#but I did a wash with black paint on the gold part

[littlefreya]

Neptune's Snare

Summary: She came to take revenge on the loathsome man who murdered her fiance, only to become his captive.

Read Chapter One

Pairing: AU!Pirate August Walker x Virgin OFC (for now 😏)

Word count: 3k

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI. Sexual themes, dark themes mentioned, historical inaccuracies, kidnapping, captivity, graphic descriptions of sex, intimidation, slow burn, sexual tension, foul language.

A/N: I was unsure whether I should do part 2, but @deandoesthingstome (💖) motivated me to do it, so I truely hope you will like it. Many thanks to @agniavateira, for beta'ing. I am no longer using my old tag list, but I will tag those who specifically asked to be tagged for this story via my new Writing Update Blog @littlefreyaslibrary.

Thanks for reading, and please reblog with a comment 🖤

Chapter Two

Hours had passed since the Captain left—hours of futile attempts to escape the cruelty of the heavy iron binds. By now, the ship was deep into the ocean, miles away from any harbour or piece of land. The notion that she’d been abducted by the most ruthless murderer known to authorities had only just begun to sink. 

As hot tears stung at her cheeks, Lizette couldn’t help but chuckle at the stupidity that led her to this fate.

‘Did you really think that a foolish girl could succeed where great men had failed?’ 

If Lizette had dared be honest, she would admit she never thought that plan through, not that it mattered much anymore. Soon enough, she would be yet another shiny trinket in Blackbeard’s gaudy collection.

Exhausted from a fierce yet futile battle, she leaned her head back against the plush, gold-paneled wall. Her weary gaze drifted through the open window, where the dark skies and black seas merged into a desolate void. No light shone through tonight; the darkness has devoured the stars and the moon. Lizette felt as if she was drowning in it too, sinking into a thick, tar-like liquid. With each breath, the collar around her throat grew heavier, the iron pressing into her skin and dragging her deeper and deeper until everything faded to black.

When she blinked again, it was still night but the cabin was lit in deep shades of honey and amber. Her heart skipped—once for the iron still hanging from her neck and twice as her bleary eyes caught sight of a shadow by the edge of the big table.  

It appeared that her host had returned. 

Boots flung across the food-abundant table, the Captain sat back in his royal velvet chair. One hand cradled a silver chalice whilst the other toyed with the edge of his thick whiskers. Silver trays of food, wine, and books were splayed before him, surrounded by dozens of fat, wax-dripping candles. The flickering flame guttered upon his eyes, painting them bright red while he observed the girl intently. 

The curiosity was mutual, at least to some extent. As loathsome as the pirate was, Lizette could not help but scrutinise. Never in her life did she see a man so crude and yet so regal at the same time, He looked like a washed-out king, holding himself to a higher status amongst the scum aboard his ship. Surrounding himself with fine art, books and scientific obscurities, one would assume that this low-life man was educated, or at least aspired to be. His appearance, too, was of some sort of false elegance,  with his moustache carefully groomed and his hair neatly combed save for an errant curl that fell upon his tanned forehead. However, the white cotton shirt that hung partially unbuttoned and loose from his shoulders exposed him for what he truly was as it revealed a myriad of tattoos, scars, and coarse hair. 

‘Nothing but a filthy scoundrel.’

“At last, sleeping beauty is awake.” 

Lizette kept her tongue knotted. The blazes on her stare answered on her behalf. 

August scoffed at the silent response. ‘Precious little thing,’ Had only she known how much he enjoyed obstinate women. The only thing that was better than bending a spitfire to his will was getting a nun to kneel before his cock.

A slight twitch tugged at his cheek; his smirk widening at the fond memory.  

‘Ah, Mary… you sure pray hard.’

Letting go of his whiskers and the chalice in his grasp, the Captain reached for a loaf of bread and split it in half. Steam rose and coiled to the air.  The scrumptious scent of the freshly baked goods quickly filled the room and wafted over Lizette in a tempting invitation. Absentminded, she suckled her bottom lip, almost able to taste the sweetness on her tongue. 

The pirate held out one piece of the loaf, an unmistakably provoking grin lighting his face. “Would you dine with me, pet?”

Weakness unfurled through her, reminding Lizette that it must have been hours, if not an entire day, since she last ate. Her empty belly flipped and gurgled so loudly that the pirate could hear it even from where he sat. Joy immediately cascaded about his glance; the impish grin between his cheeks further stretched. 

To his delightful surprise, the girl was a lot more stubborn than she appeared. Instead of begging, she offered a spiteful glare and turned her face away. 

“I’d rather starve!” 

“Suit yourself.” The Captain shrugged and bit on one of the pieces. Hums and moans sputtered from his mouth, all exaggerated to taunt his brazen prisoner. As he finished chewing, he sucked on each of his inked fingers. 

“Got a name, pet?”

“What matter is that to you?” The girl spat.

August shrugged again and returned to the chalice, dragging it on the table's surface in circular motions. A deep-red whirlpool briefly formed in his drink. He stared at it indifferently as he retorted, “Matters not, pet. But since you’ll be spending some time here in my quarters, I will require a moniker to approach you by. Question is, would you rather I choose a name for you myself? It won’t be a nice one. I can promise you that.” 

Keeping her eyes averted, the girl folded her knees and hugged them, a deep sigh sinking from her. She couldn’t even bring herself to imagine the horrendous name he would choose.

“My name is Lizette.” 

A touch of dark delight kissed his face—as if he had heard the enchanting hymn of a siren. Thoughtful, he stopped stirring his drink to the sound of her name, licked his lips, lifted the chalice and pressed it to his lips. “Ah, yes, you are definitely a Lizzy.” 

“It’s Lizette!” she vehemently corrected.  

“Oh!” The pirate abruptly twirled his free hand in the air, his brows lifting in a sardonically submissive gesture. “Forgiveness! Mercy, milady!” That had earned him the attention he was hoping to receive, as finally, Lizette snapped to glare at him. 

The pure ire on her face did nothing but feed his amusement. 

With a slanted grin and his thumb brushing his whiskers, he eyed her back. It’s been a while since a girl piqued his fascination, and this one was indeed something else. Fear seeped from her like dewy nectar from a ripe fruit. The sheen of sweat clinging to her skin and the throbbing at the crook of her neck gave away her true emotions. Yet, she exuded the unyielding fury of a harpy, the shackles around her throat barely deterring her brazen spirit.. 

‘Bold little thing. As ferocious as the ship’s cat…’ August thought and then frowned, ‘Where is that ungodly creature, anyway? Haven’t seen it in a while.’ 

“Lady Lizette…” the correct moniker rolled smoothly on his tongue in an inherently sinister sweetness. “Are you always such a rude guest to your hosts?”

“Guest?!” Lizette seized the chain that held her collar to the wall and lifted it in front of him—a deep frown decorating her weary face.  

“I am not a guest! I am a prisoner!”

“Ah! Ah!” The pirate lifted his inked index finger in an unbearably pretentious manner. "It was you who came aboard my ship willingly, and let us not forget—uninvited.” 

Lizette felt a chill in her chest, the same chill she always sensed when getting an answer wrong in her Latin lessons. He was right, and there was more to it. Pirate or not, doesn't every man deserve respect in his own home? 

That notion made her cheeks hot. 

“And if I may…“ the pirate drawled huskily and shifted into his seat. Lizette’s eyes followed his movement with the wariness of a skittish cat. Initially bemused, she realised his hand had snaked below the table and was now fumbling with his waistband. 

A deep, pulsating pang bloomed in her core as the primordial anxiety every maiden is doomed to suffer from awoke within her. Alarmed, she shook her head and blurted hoarsely, “Wait!” 

The pirate paid her no mind; either he didn’t hear or didn’t care. Then, his hand sprang back sharply with a pistol in his grip—the same one he had confiscated from her merely a few hours before. 

“Did you not attempt to murder me in my own home?” 

With those words, he slammed the pistol on the table, the dull thud booming through the cabin wall and causing Lizette to jump with a start.

Sinking back to his red regal chair, August crossed his fingers together and pressed his lips together with the contempt of an authority figure. The many golden trinkets around his fingers chimed as they collided. 

“Answer me, Pet.” 

Lizette regarded the pistol carefully. The golden floral embellishments upon the handle sparked with the candle's light.  For a fleeting moment, she wondered how fast she needed to be to grab the pistol and shoot him dead in his rotten heart. Instead, she simply nodded, much as she could with the heavy collar around her neck. The spots where the sharp edges grazed her flesh burnt as sweat dripped over the bruised skin.

“Dumb as your plan was, I do appreciate the gesture, las. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to murder me, but it’s definitely the first time it was a beautiful young lady. Was all of this because of a boy?” He challenged, crooking one eyebrow. 

This time, Lizette did not hesitate to answer. 

“You robbed me of my future!” She corrected, and though she tried to maintain a fierce demeanour, the quiver in her voice gave away the rageful grief. 

Sympathy, sadly, was not in August’s books, especially not whilst being distracted by the way her breasts pressed against the confines of the corset with every fervorous breath. A small, almost inaudible groan left his lips. He wondered if she, indeed, was a virgin. Did he deny her of her wedding night? Were these lovely tits ever in the hands of a man before? 

Surely, he would find out. One way or another. 

With a glare still fixed on her cleavage, he grazed his dimpled chin and simply shrugged. 

“Pirate.” 

Lizette hissed in response. Defiant, she snapped her arms across her chest to hide her cleavage. 

‘Pig.’

“So I robbed you of your future,” August continued, mimicking quotation marks with his long, inked fingers. “And thus, you thought you should rob me of mine?” 

“And what future would that be? Murdering and whoring?” she muttered hatefully.  

The pirate swatted a hand over his chest, giving her a fake, exaggerated pout. “Now that pains me, love.” 

Lizette could sense the blood seeth beneath her skin. She was used to men belittling her, but never did she experience such sheer mockery and humiliation. Trembling, she yelled back, “Good! I wish you nothing but pain!”

“And so she continues to insult me in my own home.” August clicked his tongue and shook his head with sardonic disappointment. “You highborn ladies sure lack respect. ‘Funny thing is, no matter how uppity women like you act, they all want the same thing…” his voice slurred and deepened, coaxing a baffled look from the maiden who abruptly forgot her wrath and ate the bait. 

“And what would that be?” 

The pirate stood and calmly paced to the fore of the table, where he leaned against the edge to peer down at his prisoner. Lizette remained guarded. he was fairly far away yet close enough for his shadow to fall upon her face and for his manhood to be situated at the level of her mouth. She struggled to avoid staring at it directly, which only made that wretched smug smile light his face again.

“What you ladies truly want is to be violated by none other but us ‘lowlife scoundrels’,” August nibbled his bottom lip, a dry chuckle escaping him as more fond memories came to mind. “Truly, the lots of you are bored by the castrated virility of the poised gentlemen. All you fantasise about is to be fucked dirty like a whore by a brute who has no sense of propriety.” 

The pirate held his fist before him and mimicked a slow pumping motion. Although Lizette did not quite understand it, his words alone were enough to leave her gravely unsettled. 

“You are an animal,” she snarled, not realising that her nails were biting into her forearms as she clutched herself so protectively. 

But that merely fueled him.    

“Tell me, Pet, did your boy satisfy those dark desires before he left a delicious bonny lass like yourself all alone? Did he split open and plundered your sweet little cunt, ass, and mouth, or did he leave you wet and miserable?”

Heat crawled at Lizette’s cheeks, yet she wasn’t sure whether it was from outrage or shame. Never in her life had she even considered the possibilities he had suggested, and now those horrifying images poisoned her mind.  

Amused by her obvious mortification, the pirate tilted his head impishly. “No? Not even a finger or a tongue?”

“Stop it!” She implored, her voice cracking.

Ignoring her plea, he clicked his tongue. “Aw, sweet, tender flower. That’s the problem, isn’t it? He left you all alone and uncharted—that lonesome seal, begging to be invaded. Well, milady, you didn’t have to threaten me with a pistol in that case. All you had to do was ask.” 

The pirate reached for his bulge and squeezed it, much to Lizette’s dismay.

”Trust me, one night with me, and you’d forget you ever loved him.”

That was enough to send Lizette over the edge. Not thinking twice, she jerked to her feet, the chains around her rattling along a furious onslaught that sputtered from her mouth. 

“Love?! What do you know about love? You are a monster! All you do is kill and rape! You are incapable of love, and I’d be damned if anyone could ever love you!” 

All the candles in the cabin flickered with a sudden gust of wind as the pirate suddenly lunged forward. He moved so fast, too fast. Lizette hadn’t even had the chance to sway from his touch, and already he was upon her. Crude fingers dug deep into the hollows of her cheek, forcing her to face his terrorising stare. 

“You think this is a game? You think you know anything about me, little girl? About what I’ve done!?” 

It was not a question to be answered, and even so, Lizette couldn’t bring herself to speak; she was suffocating, drowning on the surface. All around her, the air stood dense with the scent of iron, wine, and musky sweat, whilst the weight of his body crushed as it clung to her. 

Closer, deeper. Layers upon layers of silk and wool separated their skin from one another, and still, she sensed the curve and firmness of his robust figure. The woven map of muscles that adorned his torso and the flex each muscle made as he tensed were evident 

But none of this came close to what she saw as he forced her to look into his eyesa wrathful maelstrom pregnant with sinister urges beyond her darkest fears. It felt as if it was trying to draw her into a deep sense of anger, and grief submerged her.

Dread began to spill into her veins. He was going to kill her.

Lizette sucked in a deep shuddering breath. She was not going to join her Edward. Not tonight.

“Let go of me!” She squealed and began to punch his shoulders repeatedly. It felt like hitting iron, every blow more painful than the other, yet she refused to stop. 

Indeed, she was just like that sea monster of a cat.

Stoic as an icy sea breeze, the pirate tilted his head at the girl. Despite her desperate efforts, her battle did nothing but vex him. Quirking one eyebrow, he released his grip from her jaw and swiftly reached for her hands. Lizette did her best to evade, squirming erratically, but to no avail. With a swift single hand, he seized her wrists and pinned them above her head with a booming thud.

The girl gasped out with surrender, strands of her hair blowing back and forth upon her face as she heaved and panted exhaustingly. With his hand around her wrists and his body slightly bent to meet her height, he stood  closer to her than any other man had before. So close that she could taste the wine and sea salt on his breath and study every freckle and every scar that marked his skin. He was nothing like her Edward, she thought; he was coarse and terrifying, and despite it all, she found him tragically beautiful. 

She hated him for that. 

“Listen to me now and listen carefully,” he finally spoke, tightening his grip around her wrists.

Liaette lifted her chin disdainfully; it took every ounce of self-restraint not to spit at his murderous, smug face. 

“You’ve mistook my hospitality and playfulness for kindness, but let’s get this straight; I am not a good man. Upset me, and I will pluck that little flower between your thighs without blinking and then throw you to my crew once I have my fill.” 

His words brought a stark shiver down her spine, yet it wasn’t just fear this time but something far more primordial. Between her trembling thighs, she sensed dewy wetness. A desperate gnawing need she had never known before. Trying to ease and brush it off, she squirmed and ground her thighs. 

August’s brow rose with realisation, an immediate knowing grin spilling upon his malicious face. He leaned closer, his lips and whiskers brushing against her ear as he spoke. 

“Seems like there won’t be much resistance from you, isn’t that so, pet? Soon, you’ll beg me to fuck y…”

His words were cut as warm saliva splattered on his cheek. 

He shut his eyes momentarily, releasing a deep, exasperated grunt and then moved an inch away to fish a silk handkerchief from his pocket. Lizette watched proudly as he wiped his face. 

The pirate, however, was not amused. Throwing away the handkerchief, he offered her a deadly frown. And then he leaned in, his mouth drawing voraciously closer to hers as if meaning to devour her.

“I warned you…”

“Captain.”

A low, sonorous call followed from the door, drawing both August and Lizette to turn their heads toward the uninvited guest. 

Lizette blinked twice. The man in question was almost the spitting image of August, though his hair was wild with earthy curls and his beard fully grown, pointy, and tended with wax. Indifferent to the scene before him, he drew a pipe from his pockets and lit it with the flame of a candle that stood on a shelf near the door.  

August regarded him with slight respect, yet not without annoyance:." What is it? I am busy.”

“I can see that,” the other pirate puffed out, grey lines of smoke following through his nostrils, “you are needed at the brig.”

“About?”

“Flint might finally speak.”

Eyes ablaze with sudden intrigue, August straightened to his fall height and drew a step back from the girl yet kept his grip around her wrists. 

“I assume your methods worked, brother?” He crooked one eyebrow at the other pirate curiously. 

‘Brother, of course,’ Lizette nearly chuckled. The men must have been twins, although she could tell the other sibling had far more grey in his untamed mane. 

“My methods always work.” He answered with dry arrogance. “Finish her off later. This is more important.”

August lingered, his fingers brushing over his moustache as he contemplated what to do with his sweet little prisoner. The possibilities were endless, yet the more interesting ones would take some time, and with the trouble she gave him, he definitely wanted to give her what she deserved. 

A deep, exasperated sigh left his lips. “A moment, Gus,” he requested, finally unhanding the girl. 

The man, now known as Gus, bowed his head and threw Lizette a quick glance before disappearing into the darkness behind the door.

“It seems like I have some business to attend to, love. Shall we continue our little fun later?” August teased, slight annoyance still lingering at the tone of his voice.

Lizette did not answer. Rubbing her aching wrists, she watched him cautiously while he searched within his pockets.  She wondered what new cruel method of torment he would inflict to her now. 

To her surprise, it was a small silver key.

He lifted it to her face and offered her a razor-sharp  stare." The water is close to freezing; sharks and eels are swimming within them, and every man upon my deck is probably plotting to use you as fuckhole since the moment you stepped onboard. I trust you won’t try anything stupid in my absence.”

“Like what?” Despite her physical and mental exhaustion, she dared to speak back, “Seduce one of your crew members to fornicate with me so he would betray and murder you?” 

Her weariness must have brought out the worst in her because she would have never thought of such an inappropriate, vile thing. Then she realised it was  him who, in less than a few hours, corrupted her soul. 

August paused and contemplated for a moment as if this was an actual possibility he did not consider. However, he brushed it off with a burst of taunting laughter while proceeding to unlock the collar around her neck. “I wouldn’t  recommend it, love. They all come with so many exotic afflictions on their cock s that no doctor has even heard of.” 

As the iron was removed from her little neck, the girl rested her hands around it, massaging the cuts and bruises that formed beneath. It ached even worse as the chill air of the night pecked at the raw flesh. 

The pirate waltzed toward the table, reclaiming the pistol in an obviously provoking manner. He sheathed it back at the front of his waistband and paced toward the door. 

“I won’t be long, love,” he promised, and with that, he left and locked the door behind him.

Lizette listened carefully to the sound of his footsteps, counting them one by one until she could no longer hear him. And then, she began to search around the cabin for anything, anything that can be used as a weapon. 

‘I will not be a pirate’s whore.’  She vowed to herself while absentmindedly grazing a palm over her cheeks where August had touched her. 

#henry cavill #August walker #august walker x reader #august walker x ofc #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill x reader #neptune's snare series #au!august walker #pirate august walker #pirate henry cavill #gus march phillips #the ministry of ungentlemanly warfare #gus march phillips x reader #henry cavill fanfiction

[forgotn1]

Some pics of my Christmas tree this year! The tree itself is an artificial tree with black leaves. The ornaments are all painted with fluorescent paint and the lights are UV fairy lights. It looks so dang cool all lit up at night.

#christmas #christmas tree #christmas 2022 #happy holidays #merry shitscram #fluorescent paint #neon paint #ultraviolet #it doesn't show much #but I also customized the tree topper #it was just gold accent with orange plastic over the lights #but I did a wash with black paint on the gold part #and then painted black lines on some ridges molded into the star #that helped give it a bit more depth #I think I'm gonna try to remove some lights from the star for next year though #because it overpowers the rest

[thedustyleaves]

Sorry if you’ve answered this before, but I really love how your illustrations have such a cohesive color palette, how do you pick your colors to have a certain theme without looking monochromatic?

(In your breakdown on the saloon/western BP illustration, you mentioned that the overall color was reddish brown so you added blue to the main group to set them apart. But like how did you decide on which reddish brown colors to use for the flats?)

Thank you!! Your art is really expressive and the colors always work so well in the illustration. I’m always in awe of your pics

That’s an excellent question! My drawings actually start out pretty monochromatic because I tend to put most of my effort into the lighting and shading part to help differentiate where I want people to look.

