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konigbabe · 1 year

Text

like real people do

Pairing: ID!Leon Kennedy x fem!teacher!reader | single dad AU

Word count: 5.8k

Tags/warnings: no y/n; fluff; eventual smut; p-in-v; slice of life; gendered female reader; gendered female anatomy; original kid Kennedy character

Summary: He's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit; yet, he's your student's father. Handsome. Confident. Alluring. But off limits–at least he should be.

a/n: Inspired by @yeyinde’s ask. Also, canon ID!Leon is around 29 but Leon in this '"universe" is aged up to be in his 30s (age won't be specified but I imagine him to be in his mid-to-late 30s).

divider by @benkeibear [source]

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The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man hard to resist; his confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily– “So? It’s just dinner.”

The innocence of children always manages to brighten up even the darkest of days, their smiles and eagerness to learn contagious; filling your heart with positivity. It's a feeling that's hard to come by as an adult; life's challenges tend to chip away at your soul and slowly rob you of that childhood magic.

As the clock strikes five and your shift comes to an end, the school falls into an eerie silence. A lingering sense of relief washes over you when leaving the building; you've done your part in shaping young minds.

Walking out the front door, the warmth of the sun caresses your skin, its rays sliding around your bare arms like silk.

Twisting the key in the lock, your eyes catch a glimpse of slight movement from the corner of your vision. Turning your head, you see a little girl perched on the concrete steps below, her delicate features illuminated by the warm glow of the sun.

Her hair, a cascade of light brown waves, frames her chubby cheeks and the crown of her head is adorned with blonde highlights that shimmer like golden threads.

She turns to you when you address her, slowly stepping down to her level.

"What are you still doing here," you sit down, her small backpack creating a wall between your bodies.

As you sit side by side with the little girl, basking in the comforting embrace of the sunlight, she kicks her legs up; eyes up front, both of you watch the cars pass by on the street.

The Washington Spring air’s filled with the sweet scent of blooming cherry blossoms, carried on a gentle breeze that rustles through the trees. The distant sounds of children playing in a nearby park mingle with the honking of cars and the chirping of birds, creating a symphony of noise that signifies the arrival of spring in the bustling city.

"Waiting for daddy," she says with a hint of excitement in her voice.

The little girl looks up at you, her eyes full of wonder and innocence. You can't help but wonder about the mysterious Mr Kennedy and his absence; an enigma surrounding his name.

Like a forgotten toy left on the shelf, the girl's father remains absent from any involvement in her education. Despite several months passing since her admission to your class, there has been no sign of him. No parent-teacher meetings, no Father's Day celebration, nothing.

An enigma.

"Speaking of," your voice trails off for a moment, "How’s your daddy doing?" you question her. You shouldn’t; it goes beyond your job description to put a kid in situations like these. But still–

Her eyes, a vivid shade of cerulean, sparkle like sunlit water as she gazes at you; smile wide upon the mention of her father, the young kid toys with the straps on her bag.

"He’s busy."

A pang of understanding pinches your heart.

–his presence (or rather the absurd lack of it) keeps gnawing at your brain.

"He fights monsters," the girl adds after a moment of silence; her tone more serious. It's as if she's describing a mythical hero, fighting off beasts in some far-off land.

"He seems to be busy quite a lot," you smile to ease the topic; well aware that the girl, as bright as she is, surely catches on as you keep asking the same question every week, "is your mom coming to the parent–teacher meeting?"

The girl shakes her head before she speaks, "I don’t know my mom."

Oh.

You know you shouldn’t push more; well aware of the unprofessionalism you’re displaying.

"The woman who picks you up–"

"–aunt Claire," the kid corrects you, "I’m sorry for interrupting, miss teacher."

You smile, trying to put her at ease. It's clear that she's been brought up with good manners.

Lost in how to answer her, you almost don't hear the sound of a car approaching. The girl jumps up, her face alight with excitement. A low rumble reverberates through the air as a sleek black SUV glides up to the curb, its shiny exterior reflecting the warm rays of the sun.

The tinted windows obscure the view inside the car, adding an air of mystery to the vehicle. As the car comes to a stop, the quiet hum of the engine fades to a gentle purr, and the driver's door swings open.

The girl grabs her backpack at the same time a man steps out of the car; you’re able to only see the light brown hair decorating his head.

"Daddy," the girl yelps in excitement. You stand up, dusting the invisible dust from your jeans.

He stands tall, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of the crisp white shirt, tucked tightly into the blue dress pants. A single button undone on his collar, revealing the curve of his clavicles. The sun glints off his aviator sunglasses, hiding his eyes from view. He approaches the little girl with a warm smile as she runs into her father, you presume; standing still, watching the situation unfold before your eyes.

Lowering himself to her level, he extends his arms, inviting her in. She eagerly accepts, wrapping her little arms around his neck in a welcoming embrace.

"Hey there, pup," you manage to hear his voice; low and soft. Gentle. "Sorry I’m late; got held up by paperwork. Y’know the drill."

The kid chuckles before pulling away, a sound so pure and innocent it brings a smile to your face.

Standing back up, his face turns towards you. You're struck by his imposing presence, the way he commands attention without even trying. His chiseled jawline is dusted with a light stubble, giving him an air of ruggedness. He moves with confidence towards you, one hand enclosed with his daughter’s.

The girl tugs at the sleeve of his shirt, introducing you before he even reaches your standing point–to which he smiles gently.

"Well, nice to meet you," his hand extended in greeting, "I’m Leon Kennedy. Her dad," he nods towards the girl.

"Mr Kennedy," you murmur, taking his hand in yours; noting the callouses on his palm.

As your eyes travel up his arm, they catch sight of a fresh bandage peeking out from under his slightly rolled up sleeve. But it's not until you look up at his face that you see the true extent of his weariness. Small scratches mark his jaw, subtle hues of purple and yellow decorate his cheekbone like a watercolor painting.

It’s clear that he's been through a rough patch. Makes you wander back to the girl’s words–

("He fights monsters.")

–and maybe he does. In some twisted sense.

"I actually wanted to speak with you," you release his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin lingering on your fingertips., "are you free next Tuesday? Around one PM?"

"Am I in trouble," he chuckles; the stretch of his lips exposing a slight scar on his lower lip.

The girl tilts her head, eyes studying you intently. You can't help but notice the slight beauty marks across her neck, the softness of her features, the way she looks up at her father with curiosity.

"Not really; I just need to discuss some matters with you."

"Okay," he responds, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, yet he remains stoic. Posed. "Sure."

"I’ll see you then," you nod and take your leave, but not before stealing a few glances at his back as he turns away from you. It’s impossible not to notice how his broad shoulders strain against the fabric, or how his hair cascades over his forehead; tousled yet somehow perfectly in place.

The weekend flies by, the days blurring together until suddenly it's Tuesday.

Despite his daughter's reassurances from yesterday that he'll be here, the uncertainty of whether he'll actually show up still grips you tightly.

A knock on the open door disturbs your grading.

"Mr Kennedy," you remark upon his arrival. The pen falls onto the desk with a clunk; back straighten, you invite him to sit on the chair prepared for him beforehand.

He’s dressed more casual–the black, expensive looking leather jacket squeaks against the wooden chair as he sits down after a simple "Hello". The faint but distinct aroma of sharp, citrusy notes wafts from his collar; the refreshing and invigorating aroma that catches your attention before your eyes trail to the bandage on his wrist.

Clearly seeing the way your eyes subconsciously linger on the piece of medical tape, Leon puts his other hand over it, shielding your view. Silently focusing your attention back on his eyes; the same blue hues as his daughter’s.

Sitting before you, legs spread apart, the undeniable similarities between him and his daughter are glaringly apparent. The way he holds himself commands respect, his posture erect and confident.

"Mr Kennedy, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you in person."

Fingers interlocking as you lean on your elbows, his gaze following your every movement like a predator stalking its prey; almost as if he’s sizing you up. His eyes watchful.

"Okay," he responds casually, a hint of question behind the simple word.

You clear your throat before continuing. "Your daughter is a remarkable child," a small smile accompanying your words. "She's well-behaved, intelligent, and often surpasses her peers."

Leon nods, lips pressed together.

"Got that from her mother, probably," he remarks. Almost bites back. Jaw tightening.

Leaning back, your fingers drum a quick rhythm against your desk.

"But we’re not here to evaluate your daughter; but you, actually, Mr Kennedy."

Leon’s brows arch up, highlighting the soft surprise that flashes across his face. The subtle shift in his expression does not go unnoticed by you.

"Didn’t know I was being evaluated," his voice trails off.

You nod in acknowledgement, sensing the man's confusion.

"You’re aware of our school assemblies, right?"

His face remains stoic, so you continue.

"Father's Day, parent-teacher meetings, career days, sports day," you list a few, hoping to spark the idea in the man’s mind.

"So," he leans back against the chair, arms folded on his chest.

With an exhale, upon your failed attempt to make him take the hint, you resolve to explaining the school rules to him.

"Our school mandates that the child’s parent or legal guardian be present at at least three of those assemblies per school year. You haven’t been present on any of them, not even last year."

He lifts his chin slightly and raises his eyebrows, eyes fixed on you with a look that suggests he's waiting for more information or an explanation.

"There’s actually a policy within out school that allows teachers to prohibit the child from participating in certain activities or events if a parent is not present–"

"–you’re kidding," Leon interjects, his tone laced with disbelief.

Raising your hand, you stop him from continuing, "and your daughter is a great student, so I don't expect that to happen to her. But with your continuous absence, she's at risk of being excluded from certain activities."

"My job keeps me busy. And I don’t really have a say in it," Leon retorts.

Arms still folded across his chest, his brows furrow in frustration. Defence sets inside his flesh; jaw slightly twitching, his eyes bore into yours.

"Maybe her mother could–"

"–not an option," he stops you before you manage to finish the sentence.

You nod in understanding. Leaving forward, you hope to appeal to Leon’s sense of responsibility a little more.

"In that case; we’re having a sports day this Friday. If you could just show up to support your daughter, I could mark it as you being present."

Leon chuckles, his voice smooth. Looking out the nearby window, he stares into the field right next to the school for a moment, deep in thought. The sunlight filtering through the window casts a warm glow on his sharp features, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.

Silence passes before he speaks up, "Wouldn't a dinner suffice instead?"

You clear your throat and try to compose yourself, feeling your heartbeat pick up at the unexpected request. "That's not very appropriate, Mr Kennedy, " you say softly, attempting to hide the fluttering in your chest. "Let's see each other at the soccer match."

"Sure. I’ll see what I can do; is that all?" he asks, head turned to the side. You gaze upon the now exposed wound on his jawline, vaguely resembling a cat’s claw scratch. The bruise colors on his cheek faded over the past few days.

"Yes," you assure him.

"Y’know, this whole thing could’ve been an email."

You smile wryly, "Would you react to that email?"

Looking back at you, there’s a flicker of mischievous dancing in his eyes. Leon's gaze holds yours for a moment longer, and you find yourself drawn to the subtle crinkles at the corners of his eyes, evidence of his amusement.

"You got me there."

The sun blankets the field in gold, casting elongated shadows of the children as they scamper around in pursuit of the ball. It’s still quite early. The air’s crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and; sound of excited cheers and shouts echo throughout the surrounding area.

It’s comforting. Soothing in a way.

With a group of teachers, you watch the little girl darting across the field, her movements resembling that of a graceful gazelle as she expertly maneuvers the ball. She weaves in and out of the other players, a look of determination etched on her youthful face.

A chorus of her name echoes across the field, drifting like a wispy trail of smoke. The other kids cheer her on as she makes her way towards the goal, her tiny frame seemingly defying the laws of physics with her quick and nimble movements.

A round of applause erupts when the ball meets the back of the net. You watch as the little girl’s teammates rush to congratulate her.

"And who is that," a woman’s voice tears your gaze away from the cheerful moment, hands stopping mid-clasp.

Curious, you look at her. The other teachers already gazing to your right. To the parking lot.

Leaning against the sleek car, its design demanding attention; even from further away, he exudes an air of quiet confidence that's impossible to ignore. Eyes covered by another set of sunglasses, the same leather jacket strains against his folded arms.

Mr Kennedy.

Leon Kennedy.

Something about him always seems to draw attention; to captivate anyone who catches a glimpse of him.

It’s odd. Uncanny–

You should know better than to think in such a way about your student’s father.

–and you wonder if it’s just you who feels that way.

As the group of teachers chatter, a voice pipes up, "Is he someone's father?"

"He has to be," the conversation carries on, "or he wouldn’t be here–"

"–or he’s a creep."

Turning to face the person who said it, you scoff at the teacher before speaking up.

"He’s her dad," You nod in the direction of the girl with a beaming smile on your face, as she energetically waves at Leon. His response, though polite, is less enthusiastic, evident by the restrained movement of his hand.

Escaping the gossip, you follow the white boundary lines of the field towards your target, the soft grass crunching beneath your feet. Leon's eyes are fixed on the field, his sharp features softened by the spring glow.

But he's quick to notice your approach, turning his head ever so slightly to the left. It makes you feel naked as he shamelessly watches you coming closer.

"Mr Kennedy," you greet him.

As you approach, the warm spring breeze ruffles your hair, the sweet scent of blooming flowers mixing with his heady aroma. Posture relaxed, his broad shoulders almost blend with the darkness of the car behind him.

"Just call me Leon."

Eyes back on the field, a tinge of carelessness in his voice, a small tug on his lips. Hesitating momentarily, you put your hands in your pockets.

"I’d rather stick to being professional."

It makes him chuckle; voice rumbling with amusement–

"You’re making me feel old," he teases.

–making your chest tighten. His words brush against your ears like the gentle rustling of leaves on a cool autumn breeze.

The lightness in his tone, the hint of playfulness, stirs something deep within you.

It’s your turn to return the light laugh. The sound mingling with the chirping of birds in the distance.

"It’s good that you’re here. Your daughter seems to appreciate it as well."

Leon's eyes flicker to his daughter, still surrounded by her teammates; a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah," he says, the warmth in his voice evident, "she’s been talking about this game for a week."

"She’s really talented in sports."

A cool breeze brushes against your skin as he removes his sunglasses. Eyes reminiscent of the clear waters of a mountain lake–the color seems to deepen and intensify as he looks at you, drawing you in.

"That she got from me," the corners of his mouth curve up into a charming smile. His voice deep and smooth, like a glass of well-aged whiskey. You can sense his confidence, the way he carries himself with ease, and it's hard not to be drawn in.

It's alluring. The way he exudes a sense of self-assurance.

Smiling lightly, hand resting on the cool hood of his car, you both watch the children race each other. Cheers fill the soccer fields.

Even in momentarily silence, it’s comfortable–

"Well, she certainly inherited some good genes, Mr Kennedy."

–there’s no awkward cluster around the two of you. It’s natural.

It draws Leon’s attention back to you. Arms folded, his fingers sneak around his bicep, gripping gently as he shamelessly looks at you. His face a canvas of chiseled features and sharp lines. reminiscent of a Greek statue carved out of marble. A faint scent of musk and cologne lingers around him, blending with the sweet aroma of blooming flowers in the air.

"Just so you know, miss teacher," his voice soft melody that lingers in your mind, "the dinner invitation still stands."

It’s tempting.

The words hang in the air, tantalizingly close.

A whistle cuts through the sounds of the soccer field, interrupting the moment. Leon’s attention briefly flickers towards his daughter, checking as the little girl sprints towards the two of you, before returning to your face.

"And I should remind you, Mr Kennedy, that it’s not very appropriate to ask your daughter’s teacher out."

The voice in your head keeps telling you to be professional, the thought of spending an evening with this man is hard to resist though. His confident, easy-going demeanor, the way he doesn’t give up easily–

"So? It’s just dinner," his tone is almost conspiratorial, as if he's sharing a secret with you.

–it makes you feel alive.

(Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s not strictly forbidden.

Only frown upon. Harshly.)

It's like he's the sun, and you're the earth, drawn into his orbit.

"Daddy," his daughter doesn’t hesitate, jumping straight into her father’s arm; yet Leon isn’t phased at all, hoisting her into his arms, "Did you see my goal?"

"I did, pup," arm sneaking underneath her knees, you notice the bandage gone, "you killed it."

"Miss teacher," the kid addresses you, hand sneaking into her dad’s hair to hold him tightly while looking up at you with bright, curious eyes, "Did you see me? Did you see my goal?"

"Of course," you answer with a warm smile, "you did great. Seems like you got good genes for it."

The little girl beams with pride, hugging her father even tighter. Leon chuckles, the sound low and rich, and nods his head in agreement.

"I’ll see you on Monday then; pleasure seeing you, Mr Kennedy," as you turn to leave, you can't help but feel a twinge of regret.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by occasional laughter and the clink of glasses. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the wooden booths and bar, giving the place a cozy feel. The smell of fried food and beer lingers in the air, adding to the ambiance of the traditional American pub.

From a corner, a live band plays classic rock tunes, and the patrons nod along to the rhythm, singing softly under their breaths. It's a perfect spot to unwind after a long workday, catch up with friends. Or even make new connections.

Your little freedom.

Away from responsibilities. From the stress of daily life.

This is your escape, your sanctuary, where you can let loose and just be yourself.

Coming to the bartender, you order another round for the group you’re with, only to be taken back by a familiar voice saying your name.

Turning to look at the man by your right, the white stripes on his jacket contrast against the dim, warm ambiance of the room. Fingers tapping on the rim of the glass of whiskey, he takes a sip, his gaze fixed on you; the amber liquid catching the light, casting a glow across his features.

"Mr Kennedy," you exhale, almost in disbelief by the sudden situation.

Mind whirling with surprise and curiosity; the bar is chill against your exposed arm as you lean onto it, turning to look at the man by your side.

"Wouldn’t expect a teacher to be in a bar on Friday night," he smirks, the corner of his lips curving up in amusement.

