#feybled

[sherezgone]

EYE CONTACT WAS NOT HER FORTE, not where the people she liked were concerned. Everyone else was a beast to be stared down, an undeniable threat to be met with a gaze of steel. . . Simon had been no different. NOT TO HER. Vasya was far too well acquainted with his type. The stoic military men that would scoff and bully her at every turn like she was one of them. It was her biggest gripe when thrust into these jobs. Dragged into a pack and forced to play nicely when she was a solitary animal. HER EYES REMIND THEM WHO SHE IS / THAT SHE BITES / THAT SHE IS NOT HERE TO PLAY NICE. And yet somehow, against all odds, he IS different, and one slip of nimble paws has her snared when he looks at her.

Like now, he looks at her, his mask off and dark eyes bleeding into ink black night around them. They make her feel more naked than she could ever hope to be. He has seen the white of her bones peek out from torn flesh and still she is more bare now. The moment is supposed to be tender as the breadth of his hands skate along her arms and settle at her waist, BUT SHE IS TREMBLING. The violet of her eyes skittering like gerridae across the smooth surface of a lake - the trap of him allowing scant other movement. CLEVER FOX THAT SHE IS, SHE KNOWS THAT TO STRUGGLE WAS TO DIE. She is frozen in his arms like precious glass as she awaits his next move, praying that he will get bored of his perusal of her and let her fall to pieces against his mattress. Please just pull out the knife, the suspense is unbearable, just do your worst, anything but this. . .

❝  listen,  i’ve wanted to get you in bed since you first smiled at me.  but we don’t have to do this unless you’re sure.   ❞ / @feybled

She blinks slow as honey up at him, his words equally unhurried to register in her mind as the moonlight catches the pale curve of his lashes. A crackling of fear races up her spine ' Wh-? No I'm sure, I'm sure. Of course I'm sure. . .' The tone of her voice is hardly convincing as it falters, rare for a woman with a dozen words ever poised at the tip of her tongue. She's grateful to velvet night and pale moon for washing out the blush that has the gall to stain her cheeks then, embarrassment as warm as his touch. ' You don't have'ta be so nice to me y'know. ' He's pulled her into unfamiliar territory, out into open space where only he can tether her to the ground or let her tumble forever into the emptiness. Its easier to believe that he would want to, hero that he is, to rid the world of something like her. . . No, no it isn't easier. THAT IS A LIE. He's brought her there in pools of night to hide her away, tuck her far from prying eyes so he alone can see her. He alone can unfasten her armor as to crawl inside and curl against her coveted softness. . . A thought more frightening than blood and gore and animals in traps.

Vasya's scarred face moves to rest in his palm as she wills her eyes to lift to his, teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her cheek. She fights through waves of humiliation for him, mapping out the nicks and scars on his own face to give her mind anything else to do but hunt for her inadequacies. . . If he doesn't like what he sees she might die, she decides. Eyes are the windows to the soul, they say, but one cannot venture into their own soul as such. What if he tips inside of those craggy amethyst depths and claws his way out screaming? Worse still he mightn't dare get close and slam the window shut in disgust. She can't possibly know what he'll see [ OH, BUT SHE DOES! BUT MY GOD WHY DO YOU CARE? ] She can't bear to know what he'll see. . . Still, she doesn't look away. He'd all but dared her to be brave before him. Let him fish around in her darkness for whatever it is he searched for. V would be damned if she blinked now, not when she is still hanging from that trap with his hands cradling either side of her face.

The kiss he gives her quiets the noise, the clamoring anxiety and little loathings. The warmth of his lips let her eyes fall shut to his scrutiny and she finally slips from the noose he's unwittingly choked her with, limp in his arms, twining her own around his neck to keep him near. ' I'm not good at this. . . ' Vasya breathes against him ' I don't know how this works. ' She can allow herself this little vulnerability when she can't see him, if she can't tip into the black of his eyes. His response is another gentling kiss and the brush of his thumbs across the high points of her cheeks. That's okay, it seems to say. Maybe he doesn't know how this works either. . .

[ofthclight]

it’s not that he misses fedra insomuch as he misses the access it gave him .  resources ,  foot soldiers ,  stability .  he never had to worry about foraging old encampments or QZ’s for supplies ,  never had to particularly concern himself with preserving ammo .  things are different now .  what’s left of their world has seemed to crumble even further ,  and every day people grow more desperate .  it’s why he shot the other straggler that was with him last week when he found him trying to covertly steal supplies .  there aren’t any more chances to be taken ,  it’s shoot first or die and survival is all that matters .

finely tuned senses alert him to someone else’s presence as he makes his way quietly through what used to be some sort of storefront .  the sounds are too careful and too soft to be an infected ,  which can only mean one thing .  rourke makes his steps carefully ,  circling around the noises until he sees the figure crouched down ,  rummaging through something .  one hand stays braced against his gun as the other reaches to the side of his thigh to slip his knife out of its holster .   ❝ stand slowly .  hands up .  no sudden movements or i shoot . ❞          /          @feybled​   +   riley ! 

