#hes PALID

[cicicolorao]

I forgot how much I love love LOVE LINELESS

Rayman the silly

#rayman #captain laserhawk #captain lazerhawk rayman #clhabdr #clh rayman #clh ramon #clh #rayman fanart #rayman origins #because I referenced that design the colors #also someone let Ramon outside look at him #hes PALID #PALE #I read from the fan wiki that he’s deeply connected with nature #but Eden’s megacities are all buildings with no flora #This feels like keeping a wild animal inside a tiny apartment with no windows #no wonder he fucking drinks #someone give him his colors back #not me #this is my reference now #TUMBLR LET ME MAKE THEM TRANSPARENT GODDAMMIT

[matchavellichor]

okay huge fan of your dark!seb but hear me out…… dark!ominis

A.N: I absolutely adore dark!ominis omfg—I have like five diff dark omi drabbles in my google docs that i've abandoned bc i feel like no matter how i write it, it seems too out of character for him, then i end up hating it LOL. This isn't as bad as my dark!seb but here's Ominis doing some.....uhhhh questionable things to MC under Imperius.

Just This Once

dark!Ominis x f!MC - NSFW/Angst - 3.1k words - ao3

Tags: !!Non-Con!!, Pining, Obsession, Inappropriate Use of Imperius, Unconsensual Kissing/Touching, Masturbation, Omi Being a Lil Pervball

Summary: Ominis' infatuation leads him to break some of the principles he's held dear to him for the better part of his life.

Part 2, Part 3 (づ￣ ³￣)づ

The fireplace in the Slytherin common room has long gone out for the night, only a few crackling embers to fill the silence. Moonlight seeps in from the windows, through the murky waters of the Black Lake, casting the room in a palid, green hue. 

Despite the hour, he knows he’ll find her there. 

He wonders if it’s one of the rare nights where she’s asleep by the time he arrives, curled into herself on one of the armchairs with her book forgotten on her lap. 

One of the rare evenings where he can afford himself a bit less self-control. Indulge in the silkiness of her skin, trace his fingers over her features until the point she inevitably stirs, and he’s forced to retract himself as if he’d never touched her. 

It doesn’t matter if it is. Tonight, he’ll touch her the way he wants to, either way.

His skin prickles with warring emotions as he makes his way soundlessly down the steps of the dormitories. Shame, guilt, disgust—overwhelming anticipation.

The dizzying feeling of want overshadows them all.

An ugly, marred tug of obsession claws its way under his skin like a parasite. He can’t escape it, can’t make it stop—hasn't been able to for a while now.

He’s grown accustomed to it. Grown used to the way his nerves burn when he touches her, the way his lungs scream for oxygen when he catches her scent.

He always wants, yet he never gets, and he’s so, so tired of wanting.

Just this once. 

The reminder eases through him like a breeze, quelling the incessant pounding of his heart in his ears, the thin sheen of sweat settling itself over his skin.

His hand trembles when it dips into the pocket of his robes as he approaches the familiar set of lounges in front of the fireplace. He feels for his wand and tightens his hand around it, the wood biting into his skin, a sensation almost comforting in nature.

Just this once.

“Was wondering when you’d show,” her voice is warm and sleep-rough, a hazy melody that proves just as useful in easing his nerves. “Long day?”

“Something like that,” he murmurs. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, weighted with attrition for something he has yet to do.

She waits for him to sit down beside her, but instead he stays in place, hovering over the side of the couch.

He clears his throat, nerves stiffening his voice. “Do you think we could read in the Undercroft tonight?”

She looks at him perplexed, until her lips curl into a smile.

“Since when did you become such a rule breaker? Sebastian finally rubbing off on you?” She humors, stretching her sore limbs.

“I’d just prefer it. Change of…scenery.”

She snorts. “Change of scenery, huh?”

He nods sheepishly, cheeks burning. Change of scenery? Really, Ominis?

He can feel her staring at him, contemplating. He’s half-convinced she can hear the way his heart is nearly beating out of his chest.

“Please,” he adds for good measure.

His fingers find his wand again, tucked surreptitiously behind layers of fabric. He supposes he could cast it here, even if that isn’t part of the plan. The thought makes anxiety trickle up his skin. He doesn’t want to stray from the plan.

When she rises from her seat with an acquiescent sigh, his entire body sinks with relief.

“Alright, fine, let’s go…but we’ll have to be quiet.” 

The walk to the Undercroft is spent in the silence of disillusionment spells and muffling charms. Inside the darkened cellar, with only the soft sound of her humming as she settles onto one of the old chaises, a flurry of second-thoughts numb his brain in white static. 

Disgust settles itself like a boulder in his gut, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat as he takes a seat beside her, as he considers over and over again what he’s about to do. 

He can feel her thigh press against his when she shifts in her seat. It’s strangely grounding. He feels the taste rescind.

She’s so incredibly warm, so terribly close, that it buries any trepidations he holds deep into an untouchable part of himself, until he can think of nothing but the prospect of more of her skin on his, until desire overshadows any inkling of guilt he might possess.

The urge to touch, and taste, and caress, subjugates the contrite voice in his head that repeats a litany of you promised, you promised, you promised.

His nausea blends into something else as he quietly slips his wand from his pocket, and any vows he’s made to himself about never doing what he’s about to do, dissolves into inexistence as the spell passes through his lips in a whisper.

“Imperio.” 

The incantation takes effect with such fluidity, with such little effort, that in that moment, despite all his years of fervent resistance, he has never felt more like a Gaunt.

He resists the urge to double over and be sick on the flagstone floor. 

He can barely hear the sound of the book in her hands falling to the floor, nor his own wand slipping from his fingers with a dull clatter. The ringing in his ears is far too loud to allow it.

His core buzzes with the thrum of dark magic that washes over him, a mordant reminder of what exactly he’s done, one that he can feel impress itself on his very soul. He takes a fortifying breath.

Just this once.

“Turn to me.” 

The command works over her immediately, and though he can’t see her, he can hear her shift in her seat to face him. He’s never been more grateful for his blindness than in that moment, that he can’t see the glazed-over appearance of her eyes, her vacant stare. He’s certain it would break him.

He shifts forward himself, and when he touches her for the first time with trembling hands, the incessant ringing in his ears ceases. The drove of self-reprehension comes to a halt, replaced by something starved, replaced by the instinct to take.

He drags his fingers unsteadily over the ridge of her cheekbone, traces the contours of her brows, down the bridge of her nose, the same way he’s done before only briefly in her sleep, though this time with more unabashed exploration.

The thrill of not having to be careful awakens something in him. He wants to commit every millimeter to memory.

His thumb brushes over the gentle arch of her cupid’s bow, then over the plush pillow that is her bottom lip. 

He doesn’t even realize he’s been holding his breath until his lungs burn for oxygen. His hand takes hold of her jaw and he dips forward, so that his first inhale is made up of nothing but her, his nose pressed to the soft hair at her temple. 

He tilts his head and lets his lips land on the smooth plane of her cheek. Her skin is warm and silky, just as he remembered from the brief bits of contact he’s allowed himself in the past. He lets out a contented sigh. 

Slowly, patiently, he works himself up to his destination, planting tender kisses along her face, reveling in every little sensation, until he reaches the corner of her mouth.

Her mouth.

He’s almost convinced he’s dreaming. 

He takes a shuddering breath and connects their lips the way he’s wanted to for an agonizingly long time.

If he’s ever known softness before, it’s incomparable to what he receives from her lips, from her face cupped in his hands.

He’s filled with the insatiable desire to know more, to drown in it, to suffocate on the feeling of her against him. 

His tongue brushes over her bottom lip, tentative and a bit too cautious. He’s not exactly sure how to kiss her, but he notes rather morbidly that she won’t mind either way. It’s not like she’ll remember.

He tries again, experimenting, prodding at her lips softly at first, but she doesn’t part for him the way he expects her to, doesn’t grant him entrance. It’s… not right.

His brain blares with alarms in deafening repetition that it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.

She’s stiff against his lips, frigid and unmoving. It’s not how it should be. It’s not how he wants it to be. It’s askew and breaks him out of his fantasy and it makes him angry. 

Makes his fingers dig too harshly into her skin, makes him crowd her against the armrest of the lounge and press his mouth to her more forcefully, as if he can brutalize the compliance out of her. 

A whimper escapes her, a brief breach in her trance-like state, and he’s snapped out of his overwhelming frustration. He breaks the kiss and pants against her skin, the reminder of the power he has over her surging back. 

“Kiss me.”

Relief oozes into him like the trickle of a downpouring stream, cooling his blood and letting him melt into the feeling of her lips finally moving against his. His touch retreats back to tenderness. 

There’s a clumsy sort of uncertainty in the way his mouth moves against hers, an unpracticed mess of tongue and teeth. He doesn’t mind, doesn’t let himself dwell on the chagrin that is his first kiss.

It’s all he’s ever wanted with her. She tastes sweet on his tongue, the culmination of all his desires being fulfilled, and yet still, somehow, it’s not enough.

Even as he kisses her deeply, tenderly, until his lips feel raw and kiss-bruised, and there’s a delicious soreness in his jaw — he can’t shake that little, driving pain in his chest of want. 

No, not of want. Of need. 

There’s a part of him that he doesn’t quite understand, a part of him that aches for more without being conscious of just what more is. 

He’s aware of it, though. He feels it in the tension pulling just below his navel, the heat pooling in his blood. He recognizes it in the depraved instinct to slip his hands up her blouse, to hike up her skirt, and— and—

He contemplates straying from the plan for the second time that night.

All he wanted was to kiss her, just this once, just this once— but as he tips her back onto the cushions, as he hovers over her with his lips never leaving hers, he realizes that isn’t true.

He lets himself sink against her. Her body molds with his, presses against his own, plush and warm and indescribably perfect. He pins her down with his weight—even if he’s aware he doesn’t have to, he finds some sick sense of security in knowing she can’t escape.

He wants more.

He slots himself between her legs and tugs one of her thighs around his waist. It’s almost too much, his breathing scattered and uneven. 

He wants more.

Even if he isn’t sure what more entails, he possesses some idea as his hips begin to rut against hers of their own accord. The whimper he lets out makes him burn with shame.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck to hide his mortification. He inhales, until the dizzying scent of her perfume numbs his brain.

He’s subtly aware of the fact he’s grinding right against her knickers, her skirt bunched up haphazardly at her hips to accommodate him between her legs. He tries not to think about it.

