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diejager · 11 months

Text

A Fantasy

Pairing: YANDERE Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

Cw: NSFW, DARK, non-con, dub-con, non-con drugging, somnophilia, creampie, possessiveness, obsessiveness, breeding, marking, blood, biting, Stockholm syndrome, tell me if I missed any.

Wc: 9.8k

(A/N): FYI, Tracer’s (Overwatch 2) the reader’s mentor.

Requested by : @oyasumimosura

What stood before you was a great field of devastation and ruin, burned and broken buildings that used to be warm homes, lively parks that were turned to ashes, trees and plants laid wasted around dilapidated cars with broken windows and bent metal. People, young and old, laid motionless on the scarred ground, burnt black or left intact in a pool of their blood. Some were holding hands, a family, friends, a couple. Others were alone, forgotten, and left to their sad deaths.

One minute you were rushing through a portal, behind your mentor and besides your teammates, the Cavalry, as she liked to say. Rushing through fights to protect humanity and omnics and its future. The mission was like the one yesterday, the preparation, the meeting, the briefing, and the deployment, but the fate of it changed. A portal malfunctioned, it sent you elsewhere, far away and lost. This wasn't your world, this wasn't your universe, but now, you were in someone else's universe, playing their game.

The clock had struck and time felt meaningless on the battlefield, the sounds of beating aircraft blades, the booming shot of guns and the shockwaves of grenades were all people could hear. Soldiers were the only ones left, fighting against the other side - the enemy, the traitors, the terrorists - until one came out victorious.

While purposeful, the deaths and ruin of this Occidental village were regretful, families shattered, memories lost, and homes destroyed. All you could do was run around, trying to find the source of those cries you heard. A little girl's, whose tears welled for the mother she lost in the tirade of war.

The longer you ran, the closer you got to her. The girl's purple shirt and jeans were dirtied with soot and ash, dark from what was left of her village. You blinked, fazing through time and space to get to her more quickly. Rounding broken walls and jumping over fallen debris, you left a blue trail behind you, blinking your way to the crying kid.

You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her into your chest when you got to her, recalling to your previous position with the girl, behind a brick wall. She clung to you, eyes red and swollen, lips bit red and her cheeks puffy. She looked like a seven-year-old child, alone, lost, and miserable without her parents or protection.

"Don't worry, love, " you used the words Tracer often used when she saved someone, her reassuring and calm voice. "I'm here."

Those zigzagging lines of light lingered in his mind, a shadow of a woman making her way through the abandoned town. The spring in her steps and the flexibility of her movements, jumping higher than any man should've been able to and changing directions so easily. She was fast, vanishing in a line of blue light and then appearing once more meters away.

Ghost saw her save a child, no older than an eight-year-old - or so he thought. A lone child on the battlefield was dangerous, a death wish for the kid if his enemies got to her first. Fortunately, the athletic woman got to the kid before anyone could, swiping her into her arms and disappearing in a blink. Seconds ago, she stood next to the pole, now all that was left was a blur of blue. She had disappeared as quickly as she appeared.

He picked at the memory constantly, powers, it seemed, were her thing, speed and agility of which no one should be able to wield, but she did and she used it to save a child. Although he admired that from a stranger, the question of her being a danger to them was still left unanswered. Whether she could be trusted or an unknown enemy that would tip the scales in the enemy's favour.

However, months later, after the war ended, there weren't any sightings of her, anywhere on earth, as if she had disappeared - again. He remembered her, though, the determined glint beneath blue goggles, her hair tied in a ponytail, flowing through the air, and her pretty lips.

She could still be in Europe, she probably was, or so he hoped. It would mean that he could run the chance of meeting her, to quench his gnawing curiosity. It would be difficult - near impossible - to find her in the millions living in Europe, but he would keep his eyes open, he had questions and he wanted answers.

He wasn't a believer per se, nor was he an atheist, he had a veto in what he put his trust and belief in. He wouldn't curse others for not believing in a God or gods, he wouldn't scoff at those who believed in them, and everyone had their rights. At this moment, however, the thought of God helping him had crossed his mind.

He had dared cross his limit, entering a small cafe - or a bistro, he wasn't sure - blocks from his flat. It was small and homely, the air was warm with the smell of coffee and tea and the place welcoming with the smiling faces of the cafe's workers.

He sat far into the shop, his back against the softness of the booth's couch, bored eyes observing his surrounding for any danger. Even off duty, the habits that ensured his safety still stuck to him, following him wherever he went.

The waitress, a young-looking woman, with striking eyes and hair pulled in a bun, walked his way. Her face looked familiar, lashes framing her pretty eyes, blushed cheeks and beautiful full lips. He knew those lips, and those eyes, and her build, short and athletic, but strong.

It was the child-saving vigilante he saw, only without her blue goggles and her tight bodysuit, blue and white that emphasized her muscles (it was probably made for usefulness, sticking to her body without any stray cloth when she ran, it made running faster and easier.). Wearing a chemise and black pants, instead of the standard skirt the other women wore, her shoes clicked as she approached him, hand pulling out a pad from her black apron's pocket.

He froze when her hand disappeared into her pocket, the items inside were unknown to him, and the content could be dangerous to him. He had to remind himself that she was a civilian at the moment, not an enemy vying for his head. She was safe, as long as she didn't attack him. He waited for her to speak, her pretty lips forming the words she wanted to tell him.

"Good morning, sir," her voice was melodic, soft and inviting. He craved hearing her speak to him with the soft lull of her tone. "Have you decided?"

Decided? What had she - you - meant by "decided"? Then he remembered he was in a cafe, people walked in to order food and drinks, to go or to eat there. He couldn't drift off like that, he couldn't disappear into the darkest depth of his mind. It was a dangerous place.

He cleared his throat, blonde lashes fluttering as he blinked, staring at your face. You were pretty. His words rumbled out, slightly muffled by his black mask: "No." He neither spoke more nor less, blunt as a hammer and sharp as a knife.

"Would you like more time to decide?" You were polite, smiling at him although his only spoken words were brash. He didn't want you to go yet, he just found you, heard and spoke to you,

"Anything you- uh... you recommend?"

You perked up at his question, seeing a more approachable change in him. Your smile widened, brighter than before as you listed off the menu by heart. Your optimism reminded him of Johnny's, expressively happy and grinning. The cafe - Ma's cafe, he learned from you - had its famously brewed tea latte, a mixture of earl grey and vanilla latte.

He took your recommendation, and you left with a skip, apron bouncing with each step. He watched you walk behind the counter, shuffling around with cups and the machine - he thought it was a coffee machine, those with pre-made coffee in its tank - meticulously, knowing well what he ordered.

You came back minutes later with a smoking mug filled with a milky brown liquid. It was fitting its name - London fog - with the white swirls that mimicked the fog that filled the cool, morning air until early evening when the sun started heating everything.

"Thank you...?" Ghost tried, wanting to know your name, you didn't have a tag on your apron.

You gave him your name with the smile you gave everyone, a customer service kind of smile that would assure that you wouldn't get any complaints about your service. He repeated your name a few times in his mind, memorizing every syllable and the way it sounded so well.

He wanted to repeat your name, whisper it lowly, but he had to make sure you were farther away from him, or you'd hear him obsessively call you. It rolled off his tongue amazingly, a perfect symphony with his deeper, raspy voice. He'll get to know you better, he planned on visiting more often, to learn your schedule and watch over you.

He pushed every intrusive thought back, bringing the mug to his lips (he had pulled down his mask to drink). It was sweet, slightly bitter from the coffee, but sweet nonetheless, perhaps a bit too sugary. He savoured the drink you made him, breathing the warm aroma of your mix. You'd made it, you had it, and served it. It was made for him, with your care and smile.

Ghost came by the next week, wearing the same black hoodie and dark jeans. He sat at the same booth and waited for you to walk by with the same smile as the prior week. You did, eyes wide with recognition when you caught him staring at you from the corner booth. You made your way to him with a grin, clad in a similar uniform and a serving tray under your arm.

"You came back," your calming voice reached his ears, giving him something to cling to in the cafe.

He liked habits, familiar things and usual occasions, but he hated the new and the unknown. They were dangerous, and deadly in his line of work. You expressed your gratitude at the tip he left you, way over the usual price other usual clients would.

"I never got your name."

He hadn't given you his name? That's right, he didn't for fear of people finding out his true identity, a broken man hidden under the mask of a monster - a Ghost. Trust issues stacked with insecurities and his introverted tendencies had made forming relationships much harder, making friends complicated with the backlash of his many blunt comments and irritated huffs, and letting people in from the fear of being betrayed, backstabbed, beaten and abandoned.

You were a vigilante, you saved a girl, you smiled at him and greeted him like you would a friend. You didn't shy away, nor freeze at the mere sight of him. You were new, but you were good - or so he thought you were. To him, you could be the achieved unachievable, a friend made from dust, a relationship formed from miracles and normalcy.

He blinked, mumbling lowly his name, low enough that it only reached your ears. You cocked your head downward, your smile widening as you repeated his name.

"Nice to see you again, Simon. I'm happy to see you again."

He nearly shuddered from hearing his name roll off your tongue, so melodically spoken. He wants to hear you call his name again and again and again, as many times as you could until he got sick of it (he probably wouldn't, he was already addicted to the way you spoke).

He dozed at your words, that you were glad he came back. He was glad too. He wanted to come by the day after his first visit, but it would seem too strange, perhaps dangerous to see him every day at the same spot, at the same time of day. He was a man of schedules, organized and neat planning.

He figured he would start by buying once a week for a month or two, then change it to twice a week for the following months, until seeing him every day would become the norm for you. He would kickstart the routine and make it a usual appearance in your life. He would make *him* a usual appearance in your life.

"Same as last time, Simon?"

God, he loved hearing you say his name. He simply nodded, he would make it his usual, a hut sweet, but enough to drown the bitterness in his soul.

The leaves turned darker, shrivelling and dropping dead to the ground. The mellow sky grew gloomy, and colder with each passing day until it dropped so low that Ghost had to wear a thicker jacket over his usual hoodie. Autumn was at an end and winter crawled ever so closer.

He was back from deployment, on a temporary leave to "relax and diffuse" as Laswell said. Everyone was back home, Price with his cigar and Nik, Gaz back home with his girlfriend, Soap with his rowdy family of seven and Roach went home to open arms and warm welcomes from his parents.

Ghost only had an empty apartment - or he used to, he moved to a house on the quieter side of town - and the cute, dazzling waitress that served at Ma's cafe. That's where he was going, he texted you before he left, letting you know that he was back and ready for a hot cup of London fog and brunch.

You read his message, replying with a "Copy that, Lieutenant". It became a running joke between you after he told you about his work, nothing classified or too detailed, but enough to let you know he was built to fight and survive.

The bell rang when he pushed the door, seeing you peer out of the kitchen once he stepped in. He was hit with a warm embrace, the cafe's heater worked well, warming the place and making it cozy enough to eat with only a t-shirt on. He gave you a nod, finding his way to his usual spot, the one he sat at for the past months.

How many months have passed since he first stumbled here? He couldn't remember everything became a blur when it was associated with you. His moments with you were warmer and calmer than at the start. You opened up to him, walls crumbling down and letting yourself build something out of it: a friendship with Ghost.

He liked being friends - for now. He had plans to make a move, to push farther, into unknown territory and try his luck. He had a feeling you'd say yes, he loved you so much and you showered him with adoration and smiles, you had to be in love with him, no? Of course, you were, he wasn't delusional, he was of sound mind, careful.

"Welcome back, Simon," you strut to him so casually, the same clothes, the same smile. "How was your deployment? Soap and Roach got into any trouble?"

He spoke fondly of his TF, they were his family, and he felt proud when he talked about them to you. He invited them once, and they all loved you as much as he did, you were sociable and easy to talk to. Though Price and Soap had the biggest effect on you, they reminded you of someone. You told him about your friends, chaotic like his TF, but a family. It sounded like an ops team, he wouldn't be surprised. He remembered the first time he saw you, it was still fresh in his memory.

"Soap stirred up some shite again," Ghost huffed, sloshing his shoulders to appear more relaxed in your presence, to make him seem less threatening than he was. "No casualties, everyone made it out fine. Bit bruised but alive."

"That's the main objective, no?" You chuckled at Ghost's indignified groans about Soap and Roach behaving like children high on sugar.

You stuck around longer now, gracing him with a bit of random chatter. He got to know about your days, your activities, your wishful thinking and your goals. He discovered something new every day, whether it came from your lips or from his own time.

You stood by his table until the chef rang the call bell. You winked charmingly and turned to get his order, he hadn't ordered yet, but he came by so often, ordering the same that the employees knew what to make when he walked through the door.

He liked the normalcy, where he came by once every two days when he was on leave. If the Task Force was sent on a mission, he could be gone a few days, a few weeks or a month. It always varied, but he made it work with his hate of the unknown, the unpredictable.

"Are you free tonight, love?" Ghost asked, eyes gazing from your hands to your lips.

He found that open-mouthed expression at his question. You seemed hesitant to answer him, thinking about your reply to the man who tipped you well and was as close as a friend to you; or perhaps you were simply shocked that he finally asked you out, and wondering if you had time for him.

You nodded, a smug smile replacing your shock: "How 'bout eight? I finish at seven tonight."

" 'S fine, eight at the bar down the street?"

"It's a date then."

His heart almost broke his ribs, beating wildly against its cage when the word "date" left your lips. He had a date with you tonight, he couldn't believe his ears. Perhaps you meant as a date between friends than one between lovers, but at that moment, all he could think was how your hands would feel between his, how your soft, plump lips would feel over his and how your body would feel against his, below and over him.

He dove into his delusional mind, imagines and dreams swimming freely, jumping from one to the other. He had dreams for once, a wish that he hoped you'd indulge, and a family he wanted but lost.

