#fatecursed

          " ----- Caaaaaptaaaaain!! "

Ichigo cleared his throat, scratched the back of his head as he struggled to find the right words to make the question he'd been wanting to ask his father for a while now. He opened his mouth, only to close it again seconds later-- ugh. What if he just turned around and left? Nah, his dad would probably follow him and pester him until he said what was going on. If only he hadn't made his need to say something known by clearing his throat, he'd be able to just flee from the living room now without it looking too suspicious.

"Um, I've been wondering-- " He began, paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. "What made you realize you liked, liked my mother?" Was he about to ask his dad of all people for advice about matters of the heart? Yep, that was what he would at least try to do. What? The man standing before him could be an idiot sometimes but he was still his father and one was supposed to talk about this kinda stuff with their parents, right?

Goddamn it, he was regretting asking that question already.

Sergei evened his breathing and calmed himself as he surveyed his opponent's movements, from the slight twitch of their eye to the position of their footwork, readying his next parry when they make their move to strike. Precipitation ran down the side of his forehead, leaving a glistening trail down his cheek, as it dripped onto the pavement beneath his feet. The opposition was wary to close the gap between them, knowing full well how talented he was with the blade, in stark contrast to his own tranquil bearing. Despite the lack of heavy armor for protection, the Captain of the Platinum Knights was a formidable foe to be trifled with, even in a training spar with his own men.

However, if this stalemate continued, this session would carry on until the sun sets. Thus, he intentionally adjusted himself slightly to give his combatant an opening to strike and, predictably, his knight took the bait and answered with a charge forward. From an outsider's perspective, it appeared as if his opponent had the advantage pressing the attack while he himself could only block each strike with his blade, but in reality, Sergei was gauging his men's ability to adapt to change. First, he defended himself with barely little effort, allowing the strike to slide off his blade, then he lead his training partner to follow his footwork. In the eyes of a more experienced fighter, Sergei's movements were graceful, akin to a dance, whereas the one pressing the assault was struggling to land a good hit.

It was here, however, when Sergei felt the lingering gaze of another's eyes peering on to his visage. At first, he thought one of his men ceased in their training to view their contest, but such a leer did not originate form his knights. While he could not pinpoint the origin of such a stare, he sensed it was not hostile, but it wasn't friendly either, rather he couldn't tell what was being projected with such a gaze. Strange...

One final block of his practice blade, and Sergei finally strikes back at his opponent, forcing the other knight to lose their grip on the blade and stumble back in mild shock. Their sword lands onto the pavement with a loud clang - the match is over. Sergei allowed his own sword to rest before him, placing both hands on the grip. Though the new recruit failed to adapt to Sergei's style, he was proud to see the potential in the youth's future given enough time and effort. With words of encouragement, the young recruit rubbed the back of hsi head and laughed meekly, but seemed determined to continue his lessons.

Sergei wiped the sweat from his forhead with the back of his right hand; the summer heat this year was a little warmer than usual, and his body glistened in his own sweat under the rays of sunshine that beamed down on him. He looked every bit as intimidating as the rumors say: big muscles and toned body made him appear larger, and his ever present stoic expression seemed stuck on his face, yet he carried himself regally and regarded those around him with respect, garnering him with the deserved loyalty of his own men serving under him.

As the recruit sauntered off to continue his training with the other knights, Sergei turned his attention to the guest whom made themselves known.

"I presume you were the one observing the training spar between the new recruit and myself, yes?" he finally spoke aloud, turning to face whomever it was.

"WHAT THE FUCK, SMOKER-YA?!" the bread slides down at law's face and he has his hands raised in position to shambles. "say goodbye to your dick."

Shows up.

Acts like a pathetic manchild because people won't actually go along with your bullshit when you thought you could bully an easy target.

Act like it's some weird win as you unblock us for a second to send random anons.

What a pathetic waste of functioning human organs.

Also let's see:

Nobody

Nobody

Most mediocre Rangiku

Great company you keep

There's a post he hid but here's what's left:

He essentially kept trying to die on the "Momo is a child" argument that he knows is going nowhere, and pretending like he isn't SPECIFICALLY targeting Kogi because he knows she's a woman, and thought she'd be an easy target.

"Oh hurr durr lookit at me, gotta step up!!"

Dude you pissed your pants when I made a mild allusion that I'm better at internet discourse than you, and you tried to act like my friends and I were going to beat you up.

The only one here who buys your own hype is you and like a handful of RPers who've probably spoken twice to you, so you're so desperate to get their approval that you've drummed up this "controversy" around a slightly unpopular RPer.

