let me earn your trust back. No lies. No silence.”

You didn’t pull away when his fingers slipped between yours. 

“You sure honesty won’t break us worse?”

“We’re already cracked,” he said.

“Honesty’s the only thing that might fix us.”

The torii tunnel shimmered behind him, red lacquer slick as new blood. You exhaled, let go of his hand, then stepped back into the rain.

—--

You walked another ten minutes in silence. 

The shower tapered to a mist and stone foxes watched from every bend, their eyes green with moss. In a clearing a lone cherry tree spread budding branches over a weather-worn bench.

You sat, damp clothes clinging, heart knocking against your ribs. Steve stood at the overlook, city lights blinking in the far distance.

“Maybe we were doomed from the start,” he said to the dark.

“Or maybe we just needed less ego and more time.”

You huffed.

“Might’ve required different men.”

He laughed under his breath. 

“Yeah. Might’ve. But we were so good at the pretending part. That summer in Stark House... god. The three of us? We had no clue what we were sitting on.”

“You mean the pile of unresolved sexual tension?”

Steve huffed a laugh.

“That, and the closeness. The quiet parts. The way he used to fall asleep with his hand in your hair, and how you always used my shoulder when we watched movies.”

You blinked slowly, the memory heavy in your chest.

“What a time,” you murmured.

Steve turned, his wet lashes glowing in the moonlight.

“The dare isn’t about sex anymore, Sugar. It’s about truth. About finishing the sentence we choked on back then.”

“What if we finish it wrong?” you whispered.

“Then at least we tried.” 

He offered his hand again. This time you took it without hesitation.

—-

You found a small izakaya near the base of Fushimi Inari, a quiet spot, the kind that didn’t cater to tourists. 

Inside were wood-paneled walls, paper lanterns, and a few handwritten menus tacked up above the open grill. The scent of soy and charcoal filled the air. 

You were the only foreigners in the place, but no one paid you much attention. Maybe it was the rain.

Maybe it was the way Steve watched you like he was still catching his breath from that conversation on the mountain.

You ordered sake; you both needed it. He poured for you and you let him.

It was cozy and dim. Your clothes were damp from the hike, but the warmth from the shared nabe pot had you melting into the wooden bench seat across from Steve. There was music playing softly, something vintage and jazzy.

Your legs brushed under the table. 

His knee stayed pressed to yours.

“So,” you said, sampling your sake, fire blooming down your throat.“Those contests with Bucky. Explain.”

Steve smirked, wiping broth from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“God, we were idiots. We had whole arguments over who could make you laugh harder, who you hugged longer, or who got the last fry off your plate.”

He shook his head.

“But the truth is, I think he and I both knew the second we met you that we had both already lost. Our hearts. To you.”

You didn’t respond. But Steve pressed on.

“You remember the night we all crashed in the media room?”

You laughed. It was early on in the fellowship. The first week.

“Under that terrible knit blanket?”

Steve laughed too.

“God, yeah. You were in the middle, wearing my hoodie and his sweatpants.”

You shook your head, smiling.

“We didn’t even make it through the movie.”

“You fell asleep on my chest. Bucky wrapped himself around your back like a goddamn furnace.”

“And you both had hard ons by sunrise. I remember.”

Steve blushed, but you didn’t let him off the hook.

“You two practically eye-fucked me in Theory of Advanced Quantum Mechanics the whole next morning.”

Steve chuckled. 

“We were twenty-one and dumb. And we thought we could play it cool.”

Silence fell between you again. Not awkward. Not empty.

“Truth is,” Steve said, voice lower than the music, “we never stopped wanting you. Either of us.”

You set your cup down, eyes locked on his. 

“Maybe I never stopped wanting… both.”

Heat flared behind his gaze, but his hands stayed on the tabletop, knuckles white with restraint.

“Then quit punishing the three of us. Let’s talk to him. Together.”

You sat with those words as the server brought grilled skewers and hot miso, as you refilled his cup and then your own.

“Been a long time since I felt that… safe,” he murmured.

You nodded, voice small.

“Or that stupid.

A breathy laugh escaped him. “Both.”

You set your cup down, fingers steady for the first time in months.

“Maybe,” you said, meeting his gaze, “we should talk to Bucky."

“Together?” Steve asked.

“Together,” you answered.

—---

Bucky’s Apartment, West Side, 10 pm the next day.

It was cold in the apartment, but Bucky didn’t move to fix it. He just stood at the window, jaw clenched, watching a streak of neon ripple across the Hudson. 

It had been three days since he heard you were reassigned.

Sent to Tokyo. With Steve.

Not him. Of course not him. He deserved that.

Hell, maybe he deserved worse.

He hadn’t known at first. Just noticed you weren’t at the office. Then no one responded to his pings. 

Then Tony's assistant gave him a tight-lipped “She's been reassigned indefinitely. Stark’s orders.”

And then the kicker: Steve had been sent too. You were together.

Bucky leaned his forehead against the glass. He deserved this exile.

The memory returned on an endless loop: his own voice, filled with jealousy, asking you which cock you preferred; Steve, frozen. 

Your face registered shock, then something worse. Disbelief and betrayal.

The moment the lights cut back on, your expression fixed in his memory like a photograph he deserved to choke on forever.

He’d wanted you to hurt the way he’d been hurting. Mission accomplished.

Outside, a barge horn moaned; red lights crawled along the opposite shore. Bucky exhaled a breath. 

Congrats, Barnes. You finally found a cavern she wouldn’t follow you into.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, and the itch started then on his lower left ribcage, right over his heart. He lifted the hem of his tee.

A clean black glucose ring stared back. Simple chemistry. One loop, six peaks. You in his blood, permanent as marrow. He’d never told you. Never thought he had the right after that elevator.

It wasn’t even an original idea, Steve’s ink had inspired his.

What would you say if you saw it?

Maybe: You don’t get to keep pieces of me, Bucky. Not after you broke them.

A chill climbed his spine. He dropped onto the couch, and time slipped; minutes, maybe hours, blurred into gray. He almost powered off his phone when the screen flared.

Catalysts & Curves ⚗️

That group thread had been dead for well over a year. He tapped it on impulse.

A photo filled the screen.

A scandalously shaped croissant splayed on a café plate, glossy and indecent under fluorescent light.

Beside it, a paper cup: SUGAR scrawled in Sharpie.

Sugar: This croissant just propositioned me. Send help. Or napkins.

Bucky’s chest tightened with shock first, then a bloom of something hopeful.

Steve had already replied.

Steve: Told you that place was cursed. That pastry looks dangerous. Don’t eat that, or anything. You’ll be doomed to stay there forever.

Bucky’s thumbs hovered. Then sarcasm, his only armor, tumbled out.

Bucky: Looks like Steve’s understudy. More layers, too.

Message sent. Regret hit instantly, but before he could second-guess himself, a reply.

Sugar:  …

Three dots pulsed. Bucky waited, his breath held.  

Sugar: Okay, that was funny.

He smiled.

Bucky: Glad Japan hasn’t dulled your pastry-radar. You good?

There was a pause long enough for his heart to riot. 

Finally,

Sugar: Getting there.

Twelve letters, one soft promise. Not forgiveness, yet, but a rope tossed into black water.

Bucky grasped it with both hands.

The neon outside blurred as moisture glazed his eyes. And for the first time in three nights the apartment didn’t feel so cold.

Somewhere across the world you were laughing again.

He let that be enough to breathe.

For now.

[thatonetargaryen]

𝐓𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞

ᴠᴀʀɪᴏᴜꜱ!ᴛʟᴏᴜ/ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ : ꜰᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴏᴍᴇ

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ: ᴛʜʀᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʟᴠᴇꜱ

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: One second, you’re surrounded by the luscious forest of Estrea. The next, you’re cornered by vampires that look at you as if you’re their next meal.

A/N; Reader is in their early 20s here; which is about 120-ish in nymph years. Most of the characters are around the same age as her (good to note that both nymphs and vampires are immortal in this story).

•┈••✦🥀✦••┈•

The small ship settles against the shore, finally settling the sick feeling you had in your stomach. In truth, you’d never been on a ship. Neighboring villages were simply long walks from each other.

With your head spinning, you looked outside of the window for the first time in what had seemed like days. The last thing you expected to see was a bare beach—and further off, a dark forest obscured with mist.

Am I back at Estrea?, was the first thing that came to mind to your mind. You knew the thought was too good to be true, but you couldn’t help but wish to any God that it was.

You had read on vampires before. The city of Noxus-Zautra, where nearly all of the vampire population dwelled. It was a huge underground system of tunnels and passageways, separated into three distinct districts.

A knock on the door startled you, causing you to look away from the window.

“It’s time to depart the ship, ma’am. Please meet us at the shore.”

Your back stood straight at his cold tone alone. The soft bed you slept on seemed to grab you like tree vines, refusing to let go. But you peeled yourself from underneath the blanket. Albeit, reluctantly.

Your feet met the sand, and you sighed at finally being back on land.

You felt one of the guards take your hand, and without another word, the three of you began to talk through the trees.

The walk felt as if it were a maze—a puzzle to be solved. There was a ridiculous amount of cuts and turns, but what stood out to you the most was how good the guards seemed to remember it.

The further you walked, the more the world darkened. The air became thicker, heavier. Unlike any fog you had ever seen. Just when you were about to question where you were, the three of you abruptly stopped.

Above the fog, a man as large as a small tree stood. Even with your vision obscured, you saw the muscle peeking out from beneath his thick cloak. There was a long, awkward beat of silence.

It seemed as if the guards and the figure communicated with thoughts alone, as they nodded for you to continue. The man holding your wrist dropped it gently back to your side.

You look back at him, confused. He simply stares ahead, his hat remaining over his eyes.

“This is where we must stop, ma’am. Continue down the stairs, there will be someone waiting for you at the bottom.”

He placed your light luggage in your hand, and nodded in your direction. And without another word, he turned on his heel.

Through the fog, you heard the sound of a heavy gate being opened. The figure stepped aside, looking at you expectantly.

Taking a glimpse down the stairs—was a mountain of steps. They seemed endless, the only source of light being little candles being placed carefully here and there.

Internally groaning at yourself, you began to descend down the stairs.

•┈••✦🥀✦••┈•

The walk down was endless. Your hand became sweaty as you gripped the railings, while your other struggled to hold the bag on your shoulder. Sweat poured down your chin and down your neck. You’d walked the lengths of rivers before, so why was this so hard?

Maybe it was the constriction of air, or the constant motion of moving downward. As much as you wanted to sit and have a break—you knew that would only extend the time you were here. So you kept moving, praying that you were close to flat land soon.

Just when your legs were about to give up, you saw a distinct beam of light shining from below. You practically fly down the stairs as you run to reach it. When the stairs finally end, you waste no time in holding onto the nearest wall as you struggle to catch your breath.

You gathered yourself soon enough, brushing off the debris from the ground. You stood, only to see another gate. Behind it, was what looked like sunlight.

