#Jagged Jottings

[jaggedjot]

The proud confidence Louis has when telling Armand about his decision to feed on animals, to preserve life and his own humanity through supplementing his diet with a less personally fulfilling but more ethical alternative. And all the while being completely unmoved by the massacre taking place right behind them.

#I am in his walls I am crawling along the ceiling I am studying him under a microscope: your brain Louis #Louis de Pointe du Lac #Armand #Interview with the Vampire #Jagged Jottings

[perlelune]

NDA | Coriolanus Snow

When you get hired as a nanny for President Snow and his wife's firstborn, you’re beyond thrilled and grateful. But quickly, the perfect facade melts, revealing the ugly truth of what actually goes on in the Snows' house.

Warnings: NON-CON, Capitol! Reader, Innocent Reader, Cheating, Coercion, Blackmail, Power Imbalance

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Your worried eyes track the frenzied glide of the woman’s quill over the notepad. You squint, hoping to discern some of the words she’s scrawling that way, but they are indiscernible…just like the stone-cold expression of the bespectacled woman on the other side of the desk.

She catches you trying to peek. Your heart jumps.

As her sharp green gaze zeroes in on you, you clear your throat and shift in your seat.

She puts her quill down and twines her fingers.

“So what do you think sets you apart  from the other applicants?”

You chew on your lip. When you arrived to offer your candidature this morning, you naively believed you’d be early. Instead, you were forced to join the tail end of the massive waiting line stretching far outside the Snows’ estate. It didn’t hit you before that moment, how prized the position is. Each of the women and girls you saw radiated excellent breeding and impeccable manners. Many probably attended the University and could double as a tutor if the need presents itself.

This isn’t your case. Your parents left you and your brother Laertes with nothing when they suddenly passed away in a rebel bombing. You couldn’t blame them. This wasn't the plan. Who plans on dying and leaving their two children to fend for themselves?

Still, you now have a list of bills the length of your arm coupled with a massive mortgage to pay every month. And as Laertes’ sole caretaker, you must ensure you can afford to send him to University once he completes his education in the Academy.

Circumstances denied you that chance. Despite being of university’s age, you couldn’t afford the cost of tuition and had to drop out as soon as you got accepted. You want better for your little brother.

So as soon as you heard the news that President Snow and First Lady Livia Cardew were in search of a nanny for their son Martius, you jumped on the opportunity to apply. You rose before the sun, rummaged through your mother’s closet to find her best dress, and hailed a car to come here.

It’s a long shot, of course. You’re not as polished and impressive as some of the other women. You’re also noticeably younger. But the wages promised alone compelled you to take a chance despite the odds being unfavorable.

Fiddling with your hands, you meet the woman’s impassive stare head-on.

“What sets me apart?” You mull over your answer. You could paint a false, august portrait of yourself, your skills and your accomplishments. Or try to at least.

But what would be the point of pretending to be someone you’re not only to be found out later on? So you elect to tread the path of honesty.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I’m a hard worker. A very hard worker. In fact, I already have three jobs, one at a bakery, another as a clerk in an antique shop and I assist Fabricia Whatnot at her boutique sometimes.” Panic quivers inside you as the woman quickly jots something down on her notepad. You swiftly specify, “...But I’ll quit all of them if I get the position, of course.” You lick your lips as knots tie your stomach. “I can learn everything there is to learn on the spot. I love children, and…” You trail off, gaze traveling to your lap as you muse if you should reveal more. Your fists clench as you add, “I have a little brother who’s a few years older than Martius, and I’m really hoping I get this opportunity so I can give him the life he deserves.”

An unnerving quiet occupies the air. The wait is agony, your nails digging painfully into your palms. The jagged drumming of your heart bleeds inside your ears as she studies you.

Eventually, she leans back in the velvet chair, her face betraying no thought or emotion.

“You’re dismissed,” she says.

Your heart plummets to your feet. You shakily rise, dispirited as you drag your heels towards the door. You steal a glance above your shoulder. The woman’s attention has already drifted away from you as she shouts for the next applicant.

You sourly exit the office. You try to swallow your dejection as you note how many women are still waiting in line, each of them likely more qualified and experienced. It’s obvious you tanked the interview. Shoulders slumping, you take resigned steps through the elegant, palatial hallways of the Snow’s mansion. You get lost in admiring the crystal and gold chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. There isn’t an inch of the house that doesn’t scream excessive, unattainable wealth.

You take your time soaking it in. Chances are you’ll never step foot in such a place in your lifetime ever again.

Distracted, you don’t notice the person in front of you before it’s too late. You bump straight into a hard, inflexible body. 

The sudden collision threatens your balance.

Fingers coil around your wrists as you stagger back, preventing your impending collapse onto the marbled floor.

As your attention drifts skywards, your jaw drops at who fills your vision.

“P-President Snow, my deepest apologies, s-sir,” you stammer, flames licking your cheeks.

As if you didn’t make yourself look dimwitted enough before, you now carelessly crashed into the leader of all of Panem. Just when you thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

You take him in. It truly is him. Shock fills you. 

 Tall and dazzling in a crisp white shirt and crimson vest that hints at his lean physique beneath the clothes, his signature blond waves slicked away from his face, he looks every bit the important figure that he is.

The flickering TV screen you own at home doesn’t do him justice.

A gentle smirk unfurls on his lips.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not made of sugar,” he jests.

“No…you’re not, your highness…majesty...I mean sir.”

Your blunder expands his smile. His cerulean gaze drags over your frame.

“Are you here for the nursemaid position?”

“I am, sir.” You unleash a deep exhale, his inquiry tossing salt on the fresh wound. The interviewer clearly wasn’t impressed by your less than stellar performance. Maybe you should have tried to mimic the way the girls with whom you attended the Academy behave more. They carry themselves with such confidence, wading through the world with the certainty of their destinies being secure, bereft of hardships unlike district dwellers.

You envy how carefree they get to be. Everyday you wake up worried you’ll come up short on a bill and you and Laertes will be forced to leave your family home. No matter how diligent you are at work, there never seems to be enough money to sustain the two of you. Even with three jobs, you’re barely eking out a decent living for you and your little brother. Many times, you’ve gone to bed hungry just so Laertes would not.

You don’t even realize tears have filled your eyes to the brim until a handkerchief is daintily pressed into your cheeks.

Flabbergasted, you blink up at President Snow. 

“Thank you,” you exhale, stunned by his kind gesture.

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

You search his eyes. Genuine interest lights up his pellucid blue orbs.

Without much thought, you confess, “I just don’t think I did very well with my interview.”

As he scrutinizes you in silence, cocking his head sideways, embarrassment rushes through you.

Words anxiously leave your lips in a tremulous string.

“God, I’m so sorry, spilling my problems to you as if you’re not an extremely busy man, sir.”

He shakes his head. “It’s quite alright. And do not count yourself defeated, sweetheart.” Your pulse stutters when he bends over you to whisper, “You may have left a stronger impression than you think.”

He nudges the pocket square between your hands. It’s still damp with your tears. You gape at it in awe. President Snow’s initials are elegantly etched in the left corner of the fabric.

“Here. Keep it. Though I’d much prefer it if you didn’t cry.” He pauses, studying you. “Girls as lovely as you never should.”

His words send your heart into a frenzy. For a while, you’re too stunned to move. You then shake yourself back to reality, noticing you’re now staring at the empty space where he used to stand. He’s gone. You look ahead. He’s already miles away from you, wrapped in conversation with who seems to be an assistant of his. 

Your thumbs press against the soft fabric of the pocket square. Cheeks ablaze, you hold it to your nose. It smells like roses, the same delicate scent that wafted from him a few minutes ago. Your back prickles. You pivot and are astonished to find the envious glares of some of the applicants still waiting in line zeroed in on you. Self-conscious, you rush to continue your exit, fleeing away from the hateful stares. 

As the outside gates come into sight, you can’t suppress an elated smile. It’s not everyday someone meets President Snow and receives such a gift from him. Shoving the handkerchief in your pocket, you vow to place it somewhere safe and always cherish it. 

When you return home, your brother’s already sitting in the living room, his tiny brows scrunched in concentration and his nose buried in his books. Your stomach sinks. Everything you did today was for him. You can’t help but feel you missed out on a huge opportunity, one that’d have changed the course of his life forever. You glance around at the apartment. The walls are crumbling. The wooden floors are creaking. The pipes in the kitchen have been leaking for weeks, a measly bucket you must empty every morning the only thing preventing a flood. And at night, the pitter-patter of rodents’ paws resonates from the ceiling.

Every inch of your family home is in dire need of repairs.

Unfortunately, every penny you earn goes into rent and food, meaning the house falls apart a bit more everyday. Perhaps one day, you and Laertes will awake beneath the rubble of what’s left of your childhood home. Nightmares of that sometimes keep you up at night.

“How was the Academy today?” you chime, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. Worry twists your chest. There isn’t much left. You’ll need to make do with cabbage and whatever other veggies are left. Perhaps you could toss in some leftover dried meat and make a stew.

“My teacher signed me up for advanced trigonometry,” your brother announces.

You close the cabinet and beam at him.

“Oh, that sounds hard. I’m proud of you.” It doesn’t exactly surprise you. Laertes’ always been exceptionally smart. Even his teachers noticed how gifted he is from an early age. Unlike you, he breezed through middle school and now the Academy.

It’s why it’s crucial you make sure he can go to the University. A mind like his shouldn’t be wasted.

You brother shrugs, exuding nonchalance.

“It’s fine.”

You rush to him. You wrap your arm around him playfully and hug him in his chair, pulling his cheek like when he was little. You know he hates when you do that but you can’t help teasing him a bit. It’s your duty as a big sister after all.

“Don’t downplay it. My little brother’s a genius.”

He wriggles his way out of the hug, rolling his eyes. 

“Stop it.”

You head back to the kitchen and fire the stove.

“I’ll make you something,” you say, smiling at your brother.

His brows knit. “Make something for yourself first.”

You nibble your bottom lip. You truly hoped he wouldn’t notice, how much smaller than his your portions are. But he’s growing; he needs it. Much more than you. Besides, how can he focus at the Academy and be the brilliant boy he is supposed to be with a growling stomach? You won’t allow it.

“Laertes…”

He shakes his head, his expression firm.

“No. You always do this. This time, we split whatever is left.”

Heaving out a resigned exhale, you nod. You whirl to resume preparing dinner.

You gather a boiling pot from the overhead cabinet and place it on the stove. With the ease of practice, you begin chopping vegetables and tossing them into the pot. You add spices and water. The mouthwatering aroma quickly fills the kitchen. Pride swells in your chest. Your cooking skills have improved so much in the last year since your parents passed. You now manage to bring flavor to the blandest of meals. 

Once the stew’s ready, you pour a portion in each bowl, putting just a little more in your brother’s and praying he will not notice.

You place the steaming bowls on the table and take a seat opposite him.

“No books at the dining table,” you admonish, mimicking the exact tone your mother used with your brother. Admitting defeat, Laertes sighs and sets his homework aside. The tiny victory tugs your lips skyward.

He tells you about his day at the Academy while the two of you eat. You’re delighted to hear he’s making a lot of friends and he’s at the top of his class for most science subjects. He’s struggling a bit more with his poetry and ethics classes, but you encourage him by reminding him he can just ask the teacher for extra assignments to keep his grade up.

“I interviewed for a new job today,” you reveal, stirring the spoon in your bowl while waiting for your brother to eat more of his food.

“How did it go?”

“Well, it pays really well so I’m hopeful.”

The hope dancing in his eyes makes your chest ache. You don’t have the heart to tell him you made a fool of yourself today. You may not be gifted like your brother, but you want him to know he can rely on you at least.

Pursing his mouth, he looks down at his stew.

“That’s great. It’d be good if you didn’t have to work as much.”

Your smile falters. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

“Okay.”

His dour tone stirs your concern. You wish you were better at hiding things from him, making his childhood as normal as possible. But your brother’s twelve now, and that’s old enough to sense when things are wrong.

He rises from his seat. You frown as you note there’s still food left in his bowl.

“Finish your plate before going to your room.”

Annoyance pinches his features but he still picks up his bowl and hastily guzzles down the remainder of his stew.

“Happy now?” he says, wiping his mouth.

“Yes. Very,” you cheerfully respond.

He gathers his books and strides towards his room. 

Your voice rises.

“Don’t stay up too late to study, okay? I love you.”

“I…love you too,” he mumbles.

You bask in the moment as you clean the table. Thankfully Laertes is still at an age where he says it back. One day he might not. So you must cherish every instant. Every conversation, every hug, every ‘I love you’. Because it could all vanish in a second. You learned that the hard way a year ago.

The day of the interview recedes to the back of your mind as you keep living your life. Work is harrowing, as usual, but you tend to your tasks as best as you can. Your arms ache as you knead the dough in the back of the bakery. You give yourself a second to wipe the sweat off your forehead. It’s been a hectic afternoon. There’s a massive pastry order for some Capitol heiress’ birthday due tomorrow. So you’ve been racing between the front desk and the kitchen in the back. A baker called in sick today, leaving you with twice the workload.

You know it won’t take much to crash into your bed and fall asleep tonight.

To make matters worse, the day hits its nadir when you get your pay that day. You peer inside the envelope for the umpteenth time. An anxious chuckle peals out of your lips. 

“I’m sorry I don’t want to complain, but…this doesn’t match the hours I put in.”

The owner scratches the back of his neck, a contrite expression etched on his face.

“I’m sorry too. With the new taxes imposed by the Capitol, I had to cut your salary.”

Slack-jawed by the news, no word leaves your mouth as you stare at him. He sighs.

“If it’s a problem, we can find someone else-”

“No, no,” you interrupt, blinking in panic. “Please, I need this job.”

He acquiesces and you’re forced to thank him despite feeling cheated. You actually scaled back your hours for your other part-times since this one paid more. What a waste. 

Dispirited, you return home. As you give the driver a bill for the fare, your insides wrench. Every bill counts. Perhaps you’ll need to walk back home from now on. The streets of the Capitol are notoriously dangerous but you can’t see any other way to save your dwindling wages. You already know you’ll need to request an extension for rent this month. How will you pay it, however?

You suppose you’ll have to figure it out. You always figure it out.

These are the somber thoughts swaying in your mind as you check the mailbox. 

Bills. Bills. And more bills. Your already sour mood plummets even more. But a slim, silver envelope sticking out from the pile corrals your focus. Curiosity surges inside you. It looks fancy and there’s a wax seal with the Capitol’s symbol keeping it shut. You rush to open it, heart fluttering in strange anticipation.

You unfold the neatly folded letter inside. As you read the words, you gasp, dropping the letter. Still trembling from shock and excitement, you bend to pick it up. 

You take a deep slow breath before reading it again. 

This time, a squeal escapes from your lips. 

You read it many more times to make sure your eyes aren’t just conjuring wild fantasies. 

After a while, you realize they aren’t. It’s true. 

Holding the letter to your chest, you toss yourself on your bed and kick your feet excitedly. 

You then place your palm on your forehead. In disbelief, you beam at the ceiling. 

Somehow…you’ve been hired to work for the Snows. You actually got the job. 

Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.

You fidget before the iron gates, smoothing absent wrinkles on your skirt. It’s one of the best outfits you could find on short notice that wasn’t moth-eaten or visibly overworn. You pray it’s enough. You let your gaze wander. The Snows’ estate truly is majestic. The lush gardens. The beautiful architecture. You feel a little small as you admire the mansion.

Remembering yourself, you pivot to the man who drove you there. You fish inside your pocket for a bill and hand it to him. He stares at you blankly from the driver’s seat.

A weary sigh ripples behind you.

You turn, your eyes widening. It’s the woman who interviewed you that day. She wears the same stern expression.

“You don’t need to pay him,” she explains, dismissing the man with her hand. He nods and drives away. “He’s your assigned driver. He’ll pick you up each day and take you back home.”

“Oh.” You offer your hand. “Nice to meet you…again.”

She gives you a lengthy onceover, completely ignoring your gesture. Then she motions at you to follow her. You let your hand fall to your side. Heat blooms in your cheeks. Perhaps, you were too enthusiastic just then. Straightening your spine, you try your best to keep pace with her quick strides.

“I’m Pandora. I supervise most housekeeping duties for the president. I’ll show you around the estate. Then you’ll meet the young Master.”