I bet your own parents don't even fucking like you dude. What is this? Who has the time? You bitched and whined about us right until you fell asleep, then started doing it again exactly 8 hours later (I know because I was up and at work, actually contributing to society during those 8 hours)

*;; UNPROMPTED ANGST. 📨     ➤   @fatecursed ( … ) chris is having a nightmare. the image of carlos being held, chained against a chair as he struggles to get himself free but no success. chris also finds himself being held and unable to save the man before him. wesker appears with something. that something is just a thing that carries the uroboros virus in and he plans on using it on carlos. he can scream and jerk all he wants, but chris is unable to stop it. even when he begs for wesker to stop, it falls on deaf ears. carlos tries to get away but there's not much one can do while tied up. wesker injects carlos and all chris can do is watch carlos scream in agony, as he turns into a monster before him just like that foolish woman who thought she’d be with wesker in his plans.

then the dream ends.

chris will find that everything was just a dumb nightmare and carlos is at his side sleeping or so it was when he felt and heard chris turning around and making sounds. carlos looks at chris with concerned and with the looks of it he sees that the man had a bad dream and so carlos just gently reaches for his face. "it’s okay... it was a bad dream." he says. no, he won't ask about it right now. not ever if chris isn’t the kind to share, but he will hold chris until he calms down.

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 — 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐃. A feeling that persists in his day to day work, his life ; a smothering thing that blankets, swaddles deceptively then tightens & chokes. Once you lowered your guard . . . once you've been caught in the heart of it, you could hardly drag yourself free again, not without a tiring, pointless fight. As it stands, even in his dreams, his nightmares — he mentally corrects in a lowly seething hiss, a hatred drenched sound that he clings to if only because it stops the rush of ice that still chills his limbs & blood solid.

He's a quivering mess, twitchy, unfocused. Blind & unseeing as he tries his damned best to gather his bearings again after waking up — the sickened remnants of that nightmare stubbornly refuse to leave, inking themselves into his very skin, seeping into his veins where they feel like they're blackening his bones with a cavity-deep rot. Something acrid, heavy, settles at the back of his throat like soured bile as his heart continues it's frantic thundering loudly in his ears, feeling as solid hands, so thankfully firm, reach over to smooth themselves along his feverish flesh.

Chasing the monster away, soothing away any darkness with a certainty he's envious of — once he can finally focus on the other man's face again past the prior blurriness, the haze of panic that's thankfully begun to clear — Chris is all too thankful to cling back to the hands that lift to cup at his face, swinging, maybe a little too carelessly forwards as his fingers slot themselves between Carlos' own. Forehead flopping with next to no grace against the bend of his neck & shoulder, he focuses on the strong, steady, lively pulse of his heart.

It helps — more than his own meager attempts to reason away the horrors he'd dreamt up. Menacing flashes of gleaming scarlet on an inhumanely pale visage, ones that pierced the ever hungering maw of shadow like freshly spilled blood. Threatening to take someone else he loved away in some bitter, petulant vow of owed revenge. An entitled man's tantrum that turned destructive, harming everyone Chris dared to get close to like a macabre ripple.

His grip tightens, a tense swallow stuttering along as thumbs smooth like an artist's hands over softened clay, sealing away any breaks, any cracks in Chris' defense with such tender care, he exhales again, deeper this time, pressing his face in as close as he can physically get without smothering himself. He appreciates that he doesn't ask him to explain or talk about it. He feels guilt for waking him up — it's nothing new, something the other operative had been fiercely warned of in advance. But he never complains, snaps into a cradling sort of comforting as he tries his best to lull Chris back down from his frantic state. It works, after a few minutes of tense silence & massaging kindness.

When he's finally able to breathe properly without any shakiness, anything audible, the operative pulls back, slowly. It takes him a laughable minute to lift his eyes, still half-expecting to see the grisly bloom of blood, of darkening veins decaying away beneath the specialist's skin & draining him of all that lively colour to something more corpse-like & pallid. Tracing higher, higher, bit by bit, they scan the bend of the other's lips, the way they twitch skywards in a sleepy but relaxed smile — the strong line of his nose that guides him up. He expects to find sickly, yellowed & bloodshot eyes peering back, mindless yet violent in the emotion they’d likely hold.

But no . . . No infection, no unrecognizable mutated mass of limbs & inken tendrils . . .

is she doing it wrong, she wonders? vogue magazines and online articles dictate the supposed laws of flirting, of growing closer to one's partner, all things that are vastly unnatural to reina. wrapping her arm around his, even daring to press more of her body against his arm. touching his hair, his jaw, beautiful features that impart an ability to drive her crazy on a lonely night. she should not be greedy, she knows, but even she wants to find ways to lure his attention.

" well, i'm flirting, but it doesn't seem to be working, " she huffs, slightly cross. understandably, she feels awkward, not knowing exactly what she is doing — or if whatever she's doing is somehow wrong. but it is just leo, with the stoicism and social sense of a person who is possibly equally as awkward in a relationship as she is. a frown crosses her lips at his question, perturbed.

" i don't flirt with everyone. i flirt with you. "