You had expected eternal darkness. To never see the sun again. But what you were met with exceeded all expectations—mostly. You know vampires were allergic to sunlight, and you were miles below the ground. You gripped your bag tighter, gravitating towards the light. Suddenly, the gates eased open, as if inviting you to come inside.

Suddenly, a sea of vampires stood before you—moving through the city. There were so many in one place, yet their whispers were so sharp it could peice skin. There were market places littered on every corner. You looked above to get a better glimpse of the sun, only to find a ridiculously bright ball hanging from the ceiling. It looked like the sun, but provided no warmth. The city was eerily cold. It felt wrong.

“Don’t look too hard. It gets suspicious.”

You broke from your trance, turning to see a young vampire. A woman, with glass eyes and pale skin. You couldn’t help but ask, “What is that?”

“The sun..or at least, our version.”

You blinked. “It looks real.”

She smiled. “When you live long enough in darkness, you’ll pay anything to feel the day.”

“It doesn’t feel like the sun, though. It’s just….bright.”

She shrugged her shoulders, “You’d be surprised at how far a little brightness can go.”

She picked up her skirts and stood closer to you. “We best get going, the school isn’t too far away from here.”

She looks you up and down, “…and maybe find more suitable attire for you.”

•┈••✦🥀✦••┈•

You felt like a deer in front of a pack of wolves as you stood idly in front of Ambessa Medarda, the Head of Noxus Academy. Beside her stood what you assumed to be vampires, skinning you bare with their eyes.

Your gaze trailed to the various portraits, which were all beautifully done. They each captured the sharp features and gazes of these creatures, and they too looked as if they were staring directly at you.

Ambessa stood straight at your presence, as if granting you a small peice of respect. “You must be the forest’s offering.”

Your eyes narrowed. “I have a name.”

She hummed. “I’m sure, child. Y/N, was it?”.

You lifted your head to finally meet her gaze. “Y/N Estrea. Of the Estrea Clan.”

Ambessa made her way around the desk, moving to stand in front of you. “The trees of Estrea wept when we took you, they say. A place of serenity. But serenity will not get you far here, if you are to thrive.”

“You dragged me here, for whatever reason. I didn’t choose this.”

“Name one person you know who chooses their destiny, child.”

You stayed silent at that, but held her fierce gaze.

She hummed. “You have the same gaze as your father. Fierce one, he is.”

“You know my father?”

Her gaze softened at your question. “The question is, do you know your father?”

You stumbled over your words, confused at her question. Before you could inquire further, she nodded towards the door.

“It’s getting late. Make your way to your dormitory, settle in. And please…”

She grazed the colorful beads on your breast, “Wear something that doesn’t make you look like easy prey.”

•┈••✦🥀✦••┈•

The dorm building was only a few walks from the main hall. She ushered you into the hall, as if wishing to get away from the views of other vampires on campus. But they couldn’t help but stare. And you felt every single one.

There was suddenly an air of silence. The walls were lined with old, worn stone. The artificial sun glowered through the stained glass windows—a shade of red reflecting onto the cold marble floor.

The marble felt soothing under your bare feet. The vampire spoke, “Your room should be just up those stairs. Follow me.”

You did, and soon—you were met with an obsidian black door with no knob. A crescent moon was carved into it, and below it read “Dormitory 2-B”.

“Abby, are you in there?”

There was no immediate response from the other side of the door. After a moment of silence, your guide simply opened the door. You stood outside, looking in awkwardly.

You saw a woman with golden-blonde hair, styled into a messy braid down her back. Her expression was stern, and her muscles flexed under her fitted shirt. She was tall, and her shirt wrinkled as she got up from her bed.

You held her gaze for what seemed like forever. She looked as if she stared long and hard enough—you’d be gone. Disappear into thin air.

Your guide nodded stiffly, “I’ll leave you two to it.”

•┈••✦🥀✦••┈•

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

You blinked, turning to her as you studied the room. It was spacious, enough room for the two of you. Blue and white, with hints of black accessories, littered the space. She had taken over most of the room, leaving you the bed and a little spot on the desk by then bathroom door.

You turned to look at her. “Are you my roommate?”

She shrugged and gave you a dry laugh, “Depends. You the forest girl from overseas?”

“Excuse me?”

“Head Mistress said I would be getting a nymph to room with me for the season. Didn’t think she was actually serious.”

“And you are?”

“…Abby, you?”

“Y/N Estrea. Of the Estrea Clan.”

Abby raised a brow. “Fancy. You gonna try to turn our room into a greenhouse or what?”

“Only if you start eating raw meat in the corner.”

She laughed at that. “Fair.”

Abby dropped to the edge of her bed. She studied you for a second. “You wearin’ that to class tomorrow?”

You shrugged to yourself. Everyone had been critiquing your clothing lately, but you had no money to spend for something new. “I don’t have anything else….”

Abby smirked at you. “You can look through my closet and find what you like. I don’t really have a sense of style, so bear with me.”

“Thank you.”

She sighed to herself, breathing in deeply—as if tasting the air itself. “No problem, Y/N.”

•┈••✦🥀✦••┈•

Taglist:

@sevikas-whore

@halle5s

@azxteria

@modernvenuss

[creator1mpersonator]

The Rescue Mission

02. Blue Medallions

No use of y/n, lowk may be a little bit rushed so I may rewrite it later, things are indeed happening

There was a path to the side of a tall tower. You followed the arrow sign, finding another gate. You opened it, entering another part of the village. There were a few blue medallions hanging on tree branches, but some were broken on the ground. Shot down, by the looks of it.

You hoped that meant that Leon had been here. That could mean the trail wasn’t completely cold.

A blue piece of paper was stapled onto a tree. You hopped over the fence, tearing it off. It was mostly illegible, but what you could make out said that there were 15 blue medallions, 7 in the farm and 8 in the cemetery. 10 or more shot down resulted in some kind of award.

You folded up the paper, pocketing it. It could be useful, maybe.

You walked through the area, finding a few hostile villagers that ran at you with pitchforks. A few knife swipes was enough to take them down, which was useful to know since ammo was precious in a place like this. You shot down the remaining blue medallions, counting five. There didn’t seem to be that much in the area, aside from a few yellow herbs, chicken eggs, and pistol ammo. A few cabinets contained sparkly gems, which you took like a raven attracted by something sparkly.

Once you looted the houses (well, that was practically what you were doing), you continued to the next gate you saw. You walked out, only for three villagers to push down a boulder in your direction from above.

“Fuck!” You yelled, bursting into a run. You just narrowly avoided getting crushed like a bug by jumping out the way the moment you could, the boulder crashing into the side of a mountain by a tunnel.

“Jesus…” you panted, standing back up. You checked to make sure your transmitter was okay, before radioing in.

“Hunnigan, bad news.” You panted, trying to catch your breath, “I’ve confirmed the body of an officer, and something is seriously wrong with the people here.”

“Your intel matches what Leon told me.” Hunnigan said, “where are you now?”

“I just left the village, I’m by a tunnel.”

“Get out of there as fast as you can,” Hunnigan worriedly said, “find Leon and Ashley, don’t engage more than necessary.”

“Roger that.” You said, before ending the transmission.

You armed yourself with your pistol, walking through the tunnel. You groaned when you saw more houses, you knew this wouldn’t be easy but this mission was taking years off your lifespan. Hopefully not literally, you wanted to take a long bath after all of this was over.

You saw what could only be described as a trap, a wire held up by two explosives. You shot one of the bombs, making everything in its vicinity explode. You backed away, covering your face.

“¡No los dejes escapar!” (Don’t let them escape!) One of the villagers yelled. This one was different; instead of pitchforks, they had molotov cocktails. You quickly jumped back, narrowly avoiding the explosive before firing at the villager. He fell down, but two more took his place. ‘At what point does this become annoying?’ You pondered, firing at them. They moved slowly, before falling like flies

Soon enough, the hostiles were all dead. You walked through the empty houses, taking whatever useful items you found. There was a rather large house, two stories tall with a lock on the door. You broke it with the butt of your pistol, and surveyed the interior before finding no hostiles. It was dusty, and looked almost deserted.

Almost.

You entered a real fancy living room, finding a bookshelf pushed out the way of a secret doorway. It was empty, and a broken closet sat in the corner.

“Nothing here,” you quietly mumbled, turning around to leave. You screamed when you saw a tall man at the doorway behind you. He had a black eye and a red eye, bald but with a long, black beard. He wore a black trench coat and you could see black pants and combat boots. He looked like he’d seen better days.

You immediately began firing bullets, but he advanced like they were nothing. You backed up, continuing to shoot, until he got close enough to disarm you and throw you against the wall like you weighed nothing.

You tried to catch your breath, but your ears were ringing and everything hurt so bad.

“No pensé que enviarían a otro agente…” the man said, before your world went dark completely. (I didn’t think they would send another agent…)

You woke up in a new room, your hands held together by a shackle connected to a chain. But, it wasn’t just you.

Because you could feel two other pairs of hands rubbing against your skin.

One of them, a man, woke up. He struggled against his binding, shifting you and the other person in the process.

“Hey, hey. Are you awake?” He asked, and you looked to your side to see the man you were looking for. Well, at least he wasn’t dead.

“Leon Scott Kennedy?” You asked, and you felt him tense up next to you.

“Whos asking?”

“I’m Special Agent ___ ___.” You introduced yourself, “I was sent on a rescue mission by the D.S.O. after you went twelve hours without making contact. I’m supposed to get you and the Baby Eagle home.”

“A rescue mission?” Leon asked, “I don’t need rescuing.”

“Look at the situation we’re in right now and tell me that again.” You retorted, and he fell silent.

The third person, also a man from what you could deduce, groaned and awoke from his slumber.

“Ay yai yai,” he muttered, “don’t be so rough, whoever you are.”

“What’s going on here?” You immediately asked.

“Americanos? Figures.” The mystery man said, “what brings you two here?”

“I’m— we’re—“ Leon corrected himself, “looking for this girl.” He weasled a picture of Ashley out from his pocket, showing the man, “seen her?”

“You two police?” The man asked.

“We’re not.” You said.

The man hummed.

“Let me guess… is that the president’s daughter?”

You and Leon both paused.

“One hell of a guess.” Leon spoke first, “start talking.”

“I’m a psychic,” the man joked, but after he gained no positive reaction, he awkwardly said “just kidding.”

“How do you know about her?” You asked him.

“Overheard some of the villagers talking about her, guess she’s in the church.” He explained.

“And who exactly are you?” You pressed.

“Me llamo Luis Serra.” Luis introduced himself, “used to be a cop in Madrid, but now I’m a good-for-nothing ladies’ man. And you?” (I’m called Luis Serra.)

“I’m Special Agent ___.” You said, and Leon introduced himself as well.

“Why’d you quit?” Leon asked Luis.

“Bah, policía.” Luis grumbled, “you put your life on the line and no one really appreciates you! Being a hero isn’t what it’s cracked out to be.”

Leon was silent for a moment, before he spoke again, “I used to be a cop. Only for a day, though.”

“And I thought I was bad.” Luis teased.