She gives you a tour of the mansion. You’re even more amazed than last time though you try to suppress your awe and not stare excessively. She shows you the garden as well. The sea of snow-white roses makes your head spin. She specifies that the only part of the house that is off-limits is the west wing of the mansion, as these are the First Lady’s apartments and she must have rest and quiet.

She ends the visit by taking you to the nursery. A smile spontaneously finds its way onto your lips. A toddler plays with his toy train on the floor. With his blonde curls and bright blue eyes, he bears a striking resemblance to his father.

“That’s him? He’s so cute,” you whisper. Even the stern woman’s expression thaws a little as she looks at the child, softening ever-so-slightly. You send her a questioning glance. She gives you a nod of approval. 

You approach the boy and crouch in front of him.

“Hi. You’re Martius, right?”

He lifts his head and beams at you. You’re immediately endeared. Again, his smile reminds you of President Snow. You suppose one could probably take over the world with a smile like that. 

You turn to Pandora.

“Is his mother around? I should probably introduce myself.”

Her face pinches. “Mistress Livia has been unwell as of late. She is not to be disturbed today as she is quite tired.”

“Of course.” Your lips squeeze shut for a few seconds but curiosity gets the better of you. A question burns on your lips, one that nagged you ever since you got the job. It slips out before you can think it through. “Is this…Is this why the president and his wife require a nanny? The First Lady is sick?”

Pandora glowers at you. You flinch as she steps further inside the room, her searing tone like a whip.

“You are here to do your job, and nothing else. Mistress Livia’s health is no concern of yours. Do you hear me?”

You rise on shaky feet. You forgot yourself.

“I-I understand. I’m sorry I asked.”

“This reminds me. You have to sign this,” she says, handing you a pen and clipboard. A thin stack of papers are attached to the clipboard. The front page spells ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ in bold letters at the very top. You scowl as you flip through the pages.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a contract, one signed by every one of the President’s employees.”

“I don’t understand most of what’s written here…”

A frustrated exhale peals from her lips.

“I’ll make it simple for you then. For the duration of your employment here, nothing you see or hear must ever leave this house. You are here to care for the young master, that is all. Nothing else should concern you. Is that clear enough?”

You swallow thickly. It doesn’t sound hard at all. Discretion is essential in every job, isn’t it? But the way Pandora makes it sound, you’d assume there are bodies buried beneath the Snows’ estate. You’d laugh if her death stare weren’t so disquieting.

You peruse the contract, perplexed by most of the legal mumbo jumbo filling the pages. None of it rings any bell. You understand the gist of it however. You must preserve the president and his wife’s privacy. While you don’t know the specifics of the first lady’s condition, her public appearances have been few and far between in the last few years.

She used to be the envy of every woman in the Capitol. Beautiful, young and married to the dashing President Snow.

She was a fairytale princess come to life.

Then their son Martius was born. And when they held him up from the balcony of their mansion for all of Panem to gaze upon, they truly seemed like the perfect family.

Until one day, Livia Cardew simply…vanished.

She was noticeably absent from all the events of the season, some she even hosted herself. Tongues wagged of course, rumors and wild theories spreading like wildfire. 

But no one knew the truth of what had happened to her.

The matter seems delicate. You promise yourself not to bring it up again.

You click the pen and scribble your name at the bottom of the very last page.

“I’ve…never signed a contract like that before starting a job.”

Pandora lets out a wry chuckle.

“Well, you’ve never worked for President Snow.”

As promised, you quit your two other jobs to focus solely on Martius. You’re hesitant at first. Your departed parents taught you never to put all your eggs in one basket. And it’s exactly what you’d be doing by trusting the Snows. But when you receive your first paycheck, long before the end of the week, every qualm you had fades. It’s more money than you’ve ever had, more money than you expected. Rent isn’t an issue anymore. Neither is food.

Besides, gifts keep coming from the estate. Clothes mostly, for both you and Laertes, but also jewelry, perfume and other fancy things you don’t need. Overwhelmed by President Snow’s generosity, you try to send some of it back, but you don’t have the heart to return everything when you see your brother’s happy face when he opens his wardrobe one day.

You’ve caught the self-conscious glimpses he casts at his classmates sometimes, when not wearing the Academy uniform. Their clothes are always brand new and custom, perfectly tailored while his are stitched back together by your clumsy hands whenever they fray at the seams. You’re not a seamstress but you’ve always done your best. But you know your best doesn’t compare to the access and privilege those kids have.

Other than those blessings, your time with Martius has been a breeze. Only hazy memories of your brother as a toddler linger in your mind, but you don’t recall him ever being as sweet and calm as the little boy is.

It hardly feels like work, caring for the small child. You spend the day playing along with his games, reading stories to him and, as the day nears its end, the two of you feed the ducks in the massive pond behind the mansion. He even gives them names and gets upset when they fight with each other. 

“Lily doesn’t like James anymore,” he whispers to you one day, a sullen pout scrunching his tiny features. 

“And why is that?”

“I think she’s angry that he steals her food.”

You chuckle and ruffle his golden locks. The little boy always has a story for everything he sees. At all times, his world must make sense. So if he cannot find a reason to explain what fills his gaze, he’ll weave a tale that matches it. His stories are each more wild than the other and he sometimes utters words you’ve never heard a four year old use.

But you surmise it is expected from the son of the president. When he isn’t with you, the little boy is often with his private tutor. Even at his tender age, the importance of manners and eloquence is impressed upon him.

Martius tugs at your skirt when you make your way to the door. You look down. His blue eyes are pleading. 

“You’re leaving again?”

You heave out a long exhale. The little boy wasn’t so clingy before but with your bond growing, he’s been expressing more sadness from watching you go at the end of every day. 

You hunker down to his level.

“My little brother’s expecting me.”

His forehead puckers. “Stay…”

“I told you before, Martius. I have a brother. He’ll miss me if I’m not here.”

“Okay,” he mumbles, giving a begrudging nod. Tears already swim in his eyes though. Panic flows through you. You didn’t want to upset him. You pick him up and bounce with him in your arms to try to soothe him.

“Oh, no. Don’t cry, sweetie.” He buries his head in the crook of your neck, nearly squeezing you to death when he wraps his arms around your neck. His loud, tearful sobs swell in the room. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll see you tomorrow like always, okay? So I need you to be brave for me.” His grip on you loosens as he sniffles. You put him down and the two of you pinky promise that you’ll return. Your heart twists at the sight of his tear-stained little face. 

You give his hair one last affectionate pat before rushing outside. If you stay, he might throw another tantrum. No matter what, you can never get mad at Martius. He’s just a child. In the absence of his mother, he’s bound to grow attached to any woman filling a role adjacent to hers. You loathe that you’re taking those moments from the first lady. Though it pleases you to have a steady job and spend time with the sweet boy, it feels wrong that she isn’t there. She should get to see her baby grow up. She should hear his inane ramblings and eccentric stories.

As time wears on, you’re dying to meet her and tell her about Martius. Is she truly so sick that she can’t even see him for a mere few minutes? You’re itching to break the rules and visit the west wing of the mansion. Sometimes you hear blood-curdling  screams and wailing coming from the dark halls but you never dared venture through them. You know that if you did, Pandora would crucify you.

Laertes’ well-being matters more than your curiosity.

Humming absently, you halt in your tracks in the middle of a hallway. Confusion has you blinking. A peculiar noise bounces faintly against the walls. Your gaze drifts sideways, where the noise seems to come from. You’re clocking out. Whatever’s going on in the house isn’t any of your business at this hour.

But what if someone needs help? What if it’s something bad? You’d feel awful if you learnt something happened the next day and you pretended to ignore it. So you gingerly approach the wall. Your fingers graze the tapestry covering it. 

Your eyes widen when the wall moves, a tiny crack forming in it.

Your eyes bulge. It’s an ajar door, you realize. A secret door one wouldn’t notice if they weren’t aware it was there. Light spills from the slight opening.

Confining your breath, you bend over the crack in the wall to get a glimpse of what’s behind it. 

The vision crowding your sight makes the blood in your veins freeze. 

President Snow rutting into a maid with his pants down to his ankles. His usually neat blonde locks are tousled, a few damp curls kissing his forehead. His massive cock glistens with the girl’s essence, disappearing into the girl’s spread lips over and over again. Her body is bent over the railing of the bed and her maid outfit is bunched around her hips, exposing her ass, the flesh trembling with each of the president’s harsh, pointed thrust.

Each time he snaps his hips he draws a broken moan from her. One of his hands is around the back of her throat while the other’s on the small of her back. He grunts low in his throat as she clenches around him, thrusting into her even faster than before. 

The obscene sound of their coupling rises, coalescing with the feral grunts spilling from the president’s mouth. In that moment, he’s not the poised gentleman you’re used to seeing, he is an animal in rut chasing his high.

A shocked exhale escapes your lips. Your hand flies to cover your mouth. President Snow’s head snaps up, his gaze landing straight on you.

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

You jump back from the door and push the secret door closed. You dart across the hallway, determined to find the exit as quickly as you can. You don’t glance back, your steps hasty and panicked. 

Pandora was right. It’s best not not to hear or see anything, to become a tomb in which secrets are buried.

You can only hope he didn’t recognize you through the tiny crack in the door. 

Though you’re shaken to your core, you continue your work as a nanny. You still need money. You may have set aside everything you made thus far, but it will only sustain you and your brother for a month or two. Besides, you’ve already handed in your resignation for your other jobs.  The positions have likely been filled. You can’t exactly show up out of the blue and ask for your former job back. 

No. So you convince yourself that it’s alright. You have a good thing going anyway. You’re making more than you hoped. The child is happy. You’re happy. All is well. Or it would be at least.

…If you could conjure the memory of President Snow railing into the maid far away from your mind. 

You want to forget it, bury the moment so deep in the abyss of your thoughts, it can never be unearthed.

But it isn’t so easy. Because every time your mind wanders even a little, you see him again. Skin glistening with sweat and blue eyes alight with lust. The image is tattooed into your brain. 

You wonder if the first lady knows. Perhaps it’s why she’s hiding away. The weight of her husband’s indiscretions may have grown too heavy to carry. It sours your heart. President Snow seemed so kind, good and noble. He was nice to you. You still have the breast pocket he gave you tucked away in a drawer. You loathe to think he’d do that to his wife. No woman deserves this.

You lift your head when your name is uttered. You get to your feet. Adrift in your thoughts, you didn’t realize Pandora was in the nursery. 

“Yes?”

“The president wants to see you in his office.”

Dread wrenches your gut. It’s exactly what you feared. Does he know? Did he see you? Your pulse picks up. What other reason would there be? He never summoned you before.

“Really, why?”

“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming it’s to congratulate you.”

Befuddlement wrinkles your forehead. “Congratulate me?”

Pandora heaves out a weary sigh. “Well, you’ve done much better than we thought,” she begrudgingly admits. “The young master smiles all the time.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if we must deal with his tantrums when you leave.”

A sliver of pride flutters through you with her admission. Pandora made her doubts about your capabilities plain and obvious from the beginning. It gladdens you that you may have changed her mind a little. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” She turns to him, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s a small price to pay for his happiness.”

Your smile vanishes as she adds, “Now let me escort you to the president’s office. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you trail behind her. The entire trek to the president’s office, your stomach’s in knots. You keep wondering if it’s the day you’ll lose your job for being too nosy. You should have walked past the noise. You shouldn’t have peeked. 

You inhale a lungful of nerve as Pandora opens the door to his office and frees room for you to enter. Your clammy hands wrench in your lap. He’s sitting behind his desk. You stagger further inside the room as he motions for you to sit in the chair on the other side of the desk. He looks the same as the first time you stumbled into him, disarmingly handsome in an impeccable shirt and pants that flatter his long legs.

A sharp contrast to the version of him that has plagued your thoughts lately. 

His sky gaze follows you as you take a trembling seat.

“Are you settling in well?” he asks.

“Hm, yes,” you stammer, anxiously twining your fingers. “It’s pretty much the perfect job. I get to be around a cute child all day.”

“I hear my son is very fond of you.”

You bashfully dip your head. “He’s very easy to like. He’s such a good boy, sweet, kind, and curious. You and your wife are raising him well, sir.”

He hums in thought. “I can’t take much credit for that. I’ve tried my best to carve out time for Martius…but work’s kept me busy. As for Livia...” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “Well she isn’t quite herself these days.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He places one hand under his chin, scrutinizing you. You try not to twitch beneath his stare, your insides tight with dread.

“Hm, it’s strange,” he states after a minute that goes by like an eternity.

Your head rises. “What’s strange?”

“A girl like you.” His lips drag upward. “Sweet, nurturing, beautiful. Shouldn’t you be married already?”

Your lips part in astonishment. This isn’t the line of questioning you expected. “I-I’m not.”

“No fiancé?”

“No, sir.”

“A lover then?”

Warmth rushes to your face.

“No…”

He laughs, mirth dancing in his cobalt orbs.

“You must pardon me for being so forward but I simply find it astonishing. No suitors? It’s hard to believe since you’re so lovely, sweetheart.” He tilts his head. You shift in discomfort, his attention making you feel see-through. “I mean, a husband would have made your life easier than it’s been thus far, wouldn’t he, dove?”

A long exhale flows from your lips. “I’ve had offers, after I graduated from the Academy. There was even this boy, he was so kind to me.” The memory draws a small smile from you. “He proposed. I’m sure he’d make a great husband, but…”

“But…”

Your mouth dries.

“I know it’s probably naive and unrealistic but I want to marry for love, that great, life-changing love, like in those romance novels my mom used to love, not money or status.”

His eyes twinkle. “Or financial stability?”

Shame gathers in your chest. You know it sounds silly when uttered aloud. 

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. It’s sweet that you still believe in love.” He appears lost in a faraway memory, his gaze hazing over with remembrance. “I used to believe in it too. I used to think, ‘Who needs wealth and success and power when love conquers all?’”

He chuckles but it’s bereft of amusement. 

“Really? What happened then?”

His gaze locks with yours. 

“I grew up.”

Confused, you frown. 

“But aren’t you and the first lady in love?”

Another laugh bursts from his chest.

“God, you’re sweet.” His tone lowers to a dulcet whisper. “It’s like none of the world’s ugliness has gotten to you yet.” He reveals matter-of-factly, “My wife and I hate each other.” His smile widens at your flabbergasted expression. “Always did. It’s best that way, more…efficient. Of course, there was a time, when we had…passion.” He licks his lips, something you can’t pinpoint flickering in his gaze. “But not anymore. She’s far too gone for that.”

He rises from his chair. You stiffen as he circles the desk, making slow steps towards you. 

“Which is why I must…satiate my needs wherever I can,” he mumbles, fingers lurking under your chin, forcing your eyes to fall upon him. “Do you understand my meaning, dove?”

“I…yes.”

Discomfort flares within you. Tension hangs in the air, so heavy it clogs your airways. 

He cocks his head, lips slanting crookedly.

“Do you really? With that innocent look in your eyes, it’s hard to tell.” His thumb sweeps over your shuddering bottom lip. “Men have needs. And am I not a man, sweetheart?”

“Y-Yes you are, sir.”

He bends over you to whisper in your ear. “You saw everything that day, didn’t you?” Your heart stops.

Flames lick your face as you bow your head. “I-I didn’t see anything.”

His warm breath ghosts over your earshell.

“Liar,” he mumbles.

Your pulse quickens.

He leans back and nudges your chin upward.

“Since my wife fell sick, I’ve been very lonely. And sometimes…” He looms over you, crowding your space as you peer up at him, fingers squeezing the arms of the chair. “I need something soft and warm to forget that feeling.”

President Snow slowly falls to his knees in front of you. His fingers find your thigh, starting to creep under your skirt. A devilish glint sparkles in his cobalt gaze. He finds your center, pressing the sheer fabric into your folds. You gasp. He chuckles at your reaction. He starts teasing you through your panties, tracing your slit and dragging over your tender bud. Your breath hitches as the air around you grows hotter. You grow slick beneath his finger, your thighs shaking as tingles bloom on your flesh.

“Sir…” you whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

He pushes further inside you, adding another finger, and you unleash an audible breath. You try to close your thighs. He places his other hand on your knee to keep you open for him.

The air in your lungs grows thinner as he rubs your core through your soaked panties. The friction is a delicious torture. Pleasure pools in your belly causing your face to burn with shame. You’re getting embarrassingly wet with President Snow’s attention.

