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quillcraftconquer · 4 months ago

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Watchdog (Simon x K9)

TWs: trauma and grief, abuse, mental health struggles, Violence, Objectification.

Pt. 1

Three weeks. K9 had been on base for three weeks, and Simon hadn’t heard a single word from her. Every morning, before he even opened his eyes, her cot was always empty. She spent most of the day tucked away in John’s office, immersed in writing. John mentioned they were documenting everything from the past year and a half, trying to capture as much intel as she could recall. In the afternoons, she would settle at the table, often across from Johnny, silently listening as he rambled on about his day or meticulously worked through some item he was dissecting.

She wasn’t scared anymore, or at least, it didn’t seem like it. Simon couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going through her mind, and that uncertainty gnawed at him. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to. Small talk always made him uncomfortable, something he’d avoid if he could. That’s why Johnny was always the one to fill the awkward silence between them, effortlessly filling the air with chatter. Simon would throw in the occasional quip, but mostly he just listened. It was probably why she and Johnny got along so well—he loved to talk, and she was content to listen.

He tried, though. Despite the pull to sink into the comfort and familiarity of silence, he made a conscious effort to start a conversation.

“You hungry?” he asked, huffing out a breath as he plated the breakfast—sausage, eggs, bacon, and a side of toast. She sat at the table, her coffee untouched, as if it were an item on display rather than something to be drunk. Ignoring the subtle shake of her head, Simon placed the plate in front of her. She eyed it for a long moment, then methodically separated the toast from the rest.

“You don’t like eggs?” Simon asked. A shrug was her only response.

“You don’t eat meat?” Another shake of her head.

“Do you want something else?” Another shrug.

Simon’s lips thinned, and he fought to summon any trace of patience he had left.

Most mornings went like that. He’d since learned to accept it, but it didn’t make the routine any easier. In fact, it only made John’s request feel more burdensome.

“I need you to take her back,” John said, handing him her folder, now brimming with the papers they’d been compiling.

“Take her back where?” Simon asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“To the States. You’ll turn this in to her superior officer, she’ll get the rest of her things, and come back.” John’s tone was calm, almost casual, as if it were just another task.

“I can’t take her.” Simon’s voice was firm as he tried to hand the folder back, but John’s expression remained unchanged.

“Why?”

“She does better with Gaz. Or Johnny.” Simon shrugged, jostling the folder to emphasize his point.

“I’m not asking Gaz or Soap. I’m telling you,” John replied, his voice firm.

“When?” Simon’s jaw clenched, the irritation starting to seep through despite his best effort to hold it in.

“Today.”

His teeth ground together as he fought to contain the frustration that surged beneath the surface. He crinkled the folder in his hand, before tossing it onto his cot with a sharp motion. Without another word, he stormed toward the bathroom.

The lock clicked behind him, and he ripped his mask off, throwing it onto the counter with a thud.

“God dammit,” he muttered under his breath, leaning his palms against the cold counter, his chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh.

And then, there she was, staring back at him in the mirror, like some kind of wraith. Her wet hair clung to her shoulders, her body still damp from the shower. Her eyes flickered to his mask before returning to meet his gaze.

Fuck.

Simon grabbed the mask off the counter, his frustration bubbling over. The last thing he wanted was her seeing him without it. The fabric of the mask felt like the only thing standing between him and complete exposure. He spun to face her, his grip tight around it.

“What?” he snapped, not meaning to let the irritation slip into his voice.

K9 just stood there, silent as always, her eyes flicking briefly to the mask in his hand before returning to his face. There was no judgment, no reaction, nothing.

Then, without a word, she raised a hand and pointed behind him, toward the sink.

He turned, following her gesture, and there it was—her hairbrush, sitting innocently on the edge of the sink.

The frustration that had been seething inside him melted. He realized, too late, that she wasn’t staring at him because of his mask—or the lack of it. She wasn’t bothered by his appearance at all. She just wanted her damn hairbrush.

His grip on the mask loosened, and he exhaled sharply, annoyed with himself.

“We’re leaving in a few hours,” he muttered, “and when you're in the bathroom, lock the damn door.”

The plane ride was, as expected, silent. Simon sat beside K9, the hum of the engines the only sound in the otherwise quiet cabin. His mind raced, and whenever he tried to focus, his thoughts kept returning to her. She hadn’t spoken since they left the base, hadn’t given any indication that she cared one way or another about leaving. To Simon, it was unnerving. He was used to noise, to conversation, even to small talk with Johnny—anything to fill the empty space between them. But K9? She was content to sit there, her expression unreadable.

They disembarked from the plane in silence, the terminal bustling with the usual noise of arriving passengers. Simon led K9 through the crowd, seemingly unfazed by the chaos around her. Reaching the car, they climbed in without exchanging a word, the engine rumbling to life as Simon pulled out of the parking lot.

Simon’s eyes flicked between the road and the passenger seat, where K9 sat, her gaze fixed firmly out the window. He wasn’t sure why he kept trying—he had no real hope that she’d open up. Still, the silence gnawed at him, digging into his thoughts like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"Long drive," he muttered, "Guess you’ve been here before, huh?"

No response. Of course.

Simon tried again, the words awkward but forced out of him. "This your old stomping grounds?"

K9’s eyes never wavered from the passing landscape. She didn’t even acknowledge him, her face unreadable. Simon clenched his jaw, frustration settling in his chest. It wasn’t like he expected her to suddenly start chatting with him.

Simon’s thoughts drifted back to file, the one that had been handed to him before they left. He’d read it. Of course, he had. Everything from her training, her assignments, her intel reports. Her skills were undeniable—specialized, high-level. But there was something else in the file, something buried beneath all the operational data. An entire section marked as ‘Classified’.

He could’ve read more. He could’ve gone deeper, delved into the details of the year and a half she went off the grid—disappeared, no word, no trace. He’d seen the reports, the one-word descriptions, the harsh statements about her abduction.

He could have found out everything. He could have read those details and understood it all. But it felt… intrusive. Violating, even. Her life was something she’d lost.

Another mile passed in silence. His attempts at small talk were still met with nothing but the faintest of glances from K9, and Simon realized he wasn’t doing himself—or her—any favors.

“Must’ve been hard,” Simon tried again, speaking more to himself than her. “Coming back here after everything.” He wasn’t sure if she could even hear him, but he said it anyway.

Nothing.

Simon exhaled slowly, his hand gripping the wheel a little tighter. This wasn’t a conversation he was going to have on the road. If he was lucky, maybe she would talk when they were back at base. But Simon wasn’t holding his breath. K9 was silent, distant, unapproachable. And now, after everything, it was like she was miles away from him, even when she was right next to him.

Finally, the base came into view. The familiar sights of the barracks and the tarmac greeted them, but Simon felt no comfort in the sight.

He slowed the car to a stop at the gate. The guards barely gave them a second glance as they waved them through, the automatic gesture almost too casual. Simon parked near the barracks, throwing the car into park with a sharp movement.

He glanced over at K9, her face still impassive, her eyes once again focused outside, but this time, he noticed something—a slight stiffening of her posture as they neared the base. For the first time in the drive, she seemed to react to something.

K9 opened her door without a word. She didn’t look at Simon, didn’t say anything—just stepped out of the car, her movements tense. Simon followed her, his boots crunching on the gravel as they walked toward the group of soldiers gathered by the barracks.

The soldiers were drinking, laughing, their voices thick with camaraderie. But when K9 appeared, they quieted down, their eyes tracking her every step. At the center of them stood her superior officer, a middle-aged man with an easy grin and the kind of arrogance that came with rank.

The moment he spotted K9, his grin widened, though it didn’t seem welcoming. It was more of a smirk, something too familiar, something that felt like an ownership of her.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show her face,” the officer said, his voice too loud, too mocking. He took a swig from his bottle before turning his attention to Simon, sizing him up. “You’re Ghost, right?”

Simon nodded.

The officer laughed, clapping him on the shoulder too hard. “Good to meet you, man. We’ve heard a lot about you. Don’t usually see someone like you around here.”

Simon didn’t respond, his face hidden behind the mask. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the worn manila folder. Without a word, he extended it toward the officer.

The man hesitated, glancing at the label before taking it. “Ah. K9’s file.” His mouth twisted slightly as he said her call sign, like the name itself annoyed him. “Figured that’s what you had.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Not sure why she’s still got one, to be honest.”

Simon said nothing, his grip releasing as the officer took the folder. Silently, K9 turned and started toward the barracks to grab her things, her shoulders stiff and her gaze fixed ahead. No one called after her. No one even looked at her.

“Hey,” one of the men by the trucks called out, cracking open a beer. “You want one?”

Simon shook his head. “No.”

“Damn shame about the dog,” one muttered, taking a long swig of his beer.

“Yeah, well, not like it was much use anyway,” another snorted. “Just like her.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed.

“Should’ve just sent her packing when the dog went down,” a third one said. “She’s dead weight now.”

Simon didn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the superior officer who was casually flipping through K9’s file. His jaw clenched beneath the mask, the muscles in his neck tightening with each page turn.

“You gonna give her a different callsign now?” one of the soldiers drawled, his voice dripping with mockery.

The officer snorted, tucking the file carelessly under his arm. “Nah,” he said, grinning. “We didn’t call her K9 because of the dog. We called her K9 ‘cause she’s a bitch.”

Laughter erupted around them, sharp and mean. Simon felt his resolve crack, anger bubbling beneath his ribs. It wasn’t his place — she wasn’t his soldier to defend — but watching the casual cruelty from her own team made his blood curdle. Before he could open his mouth, she did.

“Where’s his collar?”

Her voice was quiet — barely a thread of sound — but it sliced through the air like a knife. Simon turned, startled to find her standing just behind them, her expression blank, her eyes locked on the officer. None of the men had heard her approach.

The officer didn’t so much as blink. “Tossed it.” His tone was flat, dismissive, like he was talking about garbage. “Didn’t see the point in keeping it.”

Simon barely heard the words — his attention was locked on her.

For the first time, he saw it — the crack. It was small, just a flicker, but it was there. Her jaw tightened, her throat bobbed like she was swallowing glass, and her eyes burned with something sharp and aching. Grief, cold and heavy, flashed across her face before she wrenched it back down. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stood there, rigid.

But Simon saw it. And it did something to him.

They don’t call her K9 because of the dog.

The officer’s words echoed in his head, sick and bitter now. We call her K9 ‘cause she’s a bitch.

Simon felt something curdle inside him. His stomach turned, his pulse hammered in his skull.

He was never going to call her K9 again.

Not after knowing what it really meant. Not after seeing how they stripped her of her name — her humanity — and reduced her to a slur disguised as a callsign. She wasn’t K9. She was a soldier. A handler. Someone who had lost her partner — and not a single one of these bastards gave a damn.

And now they couldn’t even give her his collar.

Simon turned, his voice low and sharp. “Where is it?”

The officer barely glanced up from the file still tucked under his arm. “What?”

“The collar.” Simon’s tone was like gravel, scraping low from his throat. “Where did you throw it?”

The officer scoffed. “I told you — tossed it. Probably in the bin behind the barracks, if the trash didn’t already get picked up.” He smirked, slow and nasty. “Why? You planning on digging it out for her?”

Simon moved before his mind caught up.

One step forward — his hand colliding hard with the officer’s chest, shoving him back a step. The laughter died. All eyes snapped to them. The officer’s face twisted in disbelief.

“The hell’s your problem?” he spat, regaining his footing.

Simon didn’t answer. His body moved on instinct, stepping in close until the officer’s smug grin faltered.

“It’s just a collar, man,” the officer scoffed, trying to sound unaffected. “The dog’s gone, who gives a—”

Simon’s hand shot out, seizing the front of the officer’s vest and yanking him forward. The movement was fast, violent — and it stunned the group into silence. The officer stumbled, his smirk finally cracking into something nervous.

“You want to finish that sentence?” Simon’s voice was low and lethal.

The officer froze, his eyes darting to the others as if expecting someone to intervene. No one did.

Simon leaned in, his masked face mere inches from the officer’s. “You threw away the last thing she had of him. And you laughed about it.” His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of the man’s vest. “Say one more word about her. Go ahead.”

The officer swallowed hard. “Look, man—”

Simon yanked him closer, his voice dropping into a deadly growl. “You think it’s funny — calling her K9 like that. Stripping her down to a damn insult.” His grip turned crushing. “You ever call her that again, and I promise you — I’ll bury you next.”

The officer stumbled back, gasping as Simon shoved him away like he was nothing. The tension hung thick in the air, but Simon wasn’t paying attention to any of it. His eyes were already on her. She stood like a statue, her face locked in that cold, unfeeling mask — but he could still see it. The grief bleeding through the cracks. The stiffness in her shoulders. The way she didn’t even look surprised. Like she’d expected this all along.

Like she thought she deserved it.

“Come on.” Simon’s voice was sharp as he turned toward her.

He didn’t give her time to process. His hand clamped around her arm — not rough, but firm — and he started moving. She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fight him. She simply followed.

They reached the back of the barracks, where the dumpsters sat. The air was thick with the smell of garbage, but Simon didn’t flinch. He didn’t care.

Without a word, he climbed into the trash, boots scraping against the metal, He dug through the mess with a frenzy, pulling apart old bags of food, ripped papers, and discarded trash with a single-minded intensity.

She stayed behind, watching in silence.

And then — finally — his fingers closed around it.

He pulled it out of the garbage, holding the collar in his hands, dirt caked in the grooves, but it was still intact. He climbed out of the bin, his chest heaving with exhaustion, and without a word, he walked toward her.

She stood still, her gaze trained on the collar as he approached. He held it out to her. She didn’t take it immediately, her fingers hovering over it.

Finally, she took the collar, her fingers brushing against his as she grasped it. Her fingers traced the name on the tag, the letters barely visible under her touch. Each movement was careful, as though she were afraid it might shatter if she moved too quickly. Her hand lingered there, running over the familiar grooves, the well-worn leather that had once been part of her closest ally, her only companion.

He shook off the dirt and garbage from his jacket, trying to rid himself of the stench. As he straightened up, his eyes flicked briefly toward her, but he quickly turned away, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. Simon watched her out of the corner of his eye, her face still drawn with grief. But there was something in her posture, the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, that told him she had found some small comfort in the collar.

He turned away, unable to keep his eyes on her any longer. It was too much. He didn’t know why he felt this... pull toward her, this ache that seemed to resonate within him.

Finally, after a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice softer than it had been all evening. “We’re leaving.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t speak, didn’t look at him. But she didn’t need to. She followed him without a word, her steps slow. Simon couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted between them. Not in a way that could be easily understood or explained, but it was there — in the way she moved, the way her hand still held onto the collar.

And for once, Simon didn’t mind the silence.