“Managed to get myself involved in the Raccoon City incident,” Leon said, and you began listening intently.

“Oof, qué suerte.” Luis said, “you know, I think I—“ (What luck.)

The door suddenly opened, and a bloody villager weilding an axe entered.

“Te voy a matar.” He hissed, approaching. Like chickens with their head cut off, the three of you began scrambling. (I’m going to kill you.)

“Do something, cop!” Luis exclaimed at Leon.

“You first!” Leon retorted.

“Either of you do something!” You yelped.

“What about you, special agent?!” Luis yelled.

The villager pulled the axe back, and by some stroke of luck, the three of you managed to move in a position where the axe hit the shackles that bound you. You all rolled away. The man moved toward Leon, who managed to kick him in the abdomen and send him crashing into the wall. He died with a sickening crack, his neck snapped in half.

Luis took this opportunity to run off, and you considered following but decided that Leon was much more of a priority. You got up, before extending a hand out to him.

“Alright?” You asked. He nodded, taking your hand and getting up with your help. Your transmitter beeped.

“Hunnigan, I got good news.” You said, “I’ve found Leon.”

“Really? Oh, that’s great.” She said, “is he with you right now?”

“He is. We also have an idea of where Ashley is. A male civilian held captive told us that she was being kept in an old church.”

“Is the civilian alright?”

“He escaped fine. We’re gonna head back to the village, apparently there’s a secret path that leads there.”

“Be safe.” She said, before the transmission ended.

Leon armed himself with his pistol, and you went to do so as well until you remembered that the man with the trench coat had tossed your’s away back in that old house.

“Damn.” You muttered.

“You alright?” Leon asked.

“No. Some fucking guy in a black trench coat disarmed me, I don’t have my pistol.” You said.

“You have a knife and a shotgun, though.” He said.

“…Touché.”

You decided to use your knife for the time being, and the two of you walked out the room you were originally kept in. In the hallway, a man appeared just outside the window.

“Over here, strangers.” He said, mouth covered by a purple cloth with a silver design and a hood covering his head. You and Leon shared a look before heading out the small house.

It was windy out, more so than when you first arrived in Valdelobos. From what you could tell, you were high up because the clouds were close and you could see mountain peaks clearly. You and Leon moved slowly, checking for any villagers and not finding anyone. Around the back of the house was the man from earlier, who chuckled when he saw the two of you approach and opened up his trench coat to reveal a mini arsenal.

“What’re you buying?” He said, and Leon was the only one who actually seemed interested. He assessed a pistol and a rifle the Merchant was selling, before giving him many gold coins (maybe you should’ve paid more attention to those little boxes…)

“Yer business is appreciated.” He said, and Leon turned around towards you.

“Here,” he held out the pistol. You blinked.

“You didn’t have to buy me a new one.” You said, taking the weapon into your hands.

“I wanted to. I don’t need anyone slowing me down.” Leon said, which killed the mood completely. Does he remember you’re here to save him?

And, well, Ashley too. But you’re sure she actually has manners.

To make matters worse:

“You know, you’re pretty cute.” Leon said, “maybe after all of this is over, we could get dinner?”

“We’re on duty.” You immediately shut him down.

“Story of my life.” He muttered, walking alongside you to the gate leading out. It would only go downhill from here, you should’ve left Leon S. Kennedy alone.

[fkinkindagauche]

A Monstrous Nature

So excited to finally be able to post my gift fic for the @harringrove-summer-exchange, for @keaganz! She listed the following as things she'd like to see in the fic, and I think I may have got them all: Top Billy/Bottom Steve, Upside-Down shenanigans, angst with a happy ending, smut, hurt/comfort. Hope you like it!

It was absolutely inspired by @safk-art's stunning Demo Steve art, highly encourage everyone to go check that out.

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Billy Hargove/Steve Harrington WC: 6,018 Content Warnings: Blood and gore (canon-typical) Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Hargrove Lives, Demogorgon Steve Harrington, Canon-Typical Violence, Tentacle Sex, Top Billy Hargrove, Bottom Steve Harrington, Monster Steve Harrington, Monsterfucker Billy Hargrove, Light Dom/sub, Bathing/Washing, Insecurity, Blood and Injury, Rimming, Anal Sex Summary:

Billy follows Steve into the Upside Down during one of his patrols, against Steve's wishes. He sees Steve's monstrous side, but the effect is not what Steve expected.

Full fic is on AO3, excerpt is below.

divider by @/strangergraphics

Steve was in a terrible mood as he patrolled the Upside Down looking for demo-creatures to cull. Billy had been livid when Steve left for the evening. He'd been in the trenches of another explosive argument after Billy demanded to come with Steve on his patrol. It was an argument they'd had repeatedly over the year they'd been together. Every time the group located another gate, Steve went in to clear the area in the Upside Down and ensure no demo-creatures leaked into Hawkins. And every time, Billy wanted to come help him.

Steve winced as he went back over the things they'd yelled at each other this time. He was particularly ashamed of calling Billy a "boringly human Upside Down reject". But in his defense, he'd said it after Billy had called him a "deranged flower-faced shit". Steve had slammed the door so hard on his way out of the house that he'd heard glass breaking in the living room.

He didn't understand why Billy insisted on trying to come with him. Steve was uniquely well-suited to this task after all the changes he'd undergone from the demodog bites in the tunnels. Billy, thanks to early intervention from Steve when he'd noticed the creeping presence of the Mind Flayer, was still fully human. He couldn't take on packs of demodogs in the Upside Down and come out unscathed, not the way Steve could.

Steve was pulled from his perseveration by rustling sounds in the trees around him. The gate had appeared near the Henderson house this time, bordering a patch of woods nearby. The human portion of his ears picked up only a vague rustling, and he was unable to accurately place the size and location of whatever was pursuing him.

He focused on the delicate seams along his jaws, instructing his muscles to release the tension holding them together. His head unfurled like a flower, his face opening to reveal a central gaping maw and five petal-like structures lined with razor-sharp teeth.

His senses unfolded along with his head. He could feel the vibrations of the world around him with the thin filaments that filled the spaces between all of the teeth. He could smell so much more with the olfactory organs hidden at the core of the mouth than he could with his human nose.

His brain parsed the new influx of vibrations and scents, sifting through the information to tell him that there were two demodogs in the trees to his right. They weren't even particularly big ones. This would be easy. He flexed his hands, popping his claws out of their sheaths, and waited.

The two demodogs burst from the trees, heading straight toward him. He caught a whiff of an out-of-place scent just before he heard a full-throated human scream. Someone threw themself between Steve and the demodogs.

He placed the scent a moment later - Billy. The fucker had followed Steve in.

Steve felt the vibrations in the air as Billy swung something long and wooden at the closest demodog, hitting it across the torso. He must've stolen Steve's bat. The demodog howled as the conical shape of its head unfurled. The second demodog dove at Billy while he was distracted. Steve sensed the movement in the air as the dog's mouth snapped near Billy's bare arm.

Steve threw himself at the second demodog, driving it to the ground and biting its head off before it could fight back. The first demodog had its mouth wrapped around the bat now, and was slowly pulling Billy toward it.

Steve raked his claws across its torso and it dropped the bat with a startled yelp. He grabbed its head between his two clawed hands, flexing the modified muscles there, and wrenched it sharply to the side. Its neck snapped and the head partially tore free from the body, spurting blood all over Steve.

Steve turned to Billy. He slowly furled the petals of his head, fitting them together to reform his face. Billy stared at him with wide eyes and an indecipherable expression on his face.

Billy hadn't been fully himself during the fight with the Mind Flayer, when the party had come together to save him from its grasp before it could get a firm hold in his mind. He didn't remember what Steve had done then to protect everyone. And since then, Steve had tried to keep this violent, monstrous side of himself from Billy as much as possible. Why had Billy followed him?

Before Steve could descend fully into his burgeoning worries, he picked up on a set of new vibrations with his lingering demo-senses. He could tell even from a distance that it was much bigger than a pair of demodogs.

"We need to go, now!" Steve snapped. He grabbed Billy by the arm and started to run back toward the gate.

Billy shook off his arm and planted his feet. "What? Why? I can help you if there's something else coming!"

Steve grabbed Billy's arm again and tugged. Billy didn't budge. "No, you can't. You're human. What if one of them bites you, and you turn into a fucked up demo-creature?"

Billy shrugged. "Then we'll match."

Steve let out a strangled cry. He gave up on trying to convince Billy. He used his preternatural strength to grab Billy around the waist and throw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Billy yelled. He beat his fists against Steve's back hard enough to bruise. "Put me down, you sick fuck!"

Steve ignored him and bolted for the gate. He could sense multiple full-grown demogorgons approaching them, probably three, as well as a handful of demodogs. They were getting closer fast. There was no way Steve was going to beat them to the gate with Billy's added weight to carry.

He scanned his surroundings. About 100 feet ahead of them was a large clearing. If Steve could get there, he'd at least be able to fight the hoard with a clear line of sight. He sprinted toward it as he felt the pursuers approaching.

Steve dropped Billy to the ground. Billy's eyes went wide as his limited ears finally picked up on the noises of the demogorgons.

"Shit," he muttered. He stood up, gripping the nail bat.

"Stand with your back to me," Steve said. "Swing as hard as you can whenever they come at you." Dread crept through his veins. He didn't want to lose Billy.

As the first demogorgon crashed into the clearing, Steve unfurled his head and squeezed out his claws. The demogorgon darted straight for Steve. Steve dealt with it easily with a swipe from his claws, knocking it to the side with a gaping wound in its abdomen. It wasn't dead, but that would slow it down considerably.

Steve was stronger and faster than the demogorgons. Taking on three would usually be no problem for him. But adding Billy into the mix was really going to fuck with his methods.

He felt Billy swing his bat at a demodog as the second demogorgon rushed Steve. He tried the same move on this one, but it dodged and swiped at Steve with its own claws. Steve took the hit, not wanting to interfere with Billy's fight by moving back to dodge. Pain seared through his abdomen as the claws tore his skin, but he knew it would heal fast. Demo scratches and bites never stuck around for long on his body.

He feinted with his claws again then lunged for the demogorgon's neck with his mouth as it dodged his claws. He sank his teeth into the meat there and tore, pulling a large amount of circulatory system back out with him. The demogorgon fell to the ground, twitching as it bled out.

Billy grunted behind him as a demodog yelped. The final demogorgon circled around in an attempt to go for Billy instead of Steve. That wouldn't do. Steve launched himself at the demogorgon, abandoning Billy in favor of taking this monster down before it got to him.

Steve scuffled with the demogorgon, taking a few more scratches and one nasty bite before he managed to latch onto its neck. He felt several demodogs piling up on his back, biting and scratching. Good, that meant they weren't going for Billy. He ripped out the demogorgon's throat, then grabbed the two demodogs off his back and threw them into the trees. He heard them yelp, then flee into the trees.

He turned back to Billy. He could sense one final demodog circling Billy as the other man waved the bat in front of him. The demodog lunged for Billy, wrenching its jaws open just as Steve reached him.