For all of my pieces, I want my characters to be in focus. So no matter what, I always have to keep their main colors in mind and make sure their outfits and the background don’t clash with them (Kain’s red hair tends to be a problem, pft).

For my flats, I generally work with two main colors that tend to contrast each other and then I mix a lot of neutrals around them. (Sometimes the main colors are in the light and shading itself, but I’ll just focus on the flats!).

Sometimes, I will change the hue of their colors. So while Kain has bright orange hair, I will dull it down if it overwhelms the piece or doesn’t fit with the tone - like I did for the cowboy drawing - but never so much that it no longer looks like him.

With the cowboy drawing as an example, if I strip it down to my flats, it instantly becomes very dull and monochromatic. I really enjoy working with these colors because they’re easy on the eyes (or my eyes specifically) and I can see the difference in subtle hues a lot better than if they were very high in contrast. I like working with subtleties when I want background characters to become a single unit but still be separated as individual people.

When I picked the colors for the background, I wanted to separate the characters from the walls. Therefore, I kept the walls red and gold, and the characters brown - they’re still within the same warm-colored family, but they’re far enough away from each other that they don’t become one with each other. I also like to not have clothes from different characters blend together, so overlapping colours can't be the same. I made one coat lighter than the other, the glove warmer than the dark jacket, and so on.

(their coats are also in the same realm as the green/gold colour of the details for the curtains and the frames on the walls)

For the paintings I actually chose to put a bit of blue and green in to help create some interest for the main characters and keep your eyes around that area, as it matches the blue they’re wearing, just a whole lot darker. It also makes them pop just enough so they look interesting against the wall, but not enough to overshadow the main characters

I know, because of the way I work with layers, that when I add my overlays, I automatically brighten and saturate the colors a lot. It’s a lot easier for me to saturate something “dull” and move it into all kinds of hues than saturating something already high in contrast and then trying to force it into a new color theme.

But because of this, I usually have to go back and change the colors I work with constantly while the overlays are on. Since the overlays don’t know what sort of materials they’re laying on top of, everything gets lighter and washed out, so dark skin tones, hair, and clothes have to be corrected one by one afterward. If I were to remove the overlays after I corrected it to make it feel like a dark blue outfit on Raki, it’s basically just a black void now; but with the overlay, it’s a dark blue outfit. Before that, he simple blended in with the background too much and he didn’t feel like he was a part of the group either. 

I always try to put down colors how I imagine they’re going to look like, unaffected by light, but I’m also naturally drawn toward more earthy and warm tones, so all of my color choices will tend to lean that way.

Here’s another example of main colours vs. neutrals; the main colours are red and green/turquoise, with dark browns and greys to encapsulate them, and gold for accents or to make certain things pop (the chair, Dakon’s dark coat, etc.).

I never want them all to wear the exact same color, but I want them to feel connected and be in the same 'colour family,' so Dakon and Kain have nearly the same dark red/brown, and Christie and Raki have nearly the same 'bright'/red.

The blacks and browns, I’ve kept warm as well, so they stay within that realm of red. I also make sure that none of them are too close to Kain’s hair since he’s in the middle of the piece, and I want your eyes to be drawn toward the middle, and his orange hair helps with that.

The paintings I basically do not care too much about, as long as each individual painting has a single dominating colour. I mute them down with a darker overlay and ensure they don’t have strong shadows and light, so they get pushed to the background, so despite being a bunch of different colours, each painting feels like a solid color and they’re still cast in the same light as the rest of the piece, so they feel like they belong in the same room.

I try to help move the eye around the piece as well, so I keep the big painting sort of in the same realm of red and brown as the main characters, because it’s so big it shouldn’t dominate with a new color and force interest toward it. The blue/purple ones melt in with the background as they’re close to the turquoise background, but without disappearing, the yellow ones work sort of like the gold accents and blend in with the frames, and the green paintings at the top give the illusion of a monochrome fade, so everything gets more eerie and green as the image goes up - there’s also a subtle green fade that affects the gold accents from the top down, to enhance that effect.

This is just a few examples, if there are any pieces in particular you were thinking of, and it’s neither of these, just let me know, and I can break those down as well!

Thank you for the question; I hope I answered it somewhat, and thank you for the kind words! <3

#asks #tutorial

[ootron]

i also thought i would post some process pics of going from my concept art to the actual doll with aria so i am gonna post some progress shots and some details below the cut! definitely a huge learning curve for me despite all the doll customizers i have watched but will take those lessons into the future... i am hoping to make signet next :^)

so i started with this licca-chan friend head (i don't know her name at all unfortunately, i thought it was a jenny head initially but it's definitely not) and completely rerooted her with some pink nylon hair... i chose nylon because i wanted to make it wavy but i may have picked saran in retrospect (to make the hair wavy and curl the bangs i had my gf braid the hair and wrap the bangs around a straw, then boil washed it! worked great)

then i repainted! or well, repainted some of her face after wiping off parts w acetone... i was hesitant to use mr super clear because it's quite toxic so i used brush on liquitex matte varnish which i am not going to use in the future because it truly gives no grip for pencils, and you can't use anything waterbased like gouache paint or watercolor pencils.... but i redrew her eyebrows, lips, and added some extra eye shine. i thought the face was the perfect retro anime look as is otherwise

then the accessories! i made her a little headset frankenstined out of two different doll headsets (including a very phallic looking mic part LOL) sculpted over a bit with some air dry clay and painted, and her heart shaped guitar which was entirely built from scratch using air dry clay, cardboard, and some string (you can also see the headset pre-painting). she also has some clear sci fi goggles but those were just a barbie piece i brushed some UV resin with glitter over to make it extra sparkly

(thank you kip for demonstrating size)

the arm was sculpted a bit with air dry clay as well, then painted silver... the gold ended up clashing too much w the outfit hence the color change. i also used dye to dye the joints black because paint would not stay on them

i also switched the arm sides someone despite checking SEVERAL times to make sure it was the right side. directions are not my strong point. aria left handed AU.

and finally the outfit! OH my god this was the part that made me almost quit and made it take so long. i had to figure out the jumpsuit pattern from scratch, and the fabric is stretchy which made trying to get the heart cut out to stay in place impossible. you actually can't put the jumpsuit on her without taking her head and arms off because i decided to have it close at the bottom for Some Reason. the boots were fun though! the bottoms are from a pair of jenny boots that i painted blue and then glue the fabric part on to.

and the jacket. WHY did i decide to work with such a crazy material (for aesthetics). it was essentially just slightly flexible fabric and not very good at draping at all, so there was a lot of frustration trying to attach the collar and shoulder pads (i ended up just using some extra strong clear tape haha). the jacket is literally why i stopped working on this for like 2 months. but i conquered it eventually

and thats the overall process! fun and i have learned my lesson in what kinds of materials to use. excited to work on another project soon :) !!

#friends at the table #counter/weight #aria joie #my art #shoutouts to dollightful who i have watched for years and years. so many helpful tutorials lol

[scham-wcan]

First of that October prompt list I reblogged a little while ago, hope I do it some service with some CinWin!

Crunchy Leaves

The unwieldy chill of morning had quickly set in about them even as the pair had let the swing of their apartment door shut behind them. It was early, far too early for a weekend nonetheless, and yes here Winter found herself being towed down the hall towards the elevator. The warmth of Cinder’s prosthetic’s glove the only real comfort she was deriving from the world in that moment.

There was a welcomed change of wardrobe for the pair this time of year, and of course it had come at the discretion of Cinder and Weiss. A fine light brown coat which bore down her frame and cut off around her upper thigh covered a white shirt and ample fine blue scarf.

A garment which Winter had to admit scratched at her ever so gently, reminding her constantly of its presence. Tugging at it once they entered the lift, the movement and slight ire jostled Cinder from her momentary fixation on dragging Winter about.

“Did I tie it too tightly?�� A mixture of sass and concern belted from Cinder as she glanced over her partner. “I could redo it if you wish?” Her smirk only growing, knowing well the answer she were to receive.

Cinder similarly had a small change in wardrobe, a more robust black buttoned coat folded over her front, though her wash of ashen hair reduced the need for a scarf—small white crystalline jewelry instead took the place of an accessory, highlighting her otherwise darkened aesthetic.

A small scoff parted from Winter. “Its fine, though I believe you should stick to sewing and hemming more extraordinary things.” Glancing sideward at Cinder as she did so. “Perhaps leave the sewing of these to someone more than soft in nature, Ruby perhaps?”

“Like she knows how to sew.” Cinder sniped curtly as the doors before them pinged open and like a flash they were off again. The lobby around them barely featured more than a blink in their eyes before they were at the entrance.

It was this peculiar time of year which had seemingly charged Cinder as such this time of day—and dragged Winter along with her. Atlas’ streets before them, having been long since refurbished and remade to feel less cold and sterile, now sported all sorts of flora. Such plants, flowers, trees, and all forms of greenery were ruthlessly maintained throughout the year—but this time of year the work slowed.

Winter felt her breath slightly skip a beat, she had hated to admit falling for the greenery amongst the otherwise blue and white city, but this new glow was something else entirely. Rich golds, hearth like reds, and glowing yellows painted trees up and down their avenue, bathing the white city canvas around them in the hallmarks of autumn.

Cinder chuckled softly as she released Winter’s hand and walked forth into the street. “When I was back in Vale a long while ago, I remember their campus and city looking much like this.” Parading almost up to one of the trees and taking a small handful of the warm coloured flecks from its branch. “Ruby reminded me that with all the changes here in Atlas with these things, something as pretty as those may prop up again here.”

“I presume Weiss is getting much the same treatment then?” Winter asked halfheartedly, though the light flecks of awe still hummed in her throat.

“I suppose, though I think you’re still far more fair and pretty than these can be.” Cinder smirked, placing a snide kiss against Winter’s lips before quickly retreating, watching as red burned across Winter’s cheeks in the moment. “And you could use more warm colours on you as well.”

Cinder continued to smile as Winter quickly threw her hand to her cheek, trying to tell if some of Cinder’s lipstick or otherwise had been left on her. “Cinder Fall!” She gasped, then fighting in equal measure to regain her volume.

“Would a coffee make up for me waking you up so early for a cheesy line?” Offering her arm then in a crook for Winter, the Schnee glared at her partner before taking hold of it; allowing her head to idly fall onto Cinder’s shoulder.

“You suck you know that?” Winter hummed.

Curtly, Cinder sighed, “If I have to wear white you have to wear embarrassment, not my fault you wear it so well.”

#cinder fall #winter schnee #cinwin #snowfall #scham writes kinda #duckiewritesoct23

[l3m0ncyan]

New at Life | Chapter 2

Steven Grant/Marc Spector x latina!teen!reader

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

———————

The sun poured through the window of the studio, easily waking Y/N up from her sleep. Her sleep schedule was terrible, usually she would find herself waking up in the after noon, but not today. Still, she struggled to get up until the alarm she set last night began to go off a second after.

As she sat up from the couch, she could feel the bones in her body pop. A groan escaped from within her throat while she continued to sit on the brown sofa. It seemed like it wasn’t going to be the best place to sleep, making it her goal to get a mattress as fast as possible.

Squinting at the window, her eyes were blinded from the bright light of the morning. God, did she miss her old room, but there was no point to sit and wallow. Standing up, she made a mental note to buy curtains as well.

Y/N proceeded to begin her day, cooking a small breakfast meal with the groceries she bought from yesterday and then heading to the shower to wash off the grogginess still left in her. Now she found herself rummaging though her luggage, throwing articles of clothing out to make things easier for her, “I swear I packed it,”

With her hair still dripping from the shower, the collar of her t-shirt began to get damp. She rushed herself, trying to save herself from ending up with a wet shirt. After rummaging, she finally found what she needed and held it up, letting out an ‘Ah-hah!’.

It was a cotton, long sleeve, burgundy button down, one that she found in a thrift store. Actually, most of the outfit that she’ll be wearing were thrifted. She put on the long sleeve, tucking it into her clack slacks after buttoning. Since she didn’t have any professional looking shoes, she went with black boots. Her hair was a disaster trying to be held together; she had no idea how to style it without looking like a suburban middle-aged woman, so she just brushed it out and added volume.

She walked up to the mirror, turned, twisted, and even performed a small dance to see if she would be comfortable. "That's all they're going to get from me," she slouched. She grabbed her bag from the wooden dining table, plus the 6 copies of her resume that she printed out yesterday. Locking her door, her feet automatically walked her to the elevator and out to society.

——

Usually she would have just applied online, but she really needed a place to work. Additionally, she heard you get a higher chance of getting hired if you asked upfront. Making the mall a goldmine, she walked to one perfume shop that had a ‘Hiring’ sign at the front. Again, she believed it would be easy until she located the manager and asked about the position, only to be met with the manager’s scowl and a rude, “The spot has been filled,”. Lord, did she feel so much rage from that encounter. With a quick mutter of “Fuck you too”, she walked off, she didn’t need to worry about it, she was barely starting, and she still had a long way to go. – After hours, Y/N had no luck with any of the five other places she went to. She even went to some other places of business on her way out but nothing. The sun was starting its first phase of setting and she was just sitting on a bench with her elbows on her knees and hands holding the bottom of her chin. She wasn’t alone though, next to her was a man in gold clothing while he was painted gold himself. He had a gold suit that reflected in the sun, almost blinding Y/N. He was motionless, only holding a simple pose. It seemed almost humiliating to do, but Y/N found herself able to pour out all of her frustrations.

“I dressed the part, printed my damn resume, and you’re telling me none of them wanted me?” she vented, her voice laced with exasperation. “Like they ask for experience when they are the reasons some of us can’t get any. They think they are so superior, like yeah right. Working at a convenience store and sex shop makes you so elite,” she muttered between bites of her hotdog, staring at the people passing by with envy.

Lost in her thoughts, Y/N's contemplation was interrupted when two girls approached her, requesting a favor. She sat up and rose from the bench, "Oh, sure," she responded, taking the phone from them. Motioning the girls to stand by the golden man, she instructed them to say something cheesy like "golden." They complied, and once she returned their phone, they thanked her and began to walk away. But Y/N couldn't let them leave without reminding them of one thing. “Oye! You guys forgot to tip him!” she called out, pointing at the golden hat on the floor.

"No se hagan culeras," she added. *Don’t be assholes

Wide-eyed, the girls hurriedly contributed to the hat before scurrying away. Y/N scoffed, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Maybe you should hire me as your manager or something," she mused, before continuing to take a bit of her hotdog.

Grabbing her hotdog again, she continued to eat before a flyer landed on her foot. Her chewing stopped as she looked down and picked it up. It had Egyptian hieroglyphics in the background, and a sarcophagus in the front, with the words 'NOW HIRING' in large white letters.

Her eyes widened, pushing the flyer to the gold man’s view, she exclaimed, “It has to be a sign right? Does it have an address?”. She looked closer and it did with the qualifications. It seemed like they were hiring right away. Checking the time on her phone, she had enough time to go check it out before retreating.

She stands up to leave, opening her wallet and taking out two pounds, placing them into the tip hat. “Once I am working, I will come back with more,” she smiled before she dashed away to the Ancient Egypt Museum.

As she approaches the museum, banners flutter in the breeze, displaying some of the exhibits. Aside from that, the museum is a pale white being held with white columns, almost a resemblance to the hall where the statue of Abraham Lincoln is located. Large stairs lead to the front doors of the museum which scare Y/N due how her energy has depleted.

As she fights the journey up the stairs and takes a quick break to catch her breath, she walks in to see numerous exhibits. Glass-encased statues and tombs, Egyptian art, and a small gift shop. She can't remember the last time she visited a museum, but she remembers being interested in the topic thanks to her grandfather who would go on and on about history and archeaology, Ancient Egypt being one.

Since the flyer offered a job position in the gift shop, she heads straight there. However once she gets close, she sees a familiar neighbor at the register.

Steven waved goodbye to a boy he had been speaking to, "Take care of Tawaret, alright?" As he resumed organizing the items that had been knocked over, the corner of his eye caught sight of Y/N standing in an awkward stance. Intrigued, he paused his task and greeted her with a warm smile. "Well, if it isn't my dear neighbor, Y/N."

Y/N approached him, her voice laced with a playful tone. "And if it isn't my locksmith," she replied, her steps bringing her closer.

Continuing his task, Steven maintained a light-hearted demeanor. "Indeed, that's what I am. So, what brings you here today? Are you a fan of Egyptian history?"

"I mean it’s cool, but i’m actually here because of a flyer,” Y/N shrugged casually, fishing out a flyer from her pocket and handing it to Steven. He brings it close but then moves it back when he tries to read it, something that Y/N has seen her parents do. "You want to work here?" he asked, squinting at the words on the flyer.

"Yeah, if it’s cool, so far no one has tried to give me an interview or even a handshake," she says, leaning against the front desk of the gift shop, looking down as she is reminded of the rude managers from earlier.

Steven looks at her with pity but gives her an encouraging smile, "Of course, it's alright. Tell you what, why don't I put in a good word for you here?"

Puzzled by the unexpected offer, Y/N tilted her head slightly. "Why?" she inquired.

"Well, it might just speed up the process for you and help you land a job here," Steven explained, his eyes reflecting a genuine desire to assist.

"I mean, I get that, but why are you going out of your way to help me? We've only known each other for less than an hour," she stated, her voice tinged with a mix of surprise and skepticism.

It was true, if she was in his position, she wouldn’t bother to help her neighbor. Let alone interact with them.

"True, I suppose," he mused, "but it doesn't feel right to withhold a helping hand. At least, that's my take on it." Y/N's gaze remained fixed on him as he offered a smile. Having the skill of a people watcher, she was able to tell if someone exuded goodness and those who were terrible. And in this case, he had gold splashed on him with how he radiated warmth and kindness.

"Not to mention," he added with a shrug, "it would be nice to have someone else working the shop with me."

She nodded in understanding, grasping his situation. "Well, if you're open to it, then sure—"

"Stephen! "The sharp voice sliced through their conversation, causing both Y/N and Steven to jump. Y/N turned to her left, finding the source– a woman with bleached blonde hair and eyes that were capable of making children cry.

Once the woman approached them, she crossed her arms and locked her gaze onto Steven, completely disregarding Y/N's presence. "Are you selling to our customers or babbling on about nonsense?" she spat.

Steven’s demeanor seemed to delfate with the way his cheerful character became gloomy. His shoulders slumped, the twinkle in his eyes extinguished, leaving behind an almost stoic expression. "It's Steven, once again, Steven," he emphasized, tapping his name tag for emphasis.

"I don't bloody care. If you're not pulling your weight, your role in the gift shop will be taken away," she declared, waving her finger at him as if scolding a child.

While the woman continued to bicker Steven, Y/N took the chance to sneak a glance at her name tag, revealing the name 'Donna.' It seemed to match her demeanor perfectly.

"Understood," Steven replied, but then turned to face Y/N. "However, I was actually talking to my…" He paused, his lips thinning as he formulated an answer. "…cousin. She's interested in applying for the position of gift shop associate. I highly recommend her," he stated, placing a reassuring hand on Y/N's shoulder.

Y/N tensed at the sudden spotlight being cast upon her in their conversation. Donna's scowl mirrored the other managers that Y/N has encountered. It must be a cultural norm in England.

Glancing up at Steven, he subtly directed his gaze towards Donna. "Oh, um, nice to meet you. My name is Y/N," she greeted with a smile, extending her hand. Surprisingly, Donna accepted the handshake, though her expression remained one of confusion.

"Your cousin, huh? How can I be certain you won't disappoint me?" Her gaze shifted to Steven, one eyebrow raised in doubt.

"I assure you, she would never deceive you. She's a dedicated worker, always eager to learn and grow," he said as he looked at Y/N, almost as if he was referring to yesterday when they were both learning new phrases.

Seeing that Steven was the only one trying to make her shine, she got rid of her daydreaming and spoke up, “Yes! I thrive on being busy and I almost never complain. Plus I learn real quick if you teach me,”

Donna's suspicious gaze intensified as she questioned Y/N's American accent. A sense of urgency washed over Steven as he realized the glaring inconsistency. He looked over to Y/N who seemed to be piecing together a story in her mind.

"Well, I actually grew up in the United States," she confidently stated, ensuring that her words sounded truthful. She just hopes that Donna won’t ask about the family tree. She swiftly changed the subject to the interview, “Over there, I learned to multitask and the importance of respecting my superiors." This however, was a lie; first of all she didn’t believe in the phrase “respect your elders” and secondly she never worked a day in her life. But it seemed like lying is what will help her if she really wanted work there.

