#pseudodead

@pseudodead / FRANK ──

small starter call

❝ i told you she was big. ❞ slytherin's heir murmurs, as if his reluctant words changed the fact that nagini was tripple the size of the surrounding hebredean blacks. and, from the looks of it, the emerald she-beast was nowhere near done growing. in how many other ways could she please him? has she not already surpassed gaunt's wildest dreams?

hoping he did not repeat a mistake, pale hand reaches out for ominis'. ever slowly, carefully, guiding upwards torwards the hot breath leaving trenchant maw —– the scent of ash and suflur coating pale throats. further and further; until —– ominis' palm meets the dragon's sharp scaled snout. the gargantuan beast dares not move a muscle, lest she scares kin more than she already did. ❝ see? how warm she is. ❞

" i don't understand. " aurane sighs, glancing up towards the sky, towards the distant RUBY - RED wingspan of melaryon. he looks towards daemon, hoping for any sort of insight. ( as rhaegar trusts him, so does aurane. ) " i am not saying that melaryon and i have no bond, but it is . . . lesser, for now. SLOWER, i suppose. as i understand it, rhaegar and nagini bonded quickly, as did you and caraxes. " the fifteen - year - old prince crosses his arms, watches his dragon get closer for landing. 

@pseudodead asked; hc + 🤥 for a lie-themed headcanon, hc + 😨 for a fear-themed headcanon, &&. hc + 💍 for a jewelry-themed headcanon

Lying is as natural to Tseng as breathing. He has it down to a fine art, though he can’t always fool his Turks because they simply know him too well. As such, he’s learned to respect their intelligence and avoid lying to them as much as possible, but even this is a play on his part; if they trust he will respect them enough to tell the truth, it makes it easier to conceal things he actually needs too. Shooting Veld! For example, which is probably the biggest lie he’s had to pull off when it comes to his team. Anyone else? Lying through his teeth at all times, most likely.

Tseng would have everyone believe he’s afraid of nothing, which he honestly needs to in order to do his job. He’s a leader, first and foremost, but he isn’t immune to his feelings. He simply suppresses them, mostly. But he is afraid of a few things. Aerith falling into Hojo’s hands is one that’s been with him since he met her. SOLDIER also makes him uneasy, though he only truly fears Sephiroth after he’s lost the plot. He also fears for the safety of his Turks and although he understands what the job entails, if he can prevent serious harm, he will. Shooting Veld! For example… Which he did to spare them all the noose, even knowing it would shackle him to Rufus for eternity. There is also a part of him that fears Rufus casting him aside once he’s served his purpose.

In front of him, a project lays partially finished. Parts abandoned as the event replayed in his brain over and over again, ruining what little focus he had, undoing that little bit of adderall he’d taken in an attempt to keep fucking focused. All of his evening just fuckin fucked. Not exactly ruined but -

Wrench feels a little... A lotta fucking mixed the fuck up. Too many emotions colliding with an absurd amount of coffee and sugary treats. Heart beating too fast in his chest as his brain furiously tries to deal with it all - the high from what he’d consumed, the high from the conversation, the embarrassment that still lingered over fucking Marcus being both the best and worst friend he could ever have. Fingers still shaking as he opens and closes his fists in a way to combat the jitters - a feeble attempt that does nothing.

He’s in the middle of trying to control his breathing, trying to relax his stupidly high heartbeat when he hears it, Blacklight, and it’s then that he jerks to look at him as if noticing him for the first time. Blue eyes wide behind the screen of his mask as he tries, and fails, for a few seconds to understand what the other had said, and then struggling to make context of it.

The last encounter had been one that involved photographs and apprehension. A matter of repayment having gone unanswered between the both of them. What stands before the stygian gaze now was the visage of injury dripping in crimson. A stiff posture, rigid stancing that yielded no informative tells of how the larger killer felt in regards to this bleeding man's presence. The near silent treading of boots against the old, wooden slabs of flooring are the only give away that he is near, watching the man seemingly rummage about his kitchen like a mouse looking for cheese.

The Shape does not stop the man, not yet, as he keeps a cold gaze on him and his apparent search for something. It isn't until he sees how frustrated the other looks by way of sluggish movements and an unsteady stance.

He does not move, he does not give away the fact he is watching until the man turns. Only then does the old, worn killer spring into action, stepping closer with a more definitive, louder step as his breathing turns to short huffs. The halligan remains at his side, clipped to his coveralls, but the knife? The knife is in his hand, tight as a vice and white-knuckled.

The only sense of brief mercy, is the fascination with the fact the other felt the need to go into the Myers house and rummage around for what he assumes is some form of medical aid. It is a suicidal option, one laced with screams of agony and blood normally.

Normally, is the key word.

the moment she had touched down, she was escorted from the plane with four armed men flanking each side of her. her kevlar felt heavy and while she knew it had a purpose, it was more annoying than helpful. she was a couple inches over five foot and weighed about as much as one would imagine for her stature. she trained to be faster than the monsters because surprise, they dont use bullets. but not her circus, not her monkeys. in this case, she was uncle sams monkey and had to play by the rules.

" of course, it’s him, fuck a duck, " the woman all but groaned, loud enough to make heads turn. confusion passed through the mens expressions, one passing her a glance but her gaze was locked on one man in the distance. the last time she was thrown on a plane for a job, it was a terrorist group out of south america using the rare boiúna as protectors of their illegal weapons trade. some call them laimas, nagas—they have been around so long humans created gods in their likeness. turns out, task force 141 was not trained for that kind of combat.

" you planned this didnt you? just admit you like me, ghost, might save us both from your shitty attitude this time, " the necromancer flashed him a sardonic smile. the irony of her telling him that was not lost on the rest of the team as they shook their heads. since day one, ghost and anita clashed, both too stubborn and hard headed in their ways to really see eye to eye.

well, that what everyone thought.