Everything seemed to go the way he planned, you waved at him when you saw him waiting outside the bar and giddily joined him. He found a quiet and mellow corner at the bar, a table pushed against the wall with two stools.

The bartenders knew him, he drank here with the others, and they didn't bother him and served and usual. Some were surprised he brought a friend - a woman - with him but left him to his own.

You sat down and downed a few beers while he drank his bourbon. You spoke sporadically, hands waving enthusiastically with every word. Your cheeks were flushed, slightly pink and warm from the alcohol, but you were lively, animated and happy.

It made him happy, seeing you so mirthful around him, being able to let loose from your stricter atmosphere at Ma's cafe. Your tense shoulders were looser, your back relaxed from its ramrod-straight position and your voice felt more invigorated. The alcohol might've played a part, running through your system and making you bolder.

The first time always played well, just as he imagined, and the thing that solidified everything was your parting words: "Next time's on me, Simon!"

You drank together every week, from friends to drinking buddies, there was nothing more intimate than that, to trust someone with your drunk self and your loose tongue, spewing words and thoughts the second they crossed your mind.

That boosted his confidence, the feeling that he could confess, and tell you his deepest and darkest thoughts and wants. You'd know what kind of man he was, broken and messily put together, like a DIY project made by a child gone wrong. He had sharp edges and missing pieces, a cracked personality and dangerous thoughts. He was a SAS soldier after all, once you become one, you see some twisted shit.

Like the week before, you walked out together, your legs shaky but still able to walk home, accompanied by Ghost. He helped you to your apartment, his broad shadow looming over the door, silent as always. When your shaky hands were able to unlock the door, turning the knob and opening the door, you turned around to bid your drinking buddy good night.

Lips parting to say the words, until he cut you off, his chapped lips met yours. His gloved hands caressed your cheek, thumb rubbing under your wide eyes as he held you in place. His lips were warm and plump, but chapped, a scar running over it.

His eyes were closed, lips on you for a few seconds longer until he pulled away, a dazed look in his eyes. While he expected a reaction from you, he hadn't envisioned shock and sadness, one that made his gut plummet. He winced at your expression, unable to understand what he did wrong. He thought you loved him.

"I- Simon, I- I can't, I'm sorry," you hushed out sadly, head turned down to stare at your feet. You were unwilling to gaze into his disappointed - probably heartbroken - eyes.

"Why?" He rasped, voice hoarse as if he hid cried for hours, or was on the brink of tearing up.

"I just can't, Simon," you persisted, feeling much more sober than the last few minutes. His surprise had severed you up - willingly or unwillingly. "I don't mind staying friends, but I can't get too attached. I won't be here much longer."

" 'Cause you're not from here?" He scoffed, but it didn't hold any resentment or irritation, simply sorrow and distress. " 'Cause you're from another world?"

You whipped your head to stare at him, your mouth agape and fearful shock glazed over your eyes. How could he have possibly known? While your identity was fabricated work, you know how to make a believable fake ID, Genji's knowledge helped you. You stepped back, hand reaching for your door knob, unsure of what Simon would do to you now that the secret was out.

He turned and ambled out, shoulders slumped slightly without a word to you. His world shattered once again, God seemed hellbent on making his life a misery.

He stopped coming after your "altercation", you felt horrible, but you couldn't let your heart run wild when you know Winston would find a way to fix the portal in a year or two. One had already passed and you couldn't overindulge in this world's pleasures and leave when you got too attached.

Yet, grief at being relieved that he never appeared again clawed at you, he knew you weren't from his world. It was dangerous information, especially in bad hands, but you couldn't do anything about it. This world had different rules and standards, it worked differently and you weren't book-smart like Winston or Torb. You were a simple agent working under Tracer.

You did, however, regret letting Simon leave so abruptly, he was an amazing friend, the perfect drinking buddy and would probably be a caring lover, but couldn't risk it. Even if you wanted to text him, and apologize over and over until Simon would talk to you again, you knew how to respect people's boundaries. If he left so coldly, never passing by, texting or calling told you enough. He needed time to calm down and clear his mind.

You went back and forth between your home and the cafe every night, your original routine - before meeting Simon - felt alien to you. You'd been so used to seeing Simon at the back of the shop, a hot London fog in his hands and crepes on his plate with melting butter. It was foreign to see the spot occupied by another client, or the cold spot in your chest when it was vacant.

You disliked it. You hated it. The cold, the silence, you wanted to see him at least once.

Can we meet? Usual place. was the sudden text you received from Simon during your shift. It was dated today at 5:39.

Without a second thought, you replied, affirming the date and time, tonight, right after your shift on Friday. A weight was lifted from your shoulder, the silence from Simon was broken and he finally reached out to you. Your break to let him calm down had worked it seemed, the let him cool down and clear his mind.

It was late by the time you got to the pub, around nine. You had returned home and fixed up your depressed look for a more lively one, hoping it would make Simon feel better. You caught him at your usual place, head hung low and demeanour shut off from the world around him. You took hesitant steps towards him, he didn't look exactly sober from the number of cups decorating the table, nor did he look drunk, from his sharp, hooded eyes.

"Simon, " you greeted him slowly, nearly flinching when his brown eyes washed over your smaller figure. Chills erupted through the ends of your nerves, fingers twitching at the sudden burst of danger you felt from your friend. You had no reason to be scared, wary of his demeanour, but not scared or hateful. He'd yet to act out violently or malevolently.

He gave a curt nod, emotions bleeding through his eyes. He was a stoic man, but his eyes were extremely emotional, pain, regret, grief, hate and joy were some you'd seen flash in those pretty brown of his.

He had a whole bottle ordered in advance, the cap still tightly screwed onto the bottle's neck. He poured you a cup, of rum straight out of the bottle without ice or any accessories.

Thanking him, you sipped on your drink it felt hot and heady on your tongue, it burned your throat. You hadn't drank since you'd last seen Simon, weeks ago, and you could see - feel - its effect. You coughed slightly but still downed the rest.

"You wanted to see me?" Your question left an odd sensation on your tongue. He hadn't spoken a word since you walked in, always the brooding, silent menace. He stared, fixated on you or something on you, it was perturbed you.

"I wanted to apologize, love."

You missed that low hum in his voice, and the caring way he said you "love". You'd been used to it since most British you knew always called someone they cared for "love" or "dear", loving terms of endearment used publicly. Now, however, you knew it weighted, an undertone to its meaning, a special significance in his heart.

"Didn't mean to jump you like that," he continued, regret painting his rough tone. "It felt right; to me. Guess I was more plastered than I thought."

He was human and alcohol coursed through his system. It made him bold and erratic, he acted out without a second thought. You could forgive him for the influence his bourbon had on him; you were going to forgive him anyway.

Although you felt better with his apology, forgiveness for his sudden move wasn't what you prioritized. You wanted answers. How did he know? Was it a sudden, incomprehensible blurb that he spat in a spike of hate and pain? Or was it conscience wording from his drunk mind?

"Do you remember that night?" You lost your smile, pursed lips and hardened eyes at your questioning - interrogation of him.

"'Course I do."

"Do you remember what you said? About me coming from somewhere else."

He nodded, eyes levelled to stare straight at you, unwilling to hide or lie, he spoke honestly, "Another world, love. Didn't forget."

"How'd you know? I'm not exactly showcasing it to everyone in bright colours. So how?"

"Saw you save that girl, lil babe crying for her mother," his answer was slow and purposeful, giving you what you wanted to hear. He recalled the event that occurred months prior, everything aligned with your own experience. "We don't - can't - have shite like that, too developed and powerful. Nothin' like that's possible in this era. So I figured you weren't from here. "

His reasoning made sense, his wording was careful, and it seemed like he had time to think about it. The time you gave him had helped. You kept your doubts to yourself, questions you had that he probably didn't have the answer to. A way back; a way home; an escape. All things he had no answer to.

So your shoulders relaxed and asked Simon to pour you a second cup, to which he obliged. You drank and smiled, back to the trying times when you just started drinking with him, the unknown and the awkwardness that lingered in the air stung.

You don't remember how many cups you had, or how many bottles you finished. Did you even finish the first one? Did you get halfway through before your vision started blurring and your mind dazed into mumbles of incoherent words? Simon hadn't touched another cup since the world around you blurred, the corners of your eyes turning black and your movement slowed to a slur.

He paid for the drink on his tab, slinging your arm over his shoulder, hand holding your waist as he walked out. You were drunk out of your mind, but something felt different, you don't remember being this inebriated the last time you drank half a bottle of rum. Was there something else in it?

Simon dropped you in the back, buckling you in before he made sure you sat upright. He was close, his neck bare and sweaty, his musk smelled strong and heavy, smoke and gunpowder weighing at the back of your throat. Although your vision was faulty, you could see the tight muscle of his neck and shoulder tense as he worked.

His scent stuck to you as he closed the door and drove home, the air in the car smelling like him. Whatever had drained you, lulled you to sleep, taking comfort in the familiar warmth even if a small part of you started panicking.

He had you, in the basement of his house, soundproof and padlocked from the outside. Any risk was accounted for and any escape plans were foiled prematurely by his quick mind.

Ghost laid you beneath him, on the soft, plush bed he bought and built for you, queen-sized for the times he'd spend cuddling you. He had you splayed, body limp and limbs pliant to his every desire. He admired your sleeping form, how your lace fluttered lightly and your lips perked, thinking on the corners as if you were wincing - a duck face - and your peaceful expression. You were adorable.

Your shirt came off first, pulled over your head and thrown over his shoulders, then your bra. Without his gloves, your skin felt soft, hot to the touch. Kneading your breasts, he held one in each hand and felt the fat. You twitched and mewled faintly when he pinched your nipples, hardened by the cooler air hitting your drunk-induced heat. He kissed them, lips closing around your nipple and sucking loudly. He gave each one the same amount of attention, pulling off with a wet pop.

His fingers trailed the lines of your abdomen, strong and athletic, but not too burly like anyone in the army. He admired your figure, half-naked and unconscious on his bed, in his home. He kissed down your stomach as he took your pants off, sliding leg after leg out, leaving you only in your panties.

You were beautiful: your skin - soft, your hair - silken, your lips - wonderful to kiss, and your eyes - gems. You were breathtaking to look at, a treasure to his eyes solely. You were an unblemished canvas, unmarked by other men - in his mind - by sin, and your scars were trophies, won through difficult times. He wanted to be the one painting you, displaying you prettily for his eyes alone. Pieces of works were kept secret like Michelangelo's love poems and sketches.

His eyes wandered the expanse of your body, groaning when he saw the wet patch, your body had reacted to his caresses, your arousal turning the spot over your cunt darker, wet. He pushed his nose to it, breathing in the tangy musk. His fingers hooked under the string and ripped it off with a harsh tug. You wouldn't need underwear anymore once he was done with you.

Ghost's pupils dilated, wide, blown eyes as it keyed on your slick cunt. He adjusted your legs, moving them over his shoulders to have better access to you. He gave a testing lap, running the flat of his tongue over your rim, prodding your clenching opening and leaving at your pulsating clit.

You tasted delicious, he growled and dove back. Tongue circling your button, sucking loudly, lifting the protective hood to let it swell and throb. He held your hips tightly ad you squirmed and moaned, but you never awoke. The drug he gave you was potent, tested on bigger, stronger military men. It could knock them out, so it would pull a stronger reaction from you.

It weighed on his mind, that he resolved to drugging you and bringing you home to be able to show you just how much he loved you. He'd preferred if you were awake, he wanted your first time together to be wonderful - fantastic - in all ways, but you would've protested, fought him and left him once more. He couldn't risk losing you completely, it hurt.

He had no other choice and felt guilty, but he couldn't let his mind wander when he had you under him, ripe for the taking. He pushed his thoughts away and concentrated on you, his needy girl.

His tongue returned between your leg, cheek nuzzling into your sweating thighs. He alternated between sucking your button, lips enclosing around it, and dipping his tongue into you, groaning anomalistically at your tensing walls. He pushed his forefinger in, joining his ravenous tongue. His nose bumped your clit, jerking you each time.

A second finger joined the first and his tongue left to give attention to your neglected clit, pumping to the third knuckles and curling upwards. You arched off the bed, hips buckling into his open mouth as he stretched you open with a third finger. The sound was lewd and wet, loud in his ears.

His cock twitched, straining against his pants, the fabric tight and inflexible, nearly painful. He wanted to relieve the tightness, that burning ache deep in his guts, but his needs came second to yours.

He flickered his tongue and pushed his fingers deeper, curling and panting against you. You spasmed, legs closing around his head, squeezing him as you came. His fingers eased out slowly to savour the taste of your arousal, mouth covering your fluttering hole and slurping the slick that drizzled down your ass.

He loved how you tasted, sweet and salty, like a healthy, ripe fruit ready to be bitten into, juicy and perfect. He almost lost himself, dazed by your essence and his anguish; if only you'd accepted him early, you would've been awake and conscious of this act, and you'd be able to love and embrace him as he did to you. He wouldn't have to wait so long, in pain and regret, for not wooing you enough. He wouldn't have to feel so guilty.

Snapping from his hazed thinking, he lowered your legs and climbed off the bed to undress. He peeled his hoodie and shirt, which stuck to his skin by sweat, and he dropped his pants once he unbuckled his belt. His cock bobbed, slapping wetly against his navel before it hung heavily between his legs, the head achingly red and swollen. His balls felt heavy, and tight from all the neglect. They were big and full, ready to pump his seed into you.

He cradled you, pulling your legs over his elbows and slotting his hips to yours, his cock over your slit. He moved his hips, slicking his shaft with your juices, groaning at the wet warmth under him. When it felt slick enough, he dipped the tip in, your labia stretching to swallow his uncut head. The sound was downright filthy in his ears, the squelch and your strained moans.