His thoughts feel hazy as he contemplates the fact that only a thin piece of cotton separates her cunt from rubbing right against the front of his trousers. It would be so easy to—

He can’t.

He forces himself to keep his hands above her waist, far from temptation. He doesn’t force them not to wander, though.

Just this once, he repeats, as his fingers hover over the front placket of her blouse. He muffles his breathing with his lips pressed to her throat.

He trails his hand up to her collar and unclasps the first button with trembling fingers. He tries not to think about it, either.

He concentrates on how she tastes when he dips his tongue out to lick a stripe just under her jaw, and for a moment he doesn’t care how lewd it is, doesn’t care how utterly debased he’s acting.

Her breath hitches, just the subtlest change in pitch, but it’s enough for him to pretend that she wants this. That she wants him.

Little, brass buttons clatter to the stone floor of the Undercroft in quiet clinks, byproduct of his impatience, of his self-restraint slipping from his fingers in the hasty manner he undresses her. 

The same hasty manner he fumbles with his belt—before he can think too long about what he’s about to do—until he’s gripping his weeping cock and biting down on his lip to stop the shameful noises threatening to escape his throat.

He palms himself shakily, remorse adling his unsteady movements, while he tries to work the courage to actually touch her. It isn’t long before his hand is slick with his arousal, and the skin of her neck is damp with his heavy breathing.

His hand hovers over the bare skin of her midriff, fingers twitching with the desire to sink them into her soft flesh, to trace over her curves and memorize the contours he’s only felt in daydreams. 

His voice is raw when he commands her, riddled with shame. “Ask—ask me to touch you.”

She obeys in a whisper. “Please, touch me.” 

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s not—

“Ask me to touch you and say my name.” 

“Touch me,” she breathes, and he can feel the vibration of her voice where his mouth is still latched onto the base of her throat. “Please, Ominis.”

There.

His name on her lips strikes his nerves on fire, lights the very blood in his veins alight. He caves.

Her skin is warm under his fingertips. He can feel her heartbeat where he presses his palm to her sternum, a frantic pounding— undoubtedly a reflection of her subconscious beneath the influence of the spell.

He doesn’t allow himself to feel guilty, he can’t. Not now. 

Instead, he indulges. Pushes the sheer material of her chemise the rest of the way up, until it’s over her chest, and he can feel.

Her nipples pebble as they come in contact with the cool air of the Undercroft and he runs his hand over the stiffened bud, rolls it between his thumb and index. 

She’s overwhelmingly soft. It disgusts him how badly he wants to defile her for it. 

He notes wryly how revoltingly weak he is, if all it took was some poorly-placed obsession for him to do away with every last principle he’s spent the better part of his life cultivating. How easily an Unforgivable spilled from his lips at the prospect of feeling hers.

He’ll scrub his skin raw afterwards in the shower in a desperate attempt to forget all of this, he promises himself. He won’t do this again, he can’t—

Just this once.

His head sinks to her chest and he murmurs against her skin, “Again— Say, say it again.”

“Please, Ominis.”

He sighs in blissful relief. “Yes.”

He counts the rows of her sternum with a drag of his tongue. Her chest is already sticky with his saliva when he takes hold of his cock again, the dripping tip sullying her untouched skin.

His hips rut into his own hand and the Undercroft fills with the sounds of his quiet grunts. He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines it’s her he’s thrusting into as he fucks his fist, his other hand groping blindly, fondling and squeezing her supple flesh until he’s sure he’s left marks in his carelessness.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, because he likes to pretend it’s real. “So–so good, angel.”

She lets out the softest whimper, and it’s enough to make his jaw fall slack, a pleasured groan escaping his parted lips. 

He presses his forehead to hers. “I love you. I love you so much. Tell me— tell me you love me. Please say it.”

“I love you.” 

She obeys too fast, her voice too vacant. It’s unnatural. He doesn’t care. Those three little words are enough to wrench a strangled sort of sound out of his chest.

“Again,” he begs, voice hoarse, and he’s only distantly aware of the wet tracks running down his cheeks. His thrusts are sloppy and frantic, so close to his undoing. “Say my name.” 

“I love you, Ominis.”

“Fuck,” his voice cracks, his head dropping to her shoulder.

He’s pushed over the edge with a sob, painting her stomach and chest in ribbons of milky white. An endless litany of I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry pours from his lips as he shudders through his climax.

Shame sears through him like fiendfyre and he moans his forgiveness on a cry against her lips, kisses her tenderly as if it’s an act of retribution.

His hand finds her stomach, his palm rubbing into the incriminating mess of his seed on her skin, and the satisfaction he feels with it only serves to amplify his self-disgust. 

He kneads the sticky flesh beneath his fingertips, as if he can make it so that even after the scourgify, some part of him will be there, a memory only he’s aware of. He doesn’t want to let her go, he can’t— he—

He does so anyway. He forces himself off of her on unsteady legs and tucks himself into his trousers. 

He cleans her with all the care in the world, as if his tenderness will somehow make up for how crudely he’s violated her trust tonight.

Everytime his hand brushes over her skin as he redresses her, he repeats to himself that it was just this once. Brands it into his brain, lets that contrite voice repeat it over and over again until he might go mad. 

He takes her back to the common room and sets her down gently into that same armchair she was waiting for him in at the beginning of the night. Brushes a lingering kiss to her forehead that stretches for a moment too long.

He mutters a reluctant finite incantatem under his breath, pairs it with a heavy sleeping spell, and retreats to his own dorm before he can fall to temptation again. 

Only then, behind the drawn curtains of his four-poster, skin still prickling with the memory of every way he’d touched her, is he made certain of something he’s been trying desperately to deny all evening.

This was the first time, but it certainly won’t be the last.

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy smut #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis x mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #ominis x reader #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis gaunt x mc #ao3 fanfic #fanfic #hogwarts legacy fan fiction

[dilfsfordinner]

a/n- yeah, i’m still not over the leaks

——————————————————————————

“-it funny. Just the idea of Annabeth trying to sit quietly and draw all day,” you spoke into the quiet atmosphere of your bedroom, a queasy Megumi nuzzled into the valley of your chest, little sniffles coming from him as you read a chapter from one of his favorite books.

A heavy comforter was thrown atop your bodies, his body supplying more than enough heat on its own, but the doctor said warmer was better anyway, especially when cold sweats would pelt his form simultaneously. “Athena expects her children to create things, not just tear them dow-”

“I thought Athena was the war one,” came a scratchy voice to your right, the usual teasing tone Gojo used with you gone from his arsenal, replaced by the signature rasps of a sore throat. Looking up from your book, you turned to look upon your very sick lover, his blue eyes red and shot from fatigue, slow blinks indicating he was genuinely awaiting your answer.

A sympathetic smile pulled at your lips as you just nodded and pulled him closer, his soft hair tickling the skin of your neck as he rested the back of his head against your shoulder, his long form sinking down the bed, hip just below your hip, side to your side.

“Then why would she like architects,” he mumbled, eyes closing to get his much-needed rest, relaxation melting his limbs before a jab was dealt to his side, ribs aching from a tiny elbow, its little bone just sharp enough to knock a cough out of him.

“Listen,” came Megumi’s irritated response, the boy clearly too tired to put up with your lover’s antics, huffing as he nestled back into the comfort of your arms, which used his back as a makeshift table, holding the book up once more to continue reading.

Stifling a laugh at the scowl you knew was gracing Gojo’s features at the moment, you read to your makeshift patients, trying your best to mediate between them and keep the peace whenever a petty argument rose.

…

“… I am Thalia,’ the girl said, ‘Daughter of Zeus’”.

Closing the book with a contented sigh, you peeked down to find Megumi sleeping soundly, his pale face finally gaining a flush of color after days of palidity. Combing his hair away from his forehead, you tested his temperature with the back of your hand, your hope for his recovery short-lived as his skin felt as scalding as ever.

“Fuck,” you whispered, worry for the little boy lying on top of you building as you imagined how bad he must feel and the fact that you couldn’t cure him on your own.

“He’ll be okay,” came that scratchy voice again, a warm hand rubbing smooth circles on your thigh, Gojo sensing your racing thoughts of desperation, could tell from your shift in mood alone that you were scared Megumi’s sickness could possibly get even worse.

“I promise,” he added, his own fingers carding through Megumi’s silky hair this time, the two of you watching the young boy, his uneven inhales slightly evening out at the feeling of his “father’s” touch.

The sight had the worry sitting in your chest dissipating, if only for a moment, and you relaxed back against the headboard, nodding to acknowledge that you trusted him, trusted that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Megumi.

“Besides, we’re unkillable, love” he somehow purred, rough voice aside. An incredulous scoff bubbled out of you at his comment, shaking your head in disbelief at Gojo’s pure nonchalance, his own laugh slipping from his lips. Once again, Satoru Gojo knew exactly what to say to push buttons, the only difference being that it was an adult elbow jamming into his side this time.

——————————————————————————

#can you guess what my favorite series was when i was little #gojo satoru fluff #gojo x female reader #gojo fluff #gojo satoru x reader #dad gojo #baby megumi #megumi fluff #jjk x fem!reader #jjk fluff #gojo x reader

[neverniko101]

Trying to convince my brain that I cannot make another ask blog (it is not working help)

Anyway, a swapverse! Phastasmverse? Is that too hard to spell?