Tag: @skeletonsucker

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gh0stvi0lets · 13 days ago

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𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵,

────────────୨ৎ──────────────

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺. You gave him the break he needed.

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. Sam Winchester x reader

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴. +18 smut, explicit sex (mdni).

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥��𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 653

The motel room smelled like aged wood, whiskey, and salt rounds — the usual trappings of a Winchester stakeout. You sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed, flipping through a local lore book while Sam paced behind you, his long fingers tapping anxiously against the edge of the dresser.

“This thing doesn’t match any wendigo patterns,” he muttered, eyes scanning the screen of his laptop. “But the burn marks on the victims—it’s too controlled to be a demon.”

You didn’t respond at first, too busy staring at the curve of his back beneath that flannel. Even stressed, Sam was devastating. Broad shoulders, furrowed brow, hair falling into his eyes—he looked like a Greek statue cursed with a savior complex.

“You’re staring,” he said, not looking up.

You smirked. “So are you.”

He finally turned to face you. “I’m trying to figure out what this thing is, y/n. And you sitting there in your tiny shorts isn’t helping.”

“Well, if I am a distraction,” you said, closing your book, “maybe you need a break.”

There was a beat of silence. The tension that had been bubbling under the surface since you’d arrived in town finally snapped taut. Sam stepped forward slowly, letting the laptop fall shut. His voice was lower now. Rougher.

“You want me to take a break, sweetheart?”

You nodded. “I think you need one.”

Sam was on you in two strides, hands gripping your waist as he pulled you up into a kiss that was all teeth and heat. You moaned against his mouth, fingers sliding under his shirt to feel that toned stomach you’d been imagining since Kansas.

He walked you back against the wall, grinding into you as he pinned your wrists above your head.

“I’ve been patient all week,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “And you’ve been teasing me since we left the bunker.”

“Wasn’t teasing,” you breathed. “I was waiting for you to make a move.”

He chuckled darkly, his large hand keeping your wrists firmly pinned while the other roamed your waist. His mouth was at your neck now, biting and kissing in rhythm with your racing pulse.

“You always say the right thing,” he muttered, freeing your wrists long enough to slide your shirt up and over your head. His hands returned to you instantly — one bracing your hip, the other tracing a path down your stomach.

His mouth followed the trail, kissing lower, slower, until he was on his knees in front of you, looking up with those smoldering eyes.

“You always taste so fucking good when you’re desperate,” he said, and before you could reply, his tongue was between your thighs.

You whimpered, legs trembling, the cool wall behind you contrasting the inferno between your legs. Sam didn’t let up. He licked and sucked with maddening precision, using his fingers to spread you open and tongue you until your knees gave out.

“Please,” you moaned, desperate for his touch.

He rose smoothly, one hand wrapping around your throat — not tight, just possessive.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispered.

“Y-Yes, Sam, please—”

And with a few more strokes of his fingers, you shattered against him, crying out as pleasure crashed through your core. Sam kissed you again, hungry and demanding.

Then he picked you up, carried you to the bed like you weighed nothing, and unbuckled his belt.

“You think that was intense?” he said, voice hoarse with need. “I’m just getting started.”

A Few Hours Later…

Your legs still trembled when you tried to stand. Sam was sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, laptop back in place on his thighs.

“I figured it out,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s a fire wraith. Only comes out during lunar eclipses.”

You stared at him, utterly spent. “You figured that out after three rounds of mind-blowing sex?”

He smiled, smug and soft at once. “Told you I needed a break.”

୨ৎ tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl @littleladydemon

#gh0stvi0lets writing!#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fic #supernatural #spn #fanfic

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yeoldemonster · 7 months ago

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I pondered on this for a while before deciding to type up this reply because I genuinely can't choose. I can't even pose a hypothetical in this scenario.

Which one deserved freedom the least? Going down the list piece by piece there are reasons for each of them to 'deserve' their freedom, but ultimately I'm stuck on the fact that each of these are a facet of the Shifting Mound.

Each of these vessels has been molded into who they are because of you, because of the LQ. How can you pass judgement on who deserves to stay locked/imprisoned wherever they are, when you're the one who created each one?

If the question were 'Which one deserved freedom the most" it'd be a toss up for me between Wraith or MOC. It's not an accident that both can be gotten from the Nightmare. While I think all the vessels deserve to leave, those two became who they are through the glimpse of hope (leaving with the LQ), only to have it be ripped away.

I think there's a heavier undercurrent of loss with the fact that in the Nightmare route and from her perspective, the LQ leaves. Rather than even attack, because hate is an easy motive. But in Nightmare, the LQ leaves, possibly because she's not worth the effort it would take to free her.

In my opinion, that lends itself towards saying that MOC or Wraith would "deserve" freedom more than the other vessels

....

But for who would deserve it the least? I thought I'd have an answer by the end of this but I still don't. I can't imagine choosing a single one of the listed (or unlisted) vessels to say 'you deserve this the least'. They're all parts of Shifty, they're all fragments of experience. And it's my overinflated opinion that they all deserve the very best, and that includes leaving.

Alright, experimenting time, part 2...

(Once again, a few things:

If your decision is too nuanced to have a single answer OR if you have a preference for The Drowned or Burned Grey, put a comment or reblog with your take.

This ain't for dunking on your most hated princess. Please try to put your biases aside before answering for the sake of the experiment.

Don't be afraid to have a clear answer and share your reasoning. "There are no wrong decisions, only fresh perspectives.")

#slay the princess #stp slay the princess #stp vessels #stp moment of clarity #stp the wraith #stp the shifting mound #oops that's a few paragraphs #i didn't mean to go that long but you can't just ASK ME THAT #while i do have favorite vessels #i genuinely don't have one that i hate above the rest of them #they're all a product of their circumstances #and what any one of them 'deserves' shouldn't be based off of their worst actions #add to that the fact that they're all parts of shifty #and i don't see how you can say one of them deserves to stay a fragment more than the others #in one of the lines with shifty #when you ask her how many more vessels you need to find #she says “the rest will find their way back to me”#that means that inevitably #all of these listed would find their way back #independently #if the LQ didn't interfere (granted she needs the interference in order to achieve that final stage)#but who are you to decide which one is worthy to find their way home?#what right do we #as the players #have to judge the consequences of our actions and say #“no you're actually never leaving”#because of whatever criteria #when we're the reason that ANY ONE OF THESE VESSELS #is the way that they are?#bubble podcast

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sillypikmin · 2 years ago

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since you've designed more wraith captains I wanna ask this again

what do you think it would be like if the wraiths met their castaway/captain versions? (I know you already answered with plaire's so I just wanna know if you've thought of any others lol)

its still nowhere near all of them but. a few more thoughts.. some silly & some less silly..

#wraith captains #captain olimar #comet wraith #bubble wraith #louie #ravening wraith

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diejager · 2 years ago

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Ok but like what about Wendigo reader? Maybe the team knows she's not exactly human but maybe in her file it just marked n/a and leaves it at that so they just assume that their sweet little medic is just a helpful spirit of some kind. Humans tend to give her a very wide birth since they seem to notice her as something they should leave the fuck alone, the boys just assume it's because of them always being near her and leave it at that. Till they're all on a mission and it all goes to shit, they're pinned down and then one of them ends up taking a bullet and reader just straight up fuckin losses it and next thing they know their is a 10 ft tall fuckin deer monster shredding bitches like their made of PAPER MACHE and EATING THEM, once the dust settles it moves towards them and slowly it shifts into their sweet medic but she is covered in blood and she just casually starts treating their wounds and the team is just like "Well mark me down as scared and horny" (if this makes no sense feel free to ignore)

Stag

Pairing: Monster 141 + Horangi & König x Wendigo!reader

Cw: cannibalism, human eating, greed, blood, canon-typical violence, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 2k (A/N): I felt a bit burnt out so I’m sorry if it’s bad, I reread it just in case, but it still feels bad.

They say that human greed is the source of evil, the all-consuming hunger for more —more than they need. Hunger drives humans to do the unspeakable, to break the line humanity had drawn and commit the taboo. Despite it being carved so deeply into the human psyche, passed down from generation to generation and the propaganda of humanism and equality, it doesn’t take much to make someone tip over, cross the edge nobody dared to and perform the unspeakable. Possession causes needs and needs cause greed.

That’s why people called to him for help, to carry out a clandestine mission to do their dirty work, his duty was to stop whatever men in power started, whatever men in power lost control —he was the one sent when they were scared. Fear was as coercive as power was. That was the reason Task Force 141 was first founded, to stop dangerous men like Hassan (Gaz remembered hearing from Soap that Ghost shot Hassan through the head, straight through him before he slumped down.) and Makarov, a man they were still searching for while signing a liaison contract with KorTac. Price, with Laswell’s help, managed to put the best of the best together: a wraith, a werewolf, a dragon, a harpy, a nagual and a cadejos vessel, all decorated with various medals for their work, and then there was you.

You were a mystery, even to Price who usually had clearance for anyone who joined them. Gaz knew, from a single glance, that you were far from human, you were a monster like Ghost was, turned after an occasion, or a hybrid like him. Surprisingly, Ghost seemed to welcome you warmly, albeit standoffish, having worked with you in the past, seeing that you both preferred working alone. Gaz wanted to show you the same heartwarming welcome as Ghost had, but there was something about you, an uneasiness he felt when he was around you. The others felt it as well, the innate need to keep their distance from you and the instinctual fear that had the hairs on their arms raised. Gaz could feel your eyes whenever you stared at him, like the eyes of a predator stalking its prey —it made him feel perturbed.

You seemed so human, yet so inhuman-like, your dull, thousand-yard stare, your inability to feel temperature (either cold or warm, you always wore the same clothes), your odd habits and your unusual calmness in every situation. Gaz had caught you staring at a private for much longer than what people considered normal, eyes glazed over and dilated as if you were seeing something else, daydreaming while being aware of your surroundings. Those were your moments, you were usually bubbly, always smiling at him whenever his eyes met yours or treating him with gentleness and always eager to help him. You had a softness to your being despite the eerie feel to you and your unique tendencies, you didn’t discriminate, nor did you show an ounce of hate towards hybrids and humans, treating everyone fairly.

Although you tried to fit in as best as you could, there were things that Gaz and the others just couldn’t shake off without questioning things. There was the lingering scent of blood on you, a metallic tang that stuck on his tongue after you walked by. König and Soap had confessed that they had a feeling that blood was a part of your scent, unwashable and impossible to hide, it clung to you like a second skin. They chalked it up to you being the Task Force’s medic, having brought people back from the brink of death and stitching men back together, you were practically bathed in the smell of blood and death every day.

Another thought was that they never saw you in the Mess hall for food, perhaps a cup of tea or a hot mug of coffee to boost you through a long shift in the infirmary as the base’s main medic if you weren’t deployed with them. Gaz never saw you eat, not once had he seen you hold a plate or bowl with substance for yourself. You would bring either of them a plate, caring for them whenever they were under your watch, giving them soup or anything that they could easily digest.

Gaz, Soap, Rudy and Horangi would chatter about you, throwing speculations on your breed, to see what hybrid or monster fit all your characteristics. You couldn’t be a wraith, your hands weren’t painted with death, a dark miasma that clung to you. You weren’t a werewolf, Soap would know, wolves were able to smell and recognize each other, it was an instinctual aspect of him. You weren’t any shifting hybrid either, there would be signs, little cues if you were one, and your classification wouldn’t be classified, painted over with a red line.

All they could was wonder and amble around with curiosity dripping from their tongues. Gaz was sure that he’d find out soon enough, whether it was an accident or your choice.

This wasn’t what Gaz meant by eventually, he didn’t mean being set up by Konni, a trap planted for them in the small Belgium town. It was the best set to box them in, a broken and ransacked ghost town that people fled from, walls greyed and cracked, the paint peeling off street lights and rusted metal poles, lost, forgotten and open. There didn’t have any cover, even if they ran and hid behind the crumbling walls, Konni had them surrounded on every end, concealed behind concrete walls and using the shadows to hide from sight.

It was chaotic, Konni had pushed them into an open area of the town, the centrepiece of it with a dilapidated, Greek fountain, chipped on the sides and green with mould, Gaz would’ve admired the architecture and the beauty it must’ve been in the past when it was still being cared for. They were backed up in a corner, Gaz couldn’t even stretch his wings out with how tightly they were packed together, the uncomfortable pull of his trapezius and the strain in his limbs kept him grounded. The tension was thick, palpable, Gaz could taste it in the air as much as anyone could, their shoulders tense, fingers tapping the trigger of their rifles. All they could do was wait for Konni to act first, to see where they would appear from and work their way out of this open area from there.

He had his back towards you, he couldn’t see you but he could feel you shake. It might’ve been from the adrenaline pumping through your veins or the nerve of being lied to, of falling into a trap when Ghost had voiced his suspicions about the lack of clearer intel. They were paying for their amateurism. He felt you shudder, breath stuttering, near panting with exhaustion. Gaz wanted to turn to you, words soothing your nerves and twitchy appearance, he acted letting drown in your mind, whatever it was, he hated it. His finger twitched on the trigger, jolting at the sudden crack of bones, an ugly and painful sound that made him wince. It shocked everyone, even the ever so silent and stoic Ghost who had a hard time hearing these cracks coming from you.

Damn this mission; damn the trap; damn this situation, Gaz needed to look at you, to see why your bones were breaking and limbs rattling. Instinctively, his wings shifted to cover you, the ends widening to cover your sides to protect you from whatever pained you, yet you didn’t let out a single squeak, no moan of pain or the grunt of suffering, you were silent. A part of his mind nagged at him to move, he could fly and try to outrun Konni mercenaries to find a way out, but then he’d leave your back open. He cursed lowly, teeth sinking into his lower lip in frustration, he was-

A loud screech thundered through the air, and screams and squelches followed it. You were missing.

You were shaking just a second ago, body wracked with some unknown ailment and the next, you were missing, your sack, attire, rifle and helmet were scattered on the ground, with a bony creature tearing through Konni ranks. The hair on his neck rose, an uneasy feeling overtaking him as he watched the creature rip men in half, tines stabbing through their torso like a buck fighting another, head lowered and antlers pointed forward. He watched the tall and thin monster move around, its face was one of a deer’s skull, eaten clean of skin and flesh, any muscle or fibre gone with whatever transformation it took. A crown of antler adorned its head, tall and imposing, as pale as its skull, a coat of black fur was wrapped around the neck, draping down the back like a ridge of fur.

“Fuck,” Gaz hissed, his body moving along the chaos the being created and your disappearance, he aimed his rifle and shot at the Russians who ran out of their hiding, fearful of the monster’s sudden arrival behind their ranks. “Captain! Is that-?”

“Don’t know anymore!” Price seemed to be as lost as Gaz was, reining in his confusion to focus on taking Konni out. “Keep your head in the game, Gaz; ask questions later.”