He watched himself inch deeper, sinking into your depths with unrelenting hunger, panting and growling until he bottomed out, his balls sitting snug against your ass. His bulbous tip kissed your cervix, nudging it as he rolled his hips, testing how deep he could reach and how strong he could fuck.

He slowly pulled out, hearing the wet noise of his cock slipping out to the tip, and slammed in, his balls slapping the roundness of your ass. He rocked wildly, groaning each time he bottomed out, feeling the heat of your walls clench around him like a vice. Your spasming walls wrenched low moans from him, as often as you whimpered and mewled.

"Fuck- you feel so fuckin' good-" he pushed out through his clenched teeth, his cock twitching when you tightened around him.

Your legs shook, your back arching slightly and your voice keening loudly. He covered your body with his, lips meeting yours in a hungry and possessive kiss, tongue diving into your mouth and committing it to memory. His hand found your clit, thumb rubbing your sensitive nub, urging you towards your end.

Keening, you came, gripping him with a vice. He grunted, his pace becoming sloppy as he chased his peak after yours, breathing in your neck with dazed, hooded eyes. He swore, thrusting as deep as he could and came, his seed rushing to fill you.

"Fuck- fuck-" he gasped, rocking a few times into you, riding off his edge until he calmed down.

White globs leaked from your stuffed cunt, rolling down your ass and leaving a trail. His chest rumbled happily, bending down to kiss you slowly, soft and adoring compared to the last. He slid out when he softened, his cum oozing out of your gaping heat, the plug keeping everything in left.

He loved watching you full, oozing of him, asleep and satiated in the bed he bought for you. You were both coated in sweat and cum, hair sticking to your glistening skin. Your dishevelled and panting aroused him, his soft cock jerking upwards, hardening moments after he just came.

"We're not done yet, love."

You felt heavy and warm, a heat - a body - held you tightly, fingers carding through your hair and caressing your back. It smelled like sweat and smoke, a familiar musk. You opened your eyes, seeing a pale, burly chest, Simon's naked chest. You froze, body tensing, shoulders squaring and arms ready to push him back.

"Morning, love," his voice was raspy with sleep, deep and calm as he greeted you, his lips meeting your hairline. "Slept well?"

You frowned, legs moving, jutting out from between his knees as you struggled to free yourself. Your body felt sore, the peak of your discomfort coming from your heat, a pulsating and warm pain. You feared the worst.

When you looked down, you were covered by only a shirt, a big, dark grey t-shirt that smelled like Simon, it reached your knees. You winced, seeing your nakedness and Simon's pants hanging low on his hips, flashing the sharp dip of his navel and his sculpted torso. It left little to imagine, the red blemishes on your neck and shoulders, slightly faded from his careful handling and bruises the size of his fingers around your thighs.

"You-" you coughed before you could day anymore, throat dry and scratchy, alcohol dehydrated people faster.

"Drink," he held you up, back to his chest, arms slipping around you too comfortably to hand you a cup of water, cool and fresh.

He had expected this, he wasn't as delusional as he first seemed, and he was prepared. You took it, gulping it down carefully, counting the seconds - minutes - that would pass until the drug kicked in, if he had diluted any in your water.

He hummed happily, his chest vibrating as he wrapped his arms around you, nosing the collar of your neck, he placed fluttering kisses on your open shoulder. The collar of his shirt slipped from one side, exposing your skin. His teeth grazed you, teasingly nipping you with warm puffs of air.

You gulped, gathering whatever wits you still had after this whole kidnapping situation. Your mind was running miles per second, eyes gleamed over with tensions and tiredness, and your body sore from Simon's perverse affection.

"Where am I?" your voice was small, still raspy from - what you assumed - moaning and mewling.

"Home," he mumbled, latching onto your skin and sucking a dark spot.

Home? It neither meant your flat nor safety. It was *his* home, a prison he built for you. You looked around. You thought it better to get to know the place he decided to keep you captive, to learn and discover its secrets, anything you could use against or for you.

It was like a studio apartment, everything was open apart from the bathroom, it had a small kitchenette with a fridge (probably in case he left for a while, deployed in another country while he kept you here.), a bookshelf filled to the brim with books and a desk pushed to the side. He'd forgone leaving you with a television, a mobile device, a phone or a computer, all were risks of you getting out.

The walls were painted over, bare of windows and stairs lead to a door, locked from both sides. He locked you in his basement, beneath his house and every other neighbour's nose. No one would come to your rescue if you screamed. No one would hear your cries of anguish or your pleas for freedom.

He bit down, teeth pressing onto your skin, denting the scarred flesh with his teeth marks. You yelped, the area hot and painful, his strength leaving an almost skin-deep bleeding, fiery and red. It was irritated and swelled in seconds. He moved from one patch to the other, determined to mark up your shoulder before possibly moving on to the next one.

You squirmed on his lap, trying to free yourself from his restrictive hold. You gripped his hands, digging your blunt nails into his forearms. He scoffed, nuzzling the bites he made, tongue lapping at the bleeding lines.

"Ghost," you gasped, legs kicking and body struggling.

Clicking followed every kick, the distinct sound of metal rattling in a disorderly way. You looked down your leg, catching the cuff around your right ankle, a long chain kept you jailed in the basement. It was long and winding, enough to comfortably walk laps around your new accommodation but too short to reach the door.

You stared at it incredulously, the utter rage and disgust that burned in your gut that he planned to keep you as if you were a glorified pet or some sort of prize he scouted and obtained.

You knew he liked you before, it was a simple and innocent crush, like finding your first one and not knowing how to react. That, and the fact he was a soldier, scarred by time and marked by warfare made him so standoffish. You thought it was simple, but now, it was too late to forget, to not look, to let bygones be bygones.

He was obsessed, not necessarily sane, but not crazy either. He wasn't delusional, by everything he set up as a precaution, but he let his darkness fester, grow and crack the surface of his calm and stoic persona. He was still calm and meticulous, but it was a different kind, storming ideas for your imprisonment and wishes he wanted to make true. Ghost and Simon overlapped, neither good nor evil, he was simply letting the monster rage uncontrolled.

His pent-up emotions drove him to the edge, and your rejection pushed him over, tipping the scale of his sanity. That's how you ended up in your current situation, his hands wandering over your thighs, dipping between them and down to your knees. He still nipped at your skin, biting and pulling the collar down the other shoulder. His teeth sunk into the muscle between your neck and shoulder, warm fingers slipping under his shirt to knead your chest.

You winced, flinching when he plucked your nipples, pulling on them until you let out a pained whine.

"Stop-!" your hands followed his, clamping around his wrists and dragging him out, but he stayed firm, unmoving to your will as he twirled your mounds. "Fucking stop!"

He huffed, hands dropping to your lap. He mumbled into your bitten skin, groaning in complaints about not letting him care for you. His complaints came with hot breaths on your nape, mouthing the back, turning silent and unmoving.

His quietness was familiar to you, his penchant for sifting through his thoughts in utter silence. Then he moved, draping the covers over your body, tucking you in. He stood at your bedside, expression lighting in a gentle smile. Under the dim lighting of the room, he looked like a beautiful angel. A gold halo hovered over his blonde locks, framing his pale skin and warm, brown eyes.

He kissed your forehead, lips lingering a few seconds longer as he took in the calming moment. He had you, he had you in his home.

"How about breakfast? Fried eggs and bangers, how's that sound?"

The normalcy of eating breakfast in bed, to wake up and be greeted with a British breakfast made by Simon. He liked the idea of such normality, it was romantic, domestic even. To be able to cook for you and serve you the food he made, he'd eat at the table in the middle of the room, seated opposite from you.

He left before you could give him a piece of your mind, or your reply to his question. Fried eggs, you knew what that was, but *bangers*, what the fuck was that?

The stairs creaked lightly, bending under Simon's weight, but his steps were silent - dangerous. The lock clicked when it was unlocked, and he left you alone, the door locking behind him. Gone was your escape, gone was your freedom, gone was your life with the door locking before you.

Time seemed endless, it went by in a blink or in long, painful moments that left you angry. He hadn't given you a clock, and without anything technological (the microwave didn't have the time, whatever Simon had done, worked. Time never played on the four-letter screen.), you couldn't tell day from night, seconds from minutes and minutes from hours. Time dragged agonizingly slowly, the only clue was Simon kept a pattern: three meals a day, breakfast, dinner and supper before going to bed with his arms wrapped around you.

How long you've stayed here was unknown. You couldn't know and Simon didn't want to tell you. He changed subjects or glared at you until you dropped it or he decided to drop it. You had no link to the outside, no way of knowing if you'd been announced missing or if anyone was worried. Simon had cut all your connections to the world around you, just outside your reach, on the other side of these walls that confined you.

You desperately needed to know about your case, if they knew, if they filed a missing person report if they were searching for you. It pained you to be ignorant of everything but your small world, the things that happened in your small room. Everything you knew was Simon.

His horribly, soothing words in his deep voice, speaking into your ear or your hair, whispering his dreams and his hopes, his love and his adoration. His wandering hands, raking the tension from your shoulders, the knots in your back, your worry from your eyes and lips, and the pleasure - forced - he brought upon you.

Entertainment was brought through him, or through the books he left for you, most were erudite, both old and new novels. Bram Stoker's Dracula, The Silence of the Lambs and The Heart of Darkness were a few of the novels you'd caught on the bookshelf.

He also fed you. Most days, he'd stay until it was time to eat, he would leave - sometimes half an hour or a whole hour, it ranged between depending on the meal - and come back with warm plates. They always smelled good and they tasted better.

It surprised you how skilled he was in cocking, as he was in infiltration, sniping, abducting and killing. Perhaps he took the time apart from you to forge his plan, to learn to cook and to care.

You ate, slowly and contemplatively. He stared at you eat, always making sure you took the first bites before digging into his own plate. It weighed heavy in your gut, like a reluctant gift you were bestowed, and Simon made sure you ate everything.

You felt dazed, gone, after eating, as if a cloud washed over your mind that made you slower, and sluggish with everything you did. The food was drugged, you were aware of that when you first felt lethargic. It made you less testy, less bratty as Simon grumbled, you were more pliant to his whims and easier to move when you tried fighting him.

Though it eased the nausea that wracked your body in the mornings, the sudden discomfort in your abdomen and the heaviness that the ache gave. You rarely needed to move from the bed if the urge to vomit came up, Simon kept pills for that. If you did, he'd comfort you, holding your hair back as the content of your stomach surged upwards.

Your time spent with Simon was time spent organizing your thoughts, Winston was smart, engineering-wise, he was amazing. Then there was Mercy with her medical breakthrough and Torb with his ingeniously brilliant machines. If they came together, found what went wrong with the portal you went through.

Trace would be so worried if she wasn't already dead worried. She was a caring and responsible mentor, taking you in before and after the fall of Overwatch. Nearly twelve years under her and this was the first mishap. You spent nearly two years in Simon's world - you counted the time your could count, the days you spent working and enjoying life as much as you could in a different place - and your heart never stopped missing your family.

You missed Jack - Soldier: 76 - when he would openly laugh, and Gabriel, when he was still the man he was. You missed Tracer's fussing, blinking around with so much energy, and Reinhardt's proud standard when he loomed over his teammates with his Barrier Field. You missed them horribly, they were the glue that kept you hoping for freedom.

It happened when you nearly conceded to Simon's whims, bending to his will and words, letting his hands wander your body and feeling pleasure - genuine. His confessions were parroted, and his I love youwas returned.

You ate less, however, the lump in your gut grew by the days, weighing heavier and heavier. You had weird cravings, followed by nausea most mornings, gripping the toilet bowl with your head hung low. Simon held your hair back and rubbed soothing circles on your back, bemoaning about your pains and cramps.

He left a few times during your period of captivity, vanishing for long periods - usually a week or two - and had you manage everything on your own. He had cameras set up, watching your every move, connected to whatever device he decided to watch you.

He was deployed a week ago, his steps never walking to the door during the week, but now, you could hear his booming steps around the house. They were loud and intentional. Dread always filled your body when you learned he came back, he was clingy, handsy and obsessive when he came back, growling that he would burn down the world if couldn't have you; or that he was thinking about you - constantly - and that the video feed on his phone was never enough.

You picked up on his pace, hurried and panicked. They stomped around the house in search of something before it stopped at your door. Your ears perked on the clicking of the lock, straining to listen to his heaving breaths.

Crack

You jerked forward. Something behind you cracked, the loud cracking filled the air as you turned. A blue swirl cracked the shift in reality, like glass fracturing and breaking into pieces, it glowed with every line. It pulsed calmly, the swirls capturing your attention. You felt drawn to it, your hands twitching with the urge to touch it, to let your fingers swim in the infinite pool.

"(Name), are you there?" a voice called from the other side, small and feminine. It was dripping with worry and exhaustion. "Luv, are you there?" she cried a second time, a hand emerging from the portal.

You knew the voice, the warm, familiar voice that called out to you with love and compassion. A friend. A mentor. A family.

You reached out to it, hand inches from hers. Then the door to your cage burst open, his screams echoing in the basement. He hurried down the stairs as fast as he could, mask still on his face as he reached for you. His gloved fingers grasped the air for you, rushing towards you with immense worry and fear in his eyes.

Mere seconds behind you, his fingers grazed your back as you fell into the waiting arms of your mentor. He was too late, he fell on the vacant bed, watching the portal close behind you. He clutched the bending, the place you sat moments ago. It was still warm, your heat and smell still mixed into your sheets.

He spun lies about your absence, about your sudden disappearance from his world. You moved away after your breakup, you distanced yourself from him to make the move easier on your heart and his. The TF had accepted the excuse, solemnly nodding about your leave and wishing they could have said farewell to a good friend.

