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fistsoflightning · 8 months

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if you catch a rogue a fish

ffxivwrite2023 04: OFF THE HOOK allowed or able to avoid blame, responsibility, obligation, or difficulty.

syhrwyda, valdis, zaya, & a fish. a really big fish. 913 wc.

“And you brought this t’ port… why?”

Even with a small crowd gathering around her and Syhrwyda, Valdis seemed just as unflappable as ever—at most, a touch confused. Zaya watched in amusement from the relative safety of the Fisherman’s Guild’s archway as she glanced at the forty-fulm-long fish floating in a bubble by the guild pier, swimming restlessly in loops, and said, “Wanted to show Tehra’ir. And ask for one of his daggers to eat it, but that’s later.”

Syhrwyda’s face made an incredible journey in the span of a few seconds from baffled through concerned straight into a replica of the face Y’shtola gave Zaya that one time they admitted they ate a lightning crystal shard once. “This fish? T’ show him?”

“Not this fish, exactly,” Valdis said, waving her free hand in the air as though this revelation cleared anything up. “The coral ray and elasmosaurus didn’t bite during the spectral currents. I should have asked Alle to come along and help me.”

The crowd of excited fishers and baffled merchants around them got louder and rowdier, and Zaya had to press themselves up against the stone wall to avoid their knee colliding with the fisherman guildmaster’s face as he darted by. Something about legends of the sea?

“An’ this one?”

“What about ‘this one’?”

Across the harbor, Zaya caught a flash of something silver and green pause at one of the carved-out windows go from still to a blur as it rushed out of view.

“I—well, just because th’ change of all the aether currents o’er the star means you could fish up new deep ocean monsters an’ bring them back to Limsa don’t mean you should,” Syhrwyda said while rubbing the back of her neck, seemingly unable to decide whether she should look at the horrible leviathan with knife-teeth, Valdis herself, or over to Zaya—the last specifically with a frown. They must not have been doing a great job of stifling the silly grin they could feel edging on outright laughter.

Maybe they ought to feel some measure of guilt, but Syhrwyda did lose the three rounds of rock-paper-scissors when they’d rushed down here from a nice lunch at the Bismarck to deal with ‘a sea witch and her menagerie of monsters’ and instead found Valdis at the center of the storm. She really needed to stop leading with rock.

Valdis, seemingly still oblivious or mayhaps playing it up, tilted her head. “But then, no one but the Sharlayans will know about the new fish,” she said, and then: “Do you think Tehra’ir is out on a job? I was hoping he’d come out by now…”

“Why not just… go in an’ ask for him?”

“The doorman doesn’t like me.” Valdis crossed her arms, letting her fishing rod nearly thwack the poor lalafell guildmaster. Not that he seemed to notice. “Though, V’kebbe does...”

She turned away to look across the docks at the door leading to the Dutiful Sisters, at which Syhrwyda took the chance to fully turn towards Zaya and do something with her hands that was neither a combat sign nor any official Eorzean sign Zaya knew, but conveyed the general meaning of WHAT DO I DO???

As far as Zaya knew, it wasn’t a secret that Tehra’ir had something against deep sea fish—or any fish that fell outside the usual standards of ‘fishy-ness’ towards ‘could-be-a-terminus-horror’, really. Just half a moon ago he’d burst through the door to Zaya’s room with his tail all fluffed up mumbling about some truly awful-sounding sharks he’d seen while walking down to the Rogue’s Guild, calling them the Navigator’s mistake before launching into a frantic rant that ended with him swearing vengeance on Mitron, somehow. How Valdis seemed to be unaware was a mystery to them, as were many things about her, but here they were with a fish four times Syhrwyda’s height and teeth long as Tehra’ir’s daggers anyways.

Zaya looked back up at the window again—now, they could vaguely make out a figure that was probably Jacke standing there with his arms crossed, with Tehra’ir’s tail flicking in and out of sight—then looked back at Syhrwyda, still looking at them helplessly. They shrugged, trying not to smile too much about the situation or bust out into laughter, and gave her the combat sign for protect hoping in this situation she’d take it more as COVER FOR HIM I GUESS.

Syhrwyda grimaced, but the gap in the crowd closed just as she raised her hands, moving in a wave of sorts towards some of the other fish-carrying bubbles Valdis had enchanted. Not wanting to get swept away or miss Syhrwyda and Valdis maybe leaving, Zaya pushed through the crowd towards them.

Thankfully, Syhrwyda’s height and voice were there to act as a lighthouse in the crowd.

“Why did you want t’ show him this big one, anyroad?” she asked. “Aside from th’ others not bitin’.”

When Zaya broke through, Valdis had turned back to Syhrwyda.“Sisipu told me this was a roguesaurus,” she said, now frowning. “I thought he would think it was funny, instead of scary.”

That was, unfortunately, Zaya’s last straw; they broke out into wheezing laughter at the side of the pier, now one of four standing in front of the roguesaurus. Who named these things?

Syhrwyda put a comforting hand on Valdis’ shoulder and said, “It’s after the river, actually.”

“Oh. Damn. I suppose we can just skip to eating it.”

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #c: syhrwyda maetityrbwyn #c: zaya qestir #c: valdis otoel #tehrair is here technically but like in a window.#g: wind lightning fire #elie writes #the spectral current fish are. Certainly Fish. the sharks mentioned were quicksilver blade & the big mouth one skdgksdf #writing 1k of silly fic to make up for noragami 107-2 STABBING ME IN THE GUT

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gw666 · 2 years

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Artists of the Week

#Gaerea #Sólstafir #Acid Blade #Sonja #Hræ #Spectral Voice #Teitanblood #By The Spirits #Hadopelagyal

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petite-phthora · 3 months

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Dp x Dc prompt #5

Ra’s is staring at the creature— as that is is no way a regular human— that just crawled out of the Pits.

It’s glowing green, the same shade of the Pits, with stark white hair and eyes that same green color. It’s floating in the air, with no legs to speak of but instead some kind of spectral tail.

The creature is wearing some kind of black and white jumpsuit underneath a safety vest. It also has a hard hat on its head and is holding a pen and clipboard.

Any blades that his assassins have used just move right through the creature. Though the creature has not shown any hostility so far, mainly looking around with curiosity, it still—

“Where are the railings?”

“Excuse me?”

“The railings.”

The creature gestures towards the pit.

“… There are none?”

“Hm.”

It makes a note on its clipboard.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc prompt #saw a tag one one of my reblogged posts somewhere about OSHA danny #and this prompt entered by brain rufusing to leave #i tried googling pics of the pits to see if it actually had railings or not #could not find any #if the pits do have railings then oh well

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icarusdash · 1 year

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boy ward of dawn makes the new iron banner mode unplayable, huh

#using spectral blades literally just to kill people in bubbles lol #salt #.txt

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year

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Yandere Pyramid Headcanons

Warnings: Possessive Behaviour, Unhealthy Behaviour, Pyramid also exists in the version of Silent Hill before the Church Bell Rings, Mention of Physical Attack on Reader, No Pronouns used for Reader Except ‘You’.

Possessive ahh monster man.

Keeps you in a safe, isolated location far from the epicentre of the town so that the only monster you’re at risk of is him.

Scary dog privileges :>

Does anything and everything you ask him to, no matter how trivial the task. Unless you ask him to let you go outside.

Even if the other creatures aren’t wandering around and prowling the streets at that moment, he refuses to let you out.

Unless you give him the puppy dog eyes, which, to his absolute confusion, he found himself unable to resist.

But only once.

You used Pyramid’s weakness for cuteness against him and, when he heard a sound in the distance – the all-too familiar ringing of church bells – and turned to face the origin, you took your chance to escape.

You knew the monsters would come as the world around you peeled, revealing a hellish, rust-ridden, infested reality which, in your terror-stricken state, you didn’t think you’d be around long enough to be at risk of.