“I just want a little taste,” he murmurs, his deep timbre bleeding lust. “Just one time and it’ll never happen again,” he promises fervently as his lips graze your ankle. You find some relief when his fingers disappear from your drenched center. But your respite is ephemeral. He slips his hands under your ass and tugs at your panties.

Panic widens your eyes. Cheeks ablaze, you pull at the material between your legs with both hands. But he’s stronger than you and effortlessly drags the fabric along your legs. A wicked smile plays on his lips as tears glisten in your eyes. It’s soon down to your ankles. You squeal when the president yanks the panties off your foot, tossing them aside. Cool air sneaks beneath your skirt, swirling over your bare folds.

Hands over your knees to keep you spread, his wolfish gaze sweeps over your glossy folds. 

Your skin heats, embarrassment gathering in your chest. You’ve never been this vulnerable and exposed in front of anybody before.

“Please, President Snow, s-stop…” 

“But you’re dripping, sweetheart,” he states smugly, sinking a finger inside your weeping core, as if to make a point. Your breath hitches. He takes his finger out sluggishly. You clench when he grazes one of your sensitive spots. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he hums, obscenely licking your essence off his long digit.

Without a warning, he buries his head between your thighs. A sharp exhale leaps from your mouth. His cool tongue traces a wet trail over your folds. President Snow traces maddening patterns over your swollen bud causing your eyes to roll back.

You card your fingers through his silken platinum locks, hoping to push his head away. But the delightful sensations grow too overwhelming. You unravel beneath his sinful ministrations, your limbs twitching as the thread of your thoughts comes loose.

Your grip on his hair weakens. Your belly tightens, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You jolt as his tongue flickers over your tender heap of nerves. 

“P-President…” 

He purrs against your folds and the vibrations rock through your core. You squirm in the chair. Your thighs quake. Your vision dims, your mind blank as waves of pleasure swaddle you in their tide. Protests scatter on your tongue, replaced by wanton whimpers and moans.

Electricity ripples through your spine as you cry out.

Bliss engulfs you and your legs turn liquid. Shame swirls in your gut as your juices coat his tongue. He drinks your nectar, elation rumbling in his chest. 

When he lifts his head, you hardly recognize him. The feral glow in his gaze chills your blood.

There is no time to collect yourself, realize what just occurred, as the blonde gathers your limp frame from the chair and places you on his desk. Documents and papers are flung to the ground as he grabs your thighs and presses his throbbing hard-on against your cunt. 

He hastily unbuttons his pants, freeing his hard length. He fists his cock and guides it through your wet entrance. Your back arches, the sudden intrusion robbing you of air. He reaches the hilt of you in a few seconds, giving you no time to accommodate his thick girth. You collapse over the desk, weak whimpers leaving you as your walls are stretched to their limit. He drags out of you, his pupils flaring as they trace the motion of his length in and out of you. Coriolanus leans over you. He snaps his pelvis into your hips, each of his thrusts tearing tearful moans from your throat.

When you turn your head, hot tears flowing down your cheeks, he grabs your chin so you’re forced to meet his lustful stare. Bracing himself on the desk, he reaches between your bodies to pinch your swollen clit. He plucks at your soft bud until you shatter around him with a sob. His throat bobs, a look of sheer bliss flitting across his face when you clench around him.

“I’ve been dying to fuck you the minute I saw you,” he confesses, trailing soft pecks over your collarbone. A sinister chuckle peals from his lips. “The way you looked at me with those sweet, innocent eyes…it made me rock-hard.” He tilts your chin towards him, his thumb skimming over your parted lips.

Satisfaction glimmers in his eyes as they flick over your prone form.

“You should thank me. Those boys at the Academy wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like you…” His cock twitches inside you. Sticky warmth spills from him, painting your walls and dripping past your hole. Drops of his seed leak onto the desk. A throaty sigh pours from President Snow’s throat as your cunt flutters around him.

His teeth nip the skin of your neck.

“...But I do.”

After what occurs in his office, you hope to avoid President Snow. Those hopes are swiftly dashed however. President Snow lied to you. It doesn’t happen once. In fact, you begin to lose count of the actual number.

Every time the president finds a little spare time, he summons you.

Sometimes you end up bent over the desk in his office as he pours the frustrations of the day into your warm hole. Sometimes he prefers you sprawled on your back in one of the multitude of luxurious beds in the mansion while he devours you as if you were his very last meal. And at times, he grows even more impatient and simply shoves you against a wall before ravaging you.

More than once, a maid or footman has walked in on the two of you, and you’ve had to swallow your shame and embarrassment.

As you’ve come to learn, the entire staff is aware of Coriolanus Snow’s insatiable appetite and none of them seems to care.

You feel sick, desperate, trapped in something twisted and awful you never signed up for.

But how does one say no to President Coriolanus Snow? The entire Capitol yields to his every whim. And you are the same. Here to bow and smile and lie back whenever he demands it.

You long to focus on your job, to care for Martius and nothing else. Whenever the boy looks up at you with those innocent blue eyes, eerily similar to his father’s, your stomach wrenches. You pray he never comes to learn what kind of man his father is. You wish he’d stay just as kind and sweet as he is now.

Those are the thoughts drifting through your mind as you watch Martius play with his toy trains. Your eyes wander towards the window. Outside, orange and purple hues are bleeding into the sky, the afternoon nearing its end. Your stomach coils. It’s during times like these that President Snow often seeks you out. You’ve tried to run away from him but it’s all a game to Coriolanus, and he always delights in chasing you through the hallways.

Your brows crumple as you note that Martius has stopped playing. He drops his toy and rushes to your side. Confounded by his behavior, you’re on the cusp of asking him what’s wrong…but your gaze follows what caught his attention on the other side of the room.

You fall silent, your eyes rounding in shock.

“Martius. Come here, my love,” says the blonde woman in a white robe and nightgown, her arms wide open.

Time stands still for a few seconds. It takes you a while to realize who stands before the door. She looks so different, more ghost than woman, her glassy blue eyes hollow and sunken. But her likeness is unmistakable. Even with her graying, limp tresses and ashen complexion, you recognize Livia Cardew. The president’s wife.

You bolt to your feet. Arms still open, Livia takes slow steps towards Martius.

“I’m your mom, sweetie. Don’t you remember me?”

The little boy’s fists clutch your skirt as he hides his face against your leg.

“You’re not my mom.”

A stricken look twists Livia’s features as she shrinks. As if her own son just drove a knife through her heart. Your chest twinges. While her abrupt appearance is a shock, you can’t imagine how she must feel. You place a hand on Martius’ back and try to nudge him forward.

“Martius. It’s the First Lady, your mother. Go on, hug her,” you urge softly.

He shakes his head, tears filling his eyes as he hides behind you even more.

You’re stunned. Has it truly been that long?

“Martius-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, Livia lunging at you, her eyes wild with fury.

“You! This is all your fault,” she hisses. She points at you and scoffs, “You’re his new whore, aren’t you?” Her mouth wobbles as she grips her head. “First you take my husband, now my son.”

Martius begins to sob. His loud cries overlap with his mother’s frantic yelling. You cover his eyes, tossing Livia an apologetic look.

“First Lady, I never meant-”

Before you can explain yourself, she grabs a nearby vase and smashes it. White roses scatter on the floor. Stomping all over the petals and broken glass, she collects one of the shards and races towards you. Terror numbs you. You freeze as Livia aims the shard at you, scarlet droplets dripping on her nightgown as she squeezes her fist around the glass.

Your eyes shut as you wait for the inevitable strike.

You shiver, waiting still.

But it doesn’t come.

“Livia, darling, that’s enough. It’s time for you to sleep and take your medicine.”

The familiar sound of Coriolanus’ voice causes your eyes to snap open. 

You watch him restrain a struggling Livia. She curses at him, fighting him with all her might. It’s a painful spectacle. 

“No, don’t touch me!” Other staff members rush into the room. It takes several people to hold Livia down, colorful expletives pouring from her mouth as she punches and kicks whoever comes close. “You’re killing me! You bastard! Give me my son back! Martius! Martius!”

The child trembles against your skirt, his tear-filled gaze stuck to the floor.

Eventually someone manages to stick a needle into Livia’s neck. She instantly goes limp, arm still reaching for her son in her last conscious second.

“Take her away,” Coriolanus instructs.

The first lady’s flaccid form is dragged out of the room. Still shaken by what you just witnessed, you don’t move a muscle. President Snow approaches you, worry swimming in his blue orbs. 

“Are you alright, dove?” He cups your cheeks, his brows crumpling as his gaze settles on your neck. “I’ll have Doctor Gaul look at you. She has an ointment for that.” He caresses your cheeks, smiling. You gape at him. How can he smile at a time like that? “It won’t even scar. I promise.”

You graze your neck. Your fingers come away bloody. Oh. Livia nicked you with the shard but you didn’t even feel it. Perhaps adrenaline numbed you to the pain.

“Dada,” Martius chimes, lifting his chubby arms.

Coriolanus’ face warms as he picks up his son. He tosses him in the air and catches him. Martius giggles through his tears.

“My sweet boy. That was very scary, wasn’t it?” he says, balancing his son on his hip. Martius nods and wipes his nose. Coriolanus flicks his cheek, beaming at him. “Don’t worry, son. The scary lady won’t bother you anymore in a few months.”

A wave of ice blows through your veins. You wonder why the president uttered those words with such certainty. Like a promise. Or a prophecy. Almost as if he knows exactly when the grim reaper will come knock on his wife’s door.

The next day, you hand over your resignation to Pandora. Her expression is skeptical as she gauges the manila folder you give her.

“This is for the president,” you announce.

She unleashes a deep exhale. “You should reconsider, sleep on it.”

You almost laugh. Sleep on it? You can hardly find rest, the picture of a disheveled Livia Cardew crying out for her son haunting your nights. Whatever befell upon the poor woman, you wouldn’t be surprised if her husband somehow had a hand in it. It broke your heart, seeing her like that, her own son unable to recognize her. You also despise the role Coriolanus forced you to play in erasing her memory.

All of it feels wrong. 

And most of all, you don’t want President Snow to use you to satisfy his lewd desires anymore. He took all your firsts, all the moments that should have been beautiful, and made them a nightmare you have to relive every time he touches you.

You respected him; you admired him. Now you can’t be in his presence without dread whispering through you. What will he make you do this time? How will he make you small and powerless again?

“I can’t…I can’t do this anymore. He can hire someone else to care for him.”

Pandora purses her lips and shakes her head.

“It’s really not that simple. The president has developed…a fondness for you.”

You bristle. “I have to go back home. Laertes is expecting me.”

“You won’t like what comes next, trust me.” Her gaze narrows. “No one leaves the president.”

Ignoring the shudder elicited by her daunting words, you pivot and make a beeline towards the exit. Pandora’s voice echoes down the hallways.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Depleted, you glumly make your way to the gates. You enter the car that takes you back home everyday. Your thoughts wander as the Snow’s house grows smaller through the car window. You were thrilled when you got this job. It felt like kismet after the year you and your brother had. A rainbow after the rain. A slice of hope.

How it all went to hell so quickly. You’re still reeling from it. You’ve no idea what you’ll do next. The only thing you know for certain is that you will not step foot into the Snows’ estate ever again.

The car suddenly halts. You bump your head into the passenger’s seat. Wincing, you grip the sides of your head. As you retrieve your senses, you look around. You stopped.

You toss a questioning look at the driver.

But before he can respond, the car door opens and you’re yanked outside. Two pairs of strong arms drag you away from the car.

You take in the blue uniforms of the men. Terror pulses through your blood.

Peacekeepers.

Noting the guns at their sides, you stop trying to resist. There’s no fighting against them, ever. They are the Capitol’s fist and carry the President’s will. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you likely never did. You slump in their grip, despair thrumming inside you.

They escort you to a black car with tinted windows. Your pulse soars. You’ve only ever seen one individual step out of this car.

The peacekeepers toss you inside and slam the door shut.

Your fearful gaze rises to him.

He casually sits in front of you, his eyes narrowed.

“You disappoint me, dove.” He lets out a weary sigh. “After everything I’ve done for you…you try to leave me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

You twine your hands, sputtering, “I-I’m not the right person for this job, sir.”

He slides his fingers under your chin, tilting it upward.

“Oh but you’re perfect. My son loves you. You’re sweet, dutiful and most importantly…” He smirks. “You are mine. Mine to hold, spoil and fuck whenever I please for however long I please.”

The prospect fills you with dread. He wants you to be his toy again, submissive, available whenever he pleases.

“Sir…”

His jaw ticks, his hold on your jaw tightening.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if your brother could attend the University, free of charge? A bright young mind such as his, I believe he deserves it.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Instead of, let’s say…end up in a District, his name chosen as a tribute in the next Hunger Games.” Your heart sinks to your feet. “That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? So cruel…” he mumbles, stroking your trembling bottom lip.

“No, please,” you beseech, tears swelling in your eyes. Your brother’s all you have left in the world. Nothing can happen to him. 

Coriolanus fondles your cheek, the tender gesture a sharp contrast to the wicked words rolling off his tongue.

“It’s all up to you, then, dove. As long as you behave, I’ll give you the world. But if you act like a little brat again…” A threat lurks in his soft tone, a glint of madness swaying in his cobalt orbs. “I really don’t know what I might do.”

Chills dance over your spine.

“I promise to never do it again,” you blurt out.

He pulls out a square from his breast pocket. It’s identical to the one he used the first time.

But a lifetime seems to have passed since that moment, the world now so different from what you imagined, and the man before you…even more so.

“Good girl,” he lauds while swiping away your tears. 

He shoves the pocket square back in its place. Coriolanus then beams at you as he starts unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his pants.

“Now, I’ve had a long, exhausting day. So how about you get on your knees for me and make it better with that sweet mouth of yours, dove?”

#dark!coriolanus snow #tbosas fanfiction #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow #hunger games #coriolanus snow x reader #dark!coriolanus snow x reader

[fayes-fics]

What The True Poet Describes

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Having been parted for many weeks, it makes you and Benedict realise some truths…

Warnings: none… this is utter fluff. Romantic confessions and proposals.

Word Count: 1.4k

Authors Note: Anon request fill from HERE (reader returns from travel to confess her feelings for Benedict). Unbetaed. Sorry it has taken me ten months to fulfil this Nonny, but I hope you enjoy! <3

As your carriage thunders down the cobbled street of Mayfair, your stomach flutters—not from the jostling of the rough surface, but for an entirely different reason. This is a homecoming of sorts, it certainly feels too long since you were here; the sights and the smells of London so enthralling, teeming with life, such a contrast to where you have been. 

But it’s not just that.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and for you, nothing could be more apt. It’s been nine weeks, and you are positively aching inside, distance bringing clarity to your heart's true desire. You are jangling with anticipation because of your destination. Not caring a jot for judgement of your actions or any scandal that may ensue, single-minded in your mission.

As the carriage slows in front of a handsome red brick townhouse, you leap out before your footman can assist. So keen for a reunion. The front door sweeps open, and the valet requests your name. But before you can even give it, the very person you want to see materialises at the top of the staircase: so handsome it takes your breath away. His face is one of shock.

“Miss y/l/n?!?” Benedict’s baritone voice rings out in genial confusion.

“Mr Bridgerton!” your responding call an animated response, holding out your hand to him as he descends stairs quickly.

He reaches you and politely takes one of your hands, kissing your gloved knuckles, your blood flushing warm as he does.

“I have missed you!” Unable to hide the breathiness in your claim.

“I have missed you too!” He echoes, still seeming taken aback before shaking his head a fraction.“Gosh, where are my manners? Please come into the drawing room!” 

He leads you there, his hold on your gloved hand respectful but firm, a warmth that stirs your belly.

“Smith, some tea, please,” he requests over his shoulder as he sees you to a seat.

“It’s rather late. Do you have anything stronger?”

His eyebrow shoots up at your perhaps cheeky query, but it's not in judgment, more surprised admiration and respect. 

“Cancel that, Smith,” he calls out. “How about a brandy?” He adds quietly just for you, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You nod enthusiastically and remove your gloves as he pours two glasses from a decanter nearby.

“What brings you here so late?” 

His skin touches yours briefly as he hands you the glass, a tiny frisson running down your spine.

“I have something to tell you,” you offer, slightly enigmatic. “I hope you will indulge an old friend.”

“Less of the old, please,” he jests gently, raising his glass in a silent toast.