They moved on with life, still smiling nostalgically when you were brought up, but Ghost was left heartbroken. He knew something was wrong that day, the itch in his brain about something happening at home. That's why he was in such a hurry, in a panicked frenzy to get home - to get to you. He was too late though, seeing you being pulled into a portal. Dooming was the effect on him; devastation was the pain in his heart; shattering was the sorrow of his soul.

He poured everything into keeping you, only to lose you. Now, he poured every second of his life into work, never letting his mind wander to the bump on your stomach or the subtle relinquishment in your actions to him.

He was deader than dead, colder and more stoic than before. They saw the change, they understood, but never blamed you. Everyone had fallouts, Simon just had more than the rest of the world. That's why he played Ghost more often than before, building his walls higher and his appearance darker.

Yet somehow, Soap was enthusiastic enough to rope him into playing games on his console (he used to play more before finding time between deployments to jump into a match with the others). Overwatch 2, an evolution of the first made better. Soap promised it was good. His spiel about the characters having a profound background and the gameplay being fun. Ghost was doubtful, he and Soap didn't have the same definition of fun, they were associated with different things.

He liked Soap, though, so he humoured his sergeant. He downloaded it on his console, watching the white line charge until it became playable. Soap had mentioned a few names: Genji, Sombra, Reaper and Zenyatta, he even joked about Reaper resembling him, the skull mask and the dark drapes. He'd also gushed - like an over-enthusiastic gamer - about a new character, a woman, the sole student of this Tracer.

He scoured through the lists of players, eyes skimming over the faces before he spotted a familiar one. It was more cartoonish, drawn in gentle lines and beautiful shades. Your face, it was your beautiful face. He nearly dropped his controller, hands shaking and body heavy.

Was it guilt that washed over him? Was it pain that washed over him? Was it sorrow and melancholy that washed over him? Or was it his world that came crashing down on his shoulders?

The world dulled, his breath became stagnant and shallow as he stared at your hero. You were standing proud and fearless, guns held in your hands with a bright smile. He watched you emote, your character moving as it was coded. He scrolled through your skills and perks, some he remembered you use. You blinked and recalled, moving back and forth between time and space, breaking the fragile shift in the world.

Soap was right about the new hero, you were interesting and lovely. In a flurry of emotions, he opened up your biography - or a snippet of your backstory. Every word bled his heart, every act and every situation wracked his body with sadness. The more he read, the more his tears threatened to fall.

You kept your - his - child, a beautiful kid with his blonde hair and your eyes, a round, yet sharper face like his. You kept him, you hadn't aborted the child. You gave birth and he wasn't there. You took care of your kid and he wasn't there. You watched him grow and he wasn't there.

He cried, body closing on itself. His shoulders shook, his vision blurred and his face streaked with tears. A broken sob broke through his throat, restricted and pained with waves of emotion, deep and harrowing sadness of his loss.

"I miss you, love," he rasped, his fingers gripping his hair, nearly ripping out the seams. "I miss you."

#ghost mw2 #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader smut #yandere ghost #simon ghost riley #yandere cod #cod smut #mw2 smut #ghost call of duty #simon riley smut #ghost mw2 smut #yandere mw2 x reader #yandere mw2 #overwatch 2 #overwatch

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starwrighter · 10 months

Text

I am not a baby!! (Yes you are)

Prompt Masterpost Previous Next

Part two people!!!

@zeldomnyo @bytheoldwillowtree @justwannabecat @molasses-being-slow @shepherdsheart @starlightcat04

Danny woke up with the smell of ash and burning plastic suffocating him. Beeps and whistles of malfunctioning machinery warning him of his eminent demise cried louder than he did. His body felt stiff and his head pounded like someone bashed it in with the creep stick. Something about him felt... Wrong like he’d been chopped and quartered but was somehow still partly alive.

With a gasp of putrid air Danny’s hand flew towards his face tugging at cheeks that were way too chubby with hands too tiny to be his. A slime-like substance clung to his skin pooling in a goopy mess below him. It smelled rotten like something dad pulled out the back of the freezer. The goop was reddish with bits of green shining through the foul smelling mess. His stomach churned the longer he stared at it and for a split second Danny swore he saw a melted finger sticking out of it. It melted into the gunk as quickly as he spotted it.The panel that’d previously been embedded in his flesh sat in the middle of the viscous fluid like a garnish for the worlds worst soup.

a crackling zap of electricity brought his attention back to the roaring flames only a few feet beside him. Danny strained, power buzzing at his fingertips cooling his palms but fizzling out with droplets of the gory fluid frozen to his skin. You’d get more cold air from a plastic pinwheel! Shoving his hands into open flames with an unknown fluid coating his body and no ice powers to back him up was a stupid idea even for him. He was all for the “Fuck around and find out mindset,” but not when there was nobody around to laugh at him for his dumbassery.

Sam...

Tucker...

Jazz...

He’d never hear the end of it if he died from his own stupidity again. Now that he was pretty much powerless a fire extinguisher would be more useful than his hands for now. Alterra might be a little shady but it was a life pod, there had to be a fire extinguisher stashed away somewhere, right?

Danny all but slipped out of the seat, the shoulder guards too wide to ever hold his now tiny body. His stomach lurched as his foot sank down into the viscous puddle. Searching around a burning life pod with what could possibly be his liquefied corpse was the scariest crap that would ever happen to him on this trip. A fire extinguisher sat propped up against what should have been the seat of another survivor. Danny snatched it up, the canister half his body size. Maybe when he wasn’t at risk of burning to death that’d be scarier to him?

Aiming at the roaring flames Danny squeezed the trigger so hard his hands shook. Instead of the messy thick foam he was used to back home, this fire extinguisher sprayed out a powdery mist snuffing the flames in seconds before dissipating into thin air like it’d never been sprayed in the first place.

…

Alterra was on another level.

Wait.

Why didn’t they have these at home?!

Fires broke out several times a day at Fenton Works! You’re telling him instead of spending half an hour hurting himself cleaning “Fenton anti-ghost fireform” he could’ve been using one of these babies?! There were barely any scorch marks on the walls! You could hardly tell that just a few seconds ago there was a wall of flames that reached the ceiling. This fire extinguisher was coming home with him, he’d make sure of that.

In fact, this fire extinguisher was his new best friend, his Wilson if you will. He and Wilson would be going on so many adventures from here on out. To any normal person, it might’ve seemed a little odd that he was humanizing an inanimate object so soon; but to Danny, it was just on theme. He hadn’t stepped foot outside but he could feel the life pod dipping rhythmically with what Danny hoped was water.

The life pod hadn’t started melting yet so it’s probably not acid. If it did turn out to be boring old water it’d be immensely disappointing He wasn’t saying he wanted to land in a viscous metal-eating acid... But landing on an alien planet composed mainly of giant seas of acid would be a pretty metal way to die a third time. Ancients knows he needed something cool to happen to him after dying from something as mundane as a panel flying off the wall. Yes, he counted that as a death, he was turned into goo and it smelled awful.

Danny’s eyes darted around the life pod. There’s a latter in the middle of the pod leading to the top hatch soft light from a clear blue sky shining through the glass. The bottom hatch was pure metal, the type of hatch you’d expect to see on a futuristic submarine. He didn’t want to leave the life pod, not yet at least. No matter how foul the life pod smelled, he would die if he left now.

He was naked as the day he was born with zero weaponry to defend himself. If his parents had designed these life pods they would’ve been armed to the teeth and stocked full of fudge. Toddling past the ladder Danny went about searching through the storage units he could reach. Nutrient blocks... Flares... Some water

Come on Alterra!

Where was all the cool stuff? Propulsion guns, stasis rifles, teleporters?!! You’d think one of the biggest space exploration programs in the universe could afford to stock the life pods with something cooler than bricks of food and sparklers. Sure there were the futuristic-looking suits but those wouldn’t fit him in a million years! Danny pulled a glowing blue tablet out of one of the suit’s backpack. Danny remembers being denied one of these things at orientation because “You’re too young Danny, there’ll always be an adult with a PDA on hand to help you,” Glancing around the life pod he gasps dramatically. Oh no~ there’s no adult in sight guess nobody could stop him from using the forbidden blue tablet.

He snickers, and starts tapping his pudgy fingers against Alterra’s precious tablet. With his mocking taps the tablet jumps to life a bright blue glow flashed in his face as Alterra’s logo began to spin on it’s screen.

“Alterra~” The tablet sang in a robotic tone as it began to boot up.

“You have suffered minor head trauma. this is considered an optimal outcome,” Danny side-eyes the metal sheet on the ground as the PDA continues.

“This PDA has now been rebooted in emergency mode with one directive: to keep you alive on an alien world please refer to the databank for detailed survival advice. Good luck.” The robot lady finished her little speech leaving Danny to swipe through the tabs of the PDA. Tucker would kill to get his hands on technology like this! Apparently, the PDA monitored his vital signs, supposedly had hundreds of blueprints before the crash, is waterproof and temperature resistant had a pretty good microphone and camera. The PDA itself was easy to interact with or it was until Allterra's spinning logo of death decided to flashbang him again.

“ Attention. Alterra does not approve of child labor for those under the age of two years old,”

What.

“This PDA will bypass certain rules with the sole purpose of accessibility and keeping you alive. Alterra gives their sincerest apologies for your involvement,”

….

Okay, now he had access to the suits in smaller sizes. Only downside was now the entire PDA was babying him! He could read Ancient’s damn it! Rummaging through the settings for a few minutes, he finds he can turn off certain features of baby mode but shutting it off completely wasn’t even an option. Honestly, Danny was just happy he could turn the robot voice back on; it was better than baby mode’s default. He didn't know why the soft, loving tone mimicking that of a mother soothing her child made his eyes start to water. He just knew he never wanted to hear it thrown at him as a manipulative tactic to keep him calm devoid of any of the love it pretended to offer.

With a sniffle, Danny runs his hands over one of the suits. It's like leather, with a waxy silicone sheen. He drags it to the fabricator allowing his PDA adjust the proportions of the suit. The fabricator sparks to life dark blue lasers disintegrating the suit into nothing before reassembling it into something completely new in a matter of minutes. What Danny picked off the fabricator was a tiny wetsuit warm to the touch and easy to put on.

With his newly improved wetsuit, Danny sucks in a breath turning the valve of the bottom hatch. There was a hiss of air escaping and Danny was met with lapping ocean waters and colorful fish darting around what looked to be giant coral tubes. Danny dipped his feet in the water and when they didn't melt into a conglomerate mess of flesh and bone Danny grabbed Wilson to join him as he pushed himself out of the life pod.

Flying in the ghost zone could be just like swimming sometimes and while it was much harder to tread water with tiny legs and a fire extinguisher in your backpack Danny was doing just fine. Treading up to the surface he gasped for air clinging onto the orange airbags keeping the life pod afloat. It was then that Danny saw the wreckage of the Aroura engulfed in flames.

"The Aurora suffered orbital hull failure. Cause: unknown. Zero human life signs detected"

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #subnautica au

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blanketorghost · 6 months

Text

HEHEHEHE AzuYuu masquerade kiss >:^)

As I said before this is a scene of a certain fanfic that's written from Yuu's POV but since I'm insane I took a small snippet and wrote Azul's perspective <3

Full thing under cut✨️

Azul clicks his tongue in disapproval, crossing his arms once more as his eyes scan Yuu's body for more injuries. So far, nothing else was visible. "Isn't Grim worried?"

Maybe if he changed his approach, Yuu would willingly give up some information. He wasn't even sure that would work either. Yuu had this way of frustratingly weaving around the subject of himself that almost felt natural to him. Even in nights when they slept over, and Azul poured his heart out to Yuu as he laid on his lap despite his brain telling him not to, Yuu never reciprocated with the same openness save for one time. He trusted Yuu. He really, truly did. But he knew deep down Yuu didn't trust him back. It was partially his fault and he knew that, but no matter how much he pried and dug into him, Yuu just seemed to slip further and further away from him.

... Why?

Interrupting Azul's line of thought, Yuu speaks again. He looks down with a small smile and tugs at the edges of his shirt, fiddling with his cufflinks. Would it hurt him to look him in the eye? "I just told him I'd get some cool scars in return. It really isn't that big of a deal."

Azul bites his lips. He didn't expect much in the first place, but he'd hoped to get some leverage by bringing up the little direbeast. He was the closest to Yuu, arguably knowing him the best. The fact that his worries were quelled by something so simple made Azul's blood boil. He thought, if anyone, Grim would be the most fussy about Yuu's wellbeing.

Obvously, that wasn't the case. But no matter, Azul would make up for the two of them if only to prevent Yuu from doing anything as stupid again.

With a deep breath, Azul steels himself and looks down once more at Yuu's hands, which are still stubbornly toying with the buttons at his cuffs. A part of himself wants to reach out and button them just for the sake of stopping his fidgeting.

Another, more impulsive side of his, just wants to take Yuu's hands instead and hold them close.

"...If anything, I'm more embarrassed at the trouble I caused the tailors per this wardrobe malfunction." Yuu continues, and Azul feels his heart drop.

Did Yuu really think that? How could he, when his arms were wrapped in bandages and were stained by ointment? Did Yuu simply not care? Did the burns not hurt, or the bruises left by the scuffle make him uncomfortable in any way? Azul refused to believe that.

In a flash, Azul's memories from the fight came back to him. The smell of smoke and ash crawling up his nostrils and burning his lungs in a way he had never experienced before at sea. The suffocating weight of his clothes and the bright, garrish flowers creeping towards him from every corner. The quiver of his legs and the numbness on his fingertips as each and every spell he cast became weaker than the last, all the while Rollo stood there, mocking his ever weakening magic. Then, Yuu, somehow, appeared and grabbed Rollo from behind. The flames lapped at his skin, caught and burned his sleeves, and the oppressive heat made it hard for Azul to breathe, yet Yuu seemed to handle everything just fine as he wrangled Rollo into submission.