Uh

Yeah, I might be making another ask blog, probably on an actually different blog this time

I’ll probably alternate between working on this and Horror Dreamtale between STP

Rambling about precious children ⬇️

Amber (Dream by Joku):

- Tall bee man

- Smug asshole

- Got rich off selling his brother’s inventions

- Runs a fancy multiverse-wide Casino/Bar/Restaurant

Pollen (Dust by Ask Dusttale):

- Sweet little guy

- I say “little”, but he’s actually pretty tall

- Botanist obsessed with flowers

- has never killed anyone

- ever

- especially not by poisoning them with flowers

- Terrified of bears, even teddy bears

Cyan (Nightmare by Joku):

- Acts scary but is really a goofy little guy

- Mad scientist/engineer

- Uses inventions to run mazes, haunted house etc. to get negative emotions

- Lives in a giant (very, very heavily trapped and guarded) castle by himself

- Mechanical tentacles/arms, Doc Ock style

Epoxy (Ink by Comyet):

- Acts like a goofy little guy but is really scary

- >:3

- Likes to climb Amber and sit on his shoulder

- definitely not some kind of horror that traps people in resin cocoons and drains their life force

Razor (Cross by Jakei):

- After his AU was destroyed, he ripped a hole into the anti void, corrupting him and destroying the remains of Xtale

- Hunts ‘bugs’ in AUs, sometimes destroying entire universes to ensure the bug doesn’t spread

- Memory issues, doesn’t remember most of Xtale

- lonely someone befriend this man

Stitch (Error by Loverofpiggies):

- Runs around AUs taking parts of them to sew into the broken parts of his own AU, Cross-style

- Often accidentally causes bugs in AUs he visits, corrupting/destroying them himself or causing Razor to destroy them

- On the run from Razor

- Can animate his puppets to do little chores

- Fights with a giant sewing needle as a weapon

- Also needs friends

Mist (Fell by Vic):

- Probably the chillest guy here

- It’s his job to make sure that everyone gets enough sleep

- Will be disappointed in you if you don’t go to bed on time

- Has several pet bunnies

Comet (Outer by 2mi127):

- Angry little guy

- One of two employees at the Multiversal Transportation and Postal services

- Runs exclusively on coffee and baked goods provided by Cookie (the only person he can tolerate)

- Can take you basically anywhere, but you’d have to convince him to do so, which is difficult even for Cookie

- Catches on fire when too angry

Azoic (Fresh by Loverofpiggies):

- Mercenary

- Unnaturally good at making improvised weapons

- Is a cowboy? Don’t know where that came from

- Has a horse named Penelope

- Trying to earn money

Toxin (Killer by Rafbawas):

- He seems fun

- Perfectly mentally stable

- Eats the fabric of the multiverse

- Turns people into mindless rainbow zombies

Marrow (Horror by Sourapplestudios):

- Bounty Hunter

- Able to switch out his body parts with other monsters and humans

- Pretty chill all things considered

Crypt (Reaper by Renrink):

- Uh

- what

- what is that

- just some guy that Palid decided to adopt?

Palid (Geno by Loverofpiggies):

- His name is a mix of Pallid (being pale or dull, like a dead person or ghost) and Paladin (a hero)

- Kind of adopted Papyrus’ personality after his death

- Precious little guy

- Finds Crypt in an ally and is like “yup I’m keeping him”

- Fights with a morning star

Ghost (Blue by Popcorn prince):

- Sad boy

- Able to manipulate water, especially his tears

- Has started following Razor around for no apparent reason

Cookie (Lust by NSFWShamecave):

- Again, just a genuinely nice person

- Runs a bakery!

- Obsesses over people easily

- Can and will give you a hug

Sweettooth/Ttoo (Ccino by Black-Nyanko):

- So high energy (as a result of experiments, probably) that they need to almost constantly be eating high-energy food, typically sugar

- Trying to find a cure along with their best friend, Cookie

- When low on energy, will start to melt and attack any nearby source of energy, including souls

help

#undertale #undertale au #utmv #my art #digital art #artwork #sans undertale #sans #utmv sans #art #ink utmv #utmv art #utmv comic #utmv oc #nightmare dreamtale #dreamtale nightmare #dream!tale #dream!sans #dream sans #ink!tale #ink!sans #dust!sans #dust sans #killer!sans #something new #horror sans #ccino sans #lust sans #swap sans #cross sans

[evilvillain123456789]

We all have that coworker who, on a busy day retreats to the walk in refridgerator to "take stock", only to emerge hours later nearly frozen to death, blinded- cataracts of ice over eyes and skin a palid blue, muttering names followed by numbers that, despite the nonsensicality of it, you can't help but remember, only to catch glimpses of the customers drivers liscences that day to see that not only do the names match up, but the numbers spoken also seem to match the date of birth shown. And it doesnt get busy the next day so he doesnt do it again. But the day after that it does get busy so he goes back in and out of the fridge, this time muttering another set of names and dates but is having trouble this time, for his lips and tongue are frostbitten, dead and numb, but you manage to catch the name and number of a customer you served yesterday, a regular, but the date has changed- it is now a new month and day, years away in the future

[total-drama-brainrot]

Total Drama Psycho Noah AU, before Alejandro knew the truth, Noah would sometimes cuddle to the charmer while sleeping... Alejandro was amused and fond by this... But when Alejandro learns about Noah's true crazy colors and the sleeping Noah cuddles into Alejandro again, Alejandro is trying NOT to freak out! 😴

Wait no you're so right. Noah's sleep cuddling habit would've been seen as innocuous throughout the whole series, especially in World Tour when their sleeping arrangements were so cramped. Of course he'd always end up practically gluing himself to the nearest person in his sleep- who would usually ended up being Owen or sometimes Alejandro, as they were the two people Noah tolerated enough to spend most of his time with.

But as soon as everyone on the jet becomes aware that he's not nearly as harmless as he's portrayed himself to be? When he intentionally shows himself to be a threat to their safety/wellbeings?

Well, suddenly his "cute little quirk" has turned into a very volatile situation.

-

What is Alejandro supposed to do when he wakes up in the Economy cabin, not even twenty four hours after the London challenge, and finds everyone's fearful eyes trained on him. How is he supposed to react when he feels the familiar weight of the dangerous, downright vicious person they'd all watched snap someone's arms like uncooked spaghetti, draped over him like a blanket?

Especially when they all know that a Noah who's woken up before he's ready is cranky. And that was the Noah from before, who was apparently keeping a tight leash on his wilder instincts- now that he's given up on holding himself back, who knows how he'd respond to being woken up?

Oh wait. They all know how he'd respond- and it involves a lot of bloodshed.

He's trapped; waking up Noah is a guaranteed death sentence, and any movement could be enough to stir the other from his precarious slumber.

And the others know it too. Tyler and Duncan watch him like a hawk, their faces palid with pity and terror, though they thankfully remain just as muted as Alejandro himself. It's unnerving, being held under the terror-shrunk gazes of the two, but not nearly as unnerving as the soft steady breathing of the deranged bookworm sleeping on top of him.

For a moment, there's a tentative silence that hovers between the three of them like a sheet of ice over a frozen lake.

So of course, Owen's boisterous entrance to the cabin shatters it.

"Hey guys, Chef's serving breakfast in the-! Oh, did I interrupt something?"

Noah stirs from his sleep, and Alejandro's breath becomes an inmate in the prison of his lungs. He'd doomed.

"Wuzza'? Is it ch'llenge time?" The bookworm slurs, one hand wiping at his sleep-crusted eyes as the other finds purchase against Alejandro's shoulder. Noah pulls himself into a sitting position, his body subconsciously curling itself towards the nearest heat source- which just so happens to be Alejandro's terror stilled form- and the Spaniard in question internally prays to whatever God is listening that he'll somehow evade the psycho's inevitable ire when he realises that Alejandro is, in fact, not a pillow.

After a trepid second of inaction, Noah hums inquisitively against the warm mass beneath him, and blinks tired eyes up towards Alejandro's ashen face. A moment of incomprehension passes. Then another. And then realisation flickers over the bookworm's features like a dying ember.

Alejandro is so fucked.

Noah's face solidifies into something blank and unreadable- the complete lack of discernible emotion in is expression is almost eldritch in its uncanniness- and the latino doesn't know if its more or less unnerving than the unhinged, crooked smile he's graced the cast with yesterday. But then, unexpectedly, Noah wordlessly slides himself off of Alejandro's lap.

No broken arms. No stab wounds. Not even a threat against his person.

...What?

"Uh. Sorry for sleeping on you, I guess." The cynic says off-handedly, in his customary sardonic drawl, before he steps over to Owen and calmly asks what the blonde oaf was so excited about.

What?!

"It... is no problem, mi amigo." Alejandro chokes out, displacing the stationary air in his lungs.

Where is the vicious psychopath from last night? Why is Noah acting so... normal? Was his display of instability a fever dream or something?

No, both Tyler and Duncan shoot Alejandro matching looks of bewilderment from their seat on the adjacent bench. What happened last night was real, regardless of Noah's current docility.

Owen and Noah's conversation filters off into nothing, and the Archvillain spares a glance towards the pair. Only to find the both of them staring back at him, grinning; Owen's face scrunching up into his usual friendly smile, and Noah's smug smirk rapidly morphing into that same too-wide snarl he'd adorned on the bus- are those fucking fangs?!

"You make a pretty good pillow, Al."

#in other words; noah notices just how scared his teammates are of him and decides to play The Waiting Game #you know that feeling when you're anticipating a jumpscare so you're just sat there being super tense? and then nothing happens? #that's what he's been going for this whole time. but now he can use it on his teammates too! how fun! #sprinkle in a few Scary Smiles™ and unhinged comments to keep them on their toes. #and THEN when everyone finally loses their paranoia he'll Do The Jumpscare. #the alternative here is noah wakes up against alejandro freaks the fuck out and crawls into the vents The Grudge style #which is the funnier option and therefore canon in my heart #total drama #psycho!noah au #alenoah crumbs? #silly ideas #replies

[1800titz]

ᴠᴀᴍᴘʀʀʏ x ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ᴜᴘ ɴᴏᴡ ᴏɴ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ

｡◕‿◕｡ (patreon exclusive)

Y/N wonders if he’d always been a sardonically dry person with scathing jade, or whether the effects were a byproduct of being shaped by the palid, callus palm of undeath squeezing. Molding. 

She pats at the florid blotch — it eats the front — like dust she can brush from the knees of denim, and then smooths the collar with a tight smile. “Should come right out.” 

Harry blinks. He’s horrid at playing human. If the unbeating organ nestled behind his ribcage and his whetted incisors don’t already make those with a heartbeat chary of him, his jaded lack of dialogue and cynically ever-wandering eyes certainly don’t help. 

Wordlessly, the dry cleaner nods, and scoops the dress shirt by its untainted shoulders. She clears her throat, and for the first time since hello, speaks in a spiritless tone that bears similarity to the dullness of her beige t-shirt. 

“You can pick it up on Tuesday.” 

“Tuesday is great,” Y/N nods, still smiling as if her face will crumble otherwise. 

Like niceties are the bane of Harry’s imperishable existence, his irises loll to the side. And then, for the first time (beyond a passively dispassionate glance), Harry acknowledges the dry cleaner. 