Gaz knew Price was right, the town was brimming with Russian ultranationalists, hiding and waiting for their time to jump at them. The situation was still chaotic, but it was better than being without cover. Gaz followed Horangi behind a wall, watching his back while they worked through the humans.

Somehow, Konni either retreated or were all dead, swallowed down by the beast that stood before them. Now that Gaz was standing so close to it - to you, after a few minutes of talking back and forth, they concluded that this was you from the pants that hung from your slim hips - he could see that the deer skull was just a mask covering your face, black and unidentifiable with those bright, gleaming eyes that stared down at him. Despite your curved back, bent to look at them, you towered over everyone, even König seemed small beside you, limbs almost as long as you, fingers tipped with blood that you were still licking off, a long tongue wrapped around your digit to clean yourself from blood, muscle and guts.

You were casually cleaning yourself up like a cat washing, even in the aircraft, you were gorging on the body of a man you picked up, jaw opening to show them the dozen of teeth before you clamped down on the forearm, tearing into the muscle with famished intent. None of them could take their eyes off you, their sweet, smiley medic who sometimes had their moments, devouring a man without batting an eye, obliviously uncaring of their staring. Gaz wasn’t sure if he knew how he felt, a warmth building up in his chest, a heat that seared into the fibres of his beings like an infectious thing. All they did was watch you eat, no one speaking until you finished your meal.

“Mind tell us what happened, Hunter?”

You perked up, blinking at Price owlishly, tongue lolling out to lick up the stray drop of blood that stuck on your skull’s teeth. Your chest rumbled, a soft growl rolling off your body while you tilted your head, you acted so much like a feline, grooming, reacting and moving like a curious cat, dangerous, yet so appealing.

“Wendigo,” you rasped, voice breathy and weak, you spoke in broken English, unable to speak fluently after turning, “Curse, eat human.”

Your little mannerism, the small tilt of your head and your fumbling hands, seemingly embarrassed or ashamed after your show of ruthless hunger and savagery was… eye-opening. Something stewed inside him, your being creating a ripple in his heart, pulling at the hunger in the depth of his gut. He was torn by the fear of having you as the potential enemy and the arousal of seeing you break men in half, painting the ground in crimson and guts, and satiating your hunger - craving - with human and monster flesh.

Gaz was fucked, both in the head and the situation.

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chronosdawn · 23 days ago

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I wake not with the sun - Monster hunter!Childe x Vampire!Reader

Modern Fantasy AU, GN!Reader

Summary:

In a world where the supernatural lives alongside the mudane, just out of sight of the common man, you've devoted almost a century to keeping your nose down and staying out of trouble.

All of that changes though, the night you catch a monster hunter on your trail.

CW: Depictions of violence, age difference (Childe is in his early twenties, reader is immortal)

A/N: I'm back on my vampire bullshit once more :') Please note this is the first part of a three part series, with later parts featuring Zhongli x Reader.

Word count: 5k | AO3 link

Childe’s blade carved clean through the carapace of the spider demon that had thrown itself at his face. Venom bubbled from the tips of the creature’s fangs as it fell to the ground, a series of strange clicks emanating from its maw before being silenced by the crunch of Childe’s boot.

He was already turning when several answering clicks echoed around the walls of the alley, years of hunting down creatures much larger, and considerably more dangerous, than his current quarry allowed his body to operate on autopilot. The dual swords he wielded glowed faintly white under the moonlight as they slashed through demon after demon, untouched by the black ichor that now stained the pale grey stone around him. That was the power of the Tsaritsa’s blessing for you.

The final spider demon fell to a stab wound through its abdomen; its numerous, beady eyes burning bright yellow as it let out a final rasping hiss. The demonic energy withered while Childe watched expressionless, the corpse of the spider shrivelling to a desiccated husk in its absence. The alley fell silent, the only other sign of life being the occasional sound of distant traffic from a nearby road. Childe let the twin swords slip out of fingers, the weapons vanishing in a shower of sparks as they lost their physical form, waiting for him to call on them once more. Letting out a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair as he looked over the lingering carnage. He’d hoped that a whole den of spider demons would have made for a bit more of a challenge.

When the Tsaritsa had initially ordered him to this quaint little town, he’d thought it must be because something truly monstrous had made it’s home here—a quarry worthy of one of her Harbingers. Thus far, however, his hunts had been limited to minor demons and other lesser aberrations. Aside from the wraith he’d found lingering around an old graveyard a day after his move here, these spider demons had been the most promising chance for a good fight he’d had, and he still hadn’t even broken a sweat.

The lack of any real challenge was making him restless—the need for battle and blood itching away at his insides. He was at least still cognizant enough to realise that if this carried on, it might actually start to become a problem; the same way it had before one of the Tsaritsa’s hunters had plucked him half-feral from his own quiet village. Just as he was ruminating on whether he should return to his temporary lodgings at the local inn to search for something more likely to put up a fight via the official hunter channels, he felt a shift in the air. It was subtle, a single off-key note in a symphony that he doubted most hunters, or even a number of supernaturals, would have been able to catch. But he could feel it, an ever so slight charge running over his skin that promised danger.

Childe ran his tongue over his lips, the bloodlust that was an ever-present murmur in his ear rising to a roaring cacophony. He carelessly tossed a cleansing talisman at the spider demon remains—setting them alight with a white flame that would burn away at the corpses until not even ash remained—before slipping away down the alley on silent feet. That vague sense of something unnatural guided him through the twists and turns of various backstreets. The sounds of background traffic faded and gave way to the usual quiet ambiance of a sleepy town—a TV turned up slightly too loud, the jingle of a bell on a cat’s collar and there—just at the very edge of his hearing—the sound of too swift footsteps weaving through the darkened streets.

Childe grinned. The hunt was on.

You were so very hungry.

Your throat burned as though you’d swallowed a mouthful of hot coals and your fangs ached in your gums, begging to be allowed to sink into soft warm flesh. It was own your fault things had gotten this bad, but it was also the price you’d decided to pay when you made the choice to move out of the city decades ago.

Cities offered a certain sort of safety for supernatural beings—the thrumming mass of people making it far easier to hide than in a small town, where everyone knew everyone else and gossip spread like fire across a field of tinder. It would have made hunting easier too, less chance of past meals encountering those with similar stories and realising that perhaps what they’d written off as a drunken dream and terrible hangover might be something more sinister.

Unsurprisingly, however, the promise of relative safety was a terribly effective lure for other supernaturals as well, leading to large communities being built under the noses of almost every major city. You’d thought those places marvellous once, a menagerie of the inhuman—like and not like—but now the thought of them turned your stomach like curdled milk.

A place like this, where you could count on one hand the number of supernatural creatures you’d encountered in the years since you’d moved here, was exactly where you wanted to be.

If only it didn’t have to come with such a strict feeding schedule.

You practically fled from your little redbrick townhouse, darting out into the night lest you encounter one of your neighbours and drain them dry before you could come to your senses. There was a pub just the other side of the river that split the town in half, and there were usually at least one or two patrons who ended up stumbling home after one too many beers. You could only hope you’d have the self-restraint to charm them into letting you help them home rather than simply dragging them into a back alley and biting down.

The night air felt faintly warm against your chilled skin, leftover heat from a scorching summer day. As you turned down one of the few shopping streets, a string of bunting weaving back and forth across the road caught your eye, the moonlight rendering the bright colours a greyish pastel, along with a scrawl of chalk declaring this the site of the annual summer street fair. A deep breathe revealed the lingering scents of grilled food and sticky sweet soft drinks, a sign that only hours ago this street was thrumming with life and laughter. Now it was dark and silent, save only for the sound of your footsteps.

You hadn’t known there was any sort of event in town today, not that it mattered. Even if you had been able to withstand the five minute walk here under the blazing sun, just the thought of all those hearts beating together in such close proximity had saliva welling up in your mouth, swiftly followed a miserable sense of shame you were quick to bury—an easy task considering the fierceness of the burn at the back of your throat.

Pushing on, you turned down a narrow side street and left the signs of human merriment behind. It didn’t take long for the scents to fade as well, although all too soon they were replaced by a strong odour—sulfur layered over burnt incense. You froze. You were far too familiar with that smell to mistake it for anything human.

What business would a demon have all the way out here? There was a small nest of spider demons somewhere nearby, you’d caught sight of their misshapen, jointed limbs retreating around the corners of buildings once or twice, but they tended to run as soon as they sensed you coming. Even predators knew to make themselves scarce when something more deadly was on the prowl. For the air to be this thick with the scent of demonic magic, however, either something had happened to really rile the lesser demons up or another, stronger demon had decided to drop by your small town.

At that thought, your chest started to feel tight, your long dead heart heavy and still. Surely, it couldn’t be him, not after all these years apart. Refusing to take another breath of the familiar stench, you forced yourself to continue on your way. Demons were common enough as far as types of supernatural being went, just because one might be passing through, didn’t mean it had anything to do with the reason you’d moved out of the city in the first place.

A soft whistle of wind, far too faint for the human ear to pick up, alerted you to movement of something behind you and you twisted to the side just in time to see a silver tipped arrow fly past you and clatter against the cobblestone path.

All of thoughts of your past were immediately forgotten as you took in the sacred runes carved into the arrow, a language used only by one very specific group—hunters. Your body was already moving by the time the second and third arrows came, the last one brushing past the edge of your coat as you ducked into a side street.

Damnit, so that must have been what had gotten the spider demons all worked up. What the hell was a hunter doing here? You took a brief moment to stop and listen, the sound of someone shuffling about on the roof tiles was muted enough that it told you whoever they were, they were clearly experienced. Before a second round of silver arrows could rain down upon you, you charged down the street, building momentum before kicking off against the brick of one of the buildings and launching yourself onto the roof opposite your attacker. As you twisted through the air, you scanned over the surrounding area, looking to see if there were any other hunters on your trail who you’d need to fend off before you could finally soothe the raging fire in your throat.

Fortunately, the hunter on the rooftop appeared to be alone, which at least made it unlikely he’d come to town looking for you specifically. Any hunter who’d been trained enough to be granted so-called holy arrows should have been drilled on strategies to take down vampires—all of which involved making sure you had backup.

The hunter still had his bow trained on the spot where you’d first ducked into the alley—though you could see his head start to lift as your feet touched down against the roof tiles. Unwilling to give him an inch, you leapt across the gap between the buildings throwing yourself at him.

You caught the surprise in his eyes at the speed of your movement as he was just barely able to twist his bow to block your strike at his neck. That he could react at all meant he had some ability beyond a normal human—likely either a boon granted by one of the supernatural beings who worked with hunters against their own kind, or he had some distant supernatural ancestry himself. Twisting your body, you aimed a swift kick at the back of his knee, his leg buckling as you made contact. Rather than topple forwards however, the hunter used the momentary loss of his footing to dive forwards into a roll, pivoting just before he reached the edge of the rooftop and putting the two of you face to face once more.

He seemed to study you for a moment, his eyes eerily devoid of any reflection of the moonlight that highlighted his profile in silver. The hunter opened his mouth to say something but you threw yourself towards him once more. The scent of a warm body so close to you turning the burning ache in the back of your throat into a roaring inferno. You were so hungry you could barely think straight as you went for his neck once more, but this time with your fangs. A flash of bright white light brought your back to your senses in just enough time to dodge the twin swords slashing through the air, blades appearing from seemingly nowhere. Taking advantage of the moment of lucidity, you backed up a few steps, forcing yourself to think through the bloodlust clouding your brain like a crimson fog.

Those weren’t ordinary hunter weapons, you noted as the young man brought the shining silver blades in front of him, settling into a fighting stance. The ability to conjure light weapons out of thin air could only be something he’d received from the founder of the hunter’s guild herself—the so-called Tsaritsa. Even you’d have a hard time healing a wound caused by something like that.

You braced yourself for him to come at you, already trying to think through the best steps to disarm him, so you were somewhat surprised when he began to speak instead.

“So, what’s a vampire doing all the way out here?” he asked, the casual tone of his voice a sharp contrast to the way he held his blades, poised to strike.

“I could ask the same of one the Tsaritsa’s dogs,” you replied, muscles coiling as you adjusted your own stance.

“You know, all the vampires I’ve hunted up to now were newly turned, but you’re not new, are you?” The hunter cocked his head at you, exposing more of his youthful features under the faint light. “How old are you?”

“A lot older than you, I’m sure.” You shifted your weight back and forth between your feet, trying to puzzle out if there was any point to this unexpected chatter over the roaring chorus in your head telling you to pin him down and bite and drink, drink, drink.

“They say the older a vampire gets, the stronger they become,” he said, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Let’s test if that’s true.”

That remark was the only warning you got before he lunged towards you, the blade in his right hand aiming for your throat, while the one in his left was raised at just the right height to limit your ability to dodge. Experience told you he was likely expecting you to step backwards and would be planning his next move accordingly, possibly aiming to drive you back to the edge of the roof. Decision made in a split second, you ducked instead, ripping a tile from the roof with your bare hands in the process and raising it to parry the sword in his left hand as you moved underneath it.

Just like that you exchanged a flurry of blows, his weapons leaving scratches across the surface of your improvised hand-sized shield. In turn, you tried to strike at his joints; his wrists and knees and anywhere else that one solid blow from you should be enough to take him out of the fight. But for as much as you possessed inhuman speed, so did he, those swords twirling such that even when you managed to hit him, you had to soften the blow in order to withdraw quickly enough to escape path of his blades.

Bringing the roof tile up to block yet another swipe at your side, you cursed when you felt the slate crack in your hand from the impact. Changing tactics, you stepped your foot behind the hunter’s and brought your elbow down hard into his chest, striking with enough speed that he wasn’t able to bring his blade down on your arm before he started to fall.

What you didn’t expect, however, was for him to dispel the weapon one of his weapons, using his now free left hand to grab hold of a handful of your clothing as he fell instead. You just caught the gleam of the sword in his other hand coming towards you—a borderline suicidal move considering that if the weapon succeeding in carving cleanly through your neck, it’s trajectory would leave his head next on the chopping block. You barely had enough time make the decision to move with him, buying yourself the precious few seconds you need to grab hold of his arm and brute force it above his head. The weapon fell from his grasp, turning to shards of light that quickly winked out of existence before they hit the tiles of the roof.

There was a loud thud as the hunter fell on his back and you landed on top of him, effectively straddling him while you grasped hold of his other arm and brought it above his head, your clothes tearing in the process when he refused to let go of them. You felt him strain against your grip; definitely not quite human then, you thought as it took all of your strength to pin his arms in place. Glancing down at his face, you expected to see some degree of horror or disbelief—a hunter this powerful likely wasn’t used to being beaten in a show of brute strength. Even a newly turned vampire would likely struggle to keep up with him. Instead, however, you found him panting softly and grinning up at you like he was having the time of his life.