Of course, you were cornered.

Of course, just as you were about to become a commemorative name and face on a t-shirt at the hands of a monstrosity, Pyramid Head stepped in and wiped that jittering, straight-jacketed bastard off every map there was, physical and spectral.

Much like the very day he met you. Took you (for what purpose, you still do not know).

He’s never let you out of his sight since.

Keeps you by his side when he’s on a supply run since he can’t trust you to remain in the safety of whatever building he’s fortified.

You might not know it, given his involuntarily stoicism, but Pyramid Head is constantly watching you.

Sure, you may get the feeling you’re being watched, but in a town like Silent Hill, that’s practically a birthright.

And besides, Pyramid doesn’t have any eyes…you think ? So how can he possibly be watching you ?

If you try to chance your arm and run away, he uses his knife as a deterrent.

Slams it down right where you’d be if you had been a second quicker.

He’d never hit you. Not intentionally.

His strength and eternity of wielding the blade makes it as easy to control it as if it were his arm, or an extra limb.

But you don’t need to know that.

He’s lowkey a sucker for physical contact btw.

Once, he found you standing closer to him than usual when the day grew particularly cold.

He wasn’t sure what you were doing at first until you flat-out muttered about “How frigid” it was.

Clouds seemed to form before your face, a human anomaly Pyramid hadn't witnessed this close before. If ever.

This man has no clue how to help you, so he just kind of watched as you gave him a wide-eyed look and, quivering, approaching him as if he were a feral dog (why did you look so scared of him…?), leaned against his side.

He shifted, jumped, stepped back.

What was this feeling ?

His heart spiked, his skin prickled.

Alarmed, you sprang back, and he couldn’t articulate the response to tell you to stay, come back, I’m sorry.

When the two of you finally resumed your journey to nowhere, he walked a little closer to you, inching nearer every few minutes until his hand brushed your side.

And you didn’t pull away :> !

Eventually, when you grew tired, you settled in a decrepit little room that, much like the rest of the town, looked as if it would fall apart if you so much as gave it a mean look.

In a rare act of humanity, Pyramid sat beside you.

And he damn near jumped out of his skin (again) when, unprovoked, you leaned against him.

He made sure not to spook you. Not again.

He couldn’t handle that wounded stare you’d given him earlier. It made him feel…weak. Vulnerable. Human.

And he did not enjoy it.

Well, that's what he thought at first. Before the warmth of something unidentifiable settled in his chest.

From then on, he started taking you out during the colder hours of the day just for the chance to have your skin brush against his.

And each time, that feeling, that tightness in his chest, would spark, set him alight with a fluttering sensation he'd never known before he found you.

Until you got sick. Then he toned it down a little.

But only because he couldn’t enjoy his solitary walks to where he knew medicine lay, too concerned with wondering why you were jerking, and why you sounded like you were roaring whenever you opened your mouth and your eyes squeezed shut, or why liquid would pour out of your nose.

Bless him, he doesn’t know what a cold – or sickness – is. But he does know that, when you lay on top of him and basically used him as your bed, curling up on his chest, he thought he’d seen light.

Real light.

Has resisted the urge to try and make you ill again just for that purpose.

Luckily, your random acts of affection – hand holding (or finger holding, since your entire hand could wrap around one of his fingers), nuzzling, leaning on him, saying “Thank you” whenever he returned with the supplies – keeps his unhealthy tendencies at bay.

Well, most of them at least.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

#silent hill #pyramid head #pyramid head x reader #yandere #yandere writing #yandere x reader #yandere pyramid head #silent hill x reader #slashers #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher x y/n #male yandere #monster x human

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konigbabe · 8 months

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the great war

DAY 3 ⇢ Hate Sex Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!curse user!reader Word count: 4k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; hate sex; timejump (2007 → 2018); lovers to enemies vibes; angst; lots of self-loating; pronebone; p-in-v; angry (??) Gojo; unreliable narrator Summary: When the news of Suguru Geto's death reach your ears, the weapon in your grasp guides you to the place where the cause lies - to Satoru Gojo. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023]. Divider is mine.

event masterlist • masterlist • navigation • faq • AO3 • ko-fi

His palm presses firmly between your shoulder blades, a commanding touch that demands submission, while his other hand clamps onto your hips, fingers digging into the curves of your flesh with just the right amount of pressure.

September 2007

Buddhists believe that life is filled with suffering and misery. That death, in the end, is not a singular event, but rather a fundamental contribution to the misery of human existence.

It was a doctrine you refused to believe in. Spending days by the side of fellow sorcerers, suffering and misery rarely crossed your mind. It wasn't that you were naive or ignorant – quite the contrary. As a sorcerer-in-training, you were acutely aware of the dangers and horrors that lurked in the shadows. Cursed spirits, malevolent curses, and the constant struggle to protect the oblivious, helpless civilians were all part of your reality.

However, you clung to an alternative belief – that while suffering is an inherent aspect of life, whether it leads to misery rests entirely within your control –

Among your companions, your unwavering optimism often stood out. While others carried the weight of their pasts and the darkness of their experiences, you chose to embrace hope and resilience. This outlook didn't make you blind to the reality of suffering; rather, it gave you the strength to confront it head-on. At least you had something to hold on to.

– How stupid of you.

With Satoru's chest pressed firmly against your back, you watch the night sky unfold its kaleidoscope of stars above you. It's not often that the night is quiet; when even the stars shine through the clouds of haze and graze you with their gentle glow.

Arms casually thrown over your shoulders, his sharp chin digs into the crown of your head as he looks up at the sky. Your face tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Suguru leans against the railing to your right. Uniform rumpled, hair a cascade of frowzled strands; your eyes shamelessly roam over his face – pale (more than usual, and even more visible against the obsidian backdrop of the night), eyes staring vacantly forward, a well of shadows pooling beneath.

His appearance resembles a spectral apparition. Haunting reflection of the turmoil that seems to have taken residence within him. Events from the past emerge into your mind – Tengen' merger, Amanai's death, Toji, Gojo's enlightenment and the last piece, Haibara's tragic end.

Satoru's hand reaches to gently cradle yours, fingertips tracing the contours of the simple, polished ring adorning your finger. A single aquamarine gemstone decorating the silver band, its shape resembling a tear. His touch so soft and tender that it feels almost imperceptible.

"Hey," Satoru's voice tears you from your thoughts. Suguru's eyes dart to yours, a brief contact before he looks at Satoru, "are you even listenin'?"

("So you never thought ‘bout it?" Suguru's head sinks heavily onto his arms, the once-pristine white shirt now marred by wear of time and crinkled as he sits against the classroom wall. Class ended almost an hour ago, with Satoru leaving by Shoko's side to grab lunch.

"I mean," you release a deliberate sigh, ankles crossed on top of your desk with arms folded over your chest, "it might be an option," rising one hand, you point a finger at him, "but it's evil. And unreachable. Like c'mon," you flick your wrist dismissively, "we're talking about a worldwide genocide."

"Not worldwide, just Japan."

A derisive chuckle escapes your lips, laden with incredulity, upon hearing his words. "Just Japan," you look at your classmate, close friend, "are you hearing yourself, Suguru?"

He gazes up at you, eyes heavy with weariness and emptied of their usual vibrancy. The burden of his thoughts etched onto his face.

"Suguru," your tone drops, voice becoming a mere whisper; the man before your eyes being close to a delicate thread on the verge of snapping, "are you holding up okay?"

"No.")

"Yeah, yeah," you murmur into his skin, returning his touch and caressing his wrist.

"As I was sayin'," your eyes return to Suguru momentarily before flicking to the horizon of darkness stretching above the school's grounds, "once we finally graduate and I become the head of my clan, we could use my estate as our home. Then we can make loads of babies. Pretty sure my father would be pleased if I had a son."

"It's not your estate," you correct Satoru.