Donna's gaze lingered on her, as if scrutinizing every word she said. After a pause, Donna relented, her tone laced with resignation. "Alright, fine. Consider yourself hired. It's only because this one," she gestured towards Steven, "has been giving me a headache." Steven arched an eyebrow at the insult but accepted it to stay away from arguing, and potentially losing his name tag.

"You begin today and then–" Donna started to explain before she was abruptly interrupted.

"Wait, today?" Y/N's voice held a hint of surprise.

Donna responded with an aggressive and rude tone, making it clear that she had little patience, "Yes, today. Is that going to be a problem?".

Shaking her head in response, Y/N chose not to engage in further confrontation. Donna then turned her attention to Steven, delivering a cutting remark, “You will train her today, I expect her to be far better than you". With that, Donna walked away.

"My first job and my boss is a complete bi–" Y/N began to vent her frustrations, but before she could finish her sentence, Steven interjected, "I know she's an absolute tosser, but trust me, you'll get used to it," he said with a reassuring smile.

Y/N nodded in agreement. There was a pause before Steven realized his new task and exclaimed, "Oh right! As it turns out, I will be your mentor, for which I am grateful". He made a small bow with his palm on his chest which Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle at his action.

For the rest of the day, Steven spent it by teaching Y/N the basics of working in a gift shop. He started by familiarizing her where each product belonged and taking inventory. As they moved on to the cashier duties, Y/N couldn't help but feel a nervous flutter in her stomach. However, Steven's presence by her side made her nerves flatten thanks to Steven being by her side, giving her a thumbs up. Even after making countless mistakes, Steven never raising his voice or belittling her efforts.

"I believe that's all the time we have for today. Tomorrow, I'll show you the stock room and all that buzz," Steven announced, beginning to tidy up as the museum visitors started to depart. With a nod of understanding, Y/N followed closely behind him as they headed toward the locker room.

Inside the locker and break room, a few people gathered their belongings , ready to leave. The lockers, arranged in a row toward the back, were rather small. On the opposite side, there were two tables accompanied by a handful of chairs, positioned next to cupboards and counters. A microwave sat on the counter, while a whiteboard displayed the day's assigned duties on a white fridge.

"Well, here's the break and locker room. It's not the most extravagant, but it's better than nothing," Steven remarked, opening his locker to retrieve the familiar satchel Y/N had noticed earlier. He continued, "I'll give you the door code tomorrow."

Once Steven closed and locked his locker compartment, a sudden realization seemed to dawn upon him. His head shot up, causing Y/N to instinctively take a step back. "Have you had your lunch? Now that we're on the topic," he asked, concern evident in his voice. Though Y/N hesitated, not wanting to burden him with guilt, her silence confirmed it for Steven.

“Well," she began, her voice trailing off, "I ate earlier today." "Oh, bollocks! I was too caught up in training you that I completely forgot about the most basic needs," Steven exclaimed, running his hand from the top of his face down in frustration. Looking around, he pondered for a moment, searching for a solution. "Well, let's get you some dinner then. There's a place down the street that might still be open," he suggested, eager to go.

Her eyes widened, and she waved her hands dismissively. "No, no! It's alright. I bought groceries yesterday, so I'm pretty sure I have something to eat," Y/N assured him. Steven raised an eyebrow, not fully convinced. "No offense, but I'm sure the moment you get home, you're going to knock out in bed," he remarked knowingly.

He was right. Y/N was exhausted, and all she craved was a good night's sleep. She pursed her lips, contemplating whether to accept his offer. She didn't want him to spend more money on her, considering all he had already done. Letting out a sigh, she relented, "Alright, but let's go for something cheap.”

They both exited the museum and strolled along the street, heading towards a nearby bus stop. Steven came to a halt, but Y/N continued walking, oblivious to the fact that he wasn't following. With a quick call to get her attention, she turned around and hurriedly made her way back.

"We're taking the bus?" Y/N inquired a hint of surprise in her voice.

"Of course! If we go on foot, it'll probably be closed by the time we get there, and it would be past your bedtime," Steven replied with a playful smile.

She rolled her eyes, retorting, "I'm 18, you know that, right? Besides, I don't think I have any change for the bus fare." Y/N took out her wallet and opened it to confirm her lack of change. As expected, she was right.

However, Steven waved off her concern, insisting that he would cover the cost. Y/N opened her mouth to protest, but it was difficult to do so earlier, so she nods. Plus she might give her legs a break from running around in the gift shop. —— The small restaurant had a handful of patrons, with white tiled floors and pale yellow walls. The rhythmic sounds of the grill and utensils filled the space behind the front desk where the kitchen was located. Y/N glanced up at the menu, feeling overwhelmed by the variety of noodles and drinks on display. Unsure of what to choose, she shifted back and forth, thinking of her options. Sensing her dilemma, Steven stepped in and recommended a few dishes, highlighting his personal favorite with tofu.

"If you're not a vegan like me, the Classic Thai is also popular," he shrugged, noting its meat content.

Nodding in acknowledgment, they approached the cashier to place their order. Steven took charge and ordered for both of them, and once it came to pay, he handed the cashier a bill. As the cashier reached out to receive it, Y/N's eyes caught sight of a tattoo on their arm.

"Hey, I like your tattoo," Y/N commented, flashing a smile.

The tattoo depicted a scale, intricately detailed with crocodile heads on either side. The cashier returned the smile and glanced down at their tattoo. "Thank you. It's a sign of a miracle," they shared.

Y/N nodded slowly, her brows furrowing slightly, “I see, it’s nice,”

Feeling a shiver crawl up her spine, Y/N glanced back up to find the cashier's gaze fixed on her, still wearing that eerie smile. Her eyes widened, feeling the hair behind her neck stand. The cashier's unwavering stare seemed to penetrate her very being. Seconds stretched into what felt like an eternity, until the jarring ring of a bell shattered the tension. The cashier finally averted her gaze, retrieving a bag with their drinks. Breathing a sigh of relief, Y/N couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of unease as they made their way towards the exit.

As they approached the door, a nagging thought tugged at Y/N's mind. Her instincts screamed at her to keep moving forward, but an unsettling curiosity lingered. She refrained from glancing back at the cashier, trying to leave fast. However, she thought she heard a "goodbye" reached her ears with the mention of her and Steven’s last names. —— On the bus once again, Steven and Y/N settled into their seats, with Steven cradling the bag of food on his lap and Y/N holding the drinks. With about ten minutes left before their next stop, Steven took the opportunity to strike up a conversation.

"So, what's your take on London so far?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Y/N, still mulling over the unsettling encounter at the restaurant, was caught off guard. She paused for a moment before responding, "Well, I've only been here for two days, but most of the people I've met were assholes, except for you, of course."

Steven chuckled, but quickly reprimanded her for her choice of words. "Oi, mind your language. But you're not wrong, not everyone here has been great."

Momentarily forgetting about their previous topic, Y/N smiled in confusion. "I didn't think you were so sensitive about cursing," she remarked, before correcting herself, “Nevermind, you do look like it,”

A hint of amusement danced in Steven's eyes as he raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to offend me? I just think someone your age shouldn’t have a vulgar vocabulary."

Y/N let out a scoff. "Well, you'd probably faint if you met the people I went to high school with."

Intrigued, Steven tilted his head and asked if she was currently attending college. Y/N nodded, and his face lit up with genuine excitement. "Congratulations! That's fantastic!" he exclaimed, offering his warm congratulations. Y/N returned the smile and expressed her gratitude for his enthusiastic response. Despite the ups and downs of the day, she couldn't help but appreciate Steven's positive attitude.

She mentions how she was accepted to a university near London, which is why she moved there in the first place which brings out more questions.

"Well, I'm not too familiar with the US, but aren't there universities closer to where you live? Why fly thousands of miles?" Steven inquired, genuinely curious.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, only providing a superficial answer. "Well, there are some nearby, but I just wanted to…," she trailed off, not delving deeper into her reasons, "Make my aunts and cousins jealous."

Steven nodded, sensing that there was more to her decision than mere family rivalry. However, he didn't pry further. Sensing the lull in the conversation, Y/N decided to change the subject.

"I think it's my turn to ask about you," she said, turning her attention to Steven.

"Alrighty, what do you want to know?" he replied, gesturing for her to unleash a barrage of questions.

She started by asking about his age, and he chuckled in response. "36," he revealed.

Y/N clicked her tongue playfully. "Dang, so I was close."

Amused, Steven raised an eyebrow and teased, "You were guessing my age? Taking offense, are we?"

"I said 40, but I guess you're younger than you look," Y/N shrugged nonchalantly. Steven dramatically placed his hand over his heart, pretending to be deeply wounded.

"Do I really look that old?" he asked, feigning shock. Y/N locked her gaze on him, tilting her head from different angles to see if she may have overestimated his age.

"Well, not anymore, but honestly, it might be true," she replied, sitting up straight. "Your aging is sped up because of Devah."

"You mean Donna?" Steven corrected her.

“Whatever," Y/N rolled her eyes dismissively. Steven couldn't help but laugh at her attitude towards their boss. He can’t blame her. Maybe he should have warned her about her before he tried helping her land the job.

—— "So, anything creepy ever happened here before I continue unpacking my apartment?" Y/N asked, her curiosity piqued as they waited for the elevator doors to open on their floor.

Steven looked at her, slightly taken aback by the question. "Are you talking about paranormal weird or people weird?" he clarified.

“Both”

The building, for the most part, was relatively quiet. Occasionally, heated arguments between couples could be heard echoing through the halls. There was that one incident when the electricity went out for the entire complex, forcing everyone to open their windows until it was fixed. But overall, not much out of the ordinary. "Not really, just the occasional flickering lights, but this building is quite old. I wouldn't worry too much. Just be cautious around people in general," Steven reassured her.

Y/N nodded, but her mind wandered as she observed the mirrors inside the elevator, noticing how they were positioned to face each other. She remembered seeing how mirrors facing each other could be used to create a portal. The flickering lights suddenly took on a new meaning in her mind, and she couldn't help but wonder if there was more to it than just faulty wiring.

Once they reached their floor, Steven unlocked his door but decided to wait and see if Y/N would be able to open hers this time. "Just nudge the key to the left, right?" she asked, seeking confirmation. He responded with a simple "mm-hmm." That's exactly what she did.

Left. One nudge. Two nudges. Three nudges. Four. And click!

The door swung open, and Y/N stood there in shock. "I did it," she muttered to herself, then turned to Steven, unable to contain her excitement. "I fucking did it!"

"You did it!" he exclaimed, sharing in her joy. They continued to celebrate, their voices echoing through the hallway, until a neighbor shouted at them to quiet down. "Will you two just shut it already?! People are trying to bloody sleep!" The sound of a slamming door silenced them.

"Pinche—" Y/N began, but immediately stopped when she heard Steven clearing his throat.

*Fucking–

"Sorry," she quickly apologized, raising her hand in acknowledgment. Steven gave a nod, accepting her apology, and bid her a simple "goodnight."

Y/N sat at the table and unpacked the takeout food. She examined it closely, revealing a dish of fried noodles topped with chicken. The aroma wafted up, enticing her senses. Unable to resist any longer, she eagerly took a bite, savoring the burst of flavors. Her eyes widened in delight, and she leaned back in her chair, fully appreciating the deliciousness of the meal. The thought of returning to the restaurant already crossed her mind.

———————————

Slowly trying to make Y/N talk to Steven more.

#marc spector #steven grant x teen!reader #marc spector x teen!reader #moon knight #hispanic reader #marc spector x reader #platonic #steven grant x reader #latina reader

[lady-of-pain]

Hi

If it's not too much to ask, how did you manage to paint the gold on your Malenia cosplay that well?

With the ER boardgame coming out soon, I've been rather dreading the tree sentinel that comes with it as I often struggle with golds

hi!! ty for the ask! I’m not the greatest at teaching but I can try and explain what I did the best I can! And thank you so much!

I’ll use the helmet as an example. All of the armor is painted this way save for the white parts of the legs.

So I started with a Vallejo airbrush base coat gold.

I then went in and did a little dry brushing with black acrylic/black acrylic diluted with a little water to add some basic shadows. I used a combination of soft brushes and a natural sponge to help blend it out.

Next I sprayed the whole helmet at this point with a matte spray varnish to protect the paint so I could go in with water mixable oil washes in black and brown to make a dark brown grimy color. I did a few passes of the oil wash and let it sit for a few seconds before wiping it away with a paper towel. It mutes the shiny pristine gold really well and adds that extra layer of dimension to the piece, while also helping the shadows to look a little less uniform. In different areas I layered the wash more heavily to get a little more variation.

If you’re painting minis I would recommend an army painter or citadel brand wash for this part rather than water mixable oils, I think it’ll be way easier to control on a smaller scale! But here’s what it looked like after a few wash passes:

Then, I blended the shadows out further with more gold acrylic (mixed with a little black to make a nice darker gold color) using the same dry brushing/sponge method. To get that flecked gold texture over the dark spots, I just used my sponge with just the tiniest amount of paint on it and pressed it gently onto the surface in a couple areas. Again using a natural sponge will yield a better result. It looks like this after it’s all done:

I then added highlights with a lighter/less yellowy gold, but I went REALLY light on them. You really only want to hit the high spots here - for example the crest/point on the top of the helmet, the edges of the wings/wing details, etc. it REALLY helps pull the gold back from all of the shadows and weathering.

After that I sealed the whole thing in matte spray varnish one more time and the helmet was all finished!

Essentially it just involves carefully planning out how to layer your paints. I def recommend doing some tests if you can.

I know painting armor is a lot different than painting minis but I hope I was able to help at all! Good luck with your project, I’m sure it’ll turn out badass!!!

#asks #anonymous #cosplay #elden ring #elden ring cosplay #malenia #malenia blade of miquella

[syncopein3d]

The Warm One Part 2: Stay

Part 1

CW/relevant tropes (I'm a bit new to this format, so let me know if I miss any): living weapon, lady whump, magic whump, traumatic restraints, implied past injury, off-screen whumper, servant caretaker, other species caretaker (Orc), brief mention of pedestrian nudity.

"Tonight the Master of Sorceries comes to take me to supper with Their Divine Majesties, may they live forever," the weapon says. She sits at the vanity in a silver brocade gown as her thin brown hair is aggressively twisted and pinned in an elaborate arrangement of little curls and loops. The maid isn't cruel on purpose. She is afraid, in a hurry to be gone. Another paints the weapon's face dead white to cover her dark, baggy eyes as she looks up into the mirror's reflection.

"Yes, Milady," says the Orc there. He stands with his hands at his sides, watching.

"The Master likes them to see how much control he has before the campaign begins. So I may be late. You can go to bed if you get tired. Yours is behind the curtain."

"Yes, Milady." They haven't put him into corsets, thank goodness, so she can still see his belly hanging over his belt in his velvet tunic. He towers over the maids, looking awkward with his black hair hair newly cut short. The eyes that regard her curiously are yellow and slit-pupiled sideways, like a frog. He is sort of an olive color, also like a frog. The weapon likes that.

"They'll bring you food, as much as you want. Is there anyone you need to tell?"

"No, Milady. My parents are with the gods. My daughter is in the army."

"Her mother?" the weapon asks.

"She was at the delaying action at Kalthanos," the Orc says. "Some ten years now." The weapon nods, producing a worried cluck from the maid.

"Yes. The Master was waiting for me to recover so he could use me again. I remember. I am sorry that I caused her death."

"You didn't cause her death," the Orc says. "A Kalthan archer did. I was there. That's why I was carrying wood. I get lame if I try to run now. Can't keep up with the horses."

This is the most he has so far said in one go. Through the fog of pain and weakness the weapon looks at him with something Iike surprise. It is a new idea that something might not be her fault. He looks back without any suggestion of fear or anger or artifice, only simple curiosity. This, too, is new.

There is a knock at the door. The weapon rises, tightly bound by corsetry and pins, her gorgeous golden bracers heavy on her wrists and a golden comb heavy atop the confection of hair. She has never scarred so much that she can't feel the twin needles in her wrist veins.

The Master of Sorceries is waiting in the hallway as sunset stripes the carpets with gold. He is older than the weapon, but he looks younger. He is handsome, perfectly groomed, broad-shouldered and athletic and well-rested. His body is nearly perfect and his eyes are so very blue. The weapon looks back at her orc, huge, a little fat, the colors of a frog. And she smiles very slightly as she turns to go.

"Something amuses you?" The Master of Sorceries asks, his silken tone a warning.

"I am only pleased with your gift, Master. Thank you."

"So you will behave tonight, then?" he asks.

"Yes. I will be very well-behaved, Master."

When she returns, night has fallen. Maids hustle her inside to peel her out of her expensive garments and hang them up, smoothing them anxiously. The Orc is there poking up the fire. He turns away politely. The chemical wash to get the makeup layer burns a little as another maid works on her face.

"I don't care if you see," she says. "On campaign you will probably have to help. I'm sorry," she adds wearily.

"Don't be sorry, Milady." He turns back in time to see the shift come off over her head. The layers of stiffened fabric are meant to support more bosom than she has, oddly stuffed with rags, as if it was made for someone a little heavier. Her body is thin and wasted, every rib able to be counted. A spreading nest of scars covers the front of her body from collarbones to the thin fuzz of the pubic mound. It looks red and angry against the very pale skin, a seam and many branches. "What happened?" he asks, staring at it.

"The shift is tulle," the weapon says, absently misunderstanding the question. "It scratches." The scars vanish under a woolen robe, the maids push slippers onto her feet, and then they yank the pins out of her hair and flee, pushing the brush into her hand. She looks at it blankly, swaying as her support vanishes. What does she usually do at this point? Right. She usually falls over. Her knees are starting to buckle when suddenly, the world goes past slightly downwards and now she is surrounded by warmth. The Orc carries her over to the chair by the fire and sets her there, a little sideways. A huge hand appears around her shoulder, holding the brush. She looks at it blankly for a long moment before she nods.

"Very good, Milady." She expects him to be rougher with her hair than the maids are, but she is too limp to brace herself. So it comes as a surprise when his fingers begin carefully teasing the knots out. The weapon sits quietly, bathed in unexpected comfort, struggling to stay awake.

"What's your name?" she asks eventually, words a little slurred.

"Aldo, Milady."

"Just Aldo?"

"Just Aldo. Does Milady have a name?"

"No," she says. "I am the Wrath of the King. There was one before me. There will be another when I'm gone."

He is quiet as he works on her hair for a while. Now she can feel the bristles of the brush, but carefully, never scraping hard against her scalp.

"You've done this before," she says. Her voice is very small now. She hardly knows what she said. The pain in her wrists is constant, but this feels good. Nothing has felt good in this small, safe way in a long, long time. It washes over her in somnolent, gentle waves.

"My daughter had fine hair when she was small." For a moment his hand cups her skull and the back of her neck, gently turning her, and the wash of sheer overwhelming warmth fades the world completely away. She isn't sorry to see it go as her head grows heavy in his hand.

When next she knows anything, she is being laid down on the mattress, bare feet tucked in between cold silk sheets. She shivers, blindly groping without opening her eyes. One hand tangles in warm velvet, the hem of the Orc's tunic.

"Stay," she says. "Please. You can keep all your clothes on, just - stay."

"Yes," he says. There's no 'Milady' this time. She hears him pushing off his indoor boots and unbuckling his hard belt, and then the huge mattress indents beside her, rolling her down a small slope. His hands check her at shoulder and hip as he settles on his side. Heat begins to build under the covers immediately. The weapon presses herself weakly against the big soft belly. A heavy arm slides around her. Later she will remember that he doesn't feel stiff, tense. The muscle under the fat lies slack.

"I might make noises," she says. "Bad ones. Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you, Aldo."

"I'm not afraid." Now she can feel the basso rumble of his voice through his body. "You can sleep. It's all right."

"You'll be here?" she is fighting it, even though she can't open her eyes.

"I'll be here. Shhhh, shh."

She doesn't know if it's true or not, but she wants it to be badly enough to let go. The world slides away down a dark tunnel.

There will be nightmares. There always are. But this time Aldo will be there to rub her back just a little, quietly, and tell her they're not real. And for a little while it will be all right.

Part 3

#whump #living weapon #living weapon whumpee #orc #syncopein3d future reference #the warm one #female whumpee #male caretaker

[ven-brekker]

The Waves’ Heir

“‘There is an ancient Suli saying that goes: “When the Waves’ Heir has crowned himself, the blood of the people shall roam no more.”… It is said, in ink and human story, that the son of the sea shall protect its waters in life and in death.’