He teeters over the counter, locks gazes with her, and declares, in a mesmerically somnolent croon, “You do not believe that the blood on this dress shirt is suspicious, and you don’t know that it’s blood…”

It’s borderline unsettling — this gentle cadence. Like the wispy coo of a children’s bedtime story. The waver of a pendulum swaying. Her pupils swell like a sable abyss, gaping and endlessly grasping. 

“Definitely… not blood…” The dry cleaner murmurs, unblinking. Insatiably accepting of his suggesting aria. 

“Also,” he adds, indignation partly spalling the soporific euphony of his compulsion, “I am not a …chronic nose bleeder…” 

Y/N blinks. 

“And, you will not charge this young lady when she comes on Tuesday to pick this shirt up. You’ll forget this conversation that we’ve had, you and I,” Harry tells her.

“On the house…”

His eye contact is adamantine. Unnerving. He excavates a bit of her, and tucks something back in, something different and twisted. A mangled piece that slots back into the empty cavity. Slowly, he blinks, and steers back up. 

“Have a— a good night,” Y/N says, managing a flimsy wave. 

The dry cleaner bats her lashes, a spasmic flutter, like she’s blinking something out from her sockets. Probably Harry. The door chimes before Y/N’s even turned to follow Harry out. 

The city touches her with a plume of brumal wind. It kisses at her cheeks and billows at her hair. She takes long strides to catch Harry’s own, languid gait, and he casts his gaze over his shoulder wordlessly when she makes it up.

Then, with his face remarkably deadpan, he asks, “Why did you tell her I have chronic nosebleeds?” 

#patreon #patreon exclusive #harry styles smut #harry styles #harry styles writing #vampire!au #vampire!harry #harry smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you

[cuffmeinblack]

Azkaban. A fortress to hold the foulest of wizardkind, meant to keep us safe from their wrath. Yet for all we know of Azkaban, there is much more that remains hidden—a deep well of corruption rooted in government to hide the true horrors of the prison and its nightmarish keepers. Garreth Weasley is the first prisoner to walk free from its walls in centuries. As he tries to pick up his life from where he left off, he soon realises that his imprisonment has reshaped the man he once was. Battered and broken, he draws on the strength of a friend to right the wrongs he's suffered. In matters of justice and those of the heart, will truth finally out?

Garreth Weasley x f!OC (Adanna Egwe)

Tags: explicit | friends to lovers | dark themes | trauma

Prologue

Garreth took a tentative step towards his salvation, one foot in front of the other on quaking legs. They shook with fear, both inflicted and for what awaited him outside the towering stone walls. Malnourishment had set in months ago, withering his muscles and the spritely step he once held. Gone was the layer of healthy fat from years of Hogwarts’ delicious fare, and long had faded the glow of his skin, leaving only a palid complexion and freckles that looked more grey than golden. He didn't know this, of course—Azkaban didn't have mirrors, or bathrooms for that matter, only buckets and hard walls and harder floors—but he felt it in his bones and the way the woman now looked at him.

The first person to see him after the long nine months was not his mother, father or various siblings—it was a Ministry worker, unnamed and uncaring. The stout woman looked at him blandly without so much as a sympathetic nod, her lip curling faintly in what looked like disgust. Didn't she know? He was innocent! Garreth supposed she might not be privy to the details, assumed he'd been released on some technicality. A murderer walking free deserved no sympathy, no kindness. She kept her distance and waved him forward, the blazing white of her deer patronus keeping the foul creatures that had tormented him at bay. The cloaked figures of his nightmares lashed out, displeased to be losing their sustenance, only to be buffeted away by the powerful magic. The closer he walked towards her, the lighter he felt. A heavy blanket of despair was gradually peeled away and memories seeped through the edges. Smiles, laughter, a kiss, the smell of apple pie and the freshness of Spring. And then the air shimmered as he entered the deer's embrace, emotions he thought long buried flooded back in one great tidal wave that almost knocked him flat on his back. He remembered hope, once a constant companion that had been suffocated within a few weeks of entering the great fortress behind him.

“Steady, now.” The woman watched him stumble but made no attempt to help him. Garreth thought she moved to offer a steadying hand, instead it plunged into her pocket. He stood within arm's length of her now, could see every line of her face and the hint of warmth in her eyes that she didn't offer to Garreth. He felt suddenly self-conscious—a rarity for him—as he became more aware of his unwashed hair and filthy nails. He must have smelled vile. So distracted with his own dismal appearance, he almost missed her hand hovering between them. Atop her palm, a square of chocolate sat. He could smell the rich aroma permeating the damp and salty sea air, and he salivated. “Take it. It will take the edge off.” She jerked her head towards the dementors still straining against the patronus’ shield. “The portkey leaves in thirty seconds.”

Garreth took the chocolate and shoved it in his mouth with little decorum, savouring the rich cocoa as it melted on his tongue and coated his mouth. He'd not tasted anything so delectable, though he knew it was likely the cheapest the Ministry could source. A far cry from the gruel that had barely kept him alive. The woman bent to pick up what Garreth assumed was his ticket out of this hellhole—a small gold pocketwatch of which the hands twitched back and forth with no progress. The time read one o’clock or thereabouts, yet judging by the stormy grey sky and waning light, Garreth put it closer to six. He was pretty sure it was now Autumn, though there were no trees with their copper hued leaves to confirm his suspicions. All he saw now was grey rock, grey sky and turbulent waves, all desaturated as if the dementors were not only capable of sucking the happiness from the landscape but the colour too.

“Ten seconds.”

Garreth placed his hand over the pocketwatch and the woman clasped him firmly, the cold metal warming between their palms. She herself was warm, her skin soft against his own calloused and clammy fingers. With a jolt, Garreth realised that this was the first human contact he'd had since entering the prison all that time ago. The last had been his mother desperately reaching for him as he was dragged by chains from the courtroom deep below the Ministry. She'd stroked his cheek and told him not to worry before he slipped into darkness, her tear-streaked face etched into memory.

“Five, four, three, two…”

On one, Garreth felt a pull behind his navel and he lurched forward with dizzying speed into the abyss, only to emerge and fall promptly to his knees. His bones hit cobblestones strewn with leaves and he doubled over, retching and gasping for air. Whilst his head swam, he heard voices, cries and screams. He thought this was a cruel trick, that he'd been taunted with the promise of freedom only to be deposited back in Azkaban for some sick amusement. They grew louder as the black spots cleared in his vision and he realised that they weren't cries of pain and hopeless wails—these were shouts of excitement, relief. They called his name and he managed to peer up into the sunset to find familiar faces crowding him. He was home at last, surrounded by countless copper manes and freckled grins, and two figures that hung back, different from the rest. Natty, he recognised by her flawless dark complexion and glittering smile, and the woman next to her by the way his heart leapt at the sight of her. She was here. She'd not forgotten.

He was barely aware of anything the woman from the Ministry was saying as hands pulled him inside the cottage and Charlotte—his dear little sister—was babbling on about such nonsense that Garreth couldn't help but laugh. The sound was strange to him and his voice was weak, so weak. His vocal chords seemed to struggle and creak like something old and long-abandoned, groaning back to life. “You're all here…,” he managed to say before a wave of exhaustion crashed into him.

“Give him some room. Charlotte, Hector, enough. He needs to rest. Oh welcome home, Garreth…”

Mum. She wrapped him up in his arms and he felt ten years old again. Here he was finally safe and loved, though almost inexplicably as if he didn't deserve it. His brother clutched an arm and helped him up the stairs that creaked less noticeably under his newly lithe form. More chocolate found its way into his hand, this square much silkier with chunks of honeycomb that stuck to his teeth. As soon as his head hit the pillow—his pillow—he drifted off to sleep and had his first nightmare-free slumber in months. He didn't dream at all, only surrendered to the sweet silence and infinite dark.

#garreth weasley #garreth weasley x oc #garreth weasley fanfiction #salvation #cuff writes

[moodymisty]

Hello, I hope you are doing well. And summer ends on a joyful note✨

Roboute Guilliman/reader-eternal(can she be related to Malcador?👀) Maybe NSFW?🤭I'm sure most primarchs have a breeding and pregnancy kink🤔 But Roboute is a special case: he had a good family and loving parents. He himself wants to be the same as Conor. He has a legacy to pass on. And if these inclinations of his had previously subsided, then now that he has a reader who can endure, nothing stops him. How would his Astartes react to the possibility of their primarch having a child of his own? How do they treat the reader?

Author's note: There's a lot here, so I thought it would be best to format my thoughts in my usual headcanons with a small drabble at the end way to make sure I could speak all my thoughts. I hope that's acceptable to you ;3 This one ended up not having any overt sauce because I got so distracted by sweet Guilliman, but if you desire the full NSFW, you're always welcome to send in another request because I'm a dolt xD

Relationships: Roboute Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some vague mentions to NSFW things but nothing overt, Tokophobia/Pregnancy mentions, Typical 40kness

I'd agree that a good amount of the Primarch's have that sort of kink, but it manifests in very different ways depending on which Primarch it is.

Lorgar wanting to corrupt purity or fall victim to primal temptations, Vulkan's desire for family, Magnus wanting to share his teachings; Guilliman's is more of the traditional sense.

For as long as he can remember, he's tossed away the idea of ever having a family. Given his lot in life, his duty to humanity, that isn't a thing he can indulge in. He has no time for such selfishness.

He's resigned himself to fighting for others to have that gift, not himself.

When you arrive in his life, Guilliman suddenly remembers how hard it had been to push and keep those thoughts down, now that you serve to constantly remind him.

He has many fond memories of training or hunting with his adoptive father, and one day he would like to have the same with his own child, if the galaxy would let him be so selfish.

When you do tell him you're with child he's an absolute mess though. You're both treading into unknown waters, after all. No matter how strong you are he still worries about your health.

The Ultramarines definitely have their qualms about it though.

Keep in mind they were raised from kids to be stalwart killing machines, so the kind of thoughts and dreams their Primarch is having are... weird to them.

They have more interaction with baseline humans that say the Dark Angels however, so they aren't totally out of touch.

You did disturb one of Guilliman's men when you keeled over in pain and he attempted to make sure you didn't fall, and he felt your child kick his palm. His disturbed face is forever seared in your memory as one of the funniest things you've ever seen. You're pretty sure the marine's squad still beats him up about the whole thing.

Mostly so, his captains and commanders worry. They know that you serve as a weakness (speaking in a logistical sense) to Guilliman that can be taken advantage of.