"We’re not as frigid as people have us to be," you replied, feeling a smile tug at the corners of your lips.

Voice like a smoldering flame, waiting to be ignited, he tilts the glass towards you, "Oh, really."

The allure of his presence tangible.

A gravitational pull.

"Well, Mr Kennedy," the words roll off your tongue smoothly, "I suppose we all have our ways of letting loose after a hard week."

He chuckles, the sound deep and throaty; making your pulse quicken, heartbeat pick up. "I couldn't agree more," he says, taking another sip of his drink.

You study him for a moment; taking in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, how his hair fal across his forehead in a disheveled yet stylish way. There’s something undeniably attractive about him, something that draws you in against all odds–

–like a moth to a flame.

Life has a funny way of working out.

You should stop.

But ‘should’ doesn’t exist in the moment of impulse. In the realm of desire. Pure, unblistered passion. The temptation to follow desire is too strong–

The world falls away.

–and all thought of 'should' dissipates.

Leon's hands slide around your thighs, gripping the flesh firmly as his body pushes against yours. Pinned to the wall; his lips trail the pulse of your neck. The tip of his tongue leaving wet patches on the heated skin.

The sudden intrusion of reality makes you gasp,"What about—".

It’s Leon’s hand on your breast; squeezing, teasing the clothed flesh through the thin material, thumbing at the erect nipple, that earns him a moan. His daughter’s name spilling over into a sound so soft. Inviting.

Like a hummingbird.

A content hum echoes in his chest; pressed tightly against yours. Feeling the muscles contract beneath you, respond to your movement; to the way your hips press against the growing bulge in his pants.

"—she’s stayin’ at my friend’s," he mumbles against the curve of your collarbones, teeth grazing the firm area.

With a strong grip, your fingers entangle in his hair. The texture soft and silky, like running your hands through fine threads of spun gold.

"Isn’t she young for sleepovers?"

It makes him look at you. Eyes glazed over; hungry. Primal–

He pulls you into an embrace, arm wrapping around your back, his palm cupping your ass. The heat of his body seeps through your clothing, searing your skin with its intensity, his breath ghosting over your lips as he whispers, "I really don’t wanna talk about my kid right now."

It’s a command rather than anything else.

Followed by your clothes.

He has you bare before you make up your mind.

–causing your skin to crawl.

With every touch, every whisper, every breath, he leaves you feeling more exposed, more vulnerable.

Limbs tangled together, lips pressed against each other; there’s no beginning and no end. When one begins, the other follows, like an unbroken circle of passion and desire.

Utter consumption by the fire inside you.

Leon’s hands feel scorching. Each stroke branding your skin.

He splits your apart, fills you to the brim. The head of his cock kisses the innermost parts of you as you stay seated on top of him. Nails scratching the firm muscle of his breastplate; he grips your sides. Digs his fingers into the soft, plump flesh there.

Teeth nip at your chin. Gently nibbles accompanied by your hips circling on top of him.

Cascade of groans, grunts and moans echo throughout Leon’s bedroom; each sound building on the other to create a crescendo of pleasure. The mattress beneath you creaks and strains under your knees.

Lost in the feeling.

His words a salacious melody; sung in a sultry whisper followed by his teeth, nibling at your earlobe; securing your grip on his shoulders feeling the strength of his muscles as he guides your moves.

Up and down. Up and down.

Circle your hips when your pelvis meets his. When your ass touches his thighs; when his fingers dig into the round flesh.

The rhythm builds, the tension mounting with every breath. The ache of desire deep inside, a longing that can only be sated by him. With each movement, you feel closer to the edge, your body aching for release.

Leon whispers encouragement, his voice like a caress against your skin. Head buried in the crook of your neck, your arms tighten around his shoulder. Face buried in the top of his head, the scent of him fills your senses; a heady, intoxicating aroma that envelops you in its warmth.

You breathe him in, savoring the subtle notes of bergamot and spice, the rich undertones of musk and earthiness.

Leon’s name leaves your lips in a soft, breathless moan, a prayer to the god of pleasure.

His lips brush against your collarbone, lingering there for a moment before trailing lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Skin erupting in goosebumps as his breath tickles your chest, your body bows like a taut bowstring, a supplication to his touch. Offering yourself up to him completely.

Hands roam over your body, tracing the curves and planes of your skin with reverent fingers. As if he knows just where to touch you.

With a strong pull and push, your back meets the hard mattress. His hands move over you like a painter's brush, each stroke bringing out a new hue of pleasure. Hips grinding against yours.

Pressing your body closer to his, chest to chest, he rocks against you. The intensity of his movements leaves you gasping for air, a low moan escaping your lips as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your skin as he continues to rut into you.

Long lost is the slow motion–

Your pelvis meets his in a harsh, demanding thrust.

–now he’s chasing his own high. His own release.

His hand slides to cup your jaw, grip your shoulder, eyes boring into yours; intense and unwavering, as if he’s trying to read your thoughts through the depth of your eyes. Consumed by the heat of you.

Head thrown back, you close your eyes; unable to match the fire in his as he grinds against you; his breaths ragged gasps, the only sound in the room the soft rustling of sheets and the slapping of skin against skin.

Leon knows he won’t last long. Not with the way your mouth remains agape, nails digging into the firm tendons of his biceps; heels digging into the flesh of his ass, pushing him deeper. Demanding him to go harder.

You just look so pretty underneath him.

Fingertips trace the warm flesh of your curves. They move slowly, mapping the supple contours of your body with precision; each touch deliberate, a way of committing the curves of your form to memory.

The sensation is electric, every nerve ending on high alert.

His thumb finds your clit, circling it with teasing precision, a feather-light touch. Pushing your hips into his, he obliges your silent demand – adding a bit more pressure with each pass. The slow, steady rhythm of his touch in bright contrast to the sharp thrusts.

Building the tension inside you, until you feel like you might burst. But he doesn't let up, not yet. He's savoring every moment, enjoying the way you writhe beneath him.

Your breath hitches, body tensing as he works you with an almost clinical precision. The ache between your legs grows, spreading through your entire body. He watches you, gauging your reactions, and adjusts his touch accordingly.

The way he focuses on you, with a singular, unwavering intensity, is both thrilling and terrifying.

As for Leon, every movement, every sound, is calculated. He wants to make this last. He wants to make you lose control.

His muscles tense as he drives into you, each thrust bringing him closer to the edge. His breaths come in short gasps, matching the rhythm of your moans. The heat between you intensifies, a physical force that binds you together.

With one final push, final flick of a thumb, he takes you over the edge, his name on your lips.

Clenching around him, walls fluttering, his thrusts grow slow. Leisurely.

As if he’s tantalizing himself. Savoring the feel before he lets go with a groan; a guttural sound that echoes through the bedroom; body spasming. The two of you entwined in a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

There should be some sort of regret.

Standing by the foot of Leon’s bed, still searching for your clothes amid the scattered chaos of the apartment, covered by a random shirt you’ve found on the ground (that’s definitely not the one you’ve come with), you can’t help but be drawn to the sleeping man lying before you.

The sheets barely cover the curve of his lower back, and even in slumber, the muscles of his back remain visible; the outline of his physique remains defined and sharp, even in relaxation. The memory of his back muscles beneath your palms lingers on your skin, as if he were still present with you in that moment.

There’s no regret.

Exiting the bedroom, you walk past the kitchen into the hallway. The emptiness of the space is palpable, with nothing adorning the plain white walls; no family photos or decorations to add personality. Only the essential pieces of furniture remain. The floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you open the door closer to you–

(It’s almost like he doesn’t have anyone.

A sense of desolation creeps in you.)

–and are met with a blinding contrast to the rest of the apartment. Rainbow colored sheets neatly tucked into the small bed, pillows in shape of various animals. Light furniture covered in school supplies; and a photo decorating the nightstand.

You pick it up, immediately recognized the two people. It might be the first time you’re seeing Leon actually smile, wide and bright. Happy; with his daughter tightly wrapped in his arms. Faces pressed together, smiling at the camera.

"I hope you're not trying to steal anything," Leon's voice interrupts your reverie; low and husky, still laced by the morning sleep, "I don't have much, y’know."

As you pivot to face him, you can't resist noticing how his bare feet stand out against his fully-clothed form. Hair tousled and messy, only adding to his rugged appeal.

An irresistible wave of attraction washes over you as you scrutinize his appearance, and his playful tone only adds fuel to the fire.

"Don't worry, I'm not after your prized possessions," you reply with a smirk, feeling emboldened by his proximity.

Leon's eyes twinkle mischievously as he steps closer to you, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. "Well, in that case, what’re you after?"

"I was just looking for a bathroom."

Leon's gaze lingers on you, lips curled up in a half-smile. "The bathroom’s down the hall to the right," he points with a nod of his head.

You nod back, trying to ignore the electric sensation that courses through you at his proximity. "Thanks," you say, stepping past him towards the direction he indicated.

As you walk down the hallway, you can't shake off the feeling of emptiness that you felt earlier. It's clear that Leon lives a minimalist lifestyle, but the lack of personal touches leaves you with a sense of melancholy.

Entering the bathroom, you take a moment to splash water on your face, trying to compose yourself before facing Leon again.

His voice echoes through the small apartment as you make your way towards his voice, entering the kitchen; you're struck by how immaculate it is. Everything’s in its place, and there isn't a single dish out of place. The countertop is spotless, the sink free of any debris, the stainless-steel appliances gleam in the light.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee fills the air with the morning sun streaming through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.

"I’ll pick her up in an hour," Leon stands in front of the refrigerator, two mugs in one hand, bare feet making a soft thumping sound against the linoleum floor. His hair’s still tousled from sleep, his t-shirt is wrinkled, clinging to his muscles as he holds the phone to his ear.

There’s a certain charm to his disheveled appearance that you find appealing.

Looking at you, he makes no effort to stop the call, instead a playful undertones his voice as he hands you a mug and motions towards the coffee machine, "yeah, just woke up. Had a long night."

Shaking your head at his words; he watches you with a small, amused smile, the corners of his lips twitching upwards.

"See you then. Bye, Claire,” he ends the call, turning his full attention to you.

"Y’know, miss teacher," he pours himself a glass of water, "if you just wanted to skip the whole dinner thing, you should’ve just said."

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kashi-prompts · 1 year

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Prompt: You're Safe

Subject: You wake up in the middle of the night riddled with anxiety. Only one man's touch can settle your nerves.

Pairing: Kakashi x Reader

Word Count: 882

Rating: T

There's a noise outside your window.

A distant sound that jostles you awake beneath the covers. You shift your legs uncomfortably, feeling the summer heat slicken your skin with sweat. You will yourself to fall back asleep, teetering between the expansive solace of your dreams and the uneasy sense of reality that is just beyond the threshold of your hazy mind.

Your senses decide on the latter, your eyes sliding open despite your best intentions to remain nestled in the comfort of your dreams. You stare at the ceiling, the tiles barely illuminated by the soft glow of the moon casting itself through the window behind you. You hear your husband beside you, his breath soft in your ear as he peacefully sleeps.

Don't do it, you think to yourself, closing your eyes again. Go back to sleep.

You shut your eyes, grasping desperately to sleep. Yet, that familiar sense of anxiety begins to creep up your spine, your chest tightening as you take in a deep breath through your nose. There was nothing wrong, no threat, no danger - yet your body sensed something was off. Something you couldn't quite put your finger on. You could feel yourself teetering on the edge of panic despite your mind not comprehending the origin.

You were alone here, isolated with your thoughts and unease. The clock next to you read 3:38AM. A time nearly no one was awake, and there were no prospects of the sun rising to relieve the moon of its duties any time soon. If only it were later.

You rub your chest, taking another deep breath. And another. The sides of your palms begin to tingle uncomfortably, and you can feel yourself beginning to sweat from your body's rising temperature. You swallow hard, begging yourself to remain calm. There was nothing wrong - and yet?

You sat up in bed, feeling your stomach begin to church. You hold it, pushing away nausea as you try to catch your breath from running an obscure race in your mind. There's a groan beside you, and you swear softly to yourself for waking him.

"[y/n]?" you hear a thick voice call softly to you, a palm spread at the base of your spine.

"Go back to sleep," you manage quietly, looking down to see one unsettled, sleepy black eye staring back at you. Your voice cracked slightly, its pitch higher than usual, despite your best efforts. Your stomach stirred again, nausea pivoting into your chest as you heaved another breath, flexing your hands in your lap.

"Are you okay?" Kakashi asks, sitting up on his elbow. You look back again, his grey hair falling over his forehead as he stares at you through the dark, concern written on his features.

"I'm fine," you tell him, although you can feel yourself begin to shiver under his touch that slides up your back.

"Do you feel okay?" his voice clears, shifting to sit up in bed as he looks over at you, watching you stare blankly ahead. You can't stop it now. It's as though a levy had broken, flooding you with panic at some unspecified origin.

"[y/n]," he breathes, realizing the situation as he pushes away sleep. Your breath hitches, your body shaking as you try to control it. Embarrassment casting a shadow as you realize you can't stop it. This anonymous demon that creeps into your mind when you least expect it, wreaking devastation and destruction to your mind and body.

"Hey, it's okay," you feel his hand slide up your neck, pulling you into his chest. His fingers weave into your hairline, dancing circles on your scalp as you take deep breaths.

His lips press against your crown, cradling you against him as you let out a soft cry against his nightshirt. Why were you like this? As if knowing what you were thinking, he tightens his grip on your shoulder, rocking your body slightly as you snake your arms around his torso.

"You're okay," he whispers against your hair, "You're safe. There's no danger. Just you and me."

You whimper against his chest, letting out a trembling breath. He grips your shoulders, his nose buried in your hair as you continue to breathe deeply. The nausea in your stomach slowly settles, your racing thoughts following suit as he continued to whisper assurances in your ears.

You don't know how long you sat there, cradled in his arms, a palm drawing circles on your spine. But all you knew was that there was something in his touch, in his presence, that settled your nerves like no other. Your sharp, deep breaths were replaced with soft inhales of the lingering scent that stuck to his skin. Your numb hands slowly returned with a soothing warmth of gratitude, enveloping you just as his arms surrounded your body.

After some time, Kakashi carefully pulls you both back into the sheets, conscious not to let go of you. He kissed the top of your head again, your hand sliding to the center of his chest. You feel yourself settle, the adrenaline rush that had pumped through your body slowly scattering away from your bloodstream.

"I love you," he murmurs, intertwining his fingers with yours. You let out an unsteady breath, kissing his collar in gratitude.

"I love you too."

#kakashi x reader #kakashi hatake x read #kakashi imagine #hatake kakashi #kakashi hatake #kakashi #hey man #I just need some comfort #loosely based off real experience with my husband

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multiplicationdivision · 8 months

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Follow up to this story.

Joel, or rather Elias he guessed, looked down at his arms. The muscle pulsing beneath old tattoos, the memories of himself in conflict with each other over the varying shifting features that felt like him. Elias’s pale sickly skin warming with health and years of working out as it morphed into Joel’s.

It was bizarre having been one person and then suddenly not being that person anymore. Still caught in the inbetween of the transition. Joel and Elias ebbing and flowing in his head, the influence of Elias in him slowly being overcome by the flow of memories of an entire other life. The parts of him that could still be called Elias evaporating into oblivion.

Joel truly only felt like himself now, at home in a body that factually hadn’t been his minutes ago. He’d been Elias, mind and soul, mere moments ago. Thankfully smiling at the man that Joel could see in the water’s reflection, asking for the hundredth time if that man was fine with what they were doing.

The fragment of Elias that still lurked were nothing but a painful memory. Glimpses of guilt and depression stained by addiction, eating away at him as the years went on. Watching his own face become aged as the cocktail in his blood became more and more toxic with every day.

Joel studied his own choppy reflection in the lightly shifting water. Long gone was the body he could only faintly remember being his. Scrawny arms had bulked with the pleasant feeling of a fresh workout and the collections of Elias’s eclectic scars having sunk back into his skin, leaving it unmarred. A rough beard and mullet had retreated back into his head, leaving his face familiarly clean shaven and his hair undercut.

He’d remembered being Joel, shaving it that morning. Ruffling his hair in the mirror, satisfied in the way it rose and fell. Feeling out his muscles, glad with his progress. Remembered looking in the mirror at his own face, anxious and oddly excited at the coming day.

The Joel that was once Elias now had the same arms, at least for the most part. They were still stained by the collection that Elias had accumulated, their individual stories now lost to the man he’d become. Joel waited for them to twist into the familiar shapes that he’d collected over his own years, yet Elias’s seemed to remain.

Joel could hear his counterpart beside him, having surely watched transfixed throughout the whole process. Joel could remember until minutes ago, standing in that same position. Being that man until they’d diverged in body.

Joel, the original one, had came into work that day at the behest of his boss. Or rather, bosses. They’d been strange since the start, two identical men that identified themselves as Ashton, plural. He’d assumed they were just strange twins, having the oddest codependency or having been far too dedicated to fucking with Joel. He’d been hired in a disorienting interview, two identical voices randomly completing each other’s interrogations in perfect lockstep. He’d been hired and had decided to not question it, the two refusing any attempt by him to differentiate them.

He’d gotten his answer to the twins when they had become triplets one afternoon. One of the Ashtons had been dealing with an emotional middle aged man, distraught over how his life was ruined in some way or another. Something about gambling and debts. Joel only heard bits and pieces. Nonetheless, the situation had somehow changed, Ashton leaving the man to sit with a confident smirk as a look of pure dissociative desperation was shot back at him. Joel had sat watching as Ashton returned to where he and that man had been talking on the surf, a spare of his uniform in hand.

Joel had been horrified when the man started stripping, bare ass and dick out in the cool summer. Unable to look away as Ashton stood unfazed, Joel and him watching as the man awkwardly shrugged on Ashton’s uniform. The man’s body warping over a time that lasted a lifetime until he was the perfect reflection of Ashton, right down to that confident smile. They two clones had looked at where he sat and waved and Joel had ran.