I was so excited to take part in this year’s ( and last year’s?) GrishaVerse Reverse Mini-Bang! I got to do two pieces, and work alongside some amazing, very talented people! Speaking of, you should definitely check out the art upon which this fic is based as well as the other fic.

Materialki: @it-takes-acquired-minds (here)

Etherealki: @alonlyfangirl (here)

Full fic under the cut

When the waves rise gray and roar solemnly with storm, it is said that they are calling out for their heir who has yet returned home. It is said, in ink and human story, that the son of the sea shall protect its waters in life and in death. In southern tapestry, his hair flows the same blue as his blood. Up north, his body has the same inky scales known to the Sildroher. In the utmost west, his bronze skin can be formed to ice and rain. In the east, his skin is translucent, his fingers webbed and his head adorned with a living crown of ice, fire and impossible waves. His legacy is one of promise, and one of speculation.

In truth, human whispers cannot mimic the subtle speakings of water. If you ask the waves, they will tell you that their son is not blue of hair nor of blood, and that his body bears no scales, neither can it turn to water of solid or liquid at will. In fact, they may tell you that they do not have a son. Rather, that their heir is no more than a quiet woman, and that the same inky black rumor of her scales in fact flows through her hair, and that the bronze skin that turns to liquid is just simply bronze and flushed red by sun; that the crown upon her head lies, unmade, upon the deep sands of the True Sea, and that her ephemeral legacy is painted upon the seafoam and plastered across the heads of sailors.

The waves, however, have long since stopped responding to the questions asked of them by mortal men, who plague their surfaces with armor of groaning weight and fire of war; who turn the blue crystalline mirror of the horizon into a black and tarry poison. Stories, like many other things, become stuck in this surface of ink, and become unable to travel, or to be told.

There was a time, before, when the waves were not weary with whom they shared their stories, a time when the sands did not heave under the groaning weight of buoyant metal and gunned ships. This was a time of wood tainted with the scent of saline. A time of cloth sails that billowed in the wind, bearing sigils of great history and equal emotion.

One such sigil was that of the blue serpent. Its coiling seasnake bejeweled a deck that heaved under the weight of hefty boot and heftier gold. It carried more money than men; an army of treasure opposing a mere club of sailors.

It was wealth that, most of all, littered the masts and hull. The ship that bore the sigil featured various engravings of its symbol, serpents coiling around each mast until reaching sails of the finest quality. Even the bow of the boat could not escape the serpent’s wrath - a fine figurehead, sculpted in white and washed in blue, slithered in front of the ship, a warning to all those it approached.

The serpent, however, did not calm its fury for man. Below the main deck, in the damp hold that creaked with each rise and fall, laid the serpent’s real treasure: children. They came from all over, east and west of the True Sea. There were tall and short, dark and fair, boys and girls. Yet despite their variety, they all summoned a single likeness: there was darkness in their eyes. The child’s sparkle, the same one that the waves themselves often longed to see, had been thieved and replaced with a dull dimness that belonged to fear. In fear, the hold was silent. Not even shaky breaths nor sobs were risked, lest the serpent be disturbed and provoked to attack.

In truth, the serpent was nothing more than a sigil. His attacks and fury were not his own, but were instead that of the Serpent Captain - his true name long since lost upon the edge of a bloodied cutlass. He was more terrifying than a sea beast ever could be. He was huge, and incredibly strong, with a ruthlessness that manifested itself in the dark rims of his irises, the malicious coils of his oil-black hair and the veins that rose in his neck, upon which there was a vivid tattoo of his ship’s sigil, a serpent inked in deep blue that coiled up his carotid. For not only was he as merciless as a sea serpent, but he was as ugly as one too.

The waves have heard many tales of the Serpent Captain. He has ridden the True Sea for many years, coiling himself around the slaver trade and making illegal business in every country. It is said that the parents of taken children would hear a laugh, hoarse and guttural like that of a cawing gull, in the dead blackness of night, and then their child would be gone. The waves, of course, cannot reach the inland to say if this is true, and more can any of the children, for all who step off the ship have since been silent - or had.

The Serpent Captain imposed silence as a curse and punishment that he himself was the victor of - the dictator, and terrifying tyrant. He did not know that silence was also a weapon. It was a lesson the waves and Saints knew he would learn in good time.

As the serpent cruised southward, unnoticed alongside it rose a second, far humbler ship, whose masts were not adorned with extravagant engravings, nor was its tween deck privy to unfathomable spoils. It appeared from the ocean mist, as though materializing out of the spray of the True Sea itself, and rode with a grace that made it seem one with the water. It stayed steady, but most of all - silent.

It creaked in tandem with the waves, becoming visible to the serpentine crew only when it came so close as to cast a deep shadow over the main deck. At such a proximity, the white lettering on the ship’s side became glaringly visible, just as the sun is in the sky. The Serpent Captain sighed a curse, then muttered with horror the name that gleamed in white cursive: The Wraith.

There was a rush as crew members dashed to ring the ship’s bell, to issue some kind of inescapable warning. The sound of tolling was immediately followed by the splatter of blood against metal. The three had been cut down, and their bodies lay in half upon the sullied deck.

Their screams carried upon the whistling wind, and the echo of the bell soon died out. Silence remained again, and on its depths were the souls of a dozen slavers, whose blood was now ingested by the water.

The Serpent Captain was strong, but he was no fool. And sometimes, the smart thing to do is to turn to cowardice. And so, as the silence filled the captain’s office with a deafening solidify, this man of infamous repute could be found huddling behind a desk that was cluttered with trophies of his exploits: a ring from the hand of a wealthy Kerch merchant whom he’d sold to; a piece of cloth sewn into Zemeni patterns which he’d ripped from the hands of the child of a prominent diplomat; a Shu falcon sculpture. In their ordered rows, they formed a barrier, so that someone looking in would be barred from seeing the fear upon the Serpent Captain’s face.

A barrier of ego and clutter could not defend against the silence for long. After moments, perhaps minutes, the door swung open. Silently, in the doorway, stood a dozen men and women, porting the loose linen and armed with the sharp silver of pirate-sailors. They dragged the Captain by his oil-black hair while he mewled.

Trailing onto the slick red deck, the Serpent Captain was met with dozens more of these sailors. They, as the children, appeared from all corners of the world. They, too, varied in age and origin, though many seemed to bear the branded forearm of slaver indenture - and all bore the glittering jewel of weapon metal. Among them were the cowering, tearful crowds of children, arms clean of branding but littered in cuts and bruises. He recognised none of them, but knew them all to be from the hold, not for the condition of their well-being nor the stench they collectively gave off, but for the mix of rage and fear at which they stared him down with, and for the faint glimmer in their eyes that seemed to be growing brighter each moment.

The Captain’s eyes, however, grew red and teary as he was dragged off his own deck and onto the Wraith, thrown over the slight gap between the two and landing in a dull thud on the neighboring deck.

It is such an odd sensation to face death head on. The Serpent Captain had always known he would have to, perhaps at the hands of some treacherous crew member or some devout chief of law. He had not, in all his years, imagined death to be so young.

Alas, against a wall of golden sunlight, death stood at a small height and gazed upon him with eyes not yet creased by age, but depthened by time. Her hair, young and deep and without a line of stress-gray, covered her shoulder in a loose braid, her face framed by the escaped pieces. Her clothes were thin and light, not at all reminiscent of the thick darkness we may associate with death and its responsibilities. Most notable of death, though, was that she glittered. First, that her face, ears, neck and wrists bore rings of gold. Then, that the rest of her body - her waist, thighs and boots - was adorned with daggers and swords that glittered like diamonds in the sun, casting rainbows across wood and sea better than any jewel.

And though the Serpent Captain may not have thought it then, the waves shall tell you that death was beautiful. That she, too, had a ruthlessness in her, but that it was not the cause of a lack of heart, but rather through an incomprehensible excess of love. Her lips, though now parted and stoic, were well accustomed to the tug of a smile, and that her bronze skin was made radiant by the caress of the naval sun.

The waves shall also tell you that this young girl was not death: she is far more memorable. They shall tell you that she was cunning and courageous and incredibly compassionate, and that they are extremely proud of their daughter. They shall tell you that, as her ship is one with them, she is one with her ship, and that they share a name.

There is an ancient Suli saying that goes: “When the Waves’ Heir has crowned himself, the blood of the people shall roam no more.” Upon The Wraith, it is embodied by a block of wood - attached to a mast - the words engraved in Suli script, lettered in gold, the edges embellished with carved flowers. This block was the last thing the Serpent Captain saw before his throat was slit.

His blood spattered out, creating a road like that of a breaking wave, pooling on the deck as an idle lake. As it sprayed, it seemed to become stagnant in the air, taking humanoid form. All at once, the splatter of blood seemed to form dozens of small human mannequins that collectively cried out in a triumph and power that outweighed nature in a staggering degree.

When the Wraith sheathed her dagger, its shine now dulled by a thick and viscous red, the humanoid blood ceased its shape, and fell to the wood in a silent tsunami.

From then, tales of the Wraith spread far and wide, a greater trade than any merchant or ruler could dream of. The Wraith became a vessel of not only the Wraith’s crew, but also of hope and freedom. Sailors and slavers alike would speak in hushed tones about the Wraith of the Waves, manned by the daughter of the sea itself.

The waves, however, spoke in no such tones. They preached with great pride the achievements of their daughter, and whenever a traveling Suli family would reach the Ravkan coast, they would make sure that their daughter’s mother and father too knew of her victories, and too spoke of her with pride.

#grishaverse #shadow and bone #six of crows #inej ghafa #inej ghafa x reader #kanej #ninej #pirate captain inej ghafa #pirates #ao3 #folklore #mythology #legend #gvbb #gvbbmb22 #gvbbmbfic22 #literature

[e-wills-afterhours]

Vetrnaetr, Chapter 6

Chapters 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

A/N: You are not hallucinating. I wrote the thing. The first, truly new update to this fic in years, opposed to merely editing a preexisting chapter. That might explain why writing this was like passing a kidney stone. I'm in some kind of fawkward writing phase where I'm in a loathing relationship with everything that I write. Friendly reminder that RTTE is not canon in this AU. This fic is that old.

--------

Slaying dragons was a reality of life on Berk, only a few short years ago. In those days, bloodshed was ubiquitous, and Hiccup never flinched. One cheered it on and regarded it as a birthright. No amount of spilled dragon viscera was ever enough to settle the score. Dragons were creatures of terror. They brought loss and ruin to generations. Every downed beast was retribution for the Hooligans who paid for Berk’s existence with their lives. Violence was the rule; it was the impartial equalizer. 

But that was primitive justice generated from ignorance. The truth of the dragons’ nature cut through the veil of self-deceit. Now there was before and after the truth, and the two could not be reconciled. Though Hiccup had lived it, and indeed aspired to be a part of that barbaric culture, he could no longer reflect on those days with anything other than detachment. His own past seemed a part of an archaic paradigm that held no place in their new peace. He separated it off in his mind like a malignancy.  

Back in his tent, he stared up at the canopy billowing slightly in the icy wind. The image of the subdued Gronckle, struggling against its trance as it bled out on the temple floor, replayed in his mind, unbidden; he could not shake it. Once a scene that was commonplace in his childhood, he now felt only revulsion at the dragon’s pointless execution. He wondered if his father felt it too, or if five decades of war and death had numbed him to such things. Stoick had not rendered an opinion either way. They had returned to their camp in silence once the ceremony ended; perhaps his father knew there was nothing really that could be said.  

The first thing Hiccup had done was wash off the bloody, sacred runes painted on his face. Then, he shed all his ornamentation as fast as he could manage until he felt enough like himself.

Music swelled outside, and the persistent murmuring among the sea of tents built into a cacophony of song and laughter. Revelry so swift on the heels of sober worship was jarring. Then again, what did one dead dragon matter to anyone else on the island?

“Celebration often follows reverence,” Stoick explained, “under the assumption the dísir have received our offerings and will continue to show us favor.” 

Hiccup simply nodded and retrieved a book from his travel chest; he did not feel much like joining in whatever festivities were happening outside. His father did not admonish him, and he dared to hope maybe he would enjoy some peace and quiet, long overdue. To Hiccup’s surprise, the older man glanced at the book with a grunt of approval. If he had to guess, the fact that it was in another language quelled any potential criticism his father might have had about idleness; the book was written in the native language of Francia. Two more days remained on the itinerary—mostly politicking, since the religious obligations were met—and he would undoubtedly be required to attend those goings-on. So, while he could, he would retreat into more enjoyable pursuits. But he did not even have the chance to begin before the first interruption. 

The flap of their tent flew open, blasting them with a sudden chill. Hiccup and Stoick both were both highly affronted. One of their oarsmen bowed his head in apology. He said, “Chief, you have a visitor.” 

Outside their tent stood a tall, solid woman. Her black hair, flecked with gray, was pulled into a tightly coiled plait atop her head. She wore ornate gold and ceramic beads around her neck, resting conspicuously across her ample bosom. Her hands were clasped in front of her, each finger adorned with a heavily jeweled ring. The angles of her face were long and sharp, but there was a tenderness in her eyes upon regarding Stoick as he stood at the threshold of the tent. Hiccup did not know the woman’s name, but the brooch pinned on her cloak bore a sigil he remembered from his father’s incessant quizzes on the voyage over. He also knew that look on her face: it was softness was unmistakable to any man. Suffice it to say, she was not there to talk politics with his father. She was not one of the jarls, but it was clear her status awarded her some proximity to them.

Stoick hesitated. He turned toward Hiccup, looking ill with an unspoken confession. His brow wrinkled in distress, opening his mouth for an explanation that his son thought was unnecessary. They were both men, and so they shared an innate understanding that need not manifest in words. Stoick spoke fondly of his late wife; and Hiccup had grown up knowing the deep love his father had for the mother he could not remember. But nineteen years was a long time; and the chieftain was still as much human at near-fifty as he was in his youth—there was no betrayal in Hiccup’s eyes. 

“It’s fine, Dad,” he said, before the man even uttered a syllable.  

He did not think he could stand the indignity of his father fumbling to justify his most personal business. Stoick the Vast did not need his permission, but Hiccup would give it anyway if the man really wanted it. As far as he was concerned, the less they talked about it, the better.

“Yes, son. But I —” 

“It’s fine.” 

Stoick gave a brief nod before disappearing with the woman, leaving Hiccup in blissful solitude. For an indistinct time, it appeared as though he would not have to be the Heir of Berk for anyone, and he was glad for it. With a beleaguered sigh, he collapsed flat on his bed, holding his book overhead. He had not realized the full weight of the façade he maintained until he dropped it. So many things that he had blocked from his mind for the sake of duty began flooding back in, making it more difficult to focus on an already foreign script. 

He thought about the warmth of the Berk’s mead hall and the enticing combined aroma of stewed meats, beer, and mulled wine that was typical of the season. How nice were those simple delights he took for granted now that he was on a frigid and barren rock in the middle of an unforgiving, gray sea. He missed the sound of dragons’ roars and the thrill of brisk morning flights; he thought about Toothless and Sharpshot, trusting Fishlegs was taking care of them, but worried about their wellbeing all the same; he even missed his loudmouth cousin and the twins’ antics out of need for friendly and familiar faces, if nothing else. Of course, he thought of Astrid too; and though their last few days together had been strained, his heart ached for her touch more than he cared to admit. His anger with her dulled in the inflated fondness brought on by her absence. 

Even when he most desired peace, it appeared as though his busy mind would not grant it. Maybe Snotlout and Tuffnut could shut off their brains for a time, as they occasionally boasted to no one's admiration; but Hiccup rarely had the same luxury.

He snapped the book shut without finishing the first page. The words bled together, and he retained none of them. Setting the book on his stomach, he closed his eyes and embraced thoughts of home instead, hoping they would dissolve into tranquil nothingness. Time passed in daydreams. Maybe an hour or so. As the night dragged on, the celebration outside grew louder, with no signs of ebbing soon. He was resigned to a restless evening until a new distraction came for him. 

“Hiccup?” he heard someone call from outside the tent.  

The voice was feminine, and he sat up frowning, unsure his ears were working properly. He hesitated, listening against the greater ruckus beyond his camp. 

“Hiccup? Are you in there?” The voice called again. 

“Oh, aye. He’s there,” one of the oarsmen chuckled; and Hiccup felt a wave of unease at the suggestive tone in the other man’s voice. 

Grabbing his discarded cloak, he rose from his bed and fastened it around his shoulders in a hurry, leaving his book on the furs. Next, he blew out the candle, not wanting it unattended for long; he did not know how long this unexpected meeting would take.

Throwing back at flap of his tent, his stomach gave an involuntary leap to see Heather waiting for him. The snow was falling harder then, but she did not seem to mind it. Her smile generated plenty of warmth of its own as she laid eyes on him. Behind her, his crewmen exchanged knowing looks and stifled their laughter in mugs of mead or beer. They gave Hiccup quite the approving side-eye—it was as if Astrid no longer existed in their minds. Or, at the very least, she no longer counted on shores so far from Berk. 

“Heather! Is everything okay?” he asked, stepping out into the snowfall. 

“Much better now that I’ve found you again,” she said. 

He felt guilty, for reasons he could not articulate. Just standing there with her, and the way the crew misread the situation, felt much too indecent. He did not know what to say, staring at her blankly.

“Was there something you needed, or...?” 

She laughed, high and tinkling clear. He hated that he found it so pleasant. She grasped him by the hand and fire raced up his arm, but he did not pull away as perhaps he should have. It might have seemed rude, and he felt that mattered for some reason. 

“Come on!” she exclaimed, pulling him away from the relative safety of his tent toward the strange revelry of the night.

He did not want to go but could not find it in himself to deny her either. Sleep would not be had, no matter what course he chose. 

“Have fun!” one of the oarsmen called after them, with a leading trill on his words. 

Hiccup did not have the chance to assert that it was not what it looked like as Heather whisked him away into the sea of tents, banners, and campfires. Music filled his ears, various songs blending together into one discordant but joyous roar. Everywhere, people sang, danced, and imbibed. Some jarls still wore their blood runes. Thanks were shouted aloud to the gods and dísir, accompanied by mugs and horns held aloft and overflowing with all manner of drink. Assorted cuts of meat slow roasted on spits over burning coals hot enough that the gentle snowfall was a non-issue.

Spirits were high. The dried fungus passed around earlier by the völva seemed to be taking effect. Some men were lying down, propped against a pole or a tree, riding potent hallucinations, speaking of or grasping for things that were not there; while others celebrated with renewed fervor, entirely lost to the tide of the evening. Additionally, feats of strength were on full display amid passionate cheers and heckling; wrestling was the primary sport, but some still chose fisticuffs. Others played games and casted lots. 

“This is so much more exciting than any festival in my village!” Heather explained, pulling Hiccup closer so he could hear above the crowd. 

“This is like a typical holiday on Berk,” he replied. “You know, plus the thralls and with a lot less dragons.” 

She beamed at him, holding onto one of his hands with both of hers. “Must be nice! You’re lucky!” 

“I am.” 

“And to think, you were going to waste a night like this alone in your tent!” she teased, wrinkling her nose in the same cute manner Astrid did; he hoped she would not do it again. 

He sighed; she did not hear it. “Lately, it seems I’ve been spending a lot more time alone. But I’m used to it. I always have Toothless for company.” 

"You? Alone?" she asked. "What about your friends? What about...Astrid?"

He found the hesitation on his lover's name odd. As best he could remember, the two girls had parted ways on amicable terms; but Heather now spoke Astrid's name with undue wariness, as if merely saying it would conjure her.

"Astrid and me? That...that'll take a bit of unpacking," he replied flatly.

"Really?" She seemed a little too interested; and she had the glint of ambition in her eyes that Astrid so often did whenever she was bound and determined to have her way. The similarities between them were disconcerting.

Two drunk men bumped into them, sloshing their beers everywhere, but they were too distracted with each other’s mouths to offer much of an apology. Hiccup was content enough to let it slide, since much of the alcohol landed on the ground instead of him. Heather was completely dry.

She watched the couple go, grinning to herself. She said, “There are some things that even dragons aren't good for!” 

“I’m not sure I understand...” he replied.  

Oh, but he did. 

She just laughed, pulling him along past the great tent sea, past makeshift shops and stalls, now closed for the night. The tree line thickened, and it grew quieter. Their steps were hampered by deeper, undisturbed snow. Not too many people would see them, and those who ventured into the woods were not alone, preoccupied in all manner of ways with their own companions; far too busy to notice one more pair.  