Steve gripped the last demodog around the head just before its jaws snapped shut on Billy's neck. He shut its mouth and continued to squeeze, increasing pressure with his huge, clawed hands. He kept going until the entire conical head popped beneath his hands in a startling explosion of gore. It sprayed across Billy's face and the front of his body, coating him in blood and brain matter and bits of flesh.

Billy sputtered, spitting chunks of flesh out of his mouth. "Fucking ew," he muttered, wiping a hand across his face.

Steve surveyed the scene. Two demodogs lay dead at Billy's feet in addition to the last one that Steve had killed. The wounded demogorgon was long gone. There were no surviving demodogs in the area.

Steve drew in the petals of his head, but kept his claws unsheathed. "Did you get bit?" Steve asked, once he had a human mouth again.

Billy shook his head. He was covered in gore, but Steve hoped it was mostly demo-blood.

"Let's get out of here," Steve said. He'd done what he came here to do - cleared the area around the floating gate of creatures before they could make their way into Hawkins. They needed to get back before the gate closed. No one had been able to figure out why these floating gates kept appearing, but they never stayed open for more than a day. Steve tried to only spend two hours tops on the inside, to make sure he didn't get stuck.

Steve couldn't decipher the look on Billy's face, but after what he had just seen Steve do, it couldn't mean anything good. He'd get Billy back to safety and make sure to take care of any of his wounds before Billy inevitably broke up with him.

Billy followed Steve silently to the gate and back into Hawkins.

Looking for the comfort? Finish the fic on AO3!

[harperfrost]

“I wonder what WoF Lego would be like” - Me, about to start cooking

I feel like they’d either make the dragons big collector sets, entirely brick built, make them normal minifigs, or make special molds for each tribe and just use different prints depending on the character.

I feel like the first wave of sets would likely be arc 1, since that makes the most sense.

anyhow. This is what I think wings of fire Lego sets could be like. I’ll probably do more in the future when I read more of the series. Don’t take these as 100% confirmed undeniable proof that Lego will make wings of fire sets.

ARC 1:

BOOK 1:

SET 1: Dragonet Cave Escape

Builds: The DoD cave, Table and shelf for scrolls, cave door

Minifigs: Kestrel, Dune, Clay, Tsunami and Starflight

Play features: the door would have the ability to open and close.

SET 2: Skywing Arena

Builds: Skywing Arena Pillar, Arena Balcony, Glory’s fake tree and Scarlet’s throne.

Minifigs: Queen Scarlet, Peril, Clay, Tsunami, Gill, Glory, Princess Burn, and 3x unnamed Skywings

Play feature: Scarlet’s throne would have a mechanism that knocks her off of it.

The unnamed Skywings would have spears.

BOOK 2:

SET 1: Royal Hatchery

Builds: Royal Hatchery, Orca’s Statue, Hatchery Doors.

Minifigs: Tsunami, Orca’s Statue.

Includes a printed egg piece to represent Auklet’s egg, and a spear for Tsunami. The statue can be removed from its base.

SET 2: The Summer Palace

Builds: The Summer Palace, tables, shelves.

Minifigs: Tsunami, Queen Coral, Anemone, Riptide, Commander Shark, Whirlpool, Princess Blister, 5x unnamed Seawings.

Play features: Each floor is removable, allowing for easier access to play with minifigures.

Two of the unnamed Seawings would have spears. Whirlpool would have a 1x2 flat plate with a scroll printed on it. Coral would have a double-sided head. One side is a calm face, and the other an angry face.

BOOK 3:

SET 1: The Rainwing Village

Builds: A large platform, plants and hammocks. The Queen’s Throne Room

Minifigs: Glory, Mangrove, Queen Magnificent, Tamarin, Jambu, Liana, Mango, Grandeur, Bromeliad.

SET 2: Blaze’s Fortress + Enchanted Tunnel

Builds: Blaze’s Fortress, Enchanted Tunnel

Minifigs: Blaze, Mangrove, Glory, Deathbringer, 1x unnamed icewing, 2x unnamed sandwings

Play features: The enchanted tunnel would have a play feature where you can put a minifig inside, turn a piece on the top, and the minifig would spin around to the other side.

The tunnel, on one side, would be rainforest terrain, with plants, and sand and rock on the other.

SET 3: Volcano Tunnel Builds: The Volcano Tunnel + Rainwing prison.

Minifigs: Glory, Kinkajou, Orchid, Deathbringer, 2x unnamed Nightwings. Play features: The prison’s back walls and roof would be removable, and the doors can be opened. The unnamed Nightwings would have spears, and one has a key to open the doors.

The volcano tunnel would have the same rainforest terrain on one side, but would have rock and orange lava on the other side instead of sand.

BOOK 4:

SET 1: Nightwing Library

Builds: The Nightwing Library, Bookshelves and tables.

Minifigs: Starflight, Morrowseer, Flame, Squid, Ochre, Viper, and Fatespeaker. 2x unnamed Nightwing

Includes a dreamvisitor printed onto a 1x1 flat round tile.

SET 2: Nightwing Lab

Builds: Tables and scientific equipment

Minifigs: Mastermind and Starflight.

SET 3: Battlewinner’s Cauldron

Builds: Battlewinner’s Cauldron, rock terrain.

Minifigs: Battlewinner, Starflight, Greatness, Fatespeaker

Play features: The cauldron would have a mechanism where Battlewinner can be lowered inside, while a “frozen” (translucent blue) version of her minifig is launched out. Translucent yellow, orange and red studs could also be dumped out of the cauldron.

BOOK 5:

Set 1: Scorpion Den + Enchanted Tunnel

Builds: Scorpion Den gate, market stalls, Thorn’s tent, Enchanted Tunnel

Minifigs: Sunny, Thorn, Qibli, Sixclaws, Preyhunter, Fierceteeth, Strongwings, 3x unnamed sandwings.

Extra set: Stonemover’s Cave

Builds: Stonemover’s Cave

Minifigs: Stonemover, Sunny, Dinner (the fox)

Set would include the third dreamvisitor piece, so all 3 would be able to be collected without buying duplicate sets.

Set 3: Weirdling Tower

Builds: Weirdling Tower, Cage.

Minifigs: Scarlet, Smolder, Flower, Sunny, Peril, Thorn.

Play features: The cage would be able to be opened up, so Scarlet can be put inside. The roof and walls of the tower can open up to allow access inside.

It would include a printed dreamvisitor piece again. Scarlet would have a new face print, showing her face burnt.

FINAL SET: The Brightest Night Battle

Builds: The Sandwing Stronghold, desert terrain.

Minifigs: Clay, Tsunami, Queen Glory, Starflight, Sunny, Thorn, Smolder, Flower, Queen Glacier, Queen Moorhen, Queen Coral, Queen Ruby, Princesses Blister, Blaze, Burn, Peril, 5x unnamed Sandwings, 3x unnamed Skywings, 2x unnamed Seawings, 1x unnamed mudwing, 1x unnamed icewing.

Includes a box and two snake pieces, printed to resemble dragonbite vipers. Set would include a special molded Eye of Onyx piece for Thorn.

The set would be able to be combined with the Weirdling Tower as well.

[ppnuggiexxx]

-> CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO

•| was it truly worth taking his word for it? how does one even enter hell, or was this all some strange cosplayer’s roleplay you happened to get roped in?

•| taglist :: @z4rph1m ,, @theultimatewaffle

        "fine!" as crazy as the whole situation was, you accepted his invitation. how else do you tell the supposed king of wrath no? not to mention the guys name is satan. honestly, if youre lucky these guys might be cosplayers. but the whole situation seemed surreal, the angel seemed too real.

        "follow me," he smiled and grabbed your hand before leading you away. "where are we going?" you questioned. he led you off the mainroad and into a forest, soon getting lost and turned around with the repeated trees. going into a forest you dont know or aren't acquainted with feels like youre in there for eternity. "the first gate of hell is where we're going." he stated.

        gate? what did he by the first gate? how many are there? "what do you mean?" you asked him, not caring that he still gripped your hand in his. his red eyes looked back at you before looking ahead of him again. "hell is gated off into different sections. there are nine gates in total; three of stone, three of brass, then three of iron." he explained.

        "it's to ensure utmost secrecy and security between the worlds. heaven has nine gates as well. though if you were to gaze upon them there would be nothing. its impossible for a human to see the gates unless theyre an angel. its what makes heaven quite hard to find."

        the deeper in he led you, the darker and colder the forest became. your hands went to your forearms and rubbed against them, your body hunching over to try and maintain as much body heat as you could. it almost felt like it was winter despite it being spring.

        ahead a dark cavern appeared into the side of a mountainside. you didnt even know there were mountains in the area. "who's that?" you pointed to a figure waiting around the cavern.

        "chaos. they usually guard outside of the gates. its to ensure any soul taken to hell doesn't attempt to escape." satan explained, saying a brief hello to chaos before entering the cave. "it does get dark and wet fast, so watch out where you step. ill lead the way though so stay close behind me."

        you nodded and glanced at chaos. they were a creature of unknown nature, they werent humanoid in any way yet didnt look like an animal. it was as though they were a clumb of skin, a few eyes sticking out and having a singular hand at the top. bones and blood stuck out from it. its hard to describe a being that made you feel like puking your insides out upon first glance. you turned your head away from chaos quite fast. you didnt want to look at them if you didnt have to.

        "can you tell me more about hell?" you asked and followed after satan, noting how dark it got. your hands stuck out in front of you, catious with your steps in case you run into a wall.

        "what do you want to know?" he asked, walking swiftly down the tunnel.

        "like, about the inside. where in hell are you taking me? is there cities? or is it like how biblical books say it is, a rampant city filled with torture and death?" you asked, curious as to what you would see. its not every day you take a trip to hell after all.

"well, we're going to gehenna. thats where i rule in hell. there are seven different nations, and to get to them you have to go through the gates. gehenna is protected by the first stone gate." he said before stopping in his tracks. "the further down you go, the colder it becomes. the more of a wasteland hell is until you reach abbadon at the bottom. abbadon is hotter than anywhere in hell, its the core of it. under abbadon? im not sure what lies there." he said.

"now, we wont be able to continue walking through. you'll have to crawl. its wet though, so be careful." he warned before taking off his jacket and holding it out to you. you raised an eyebrow at him before taking it and putting it on. "is there water?" you asked. he simply nodded before dropping to his knees and hands, crawling into a small hole. it was hard to see anything but the area itself closed off abruptly into a small crawl space.

who knew hell would be tricky to get to? you soon got on your knees and hands, the stone beneath you slick and cold. maybe you shouldve asked if he had gloves. feeling around for the hole, you had a small idea of how big it was, which wasnt that big at all. you had to keep your head down so you wouldnt hit it on the top of the crawl space.

crawling through felt weird, at random points it felt warm, then cold again. it was a repeated process, and sometimes it felt like something was touching you at certain parts. hopefully it was just the rock and nothing else.