"It's a Gojo estate. And I'm a Gojo. The one with Six eyes and the future leader," his fingers sneak under your chin, gripping the soft flesh of your neck to tilt your head to the side and up, gently straining your neck so that you're compelled to look at him. Eyes the same hue of a tranquil ocean under the moonlight.

"I'll put in the work," his tone turns into a whisper, a murmur that wraps around your body like a velvet night, shielding your conversation from intruding ears – including Suguru, who's standing barely an arm's reach away. The man who now feels like an outsider to the intimate exchange of his friends, "get you all full and happy. You won't leave the bedroom until you go into labor."

It's not his words that render you speechless. Immobile. Mouth slightly ajar. Nor the promise they carry, or the weight of the commitment. It's solely the look in his eyes. As if this man truly believes his words. That he sees this not as an equal partnership, but you as the vessel for his legacy, a mother to his progeny, a means to secure his lineage.

The jujutsu society has carved a mark deep within Satoru Gojo's psyche, even if it's been only a subconscious influence.

"Satoru,"a subtle frown creases your forehead, despite the way his words ignite a fire between your legs, make your pussy throb, "I'm not a breed–"

"Some people believe that the stars are the souls of the people who've passed on," Suguru's words cut through the exchange. Pulling your eyes towards his profile, seeing as he continues to watch the night sky, hands tucked away in his pockets. A gentle smile graces his face.

While you're thankful for his precisely timed intervention, Satoru sneaks a hand onto your abdomen, resting in inside your muff pocket with palm squeezing the soft flesh over the clothes. He releases a theatrical breath, capturing the attention of both of you.

"Way to ruin the mood, Suguru," he adds after a while.

"I think there might be some truth to that," you offer a small, appreciative smile.

In the days that follow your conversation, a dark cloud of dread casts its shadow over your every moment, only fueled by the devastating news of Suguru's most recent mission. After that, each moment's laden with a sense of impending unease. As if the future has already been foretold – only a matter of time before the summons arrives, the call to a meeting that you can already taste like the metallic tang of apprehension on your tongue.

Stepping into the room, it's not just the mission that settles heavily upon your shoulders; it's the weight of an unspoken truth that hangs in the air, casting a pall over the proceedings. Staring upon the silver band encircling your finger, cutting off the flow of blood, it's the revelation that has changed everything for you.

The task assigned to you appeared simple, straightforward, presented with a cold and calculated logic: Kill Suguru Geto and return within fourteen days.

(Reality has a way of deviating from the plans made.

It is why you never came back.)

Early 2018

The ghost of Suguru Geto hovers over you like a specter in the periphery of your thoughts. Especially when you stand in front of the man you've avoided for almost a decade.

There's no solid reason for you to be here. In Satoru Gojo's overly expansive, unnecessarily spacious penthouse. His ignorance to wealth and what's necessary versus what's superfluous still glaringly obvious. Especially with his current job; one that back in the day, back when you were all still students, wouldn't even cross his mind.

You weren't entirely certain if he'd be here today. Tonight. Tracking his movements, they'd always end within the barrier of Tokyo's Jujutsu Tech. A barrier that, if crossed, would result in your immediate arrest and subsequent execution. And despite your occasional recklessness, you had no death wish to speak of.

"That's why you're here?" Gojo's glasses now replaced by a black blindfold, folded around his neck. His eyes, shining even in the dim lighting, twinkle with raging stars when they shift to the weapon in your hand, sensing its foreign cursed energy that overwhelms even your own, "to kill me?"

A sardonic snicker escapes you, your laughter bordering mockery as you respond, "Come on, Gojo. Don't get foolish now. I can't kill you."

With a touch of exasperation, you add, "No one can."

"Then why're you here," he demands, his presence commanding the room. Uniform jacket already cast aside, the white button-up shirt partially undone, showing the contours of his clavicles. Time and age have done the sorcerer good; with gained knowledge, he also gained the physicality of experience. Something that creates longing – desire for the past that surges through you. A tidal wave of yearning. A wish that you stayed; that you were there, by his side, witnessing his transformation.

(Could it be the grip of regret? The sting of rue? Perhaps. But the past already happened, ensnared within the grasp on time's flow; its passing moments already etched into the annals of history. Dwelling on it now serves no purpose but to churn the tempestuous sea of emotions.

The sea whose waves are starting to crash against the rocky shores of the present.)

"You disappeared years ago. Without a word. Not even a goddamn ‘Goodbye'."

You watch his cold, distant façade crumble, anger seeping through the cracks as he waves one hand, advancing with measured steps, "I looked for you. Scoured every inch of Japan. For you. Where in the world were you?"

Gojo's eyes blaze with molten determination; boring into your soul, seeking answers you're hesitant, almost reluctant, to provide. Doubt lingers in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog, clouding the once familiar connection between you two.

A connection that you severed with a violent, rapid stroke, leaving nothing but shattered remnants in its wake.

"You had no right to do that," he seethes, words dripping with indignation.

"You are the one to talk," you return his anger, the relentless tide crashing against unyielding cliffs, "you killed him. You killed Suguru, Gojo."

His face contorts with fury, a wildfire raging behind his eyes. The air crackles with tension as your words cut deep, reopening wounds that had never truly healed.

It's then that the distance between you two narrows until he's almost within reach; enough for your fist to connect with him. Fully aware that it would never actually reach him. His flesh. That you won't feel the warmth of his skin. With the jutte sword's blade facing you, fist tightening around the leather handle, you hit and hit a void.

"You killed my friend," your voice trembles with a mixture of sorrow and rage, teeth sinking into your lower lip. The side of your fist repeatedly collides with empty air – it's a cruel dance, truly – a void that fills the space between Gojo and you, a chasm that feels as vast as the abyss, "my friend. Suguru. You killed him–took him away."

Your eyes lock onto his, a desperate search for answers, while Gojo remains a silent and immovable figure. Face resembling carved marble – all solid, perfect yet devoid of any emotion. Letting you spill your anger onto him. You observe as the brilliance in his eyes wanes, those once-vivid blue hues, reminiscent of a precious topaz, gradually losing their luster, darkening, and becoming more reflective of a human's ordinary iris.

Your fist meets the muscle of his chest.

"I hate you," one, two times your fist hits, "I hate you so much, Gojo."

Then his fingers slither around your wrist, twisting it painfully until the loud clank against the floor indicates that your weapon has slipped from your grasp.

"I know," his voice remains monotonous; a mere echo.

He advances, closing the distance between you, his presence a relentless force pressing against you. Eyes a tempest of longing; a tangible aura of desperation that shouldn't flicker across his stoic countenance. All you want to do is stab the look out of his eyes. Gauge it out with your fingers. Stealing away what he so callously takes for granted –

Maybe then he will stop being blind to his surroundings.

– just as he robbed you of your childhood friend. Someone you considered a brother.

"I hate myself too." It's all he mumbles, his voice a barely audible confession, before his lips crash into yours. A tumultuous collision. His hands are everywhere, grasping your shoulders, trailing down your arms, and gripping your hips with an urgency that borders on desperation. Pushing and pulling; body pressed against yours.

Gojo's tongue sweeps over your teeth, the wet tip coaxing yours, drawing forth moan after moan from you, hungrily swallowing every sound you release, trying to quench an insatiable thirst that only your moans can satisfy.

The kiss ravenous, consuming – it makes you unable to resist the magnetic pull of his ardor.

When your name slips between his lips, the reality crashes onto you. Pulling away, you look into his blazing eyes. Lips bruised and swollen, shirt somehow unbuttoned. Showing the contours and hard edges of his chest and abdomen. The scar across his whole upper body, though healed, remains visible. Body sculpted into perfection by years of determined training.

Your hand reaches forward. Fingertips tingling with the longing to make contact, to savor the tactile sensation. And Gojo stands still, a hand resting on your hip, molding your form against the sturdy frame of the couch. Your thighs caught between his, pressed against the velvety embrace of the dark brown upholstery.