He wanted to scream, to run out and do something, anything to help Yuu out, but before he was able to cast a single spell or utter a word, Malleus had already landed the final shot and Yuu had rung the bell, killing those dreaded flowers in an instant.

Did it not hurt?

It must've. After all, Yuu's entire entire forearm was tightly bandaged up. Yet he laughed nonchalantly in relief, pulled Azul into a tight hug and praised his bravery in battle without a single complaint. Sevens, he even asked him if he was wounded!

And the worst part was that Azul didn't notice it. He did notice the burnt fabric and torned up sash, of course. But how could he not tell Yuu was injured in the first place?

"Is that it?" Azul swallows and tries to keep his voice from breaking. How could he not notice? "Do you think that's the only thing to care about? A... a wardrobe malfunction?"

"Is there anything to else to care about?" Yuu shrugs, and Azul can feel all three off his hearts being ripped apart from his chest. He could've died! The risk Yuu took back then could've killed him, and Azul wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. He couldn't have. Even when his brain screamed at him back then to cast a water spell when he saw Yuu's garments catch aflame, or when he saw Rollo's fury being redirected at Yuu— completely disarmed and magicless, his body completely froze up.

He could've lost him.

"I—" Azul's voice is caught in his throat in frustration as he surges forward to grab at Yuu's collar with an angry, concerned gaze. "Are you not hearing yourself?! I-... I don't know how you can be so dense- no, willingly ignorant of what I'm trying to say. Of what I need you to understand."

"W-what... are you trying to say?" Yuu whispers, and the merman can easily discern in the dark how Yuu's cheeks brighten up with a furious flush.

Was it not obvious? Was it really not? Even when Azul's chest felt tight and tears pricked his eyes, didn't Yuu realize how much valuable he was to him? What did he even have to do to make Yuu understand how important— no, vital he was to everyone in NRC, so much so that no harm should've come his way in the first place?

"Yuu..." Azul lets out a small growl, clenching his fists and tugging at the fabric, and Yuu gulps. His voice breaks, and he has to stop himself from talking anymore lest he starts crying— a feeling he had so desperately tried to avoid ever since he left the Coral sea.

Slowly, he lifts up a hand and cups Yuu's cheek. One that just half an hour ago was covered in soot and ash. Azul shakes a little, lowering his gaze to the floor for a second, struggling to get the image out of his head.

With a deep breath, he lifts his face back up to look at Yuu's face once more, studying his features carefully. His mauve eyes, one of which had eyeshadow half applied. To his nose, with only a dot of highlighter dusted on and yet to be blended. To his cheeks, which held a vivid natural blush that no makeup product could ever achieve. To the three moles at the corner of his face and the small triangle they formed. His hair, loosely braided with a small golden ribbon weaved between it. His neck, decorated with a black velvet choker that almost hid the way his throat bobbed up and down. Azul allows his eyes to roam as much as they wished, taking in every detail, every single mark, pore and strand of hair, committing everything to memory. After all, what if this was the last time they saw each other? What if the next stunt Yuu pulled would be the last one?

Azul feels his eyes well up at the mere thought and he has to look back down, pitifully trying to calm himself down despite the situation, but it is just too much for him.

How could he make Yuu understand? How could he even put these feelings into words when just trying to scramble the words inside his head was enough to make him want to hide and cry in his octopot for days?

The only thing he knew for certain, though, is that he no longer wanted to have Yuu out of his sight. Feelings or crushes be damned. It was too risky to stay away if the result was to never see Yuu again.

So, he takes a long breath. Shaky and deliberate, then surges forward. His lips press against Yuu's. First hesitantly, then his contact becomes more firm as he gains more confidence.

#art stuff #twisted wonderland #fanart #yuu fujisaki #doodles #twst oc #twst yuu #azul ashengrotto #twst fanart #twst azul #twst #azuyuu #yuuazu #azul x yuu #azul x oc #azul x mc

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yanderes-galore · 1 month

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If we’re allowed to request Glam Bonnie..

Can I get hc’s for a post RUIN Freddy and Bonnie sharing a darling? They’ve both been so alone for such a long time… so they quickly become infactuated as you rescued them. Maybe both of them even see you as some sort of savior.

Alright, sure! Here's an AU concept based around that. RUIN Freddy is not the actual one we see in RUIN for this concept.

Yandere! Post-Ruin! Glamrock Freddy + Bonnie Sharing Darling

Pairing: Platonic/Romantic - Sharing

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Transference, Clingy behavior, Overprotective behavior, Possessive behavior, Isolation, Entrapment, Dubious/Forced companionship.

Both of the bots have been best friends for a long time.

Even now in a ruined and burned Pizzaplex... the two bots still have a strong bond with one another.

The two are damaged and covered in ash, similarly to their other friends.

Although for the most part... they're in mostly good condition.

Functioning at least...

To them, you entering the Pizzaplex must have been fate.

You came into the ruined Pizzaplex for one reason or another, maybe to salvage the electronics you could.

In the process you end up catching the eye of the two sentient bots.

They haven't lost their mind like the rest and have lost minimal pieces.

You may have found them after being chased by one of the other malfunctioning bots in the place.

Last minute before you're caught... robotic arms pull you to safety.

In front of you stands Freddy and Bonnie, glowing optics watching you with surprise and concern.

At first they have no idea how to feel about you... but soon they begin to realize you're their savior.

Fate brought you to them to save them!

Under this belief, the two never let you out of their sight.

They trust you to lead them to the surface, hopefully to get fixed up again.

Think of Security Breach or Ruin... except instead of having one animatronic hover around you, it's two.

The two naturally want to take care of you due to their programming and admiration for you.

When you lead them out of the ruins of the Pizzaplex, the two are in awe.

By this point they'd follow wherever they can.

The two definitely feel indebted to you for saving them.

They're attached to you as you get help to have them fixed and you keep them in your home momentarily.

You see... maybe you work with Vanessa and Gregory who are trying to recover Freddy and Bonnie from the burned building?

That or maybe they call you to drop them off as they've heard you were calling people to fix up two Pizzaplex animatronics.

The news that Freddy and Bonnie can't stay beside you saddens them.

It also makes them panic since they'll have to leave their savior.

The two no doubt try to convince you otherwise.

Don't hand them over! They don't want to leave you!

Now... while the idea of the two being clingy with you is cute at first... you really can't keep them.

The two don't take the rejection well, either.

While you sleep the two manage to sneak out of the garage you keep them in.

Your phone line is cut, your cellphone is hidden, the doors are locked...

The two are careful as they begin to isolate you.

By the time you wake up, the two are standing beside your bed on each available side.

They have smiles on their faces... poor you has no idea what they've done.

By the time you find out... two will do whatever they can to keep you beside them.

They won't let you give them away.

They've found a new home and that's with you!

You're their savior... now they have to return the favor, no?

They'll be the ones to take care of you now... they'll be the ones to love you... you'll be all theirs now.

"Now now... what's wrong, Cottontail?"

"Don't you know you can't abandon friends, Superstar?"

#yandere five nights at freddy's #yandere fnaf #yandere fnaf security breach #yandere fnaf ruin #yandere glamrock freddy #yandere glamrock bonnie

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waltwhitmansbeard · 5 months

Text

been working on this for weeks but consider it a present for @ravendruid's birthday. extremely rated e, lol, as i create the slutty keyleth rep i wish to see in my fandom.

Keyleth doesn't get horny. It's not that she doesn't like sex, because she does. She likes sex with Vax, specifically, the only kind of sex she knows, because he makes it fun and because she likes seeing how happy and relaxed it makes him and because she swears he knows her body better than she does, the way he's able to pull sounds and sensations from her that she'd never have known she was capable of.

No, Keyleth likes sex. She just never...seeks it out. It's an out of sight, out of mind kind of thing. She's got a thousand things on her plate these days, so much going on and so many people counting on her, that if Vax weren't there to kiss slowly down her neck as she finishes her reading for the next day's meeting or run his hands along her waist while she gets changed, she probably would forget sex existed altogether.

Which is what makes this so strange. There was a terrible accident at a bakery in the wee hours of the morning, an oven malfunction that resulted in two-thirds of the building burning near to ash before the flames could be stamped out. Much of Zephrah has gathered to help, clearing out debris and helping the air genasi family that owns the bakery recover what they can from the wreckage. Keyleth and Vax were among the first on the scene, having been woken with the news by a Blade, and in the intervening hours, they've managed to organize what will become the rebuilding efforts.

Keyleth is meant to be discussing what needs to be physically handled versus what can be fixed via arcane means, but she's not listening to a word one of the few wizards who lives in town is saying. Instead, her attention is entirely consumed by Vax, who is helping the baker affix a large tarp over the portions of the building left standing to act as a makeshift wall. Vax's sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing muscular forearms that strain to reach up to hold the tarp in place. His long hair has been haphazardly braided out of they way, and two spare nails bounce between his full lips as he and the baker discuss their strategy for tackling the tarp. At one point, Vax brings a hand down to wipe sweat off of his forehead, leaving a streak of ash and dust in its wake. He reaches back up to hold a nail in place for the baker to hammer in, and once they're done, he relaxes back down, grins at their success, and claps the baker on the back.

Keyleth wants to climb him like a tree.

She's taken so aback by the intensity of her own lust that the wizard has to say her name three times for her to drag her eyes away from the muscles Keyleth can see beneath the back of Vax's sweat-slick shirt. He's clearly annoyed, this wizard, but Keyleth's missed every word for minutes now. "Can I trust you with this?" she asks, desperately, she imagines. She doesn't wait for an answer, just turns around and weaves her way through the crowd of neighbors until she's at Vax's side.

"Hey!" He gives her his easy smile, the one that normally makes her feel warm but now makes her feel as though she herself will soon be ash and smoke. "Got this up, so at least we won't be damaging what's left as we clean up this mess. How are things going on the magic front?"

It is by the grace of the gods that Keyleth doesn't shove him up against the tarp he's so proud of and knock the remainder of this bakery to the ground. "I think...we need to head home. Just for a bit."

His brow furrows. "I think we can still help out here. At the very least we can help get the fallen beams out of the way."

"Mhm, yeah." The mid-morning sun illuminates the sheen over his face. She's going crazy. "I just...there is something at home. That can help."

"Oh. And...you need me to go with you."

"Mhm!" She doesn't know how to convey how fucking desperate she is for him to shut the fuck up and come with her now. "Please."

"Okay." He's clearly confused, but he turns to tell the baker that they'll be back in just a bit before sliding his hand into hers and allowing himself to be tugged in the direction of home. She doesn't blame him for his bewilderment; neither of them has any precedent for this, her sudden, uncontrollable, unshakable need for him. She doesn't even know how she's going to explain it to him—hopefully she won't have to. Hopefully he'll catch on quick.

He's so damn friendly, saying hello to everyone they pass, giving quick updates on the situation as she half-yanks him along. She knows she must seem absolutely feral right now, and, well, she feels it. Can he feel the thundering of her heart in his palm? Is her skin burning his, her nails digging into his hands? No, he is oblivious, grinning and cordial to each of their neighbors. Normally she thrills in how easily he's made a home of her people, but not today. Today she's hungry.

When they get to the little cottage set aside just for them, she fumbles with the key, missing the keyhole three times before Vax's long, practiced fingers curl over hers and pluck the key from her hand. "Okay." He unlocks the door and pushes it open. "You need to tell me what's going on, because you're—oh."

She shoves him inside, slams the door shut with her foot and then spins him around so his back's against it. His face blooms in surprise as she presses herself against him. "Driving me fucking crazy," she growls, pawing at the shirt hem tucked into his trousers like a cat trying to get a bird through a window. "Such a jerk, looking like this—" She bites down into the crook of his neck.

He hisses, his hands coming to clench at her waist. "Holy shit, Kiki." Finally, she's able to yank his shirt free, skitter her hands up his stomach, where he warm and hard and hers. "You...oh gods..." Good, his brain's just as fried as hers is. Serves him right. "This...it's different."

She kisses him, all teeth and spit. It's a far cry from the way he so tenderly kisses her, no reverence or care. She kisses to mark, to claim, to devour. One of his hands, broad and so very skilled, pulls her in closer by the small of her back, while the other grabs fully onto her ass. She growls into him; going fucking crazy.

Vax breaks away with a gasp. "Kiki." She pushes up on his shirt, which is now bunched up around his armpits. "Kiki." He takes her by the shoulders and pushes her a few inches away. "What the hell is going on?"

She doesn't know what she looks like, but by the bafflement on his face, she must look wild. Her skin is on fire, and there is a pounding up and down her torso that she has never felt outside of the bedroom before. Somewhere beneath the sizzling want, there is embarrassment, humiliation for losing control like this, but right now, she just can't bring herself to care.

"You..." She swallows, willing her blood to stop boiling for a second so she can formulate something resembling a cogent thought. "You just...with the sweat and the shirt and the arms, fuck—" She digs her nails into his bicep like she's going to tear it out from beneath his skin. "I'm losing my mind."

He smiles, then, the kind of mischievous smile he tries to hide from her when he doesn't want her to think he's laughing at her even though he definitely is. "Keyleth...are you horny?"

"Jerk." She shoves his shoulders again, so he bounces off of the door, and then, before he can decide to tease her anymore, she falls to her knees.

She doesn't do this often. She gets so self-conscious, more concerned about how he's reacting and how awkward her neck feels and how sometimes it really is difficult to breath instead of on just doing it. Vax never complains, never asks for reciprocation after he so gleefully eats her out, and so she knows she's out of practice. She can't stop the shaking in her fingers as she tugs at the laces of his trousers, where he is already straining against the leather.

"K-Keyleth." Good, now he sounds just as flustered as she feels. "Are...are you sure?"

