#he had less face markings and more on his feet/ankles

[sweetvoicecafe]

Tommy Neapolitan is done!! I spent so long on this and it was worth it, because he is adorable and perfect ;w;.

#hlvrai #hlvrai au #tommy coolatta #kinda #Tommy Neapolitan #sweet voice cafe #svc au #harmonytre #ref #I'll make the next poll later tomorrow wooooooooooo #vitiligo #I did so much research before drawing this I hope it worked <3 #his hair is dyed not part of the vitiligo (except his eyebrow) #when he was younger #he had less face markings and more on his feet/ankles

[wongyuuu]

high for this | csc/kmg

pairing: seungcheol x f!reader x mingyu genre: smut word count: 4.3k warnings: minors do not interact, threesome, dirty talking, swearing, petnames, oral, multiple orgasm, forced orgasm, unprotected sex (don't do this), boob play, kind of intense, little bit of degradation, anal (?) a/n: this happened... i blame @ressonancee, she made me do it, also thank u to @ssinboo too for helping me, both of you 💕 this is my last fic of the year, so why not make it the wildest thing i've ever written? lower case was intencional. read it through once, probably needs a lot of editing

"is there anything you want to try?" 

you looked up from your toenails to find your boyfriend's strong gaze on you. it was a sunday night much like any other sunday, you were watching a movie together while you painted your nails. much to your dislike, that week you had an appointment with a nail stylist but she had to cancel last minute so it was up to you to do your own nails. you liked doing it by yourself, but only your hands. 

"hm" you looked at the bright numbers on your phone. it was just past eight, around time for dinner "i feel like pizza, you?"

seungcheol nodded and reached for his phone, texting the place you usually ordered from, mindlessly typing away on his phone. 

"that was not really the question though," he said looking at you "i asked if there's anything you'd like to try"

you cocked your head to the side, not sure what he meant but since you were talking about food just a second before, you figured that it was still the topic. the movie too was about a waitress turned chef, so it seemed like a natural path of conversation. 

"i don't know, all the places i want to try don't deliver and i don't feel like going out" you murmured. 

your boyfriend laughed, his hand tracing random circles around your ankle. 

"in sex, babe. something you want to try while we have sex"

if life was like a cartoon or an animation, you were certain that there was probably going to be a question mark over your head. you thought that there was nothing wrong with your sex life, if anything it was great. 

thorughout the three and a half years you and seungcheol had been together, sex had never been boring or dull. if anything it was always exciting. you had always been eager to try different things and fulfill most, if not all, of each other's fantasies. 

so his question, though not really surprising, was somewhat unexpected. 

"not that i can think of right now, why?"

he chuckled, turning his eyes back to his phone, and quickly typing your order. he didn't need to ask what kind of pizza you wanted, it was always the same order. you were sure that when the workers saw his name they didn't need to read the order in full. 

"because i think there’s something you've always wanted to try and never told me"

you started to shake your head but stopped midway, narrowing your eyes at him. 

"how do you know?"

he turned around, now completely facing you on the bed, and pulled your feet up on his leg. many times before seungcheol had painted your nails for you, the reasons usually varied a lot, but you knew that this time he was trying to get you to confess to him. 

he would have to work a little harder for that.

"baby, i know what ticks you. you can try to hide it all you want, but in the end, you're not the innocent girl everyone thinks you are"

you bit your lip, thinking just how far you could talk. there was only one fantasy that you were yet to complete and though he was your boyfriend and judgment from him was usually very low, if it even happened at all, you weren't sure if the one you kept a secret was one he would like to hear, much less make it happen for you.

the truth was that seungcheol was more on the jealous side of the spectrum of the boyfriends you had in your life. he was, undoubtedly, number one on that list. so, perhaps, telling him that you would like to partake in a threesome would not be the best idea.

"i don't know if i should tell you about it"

seungcheol's eyes were focused on the brush running over your nail but you didn't miss the way he ran his tongue over his inner cheek.

"if you don't say it out loud, i'm not going to make it happen"

you analyzed him for a second, narrowed eyes at the way he looked so nonchalant about it. he looked too calm with the idea. familiar with the thought already. 

"you've done it before!" you said, mouth agape, sort of laughing, shaking his arm "when? with who? you and two girls, or you, a guy and a girl? oh, oh oh! you and other two guys?"

of course that was it. of course, that was why he was so chill about it. 

"i'm going to mess up your nails," he said without raising his eyes, a hint of entertainment in his voice.

"who cares about my nails? i want the stories"

seungcheol said that he knew what made you tick but you also knew how to get him to do the things you wanted. you patted his hands away from your feet and climbed on his lap, making sure to stretch your legs behind him so you wouldn't mess up your nails, which would make seungcheol pout like a child. 

"tell me," you asked, in your sweetest voice, poking at his dimples that decided to make an appearance.

he set his hands around your waist, a grin on his face when he pushed his hand under your shirt - his shirt actually - so he could touch your skin. 

"me, a guy and a girl"

you sighed and kissed him. the image of him, you and someone else crept up in your mind again, and slouched over him again.

"i'll let you pick whoever you..."

"mingyu" you said even before he could finish his sentence. 

he pinched your waist, pouting.

"you could at least pretend to think about it"

you had thought about it, more times than you were willing to admit. out of all the people you knew, mingyu was the only one who ever crossed your mind. 

"i'll make it happen" 

you sat in the middle of the bed, expectantly looking from seungcheol, who stood close to door, to mingyu, who anxiously shifted his weight from a foot the other on side of the room.

after seungcheol said that he was going to make it happen, he never mentioned the situation again. and although it had been fun to tease him that day, you didn't want to push your luck with him. 

it took him a couple of weeks to say anything at all and then he suddenly just said "mingyu will come by tomorrow"

no dinner, no wine, beer, or talk. it was just an announcement and then the three of you were in the same room, expectantly looking at each other.

"you should kiss her, get her in the mood," seungcheol said to mingyu "this was something she wanted to try, but i think she got a little shy now that you're here"

mingyu adverted his eyes from seungcheol and finally set them on you again, trying to make sure that it was really okay to touch you. when all you did was blink at him, he hesitated.