Both of your disheveled hairdos mirror the chaos, intensity of the moment, framing your faces with unruly tendrils. Eyes fixated upon his body, hesitating to meet his eyes. Your arm extends more. An outstretched limb seeking connection.

His scrutinizing eyes trace the landscape of your face – witnessing as time stripped away the youthful, once-cheerful smile that had once adorned your lips. Now swollen, hardened lines with two delicate, faint marks traversing your upper lip – a scar. Curiosity gnaws on him, wondering of its origin. If whatever caused it might've been circumvented if you'd stayed.

If you had stayed.

(Maybe if he searched more thoroughly. Fought with greater determination…)

Your hand jerks back. Recoils as if touched by scorching heat. Gaze turning into a torrential downpour as it locks onto his, a deepening frown carving lines across your brow.

"No," he swears he hears you mutter to yourself, lips finding refuge at the juncture of his clavicles. Hands slipping beneath the satin shirt, clenching the taut muscle of his shoulders. One leg draped across his hip, you grind against his thigh without reservation, embracing the sensation of friction against your clothed core, the fabric beginning to absorb your burgeoning desire.

"What–"

"Just fuck me," you nibble at the skin, voice thick with passion, teeth sinking into the flesh and pulling, causing the man to hiss, "fuck me, Gojo."

He grips your jaw. A touch both benevolent and directing. Pulls you off his neck, compelling you to confront the storm of his eyes. Vortex of unspoken emotions. A cyclone of pure desire and passing hesitation. His thumb and index finger press into the soft flesh of your cheekbones, compressing the pliant contours until your lips pucker and part.

"I hate you," you manage to utter, the words emerging as a strained whisper through clenched teeth.

In the ensuing moment, Gojo acknowledges your declaration with a solemn nod, a silent recognition.

"Good," he then pivots you in one fluid motion. Hands finding purchase on the couch's armrests. Gone is the restraint he's maintained until now. He doesn't hold back. Not anymore, not when you made it abundantly clear how you feel; what you want.

Fingers seeking the buttons on your pants, swiftly unzipping the zipper and tugging both your pants and undergarments down your thighs. Until they lock your knees together. His fingers graze your folds and you feel him hiss under his nose. Fingertip tracing your opening, feeling the slippery wetness, Gojo doesn't hesitate to push one finger in.

And your body eagerly sucks him in. Allows him to thrust his finger in and out repeatedly, making your fingers dig into the cushion, lips parted and shamelessly moaning with hips bucking back, meeting his thrusts. Until he adds another finger, scissors them inside and opens you up.

"Fuck," you hear him breathe out, his hand sneaking from your shoulder blades to your hip, venturing beneath your shirt to caress the exposed skin, "you always sound so pretty. Feel so good."

"Shut up," you scoff at his words, voice laced with disdain, "just–ugh," his fingers curl inside, massaging your walls in harmony with the hand on your hip, tracing tantalizing circles, "ah–just don't–don't talk," and you arch your hips backward, prompting his fingers to delve deeper. Palm completely covering your soaked cunt.

"Don't care," you add when he continues the rhythm. In and out, stretching the limits of your resilience, scissoring to accommodate something far more substantial.

"As you wish," he withdraws. Fingers glistening with your juices. And you can feel the dewy slickness spreading as he toys with your pulsating clit, circling the throbbing bud, causing you to clench around empty air. Every nerve ending in your body awakens, dormant embers being stoked; heat blooming inside.

Then he presses himself against you, hands grasping your shoulder to pull you onto his body as he hovers over you. The close proximity allowing you to feel the hard length of him, thick and pushy, begging for entry.

"Stop teasing," you practically growl at him, an annoyed command laden with unrestrained desire.

"Fine," Gojo lets out a husky huff in response to your impatient plea. Pushing your upper body down, nearly bending you over the plush cushion until your forehead meets the silky surface of his furniture. You can hear the unmistakable sound of him unzipping his own pants, the slide of the zipper seemingly never-ending as your pussy leaks onto your thighs, mind of its own; tugs them down just enough for him to fish out his cock. All hard and swollen, the engorged tip glistening with the telltale evidence of his arousal.

One hand palms your pussy, collecting your juices to spread over his cock. Lube it enough for him to slip inside your awaiting walls easily. Yet he hovers over your entrance, tip kissing the opening before running between your folds. Gojo lets out a sigh upon the long-lost feeling of your wet pussy.

It's been too long.

He wants to savor it. Savor the moment your drenched pussy opens up just for him. Swallows him whole and lock him in, never letting him go.

"Gojo," you push back, hoping that maybe it will cause him to slip in – it doesn't. Instead, the tip of his cock probs at your clit, "fuck me."

"You never shut up, heh," his hand secures the back of your neck, the other guiding his cock to your entrance, feeling you open up around the mushroom head, letting a satisfied moan out upon the feeling.

Gojo doesn't bother. At least he shouldn't, right? It's not like he's your lover. You aren't his paramour no more.

But he does take his time. Every inch a struggle, every second a torture. Until finally you feel yourself split open, the tightest of knots unraveling, and then he's thrusting deep, pushing into you with force. Your body welcomes him, contouring to his shape, embracing him fully. His breath comes out in a rush and you're soon meeting him thrust-for-thrust, hips pushing back.

Blood rushes to your head; bend at an unconventional enough angle that allows him to hit the deepest spots inside you. He pulls back then, his cock easily sliding out of your embrace until only the tip remains inside the cocoon of your warmth. Stretching your inner walls in a way that makes you feel dizzy, mind foggy. Fucked stupid.

Your moans are muffled by the couch cushion, but Gojo pays no attention; his focus solely on chasing his own high, eyes closed to draw your presence out. His thrusts become more powerful and insistent as each one hits its mark with precision.

Your name refuses to leave his lips.

Yet his name sounds like a sacred incantation spilling from your throat.

It makes him push. Hips slamming into yours with enough force to actually send you over the couch's edge; causing you to stumble.

"What the f–"

"Lie down," he commands. Stone-cold and demanding. Your body moves on its own accord as you do what you're told, lying flat on your stomach as his hand guides your body up his couch. Face sinking into the decorative pillows, he lies his weight on top of you without shame. Elbow resting next to your head, fingers tangled in your hair – pushing your face into the pillows.

Slamming his cock back inside, a surprised shriek leaves your lips. His legs on either side of your thighs, one arm holding his upper body slightly off you, the other gripping your hip, fingers biting crescent moons into your flesh.

His breath's hot against your neck, coming out in quick gasps and grunts, the growl in his throat driving you wild and you're not sure how much longer you can take it before you beg for it –

"Fuuck–so tight–ngh–"

His hand is everywhere while yours remain tucked underneath the pillows; nails tracing their way around sensitive skin and curves like a map of pleasure points.

– so you bite your lip. Face flushed against the couch's cushions. Feeling yourself cresting towards the edge. He hitches a breath as your moan’s muffled beneath the pillows, his own rhythm faltering before he plunges deeper.

"M’gettin’ close–"

You can feel the heat radiating from him, sweat dripping down your neck as he takes you higher, presses his forehead against your nape. Heat rises to your face as you feel yourself dripping. Acutely aware of yourself, the slick, shameful squelches that resonate each time Gojo plunges deep inside. Buries himself to the hilt. Pelvis melting with the curve of your ass. Smacks his balls against your thighs.

The air feels thick and stifling as you feel Gojo everywhere. Your entire being consumed by the feverish desire coursing through your veins.

His thrusts become more intense, almost frenzied as he searches for something only he knows and finds it in your body. You're so close now, the pleasure so sweet that it's almost overwhelming.

You swear it feels like an eternity before finally your orgasm rushes over you like an unstoppable tide; overwhelming every single one of your senses as he continues to thrust deep within you. Your entire body quaking beneath him, pulled even closer into him by some invisible force.