“To good friends,” you amend, mirroring his action, then taking a sip and enjoying the fruity burn of the cognac.

“Good friends,” he echoes after a swig, then smiles at you expectantly, waiting to hear your answer to his question.

“Well, I suppose what I have to say is more of a confession…“ you admit, after another fortifying gulp, eyes downcast upon your glass as you swirl it lightly in your hand—a nervous tic. “Prussia has been nice in some ways, but there was one thing I missed so very much…”

“London?” he guesses

“Yes, but that’s not it,” you smile, looking up again.

“Parties?” he suggests next with a wink.

“Well, yes, those too,” you giggle and blush at the thought of the bohemian parties you have snuck away to in the past, one such gathering being where you met him. “But not what I’m referring to.”

“Tell me then.”

Steeling yourself, you look at him squarely, 

“You, Benedict. My dearest friend. I have missed you. So very terribly,” you confess over a jagged exhale.

He looks abashed, so handsome in his modesty, a dot of colour high on his cheeks as he bows his head and looks at you through his lashes.

“And it made me realise something…” 

You place aside your now empty glass. Nerves have you spring to your feet, taking a pace tentatively towards him, hands wringing.

“What?” 

His question is delicate, almost gossamer, his face enrapt, looking up at you as you stand before him, ready to finally admit out loud what your heart has been screaming for many weeks now, perhaps always.

“Yours is the wise counsel that I have missed the most. My company has been sorely lacking your sparkling wit, and indeed, there are no talented wordsmiths such as yourself to be found. Especially not any with a countenance as pleasing as yours.” 

He blushes deeper, the pinkness staining his cheeks, but he is also staring intently at you now, his breathing a little uneven. So you decide to be brave, to throw all caution to the wind.

“I-I like you, Benedict. So very much. So ardently,” each word a slight stumble, your whole body flushing hot as you lay bare the truth. “I-I wish to call you something infinitely more dear than a friend if you will permit it. These past few weeks have made me realise just how much I have missed you. A-And I felt compelled to rush back to tell you. To see if perhaps y-you might return my affection?” You stumble, your heart pounding wildly and loudly in your ears as you finally stop to take a breath.

He stands up now, too, his lopsided smile tender as he advances slowly toward you.

“Y/n, did you ever stop to consider why I always referred to you as one of my best friends from the very first time we met?” He asks as he draws closer; you are unable to look away, trapped under his intense gaze. 

“N-No?”

“It is because yours is the company I wish for the most. Days without you were, and indeed are, so very bland. I have always wanted your wonderous spirit near me, even if it was only ever as a good friend,” his voice sounding so wistful. “You should know, however, that only scratches the surface of what I feel for you, indeed, what I have always felt for you…” 

You gasp as his fingers tilt up your chin tenderly, and you find yourself lost in his eyes as he speaks again. 

“You are my muse, my wonder. Your ethereal beauty has always haunted me. You fill my every thought. Being apart from you these last few weeks has been such torture.” 

Your entire being feels alight, each cell an inferno, almost in disbelief that his feelings are an apparent mirror of your own.

“Perhaps what I want to say is better expressed in poetry….”

He pauses and looks deep into your eyes as if piercing to your very soul, sonorous, velvet words beginning to tumble from his lips.

“What is it truly to admire a woman?” 

Already captivated by his rhetorical question, you feel yourself sway towards him.

“To look at her and feel inspiration?” 

He gestures to miniature portraits of you dotted around the room, each obviously painted by his talented hand. You are temporarily dumbfounded, not even noticing them until this very moment. 

A soft chuckle from him brings your focus unerringly back to his earnest, handsome face.

“To delight in her beauty?”

He touches your cheek tenderly. It feels like a searing brand mark; you cannot look anywhere but him, lips parted, breath ragged.

“So much so that all your defences crumble…” 

He laces his fingers with yours as you feel a tidal wave of emotion, a tightness in your chest that is your lungs feeling barely able to breathe.

“That you would willingly take on any pain, any burden… for her….” 

He brings your joined hands over his heart, trying to convey the sincerity behind his lyrical declaration as you feel your eyes mist.

“To honour her being… with your deeds and words….” 

His lips brush the back of your knuckles, a wet spike of heat, and then you gasp loudly as he falls to one knee before you, his hands still clutching both of yours.

“I have missed you more than any words can ever express, y/n. I never wish to be parted from you again. I do not yet have a ring for you, but please, will you do me the very greatest honour of being my wife?”

Your world tilts at his wondrous, heartfelt proposal, ebullient joy radiating through your every pore. You begin to nod, a tear welling in the corner of your eye. Knowing there is only one word that will ever be your elated response…

“YES!!”

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#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

[lipglossanon]

Mind Running, Running (Where You Wanna Go?)

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A Little Savory tier commission for @live4leonalways

Word count: 1901

Request: Stepbro Leon, reader having a bad day and he makes her forget ALL about it.

Thank you for the request! 💜 💜 😘 And I hope you enjoy 🙈

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, stepcest, kissing, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie

proofread! But it’s just me so sorry for any mistakes 😅

Title from Run For Your Life by Big Grams

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You’re late. Somehow you muted your phone at some point, so when your alarm goes off you completely miss it. It’s not too big of a deal, but then that means you’re a little off for the rest of the day. 

In your rush to get ready, you haphazardly toss your books into your bag, hefting it over your shoulder as you rush downstairs. You give a short wave to your stepdad who’s in the living room as you dash out the door. Luckily, you live within walking distance to campus so it’s not as bad as it could be.  

You get to class only a few minutes after it starts, which gets you called out by the teacher followed by snickering from your classmates. Pushing past the hot flush of embarrassment in your chest, you take a seat and start to take notes. Or you would. But since you were running late, you’ve forgotten some of your notebooks and of course it’s the one for this class. 

You bite your lip and quietly ask to borrow some spare paper from your neighbor. Jotting down what the teacher is covering at the front of the class, you try to make the best of the situation. The rest of the day goes like that. Just little grievances that usually would slide off of you like water off a duck, today, has you gritting your teeth and pushing yourself to just get through. 

So by the time you make it back home, your nerves are grated raw. You feel like you’re going to snap at any minute, not even sure if you’d throw a fit or fall into a crying jag— you’re just done.

So when you see Leon lounging on your bed, flipping through some book, you ignore him. You see him out of the corner of your eye while you drop your bag down onto your vanity. He’s frowning at you, blue eyes raking down your body and back up. 

“Princess,” he coos, standing up from your bed, tossing the book down on your nightstand. 

You feel him walk up behind you and you tense, shoulders subconsciously pulling up to your ears. 

“Hey,” his playful demeanor melts into concern, “are you okay?”

His warm palms cup your biceps before he rubs down your arms to clasp your hands in his. 

“Talk to me,” he nuzzles into your hairline, eyes searching yours in the vanity mirror’s reflection. 

You feel the tears pricking at your lash line, but you refrain from crying. 

“Just a really shitty day,” you mumble out. 

“Aww,” he kisses the shell of your ear, “want big brother to make you feel better?”

A pulse of heat breaks through the dull feeling you’ve had all day. 

Looking into his reflection, you whine, “Please, wanna feel good.”

“I’ve got you, Princess,” he kisses your neck, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin making you shiver, “just need to get you out of your silly little head.”

You watch as his hands let go of yours to grab your waist, guiding you to rock back against his bulge. 

“Feel that?” his voice is hot in your ear, “gonna fuck you so good you’re not gonna be able to think of anything else.”

“Leon,” you whimper and he clicks his tongue.

“That’s not what you call me,” he laughs meanly, pinching your hip. 

“Big brother,” you gasp out making him growl. 

He tugs at your shirt, “Get undressed and get on the bed.”

In a daze, you shed your clothes and climb onto your mussed sheets with Leon copying you. 

Your back is pressed down onto the bed as Leon slots himself between your thighs, baring his weight down on your body. He rocks against you, fat cock dragging across your bare cunt and smearing your slick across the tip. 

You arch your hips, trying to get him to grind against where you want it most, “Please, big brother, make me feel good.”

He props up on one arm and uses the other to grip your hair, tilting your head back so he can kiss you hotly. Moaning, you eagerly suck on his tongue as he slides it past your lips. He coaxes your tongue into his mouth so he can lick and suck on it before pressing his own back into yours. 

He rolls his hips in time with his tongue thrusting into your mouth, driving you wild with the blatant hint being offered. Your nails dig into his broad shoulders making him groan against your mouth and pulling away. 

“Want big brother to fuck this wet pussy, princess? Can make you forget all about your bad day,” he lets go of your hair, to pinch your nipples, “fill this sweet little cunt full.”

You nod, eyes wet with tears, “Want it, please.”

He laughs a little, twisting your nipple hard making you squeal and buck against him. 

“I feel like that hot pussy needs some of big brother’s kisses,” he smirks down at you, “what do you think? Y’know don’t answer that, I’m here to make sure you don’t think anymore.”

You hiccup a low whine as Leon drops kisses from your jaw down to your chest. With a small moan, he sucks a hard nipple into his mouth, tweaking and pinching the other bud with his fingers. He pulls off with a pop, mouth moving to hungrily suckle at the opposite nipple, swapping hands to pinch the wet bud he just had his lips around. 

He stays there lathing and sucking at your tits until you’re squirming and rolling your hips under his bulky body. With a low chuckle, he pulls away from your puffy nipples. His seadark gaze never leaves yours as he licks a trail down to the apex of your thighs. 

“There she is,” he purrs, eyes finally dropping down to stare at your pussy, “so pretty and eager for my mouth, right little sis?”

“Uh huh,” you mewl right as Leon licks a broad stripe up your cunt and laps slowly at your clit. 

With a rumbling growl, he buries his face into your pussy, tongue pressing into your drippy hole. He shakes his head back and forth to rub his nose across your swollen clit. Whining softly, you lose yourself to the pleasure Leon plucks from your body. 

Arousal floods your mind as your hands reach down to grab onto Leon’s hair. Red hot heat rushes through you as his tongue flutters into your pulsing walls before he licks his way up to your sensitive bundle. He kisses the hood of your clit over and over and over until you’re whining and kicking your feet. 

“Let me love on her, princess,” he bites your pussy lips, sucking the skin roughly before letting go, “she’s crying for some kisses.”

You sink down into the bedding and his warm rough mouth, licking and sucking at your cunt until you’re crying out. 

“G’nna cum,” you pant, tugging his hair hard, “Leon!”

He hums and sucks your clit, tongue lathing over the swollen bud as you moan softly, thighs shaking—orgasm washing over you in syrupy waves.  

He quickly moves up your body, tongue plundering your open mouth. Your eyes flutter shut to taste yourself on his lips, tongue lapping against his slick covered one. 

He pulls away to look down the length of your bodies. Grabbing his leaking cock, he lines it up with your clenching hole. 

“Good girl,” he praises as he easily slips inside your spasming cunt, “always so fucking good for me, princess.”

He grabs your legs and places them over his shoulders, letting him sink his dick even deeper into your cunt. 

“Big brother,” you toss your head back, tears seeping from your closed lids, “s’good, can’t take it.”

“You can,” he grits out, rocking halfway out just to thrust back in, “you’re taking me right now, little sis. Taking me so well.”

You whine as he picks up his pace, pulling his dick out until just the fat tip spreads open your soaked pussy then fucking into your hole until he bottoms out. 

“Leon,” your nails scratch at his shoulders, shuddering as his thick cock grinds against your g-spot, “Leon.”

“Fuck, princess,” he groans, thrusting into your fluttering walls, tip kissing your cervix just right making you clench down from that sharp bolt of pain that makes you even wetter. 

“Don’t think about anything,” he murmurs down at your dazed expression, “let me just use this sweet pussy, y’dont even need to worry that pretty little head. Just be a dumb hole for me to fuck.” 

You gasp out as his fingers slip between your bodies to rub and tease at your pudgy clit. Leon presses kisses into your neck that turn into bites. Your hands move from gripping his shoulders to gripping your pillow above your head, baring your neck more easily for his greedy mouth. 

He gives a rumbling groan of approval, hot tongue and blunt teeth worrying your skin until bruises blossom like flowers on your skin. He doesn’t let up on rubbing your clit or grinding his dick against the spongy spot at the front of your pussy making that band of arousal wind tighter and tighter in your belly. 

“Can feel that little cunt squeezin’ on me, sis,” he chuckles into your neck before dragging his lips up to your ear, “ya gonna cum for your big brother? Squeeze me hard enough and I’ll cream this hot little pussy.”

You cry out and he muffles it by licking into your mouth, fingers rubbing against your clit even faster now as he hammers into your squelching pussy. 

You let go of the pillow to dig your nails into his back as your spine arches, that band of arousal snapping in your belly making you squeal into his mouth as you cum hard around his pistoning cock. You see stars behind your closed eyes as he grinds against you. 

He doesn’t let up even as he allows your head to drop back down to the mattress. 

“So hot, fuck, gonna cum, gonna fill your tight fucking cunt full of cum, little sis,” he growls down at you, hips snapping harder as he bullies his cock into your cunt over and over. 

“Want it,” you whine up at him, brain empty as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm, “cum in me, big brother, want it so bad.”

“Fucking hell,” he hisses out as he thrusts into your pulsing cunt one last time and buries himself to the hilt, cock spilling hot ropes of cum inside you. 

You both moan as he rocks himself a little deeper, tip spurting thick jizz to paint your pussy walls white. Your cunt milks him as he slowly comes to a stop, letting you both catch your breath before he pulls out softly. 

He flops down onto the bed next to you and pulls you into his arms. 

“Thank you,” you mutter shyly, kissing his chest.

He pets your hair, letting his palm sweep across your neck and down your back. 

“Of course,” he soothes, “even if I do give you shit a lot of the time, I don’t like when you have a bad day.”

You giggle and snuggle in closer to him, body buzzing in the afterglow. He kisses the top of your head as you both relax into each other, savoring the moment. 

#stepbro!leon s kennedy x fem!reader #stepbro!leon s kennedy #stepbro leon s kennedy/you #fem!reader #leon s kennedy x fem!reader #leon kennedy x reader smut #stepcest #paid requests #kofi commission

[heartfullofleeches]

Can I request a Baron scenario where it’s him with a reader who’s really intrigued by his physique in an analytical way? Like reader is really curious about how Baron’s body works and keeps poking and playing with his horns/tail/mouths etc? Bonus points if they also ask questions about the features too. I feel like if Baron was ever real and latched onto me I’d just get really curious about his more demonic features when I get used to his presence

Have a nice day :)

"Open it again?"

"Blehhh."

"Not that one, the other one."

"Sorry. Ah-"

Warm breath hits your fingers as the center of the demon's face spilts open, a long, black tongue lulling from between vertical rows of jagged teeth. You press the pad of your index finger against one of them, as his tails switch happily behind him.

"What would you saw your bite force is?"

"Uhhh. I bite through your neighbor's new car when they said hi to you the other day with no problem and through the arm of that one guy who kept flirting last week."

"I was wondering what happened to it. Interesting." You jot the detail down in the notepad in your other hand, ignoring his other statement. Baron had you hooked securely in his arms as you conducted your little search study. He didn't understand why you were so interested in his features, but was gladly to have the time with you. He wondered if your fascination was any similar to the one he had while watching you sleep. It was cute. Was he cute to you?

The thought makes his tails swish faster, as does your continued touching. He knew he shouldn't get worked up over this, but it was hard not to when you tug on his horns like that.

You gently run your hand up to their point. "And how does it feel when I do this?"

"Fucking amazing." He purrs.

'What about-" You reach towards his tails, but he grabs your wrist.

"That might not be the best idea right now."

#Baron my oc #yandere oc #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere x you #male yandere #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere demon x reader

[snowthornes]

SHEPHERDS OF HAVEN | @shepherds-of-haven HEADSHOT ART | @yuuugay

✦ The Godless Brightburner

— Rend the world in winter's wrath.

The magic of Aetherai relies heavily on energy and emotions to increase the intensity of their spells. Without them, spells would be rendered weak or ineffectual, losing their force and impact; what should be great gusts of wind would become gentle puffs of air. - Notes by Thorne Briers, scribbled on a worn out journal.

On the battlefield, Thorne is akin to a howling blizzard.