"do you actually want this?" he asked, looking over at seungcheol who smiled while leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest.

your silence didn't come from cold feet or suddenly having second thoughts, it was more because you felt hot all over. neither of them had even touched you yet but just the fact that both of them were in the same room with you and you knew what was about to happen. your mind had sort of stopped functioning the moment you saw mingyu walk in, trailing behind seungcheol.

"dude, maybe some other time," he said to seungcheol "i don't think she wants this"

"no," you said finding your voice again, suddenly gripping his large hand "i want this, i'm just a little nervous"

mingyu didn't need to be told twice. he had gotten a green light from you and that was all he needed to move. he started with your shoulder. he placed a light kiss on your skin, brushing away your hair and the strap of your nightgown. 

you never thought that seungchel would agree to something like that and that was why you never told him about it. being with two men was one of your fantasies and while your boyfriend had worked hard to meet all of them, you were certain that there was one he would never say yes to. and yet, somehow, there you were, in the middle of your bedroom with the two hottest men you had ever laid eyes on. 

the promise of what was about to happen was more than enough to get you started. 

mingyu trailed kisses up your neck. the contrast between the delicate caress of his lips and the roughness of his hands was enough to make your legs shake a little. finally, his lips touched yours. tentatively at first, mimicking the silky touch of just a second before. when you responded to his actions, hand gripping his forearms, mingyu deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing past your lips, demanding control. 

whenever you imagined yourself in such a position, the third person never had a face. it was only you and seungcheol and someone else, a faceless man. but the second you met mingyu, months before, he became the faceless man in your fantasies. just how many times had you imagined yourself in between the two men, falling apart in their arms? 

countless had been the nights you woke up needy, after yet another dream, turning to seungcheol desperate, begging for more and more. 

just as mingyu slightly pulled back you felt seungcheol behind you, his hand on your upper thigh, dragging the fabric of your gown up. he made a pleased sound on the back of his throat when he didn't feel the usual band of underwear. you thought that there was no point in wearing one. 

“i'm going to blindfold you now” seungcheol whispered, lightly nibbling at your earlobe.

you moaned when you felt the lace being placed over your eyes at the same time mingyu kissed your chest, his thumb running over your nipple. 

seungcheol wrapped his arm around you and pulled your back flush against him, his lips sucking your skin as mingyu left airy kisses over your chest.

you had completely forfeited control at that point, even if maybe it was a little early for that. the lace covering your eyes only gave you small glimpses of the man in front of you, of his chest still covered in the white t-shirt he had on when he arrived, his tanned skin. but even if you were able to see a little, there was still so much that you didn't and that made every touch feel hotter, needier, more demanding.

you felt seungcheol taking a couple of steps back, until both of you were seated on the middle bed.

"why the blindfold?" you asked.

seungcheol pulled your weight over him, his hands pushing your gown down at the same time mingyu pushed it up, leaving all the fabric pooling around your waist.

"because you like it, because i want you to enjoy this to the fullest" his voice was low, rough, and each word that left his lips sent waves through your body, straight to your core "so enjoy it while he eats you out and then fucks you, there won't be a second chance. i won't share you again"

one of the reasons you even said yes in the first place to the idea was because mingyu was leaving town soon. he got a job in another city and it required him to move. so when seungcheol brought up you fantasy and teased you with it, agreeing and choosing mingyu had been easy. you wouldn't have to see him again any time soon, so there was no chance of you being embarrassed in front of him. by the time you saw him again, the things you allowed both of them to do to you would be a distant memory. 

"when do you fuck me?"

that was the whole point of the night, you thought, having both of them at the same, but in seungcheol's little speech, there was no mention of him. 

his chest vibrated with laughter, chuckling. 

"i will, baby, don't worry"

seungcheol snaked his arm around you waist, his fingers sliding over you until he reached your thighs. your boyfriend pushed your leg to the side, while mingyu did the exact same thing, leaving you in complete display for him. 

"if you don't like something," seungcheol said, his breath tingling your skin "if you want to stop, whatever it is. just say it, and we'll stop"

you could see it perfectly in your mind, mingyu kneeling on the floor, kissing you while looking up to see your reaction. one thing about having one of your senses taken away was the fact that everything felt magnified. so the touches weren't simple touches anymore. actions that normally would have only made you excited about the situation, suddenly made you horny. 

there was no need to touch yourself to know that you were already wet and you had only started. your muscles started to tense up in anticipation of what was to come. 

no imagination or dream could have prepared you for the reality that was mingyu. instead of playing with you a little more, something that he would definitely enjoy doing, mingyu placed three small breathy kisses on your pelvis before his lips finally found your center.

his tongue was one of a man who knew what he was doing.

it started with a tickle, a flutter of a touch and then it was all too consuming. 

you moaned when he wrapped his arms around your legs and pulled you closer to him. the sounds were all loud, wet, and dirty, and somehow you felt hotter with each passing second. 

"more" you begged. 

he flicked your clit once, then twice, before pulling it into his mouth, sucking hard like it was a goddamned lollipop. he kept going until you became a begging mess in front of him, your hand found its way to his hair and pressed him harder over you. 

seungcheol let out a hum of approval from behind you, finally placing his hands on you. he pinched your nipples, tugging at them harshly only increasing your pleasure, all the while mingyu blew and lightly bit on your clit. 

it felt like being worshiped by the two men. two sets of hands all over your body whose only purpose was to pleasure you. 

mingyu slid a finger inside of you, without warning, making you arch and seungcheol tighten his grip around your waist.

"she's so loud," mingyu said, pleased. 

seungcheol laughed again, kissing your neck. he wrapped his hand around your neck, forcing your head back. your moan was swallowed by his hungry lips.

"add another finger, she'll get even louder"

you felt mingyu’s devilish smile, before he did exactly what seungcheol said. the stretch was simply perfect. he curled his fingers just the right way, pushing them all the way in before almost pulling out, while his tongue paid full attention to your clit. there was no stopping the moans that escaped your lips, loud and needy. the combination of mingyu's agile tongue and seungcheol’s skilled hands was enough to drive you crazy.