Gojo finally lets go with a loud groan and collapses onto your back; leaving him panting heavily against your neck while his cock remains firmly embedded inside of you for a few moments more, painting your walls in translucent white before slowly slipping out with a wet sound akin to pure satisfaction.

You lay there unmoving for some time; eyes closed and lips pressed tight together as if to contain all the pleasure of this moment forevermore in one single solitary heartbeat – before reality comes crashing back in around you both in an instant, making Gojo pull away.

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blaiddfailcam · 2 months

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The left eye of the demigods

A recurring pattern some may have noticed a ways back is the unusual trait of sealed or missing left eyes among some of the demigods—now reiterated once again with the newly revealed Messmer the Impaler, a demigod of yet unknown origin. Eyes in Elden Ring are diegetically symbolic, meaning their hue and other characteristics illustrate to the player and to the characters within the game world their purpose within the setting.

The "lesser" demigods

Among the demigods, several of their lineage possess two gold eyes of varying shades or heterogenous pigmentation (meaning they show two distinct pigments in a single iris). These include:

Godwyn the Golden ("sullied" gold left eye in story trailer, two clouded gold eyes as the Prince of Death)

Morgott the Grace-Given (reddish-gold)

Rykard, Lord of Blasphemy (gold with red "spokes")

Starscourge Radahn (same as Rykard's)

Godrick the Grafted (clouded gold)

Gold eyes are a common sight among the non-Tarnished denizens of the Lands Between, whether their irises are entirely golden or marked with a sort of golden crescent. The red markings within Rykard and Radahn's eyes aren't so unusual given their heritage as the sons of Radagon, and Morgott's peculiar shade of gold likely relates to the Crucible, the primordial being that gives rise to the accursed Omen.

In Godfrey, First Elden Lord's portraits at the Roundtable Hold, his right eye is noticeably golden as well, while his left is obscured. As he was divested of Grace by Queen Marika, this gold hue faded. He is still possessed of both eyes in his boss battle, so he most likely also counts among the above listed demigods.

The Empyreans

Strangely, this only accounts for a small fraction of the greater pantheon. Most notable about each of these demigods, however, is that none of them are Empyreans, a unique class of demigods elected by the Two Fingers to succeed Queen Marika as vessels for the Elden Ring. Among the confirmed Empyreans, only one ia depicted with their eyes showing, and just barely:

Lunar Princess Ranni (right eye of spectral face blue, left eye of spectral face/right eye of doll sealed, left eye of doll pale blue)

Miquella the Unalloyed (face not yet shown)

Malenia, Blade of Miquella (both eyes sealed by rotten scales)

Presumably, to become a god, one must be a chosen Empyrean, so we can likely add Marika, Queen Eternal to this list. Strangely, her eyes are never shown either when we encounter her within the Erdtree (her right eye is tightly shut, and her left eye and socket are carved out by a cavity that encompasses the entire left hemisphere of her cranium), nor within any portraiture or statuary throughout the game.

Other demigods

Radagon of the Golden Order is regarded Marika's other half. Though he was disregarded a mere human champion during the Liurnian Wars, he was elevated to the status of a demigod, along with his direct children, upon marrying Marika, and later become something of a god when the two fractured into one. Like Marika, his appearance within the Erdtree is missing its left eye as a result of fracturing. His right eyelid is open, but in place of eyes, fragments of golden, runic light trace where irises would be.

Strangely enough, Radagon is depicted in the Roundtable Hold within another portrait, but his right eye is entirely black, including even his sclera. This appears again in the Radagon Icon illustration. (The manga adaptation, the Road to the Erdtree, was also careful to maintain this peculiar detail.) It isn't exactly clear whether this waa an artistic choice to obscure his eye, or if he literally had black eyes.

This leaves a handful more of Marika's demigod children unaccounted for:

Mohg, Lord of Blood (gold right eye with faded pupil, left eye gouged by his own horns)

Messmer the Impaler (right eye gold with slit pupil, left eye sealed)

Melina (gold right eye, sealed left eye with three-fingered dragon-like marking; when the left eye opens, the iris is a violet whirl)

Melina's origins are rather hazy even to her own knowledge, owing to her as of yet unexplained amnesia. One thing is certain: she claims to be the direct daughter of Queen Marika, and was addressed a specific duty, but what it was is now forgotten. Upon arriving at the Elden Throne and finding the Erdtree sealed (presumably by Radagon), Melina determines to act as kindling and set the Erdtree ablaze. Whether this was Marika's intention is uncertain, but Melina insists it is her choice, regardless of her mother's designs.

Should the player inherit the Frenzied Flame and usurp Melina's destiny without later curing their affliction, Melina will reappear in a secret ending. Her appearance is eerily altered, her hair now burnt and blackened, and her right eye clouded by pale gold. In swearing to hunt you to the ends of the earth, her left eye opens, revealing the violet whirl...

So what exactly is up with Melina's violet eye?

Shadows of the Empyreans

Oddly enough, Melina's violet eye isn't entirely unique. One other character in particular shares this trait—of all people, Blaidd the Half-Wolf is the only character with not just one, but two violet eyes.

Blaidd is the shadow of Lunar Princess Ranni, tailored by her Two Fingers to serve either as her devout guardian on her path to succeed Queen Marika, or her ruthless killer should she betray the Greater Will. He is one of two shadows encountered in the game, the other being Maliketh, who serves an identical function for Queen Marika. When the player encounters Maliketh under the guise of Gurranq, he bestows upon them the Beast Eye, a half-petrified, violet eyeball seemingly plucked from his own skull to aid them in weeding Deathroot. (One can infer the player is the second recipient of an eye, and that the other was previously gifted to D, Hunter of the Dead.)

Evidently, the violet eyes are likely a symbol of the shadows' nature as retainers for their Empyrean masters. Both Blaidd and Maliketh are regarded honorary brothers to their Empyreans, perhaps indicating the two were not born by any conventional means, but somehow fashioned from an aspect of the Empyreans, and especially designed by the Two Fingers to best fulfill their duty as vassals.

Seeing as Ranni's eye is sealed much like Melina's, one has to wonder... what color was it? Are all Empyreans marked with this violet eye? Why would they all be sealed? Was this some sort of countermeasure to prevent them from rebelling against the Greater Will?

While Maliketh wields the Rune of Death itself in the form of an obsidion blade, the baleful shadows that hunt Ranni in Blaidd's image possess blades infused with Destined Death. When Melina's left eye opens, it is precisely at the moment she vows to "return" Destined Death to the Tarnished. Might it be that shadows are created to withhold the Empyreans' ability to raise Destined Death against the gods...?

The Gloam-Eyed Queen

In the grand history of the Lands Between, one other Empyrean is said to have lived long before the current pantheon. This is, of course, the alluringly mysterious Gloam-Eyed Queen, commander of the Godskins who channeled Destined Death.

Before the Golden Order was founded, this enigmatic matriarch wielded the power of Blackflame to hunt the gods and fashion from their flesh the ghastly accoutrements worn by her mad followers. When Marika arrived in the Lands Between, her loyal shadow was tasked with sealing Destined Death and severing the bloodthirsty Empyrean's ability to slay the gods, at which point she either perished, or vanished into obscurity.

Naturally, the term "Gloam-Eyed Queen" conjurs the image of a violet-eyed matriarch. Her Godskin children bear great amethyst pendants, after all, and it's clear that violet eyes are representative of a unique cosmological function. Perhaps being the first known Empyrean besides Marika, the Gloam-Eyed Queen was directly responsible for the trend of bestowing the chosen candidates for the Elden Ring with their personal shadow? As far as can tell, the Gloam-Eyed Queen never had her own shadowbound knight...

Enter Messmer

Though it's obviously pointless to ponder when his story will be fully presented in a little under four months, it's difficult not to ponder his place in this "rule of eyes." Like Melina and Ranni, Messmer's left eye is sealed or missing. Could this illustrate that he is yet another Empyrean?