He's exactly where you expected him to be.

The green haze of the hologram map shines against his skin, having been growing palid over the past weeks. Guilliman often times works himself into an awful state, pushing himself to the mental limit before finally taking respite.

You can't stop him from doing it. So the least you can do is enjoy a few moments of time with him alone before he goes back to the bridge of the Macragge's Honor to hear any updates from his commanders.

When he notices you in the doorway, his face perks up considerably.

"You should be resting." He instantly comes at you with, and you can't help but sigh.

"Not even a hello?" You come closer, and it's his turn to sigh. You walked all the way here, it's the least you can get from him. He puts a hand on your shoulder and presses his lips to the top of your head.

"Hello. You should be resting." There's papers, scrolls and plastic flimsies spread across the edges of the hologram table, clearly a mess done by him.

"I just wanted a few minutes alone with you, is that so wrong?" He sees the small hint of a smirk on your face, as he pulls away to lean on his hands pressed against the holotable. He takes a glance towards your belly.

"How are they?" You're well past showing at this point, and it will only be a few months until you're finally face to face with your child.

"Finally asleep, it seems. They stopped kicking my stomach."

He lets the smallest smile on his face.

"Yearning to fight, even bef-"

The door suddenly opens, revealing an unfamilar to you Ultramarine captain. A hand rests on the pommel of his chainblade, helmet tucked into his elbow. He also has the worst timing in the known galaxy, interrupting your private moment before it even had a chance to truly begin.

"Lord Primarch, You have a vox. Legion Captain Hektor holds news of a new world." The captain looks in your direction and nods his head.

"Apologies, Legion Mother."

You'll never get used to that title. One of many you had thrust upon you when you'd entered into a relationship with Roboute, even if they technically were not official. You were not bound by law as of yet, but the Chapter had taken to calling you Legion Mother none the less. It becoming official was less so a possibility, and more so an inevitability. The Captain bows and takes his leave, and the both of you are alone once again.

"Will I be attending this diplomacy meeting as well?" You joke, looking up to the Primarch.

"If you can do so without straining yourself, then possibly." Guilliman won't deny that you have a knack for diplomacy, no matter how much you might say otherwise. He wishes for worlds to surrender peacefully; He also wishes for you to remain in good health.

"Now go rest. The both of you."

You feel an armored hand gently press against your aching belly. Carrying a Primarch's child hasn't be easy on your body in the slightest; Even more so than a normal human child. You'll happily indulge in the rest, with one exception.

"As long as you come and join me once you're finished. Please?"

Even if you can get him to take a few minutes of respite, you'll consider it a victory. Roboute sighs as he looks downward.

"I will try." You just barely hear him mumble underneath his breath, as his hand still on your stomach. It moves slightly as he kneels.

"Be easy on your mother. She wasn't meant to carry someone like you."

His sentence makes you think for a moment, before he pulls away and lets you leave.

Guilliman did technically join you; But it was only after you'd already fallen asleep. He stepped into the room and gently sat down onto the massive bed, still in his armor. He didn't want to wake you and simply watched, hand sitting close to your leg. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment and his lips parted as he took a few deep breaths, and then took one more look at you- both of you, before standing and leaving again.

#guilliman x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

[cicicolorao]

Fun mindless doodling :)))

#captain laserhawk #clhabdr #captain laserhawk rayman #captain lazerhawk bullfrog #clh bullfrog #clh rayman #clh ramon #combining hcs in my doodles #rayman maaaaybe being too attached to Bullfrog #calling him his best friend as soon as they reunite #and more broadly #rayman is both emotionally and physically homesick #not only does he miss his friends his mothers and ESPECIALLY globox #but being stuck in a city with no nature around made him weaker and more palid #im actually surprised more hybrids arent constantly sick from having little to no flora around them #how’s bullfrog doing now thst I think about it??? #bro probably feels DRY take him back to the swamp holy shit #everyone living in a city can’t be healthy

[happyk44]

Jason digging his teeth into Coral's skin, blood coating his tongue as he goes deeper and deeper. She sits and stares at him. The pain curls a frown across her lips but she says nothing about the way he pulls his teeth closer together, wanting to rip flesh off the bone, but holding back from Hazel's tense hand wrapped around the back of his neck, loose but tentative, a warning of I will scruff you, little pup.

He bites harder and harder. He seeks bone. Coral grumbles quietly under her breath. Her eyes stay lifeless. A limp dead fish atop grainy sands. He is the ever vigilant bird high above, grabbing the sun-rotted carcass in sharp talons before it gathers flies and maggots. Before it ruins what it beautiful and perfect.

Hazel's fingertips stroke gently across his skin. Hairs prickle across his neck. Blood swallows down his throat. Iron and salt sticks to his tongue.

You are not judge, jury, and executioner, Hazel said as she dragged him down from Coral's throat to her palid arm. From a foot away, she'd grabbed his jaw and clamped it shut before his teeth could wrap around plump artery there. Before he could kill, kill, kill, I have to kill her, she's going to break everything.

He knows he cannot be all three. He knows this even when stress digs into his spine to hold him rimrod straight. Even when his mind has been thundering for days, for weeks. When it keeps him from sleep and rest. When it pulses through his skin, and he remembers standing small and young, staring up at adults who knew best, as they pushed his purpose over and over again - child of Jupiter, you must be great, you must stand strong, the face of New Rome, a leader to the end, never fail your people, never fail us.

He knows it best when the subconscious becomes conscious and love means nothing as he carefully plots out how to force his friends into the line of righteousness, how to get rid of them if they fail to follow the letter and spirit of the law. He knows it best when he sees potential enemies in everyone, when trust drains away, when vindication bullies empathy, when he holds still for a moment instead of helping immediately.

When punishment becomes the only form of justice that makes sense.

I am a compassionate caring person, he thinks as he tilts his head and pushes his teeth into untouched flesh, never departing from the arm he's dug into. I understand the nuances in situations. I understand people have their own habits and I am okay with that. Fresh blood stains his teeth. The world is not black and white.

Coral shifts.

He glared at her. The world is not black and white, but she sits in its shadows without care or compassion. Like the ocean waves against rocky shores, she breaks things. Orderliness, social rules.

The rules written in large text for the park.

He is the wind, scattering seeds where they may grow away from harsh tides. He is humanity fixing the horrors of erosion. He is a dog protecting against a vile predator.

She tilts her head. "Are you done yet? It hurts. And I have to pee." She crinkles her trash in her free hand. "We can throw it away when we go to the bathroom."

No littering.

He growls through each word. No, no, he thinks. He can't let her go, can't let her correct her mistake. There must be no mistakes. Perfection each time. Especially when the rules are written so clear and obvious. When they've been taught since childhood.

He closes his eyes. I am a compassionate caring person, he reminds himself. Correction comes first. Discipline. Punishment. He exhales hotly. Then death.

He doesn't detach right away. Another set of minutes flitters by, narrowed in blood and spit and soft touches and a cool breeze. Then he lets go. Licks blood and pieces of skin off his teeth as he eases into Hazel's steady grip. She doesn't let go. Not yet.

Coral admires the massive bite on her forearm. Jagged from where he shifted. She hums and lets her arm fall lank to her side, rising up. Jason rises with her. Hazel's hand drops. Instead she loops her arm with Jason's.

As they head for the bathroom, Coral pauses at a trash can and drops the litter in. "I can't believe litter broke you," she says.

He scowls but the pensive and paranoid fears have fallen away. It was never this bad when he lived at Camp Jupiter - people followed the rules. Perhaps not perfectly or obediently, but swiftly they'd be disciplined and punished if insubordination was spotted. He wanted to be different. Explain the how's of being lawful and why's of its importance. Outside it, even just in New Rome, was harder to parse. People did as they pleased. Treated the rules and laws like guidelines, suggestions. Most people were good, but everyone experienced lawlessness at one point or another, and while Jason didn't believe in some rules, the mere existence of them sat in the back of his mind as he traveled from place to place. And the worse people were, the worse he got, and the more every law in effect became important - even if he didn't care about them.

Hazel's annoyed look when he stopped her from jaywalking early that day flickered through his mind. An empty road and still they walked another three blocks to the crosswalk, only to turn and continue on towards the park in the same direction they had come from.

Now, his mind slowly relaxing away from the bitterness he'd been boiling in, he doesn't care about jaywalking once more. He'll do it without stress. He'll dart between cars if he has to.

The clawing sensation of the world will end has faded. He fought the dismissal of the law and won. The world fully isn't upright, but it never was. Luckily for him, Hazel understands what it's like to feel like everything is off, sloped and sliding, when it's not. But for right now it's only slightly tilted. The normal amount of unsteadiness he's known since childhood.

"I don't litter," Coral adds, pulling her backpack open and fishing a small tied up plastic bag out. She dumps the contents - wrappers and plastic and an apple core wrapped in a napkin - then puts the bag back inside. "I like nature."

"I like nature too." Hazel leans into Jason's side. "Jason?"

"I am nature," he says. Hazel's face falls flat. "Nature nature and human nature."

With a roll of her eyes, Hazel steps aside. Her arm dislodges from Jason's, but her hand catches his in a loose hold. "You are not human nature. You're what human nature plans to be at three in the morning while rearranges its room but fails to follow through on almost immediately the next day."

He huffs, and hipchecks her gently on their way to the bathrooms. The door to the stalls is locked. Coral still pulls on the doorknob aggressively, shaking the very hinges.

He swats at her. "Stop that - I got it."

Kneeling at the door, he threads gentle touches of a breeze inside the lock, feeling the mechanisms inside. Coral takes a step and half away from him. Hazel hovers close, peering over her shoulder like she'll what's happening inside if she breathes down his neck.

"Breaking and entering is against the law," she teases.

"Shut up."

She snorts and leans across his back. It takes a moment then the lock clicks. Hazel slips back as he stands and tugs the door open.

"Sometimes there aren't bathrooms when I have to pee."

"Nice trick," Coral says. She points at large bush near edge of the concrete walls. "I was just gonna piss in that bush."

He doesn't get it. "Why would you do that?"

"There's a working bathroom right here!" he says, gesturing rapidly at the open doorway.

Coral stares blankly at him. "It was locked."

"I opened it!"

"It was locked though!"