“it’s okay baby,” seungcheol whispered, pinching your nipples relentlessly “you can cum on his fingers”

his words were enough to drive you over the edge. your grip on mingyu’s hair tightened, your free hand searching for seungcheol’s thigh. mingyu held you closer when your head started to spin, your legs shaking, licking you as if you were an ice cream he couldn’t get enough of. he flattened his tongue, licking you in one big motion, his fingers moving faster. all of it almost too much but you catch yourself begging:

“ah… don’t stop… please” 

you were arching, pleading, demanding and you didn’t care. never before had you felt like that and you knew it was only the beginning. 

suddenly mingyu’s hands and lips were gone, but just for a second. he crawled over your body. you touched the lace covering your eyes, wanting to push it away, needing to see both men, but your boyfriend stopped you, pushing your hands away. 

“the fold stays on” he said and suddenly his voice became a distant sound, muffled by the weight of mingyu over you, his lips demanding your attention.

you could taste your release on him, and you couldn’t help but moan a little at the feel of his naked chest over yours. somewhere along the way he had taken his shirt off. the bulge in his sweats giving you the tiniest bit of friction but not nearly enough.

you wanted to see seungcheol's face, wanted to study and memorize every tiny expression on his face. wanted to see if his eyes darkened like they usually did when he was aroused, if the moment was also pleasurable for him, or if he was doing all of it because it was something you wanted.

“but i want to see you”

seungcheol was a hands-on kind of boyfriend, not in a suffocating kind of way, but in a way that made you feel cherished. his hands were always on you. if you were both in the same room there was no way he was going to stay away. 

one of your friends decided to have her bachelorette in the same club her fiancé was having his bachelor's party, to which seungcheol had been invited to. though the night started as expected, somewhere around 2 am you found your boyfriend sitting by your side when you had gotten too tired to keep dancing with the other girls.

if he was driving, his hand was on your leg or holding onto yours; if you were walking down the street, his arm was around your shoulders. he was always all over you.

“get on your knees,” he said.

there was no need for you to make a single movement when mingyu turned you around and dropped you on the bed like you were some kind of ragged doll. laughing might not have been the best reaction but it was the only one you had to give.

“you wanna her first?” mingyu asked.

“you can have her”

something about the way they talked, as if you had no say and were there only for their entertainment, turned on you even further. 

the sound of plastic being torn was the only one in the room, as well as your small pants, while you still tried to catch your breath. you desperately wanted to remove the blindfold. for whatever reason, you enjoyed the sight of a man rolling up a condom. maybe you liked that it helped build anticipation or maybe you just liked knowing what was in store for you.

even so, you put your ass as high up as you possibly could, your knees apart. 

“i guess she's excited” mingyu said, his tone cocky as he ran his hand over your ass “nice and slow, or hard and fast?”

mingyu pressed the tip of his fingers to your cunt, moving them up and down a couple of times, getting his fingers wet, and then running them over his dick. not that he needed it, he knew that he could just slide in without effort, but he enjoyed seeing you tremble on fingers one more time.

he aligned his tip with your entrance, rubbing himself on you a couple of times but stilled a second later, waiting for your answer. 

"in, would be great"

he laughed, slowly pushing inside. you were a little sensitive but that only heightened the feeling. your breath hitched as he finally sank into you. you held onto the sheets, hands balled into fists, squirming, urging him to just fucking move. he wasn't as thick as seungcheol but he was long, touching you somewhere that you were yet to be touched by anyone before. 

suddenly you felt seungcheol's cock against your lips, his thumb forcing them open. he thrust himself in, hitting the back of your throat just as mingyu started to move. 

their paces were completely different, while mingyu pushed in long, sensual strokes, seungcheol forced his hips harshly, holding your head in place until you squeezed his waist. despite being different, they somehow felt complementary to each other.

an unfamiliar sound left your lips, a weird mix of a moan and a gasp for air. your boyfriend wrapped your hair in his hand, pulling on it, forcing your head back. it should have been painful but it only made you clench around mingyu's cock.

"look at you" seungcheol chuckled a little, his fingers running across your face, further turning you into a mess of tears and spit "taking two cocks at the same time"

you moaned when he pushed himself into your mouth again, at the same time mingyu started to move faster, his index fingers circling your hole. 

"wouldn't you just love it if he pushed his finger in a little" seungcheol taunted "all holes filled like a good little slut"

you cried, needing more of everything.

the entire situation was degrading, from your actions to his words, but you were beyond caring. all of it was just beyond anything you could have ever imagined. every sort of contact you had with a threesome before, from hearing your friends talk about it, reading it, watching it, imagining it, was nothing compared to the reality. 

"oh she loves to be called a slut" mingyu grunted "she's milking me, man, i'm not gonna last much longer"

mingyu's thrusts became frantic, almost sloppy and he lost his constant tempo. 

"in my mouth" you pulled away from seungcheol long enough to say.

to hell with seungcheol’s rules and blindfold. you turned around, whimpering at the emptiness, pulling the blindfold from your eyes and tossing it aside.

mingyu stood at the edge of the bed, one foot propped on the mattress. his large hand stocking his cock, a grin on his face while you crawled towards him. his dick right in front of your face, long, veins high, a thick layer of your juices coated him. you moaned as you pulled the condom away before you took him in your mouth.

you knew what pulling away from seungcheol would cause, in fact you were hoping for it. so when you felt his hands roughly grab your hips, you smiled. the scream that left you when he slammed into you wasn't of pain, but of pure pleasure. he moved hard and fast, leaving you no room to breathe. you cried, your nails digging into mingyu's flesh as seungcheol mercilessly fucked you. your boyfriend grunted with every thrust.

you felt mingyu’s dick twitch in your mouth, scraping him with your teeth, making him hiss. 

“i’m gonna cum in you sweet little mouth, sweetheart” he said, grabbing the hair at your scalp, forcing himself all the way in, holding himself in place, until he found his release. 

slowly he rocked his hips, his hot cum running down your throat. you sucked him dry, not a single drop left behind.

you felt a second wave of pleasure consume you and the entire world seemed like it was crashing down around you when seungcheol inserted his index inside your only empty hole, a second later his middle finger too.

“yes, cheol, fuck”

your entire body contracted, shaking in absolute, delirious, pleasure. it went through your entire body in waves, from your head to your toes.

seungcheol kept going, moving into your sensitive slit restlessly. you cried out again, feeling your orgasm build once more when you felt him fill you with his warm cum.