"be careful up here, it gets smaller. you'll have to crawl on your stomach here." satan warned from ahead of you. it was like how people described entering hell to be. being forced to crawl on their stomachs, wriggling like serpents to trespass into hell.

it was hard to move through. your breathing quickening as you wriggled around in the tunnel. just how long was this going to take? how far down is hell? were you even going down, or was it straight? how was minhyeok? it had to of been morning by now, and he would be worried. maybe you shouldn't have came along, maybe you shouldve gone back to minhyeok?

it was too late to turn around now, incapable of moving backwards without knowing where you were going exactly. there had been a few turns through the tunnel. and you couldnt turn your body around, it was too cramped to do so.

"stop...." what was that? you couldnt see where the voice came from, but it sounded right on top of you. "hello?" you called out.

        "stop....moving." it almost sounded as though it was struggling to talk, like their words were forced between harsh breaths. you squinted your eyes and looked around as best as you could, desperate to find where it came from.

        "ignore it." satan called from ahead of you. why? what was it? some sort of mythical creature meant to drag you to temptation? you didnt want to find out, truthfully.

        the tunnel beneath you got slimier, sticking to your hand the further you crawled in. it felt like the stone turned to mush, almost equivalent to fat in a way. you heard a pained groan that didnt come from you or satan. your head tried to look around you, but the tunnel was too narrow. why did the ground beneath you feel oddly like skin?

_______________________________

birds chirped and flew across the sky, city almost a direct copy to any on earth. tall buildings and shops spread around, citizens walking about with their days. the only difference is that they were devils, horns big and visible as satan's. though some had little horns, so little you'd have to squint your eyes to see.

"welcome to gehenna." satan smiled at your expression of awe and wonder. "and welcome to hell." he grabbed your hand again and took you through the streets. it was almost like walking on the red carpet with a celebrity; citizens immediately noticed their king and you beside him. their faces held curiosity yet no ill intent.

he led you towards the largest building in the center of the city. it looked almost similar to a cathedral; stained glass windows covered the outside. it was larger than any you'd seen too. "my nobels and i live here." he explained as though he could read your mind.

        "what are they like?" you asked, a little nervous. you were still wary of the whole 'devil' thing, especially seeing as this seemed as legitimate as it could get. what weirdo shows up randomly to just lead you through a gross and disgusting tunnel into another city? how could a random crackhead explain what chaos was, or the things you saw? not to mention all the devils around you, eyes piercing into the back of your skull. was this just a surreal lucid dream? you didnt even know you could lucid dream.

_______________________________

        loud yells came from inside the room, the sound of complaints and cursing clear as day. satan grinned, waiting a moment before leaning his head against the door. "it seems theyre in an argument," his eyes widened and lit up. he waited another moment before busting the door open, any and all conversation taking place before was stopped.

"your majesty satan!" a blue haired devil announced. he had one horn on the side of his head and eyes similar to satan's, yet his were pink with blue saint peter's crosses. these devils sure like that cross, despite it not being demonic in any way.

        there were six devils in the room altogether, not including satan. one red one, small and squishy with small horns and wings. they had a dopey look on their face. another stood next to the blue haired one, long bangs covered their eyes. their horns were smaller than the others, yet a small red creature sat upon them.

        then a tanned devil with white horns curled over their head, with long white hair and blue eyes. two devils stood the farthest away; one with short hair and a long singular horn. next to him was a devil with three horns, all different colors, long, blonde hair and decked out with the color pink.

        all the devils in the room stood up from their chairs and kneeled before their king. "sitri," satan said to the blue haired devil. he looked up at him, eyes only focused on him. none of the devils bothered to look at you, eyes closed and heads pointed towards to floor.

        "ive found solomon's descendant."

[weeeyotch]

Between Shadows & Steel: CH. 1

⊱ Word Count: 2.7k ⊰

⊱ Warnings: Violence ⊰

⊱ BS&S Masterlist ⊰

❧ a/n: here's chapter 1 finally! sorry for the long wait, but i hope that it was worth it :)

A shrill scream echoed across the barren landscape, a chilling cry that marked the moment the predator had found its prey. 

Through the darkened forest the prey stumbled, wounded and panicked. Crimson streams of blood ran down her arms and painted her delicate lips. With each clumsy step that she took, droplets fell from her milky skin and perverted the virgin snow beneath her torn shoes. 

Behind her came the sound of boots crushing the fresh delicate snow–heavy, determined, and familiar. A shudder overtook her entire body as she imagined the footprints swallowing hers, removing any trace of her presence. The twisted music of clanging metal followed each step. 

Clang. Clang.

Clang. Clang.

The wolf was close by. 

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. 

The wolf was getting hungrier. 

Soon, the grating sound of her wheezing overtook the metallic orchestra. Her lungs screamed with each breath taken and the back of her throat burned with the coldness of winter. Although she had been used to the chase by now, there was always someplace to hide—a tunnel, an abandoned swimming pool, an uncomfortably large crowd filled with empty and uncaring eyes. 

But now, there was almost nothing to offer protection. The banks of snow would swallow her whole, the supple yet thorny bushes would peel the skin from her face, and the wolf could tear down the skinny trees with only his hand. There was barely anything between her and the fate of a gory interaction. 

Save for the blinding lights in the distance. 

Through the heavy clouds of her breaths, she could finally see her salvation. A wave of relief crashed into her. It truly felt as though she had escaped from the deepest pits of Hell—where thousands of screeching demons would grab onto her and try to drag her back down—and finally reached the glorious gates of Heaven. Without realizing it, tears of joy streamed down her face, and she let out sobs that sounded like dry heaves. 

She  had finally made it. 

Despite her body wanting to collapse out of exhaustion, she somehow willed herself to keep going. Every muscle shrieked in pain and threatened to shatter like glass. Even her bones, her organs, her tissues, her veins, down to the tiniest most minuscule cell felt like they were on fire. Yet she went on, crying and wheezing and smiling towards her saviours. 

Everything that happened in the last two years led to this moment. Every wild chase she had been sent on, sleeping in the filthy crevices of catacombs, leaving her old life behind with a fleeting goodbye—it led her to now, to the heavily protected border of Maine that swarmed with dozens of armed guards. Even with their loaded rifles and trigger-happy fingers, she felt safer with them than she had ever felt in her entire life. 

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. 

The wolf knew that salvation was near. 

He did not like that. 

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. 

Through the break in the bare trees, she was able to see the source of the light: ginormous floodlights that towered almost one-hundred meters into the sky, painting everything within a mile-radius an eerie orange hue. The sound of idle chatter, shouted commands, and boots against gravel became louder. 

In the midst of her desperation, she willed herself to scream. 

“Help! Help!” 

With every word out of her mouth, it felt like her throat was on fire. She hoped that it would deter the wolf, if even by a little bit. He would not like it if there were a dozen armed men running into the forest with them. 

Finally: a break in the trees. Through the twisted branches she saw a snow-covered road that had turned black and grimey from the many cars that drove over it. Although it was disgusting, it was as though she had found the pathway to Heaven. 

She let out another scream, but not a cry for help; this one was guttural—a noise of relief, elatedness, and pure fear. There was no more doubting it: she would live in safety. 

The commotion on the border grew louder and louder with each step. Two silhouettes armed with rifles were visible through the trees. They stood like statues on the filthy road, unmoving and waiting for whatever commotion to appear from the trees. 

Ground patrol. 

She began to wave her arms over her head like a lunatic, screaming: “I’m here! Hey, I’m over here!” 

The guards snapped to attention, lifting their rifles as they aimed towards the disturbance. One of them barked an order, maybe demanding that she stops or identifies herself, but she couldn’t hear it over the pounding of her heart and the crunch of the snow beneath her desperate steps. 

“I’m not a threat!” she sobbed. “Please, help me!”

Her legs wobbled, threatening to buckle underneath her. Yet she pushed forward into the safety of a rifle, focusing on the two soldiers. 

Rescue. Salvation. 

Suddenly, she saw the slightest glimpse of silver out of the corner of her eyes. The wolf had finally caught up to her and was now running by her side. A strip of silver reached out towards her. 

Clang. Clang. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. 

With a final pump of adrenaline in her body, she launched herself the remaining few meters onto the road. 

She rolled onto the filthy ice littered with pebbles, her bones hitting the icy pavement with a sickening crack. For a brief second she had lost all control of her body; her limbs would not respond to any of the movements that she willed while trying to navigate through a rapidly spinning world. Instead, she settled for laying on her belly and tried to focus all of her energy onto the two guards in front of her. 

They were taken aback by what they had witnessed. With their jaws hanging open and their rifles pointed to the side in their limp arms, they could not believe what they were seeing: a young woman so emaciated that her bruised eyes seem to pop out of the clear outline of her skull; a young woman who looked so defeated that the task of even breathing was akin to Atlas holding the world on his shoulders. 

“Please,” she wheezed, blood trickling out the corner of her mouth. “Please don’t let him take me back.” 

The two soldiers remained unmoving. 

There the wolf stood, just mere feet away, framed ominously by the skeletal trees. The floodlights stretched out his shadow to be long and menacing, the sharp edges of his form exaggerated against the snow. His face was obscured by the darkness, but his metal arm shone as it caught the light. 

The Winter Soldier. 

As she lay there defeated, exhausted, and unable to breathe, his broad frame was the silhouette of death. There would be no more running for her now. 

The guards hesitated, their weapons now shifting between her to the figure lurking in the trees. “Stop right there!” one of them shouted. “Hands where we can see them!” 

The Winter Soldier did not respond. The frost of his breath was visible as he exhaled steadily, not even remotely bothered by the guns pointing directly at him. Instead, he stepped forward, his movements slow and predatory. 

This was nothing more than a game to him–an extra addition to the hunt. 

“Shoot him!” she wailed. “He’s going to take me back, please shoot him!” 

The soldier’s hands trembled as they kept their aim. It was clear that they were uncertain–even strangely hesitant. They had never seen a man look more relaxed, and somewhat even bored, with a dozen rifles pointed right at him. And yet, she had no time for their hesitation. 

A sharp, ragged inhale burned her lungs as she fought to push herself up onto the calloused palms of her bloodied hands. “Do it!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Do it now!” 

The Winter Soldier took another step forward. Then another. His boots crunched softly against the ice as if he had all the time in the world. The floodlights illuminated just enough of his face for her to see it; a black mask concealing his mouth, nose, and cheeks, with the unsettling black paint swatched across his eyes and temples. There he remained, if even briefly, so that she could take one last good look at him; an opportunity to meet Death’s gaze and finally accept her grim fate. 

It made her stomach churn with fury and despair. 

The crack of a gunshot suddenly shattered the night–one of the guards finally took action. 

Before the bullet could reach him, he lunged forward, his metal arm a brilliant blur as it struck the nearest soldier. The impact was sickening as bone and flesh gave way beneath his godly strength. The guard crumpled instantly, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud right next to her huddled form. 

Gunshots and yells rang throughout the air. 

Shocked by the quick fate of his colleague, the second soldier barely had any time to react before the assassin was on him. A swift yet brutal motion sent his rifle skidding across the ice. The Winter Soldier’s gloved hand closed around his throat. The soldier kicked, struggled, pleaded, and gargled. 