He pulled at the edge of his shirt. "Then find a window! Or break the door! You don't urinate or defecate in a random public area when there is a working restroom nearby! It is unsanitary, and what if-"

"Oh my gods, Jason, no!" Hazel yells. She drags him back and down until their faces are parallel to each other. "She's not going to pee in the bush, you opened the door, it's fine." She snaps her free hand at Coral. "Coral! Bathroom, now!" She snaps her fingers just above Jason's face. "Jason! Calm down! This is not the time to start spiraling again, especially when I know you've gone to the bathroom outside."

"Those were-"

She pulls him further down. "No," she says, voice firm as stone. "Calm." Without looking away from Jason, she says, "And Coral, I said go to the bathroom."

Coral rolls back on her heels. Then shrugs. "Okay."

She disappears into the bathroom. Jason breathes slow and steady through his nose. Slowly Hazel releases him. She massages her temple with a quiet groan. "I am so tired."

"I might need to kill Coral again later," Jason says.

"Yeah, I figured that when you started yelling about bathrooms."

He takes a moment, then tries, "I mean, it is unsanitary and-"

"I need you to shut up so much right now."

Her arms drop to her sides. Jason teeters on the balls of his feet, then quietly rubs his cheek against her head. She snorts. Letting him continue to rub, rub, rub, she pats his chest softly.

"Good boy," she murmurs when he finally pulls away.

Coral appears again. She stands quietly close but not too close. Jason can't help himself before he barks out, "You washed your hands?"

A damp smack to his cheek is his answer. Hazel laughs, a quiet wheezy thing. Her fingers thread between his. She rests her head on his shoulders. "Alright, I'm hungry, and there has to be some place around here that's open." She reaches out and pokes Coral's bicep. "You're coming with us."

There's a slight shift in Coral's face. Just barely perceptible. "No."

Hazel rolls her eyes. "Did I sound like I was asking?" The silver bracelet on Coral's wrist yanks her closer to them. "Don't worry. You'll survive a little quiet human contact." She tilts her face to grin at Jason. "And Jason's technically part wolf so it's not even full human contact."

"Zombie," Jason huffs.

Coral's brow wrinkles. "No."

"I don't care," Hazel says, and she gives another yank of Coral's bracelet. "It's cousin time."

Coral stares at it like she's tempted to rip off. Then over at Hazel, brows furrowing further. There's a slight taste of salt in the air. Then it fizzles away. Taking short step to the side, Coral says nothing. She doesn't run, or fight. Simply smooths her hands down her thighs and gazes out to the grass and tree.

"Great." Hazel pushes the door shut. "Let's go find food."

The shadows warp and wiggle. Still at a small distance, Coral quietly takes Hazel's other hand. Her gaze holds on their interconnected fingers then drifts to Jason and Hazel's. Is she comparing them? Hazel's loose hold with her compared to the tighter grip between her and Jason?

Her eyes catch Jason's. He watches her as she watches him - chaos and order held in balance by the earth between them. Then, at the same time, their gazes separate as Hazel pulls them into the cool and dark.

#pjo fanfic #jason grace #hazel levesque #happy talks pjo #i actually have a different thing i was working on with this concept #idk when ill finish that one. its from Hazel's perspective #daughters of Neptune #my writing #my fanfic #wolf!jason #i dont really like the end of this one tbh but like. look. they're not all gonna be winners

[blorbologist]

Suffer this mercy, forever

T / Sunken Tomb AU of an AU / 2.5k words / Canon character death, Vampire Stuff ;3

The Sunken Tomb is not kind to undead. Less so to those who consort with such beings. Set in @officialtrashbin's incredible The Suffering of Night vamp!Percy AU.

Day 4 of @percahliaweek: Shoot / Reborn

--

Percy is - and Vax is in no way exaggerating - absolutely covered in blood.

To be a bit more fair to him, it’s not human blood. Palid ooze clinging like gauze, bits of fatty tissue hitting the ground with a wet slap as Percy swipes at his face with disdain. Oh - no, it’s not all human blood. His arm is mangled good, navy wool thick with red. On the next wipe Percy pauses to cough into his glove. He pauses, wincing, and the angle is just right for Vax to spy that his palm is smeared with blood.

(Not his blood, a voice that sounds like Syldor’s sneers. That’s Vex’s, on loan in his veins. And he wasted it. So much of his sister spilled on ancient stone because Percy can’t be careful.)

“Percival, darling?”

It’s like she read his mind. Vex is already looping over, skirting around the frogmen and beholder and gods know what else that chimes as bones. Percy tries to lean up and out of the way, mumbling something Vax can’t quite catch. 

Whatever it is, she grabs it - and his lapels - before he can escape, her eyes wide. “You’re not -? Oh, Percy. Come here.” 

She sits him down on the nearest sarcophagus, fussing so much Trinket lumbers over to nose at each in turn. Vex and Percy’s chatter is consumed by the dark, by the sighs of the rest of the party as they heal up. Vax recognizes the new-growth green of Cure Wounds, wrapping like young roots around Percy’s forearm - grasping at nothing and failing to catch.

“So you're watching them? Totally not creepy,” says Kashaw. He’s the last person Vax wants to talk to - so he doesn’t, and keeps keeping an eye on things. 

Vex’s brow is furrowed something deep, fingers curling back before she exchanges something short with Percival before starting to unlace her bracer, even as Percy gently shoves her hand away. 

This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. Vax can’t help but feel sick, so fucking sick, seeing Percy’s fangs glint in the limp light. Worse than the gore, and the bones, and the sickening pressure of a lake and death herself hanging over their heads.

Clearly Kash stuck around too, because he murmurs, more carefully, “I thought vampires healed on their own? Huh.”

So did I.

“Kima!” Grog bellows. “Okay down there?” And Vax takes that as his cue to slip away. 

[Keep reading on AO3!]

#the Raven Queen isn't fond of undead yknow ;3 #just saying ;3333 #critical role #campaign 1 #vox machina #tlovm #the legend of vox machina #perc'ahlia #percahlia #percahliaweek #vax'ildan #vex'ahlia #percy de rolo #my writing

[letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse]

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**Masterlist**

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Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: Izzy wouldn't peel oranges for, if he didn't-

A/N: I'm so, so, so sorry this took so long for me to write! I really struggled with writer's block on this chapter. Hopefully, the nexy chapter will be published a lot quicker!

Content Warning: mentions of death and self-loathing but othwrwise, I think that's it. Let me know if I missed anything!

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH, OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION. I DO NOT OWN OFMD OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

=============================

T-This was good, right? You sleeping...in his arms. Goodness knows you were completely exhausted after the doctor treated your arm. The rest would do you good. Plus, as much as it made Izzy's stomach knot with anxiety, he...he liked having you this close. No, not 'liked'. 'Liked' was too palid a term.

What was it you had said? When in the midst of begging Edward to bring him to your bedside? Right. You said you needed him like you needed oxygen. Izzy did not just like having you safely tucked against his chest, as you got some well-deserved rest. He had fantasised about this moment for, well, months. Perhaps even from the first day he had saved you.

Gods, just the mere memory of the state he had found you in that day, caused the First Mate to hold your slumbering form just that bit tighter. Back then, he had possessed no inkling of just how intrinsically important you were going to be to him, but now, you were his sun, moon, and stars. His feelings for you were as equally intense as yours were for him and should have been enough, right?

Wrong. Contentment was not yet quite on the cards for the silver-haired pirate. He would have to address some decades-old demons, before such peace was granted to him.

"Gods, you're such a creeper." the sudden intrusion of another's voice, that was not your own, startled the First Hand as his head whipped round in the direction of the newcomer.

"Spriggs." Izzy breathed a sigh of relief. Usually the sight of Lucius sent a spike of rage through his persons but for once, the silver-haired pirate was rather pleased it was a...hm, not quite a friend but at least it was not a foe.

The obvious sway in the Scribe's gait was very telling as he stepped into the room, leaving the door ajar in his wake. It did not take a genius to deduce that he had been drinking. Though, Izzy could not recall a time he had ever seen the young man quite so inebriated. The thought instantly put the First Mate on edge. Drunk people could be...erratic at the best of times, especially lightweights. The silver-haired pirate did not want any trouble, especially while you were in such a bulnerable state.

"Dizzy." Lucius greeted his superior, voice slightly louder than intended.

"Keep your voice down, they're sleeping."

"Yeah, I can see that."

Noticing the half-drunk bottle of- what even was that?- nondescript alcohol in Lucius's hand, Izzy nodded towards the beverage. "Drowning your sorrows or celebrating?"

"A bit of both." the smile that graced his lips, did not quite reach the man's eyes. The usual twinkle of mirth was replaced by an emotion more akin to pain. "The doc said Pete'll hopefully pull through. Just a matter of when now."

"That's good to know." Izzy nodded and genuinely- but more so, surprisingly- he was honest to goodness glad that the Lucius and Pete had both survived the storm. With you in his life, Izzy could now empathetically imagine the pain either men would have felt, had the other perished aboard The Revenge. Well, overboard in Pete's case.

"I've been told I have you to thank for that."

"Just doing my duty as First Mate." Izzy shrugged, as if he were in the casual habit of saving lives on a daily basis. "Don't make nothing into something." the reality of the matter was that, Izzy wanted to completely forget about the storm. Even now, the First Mate could still feel the ice cold grip of the unpleasant memories, pulling his attention away from the present and back to the sight of red...staining the storage floor.

"Yeah, well. Still. Thanks, I guess or whatever. Fuck, I don't know." he gave mirthless laugh, while running a weary hand over his face. What a twist of fate! The disagreeable Isreal Hands had been the one to save the love of his life. Calypso must have really had fun concocting that series of unfortunate events. If the entire situation had not been so dire, Lucius may have found the humour in the mind-boggling concept. Still, the Scribe was at least thankful that the First Mate had been competent enough a pirate to rescue Pete. It chilled him to the core to consider the alternative. Both men could have easily have lost their lives to the storm. Then both you and Lucius would have suffered with a broken heart.

The subsequent yawn from the young man, did not escape Izzy's hawk-like gaze. "You should get some sleep."

"Could say the same to you." Lucius grinned, dopily. Already thinking about taking residence beside Pete, in the narrow single bed, as he had done every single night, since the crew had deposited themselves in the inn.

"But you won't 'cause you're gonna do as you're fucking told, right?" once upon a time, those words would have been spat with such malice but now, after everything that had happened, Lucius dared to believe that the slight smirk that played upon Izzy's lips, was real and not something conjured up by his drunkenly hazy mind.