“that's my perfect cum slut, filled to the brim” cheol praised you

you allowed your limp body to fall on the mattress, face down, completely exhausted but feeling pleased in a way you had never before. 

but seungcheol wasn't done with you, not yet anyway. he turned you around, his hand immediately found your clit, rubbing it slowly in circles, in a way that he knew drove you crazy.

“no” you said

you tried to close your legs, holding his hand still. you were too sensitive, your body entirely too tired to keep going. seungcheol got on top of you, using his knees to keep your thighs apart.

“remember what you promised, baby?” he whispered, kissing your cheek tenderly, “you said that you would cum for me the same you came for him”

you shook your head, small tears forming on the corners of your eyes. yes, you had promised, but you couldn’t follow through with it

“i can't, it's too much”

“you can, baby” he pressed harder against your clit, adding two fingers inside of you, curling them just the right way “give me one more. just one more”

your body tensed up once again, eyes rolling to the back of your head. his words were the last straw, enough to drive you once again to the edge. a scream rippled through you, your hips bulking up from the bed hard enough that seungcheol had to hold you in place. 

you struggled to breathe again, your lungs doing a terrible job at what they were supposed to do. the situation became a little worse when seungcheol dropped his entire weight over you, pulling his digits out of you. he too breathed heavily. you ran your hand over his hair, caressing it while you slowly came back to your senses. 

"you okay?" he pushed back to look at you, pushing your hair away from your face "was it too much?"

you shook your head, smiling at him. you couldn't talk yet, body still shaking a little, sensitive all over. you were certain that you looked like a complete mess, you could feel your entire body sticky with sweat. 

seungcheol kissed your cheek again, pulling the sheets from your bed over you. you left knowing what he was doing.

"dude, i've seen it all. in fact, i did a little more than just look at it" 

“keep talking and your eyes will magically disappear”

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[strangersteddierthings]

Porcelain Steve - Part 7

Part One🦇Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four🦇Part Five🦇Part Six🦇Part Seven🦇Part Eight🦇Part Nine

((TW for this part; period typical slurs and internalized homophobia. Read the tags before clicking readmore if you want the details))

Steve has been a porcelain doll for seven weeks when disaster strikes.

"What is that," Jeff says, because even though the words are in an order which would suggest that it's a question, the tone of voice Jeff uses decidedly is not questioning.

"What is whaaa-AH! Nothing! It's nothing!" Eddie, who was torso deep into his closet throwing things around to find his backup amp cord, turns to look at what Jeff was talking about, and is now launching himself across his room to stand between Jeff and Porcelain Steve. Porcelain Steve, who Eddie had lain on his bed, propped slightly on a pillow, headphones carefully perched on his little head, hooked to a cassette player currently playing the first hour of last week's Top 40 countdown that Eddie had taped for him (all three hours of it, leaving out the chatter of the radio show host. He'd had to use two tapes to get it all).

"Nothing sure looks a lot like a doll in headphones, Munson," Jeff has an amazing poker face but Eddie's certain he can see a bit of judgement underneath the carefully blank expression Jeff is wearing.

"I don't know what you're talking abo- hey! Hey, no, no, don't!" Eddie tries to bodily block Jeff when he moves forward and the two end up wrestling, a match that Eddie almost wins, if not for the hazard that is his messy room. He gets Jeff walked almost to the door before he steps wrong on something, ankle rolling and sending him down sideways. He clutches at Jeff but can't make purchase and Jeff, the bastard, does fuck-all to try and catch him. Instead, Jeff leaps out of arm's length, then lunges onto the bed as Eddie collapses to his floor.

Eddie frantically tries to stand and, in his haste, ends up with his feet tangled in a pile of dirty laundry and that sends him crashing down again, this time forward onto his hands and knees, so he gives up on standing and crawls the few short feet to the bed, finally looking up to see that the damage has been done.

Jeff has picked up Steve, holding him inches from his own face, eyes squinted in suspicion. Eddie is frozen, horrified and afraid, and can't bring himself to do anything as Jeff examines Steve closely, turning him around, poking his torso, flipping him upside down to examine his shoes more thoroughly. It's only when Jeff reached for the shirt, pinching the hem of it between two fingers that Eddie kicks back into action.

He lunges up, one knee on the bed, leaning over to grab Steve and yank him from Jeff's grip. His first instinct is to throw Steve over his shoulder, out of sight out of mind mentality, but as soon as he does, he realizes his mistake and twists, lunging to catch Steve in midair. He does manage to catch Steve, but it sends him bouncing off his dresser and almost back to the floor before he manager to regain his balance, where he proceeds to cradle Steve to his chest, which is heaving from the adrenaline, wrestling match, and subsequent dive after Steve.

Jeff is giving him a concerned look but something else piques his interest; Jeff reaches over and picks up the headphones, holding them up to one ear. His face goes through every emotion a human could possibly experience in less than fifteen seconds as he listens to whatever track was at the forty-ish minute mark on the Top 40 countdown.

Slowly, Jeff lowers the headphones, letting them drop to the bed before he gives Eddie a new, more judgmental, yet infinitely more concerned, look. "Eddie. What. The fuck."

Honestly, he's not sure there's anything he can say in response.

"Why- I don't... are you okay, man?" Jeff sounds both scared for Eddie, and scared of him, at the same time.

"I'm fine," Eddie manages to squeak out.

"Eddie," Jeff says seriously, "this is not fine. This is- this is insane behavior. You know that, right?"

"I've no idea what you mean," Eddie doesn't even know what he's defending himself from but his default response to anything is to defend himself. He grips Steve tightly around the torso with one hand and then moves both his hands to be behind his back so Jeff will stop staring at Steve.

"I mean this fuckin' insane shrine you have dedicated to Steve fucking Harrington. How did you even get a doll that looks like him. Did you- did you make that?"

Fuck. Holy fuck. What can he say to defend himself here? Is there a single way for him to come out of this not sounding deranged? If he agrees, let's Jeff's drawn conclusion be the truth, then that's all but confirmation to Steve about his big fat crush, so when Steve's back to being Steve he'll never look at Eddie again. Jeff might think he needs mental help, but he'll be here for Eddie. If he tries to deny the accusation, then he'll need an explanation. He'll have to tell Jeff something that make him seem less like a creepy stalker, but what? He can't tell the truth, not without letting everyone know he's going to tell Jeff. There's a whole other secret he'd have to let out to even have a chance of Jeff believing him.