In any case, he appears to be a child of Marika as well, but whether directly or indirectly remains unclear. Considering the numerous, soulless demigods of the Wandering Mausoleums are each and all regarded the "unwanted children" of Marika, it's possible that the term "mother" is used rather loosely here.

(Contrary to popular belief, demigods do not need to be the direct offspring of Marika. After all, Enia divulges that Godrick is no more than a distant grandchild, his noble blood diluted over countless generations. Other demigods may include Millicent and the Sisters of Rot, as they are each targeted as potential vessels for the Outer God of Rot in Malenia's stead.)

If it should be revealed that Messmer, like Melina, is marked with a violet left eye in his second phase, or perhaps if we encounter yet another wolf-headed shadow... Well, that's as much as I'll allow myself to overhype my own theories, lol.

Miscellaneous

While obscured left eyes may designate the Empyreans among the demigods, I believe there is one exception: Mohg, Lord of Blood. Though his left eye is technically sealed, this was merely a result of his poor hygiene and allowing a cutaneous horn to drive itself into his eyeball. Nowhere is it ever remotely suggested he is an Empyrean.

Another peculiar case is Malenia, as both of her eyes are welded shut by dense scales of Scarlet Rot, akin to leporosy. This may not have always been the case, however, as with the limbs she lost to illness.

One other peculiar detail: in Melina's secret ending, her gold eye becomes clouded. Fascinatingly, this effect is shared by Vyke's Finger Maiden at the Church of Inhibition, but in both of her eyes. It is not, however, shared by the deceased Finger Maiden at the Church of Anticipation, nor Finger Maiden Therolina, so it seems to be a very deliberate choice. Could this relate to the theme of Frenzied Flame and the usurpation of the kindling maidens' destiny...?

(It's hard to get a clear picture of her, lol.)

#elden ring #my ramblings #shadow of the erdtree #FUCK posted prematurely #but it's mostly done

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thepenultimateword · 3 months

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Prompt #256

The henchman was new. A tall, muddy-eyed specimen sent over from Supervillain’s labs to—by Villain’s best estimation—watch them.

Villain had intentionally placed them in their personal security detail to prove that they had nothing to hide—no hidden agendas or plans of mutiny here. Yet, after two weeks, the henchman’s gaze still followed them closely. Even now, as Villain bent over the newest batch of truth serum, checking each bottle for it tell-tale luminescence, their neck prickled under the henchman’s stare.

“Do you need something?” Villain said coldly.

The words reverberated and disappeared into the dark depths of the laboratory. The lack of an immediate reply blanketed the space in even greater quiet.

“Just thinking about how pretty you look in that lighting,” Henchman finally said.

Villain did not react. Responding strongly would only bring on whatever satisfaction Henchman hoped to get out of this exchange. However, they could not help but touch a finger to their temple, the start of the network of pale scars that traversed their entire face. Sometimes they could still feel the sting of the blade under their skin.

“Please refrain from mocking me.” Villain shook another vial, illuminating their face in a burst of spectral green, before placing it in the box of successes. “You might not like the outcome.”

“I’m not making fun,” Henchman said, tone sober. “You are attractive and intelligent and vicious, and if you’d let me, I’d like to take you out.”

“I bet it would make a good story for the barracks.”

“I wouldn’t have to tell.”

“I don’t care what you do.”

“Is that a yes?”

Villain half-turned toward Henchman, a rejection sitting on their tongue. The grunt stood like a solider, hands clasped behind their back, but the look in their eyes was not to protocol. Too rapt. Too longing. Too…intrusive.

Villain’s insides squirmed. Henchman was undeniably lovely: chiseled face, impressive figure, hair your hands could get lost in. Word had it they’d already been invited out by several other henchmen and lab techs. But they’d never asked anyone themselves before. What would it be like to experience romance with such a desirable creature, even as a joke? Romantic intentions from anyone was only a dream they could wake up from.

They clenched their hand at their side before it could wander back to their scars. “Yes.”

#creative writing #prompt #villain x villain #villain x henchman #heroes and villains #hero x villain #writing prompt #heroes and villains community #short prompt #writblr #villain #cold villain x flirty henchman

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soulofapatrick · 5 months

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Steadfast Sanctuary - Peeta Mellark x Female Reader

Summary: You have a nightmare and Peeta is there to help you through it

Words: 1.8k

Y/N’s POV

The arena unfurls before me like a macabre canvas, a haunting tapestry of memories etched in pain and survival. The 75th Hunger Games, that unforgiving stage that nearly claimed my existence, manifests once again in vivid hues. My fingers tighten around a makeshift blade, a crude and desperate attempt at defence, carved from a jagged shard of metal.

Cannons echo in the distance, a grim symphony marking the fate of those who dared to seize resources from the cornucopia. Each reverberation pounds against my chest, the rhythmic thud of a heart burdened with the imminent spectre of doom. I falter at the edge of a stagnant pond, its waters a murky mirror reflecting the desolation that surrounds me. The feeble rays of light filtering through the canopy paint a sickly sheen upon its surface.

In an eerie dance, the water coils and rises, a grotesque ballet choreographed by unseen forces. Twisting tendrils form macabre visages, grotesque echoes of fallen tributes—faces contorted in anguish and despair. Their silent screams pierce the air, an icy grip seizing my veins with terror. Desperation propels me to turn away, to flee this haunting spectacle, yet my feet betray me, ensnared in the nightmare's merciless hold.

From the depths emerges a spectral hand, skeletal and ethereal, reaching out with phantom fingers extended—an invitation or a warning, I cannot discern. Its silent plea beckons, a macabre summons to join the chorus of the departed. Horror seizes my senses, a scream clawing its way from the depths of my throat, a cacophony echoing through the desolate terrain.

Abruptly, I’m torn from the clutches of that harrowing vision, gasping for air, drenched in cold sweat. Reality feels tenuous, a delicate thread woven between the tendrils of the dream and the anchor of the present. Peeta's voice pierces through the fog, a distant lighthouse guiding me back to the shores of wakefulness. Struggling against the dream's residue, I attempt to tether myself to the present, to sever the haunting tendrils that cling mercilessly to my senses.

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re safe,” Peeta’s voice, a soothing melody, washes over me. His touch is gentle as he brushes strands of hair from my forehead, a gesture both comforting and grounding. I struggle to anchor myself in the present, to shake off the lingering tendrils to that haunting dreams.

My fingers instinctively seek purchase, clutching at Peeta’s arm as if its the sole lifeline tethering me to reality. His presence is a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of lingering terror. With each word, his voice seems to carve a path through the fog, gradually guiding me away from the haunting remnants of the dreadful dream.

Peeta responds to my struggle with unwavering patience, coaxing me gently to sit upright. The coolness of the room contrasts sharply with the lingering hear of the nightmare, but his touch is a comforting warmth against my skin. His steady guidance helps regulate my breathing, his had a reassuring weight on my back, rising and falling in rhythm with erratic gasps for air.

As I attempt to wrestle free from the tendrils of fear that cow around my consciousness, Peeta’s calm presence remains a beacon of solace. His gaze, a soft azure amidst the shadows, holds a silent promise of safety and understanding.

“Hey, baby, focus on your breath,” He murmurs, his voice a soothing whisper against the chaos in my mind. His hand rests over mine, guiding it gently to his chest, urging me to feel the steady thud of his heart. I press my palm against the comforting rhythm, seeking refuge in the tangible assurance of his existence, a living testament to the present.

In synchrony with his heartbeat, I attempt to steady my own tumultuous rhythm, finding solace in the simple act of feeling his pulse beneath my palm. Peeta's unwavering presence and the reassuring cadence of his heart serve as a lifeline, gently guiding me back to the calm shores of wakefulness.