It was useless. 

His grip became tighter and tighter, until one-by-one, the bones in his neck broke apart like popsicle sticks. He too was thrown next to the girl. 

She could only watch in horror as he turned his attention to the remaining guards, his expression unchanged, his indifference terrifying. He moved like the predator he was, calculated and unrelenting. A soldier tried to run, but could only make it a few steps before the serrated blade of a knife found purchase in between his shoulder blades. 

More shots were exchanged, firing back and forth and lighting up the darkened night until a final shot rang out. There he remained, in the middle of the road, completely unfazed at the pile of bodies surrounding him. 

She began to weep; she couldn’t believe it. Within mere moments, they were all gone–her saviours, her guardian angels, her last chance at life. 

He marched towards her with a vigour that frightened her, as he seemed almost energized by the deadly interaction. His clenched fists, his long strides, his narrowed eyes, no doubt they screamed that playtime was over, back to your cage.  

“No. No. No. No.” she sobbed. “Stop. Please stop. No. No. Stop!” 

With an iron grip on her protruding ankles, he started to drag her back into the eternal darkness of the forest. She let out a guttural scream, digging her fingernails into the ice to try and anchor herself. If he managed to take her back into the forest, she feared that the darkness would swallow her whole. 

Nobody would ever find her again. The footsteps of her plight would disappear into the snow and her cries would vanish into the air. The only thing left in her wake would be a pile of bodies and crimson blood splattered against the pure white snow. 

Desperation surged through her veins. She grabbed the gun from the fallen soldier and turned it onto her assailant. He stopped dragging her, even loosening his grip on her ankles ever so slightly. There they were, face-to-face yet again. They had done this showdown at least a dozen times before. But this time felt different. 

This time, it felt like the last. 

No words were exchanged between the two of them. With the barrel of the assault rifle pointing at him, the threat was painfully clear. Yet he wasn’t afraid.

In a twisted way, he seemed to be almost amused by the display. She could see the skin of his cheeks raise higher—no doubt there was a smirk underneath his black mask. His steely eyes shimmered with delight as he held her gaze. Seeing the amusement on his face, her hands began to tremble. 

What was she thinking? 

She had just watched him take the wrath of a hundred bullets from a dozen men and he didn’t even have a single scratch. Any blood that was on him was not his. 

How could she, as wounded and defeated as she was, ever hope to take him down? 

Realistically, there was no winning for her.

On the other side of the moment lay only pain, torture, and an inevitable horrifying death.  

And yet, it was in that moment that she found a brief semblance of acceptance. Even peace. 

The fight was over. All that was left to do was make sure it ended on her terms. 

In one swift motion she raised the gun, placing the barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger. 

Or she tried to. 

The trigger became jammed halfway, producing a feeble clicking noise instead of a deafening shot followed by the sound of her brains splattering against the ice. 

In her desperation, she pulled the trigger again, and again, and again. Tears started to stream from her eyes as she wailed around the barrel. The wolf let out a wry chuckle and ripped the gun out of her mouth, hitting her lower teeth. He threw it to the side like garbage before grabbing the collar of her torn jacket and placing his face against hers, the covering of his mask touching the tip of her nose. 

“I am done playing games with you,” he hissed. “I am taking you back, where you belong. Where you will be dealt with for your disloyalty.” 

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, her chest rising and falling erratically as his works sank in. Where you belong. The words made her stomach twist. She knew exactly what was waiting for her if she went back–cold steel tables, the bite of thick needles, the feeling of her mind unraveling thread by thread until nothing of her remained.

“No,” she rasped. She clenched her hands around the fabric of his sleeve, her misshapen nails biting into the material. “I’d rather die.” 

The soldier said nothing. He tilted his head, observing the disastrous state he put her in. Without warning, he hauled her up with frightening ease, his grip unyielding as he lifted her to her feet. 

Her legs could barely hold her weight. She swayed, lightheaded, darkness creeping into her vision. But she refused to go limp–she couldn’t make it anymore easier for him. 

With the last remnants of any strength, she swung at him. A wild, desperate punch that barely turned his head. He didn’t even flinch. 

Instead, he spoke, a thick accent carrying his words through the eerily-silent winter air. “You never learn.” 

Then he moved. 

Pain exploded on the right side of her abdomen as his fist connected with her ribs, not once but twice. The world blurred, and a sharp cry tore itself from her throat as she crumpled forward. If not for his grip, she would have collapsed onto the corpses. He pulled her back up, forcing her to look at him. 

Through the haze of pain and exhaustion she could barely meet his gaze anymore. A strange feeling of serenity washed over her; she suddenly felt at ease, with no more fight left in her, that now she could rest. If even for a while, she could finally close her heavy eyelids and drift away. 

Then–

A sharp, deafening crack split the air. 

The Winter Soldier tensed, his grip on her tightening for a moment as moved his gaze downwards. His eyes widened in shock once he saw the blood soaking through her jacket. 

A new pain was blooming in her side–white, hot, and searing; something that set her veins on fire yet left her with no ability to scream. She suddenly felt wet and sticky, a warm substance dripping down her leg. 

He snapped his head to the side, confused and alert. 

She could barely register the second gunshot before the world tilted and she was left to fall back onto the already-frozen bodies of the fallen soldiers. More blood painted her face, but this time, it wasn’t hers. 

With a final heavy breath, the serenity only intensified. 

More and more, she drifted away as her eyelids came to a close. 

Until suddenly: nothing.

[hannahssimblr]

Dublin is blanketed in white when I land, weary from the flight. It is evening, after sunset, when mom picks me up at the terminal. Eight inches of snow perched on top of her Audi, heated seats on full. Weird sensation, sitting on them, I’ve always thought. Like being transported back in time. The childhood sensation of having pissed oneself. 

“You look different,” I say as she pecks my cheek. “Were you at the clinic recently?”

“It’s not polite to point something like that out.”

“Oh, right. Well, it looks good. Whatever you’ve done.”

A thin smile, and her eyes and forehead don’t move. As we drive, I wonder absently how much my mother’s face is worth. Her clothes, too, the specific shade of her hair, blonder now than before and the yellow gold bracelet watch fastened to her wrist. Manicured nails on fingers, curled around the leather bound wheel. I suppose in some way I once thought of her—dad too, as walking, talking, great bursting wallets of money, but it’s jarring to see it so clearly, to feel confronted by it upon returning.

I rest my head on the window, forehead rattling against the glass as the car sinks into the port tunnel, perfect darkness, cat eyes illuminated by the headlights, then we emerge and swoosh into suburbia. A strange stillness about it under the snow. Squat little hedges of the council houses capped with it, golden glow of the streetlights illuminating drifts swirling in the air. Lazy curls of smoke from chimneys. Entering Clontarf, then, with its arrogant beauty. The manicured lawn by the seafront now a perfect white expanse. The odd runner still out there in their gore tex, jogging beneath brittle trees, obsessed with being seen doing it. Always upholding that insane pressure to keep busy, to prove their worth to other people, even when the world has paused. 

Tyres crunch on the stones in the driveway as we pull in. The snow’s all shovelled from the steps, a neat pile by the flower beds. TV is on inside, flickering pictures and a warm glow pour from the window onto the ground. Weird how inviting it is, giving the house an allure it never really had. This place I’d sort of dread after a day at school now looks warm. I remember how many steps it is from the gate to the door. Fourteen. Counting down toward the worst portion of my day, fantasizing about the future, when I would live somewhere else instead. 

The underfloor heating is on, and the stove in the dining room, though the facade of perfection fades as soon as I enter. Piles of laundry on the stairs, fingerprints on the mirror and bits of dust and lint on the rug. In the kitchen, too, dishes have piled in the sink, coffee stains on the counter, Ivy’s school things fanned out over the table along with a half-empty mug of hot chocolate. I frown.

“The cleaner hasn’t been able to come,” mom says, before I can ask. “The trains and busses have stopped on account of the snow. She didn’t feel it was appropriate to come to work this week.”

“Ah, I see. I actually didn’t realise she did so much.”

“Yes, well. We all have our own things to do.”

“I see that.” Glancing then down the hallway, the muffled sound of the television from the living room, faint keyboard clacking from Dad’s study. Still in there, like a hermit. I used to think he noticed everything in this house, that nothing could escape his scrutiny, a cushion out of place, a cup left in the sink. Once, the cleaner spilled rinse-aid inside the cupboard, and he spent the next morning making passive-aggressive comments about it to her, all of us cringing in silence around the breakfast table. Funny how far he’s let it go now when she’s away. Almost like it wasn’t about the rinse-aid at all. 

“Is Ivy home?”

“Of course.”

“She hasn’t shown herself.”

“I suppose she’s doing her own thing.”

Her own thing? Yeah, fine. It’s just I am used to her being the first person I see when I come home. Waiting on the doorstep, bounding down the stairs to fling herself at my legs, but this time I haven’t heard a peep. 

Gingerly, I push into the living room, where she’s on the couch, playing Temple Run with her feet up on the seats.

“Ivy?”

She glances around. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She is different. Her face is changing—growing out of its childishness. Longer, less round, and I see she’s taller, too. I notice changes like this more easily now. Not seeing her for stretches of months at a time makes it possible to see how fast things are happening. How a year ago, when she was ten, we made friendship bracelets from a kit she got for Christmas, and now, she’s playing games on an iPhone. 

“C’mere, I’m home,” I say, and she looks up. The temple runner strides off the edge of the path and into the water as she loses the game. She purses her lips, thumb hesitates on the continue? button, then lays the phone on the cushion. Our hug is awkward, a bit. I suppose she’s becoming that, too. The embarrassment of pre-teen existence is starting to creep in on her. I remember the pain of it, but don’t recall being so young when it was me. Eleven. What was I doing at her age? Eleven replays like a series of random, uncomfortable events. The agony of being caught between one stage and the next. Repeating another thing I heard without knowing the meaning. Someone from school asking me who I fancied before I had those feelings. Another humiliating conversation with dad.

The Temple Run game-over screen music drums repetitively from the couch, and I glance at it, thick, pink, silicone cover. Taking her arms to look at her. She’s not so soft now. Lean muscle, like she’s stretching toward adolescence. “That’s not your phone, is it?”

“Yeah,” she says, small shrug of one shoulder, and I huff out a laugh at the reality of it as much as her curated nonchalance. “Mom got you an iPhone?”

“A few of the girls at her school got one for Christmas,” that’s mom, in the doorway. “We thought she should have one, too.”

“That’s cool, yeah. I think I was thirteen when I finally got that Nokia.”

“Yes, well. Things are different now.” 

I pull a face at Ivy that mom cannot see. No need to be defensive, kind of look. My sister gives me a wry smile then returns to her phone, swiping through the level, sounds of those shrieking monkeys looping, the rhythmic huh-uh of the runner. Mom goes to the kitchen and I take a seat, half-watching the television, feeling like a stranger who has wandered in from the street. Outside, the snow keeps falling, heavier now, covering the tyre tracks on the road, the driveway, the steps, the neat pile by the flowerbeds. By morning, it will all be buried again. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[fireside-fanfics]

The Weight We Carry

ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ.