“You really are strong. You’ve been trained to fight too, haven’t you? Who taught you?”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be asking questions,” you replied, struggling to think over the feeling of the warm press of his body beneath you and the rapid pounding of his heart in his chest. The rush of blood throughout his body was a siren song in your ear. If you just bent down, you could—

There was a flicker in the dark and you moved your hands just in time to avoid being caught by the sword the hunter summoned, the handle only lightly gripped between an index and middle finger you hadn’t pinned properly.

Taking advantage of your surprise, he used the leg you still had wrapped behind his ankle to reverse your positions, bringing his blade up to your throat as he now hovered over you. The weapon burned faintly against your skin, akin to the sting of midday sunlight.

“Now I’m in a position to ask some questions, right?” he said with a cocky grin. “Who trained you? If you’re this good, then after I’m done with you, I want to fight them too.”

You almost wanted to laugh at how pointless it would be to tell him. Not even the Tsaritsa herself would dare to go after your once mentor, it would be suicide to even consider it. Before that thought could go much further, you caught a new scent in the air—the saccharine smell of freshly drawn blood.

You quickly zeroed in on the dark droplets beading along a shallow gash on the hunter’s forearm, likely a result of summoning in his weapon at such an awkward angle. The tenuous hold you had on the seemingly endless hunger inside you snapped entirely, and you were aware of nothing—not the burn of his sword against your palms when you forced the flat of blade aside nor the surprise on his face as you surged towards his throat—save for the promise of blood on your tongue.

Your fangs sank into his neck, carving through skin to reach the tender vein beneath. Liquid ambrosia flowed into your mouth, drowning out the feeling of the body thrashing beneath you as pinned the hunters hands once more on pure instinct, this time forcing his fingers flat against the surface of the roof so that he had no way of resummoning his weapons and interrupting your feeding. His blood was richer than that of the townsfolk, untainted by alcohol or any other substance. There was a faint aftertaste to it though, one you could not name but managed to bring to mind the rush that came with pursuing prey, the thrill of the chase.

Slowly, you began to gain some sense of a hot stinging sensation emanating from your palms, like you’d put them on a grill and left them there long enough for the heat to reach your bones. You forced yourself to unlatch from the hunter’s neck, his struggles having long ceased, and brought your hands to your face, studying the blisters that had formed over the skin of your palms. Right, that was why you should never touch a weapon gifted by the Tsaritsa. Even with the blood that currently warmed your body, creating the illusion that you too, were a living, vibrant thing, it would take at least a couple of days for the burns to heal.

You sat back for moment, taking deep, gulping breaths of air you didn’t really need as you waited for the euphoria that always accompanied an infusion of fresh blood to fade, the pain in your hands hurrying it along its way.

A noise, the sound of something buzzing against the rooftop caught your attention, and you snapped your head towards it. Lying about a metre away from you was a phone, one that currently had the screen lit up as it vibrated its way over the tiles. Still trying to clear the last of the fog from your brain, you reached over and grabbed hold of it, taking in the bright image. It was a photograph of three people; one of them, the hunter currently lying half-dead beneath you, had his arms wrapped around the other two, a little boy and a little girl. The resemblance between the three was striking, all of them sharing the same ginger hair, Christmas card smiles and deep blue eyes, although the children’s had a certain shine to them that the hunter’s lacked.

Despite the fresh blood still rushing through you, your chest turned cold as you looked down at the pale face of the man beneath you, then back to the photograph once more. He really was shockingly young to have earned the Tsaritsa’s favour. Did his siblings know what he did for a living? Did his parents?

Your memory of being human was so faded you couldn’t remember if there was anyone who might have mourned you after you were turned. The closest thing you had to a family was the very same thing you’d come to this town running from.

The hunter’s eyelids flickered and he let out a low moan as he teetered on the edge of life and death. He hadn’t lost quite enough blood to kill him yet, but it was a near thing, another couple of mouthfuls and he’d never harm another supernatural again. You should kill him. Hide the body and flee before anyone would think to come looking for him. It would be the sensible thing to do if you wanted to avoid ending up on the hunter guild’s radar, not to mention that it would grant some small justice to all the creatures who’d met their end on his blades.

You took one more look at the smiling faces on the phone in your hand before the screen went dark. In that moment, you felt the weight of centuries pressing down on you. What good would come from any more bloodshed? From forcing someone to have to deliver the news to those children that their clearly beloved brother was missing and likely dead?

With a heavy sigh, you reached for a portion of the dark power that lurked inside you, newly replenished from the mortal blood running through your veins.

“Look at me,” you commanded, taking hold of the hunter’s face. He was just barely conscious enough to register your words but sure enough, his eyes blinked open.

“When you wake,” you told him, magic lightly distorting the timbre of your voice, “you will remember nothing about the supernatural, nor that you were ever a hunter. Go back home to your family and forget you were ever here. Now sleep.” No sooner had you finished speaking than his eyes fell shut once more, his body fully limp beneath you.

You stood, assessing the damage to the roof. Other than the tile you’d ripped out and the few that appeared cracked where you’d pinned the hunter’s hands against them, the roof was otherwise unscathed. Deciding the damage wasn’t bad enough to require your attempts to fix it, you lifted the hunter into your arms, wincing at the way your palms stung as you did so, and jumped down from the roof, landing softly in the neighbouring alley.

It took several minutes to search the hunter and remove all of the weapons you found on his person, including a small, engraved dagger that you recognised as one kept by hunters mainly for ceremonial purposes. The name etched onto gleaming silver blade, Childe, must have been the one given to him by the Tsaritsa when he swore himself into her service. Not that he, nor anyone else, should have any reason to use it now. Finally, you slipped the phone into his jacket pocket before leaving him lying on his side against the cool cobblestone of the alley.

Frowning as you took in the torn state of your clothing, you set off on the walk back to your home, even if the days you could keep calling your little house that were now numbered. Although the hunter had been effectively neutralised and sent on his way, it wasn’t a good idea to stick around in the area any longer, especially considering you hadn’t found out why he’d ended up all the way out here in the first place.

Oh well, you should have bought yourself a bit of time at least and it certainly wouldn’t be your first time uprooting everything. Plans for the inevitable move could wait until tomorrow though, for now you intended to collapse on your bed and savour the temporary relief that came with a fresh meal—the hunger that forever threatened to consume you momentarily sated.

Childe woke feeling like death. The pounding in his head a steady beat that almost drowned out the chorus of morning birdsong. Blinking, he found himself sprawled on his back, the cool uneven stones beneath him digging through the fabric of his jacket. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious for, but it must have been at least a couple of hours judging by how the sky was beginning to lighten, soft shades of blue and pale pink chasing away the midnight blue he usually did his work under.

Slowly pulling himself into a sitting position, Childe brought his hand up to his head to steady himself as the grey stone around him started to spin with the movement. While most might write off the throbbing inside his skull combined with the faint vertigo as being due to the almost lethal blood loss his body had endured, he knew better. There was a slight golden haze around the edges of his vision, a telltale sign of attempted hypnosis. Patting himself down, Childe frowned as he came to the realisation almost all of his weapons were missing, save for the small, innocuous-looking purple stone he’d been sure to carry everywhere since the Tsaritsa had gifted it to him that still hung suspended from his belt. So close. He’d been so close to losing almost every memory he had since age fourteen and had only been saved because you hadn’t known the power that smooth, round gem held.

In the years since the hunter’s guild had started producing delusions, news of them and the ability they granted their holders to shake off almost all forms of supernatural mind control had spread far and wide among the supernatural community. For you to be unaware of them meant that your presence in this lonely, quiet town wasn’t a one-off; you must be purposefully isolating yourself.

Childe thought back to how you’d fought on the rooftop, refined movements backed up by a strength and speed that he’d struggled to match—even if your hypnosis had taken effect, he struggled to imagine ever forgetting it; the way his blood had sung in response to every strike and parry. There was no way that level of precision had been achieved through experience alone. Someone had to have trained you after you’d turned. The question was, where were they now and why had you ended up all alone?

Before he attempted to stand, Childe took a moment to prod at the various aches over his body, assessing the damage. A couple of his fingers were almost certainly fractured and his left wrist ached in a way that suggested it too might have been the victim of more than just a nasty bruise. And that was to say nothing of the sting when he ran his fingers along the juncture of his neck, the tips of his gloves coming back flaked with dried blood. A proper vampire bite, a mistake that by all rights should have been fatal, and from the half-feral look in your eyes before you’d buried your fangs in his neck, very nearly had been.

The number of hunters Childe had met who’d endured a vampire’s bite and lived to tell the tale could be counted on one hand, and almost all of them had been the same story. A newly turned vampire had gone for them, but been staked before they could finish off the job. It was agony, they’d said, coming that close to death. However, Childe found he couldn’t remember feeling much pain beyond the initial slice of your fangs. He could recall the way his heart had begun to meet more rapidly in his chest, trying to compensate for the loss of blood, while unwittingly funnelling more of it down your throat. How his breath had hitched at the rush of sensation, stronger even than the one he felt in battle, and how it had almost entirely drowned out the bloodlust he’d had in his system for almost a decade. Even now, still weak from blood loss and slumped against the alley wall, he ached to feel that same thrill once more. Both the buzz that only came from fighting a near equal and the borderline ecstasy of teetering on the brink of life and death under your hands.

He had to find you again before you could run.

Feeling in his left trouser pocket, Childe grinned when he felt his fingers meet a small hard object. Lifting it into the air, the first rays of morning light reflected off of the silver key in his hands, the same one he’d managed to slip from your coat before the strength in his fingers gave out entirely, while you were too lost in sensation of his blood sliding down your throat to notice. Attached to the key was a small charm; a worn little hummingbird crocheted with strands of green and pink yarn. Cute, he thought as he turned it over in his fingers, the bright colours stark against the stained black leather of his gloves. In a town as small as this, someone was bound to recognise it, if it not hear on the grapevine of someone losing their keys. All he had to do was play the good Samaritan wanting to return them, and he’d be led right to you.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Next part we will delve more into the Reader's past (meaning a certain someone is going to make their appearance) as well what happens when Childe finds them. Like most writers, I am motivated by comments so if you enjoyed this fic, let me know!

#childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #Genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #Genshin Modern Fantasy AU

109 notes · View notes

earthlybeam · 6 months ago

Note

Hello! If I may, could I ask for Legolas, Thranduil, and Elrond with a reader who is a chaotic and slightly mentally unstable scientist? The reader enjoys experimenting with poisons or machinery and often refuses to sleep or take breaks, also the reader hates or despise everything and everyone but appreciates only them. I absolutely adore your writing style and am very fascinated by your work. I apologize if I made any dramatic mistakes; English is not my first language. Have a good day/night.☕

Thank you for your kind words! I’m glad you enjoyed what i write. 🥺❤️‍🔥🫶✨ It’s always a pleasure to help with creating these pieces for you all. Enjoy your day dearies 😘❤️

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Thranduil, Elrond, Legolas Version below.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The candles on your workbench had long since burned low, their flickering flames casting uneven shadows across the chaotic sprawl of your workspace. The wax dripped in jagged lines down the candlesticks, pooling around their bases like tiny fortresses of neglect. Parchments filled with half-written equations and intricate designs were scattered haphazardly, some crumpled, others curling at the edges from proximity to heat. Jars of ink sat precariously close to one another, their lids askew, while tools of every size and shape cluttered every available surface. The room reeked faintly of ink, scorched metal, and the faint tang of ozone from earlier experiments.

You were consumed. Immersed in your work to the point of oblivion, your fingers moving deftly as if guided by instinct rather than thought. Your quill scratched feverishly against the parchment, and every so often, you reached out blindly for a tool or shifted a piece of machinery on your desk. The ache in your neck had settled into a dull, constant throb, ignored entirely. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten—was it this morning? Or yesterday? The concept of time had dissolved into the swirl of your thoughts, your experiments too engrossing to permit distractions like food or rest. The only sounds in the room were the rhythmic scrape of your quill, the occasional clink of metal against metal, and the faint rustle of leaves outside the workshop window. The forest outside was alive, yet distant, its whispering winds and birdsong utterly irrelevant to the furious churn of your mind. Until now.

The door to your workshop swung open with a decisive creak. The sound sliced through the bubble of your focus like a blade, but you didn’t bother to glance up. “Not now,” you snapped, your voice sharp with irritation. “Not now?” The response was smooth, unyielding, and unmistakably familiar. The voice carried a regal authority that sent a jolt of unease through your chest, though you refused to let it show. “You’ve said that every time I’ve come to check on you this week,” Thranduil continued, his words deliberate and edged with frost. “I grow weary of it.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you registered his presence. The weight of his gaze was palpable even without looking at him. Still, you kept your focus on the work before you, refusing to acknowledge the interruption beyond a clipped, “I’m close to finishing this.” You shoved aside a set of broken gears, their clatter muffled by a scattering of parchment, and reached for a thin, carved tool. “I don’t need a lecture,” you muttered, barely managing to keep the annoyance out of your voice. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone colder now, sharper. Something moved at the edge of your vision, and this time, you risked a glance. Thranduil had stepped further into the room, his robes flowing like liquid silver in the dim light. His tall frame seemed to fill the space, though his movements were deceptively quiet. Behind him, shadows flickered in the doorway—silent figures slipping into the room like wraiths. Your eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your tone sharp with suspicion. Thranduil turned his head slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Ensuring that you don’t work yourself into an early grave,” he said, his voice calm but unrelenting.

Before you could respond, the elves behind him moved swiftly and deliberately. You barely had time to register what was happening before they began to gather your tools, notes, and half-finished contraptions. It was like watching a gust of wind sweep through the room, leaving only empty spaces in its wake. “Stop!” you barked, rising to your feet. “Put those back!” The elves ignored you, their expressions serene as they continued their task. Rage flared hot and fast in your chest as the realization sank in. “Thranduil!” you hissed, whirling on him, your hands curling into fists. He stood perfectly still, unperturbed by your outburst. His icy blue eyes met yours with infuriating calm, the faint amusement in their depths only fueling your anger. “You’ll find your precious notes scattered throughout the forest,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, as though explaining an unavoidable truth. “If you want them back, you’ll have to retrieve them yourself.” You stared at him, stunned by the audacity. “Perhaps in the process,” he continued, his tone as sharp as the edge of a blade, “you will remember how to breathe.” For a moment, you could hardly speak, your fury choking you. “You—”

But Thranduil was already turning away, his long robes sweeping across the floor as he strode toward the door. He didn’t so much as glance back as he left, leaving you standing alone in your ransacked workshop, the silence ringing in your ears. All at once, the absence of your tools and notes—the absence of your work—hit you like a blow. The hollow pang of disbelief quickly gave way to seething anger, your jaw tightening as you stormed toward the door. You would get everything back. And Thranduil would pay. You stormed into the forest, your chest tight with indignation and your thoughts ablaze with fury. How dare he? How dare he interfere with your work? The audacity of the Elvenking to decide, unbidden, that you needed his meddling. You clenched your fists as you stomped deeper into Greenwood, your boots crunching against the forest floor. The once-familiar paths looked suddenly alien, the towering trees and their sprawling canopies almost oppressive in their grandeur. The air was sharp with the scent of earth and pine, crisp and clean, but it did nothing to cool the heat rising in your chest. You muttered under your breath as you marched on, your eyes darting wildly across the landscape. You scanned the roots of trees and the mossy ground, your gaze flicking upward toward branches heavy with leaves.