The smooth and unfazed demeanor he typically affects is nowhere to be seen. His movements are swift, powerful, and brutally efficient: leaping and dodging with a jagged elegance reminiscent of an icicle broken from a frozen cave mouth. There's a flash of silver as he swiftly drags the bowstring all the way back to his cheek; a sliver of a second; then the silent scream of an arrow hurtling through the air, meeting its target with vicious accuracy.

There's a razor glint of claws and he abruptly rolls back, dodging a near-fatal blow. He springs back to his feet and responds with a barrage of howling magical energy — magic that twists into hurricanes of wind and frost, knife-like icicles that rend the flesh and freeze the limbs. The storm responds to his escalating vehemence, singing with approval as it cuts and dances and destroys, obediently following his every command.

Power and emotion flood his veins like water bursting out of a dam. His blood sings with an almost feral glee. Fury and longing, grief and defiance, silver-bright intelligence and dagger-sharp cunning, a mask always hiding, concealing, performing a one-man masquerade of hollowed music and elegant smiles, shattered faith and deadened hope, sunlight thawing a winter's chill, love and loss and laughter and hands reaching out—

Beneath the blood and dust that cling to his face, storm gray eyes blaze with a sharp, glacial, light.

✦ The Mage's Phantasms

— A thousand colors to a name.

Truth be told, I'm not sure how to feel. I came to Haven hoping to find employment and perhaps enter the merchant trade, but ended up landing in the lap of the Shepherds instead. This is my reality now. While I'm not too thrilled about it, I have no choice but to continue down this path I've inexplicably stepped on — though I have no interest in being a hero and sacrificing myself on the front lines. Perhaps I'll transfer to a non-combatant position in the future. I shall fade safely into the Order's background soon enough. Then, I can return to pursuing my previous ambitions. - Entry by Thorne Briers, scribbled in a worn out journal. Written after his inititation to the Shepherds. Miscellaneous trade and business notes are jotted down on the rest of the page. It's an entry that he often views with a look of both irony and nostalgia.

Notes on Shepherd Thorne Briers, ranging from the startlingly mundane to the undeniably vital. The author is unknown.

➸ Thorne stands at 5'11". He typically carries himself with an air of grace and elegance, mannerisms painstakingly absorbed from the aristocrats and merchants he used to watch from the distance as a child. His movements notably become more erratic and excitable when around those he wholeheartedly trusts — something that he had never found until joining the Shepherds. 🌠

➸ He can be overly apathetic to the plights of strangers. He's seen too much, done too much to be easily moved by compassion or emotion. Though he's capable of giving comfort and reassurance when the situation calls for it, he would rather use detached pragmatism to assess a situation rather than give in to 'pointless' emotions such as pity and distress. One could say that he almost recoils from genuinely emotional displays — though he hides it well.

Only those close to him know of this particular aspect of his nature, however. He usually keeps it well-concealed beneath a gleaming veneer of carefully chosen words and expressions, knowing that his true nature might work against him during missions. Whether or not this makes him insincere is up to the judgement of others. 🌠

➸ Avoids making grand promises or heroic declarations. While Thorne is quite adept at manipulating a situation to his favor, there is something quite odd about him: his aversion to making direct promises. Hope can be such a light, fragile thing, and it can be so easy to give; yet when it is promised to someone only to be taken away, it can break them. He can't. He wont. Thorne doesn't trust himself. He doesn't trust himself to be this so-called hero. He will meander, he will laugh, and he will tell you that he'll be back, in his own roundabout way — but he will never ask you to trust that he'll succeed. Not yet, anyway. 🌠

➸ Possesses a vehement aversion to religion itself. Contrary to what one might think, Thorne actually thinks it's very likely that gods do exist in some shape or form. He just has absolutely no interest in worshiping them; one could even say that he despises the thought of it. It's a stark contrast to his childhood, when he would worship and pray to the One-God with his parents. The very mention of faith and religion — especially that of the One-God — can have him inwardly recoiling as he bites back the scathing words threatening to spill from his lips.

Very, very few know about it, however. Only those he implicitly trusts have been allowed to catch glimpses of the cold vitriol that he holds towards the gods — and even they don't know just how deep it runs. (Yes, he didn't take the kithma revelation very well, and still has very mixed feelings about it. Despite that, he had to grudgingly admit that it made more sense than not.) 🌠

➸ He can be unexpectedly honest when it comes to those he holds dear. Though it clearly takes him some visible effort, Thorne won't shy away from telling a friend all the reasons why he holds them in high regard. If he plucks up the nerve, he'll bluntly tell them of how important they are to him — all while wearing the flat expression of a frog about to leap into boiling water. He'll immediately find an excuse to flee after saying his piece, face prickling with rare heat all the while. 🌠

➸ Loves accessorizing and embellishing his clothes! Before joining the Shepherds, Thorne would diligently set aside a part of his earnings to spend on his more fashionable pursuits. He especially liked embroidering delicate patterns and designs on his clothes, a hobby he continued even after joining the Order. He often tests the bounds of the Order's rules by embroidering subtle yet tasteful patterns onto his Shepherd's cloak, much to Blade's consternation. 🌠

➸ It's ridiculously easy to make him laugh when among friends, a fact that has surprised many — including Thorne himself. Even the saddest joke can coax a snort of laughter from him, though he tries to explain it away with something along the lines of, "the pathetic air of it makes it funny, why are you looking at me like that—". The recruits have long grown accustomed to seeing him doubled over with laughter during breakfast over something Chase had said, sometimes choking on his honeyed milk in the process. 🌠

➸ His moral compass has been slowly (and reluctantly) shifting after joining the Shepherds. Unfortunately, the environment Thorne was given at the Shepherds Order made it all too easy to foster compassion. For the first time, he has allies, confidantes, friends — people he can genuinely trust to watch his back. It was slow, and it was gradual, but the veneer of ice and stone he kept around his heart was softening.

The pivotal moment was in Chapter Five, when Thorne had to choose between following the mission or letting Nathe win. While Thorne could bluff that he'd only allowed Nathe to win because he'd figured that Briony would make for a powerful ally, he knew in his heart of hearts that it was a lie. In that moment, as he stared into Nathe's eyes, he'd simply wanted the elf to reunite with his family. 🌠

➸ He's actually incredibly emotional (and dramatic) despite the way he doggedly conducts himself with an apathetic pragmatism. Thorne can be indifferently cold when it comes to matters of compassion. Overly rational, even. But one could say that it was a steel born out of necessity; an iron will carved out of what was once a gentle heart in order to survive alone in a world teetering on the brink of madness.

To love is to be left; it is what he has learned in his years of wandering the world alone. To rely on faith is weakness. To believe in hope is foolishness. What was once laughter and camarederie will eventually bleed into farewells and betrayals.

To love is to be left. Never again. Never again. 🌠

➸ He is afraid. He is afraid of losing everything. The more he comes to care for the Shepherds (his comrades, friends, family, even), the more terrified he becomes of losing them. The more he grows to love them with all the fierceness and softness and everything in his heart, the more he becomes afraid of driving them away. He is no hero. He is no light. He is a charlatan, full of anger and grief and so much hate that he cannot speak into the world. Hope is a word that burns at his touch. When he looks into the mirror, all he can see is a scarred visage of disappointment — a liar masquerading as a hero. 🌠

✦ Afterword

First of all. If you've actually, somehow, managed to reach the end of this monstrously long post and are somehow reading this. Thank you. So much. So very much. Also I might be on the verge of proposing (🥺🥺🥺💍💍💍) Ahead is a little afterword about Thorne and the Godless Brightburner snippet.

Thorne is a heavily flawed character — and an incredibly emotional one at that. Despite how he usually conducts himself — pragmatic, cunning, calculating, and all that jazz — he feels his every emotion like a raging howl of sleet and storm.

He used to be a child who loved the world and everything in it. He was Westwood's beloved ray of sunshine, the mayor's precocious son. It was the... events of his thirteenth birthday and his experiences as a solitary Diminished that hardened him, that turned him into the reverse of what he once was.

A bleeding heart is a weakness: so Thorne closed his heart and turned the wound into a jagged scar. There were far too many people out there who would use a naive, wide-eyed Diminished for their own gain — he learned this very quickly. He rejected his compassion, despised his own emotions, and turned himself into someone so coldly pragmatic that the boy he once was became naught but another painful memory.

It's why he has so much mixed feelings for the Shepherds, especially in the first half of the story. By then, the only one he was concerned about was himself — or so he claimed. And, if he were to be honest, he didn't consider himself very worthy of living. He didn't even know why he fought so hard to survive; why he was willing to go so far. Perhaps it was anger. Perhaps it was defiance. Or perhaps it was atonement: continuing his hazy existence in exchange for the home he had eradicated so long ago.

You could say that he's very similar to the embittered Hunters that Halek often criticizes. Those who were disillusioned by their banishment so subsequently refused to help with the demon problem. It's why doesn't really get along with the more... openly compassionate members of the order — at least not at first. All the "make the world a better place" and "protect the innocent" talk would only ever earn flatly unimpressed looks from him.

Over the course of the game, he starts to soften. Slowly, hesitantly, his view of the world starts to gentle. He becomes more open to helping others, more willing to express his true emotions instead of hiding them under a veneer of charming smiles and calculated words. He's still wary of promises and heroics, but a part of him is gradually entertaining the thought of a future soaked in sunlight rather than in shadow. Of a future where he could be happy.

Thorne's journey is one of change and new beginnings: of learning to trust others as you learn to trust yourself. He is flawed. He is frustrating. Sometimes even I want to throttle him. He shuns emotions while he drowns in them. He will conflict with the Shepherds in the order. And, yes, he has a massive case of Impostor Syndrome when it comes to his status as Hero of Haven. But he will change, and he will grow. And I'm very, very excited to see it. 🫡✨

Another thing! If the "Godless Brightburner" snippet felt familar to you, then you'd be spot on! That section was actually inspired by something from the SHOH alpha demo — it's one of my favorite passages from the game ever. I've put it just below, so beware of MINOR SPOILERS!!

(I'll be honest: this passage made me cry. Like, I was full on sniffling my heart out. I don't know why. I don't know how. But it felt so regretful. Like the hollow echo of something that once was. Vibrant and brilliant and ephemeral and gone.)

When I first read this passage, I was floored. Sniffling aside, it was just... brimming with so much life. "His essence poured into the ring". Lena had done just that. With one passage alone, the very essence of a man long gone had been given shape in strokes of heartbreaking color.

It stuck with me for a very long time — and still has. The world of SHOH has made me cry many, many, times (I will probably ramble about them in the future as well, I apologize in advance 😔) (also yes the Thurl chapter was a DOOZY) but this just... stuck. It's an incredibly beautiful peace of writing, and I never tire of it no matter how many times I reread it.

Therefore, I was inspired to do something similar for Thorne! His essence — what would it feel like? What song would it sing unto the world, if it could?

The Godless Brightburner is supposed to be about showing Thorne's very essence. The Mage's Phantasms, meanwhile, was only supposed to contain little bits and pieces about Thorne. But I think I got a bit carried away there. That section is nowhere near little. 🗿

Aaaand, that's all. Thank you so much for reading this far, and I really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed making it!! The world of SHOH is so breathtakingly crafted, its characters so beautifully alive — I'm glad I got to give Thorne his own special place within its seams.

Thank you very much to Yuki @yuuugay for making Thorne's portrait!! I am very KSDHGJKLSDG about him and everytime I look at him I lose the ability to speech 🥺🥺🥺 You've made him so, so beautiful — thank you! You've made me so incredibly happy!

Lastly, thank you to @shepherds-of-haven for commissioning this template for us: I had a lot of fun wandering through Blest with Thorne! Exploring the world of SHOH was an experience, one with a ton of tears, dismayed yelps, and laughter. Thank you so, so much for sharing it with us. I'm looking forward to seeing how the rest of this journey unfolds together. 🥺💖

Have a very good day, and I hope you all have just as much (if not more) fun as I did on your own playthroughs and template-filling endeavors! Good luck, and thank you again!! 💖🫡💐✨

#shepherds of haven #shaking crying #i'm.... i'm done #it's finished #im in state of disbelief rn hold on #this became SO LONG #this project was so so fun to work on #i'm both happy and sad that it's finished #aaaaah #to anyone who clicks that read more link: thank you. i appreciate you very very much 🥹🥹🥹 also im sorry HSDHGHDSGDGH #shoh #oc: thorne #oc template #aspen's blorbos.txt

[ghouljams]

Ghoul, have you ever thought about your character’s handwriting? Because I have. I think Liebling has neat handwriting but she’s always in a rush nowadays so all the pretty cursive loops all blend together. Like a doctor’s handwriting. And Love has straight up just chicken scratch. - ☀️

I have thought about it for very few darlings, but not all of them! I'll pop it under the cut since I always go too long talking about my loves.

Cowboys first:

Moon has very neat looping handwriting, sort of riding the edge between cursive and print. Her letters are round and she does the little loop on 2s

Goose canonically has chicken scratch handwriting lmao. Very sharp quick letters, she has to put a line through her 7s and Zs because otherwise you cannot distinguish what they are. Birdie, Ghost, Duck are the only people that can read her handwriting.

Duck is a doctor her handwriting is atrocious. She can write neatly but she usually has to write quick so its very tight and messy.

Birdie is a teacher she has great handwriting, but it's also very teacher-y. It's super legible print, sharp letters so they're all easy to distinguish. Does the little snowman 8s.

Bee.... she doesnt write much, I feel like she's so digital that she doesn't really do much handwriting. I think it's fine. Not particularly neat but not chickenscratch. She draws little smiley faces on any notes she writes for König

Fae:

Love actually has fairly neat handwriting. It's definitely stylized but it's legible and that's what's important.

Liebling I agree has neat handwriting that's sort of smushed a little. Cursive that she can jot down quick when she's writing out store orders and budgets.

Witch is not neat with her handwriting. More cursive that even she has a little trouble with at times. She has to write labels for all of her products and jars so it has to be legible but she's also the only one reading it so not too legible. I actually think Witch might have a touch of dyslexia.

Crybaby has messy handwriting. Round and legible but messy handwriting.

Threat can't read. Jk but they don't write shit down and they don't really have a reason to. Jagged sharp handwriting, very precise and efficient.

Sunny has very loose handwriting, doesn't really care about making it neat or pretty, just gets it done. Strikes me as having big handwriting, a little too tall for lined paper y'know.

Pet doesn't need to write things. I do not think pet can read.

Demon:

Luck has very cute handwriting. I'm talking hearts over the i and loopy o's. Everything Luck does just speaks to sweetness and sunshine her handwriting is no different.

Price. Precise, military, neat handwriting. Print not cursive. Alternatively will take notes in shorthand.

Hush also writes shorthand. Very sharp and quick print, lots of chemical abbreviations now that he works in demo with Soap. Doodles.

Fetch had to be sat down by König and forced to write neatly. Completely illegible, I'm talking Russian cursive levels of illegible.

Die has very loose, but very small handwriting. She holds her pencil tightly. I think Die has an incredible memory for things, almost eidetic, so she doesn't write much down. Her magic requires a high capacity mental filing system so she's rather meticulous despite what her personality might suggest.

Hide also has a huge mental filing system but due to the nature of their job they have neat handwriting for ledgers.

#ghoul speaks #oc talk #☀️ anon #i dont wanna tag everyone ugh #oc: bee #oc: love #oc: luck #oc: witch #oc: liebling #oc: die #oc: hush #oc: price #oc: crybaby #oc: threat #oc: goose #oc: birdie #oc: moon #oc: duck #oc: fetch #oc: pet

[mrsquill]

In Another Life

Summary: So, my heart was so shattered by what happens in the opening scene of the Last of Us that I’ve set out to fix it MYSELF. That’s right! This is basically what could’ve happened on Joel’s birthday from Sarah’s POV had the outbreak never happened.

Notes: I’m not from the States, so forgive me if any cultural references are wrong. I edit this on my phone so if it looks awful I’m sorry (photo belongs to Pinterest)! I also sucked at the game so again please don’t be mad if anything is OOC - I based this off the beautiful portrayals by Pedro and Nico. Also, mostly inspired by @fuckyeahdindjarin and I screeching at other in our inbox about Joel and Sarah ;_;

Warnings: None? Very fluffy, mentions of blood.