It had taken a week before he got enough bravery to come back, receiving a lengthy explanation from three duplicates. Something about the qualities of the water and the first time it happened. More morally dubious stories of Ashton’s own experimentation on tourists, explaining the oddly heightened presence of twins around their beaches. All culminating with Ashton deciding to manipulate some poor man into becoming him, raising the count of himself to three.

Joel had called him a monster then, accusing Ashton of essentially murdering people. Erasing his victims into nonexistence and inflicting the horrors of duplicating someone else’s identity onto so many poor shmucks.

He’d been silenced when Ashton had kissed him, three bodies working in perfect unity to muffle his conscience. It had felt to good for Joel to continue voicing his horror, and everytime he’d tried to bring it up after that had merely prompted Ashton to love him again.

The idea of it still scared him. Imagining himself accidentally slipping on Ashton’s lake soaked uniform, feeling himself slip away as that horrible and handsome man overtook his soul. Feeling himself inevitably aroused at the idea of watching the same conversion again, repeating the memory of Ashton’s new triplet’s creation over and over again.

Joel had accepted against his logic and sense when Ashton had asked him for a favor.

Elias had had a terrible life up until this point. A combination of childhood traumas and financial ruin leaving the man only hanging on a million different vices to keep going. Some poor punk that Ashton had known his entire life, watching the guy get beat around again and again.

Elias had been living on Ashton’s couch when Ashton had first arrived home in duplicate. Had still been there when the third Ashton joined them, Ashton having confirmed the exact specifications that dictated how the conversion occurred. Ashton having supposedly offered his friend to become a fourth him, only to be rejected.

Joel could actually remember Elias’s reasoning for that. Ashton having been a precious piece in the punk’s life, a steady foundation that was always there. A man Elias knew to his complete depth. Exhaustingly workaholic and extroverted. Elias had laughed at how the Ashton’s would bicker and enjoy each other, but reeled at assimilating into such a dynamic.

So Ashton had asked Joel. Joel who Ashton believed was Elias’s embodiment of a wet dream, fit and self assured. Moral in all the apparently frustrating ways that Ashton found attractive. Joel who was steadfast in his healthy lifestyle, having been sober for years now.

Joel had said yes through his hesitation. Fueled by a sense of empathy for a Elias’s life that so clearly mirrored his own back in the day, before Joel himself battled alcoholism and won after so much painful hard work and therapy. Joel would have given anything to never go through that again, would have given anything for an easy way out at the time.

There was also that insidious heartpounding excitement at the idea. Days spent with three Ashtons surrounding him, loving him in every way he could imagine. Practically programming his brain into fixating on that duplication, imagining the ways that their odd dance would change with the addition of more partners. Feeling himself hard at the idea of another him, two Joels matching in body and clothes. Just like Ashton.

Joel knew he was even harder now, feeling the ghost of Elias’s own pleasure in becoming him laced over his own. He finally glanced back at his twin, nearly perfect reflections of the same man in the same beach clothes. Duplicates only differentiated by tattoos, Joel able to see the art that once painted him now marking the original. Existential horror merging with lust for that second body, also combined with the relief at his new state of being. Able to feel all these raw emotions without that haze of substance abuse and bone deep tiredness.

One of the Ashtons called from their equipment house, congratulating his boys whilst also yelling at them to get back to work. A man that was all too used to this situation, unsympathetic in letting them acclimate.

The Joels sent sympathetic glances at each other, sharing exasperation. Sharing everything.

The original Joel clasped his shoulder in camaraderie before they went back to work, leaving the crisis and everything pleasurably world shaking for the coming night.

They’d be able to truly explore their shared identity later.

Midjourney photo taken from post by @ricardolima

#identical #copy #clones #shapeshift #male shapeshift #clothing tf #personality change #my writing #male tf #male transformation

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izelascendant · 2 months

Text

Wet.

Ezra X f!Original Character

NSFW 18+

words: 1,743

summary: They return to the ship in a weary and uneasy state, only for Ezra to soothe her to the best of his abilities.

tags: Semi Clothed Sex, Wet Clothing, Panties, Wet & Messy, Dirty Talk, Touching, She Comes First, Come As Lube, Praise, Teasing, Non-Penetrative Sex, Mouth Kink, Cumshot, SMUT, PORN

author’s note: Oh my lord, I hope y’all enjoyed this because I sure did have fun writing it. I love the thought of Ezra being a filthy, filthy man.

The precipitation levels were exceptionally high, casting a dark and wet atmosphere that evening. They found themselves in a muddy puddle, soaking their suits completely. Cold and grumpy, she allowed him to guide her back to the ship. Aware of her sensitivity to temperature fluctuations, he was determined to prevent her from getting any more irritable.

She reclined on the cushioned bench with folded legs, one hand gently resting on her chest, and the other supporting her head. The pendant around her neck lay flat in the hollow where her throat met her neckline. Although the interior of the ship provided warmth, her skin still bore goosebumps, dampness lingering.

They had strategically hung their damp clothes and suits throughout the ship to facilitate drying, leaving them both mostly undressed. Standing across from her by the heating post, he was shirtless, clad only in a pair of gray sweats cinched around his hips to provide some coverage for his lower body.

He observed her, noticing the white tank top that clung to her chest, making no attempt to hide the defined contours of her hardened nipples. He observed the rhythmic motion of her torso as she breathed, and from his vantage point and her position with legs raised, he had an optimal view of a small wet patch on the fabric of her underwear, nestled between her inner thighs.

Unable to control his thoughts, his body felt warm and electrified with fantasies about all the things he wanted to do with her and recalling their previous encounters. He didn't shy away from acknowledging the fact that he was a filthy man with a filthy mind. Just from observing her tranquil repose on the bench, he found himself already halfway to becoming fully erect, wondering about the thoughts occupying her mind.

Turning her head towards him, a serene expression graced her features. "D’you think it’ll still be wet outside tomorrow?" she inquired calmly.

He barely acknowledged her question, tilting his head shamelessly and fixing his gaze directly between her legs. "Hmm," he groaned in a husky voice, "right now, you're the only thing on my mind that's wet."

She maintained eye contact with him, feeling a sudden surge of warmth throughout her body and face. His gaze felt intense, almost penetrating. Finally, she offered a small smirk before softly murmuring, "I am," in response.

He emitted a low chuckle, moving closer to gently brush his thick fingers across her exposed legs. His thoughts were consumed by the exclusivity of enjoying her sight—she belonged solely to him. "I can almost smell you from afar, birdie," he started, his voice filled with anticipation. "That warmth," he continued, trailing his fingers over the damp fabric of her panties, "slick, just calling my name."

"Calling your name," she echoed softly, her eyes fluttering closed momentarily as she succumbed to a drowsy, lustful haze. Reaching towards his sweats, her hand brushed over the fabric covering his crotch, confirming that he was already deliciously hard. It felt almost like an automatic response, or at least the most logical one in her mind.

He remained in place, concentrating on teasing her through the thin fabric barrier, while his other hand intercepted hers, gently pushing it away as he noticed her wanting to reciprocate. "Not yet," he instructed calmly, a smug smile playing on his lips as he alternated his gaze between her face and the space between her thighs. "That's it. Keep your eyes on me."

She complied, keeping her focus solely on him, her breathing quickening as he applied a bit more pressure, maintaining his light and teasing movements. Her eyes widened, appearing slightly red and glassy, yet conveying a sense of relaxation and submission.

"Pretty girl," his voice rasped as he let his free hand trace along her face, "did so well out in the field today, despite the nasty conditions," he praised. His hand then moved up to her hair, feeling the texture at her roots.

She emitted a soft groan, leaning into his touch and closing her eyes to fully savor the sensation. Jerking her hips slightly, she murmured, "more," swallowing as desire surged through her. His gentle caresses were pleasant, but she yearned for more intensity.

He pressed his thumb directly against her most sensitive spot, rubbing slowly yet firmly. A small whimper escaped her, followed by another, and he took pleasure in the sounds she made. "You don’t like getting wet out there, do you, sweetheart?" he teased with a deep chuckle.

"Hm, no," she replied, making an effort to provide a clear response. "My bones feel cold from all the condensation in the trees." As his hand traced down along her face, his thumb gently caressing her cheek, she leaned in and wrapped her warm mouth around it, sucking tentatively.

"Now, now, birdie," he murmured, swirling his thumb against the raspiness of her tongue, "we were just startin’ to have a good conversation." He smirked, his mind racing with desire at the sight of her mouth eagerly enveloping his thumb, sucking it sensually.

She hummed against him, still in a state of almost hypnotic surrender. Her teeth grazed his thumb gently as he moved it in and out of her mouth. Then, he maintained his digit in her mouth, pressing down further on the back of her tongue. "Open," he commanded. She struggled momentarily, suppressing her gag reflex, her eyes watering – exactly what he desired, to witness his girl's eyes welling up from his actions.

He withdrew his thumb from her mouth, brushing it along her lower lip as she caught her breath. "Good girl," he praised as he positioned himself at the edge of the bench, right between her legs. He had no intention of wasting any more time.

"I wanna touch you," she pleaded, looking up at him with yearning eyes. However, he paid little attention to her request, as he already had his own plans in mind. With a small huff, he hooked his fingers to the edge of her panties, dragging them to the side for better access. He repeated the same movement with his thumb, this time without the barrier of the fabric.

She moaned in satisfaction, closing her eyes. "Ezra," she breathed out with a small smile, appreciating his dedication. "So warm, it's all I can think about," he mumbled as he ran his index and middle fingers through her folds, feeling them slippery and smooth like butter.

She emitted a soft coo, his words combined with his touch making her perfectly eager. She squeezed her thighs together, locking around his hand. "Ezra," she repeated, "please." He forced her legs back open, allowing the fabric of her underwear to cover her once again. "Hmm, is there something you want?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

She tilted her head, blessing him with a sultry look. "I want your cock," she murmured, her voice low and hushed. Shifting her hips slightly, she reached her bare foot out to caress along his side invitingly. Her request caused him to twitch in his sweats.

He couldn't be any more turned on at that point, and he saw no reason to wait. He tugged at the band around his hips, pulling his sweats down to allow himself to spring free. "Shit, look at that, I'm leaking," he remarked. She practically drooled at the sight of his large hand grabbing the base to guide it onto her clothed heat, a large bead of slick escaping the tip and dripping right onto her. "Fuck," she whispered, watching as he rubbed himself against her, "beautiful," she smiled eagerly.

Once again, her words sent a rush through his bloodstream, eliciting a groan from him. "Makin’ a mess," he remarked, tilting his head to take a look at the soaked fabric he rubbed up against. She was now burning with need. She whined desperately, "I'm already getting close," she warned, her head falling back almost limp.

“You wanna come don’t you, birdie?” He gripped the edge of her underwear, pulling the fabric to the side enough for him to be able to slide his length through her slick folds. She looked down, relishing in the sight of him sliding in and out, fabric clinging to the base of his dick as he rubbed against her wetness.

It dawned on her that he enjoyed it this way – the naughtiness of thrusting in and out of her panties, not bothering to take them off, as if invading a part of her that was incredibly private and intimate. She held her legs up, granting him full access, and his hands gripped onto the bottom of her thighs. "Please, Ezra, I need to," she begged.

It was a visual and auditory feast, the explicit sight blended with the lewd sounds coming from both of them. "Fuck," he growled, thrusting relentlessly. His face remained focused, with furrowed eyebrows and prominent veins on his arms as he held her in place. "Please, please, please," she whined, feeling a knot form in her stomach.

He remained focused, observing as she lost control beneath him. "Fuck, I'm—" she warned, her core quivering and her legs shaking involuntarily as she whimpered pathetically. "There she is," a smirk lit up on his face as he watched her reach her climax. It was all too sweet, and he knew he wasn't far behind.

Her eyes were droopy with ecstasy, her head rolling back for just a moment before she kept her gaze fixed on him upon catching her breath, not wanting to miss the sight of his own climax. "You're such a pleasure to use, baby," he mumbled, out of breath. "So good to let me come on you like this." He groaned and grunted, his movements slowing as he pulled out of her panties and spilled onto her.

Thick, warm, white ropes painted over the already soaked fabric, spurting repeatedly. She exhaled heavily, and he released one final deep groan. His load now covered her sensitive heat, and she placed her hand on top to rub it in, smiling sweetly as she did. "Thank you."

Her expression was so wholesome that it almost made him forget what had just transpired. After letting out a deep sigh and tucking himself back into his sweats, he emitted a small chuckle. "Warmer now, dove?"

"Mhm," she nodded in reply, "sleepier too." He smiled in return. "Yeah, it's been a long day." He took a step closer, planting a gentle kiss on her lips.

#ezra x reader #ezra x you #ezra x ofc #ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect x you #ezra prospect x ofc #ezra prospect x original character #ezra x original character #prospect 2018 #pedro pascal characters #prospect 2018 fic #ezra prospect fic #ezra prospect fanfiction #ezra prospect smut

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nerdieforpedro · 3 days

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Wednesday WIP

Hello! 👋🏽 Nerdie here, I am working on a few things:

1. A second entry for @undercoverpena ‘s April Showers Challenge (maybe featuring an agent I haven’t written for a bit). I had a burst of an idea which was different than the original one I had. Such is a Nerdie brain. Don't get lost in there, but there are cookies.

2. Finally progress of my “Wedding 101 with Dieter” fic! I had been having trouble with it. I’m happy to have more Maya, Dieter and Daisy. 🤭 I apologize to @angelofsmalldeath-codeine in advance for any undue stress I shall cause you.

3. Going to finish up my short Frankie body part series which sounds menacing but is the opposite. 😂 Very much so lol It’s called “Only Parts of you Mr. Morales.”

4. I’m working on a Javier Peña series because I feel like I need to give him something nice. Just one thing. 😆 It's very sweet, I have 2 chapters and no idea what to call it. Pfft, go figure. No idea how long it will be - sorry, won't be ready for a bit. Between Javier P and Joel recent. I need to be nice to them. They’re both very haunted. 😖

5. I'm still working on both Din fics and Benny. I'm redoing the outlines. Bullet points are friends and not our enemies. I think. Will there be more random Star Wars people? Is Obi Wan Kenobi a children’s author and Luke that old man who swings his lightsaber in the yard?! Both these things are true. 😌 Messing with Star Wars canon one character at a time. 😂😂😂 The sweet Din fic will remain so. My walking pile of nervous Beskar. 💚

And that's about it, I've cut back a bit on writing to do more school work (papers...ugh...writing about not Pedro. 👀 Eww...)

Previews under the cut:

Anyway, somehow, I went from being stuck in chapter five for 'Weddings 101 with Dieter' to now being in chapter six. I'd like to thank Hemmy for being so encouraging and @megamindsecretlair for discussing Pedro and Oscar with me the other night. I feel like I should make notes and keep both of those in mind for future fics because it's the right thing to do.🫡 Just thinking about it is… 🫠

This is a small excerpt from chapter six, we should all know Nerdie's humor by now 🤣:

“Who’s banging on my door this damn early?! You better get out of here!” “Dee at least ask who it is.” “I don’t care, it could be the president, pope or, no Beyonce could come in.” “I am not meeting Beyonce in my robe. My hair is a mess, my face is puffy, I haven’t showered yet…that’s not who it is!” “I mean, if she shows up on this door, she’s gonna have to be okay with my bare ass, balls and your robe with your cute puffy face. It’s just us. You don’t need one. I’m just going to take it back off to eat you for-” “MR. BRAVO IT’S ME ZACK! YOUR ASSISTANT!” He screamed, he didn’t need to hear Dieter removing anything off of Maya or eating her in any capacity, they can do that after he leaves later. Never any filter with this damn man, he just needs to remind himself of his loans. This job pays the loans.

Gotta love how....open Dieter is with everything. Even Sasha Fierce is not safe. 😭

Second is from my pending Javier Peña fic (I'll think of a good name, I swear!):

Meeting his gaze had her mouth run dry, the sandy tone to his skin contrasted with more papaya tones in his neck. Dark hair and kind eyes behind a gold pair of aviators perched on his curved nose. Tourmaline waves parted on the left side of his crown were matched by his bold eyebrows and thick mustache. His lips were a lace pink and plush. The sunlight made the sweat along his neck glimmer, accentuating its definition. The light blue shirt made the reds and browns in his skin stand out even more. “Did you need to get some fresh air too?” She asked, he could be doing that, escaping someone like she was doing or something else entirely. Now she was curious too, about this man who’d chosen to sit next to her.

I very much enjoy my description of Javier, hehe 😉

That's it! Normally I have more, but it's either still in bullet form or in my head. 🤭

NPT: @maggiemayhemnj @604to647 @connectioneverywhere @morallyinept @rhoorl

@goodwithcheese @soft-persephone @djarinmuse @pedroshotwifey @magpiepills

@secretelephanttattoo @tinytinymenace @inept-the-magnificent @soft-girl-musings @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@laurfilijames @grogusmum @alltheglitterandtheroar @jessthebaker @musings-of-a-rose

@julesonrecord @wannab-urs @schnarfer

#wip wednesday #Nerdie update #javier pena fanfiction #dieter bravo fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #benny miller #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfiction

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latte-ella · 16 days

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Poogle Oogle Analysis 1/2

I made this creature a while ago, this will be one of many species relating to Andrepeth Amori. This will be into two parts; between the wild and domesticated Poogle Oogles :) Have fun reading!

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Introduction:

Poogle Oogles (or Oogles/Poogles) are small mammals and reside within groups of Poogle Oogles, formally referred to as a Gnat of Gawks or Gnat for short. These groups have at least 12 but can far exceed that with no clear limit. Their life expectancy on average is quite low, only 1-2 years and mainly inhabit the deciduous forests of Andrepeth Amori.

Appearance:

IMPORTANT- All wild Oogles appear the same, regardless of gender.