Jeff must take his silence for acceptance or guilt, because he's speaking again. "I.... man, this is not healthy. Please tell me you aren't, like, hoarding a lock of his hair or his clothes or something."

Involuntarily, damningly, his eyes dart to the closet, where several of Steve's sweaters hang from when he'd borrowed them and never returned them. And it's not like Steve doesn't have several of Eddie's own articles of clothing, like his battle vest and a few shirts. But Jeff doesn't know they easily, willingly, swap clothes, so his eyes go wide and dart towards the closet, as if he can pick out which pieces belong to Steve on sight.

Actually, he probably can.

"This really isn't what it looks like," Eddie says because he has to say something. Being silent is too incriminating.

"I don't think you're aware of what this looks like," Jeff says, wiggling himself off of Eddie's bed to stand at the foot of it. "Of all the boys in Hawkins.... I knew you liked Steve but this is.... creepy. That doll looks so much like him that I recognized it. Does Steve know you're in love with him, or is this like a way to process your crush without having to-"

"Jeff!" Eddie yells, mortified. He can feel his whole face heat up, knows he must be bright red. Because Jeff just said, out loud and for Steve to hear, the thing that Eddie very much hasn't even said out loud to himself, even if he knows how he feels deep down.

Jeff must know he's overstepped some invisible boundary he wasn't even aware of because his face immediately shows regret. He takes a step forward and Eddie takes a step back.

Immediately, Jeff stops his forward momentum. "Shit, I'm sorry, Eddie. I'm sorry."

When Eddie answers, his voice sounds like he's been eating gravel, "Just, can you go wait in the living room? I'll be right out, and we can talk, or whatever, but can you just..."

A nod, and then Jeff is gone, closing the door behind him.

With shaking hands, Eddie brings Steve back to the front of him. Looks down at him. He's not even aware he's crying until he watches his tears mark Steve's tiny polo. He can't keep holding Steve. Can't keep looking at him. Not when- not when his best friend just outed him in the worst way possible. And Eddie can't even be upset or hurt about it because Jeff didn't know. He's teased Eddie about his crushes before, and in the safety of his own room, there was no reason for Jeff to have to watch what he was saying.

Even knowing that Steve is okay with Robin, loves her anyway, without the ability to confirm that Steve doesn't hate him right now, Eddie's going to freak out. But he can't. Jeff is waiting in the living room, and the band is waiting back at Gareth's. This was just- they were supposed to just grab the amp cable and get back, a fifteen-minute job at most, and now.

Now Eddie is staring down at Steve, willing himself to not have a panic attack.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have heard it like that, it s-should have come from me. It should- you-I'm sorry," Eddie gently underhand throws Steve onto the center of the bed. He lands face up and Eddie sinks to the floor because he can't stand anymore, and he can't really breath.

Steve knows Eddie's a fucking faggot now, and that he wants Steve, and there's no way he'll get to keep the friendship they had before this. There's no universe in which Steve isn't creeped out by this information. There has never been an instance where a straight boy found out about his crush on them and didn't abandon him. Not always cruelly, he'll admit. He's had friends that learned and just... slid from his life with no words and no fuss. Eddie just never spoke to them again because they never came back around, but they also never outed him.

That's what will happen with him and Steve. He'll quit inviting Eddie around, or calling when he's bored, and eventually it will get to the point that Eddie only sees him at BBQ's that Joyce drags him to.

Fuck. FUCK!

He's not sure how long he's on the floor but eventually, he finds the will to get back up and resume digging through his closet to find the amp cord. It doesn't take long, he was ridiculously close to finding it earlier, it seems.

Before leaving his room, he picks back up the cassette player and headphones. Silence comes from them, so he pops the tape out before flipping it to the B side and popping it back in. He puts the headphones around Steve's head again and presses play, doing his best to not actually look at Steve. He'll just have another breakdown if he does.

He trudges out of his room, closing the door behind himself before taking the short walk to the living room, where Jeff waiting on the couch, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes faraway as he stares towards the wall in front of him.

"Hey," Eddie says, to get his attention.

"Hey," Jeff says, sitting up straight and turning towards Eddie. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing? I'm the fucking psycho here," he sighs, leaning sideways against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest, hand clutching at the amp cord just for something to ground him.

"Forget that, whatever I did, or said, or whatever, you were- when you yelled my name. You looked terrified. Of me," Jeff almost whispers the last sentence, and if not for the stark silence in the trailer, Eddie wouldn't have heard.

"Not of you, Jeff," Eddie whispers back, but his voice doesn't stay quiet because 'quiet' isn't a thing Eddie does easily or often. "Of... of myself, and these- of how I feel- I'm a goddamned faggot and now that Ste- when Steve finds out I'll lose him! Like I've lost every fucking person who ever even suspected I was a fuckin' queer!"

Silence stretches between them, enough to make Eddie fidget, dropping his crossed arms to twist the amp cord about anxiously with both his hands.

"Look, man, I don't know what's, like, the appropriate thing to say so I'm just going for the honest thing. You got me. You'll never lose me. And all those other assholes that you think you lost? You're wrong. They lost you. And if Steve Harrington is gonna be another one of those, then you aren't losing him. 'Cause he was never really in your corner to begin with."

If this were anyone else, with the exception of his uncle, he would be able to hold it together better. But it's Jeff. His best friend. Who never believed Eddie committed unspeakable horrors over Spring Break last year. Who didn't question the strange, new friends he suddenly had afterwards; who accepted as the only explanation a softly spoken 'they saved me' and that was enough. Who had said 'ok, cool' in response to Eddie telling him he was gay, years ago now, and continued trying to find out if Eddie had a secret relationship, switching girlfriend for boyfriend like it wasn't a big deal (Eddie did not have a secret relationship; his good mood that week was the result of snooping for his birthday present and finding the guitar hidden under his uncle bed).

It's Jeff. So, Eddie does the most metal, manly thing he can and bursts into tears, blindly reaching for Jeff and pulling him off the couch so he can bear hug him and sob into his shirt.

"There, there, you big baby," Jeff rubs his back soothingly, "let it out. Then pull your sorry ass together, because Gareth and Brian are going to think we died in a car crash on the way here if we take much longer."

"Ah, fuck," Eddie manager to say around the sniffling he's trying to get control of, "you're right."