[chaotiicgoods]

@feybled​ said: “ my darling, you will never be unloved by me. you are too well entangled in my soul. “ / from mama yen to your ciri <333

These words manage to bring a smile on Ciri’s face. She’s so scared, all the time, of becoming a burden to people she loves. She puts everyone in danger these days, and she wishes she could stop the WIld Hunt for good. She’s sick of running. She already lost Uncle Vesemir; she just can’t lose someone else. 

“Thanks. I think I needed to hear that.” She admits softly. “It’s just... I wish I can do more. I wish I can be stronger.” 

[wickedlehane]

HUGS feat. Faith with Buffy (let’s be real, i cannot possibly tag every incredible buffy I know), @lostsovl, and Angel (namely @perfectanguish)

TAGGED BY: @pryceism

TAGGING: [you!]

[thefatalmarksman]

Outfit Meme | Not accepting

@seekjoy​ asked:  screamy plz draw aerith in c3 with xig in the bonus outfit like one of ur french gorls

remy: sends ask in april

me, 4 months later:

[sherezgone]

kissing your lover lazily first thing in the morning . GHOSTVVVV - @feybled

THE BREEZE THAT WAFTS IN OFF THE PORTOFINO MARINA is warm and tepid, promising a sticky, sweltering day ahead. It smells of salt and summer and morning coffee from the local cafes and has Vasilisa Zolotova sighing against her pillow. The contented sound is echoed by the solid wall of muscle at her back. Simon's head is pressed between her shoulder blades, soft pale hair and damp breath tickling her skin as she wriggles against him with a groan. It isn't their usual haunt; the hotel far too rich for the likes of them, but god if it wasn't lovely. They were between jobs and had made arrangements to meet in the middle, so to speak, her trek down from the frigid cold of Moscow and him up from the east tailing some invisible lead on Makarov. The Italian Rivera was beautiful, even as the season began to turn, a whisper of autumn on the horizon though summer offered one last brief kiss to the region while the pair were there.

A another heavy groan bursts from her lungs in a rush as the arm around her middle rolls her onto her belly, sprawling her across his broad, scarred chest in a graceless heap. The beat of his heart beneath her cheek is steady enough to lull her back to sleep, and indeed she could easy allow herself to be carried beyond that veil, to float in time with the rise and fall of his breath like waves on the sea. Instead she cranes her neck upward, squinting up at him through a veil of messy dark hair. Simon's eyes are slitted as he returns her gaze, a bright slash of morning sun cutting across his face and illuminating the dark of his eyes to something almost ethereal. They nearly distract her from the sleepy smirk that twists his lips. A smirk that would normally earn him a scowl in exchange for daring to be handsome and make her stomach feel as thought it would simply drop to her toes.

His capacity for softness, especially with someone of her nature was not what she had anticipated when whatever this thing between them had blossomed. Certainly she irritated him; her intrinsic need to disobey his every command on the field grated on his nerves. But instead of allowing that to fester into hatred, he seemed to steer himself in the opposite direction. She'd spat in the face of many a man in power just for the hell of it, but Ghost seemed forever unruffled by her unrelenting obstinance in the face of authority. Off the field it was as though her transgressions on the field ceased to exist outside of a barked order to 'do better' or 'get your shit together, V' - far different from the growled threats from other men of his rank and profession when going toe to toe with her. . . She refuses to dell on the why of that for long.

Before the moment can dissolve into something far more tender than V is ready to tackle, she inches herself up his frame and takes his wrists in her hands, pinning them into the too-soft mattress beneath them. A smirk of her own graces her lips, one far more mischievous as she hovers over him. Her hair blots out the sun like spilled ink, shielding his eyes from blinding golden rays as she leans to press her mouth to his in a slow and sensuous kiss. The rasp of stubble scrapes against her chin, an ode to the raw skin of her thighs. A hand releases his wrist to cradle the side of his face, allowing her thumb to traces the divots of each scar. In turn his hands take to wander up and down her bare sides, inciting a purr as goosebumps ripple across her body. ' G'morning. ' she rasps in a voice still thick with sleep, almost muffled as they're murmured against his mouth. V was never one for kisses. They were far too intimate, too frightening to be allowed. Perhaps it was the mask he only took off for her that inspired this bravery. He could be vulnerable so readily for her, she could return the favor.