"Heh, I suppose I am." he chuckled, already moving to turn his back on the First Mate but before he could fully exit out of the room, he had paused in the doorway, with his had rested upon the chipped frame. "You know, you should actually tell them how you feel, instead of just staring. Just some food for thought." he added, before he disappeared out of sight and into the darkness of the hallway. "Night, Dizzy."

"Twat." the lone man grumbled, only for his gaze shift to you, when you slightly stirred in your sleep. Mumbling something that almost resembled his name.

====

The next day.

Skilled fingers took their sweet time in removing the fragrant rind, causing citrus perfume to fill the air and make your mouth water in anticipation. Separating a segment from the bunch, the silver-haired pirate pressed the delightfully sweet treat to your lips. "Open." he gently commanded, smiling to himself, as you complied without hesitation. The sigh of contentment from you prompted Izzy to fed you another slice, before he helped himself to some of the orange.

And so, the day slipped languidly from morning to late evening. The sun warming everything in it's sight, transforming the Republic of Pirates from sunflower yellow, to vivid gold. The ocean melted into the sky, solid cerulean blue, punctuated with lamb's wool clouds. Crickets chipped and pirates cussed, beckoning you to leave the confines of your room. There was a world beyond the inn, calling to be explored by your curious gaze but for now, you were happy to indulge in a well-needed rest.

The steady heartbeat of your beloved, thumped steadily, as you lay your head back down against his chest. The unusual coarse leather of his waistcoat forgotten, thrown precariously over a nearby chair, in favour of a linen shirt. A far better suited material for such humid climates.

Popping another orange segment into his mouth, Izzy chewed thoughtfully, the rare quiet allowing for time for much-needed contemplation. The conversion with Spriggs played over and over in his mind. Melding and blending with with your own revelations. He could seldom believe that you actually felt so deeply for him. Did you truly mean your words, when you said his presence made it easier for you to breathe? The fear-driven voice in his head, cautioned him to not mention anything but the curiousity was eating him alive. "So, I'm your Stede fucking Bonnet, aye?"

You visibly tensed in his hold and for a moment, he feared the worst but the dusting of blush that warmed your cheeks, suggested that perhaps, you were more embarrassed at being caught saying such cherished sentiments. "You heard me say that?" you giggled, the sound immediately put the First Mate at ease. His instincts had not failed him. Maybe now his inner monologue would be kinder to him? Unlikely. "I meant every word, you know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pauses once more, thinkjng over your admission. Though you had no reason to lie and nothing to gain from garnering the affections of the ship's First Mate, Izzy still could not quite wrap his head around the exact reason behind your attraction towards him. "Why?" he stated plainly, needing you to spell it out for him.

The one word caused you more heartache than he would ever know. "Oh, Iz..." you sighed, hating that he evwn had to question you.

He mistook the anguish in your gaze for pity. Something ugly reared it's head, twisting and snarling in the cavern of his chest. Of course, that's what this was, pity. The self-hatred whispered, finding glee within it's malicious words. No one could possibly ever love him. He was good enough for someone as kind as you, as pure..as..as... "I don't need your fucking pity, crewmate." he snapped back but there was no real bite to his bark.

"M'not pitying you, Iz. I'd never disrespect you like that." you did your best to reassure him, as you curled up closer in his now slack embrace. Arms loosely holding you, with no real intent in keeping you secure in his embrace. You missed the contentment and peace that had settled over you both, just mere moments ago. Despite his close proximity, Izzy may have well been miles away. You hated that you were losing him to his own damned mind. "But it's true. Existing is just easier when I'm around you. I can't really explain why. I just know what I feel. You make me happy. Really happy." you spoke with urgency, as you fwlt your bond slipping through your fingers. Hell, you were close to balling up his shirt in your fists and giving the man a good hardy shake. Or a bruising kiss- you were yet to make a final decision.

Your confession brought nothing more than an extended silence. This one far less comfortable to endure. "Look, ignore me. I'm...I'm not asking any sense and besides, you might not even think of me like that-"

You continued to ramble but Izzy was still mulling over your prior words. He made you happy. You had said, explictly and without being under duress. He made you...happy. What else had you said? Oh, right! Being around him made existing easier. Gods, he could not just sit there, looking dumbfounded, as you tried to backtrack on your confession. Say something, man! Say something! "I might not be all flowery with my words like Bonnet but that doesn't mean..." he murmured, cutting through your babbling and effectively silencing you, as you waited with bated breath for him to finish his train of thought. Watching you now, with your wide, hopeful eyes, Izzy hated to admit it but Lucius had been right. Even now, all he was doing was staring at you, instead of actually vocalising just how much he adored wvery fibre of your being. "Fucking Spriggs." he muttered, angry at himself...and maybe the scribe. Just a little bit.

"Spriggs?"

"Ignore that. Look, I wouldn't be sat here peeling fucking oranges for you, if-" but before he could utter a further sentiment, a playful rat-a-tat-tat sounded against the oak door. Disrupting the pirate's train of thought and instantly putting him in a foul mood. Gods, was there no such thing as privacy in this place? "Oh, for fucks sake. Come in!"

Speak of the evil one and he shall appear. No other than Stede Bonnet, popped his head around the door, wearing that usual dopey grin of his. "Hello! Just me." he cheerfully greeted you both, completely unaware of the emotionally charged moment he had just unintentionally poured a proverbial bucket of water over.

The First Mate's disdain for the Gentleman Pirate could not have been more palpable. If looks could kill, the blonde would have been dead a thousand times over. "What do you want, Bonnet?"

Somewhat sheepishly, Stede explained, "I thought you should know that Frenchie is finally awake. He should be well enough for visitors later on and-"

"That's great. Can you fuck off now please?" the grin that played upon Izzy's lips was merely a formality. There was nothing friendly about his tone, nothing that actually suggested that he was pleased to have received the update.

"Right, sorry!" the co-captain said with a laugh, finally recognising that he may, in fact, not be exactly welcome in the room. Of course, you were always- mostly- happy to chat with the man but since his arrival had cut short Izzy's confession, even your hospitable personality was wearing thin. "You two were probably in the middle of something. I'll pop by later."

"Oh, deep joy!"

"Izzy!" you chastised your beloved, horrified at just how rude he was being now. Watching the other man quickly make his exit, you did not hesitate to use the little energy you possessed to swat the silver-haired pirate on the arm. "You gotta start being nicer to him. Stede's a good Captain." the quirk of Izzy's eyebrow had you sighing, knowing full well that, you had told a bold faced lie. "Okay, he's a good guy but a shitty Captain."

Much to your annoyance, your admission earned you a smug look in return from the silver-haired pirate. "That's better." he muttered, settling himself back down against the pillows, dragging you down along with him, to once again, rest against his broad chest.

The previous calm fell over you both once more, as you felt yourself lulled into that welcome sense of security. Whilst in Izzy's hold, it felt like nothing insidious could ever befall you again. He truly was you guiding lighthouse in the storm of life. As the minutes slipped by, the window of opportuniry for the pirate to finish his previous sentence, grew shorter and shorter. Unable to take the silence anymore, you felt yourself moved to say something. "Moments kinda been ruined, huh?" you joked but there was funny in what you asked. Internally, you were screaming for an answer. What had the First Mate intended to say to you, before he was so rudely interrupted?

It was Izzy's turn to tense beneath you and blush tomato red, as he struggled to utter a single syllable. Gods, there was so much he wanted to say and yet, words escaped him. How did you and Stede fucking Bonnet express yourselves so freely? You may as well have spoken in sonnets, in comparison to his fumbling attempts to express just how dear you were to him. No, no! It was all too much, too overwhelming. He could not do it! Abort mission! Abort mission! "I think I just need some time to...to think things over." he eventually grumbled, as he watched your expression carefully, just waiting for the inevitable disappointment to mare you features.

He should have known better by now, not to expect such a negative reaction from you. Much to Izzy's surprise, you offered him a smile.

Hiding your heartbreak well. It would not be fair to him, you mused, to expect declarations of love, from a man of such few words. Live languages were funny like that. Each person had a different way of expressing their emotions. Perhaps yours was through praise, promises and sweet nothings but had your beloved said, not only a mere hour ago, that he would not peel you an orange, if he did not care? Maybe Izzy's love language was acts of service. Yes, yes, that was it! "That's okay, I understand." and you meant it, every word.

That was not enough for the silver-haired pirate, who still feared his inadequancies would be his ruination. "Hey," he caught your chin with his fingers, gently tilting your head to look back up at him. "That doesn't mean I don't fucking care about you, okay?" an intensity unlike anything you had ever witnessed before, burned in those captivating eyes of his. "Just...just be patient with me."

"Oh, Iz." you grinned at him further, with nothing but adoration twinkling like the brightest of stars in your eyes. "I'd wait until the end of time for you."

====

The following morning.

The knock on the door was indeed a surprise for the Captain, as he wiped his mouth free of crumbs. Whilst interruptions at breakfast were common on the ship, at the inn, there had been a lack of daily visitors to their quarters. Stede could not imagine who would be wanting his attention so early in the morning.

His own amour was not one to wait outside the door of their shared accommodation. Usually, Ed just left and returned as he pleased. That particular daybreak being a prime example of such behaviour. Stede had awoken to find his boyfriend's slumbering form, absent from their bed. All that had been left in his wake, was a sweet note, reading, 'Gone fishing. Be back later. I love you. Ed x'

So, with the other pirate most likely being confined to a small row boat for the better part of the day, there was no telling who stood beyond the closed door. Stede's initial consideration was that, it was the doctor, coming by to deliver an update on the patients (or asking for more money). However, as the Captain recalled but a moment later, the physician was not due to check in on his patients until at least noon. So, that ruled him out as a potential caller.

The next round of persistent thuddings knocks, had a now aggrieved Gentleman Pirate up on his feet and casting his napkin aside. "Alright! Alright! No need fo break the door down, I'm coming!" well, really! Could a man not enjoy his jam and toast in peace? He thought in a huff, knowing that nothing good could possibly await him at such a time of day.

Swinging the door open, perhaps a tad more aggressively than he had intended too, the blonde came face to face with that oh-so-familiar scowl, he had come to absolutely loathe. Especially when it was directed solely at him. Despite his grievances, Izzy presence darkening the door was indeed a cause for concern.