"You good, though?"

"Uh, I will be."

Jeff nods and steps back. "How about this. We go to practice, and then you can come to my place tonight and we can like, hangout and talk. If that's what you want."

He's already nodding as he says, "yeah. That would be good. I- uh, I have something to do after practice, but yeah, after that I'll come over."

Eddie tosses the amp cable to Jeff after they climb into the van and head off.

Halfway there, Jeff says, "you know Gareth and Brian are in your corner, too. If you ever feel like telling them one day."

"One day," Eddie agrees, "but today has already been... a lot."

Practice goes well, with some ribbing for their tardiness allowed. If Gareth and Brian notice Eddie's been crying recently, they keep it to themselves. Which is good, because Eddie cannot handle one more thing today.

A promise to meet up with Jeff later and Eddie's back home.

Back to where he left Steve, who will be laying in silence on his bed because it's been well over two hours since he and Jeff left, and the tape only held an hours' worth of music on each side. Back to the nightmare of not knowing if Steve hates him now, or if Eddie's, and this is the most likely scenario, being a bit overdramatic.

His uncle is home, so he greets him, asks after his day, gets told dinner is Fend For Yourself Night (which just means leftovers or a TV dinner), and gets asked about Steve. Because of course he does.

"You sure he went on a vacation willingly with those parents of his, and he ain't actually kidnapped and trapped somewhere?"

That's a little bit too true. If only Wayne knew. "Well, no. I'm not sure. All I know is what he said when he left."

Wayne gives him a look. One Eddie is used to seeing, that says 'I know more than you think but I'm waiting for you to tell me' and Eddie's a little afraid of what Wayne thinks he knows. So, instead of prying that box open, Eddie just says he's tired and goes to his room.

Steve is exactly where Eddie left him.

Suddenly, without reason or logic, Eddie is angry. He's so pissed at Steve for being gone for this long. For having transformed in the first place. For not being able to assure him they'll still be friends, regardless of Eddie's stupid crush.

He snatches Steve off the bed, hand clamping around one of Steve's arms and his torso so he can hold him up with one hand. Steve's face, permanently stuck into a blank expression, looks back. Even knowing that Steve sees and hears through this thing, Eddie's so angry at the doll. If Steve hadn't been turned into this stupid thing, if Eddie wasn't so helplessly in love with him, this wouldn't have happened. Eddie could have taken his own time telling Steve, instead of hearing his deepest secret spilled easily from Jeff's lips. Instead of this not knowing what Steve is thinking, or how he feels. Is he recoiling in disgust at the fact Eddie's making him look at his face? Or is Eddie being awarded the same kindness as Robin, a quiet acceptance that won't change their friendship?

Eddie doesn't know that answer and he hates it.

He's so angry with himself because he should know better. He's forcing his own insecurities onto Steve, about acceptance and caring, when nothing Steve's done since they've become friends is prove that he'll always be Eddie's friend and not even the apocalypse could change that.

"I'm going to hang out with Jeff, so you're gonna be alone a bit longer. Or maybe I should drop you off at Robin's when I go," Eddie goes to toss Steve back on the bed when something pinches his palm. It's a startling sharp pain, quick to fade, but it's surprising enough for Eddie to let go.

Eddie watches, horrified, as he falls to the floor. He twists in the air, landing with a dull thump and cracking sound on his left arm before falling onto his back.

"Shit. Shit! Fuck, Steve, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to," Eddie is crouched, already in the process of reaching for Steve when he freezes.

There is a crack on Steve's left arm, a line that starts above his elbow on the inside of his arm and runs down and across his arm to his hand, where Steve's pinky finger is gone. Looking slightly to the side, Eddie can see the small porcelain piece that Steve is missing laying on the ground next to him. Eddie's own hand is hovering in the air above Steve, shaking.

This can't be- how did- Eddie wracks his brain. Was the crack there already? Did Eddie cause the crack when he bounced off his dresser earlier? When did it happen? Does that fucking matter when it's Eddie who broke a piece off him? If Steve didn't hate him before, he's got to now. Eddie doesn't have time to panic about this, he's got to- El. El can talk to Steve. Find out if he's okay. What if breaking him-

Eddie launches himself up and to his dresser, grabbing at the Walkie up there. He pulls the antenna up, clicks it on and tries not to actually shout as he says, "Code Red! Code fucking Red!" He lets off the talk button, counts to seven in his head, enough time, he reasons, for someone to respond before he repeats the process. "Code Red!! Code Red!"

He repeats this process for three minutes with no response. Where the fuck is everyone!? How is he supposed to- Oh! The phone!

He tears down the hall and to the phone. He must look a right state, because Wayne looks very concerned and is halfway to standing up when Eddie gets to the phone beside him. He yanks the phone up and dials the number for the Byers-Hopper household, holding up a shaking finger to Wayne, a silent plea to give him a moment.

It rings and rings and rings before the answering machine kicks in. Eddie presses down on the disconnect button before dialing the Wheelers' number next.

"Hello?"

"Mike! Code Red! Where the fuck is everyone and why aren't they answering!?"

"What?"

"Code Red! Where's Nancy. Put Nancy on."

"Dude, slow down, what's-"

"I broke St-it. I broke it and someone needs to get El here now. Code Red does not mean ask questions, Mike! It means Code. Fucking. Red."

"Shit, shit, right! I'll get Nancy and we'll get everyone- just- we'll be there soon."

Eddie slams the phone down and has to meet his uncle's eye now.

"Eddie. What is goin' on?"

Eddie inhales a breath and can feel his lower lip quivering. "It's- can we talk about it later? I promise I'm not the one hurt, or in trouble, or- it's not me, ok. I just-"

"Yer shakin' like a leaf boy. What's got you so spooked?"

Eddie just shakes his head and flees back to his room, slamming the door shut between him and his uncle. He can't bring himself to cross the room to Steve. He slides himself down the door to sit on the floor, pulling his knees up to hug.

"I'm so sorry, Steve. I'm sorry."