- Fur: Poogle Oogles naturally have thick and fluffy pink fur covering the entirety of their body. The fur is long enough to completely encase them to a point their actual body cannot be seen. Their face is a lighter pink in comparison to the rest of their fur and closely resembles the shape of a heart.

- Eyes: Their eyes remain unblinking and wide, hence the origin of their name. Their eyes are solitary and remain in place for the entirety of their lives. Poogles eyes are always black but retain a sort of ‘sparkle’ when looking into them.

- Skin: The skin itself is very soft and a pale cream or pink. Beneath all that fur, there are small flat sacks resembling a deep violet or purple.

- Legs: Poogles have extremely short legs that are not visible at any angle, other than if their belly is exposed to the sky. They are petite, pointy stubs with no significant features. Due to the fur’s length, it completely hides their legs, leading them to become sort of skittering clouds when walking.

- Mouth/Teeth/Throat: Their mouth will remain as a permanent smile, agape or not. The entirety of their mouth and teeth are black (but due to stylistic choices, I prefer to draw the interior of the mouth white). From the naked eye, the teeth will appear to not be there, that is because Poogle Oogles do not have teeth on their upper or lower jaws but instead pharyngeal jaws and teeth that lines the sides of their throat. These teeth are small and thin, but are quite jagged and sharp. They do not have a tongue either.

- Coeur Antlers: These are the sort of ‘horns’ to the Poogle Oogle, stacked on top of each other in a group of three as it is sorted from largest to smallest top to bottom. They are quite shiny and sparkly as well.

- Orb: This is a shiny sphere attached to a thin appendage they can control entirely, which has the tendency to create a sort of swirl as the Poogle develops. It tested to be made from the same properties of the coeur antlers. The orb is biolumiscent and expels a pale pink light.

- Tail: Poogle Oogle’s grow fluffy tails, twisting into a small swirl around the tip of the tail :)

- Ears: They have no visible ears.

- Nose: At the very surface of their skin, resting right above the mouth, lies two incredibly small holes that is functions as a nose. It’s not visible due to how small the holes are.

Properties and Functions:

- Fur: Their fur is quite luscious, being best described as soft, silky, and lightweight. The fur acts a barrier between them and potential predators as the fur is reported to have a foul taste. It also protects them during the colder seasons, as the fur will grow to become much denser and larger to keep them warm.

- Eyes: Poogle Oogles vision is actually quite poor due to the fact they are born slightly crossed eyed and their cornea’s being much denser and translucent rather than transparent. Their cornea’s are slick and hydrophobic, causing infiltrates, object or liquid, to slip off quite easily. If they are damaged, this runs the risk of permanent damage and in some cases, is able to blind the Poogle. From their perspective, it’s extremely blurry and only capable of viewing blobs of colors. However, they are not completely lost and familiar colors, such as a gnat will incline them to gravitate towards them. Despite that, their eyes are extremely good at picking up movement, no matter how insignificant it is. Even at a distance where they cannot comprehend specific details, they can tell if something or someone is moving. They do indeed have eyelids but those are only utilized when sleeping.

- Skin: There are small sacks resembling flat marbles at the surface of the skin. The texture can be best described as rubbery but smooth. They eject long, thin thorns when they detect the Poogle is being tampered with, as the sacks have an abundance of nerves. A telltale sign of this is an unnatural or unexpected touch to the fur and/or skin. This is an autonomic ability. These small sacks are filled with a venom containing a neurotoxin. This venom is administered when the Oogle’s thorns pierce the flesh of the attacker. This neurotoxin attacks the nervous system, weakening the muscles and bodily functions and used to paralyze their attackers. (Anonocons stabbed by their thorns report feeling fatigued and confused before the paralysis set in) It is not deadly, it only works to temporarily restrain their attacker. The neurotoxin works extremely quickly, in approximately 3 minutes but can work faster if there is a higher dosage.

- Legs: Poogle Oogles are much faster than they appear, their light fur allows them to move with surprising agility and speed.

- Mouth/Teeth/Throat: Their pharyngeal jaws can extend and retract out their mouth to clamp onto their prey. They are sharp and dig deep into flesh, and are quite durable and strong. Once they clamp onto their prey, it’s very difficult to get them off as they lock their jaws. Poogle bites are not uncommon in Andrepeth Amori. They have a slimy, gray saliva that they use to assist in sliding the food down their throat.

- Coeur Antlers: Coeur Antlers expel crimson spores that when inhaled, causing an increase in oxytocin and dopamine. These spores are used primarily for mating within their own species, alerting a fellow Oogle of their sexual desire. These can be expelled by both female and male Poogles. Breeding can come at any time, but it is mostly done during the aftermath of a cold season, with the cold, their numbers will decrease, thus done to replenish the population. But sex during the warmer days is out the question, as a way to sort of prepare for the oncoming loss in the gnat.

- Orb: This sphere can glow to the Oogle’s will. It mostly serves to lure potential prey to their demise, but can also be used to see better within the dark. Seeing a herd of glowing Poogles is not uncommon on Andrepeth Amori.

- Tail: Just a cute little attachment :)

- Ears: Poogle Oogles have no visible nor external ears. Oogles are essentially deaf, but they do have a method of sensing sound. Similar to snakes, they possess a manipulated columella, a small bone connected to the jaw bone, enabling them to sense and feel vibrations. This ability is vital for their survival as the footsteps of their prey notifies them of their location, allowing them to escape from potential predators. This skill is quite impressive and known to be extremely sensitive, the slightest shift, air or by ground, allows them to pinpoint exactly where you are.

- Nose: Contrary to it being nearly unviewable, Poogle Oogles can distinct scents from one another very well, even at a distance, they can pick up on particular odors. This is also vital for their survival, as injured animals are often a target of becoming ambushed once their scent is picked up. Not only that, but Poogles release a scent unique to their own species that only they can smell, a useful ability to make sure the Gnat stays together.

Magical properties:

Poogle Oogles are one of many animas that use magic on Andrepeth Amori, but this ability is limited to only one purpose; leaping and jumping. Their legs don’t allow them to naturally jump on their own, so they use a bit of sorcery to do so. Jumping is primarily used to ambush their prey by landing on their back or by gaining altitude to escape predators or dire situations. This is mainly done through summoning invisible trampolines that launch them into the air and allow them to sort of bounce around or travel to high places.

Diet/Hunting Habits:

Poogle Oogles are carnivorous creatures, but are capable of eating certain fruits or vegetation, but in no way take up a significant portion of their diet. They hunt during sunset and capture prey in Gnat of 20-25 Poogles via the glow of their Orb as a deceptive tactic. Once the prey is close enough, the others will pounce, many will attack via ground and or by jumping onto the prey’s back. It is then that they will clamp their jaws onto their flesh and by then, their prey is entirely swarmed.

Oogles have been reported to tear apart the flesh of their prey and consume them whilst they are still alive. There have been multiple instances of them pulling off their skin and burrowing inside the flesh to consume the organs. All of their prey is guaranteed to be decimated and left in a heap of bones or hardly recognizable. If the Oogles venom poisons their prey, the Gnat are not affected.

Gnat Relationship:

They value their species very much and rely on each other for survival, so there is no distinct social hierarchy in the species. Every Oogle you’ll see out in the wild is guaranteed to have a gnat nearby, but in very rare instances, can be separated by their group - mainly during weather crises. Poogle Oogles are very protective and territorial of their species and do whatever it takes to survive if it means the rest can survive. This comes to dire consequences at times as phenomenons such as cannibalism as a last resort if has become rash. Compared to other species, such as bumblebees, they will not kick out their own kind, but will eat them instead.

Reproduction and Growth stages:

When female and male intercourse occur between Oogles, a bae (or baby Poogle Oogle) will be born. A bae’s growth is never fluidly consistent with the species and based solely on the conditions of the environment they were born within and how well fed they were. If the food flow and care was consistent, a Poogle will grow healthily, but never at the same rate as others, even within their own nest. A Poogle is much more likely to die premature or stillborn if born during colder seasons or poor living conditions, it’s especially worse if the mother is not taken care of well enough.

On average, a mother will produce at least 5 baes for each litter they produce, but can exceed that, with the highest reporting to be 11. A pregnant Poogle will externally appear the same but their behaviors will differ, as she becomes much more susceptible to fatigue. Her and her mating partner will begin to prepare the nest for their children. The mother will stay in the nest for the majority of her pregnancy and the male partner will take priority over themselves to feed the female Oogle. On average, the female Oogle will give birth to two batches in her entire lifetime. There are 3 stages that an Oogle has in its lifetime - infant, adolescent, and adult.

Infancy - at this stage, a Poogle has a short layer of fuzz for fur, no antlers, no teeth and a very short orb. They are blind, have a heightened sense of smell, have their eyes closed, have a much harder time hearing and cannot walk. A bae’s cries can alert fellow prey and thus, the nursing Oogle are greatly protected by the Gnat and are given priority over anyone else. If a threat manages to break way into the nest, the two parents will place their young into their mouths and quickly flee. Mother Poogle Oogles will sing by a series of low purrs and hums to soothe and bond with their young. Despite their poor hearing, that is all they can properly hear. Fathers are also entirely present in their children’s lives and will go as far as to perform regurgitation if there is no sufficient food source. Mothers chew the food for their young into a paste before spitting it back up for her children to swallow; her saliva allows the food to slide down the infants throat as their own has not been developed. This is a required process as this runs the risk of the bae choking.

Adolescent - Their eyes have opened and will remain as such. Their antlers have begun to sprout, but are much more susceptible to damage and are much more skittish around the hint of danger. The adolescent is now capable of walking, but even this ability is a bit limited, so the young ride on the backs of their mothers and fathers until they learn to do it on their own properly. At this stage, a parenting Poogle is reported to be much more dangerous and hostile, known for snapping at Anonocons that get too close to them or their nests.

Adult - This is the stage they are most often witnessed to be on, their orb, antlers and fur has grown out entirely. At this stage, the Oogle no longer needs its parents and are free to leave the nest to create their own.

Elder? - Not an official stage, but long living Oogles (3+ years) have been observed to have been nearly blind, have poorer hearing, and the agility they once had as an adult is much worse. Once this is noticed by the Gnat, the Poogle Oogle cannibalise the ‘Elder Oogle’ as a way to savor resource for the inevitable colder seasons.

Communication:

As mentioned before, mother Oogles are capable of singing, but this is possible with all Oogles and is a method of both communication and greeting within the Gnat. When within the Gnat is when these sounds are most likely to be heard, especially when huddled together. But these are also sounds they make individual.

As a method of creating community and socialization reported by many researcher’s is the infrequent chance of a Gnat to congregate and heightened their purring into warbles, shrieks, and trills. Although the sounds on their own is rather adorable, these are sounds that have never been reported to be heard before other than during these phenomenons. Researchers dub these as ‘conventions’ due to their acts of togetherness and conversation to an extent. For reasons yet to be discovered, these events only occur during the night and at random intervals of the year. The shrieks can be quite terrifying to surrounding animals and many traveling Anonocons have reported witnessing these events. There is a common superstition that many travelers report; their shriek is directed toward the night sky and many scientists and researchers theorize they are practicing a method worship. Who or what that is directed at is unknown.

The tail will slowly sway when they spot potential, unrecognized movement, defaulting on their normally upright, stiff stance. This is meant to alert their fellow Poogles there is something or someone nearby moving, allowing them time to be on the defense if attacked. This swaying can increase to the equivalent of wagging; thumping. Their tail will begin rapidly move up and down, softly hitting the ground with their tail. This occurs when the Poogle experiences an increase of happiness or pleasure, such as the birth of a litter, but mainly during intercourse and once orgasm has been reached.

Sleeping:

Poogle Oogles sleep immediately after their final hunt during a sunset. By the time they have finished eating, nighttime would fall and the Gnat would seek a shaded, dark place of the forest to sleep. The Poogle Oogles will huddle tightly together and got to sleep :3

Impact on Andrepeth Amori:

Anonocons often consider wild Poogle Oogles more as an annoying pest than their domesticated counterparts. Although it is well documented fact that Oogles can be quite dangerous, they aren’t taken very seriously and being pricked by one can be easily dealt with. A wild Oogle making its way onto the busy streets is uncommon but not rare for Patrollers designated to keep such animals off the road. Their reputation is due to their large litters of baes, many have been reported Oogles being born en masse in a nearby forest, only for a hoard of them to raid the meat market and clean the entire stock - these opinions stem from the infuriated butchers and sellers who have to occasionally deal with their entire supply of goods being eaten in a matter of minutes. Down the line of their existence, Poogle Oogles have been domesticated and classified as exotic pets primarily owned by the rich.

This caused a lot of socioeconomic tension as although the domesticated Poogle Oogles present no harm to the butchers, seeing one is enough to make them mad. The rich are quite inconsiderate and are openly smug about their pets, some even proudly displaying them whilst in the meat market. Although butchers usually hold their tongue and bear it, there are few that go out of their way to target Poogles and will kill them, domesticated or not, if they manage to wrangle their way into their things or property.

Miscellaneous:

They cannot swim. Any Poogle who accidentally slips into a body of water and cannot escape is a guaranteed death for them. How they manage to maintain their skin and fur’s cleanliness is called into question - that is through rain.

#andrepeth amori #digital art #artwork #poogle oogle #I FINALLY FUCKING FINISHED THIS HOLY SHIT

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blucifer08 · 8 months

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Before I go to bed, here's some Elidibus headcanons I have. Some are related to my wol x Elidibus ship and some are not !

- I headcanon that Elidibus often struggles with feeling outside of his body. He may not body hop as much as Lahabrea does (at least, it seems that way given some text about Lahabrea's habits), but I think that time has already worn so hard on his mind and the body hopping hasn't helped, making him feel very disconnected from his body

- As a result, I headcanon that Elidibus' appearance has slowly changed over time. In particular I headcanon that his hair has lightened up over time, and the bright blue of his eyes has very slowly faded to white. His facial features change ever so often as he literally forgets what he originally looked like.

- I also headcanon that he's slightly aware of that fact and clings tightly to certain facts about himself as a way to try and keep his appearance somewhat stable, to have a shred of his identity remain intact. He's bothered Emet-Selch to try and help him modify his appearance so he can seem like he used to be

- I headcanon he does not know his true name, and he doesn't remember Azem's either.

- In his romantic relationship with my wol, Naru, there have been times during intimate moments where the intimacy has nearly brought him to a panic attack. Something about such closeness and kindness is familiar to the time before-- to the world before-- and it stirs memories. But when his memories are stirred, he still can't quite reach them. Ever reaching for something he can't quite get his fingers around..and it can make him panic.

- He often keeps a blank expression without realizing it.

- He plays piano, but he also plays a variety of string instruments. He has a okay singing voice, but it's not particularly amazing. Very pleasant when he sings quietly to you, but maybe not as good if he sings louder. Nevertheless it's special if he does.

- His skin is usually cold.

- Out of all the unsundered ascians, he has the worst insomnia. He is damn near unable to sleep, whether he needs to or not.

These are a lot of my post sundering Eli HCS :) maybe I should post some Themis ones sometime

#Elidibus #headcanon

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soaps-hoe-141 · 9 months

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Back Together

The rewrite has begun, I hope yall enjoy this new start. Been hella stressed out lately bout going back to university next week so thank you for being patient with me. Hope yall enjoy

Part 1

Pairing: Soap x Ghost

WC: 7.7k

Summary: Dropping some OC lore, starting earlier than the original Back Together because I had ideas. Got some pining from a distance. I hope yall enjoy. Fair warning no actual Ghost sightings in this one just Soap's gay thots. That man is fighting for his life for real

Warnings: Lil bit of violence

A chill ran down his spine as every muscle pulled taut and his fingers dug into the warm flesh of a thin shoulder, his other balling the sheets up into his fist. Azure hues were shut tight, darting about behind his eyelids as he fought some internal war that the other person laying in front of him couldn't quite understand. His partner hadn't been there, he hadn't seen the things he had and he hadn't been there when everything had gone to shit. How could either of them ever truly understand one another when they hadn't experienced the same things. It had been fight after fight after fight since Soap had gotten back from Chicago and this certainly wasn’t the first night that he’d woken the other up with his shaking and hastily muttered words. However, it was the first time he’d been woken up trapped in the Scot’s grip.

The blonde had never known a moment of peace where Soap’s mouth was in consideration. He’s always talked in his sleep but after Chicago it wasn’t the light hearted whispers he was so used to. It wasn’t warm arms pulling him closer with a soft smile on his face, not anymore. Instead there were fingers digging into his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises, the other’s hands shook even where they held fast, and sweat was covering every inch of skin on his muscled body. His forehead was soaked enough that even the short hairs of his mohawk were stuck to it.

Gray eyes shined where the moonlight struck them at just the right angle. The man was no stranger to violence or the nightmares that it could cause. This though, this scared him, more than that truthfully, it terrified him. The way Soap was holding onto him, he’d never done anything like this before. Sure he’d been waking up most nights since he’d come back but he had yet to get physical. Mostly it was an errant toss of an arm over the bed, or the typical shakes, it was never accompanied by the pain that was blossoming on his upper arm though.

A flash of something passed over his typically smiling features, something that made the wiry blonde flinch and the flat of his palms fly up to the strong chest in front of him. The moment he moved though, the moment his hands touched Soap’s bare skin the flash of azure made him go still. He hadn’t meant to wake the other up, it had been an instinctive reaction, just a quick reflex to protect himself. It didn’t seem that the dark-haired man in front of him would agree with that though, not with the way his eyes went wide and the grip on his shoulder got impossibly tighter.

And then what Thomas had been most afraid and had least expected happened. The hand he’d balled into the sheets flew towards the thin throat. Wrapping around it in an iron grip that had his gray eyes widening even as he stayed dangerously still. Fighting him would only make things worse. It would only trigger that fight or flight response that drove men like him. Thomas was no stranger to war himself but he didn’t fight, not like Soap did. He handled numbers, logistics, supplies…Not this.