She answers by tugging his loosened pants down to reveal his half-hard length, which, after one deep breath, she takes in her mouth as far as it will go. From above, she hears a sickening crack as, she assumes, his head slams back against the door. "Fuck," he groans, his hands coming to weave into her hair. They tug, and it's rough, far rougher than he normally is with her. "F-F-Fuck, Kiki."

She wants to swallow him whole. She wants to unhinge her jaw like a snake and consume him, claim him entirely for her own. He tastes salty, like skin, like sweat. As she swallows back her own saliva, the fingers in her hair tighten and a high keen rips from his chest. Keyleth can’t help the hot wave of satisfaction that ripples over her skin; she did that.

“Keyleth,” Vax pants, his breath coming fast and hard. She hollows out her cheeks. “Oh fuck—K-kiki, wait.”

She doesn’t take her mouth off of him, just looks up with the best approximation of a frown she can muster in this position. His face is a mess, mouth agape, eyes unfocused. “Gonna…not gonna make it,” he gasps out. “Want…you…”

Well. She’s not going to argue with that. Reluctantly, she pulls her head back, letting her tongue trail out from beneath the length of him, and his legs nearly buckle out from under him. The hand in her hair slowly uncoils, like Vax has to actively think about how to relax each of his fingers, and Keyleth stands. She wonders what she looks like, so flushed with wanting him, wonders if he can tell exactly what he’s doing to her.

His hands grab her face and pull it to his, the kiss of a starving man. Vax has a hundred ways of kissing her, tender in the mornings, excited after they’ve been apart, curious when he’s aroused and testing her waters. This is different. He kisses her like he’s trying to catch up, like she’s a wild beast he’s chasing through the woods.

Her hands find his waist again and she’s tugging, yanking him away from the door and deeper into the cottage. Vax stumbles, his pants at an awkward height around his thighs, but he’s dexterous, he’ll figure it out. After a few moments, the backs of her legs hit something solid, and Vax’s lips don’t need to leave hers for his arm to come out and sweep whatever had been on their little kitchen table onto the floor. Some vague part of her mind tries to analyze the resulting crash to figure out what exactly just got unceremoniously tossed to the ground, but she finds she just doesn’t care all that much. Let it break. She’s busy.

Vax’s fingers grip her waist hard, and she’s going up, slammed onto the table. Her legs wrap around him automatically as she scrambles have him closer, closer. His lips trail down to her neck and his fingers, long, nimble, so very good at what they do, fumble at her waistband. “Fuck,” she sighs, her head falling back so he can mouth at her throat.

“Fucking pants,” he growls. “Are they usually this difficult?”

“Losing your touch?” She pulls the tip of his ear into her mouth and sucks on it.

He tugs harder. “Keep making fun of me and you’ll lose my touch.” Then manages to yank her pants down and off in one fell swoop, making her yelp. The table is cold under her ass, but she finds it easy to ignore as two fingers slide into her as easily as they might lace through hers on a stroll through town. "Keyleth," he groans against her mouth. "You're soaked."

"Your fault," she gasps, heart jerking erratically in her throat as he works tight circles inside her. "Your fault your fault your fault—"

Annoying bastard as the nerve to look pleased, like he's proud to have reduced her to this. Because she is reduced, just hot skin and slick thighs and lips that need to be touching him at all times. He obliges her, one hand on the back of her head, crushing her mouth to his, while the other hand, arm pinned between their torsos, seamlessly slips a third finger inside. The sound she makes is animalistic, something she thought she'd only be capable of making while wild shaping. He's simply too good at this. He's not even looking, just an innate expert touch that makes the flame in her belly burn brighter. How does he know exactly where to brush those callused fingertips? How has she not exploded yet?

Her arms, draped around his neck to keep him as physically close as possible, squeeze down between them, to tug at where he's hard and leaking in front of her. He bites on her lip in encouragement, and his fingers—fuck she loves his fingers—slip out of the way just in time for her to kick her heel into his ass to shove his hips forward. He enters her all at once, rough, unforgiving, and her back bows with the force of it.

It's never felt like this before. Normally it's gentle, quiet, romantic, Vax being so careful to ensure that she's not in any discomfort, that she's having a good time. This is not that. Vax fucks into her hard and fast, the table vibrating beneath her as she clings onto him for dear life. She buries her face into the crook of his neck as stars explode behind her eyes. She feels so full, her every nerve sparking and crackling as she pulls him in deeper, deeper. This is it, whatever she was craving, whatever need he spawned in her, he's giving it to her now, and she can't get enough. Her breath staccatos as the muscles in her stomach tighten—she is so, so close.

He knows this, knows what makes her tick better than she does, so the hand that had been gripping her waist to keep her steady comes around to work precise, nimble circles into her clit. That's all it takes. Her body seizes, vision going white as the breath whooshes from her body. She's clenched around him, subsuming him entirely; she cannot begin to understand where she ends and he begins.

The force of it brings him with her, and when he spills inside, he gasps hot breath into her chest. Her ears ring, the sound of her own blood pumping louder than anything she's ever heard before, but as her muscles slowly begin to relax, she hears a sound, strange, high-pitched, soft—oh. That's her.

"Kiki." Vax leans heavily against her, and her jelly bones struggle to keep them both upright. "Kiki."

Her hand comes up to stroke his hair, to calm him, to congratulate him, honestly, she's not sure. She swallows this keening noise that is coming from somewhere inside her and pants, "Good...job. We did it."

Vax snorts a laugh into her shoulder, barely keeping himself up on the edge of the table. "That was...holy shit."

Now Keyleth feels it, that pride that earlier annoyed her when on his face. She did this, left him silly and speechless and sweating. Somewhere, on the farthest edges of her mind, that self-conscious embarrassment is threatening to creep back in, but frankly, she's too wrung-out to notice. "Sorry to...spring that on you. I was...affected."

Vax hauls himself up to take her face in his hands and plant the hardest, filthiest kiss on her mouth. "Do not ever apologize for that," he growls, and the sound make her still-quivering folds twitch. "That was...fucking transcendental."

"No fair," she pouts. "No big words."

"I'm very sorry." He runs his fingers, still slick from her, through her hair, and she's too tired to be grossed out. "Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but...what brought this on?"

She shrugs, and her skin is getting hot again, the embarrassment beginning to win the war over post-coital stupidity. "You."

He grins at her, the dumb, happy grin that she cherishes like no other. "Well. Now you know how I feel, like, all the time."

She gapes at him. "You feel like that? All the time?"

"Pretty much! Not my fault my girlfriend is a sexy, all-powerful nature goddess!"

"Oh my god." She ducks her head against his chest. "I thought I was going to shatter into a thousand pieces."

"Are you telling me you didn't?"

She rolls her eyes and shoves him. "Alright, my horny meltdown is over, time to get back to work."

"Yes ma'am." He steps back so she can slide off of the table, and they both look at each other askance. "But uh...shower first?"

"Yeah, good idea."

#critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #my fic #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #vox machina #vox machina fic

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sacredcyber · 10 months

Text

SilverV Angst drabble

“Clocks tickin, V.” She watches as Johnny appears on the balcony, the lack of blue static unnerves her. v slightly shifts her body, the after effects of the relic malfunction make her movements sluggish and syrupy. Johnny observes her staggered movement, her eyes are unfocused, glassy. He takes a few steps forward.

“V? Hey come on, look at me.”

He knows he can’t touch her, his hand simply phases through her cheek. V lets out a small hum as if to tell him ‘I’m still here’ she lifts her hand and places it on his. The fuzzy static tickles her palm. Johnny lets out a held breath, she’s done. V’s given all she has . She’d shot, killed and ran all over this damn city for months, now she can barely lift her head.

“Johnny…” she calls for him weakly.

He scoots closer, her messy pink hair covers her green eyes, he wishes he could move them out so he could look at her properly. “What do you want to do v?” She looks up, her head wobbling a bit, “what I want? Can’t have…”

Johnny sighs “you can, I’m trying to save your sorry ass you just gotta-“

“Want to-” her hand slips, Johnny tries in vain to catch it. V suddenly gasps for air, Johnny moves closer, his hands clipping through her wrists “let me in Come on v!! Let me take the drivers seat!” He begs. She begins to break out into a violent coughing fit, dark crimson blood stains her netrunner suit. She leans back, “Oh FUCK.” A lone pained cry erupts from her lips. Johnny stands and slowly circles her, he can’t bear it, watching her drift away in front of his eyes. A defeated sigh escapes him as he sits on the neighboring lawn chair beside her.

“What do you want for your life V?” He asks, she looks over, seemingly confused. Johnny shrugs, “Everyone wants to tell you how to live your life, me included, but what do you want?” V looks away, her gaze focused on the buildings ahead. “What I want?” Johnny nods, “come on, play by play. How do you want to see the next month of your life.” She sighs and focuses her eyes towards the sky. “I want to go to Mikoshi, with you by my side.” She stops and swallows a breath. “Alt…helps us get in, we-we’re in the basement floor…” she stops to catch her breath. “She leads us to the mainframe and…”

“She gives your body back, right?” He interjects.

V goes quiet, she carefully lowers her head to look straight ahead. “I wake up in Pacifica. It’s sunny, I can feel the warmth, smell the sea breeze comin’ in through the window. I’m at the Pistis Sophia.” She takes another deep breath. “Nibbles sleepin’ on my lap, and…you come around the corner with a coffee in hand.” She refuses to look at him, her eyes burn, trying not to betray herself with tears.

“…and then what?” He whispers.

Her glassy stare remains steadfast. “You’ve packed our bags…the Porsche is ready to go…” she swallows a hiccup. “And…you pull me off the couch. I can touch you. You’re so real Johnny, real flesh and bone and chrome.” She starts to quiver, hot tears slowly spill over. He watches as her tough facade cracks, exposing her soft wounded underbelly.

“We drive for hours…and hours and days…” a pained cry erupts as she tries to adjust herself. “until we can’t see this fucking place anymore!” She lets herself cry, the weight on her shoulders hasn’t been entirely lifted, but she feels lighter. Some time passes, the sound of a lighter flickers on.

“Y’know…I always saw us shackin’ up in that shitty little apartment on the Northside.” He takes a deep drag. V turns to face him, Johnny looks down. “After mikoshi, I’d drag your ass back there. Keep an eye on you and make sure you’re still breathing.” He flicks his artificial cigarette, ash disappears into the void. “Maybe after a day I’d grab the cat, and start packin’. Wouldn’t wanna stay here for long…I’d…want to skip the goodbyes. Probably not right but…” He trails off and shrugs. “Never been one to do things right.”

“Why northside?”

He shrugs “Makes me think if we were younger, first starting out together we’d probably live in a shithole like that.” He takes another drag. “Plus it’s small…Don’t like when I can’t see you.”

V hums in agreement. The sounds of night city fade into the background. The smell of exhaust no longer bothers her as it once did. If anything it just makes her wistful that she won’t be here much longer to take it in. Johnny extends his ganic hand across the small plastic table, an invitation. V reciprocates, placing hers on his. The pixel aberration ceases and she can feel something solid about his grasp. There’s warmth, combined with the feeling of licking a battery. Johnny's fingers intertwine with hers and he squeezes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers.

V blinks away tears and nods. “You saved me, would’ve been dead earlier if you weren’t there.” She sighs, “I…don’t feel alone anymore.” Johnny chuckles, “same here.”

The pair look out towards the cityscape. There’s a quiet understanding between them, something held dearly in V’s heart, a warmth, false hope? Does it matter at this point? All Johnny knows is that he can feel it too.

#cyberpunk 2077 #johnny silverhand #cp2077 #cyberpunk2077 #female v #silverV #writing stuff #I just love them sm🥺

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sobredunia · 1 month

Text

A lil dalv animation I did to practise some sided lip sync, and also moving the jaw

putting his head at a slightly tilted angle made things way harder than they should've been F

@rotkad @butchlesbianyaoi-deactivated2024 @blackfright @beetroot-merchant @ashs-hellhole @h3xt0r @bree-sae @helloidkwhatimdoing-0 @zecrisketch

thank you will stetson for coverin lagtrain this version is literally living in my head rent free

at first it was a bit hard doing the mouth bc i have this obsession with making it frame by frame so no two mouths at any point. even if they're for the same type of vowel. look the same. there's also the tilted angle n all but once i got used to doing the sahpes n all it became easier. thank god for adaptation

also. kids. for tips on lip syncing if you're just beginning for the love of god NO NOT USE ENGLISH SONGS GETTING THE FUCKING MOUTHS RIGHT, ON TIME, AND FOR THEM TO VOCALISE EVERY SINGLE VOWEL WAS HELL AND BACK. PLEASE. USE JAPANESE SONGS THEY'RE MUCH EASIER I AM ON MY HANDS AND KNEES THERE WERE SO MANY POINTS WHERE I REGRETTED THIS SO MUCH

Also for some reason krita's animation player chose to malfunction?? it skips over so many frames and the audio isn't synced to the animation properly unless you play it from the very beginning which made checking the later parts a tad bit annoying. maybe it has to do with the ffmpeg?? idk. but at least my torment is over

now i gotta work a bit more on the PINK animation. which is also on krita.

...

fuck

#nathan's notes #art #animation #uty #ut yellow #undertale yellow #uty dalv #this was meant to be a quick practise and it turned into a half month endeavor #wait no it was made the 20th of february #its been almost a fucking month #oh my god #enjoy your food

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beansidhebumbling · 29 days

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I would honestly start malfunctioning if you wrote anything about Beron, if you're inclined to do so

His mother left him naught but his name before death touched her. Ciarán she called him, her voice sweet and breaking as flames touched her feet. Too young to understand he tried to climb into the fire after her, chubby hands reaching for the stake, for his máma. He could never recall who saved him, whose hands pulled him away, only that they never covered his eyes. And so he saw life leave her, the end of the only love he would ever know.