Sarah woke with a start, glancing at the luminous green numbers of her alarm clock glowing in the darkness. 3:13am. She sighed inwardly, stretching out under the thin blanket as she realised she still had her jeans and sneakers on. The last thing Sarah remembered was falling asleep on her dad - crap, just after she’d assured him she wouldn’t. He must’ve put her to bed. The combination of his deep breathing beside her and a shitty film on TV - turns out, totally not riveting - was clearly enough to lull her into what she thought would be a dreamless sleep, exhausted after waiting up for her dad on his birthday.

Sarah sat up in bed, kicking her sneakers off and changing into her pyjama pants, brow furrowing as she groped blindly in her subconscious for memories of the dream - no, nightmare - she’d been having; it was just below the surface, almost slipping away from her in its entirety, only the jagged edges remaining. Sarah remembers an overwhelming sense of fear; her heart pounding, helicopter blades whirring, her dad shouting, Uncle Tommy’s voice, too, calling her name.. People screaming.. and blood. So much blood.

Just a dream, she decides with a shrug. A glass of water is what she needs; padding downstairs soundlessly so as not to wake her dad in the search of something refreshing, trying to forget the sweat dewing her brow.

As she tiptoed into the kitchen; Sarah noticed his spiky handwriting hastily jotted down on the back of an envelope on the counter; probably in the pencil he almost always had behind his ear at work:

‘Hi baby,

Uncle Tommy got himself in trouble. Gone to rescue him, won’t be long. See u in the morning X’

Sarah fought the urge to roll her eyes. She loved her Uncle Tommy - he’d basically raised her, alongside her dad - but she knew he drove his older brother crazy with his escapades. She wasn’t sure she’d have it any other way, though. It was all she’d ever known; the three of them were a close - if unconventional - family unit.

Sarah wanted to ask her dad about her mom one day, but not because she felt she was lacking in love - quite the opposite. It wasn’t always obvious, but it was there - in every joke at her dad’s expense, in each soccer game he and Tommy turned up to, in every hiking and rafting trip they took together, and in each Polaroid picture they took every Christmas at Sarah’s request.

She wrung her hands together, now, hoping Uncle Tommy was okay. Pouring her water, she thought she’d head back to bed; peek round her dad’s door to hopefully find him snoring on his back as per usual.

As Sarah headed for the stairs; she saw him sprawled out on the couch, jeans, boots and shirt still on, one arm dangling off the couch as he - yep - was snoring to high heaven. If he’s this relaxed, Sarah reasoned, Uncle Tommy must be okay.

She moved soundlessly towards him before she noticed what was on the coffee table next to him. A cake. Not just any cake - it was covered in fancy frosting, and had a pack of candles and a bottle of pancake mix sat next to it. She grinned, feeling a little guilty for giving him such a hard time, imagining her dad trawling the all-night gas stations for a birthday cake as well as dealing with whatever shit his little brother had pulled.

Sarah reasoned that she could wake him and send him to bed, the sky behind them still an inky black as Texas slept on outside. He looked so peaceful, though, and she knew he was exhausted from the extra long shift he’d pulled that day - which she knew was for her benefit. She drew the window coverings instead and pulled a blanket over him; settling herself with her own in the armchair next to him.

Sarah knew she should go easier on her dad - sometimes she felt like the parent - but that’s the way things had always been, they took care of one another in different ways. She resolved to ask him for a hiking trip in the morning; promising that this time she wouldn’t scamper ahead and would wait for him to actually get his breath back. It was her favourite thing to do with her dad - they could share a slice of cake each with a beautiful view for miles and miles.

The thought made her smile as Sarah settled in to try and catch some sleep before the sun started to rise, feeling a little safer from another nightmare as long as her dad was close by.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #tommy miller #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller fic #sarah miller tlou #joel miller tlou #tommy miller tlou #no outbreak!au #sarah miller #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal fanfiction #nico parker #fanfic #my stuff

[mel-0n-earth]

BG3 February Writing Challenge: Day 6

Day 6 (SFW): Teaching each other how to do something.

Original prompt list

[This is a little continuation of Tav and Dammon's story from my series The Hellion's Heart. However, apart from the last few paragraphs after the page break, it can be read entirely as a standalone. Please note that while the original series leaves Tav's race open-ended, this little drabble assumes a non-tiefling Tav.]

Tav frowned down at the scrap of paper in their hand. They’d been helping Dammon organize his papers in preparation for the upcoming tax season. The bulk of it had been dull work—organizing receipts by date, sorting through old jottings to see whether any of them contained pertinent information about business expenses, or if they simply needed to be thrown out. This particular note, however, was quite indecipherable.

“Hey Dammon?”

“Yeah?” his voice echoed faintly from the other room, where he was busy taking stock inventory.

“I can’t read your handwriting on this one. Can you take a look?”

“Sure, one moment.” She heard a gentle clattering sound as he dropped whatever he’d been working on, followed by the thump of bootsteps over the floorboards and the spicy musk of his breath as he leaned over her shoulder.

“Oh,” he breathed, plucking the note from her hand. “No wonder you couldn’t read it. It’s in infernal.”

“Really? I didn’t know you wrote infernal.”

His eyes darted over his own handwriting. “Sure. A lot of tieflings use it for privacy. Zevlor recommended we use it when we were in the Grove. Got quite a bit of practice from that. I still use it sometimes, so I won’t forget. This one’s just a shopping list, so we can toss it.”

Tav peered down at the note, wondering at the strangely beautiful script. “Is it hard to learn? The writing system, I mean?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think so. Though I suppose it comes naturally to tieflings. Still, it’s not all that hard. I could teach you, if you’d like.”

Tav took a moment to study the lettering. “You know what, why not. It could be fun.”

Dammon’s face lit up with a warm smile that made Tav’s chest warm. “Alright then. Tonight, when I’m done with work, I’ll teach you.”

***

As it turned out, learning infernal did not come easily to non-tieflings. Patient a teacher as Dammon was, Tav struggled to discern the jagged letters from one another, eyes swimming with what she perceived to be nothing but chicken scratch.

Still, she was determined to learn, so Dammon left them to practice with a handwritten copy of the alphabet, which Tav carefully copied every evening before bed. As difficult as Infernal was, Dammon had mentioned not wanting to forget how to use it, so it must’ve been important to him. If that was the case, then Tav wanted to be able to share it with him.

About a week after their first lesson, Tav had an idea, one they spent an entire evening bringing into fruition, hands shaking with nerves as they worked at Dammon’s tiny kitchen table. They were just placing the finishing touches when he came in from the forge, brow sheened with the sweat of a day’s labor.

“How’s the writing going?” he asked, now well-used to her daily routine of script practice.

Tav swallowed down her nerves, then rose quickly from her chair, thrusting the sheet of parchment out towards him. “See for yourself.”

Dammon gave her a curious look, then crossed the room to read what she’d written. It wasn’t unusual for her to ask that he check her work, but he must have noticed how nervous she was.

He read for what felt like a long time, parchment crinkling where his fingers gripped the edge. At first, Tav thought their penmanship might just be messy, or that the letters were too smudged to read from her erasing her work too many times. But apparently, that wasn’t the problem at all.

“Is it…supposed to say something?” Dammon asked.

Tav shifted uncomfortably. “Um…yeah. Did I make a mistake?”

“You must have. I mean, this is gibberish. Unless this is another language. ‘Ilpvey’…”

Tav snatched the paper from his hand. “What? No, that’s not right at all! This is supposed to be an ‘O.’ Wait a second, I’ll fix it.” She hurried back to the table, crossing out the wrong letters and re-writing them. “Gods, I was only a line off,” she muttered to herself before shoving the note back into Dammon’s hands, praying he wouldn’t notice the hot flush rising up her neck. “Here, now read it.”

Dammon gave her a questioning look, then peered down at the corrected note. At first, his expression remained one of confusion. Then, something appeared to click, and a sweet smile pressed its way into the corner of his mouth. Still, he didn’t say anything, merely stared down at the message without a word, which only made Tav more nervous.

“Umm, does it make sense now? If not, I can try again…”

No response. He was still looking down at the note.

“Dammon?”

Finally, he looked up, eyes shining electric blue in the dark. For a moment, he merely stared at her with a strange expression, as if he were trying to determine whether she was real. Then, just as Tav was considering fleeing the room in shame, she was being pulled against him, note still clutched in his hand as his arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace.

“It does make sense, sweetheart,” he hummed against her neck. “I love you too.”

Tav smiled against his shirt, eyes falling shut with relief. It was the first time either of them had said it.

***

In the eventful days that followed, Tav forgot about the note entirely. After tax season came final preparations to take on the Elder Brain. Then, the battle itself was followed by a period of necessary healing, in which Tav spent weeks in bedrest. All the while, Dammon remained at her side, both of them grateful that the other had made it out of the entire ordeal alive.  

She hadn’t even known Dammon bothered to keep the note until many years later, when she came across it by chance while flipping through some old books of theirs. At first, she was confused as to why he’d folded the note inside a copy of an erotic play—The Pleasurable Deal. It wasn’t until she read the opening lines that any of it made any sense to her.

For now the game did start. He’d said that, she recalled, that first time they’d met at the Carress. At the time, she hadn’t known what he was talking about. But now, it made sense, perhaps more than he could possibly have realized at the time. Just like the protagonist, they’d both gotten far more than they’d bargained for with that deal.

She smiled as she read the words she’d written so long ago—I love you.

If that first night was how the game started, then this was how it ended.

#bg3ficfeb #Dammon x Tav #The Hellion's Heart #Forged from the Heart #The Devil You Know #fanfic #fanfiction #bg3

[melodicaria]

Transformers: Goosebumps | Dark Autobots Snippet

So my silly bitch ass was thinking about dark Autobots. Not quite Shattered Glass, but similar, but like they're as evil as I want them to be! Here's just a snippet that I pumped out in a few minutes, not finalized or edited, but I had finished watching this Netflix movie, 'Leave the World Behind' and it just sparked me with an idea on how to start this. I jotted this idea down a while ago and just never got back to it- until now. Could you tell I had listened to Goosebumps by Travis Scott!? :p

Title: Goosebumps Summary: As Sam watches aliens descend upon their planet, he realizes with horror that they're not as peaceful and freedom loving as they claim to be.

It's the cellphones that go first. Sam's not too disturbed, after all, he still has his computer.

But soon that goes too.

12 plane crashes. One day.

There are thousands of people dead. Their corpses littered the pavement. Three said flights landed in a major city, hitting five buildings, with a blast radius double their length.

Every once in a while there's an odd ringing. Worldwide.

Nationwide blackouts.

The crops stop growing.

The water is drying up faster than they can calculate.

Metal sprouts from the ground, sharp jagged edges in a brilliant silver impaling people at random.

It's no longer safe to go outside.

People start getting sick, some are dying within days, others are cured from their disease.

Situations are too dire to upkeep most public spaces. School is canceled, prisons are full of riots, people storm their capitals and raise hell until their questions are answered.

And the government is silent.

The kings and queens are silent.

Because they too, haven't the faintest idea of what will happen next- what has happened.

Sam as an inkling.

The world is ending.

And then…

Metal beasts descend from the sky. Cybertronians, they call themselves.

The Universe is under attack and Earth holds the one object to save it.

But of course, humanity figures it's not a good idea to give it to them.

If only they had known.

The steel giants show no mercy, especially after one of their own is injured in a scuffle.

Hell is unleashed in a torrent of waves. Fire. Water. Ice. Wind. Bullets.

Bombs.

Sam thinks it's funny that now everyone on Earth decides to band together to a united front. He's picked up and torn from his family to protect the very thing the aliens are here for. He doesn't quite understand why they just don't give them the damned thing.

But he guards it like his life is on the line. Because it is.

Bombs are strapped to their bodies, in case they get any lucky ideas.

But he gets good at his job. His parents are held at gunpoint, along with another dozen or so, and a cap will be put in their skull if they don't comply.

So Sam has no other choice but to be good at his job. His fuck up, fucks them up.

Maybe, he gets too good at his job. He sees too much. He watches people bargain using other people as currency. He stays guarding the AllSpark at all hours. The only exception being getting sleep and eating.

He contacts his parents once a month. He has no clue where Miles is, and sometimes it gets so much to the point where he can barely remember his name. His parents name.

He gets bored. The others don't speak to him so…

He speaks to the AllSpark.

In an interesting turn of events, it speaks back, in a way.

The giant metal cube will shift whenever he's near, panels and plates clicking and elevating, swirling in a flurry of energy around his body. For a long time in a while, he laughs, and enjoys the time he spends here.

And for all of the horrible things that the world is faced with, for all of humanity's struggles and strife, for the brink of destruction they are forced on, the very object that started it all is the one thing that brings him hope.

He hopes the war ends soon.

But the insanity is only beginning.

#transformers bayverse #transformers idw #autobots #decepticons #sam witwicky #allspark #allspark & sam antics #snippet #story idea #ao3 writer #fanfic #tfp

[jaggedjot]

Returning to Interview with the Vampire (our own “do over”) is always such a rewarding experience for me. The show is so rich and dense that whenever I rewatch an episode I end up making more notes, noticing different details, refining my theories. It is a common practice to release teaser scenes in the lead up to a new season, but Interview with the Vampire is perhaps the first show I have encountered that feels like this microcosm format actively benefits the work, because it allows the audience time to appreciate the fine detail. And the brilliant thing is that this process of revisiting and rethinking about the story is built into the premise and supporting framework of the entire show.

#the show of all time #Interview with the Vampire #Vampterview #Jagged Jottings

[love-minor-poltergeist]

fem reader this, fem reader that. (/lh, /nm) can i get a king dice x nb!reader(no booba but female genetalia)? i wanna see how my favourite minecraft headed dumbass reacts to his s/o who likes formal wear. regular clothing would be a white polo, black pants and combat boots. if ya dont wanna do this, its fine ^^

A/N: Do you think anyone made a minecraft mod where they just replaced all the dirt blocks with King Dice’s head. This question has been haunting me since I read this. Jokes aside though, I’m incredibly sorry that this took me so long to get too– please, please, please feel free to message me to let me know if there’s any adjustments you’d like me to do! It’s only fair!!!

Also, I wasn’t sure if you wanted a batch of hcs or if you wanted a small drabble/ficlet, so I opted for both to be safe! Granted, the drabble ended up deviating from the prompt slightly. Again, shoot me a message if you want me to rewrite anything!

┍━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┑

King Dice:

Oh, King Dice loves it. 

Fashion had always been a fondness of Dices’. While he’s not the type to obsessively follow the latest trends (he is the one who sets them, thank you very much), Dice has found himself steadily growing a collection of men’s fashion catalogs. All the while circling various articles of suits, shirts, and accessories he’d like to see you in; even going as far as to jot down a few notes/ideas of the various looks he could make for you…

Most of which are the standard things you’d expect from him: “This would be a good color for them”, “Good for our upcoming date!”, “They’d like this”, and “This’d make their butt look cute”, etc. 

Was it selfish of him to want to dress you up like his little doll? Perhaps. On the other hand, Dice can’t really find it in himself to care too much. Especially since it stroked all of the possessive parts of his brain just right. 

Would 100% let you borrow some of his clothes. Not only do you look gorgeous in most of the clothes he owns, but it also leaves his mark on you~

If you happen to get rather comfortable stealing his clothes, then the die isn’t afraid to threaten to steal some of your own. Granted, some of your shirts end up looking like crop tops on him. But he pulls it off well.

Treasures the small moments of dressing up together. Small gestures like helping you with a stubborn tie, buttoning up your shirt while you rubbed the sleep from your eye, or your smaller hands smooth out any wrinkles on his suit— all of it means the world to him. 

A bit unnerved of your combat boots. The rugged leather and jagged teeth soles are a far cry from the smooth spats he’s accustomed to. He’s lovingly dubbed them your “shit kickers”.

------------------Bonus Drabble: “Honeytrap”--------------------

King Dice had a penchant for pretty things. 

If it was a priceless painting, he’s quick to take it for himself and seal it away in his office; a treasure for his eyes only. If it’s a high-end watch, he’ll have it on him at all times. Taking great care to casually adjust the cuff of his suit to show a sliver of sterling silver; unafraid and unashamed of flaunting his prize. 

The same could be said for the souls who caught his eye. Be it a pretty woman or a strapping man or anything in between, it was of little importance to him. What the King wants, the King gets.