The forest seemed alive with its usual symphony—birds trilled from unseen perches, the wind whispered through the treetops, and a distant brook babbled softly—but tonight, those sounds grated against your fraying patience. The tranquility of the Greenwood felt mocking, as though the trees themselves were amused by your plight. You yanked aside a low-hanging branch, its leaves brushing against your face, and froze as something caught your eye. Nestled in the hollow of an ancient oak was the first of your stolen belongings—a wrench, its familiar metal sheen dulled by the shadows of the tree. Your lips pressed into a thin line as you reached for it, tugging it free with an irritated huff. Thranduil’s game was as infuriating as it was calculated. A collection of gears gleamed beneath the crystalline surface of a shallow stream, their polished edges reflecting sunlight like fragments of a shattered mirror. You scowled as you knelt to retrieve them, the icy water biting against your skin. The effort was deliberate, painstaking; it forced you to slow down, to focus on details you might otherwise have ignored.

Further along, scraps of your notes fluttered in the breeze, pinned under stones or lodged between the ridges of tree bark. Each find felt like a small victory, though it came laced with exasperation. His elves had been meticulous, scattering your tools and papers far and wide, leaving you no choice but to scour every inch of the forest. And yet, as you trudged onward, muttering curses at Thranduil under your breath, something began to shift.The cool air brushed against your heated skin, soothing the tension coiled in your chest. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in soft, dappled patterns, painting the forest floor in golds and greens. The faint scent of pine mingled with the earthy richness of damp soil, grounding you in a way that your workshop’s ink-stained walls never could.

You began to notice things—details that had once seemed inconsequential. The way the moss clung to the knotted roots of an old tree, soft and vibrant beneath your fingers. The dance of sunlight on the rippling surface of a stream. The rhythmic crunch of your footsteps through fallen leaves, steady and grounding. It struck you, somewhere between uncovering a coil of wire tucked beneath a bed of ferns and retrieving a delicate tool balanced on a high branch, that your thoughts were no longer a tangled web of frantic ideas. The restlessness that had driven you to exhaustion was dissipating, replaced by an unfamiliar clarity. The single-minded act of searching calmed the storm in your mind, forcing you to focus on the present moment rather than the chaotic rush of unfinished designs. You hated it. You hated that his absurd, arrogant scheme was working. Hated that, in the absence of your tools and notes, you could feel the weight of the Greenwood pressing gently but firmly against your restless soul. Hated that you found yourself pausing for a moment—not because you were forced to, but because you wanted to. And most of all, you hated the growing suspicion that Thranduil had known this would happen all along.

The final clue led you to a secluded glade, where the air felt impossibly still and the sunlight poured down in golden beams, softening the world into something almost ethereal. The glade itself was breathtaking—ringed by ancient trees whose gnarled roots seemed to cradle the earth itself, their branches stretched high as if reaching for the heavens. And there, beneath the largest and most ancient of the trees, stood Thranduil. His regal form was unmistakable, even in this setting, where the simplicity of the moment seemed at odds with his usual grandeur. Yet somehow, he still seemed larger than life, an embodiment of Greenwood itself. His silvery robes caught the sunlight, their edges shimmering faintly as they shifted with his movements. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, his posture impossibly poised, as though he had been waiting for you all along.

Your gaze shifted, and the sight before him made you pause. A lavish picnic had been laid out on a blanket of rich green fabric, its color blending seamlessly with the grass beneath it. Platters of ripe fruits glistened like jewels in the dappled sunlight—plump berries, golden pears, and pale slices of melon arranged in perfect, artful patterns. Warm, crusty loaves of elven bread rested on a wooden tray, their sweet, nutty scent reaching you even from a distance. And beside it all, a delicate bottle of Dorwinion wine stood, the deep red liquid catching the light as it rested beside two crystal goblets. Your footsteps faltered as you emerged into the clearing, the fury you had carried throughout the day smoldering in your chest. Your hands curled into tight fists as you marched toward him, your boots crushing the soft grass underfoot. “You—”

The word left your lips in a growl, but before you could launch into the tirade that had been building within you all day, Thranduil turned to face you fully. His piercing gaze met yours, and for a moment, the intensity of it froze the words on your tongue. He did not speak immediately, but there was a calm certainty in his posture, in the faint tilt of his head, that told you he was already ten steps ahead of you. With a smooth gesture, he extended one hand toward the picnic. “Sit,” he said, his tone calm yet commanding, each syllable crisp and deliberate. You stared at him, your fury momentarily reignited by his audacity. “You can’t just—” “Sit,” he repeated, his voice firm but still impossibly composed. There was no anger, no frustration, only an unyielding steel beneath the silken tone. Your first instinct was to argue, to fight back against his high-handedness, but the sharpness of his gaze held you in place. Despite yourself, you felt the weight of exhaustion settle over you. The hours of searching, the endless trek through the forest, and the simmering frustration had worn you down in ways you hadn’t fully realized. The ache in your limbs and the emptiness in your stomach suddenly became impossible to ignore.

Your jaw tightened, but the fire of your resistance flickered. With an irritated huff, you lowered yourself onto the blanket, glaring daggers at him as you folded your legs beneath you. You made no move toward the food, your indignation still too fresh. Thranduil sank gracefully onto the other side of the blanket, his movements fluid and unhurried. He reached for the bottle of Dorwinion wine, pouring the deep red liquid into a goblet without so much as a glance in your direction. “Even the brightest minds,” he said, his voice as smooth as the wine he poured, “require nourishment and peace. Your work will still be there tomorrow.” He lifted his gaze, meeting your eyes with a look that was both piercing and soft, a contradiction only he could embody. “But only if you are.”

The words struck a chord you hadn’t been prepared for, though you refused to let it show. Instead, you reached for a slice of bread with deliberate defiance, breaking off a piece and biting into it as though you could spite him with your silence. Warmth bloomed across your tongue—the bread was soft and fresh, its faintly nutty flavor mingling with just a hint of honey. Despite your best efforts, the simple act of eating softened some of the tension coiled within you. You reached next for a handful of berries, their sweetness bursting against your palate in a way that momentarily distracted you from your simmering anger. Thranduil said nothing more as he filled his own goblet and sipped the wine, his gaze steady but not pressing. The silence between you felt deliberate, an unspoken truce that settled over the glade.

You made a point of chewing slowly, each bite deliberate and begrudging, though the food’s warmth and richness worked against your irritation. Your movements began to lose their edge as you sampled more of the fare—melons, pears, bread. Each mouthful eased the weariness in your body, though you refused to admit it.Gradually, the tension in the air began to ebb, replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. The glade felt timeless, untouched by the worries and chaos that had driven you for so long. The golden beams of sunlight seemed warmer now, and the whisper of the forest no longer grated against your frayed nerves.

When you finally glanced back at Thranduil, you caught a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably triumphant. Your irritation flared anew as you realized he had won—he had planned this, orchestrated every detail, and somehow, he had been right. You scowled, tearing off another piece of bread as if it were his smirk you were trying to destroy. But even as you bristled, the warmth of the food and the quiet beauty of the glade worked their way past your defenses. Slowly, against your will, you began to relax. And as the tension ebbed away, you found yourself sinking into the moment—into the stillness, the food, and the rare softness in Thranduil’s sharp demeanor.

The tension ebbed as the meal wore on. The food and the quiet rhythm of the forest softened your anger, and the stillness around you began to seep into your mind. For the first time in days, you allowed yourself to truly rest, leaning back against the base of the tree. When you glanced at Thranduil, you caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “What are you smiling about?” you muttered, narrowing your eyes. He tilted his head, his expression as imperious as ever. “You seem calmer,” he said simply. You scoffed, turning your gaze away. “Don’t think this means you’ve won.” His smirk deepened, and his voice carried the faintest trace of amusement as he replied, “Oh, but I already have.” You opened your mouth to retort but found yourself oddly at peace with his victory, much to your own surprise. Against your better judgment, you let yourself lean back into the comfort of the moment, silently vowing to never let him outmaneuver you again. But deep down, you knew he likely would.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The dim light of evening seeped through the intricate arches of Rivendell’s healing chambers, casting golden hues across the worn stone and polished wood. Inside the cozy lab study, chaos reigned. Books lay sprawled open, their delicate pages dog-eared and ink-smudged, while scrolls were crumpled in haphazard piles. Half-finished experiments glimmered dangerously on the broad stone table, an array of poisons in delicate glass vials and intricate machinery that ticked and whirred with ominous precision. The sharp tang of chemicals clashed with the earthy scent of dried herbs, creating an oppressive atmosphere that suffocated Rivendell’s usual tranquility.

You hunched over your workbench, the fabric of your robes stained with ink and faint burn marks from a misstep days earlier. A pile of scattered notes surrounded you like a fortress, your pen flying furiously across yet another page. Your trembling hands were smudged with soot and ink, but you ignored their protest. The steady, frantic rhythm of your work was fueled by caffeine, raw adrenaline, and sheer stubbornness, your body long past the point of exhaustion. Outside, the day quietly surrendered to dusk, but you didn’t notice. The soft amber light filtering through the windows meant nothing to you, lost as you were in a manic haze of focus and frustration. The room was alive with sound: the bubbling of liquids in alembics, the faint hiss of gas flames beneath burners, the occasional scratch of your pen as you etched more discoveries onto parchment. Even the shelves around you reflected your restless mind—laden with precarious stacks of vials, beakers, and jars, some labeled, many not. The disorder mirrored your state of being, and you thrived in it, or at least you told yourself you did.

The sound of a door creaking open behind you barely registered. You were too absorbed in your work, too immersed in your frantic pursuit of answers, to acknowledge the soft but deliberate footsteps that entered the room. It wasn’t until his calm, steady voice broke through the haze that you even realized you weren’t alone. “You cannot sustain yourself like this.” The words hung in the air, spoken with quiet authority, and yet they grated against you like an unwelcome distraction. You recognized his voice immediately—Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, his presence as commanding as ever despite the gentleness in his tone.

“A mind as brilliant as yours will only falter if you do not allow it rest,” he continued. His words carried concern, but they also held an edge of firmness, as though he’d long since passed the point of tolerating your self-destructive tendencies. You didn’t turn to face him. Instead, your shoulders tensed, and you snapped back at him, your voice sharp with irritation and exhaustion. “Save your wisdom for someone who cares, Lord Elrond. I have work to do.” Your dismissal hung heavy in the room, a deliberate rejection of his intervention. You turned back to your work, hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but his steady presence lingered, unshaken by your outburst. From behind you, Elrond’s brow furrowed. Though his expression remained composed, there was a flicker of frustration in his sharp features. Still, he spoke with measured calm, each word deliberate. “This is not wisdom for others. It is for you. You may ignore me, but you cannot ignore the limits of your body.” You scoffed, waving a dismissive hand over your shoulder. “Then leave me to those limits,” you muttered, your voice low but defiant. Your focus returned to the vials before you, the glass trembling slightly under your unsteady grip. The words were bitter, a final attempt to push him away.

There was silence then, the weight of your defiance pressing heavily into the space between you. Elrond stood motionless for a moment, his piercing gaze watching the faint tremor in your hands, the dark circles etched beneath your eyes, the signs of your slow unraveling that you refused to acknowledge. But he did not argue further. Without another word, he turned and left the room, his soft footsteps fading into the distant corridors of Rivendell. You exhaled sharply, your hands gripping the edge of the table as you forced yourself to block out his intrusion, returning to the frantic rhythm of your work. Yet, in the quiet that followed, his words lingered, unshakable. The kitchens of Rivendell were as serene as the rest of the elven haven, their polished wooden counters and stone hearths untouched by chaos. Herbs hung from the beams in bundles, their faint, soothing scents mingling with the warmth of the fire crackling in a broad stone hearth. Copper and bronze pots rested neatly on shelves, catching the soft glow of candlelight. The space was quiet save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hum of a waterfall outside.

Elrond moved with purpose, his steps measured and deliberate. He wore the calm air of one accustomed to tending to crises, though his thoughts were heavy with concern. He traced his fingers over the jars of dried herbs lining the shelves, their labels written in the elegant, flowing script of the elves. Lavender, chamomile, valerian root—he selected each with care, gathering the ingredients into his hands like a healer assembling tools of necessity. He placed the herbs onto a wooden counter and reached for a mortar and pestle. As the firelight danced across his calm but focused expression, he crushed the valerian root first, its earthy scent rising as he ground it into a fine powder. Next came the chamomile, its delicate golden flowers crumbling under his steady hand. He added lavender last, its sweet fragrance mingling with the others in a blend carefully measured for its restorative and calming properties. The motions were methodical, almost ritualistic, a testament to the centuries of knowledge and wisdom ingrained in his every action.

From a cupboard, Elrond retrieved a slender vial of a translucent golden liquid, an elven tincture crafted from the blossoms of Rivendell’s most sacred trees. A few drops of this would enhance the tea’s effects, soothing the mind and easing even the most restless of souls. He set a kettle of water to heat over the hearth, the flames licking the bottom of the bronze vessel. While waiting, he retrieved an elegant porcelain teapot, its surface painted with delicate elven runes, and carefully scooped the herbal mixture into its depths. The kettle hissed softly as steam began to rise, and he poured the boiling water over the herbs, watching as they swirled and steeped, releasing their potent aromas.

For a moment, he stood still, the teapot cradled in his hands. His eyes, sharp and ageless, softened as he considered the stormy soul awaiting this remedy. He had witnessed such restless ambition before, the kind that burned too brightly, consuming all in its path. He would not allow you to fall victim to it. The tea steeped to perfection, its rich, calming aroma filling the kitchen. Elrond poured the brew into a small, delicately crafted cup. With the practiced grace of one who had long served as both leader and healer, he lifted the tray, the porcelain set perfectly balanced, and turned toward the corridor that would lead him back to your study. The tea was ready, and so was his quiet resolve.