#steddie #my fic #porcelain steve #TW: Eddie calls himself a faggot and he means it in a bad way #did I make a playlist on spotify w/ Top 40 songs for June 21-27 1987 so id know how many tapes eddie had to use to record it? #yes. its 2 tapes fyi‚ using side A and B of one. a total of 2h54m. in my defense it was a writers block activity. #couldnt figure out what to have jeff say to comfort eddie that was in character and era-appropriate so... playlist it was! #if i were titling these parts this would be Eddie's No Good‚ Very Bad‚ Terrible‚ Horrible Day #I mean... he's had worse days (Spring Break '86) but this is up there for him #also back to back updates!? who am i??? but don't expect another one too soon #i started this one as part 6 originally but decided i wanted a more lighthearted piece first #so i wrote like 2/3 of this before writing what i posted for part 6 so finishing this was quick

[samsvenn]

SAKAMAKI BROS BODY HEADCANONS! :D

𝐒𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐬 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐒𝐡𝐮 

His body’s strong and he has muscles, but they’re not defined. Faint lines show they’re there, but it’s mostly just due to metabolism. 

The guy barely walks or runs, I doubt an eight pack’s there. I don’t even know why Rejet decided to put on their canon art that Shu apparently has abs but go off 

He has very broad, classical shoulders; think of Shang from Mulan. Because of his developing trauma with depression and apathy, Shu took sword fighting less seriously in his middle teens so there was ligament straining not too long after. Beatrix, being extremely fearful for Shu’s future, began to be extremely strict with warm up stretches before and after training sessions. 

Doesn’t shave often. His face? He’ll try to make the effort. Uses straight razors because he hasn’t caught onto gillette and has slept through every innovation the shaving industry’s accomplished. Plus it only takes ten seconds max to replace the razor with a brand new one and the blade’s cheaper. 

 But anywhere else? Shaves every two-three months minimum. The longest he hasn’t gone is eight years. Do what you will with that information

His legs are his gems and his calves are impressive. They’re the most toned part of his body. Shu likes to sleep barefoot because socks get uncomfortable to sleep in when they’re moist with sweat so there’s a tan line from his ankles and where his pants end. 

Yes, he has a happy trail.

𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐣𝐢 

Although he started late into swordfighting, his body’s much more built than Shu’s because Reiji’s been fairly consistent with his training. No stagnancy, just enough recovery periods before he gets back on his feet.

An athletic build. He doesn't really have the muscular physique of a footballer, but equivalent to that of a fencer’s. 

Loves the feeling of his soft, shaved, moisturized skin rubbing against the material of his clothes or his silk sleepwear. He keeps it a secret but the amount of unscented lotion this man has would have you confusing him for Laito. 

His abdomen is much more defined than his chest.

Reiji has stretch marks around his shoulders. When he got into swordfighting, Reiji was obsessed with surpassing Shu in such a short amount of time that his skin was stretching far too quickly for his own good. 

𝐀𝐲𝐚𝐭𝐨

The classic basketball athlete physique; not too muscular, but good enough in areas that need it. His lower body’s better than his upper body mainly because Ayato kept losing to Subaru so he decided to up his footwork.

His figure's pretty common in the basketball community, but the only singular difference between them and Ayato is that he loves showing off his toned body whenever he gets the chance. A little sneak peek disguised as him readjusting his shorts, taking off his basketball jersey to wipe sweat from his forehead, cheerleaders swoon over him and he knows it.

His body’s physically better at sports than all of the triplets. He can run faster, jump higher, his endurance is pretty amazing, you get the gist. 

Ayato’s body is the most toned in the family because in his diet regime, he cuts rather than bulk. Ayato loves himself and doesn’t understand why he’d sacrifice his present muscles to gain more protein and bigger muscles, only to pile months of cutting for the newer, bigger muscles to show. 

Simply put: He’s lazy and doesn’t want to sacrifice his good looking body when his body’s the “best it is now”.

When he started to lose muscle definition because there was a 24/7 takayoki all-you-can-eat buffet place and the grand prize was a three month 70% discount card, Ayato legitimately broke down crying because it was either his body or takayoki that had to go. 

𝐋𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐨

Naturally has the body type that current popular models want: androdygenous, but not really. Cordelia’s genes really came through because his body is scarily symmetrical. 

Religiously shaves, dermaplanes or waxes, depending on how large the coverage is. 

Every part of his body’s been moisturized to perfection. Every part.

His figure’s pretty lanky despite being shorter than Reiji and his pants don’t help but add to that illusion. Laito’s stomach and v-line are more prominent than any muscles in his body, due to his night time ‘hobbies’. 

His chest is the weakest in the family. At first they all agreed it was Kanato, but Laito and Kanato might as well in the same category if they weren't gonna sugarcoat anything at that point.

Gets confused for a girl a lot. When people see his back profile or are behind him, it just reasonably registers in their heads. It also might be due to the erotic pilates that his ass makes it harder for people to not notice he’s a guy at first glance. 

Has a bumpy, v-shaped mole under his left ass cheek. He likes to cop a feel every once in a while. This became an inside joke between Subaru and Laito that the V is missing two curves or, ‘3’, to complete a heart; a joke that Laito needs to be dicked down or cowgirl-ed. 

“Heheh… Oi Laito, found those two curves yet?”

“Do keep asking me in the hopes you’ll find some yourself, Subaru-kun?”

𝐊𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨

Very doll-like to the point where it’s uncanny valley levels. Not a single blemish, pimple scarring, it’s so freakishly unnatural to the point where it’s unnerving. 

His physique’s quite scrawny in vampire standards. It’s almost impressive that in a society full of hulking, domineering monsters, Kanato’s body is considered a miracle with how dainty, coquettish; and dare I say angelic, it is. 

Kanato’s skin looks unnaturally translucent. In room lightning, you can easily see blue veins running under his boney arms. 

When he stretches, his bones (especially his ribcage) look like they’re going to pop out of his skin. The worst offense to this is that if he’s wearing a thin cloth material such as silk, nylon or finely compressed cotton, it really does look like his bones are protruding from his body. 

The only Sakamaki that can’t grow body hair. It never really introduced itself during puberty. Kanato has a love-hate relationship with this because it’s made him feel left out and made him feel that he was stripped out of his masculinity. All his other brothers got their chance, why didn’t he?

At the same time, he’s relieved. It brings him closer to the unreachable perfection of what a doll looks like; docile, cute and decievely kitsch. 

Gets dysphoric quite often. Should he hate his hair? Should he love it? He’s the only one who inherited it, so does that mean that he should be proud of the love it brought? Was it even love? 