It was a song dance as old as time. Dice meets someone new, he flirted and charmed them, whispering sweet nothings and empty promises. Hapless lovers are left drunk off the honeymoon period, eagerly drinking in the Dice’s affection as if it were an endless river of wine. Sooner or later, the drought comes. King Dice grows bored. The initial thrill of his latest catch fades away. Leaving behind a stale taste in his mouth. He kicked them to the curb. Wash, rinse, repeat.

He’s the flame that melted the candle. Pain wrapped in a velvet-lined box. A nightmare dressed as a daydream. 

Because once the King decided he fancied a potential lover, it was bound to end in heartbreak. 

So when he spotted you across the barroom floor, seated at the counter and idly stirring your drink, the die thought he had found himself a new notch on his bedpost. 

Oblivious to the wry smirk that formed on your lips, eyes alight with devious intent.

Two could play at that game, bitch.

┕━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┙

#my writing #requests #x reader #reader insert #reader inserts #afab reader #cuphead dont deal with the devil #cuphead: don't deal with the devil #cuphead ddwtd #the cuphead show #king dice x reader #king dice #king dice headcanons

[clumsiestgiantess]

The seventh chapter of the Other-world Universe; Alexis tries her best to make amends.

all chapters linked here

[Progress is progress, I guess]

You don’t know how hard I tried to stay away, but the small world in the basement was just too fascinating to leave for long.  It was like fate, or maybe just my brother wanting to play, was drawing me back.  Despite this, I never set foot near anywhere I thought Erica might be.  I wanted to stay true to my word, after all.  

Every once and a while, when I was bored, I would go off and explore, though.  Constantly, I would wander through the mountains where I found the climber, wondering if he’d left or if I just kept missing him.  While walking through the area where I’d first arrived, I came across a beautiful lake, cut off from the rest of the world by the jagged mountains surrounding it.  Another time, after hiking for three days, I finally found a beach.  It wasn’t an ocean beach, like I wanted, but rather a large lake; from my tall height, I could faintly see the other side.  Still, it was a beach, and I didn’t want to hike further than that anyways.  To get all the way out there I’d packed a bag full of food, water, and a sleeping bag, invisibly camping anywhere that was large enough for me.  Thankfully I only needed to walk the way there.  To get back, all I had to do was return to my world, think about the open field, and I'd be there.

During those three days, as I carefully trekked through forests and fields away from civilization, I was blinded by a flash of light from above.  After shielding my eyes from the initial glare, I fought to look up.  I only managed to catch the tail end of the strange phenomenon.  What looked like a bolt of empty black lightning split the air, but instead of fading away like normal lightning, it hovered in the sky for a long moment.  Then, the jagged streak vanished as quickly as it came.  I had no idea what the strange lightning-esque flash had been, but I didn’t give it too much thought.  It could’ve been any number of things.  The dark zigzag could’ve been a blank spot in my vision after the strange bright light.  For all I know, the other-world might actually have a weird type of black lightning.  I ignored it and carried on.

I had a lot more free time to spend in the other-world now that I wasn’t looking after Erica 24-7, so I used the extra hours not only for adventuring, but to map out the city and everything around it.  Eventually, I hoped to have a map of all the buildings that shared a twin in my world, as well as how far the limits of the playtable actually reached.  

See, the buildings on the table in my world weren’t a perfect match to the ones there; the other-world had almost twice as many thanks to all the residential areas that were basically nonexistent in my own world.  All the twin buildings I'd come across so far were always somewhat important places, and I'd slowly been jotting all of them down.  My brother and I hadn't aimed to make a perfect little city, after all.   It made sense that a few of the lesser important details were omitted from our building project.

At first, Liam had wanted to make the playtable a complete mishmash of dinosaurs and cool superhero fortresses, but thankfully I'd managed to talk him out of it.  I wonder how differently my first day would've gone if I'd let Liam stick with his original plan.  How much of the other-world inhabitants' lives would we have altered without even knowing it?  What if we took everything off the table and started over right now with a completely new theme, like an alien planet or a giant amusement park?  Would everyone here just vanish like the city had never existed, or would they be forced to live completely new lives in whatever we'd created?  If they did, would they even remember their old ones?

That train of thought was getting a little too existential for my liking.  I shook myself off, forcing my brain to backtrack to what I was doing prior to the rabbit hole I'd briefly fallen down.  I scanned the paper in my hands for a moment.  Right, I was looking for twin buildings in the city.  My need for a list of similar buildings first came with the slightly obvious realization that the three-pronged skyline in the other-world — which I assumed was the same as the four-pronged one in my world from a weird angle — actually only had three prongs.  I’d walked around the other-world long enough to see the city from numerous angles, and all of them had three tall needles that stuck out from the tops of skyscrapers, not four.  Immediately, I needed a new reason to believe the cities were the same.  They have to be the same.  Why else would I be here?

The twin buildings became my new proof.  Though the cities didn’t look exactly alike, they each had the same grid layout, and facilities like a town hall, an aquarium, a museum, banks and gas stations, those sorts of things.  It was a lot easier said than done, getting to everything.  I couldn’t even get close to the more populated areas unless I was attached to someone.  

Ever since the fight with Erica, I'd sworn off controlling people.  However, I did still use them for intangibility; I just didn’t force them to do anything while I was latched on.  It felt like I was making excuses to continue messing with them, but I didn’t have much of a choice.  I could either continue using the other-world people for intangibility, or go back to accidentally crushing almost everything in my path.  Obviously, I chose the former.

I'd already gotten a decent number of buildings jotted down with the help of a few oblivious puppets, when I felt something tugging at me.  I don't know how else to explain it.  I imagine the feeling's similar to the force between two magnets passing by, skating just close enough to feel the pull of the other half without actually touching it.  Stopping in the middle of writing down another contender for my list, I followed the absurd feeling toward a congested street corner.  I stood there for almost ten minutes looking for the source of my odd state.  

Finally, I caught sight of someone below me looking confusedly around in the exact way I did.  I really should've expected my 'other half' to be Erica.  I’d felt this feeling a few times before while searching for her.  It seemed to be a side effect of her being under my control for far too long.  For a brief moment, I reached out to latch onto her before recoiling away as she spun around with a furious glare that made me think twice.  Oh, she can sense I'm here too.

I could tell Erica readily wanted to berate me by the infuriated way she was glaring at the empty alleyway I stood in.  However, she would look like she'd lost her mind if she started cursing out an empty side street, so she kept quiet.  Erica stood in thought for a moment before inconspicuously gesturing to the park down the street on the opposite side of the road.  I understood; she was still intent on talking to me, just in a more out-of-the-way place.  Begrudgingly, I stepped over to the park in three long strides and waited patiently for Erica to walk the two blocks over there.  

When she finally arrived, Erica sat on a bench to the side of an empty field and caught her breath.  I chuckled despite every ounce of common sense I had.  She jogged over here for six minutes just to catch up with the three steps I'd taken.  "Is something funny to you?" Erica asked annoyedly.  "Sorry," I whispered.  I needed to keep my voice as quiet as possible so no one else would hear me and wonder why they were hearing voices in the air.  "It's nothing.  How have you been?"  I tried to change the subject, but Erica saw right through me.  Literally.  "Oh, I'm doing much better now that I'm not a puppet anymore," she quipped sarcastically, "I sure hope you weren't about to do something incredibly stupid to change that."  I sighed, "I wouldn't've actually made you do anything.  I meant it as.. a tap on the shoulder.  To say hi."  Erica huffed out a half-laugh that somehow radiated the opposite of laughter.

"You told me you were leaving," she said pointedly, "Why bother lying to me?  Can't you just make me forget about you?"  "I didn't lie!  I said I'd leave you alone from now on.  I never said I'd leave your world.”  "So running into me was a coincidence, was it?"  "Yes."  "Liar."  "No, I swear it is!  I've never even seen you in this part of the city.  Why would I come here to control you if I know where you live?"  Do I even know where she lives? I thought to myself.  Last I saw of her she was packing up her things to leave.

Erica sat silently for a moment, "Then, why are you over here?"  "I could ask you the same thing."  "You first."  It was fascinating, really.  For someone so small, Erica had somehow managed to back me into a corner.  I wasn't lying to her, I honestly hadn't intended to find Erica there, but at the same time I couldn't tell her the truth about what I was doing, either.  If I did, I'd have to reveal the unnerving truth about her world being fake.  That moment in the middle of the city probably wasn't the best time to explain everything.  I could see it in her; the way she hid her fear behind a mask of anger and sarcasm.  Erica knew all too well that I could puppeteer her again right then and there if I wanted, and she couldn't do anything to stop me.  I could only imagine what might happen if I told her the whole truth of everything I could mess with.  Not just her.

So, instead of tearing down her view of the entire world, I lied in the truest way possible.  "I'm here because I was mapping out the city.  With all my new free time, I've been wandering around searching for neat places and marking them down."  Erica stared into the open space where I sat, still unconvinced.  "Prove it."  I hesitated for a second, then slid the unfinished map out my pocket and unfolded it on the ground.  

Once I was sure no one was nearby, I let the paper go and it slowly faded into view.  I could hear the breath hitch in Erica's throat as a map the size of her old apartment appeared from thin air.  She stepped off the bench and onto the grass to examine my evidence.  "What do these X's mean?" she asked, pointing to a few buildings that had been sketched with two slashes over them.  "Those are the places I want to revisit once I finish the map."  Obviously I wasn't going to tell her they were really marking the twin buildings.  I quickly folded the piece of paper back up, causing it to vanish again.  I didn't want her looking it over for too long, just in case I'd jotted something down that had to do with her world.

Finally convinced I wasn't out there just to stalk her, Erica gave me a satisfied nod and returned to the park bench to collect her things.  "Hold on," I whispered before she could leave, "It's your turn to tell me what you're doing over here."  "I.." Erica hesitated, slowly turning back to me.  She suddenly looked a lot more tired than she had a minute ago; her angry facade had dropped.  "I'm lost.  I went to a new hairstylist that opened in this side of the city, and now I have no clue where I parked the car.  I know it was across the street from the aquarium, but I've only been there, like, once besides today."  The aquarium was definitely on my map.  In fact, it was one of the buildings that had a twin.  "I know where it is," I ventured, "I could take you there if you like."  

"You want to help me?" Erica asked coldly, "Gee, that sounds like a great idea.  I'll just blindly accept your help like I did last time.  Who knows, if I'm lucky I might end up as your little puppet by the end of the day."  She hadn't even said all that much, but her words still stung regardless.  I backed away guiltily and shifted onto my knees, ready to leave.  "I'm sorry," I mumbled, "Shouldn't have asked."  Erica sighed and I froze, partially standing.  She looked up at me from beneath the leafy green trees that shaded the park.  Though she couldn’t see me, she could still tell fairly well where I was.  Slowly, I knelt back down as her expression clouded with confliction.  Erica’s mouth opened and closed silently for a few minutes.  I expected her to give me some speech about how it was wrong to do what I'd done to her, which I completely understood, but she surprised me.  "Can I see that map one more time, please?"  

If she had asked me to bring her the moon or the stars instead, I would've gladly done it.  Anything to stop the gut wrenching guilt that whispered you're a monster over and over in my head.  I'd been avoiding Erica for this reason as well.  Whenever I saw her, or even thought about her, I felt the need to compensate for everything I'd done.  Apparently, she felt as if I were trying to deceive her again, but that was far from the truth.  I only wanted to prove that I could be better; for Erica, obviously, but for myself too.  The image of her hanging terrified between my fingers over the cliffside refused to leave my head.  Then there was that time I’d caught her in bed, crying.. presumably because of what I’d done to her.

I gladly spread the map out on the grass for Erica to examine.  She mutely traced the path between the park we stood in and the aquarium without a single glance at me.

After an excruciatingly dead silence, she spoke.  "Thank you, for helping me.  I.. I think you're just trying to gain my trust, but-  I'll trust you in my own time, you know?"  I let out a breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding.  "Alright."  Another heavy silence.  "Can I take the map now?"  Erica nodded and I stashed it away.  "If it's alright with you," she interjected before I could leave, "You can get places a lot faster than I can.  Would you mind waiting by my car until I get there?  Just so I don't get lost again?  We have this weird connection of some sort; I was thinking of using it like a compass."  I was so shocked by her offer I forgot to reply.  "It's fine if you don't want to.  I mean, I did just rudely deny your help a moment ago."  "No, I.. I'll meet you there."  

Erica was right; it took me very little time to find the aquarium.  I sat beside it, intangibly peering in at the sea lion show that was taking place when I'd arrived.  Eventually, I could feel the magnet-esque tug that told me Erica was nearby.  She glanced across the busy street at the space she assumed I was sitting in and mouthed thank you before driving off.  I tried to shake away the gloomy guilt and instead thought through the positives.  Miraculously, Erica was making an effort to be nice to me, despite my mistakes.  Honestly, her talking to me at all was an improvement, so long as she wasn't hurting me with bitter words.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I bumped into Erica several times — all purely unintentionally.  We both had things to do in similar places.  Erica had errands to run and her job, and I wanted to map out the city where all those things were located.  We never said much to each other.  In fact, we couldn’t have a conversation of any kind without drawing attention to ourselves.  However, Erica no longer suspected anything horrible of me.  She’d nod knowingly in my direction, and we’d both continue on with our lives.  

We’d only come close to talking once — when I happened to walk by as Erica was getting a parking ticket.  The moment she sensed my presence, she began gesturing for me to deal with the officer every time their back was turned.  I hesitated, wondering if it was a test to see if I would control them.  Honestly, I think that was what she wanted, but I decided to deal with things differently.  Returning to my world for a split second, I grabbed a single plastic bill and willed it to become 100 dollars as I stepped back through.  

Thankfully, there was an empty lot on the other side of the road where I could appear without destroying anything.  Erica looked beyond relieved when she sensed me re-appear.  Cautiously, I reached out over her car and waited until the officer turned to their vehicle for something.  The moment they did, I nudged her arm very lightly with one finger, opening my hand to reveal the fresh bill.

Just as I’d suspected, Erica seemed confused by my offer.  She had wanted me to control them — likely to avoid being given a ticket at all.  A moment later, she nodded at me, realizing that I was only trying to avoid what had made her so angry with me in the first place.  I latched on to intangibility and stepped away, figuring that giving her the money she needed was enough interaction with her for the day.  It was how I’d ended up in that situation in the first place, after all.  I certainly didn’t want to repeat any of my mistakes.

Three weeks after the incident with the map, I officially heard from Erica again.  By that time, I'd completely mapped out the city and had moved on to measuring how far the table in my world extended in this one.  The scale was more than a little bit off, which both confused and frustrated me.  I was passing by Erica's house, trying to determine how far the mountains were from the city with a distance tracker, when I noticed an arrow made from fallen branches in her yard.  The arrow pointed to a large flat rectangle lying on the lawn.  I slowed to examine it.  Erica's car wasn't in the driveway, so I couldn't ask what the thing was, but it had 'to the giant' scrawled on it so I assumed it was for me.  I picked up the rectangle of what seemed to be poster board and turned it over curiously.

It was a note, written out in large letters so I could read them without straining my eyes.

I don't know if you're ever coming back here, but if you find this I want you to know that-

The rest of the letter was written in slightly different penmanship, as though she'd stopped writing for a while before continuing with the rest.

I'm ready for us to meet up again.  Just to be clear, this is NOT me forgiving you.  I want to move on from what happened, and I hope you do too.  After all, you were only trying to help me, albeit in a very backwards way.  If you can find sometime for us to talk, I’m willing to.

It looked like Erica had tried to fit more onto the poster board, but ran out of room writing in a font big enough for me to read.  My heart leapt faster in my chest as I re-read what she'd written.  It had been a while since we'd talked, and even then, we'd never actually had a normal conversation.  Maybe things weren’t as hopeless as I thought!  Remember, I thought to myself, trying to calm down, she hasn't forgiven you, so take it easy.  One step at a time.  You're overwhelming enough as it is.  However small a step the note may be, progress is progress, and I was grateful for it.

#what was that weird lightning tho? #other-world universe #g/t #giant tiny

[unearthlyfromage]

Chapter 2 is ready!

Huge thanks to @trangenderstan my amazing editor and @koraesdoodles my fantastic beta reader!

Content warning! This story has gore, body horror, major character death, psychological torment, etc. If that's not something you can handle, it's alright! Not all stories are for everyone.

AO3 link;

For those that want to stay here on Tumblr, the chapter will be under the cut!