You thought he had finally given up. After his earlier attempt to lecture you, the silence that followed seemed like victory, allowing you to once again lose yourself in the storm of your work. The scratching of your quill, the bubbling of your vials, and the hum of dangerous energy coursing through your experiments drowned out any sense of time. But the faint creak of the door interrupted the delicate chaos, pulling at the edge of your awareness. You ignored it, convinced he had come to pester you again. Surely, he would leave after realizing he was being dismissed. But his voice cut through the haze of your concentration like a blade, low and firm. “Drink this.” The unexpected command forced you to look up. He stood there, his tall, calm figure silhouetted against the flickering lamplight. In his hand, he held a small cup of steaming liquid, the soft scent of herbs wafting through the air—calming, soothing, far too out of place amidst the sharp tang of chemicals and ink. You frowned deeply, your irritation bubbling to the surface.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” you snapped, turning back to the glowing equations scribbled across your parchment. You reached for a delicate vial, your hands trembling slightly from exhaustion, but you refused to let him see it. “You will make time,” he replied, his tone as unyielding as steel sheathed in silk. “Or I will make you.” His words halted you mid-motion. Slowly, you turned to face him, the exhaustion etched into your features only sharpening your glare. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” you challenged, your voice dripping with defiance.

Elrond’s gaze met yours, unwavering. His eyes, deep and ancient, held a quiet power that seemed to pull the air from the room. “Do not test me,” he said softly, and though his voice remained calm, it carried the weight of centuries. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. The room fell silent, the bubbling of your vials and the faint crackle of the hearth fading into the background. You stared at him, your frayed nerves and stubborn will clashing against the immovable presence of the elven lord. But even you, in your exhaustion, could feel the inevitability of his resolve. The trembling in your hands betrayed you, and the sharp ache in your eyes refused to be ignored.

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, you snatched the cup from his outstretched hand. “Fine,” you muttered, your voice dripping with venom. “If it’ll get you to leave me alone.” You tipped the cup back in one swift motion, downing its contents in a single defiant gulp. The warm liquid slid down your throat, and for a moment, you grimaced at its bitter tang. But beneath the bitterness was a faint sweetness, an unexpected comfort that spread through your chest like the warmth of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. You set the empty cup down with a sharp clatter, glaring at him. “There. Satisfied?”

Elrond didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His expression was unreadable, serene as ever, though a faint flicker of something—relief, perhaps—touched his gaze. He didn’t answer you, and the silence only fueled your irritation. But then, as you sat there fuming, something shifted. The edges of your vision blurred ever so slightly, the exhaustion that you had so stubbornly ignored creeping over you like a slow tide. Your hands, once trembling with urgency, grew still. Your thoughts, sharp and chaotic, began to soften, slipping through your grasp like sand. You blinked hard, trying to focus, but the weight in your limbs only grew heavier.

“What—” you began, your voice slurred and weak. You tried to sit up straighter, to fight the sudden pull of sleep, but your body betrayed you. “What did you—?” Before you could finish, the world tilted. Darkness swept over you like a gentle wave, and you felt yourself falling. But the impact never came. Instead, strong arms caught you, cradling your body with a care that made the sting of surrender slightly less bitter. “Rest now,” Elrond murmured, his voice low and soothing. Though you tried to muster some retort, some last flicker of defiance, the pull of sleep was too strong. His words followed you into the darkness, a quiet command that even your willpower could not deny. Elrond adjusted his hold on you, his arms steady as he lifted your limp form from the cluttered chair, one arm beneath your knees and the other cradling your back. You barely stirred, your head lolling against his shoulder as the tea’s potent herbs fully took hold. His steps were measured and deliberate as he carried you through the quiet halls of Rivendell, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound against the faint murmur of the distant waterfalls.

The flickering lamplight illuminated his calm features, though his brow furrowed slightly as he glanced down at you. The exhaustion etched into your face, the dark shadows under your eyes, tugged at something deep within him. You had pushed yourself far beyond your limits, and though you would never admit it, you needed care—care that you were too proud or too stubborn to seek. Crossing one of Rivendell’s graceful stone bridges, he paused for a moment, gazing out at the soft glow of the moonlight reflecting off the cascading water below. The air was cool, fragrant with the scent of night-blooming flowers, and he shifted his grip ever so slightly to ensure you remained comfortable.

By the time he reached the spare residence chamber, he moved with the same quiet grace, carefully easing the door open with his shoulder. The room was bathed in the golden glow of candlelight, and he approached the neatly made bed, lowering you onto it with practiced care. You stirred faintly, a soft murmur escaping your lips, but you did not wake. Elrond drew the blanket over you, smoothing it with an almost imperceptible sigh. For a moment, he lingered, his gaze lingering on your face, softened now in sleep. “Rest well,” he murmured quietly, his voice barely audible. Then, without another word, he stepped back into the shadows, leaving the room as silently as he had entered.

When you woke, the warmth of sunlight kissed your face, casting golden rays across the unfamiliar chamber. The soft flutter of a curtain swaying in the breeze drew your attention, its delicate fabric glowing in the morning light. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the faint aroma of Rivendell’s flowers—a blend of lilacs and something earthier, subtler, that seemed to soothe the very air you breathed. Blinking groggily, you pushed yourself upright too quickly, and the sudden dizziness made you clutch at the edge of the blanket. “You drugged me,” you croaked, your voice hoarse but laced with indignation. Your gaze, still adjusting to the light, sharpened as it landed on the figure seated near the tall window. Elrond sat composed in a high-backed chair, a leather-bound book resting in his lap. His posture was as straight and elegant as ever, and though his eyes had been fixed on the pages a moment ago, they were now fully focused on you.

“I ensured you slept,” he corrected smoothly, his tone calm and measured as always, though there was a certain weight to his words. “And judging by the color returning to your face, it was long overdue.” The calmness in his voice only deepened your irritation. “You had no right,” you snapped, though the heat in your words faltered as you glanced down at your own hands. They were still now, no longer trembling with the exhaustion and strain of days without rest. The familiar pounding ache in your skull had dulled to a faint thrum, and for a moment, the frustration gave way to an unwelcome realization. He was right.

“I had every right,” Elrond replied evenly, closing his book with a deliberate motion and rising to his full height. The sunlight seemed to catch the silvery threads in his dark hair, making him look all the more regal—and, to your frustration, all the more correct. “If you refuse to care for yourself, someone must do it for you.” His words struck a nerve. You clenched your jaw, but there was no rebuttal you could muster that wouldn’t feel hollow. Instead, you glared at him, though the fire in your expression had already dimmed. He met your gaze without flinching, his calmness unshakable, and for a brief moment, you were reminded of the previous night. The memory of strong arms catching you as the world tilted, of his voice low and steady, came unbidden to your mind.

The silence between you stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. You wanted to argue, to retake some semblance of control, but the bed was too soft, the sunlight too warm, and your body too weary to fight anymore. With a resigned sigh, you leaned back against the pillows, your fingers absently brushing the soft fabric. “Fine,” you muttered begrudgingly, your voice quieter now, as though the admission tasted bitter on your tongue. “Maybe you had a point.” Elrond’s lips curved ever so slightly, a faint smile softening the sharp lines of his face. There was no gloating in his expression, only quiet satisfaction—perhaps even relief. “Perhaps you’ll listen next time,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor. You rolled your eyes, though there was no true venom in the gesture. “Don’t push your luck,” you retorted, folding your arms over your chest like a sulking child.

Elrond didn’t reply, but the quiet amusement in his gaze lingered as he returned to his chair. Settling back into the same composed posture, he reopened his book, the soft rustle of parchment filling the space between you. As you watched him for a moment longer, the irritation in your chest gave way to something far gentler. His presence, steady and unobtrusive, filled the room with an inexplicable sense of peace. Finally, you allowed your head to sink back into the pillows, your eyelids fluttering shut. Just for a moment, you told yourself. Rest didn’t feel so much like a failure this time—it felt like the gift you hadn’t known you needed.

🍃𝓛𝓮𝓰𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼

Legolas, ever calm and graceful, is quite the opposite of the chaos surrounding you. His mind works at a different pace, always in tune with the natural world, attuned to subtle details. His connection to the forest allows him to sense and react to turmoil in a way most others cannot. So when he meets you—a scientist who is consumed by experiments, who refuses to rest and who often spirals into emotional instability—he is bewildered, fascinated, and deeply concerned all at once. At first, Legolas sees the cold precision in your eyes and the fervor in your work, but he’s keenly aware that beneath your sharp focus lies a fragile mental state. He notices how you forgo sleep for days, locked in your experiments, your face marked by exhaustion and obsession. To him, it is a mystery that doesn’t fit well into the natural world he knows so intimately.

Legolas finds it difficult to understand your disregard for your well-being. Elves, even with their long lifespan, are often seen to take the time to savor life, cherishing balance and peace. Your drive for knowledge, particularly in poisons or machinery, contrasts sharply with his tranquil lifestyle. He often finds himself watching you from a distance, perplexed by the way you approach your work—recklessly, but with an eerie genius that he cannot deny. Though he’s initially uncertain of your motives, Legolas is intrigued by your brilliant mind. It doesn’t take him long to see that despite your cold exterior and sharp words, there is something about your presence—your raw brilliance—that draws him to you. Legolas understands that beneath your scornful attitude and dismissive remarks lies a hidden vulnerability.

You’ve been working nonstop for hours—no, days. The boundaries between your experiments and the real world have blurred into one continuous haze of equations, theories, and chemical reactions. Time no longer matters. It is nothing more than a distant, fading concept, slipping away in the whirlpool of your thoughts. Sleep has become a luxury, an indulgence for those who do not have the weight of a breakthrough pressing down on them. Food? Well, that’s an afterthought—an insignificant detail that’s become so far removed from your mind that you hardly remember the last time you ate, let alone what you ate. It seems almost irrelevant, a distraction from the greater goal that sits just within reach. This project, this grand experiment, is your obsession now. It’s all you see, all you think about, and its success—or failure—feels like the only thing that matters in the world. The culmination of weeks of work, testing, and adjusting—it could either define your career or destroy it. And so, you immerse yourself fully, sinking deeper into the vortex of your research, unaware of the toll it’s taking on you. Surrounded by the relentless clinking of glassware, the hum of machinery, and the clutter of papers strewn about like the aftermath of some grand intellectual battle, you are lost in your task. There are formulas written on every surface, scattered notes, crumpled drafts of hypotheses that seem laughable now. Your entire existence is encapsulated in this mess—the lab has become both your sanctuary and your prison, a place where hours slip by unnoticed, unmeasured.

You sit hunched over, your back aching with the strain, fingers stained with ink and the occasional chemical, but none of it seems to register. Your eyes burn, your eyelids heavy, but still, you push forward. You haven’t noticed the growing tension in your shoulders, the stiffness in your neck, or the dull throb in your lower back. You haven’t even noticed how your stomach is starting to protest, sending waves of hunger that grow more insistent, gnawing at your insides. It’s not until an embarrassing growl rumbles from your stomach, louder than the clinking glass or the soft whirring of the lab equipment, that you realize just how badly you’ve neglected yourself. It echoes through the quiet lab, interrupting the rhythm of your thoughts, making you pause in the middle of a delicate calculation. And that’s when you hear it—a quiet, familiar voice from the doorway, breaking the trance you’ve been locked in for so long. “Have you eaten today?” Legolas’s voice is soft, yet it carries with it a sense of quiet concern, the calmness in his tone belying the sharpness of his gaze. He’s standing there, watching you from the threshold, his posture relaxed but his eyes filled with a subtle intensity, like he’s been observing you for longer than you realize.

Without lifting your gaze from the maze of numbers and equations spread out before you, you wave him off with an almost absent gesture, not even registering the tiredness in your own voice as you mutter, “I don’t have time for food.” The words slip out so easily, a reflex born of the obsessive state you’ve settled into. Your mind doesn’t even register the absurdity of your response as your focus remains laser-sharp on the experiment. The hunger, the fatigue—it’s all irrelevant. All you see, all that matters, is the next step, the next piece of the puzzle. Legolas stands still for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the sight of you—the lines of exhaustion etched across your face, the faint tremor in your hands as you shuffle through papers, trying to make sense of the chaos you’ve created. The intensity of your concentration, the way your shoulders are so tightly wound, as if you’re on the edge of snapping. He sees it all, the way your body is beginning to betray you, but you don’t seem to notice.

It’s then that he observes how you pull a fresh sheet of paper from the stack, your fingers trembling just slightly, betraying the toll that this relentless focus has taken on you. Your eyes, bloodshot and strained, flick across the page, calculating, measuring, adjusting. There’s no room for anything else in your world, not even your own well-being. A quiet sigh escapes him, almost inaudible, but it’s enough to signal a shift in his mind. Something shifts in his gaze, and in that moment, an idea forms—a plan. He knows you too well. And if he has to drag you away from this obsessive spiral, even for just a moment, he will.

The next day, when you’re once again completely submerged in your work, unaware of the world outside your lab, Legolas decides it’s time to intervene. The soft hum of the machinery and the rustle of papers fill the air as you move from one equation to the next, your eyes never straying from the mess of calculations that have taken over your desk. The hours have become an indistinguishable blur, and your sense of time has long since faded into the background. Every inch of the space is dedicated to your experiment—papers scattered, glassware filled with colorful liquids, half-finished models, and scribbled notes covering every available surface.

But Legolas is no stranger to patience. He knows you are too deep in your work to even notice him now, not until it’s too late. He waits, watching for that perfect moment—when your back is turned, and your attention is entirely consumed by the puzzle in front of you. He can see the tension in your shoulders, the subtle signs of weariness beneath your focused gaze, and he knows that no matter how important your project is, you’ve reached a point where even you can’t function without a break. But of course, you would never admit it. With the silent grace of an elf, Legolas slips into the room, barely making a sound. His movements are fluid, practiced—he’s like a shadow in the corners of your mind, unnoticed as you continue to pour your energy into the experiment before you. He takes in the scene: the mess of papers strewn across the table, the cluttered counter covered in empty cups of cold coffee, the way your focus is so intense that you haven’t even acknowledged the growing darkness outside the windows.

He glances at your tools, each one carefully placed in its spot, each piece vital to your experiment. The precision of your setup is admirable, but Legolas knows better than to touch any of it. Messing with the actual work would be madness, and he knows it would only set you off. No, he’s not here to interfere with your research itself—he’s here to remind you of something that’s been long forgotten: the need to care for yourself. A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he surveys the spread of snacks he brought along, carefully selected to tempt you—fruits, cheeses, assorted nuts, dried figs, and decadent pastries—things you’ve often mentioned craving during your late-night lab sessions, when your mind wanders to things other than work. The bounty of treats, so carefully chosen, seems almost mischievous in their abundance. Without a single sound, Legolas begins to work his plan. First, he moves your precious tools—one by one—carefully lifting each instrument and placing it under a growing pile of snacks. A handful of dried apricots here, a wedge of cheese there. A small pile of fresh grapes beside a measuring tool. The intricate set of tweezers, now buried beneath a stack of flaky pastries that, with their golden crusts, seem to beckon to you with their promise of indulgence.