The Hilltop was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that used to mean peace, back when Peach was still stationed on base in Nevada after she had come back from her last deployment in Afghanistan. Back when she reunited with her brother and family, laughing about the old times. Back when silence meant everyone was alive and accounted for ... but now it just felt like the world was holding its breath.

Peach sat on the hardwood floor of the small room she shared with Daryl, tucked into the farthest corner, her back pressed hard against the wall. The cold seeped through her shirt, grounding and sharp, but her mind was a thousand miles away. Her hands trembled in her lap, her shoulders curled in on themselves like a shrinking star.

She couldn’t stop shaking. A wheeze escaped her lips. She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear landed on her shirt. Her chest rose and fell in rapid gasps, each breath more desperate than the last. The air felt thick. Heavy. Like she was drowning above water. She didn’t remember what triggered it this time.

Maybe it was the way the Hilltop gates creaked open that morning, too much like the doors to the Sanctuary. Maybe it was the smell of gun oil from Enid cleaning her pistol that stopped her breath. Maybe it was the crumpled piece of Glenn’s flannel she’d accidentally unearthed in the laundry bin that locked her in place, remembering the day she borrowed it before he—before they were lined up in the dark ... before Negan.

Maybe it was just time. Maybe it was time to unravel from the weight of it all. The body remembers even when the mind tries to forget.

Daryl had been gone for all of ten minutes. He’d gone to get them lunch just a bowl of stew and two rolls from the mess hall. He told her he’d be right back; he told her to stretch out, try to relax, maybe even nap. He gave her a rare little smile, the kind that softened the sharp edges of his face, and brushed a knuckle under her chin. She’d nodded and smiled back, a forced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She’d lied through her teeth when he asked if she was all right.

The moment the door shut behind him, something in her snapped.

Her breath caught like it always used to after a mission. Like it had in the barracks, in the deep hours of the night when the adrenaline wore off and all that was left was the echo of gunfire and the weight of the dead. Like it had when her squad never came back from a recon op outside Kandahar—bodies burned, radio calls silent. Like it had when the world fell apart and she was left with a med kit and too many corpses.

The walls of the room felt like they were closing in. Her gaze darted to the door, the window, the corner by the footlocker. No threats. No walkers. No alarms. But her body didn’t believe it. Her skin crawled. Her fingers tingled. Her vision narrowed at the edges, like tunnel walls closing in. Her brain knew she was at the Hilltop. Her brain knew they were all safe—for now.

But her body remembered other places.

The concrete cell floors of the Sanctuary. The way the music had blasted through the speakers to torment Daryl until he was no longer himself. The chains that left raw, angry marks on his wrists. The sickly sweet smell of dog food sandwiches and piss. She remembered the weight of Dwight’s eyes on her every time she tried to look strong.

And she remembered that night. The one that broke the world all over again. Negan’s voice echoing off the trees. The swing of the bat. Abraham’s defiant glare as blood poured from his mouth. Glenn’s panicked eyes through the blood and pain, searching—always searching—for Maggie.

And her own reaction. Screaming. Thrashing. Unable to reach either of them. A kick to her back from a Savior. Daryl lunging, reckless with fury, and her own body locking around him like a cage to keep him alive. Maggie collapsed in her arms, sobbing and burning with fever. Her throat had torn itself raw that night. Not that it mattered. Nothing she said could stop it.

She’d held Daryl back then: arms locked tight around his chest, voice whispering broken prayers in his ear. Now she was the one unraveling. She slid down the wall before she knew she was moving, hands gripping the fabric of her pants so hard her knuckles turned white. Her heart pounded like it was trying to break through her ribs. Her breaths came sharp and shallow, like a fish gasping on dry land. The room tilted. Her ears rang.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, fingers clawing at her thighs, gripping so hard she might bruise herself. “Get it together, Peach. You’re not there anymore.”

The thing about trauma was it didn’t care where you were. It lived in the in-between, in the shadows of memory, in the parts of you that never stopped scanning for threats even when the world went quiet. She shut her eyes tight, fists hitting her temples trying to shake the memories that were flooding her senses.

For a second, she smelled smoke. Heard the static of a broken comms unit. The faint crunch of boots over broken glass. Felt heat—panic—death. Her fingers twitched, searching for a weapon that wasn’t there. And just when she thought she might black out from the madness and the force of it all—

The door creaked open.

“Babe, got somethin’ for us—” Daryl’s voice cut off.

She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to see the uneasy look plastered across his face because of her condition; she could feel it in the way he paused for a brief moment. His boots scraped the floor as he crossed the room, faster than usual. He dropped the bowl on the dresser—she heard the soft slosh of stew spill over. She could barely register it over the buzzing in her ears.

“Peach?” he said, softer now. He dropped to his knees in front of her. “Baby, you with me?”

She gasped, still unable to form words, but her eyes darted to his face not quite meeting his eyes. She was zoning out and she tried to bring herself back by memorizing Daryl. His lined, worn, too-thin face; his hair shaggy, eyes sharp with concern. His hands hesitantly reaching for her, afraid of startling her even more.

“I—I can’t—Daryl—I—” Peach choked, fists hitting her temples repeatedly, so hard bruises were already forming.

Daryl reached for her hands gently, prying her fists open and lacing his fingers with hers.

“Hey. Look at me,” he murmured, grounding her. “S’okay. Just keep breathing. In and out. You’re doing great.”

His voice was low and rough, but calm. It always amazed her how gentle he could be. She knew the world saw Daryl as a weapon—feral and quiet and ready to snap. Peach saw the man who cradled injured birds, who sat beside her every night and ran his fingers through her hair until she fell asleep. The man who still flinched when people raised their voices, who never let go when she held his hand too tight.

“In,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. Peach tried to match his breathing. “Now out. That’s it. Just like that.”

Her chest hitched. One inhale. One exhale.

“You’re safe, Peach,” he whispered. She nodded, barely, trying to convince herself Daryl was right. “Ain’t no one here but me. You hear me?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Peach hiccuped between silent tears now. “I was fine—I thought I was fine.”

“Don’t gotta explain it,” Daryl said, voice steady. “Ain’t your fault.”

“It’s the same as before,” she continued, eyes fluttering shut. She exhaled a shaky breath. “Like when I was in Afghanistan. When the convoy got hit. When I—when I couldn’t find Lopez in the smoke. He was the best mechanic we had. He was my best friend—and I couldn’t pull him out. I couldn’t save my best friend when all he ever did was save me.”

A broken sob left her throat. Daryl didn’t say anything. Instead, he quietly pulled her into his arms, wrapping her tightly in his embrace. Peach clung to him like a lifeline.

“When you were gone—at the Sanctuary—I had dreams,” she whispered into his shoulder. “I kept seeing you on that cell floor. Kept hearing those chains. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t help you.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Daryl quietly ordered. His jaw clenched against her hair. “You helped. You helped more than you know.”

“I was helpless.”

“Peach, listen to me.” Daryl cupped her face and gently pulled her back so she had to look at him. “I got through that hell because of you. I’d sit in that dark cell and think about your voice. The way you laugh. The way you scoot closer to me no matter where we are or who’s around. The way you smile. The way you always fix my crossbow better than I can.”

Despite the panic still burning low in her chest, a soft smile cracked through and she managed to whisper, “That’s because you refuse to clean the gears.”

“Probably,” he huffed out a quiet laugh, “but you—you’re why I came back in one piece.”

Her breathing slowed. Not perfect, but bearable now. Peach leaned her forehead into his again, savoring the heat of his skin, the rough stubble of his jaw, the way his thumbs brushed soft arcs beneath her eyes.

“I thought I’d be stronger than this,” Peach admitted.

“You are strong. Just ‘cause the weight gets heavy sometimes don’t mean you’re not tough.”

“I’m scared, Daryl.”

“I am too,” he said honestly. “Every damn day. But I’d rather be scared with you than brave without you.”

Peach exhaled, long and slow. She pulled him close again, burying her face in his neck. The panic had passed—distant now, like a wave that had already crashed but still left debris in its wake. He held her through the aftershocks, never rushing her, never asking her to move on faster than she could.

After a while, they shifted to the bed, her curled against his chest, their legs tangled in the threadbare blanket.

“You remember that first day?” Peach murmured into the quiet.

“Which one?”

“Back when Glenn brought me and Rick to the clearing in Atlanta. You didn’t trust me despite how much Glenn vouched for me. You thought I was a fed. You almost shot me.”

He chuckled and told her, “That’s because you were covered in blood from attacking walkers. The next morning I watched you tackle a walker with a wrench and called it a ‘Tuesday morning warm-up’ when we were on a hunt that night... I thought you were crazy, Peach—mesmerizing and beautiful and smart, but crazy.”

“I was. Still am.”

“But you saved Rick’s ass that night—and mine. You saved all of us that night and haven’t stopped yet.”

She paused, fingers tracing the faded tattoo on his collarbone.

“You think we’ll make it?” she asked. “This war with Negan. Alexandria. Will we both make it?”

Daryl looked down at her with those eyes—stormy, fierce, loyal to the death.

“I don’t know what’s comin’,” he said honestly, “but we’ll keep fightin’. We’ll keep breathin’ and long as I got you beside me—I can survive anything.”

Her throat tightened again—but this time with love. Gratitude. Hope.

“Then I’ll keep breathing,” Peach whispered. “For you.”

Daryl nodded and kissed her softly, gently, like the world hadn’t tried to break them in two.

And outside, the Hilltop stirred back to life. Maggie barked orders, children laughed, the wind shifted. The war wasn’t over. The pain hadn’t stopped. But in this room, in this moment, Peach and Daryl had carved out something real. Not peace. Not safety. But each other. That was more than enough.

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 8

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Part 9 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, soapghost // CW: Hurt/Comfort, MWIII spoilers

---

Tensions are high as Price backs out of the garage. Ghost keeps his body loose and his eyes moving as the outside world comes into view. The windows are tinted and the vehicle bullet-proof, but that won't stop heavy artillery.

They'll need to be vigilant.

Price drives carefully, weaving between buildings in the small Eastern European city that Ghost doesn't even know the name of. Hell, he's not even sure what bloody country they're in anymore. Ghost keeps his eyes on the buildings silhouetted by the dawn light, sweeping for broken-out windows or long barrels sticking over the edges of rooftops. 

Soon enough, though, they leave the town behind, replacing sidewalks and buildings with open fields and clumps of occasional forests. Ghost lets the tension seep away slowly. He stays vigilant, but as they continue on with no sign of pursuit, he lets his mind wander back to the way Johnny had looked when he shoved his gun into Ghost's hand — too wild-eyed, too frightened, and just... wrong. Wrong in the same ways these past three years have been wrong.

It will take time for Johnny to recover, but the reality is that the brash, cocky side of his sergeant is likely gone forever. Not that it makes much of a difference to Ghost. Johnny is alive and back in his arms. He doesn't really give a fuck about anything else.