Gray eyes stayed locked with azure as the two remained in a deadlock. The pale face before his eyes began to go red in a few seconds, the hands on his chest retreating up his forearms to grasp at the wrists. Thomas couldn’t help it when his foot thudded against a shin, fear pulsing through his mind even more steady than the pain there. His mouth gaped as his lungs begged for air even as Soap refused to give it to him. The long fingers around his wrists began to loosen their grip as the other tried to keep his eyes open, and still he didn’t fight back. Why wasn’t he fighting back?

Blonde hair caught the light of the moon, shining a pale white in the darkness. Light gray eyes were turned into the same shade as the shaft of moonlight that ran down his face before disappearing behind the cloud cover once more, both almost completely white and translucent. They were as far from the bastard who’d drug him towards that open window as they could get. Not Hassan. It had been a dream. This was not the man who had tried to kill him. That had been a nightmare, this was real, bloody hell this was real.

“Thomas…” He whispered quietly as azure eyes widened in surprise and his gaze swept over those familiar pale features with an unsure look. They weren’t pale anymore though, they were red and turning purple the longer he watched. And yet still the man in front of him didn’t move, he stayed shockingly still even while his short, blunt nails dug crescents into the inside of his wrist. Slowly his eyes turned down until he saw where the pain was beginning to blossom on his skin and where strong fingers were wrapped around the long, skinny neck. His fingers.

It was him killing, it was always Soap dealing death like cards in a poker game. It took a long second for his hand to respond to the command to release but when it did the gasp he both heard and saw made guilt settle in his stomach instantly. The hands latched onto his wrists released just as quickly, flying to where Soap’s had been a moment before as if to assure himself his windpipe hadn’t completely collapsed. He was fighting to catch his breath as he rolled to his back taking in gulps of air as he rolled away. Soap pushed himself up with one hand, his eyes dry as he blinked the sleep out of them and tried to follow. His mouth opened in shock as he tried to soothe the innocent man he’d very nearly killed, “Shite, I’m sorry. It’s okay, Tom. Aye yer fine.” He was reassuring the other just as much as he was reassuring himself.

The apologies flowed from his mouth in a steady stream as he tried to ease the guilt settling like murky depths in his thoughts and stomach alike. Thomas though was actively refusing to look at him, keeping his back to the younger man even as Soap reached out a hand towards his thin shoulder. A choked, “No,” escaped past his lips the moment he felt the warm touch of his hand. Blonde hair shifted atop his head as he jerked to look towards it and slapped the typically soothing gesture away. Pain was radiating from where his other hand was covering the sensitive area of his trachea, shying away from the touch he typically leaned into. Shifting even closer to the edge of the bed he ducked his head, rubbing at the place where hands had nearly killed him moments before.

Fear had been what had kept him still in the face of what would have been certain death had he fought back against the killer he’d chosen to share his nights with. Even still he nearly met his untimely demise at the hands of the man who he’d never thought would have laid a finger on him, not in a bad way anyway. This was the man he thought he’d loved. Now fear ruled every action and response as the blonde scrambled off of the bed. Soap watched with a furrowed brow, beginning to start towards him until the tall man backed himself against the desk and pushed his back against the edge of it. Still avoiding his gaze as if meeting it would scald the both of them.

Thomas was still struggling for air, swallowing hard as something caught in his throat painfully and he let out a shallow cough in response in hopes of dislodging it. The pit in Soap’s stomach continued to gape like an open wound, his worried gaze locked on the pale form as the urge to help, to do something continued to pound in his thoughts. Despite what had happened he still wanted to protect the other from what he’d done, from the pain he’d just caused without even really meaning to. Thomas’ breaths were barely making it through even after the strong hands had released him, his heart still racing as the adrenaline in his veins coursed through him.

They were both hard pressed to see in the darkness that had prevailed in the minutes between Soap’s waking up and now. Even the moonlight from before was shrouded behind a thick cover of clouds, the pale face of the sun’s lover no longer providing its much needed light. The tall blonde couldn’t see the regret and guilt already evident on Soap’s face but the tension and fear was palpable in the room. They both knew what the other felt without needing to see one another to deduce it. And it was Soap’s fault, he’d done this. He needed to make it better, fix it if he could but how? “Are ye ok, Thomas?” His question was barely above a whisper, just audible in the close quarters of his room and the only thing he could think of to say now.

At first there was no response and a cold sweat beaded up along his brow, it took only another moment of silence for a feeling like ice dripping down his back to accompany it. His skin dotted with goosebumps as the chill of the room began to settle into his bones. There was a quiet sound a couple feet in front of him, the clearing of a throat that he recognized after the tall man did it again.

Finally he received a whispered answer, “I’m ok, John. I just…” His voice trailed off and the Scot shifted on the bed again, trying to maneuver closer only to hear a picture frame on the desk fall backwards as Thomas stumbled into it. Soap could imagine the other man’s wiry form as he tried to put distance between them only to find there was no more room to scramble backwards. A hole opened in his heart at the thought even as the strangled voice spoke again, “I need a second, ok?” There was fear there even as the other man tried to hide it behind a thin veil of strength that Soap couldn’t believe.

Moments of silence passed between the two as the seconds began to tick by. When the ragged breathing finally started to even out along with his rapid heartbeat Soap was sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the pale form in the darkness with concern written plainly over his face. Finally the tall man spoke again after taking a deep, settling breath, “John I know you didn’t mean it but…” His words trailed off again into the darkness of the thin-walled apartment.

The pit in the other man’s stomach felt like a massive sinkhole now. His chest was hurting more than any bullet or knife he’d ever taken. It wasn’t often things stuck with him, especially not like this last mission had. It wasn’t even the danger that had him so hung up on it. Yet he still couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that had him so worked up. Death had come knocking at his door on more than one occasion, Hassan hadn’t been the first and he certainly hadn’t been the worst so why was the entirety of that mission burned into his mind like a brand? Tattooed across the inside of his eyelids like some sick and twisted movie.

“Tom I’m sorry, I wasn’t tryin tae hurt ye. Ye believe me, right?” The gray eyes barely caught a shaft of moonlight but it was enough to cause another wrenching tear at his heart. He pushed himself up slowly from the bed, reaching a hand out towards the pale figure that was just barely visible in the darkness. “Lay down. I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.” When his fingers brushed against smooth skin he felt a flinch away from him and he was quick to pull his own hand back. Of course the man didn’t want to be touched, he’d nearly killed him.

Thomas didn’t move though, not until Soap side stepped him in the narrow space between his desk and the bed. It was then that the tall, wiry man stepped forward to settle down on the edge where he’d been sitting only a few moments before. Pale fingers running over the warmth of the dark sheets that Soap had left behind before his face turned back to find him. He couldn’t see the others' gaze but he could feel it on him, quiet and cautious in the darkness of the night as the Scotsman turned his back to investigate the barely visible desk.

A light wooden frame had been knocked over and he was quick to pick it up, but he felt the way it seemed to wobble in his hand. Soap was barely holding on now as his hands shook and his jaw tightened after he realized it had been broken in the other’s haste to get away. No need for Thomas to know that though, it would only make this whole situation ten times worse if he thought he’d messed something up too.

Soap was quick to grab the sketchbook off the desk as well, forgetting momentarily that there were others hidden inside the drawers of the desk as he made his way out of the room. “I’ll see ye in the mornin’. Get some rest, Thomas,” there was a quiet huff of agreement from the other man as Soap hung his head a bit and shut the door of the bedroom behind him.

The dark hallway had his eyes narrowing as he tried to make his way through it back to where the small combination living room and kitchen area were. Darkness surrounded him, seeming to cut off every other sense just as much as his sight. As close to a sensory deprivation tank as he’d been since they’d thrown him in one for a training session years ago. He’d long forgotten about it before he was standing there knowing the couch was somewhere to his left and counter to his right but having no idea just how far they truly were. It wasn’t like he knew this apartment like the back of his hand, he rarely spent time here, it was more Thomas’ than it was his.

Even with his one hand reaching out in search of fabric he failed to find it until his thigh slammed into it and he let out a strained noise that he did his best to suppress. Last thing he needed was to wake Thomas up for a second time, the first time had already been bad enough after all. His fingers finally found the back of the couch after a moment of blind fumbling before his hand slid along the back of the couch and he rounded it, laying the picture frame and the sketchbook down on the side table. Then he took a step towards the wall and slid his hand along it in search of the light switch. His partner needed sleep, but when it came to himself he had no intention of doing any such thing. Not tonight anyway. There was no telling what he’d do to Thomas the next time he let himself sleep.

As his hand hit the switch and the light overhead flashed on he flinched, eyes shutting tight as they tried to adjust to the sudden intake of visual stimuli. Sparks flashed behind his lids for a moment before he managed to crack one open and make his way back towards the couch and took a seat with a loud huff of air. Exhaustion was still settled heavily in every limb, gravity was taking its toll near tenfold as Soap tilted his head back against the couch cushions. His mind was now whirling with thoughts as he tried to put the pieces of his psyche back together into a seemingly whole piece.

Every breath turned into a weight on his chest, making his ribs ache with the pressure despite the fact that nothing was there to make it so. The fear in those pale gray eyes continued to flash in his mind like a ghost and a warning all in one. Just the fact that he knew that it was him who had caused it only made him hurt even more. His finger picked absently at the corner of the sketchbook while his teeth chewed at his bottom lip in time with one another.

Ghost had saved him, he hadn’t let him go out that window. So why did it feel like he was still standing on the precipice, dangling over the edge like he was in a movie and these were those seven seconds he got before he died? It was like he was stuck in the moment and waiting for the shot to come from somewhere behind him…But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He was back in the United Kingdom and he was safe. Well relatively speaking anyway, so why was this hitting him so hard? Ghost had been there, he hadn’t died, he’d made it back home, he had Thomas beside him, it had been a good night before…The corner of his mouth turned up in a bit of a smirk as he thought to himself, ‘A very good night.’

And yet every time it seemed to be going well with Thomas ever since he got back he always ended up back in that little circle of Dante’s Inferno with Ghost and he was just merely trying to survive. Running on adrenaline and fumes to get himself out of the raging fire that he’d been tossed into with only the Lieutenant’s witty commentary and amazingly terrible jokes to get him through it. It was almost like he couldn’t get the man himself out of his head rather than the entirety of the mission itself. He never replayed that godawful tank fight in his head with Rudolfo. It was only ever the moments in time where Ghost was involved. Like that man was the epicenter of every single thing that had happened there rather than the mission objectives themselves. What the hell was wrong with him?

A low sigh left him as he pulled the sketchbook open to flip through it with pursed lips. It wasn’t likely he’d be going back to sleep tonight anyway, might as well occupy his mind with something that wasn’t just disappointment and shame for the way he’d been conducting himself of late. Stupid little drawings littered the pages, animals of all sorts, landscapes, patterns that stuck in his mind like the lyrics to a catchy song. Never people though.

There was no real reason behind it. He’d just never had the itch to draw another person before. Well…Not until recently anyway. Every time he woke up from those nightmares he was greeted with the desire to create. A want to capture more than just the likeness of a landscape was floating around in his mind now. Patterns accompanied it, but unlike those that he usually drew that were geometric with no real discerning objective, these were part of a larger scheme. They danced around in his thoughts as his finger tapped against the blank page that stared back at him just aching to be filled.

His teeth worked harder at his bottom lip then, his fingers beginning to itch with a desire to doodle over the paper despite knowing it was a bad idea. There was no doubt in his mind that he’d capture a likeness he wasn’t really meaning to. A burning impulse was stuck in his mind and he was trying desperately to ignore it as his foot tapped against the hardwood floors. But then again, when had Soap ever been known for his impulse control? Never. Before he even really knew what he was doing he had pulled the pencil out of the spiral binding and had it in his hand as he set himself to work.

Even his mind worked seemingly without thought, honestly when did it ever work with it? Before he knew it an outline of a pair of shoulders were taking shape. Anatomy had never been something he was good at, it was one of the many reasons he always hated the way people looked when he drew them. They always just looked…wrong.

These shoulders though. A flash of heat found his cheeks that he barely even registered as he drew them. They were broad and angled a bit weird but still Soap pressed on through it, wanting to see what else his mind could put onto the paper. It wasn’t even a fight anymore to ignore every warning bell that was telling him not to continue. He’d been fighting the urge to put pencil to paper for weeks now because he knew if he did this would be the only thing he’d be able to think about. Now though the urge was too strong. It was an impulse he couldn’t control and if he were being completely honest he didn’t really want to control it anyway.

Hips took shape next, not much thinner than the shoulders even though he knew somewhere in his knowledge of anatomy they should have been. Not here though, they were meant to be broad. An errant comment from his mind fell out of his lips as he smirked down at the page and whispered, “Bastart is broad everywhere.” Similarly the legs were beginning to appear on the page amongst the many lighter strokes of the pencil. Hell, even the figure's neck was thick, and the hands surely would have been as well if they weren’t hidden inside of something at the place where the figure’s stomach would have been.

It started out rough, like he’d been etching something into a piece of wood rather than outlining on a piece of paper. As his mind formed the figure with more surety though he began to clean the lines up, losing even the errant thoughts that had been floating around as he lost himself to the bursting flow of creativity. He’d locked it down so long it was an inevitable rushing forth of the tide that was his artistic side, and for the first time since he’d gotten back he felt happy, content, excited even. Or at least that’s what he was telling himself.

When he'd started he hadn't really had an idea who it even was he was drawing. Another lie he was repeating in his mind to keep that painful bite of guilt at bay. In truth every thought since he'd come home had been dominated by a single face and name, and it wasn't the man that should have been occupying his every thought. As much as he denied it, and made excuses to himself he was infatuated by him. In awe of his reputation and awestruck by the attention the other paid him without really even seeming to think about it. Every time he heard his name come out of the other's mouth he felt a giddy sort of excitement. An unexplainable tingling of nerves in every limb and down his spine that had him tensing up and somehow simultaneously relaxing around him.

This should not have been a feeling that he got when talking to his Lieutenant, that much he knew and it somehow only made him want to feel it even more. He was not only his superior but also a man who was not his fucking boyfriend. The man he’d been living with for a month and that he'd been with for ten months now. It should have been the pale, skinny blonde he was infatuated with. Not the tall, broad, scarred halfway to hell dirty blonde with hazel eyes who gave him orders nearly every day.

But it was. Ghost had captivated every ounce of his attention and he couldn't seem to stop his hand from drawing the form he could only dream of underneath those clothes, and Christ almighty had he dreamed of it. There was yet another reason to feel guilty for something it felt like he couldn't even control. Of course he hadn't outright cheated on Thomas but every time he even thought about hazel eyes or the ink scrawled along his thick forearm it felt like he was.

And just as the thought of it crossed his mind it appeared on the paper seemingly of its own volition. Darker lines etched in a pattern that had been eating away at his psyche one day at a time since he’d first seen it driving in the busted up truck they’d driven out of Las Almas in. He wasn't even sure he was the one drawing this anymore to be completely honest. Something had to have possessed his hand, just taken hold and refused to release him until it was finished.

It wasn't until he started to add the features of the face that he felt a hint of control returning. Steering himself unconsciously away from drawing the features he remembered, only barely, that were hidden beneath the mask and instead drawing the mask itself. The barrier between Ghost and the rest of the world. His hands were hidden in the pockets of his jacket and the hood was pulled up around his head covering dirty blonde hair he knew was hidden beneath. The hazel eyes he couldn't seem to forget were darkened by shadows but it didn't take a genius to figure out who the person in the drawing was.

Whether Soap thought it was a good likeness or not, whether he found the lines to be wrong and some things to not look just right, there was no doubt it was the Lieutenant who stood in the middle of that page. With the fabric clinging a bit too tight to his shoulders and he wasn’t sure if that was because he’d drawn the man’s shoulder’s so large and out of proportion or if he’d done it on purpose. Maybe a bit of both? Probably a bit of both. After all no one ever drew someone as hot as this by accident, even if he wanted to believe he had done it because he’d been compelled to it didn’t matter. He knew somewhere deep in his gut it wasn’t true.

A sigh fell out of his mouth as he ran a finger over the figure, smudging the lines slightly as he did. Caressing what his imagination had created and creating shadows over the figure’s front at the same time. The dark graphite clung to his index finger as he lifted it to take a quick look, rubbing his thumb over it a few times as he continued to contemplate the drawing and every detail he found himself undoubtedly hating and simultaneously enjoying it all at the same time.

It was wrong, he shouldn’t have drawn this man, and yet just the sight of the terrible little sketch made his lips twitch in an attempt to smile that he suppressed nearly immediately. Because it was wrong. This whole thing was wrong, he never should have let himself draw it. If he was going to fantasize about other men then he shouldn’t even be with Thomas. Christ.

His hand flew to the remote on the table beside him, pressing the power button a few times until the TV on the wall finally flickered on. It was the middle of some shite movie, probably went straight to DVD considering how late it was playing. Some American movie about partying and college life or whatever the fuck they did over there rather than studying. He made an attempt to relax back into the couch cushions before his leg began to bounce once more and his mind wandered from the late night movie and back to the face he couldn’t seem to get out of his head.

“Fuckin hell,” he growled to himself as he tossed the remote down onto the couch along with the sketchbook and stood up with a huff of air like he’d made a decision. He had. Hungry. That’s what he was. Nothing else. Well hungry and thirsty. Yeah, he was just hungry and thirsty. He stepped around the end table and made for the kitchen in search of something to sate the hunger he imagined was gnawing at his stomach now.

It didn’t take long for him to fish around inside the cabinets of the kitchen and pull out a bag of crisps from their hiding place before he looked it over in a rush. When had Thomas bought tomato ketchup crisps? He hadn’t had these things in years and it was just nostalgic enough it was all he wanted right now. That man was too good for him and that was a fact. Why was he so bad for him then?