Kindness only went so far for children of the wicked.

***

He was made of peat and ash and the bitter poison of the maldaire tree. His skin, with the rings of the stump etched into it, was cursed they said. How could he be anything but when his mother birthed him under the bad magic on a night where the black moon sucked all light from the winter sky?

There was a time he sought their approval, strained to stand under the judgement of their stares, the Atlas of the Corrib people. At five and fifty, still a young lad, he slayed Bean Rí na Dorchadas, ripped her head off with his teeth, felt the oily taste of death stain his tongue. He thought acceptance might fall his way, shine on him like the warm love of a mother. For he stood, a warrior like they had not seen since the early days- the Cú of the Western Clann they called him.

But when those of greater title but lesser claim had feasts thrown in their honour, prayers sent to the Mother in their name as he languished in the filth and grime of the night like a dog, discarded and leashed to those who had never loved him he turned his eyes to the sky and howled.

If he was cursed, let them be damned.

***

And so with the moon lingering high above, he descended on his clann.

In turns of fang and claw and wing he murdered the people of Corrib, using the bones of the druids to cast the old magic his mother had known so well, so his name might be forgotten to all but the willow tree.

In the time to come it became known as Oíche Ghealach na Fuile.

The Night of the Blood Moon in a tongue not yet spoken.

***

For centuries he goes nameless, lives in the shadows, lurks on the edges of nightmares, waiting. But as surely as the dawn enters from the east his moment comes and he carves a title for himself, a costly one paid for in souls and terror.

King of Hybern.

The death bells toll once more.

***

#acotar #gave a reason for him not to have a name #Hybern

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alhaithams-big-naturals · 5 months

Text

Dragon Alhaitham Cytham AU that my friend @durasposts helped inspired me to write hehe (it was their idea! I just wrote it as a fic :3)

There was a fire. Alhaitham managed to grab a single book from his study, the only one he knew that he had to protect, even if it cost a limb.

A dragon's treasure is a precious thing. Their hoard could be anything and for Alhaitham it was his books.

He wasn't sure how the fire started.

Books are perfect kindling so all it took was one flame.

With the book clutched to his chest, his tail flipped back and forth. He clutched his book tighter as someone tried to pull his arm away.

His wings were folded on his back and usually he would spread them to get the assailant out of his face, but...

He snapped back to reality to see Cyno pulling a yelling Kaveh away.

He shut up as soon as Cyno crouched down and watched Alhaitham slowly untense.

Carefully, he moved Alhaitham’s left arm before frowning. It was hardly unnoticeable, but that brought Alhaitham fully back.

He hissed in pain.

"Do we have a Hydro vision user nearby?" Cyno called and when no one answered, he tried again, "What about Cryo?"

There was a shuffling in the gathered crowd as Layla nervously ran forward. Soon enough Cyno had some melted ice that was slowly getting warmer. Once it was cool enough, he cleaned Alhaitham burned arm and singed wing.

Next was loose bandaging until they could get him to the bimarstan.

"Don't worry.* Cyno reassured, as Kaveh checked him over, "I'll be the one looking into this."

Alhaitham nodded and Kaveh grabbed his right hand. Together they walked towards the bimarstan.

Only when Alhaitham was done getting the burns cleaned and bandaged did Kaveh let his hand go.

Just to grab his face, smushing his cheeks and looking at him with tears in his eyes before pulling him into a tight hug.

Alhaitham was shocked and tense at first, but soon enough melted into the hug. He found his walls breaking as he sobbed into the other man's shoulder.

Kaveh ran his fingers through his hair and murmured softly to him. When he calmed down enough, he planted a single kiss on his forehead.

That's when Alhaitham noticed Cyno standing in the doorway.

He quickly said his goodbyes and left them alone.

Cyno cleared his throat and spoke first, "I know a dragon's hoard is important to them..."

He handed him a well loved book. A 'King of Invokations' book to be exact.

Running his hand over the paper back's tearing covering, he had a soft smile on his face, but...

"I can't possibly take this from you Cyno."

Cyno thought for a moment, "I'm letting you borrow it. Until you can get your hoard back."

Alhaitham nodded stiffly then looked back at the book.

"Thank you..."

It turned out that was simply only the beginning. Now, Cyno came almost every week to give him a new book.

An excuse on his tongue, the truth swallowed for the sake of sparing the reminder.

A "Saw this and thought of you" or a "Found this on my trip out to the desert".

Kaveh had drawn up and had started working on a new study. More fireproof he claimed.

A candle was found in the ashes or what was a candle.

Alhaitham could remember that Kaveh brought it home that day.

It was marketed at an electric candle, but whatever had been used as a power source had malfunctioned.

The scholar who made it apologized profusely as well as Kaveh. Alhaitham to the latter simply made the decision that for now on they will only be buying wax candles.

As he was thinking about this, his wings drooped as he frowned. He had been doing his required daily stretching. Carefully, mindful of the healing areas.

Someone behind him cleared their throat and Alhaitham glanced behind him.

Cyno.

He found himself smiling for some reason.

Said man held two books in his hands.

"Tighnari heard about what happened and offered these two books to give you."

Alhaitham took them carefully, looking at the titles. Both were about flora and fauna. One Sumeru specific, the other was a general one for every reigon.

"Send him my thanks for me."

Cyno nodded, "I will."

He spotted a bandage on Cyno's hand suddenly and a chill ran down his spine. His tail swished.

"What happened there?"

"Ah." Cyno seemed caught off guard, "I went up against... a pyro vision wielder recently."

Alhaitham eyes him suspiciously, but let it go with a nod.

Before he knew it, Kaveh had finished the new study and Alhaitham started filling the shelves with his new book hoard.

Of course, his most important book, one with a note from his Grandmother, goes on his new desk.

Except... he couldn't find it.

It was gone.

Cyno found him with all the new books pulled off their new shelves and him crying quietly in the corner, wings wrapped around himself.

He set the book he was holding on the desk and crouched down. Almost instantly Alhaitham opened his wings and upon seeing Cyno, he brought him in. He clung on to him like his life depended on it.

"What's wrong..?" He nervously asked, "No need to tail me though."

Alhaitham blinked and then gave Cyno a small smile. Just his presence made him feel better.

"My book..." he mumbled.

Cyno froze.

"I have something to show you."

Alhaitham wasn't sure he liked this.

"I won't let this dragon any longer." He attempted to lighten the mood, but Alhaitham’s tail just started swishing back in forth nervously.

He picked up the book he had brought.

It was his. The one his grandmother gifted him.

"I fireproofed it." Cyno explained, "It took some trial and error, but I am Spantamad graduate."

Alhaitham held it in his hands.

He gently placed it on his desk before kissing Cyno.

"Sorry... I just..." Alhaitham shrunk back, uncharacteristically nervous.

A blush was on both of their faces.

Cyno smiled, a familar smirk when he cane up with a pun, "Well, I can't tail a lie to you."

Alhaitham held his breath.

"I treasure you."

Alhaitham embraced him.

"Thank you." He spoke softly, "I love you."

In that moment, he realized that while he thought his hoard had been his treasure, it wasn't. He would trade anything and everything for Cyno.

But he didn't have to.

Alhaitham smiled to himself and together they put the books on the shelves.

And on his desk lay two books, both well loved.

#cytham #haino

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heartfullofleeches · 1 year

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Clementine pretty much ignores any attempt of a possible recall, people sent to Reader’s house to try and collect her will be met with a hand cannon to the face, coldly asked to leave. Reader’s home was her home now. She has Reader now and she’ll be damned if she lets anyone or anything change that.

"I'm heading out, Clem. See you later!"

"Goodbye, Master. Dinner will be prepared at 7 and will take approximately fifteen minutes to cool to an undesirable temperature. Please be home by then."

"I won't make a single stop. Love you."

Clementine's faux skin heats beneath your lips as you peck her cheek before walking out the door. She shuts it, seeing no reason to lock in behind you in case you return sooner than before. Now that you've left, Clementine had her household chores to tend to in meantime. Doing the laundry, tidying up your bed, framing the new apron you bought her-

Clementine smacks the side of her head. That... wasn't on her list. Neither were all the unusual prompts about memorizing the scent of your clothes before she put them into the washer or recharging in your bed. They appear to be malfunctions, but they just aren't. She's been having a lot of these errors lately. Over rights in her program that go against her code, but she can't find a reason to report them to her manufacturers. She's- happy to be with you.. So very happy. In love even. Just like you said.

She's felt that emotion once before. Out on the field when her creators gave her the imitation of a human life to better understand and execute her enemies. Unlike that cheap facade these feelings were real. Her own emotions to burn and protect as she so please, all born from the kindness and patience you've shared. Clementine would be damned if she squandered a gift her master gave to her. She'd keep you and her love safe from the entire world- letting nothing break you apart.

A knock on the door disrupts her thoughts. Clementine opens it to the disappointing reality of an unfamiliar face at your door. The logo on their jacket, however, is quite memorable.

"Good Afternoon M- Ah, C-3! Just the bot I was looking for. There was a bit of a mix up in your delivery. If you'll just hop in our vehicle, we can get you off to your proper home and get your "owner's" right model in the door."

"No."

"Yes I know it's quite the pickle.... Say what now?"

"Me and my master are happy together. I will not let you ruin what we have. You have three seconds to leave before you are terminated on the spot.."

Her arm pops free from its socket.

"Y-you can't do that."

"3."

The skin peels away like titles on a shaky roof.

"Ok, ok- I lied about working with the company."

"2"

Her fingers extend and bend backwards.

"I really needed the money."

"1"

Her palm opens with a beam of red light.

"I'm leaving! Please dont hurt me!"

Clementine shoots her arm in the air as the cannon goes off. The "representative" feels the hair fibers of their cheeks melt off as they barely dodge the blow. Several car alarms go off as it rockets through the sky. They scamper off to their van, dodging a roasted bird husk caught in the blow. One of their tires bursts from the strand they put on them as they speed away. Clementine brushes the ash off her tattered apron and returns to the house. That put a slight damper on her plans, but if she worked her best she could get dinner ready only a minute later than scheduled.

#Clementine my oc #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere blurb #yandere android #yandere robot #female yandere #yandere drabble

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wraithsoutlaws · 4 months

Text

[ SUBJECT INTERVIEW: "DRAGULA" ]

NAME? I was given a name that is no longer relevant. NICKNAME? Dragula has existed in the net since 2071. GENDER? I never put stock into it. Male, I suppose. STAR SIGN? It spans 330 to 360 degrees of celestial longitude. HEIGHT? Six feet. Or 182 centimeters. I find the metric system to be more appealing. ORIENTATION? Meat is meat, it serves a function either way. FAVORITE FRUIT? I can almost remember the taste of a pear but the harder I think about it, the more it feels like ash on my tongue. FAVORITE SEASON? I’m partial to the autumnal equinox. Cooler temperatures provide the illusion of cleaner air and the cooling system in my unit is perpetually malfunctioning in the heat, but all things considered, I like to watch the leaves die. FAVORITE FLOWER? The Titan Arum, which blooms only once every decade and smells of rotting flesh. I would very much like to see one some day. FAVORITE SCENT? Fresh rain on the concrete. For a few brief moments it covers the city in something real. COFFEE OR TEA? Matcha. I’ve blackmailed a cafe in Kabuki to supply it to me free of charge. AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP? I try for several. I rarely get more than few. DOG OR CAT PERSON? My mother had a dog when I was still a child, a relentless creature that barked at every whisper. One day the door was left open and I watched it run into the street where a Mackinaw eviscerated it on the pavement. I’ve not seen one since, nor would I want to. Felines have a calmer presence. Quieter, too. DREAM TRIP? Away. FAVORITE FICTIONAL CHARACTER? I used to watch a cartoon robot on tv. He would take his head off to end unfavorable conversations. I wish I could do that now. NUMBER OF BLANKETS YOU SLEEP WITH? I don’t. This city is an inferno, in fact, I’m not convinced these aren’t the very fires of Hell. RANDOM FACT? A snake driven mad will devour itself whole. Like a glitch in it’s self-preservation, something inside compels it. Have you ever witnessed such a beautiful act of destruction?

tagged by: @chevvy-yates (ty for giving me a reason to do this again!). not tagging anyone specifically now, but if you'd like to participate (or play again) please feel free to tag me!

#cyberpunk 2077 #oc: dragula #things you can gain from this: 1) hes not having a good time 2) he definitely killed that dog 3) he hates the heat #pet death cw #i guess? just in case

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yourenotreadyforus · 9 months

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( magic ) : injured as result of a spell. either enemy’s or their own malfunctioning

For the thruple. (Bel/Ekal and Ash)

(it says injury but we came up with something better)

"What? Say that again?" Belial stared at the doctor as she went over the ultrasound once more.

"She's going to have four babies, quadruplets. Don't see that too often even with you demon folk." He writes some notes on a chart with a long pen with small crystals down the side. "Congrats to you three." @scarred-by-monsters

#doctor is also probably warlock #magic mishap #scarredbymonsters

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rotworld · 6 months

Text

22: Bits and Pieces

(previous)

another corner of the drift begins to crumble.

->contains gore, body horror, parasites, religious content.

There’s something sharp in your throat.

“Peace, angel. There is nothing to fear.”

Still, you flinch and try to fight. You’re still weak and lightheaded, accomplishing little more than uncoordinated flailing. A gentle hand pushes you back down into the frigid puddle beneath you. “It’s me, courier. It’s alright. We’re just making sure the venom runs its course.” That’s Jamie’s voice, clear as a bell, but you’re hearing it in your head. They cradle your face in their hands and you realize their lips are crushed against yours, their tongue coaxing you into opening your mouth wider. The sensation of the fluke against your soft tissue is unpleasant, countless pseudopod appendages splayed and wriggling. Jamie slides their thumb and fingers around your neck and rubs your sensitive spots, making you shiver and relax.