As he works, the spread of food slowly grows into a mountain, each pile placed with intention. The snacks, once carefully arranged and colorful, begin to obscure the once-tidy counters, taking over the space in a vibrant display of abundance. You won’t be able to ignore this when you see it. You won’t be able to miss the pile of food mocking your focus. Only one thing remains untouched, sitting in the center of the chaos: a small, crucial piece of equipment—your vital component. It’s a delicate instrument, one that you’ve mentioned countless times in your calculations as the key to making everything work. Legolas has left it exposed, carefully placed in the middle of the snack-filled chaos as a subtle reminder that your experiment, while important, cannot function without balance. Without food. Without rest.

Satisfied with his work, Legolas steps back, his smirk widening. The lab now looks like a strange, confusing mess of delectable distractions. The tools you rely on are buried beneath mountains of food, and all that remains visible is the one piece you will need to continue. He stands silently in the doorway for a moment, watching the scene, content with his intervention. It’s a clever plan, a subtle nudge that you’ll surely feel the moment you enter the room. The food will tempt you, frustrate you, maybe even infuriate you. But it will be enough to break your focus, to pull you away from your work, even if just for a moment. With a final glance at the absurdity of the setup, Legolas slips back into the hallway, his quiet footsteps echoing in the silence of the lab as he waits for the inevitable explosion of confusion and frustration to come.

When you finally return to your lab, you pause at the doorway, your mind still consumed with the complex calculations and delicate experiments you’ve been absorbed in for days. The familiar hum of the equipment and the clutter of papers greet you, but then something feels… off. A strange, jarring sight stops you cold. Your tools—the carefully arranged instruments that were once your lifeblood—are nowhere to be found. Your heart skips a beat as your eyes scan the room, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Where your tools should be, there is nothing but a massive mound of snacks. Pastries, fruits, cheeses, nuts, and other treats lie piled high, covering your workspace in a chaotic heap. The pastries, golden-brown and flaky, seem to almost mock you with their perfect, untouched appearance. The fruits gleam brightly under the dim light of the lab, their smooth, vibrant surfaces almost daring you to notice the irony—how you’ve ignored them, just as you’ve ignored the needs of your own body in favor of your work. The entire scene feels like some sort of cruel joke, a twisted riddle you can’t quite solve.

A rush of confusion floods over you, followed quickly by a rising tide of frustration. Your mouth goes dry as you stare, helpless, at the absurdity before you. What is this? You can’t comprehend it at first. “What… What is this?” you exclaim, your voice rising in disbelief. You take a step forward, eyes wide, feeling your stomach twist in protest as the hunger you’ve so willfully ignored becomes painfully evident. There’s no sign of your tools. No sign of the precious instruments you’d spent hours assembling and calibrating. Where are they? You feel your pulse quicken, the frustration turning into a sharp spike of panic. Your hands fly to your hair as you whirl around the room, scanning frantically for any sign of your tools, but all you find are layers of food—doughy croissants, tangy cheeses, and salted nuts—mocking you, teasing you for your obsession with your work. “Where are my tools?” you demand, your voice sharp with irritation, each word laced with the growing anger that simmers beneath the surface. “This—this nonsense! Who did this?” Your voice rises even further, your eyes flicking to the door, where you half-expect to see one of your colleagues standing, grinning like a mischievous imp. But no one is there—except for him.

Legolas. He Leaning casually against the doorframe, as calm and composed as ever, is the elf. His arms are crossed in a way that is almost effortless, his expression unreadable but for the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’s watching you with a cool, collected gaze, taking in the scene before him with an air of detached amusement. It’s as if he’s entirely unbothered by the chaos unfolding around him. You lock eyes with him, your frustration growing. “Did you do this?” you demand, your voice trembling slightly with a mixture of anger and incredulity. Your hands push aside pastries, fruit, and cheese in a frantic rush, desperate to uncover the missing tools. You’ve already ruined the neatness of the lab in your search, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters except finding the instruments you need.

Legolas takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his movements as fluid and graceful as always. His voice is smooth, calm, and almost… knowing. “Perhaps,” he begins, his tone casual yet undeniably filled with the hint of something deeper, something that speaks to an understanding you can’t ignore, “you need sustenance to better fuel your genius.” You stop, momentarily stunned into silence. Did he just say that? You blink, mouth slightly agape, struggling to process what he’s just uttered. He’s standing there, watching you dig through layers of food with an amused expression, completely unphased by your disarray. His words hang in the air like a challenge, his smile betraying nothing but confidence.

It’s in that moment that you feel a wave of frustration build inside you—frustration with him, with the situation, and with yourself. The urge to hurl something at him is almost overwhelming. You contemplate grabbing a handful of cheese and throwing it straight at his infuriatingly perfect face. But then your stomach growls—loudly. The sound is impossible to ignore, even louder than your growing irritation. You hesitate, feeling your anger ebb just a little as the reality of your situation dawns on you. You’re starving. You haven’t eaten in hours—maybe longer—and your body is beginning to revolt against the neglect. A sinking feeling spreads through you, and you can’t deny it any longer. As much as you want to shout at Legolas for interrupting your work, for turning your lab into a ridiculous food buffet, deep down, you understand what he’s doing. You begrudgingly acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, there’s some twisted logic to his “tactic.”

You take a deep, controlled breath, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling in your chest. You look around, the mound of food surrounding you like an insurmountable wall. Finally, with a resigned sigh, you grab a pastry from the pile, your fingers brushing against the flaky, warm surface. You lift it to your lips, still eyeing Legolas, and after a moment’s hesitation, you take a small bite. The sweetness of the pastry hits your tongue, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to savor the simple pleasure of eating. As you chew, your gaze remains fixed on Legolas. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes seem to hold a quiet satisfaction, as though he’s achieved something. You almost want to scowl at him—want to stay angry for the inconvenience—but the truth is, you can’t. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you swallow the bite, feeling a warmth spread through your body that you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, the words coming out muffled by the pastry in your mouth. But even as you say it, a small, reluctant chuckle escapes you. You can’t help but appreciate the ingenuity of his plan, even if it’s entirely infuriating. For once, you’ve been forced to take a break, to step away from your work. You almost… needed it. Legolas watches you for a moment, his gaze steady and thoughtful, before he speaks again, his tone as light as ever. “I’ll leave you to your work, then,” he says, as if the destruction of your lab doesn’t even phase him. “But I would suggest at least a few more bites before you dive back in.”

With that, he turns to leave, his quiet steps barely audible as he exits the room. You stand there for a moment longer, still holding the remnants of the pastry in your hand, shaking your head in exasperation. There’s no denying the satisfaction that lingers in your chest—although you’ll never admit it out loud, Legolas has gotten through to you in his own clever, infuriating way. The Great Snack Heist may have been a nuisance, but it was also, in some twisted way, brilliant. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, you can’t help but wonder if he might just have a point. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll let him do it again. Just not too soon.

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tiredafel · 13 days ago

Note

Danielle was enjoying herself she was looking around in the universe that Papa got stuck in apparently Dan had said the people there were strong and a good fight time from time again and also had the man with all the contracts on his soul

Daniel had introduced herself as princess wisp to a group of young fighters she had known this group from her best friend Klarion telling her about them and have fun they were to mess with and fight

So when she decided to mess with the little group by sending them on a wild goose chase with the help of her best friend she wasn't expecting to run into her younger brother front of everybody

Well it's time for the blame game luckily Danielle was a master at messing around with people perception of things

________________________________

Kyle had watched stone cold as Wraith had arrived in the watchtower radiating anger and unkept terror until Phantom had walked out beside him putting a comforting hand on the large beings shoulder

Phantom has looked at Wraith with a stern look as in having a silent conversation without words after that Wraith looked around for all the anger subsiding from the room

Wraith had side like a petulant child which truly had him fit someone of his size before saying

"The only reason I am here is to tell you that my petulant older sister has decided to take your sidekicks on a wild goose chase and she'll be arriving here in two to four minutes."

Kyle had known that Wraith last time he was here had mentioned a sister but if she was older than Wraith large and terrifying presents Kyle couldn't help wondered what the older sister would be like

To imagine Kyle surprise what seems like a young small girl with white hair just like Phantom that seem to more float like it was some type of liquid and Sandy wearing some type of fancy Royal looking suit holding hands with no other than Klarion

Fastly stopping in front Wraith before floating upwards at the green portal closed after Young Justice came through running through it crashing all into each other in front of the main Justice League which was kind of funny

Kyle had heard as a childish president sweeped over the room and given the feelings of getting presence as a child that you always wanted or the sweet memories of doing something fun you loved to be reading off the girl

Kyle had to feel like he was trying to stay full laughter as he heard a bubbly voice say

"Now That's How You Have Some Good Old Fun The Ghost Way Of Course. Also hi Papa also hi little Wraith what are y'all doing here?"

Kyle was slightly surprised he was not expecting what seem to be a small girl to be that terror's older sibling Kyle couldn't help himself from looking at Phantom and wondering what exactly they just got themselves into especially his self

_____________________________________

Sorry me adding in a little headcare and of mine I feel like we're Dan is all anger and destruction the being you know is about to kill you right here right now with no mercy

Danielle is more childhood Joy the moments of of things that made you feel happy the fun will you laugh so hard and you just cancel any of the pain or hurt you've ever gone through

My cute little head Cannon I hope you like my little dyslexic ramblings I try

aww this was so cute!! thank you for sharing <33

#dp x dc #dc x dp #danny phantom #dani phantom #dan phantom #asks for afel

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feroluce · 5 months ago

Text

OK so like Boothill has done a lot of wild shit. Started rebellions and riots, pulled god knows how many heists on Pier Point, played part in saving the disadvantaged population of Emerald-III, helped save the universe from Ena's Dream and the Embryo of Philosophy, etc etc

But legit the funniest- and perhaps my favorite- thing he's done is possibly accidentally causing the Holstein Aphasia.

The Holstein Aphasia is something that went down during the last Amber Era, where memory bubbles from the Holstein system relating to speech were destroyed, causing all of its residents to forget how to speak, and as a result, go mute (aka aphasia). In the present, the Garden of Recollection are still trying to rebuild these memories; but in the meantime, the population apparently has gotten on just fine by switching to written communications.

This ties in with Boothill's fourth character story, where we see him sneaking into the Garden of Recollection (something very hard to do!) trying to find info on Oswaldo Schneider.

And you can tell how pissed the Garden is about all this, not only because of the bounty, but because the Memokeeper on the Express gives such bad stinkeye that Boothill can literally feel it KFLDJASLKFJD

She can literally control who does and doesn't see her, and he can still tell she's over there, I hope she haunts him like a wraith every time he's in the parlor car FJKLASJFL

Anyway, the funniest part isn't actually the event itself, it's what came after.

The Holstein Aphasia was actually initially brought up in the IPC broadcast that plays in the parlor car, and changes between missions. This broadcast was from all the way back during the Luofu trailblaze missions of 1.2- needless to say, long before Boothill was ever introduced.

But this kills me because like! A Galaxy Ranger that wishes to remain anonymous! You don't say! Can you just imagine Boothill trying to drop anonymous hints to implicate the Cremators, because he figures they suck and deserve the punishment anyway and because he doesn't wanna get in trouble for something he did by accident JFKDLASJKFLDJSA

And the fact that the Galaxy Rangers issued a statement that they're working on a solution! They either don't know it was Boothill or, more likely, they're just covering for him- which is very very sweet!

But I'm crying imagining Boothill getting pulled by the ear while La Mancha, leader of all the Galaxy Rangers, lectures him about how he is going to be working this off until it's repaid, dammit, or his ass is grass!!

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail boothill #hsr #hsr boothill #boothill #there's just something really funny about Boothill possibly trying to weasel his way out of taking the heat for this #which like to be fair it really was an accident #and this is the exact shit the Cremators would pull on purpose #but still fjkdlsajfklds #like you know how Yuuji lies that Gojo was the one who broke Maki's weapon in jjk?#similar vibes to me. similarly endearing FJKDLASJFKLD #I was kinda hoping we'd hear more about this in the Shadow of the Ranger event but oh well. it's hilarious as is.

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gloomwitchwrites · 11 months ago

Text

Ink & Needle // Chapter Twenty-One

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): tattoo shop au, swearing, brief alcohol, non-descriptive mentions of sex, intimidation

Word Count: 3.5k

The past resurfaces. Simon's enemy shows his face.

Chapter Twenty

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Three Years Ago

“Confess, bitch. Give us the details.”

Sam takes a towel to a bottle of prosecco, the cork popping as she dislodges it. Jade collects four tumblers from the mini-bar and sets them out on top of the low dresser the television sits on.

“Don’t leave anything out,” adds Jade, tossing her blue hair over her shoulder.

All of you are freshly showered and wearing the fluffy hotel provided robes. The softness is absolute heaven. Like wearing a cloud.

You sigh heavily and fall onto your back on the plush hotel bed, hands pressed over your eyes. There is a pleasant ache between your legs—a reminder of your wraith. His scent still lingers even though you stood under scalding water and scrubbed the day away. There is a hint of mint. Of black tea. A whisp of smoke.

Maybe it’s in your hair.

Maybe it’s embedded into your skin.

Thorns that have burrowed and only time will push them out or leave them to fester and infect.

“What do you want to know?” you groan, rubbing your temples.

Already, the alcohol is beginning to creep from your system, leaving a tension behind that signals an oncoming hangover. It’s not piercing yet. Just a nuisance. Sam tops off the glasses and the prosecco is distributed. The bubbly drink burns your nose a bit but it drives off the blooming headache.

Begrudgingly, you push up to a more seated position, your three best friends staring back expectantly. It’s the moment of truth. You’re facing the jury. This is your judgement.

“Was it good?” asks Sam, one eyebrow arched in question. She takes a sip of her drink, leaning slightly to the right, adjusting the front of the robe.

“Yes,” you reply slowly.

“And?” she prompts, waving her hand in a signal to go on.

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” you mutter, staring down into your dwindling glass of prosecco. If you’re going to get through this conversation, you’re going to require more.

Jade sets her glass down on the side table between the two beds. She goes up on her knees, excitement buzzing through her bones. “How big was he?” she asks. “What did it look like?”

“Jesus Christ, Jade,” you groan.

Yes. More prosecco will fix this.

“Just say when,” interrupts Jade. She brings her hands flat against each other, and then slowly starts to move them away.

Sam snorts, and then chokes on her beverage, nearly rolling off the bed as she goes for a tissue. You stare dumbly at Jade, not saying anything.