And return it she does. Kiss after kiss stealing her breath until the world begins to spin and she's dizzy from the feel of his mouth on hers. Simon merely hums in reply and coaxes her deeper into his arms.

[sherezgone]

LOOK AT HOW SHE LOOKS AT HIM

[wickedlehane]

@feybled {Buffy}

“Faith… Buffy’s dead.”

Angel never lied to her. It was as much an update on the world as a warning from the vampire. Faith was the only Slayer now, behind bars for the greater good, or something like that. But what was truly good if Buffy, the brightest defender against the darkness, was six feet under somewhere sharing the cold, dark earth with the very creatures she sought to slay?

“Thank you for letting me know… And, Angel? I’m sorry.”

-

There was a fight in the prison yard that next morning. Someone said something, and the volatile girl might’ve hauled off and broke some noses. Or Faith threw the punches first, then came the swears and curses. She wasn’t sure at this point, and it didn’t matter. The bleeding girls went to the infirmary, and the Slayer went to solitary. It was better there, alone.

Except, for as disconnected from her Slayer side as she’d been in prison, there was something in her gut, like truly deep down in her muscle fibers, that told Faith she really was alone this time. The Chosen-by-Default One. As Buffy went, so did the ties that bound the two.

Was this what Buffy had felt all this time? The weight of it?

-

Almost five months went by, and most days Faith didn’t feel that guilty about being behind bars, leaving Sunnydale without a Slayer. If they wanted her, they knew where she was. Hadn’t changed. Angel didn’t visit as much, which was just as well. But then came the news report about the Southern California town that went up in flames practically overnight. Attributed to gang wars, but she knew better.

“Turn that crap off,” said Yolanda, another inmate who had yet to be on the receiving end of the Slayer’s fist (but there was still time). “Jeopardy’s on.”

But Faith stayed glued to the news. The unmistakable chaos of the Hellmouth on television heightened her senses, and duty tugged at her innards like she was tied to ropes that were tied to horses running helter-skelter. God, is this what responsibility felt like? Culpability? That was, in a way, her fault.

But what was one more on a long list of faults? The road to redemption was rocky, and it sure as hell wasn’t straight. It was time for a little detour. She’d find the path again eventually.

Faith broke out the next morning. No looking back.

-

She had no delusions of a welcome wagon meeting her at the infamous Sunnydale city limits. Besides, one of the things she’d learned in group therapy had been that doing good wasn’t supposed to be a big ‘hey, look at me!’ thing anyways. Accepting responsibility was quiet, and it was action-oriented. Took her a while to understood what that meant, until Buffy…

Well, when Faith last left the town, she’d burned about every bridge around. So maybe it was best if the Scoobies didn’t know she was here. One call to the police and it was all over for Faith- no chance at parole, not after this stunt, and she didn’t expect anyone to give her a chance to explain herself. She was the Slayer- one and only- but a wanted felon. And no friend of Sunnydale, but she wasn’t here for them. She was here for the Hellmouth, and for every Slayer who did the good work before her. Shit. She couldn’t have figured this out sooner? Like, before people had to die?

It felt like getting back on an old bike, remembering the balance and the way things moved. Faith didn’t really have any gear with her, but thankfully it wasn’t too hard to find scrap wood around, especially after things had been destroyed. Cars were still ashy from the flames, and Sunnydale looked like a hollow shell of its former self. Ripe for demons and vampires to come out and play. And though the cemeteries of the city were familiar to her still, she was overcome with a sense of dread, stepping back over the earth, knowing that here…somewhere… Buffy was underfoot.

Slow breathing. Counting to ten. She’d learned these things in prison too, Faith had never been good at soothing herself- medicating, numbing, distracting were more her style. But the dirt was tangy and sour, and the air was thick with mist that clung to the graveyards and clawed at her lungs. It was cold in her soul, as the Slayer kept her ear trained for the telltale signal that undead vermin were worming their way to the surface. It was subtle, but she’d learned it well over the years.

She hadn’t staked anything since… well, it had been a while. Maybe Faith wasn’t cut out to be the Slayer anymore, and the line needed to move on. But she shook the thought from her head- that was too easy, to imagine herself dying and being spared the difficulty of what was going to come next. Her sense of nausea, the strange discomfort she felt at being back in Sunnydale only deepened when, as she walked through the foliage under the cover of darkness, she spied a stone set apart from anything else. Like it was private, something she wasn’t meant to see. And she knew exactly what it was.

“Shit.”