There was an intrepid silence throughout the large and cave ridden wilderness. Crackle and squeal of odd logs under the blaze of a roaring fire, the man sat in his cave poking at the embers with a large metal rod. It wasn’t as if he’d been here long, no, he was merely hiding out. Away from his crimes, far from civilized people living off foreign lands. A forest of no trees, of no bark and leafy green. Instead, moss. Moss and stone and flowers as far as the eye could see, amongst rows and rows of large fungal brilliance. 

Setting the rod down with a huff, satisfied with the warmth, he checked the roast sitting racked above the flames as it was licked and tasted by pure heat. Some kind of three tusked and six limbed boar he’d shot down after it attempted to charge him. 

It would make a fine meal, Stan figured, digging through the many bags he’d kept tightly strapped down to one another for the sake of travel. 

He watched as it took out a leather bound tome, and sat in a criss-cross as it jotted inquiries and findings of this strange land, a way to keep its wits he figured. Document the places he’s been, the things he’s seen. Everything is quiet, peaceful. A silence he’d grown to love over the years, a change of pace from the whitenoise of other people surrounding him all his life until that swirling bright light dragged him in from the darkness of normalcy. 

He was so enthralled he didn’t notice the eye in the darkness. 

The creeping and lanky thing staring at him with hunger, claws digging deep into the fungus he’d been latched onto. The boar smelled nice, but he was more focused on the pig with its nose stuffed in its book. 

Sliding down the large, thick stock he left jagged lines down either side as he did. The large, black disfigured fingertips slicing through like a steak knife to warm butter, clawed and mangled feet doing much the same. He heaved a satisfied sigh. He had him right where he wanted him. 

Stan wasn’t a picky person, not by any means. He knew a tasty meal when he saw one, and it looked so helpless. Of course it was armed, the modified pistol beside him on his belt buckle quite obvious in the glint of the two moons. Slinking his way around the perimeter, Stan eyed this creature like the spectacle it was. Contemplating how he was to do this, he realized that he’d have to find a way inside the cave if he really wanted to have fun. It’s not the prey itself, but the way you approach it, that makes the moment.

Slinking off and into the darkness once more, his one unblinking eye bore into the other with a finality, he thought of a way to make him move. The sounds of wildlife were so loud behind him, the yapping and chittering howls of strange four eyed canines heavy in the air. They smelled food, and so did he. He was going to enjoy the spoils.

He took a moment to process the way these things sounded. The way they skittered. The whimpers and yelps they let out when fighting amongst themselves. Eye refusing to move from his target, he saw the way the other’s head lifted with every noise, that telltale fear yet intrigue. There was no better bait than giving them what they wanted. He fought back the urge to guffaw at past moments, times where he’d played with their minds and watched the way they ticked. Sickening as it was. 

Whispering a few trial runs to himself, his mouth curling to match notes, neck twitching in effort he managed to make rather convincing mimics. It was far easier to parrot human noises but animals weren’t too difficult compared to them, it just required a little more practice. Hunkering low he emitted these crowing howls in mocking gestures to the actual thing, on his fours to make adequate sounds in the bush-like moss growths, kicking it up as he circled.

At first there was panic, they all looked the same when they panicked. The way their eyebrows twitched up, mouth curled down and posture lowered, ready. Of course this was not true fear. He knows true fear, in their sniveling vulnerable faces pinned underneath him he’s seen it. An expression that spoke thousands of words. Second, it was curiosity, eyes narrowed and standing up straighter as if he were some kind of higher power. Typical, as they were never anything more than false Gods. Needless to say it got his attention alright, standing up with his gun out and aimed ready to strike. Stan was no dumb animal - he knew this thing was about to shoot, and made louder, more growling sounds to make hairs raise in that way he so adored. 

A marvelous, echoing bang rustled through the moss laden woods in a tremble as he fired. Stan eyed the charred greenery just a little up from where he was, a pained croaking whimper leaving Stan’s lips in the hopes it makes the man come up to see if he’s hit anything. Getting up on his feet to silently slink towards the cave away from him, he watched as the idiot took the lure well, boots crunching atop the small rocks to scour the area with a light, talking to himself. Stan paid no mind to it, quickly entering the open stony maw to clamber up the walls and wait on the ceiling, in a divot that goes just above the lip. 

Angry mutterings filled the empty echoes, the sounds of scraping and something settling as the other sat down to prod at the meat some more, talking of ‘getting better at his sharp-shooting’. He’ll have to help with his eyesight, staring into the back of his head. He could dig around in his skull a little, find what makes him so rotten. But only He could see such impurities of the mind. Stan was nothing more than a driving force, and he understood that perfectly. 

Dropping down slowly, silently, arms flexing taught as he gingerly set his weight towards the floor. Tips of sharp, gnarled toes brushing against rocky ground, he let go once he knew he could ease down silently enough to be masked by the roaring flames. They were so beautiful, even if they were the wrong color. Orange was angry, uncontrolled, unpredictable. Blue fits the dancing brilliance so much better. Tantalizing in the way they waved, every curve and curl exactly as He designed them. 

The softest click of talon-like digits against the ground was his only warning, face snapping backwards just in time to see Stan lunge, a yell of panic quickly turning to wails of agony as Stan buried him nose down in the burning embers, stomping down on his wrists to keep him from grasping at his weapon. Screams of laughter and deep, guttural wails filled the forests as Stan quaked with enjoyment, raising his head up to let him breathe the smokey air just to dig it back down, his blackened hands calloused and largely unaffected by the lapping and coiling heat that sunk bites and sharp kisses into the others flesh, melting glasses to skin and eyes as hair went alight in the struggle. He was yanking him by the hair so hard he was sure he tugged out most of it by the time he found it boring. Looking down at his feet, Stan loved the way that disgusting thing writhed and curled in agony, his cries quieter now, interlayed in horrific coughing fits of a man inhaling fungal spore laden smoke. 

Throwing him away, he grabbed the gun from its place on his body and threw it far into the woods. It misfired with its impact, but that was hardly of any importance. Stan busied himself with getting the boar off its rack, as the meat tried to crawl away, sucking in breaths like a newborn, grizzling like one at that. He didn’t think the man could see anymore, given the way his eyelids glued shut with melted plastic and tempered glass, but there was always the chance. He never knew why they tried to run at this stage, it wasn’t like there was an existence to look forward to past this point. 

Dislodging the metal skewer, he walked towards the crawling man, shaking six fingered hands grasping at the moss as if it would save him. Dragging him back by the ankles, he relished in the fresh sob of wordless mercy that left him, a plea that needed no eloquence. A plea that would ultimately fall on deaf ears, gripping him by the throat to steady him. Hands gripped at Stan's wrist, clawing at his face with desperation, weak legs kicking at him as he garbled and gasped with an agonal need to survive and yet none of it truly mattered. 

Despite all his struggling, Stan still plunged the skewer through his mouth, watching the way he went rigid at the searing of heated metal piercing through parts of him he’s never felt before, splintering through soft tissue and jutting out through him, just under his tailbone, moving muscle and bone and soft tissue to the sides. He twitched, flame-broiled mind attempting to process the input of so much pain, and Stan delighted in the little show as he propped the body up on the fire. 

Standing there, Stan regarded the scene, trying to judge on the twitchy jagged movements of his  whether or not it’s just his body reacting, or if he was actually still alive. Either way, he wouldn’t be for long. Sitting down, he flicked through the papers, one hand holding the heavy book as the other dug handfuls out of the boar to his side. It was a little raw, but he doubted anything living inside this thing would survive his body. Barely anything does, if the diseases he’d stamped out that were presumably “fatal” were anything to go by. 

It was generally boring drivel, the only thing irking him were the constant mentions of Him, all the words they choose to use blaspheming Him and His influence, claiming Him to be some sort of monster. Growing increasingly angry with every word, his claws dug rivers through the beaten leather covers, shaking in his grasp as he bore his eye into the corpse. 

Standing, he threw the tome into the roaring flames, embers billowing in plumes at the sudden intrusion. He stayed unphased, teeth grit tight enough to rattle his poorly mended skull. He spit on the mangled face as one last act of disrespect, and took his leave, stomping away into the dark woods. Scary and unclimbable to normal persons, but he could see quite well in the dark, not nearly as well as something created for the night but He had graced him with the privilege of such an upgrade. 

Moss was soft under his gait, the winds cool on his thick, marred skin. Opening his mouth, he smelled nothing more than an airy, earthy smell, ever so slightly sweet but pungent. Mushroom. Lights in the distance, an indication of life past the rustling of creatures behind him cawing and baying, he figured he could try to find another on the same planet, in the same universe. Though he knew he’d have to leave eventually, they might be cockroaches but they spread out far and wide. 

Stepping foot onto paved dirt, he rolled his shoulders. The town was sleeping, night gripping the souls of all the residents putting them under into sleep so sweet and enveloping. He loved towns like these. Silent, empty, the few odd souls up at such an hour stumbling about or slinking away. Criminals and grifters, people after his own heart though he could never place why - he was a man of intense and dedicating loyalty he had no time nor care to dabble in such a thing - it wasn’t as if his nose worked to begin with to take most narcotics. 

Taking out a battered photo, he stared down at the look-alike with hatred. An old wanted sign, detailing the high bounty of one Stanford F. Pines. It stained the bottom of his small bag for a decade now, and faded as it was; he found it quite useful to his goals. His steps were quiet for someone so large, lumbering over to a person-esq creature asleep on a bench, hat tilted downward and arms lazily crossed. 

Waking it up abruptly, slamming it into the wall it leaned against, he allowed it a few sputtering gasps before dangling the paper in front of it. 

“Hello,” he growled out, eye boring deep into the many eye-like dots it had instead. His lips split into a wide open grin. “Have you seen this worm recently?” 

~~

It just doesn’t make sense. There was no rhyme or reason to the death of all of these people. It had stopped for a moment, the track growing suddenly cold and dead and yet they always seemed to pop back up again. It was gruesome scene after gruesome scene, the same person. With no explanations, no leads, there was hardly anything they could do but document the phenomenon. 

Every town they visited shied away from them. Barred and locked their doors demanding they leave, talking about some great darkness that laid claim to their homesteads and haunted their streets, demanding to know where people that looked just like them were hiding. It was almost scary, in a way. Knowing you are being hunted like vermin. It was a sour taste in the back of his mouth, looking over the papers they had on the subject. 

It was dead for years, but the information gatherer they sent to one of the neighboring planets close to their home base grew silent. He already knew about all the natural dangers from the locals, so dying by them was low but never zero. Something about it made him intrigued, the question on his teeth asking if it really was this thing yet again, back from wherever it was hiding. 

Who was this thing, if it was a ‘who’ at all. It could be a ‘we’, an ‘it’. Anything. It could be a part of Bill's entourage, but all of their questionnaires rung up dead for that line of thinking. Setting them down, he huffed a sigh and drank from his mug of coffee, six fingers tapping against the wood in a rhythm. 

Why was it doing this?

#gravity falls #revised evil stan au #gravity falls au #stan pines #evil stan au #ford pines #the costs of our hubris #unearthlywritings

[dross-the-fish]

Can I please get a drabble of Anon (fem pronouns please) assisting Hyde with lab work and asking for a thank you kiss?

(For the purpose of these drabbles I'm going to treat Anon like a player character and approach the scenario like they're part of the group.)

Anon padded down the hall until she stopped just short of Edward Hyde's laboratory. Usually she wouldn't disturb him at such a late hour but something had been weighing heavily on her mind and Edward, brusque though he could be, often had good perspective to offer and his directness often afforded her a straightforward answer and a clean solution. As she plucked up the courage to knock on the laboratory door, she hoped he wouldn't be cross with her.

She waited, listening to the sound of objects being shuffled and the clink of glass against the desk he set down his work. Nothing had been hurled against the door and no sound of cursing or shattering issued forth. Anon took this as an encouraging sign and waited patiently, knowing that further knocking might push Hyde's mood from tolerance to irritation.

The door opened, revealing a more ragged than usual Edward. His hair was grimy, his eyes bloodshot and set in deep sockets with circles so dark that they looked bruised. Yet he did not seem angry with her, if anything it looked as though he were relieved for an excuse to stop working.

"And what brings the young lass to my door?" he rasped, lips lifting away from his jagged teeth in a half smile.

"I was hoping you could answer a question for me," she asked, "Don't spare me or give me false hope...is it true the anti-lycan formula will stop working soon? That Larry's building a resistance to it?"

Hyde studied her and nodded gravely, "I'm working on a new strain as we speak but in all honestly, it's bleak." he said, "I've had little progress and we're running out of time."

Anon's face fell, not the news she wanted to hear, but she appreciated his honesty.

"Will that be all then?" Hyde asked gruffly, discomfited by her obvious disappointment.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Anon asked.

Hyde studied her, his mouth drawing into a tight line and he scratched one of his mutton-chop sideburns thoughtfully, "I've the acquaintance of a mycologist in town, Alice Liddel, queer woman but very reliable, likely she'll have what I need. Go see her and you can pick up 10 grams of Inocybe aeruginascens. Can you remember that name or shall I need to write it down for you?’

“Write it down,” Anon replied flatly.

Hyde chuckled, and reached for a ream of paper from his desk, tearing off a scrap and jotting down the name and amount in his cramped, sharply slanted handwriting, “There you are, love. Agree to get me those mushrooms and I’ll throw in an extra 5 quid for you.”

She took the scrap from him and chewed her lip, hesitating for a moment before she made up her mind that she wanted something else in reward for her efforts.

“Might I have a kiss instead?” she asked, rather more boldly than she had intended.

Hyde’s shaggy head swiveled upon his short neck in surprise, “You want a kiss? From me?” he asked, bemused at the idea, “Why not. But I ain’t going to give it to you, you’ll need to come here and take it.” he took a long stride backwards into his lab and grinned at her expectantly.

Anon hesitated for only a moment, it was too late to take it back now, she reasoned and she followed after him. She bent over him and placed a soft kiss on his lips.

Before she could withdraw Hyde had locked his arms around her and dipped her, so that he was bowed over her. His kiss was rough, more than a little sloppy and the coarse hair on his chin tickled her. To her surprise Anon did not find it an unpleasant experience. Once he had thoroughly kissed her he set her back on her feet, twirled her and gave a jolly laugh, “Nothing like a good kiss, eh? Go on then! Off to bed with you and get me those mushrooms first thing tomorrow.”

Anon barely had time to register him ushering her out of the lab and shutting his door before she was, once again, in the hallway. This time with a note in her hand and a task to complete in the morning.

#Edward Hyde #drabbles for anon #Fetch quests for anon

[pekoepriv]

this was his favourite part of every investigation --- those first moments when it was just him , alone with the body. no one scrutinizing him. no one making demands of him. no one asking foolish questions , or expecting him to make small talk about the weather or , worse , the latest inane fad , some horrible television show or mindless mobile application. of course , the eager uniformed officer who'd been first on the scene was there , but all the uniforms were so afraid of the medical examiner ( he had to give them credit --- they learned quickly ) that the rookie was making a show of busying himself with his notepad , jotting down observations about the scene , and carefully avoiding making eye contact. just him , the body , and the FACTS. fact 1 : the decedent was male. fact 2 : the decedent was young , no more than thirty years of age. fact 3 : the decedent hadn't been dead long. temp and lividity suggested the man had died within the last three hours. fact 4 : signs of a struggle. the decedent fought with the attacker. tears on the victim's clothing and bruising on his knuckles suggested that he hadn't made it easy for his killer. he should make a note of that for the detective. the attacker would likely bear matching bruises. and finally , fact 5 : perhaps strangest of all , a long , jagged wound along the victim's side. strange , not because you don't expect to see knife wounds on murder victims , but because it wasn't cause of death. cause of death , in the end , appeared to be . . . poisoning. the paleness of the man's lips and sickly sweet smell on his breath was a dead giveaway. odd , that. even knowing he was already dying , the decedent had fought until the poison had rendered him too weak , and then all the killer needed to do was run and let the poison finish its work. what was worth fighting a battle you already knew you'd lost ? ' dr. aldric . . . ' the uniformed officer's wavering voice pulled him from his reverie. he bit off an annoyed retort , especially when the officer's next words were ' . . . THE DETECTIVE'S HERE. ' henry felt his grip tighten around the victim's wrist , and he forced himself to draw in a calming breath. maybe those first moments alone with the body were his second favourite part of an investigation . . . @moonpriv

#I HOPE THIS WORKS #I'M SORRY I'M RUSTY