They drive for several hours before stopping to fill up at a small station. He, Soap, and Gaz duck down in the back to make sure they aren't seen through the open doors. Laswell pays well in the local currency, which the station attendant seems to appreciate, and they move on down the road. They're only on the road for a few minutes, though, before Laswell lets out a vicious curse and murmurs something to Price. As they make a hard turn down a dusty road, Ghost sees the reason for Laswell's displeasure through the side window.

A border checkpoint in the distance.

"That's not supposed to be there, I take it," Gaz says in a tense tone.

"Nope," Laswell replies. "We'll find another way through."

They pass three more checkpoints before Laswell calls a halt. She pulls up her laptop and begins scanning a satellite map. After a few minutes of tense silence, she disconnects and directs them to a dirt track a few miles down the road.

"We're off-roading it, boys. Better buckle up if you aren't already."

Trees rise up around them, branches scraping along the sides of the car as they bounce over the eroded trail. With another turn, they begin a slow descent. Price dodges a young tree growing in the middle of the track, losing his side mirror in the process. Ghost holds on to Soap as the car bounces around, throwing them into each other despite the tight hold of their locked seatbelts. His stitches protest the violent movement, but there's nothing to be done about it.

The border is protected by nothing but a fence with a gate cut in it, which they assume the locals sometimes use to avoid the check points as well. They pass through and get tossed around a bit more as they drive over more barely-there dirt tracks. Finally, the brush falls back to the sides, and at the intersection of another trail, it evens out into a more well-used dirt road.

"We're through," Laswell murmurs. "Just keep driving west for now."

The roads gradually widen and become more well-maintained, though they stay on the back roads for another few hours. The next gas station sits at a barren crossroads and doesn't have an attendant, though the rustic pumps hum to life when Price picks up the nozzle and lifts the lever. A sign written in Polish in the nearby shack says to leave the money inside, so they fill up, leave the correct change, and continue on their way, this time with Gaz behind the wheel again. By the time they merge back onto a proper highway, the sun is setting.

Still, Laswell keeps them moving. Johnny falls asleep on his shoulder.

The sun sets fully, but it isn't until Ghost notices the signs have switched to German that he begins to relax. Signs count down the kilometers to Berlin until they finally pull into another garage in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.

"I've got a contact here," Laswell tells them as they file into the surprisingly roomy safehouse. "He's trustworthy, and he can get us to Mexico. It'll be a while, though, so we're going to hole up again."

Ghost just nods. Mexico means Alejandro and Rudy, people they can trust and who have the resources to protect and counter attack. He fucking hates Mexico for so many reasons, but if that's where Johnny will be safe, he'll take it. It'll be nice to see the Vaqueros again, too. They've been on a few missions together since Johnny was... taken, but nothing long term.

As they gather in the kitchen off the garage, Soap sways on his feet. He's been napping on and off all day, but his eyes are bloodshot, and he looks one strong wind away from falling over. Ghost wraps an arm around his waist, and Soap leans into him.

"One room downstairs, three rooms up," Laswell says as she quirks an eye at Ghost.

As much as he wants to take the downstairs room for Johnny's sake, tactically, it makes more sense for one of the uninjured, such as Price or Gaz, to be their first line of defense. When he says as much, Price nods.

"I'll take the downstairs. I assume you two are good to share?"

"Yes," Johnny says a little too quickly.

Ghost hides his smile behind his mask as usual. He nods to the others and leads Johnny upstairs. He finds the room with the biggest bed, curls around Soap's shivering body under the heavy blankets, and lets himself drift away.

---

The next few days are much like their days in the first safe house, though this time they have more space. Ghost exercises as much as his wound allows while keeping an eye on Johnny, helping him through the withdrawal. The hallucinations scare him, but Johnny hasn't once lashed out or otherwise seen Ghost as anyone but Ghost. He takes it as a good sign.

It's becoming more difficult to keep his hands to himself, though. Every night, as they press together, Johnny's head on his chest or Ghost's buried in the crook of his neck, he thinks of kissing Johnny, of sliding a hand lower, of hearing those soft moans of pleasure he's been missing for years. Despite the mistreatment, Johnny's body is still beautiful, and Ghost wants. 

And yet Johnny deserves time to heal before Ghost pushes his own feelings on him. What kind of a partner would he be if he pushed for something while Johnny was still in the throws of withdrawal?

So he aims for comforting when they share a bed — and wanks in the shower every chance he gets.

Four days after their arrival, Laswell's contact picks them up and drives them to a small airport two hours south of Berlin. They are ushered into a small plane and presented with new clothes, including hats, glasses, and fake passports. They change clothes in the plane on the way Paris, where another jet is waiting to take them to Mexico.

It's not until Ghost sees Alejandro's severe expression as he approaches them at the airport that Ghost thinks to be cautious. Ale steps up to Soap and scans his face as if searching for something.

"Alejandro," Soap says by way of greeting as he holds out his hand. "Good to see you again, mi hermano."

"Dios mio," Ale whispers, eyes wide.

Ghost is about to step between them when Ale suddenly slaps Soap's hand aside and grabs him up into a fierce hug. There's a lot of pounding of backs and coughing to cover the crying, but Ghost lets his muscles untense as Ale murmurs how good it is to see Soap alive and well. Over Soap's shoulder, he gives Ghost a nod.

Ghost nods back.

"Come, my friends!" Ale says as he pulls back from Soap, though he keeps an arm around his shoulders. "Let's get back to base and figure out our next steps, eh?"

---

The base is even more highly secured than the last time they were there. It takes two major checkpoints and dozens of guarded doors before Ale leads them into a building in the middle of the base. Rudy is waiting for them inside the conference room, and he goes through much the same process as Alejandro, taking a moment to really look at Soap... and then grabbing him up in a tight hug.

"It's a miracle," Ale murmurs. "Do you know how it was done?"

"Some kinda serum," Ghost says. "Laswell knows more, I think."

Sure enough, as they quiet down and Laswell begins speaking, it's clear she's been busy the last couple of weeks. She's narrowed the traitors down to three of the seven generals on the multinational council that replaced Shepherd.

"I can't be sure, but intel points to all three of them being involved to some degree." She clicks forward a slide and three pictures come on screen. "Generals Havisham, Dinly, and Patel have had dealings with the supposed 'supersoldier' serum, though it's possible Dinly isn't aware of who they're truly working with to develop the serum. I've received confirmation that all seven generals will be detained on our mark, just in case."

"So... what's the plan, then?" Alejandro asks. "Are we moving against Makarov directly?"

Laswell looks at Ghost.

No. She looks at Soap, who is standing directly in front of Ghost, back pressed to his front.

A chill runs down Ghost's spine.

Laswell's gaze does flick to Ghost's for a brief moment before she looks at Ale. "We'll be setting a trap. Soap is the bait."

"No."

The word is out of Ghost's mouth before he can stop it, an arm circling around Johnny's shoulders to crush him against his chest.

"We're just spreading the rumor that he's there," Laswell says. "When Makarov shows up to collect his wayward experiment, we'll be there instead."

Ghost relaxes a bit, though a sick, curdling feeling in his gut tells him to keep his guard up. The meeting continues, planning the location, the angles, the coverage. Ghost listens with half an ear, but his focus is on Johnny.

On the soft breaths that waft over his arm where it rests on his collarbone.

On the desperate grip curling around the meat of his forearm.

On that strange, sick feeling that only grows more pronounced with every word from Laswell's mouth. 

He trusts her. He does. But he also trusts that she'll do what's necessary for the greater good. And that Johnny will go along with it if he thinks it's the right thing to do.

So he listens. He watches. And he makes a few plans of his own.

---

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 // Part 9 >>

[altocat]

When Sephiroth tries to picture a hometown, what does he see? What landscape? What does his house look like?

He always pictures a warm little inn or cottage far out in the middle of the mountains. Fireplace roaring. Peeling wallpaper. A desk with a pitcher of water. Outside--worn country roads and heavy pine trees. Thick, heady air. A cool breeze lurking somewhere behind those rattling walls.

And a woman. Writhing and gasping in bed, struggling beneath the sheets as a circle of white-coated men coax and comfort her. Sharp metallic objects. Hushed pleadings and protests. Warm skin. Warm hands that just barely--barely--brush his skin.

Then Sephiroth can sense something, some violent, serrated tearing. A sense of sudden loss. An anguished tug. He's being pulled away. Away from grasping hands. He hears her desperate shrieks ringing in his ears, his head thrumming, his little lungs expanding into a single quaking, squalling wail.

Down a dark tunnel. White halls. Lifted up into a waiting truck, the road jostling and bumping left and right. The lights are too bright. He can just barely make out the sight of the gated mansion courtyard in the far distance, the rolling black mountains looming above him, towering, beckoning. It is beginning to rain.

And he can still hear her screaming. Forever screaming.

Screaming for him.

Screaming for him.

Screaming for--

He wakes up with a gasp, warm sweat dampening his brow, long silver bangs plastered against his face as his chest heaves, his eyes focusing blearily in the gloom of his bedroom.

Just...just a dream.

[lovesim09]

theory about forest of darkness

We know how almost all dangerous places in nameless1 were created.

Three Restricted Areas:

Wind Island - created by sound of the winds with the help of wind elementals.

Castle of Light - created by Sheritt to protect children.

Gate to the Demon World - giant sinkhole which shares a name with a literal gate to the Demon World. It really does have ties to the Demon World. After all, there's a reason White Star used this location.

Five Forbidden Regions:

Valley of Despair - created by World Tree to protect itself.

Path of No Return - located in a rainforest. We don't know how the fog was created to make it so easy to get lost. Likely naturally created zone.

Land of Death - most likely created after the death of Queen of Death. Also Cage theorizes that it might be a blessing from the God of Death.

Gorge of Death - created by nature.

Forest of Darkness - has existed since ancient times and has ties to Black Mages.

We know almost nothing about the place Cale calls his backyard. There is a passage there connecting the two continents, through which monsters from the Eastern Continent are found in the forest. There are black trees, flora and fauna that are hard to find anywhere else. Monsters from two continents and mutants. In this place you could find dragon bones and a swamp full of dead mana created after its death. The forest is divided into regions, in the central regions there are stronger monsters that are not even afraid of stronger creatures like dragons.

In the second part we met the God of Chaos, we found out what kind of creatures he likes the most. Yes, mutants. Cale also had a theory that GoC was already working with the God of War in ancient times, because the chains that held Sky eating water captive were grey and the lake looked like an eye. In addition, we learned about one of his powers, which may be associated with the lack of fear in stronger beings in the forest. The passage between continents could have been GoC's doing. Because of this, some monsters may have mutated and only monsters can pass through this tunnel.

In addition to the black mages serving the Ancient White Star, among his people there may have been believers of the God of Chaos who were responsible for the experiments. The Forest of Darkness may have been created to do experiments, which is why it is such a mysterious and dangerous place.

I wouldn't be surprised if Cale found a ruined temple of the God of Chaos in his backyard. There is a good chance that they will need to go back to Nameless1 and search for information about ancient times.