Peeta makes a move to rise, perhaps intending to give me space or fetch something to soothe the residual tremors of the nightmare, but a sudden surge of panic grips me. Instinctively, I tug at his arm, a silent plea not to leave my side. He hesitates, his eyes reflecting concern and empathy, before heading my unspoken request.

As Peeta hesitates in response to my unspoken plea, I feel a surge of panic, a silent but urgent need for him to stay. His eyes, pools of concern and empathy, seem to comprehend he unspoken turmoil within me. Without a word, his decision is made. With a tender understanding, Peeta shuffles closer, his movements deliberate yet gentle, as though he’s afraid I might break. He eases into the bed beside me, our bodies naturally gravitating towards each other. There’s a subtle, unspoken language in the way we fit together, an effortless dance of limbs finding their perfect place.

As he envelops me in his embrace, I'm cocooned in a warmth that transcends the physical. His arms, a fortress of safety, draw me closer, and I instinctively respond, seeking solace in the proximity of his comforting presence. The faint scent of freshly baked bread still lingers on his skin, a familiar fragrance that intertwines with the essence of safety and home. His breath, a gentle rhythm against my hair, mirrors the steadiness of his heartbeat, both a symphony of reassurance.

In this shared intimacy, I'm reminded of the depth of emotions I harbour for Peeta. The way his mere presence can quell the tempest raging within me reignites a myriad of feelings—gratitude, affection, and a love that had never truly faded, only lay dormant beneath the surface. As we squeeze closer together, his closeness sparks a familiar warmth within me, reigniting a flame that had never truly extinguished. The subtle brush of his skin against mine, the synchronised rise and fall of our breaths, kindles a fire of emotion—a reminder of the bond we share, resilient in the face of trials and nightmares.

Peeta's face, bathed in the soft glow of the room, holds an ethereal quality, a blend of concern and tender reassurance. Without conscious thought, I find myself gently pulling back, yearning to see the familiar contours of his features—the sincerity in his eyes and that gentle curve of his lips.

As I meet his gaze, his eyes, a reflection of concern and unwavering support, seem to hold an unspoken understanding. There's a magnetic pull drawing me to him, an inexplicable need to bridge the gap between us, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my touch.

My hand rises, guided by an instinct I can't fully comprehend, and caresses the softness of his cheek. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips, a canvas that has weathered its own storms, yet bears a resilience that captivates me. The gentle brush of my thumb over his bottom lip elicits a hitch in his breath, a subtle reaction that sends a shiver through me, awakening a stirring within. Something stirs deep within my chest at the vulnerable tenderness reflected in his eyes. His breath, caught in a moment of anticipation, hangs between us, charged with unspoken emotions. The way his gaze softens, the way his breath hitches at my touch—it's as if the connection between us hums with an unspoken language, a dance of emotions that transcends words.

In the delicate interlude between us, a silent understanding blossoms, an unspoken dialogue that resonates deeper than words could convey. The air crackles with anticipation, a palpable tension that hangs between our shared gaze and the tender brush of my thumb against his lips.

Without warning, Peeta leans in, a gentle yet decisive movement that bridges the last remaining space between us. His lips meet mine in a soft, tender kiss—a gesture brimming with a depth of emotion that transcends the physical realm. It’s a caress, a whisper of reassurance, and an affirmation of something profound that stirs between us. The touch of his lips against mine is a gentle awakening, a surge of emotions that floods my senses. His kiss feels like a delicate embrace, a promise of unwavering support and affection. It's a tender affirmation that I am something valuable, something to be cherished and loved, sparking a warmth that radiates from the depths of my being.

His hands find their place with a tender certainty, one cradling the curve of my cheek with a tenderness that belies the rough calluses and strength beneath. The other settles at the small of my back, a grounding touch that speaks volumes of protection and stability. Despite the softness of his touch, there's a subtle roughness to his hands, a testament to the hardships endured—a reminder of his resilience and determination.

As our kiss lingers, the warmth of his touch and the gentle pressure of his lips convey a myriad of unspoken sentiments. It's an embrace of shared solace, an unspoken promise of standing together amidst the turmoil. In this intimate connection, I feel not just desired but truly seen—a profound validation that ignites a longing for more, a yearning to deepen this unspoken bond that seems to resonate within every fibre of our beings. \

As our kiss softens into a tender embrace, Peeta draws me closer, enveloping me in the warmth of his arms. I lean into the comforting stronghold of his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek—a rhythmic reassurance that anchors me in the present moment.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead, a gentle caress that speeds volumes of his unwavering care and affection. It's a silent vow etched in that tender gesture—a promise of steadfast support and enduring presence in the face of whatever challenges lie ahead. With a whisper barely audible, he reassures me, "I'll always be here, for you." His words carry the weight of a solemn pledge, resonating with a depth of sincerity that brings solace to the uncertainties that once lingered.

In the cocoon of his embrace, I find a sanctuary, a haven where vulnerabilities are embraced and fears are gently soothed. The reassurance in his words echoes a profound truth—a comforting reminder that amidst the chaos of our world, I have found a sanctuary in his unwavering presence, a safe harbour in the tempest.

Peeta's promise lingers in the air, a beacon of unwavering support that alleviates the shadows of doubt. In this tender moment, wrapped in the shelter of his arms, I feel a renewed sense of strength and an unspoken resolve to face whatever trials await—knowing that his steadfast devotion will always be a guiding light through the darkest of times.

The Hunger Games Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

#hunger games #the hunger games #catching fire #the mockingjay #Peeta Mellark #Peeta Mellark x reader #Peeta Mellark x you #Peeta Mellark x y/n #Peeta Mellark fluff #Peeta Mellark smut #Peeta Mellark angst #Peeta Mellark hunger games #peeta x reader #Peeta x you #Peeta x y/n #Peeta smut #Peeta fluff #Peeta angst #josh hutcherson

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snootlestheangel · 4 months

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Horror-ish AU Idea

The 141 (just Price and the Sergeants) gets assigned to stop a massive artifact/artwork thief ring. It's the biggest crime ring in the world currently, and they're known for taking big artworks, especially statues, and real artifacts from museums without ever getting caught.

There's barely any leads on them, but the 141 are chasing the most solid one.

Price, Soap, and Gaz find themselves in a massive underground bunker that has a massive room in the center where all the stolen artifacts/artwork is kept. It's poorly lit in there, the only light being a massive spotlight shining on the direct center of the room.

And in that spotlight is a massive statue of a figure cloaked in all black with its hood up, a skull mask bright against the dark. It's got a massive scythe in one hand and the other pointing towards the only entrance to the room.

There's a plaque on the statue's base, which Soap reads. It says "Spectral Protector" and the figure itself gives them all the goosebumps.

The entire time they feel watched, but they brush it off as all the art with eyes and the different statues and mannequins. But when Soap is close enough to the statue in the center, he realizes the figure is eerily lifelike. The appearance of the cape's fabric seems real, and the skull mask looks a bit too good to not be a real skull broken up and glued to the statue. But most of all, he notices the sculptor took such attention to detail, the bloody thing has eyes. And those brown eyes seem so lifelike. Not to mention the blood painted onto the figure's scythe. It seems so real, yet is out of reach to tell for sure.

But Soap is an artist, and he's been doing his best not to totally nerd out over everything in the room. There's so many gorgeous paintings that he's only ever dreamt of seeing in person. Then this statue, with its intricate details and very lifelike appearance, it's hard not to stare in admiration, mouth slightly parted in absolute awe.

They agree to ignore the statue and document/mark all the artwork/artifacts so they can move on from the room. They have a list of everything that's been stolen by this crime ring, and they're verifying it's all there. They're in the middle of their work when the door to the massive room opens and there's criminals coming in. It's clear they know the 141 is in there, and they're not leaving without a fight.

The fight starts, there's bullets flying and lots of yelling. Soap peeks around the box he's hiding behind to fire back when he realizes something very disturbing: the statue is gone.