At least, on Berk, people had the decency to take their intimate business indoors. 

“What was it like in the temple?” Heather asked eagerly, now that they had more privacy and she no longer needed to shout; Hiccup never expected to find privacy so uncomfortable.  

“Bizarre,” he answered. “The völva were chanting, and it was like the whole place was under some sort of spell—something ancient and powerful.” 

She finally released him, and his wrist relished the freedom but mourned the loss of another's touch. They walked together at equal pace.

“Did they draw the runes on you too?” she asked.

“Yes; but I cleaned them off.” 

She sighed, gazing up through the naked branches, deep in thought. “I wish I could’ve seen it—the Dísablót, I mean.” 

“Well, it was interesting—as long as ritualistic animal sacrifice is your thing...” 

“Oh? Are you not the religious type?” 

“I am, but not like that,” he replied, gesturing back toward the temple in the distance. 

“You really are a different breed entirely, aren’t you, Hiccup Haddock?” she mused, nudging him. 

“I’ll take the compliment, thanks.” 

They took the next several paces in silence, breaths coming in puffs of smoke. Snow crunched beneath their feet, and there was not much light to guide them anymore; but with Toothless as a companion, Hiccup had long since grown accustomed to the night. 

Heather stayed close to him, occasionally brushing her fingers against his in a manner he told himself was unintentional. 

She was the first to speak again, her tone of voice softer than before. “Last time we saw each other—all that business with Alvin—I didn’t think I’d see you again.” 

“Why is that?” 

She looked at him, and he could not make out her full expression in the dark. “What reason would we have to cross paths after that?” 

“You are a friend to dragons; so, you are a friend to Berk.” 

She glanced down at the snow for a moment, then replied, “Mn. Yes. Friends.” 

The trees began to thin once more, and they heard the rush of the ocean, rolling into Helgafell’s rocky shore. The island was not large, and so they had wandered upon another edge of it. In the faint light of the full moon, bleeding through patches in the clouds above, they could see the white caps on the sea. The water was one inky black expanse, stretching out beyond the horizon until it spilled off the edge of the world to nourish the roots of Yggdrasil. Just before the land sloped down to the waves below, a couple of small cairns had been stacked with great care. The stones would have been easy to miss were they not dusted with snow. 

“What do you think is out there?” Heather asked, nodding at the endless darkness.

Hiccup thought about the foreign books he possessed and the Anglo-Saxon brooch he had purchased; he thought about the raids on faraway lands and the politics there, which reached him still. Names of kingdoms his father had drilled into him echoed in his brain: Northumbria, the Danelaw, Mercia, East Anglia, and Francia. The other jarls knew all about them, of course. He suddenly felt small and ignorant, like a child who stumbled into a room of adults conversing. 

He muttered, “A much bigger world that is very different from Berk. I'm just starting to understand it.” 

Heather moved in close, until they were standing face-to-face. She asked, “And what do you see, right here, in front of you?” 

Hiccup’s throat went dry. He felt the back of his neck prickle and grow hot. Her question was dangerous, and he was not sure there was a correct answer—but there was most certainly an incorrect one; and he suspected that was what she wanted to hear. He could not give it. Even if she had asked him the question when they were younger and unattached, his answer would have been the same.  

“Heather. I don’t—” 

She grasped him by the front of his cloak, pulling him down as she rocked up on her toes, crushing their lips together. He froze, grasping weakly at her shoulders. She mistook the gesture for affection, because she leaned into him, kissing deeper and trying to coax a response in kind. His brain was yelling at him to get over the shock and come to his senses. His heart seized in protest of a wrong set of lips on his own. But his body was confused; it remembered being kissed in such a way and it missed the feeling. He was not repulsed. 

Still—many things, though he was—Hiccup was not a fool. 

He pulled away, leaving Heather clutching his clothes and teetering on the spot. She came back down, feet flat against the earth. 

“No,” he said. “I can’t.” 

“No?” she asked, tilting her head in confusion. 

He pried her hands loose from him in as polite a manner as he could. She tried to interlock their fingers but he broke contact entirely. “No,” he repeated. “Heather, I’m with Astrid.” 

She recoiled. “But you said things were...and I-I thought—” 

“I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say, stupidly. 

A heavy silence fell between them. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and stared determinedly at the trees. Only a few minutes ago she had been a bright spot like in a miserable wilderness, like the first evening star; but she turned cold and lifeless as the surrounding woods. Hiccup hated himself, for being there in that moment, and letting her get too close. His heart was racing, and every second that passed without further explaining—defending—was painful. 

“I thought things had soured between you two. You didn't tell me otherwise,” she mumbled, still not looking at him; and that brought the total count of women who now hated him to two.  

Maybe he just needed to throw himself into the sea for everyone's betterment? 

He said, “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”

Looking back on how he had spoken of his relationship, and how vague and sullen he had been—the fault was his. But he had not invited the kiss; it was something he neither asked nor hoped for. Even his frustrations with his lover could not twist his words into untruths and allow him a moment’s secret pleasure in the affections of another.

He went on to explain, “No matter what she and I are going through right now, I still love Astrid.” 

Heather did not seem convinced; or maybe she was pushing against his resolve to see if it would break. 

She asked, “Really? Do you?” 

He did not hesitate. “I have only ever loved Astrid,” he asserted. 

After a moment’s pause, she gave a wry laugh. She dropped her arms to her sides in full resignation.

“Well, I guess that makes me quite the dumbass.” 

He shook his head. “I don’t think it does.” 

She sniffed, and he chose to believe it was from the cold. The wind whipped their hair around enough that it was plausible, and far more dignified than the alternative. He could grant her that. 

Hands on her hips, still avoiding his gaze, she said, “Well, now that I’ve utterly embarrassed myself, you should probably head back.” 

He might find it laughable that she would dismiss him, if he did not also want to flee from the last few minutes and forget they ever happened. Heather was proud and fiery, like Astrid. That was one of the things that had endeared Heather to him when they first met. In so many ways, she reminded him of the young woman who commanded his fantasies. But in too many ways, she was also like him; enough so that nothing more than friendship could ever transpire between them, no matter how she might wish for it. He hoped, after the embarrassment subsided, she would come to realize it too.  

“I’m not leaving you out here in the woods, in the dark, by yourself,” he said, refusing to return to the camps without her. 

She scoffed. “I don’t need looking after, Hiccup.” 

“I know you don’t,” he said, and he meant it. Still, he stepped aside only to clear her way. “After you.” 

-----

One crewmember had stayed behind to watch the camp. Undoubtedly, the others had wandered off for more entertainment. Hiccup was relieved that he was greeted with only a nod and not a bevy of questions. The night was too cold, and his patience was scarce. He sought refuge in his tent, and vowed not to set foot outside again, no matter who came calling--even if it were Odin himself. The gods surely enjoyed their laugh for the evening, they had no need to bother him further.

Hiccup did not bother to reignite his candle, feeling even that simple task to be a chore at the late hour. The dark was not bothersome; the tent was easy to navigate. He shrugged off his cloak and set it neatly atop the heavy travel chest among his things. His father’s bed was conspicuously empty, and Hiccup did not expect he would see the man until the morning.

That suited him just fine. 

He needed the solitude to think—or rather, not to think. It was debatable which was the greater labor: processing what had happened with Heather or trying to clear his mind of it altogether. Perhaps the more prudent question was whether or not he could, since he had never been successful in quieting his louder, more persistent thoughts to begin with. The clearest his mind would ever be, was flying his dragon and performing all manner of stunts to boost the adrenaline; or else it was lying beside Astrid, drunk off her body and the taste of her lips. At that moment, he had neither to pacify his brain.

Burying his face in his hands, he sat down on the end of his bed. Every fiber of his being was spent. Heather’s kiss haunted him: how nice it had felt and how deeply the knife of guilt twisted because of it.

Women were so godsdamned confusing.

Now he had a new dilemma. He would have to tell Astrid everything, which was a prospect that brought the bile to his throat. How remarkably unfair. He was not sure, in their current state, that she would believe he had neither solicited nor enjoyed the kiss. What she might do or say to him was not something he had any energy left to think about.

Were relationships supposed to be so painful? Why had no one warned him? 

He had enough. Sleep beckoned sweetly. His eyes itched, and his blanket of furs was inviting. A good night’s rest might smooth over a lot of life’s current wrinkles. At the very least, he could consider his problems with renewed emotional fortitude; something he desperately needed, since he felt as powerless and bewildered as a rabbit in a snare. The one perk of exhaustion was that it overtook any buzzing in his mind.

He kicked off his snow-caked boot and removed his icy prosthesis, storing in within arm’s length should he have sudden need for it. His leather bracers came off next, followed by his belt and top, with a dull ache in his right shoulder as he pulled his tunic over his head. He climbed into bed in just his pants and thinner linen undershirt, burrowing deep into the covers, leaving no part of his body vulnerable to the cold, save for enough of his face as needed to breathe. The furs were heavy too, but it was like a long-anticipated embrace.

His whole being was unburdened. The relief was instantaneous, the moment he closed his tired eyes. Not even the ongoing festivities troubled him anymore. He could feel sleep dragging him down into warm, blissful oblivion.

Down. Down. Down...into towering white clouds and vibrant blue skies. The wind rushed in his ears, and gulls cried out to the tune of sea rolling far below. Rocky stacks loomed to one side of him or another. He sat upon a vague, scaly shape, that swooped and dove. Maybe it was Toothless.

The spray of the waves as he grazed the water felt real. He could smell the brine. The sun was glaring bright, almost blinding. At the same time, everything seemed softer.

Another dragon came into view. He was not sure who was riding it: the person's features were somewhat blurred like water droplets over ink. The mysterious rider laughed; it was feminine. The sunlight flashed off golden hair.

Then they were driving into the sea on their dragons. It was cold, but not unpleasant. All sound stopped, except for the muffled pulse of an underwater world. They ventured deeper, without slowing.

Down. Down. Down...

Then everything was black and still behind his eyelids, which he refused to open yet. Sleep had been too well-deserved to give up so easily. He could smell burning wood and a savory concoction, wafting through the air to entice him to wake. The murmur of voices sounded too far away for him to care.

But something was amiss.

He stirred with a small groan. Someone was applying gentle pressure to his chest. Maybe his father trying to rouse him? He took a deep breath in spite of it; the sensation was bearable, and he tried to ignore it in favor of sleep's wonderful, lingering comfort.

But then the pressure started to shift around, scuttling about on top of him like little feet. That was strange enough to warrant half a care.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

A yellow, bulbous pair blinked back at him—and something wet and slimy grazed the side of his face, rousing him fully.

With a shout of panic, he bolted upright, retreating as far and as quickly from the yellow eyes as he could—until he toppled off his pallet, onto the frozen hard ground, upside down. He grasped futilely for his prosthetic limb, hidden somewhere beneath the scattered furs.

The tent flew open, bathing him and the intruder in the pale light of the early morning.

"Hiccup!" Stoick called, standing there with his sword drawn, ready to strike down any enemy that dared to attack his son.

The man's expression changed to one of bemusement, laced with exasperation to find Hiccup in such a state. Two of their crewmen appeared at the chief's side, brandishing their weapons. All three men looked down at Hiccup, perplexed to find the Heir of Berk strewn out on the ground, underdressed and upside down, twisted in his covers.

"I'm...good," he told them feebly, trying to untangle himself--but not to salvage his dignity, of which none remained.

"Is that a dragon?" one of the men asked, pointing toward the pallet with his axe.

In the commotion, Hiccup had nearly forgotten. He craned his neck up as he freed his leg, spotting a blue and rather unbothered-looking Terrible Terror on his bed.

"Sneaky?" he asked, incredulous—but of course, it was.

"Is that one of Berk's dragons?" his father asked, eyes narrowed; and the accusation was plain in his voice.

"Yeah. It's Sneaky," Hiccup sighed, finally able to right himself. He stood, hopping a little until he caught his balance on his one, good leg. When he saw his father lacked any noticeable comprehension, he added, "Astrid's dragon."

"What's it doing here?" Stoick demanded, as if it was Hiccup's fault.

Because it was his son. And a dragon. Astrid's name was thrown in there too, for good measure. Naturally it was his fault. Guilt by association and dragon obsession.

"Is she writing you love letters now?" one of the other men spoke up, face cracked into a grin.

"Couldn't even make it a week, could you?" the second man teased.

Hiccup rolled his eyes and bit back the choice words he had for the two of them. He then found his metal leg by gathering up the furs and dumping them back on his bed. His prosthetic fell out and rolled across the surface. Sneaky scurried out of the way.

"Get that dragon out of here," Stoick demanded. "Send it off, before it's seen! I warned you of the consequences if it is."

"Sneaky won't be seen--that's kind of the point."

"Son--"

Hiccup held up a hand to placate him. "Yeah. Okay, Dad. I'll handle it." When his father just continued to stare with heavy skepticism, he insisted, "I'll handle it!"

Stoick sheathed his sword with a nod, and the other two men turned back to camp, snickering.

The chief instructed, "Get dressed. Come outside when you're ready. Busy day ahead; lots of meetings."

"Sure. Got it."

His father left abruptly, and Hiccup frowned, feeling as though the man sucked all the air out of the tent with him as he went. Resigned to a miserable day of abject boredom, he quickly changed clothes, dressing to moderately impress any other jarls they might encounter. That was the assignment, after all. He was there to listen, stay quiet, and look wealthy: a living testament to the Haddock bloodline.

Sneaky brushed up against him as he sat on the bed, attaching his prosthetic.

"You've got to stop scaring the living daylights out of me," Hiccup chided. He stroked the dragon, who arched into his touch and then rolled onto his back, exposing his stomach. "But, all things considered, I am glad to see a dragon around here."

As he rubbed the dragon's belly, he noticed the small parchment scroll fastened to its leg. He began to untie it.

"Once I take this off you, it's time for you to go home," he told the dragon. "You can't be seen, understand? I know that's not really a problem for you, though."

Sneaky, newly unburdened, took off at once, disappearing between the pallet and the canvas of the tent. Even though Hiccup scrambled across the bed to catch a glimpse of the departing dragon's tail, it was as if Sneaky had simply evaporated. Astrid would have been proud.

"Good dragon."

Turning his attention back to the parchment in his hand, he noticed various notes from Dragon Academy days on one side. The page was a rejected collection of observations that never made it into the Dragon Manual. He and Astrid had exercised their authority to veto any proposed additions from the others.

He smiled as he read Fishlegs's excited scrawl: When riding a Monstrous Nightmare, a rider must either fireproof his saddle or training method. Beneath his note, Snotlout had added Fireproofing the saddle is easier. My training style is perfect. Monstrous Nightmares are stubborn pains in the ass. Literally. Always carry burn ointment--but none that smell too flowery or people will think you've shoved a bouquet down your backside. Astrid had crossed through all of the writing with a single line, leaving it legible, and simple reply of her own: No.

As amusing as the trip down memory lane was, Hiccup did not think that was Astrid's intent when she sent Sneaky all the way to Helgafell to find him. He turned the parchment over and found a much longer note, written in cramped, albeit tidy handwriting.

It read:

Hiccup,

I'm at a loss of what to do. We're in trouble, and I think you can feel it. This isn't a problem you can ignore or fly away from. If things continue this way, then I don't see a future for us. That was not something I would have thought was even possible a couple months ago, but here we are. I do not want the naysayers to be right. Did we make a mistake? I do not want to believe it is true, but I am running out of arguments against it. Make me believe that you and I are still the right choice, and the heartache and scandal were worth it.

This was supposed to be easy. I feel like I am carrying this relationship. It's like I'm guiding you along and you are just sleepwalking. Am I wrong? Then prove it to me, when you get back. I'm drawing a line in the sand. Show me that I am not an afterthought, and you actually care about something or someone other than your own selfish hobbies. If you can't do that, better we end it sooner than drag out the matter, for everyone's sake.

-A.

Hiccup just stared down and the letter, feeling his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. The words stung, and he read it twice to make sure she was not actually breaking up with him by dragon mail and he had simply misread it.

As far as he could tell, she still considered their relationship intact, but hanging on by a quickly fraying thread. He supposed, in his absence, she felt she had no other recourse but to issue an ultimatum.

For one week, he was trapped on this political and spiritual trip of which he wanted no part, while his lover sat at home stewing over his supposed faults. He could not fix it. Sneaky was sent away for protection, and he could not respond to Astrid, he could not defend himself.

He was numb, and contemplated instead what he should do with the letter—for what else could reasonably be done, given the circumstances?

Then his father called for him, and he remembered what the itinerary held for next two days before sailing for home. He felt impossibly worse. It was no more likely that he could find some sliver of enjoyment on Helgafell than it was that he could mend his relationship from afar. All the while, he was torn between miserable duty and worrying about a mounting problem waiting for him on Berk. His time was spoken for; he was stuck. For the first time in a while, he felt truly defeated.

With a sigh, he rose to his feet. He put on his cloak before venturing out into the bitter cold, where his father and his breakfast waited for him.

"Everything okay?" Stoick asked, eyeing the parchment clutched tightly in his hand. The man then offered him a bowl of porridge.

With a terse nod, Hiccup dropped the letter into the campfire, watching it curl and burn.

"Everything is just fine."

#hiccstrid #hiccstrid fic #long fic #affairs au

[asinglepecan]

FFXIVWrite Prompt 8: Shed

Aila and Azem have a conversation after EW.

Aila was sitting in a field. The sun was setting in front of her, painting everything a gentle gold. A woman in black robes sat next to her. She couldn’t remember why she was here, but she knew it was important. Aila looked at the woman and furrowed her brow. Nostalgia tugged at her heart. Why?

“Are you well?” The woman asked.

“I’m.. I’m not sure.” Aila answered.

“Shed your burdens child, you will have what counsel I can offer.” The woman smiled at her. She felt calmer here. 

Aila tried to remember… First came a feeling of pride, then a bitter cold. She felt passion wash over her, and felt deep regret. She remembered… stars. Many stars. They saddened her, though she could not say why. 

She had been searching for something. That was it, searching. A desire for answers bubbled up within her, not just hers but the others too. The other… parts of her. Aila looked out over the fields. There was peace here. “I was searching for an answer.”

“Hm. And did you find it?”

“I-I think so. I met them, the others.” Aila’s memory faltered, and she tried to hold onto the pieces. Broken glass. Skeins of fate. A man facing a wolf in the shadows of a keep. A tree whose bark was ash. A great machine. A love falling through the sky. These were not hers to keep and yet she felt them. The emotion tore at her. “I remember others' lives, others' pasts. They aren't mine.” She sighed. There was something missing. Aila could hardly remember herself in the cacophony. So many voices. Memories.

The woman looked out over the field in thought. “You worry at why you carry them? These lives.”

“Yes.”

“You are you child.” The woman said softly. These words were not idle comfort, she knew them.

“I can see your soul clear, it burns with many more flames than it should. They tear at each other with fear and regret. You carry them yes, but your story is your own. Hear theirs. You will find peace then.”

“Are you… Are you one of them?”

“Ha! In a sense child. But my story is long finished, and there are few lessons you may learn from it”

That didn’t seem right. The woman carried the wisdom of a long life. Aila looked at her closely, studied her face. She felt that nostalgia again. 

The woman looked back at her, a brow raised. “Curious are you? Very well, your name is Aila Birchtree. You are a warrior, a wanderer, a friend. What is mine?”

Aila did not know why, but she did know the woman's name. She knew the woman’s story. A traveler of far flung fame, the burdens of sacrifice, the bitterest of regrets. 

“You’re Demeter.”

“The very same.” replied the woman. She smiled at Aila, and the many flames inside her quieted.

#ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2023 #pecan does writing #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #wol #aila birchtree #azem

[mvalentine]

I have to say I had a bit of a hard time choosing which wips I should go with because they’re all so intriguing but I’ve finally made a choice (which is a miracle tbh because I’m already indecisive asf like it’s an actual problem anywayyy)

Can I have a letter I will never send (Nate has such a hold over me my god) and our love has gone cold, you're intertwining your soul with somebody else if that’s not too much, please? Love you💕💕

ask me about my wips!

maurineee hii 💕 you've managed to ask for one of the few one's that aren't ethan & lana and im so grateful <333

a letter i will never send - okay so my mc alex is super stoic and reserved (sounds familiar shjsjs) and basically she's very hesitant to be with nate & actually rejects him at the end of book2 when he asks her out so:

my darling, 

you will never be unloved by me, 

you are too well tangled in my soul. 

| atticus 

words.

thread, needle, sew. 

a seamstress of words, aureate yarns stretching, spindling, a tapestry of tawn and gold in the making.  

that is not me, my dear nate, never one for words, never till the day my path collided with yours. But no, collided to harsh of a word, brushed, stroked, caressed - these words i deem more appropriate. 

our love has gone cold, you've intertwined your soul with somebody else- okay! this is actually an au where lana is a lawyer & the li is the first lady of the united states (alcina by @nightingale-interactive) & i wrote this little fic for them sorry its super long! & ofc its angst!

the amber liquid seeps through her veins, the usual warmth the liquor brings replaced by a scathing burn; bitter to the last drop. 

chartreuse eyes flicker over the scene-- over the blinding lights, the pretentious conversations, the faux smiles. 

the presidential gala was in full swing. 

but lana brooks wasn’t focused on them. any of them. 

except one. 

the one with meticulously painted lips, greeting her drink like an old friend, dark tresses cascading across alabaster skin. and eyes, emerald eyes, so painfully resemblant to lana’s own -- albeit a shade warmer, lighter.

and lana isn’t the only one watching. 

with a harsh flare of awareness, lana brooks realizes that another pair of eyes are mirroring her watchful trail, studying the beauty that is isabella cartledge.

and the pair of eyes belonged to none other than alcina anderson, the first lady of the united states, & the woman who holds her brittle heart in her hands.

a fresh sear of pain lances through her at the realization, white-hot & coiled. her hands tighten around the tumbler, head tipping back to bring the last drops to parting lips, craving the sting; the burn of distraction. 

but it was in vain. 

she couldn’t will the memory out of her head, it seared into her brain like a brand, a reminder. 

‘this could have been yours’, a voice snarls (and it’s vicious & lashing & it stings & slashes & she doesn’t know how to make it stop--), ‘look at what you could have had. what you did have. what you let slip through your fingers. her eyes (warm, so warm, once reserved for your eyes only--) would always search for yours, in brightly lit ballrooms, in bustling corridors; everywhere. but now they’re focused on someone else-- someone better, happier; someone easier to love. and it's all your fault. it’s always your fau’-

the abrupt scrape of the wooden barstool against mahogany tiling causes a few heads to turn, but they’re paid no mind. instead, signaling the bartender, she demands a scotch - neat - the need for numbness paramount.

liquor in hand, she scans the room, eyeing every possible exit, a temporary reprieve. 

she finds it in the form of a balcony, a secluded alcove hidden from the throng of a crowd that grapples for her attention as she struggles towards sanctuary. the chill of the washington night washes over her-- a soothing balm assuaging the flames of bitterness, the wildfire of ineffable hurt. 

hazy orbs peer up at the inky black expanse, watching the stars of the night take center stage as the revelry of the party fades into obscurity. the quiet of the night elicits her thoughts to drift --  to flit towards alcina anderson, as they almost always did. 

her mind trails back to their very first encounter, to the four walls within the labyrinth that was the white house: where lana brooks first laid eyes on alcina anderson, a hesitant cadence present in her voice as she regaled the nature of her involvement to the first lady of the united states. she had expected anger, indignance even, but was shocked to find alcina’s face betrayed nothing, calm demeanour resolute. the reaction was a curious one, intriguing her to no end. she wondered what lay beneath the surface, beneath the mask this woman so meticulously seemed to have donned. 

the first chip in the mask she was privy to presented itself subsequent to the hire, a blinding smile breaking free, like a canary absconding its cage. that smile was reserved for none other than her children, cherubic & oh-so lovely. it was the first hint of the woman beneath, gentle, with a forest of love to offer. 

after that, the pieces began chipping away, rapid & a whirlwind- from martinis on rooftops to joined jabs at senators to stories shared in the crook of the night to light laughs & soft smiles. 

suddenly-- it became more. 

she couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, the catalyst that spurred the switch , but something had shifted. 

and it was terrifying. 

warning bells flared before her eyes-- the flashes of past love, the hurt & the heartbreak; memories long gone, but damage cemented bone-deep. 

saying that their newfound spark, that the blazing something between them wasn’t at all a  contributing factor to her departure, would be a duplicitous delusion.  

because want, want; was a heady, terrifying thing. 

& lana brooks was a coward. 

but even cowards craved, desired the very thing they dismantled-- but it was too late.

the cost of cowardice was love lost-- and lana brooks was paying the price. 

#love youuu <333 #thank you so much for sending these in 💕 #maurine 💖 #asks

[ror-witch]

Here you are, a fresh off the press, unedited, unproofread disaster of a ficlet (that's honestly something a rewrite of something else I've written I am now realizing) and its going to stay that way, since it was only meant a warmup to get me ready to finally finish my next chapter. Enjoy, I guess. Vaguely inspired by neurotic nagas Phobos' fashion line, which was great art, as always, but did leaving me thinking, "that does not look like something poor Phobos would want to wear."

Phobos resisted the urge to fiddle with the last golden button that held together the shimmering teal fabric of his surcoat at his throat. It itched terribly but he did not dare to wrinkle the garment for some relief with parents watching him so closely. Today was not the day for ruffling their feathers as he often preferred to do. His mother would have him thrown from the ramparts if he tried that today. Still, he winced and huffed under his breath as the servants that surrounded him finished roughly pulling his hair into a carefully braided style in an attempt to make it look far shorter than it really was without actually cutting it. He’d not budged on that demand, even as his mother’s perfect face had turned red and the air around her cracked from her poorly contained fury with him. (Long hair had only just come into fashion and was something of a faux pas and his mother was a stancher traditionalist then even the oldest members of her court ) That was of little matter to him. Nothing short of her ordering the servants to hold him down and cut his hair would have sufficed in that matter, and even she was not that cruel. And so for once, they’d come to a compromise that pleased them both.  

There were a few more overbearing moments of adjustments; fingers digging into his hair and hands repositioning his vestments this way and that as if they were dressing up a doll or primping an animal for a show. Phobos supposed in some ways both were true. And with a final pull of his coat, the servants hurriedly scuttled out of the way to allow both his parents and himself to scrutinize their work. 

Phobos barely recognized himself. Positioned between his parent’s whom he, for once, matched perfectly. His hair appeared almost cropped due to their careful and intricate handiwork, they’d washed away the black kohl he amused himself by painting upon his face almost every day (partly because his mother hated it so, and partly because he simply enjoyed the way it looked) and he wore the traditional colors of his family’s coat of arms, one’s he’d forsaken for offensive black and coal since his mother’s rejection of his magical powers (and himself by default), even at the most important of affairs. Until today, that is. Swathed in deep teal and white and shimmering gold, all bright, noble colors. And on top of that, the outfit was tailored so he appeared broader than he was, like a swordsman, not a mage. He looked, he supposed, as an Escanor Prince should. The sight sent up such a virtent taste of bile from his stomach it took everything he possessed to not gag on it. Was this what he was meant to do for the rest of his life, play dress up to suit someone else’s whims? Powerless to control even the smallest parts of his own destiny? 

Meanwhile, unaware of his son’s internal distress, his father, who was easily pleased and more of decoration at his mothers arm that any real authority, quickly announced, 

“You look very handsome, son.” His tone was assuring, as if all those in attendance needed to be convinced of that fact. His father had never called him that before, never made anything more than a few lighthearted jabs at his ‘effeminate’ appearance that he constantly assured Phobos he should not truly take to heart. And Phobos did not, though not out of any easy-going nature, but because he knew who his true judge was, just as she was now. He’d done everything she’d asked (demanded) of him (for once) and with minimal complaints no less, so he was curious where she would inevitably find fault with him. 

Jade green eyes, the same as his own, scanned him intently for imperfections. His back instinctively stiffened under her inspection, waiting for her critique. She studied him for quite some time, long enough the servants began to fidget and his father’s fingers twisted together nervously. Phobos just stood perfectly still, daring her to find fault with him when she had all but dressed him herself. Somehow, he was certain she still would. After all, just his mere existence was an offense to her. Finally, his mother quickly reached out and brushed at a speck of dust that didn’t exist on his shoulder and told him, 

“Yes, you look presentable.” 

Phobos blinked in disbelief, his heart twisting so in such violent and unexpected excitement his stomach actually lurched in response. That was high praise from his mother. She’d found nothing to criticize. He’d actually met her expectations for once. Phobos had long ago given up any expectation of pleasing her, and to do so now, at an event where her expectations were nothing short of perfection was astonishing. Even if it was all pre-planned by her.

“I do wish you would’ve cut your hair though.”

Ah. There it was, he wasn’t surprised she’d not let that go. Still, that was far less than she usually said. 

“Are you ready?” she then asked. 

He wanted to say no, that he would never be ready for tonight and would love nothing more than to avoid it entirely. That under all his vitriol, he was terrified of what would become of him after tonight. But it didn’t matter, he could have gotten down on his knees, tears in his eyes and his mother would still not have shown him any mercy. So, instead, he nodded briskly and took one last look at the Escanor Prince in the mirror he did not know, and descended the staircase after his parents. 

“Isn’t this an exciting day?” his father asked, making it only five steps before finding the need to fill the silence that naturally came to both mother and son. Phobos fought down the urge to deadpan ‘no’ to his face and mother seemed to be fighting her own internal battle as well. Her chest puffed out in a deep breath, and eyes narrowed darkly.

“It’s an important day,” she corrected briskly.  

And that it was. 

It was (almost) seventeen years to the day of his birth. Typically, Phobos’ birthday was not traditionally celebrated. The date aligned with one of the major harvest festivals, and thus Phobos was usually an afterthought. Though, for once, he really did prefer it that way. Royal birthdays were a public event, a day to be put on display for both peasants and nobles for their enjoyment rather than his own and always ended with a ball. Phobos hated balls. But, with the Harvest festival and its many complicated rituals occupying most of her attention, Weira had allowed him to do as he wished and circumvented the usual pomp and instead allowed him to wallow in his chamber. Alone. Which was just how he preferred it. His parents were too busy to force him to do anything, and old superstitions forbade him from making the same appearances as his mother and the other ladies and so he had no public duties either. It was really quite a pleasant day. 

Until this year, of course.

This was the year he could officially start courting and accepting engagements, an…exciting time for all young nobles. An event that was marked with a grand ball to kick off all the hustling that would come after as his admirers vyed for his attention (and throne!) Though of course, the event, despite possibly deciding the future of the monarchy, because it involved him, hadn’t been important enough to steal any attention from the harvest festival, and thus had been held the day after. Phobos had his share of scandals already, from his magic to his already widely noted…distintrest in female companionship to his (as his mother called it) ‘sour and entirely unhelpful attitude’. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t quite the prize for an ambitious girl. An Escanor Prince on his own was still quite a catch, though more in the sense that they’d bought a particularly expensive and sought after decoration, but one with no sister? No heir to the throne? Why, if the poor Queen Weira never produced an heir before her death, his wife would be lucky enough to be the Queen Consort, a placeholder title of course, at least until their daughter came of age and into magic of her own. It was higher than most noble girls could ever hope to dream, and yet, to all eyes, it seemed like the most likely scenario. Weira wasn’t getting any younger, and Phobos still had no siblings. The fruit was ripe for picking, so to speak. However, sour and unpleasant that fruit was. 

The thought made Phobos burn with rage. To be completely tossed aside like that, when he was the one whom Weira had given birth to first, the one who had inherited all her magical skills. He could do everything she could do, and he was not even tapped into the Heart. If he was…he would be stronger than even her. The greatest Monarch Meridian head ever known, well studied and with the power of the entire world at his hands; not bound by the ridiculous rules that had held back his fore mothers. But no one cared about that, because he’d been born with the wrong genitals. 

So, instead he was trudging down the stairs, almost to the landing, to the misery that awaited the rest of his life. He’d put it off for as long as he could, refusing to attend the usual mixers where young nobles wet their feet in the art of courting and scoped out potential suitors. Quite literally jinxing the official sit-downs his mother had arranged for him over the years of his adolescence, hoping a one on one venture would suit him better than the loud and lively balls the other nobles preferred. But there was no putting it off anywhere, an unmarried prince was a disgrace and a disgrace was…

A firm grasp on his arm yanked him from his thoughts. Phobos looked at his mother in shock. She’d not hurt him even though her grip was firm and unrelenting. No, the shock had come from the fact that he could not remember the last time his mother had given more than the briefest of touches. 

“Your Majesty?” He questioned. The expression on her face was one he’d never seen before. Stern yes, but also gravely concerned. Like she actually cared. 

That shook him more than even her touch. 

“Phobos, there will be no magic tonight, do you understand? This night is going to determine your entire future. It was difficult enough to convince the Ladies that are here that rumors of your…conjuring tricks are tremendously overblown. There will not be so much as a spark in your eye tonight, is that clear?” Phobos said nothing, not trusting his barbed tongue to refrain, and simply nodded. Then her gaze softened further still. “We don’t have time for any more games, Phobos. We all have our duties, and this is yours. You are not a child anymore, and it’s time to take your place in the family…otherwise.” Weira trailed off, her voice losing the unwavering quality he always knew it to have. 

Phobos knew what otherwise meant. Both mother and son were acutely aware that the future of their family was only a few years away from resting on his shoulders entirely. And though the thought of the Great Escanor dynasty collapsing because his mother refused to acknowledge him as her rightful heir was not an entirely unpleasant thought to Phobos, he knew the consequences that would come with it. The Heart of Meridian in limbo. Total and outright warfare. Nothing short of his mother directly naming him her heir and giving him the Heart would prevent that. And he was fairly certain his mother would rather see her precious world plunged into chaos then break the rules of said world. That was the rigid and unyielding nature of Queen Weira. It was why at thirty-nine years old she was still trying to produce her heir, even after miscarriage after miscarriage, including the last stillbirth which had nearly killed her too, rather than accepting the inevitable and her own failure with it. She would let it all fall to ruin and decay before she admitted defeat. 

So, really, his sudden compliance was more a matter of self preservation than a strike of responsibility. Though Phobos was still not entirely sure this was a life worth living. Could he fit himself into this false skin for the rest of his life? Pretend to be the very thing he’d despised all his life? Watching as others took what he wanted more than anything in the world? He didn’t know. 

His mother’s hand cupped his face gently, and Phobos simply stood there in stunned horror. 

“And, Phobos, you really do look handsome.”

She said it like she could hardly believe it herself, and Phobos had never hated her more. 

----

The night had gone perfectly. 

Not a single thing had gone wrong. He’d not so much as sneered during the whole event, though great personal effort on his behalf. He’d danced with an endless stream of high-born girls his mother had hand selected for him, giving them all equal reign over his time, until the Queen had given him a polite nudge to pay attention to one girl in particular, Lady Orlena. She was the highest ranking (or would be anyway) of the girls there, and her mother was already a counselor to his own. She was a loud, spoiled thing, as he supposed they all were really, and was evidently who his mother favored to be his wife. Because of that, Phobos had humored her, listening to every inane, worthless word that seemed to spill from her never ceasing mouth like a flood. Danced along to every song she desired, even when the music and spinning had started to give him a migraine. She could not see why his mother favored her for a potential replacement. She possessed no magical skill and was not particularly clever by his measure. Why would she want her instead of him? 

He’d sat through an endless affair of gift giving, which would have been the least offensive part of the event, had it not been blatantly that it was a self gratuitous display on behalf of the givers themselves and not a single person knew the first thing about him. He’d been given an array of fine weapons he would never use, a trio of spotted hunting dogs (Phobos was fond of most animals but found dogs far too loud and energetic), three horses (he really disliked horses), and finally from Lady Orlena’s family a gorgeous set of armor, engraved with gold and silver. Even Phobos, who had no interest in such things, was taken aback by it. It was better even than his father’s, perhaps even better than Escanor’s himself. Still, they were not gifts one who knew even the least bit about him would give. Though, to his great surprise, his mother of all people had gifted him with a polished crystal chess set. A far less impressive gift than from the nobles, but the only one he could see himself ever actually using. He wondered if old age was making her soft. 

And, most importantly, there was no magic. He’d not spoken of it (however boring and tedious he found their endless conversations about court affairs) and he’d not done it (he’d not even stopped a wine glass from a tispy uncle from spilling upon him.) He’d played his role perfectly, for the first time in his life. 

Even his mother had even said so. 

She’d caught him after the ball, as he was trudging after the servants carrying all the gifts that could be stored in his chambers there. She’d smiled at him. And Phobos didn’t know whether to be frightened or amazed. He’d committed the last time she’d smiled at him to memory, when he’d begged her with silly, childish words to make the glowing lights he loved so much for him again. The next day he’d made them for her, and the smiles had stopped. 

“You did well tonight, Phobos. For the first time, in a long time, I saw who you were meant to be.” She’d stopped short of saying she was proud, but her praise had taken the breath from his all the same; for multiple reasons. Could she not see how miserable he’d been? How out of place and wrong this all was for him? He wasn’t meant for this. Not when he could call the power of storms from the sky and create spells of his own making that were beyond all others. 

But instead of raging at her, as he might have done in the past, he merely tipped his head and told her “thank you, Your Majesty,” and walked away. 

Thankfully, the rain whose dark clouds that hung over the entire evening, had waited until Phobos and his many gifts were safely back in his chamber. The servants had wanted to stay and attend to him, but he’d dismissed them, not wanting to be bothered any longer. He collapsed on his bed, as the rain started, not bothering to take off his formal clothes or take down his hair, and for lack of a more elegant term, simply moped. 

Had he not always wanted his mother’s praise? He chastised himself. And had he not finally got it? Should that have pleased him? But another part of him whispered bitterly, 

“I wanted praise for who I really am, not who she wants me to be.” 

But that would never happen. He was never going to be allowed to be himself. Not without plunging his world into chaos and endangering his own life. The sheer unfairness of it made him want to scream, and he kicked at his pillows like a child throwing a tantrum. All his gifts and innate talents and all those years he’d spent honing that talent into perfection and it was not enough for her, she only wanted him to wield a sword and father children and ride into battle, like every other boy in Meridian. Why could she not see how special he was? Why did she resent giving birth to such power and skill? Why wasn’t he good enough for her? 

A roll of thunder sounded ominously in the distance, and the wind was starting to pick up, sending sheets of rain into his room, promising that the mere shower was soon going to turn into a full fledged storm. Lazily, he moved to shutter the windows with his magic as he always did, but his mother’s words echoed in his head. If he was to get through the next part of his life, he supposed he should not let his magic come so easily to him. And though the thought burned at his heart, Phobos pulled his weary, aching bones up from the bed and shuffled to the windows and slammed them closed. 

But the window did not shut. 

With a cold, curious dread, Phobos followed the line of the window up to the top, where a single great claw, rain water dripping from its razor sharp edge was wedged. He startled, his blood turning to ice in his veins and muscles loosening to the point he feared his legs would give way under him. But the terror was short lived, instantaneous really, for he knew exactly to whom that claw belonged to. 

He’d only seen that beastly form a handful of times since he restored it to its owner roughly six months ago, but it was a hard thing to forget. 

Two huge serpentine eyes reflected the meager light of his chamber eerily, as they stared down at him. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I did not mean to startle you. May I come in?”

Phobos huffed. In all the hustle and bustle of the last two weeks, he and Cedric had not seen each other--both tending to their respective duties to prepare for both the harvest feast and his ball. He’d missed company that did not judge his every move. And though his mood was foul and he preferred solitude when his most intense waves of melancholy struck him, Cedric was the exception to the rule. He gestured for the snake to come in.

Phobos was not usually one to school Cedric on caution, but, “Do you think it wise to be scaling the walls in that form?”

The shifter did not respond at first, too busy trying to twist himself though the windows without catching on the showy, bright red ornamentation at his shoulders he’d recently sprouted. It took a few moments after he’d done that for Cedric to coil the rest of his bulk safely into his chamber. Phobos could not help that shiver of…whatever it was that crept up his spine as he took in the sight of the great beast contently curling itself up in front of fire, like he was nothing more than an exceedingly large and scaly cat. Cedric then carefully shook the rain from his scales, bowed, as well as such a creature could, and said.

“Perhaps it would be, were not all her Majesty’s guards not preoccupied with getting drunk guests back to their carriages or drunk themselves. Besides, it’s far too dark out there to see me even if they were looking.” 

Phobos arched an eyebrow. “And how long have you been lurking out there, exactly?”

“Oh, long enough. I thought it would be after dawn before they finally managed to bring up your lovely new armory. I wonder, do they expect you to use them all at the same time or…?”