He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard something moving inside his room through the thin walls. ‘Be quiet John, fucks sake,’ he thought to himself before the movement in the other room quieted finally. A light sigh left him before he opened the bag and set them down on the counter next to him. The fingers on his freehand tapped in a steady rhythm on the counter next to him as his eyes turned up to the TV to watch the movie despite his better judgment.

Graphite smudged on the counter tops, turning small spots of the light material into a smattering of his fingerprints that would give a forensic specialist a hard-on. His attention was far from any movie, food, or the countertop he was beginning to stain now though. Even as he shoved a few crisps into his face he couldn’t stop thinking. For one moment could he just let Ghost fade away? The man was god knows where in the world right now and he wasn’t his problem. Thomas was a room away and he had problems far greater than a fantasy he was drawing up about the Lieutenant he couldn’t get out of his head. He needed to focus on the immediate world around him for once, Christ’s sake.

“He’s probably hunting wolves or some stupid shite,” Soap mumbled to himself before he realized that he had said that aloud and glanced around a bit nervously as if expecting to hear a voice asking, ‘Who is out hunting?’ However, it didn’t come. He was alone at least as far as the kitchen and living room were concerned, and there was no way Thomas heard him mumbling through the walls. At least he hoped there wasn’t.

It didn’t take him long before he was drifting towards the cabinets once more and pulling out a bottle of Bacardi before heading back to the couch with the rest of the crisps and his newly acquired bottle of liquor. Cheap and fast. Chase those thoughts away as fast as possible cause otherwise his head was going to fucking explode.

He sat with his feet up on the couch and one arm behind his head to prop himself up while he watched the TV. His other hand was busy unscrewing the cap of the bottle. He didn’t bother to really look at it while his attention stayed on the screen mounted to the wall. Soap had been drinking for a long time now, and yet he’d somehow kept it from being a crutch for his mental stability. Yet for tonight he’d let it win, that little voice that told him to just drown it all because bloody hell all this anxiety was just getting him wound up too tight. Like a rubberband ready to pop under the stress.

The sketchbook mocked him every second he laid there from the other end of the couch. His fingers fidgeted on the neck of the bottle and the edges of the bag as he tried to put his mind somewhere else despite the hazel eyes that continued to flash in his mind like an ill omen. His defeat was near and it was that big cunt that was going to assure it. A long drink pushed the face back from his immediate forethought as he sighed and tried to settle into the couch cushions even as they made his neck and back ache.

Poor Thomas shouldn’t have to deal with him, with any of this shit really. He deserved better. Hell the man had been working his ass off for the past two years, ever since he joined the military. The last thing he needed was a partner who was thinking about other men and tried to kill him in his sleep. And even as he tried to hate himself for it, tried to be disgusted with himself, he couldn’t quite manage it.

How was someone so callous they couldn’t even feel bad about not only fantasizing about another man, but also fantasizing about a man who had never even asked for it? It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Sure Ghost had given as good as he’d gotten, but it was Ghost. The man had the social IQ of a fuckin donut, had the fucker even known what he was doing when he’d flirted back so easily? Probably not.

He rolled over on the couch to his side, trying to put the sketchbook as far into the back of his mind as he could manage. Taking a series of deep breaths he focused solely, or so he tried, on the movie that was playing. Wasn’t easy though when he’d already missed half of the damn thing and it wasn’t exactly interesting to begin with.