“Just say—seriously? Seriously?” Jade’s hands are unrealistically far apart. “This is impossible. I’m starting over.”

“Stop,” you laugh, grabbing her hands. “He was…decent?”

“Decent?” snaps Sam. “We don’t get any details? Color? Length?”

“Girth,” adds Jade. “A prominent vein?”

Sam rolls her eyes. “Girl. Give us something!”

You glance over at Evie. “Are you going to help me at all?”

She shrugs and sips on her prosecco. “I’m curious too,” she says softly.

You down the rest of your prosecco and immediately regret it. A wave of indigestion hits you and you swallow down a burp.

“Okay,” you concede, holding up one hand placatingly. “Fine.”

The three women settle onto the bed, all their attention on you. It takes a moment—a deep inhalation before you begin. But you do, and you tell them most of it. You talk about Ghost’s proposition out in the alleyway and of where he took you to. You describe the positions he put you in, and how damn good the man was at tonguing orgasm after orgasm out of you.

They sigh and swoon. They giggle or simply stare open-mouthed.

There are some things you don’t say. You don’t tell them how you felt in your heart when you left or the circumstances of why. The sense of needing to run was insistent and strong, but looking back—you now feel shame.

You regret not staying even for a few extra minutes.

“Damn,” sighs Sam, leaning back on one elbow.

Jade just blinks, her mind still trying to process the information.

Evie smiles behind her glass, and you know that look. “What?” you prompt, lightly smacking her thigh.

“Sounds like you had fun.” She lightly smacks your thigh back. “Aren’t you happy we went?”

Now

“Bag packed?”

“I think so. How’s Lillian?”

Evie takes a bite of her sandwich and glances down into the bassinet. “Asleep. For now.”

“How are you feeling?” you ask softly, walking around to the side of the bed. Sitting down on the edge, you lean back slightly, staring at your friend.

It’s been over a week since Archie’s parents came to visit. The rest of the day and the following, Evie was a mess. But her cheeks have color to them now, and the bags under her eyes are almost non-existent. She’s always been the mediator, but it doesn’t seem like she’s willing to the mediator in this anymore. Her fuse no longer sparks.

While Evie hasn’t spoken it out loud, her actions indicate her willingness to separate from Archie’s family completely. It would be better for everyone, but mostly for her mental wellbeing. She’s dealt with too much of their bullshit, and it’s time that she breaks away from them for good.

It’s their own fault. Their own behavior that has caused all this. It never had to come to this, and now they likely won’t see their granddaughter at all.

“Better,” she sighs. “A bit nauseous.”

“Headache?” you ask.

She nods. “I just need a little caffeine. Maybe something carbonated.”

“All the paperwork signed?”

“Yep. On the table in the kitchen.” Evie takes another bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s fine, Evie. I’m happy to do it.”

“I know,” she says quickly. “And I know I keep thanking you, but I do mean it. Having Amelia around is wonderful, but she wouldn’t be able to do everything you’re doing for me.”

It’s true in a way. Amelia has been integral in helping with Lillian, but it is you that has spent all your time taking care of the financial end. Mister Grant calls you. The estate agent contacts you. You are Evie’s voice at the moment, and you’re more than happy to do it.

“I’m not the one packing anything up,” you laugh, throwing up your hands. “All I have to do is point and Jennifer’s assistant will label it.”

“That’ll be easier,” sighs Evie. “I can’t imagine trying to go through all our belongings by hand.”

You shrug. “I get to eat lots of takeout in the meantime. I’ll be fine.”

Evie reaches out and squeezes your hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Evelyn Green.”

Her grin is infectious as you push up from the bed and snag the backpack you packed. Hefting it over one shoulder, you salute Evie and walk out of the room backwards. You hear her giggle all the way down the hall.

Once the paperwork is in your hands, Amelia drops you off at the train station. You spend the entire trip hunched over the paperwork and reviewing the list you made of all the items Evie wants to keep. She’s giving you liberty to make the final call on most things, but you know it’s because she’s doesn’t want to deal with any of it.

It’s understandable. Everything in the home reminds Evie of her dead husband, and she’s already emotional delicate. If she doesn’t want to look at or deal with any of it, you’ll carry the burden.

When you arrive in Cambridge, it’s a quick taxi ride to the house.

The quiet is almost ominous, and the dark rooms seem bigger without anyone here with you. For a moment, you consider calling Simon to ask if he’d like to come out here and join you. But the idea is quickly dismissed. Simon has work. He has a job to do. Already he’s made numerous changes to his schedule just to accommodate your needs.

It’s not like he wouldn’t come if you called. You know that if you picked up the phone right now and dialed Simon’s number, he wouldn’t even hesitate. Simon would come like a moth to a flame.

But moths are often consumed in fire.

You think better of it.

The estate agent, Jennifer, and her assistant are supposed to arrive early in the morning to start the pack-up process. There isn’t time to dwell on your feelings or how much you wish Simon was here with you.

On the kitchen island, you set out the paperwork, organizing it now so you don’t have to deal with it in the morning. You just want to sleep—to have as much quiet as you can before the work begins. Lillian keeps Evie up, but the little one keeps you up as well. The lack of sleeping is starting to eat away at you.

It’s a fresh start in a way. You sleep deep and you sleep hard. When Jessica and Mollie arrive, you’re refreshed.

“Evelyn wants these packed?” asks Jessica, gesturing toward an array of kitchen appliances.

“Yes,” you confirm.

Jessica nods and Mollie writes “pack” on a sticky note before attaching it to the mixing bowls. Plenty of things are going into storage for now—at least until Evie is confident enough to find her own place that is uniquely hers.

You haven’t broached the subject explicitly. It’s only been mentioned in passing, and Evie agreed that she didn’t want to sell everything off only to have to replace it later. What she truly wants is for the house to be sold. To create a space that doesn’t constantly remind her of her dead husband.

You and Jessica walk around the entire house and garden with Mollie trailing behind, her arms loaded with tape, paper, and sticky notes. It takes several hours to go through everything, and by the end you’re starving. The coffee and croissant you ate for breakfast are out of your system entirely.

Jessica taps away at her phone, a frown on her face. “I swear. I’ve been having issues with this thing all morning,” she grumbles.

Mollie shrugs. “Want me to reach out to them?”

“Please,” sighs Jessica. “They’re supposed to deliver the boxes for us. Find out from John what time.”

Mollie nods and grabs her tablet, her fingers tapping away furiously. She gives her back, one arm clutching the tablet while her other hand unloads the pens from her coat pocket.

Jessica turns to you with a bright smile. “I’ll find out when the boxes are supposed to arrive.” She lifts her phone in the air. “If this will cooperate. Bloody technology.”

“It’s fine,” you laugh. “They’ll get here when they get here. I can manage until then.”

“Too true,” she beams. “At least you have a few to start with.”

“But the rest will be boxed up independently?”

“Yes,” confirms Jessica. “Just take the things that Evelyn wants. Leave the rest. I have the keys. When the team is ready, I’m meet them here. We’ll take care of everything else.”

“Wonderful,” you sigh, as you say your goodbyes and escort Jessica and Mollie to the front door.

The boxes do arrive, but so do an endless parade of people. Mister Grant stops by to review the paperwork before handing over more for you to take to Evie when you return to London. The appraiser comes to evaluate the house, and several different contractors arrive to assess potential fixes that Jessica suggested during the walkthrough.

It’s an avalanche of faces—and the only one you want to see is Simon. It’s the face you think about when you slip into bed that night. It’s the face you imagine when the ache between your thighs grows and you need some sweet relief. It’s the face in your dreams that night, and the one that lingers when you wake.

You need Simon like plants need the sun. He is your light. Your sustenance. This love blooming in your chest is a twisting beast that intends to devour you whole. It is lovely. It is consuming.

All you want is him.

When you return to London, the first thing you’re doing is heading for 141 Ink to spend an afternoon in his shop. Watching Simon work is a pleasure. You’ve only witnessed it a few times, and it was hypnotizing when you did.

“Really?” you mutter, staring at the text message on the phone screen, stuffing the rest of your breakfast into your mouth.

It’s Jessica! New phone! Sending the assessor out to you today! One last walkthrough!

“They were just here,” you groan, staring around at all the empty boxes. “Why is this necessary?”

The boxes were delivered, but they were all flat. At least packing tape came with. Otherwise, you’d be out of luck. Evie wants some things to come to Amelia’s and those are the items you’re supposed to be collecting. That is supposed to be your focus at the moment.

And a new number for Jessica is annoyingly inconvenient, but you’ll deal with it. Her phone was acting up yesterday.

“Whatever,” you say to the ceiling, updating your contact information for Jessica.

You continue to pack, taking breaks every so often to check work emails. You’re in the zone—a flurry of activity—so when the doorbell goes off, you nearly flinch at the sound.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, sealing a box with packing tape.

Pushing up to standing, your knees pop. The doorbell rings through the house again and you sprint to the front door, legs a bit achy from crouching.

You open the door, a little breathless. “Hi!”

A man in his mid-thirties stands on the other side. His dark hair is cropped short and he wears a polo with khakis. On the left side of the polo is a little logo that says “Heisman Consulting.” He clutches a clipboard in one hand and has a utility belt hooked around his hips. Behind his right ear is a sharpened pencil.

“You must be the assessor Jessica mentioned,” you greet.

“That’s me,” he says, presenting his hand. “I’m Jack.”

You take it, giving him your own name. It’s a firm, strong handshake. His eye contact is intense. It’s a bit strange actually. You’re not sure why he’s staring like he’s trying to see into your soul.

“We just had the assessor here yesterday. Did Jessica give a reason for another visit?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light.

Jack just grins and it’s disarming. “Second opinion.”

“I see,” you say slowly, not understanding at all.

What’s the point of a second opinion? Did the first one already come back? That seems unlikely. These things don’t happen overnight. But you’re not the expert on real estate. This is out of your depth.

What you want is to leave this conversation as quickly as possible and return to your task. “I have a few things to take care of. I’ll make sure to stay out of your way while you walk around the property.”

“That won’t be necessary,” replies Jack, his smile still in place.

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica wants you present for the inspection.”

You laugh, the sound awkward as it leaves your lips. “No she doesn’t. I’ll be around. Just come grab me if you need something.”

Jack shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders casually. “Jessica isn’t happy with the last assessment. Wants someone else observing.”

“Like a witness?” you ask.

He shrugs his shoulders again, and the unease only grows. Why does he want you to stick around so bad? If anything, you shouldn’t be in his way at all.

“Fine,” you concede, attempting to give him a smile. “Not sure I’ll be of much help.”

Jack glances down at his clipboard and removes the pencil from behind is ear. “S’all good, love.” He winks and notes something on the clipboard before his gaze scans the room.

Love.

In Jack’s mouth, it sounds like an insult. It doesn’t sit right. The only person you enjoy calling you that is Simon.

You try to smile, but it falls flat.

There are too many things to do, and you only have a few days to complete them. You’re supposed to be in Cambridge for the weekend—returning at the latest on Tuesday if necessary.

“Where would you like to start?” you ask, taking a cautious step back, edging toward the paperwork sitting on the counter.

Jack takes another gander of the kitchen and living room. It’s strange, really, how he’s observing the space but not really looking at it. It almost appears passive, like he’s not interested in it at all.

You tuck the loose paperwork into the binder Mister Grant left and lean against the counter, arms crossed over your chest.

“Let’s cover the outdoors first,” Jack finally says. “Weather is all right for now. Never know when it might rain.”

“Sure,” you reply. “Let me grab my coat.”

You quietly excuse yourself, heading for the guest bedroom. It’s at the end of the hall. Tucked away. Even though you don’t sense a presence at your back, you keep checking, glancing over your shoulder like Jack will suddenly appear.

It’s silly, really. Why are you uneasy about all this? Jessica sometimes gets back to you last minute on things. It’s just a little tight. A little odd. But it’s not completely unusual.

Grabbing your coat, you return downstairs, finding Jack near the patio door. He’s hunched over a bit, blocking your view of the handle.

“Want to start in the backyard first?” you ask loudly, tugging on the coat.

He turns sharply, his mouth a firm, flat line before morphing into a smile. He’s still blocking your view of the handle.

Reaching behind him, he slides the patio door open. “Sounds great.” He moves with it and stays there. “Ladies first.”

You slowly approach and brush past him. Jack is far too close and you wrap your coat a little tighter around you as he exits after you. With clipboard in hand, the two of you begin walking the perimeter of the house.

Jack never removes any tools from his belt. He doesn’t measure anything. He only observers and makes notes on his clipboard. There are no questions asked. Nothing. The silence is excruciating, and while you’re itching to break it, you don’t dare do so.

There is a chill beneath your skin, and it’s not the cool December air. It might be cold out but it’s not that cold—not like it can get in the States. This is a creeping chill. One that starts at a point in your chest and slowly spreads outward until the tips of your fingers and toes feel numb.

Jack isn’t wearing a coat, but perhaps he’s simply used to the weather. He doesn’t appear bothered by it.

“Anything I can help with?” you finally ask once the two of you make it back to the patio area.

“Just keep close,” he winks, stepping inside the house.

You stand just outside, unsure if you want to go in at all. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket. The urge to call Jessica is intense—nearly stifling.

You step inside, glancing back the interior handle. The screws are gone. And the lock is clearly broken.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, whirling around to find Jack standing nearby, a hammer clutched in his fist.

Jack isn’t smiling. His frown is deep. A scowl. Your gaze darts to the hammer in his hand and then back up to his face. He’s between you and the front door. The only way out is through the patio door. It might be directly behind you, but you still have to run along the side of the house to make a break for the road.

If you’re fast, you could do it. But you’ll have to give Jack your back. And he’s wielding a fucking weapon. Even if you’re out of swinging distance, he could still hurl it at you like a javelin.

Slowly, you slide your foot backward.

Jack remains utterly motionless.

“I’m calling Jessica.”

Again, Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You take another slow step backward.

Without taking your eyes off of him, you fish out your phone, holding it up in the air. With Jessica at the top of your message list, it’s not difficult to hit the “call” button. There is a pause before you hear the muted ring coming from your phone.

But that isn’t what unnerves you.

A ringer goes off. Loud. Near.

It’s not Jack. He still stands there in the middle of the room with hammer in hand. Unfazed.

It’s coming from behind you.

The muted ring from your phone and the loud, audible one sync together. Jack’s gaze slowly shifts from you to a point over your shoulder.

Your eyes burn and you don’t realize that you’re crying until the salt of them sting your cheeks.

Jack isn’t looking at you anymore. His gaze is beyond. Absorbed elsewhere.

Twisting, you glance over your shoulder and find a man standing just outside the patio door. He holds up a ringing cellphone and half of his face is covered in burn scars.

“Hello, love,” he says, voice gruff like he’s smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. “The name’s Kit.”

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