And the enemies notice too. There's a lot of panicked swearing in a language Soap doesn't understand before they're all cut off with wet gurgles and the distinct sound of a bladed object slicing through flesh.

And now Soap and the other two are the ones being hunted by this "Spectral Protector"

But there's nothing. Price orders them to get out and wait for backup to remove the stolen goods so they can be returned to the right hands. But as they're leaving, they realize the door is blocked by the figure, it's scythe dripping with fresh blood.

Soap can't think of anything else to do or say so he simply blurts: "we're here to return this shite to where it came from. We're nae a threat" and something about his words seems to placate the menacing figure. The scythe is lowered and he steps out of the way, gesturing for them to leave. Soap is the last one to leave, and he feels a strange desire to stay.

He convinces Price and Laswell to let them be the ones to help move the artwork and stuff out of the room. He asks if they can leave the statue for last, claiming he has a hunch the thing is called a "Protector" for a reason. Like a protector of the arts or something.

Either way, they're there as everything is removed. And the figure has returned to its pedestal, in the same position as before, but no one knows he continues to watch with a careful eye. Soap can't stop himself from standing and admiring the figure, because while clearly not a statue (or at least a cursed one), he's still a work of art in Soap's eyes. One that deserves to be admired.

Finally, the figure must grow annoyed by Soap's staring/admiring, as he suddenly looks down from his pedestal with a mean glint in his eyes. Soap gets all flustered and apologizes, cause he didn't realize the figure was still aware.

By the time they get everything else out of the room, it's revealed that no one knows where this "Spectral Protector" came from. There's some strings pulled and he ends up in the art museum not far from where Soap lives. And Soap makes regular visits to sit and admire during the day, sometimes drawing the figure.

But then he starts sneaking in at night. The owner is a good friend of his, and lets it slide for a good bribe.

That's where Soap learns the figure's name is Ghost, or at least he prefers being called this. Then he learns Ghost was once a real person, that a man named Roba betrayed him and cursed him into being a living piece of art, a statue during the day and human again at night. So he made himself someone to protect the artwork he was quickly surrounded by. Ghost is now doomed for an eternity for a life he never asked for.

So Soap makes sure he stays visible to the public, that people can come and admire him. Because at some point the figure's position changes. It becomes softer and draws more of a mournful gaze from its viewers than fear.

To be honest, I have zero clue what happens next. This was a half baked idea I slapped down and then it got out of hand.

#maybe Soap finds a way to be cursed to also be artwork #Ghost gets mad at first cause like “this shit sucks”#but Soap is all “it sucks when you have to be alone”#i don't know this just appeared #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghoap #ghoap au #cod mw2 #call of duty

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aikoiya · 1 year

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DPxDC - Bell Above the Box

Dude, they used to put bells above graves in case someone was accidentally buried alive so that the interred could just ring the bell & be saved. Basically, if this happened to you, then you were supposed to feel around for a string inside the coffin, then pull. Or they'd tie the string to a toe so that if the buried begins to move, it just sets off automatically. Now, I get that this custom was originally for lead poisoning, but it feels pertinent here as well.

Now, imagine if Bruce, be it out of some vain hope, had had one installed, just in case, with a sensor that would alert the batcomputer, Alfred, & Batman if it were ever pulled. Never actually expecting for it to happen. Only for, in the wake of Superboy gutpunching reality, it does.

Because of this, Bruce is there as quickly as possible, before the League gets a chance to take Jason from him.

Jason is only half there & Bruce has him at home. But the confused boy tends to wander off.

It's because of this that Jason eventually wanders to a nearby swamp & finds what's called a "blue hole," though it looked more like a green hole to him.

The glowing green water that bubbled from the stone outcrop & filtered into the swamp felt somehow familiar. The closer he drew to it, the clearer his thoughts became until he fell in.

He's submerged for a moment, not really realizing what was happening, until it was as if someone had suddenly flipped a switch inside his head. His mind was clear & there was this strange, almost comforting energy in the center of his chest.

That's when Bruce reaches in & pulls him out.

Jason becomes a very low-grade halfa with only a few powers that he now has to practice at.

Things like advanced healing, increased strength, speed, & flexibility, intangibility every once in a while (like, he can't use it willynilly), the ability to actually grab & hit ghosts, night vision, able to walk silently, even the power to see the regular, non-GZ DC ghosts like Deadman & the Gentlemen Ghost. Not able to turn invisible, but he is able to affect people's perception of him similarly to ghosts. So, he can manipulate not only a person's sense of object permanence when in regards to himself, but he can also make himself unnoticeable. Like, he can basically do what the Chameleon Circuit does. Like this:

Spectral Acknowledgment

However, because he's not a very good ratio of halfa, his anti-gravity center isn't fully developed, so he can really only slow his falling. Just stuff that gives him an edge & a few benefits, while not taking away from his fighting style.

He also gets slitted pupils, pointed ears, tapetum lucidum, & fangs, as well as a core element once it's fully developed. I'm thinking an electric primary & either a fire or shadow secondary, but he can only really cover his body with the elements to give him an edge in combat.

The Pit Rage was much more manageable because the Lazurus Water he bathed in had actually been cleaned in the last century unlike the one in Nanda Parbat. At the same time, it isn't just that Ra's doesn't clean his bath water, it's also that Nanda Parbat's pit has been intentionally corrupted by dark magic & especially necromantic energy. Luckily, this one had recently (like, within the last 50 years) been purified via the same prayer used to make Holy Water (which is the proper means of neutralizing black magic from water). This helped to stave off Gotham's many curses from corrupting the water fully.

In the end, instead of becoming Red Hood, because he has no reason to, he becomes the Cardinal.

Not much difference in the costume to be fair. Instead, he wears the red vest (but it reaches his ankles like a trench) with an actual hood & a black mouth guard.

But, he does tend to use the All-Blades more often. Don't know how he gets them here, but he does because they're awesome!

One change to them, though. They don't only appear in the presence of pure evil & also work on paranormal beings. They are, however, only deadly to those who are evil. They can hurt those who aren't, but can't kill them.

However, despite Bruce having actually been there for him, the fact that the Joker was still walking around & killing people... stung...

The thing is that Bruce had been there for him. Had actually found him. Had kept him safe once he came back. And hadn't replaced him. So, Jason couldn't hate him entirely. But in a lot of ways, that's actually worse because it hurts even worse.

And because of this, he can't bring himself to trust Bruce.

And whenever Jason sees the Joker, it's like he's right back there in that chair being sold out by his own mother. Screaming for Bruce to save him.

You see, a ghost's killer is an extreme source of stress & anxiety for them. If they are still alive & able to continue on with what they do, it is a consistent source of trauma that can send the ghost spiraling if you're not careful. It is an IMMEDIATE & INTENSE trigger. Like, we are talking some serious PTSD! The sort that triggers the fight or flight instinct. So, even though it appears similar to Pit Rage, the source isn't rage, it's fear.

The only upside is that Dick is actually treating him like a brother now.

Then, one night, Jason hears Dick & Bruce arguing & learns that Dick had actually killed the Joker & that Batman revived him.

It shattered him.

He couldn't stay with Bruce anymore & went to live with Dick in Bloodhaven.

Edit: I also just learned that, apparently, due to being part of the All-Caste, Jason also has some basic precognative abilities, though he can't use them very long before they start causing migrains. As well as the apparent ability to just shut off people's powers.

I'm thinking about making Jason the resident magic-user/supernatural hunter in the batclan. Just as a treat!

I mean, does his love of literature also extend to research on ancient mythology & legends, even those of other cultures? Because if so, he could end up being a natural.

For those who don't know, I'm talking about the Supernatural-type hunters.

DP Character HC Masterlist

#danny phantom #dp #dc #dp x dc #batman #jason todd #the cardinal #halfa jason

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