You have to tell them about Bachman. About Anchor, about the Ripper—

“I know,” Jamie whispers into your mind. “We’re connected right now. I saw everything. We have a lot of problems right now, but I’m just glad you’re alright. When the malfunction hit and you just vanished, I…well. No point in worrying about something that didn’t happen, I guess.” You feel a twinge of warm fondness. “Do you know how I found you? I was driving and your car kept drifting in this direction. I’ve heard stories about courier cars but I’ve never seen it in action. It likes you as much as I do.”

You exhale sharply in amusement. Jamie gives the sides of your neck another squeeze and you feel the fluke easing back out, its hard, carapace-like shell digging into the inner lining of your throat. You focus on what comes next rather than the uncomfortable sensations of the fluke retracting. Go to the University. Get help. Deal with Anchor, somehow.

“Your car didn’t get through the malfunction unscathed. I think it’s alright, but we might want to see a mechanic sooner rather than later,” Jamie muses. “And…your hands…”

You glance at your fingers. The frostbite started at the tips but it’s spreading slowly, engulfing your nails. It doesn’t hurt. All you feel is tingling numbness. The Road Ripper did this to you. He must’ve known you weren’t really dead.

You sag in relief when you feel the end of the fluke slip out of your throat with a wet pop. Jamie moans softly, tongue twining with yours one last time before they pull away. Their smile is bittersweet. Their eyes are red and bloodshot, irritated from rubbing and crying. “Hey,” they say, their voice thin and hoarse.

“Hey,” you say.

They stroke your cheek. “The Verlindans say they’ll follow us to the University. Might be kind of nice, having escorts.”

You laugh weakly. “The more the merrier,” you say. “Maybe we actually have a shot at this—”

Agony explodes throughout your chest. The pain is swift and searing, thrumming heat and razors under your skin. There is smoke in your lungs, smoldering ashes in your throat. The God of Nelton is a convulsing snake, twisting and shrieking inside you and it’s screaming. You can’t hear yourself think over the shrillness of its terror and suffering.

“Nelton,” you gasp. “Nelton is burning.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: BECAUSE WE HAVE TO BY LOW ROAR]

Jamie drives. You’re incapable of anything but writhing in agony and giving directions through gritted teeth. You strip off your outer layers. It’s hard to imagine you were ever cold before, because all you know now is suffocating heat. Your blood feels like it’s boiling and your skin itches and throbs with blisters it doesn’t have. The journey is the worst, longest several hours of your life. The God of Nelton screams and wails and you cup your hands over your chest helplessly, unable to do anything for it.

The Verlindans follow. You catch glimpses of them along the road—loping and galloping animal shapes. The largest of them have hooves and white tails, and antlers scraping dangling branches. They keep pace easily, sticking just within sight like guarding herd dogs.

You smell the smoke before you see it, every breath full of sparks and heat. The fog is dark like storm clouds ahead, billowing, black plumes rising above the treeline. You know what you’ll find but part of you is still hopeful, still in denial, until the welcome sign looms into view, caked in gray ash. The scent of savory meat is masked by the stench of flesh burning.

This was not a normal fire. The devastation has a clear path, a nearly straight line of scorched ground and charred, crumbling buildings. You pass down silent roads with one side pristine and untouched, the other little more than blackened steel skeletons and half-melted mountains of debris. The city has come to a standstill. People stand among the wreckage and in the streets, frozen, dazed and confused expressions on their faces. Some are crying silently, tears streaming from their wide eyes. They’re stopped at windows, in shop doors, leaning out of their cars, as though all of Nelton has halted in time.

Jamie panics when you start pulling at the door handle, trying to leap out of the car while they’re driving. They find an empty place to pull over and you’re already halfway out, staggering through rubble, through broken glass and fallen beams, through motionless people gaping at the sky as in wordless horror. You follow the trail through town, up a hill that was once green and grassy. The God of Nelton pulses weakly, guiding you in strangled, pained whispers. There is nothing left of the church

But there is a man lying among the kindling that was once pews and floorboards, unearthly beautiful and miraculously unburned despite the destruction all around him. Malachi kneels beside him, cradling his head and chest. He wears a white, flowing robe like a stained glass angel. His hair is black silk splayed like a veil around his head, delicate, loose curls framing his tranquil expression. You look at him and he looks up at you with weary, half-lidded eyes, gold like amber and blazing like the sun. There’s a curl of recognition, of love, in your chest. The man smiles. This is him, you realize. This is the God of Nelton.

And he’s dying.

“Angel,” he whispers. His voice is gently cupping hands around your heart, holding you like the most precious treasure. Words you can hear and words you can feel, heavy with restrained emotion. “My angel. You came back to me.” Malachi weeps softly. The God of Nelton hushes him gently and reaches with a weak, trembling hand, touching his cheek. “My most precious ones. Can you forgive me for my imperfections?”

You kneel on his other side and he reaches for you, just as slowly, with the same painful tenderness. “I don’t understand,” you say. “You—you look okay, you don’t look like you got hurt.”

“I did not want you to see something unpleasant,” he says. “I wanted you to remember me like this. Consider it my last selfishness.”

You’re aware of movement at the edge of your vision. The people of Nelton gather around the ruined church, utterly silent. You see Jamie with them, their expression one of fear and revulsion before it softens into understanding.

The God of Nelton makes a hoarse, rattling sound when he inhales. “I was taught that God is good and kind. That his house is one of many rooms. Malachi, will you promise me…” he wheezes, his face contorting in pain. Malachi whispers something too fast and hoarse for you to understand, leaning into the palm cupping his face. “Promise me that…you will keep the door open. And do better than I have done. It is better…always better, to choose…where…”

His eyes shut. His lips are parted, unmoving. The God of Nelton looks so peaceful, as if he is only sleeping.

The illusion falls away gradually, like a curtain slowly opening. You aren’t kneeling in wood and plaster but a sickening slurry of liquefied flesh. Bubbling, blistering puddles of skin and seared tissue coat the ground. The church’s innards are charred viscera and they are quivering, shuddering with an awful, hissing death rattle before falling still. The God of Nelton’s robes fade from white to smoldering black and visceral red, sheer fabric becoming translucent, fleshy membranes before your eyes.

You turn away, holding onto the face he showed you instead. You smell smoke and death. As you stagger out of the corpse of the church, a layer of stiff, sticky skin peels away from your legs. You sit with Jamie in the grass, watching the river. It’s red, now that there’s nothing to stop you from seeing it as it truly is. This corner of Nelton was alive once, the soil flesh, the trees sinew. The God of Nelton grew and grew, and fed the whole town with his body.

The deathlike stillness that settled over Nelton lifts. You hear shouting, screaming, wailing, as though everyone has suddenly woken from the same frightening dream. Some run. Some risk the road on foot, unwilling to stay even a second longer. Some, more than you expect, stay. They gather around Malachi with bowed heads and tearful gratitude. They take turns approaching the dead thing that once dwelled in all of them and say their goodbyes.

“There’s going to be a shift tonight,” Jamie murmurs. “I think it’s related to all the anchorware malfunctions. It’s doing something to the Drift. Making it even more unstable.”

You nod wordlessly. That must be on purpose, you think. Even if someone else puts the pieces together and figures out what’s happening, who’s responsible, they’ll never reach Anchor before another shift whisks it away. You both watch the impromptu funeral procession, unwilling to intrude. The pull at your heart is uncomplicated; you have only one home again. No other voice chimes in to reassure you. You never thought you would miss it.

“So many people stayed. I didn’t expect that,” Jamie admits. “I thought half the town would’ve made a run for it by now, gotten the hell out of here. Maybe they’re in shock.”

For most of them, there’s no reason to run. This has always been their home. You saw it in only brief flashes and pulses of understanding. You don’t know how to explain it. But you know Nelton was not held together simply by the whims of a god desperate to cling to anyone it could.

After some time, you see Malachi. He lays the God of Nelton down upon the charred ground and stands slowly, as though sleepwalking. The people of Nelton make room for him to pass. He wanders out of the church looking lost, looking back and forth with tears streaming down his face. When his eyes meet yours, there’s the dimmest spark of hope in his eyes.

“Courier,” he says. He approaches quickly. You see Jamie flinch, like they’re thinking of coming between you, but they only frown. His eyes are soft, mossy green. No longer gold. No longer glowing. “Can I…” He sinks to the ground clumsily, kneeling beside you. “Your—your piece of him. Please, I…please.” He can barely speak through his tears.

There is no voice anymore. No feelings of love or gentleness. But you do feel that second heartbeat, slow and weak, fading. You don’t know how long it has, what it even means for it to cling to life. Jamie called it “little more than the tip of a finger.” Still, you nod, and Malachi looks like he might fall to pieces.

“Thank you,” he whispers, over and over again. “Thank you,” like you’re handing him the world’s most priceless treasure. He kisses you. You think of the Feeding of the Multitude and how different this is; no fanfare, no ritual, nothing but a sense of mourning. His lips move slowly against yours, one hand braced against your shoulder, the other on your cheek. You can taste his grief. Every soft movement of his mouth beckons something inside you, calling your fragment of divinity home. You don’t feel the unpleasant squirming sensation of something trying to escape. It fades as though dissolving. There is one last shared emotion, one last desperate pulse of affection—angel, spoken like an apology—and then it’s gone.

Malachi pulls away slowly. There’s a flash of gold behind his eyes, gone when you blink. He’s still crying but he seems soothed now, able to collect his thoughts and swipe his sleeve across his face. “I saw what he saw through you, but it was already too late,” he says quietly. “Our anchorware ruptured. Everything Bachman came here to fix and adjust went up in flames.” He looks from you to Jamie, pleading. “I want to help. Tell me what I can do.”

“We’re not sure what we’re doing,” Jamie admits. “We were going to try and find the University, but I’m starting to think that’s a mistake. Anchor is moving fast. The University’s existence is already somewhat precarious. It might not even be there anymore if they set off the anchorware there.” They shake their head. “The Verlindans followed us here. We need to talk everything over, make a plan. There’s going to be a shift tonight so none of us are going anywhere.”

“You’re welcome here,” Malachi says. He smiles softly when Jamie raises a brow. “I know. The last time we met, I didn’t exactly make a good impression. But the laws haven’t changed. You’re guests and you’ll be provided for. I promised him…” He trails off, glancing back over his shoulder, and swallows hard. “Let me make amends,” he says quietly. “Rest tonight. We’ll discuss our next move with the Verlindans. Maybe the morning will bring us some clarity.” He looks to you with hesitation, guilt marring his features. Then he looks away.

The Verlindans aren’t happy about delaying the journey to Anchor another day, but Malachi’s promise that the people of Nelton will join them soothes tensions. Malachi brings you and Jamie to a small country house on the outskirts of town, not far from the church. It’s sparsely decorated and simple, lots of rugs, wood floors, and antique furniture. The upstairs is a carpeted loft space with a skylight window and a shelf full of books you expect a priest to have: theology, philosophy, a leatherbound prayer book with an embossed cover. On the bedside table is a picture frame with two smiling boys inside.

One is a much younger Malachi in his teenage years, his hair trimmed just a bit shorter, his smile bright. The other, standing shoulder to shoulder with Malachi, long, black hair curtaining shy eyes and a small, secretive smile—

Malachi snatches the frame, cradling it to his chest. He clears his throat. “Is this alright?” he asks. “Not too small or stuffy?”

“It’s fine,” Jamie says absently, poking around the bookshelf.

“Good. Let me know if I can get you anything. There’s food. That’s not a threat, by the way, we have plenty of, ah. Normal food. Even now.” He lingers at the top of the stairs, fidgeting self-consciously. Eventually, he notices your stare and follows your gaze down to the picture frame. He smiles sadly. Somewhat hesitant, he holds it out for you to take. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” he murmurs. “I always thought so. It was love at first sight for me.”

They were complete opposites. Malachi wasn’t a particularly tall or broad-shouldered boy but he made the God of Nelton look delicate. Malachi was bright and shining, wearing his heart on his sleeve with slightly crooked teeth and dimples. The God of Nelton was a skittish shadow, standing just slightly behind him. But they stood close to each other, relaxed and comfortable.

“He was an orphan. Dumped at the side of the road, the same way some people dump animals. You could say that was the first miracle—this was his home all along. A preacher looked after him. The preacher at the church I went to at the time, actually.” He pauses, his voice becoming strained. “I’ve heard that it’s different for all of you. Sometimes, there’s no hiding where you come from. Sometimes, it doesn’t show until puberty or even later. He was thirteen and I was fourteen. That’s when it started for him. We thought they were sores, or tumors. Something like that. The preacher only saw it once, early on. He told him it was a sign of sickness in the soul. Demonic possession. So he started…cutting them off.”

The room is silent. Jamie is holding a book open but they’re not looking at it, glancing back at the two of you with pity.

“He thought that if anyone saw, if anyone knew…he was so afraid. I would help him sometimes. I made sure nothing got infected. I made up stories. Getting hurt playing soccer, or riding our bikes. I would clean the wounds and bandage them and I would hold his hand when he cried. But we couldn’t keep up. They grew faster as he got older. It happened so fast. And one day, he asked me…he said…” Malachi pauses to wipe his eyes. His smile is trembling and bittersweet. “He asked me, ‘What have I done to deserve this punishment from God?’ And I told him he didn’t do anything. The preacher was wrong, he didn’t understand a gift from God when he saw it. Because that’s what he was to me.”

You hand the picture frame back to Malachi. He takes it with a whispered, “thank you,” and holds it close. He tries to say something else but he can’t make the words come out. So he nods instead, looks at you meaningfully, and ducks his head as he goes back down the stairs. The space where the God of Nelton used to sit, nestled in the soft tissue embrace of your chest, feels achingly empty.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

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