The First Mate was now so intrinsically associated with you and your wellbeing, that Stede felt a sudden rush of panic, at the assumption that further ill-fate had befallen you. Sensing the other man's worry, Izzy suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. As if he would rely on Stede fucking Bonnet an actual crisis! "I'm not here about (Y/N)'s health."

Although, credit given where credit was due, he had been...pretty helpful during the storm and Izzy supposed that, Stede had played a vital role in keeping you in a stable condition, until they had arrived in the Republic of Pirates. Plus, he was the only one the silver-haired pirate could talk to about such a personal and pressing matter. "I need your help but if you breathe a word of this to anyone, especially Edward, I will cut your tongue out." Izzy threatened, his patience already wearing thin. Fuck, life really had been turned up on it's head since the storm. First the conversation with Spriggs, now Bonnet? Calypso really was having her fun toying with their lives, huh? She was certainly enjoying making Izzy's just that bit more unpleasant.

Though Stede liked to think the other pirate to be more bark than bite, he was not going to take his chances, only to find himself inpaled in the gut. Again. Taking the threat to heart, the Captain duly nodded, before stepping to one side, leaving enough room for Izzy to pass by him. "In that case, you had better take a seat. I'll pour us some tea."

#avengeofmd #avenge ofmd #letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse #letsdeerintheheadlights #ofmd #stede bonnet #blackbeard #ofmd izzy #save ofmd #ed teach #izzy hands #izzy hands x reader #x trans reader #x gender neutral reader #x female reader #x male reader #our flag means death #adopt our crew #save our flag means death #ofmd stede #edward teach #my writing #snow at the beach #taylor swift

[nine-blessed-hero]

Greetings After a Long Departure

Universe: TESIV: Oblivion Warnings: None Words: 1014 Context: A gameplay event I remembered, and wanted to write out - see below fic for details Taglist (ask +/-): @writeblrsupport @jacquesfindswritingandadvice

It's been a few years since… Everything. Maybe many. Time has passed and Rowan has stopped counting.

Time enough that when xe teaches the rookies how to shoot, xir shoulder and elbow joints pop. Time enough that xe has become a Master of Alchemy; that xe is expanding xir repertoire and learning how to move in heavy armour.

There is always more to learn, xe tells the apprentice Mages. You never stop honing your skills, xe tells the Fighters Guild hot-shots. There's always someone who can teach you fresh ideas, recent papers to study, some new knack to discover.

Rowan – leading by example – is in the Imperial City proper for the first time in… oh, probably a year? Time enough to notice that the fresh white stone of the Market District, replaced after Everything, is now dull and grey; that the joyful colours splashed around the Arena in his honour are faded and chipped; that the Arboretum is not as deftly pruned as it once was. But xe is not here to critique the architecture. Xe has heard word and whisper of someone even better at the art of stealth than xe and is hoping they are willing to teach xir.

It is to xir horror then, that Armand tells xir xe is looking for the Imperial Spymaster, Marana Rian, found in the Temple District. Rowan who takes the most circuitous route to the Waterfront; Rowan who has not set foot in the Temple District since Everything was over; Rowan who makes airs of not recalling what happened That Night when asked, but will not deign to look in that direction should xe catch sight of a marble toothed maw over the walls.

But perhaps it has been time enough. Time enough for a heart to heal. Time enough xe can think about That Night without frailty overtaking xir limbs. Time enough that xe went back to see him.

Xir foot rings off the cobbles of the Temple District. It's impossible not to see him, life-like twisted marble. Xir heart lurches. A guard looks curiously at xir, as a palid hand gropes for the wall. Xe flashes a sickly smile. Xe almost turns, running back to the safety of hearth and home. But no – it has been time enough. Xe straightens xir tunic and goes forth.

Xe's greeted, as xe enters the Temple, by a fresh-faced novice. No lines of care on their scaled face, only nubs of burgeoning horns ridging their brow. When the novice asks xir business, xe gestures to the statue, feet tucked in with garlands and offerings. The novice clearly doesn't recognise xir, taking xir to be some distant pilgrim, as they jabber about That Night while leading xir towards the statue.

He is bigger than xe remembers. With his wings held aloft and head thrown back, he takes up most of the space in the not-small temple. So tall, once they stop at the edge of the field of offerings, xe barely comes up to his knee. Rowan feels lost, for a moment, craning xir head back as if it were possible, this close, to see all of him; and wonders how xe forgot he was the size of a building.

Xe can touch it if xe wants, the novice says. It's just a statue. Tests were done; it's perfectly safe. From here they can see the shimmer on one claw, worn smooth and shiny by many hands and many prayers. He isn't there. That's what they'd told xir after the tests were concluded. Still – the need to give some recognition to the man transformed gnaws in xir breast.

The novice natters on as Rowan picks a way through the flowers and offerings, but xe doesn't hear, recalling only that last conversation; the way he made it sound as if he were taking a trip – not too far, not too long. Finds xe knows just what to do.

Rowan takes a breath. Smiles. "Hello, you." Reaches out as if to cup his cheek. "Read any good books lately?" Xir fingers skim the statue. A soft and golden sunlight finds xir. Xe feels warm and full; content as if after a hearty meal in the company of loved ones. In xir mind, a noise like the bones of the world sliding past each other; words, perhaps, but they're so slow and bass xe doesn't understand – can only let them resonate through xir being.

Slowly the incandescence fades; the sense of a lingering hug, reluctantly parted from. Xe's left feeling comforted; the grind of everyday lifted and lightened. As if things will start going better for xir, and everyone is a potential new friend.

When Rowan turns, xe finds a small crowd gathered behind xir. The novice is gaping. Several people are in prayerful stances. Xe can hear the word 'miracle' being uttered. "What-? But the- It's never-," the novice stutters, their eyes flaring wide. "Who are you?" Before Rowan can speak, the crowd speaks for xir, calling out xir titles: Fighters Guildmaster, Archmage, Champion– "The Hero of Kvatch!"

Well, shit.

Rowan smiles, picks xir way back through the collection of offerings. "I apologise for having interrupted your afternoon," xe says. "But… the Statue-" Rowan raises xir voice, knowing that the crowd will just make up some half-truth otherwise. "They told me, 'he's gone'. They told me it was just a statue, and the man I watched transform into our saviour was no longer on Mundus. I guess they weren't quite correct." Xe swallows to stop xir voice from cracking and glances back at the statue. "He's still here, in his own way. He's always been here, patient as ever, awaiting my return." Xe turns fully now, damp eyes cast aloft. "I'm sorry, Martin. Time and again, you've waited for me; it's been time enough. I promise I won't be so long again."

Warmth stirs again, a lingering caress, drawing a sweet smile from xir. Rowan presses a small bag of coins into the novice's hand – "To keep up the Temple's good works." – and leaves the congregation to its awed colloquy.

–––

So: I'd somehow missed all the spoilers about the Blessings of Akatosh from the Avatar statue, and when I went to find Marana Rian, many gameplay hours after completing the MQ, I got a sudden rush of nostalgia and went to look at the statue (I, like Rowan, maaay have been avoiding the area a bit. Y'know - MQ was ended, I had no real reason to go back there). Noticing the 'activate' fist, I did so and was pleasantly surprised by the Blessings. I later read a headcanon that this is a gift from Martin, an apology/ "love letter", only given to the Hero and unavailable to anyone else in Cyrodiil, which I really liked the sound of - hence why I've made it clear that to everyone else, it is just a statue; it's not until Rowan returns, that xe learns the truth.

#writing #hero of kvatch #oc rowan #martin septim #TESFic #oblivion fanfiction #oblivion fanfic #tes oblivion #The Elder Scrolls #wandering words

[ofmoonlily]

//eeeee rebirth is giving me good ideas for what I can make Yunie into. Nothing is changing. My initial idea was to put her duty from X into VII (which I usually do in all of my verses to keep her relevant to where she came from from in ffx) in order to help the planet via sacrificial lamb style. But idk if anyone would be interested in that.

She will very much be “half ancient” on her father’s side. He was the second to last person to know all the stories and secrets about his people which he hammered into Yuna before he was killed trying to save her. (Hojo looking for specimens to experiment on; the whole spiel.)

Hojo declared Yuna worthless to his subjections because her planet spirit guardian, Kimahri, kept interfering with his work when she was young. And since he obtained a “better” specimen, Aerith and Ifalna, he “let them go”, which was a ploy to subject them to one last experiment: a mutated SOLDIER and infantrymen to chase them down and kill them. Yknow for funsies.

Yuna and Braska were useless to him now, so why did it matter if they lived or died?

Sooo filler filler, Braska is killed keeping Yuna alive, smearing her pink palid cheeks in his blood to fake her death before he eventually returns to the planet.

Weeks go by. An older retired SOLDIER named Jecht stumbles upon a malnourished young girl clinging to a decomposing body for warmth. He takes her in, clothes and feeds her. She grows into a fine young woman, but her duty is calling to her… the planet is calling for her…

(She is more in-tune with her abilities, so she can still converse with, well, dead people, and the planet itself by simple concentration.)

One day Yuna leaves home leaving a note and implores Sir Jecht not to look for her. Unbeknownst to him, she is on a mission to protect the planet by way of giving up her physical form to unleash a hellish fury upon ShinRa’s mako syphoning reactors. It’s the only way she thinks she can save what was left of humanity.

So. She travels around as disguised as a healer and fiend exterminator (mixed with an unusual ability to conjure powerful aeons without the use of summoning materia.)

Hojo catches wind of this, and comes to the conclusion little Yuna didnt die that fateful day. Instead, he watches her. Oh how she has grown! And awakened a new ability, it seemed! Perhaps one bestowed to her by the planet itself? Ah! she is not so worthless afterall!

For now. He sends “eyes” to monitor her movements while running some “tests” in the background.

#ooc #//meta af but still kicking around the idea bc its too similar to aerith

[girasoliitos]

conqueror of what????

[ID: a drawing of edward and alphonse elric from fullmetal alchemist in their conqueror of shamballa designs. they're looking at each other and standing next to the another. edward got his arms on his back and has got a subtle smile, he's looking at alphonse with relieved and content eyes. alphonse's got one of his hands in one of his coat’s pocket. he's looking back at edward with rather happy eyes. the background’s a palid orange with a orange square in the middle of it. End ID.]

((don’t tag as ship | hei/ed shippers dni))

#fullmetal alchemist #fma #conqueror of shamballa #edward elric #alphonse elric #my art #//lost heaven is a banger i miss fma so bad.......