“Christ,” he huffed under his breath before he lifted his freehand to his eyes and rubbed at them. They felt dryness and gritty but after a few seconds of rubbing it finally started to ease. And then he was back to drowning the thoughts once more in the bottle of rum. Anything but the thoughts of those broad shoulders, the scarred skin that sat beneath the mask, and hazel eyes that he was slowly but surely turning into a slave for.

~~~~~~(Morning)~~~~~~

“What the fuck, John!?” A loud voice cut through the pounding in his skull. It jolted him awake just as something that was meant to be soft but that the speaker had turned into something that was almost rock solid slammed viciously into his face. “I said, what the fuck, John,” the voice reiterated much louder this time. The pillow from his bed fell off his face and into the floor as he sat up as quickly as he could manage and his eyes shut against the sudden brightness of the living room lights.

Only a groan came from the Scotsman as he tried to gather his thoughts from the night before. The last thing he remembered was eating those chips and then…A movie maybe? Rum. Definitely rum. Rum always hit him hard, not as hard as tequila shots but it wasn’t that much further off. Tentatively he cracked open an eye as he turned just in time to catch Thomas leaning down to grab the empty bottle of said rum off the ground.

Fuckin hell. He’d drank the whole damned bottle? Why hadn’t he thrown that shite away? Oh christ he was gonna regret th- “Why the bloody hell were you drinking last night?” Gray eyes shot across the open space between them as Soap fought to pull words from the depths of his thoughts. Must have been a rhetorical question though because the moment that he raised a finger to stop the other for just a moment Thomas pushed onward with his endless interrogation, “Were you drinking before you came to bed last night, John?”

The azure eyes widened a bit at the accusation as the memories of last night resurfaced and he shook his head. A flash of pain flared behind his eyes both emotional and physical as he shifted towards the edge of the couch, “No, Tom, I wasn’t fuckin drinking. Well not before, ye know, what happened- What I did, I mean…” It seemed that the taller man wasn’t taking the answer either way though. Not with the way his thin lips pursed in barely contained frustration at him.

“We’ve talked about this, John. Alot. You can’t just shove it all down and drink your cares away. It isn’t healthy, my love.” It was clear that worry was driving him. A prick of fear that maybe Soap had finally given in to those urges after so long fighting them down. Even in the frustration of finding him hungover on the couch at 6:00am the man was still more worried about him rather than the purple bruises that had already appeared on his thin neck.

Thomas stepped closer to the couch as Soap continued to fight an internal struggle in regards to his infatuation. The bottle was still in the Brits’ hand as he began inspecting the other items cluttered about that he must have forgotten getting out in his drunken haze the night before. His voice, still marred by frustration, was now tinged with worry as well, “If your head wasn’t feeling right you should have come and talked to me, it isn’t like I slept much last night anyway. You need to start talking to me more, John. That was the whole reason I moved in with you. We weren’t seeing each other enough, remember? The communication wasn’t there. And we were doing so much better before you left on whatever the hell that was,” the pale blonde hair shimmered in the light as he shook his head and sighed, trying not to push too hard so early in the morning.

This was a conversation they’d had before, of course. Not a bit of it was new to either of them, in fact it was all becoming so tiresome now especially with how much his skull was beginning to pound and how early it was. Neither man was in the particular mood to hash this out but hash it they would if that’s what Thomas wanted. Even if part of him just wished that the Brit would stop fucking asking about all of the shite that had happened while he was away. He couldn’t say anything about it whether he wanted to or not.

Words continued to pour from the pale, blonde’s mouth like a torrential river. Fast and unrelenting in its current. Saying things that Soap couldn’t bother to listen to anymore while he tried to nurse his hangover by tuning out the main source of his growing headache. Well he couldn’t be bothered until he saw a hand reaching for the things piled at the end of the couch. Before he could remember just why that was worrying him though the hands had already grabbed the opened sketchbook. Thomas didn’t even react at first as his eyes stared in what seemed akin to confusion before the pale hues darted to look towards the Scot and then back down.

“Who is this?” Who? Who the fuck was who? Soap’s head lifted a bit, the fingers he’d been using to massage the bridge of his nose stopping for a moment while he looked up at the blonde. When his shoulders shrugged in a noncommittal answer along with a subtle shake of his head the other man set his jaw in annoyance, now that was a look the Scot was coming to recognize well. It reminded him of when he’d been scolded as a child, or when his parents had shamed him for something he’d done wrong. A mental punishment in contrast to the more physical skelpt arse he usually received.

When he didn’t answer though it only seemed to spur the other’s emotions on, it wasn’t hard after a sleepless night though, “I asked you who the bloody hell this is, Soap.” Sure he’d asked that, but it was beginning to sound like less and less of a question and more and more like a demand. Pushing himself to his feet the Scot took a step closer, holding out his hand for the sketchbook, only for Thomas to purse his lips a bit more at the action. Rather than handing it over he merely turned the book around to show him before demanding again, “Tell me who this is.”

A spark of rebellion flared in his mind at the command. Nay the order that Thomas was leveling at him. His teeth dug into the meat of his cheek, quite literally biting back a hasty retort that he could feel itching the tip of his tongue. After a night of drinking and no sleep it seemed the both of them were on the edge of their sanity when it came to one another.

Soap tried to come up with as calm of an answer as he could with the growing headache and hard-to-answer questions being thrown about the living room so early in the morning. “It’s just a person Tom. Someone I thought it might be interesting to draw, you know?” Soap’s eyes flicked down to the face in front of him, a bit of shame rising in him as he saw the figure of Ghost staring back at him. Not just the figure though, hazel eyes were currently holding him hostage with their intensity just like they did whenever he saw him in real life.

When the fuck had he drawn Ghost’s face? Hell when did he have the time to color that face!? His breath was stuck in his throat as Thomas withdrew the proffered sketchbook and started flipping through the pages with narrowed and critical eyes. It was like he was looking for something else to get angry about now. Christ he probably was with how he’d been demanding to know who the figure he’d drawn even was. Thomas had always been a jealous one and it was no different now, the man didn’t even have a real person to question him about and yet he was still pissy. About a fucking drawing.

“John I’m not a bloody idiot, you don’t draw people. You never have. And here you are drawing this guy repeatedly. Why?” A sense of stubbornness kept him silent now as the other tried to force an explanation out of him. No doubt his anxieties were driving him up the walls, but Soap’s own were no less shy about making their appearance in this early morning hangover haze. “Is this who you were with in Chicago?” The question slammed into him so hard that part of him wished it had been an actual truck rather than words.

A smattering of syllables fell from his mouth as he tried to form a coherent thought to answer, yet none found him. The only thing he could manage was a look of shock and surprise as if Soap was questioning the absolute audacity that the tall, blonde had to even ask that. Thomas wasn’t even supposed to know he was in Chicago and here he was accusing him of…something. He wasn’t quite sure what it was yet, but there was definitely an accusation being leveled at him right now.

Before he even had a chance to answer him though the Brit sighed and tossed the sketchbook down with a shake of his head, “I’ll take that as a yes and your famous, ‘I cannae tell ye that Tom.’” The other man mocked his accent as he pushed by him with a hard slam from one shoulder to another. He probably deserved that but that didn’t mean Thomas should have done it.

Another wild round of words fell out of his mouth then as Soap started after him with a hasty explanation, “Aye, I cannae tell ye, but just because I can’t doesn’t mean what yer thinking it means, Tom.” The blonde busied himself at the kitchen counter as he grabbed his keys and kept his back facing the Scot with the petulance of a child who was ignoring their crush because they’d said something they didn’t like. “Would ye stop for a second? He’s no one Thomas. No one that mat- He’s just no one. He saved my life and that’s all I can tell ye, okay?” There was a pleading tone in Soap’s voice now, near begging for the other to drop it and just accept what he could tell him which sadly wasn’t all that much.

In a moment Thomas whirled on him, his pale face turning red with frustration and a building sense of anger now. “He’s no one? He’s bloody no one! If he saved your life he’s not no one, John. He’s someone. And if you’re drawing him, he’s more than just someone. Do not fucking lie to me, I don’t appreciate lies and you know that.” Soap groaned a bit as he stepped back, resting his backside against the couch with his hands braced against it. Fingers dug into the fabric of the couch as Thomas grabbed his bag off the ground next to the door.

He tried to take a step forward again as he pleaded, “Thomas Wade would ye just hear me-”

“No!” He stopped with his keys in one hand and the other on the door handle before he took a breath and shook his head, “I’m done hearing you, John. I’ve been hearing you out since you came back last month. I’ve been patient and I’ve been understanding, but you have hurt me in more ways than just one. And last night was not the first time,” he barely managed to get the last words out as Soap sighed and his teeth bit into his bottom lip, chewing at it as he took the verbalized anger that the other was throwing at him. “You won’t even say that you love me, you call me Tom like we’re just mates or some shite, so right now I’m leaving. And you can figure your shite out on your own time, I’m done.” The door swung in on its hinges as Thomas pulled it open and started out before reiterating, “I’m fucking done, John.”

#call of duty #ghost cod #ghost #soap cod #modern warfare #soap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #slow burn #soap mw2 #soap x ghost #ghost x soap #cod modern warfare #cod

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cosmok13 · 26 days

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Skadi is the Norse Goddess of Winter. She was born as a Frost Giant, and the daughter of Thiasse. The Frost Giants were one of the most feared creatures in Norse Mythology, and they had a tense relationship with the Gods. Although, there were some instances that a Frost Giant could gain the rank of God, Loki being a prime example. Despite Skadi's ancestorial nature, she was considered beautiful to many and far more kind-hearted compared to her brethren. She was tough, but wasn't quick to anger so she rarely started a fight. She was admired by the gods for her strength, abilities and beauty. She was also associated as the goddess of the wilderness, bowhunting, skiing and mountains.

The most known myth involving Skadi was how she became a Goddess in the Norse Patheon. After the death of her father, she was the only remaining relative he had, which meant she inherited his kingdom on the mountains. While she was upset about the death of her father, who had been killed by one of the gods, she did not become vengeful. Instead, she requested an audience with their King, Odin. Skadi demanded compensation for her father's death, and because Odin was impressed with her even temper, he agreed. Skadi's request was to be wed to one of the gods, and the one she was in love with was none other than Baldur, who was the Norse God of Light and Peace. Baldur had quite a number of admirers, so it was no surprise that Skadi requested him to be her husband, as even she was smitten with his handsome features. While many young maidens and other goddesses wanted him, Skadi was wise enough to use her father's death as a compensational leverage to arrange a marriage with him.

Despite her beauty and reasonable request, none of the gods wished to marry her and live in the forsty mountains, not even Baldur himself. Skadi was determined to chose her own husband, and they had to comply to satisfy the polite giantess. So, Odin came up with a plan for her to choose a husband by random. The bachelors lined up and stood behind a curtain with only their feet showing. Skadi would pick her groom by the appearance of his feet, which she agreed to as she believed the prince would have the smoothest and prettiest feet of them all. After inspecting every set of feet, she picked the ones that were the least worn, believing it to be Baldur. But when the curtains rose up, the feet belonged to Njord, the god of the wind and the sea. He was an older god and already had two grown daughters, but possessed no wife. Because Skadi chose her own husband, they were forced to marry much to the begrudgement of both gods.

Njord couldn't stand living in the cold mountains, nor could Skadi dare to live by the sea. Because of their inability to live in their partner's respective places, the two ended up separating after 18 nights of marriage, nine of which they spent in Njord's home and the other nine in Skadi's home. Despite the two no longer being married, Skadi kept her Goddess title and was known as the Norse deity that represented Winter.

So, this was my first artwork I did with the leftover diamond dotz I had after a few of my projects. I was originally going to do some Greek deities, but I was watching some Marvel Movies with Thor and Loki at the time and thought: You know what? Why don't I test this out with some Norse Gods cause they don't get nearly enough love as the Greeks. Skadi was such a fascinating character to look up, and I enjoyed coloring her blue skin and giving her and outfit fit for winter and skiing. Honestly, despite her having a cold body, she seemed like such a catch. Any woman who could help you survive winter and give you the blessing of a hunt seemed like such a deal breaker, especially in such times. Though I guess she did get a better deal with the Gods than Loki, but that is up for debate.

I mostly used the dotz to show the title of the Goddess and added them as part of her outfit. I tried to use the other dotz for the environment, but I don't think I did that great of a job. But hey, live and learned. For a first time project, I'm glad it turned out well. And it only helped me learn what not to do for my other projects. I'll be posting more of these Gods/Goddesses/Deities later on. For now, I hope you enjoy Skadi!

#diamond dotz #norse mythology #norse paganism #norse goddess #skadi #painting #tradtional art

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yunarim · 1 year

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our rainbow-coloured days will advance forward, so shine forever

❤︎ summary : Yuuka, a completely ordinary magicless girl, finds herself in an incomprehensible predicament. Soulmates appeared in the human world only a few decades ago and still have many inconsistencies, but Yuuka's case, to her dismay, becomes rather unprecedented.

Apparently, her soulmate is waiting for her somewhere beyond this world. ❤︎ tags : female reader, soulmates, reader is yuu, sfw, fluff, pining in some chapters, one character = one soulmate prompt ❤︎ ao3

ִ ꕤ Good, Bad, Ugly | Vil Schoenheit

⏤ . . . prompt : soulmates see each other’s outfits when they look in the mirror at the same time ⏤ ❤︎ before reading : major chapter 5 spoilers! ; yuuka attends judo club in her original world (like she does in manga - savanaclaw chapter), but that's not the main part of the chapter, just a little feature

The time Vil thought he would get white hair was when he turned fourteen and almost cracked the mirror he was standing in front of, not even slightly considering his own safety and clenching fists furiously, trying to restrain his anger.

He was everything beautiful, the epitome of resplendence, and before all he was a model and an actor since day one.

HIs makeup? Stunning. His outfits? Always on point. His attitude? Absolutely unique.

He felt offended at what he actually witnessed.

Maybe other people would freak out at how an unfamiliar female silhouette appeared through the nebulous stains on the unexpectedly dark mirror. But what’s the point in thinking what others would do in this quandary when his head was rashly filling up with chagrin?

His parents said they’re soulmates. Vil wasn’t interested in their ramblings about the marks they had on their wrists or whatsoever. His soulmate was his career, his bond with it was his proficiency, isn’t it obvious? An axioma engraved on his whole identity.

Well, maybe he’ll start paying attention to how soulmates work, but not now. Now he was ready to set this mirror ablaze, anything would do just in order to get rid of this revolting image.

Almost transparent female figure appeared in the mirror, replacing Vil’s reflection. She turned around a few times, double checking her outfit, and with that she nodded, apparently, now focusing on fixing her hair, or so he guessed. She had no face, no distinguishing features such as skin, eyes and hair color, just the contours of the body and hair, like soap stains on the surface of the water, embracing her silhouette.

This was beautiful, indeed, but the accents on her outfit was absolutely terrifying.

What’s with that sweater with stretched sleeves? What about shabby jeans that haven't been ironed for, Vil was afraid to even make an assumption, centuries? What happened to her sneakers, why were the laces tied so disproportionately?

Oh Sevens, it’s excruciatingly painful. He — The Vil Schoenheit — did forgot what he was supposed to do today, the only image of her disarray outfit remained in his memory, haunting him during the yoga session.

Out of all soulmates he got a walking fashion disaster. Great. Perfect. Wonderful.

He then learnt this was a rather uncommon soulmate bond shape, since usually cases connected with mirrors were the ones where soulmates saw each other's reflections, but outfits?.. Moreover, in order to confirm whether the person he could suspect was his soulmate or not, he needed to stand in front of the mirror with his soulmate at the same time, and then something will happen. What a strange condition.

He sighed at first, disappointed that all his attention wasn’t aimed at his work only, but now this whole kindred spirits mess turned out to be his problem too.

When Vil succeeded in his career greatly and was a magnificent young boy of sixteen, he thought of his soulmate as an opportunity to teach her some fashion tips. She was no longer a stylist’s preteen nightmare, he thought maybe he could consider her clothes choices at least decent. But these abhorrent sneakers of hers were giving him a hard time. In the name of Great Sevens, just do your lacing up right!..

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

Shit, Yuuka thought, when she saw a male translucent figure in the mirror, scaring the hell out of her.

Her parents were on cloud nine when her soulmate bond finally materialized. They always taught her that there is a perfect prince charming waiting for her somewhere, and there must be something — maybe a mark on her body, or some kind of timer, or at least mental bond, just anything which will help her recognize her kindred spirit!

Yuuka didn’t want a soulmate, she wanted to live her own life, was having a soulmate a really necessary thing? For what exactly? She could manage on her own, no need for someone interfering in her business. There was nothing wrong in pursuing her dreams, so why did everyone around her go crazy about her not having a soulmate?

Her mother almost suggested having a celebration party, but Yuuka declined, stating she still had a workout to do since she was quite persistent in wanting to win a judo competition.

Doing squatting exercises, she suddenly thought how elegant her soulmate was. Yuuka appreciated how neat his school uniform was, his hair was styled perfectly, lovely expensive-looking barrettes adorned the strands. She didn’t dwell on her own appearance much, her everyday outfit choices based on what were the first things which accidentally fell out of the closet and looked at least decent, not having an unpleasant smell or anything like that.

By the age of sixteen Yuuka understood the concept of her peers trying to experiment with their looks, always looking absolutely stunning in their new dresses or suits, and she thought that maybe… maybe there was a point in trying.

Her parents thought she was trying to attract her soulmate, at which she just laughed and brushed off such a silly assumption, but there was one little problem.

The heels.

Seriously, people who wear them are both crazy and admirable, the amount of skill and composure needed was enormous. Yuuka removed the box with her mother’s shoes in the far corner of the closet, pulling out her usual sneakers and lacing them up in a messy way.

That was the time she saw quite a peculiar outfit on her soulmate’s silhouette, covering her mouth with her hand in awe.

Long, furisode-like indigo robe looked as if it was made from silk, dragged on the floor. High slits were revealing delicate hands, but Yuuka did sports herself, noticing strong muscles beneath black long-sleeved garment.

Her gaze lingered on the godly fine waist, tied with a corset and emphasizing the magnificence of his figure. Yuuka brushed off her thoughts until she hadn’t become a flustered mess, and focused on an intricate design instead, then a realization hit her hard.

He definitely was a cosplayer!!

Jeez, sure thing, why would he wear such royal looking outfits in the first place? People don’t even wear clothes like this in their everyday life anymore, it isn’t Renaissance!

She wondered, though, which fandom it was, but had no desire in figuring it out. She sighed, taking off her dress and replacing it with her sportswear, ready to exercise.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

She recognized these outfits right away when she got isekaied into Twisted Wonderland.

Why wouldn’t she? They were memorable ones, not to mention all this magical atmosphere, like, yeah… the setting allowed to wear such peculiar things.

Did she care about her own outfits even still? No.

In any case, she did not have enough money to provide herself with a girls uniform, not to mention even casual clothing. Yuuka was quite fine with accustoming leftover boys uniform to her size.

Maybe it was good idea to let Azul sign a contract with her, agreeing on his insane terms and just work to the bone in Mostro Lounge in order to earn at least something so she could buy herself a few new outfits, but then again, these overblots cases were her top priority during her staying here in Twisted Wonderland.

The only thing she had beside school uniform were her pajamas. Simple black pants, long gray shirt that the ghosts found in a dilapidated chests in the attic and, of course, her sneakers she used to wear when she got here. Her outfit was the simplest one she has ever worn, but it was still something, moreover pants were comfortable to go jogging around the Ramshackle dorm, and the shirt miraculously did not get dirty while Yuuka was cleaning her establishment.

Meanwhile her soulmate was experimenting with his outfits, astonishing things from his dorm uniform to casual clothes were something she admired and didn’t even realize she grew love to observe.

All she did know was that her soulmate was a Pomefiore student, but there were so many of them!! Of course, she had a peculiar acquaintance with him through the mirror long ago, she did observe his absolutely gorgeous stunning incredible magnificent bewitching waist figure, his height and build, but still no face or at least something that could help her to distinguish him from others.

Oh. Then again, she didn’t even care about those things since she had her judo club and her own world she needed to return sooner or later.

Or did she?

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

VDC was another level of self-stressing.

So many events happened, and Yuuka thought it was over when Vil overblotted. Her thoughts tangled in her head, collapsing into a foggy maze of sorts, and right before the moment she was snatched out of death’s intimidatingly welcoming arms, she thought she wanted to be dressed up by her soulmate at least once.

“Haha,” she laughed a bit hysterically when she woke up, Rook and Epel holding her under the arms so she won’t fall again. “Did the Fairest of them all just hear me?”

“Shit, are you crazy or something?! Girl, you’ve almost died, are you alright?!” Epel cursed near her ear, making her frown but smile nevertheless.

“Y-yeah, I guess… How’s Vil?”

“I am very sorry, everyone,” he turned his gaze to her, an unknown emotion on his face, a wild mix of worry and disgust at himself. “And potato.”

“It is okay now, I’m just glad you’re alright.”

Then Malleus appeared, shocking everyone with Yuuka calling him by a nickname, a welcoming, gentle smile on her face when the Diasomnia dorm leader restored the ruined stage.

Yuuka helped everyone with preparations, as a manager should do, but then realized that her school uniform was ripped off here and there, scraps of cloth hung from her elbows. Vil almost gasped in horror when he remembered she was just a human with no magic abilities, meaning there was no way she could restore her clothes just like the others did.

“Potato, wait a second,” he said, tapping her shoulder gently. “Come with me for a moment.”

“Oh? The show is about to start, are you sure?..”

“Just come.”

Yuuka nodded slightly, following Vil until they reached the dressing room for the participants. Vil's fingers traced the hangers, his selective gaze not even lingering long on the things Yuuka could only dream of, still restrained with a tight budget she had.

“Hm, that would do,” he pulled the hanger with an outfit on it and handed it to the startled girl. “Change quickly, I’ll do the rest.”

She obliged, noticing how Vil turned away respectfully, his composure as steady as ever. Pulling off the already barely holding pieces of clothing on her body, Yuuka couldn't take her eyes off Vil's graceful back, peering at his elegant waist and—

Wait. Wait, wait.

She recognized these refined curves, almost gasping out loud at how familiar they were. Trying her best in order to not come off as disrespectful or something, she took a deep breath and finally changed her clothes, ignoring pink dust on her cheeks.

“I’m ready,” she said softly, noticing Vil was preoccupied with choosing an accessory for completing her outfit.

He turned to her, startled for a mere second, but quickly collected himself. He was an actor, the familiar features he saw in his mirror couldn’t sweep him off his feet so easily. Or so he thought…

“Hm, now this outfit is a pleasant sight to witness on you. Would you like to take a look at yourself?”

Yuuka nodded, taking a few steps closer to the mirror.

Her current outfit was a mix of black trousers, a milky-coloured turtleneck with a low collar and a dark jacket that was a bit wide at the shoulders, but was stylishly tied with a wide belt, complementing her body. She never thought she would pull off this simple outfit so perfectly.

The corners of Vil’s lips curved up, and he approached her, staring at her genuine smile quite dearly and not even realizing he was captivated by how adorable she was.

Was it her sincerity which made him feel more relaxed in her presence? He was an attention seeker, there is no doubt, but still it was so hard to receive her solicitude since she never said anything in order to sugarcoat and take advantage of his status and fame. She was just genuine and that felt so nice.

“Almost perfect, but allow me to finish this with one little touch on your outfit.”

“Sure, go ahead. I trust you.”

The way she said such powerful words in such a sincerely heartwarming way. Oh Sevens, how appealing she was in that tenderness of hers.

He approached her, placing a beret on her head and turned his gaze to the mirror alongside hers when the mirror suddenly cracked with a ringing noise.

What the hell.

Yuuka startled, grabbing Vil’s hand in shock. He welcomed her unperceived embrace and pulled her a bit closer, gently grabbing her chin with his fingers and observing attentively.

“Uhm, Vil?..” she let out a small cute noise, trying to not avert her gaze from him.

“Just checking whether you’re hurt, potato. Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I am,” she placed her hands on his waist absolutely unconsciously. When she realized what she actually did right now, she was quick to move her hands away only to be caught in Vil’s sudden embrace. “O-oh! Or maybe I am not.”

“Hm, I almost thought that you could try acting with how composed you usually are, but I guess I was wrong. Moreover there is no way I would let you take a step out the campus when you’re a walking fashion disaster.”

She calmed down at his joking, but still hesitated for a moment. Vil sighed and gently caressed her cheek, encouraging to speak out her thoughts.

“We still have a few minutes before the show starts, so… Would you mind if I suggest something really strange?”

“Normally I would,” Vil confessed. “But I trust you too, potato, go on.”

“May I, ugh… Touch your waist?”

Vil laughed, and this was the first time Yuuka saw his little fangs, trying to get rid of the thoughts she didn’t want to dwell on.

“What a lucky person you are,” he placed one of his hands on her own waist, one remained still on her cheek. “You may.”

Vil felt his entire body shudder at her almost weightless touch. Making sure that she wasn't causing any inconvenience, Yuuka became more assertive, snuggling a little closer, the blush on her cheeks getting brighter every second.

Yes, it was the same waistline she stared at for longer than she would admit to herself in front of the mirror.