Phobos scoffed, and gazed over at the mountain of carefully placed shining steel. “I imagine half the mines in Meridian are empty after tonight.” 

He turned back to look at the shifter, and was caught off guard by his slit eyes staring owlishly at him. His eyes must have finally adjusted to the light, and caught a proper glimpse of him. How strange he must live to Cedric, who’d never once seen him like this. “What is it?”

Cedric cocked his head to the side, appraising him, and took a moment to carefully gather his words. “You look…”

Phobos huffed again, irritation prickling at his skin like biting insects. “Yes I know, very handsome. I’ve been informed all night.” Every one of his suitors had informed him of that as well. It irked him so because, despite all his vanity, he knew he really was striking, and yet, such compliments were few and far between until tonight. Truly, he could only be recognized when he conformed to their narrow views. 

“Of course, you always look handsome, your Highness” The shifter clarified. The way Cedric said it was not the way anyone else had that night.Respectful, yes, but also, cold in the way Cedric often was. Not unkind, like his mother, but…precise--like he'd given the answer to an equation he thought was simple. As if it were just another fact. Black and White, unchangeable. “You just seem…discomfortable.”

It took a bit to hold himself together. His magic snapped in the air, and breathing hitched painfully in his throat. That his parents and everyone else who’d known him all his life could not notice what had taken Cedric all of a minute. No…they’d noticed. They just didn’t care. 

“I am uncomfortable.” he finally managed to spit, and Cedric, as always, knew it was not him he was spitting at. 

“Would you like me to take your hair down, Your Highness?” he asked instead of pushing the issue. 

Phobos simply nodded, unsure of what else to say, and sat morsly in front of his vanity. 

A flash of near blinding white light filled the room, and Cedric the Beast disappeared and reappeared as Cedric the boy. Well, boy was probably the wrong word to associate with Cedric as of late. The shifter had always been so much shorter and slighter than Phobos, he’d originally assumed he was a few years his elder. But not long after what Phobos had finally wrangled out of the shifter what was his eighteenth birthday, both Cedric’s true form and human body had hit a rapid fire growth spurt that had put Phobos’ nose level with his human chin and had made both of his bodies lose the last gangles of youth. It was as if he’d hit puberty at eighteen instead of thirteen. Actually, considering the new red ornamentation Cedric was still trying to navigate around, that might not have been too far off base. He was hardly the little skittish boy he’d first met anymore. 

Phobos wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. 

He’d always found Cedric pleasant to look at, he supposed, but more like a delicate flower in his mother’s garden, not his style, but charming in its way nonetheless. However, these days, Cedric looked far more like, well…what he really was. Tall and muscular and sharply featured, a striking serpent rather than subtle bloom.  It was harder than ever to look at him and stop his mind from wandering to less than platonic places. 

But the same relentless drive and desire that marked all other aspects of his life had not carried over into his personal relationships. People, he’d regretfully discovered over the course of his life, were not objects. They could not simply be possessed the way one could a plant; they were messy and complicated and never reacted the way you anticipated. To say nothing of potentially ruining the one uncomplicated and fulfilling relationship he’d ever found with another being. It was simply too great of a risk for an unknown reward. Though, that hadn’t stopped his mind from exploring thoughts it shouldn’t have been. They’d always just been flights of passing fancy with his other interests, but Cedric hadn’t left him so easily. It was harder when he truly enjoyed everything about the shifter, from his looks to how he always seemed to understand him as no one else could.

Such as it was then, as he wordlessly removed the mess the other servants had made of his hair. The shifter allowed him a long time of restful silence, as he pulled pin after pin out of Phobos’ hair and untangled braids and knots, Phobos’ bristling every time Cedric’s icy fingers brushed the back of his neck. Cedric still had flour on his rolled up sleeves, he noticed, as he watched the shifters reflection idly. Usually the shifter primarily worked in the library as one of the few servants that could actually read, but he supposed for two feasts in two days all loose hands were needed for prep. 

His hair was almost free when the silence that was always so palatable to him was suddenly as heavy as an anvil on his chest. 

“She wants me to marry this idiot of a girl—thinks that’s the only thing I’m good for.” 

Cedric looked up from his brushing with cautious, but genuinely sorrowful eyes. 

“I’m sorry, your Highness. I’m sorry that you’re in this position, and that she’s never even given you a chance to prove otherwise.” 

“But why? How have I ever wronged her? Except for not being born a girl, I suppose,” he snarled hatefully. 

“I don’t know, Your Highness.” 

Phobos didn’t bother continuing, neither he nor Cedric nor the universe at large had any answers to his mother’s behavior, and there was nothing anyone could do to change it. And he’d wallowed in enough misery tonight. 

Cedric finished, moving in front of him to gently twist his forelocks back into their customary plaits. Phobos tried not to look at him, unused to Cedric being so close, but failed miserably. 

“There, much better.” 

“Well, am I still handsome?” Phobos drawled, trying to distract himself from the rapid beating of his heart. 

Cedric gave him a wry smile and pulled back, “Of course, your Highness.” 

It really shouldn’t have meant so much to hear a mere servant say that. Cedric was not important in the grand scheme of things, his opinion did not really matter. And yet it did. Phobos waited for the moment to sour with awkwardness, but it never did. Instead, after a brief glance at him, Cedric startled like he’d remembered something.  

“Oh, I have something for you, Your Highness.” 

Phobos instantly perked up. 

“Have you finished translating tenebrae aeternae for me?” 

Cedric faltered ever so slightly. “Oh, no, well not exactly. But I think, well I hope, that  you'll like it anyway.” 

Cedric hurriedly left to go to his bed and lifted the mattress up, pulling out a large, leather bound book from under it. Phobos supplied him with empty books for their translations, but apparently he’d not used this one for that purpose. Phobos was instantly curious about his contents but not quite as curious as when it had arrived in its hiding spot. 

“And how long has that been there?” He questioned, 

“Ah, just since this morning, I snuck it in here while the other servants were changing your sheets at breakfast, I knew it was going to rain this evening and didn’t want to risk it getting wet.” 

Phobos felt the space between his eyes furrow; both surprised and a little impressed Cedric felt bold enough to violate his privacy like that. 

“Do you often sneak into my chamber without my knowledge?” 

Cedric smirked. “Only today, your Highness.”

Phobos raised an eyebrow, and Cedric’s confidence faltered and he fell back into his old mannerisms. His voice no longer contained even the slightest bit of any emotion, as if he’d pulled away from himself entirely. “It was the only opportune time, and I swear, your Highness, I did not touch anything else. I—“

Phobos held up his hand, “Enough. It’s alright. Just let me see it.” A gnawing, ragged feeling of guilt chewed at him, as Cedric handed him the book and then retreated, shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. He’d not meant to frighten Cedric, though, in fairness, he was a private person, and even the servants going about their regular jobs had always felt a bit intrusive to him, to say nothing of one depositing gifts to be retrieved later without his knowledge. But to chastise Cedric for such an intrusion would be the ruin of the years of progress it had taken for the shifter to trust him in the first place, so he let the matter drop. And if anything, beneath the violation, he felt a strange prickle of pride for such boldness, such as climbing up the castle walls and hiding things in his own room had only come about after Cedric’s true form had been restored and he’d been responsible for that. 

Phobos opened the book, and was immediately greeted by the orderly and refined pattern of Cedric’s handwriting. So, it was a translation, but there was no title page or any other identifiable traits. With narrowed eyes he read the first line, and immediately knew what it was. His spell.  The one he’d made himself to break the Tallis Charm that stopped shapeshifting. Each step and preparation was written down in painstaking detail and though Cedric was not particularly artistically inclined, he had produced some very intricate geometrical shapes in the empty spaces around his elegant handwriting reminiscence of the runes the spell required. 

Stunned, Phobos flicked through the rest of the book. All the pages after were of the same nature, either spells he’d made himself or spells he’d tweaked or rewritten entirely and approved in process. Had Cedric kept track of all them throughout the two years they’d been studying together? He’d never written them down himself, too excited with the thrill of the moment of casting to care about such unimportant details. There was page after page of them, all written with the same care and detail as the first and adored with the same tedious fractal patterns. 

And then suddenly about 3/4 of the way through the book, it ended. Phobos raised an eyebrow at the empty pages and Cedric quickly explained. 

“It’s for the spells you create next.” 

Phobos looked back down at his book, unsure of what to say, unsure of to even call the feeling bubbling uncomfortably in his stomach. Here he was surrounded by untold riches, weapons forged by the finest blacksmiths in all in Meridian, and it was a silly book that had elicited such a reaction. That a little servant, a beast as everyone else called him, was the only one to see his worth. To find his talents worthy of recognition and recording, rather than hiding them away.

“I…” he broke off suddenly and cleared his throat. Cedric just smiled, tender and soft enough it made his stomach churn further, and just as he could feel his defensive nature rearing, ready to cut through the uncomfortable moment with a biting jab, if only to put himself back on familiar ground, Cedric, always one step ahead of him, smirked wickedly. He backtracked back to the mattress and pulled out something else from there as well. The little packrat.

“I also have this.” 

Phobos recognized the dark colored bottle as liquor not wine, but was unsure of what it was exactly. His mother had only recently allowed him sipping wine at their dinners together, and he’d never had anything stronger. He eyed the bottle warily. 

“Is this what servants do after feasts?” Phobos asked condescendingly. 

“This is what everyone does after feasts, your Highness” Cedric replied smugly, not the least bit perturbed by his attitude. “If it helps, I stole it from your mother’s personal stash.” 

Phobos returned the smirk. 

It did indeed help. 

#fics sort of #idk #just needed to get back in the swing of things and it was somewhat presentable

[thecandywrites]

Kinktober Day 13- Overstimulation

Yeah, gonna go with Blood For Gold again, but this time featuring Demsey's brother Sierge and his lovely wife Adrilody. Lody for short who is a moura/jewel orc hybrid herself. While Sierge is just "plain" orc but in Regency Era gentry. Who- in the story works at the moura Masai Temple in London and applies white wedding henna because she's a henna artist and loves her art and craft and Sierge is not about to get between her and her art, which has a really fun fantasy twist.

Again, a billion thanks to @starsandskies for her kinktober prompts. Yes I know I'm practically two weeks behind. And at the rate I'm churning these out, I feel like it'll be at least December by the time I get through them all. But I'll have fun doing so. Enjoy

Day 13- Overstimulation

Sierge knew that having Adrilody as a wife would be wonderful, fun even. 

But not quite like the way he envisioned it. 

So while Sierge ran his own business in London that actually needed very little of his attention- thanks to the excellent managers he hired. He supported Adrilody in what was obviously her calling life, art. But not just any art- henna. Particularly moura wedding henna art. 

Now Adrilody was the official and best wedding henna artist at the moura Masai Temple. And part of the moura tradition was that everyone in the wedding party would get the very special white moura henna. And this henna, while being white, was of course, glittery, the glitter itself coming from little bits and shards of opals. And was sent to Lody directly from Dorierra in it’s non mixed forms. In huge sacks of white powder, that while it didn’t have lead to make it white, it did have something that was a secret among mouras so that the white would stain the skin, even after it washed off. And because of how it was mixed, that glitter from the opal stayed on the skin so that even when the henna was washed off, not only did the white stain remain, but the opal affect stayed as well so that the wearer both seemed to glitter and glow and shimmer in the light of day and in black light during the wedding feast. From the black light coru clouds. The base could also be mixed with special pigment to make more colors and of course on the big day, thanks to some special glue, pearls and jewels could be stuck to the skin and would stay there until they were washed off with a special soap that dissolved the glue that was used to secure them to the skin. Along with powdered gold, that once mixed with a special solution, looked like gold foil was painted onto the skin.

Lody had been learning the craft since infancy and while she had the official set of books and volumes showing the various designs, Lody herself was making a volume of her own designs and inventing new ones and putting twists on the old. And her favorite masculine canvas? Her husband, Sierge. And of course for the more feminine designs, her sisters in law who were also moura from Dorierra and happily submitted their bodies to her to use as her feminine canvases, besides Lody’s own hands and feet since she was ambidextrous and could both write and do the henna with both hands.  

Sierge didn’t care if he had to be shaved from his ears down to his toes. Lody had not only shaved him several times over now- but put a special cream to practically melt all the hair off of him except for the hair of his sex. And then put a different special cream to soften the skin so it was silky smooth and after several times of doing this, his body hair, simply stopped growing back. So Lody didn’t have to constantly shave him. And when Lody wasn’t working at the temple applying her artistic talent and craft to the wedding parties who were being married at the temple, she loved to practice on Sierge the most. Trying out new designs, and techniques. 

And Lody could put the mix that was the powder, the crushed opals, and the special oil that binded it all together along with a special additive- a pheromone laden aphrodesiac that was intended to not only get the bride and groom ready to consummate their marriage as soon as possible but usually resulted in many of the guests, especially the friends of the bride and groom who were in the wedding party to pair up too. 

And Sierge would have thought that by now- he would have built up a tolerance to it.

But that simply wasn't the case.

After 2 kids and a third on the way, he was even more in love with his wife now than he was when he married her four years prior. And no one in the family needed to wonder why Lody was constantly pregnant. Because using Sierge as her canvas as well as herself, meant that Sierge was always ready and willing to fuck Lody practically into a stupor, even when he wasn’t wearing the aphrodesiatic henna. But when he was? Lody knew that Sierge was apt to fuck her so much his balls ran dry.

Which she didn’t mind one bit because Sierge was an amazing lover. He was always gentle with her when she was pregnant, but vigorous when he could be, but always did so with love and reverence while occasionally breaking some furniture while doing so. They were on their third bed in their bedroom and almost all the furniture had to be replaced every time Lody recovered from a birth to the point she could have sex again. And thier coupling sessions were so intense, and Sierge usually fucked his wife on any and every available surface both in their bedroom and just about any other room in their home.

Sierge didn’t care if he had to replace every piece of furniture in the house on a yearly basis. The lovemaking that broke it and Lody’s pleasure that he was able to give to her during their lovemaking sessions was worth it. And it wasn’t like he was hurting for money either and they could afford it. 

Technically Lody didn’t need to work at the Masai Temple. But she loved her work which doubled as her art. And Sierge wouldn’t get between her and her art and her work because it made her happy and if she was happy, he was happy. 

And today Sierge was getting antsy. The henna she applied last time had worn off and she was working at the temple again today and he was eager for her to return home. Even if she didn’t apply more henna to him, he wanted to make love to his wife. No aphrodisiac laced henna required. He nearly jumped from his seat when he heard the carriage he always sent for her to use to get to and from the temple arrive and was there to eagerly take their sleeping daughter Sura- from her first and put her to his shoulder as she was swaddled in her blanket before he offered his hand and help his wife to get out of the carriage. 

“Big wedding party?” Sierge guessed when he saw that his wife was tired but happy and relieved to be home as he walked inside only to hand his daughter off to their nanny to put Sura into her crib in their bedroom with her older brother who was already asleep in his own crib in his bedroom too. 

“Huge. 24 bridesmaids. Tomorrow will be another super long day because I have to do 24 groomsman and the groom himself.” Lody revealed as Sierge helped her into the house and let her sit down in the sitting room closest to the door so she didn’t have to walk so far. 

Lody stretched her body and then slumped down into the chair only to stretch out her hands and wrists while rolling her neck around. 

“How about you eat something, then I’ll take you upstairs and give you a massage.” Sierge offered. 

“That would be wonderful, thank you. I felt like I ate all day because I was constantly eating while doing the wedding henna between nursing Sura which everyone thought Sura was super adorable so of course she was passed around and played with while I worked. Which, thankfully they understood because I was pregnant and obviously still nursing. So they were all super sweet and accommodating and made sure I was in the comfiest chair possible and the bride’s mother and the bride’s maids all took turns rubbing my feet and legs to make sure they wouldn’t get swollen and even my neck, back and shoulders and arms. But they didn’t do it like you can. And if you had not offered, I was going to ask anyway.” Lody admitted before Sierge smiled adoringly at his wife. 

Then he had her dinner brought into the room as he scooted the table that was in the room over to her so that her dinner could be served to her there without her having to move to the dining room while Lody practically inhaled all the food there. And while Lody felt like a pig for doing so, Sierge knew she was eating for two but made sure the portions were large enough to accommodate her pregnancy appetites with her current pregnancy cravings, which were tart green apples this time. He made sure that such apples were part of every dish while he sat down next to her and simply rubbed soothing circles into her back while she ate since he had already eaten dinner himself as he tried to stamp down his want and need to fuck her senseless. Because obviously that’s not what she wanted or needed. She needed rest and a chance to recover from her very hard work. 

“So what did they get?” Sierge asked. 

“The bride, Talilura, which her groom simply calls her Laura, while her friends simply call her Tali, but I guess that’s not English enough for him. Anyway, Tali got a peacock, so of course that’s what everyone else got.” Lody answered. 

“Ah, I see. Lots of feathers.” Sierge nodded in understanding. 

“So many damn fucking feathers.” Lody grumbled between bulging cheeks and a roll of her eyes. 

“Well this is her wedding day, of course she wants all eyes on her.” Sierge offered since he had started to learn what each pattern meant, both “the light” and “the shadow”’ of each one. Since mouras had a very long - as in a few millenia long- tradition of associating certain personality aspects with each color and piece of henna they chose and Sierge was learning them as Lody used and explained them to him and on him. 

“Oh no, she’s been a damn peacock the whole way through. The whole wedding theme is peacocks. All bright colors and ostentatious gold and glitter and grandeur. She even rented peacocks from the fucking queen for this wedding and her English one too. But she’s of course from a very wealthy family back home and they paid me double and a half for what I usually charge for that design to make it “extra special”. In particular for extra opals in the mix. And for the wedding day, when the majority of the raw raised henna washes off. I have to go back over and paint the bride with the special dual metallic body paint with extra gold outlines, a whole fucking bag of gems and pearls to glue into the designs. Along with the extra pure opalescent lines from the henna so that that white opal shines and shimmers and glows too. That body paint I had special to order in from Dorierra which they are also paying me five times what I usually charge to use it- to make sure it’s perfect for Tali. So of course it’ll take me a whole damn day practically and I’ll have to use my super fine brushes. All so that Tali practically glitters and glows from head to toe even naked. They’re paying for the whole “goddess” treatment. Because only the best will do for her, because while no real royalty was available, the Duke is the next best thing.” Lody griped irritatedly. 

“I feel sorry for her groom. He’s going to go broke making sure she is always the belle of the ball and always the center of attention because she already has huge allowances at every great dress maker in town and only wears the best and greatest even in fabrics. Not even Princess Charlotte wears such ostentatious clothing, or hell, neither does Drina or Octavia for that matter and they’re either literally royalty or married to it. But Tali’s parents raised a spoiled brat is what they did. And of course she’ll be wearing diamonds set in platinum for her jewelry because ‘only the best for their little princess’.” Lody sneered spitefully and sarcastically which got Sierge to snort a laugh. 

“This wedding is costing her groom- her bride price at least two or three times over. As if he didn’t already sink a fucking fortune even going there and getting her and bringing her back here. Which is why I’m so late because I cashed the checks they paid me- both for today and in advance to make sure those damn things didn’t fucking bounce. And of course her family is wearing their best clothes and jewels that they had custom made just for this and came all the way from Dorierra for, which Dorierra is paying for her bridesmaids because they’re hoping to snag as much wealth from England as possible from those bridesmaids.” Lody revealed as Sierge raised his eyebrows in surprise.  

“And her poor groom. I think the only reason she’s marrying him is because he’s stupid and rich and can afford to help her live in the lap of luxury and he fell in love with her “perfect beauty and charm” enough to practically hand over his pocket book to her that she’s blowing like dandelion seeds or water through her hands. So of course he has yet to tell her ‘no’ about anything and every time he even hints at it, she gives him her puppy dog eyes that well with crocodile tears and he of course melts and gives in and caves just to make her happy. But while he may be a Duke and can afford her from Dorierra. She’s typical for a moura. Which means she’s gonna make it hard for us non-typicals.” Lody predicted.  

"Well you'd think after these last few years, society has hopefully realized the very great and grand difference between the two. I know for sure that no one within our own circles will treat you or anyone else in our friend and family circle any differently because you have all proven yourselves to be the wonderful and amazing and accomplished women that you are." Sierge soothed.

“I can only hope you're right. Because while they’re going to be having a proper English wedding too, of course only after all this henna washes off for him and his own reputation and status within “society” isn't hindered or put into "jeapordy" by such "unseemly" body decoration. Which, we’re invited to the proper English wedding by the way- because all of society is invited too. Just like Audra’s first wedding was. But his pockets better be as long as his fucking pants and better be stuffed with his body weight in hundred pound notes. And she’ll spend each and every single one of them too. She’s spends it all like it’s burning a hole in her pocket. But at least she was a very generous tipper.” Lody ranted as she ate as if she hadn’t eaten in days before she put her purse on the table as Sierge noted it was stuffed with pound notes as it was obvious that Lody had earned a small fortune today. But he wouldn’t be taking a single penny or pound of it. They were there for Lody to do as she liked with them. Since any money she earned herself she could spend however she wanted, as he encouraged her to use them to spoil herself with when he wasn’t doing so himself. But she usually saved most of it, mostly for her children. 

“I take it Raphael is in bed?” Lody asked since she had taken their daughter Sura with her and had taken breaks to nurse Sura throughout and the day.

“Yup, he’s sound asleep.” Sierge nodded in confirmation. 

“Good, I think Sura should sleep like a brick tonight. I know I will.” Lody hoped. 

“You better, you deserve it. I hope you won’t have another wedding like this for a good long while so you can properly rest and recover.” Sierge offered. 

“Me too. But sadly, I’m booked for the next few months. I won’t be able to rest until the season fully comes to an end but hopefully this will be my largest party this season.” Lody sighed tiredly. 

“But the baby should be here by then.” Sierge noted.

“Yeah. And I have to wean Sura before they come too.” Lody sighed again as her shoulders sagged. 

“Speaking of, how is the baby treating you?” Sierge asked thoughtfully. 

“We have another Kamboda champion on our hands. They kick like Raph did and they twist and swirl like Sura did. So who knows if it’s a boy or a girl. All bets are off.” Lody answered as she smiled as Sierge caressed her baby bump through her distinctly Dorrieran clothes she always wore to the temple to work. Usually in all white with gold emboidery to show she was the one that did the henna. Usually just in case any of the henna got on her, she could wash the white henna off easily or if it was colored henna, she would know exactly where it was to wash that part off using the particular soaps made just to lift the henna from cloth and skin alike. 

“They don’t have to be a champion.” Sierge noted. 

“I know. But it’s just a saying all pregnant women in Dorierra make when we have a very active baby in the womb.” Lody smiled appreciatively. 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Sierge chuckled as his wife started to slow down in her inhalation of food before she took the whole damn apple pie and used her pregnant belly as a table to eat it from with a fork which got Sierge to laugh. 

“What?” Lody asked around her full mouth of pie. 

“Nothing, you just really crave apples. At least you like the pie right?” Sierge noted. 

“I do. And yeah, thankfully our pastry chef got the recipe down finally.” Lody agreed before she barely swallowed one mouthful before she refilled it with another before Sierge reached over and got her a cold glass of milk as she took it and gulped it down in one go before Sierge just handed her the whole milk bottle to drink out of which she did as she devoured that pie before she burped as she was done which got Sierge to laugh again. 

“Better?” Sierge asked. 

“Much, I’m ready for that massage now.” Lody said before he got her to stand on her feet before he picked her up bridal style and carried her up the stairs so she wouldn’t have to walk. 

“Aww, you’re so romantic.” Lody cooed. 

“And you’re so still so beautiful, inside and out.” Sierge insisted.

“Awww.” Lody cooed again before managed to carry her to their room before he set her down on the special massage table that had holes taken out so the pregnant woman’s breasts and bellies could hang down into a cushioned depression but still be comfortable, but not feel like the weight would pull those parts of their bodies off before he stripped out of his “proper” attire as she stripped down naked and got into position on the table and sighed in relief just to be laying there. 

Sierge got the special massage oil and began warming it up between his hands before he, out of much practice and special instruction, began to massage his wife as she moaned and keen in bliss as he did so. 

“Oh fuck yeah.” Lody groaned as he worked on her from head to toe, starting with her neck, then her shoulders and back, down to her hips and butt and then down her legs to her feet that were resting on a pillow to give her lower back some more relief before he had her sit up so he could put the special parts back into the table so she could lay down on a comfortable surface as he put various pillows under her head and shoulders and under her knees as she practically melted into that massage table as he had washed his hands from touching her feet before he repeated, by massaging her head, scalp and face before moving down to her chest and smiled when her breasts started leaking milk because it showed she had fully relaxed to let the milk flow again before he happily lapped it up because he was not about to let such precious liquid go to waste which got Lody to giggle to feel her husband lick up her sides and then suck what he could from each breast. 

“You keep that up and this massage will have one hell of a happy ending.” She insisted. 

“No. Not that I don’t want to, because you know I always do. But you’re tired, you need to relax and rest both for your sake and the sake of the baby. I just didn’t want your milk to go to waste. Plus it’s very tasty. And the way Raph and Sura have done nothing but thrive while they nursed only goes to show how nutritious and amazing it is. It’s practically liquid gold.” Sierge readily praised. 

“What did I do to deserve such a great man like you for my husband?” Lody asked as she smiled adoringly up at him as he massaged her hands and wrists and then up her arms. 

“Nothing. It’s me who is lucky to have such an amazing and wonderful woman like you as my wife.” Sierge insisted. 

“And Marquise.” Lody noted as she held up a finger with her other hand as Sierge laughed since everything that went down with Audra and the Dauphin, despite his older brother Demsey being hier to the title of Duke, Sierge was granted his own title from the Crown for his dealings with his ex Benny and an earning from the Crown in addition to what he was earning from his business which was currently booming. 

Because while Demsey was still managing the family soap business. Sierge bought a textile factory, in particular, a lace one. And thanks to the special deal he got from Dorierra, he got the best silk, satin and other threads for his lace along with a huge investment into proper lace machines and an entire set of lace designs so that the lace he earned from his factory was on par with the handmade lace from anywhere else and cost a fraction to make but could cost almost as much. Which meant he could afford to pay his workers extremely well, pay to keep his workshop comfortable in every season while also installing modern conveniences while also paying a whole team of cooks to cook breakfast and lunch for his workers and even dinners so his workers could bring home dinners too, all for a penny a day for their meals. Which was beyond fair. All while hiring the best lace workers in all of Europa. And thanks to the union he got put in place, his workers were extremely happy to work for him, and got paid sick leave, paid vacation and holidays, and paid grievance days too. 

All while he practically made money- hand over fist. So that he earned just as much, if not more- than Demsey did with the family soap business, even with the exotic royal Dorrierran soap line. And all he got were simply reports to show how much lace had been produced and in what patterns while all the dress makers could order any design they wanted for their own dresses and designs in thier own shops. 

“Yes, how could I forget.” Sierge smiled as he continued to massage down her body. 

“There. Ready for bed?��� Sierge asked once he was done before he helped his wife get up. 

“Yup.” Lody nodded happily before she got up and walked with him over to the bed before she pushed him down and straddled him. 

“My Love? Aren’t you tired? Shouldn’t you get some rest?” Sierge attempted to protest. 

“I had to make seven and a half doses of henna today. I swear to every god and goddess that you will either let me sit on your face so you can eat me out until your tongue falls off or you’ll let me ride you like the stallion you are because while I am tired from working all day, I’m now refreshed, well fed, relaxed and now all I want is you.” Lody put to him. 

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Sierge insisted before he kicked off his breeches while Lody did her best to wait patiently for him to do so while letting him suckle from her, both to relieve the pressure of having breasts full of milk and also because it felt amazing and when Sierge had finally freed himself of clothes she scooted back and seated herself on him and used his own hands to support her and hold her up while she rode him as hard as she wanted to and because Sierge had been aching for her all day, he regretfully came quite quick. 

“You better have at least a few more rounds in you.” Lody insisted, not pleased that he finished before she did, just as she was really getting started too.

“I have as much as you need from me.” Sierge insisted before Lody picked up the pace and began anew and when she finally came, Sierge blew out a breath of relief.

But that wasn’t the end of it. Oh no. She had barely rode out the first before she was chasing a second, then a third, then a fourth, fifth, six and seventh. 

“Please, Lody, please, I don’t know if I…” Sierge panted as he laid under her and while this is what he had been fantasizing about all day, it seems she had too and she was bound and determined to make it a reality.

“Just one more.” Lody pleaded before she doubled her efforts and rode him so hard Sierge feared they were going to break the bed- again. 

“Fuck!” Sierge grunted as he came again but all Lody did was use his own seed as more lubrication to rub at her clit they way he had been for the previous seven orgasms as Lody quietly came an eighth but now wanted a ninth. 

“Lody, please, please hurry it’s too much, I’m overwhelmed and overstimulated and I feel like my balls are run dry.” Sierge pleaded weakly as he did his best to hold her up and support her, his body was aching in entirely different ways now. 

“Hush, I’m almost there.” Lody insisted as she once again rubbed at her clit and rode him and by now, they were both covered in sweat and a stream of milk had fallen from each of her breasts down to his belly as Sierge felt like this was no longer love making session, this was a love making marathon. Just like their honeymoon had been.

Sierge felt like his balls really had run dry and while having sex with his wife was always a pleasure, surely he thought that this would push even his own limits as she rode and Sierge could only hope his cock would stay hard enough for her. And just as he felt like he would pass out from pleasured exhaustion, Lody came and glittered and glowed on the few moura marks on her skin before she finally got off of him and Sierge had never been more relieved as his cock finally fell to the bed and was already softening.

“Better?” Sierge asked as he gathered her into her arms. 

“Much, thank you for hanging in there Champ.” She smiled tiredly as she seemed to finally have her full fill of him before they barely got the covers pulled up over them and they were happy to practically pass out. 

#Kinktober #Kinktober 2022 #Kinktober 2022 Day 13 #starsandskieskinktober #starsandskies #regency era orc period drama #Blood for Gold AU

[dropdeadgxrgeous]

Qi Yewan (🌙)

Apperance

General Bio

Names: Qi Yewan (Yewan Qi in western languages)

Nicknames/Aliases: None, currently

Gender: Female (She/her)

Age: 16

Birthday: March 7th (Pisces)

Species: Jiangshi (Chinese Hopping Vampire)

Parents: Unnamed mother and father

Siblings: None

Pet: Po (Crane)

Nationality: Chinese (specifically from Booxi (Wuxi)

Occupation: Student at Monster High, Student Council Member

Eye Color: Red

Hair Color: Dark Purple

Voice Claim: Tine from Fire Emblem (Courtney Lin)

Preferences

Killer Style: "Dresses and skirts made of silk (preferably with long sleeves), some platform shoes, and a nice hat to complete the look. That's the formula I use when picking my outfits."

Favorite Activity: "My legs may not work well, but I work well with my hands, which makes up for it. So I find hands-on activities to be very enjoyable such as board games and zhezhi (that's origami, zhezhi is what it's called in china.). My favorite activity would have to be painting and pottery, both are so relaxing to do and so pretty to look at once it's done."

Pet Peeve: "Monsters who exploit other peoples problems or weaknesses to make themselves look better, the difference between altruism and self-righteousness is almost as clear as night and day. On a somewhat lighter note, some monsters think it's funny to try and trip me while I'm in the halls...it's not, I'm not a prop for your slapstick comedy."

Favorite Subject: "Painting and Sculpting. My Shui Mo Hua (that means "ink wash painting") style and intricate pottery designs have astonished both teachers and classmates."

Least Favorite Subject: "Dance...doesn't take a genius to figure out why..."

Favorite Color: "Royal Blue, Gold, and Purple"

Favorite Food: "Zongzi. Glutinous rice dumplings filled with adzuki sweet bean paste, mmm!...Did I ever tell you I have quite the sweet fang?"

Personality

Qí has a diligent, polite, and overall sweet personality. She is responsible, a good listener, and always looks out for other peoples best interests, doing her best to make sure others needs are met with the utmost efficiency. It is these traits that allowed her to be a member of the student council*. Qí is also introspective, having a good amount of self-awareness about her thoughts, actions, and ideals.

On the other hand, she is rather unconfident and insecure about herself, especially regarding her appearance in mirrors (so much that she's scared of her own reflection) and her condition (not being able to walk) makes her feel isolated from the others sometimes. She also pretty submissive when it comes to the demands and wills of others, almost never being rebellious and often caving into others requests, even if it's detrimental to her.

Abilities

Life-Force Absorption

Like all Jiangshi, Qí can absorb peoples life force through her fingers, known as their "Chi". Which is similar to how Vampires suck blood from their victims. However, she isn't often shown using this ability, as she considers it "a bit barbaric" 

Enhanced Senses

As with all Jiangshi, Qí can detect someone's presence just by the energy fluctuations in their breath, making it hard to surprise or sneak up on her unless they hold their breath.

Prehensile Tongue

Qí has a long tongue she can stretch and retract, she can it use to grab things

Immortality

Like all Jiangshi, which are undead, she is immortal

Skills

Artistic Skills

Qí is very proficient in art, both in painting and pottery/ceramics to be exact. Her style of painting is referred to as "Shui Mo Hua", which is a type of Chinese ink brush painting that uses black ink and water.

Fun Facts

She shares a voice actress with G3 Draculaura

Her favorite food being Zongzi is based on two weaknesses of the Jiangshi: Glutinous rice and adzuki beans.

She is part of Monster High's student council

While Qi usually hops to get around, she does sometimes use bamboo crutches.

[butterflies-and-blades]

Session 17: Butterflies

The soft sound of moving water as I came up to the stream was a familiar comfort--not quite as comforting, though, as the plentiful return of butterflies all over the forest. Back in the desert, even the small oasis had been absent of the fluttering swatches of lively colors. With everything else going on, it was the small details that helped it sink in that I was home.

I worked on scrubbing the blood from my clothes first. Wading into the cool water, I took items off one at a time to be washed, then folded them and set them carefully aside on a nearby log as I went. Wispy clouds of red spread around me. Just as the moving water would carry the dilute blood away, I would move on to the next piece, bringing all of it back again. Once everything was as clean as possible, I stepped further into the stream so that when I sat down and pulled my knees to my chest, the water reached my shoulders.

I traced a finger over the many lines on my skin. Stared at my hands. Thought about the feeling of blood between my fingers as the final dried remnants flaked off and were carried away by the light current.

Leaves rustled behind the dense wall of foliage that created a makeshift curtain at the top of the sloped bank. "Maeve?" Verca's voice reached out hesitantly.

I grabbed my clothes from the log and hurriedly started getting dressed. "One second," I yelled back.

With all of my clothes on, I paused with the necklace Da and I had made together in my palm. The hand-carved feather had been painted black and fastened on a simple leather cord. Some of the color had chipped away at one edge, exposing a sliver of dark brown wood. I fastened the necklace around my neck. "Over here," I called out.

Leaves parted. Verca stepped forward, accompanied by a kaleidoscope of butterflies--black and blue swallowtails, to be specific. He explained that Talo and Da had been talking telepathically, leaving him awkwardly sitting in the silent living room. So he had decided to take a walk, instead.

"How are you holding up?" he asked.

It was a difficult question to answer. Despite my best efforts, no combination of words felt like a close enough approximation. The persistent tightness in my chest reminded me of plants with knotted bundles of roots, trapped in pots too small to accommodate them. Hidden by soil, it can be difficult to tell when roots are under duress, but sometimes it shows up other places--namely, the warped or even cracked sides of the pot, unable to withstand the internal pressure. But that metaphor didn't feel like it did justice to the feeling that I couldn't bring enough air into my lungs anymore.

He asked if I'd like a hug. The fact that he asked always surprised me. Verca stood with his arms open, letting me choose to close the distance. I felt ridiculous as I took a series of small steps forward until his arms carefully wrapped around my back. His usual warmth was especially pleasant in contrast to the chill left behind by the stream.

We pulled apart. Trying to lighten the mood, I said, "I'm guessing you need me to lead the way back?" I didn't anticipate him saying that he had followed a kaleidoscope of butterflies here. I also was surprised that he knew that that's what a group of butterflies was called.

However odd the butterflies leading him had been, we didn't linger on it for some reason. I think we were both too tired to open up that mystery.

Similarly, we didn't put too much thought into the golden feather I found as I started in the direction of the cabin. The glint of gold amongst the flowers underfoot was enough to make me pause, and--remembering the feather that he had picked up in the desert after that flame-wreathed bird flew overhead--I had asked Verca if it was from him. He looked over his shoulder and said, "No," shaking his head. "This might sound odd, but I think it's yours."

I was confused until he reminded me what else came whenever the Mask went up: wings. The memory loss from each incident made it difficult to hold on to those kinds of details, but he was right.

Crouching down, I picked up the feather by the quill. Holding it to the light, I watched it shine unlike any bird I had ever seen.

"You should hold on to it," Verca said.

Nodding, I opened the Bag of Holding and set it inside as I stood up.

Back at the cabin, Dad and Talo were in the middle of moving the living room couch when we came in. The cabin was cozy but small; "I should have mentioned we don't really have any guest rooms," I said, grabbing some blankets to take over to where Dad was helping set them up across from the fireplace. Dad, Da, and I each had our own rooms, but there was never reason to anticipate other company before today.

"You should all get some rest," Dad said; it wasn't that late--we had gone to Sala's right as the day started--, but it felt like weeks had passed since we last slept. He explained that he would leave to tell who he needed to about Da while we slept. "I should be back before you're up. We'll be able to talk more about the next steps at that point."

Talo and Verca got comfortable in the living room. I went down the hall, stopping in front of my closed bedroom door. Similar to the shield Da had given me, the door was decorated with butterflies and flowers that I had painted with Dad. The ones at the bottom were messy blobs compared to what I had drawn once I had grown older and tall enough to reach higher.

The door creaked a hello as I pushed it open.

Everything inside was exactly how I had left it. My black and purple stuffed griffon sat against my pillows, staring at me. He was mostly face, but I had always thought it made him cute; he had no legs--only two wings that stood out from his plump sides and a long tail sewn onto his back.

I gently touched a wing as I stopped next to my bed at my desk. A slim and relatively long object sat on its side at the far corner. One end came to a point while the other was jagged and uneven and revealed a mostly hollow base. I gently turned it over in my hands, remembering how Da had smiled and told me to keep it. That day felt so long ago, now.

I put the old piece of horn in the Bag of Holding and went to bed holding my griffon.

Sleep sent me hurtling through a memory that the day had only just recovered.

My eyes opened, and I found myself in a body much smaller than my own. Looking up, I met a face that I still wasn't quite familiar with--despite seeing her now for the second time and in my gut knowing who she was. The woman stood tall overtop of me. Despite her relatively thin frame, her presence demanded attention. Gray streaks ran through her otherwise black hair, which had been braided into neat strands and pinned back out of her face; the dark contrast made her gray-ish skin seem even paler in comparison.

Silvery-gray eyes stared into mine. Something about them felt like there should have been a comfort or warmth there, but there wasn't. I could not tell if that warmth had left her or if it had simply never been there. Regardless of the past, her eyes were blank now.

Everything felt wrong. There were other people around us; I couldn't tell how big the crowd was--just that each almost-familiar person looked like her but not. Here and there, a feature would be different. Eyes or hair for some, plus a few handfuls of other mismatched characteristics. There was a cake sitting on a nearby table, too. Lit candles sat in the icing, which I thought was odd.

It felt like things should have been happy.

"You don't belong here," the woman in front of me said. Her voice shook something in me. I recognized her words from the vision evoked by that raven statuette in Legen. Confused, I tilted my head.

Somewhere to the side, there was the crash of breaking glass, followed by the tink-tink-tink of stray pieces falling onto the floor.

An abrupt pain tore through my lower abdomen. I didn't know it was possible to hurt that much.

"You aren't right." Her voice again.

Then again across my face--sharp and gouging--, throwing the scene into darkness.

"You can't be here."

Again and again and again, each one a surprise. I lost track of where it hurt after the first few.

"I have to fix this."

Like bookends, all I recognized was where the pain started and where it ended--with a final flaring cut at the side of my neck. I didn't realize that I had been squirming and pushing back until then, when it quickly became difficult to muster any kind of movement.

"I did this, and it's my fault."

My hands fell to my side--overcome by a heavy limpness--and stung from blindly trying to protect myself. I could feel what seemed like chunks of glass lodged in my palms and fingers. I remembered wondering why my hands were wet.

"I must fix my mistake."

Unlike what I had remembered in Sala's basement, there was a bright light when I was able to see again. Instead of rain and dirt, there was a figure backlit by six large, golden wings that threw shadows over his face. "Oh no. Oh, poor girl," he said, a genuine sadness in his voice. "We'll take care of you now."

I woke up with tears on my cheeks, clutching my griffon. My entire body hurt.