“I believe we’re both no fools, so I assume you’re my soulmate, which is absolutely fine by me,” he cupped her face in his hands, almost melting under her touch but trying to resist the temptation right at the moment. “But potato, what the hell were you wearing during your school days? And black yoga pants and this shabby gray shirt of yours? What were you thinking?”

“Well,” she giggled, her voice getting lower as she felt how Vil got closer, his breath almost on her lips. “At least you’re there now to resolve my fashion problem.”

“And again, you have no idea how lucky you are,” he closed his eyes.

“I guess I have.”

She was about to dissolve into tenderness, but a sudden knock on the door ruined the whole idyll, forcing the two to pull away from each other with an effort to look at the disturber of their peace.

“Roi du Poison, we have no time left and— Oh.”

“Rook,” Vil sighed, returning his gaze to Yuuka.

“Hate to admit, but I’ll wait. Slay first, kisses second.”

“Hm, I might like the wording. Alright, let’s go, but first.”

He took a Pomefiore colored ribbon from the table and tied it around her arm, smirking proudly.

❤︎ notes : song : good, bad, ugly - red velvet ah yes vil my beloved

#twst #twisted wonderland #vil x reader #vil schoenheit

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2a8n · 9 months

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Addition to "Mini Wolf"

Something caught my eyes about the design of that unnamed character on the right art. At first I couldn't formulate what it was, but then I saw Shiroma's snow witch character's portrait and it dawned on me: their jackets(?) are the same, in terms of the basic model of clothing in general. And the color of their skin, hair and eyes are also the same (all white).

Then I saw a merch on OkegomWiki with this snow witch and Christmas tree. And I remembered that the DSP's artwork I showed earlier with Samekichi and Wadda for the New Year's greeting also had a Christmas tree painted on it. These trees were not seen on Iceberg Isle, which is located in the North, which is one of the reasons for assuming that our loving couple is not on Iceberg Isle. But in this case, can we still assume that the place with the Christmas tree is not on the North Pole, but on the South Pole?

Next we have the snowmens: note that in Shiroma's portrait the snowman has a gray bow tie, the same color as the fur on the sleeves of the witch's jacket(?), and a bucket hat, so to speak, of dark brown colors, the same color as the witch's mittens. Then notice the snowman that Wadda is holding - he already has the scarf, but the bucket hat remains. The color is also different when compared to the snowman in Shiroma's hands. Next we have Suno-san: a snowman that differs from the previous snowmens not only in the color of his scarf and hat, but also in his size (we can safely assume that he is taller than Rock in animal form, whose height is 70 cm). Moreover, his blue-colored outfit is clearly similar to the scarf and hat of the previously mentioned unnamed character (while the drawing of this character itself is made mostly in blue and white colors).

And what conclusions can we come to in the end? Well, my reasoning has personally led me to the following: 1) In addition to the existence of a family of Sea Witches (Meikai, Wadda herself, and Minami), it's quite likely that a family of Snow Witches could also reside in the world of Wadanohara and Ice Scream. At the very least, some similarities between Shiroma and that unnamed character might lead us to think that they are related (perhaps sisters?); 2) Maybe their world has North and South poles, and as such, Shiroma might answer/reside at the South Pole and that unamed character at the North Pole. But since both polar bear and penguins live on Iceberg Isle (they usually live on different poles), we can assume that the author "united" the North and South poles and there is only the cold North, or that the inhabitants of the South and North poles are in contact with each other and are able to move from one cold place to another (remember Aom, the giant river shrimp, that originally was not a resident of the Sea Kingdom, but moved there); 3) Based on the idea that that character and Shiroma are related, then it is also worth noting that their "family feature" is most likely that they have companion snowmen (and they should all have bucket hats ). By Shiroma's is a snowman with a bow tie. By the currently unnamed character has Suno-san (he may not be unique in this regard, but for now I will stick to the assumption that he is "one of a kind", as is the case with the rest of the snowmens). But at the same time, we also have the 3rd snowman, which was shown along with Wadda. Does it mean that there is also a 3rd snow witch or DSP decided to redesign Shiroma's snowmen - it's not clear…

And as a BONUS: the title logo has an emblem with a snowman. At the same time, Shiroma has the same emblem with a snowman on her scarf. The only difference is that the bucket hat hat on the emblem of the snow witch is depicted to our left, and on the logo - to our right. However, we most likely see the emblem on the inside of the scarf, so on the other side of the scarf it will look exactly like the snowman emblem on the Ice Scream logo. :)

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paperanddice · 2 months

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Psoglavs are unnerving looking creatures, even among other demons. Standing on average over 10 feet tall, their head is dog-like with a single eye in the center of its face and a metal jaw. Often they wear helmets that fully encase their head, though some lack this feature. The skin on their torso is a raw read, and they have bat like wings, a studded tail, and horse legs. Unlike many demons their claws are weak, but their metal jaws make up for that as a deadly weapon.

These demons are forged from raw Abyssal material by more powerful demons, and due to this artificial nature they tend to be more loyal and controllable than other demons. This doesn't make them safe to summon, just easier to predict, but relying too heavily on that can cause a summoner to lower their guard at the wrong moment. Psoglavs hate light, though they can function within it without issue if necessary. They will always remain within shadows and darkness whenever possible however.

This affinity for shadows extends to their key feature, the ability to emit a beam from their eye that can knock a creature off of its shadow. The abandoned shadow is placed under the psoglav's control, and it always tries to ensure the death of the shadow's original owner so that the psoglav can retain it forever as a minion. Or, at least as long as possible before its more chaotic impulses cause it to be careless with its minion and the shadow gets destroyed. Some say that the psoglav's shadow minions can control the body of their original owner upon death, but such silly and superstitious rumors should never be trusted.

Inspired by the Tome of Beasts 1. This post came out a week ago on my Patreon. If you want to get access to all my monster conversions early, as well as access to my premade adventures and other material I’m working on, consider backing me there!

Pathfinder 2e

Psoglav (Shadow Bonded Demon) Creature 7 Large, Demon, Fiend, Unholy Perception +15; darkvision Languages Abyssal, Common, Telepathy 100 feet Skills Acrobatics +14, Athletics +15, Intimidation +12, Stealth +15 Str +5, Dex +6, Con +5, Int +3, Wis +4, Cha +3 AC 27; Fort +14, Ref +15, Will +13; +1 status to all saves vs. magic HP 130; Weaknesses cold iron 10, holy 10 Creation Vulnerability The psoglav is linked to its shadow spawn. Each time a shadow spawn created by Shadow Ray is destroyed, the psoglav takes 3d6 mental damage. Speed 35 feet, fly 60 feet Melee jaws +16 (magical, unholy), Damage 1d12+11 piercing plus 1d6 spirit Divine Innate Spells DC 23 ; 5th dimension door; 4th dimension door (at will), invisibility; Shadow Ray [1 action] (divine, necromancy, shadow) The psoglav emits a beam from its single eye, targeting one creature within 60 feet of it. The target must attempt a DC 25 Reflex save. The psoglav can't use Shadow Ray again for 1d4 rounds. Critical Success The creature is unaffected Success The creature is pushed 10 feet directly away from the psoglav. Failure The creature is pushed 20 feet directly away from the psoglav and becomes drained 1. Critical Failure The creature is pushed 20 feet directly away from the psoglav, becomes drained 2, and leaves its shadow in the spot it started. Its shadow is transformed into a shadow spawn. The shadow spawn is under the control of the psoglav. It doesn't have Shadow Spawn or Steal Shadow as long as it is a shadow spawn. The shadow spawn survives for 1d12 days, during which the creature has no shadow. Once the shadow spawn dies, the creature's shadow returns. If the original creature dies, the shadow spawn becomes a full-fledged shadow, gains Steal Shadow, but is still under the control of the psoglav. The target becomes temporarily immune to having its shadow stolen for 24 hours, even if it regains its shadow during that time, but can still be affected by the rest of Shadow Ray's abilities.

13th Age

Psoglav 4th level leader [demon] Initiative: +7 Metal Jaws +9 vs. AC - 12 damage. C: Shadow Stealing Ray +9 vs. PD (one nearby enemy) - 5 negative energy damage, the target pops free from all enemies, a shadow spawn is created where the creature was (see below), and the target is immune to shadow stealing ray for the rest of the battle. The shadow spawn follows the psoglav’s orders and enters the initiative order after the next two creatures have taken their turns. See shadow spawn stats at end of this entry. Limited Use: The psoglav can use this ability only when the escalation die is even. Flight. Shadow Door: 2/battle (not two turns in a row), as a move action, the psoglav can teleport to a nearby location. AC 20 PD 18 MD 17 HP 54 Level 3 Shadow Spawn Strength Stealing Touch +8 vs. PD - 7 negative energy damage. Natural 16+: The target is also weakened until the end of the shadow spawn’s next turn. Steal Shadow: If the shadow spawn reduces an enemy to 0 hit points, it creates a new shadow spawn at full hit points. It follows the same rules for shadows created by shadow stealing ray. Shadow Resistance: The shadow spawn has resist damage 14+ to all damage except holy and force damage. AC 17 PD 19 MD 15 HP 15

#pathfinder 2e #13th age #homebrew #my homebrew #monster #fiend #demon #pathfinder level 7 #13th age level 4 #long post #tome of beasts

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gust-jar-simulator · 7 months

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Reasons to redo the Gerudo look, featuring a heavy emphasis on Ancient Egypt since they keep being associated with pyramids and mummies:

While the Egyptians could and did walk around showing off a lot of skin- it’s been mentioned at least once that Cleopatra wore a linen dress so fine that it hid nothing- they were absolutely not shy about colors and beauty in all forms. Much of the art I can grab from a search engine has modern coloring, but for example the upper right image with Sekhmet is entirely original. Also, scale dress.

Alright, maybe you want to know what a warrior would wear. Understandable! A lot of the tomb offerings of infantry soldiers (in statue form) feature a shield, spear, and loincloth from what I can tell. A shendyt. Since videogame devs are cowards and we have to cover the torsos of the Gerudo somehow, I’ve added in what nobles or the pharaoh might wear. Note the existence of fishnet.

While the Gerudo don’t have any lore reasons to be interested in falcon wings, this is more of a food for thought sort of suggestion. BOTW incorporated a lot of lotus imagery we can use, and they have a history with a snake themed goddess.

Here’s some slightly more modern illustrations based on bas relief art.

And last but not least: Egypt has such a dry climate that we actually have textile remains. The original colors are faded, but behold one of my favorite artifacts of all time.

#the Gerudo deserve better

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titlemewickedwonderland · 2 years

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Mr. Sandman (Chapter 8)

Summary: Felicity Burgess, the adopted daughter of Alex Burgess and Paul McGuire lived a sheltered life from the dark secret that lay beneath her feet. But what happens when that secret is now her's to keep? Will her love for her family keep her from doing the right thing or will Mr. Sandman bring her a dream worth sacrificing everything?

Chapter Triggers: Slight fluff

"Dreams are more profound when they are the most crazy." - Sigmund Freud

Click here for Chapter 7

Wonderland's Workshop

It was sad. Seeing the castle the way it never should have ever been. It looked terrible. The throne room itself could have been something extraordinary in its full glory. Large rocks of stone crumbled and piled upon each other on the ground. Shattered pieces of colorful glass came from the floor-to-ceiling masterpiece of a mosaic window behind the platform where a throne once sat. It was dark and gloomy inside this room as if it sat forgotten for centuries. It did, now that she came to think of it. She imagined this room once was something grand. Did parties get thrown within this very room? Guests of the Dreaming dancing, laughing, and feasting together? Was there a happiness that once made this room glow with laughter and peels of the joy of others' company? Would she ever know? She should not feel the guilt that dug its clawed into her heart the longer she looked around the room. The faint light from the remaining glass windows made this place look like the pathetic ruins it was. She knew it was not her fault; she wasn't born when Roderick Burgess captured Dream of the Endless. But it was still her family that did him wrong and as one who bore the name; she too felt as if the crime against him was her own.

Glass crunched beneath her boots as she cautiously stepped inside. She could almost think she could feel the very castle itself weep with the hope of another living soul entering its halls after so long of an absence. The sigh that left her lungs was heavy and echoed in the open space. She sat on a large crumbled stone that once was a piece of this place and drew her knees to her chest. She was struggling to understand the events that had transpired recently; the identity crisis was a real thing at that moment in time as she wondered what everything meant. She could chalk everything up to just being some misunderstanding at the end of the day. But the way Lucienne and Morpheus spoke about the very idea she, Felicity Burgess, did not exist made her skin crawl as if she was not even human. Was she human? Of course, she was! She ate, slept, cried, and experienced life just like every other human in her world. But there was still so much she didn't understand about Morpheus's world.

It made her think back to the interactions she'd had with the Dream Lord. Not only just the interactions, but the pull they seemed to share. It was not normal. Did she have some sort of reverse Stockholm syndrome or something? Falling for the prisoner instead of the prisoner falling in love with their capture? But she was not Morpheus's captor. She was just a girl who had been dragged into all of this. Now, she was told she may have more purpose than she truly thought. If they can find her origin story that is.

She did not hear him come into the room. She was so lost in thought she had not felt him enter until his voice broke through the silence of the open space around her. Echoing in just a way that reminded her of something old and hauntingly ancient.

"I believe I owe you an apology."

She was startled looking over towards the door to find his tall frame slowly sulking from the shadows and into the pale light as he drew near. His features were troubled with something she could not place but she was secretly happy that he was coming to apologize. At least he had some sort of manners. She knew the little flutter in her chest wasn't just happy to hear him say sorry but just from the mere presence of him near her; of him seeking her out to talk to her.

"Glad we are on the same page. Because that was a dick move earlier Morpheus." the curse falling from her mouth made the man blink at her in mild surprise but he did not say anything about the crudity of it; she was troubled right now and it best not to get on her bad side while he was here to apologize.

"I acted irrationally earlier. I do admit." he took a step closer as if gauging her approachability. "I feared perhaps I had trusted the wrong people again and placed my realm in even more danger."

Felicity sighed then and dropped her feet back onto the floor; palms leaning against the cold stone of the rock she sat on and leaned towards him. "I'm not mad as I was before Morpheus…but I suppose Matthew did have a point." she tilted her head watching him. "You've lost a lot all because of my family's greed and selfishness, I can understand that having my presence near while I bear the Burgess name can be a bit difficult."

She rose to her feet and waved her arms around idly as she walked further into the room. "I feel as if I should be the one telling you sorry for everything. You were only doing what you thought was right at the moment; can't fault you for that," she replied smoothly; she didn't want any more doom and gloom in this space already possessed.

She could hear the crunch of stone and glass beneath Morpheus's boots as he followed her deeper into the room. She stopped by the steps and looked up at the crumbling throne for a long moment before she shot the Dream Lord a glance over her shoulder before she was skipping up the steps quickly. When she got to the top she spun around to face the front of the room and gawked.

"Damn Morpheus, I see why you like to be king. Nice view." she teased only half joking.

She could only imagine how it must have looked from his eyes on days that were filled with peace and prosperity. She watched from her perch as the lord of the castle slowly; with measured steps almost as if he were stalking prey, strode up one step at a time with purpose until he stood with one foot braced on the top step and he peered up at her in a way that made her hold her breath. She didn't imagine the Lord of Dreams often allowed himself to physically be on a lower level than others.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked suddenly as she scanned his face. Her voice was soft but there was an intensity about her gaze that was desperate for answers.

He paused with lips parted slightly as if he was lost for words. Instead, he turned and sat down on the steps with his arms braced on his propped legs. He was silent for so long that Felicity thought that he would choose to ignore the question. But when his voice slowly began to speak with purposeful she was keen to listen.

"I do not make friends. I do not understand humanity in the way my sister Death does. For this, I often falter when it comes to interacting with those of my creation and those from the Waking World."

The girl mulled over that information before she slowly allowed her body to sink onto the step next to him. "You know," she began softly as she looked ahead at the rumble below them

"When I was going up, people would often turn away from me and refuse to allow their children to play with me all because I had the last name of an old man who was scorned and cast aside for his ideals and practices. They said I would follow in his footsteps and practice magic," she said slowly.

"I never understood how humanity could so easily throw people away because views did not match or…or people just wanting to live their lives in ways that were not those of common folks with the same clone minds, you know?" a sad smile graced her features as she looked over at Morpheus who was watching her with an expressionless face.

"W-what I'm trying to say is…humanity has many layers to it. A lot of the time history will repeat itself because people fear taking that step to break the cycle that our ancestors have created for the future. The thing is, history is the past for a reason; it's like a mistake you know. It happened and we can choose to either learn from it or repeat it until we do learn it. But that does not mean that there are not good people out there Morpheus." she swallowed and raised a hand to slip it beneath his arm to lightly grasp hold of his bicep.

"Hope never dies because there are far too many opportunities and people out there to be able to kill it. So, if you don't understand humanity now doesn't mean that you cannot be taught." she smiled softly at him before she rose to her feet and took one step down the stairs before her wrist was caught in a cold palm making her turn to look up at Morpheus who was staring at her with this almost…soft look on his face.

"Will you teach me?"

The question came out as a surprise to Felicity but her lips curled up into a smile regardless as she felt that buzz thrum in her chest even stronger. Letting out a soft laugh she leaned herself down to be eye level with him; her smile turning a bit teasingly as she tilted her head, her auburn locks falling over her shoulders

"Only if you admit we are friends." she squinted at him playfully and she was rewarded by the tiniest of smirks on his lips

"I don't have friends Felicity."

she pouted and straightened up again pretending she was going to leave as she turned. "Well, then I guess we don't have a deal," she replied

She felt him more than she heard him as he rose to his full height and his hand reach out to grab her arm; spinning her right back around only this time he stood only one step above her and she had to crane her head up to meet his blue eyes as they stared down at her through half-lidded lashes as if he was trying to communicate something with his eyes that his words could not express fully.

Biting the inside of her cheek she tapped his chest lightly with a finger. "How about this, you help me find who I am Morpheus, and I help you find your tools with whatever I have at my disposal. After we are both happy with the results; you can decide whether I'm worthy of being called your friend." she offered as she studied his features.

They slowly darkened but she didn't let him argue with her. "You need those tool to rebuild this realm and frankly you can use all the damn help you can find considering the only people you have on your side right now is a librarian and a raven," she told him with eyes darkening in return. "You don't have a choice and frankly, neither do it. It's mutually beneficial to each other."

He seemed to take a breath as he mulled over her words. Finally, he nodded silently and allowed her arm to go. She gave a big grin and turned around again to descend the stairs.

"Great! Come find me when you decide your gonna go hopping off somewhere in search of your tools!" she called cheerily

She didn't see the way Morpheus's face darkened and his body stiffen as he slowly returned to his seat on the top steps staring at the door where the redheaded spitfire had disappeared seconds before.

She should have known it wouldn't last long. The feeling of trust. The feeling of safety. The feeling of belonging. Because just as she found herself getting comfortable in the Dreaming realm thinking everything would be sorted in due time; she could trust Morpheus. He decided to pull this stunt. She thought they were making progress. Felicity sitting in the Library of Dreaming; pouring herself over one of the volumes about the creation of The Dreaming she found so fascinating. So pulled into the words well written on the pages in front of her she didn't hear or register the sound of rushed footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Felicity! Felicity, come quickly! Morpheus has returned!" Lucienne seemed excited as she pulled herself up to the top step.

The auburn-haired girl turned her attention to the librarian a bit startled to see the woman out of breath. Lucienne never rushed anywhere even in haste. But there was something within her dark eyes that made Felicity's heart rate pick up. What had gotten the woman so excited that she dared to run to find the girl? Gently, she closed the book and rose to her feet. She did not bother to put it back if the Librarian was in such a rush.

"What are you talking about Lucienne? What's gotten you so excited about Morpheus's return?" Felicity laughed a bit even when the feeling of curiosity shone through her gaze as she met the woman at the steps

"He and Matthew have just returned from the Waking world. They have found your necklace!" the woman pressed in urgency; eyes wide with pleasing nature.

"They found it?" the words came out of a breath of awe. "I...I didn't think they'd ever find it!" she gasped to herself.

"Come!" Lucienne urged with a hand on the girl's arm as she led her down the winding stairs and out of the comfort of the Library.

They were speed walking as they could without full-on sprinting across the hallways towards the outside doors. When they opened Felicity could make out two black shapes in the distance just appearing as the large ivory doors growled to a close behind them. She felt her heart leap in her chest in the same excitement the librarian had shown minutes before and she decided since it was her mission; she should be the first to intercept no matter how curious and quick Lucienne wanted to get her hands on the necklace with the ring. So she was quick to push past her friend to full-on run through the dunes of sand towards the man and raven.

"You found it?" she called as she got near hearing distance.

Matthew soared in the sky and circled above her before following her as she met up with Morpheus. But there was something wrong in his face when she caught sight of it. Something troubling made her pause her excitement. The smile she had on her face tightened a bit as she tried not to fight the pull of panic in her chest at his expression. Did he not find it? Was something wrong with it? Did he have to pull it out of Paul's dead grip or something? She prayed not.

"Morpheus...what's that look for..." she trailed off

The man did not say anything; merely glanced her way before passing by her to meet with Lucienne at the bridge. He ignored her. It's never a good sign when he ignores her. The panic was beginning to rise faster now as she lifted her gaze to Matthew; one arm extending above her head to allow him to perch on her wrist before drawing him in front of her face.

"Tell me..." she demanded staring the bird down grimly. "What. Happened?"

The raven ruffled his feathers a bit and cocked his head as if to look over his shoulder at his master. "I-I can't tell yah kid." his voice was apologetic as he hopped in place on her wrist. "It'd be better if the boss told you."

And with that, he took off towards the pair in the distance that was beginning to make their way inside the castle once more. Felicity, feeling left out at that moment fought the childish urge to just run away. But she knew she shouldn't; this after all was her doing. She had asked for Morpheus and Lucienne's help even if she was a little salty that they were not telling her everything. So she tucked that stubborn streak back inside of her and bite her tongue before she rushed towards the castle.

When she got inside she saw the elder pair standing talking in hushed voices in the lobby but upon seeing her entry zipped up tight. She squinted at them before stalking over and holding her hand out.

"Where is it?" she demanded

Morpheus looked down at her empty palm and then at her with a cocked brow. "You will not be getting the ring back. Not until we have sorted some business-"

"It's my ring Morpheus! You don't have the right to reject my demand."

His voice was a growl as he leaned over her. "I said what I said, Felicity."

Her mouth dropped open a minute before her open palm smacked him on the chest. The action resulted in Matthew squawking in surprise and a startled gasp escape the librarian who placed a hand to her chest as if she was gobsmacked that anyone dared hit the Lord of Dreams. Felicity on the other hand could feel the silent rumble coming from the dream lord as his hand shot out to grasp her wrist tightly. He turned to her, his body pressed just centimeters from touching her as his blue eyes nearly turned black.

"Dare to touch me again and there will be consequences." the threat was clear even if said punishment wasn't.

But Felicity knew angering this man was never a good idea, and she had done just that. The second, or was it the third, time since she'd entered the realm. The palpable power that radiated off of him was like a fire scorching her skin and a whimper left her lips unbidden. At the sound, Morpheus's gaze shifted and he withdrew a bit and allowed his grip to ease on her wrist. He realized too late that the skin beneath his fingers was turning red. Swallowing down his pride he let go altogether before speaking in a softer tone despite his anger

"Go wait in the library. I will seek you out shortly."

Keeping tears from her eyes, the girl took a step away from him; stumbling on her second before she was quick to spin around with a flurry of auburn locks and nearly run from the room. The echo of her rushed footsteps was loud in Morpheus's ears.

"Sir...what..." Lucienne tried to find words

Without a word, the dream lord slid a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a long chain. It was a delicate silver; sparkling in the feeble light shining through the windows making it look like starlight weaved through the chainlinks. But it was the ring that hung from the end that captured the pair's attention. It was most definitely not a feminine creation. It was large and it was chunky gold metal. The band was thick and there was a gold octagon shape plate that had engravings in the metal that surrounded a jewel set in the middle. But the problem was, it was no human-made jewel that resided inside the ring. But it shone the deepest of red that looked like a droplet of blood and inside the hardened case of the jewel swirled something liquid inside just beneath the surface as if it carried real blood within it.

"Is that a...?" Lucienne breathed horrified as she recognized the ancient language that was engraved in the gold medal.

Morpheus held the dangling ring in the light a bit more as he spoke. "It's a binding ring," he murmured. "And I know I have seen such as this before. For it's that mortal man that refuses to die who possessed it once in time. Though, it did not have the essence it carries now."

"Do you speak of Hob Gadling, sir?" Lucienne asked with a frown as she looked over at her ruler.

"I do." he met her gaze seriously. "and I believe it's time I visited my old acquaintance."

Click here for chapter 9

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