Why does he feel like this? 

𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐮

The skin on Subaru’s hands aren’t even. There’s deep slashes of discolored scarring that spread out like electricity. 

Gets red easily. Whether it’s caused by rashes, irritation, gashes or vampire allergies, one speckle is enough to make him look like a lobster.

There’s large dots that are speckled and look like freckles or ladybug spots on the back of his legs. They’re actually small scars caused by Younger Subaru landing on a bed of thorny, white roses while escaping his tutors to visit Christa.

Ranked as the second best body in the family. He carries the title proudly. 

The only reason he’s not first is because the family discussion was about who's got the most defined body, not really on who’s got the most muscle mass.

Really fits the young, rebellious rogue image; strong, well-built and rough around the edges. There are times where he wonders if his mother would be happier if he portrayed a more princely image that’s reminiscent of Karl’s earlier years. 

Maybe it's for the best that he didn’t.

His forearms are bigger than his calves. 

Chest and arm gains for days. They make him look more intimidating and it removes any soft features he inherited from Christa. Subaru has the biggest developed chest, but not necessarily the broadest. That goes to Shu during his swordsmanship days. 

Loves the way his arms make his prey gulp in fear. The mere thought that they’re antipicating what those arms of his are gonna do to them gets his blood going. 

He doesn’t see himself the way his mirror does. Whenever he does catch a glimpse of himself, there’s always two common sights he’ll see: a disfigured, male version of his mother or his crying child self. 

What these two have in common is that there’s this imminent feeling that something’s horribly ‘wrong’ within Subaru; a deep-rooted defect that can’t be loved. 

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers fandom #diahell #sakamaki brothers #shu sakamaki #reiji sakamaki #ayato sakamaki #laito sakamaki #kanato sakamaki #subaru sakamaki #headcanons #diabolik lovers headcanons #dl #dialovers #diabolik brothers

[auxlley]

Flower Beds - Xiao X Reader | PART 2

Genre - Slow burn, flirting, potential romcom with some serious undertones. WIP.

Part One

He came to you in a dream that night. The environment in your dream was still, you stood above what seemed like water, each step causing a ripple in the water that should have had you drowning, submerged, and falling toward a dark end. But there you were, standing on it as if solid ground.

"Huh, I've never had this dream where I wasn't drowning.” You spoke the words in this almost-endless space, your voice rippling as if in an echo-chamber.

"What a typical nightmare. Mortals always fear the most common things. How absurd." The voice carried a weight as you turned to see who else was in this dream with you. It was serious, but it had a soft, yet subtle tone that eased your unknowingly tense shoulders.

"Well, if it isn't the Conqueror of Flowers. Didn't think I'd be dreaming about you so soon." You replied matter-of-factly, trying your best to push down the sudden impending dread you felt upon the realization that at any given moment you could begin drowning and the nightmare would resume like it usually does.

Xiao approached you, unamused, until he was just barely in front of you, just within arm’s reach. You took in his sight, the confidence he held, the stiffness in his shoulders, and yet his face didn't hold the same attitude or demeanor he had when he was soiling your flowers in someone else's blood. He looked calm, composed, almost caring.

You looked down at your feet to be met with a sight you've never seen before; at your feet was solid ground, patches of flowers you had and hadn't ever seen surrounding both you and Xiao, with the water being less of a threat than it had been in the past.

The sight came as a shock to you, jerking your head up hoping to see Xiao you were met with nothing. It was just an empty space with the flowers slowly spreading and consuming the water. The sensation of anxiety and tension was eased away as you took in the sight; a mass array of soft colored petals waving softly. You stood there confused before collapsing to your knees, digging your hands into the soft soil, touching the flowers and their roots.

"What is it about flowers that is so appealing to mortals?" Xiao's voice echoed again, causing you to look to your side from where it came only to meet his eyes again. He was sat next to you, leaning back on his arms with his legs crossed at the ankle. He cocked his head to the side, raising a brow waiting for your response.

"They're unique, no flower is the same as the next, regardless of species. A lot of people pay a good amount for some flowers."

"They just wither away once they're ripped from the soil. Every flower does that, uniqueness seems redundant when the finality of something is the same among the rest."

You scoffed lightly before plucking a Windwheel Aster and watching the petals spin like a toy windwheel in the soft breeze. "It's the meaning behind it that makes it worth it for people. The occasion, the timing, the relationship. Regardless of what they do, I make a good profit from selling them."

"Trivial things."

"Never been given flowers before? No wonder you're so dense about it."

Before Xiao could protest or even open his mouth, you reached over and tucked the Aster flower into his hair where the most teal shown. He closed his mouth slowly and looked off to the distance as if it were wildly more interesting than a response. You could've sworn you saw a hint of blush paint his cheeks, but you knew commenting on the bashful expression would snap the moment in half.

The next morning came easily to you, you had no issues getting out of bed, it wasn't often you had a good night’s rest. Heaving a sigh, you threw a worn out shirt over your head and pulled up some workers pants. They were ripped and the soil had left its permanent mark, and as much as you needed new clothes for work you were at least proud that your hard work in the farm and garden was beginning to show for it, even if it meant your pants were gross to look at some days.

You made your way out to the now-ruined flowerbeds of Qingxin and groaned as you knelt down and began to uproot the mess. Nearly six flowerbeds were ruined, sure two of them had flowers that weren't crushed, but the dried blood had made the petals dry and crispy like burnt fish skin. Today’s task was uprooting the ruined flowers, and snipping the buds off stems that could, hopefully, be preserved.

As much as you had hoped the Adeptus would actually come and fix your flowers, you knew better than to truly expect him to do as you said and get your hopes up. Half of the lost-cause flowerbeds were now empty; you still had the other half to muddle through and you still had to cut the buds off the crispy flowers before you could call it a day with the flowers. Slapping your hands on your knees at the painful thought of more unnecessary labor, you forced yourself up with a huff. As you turned around, you nearly stumbled back as you bumped into the Adeptus who is at fault for this situation.

"Why can't you visit under normal circumstances? Why were you just standing there like a psycho?" You shouted as you wiped your dirt-covered hands on your pants, red heat flushing your cheeks as you realized the utter mess you appeared to be with a clean and properly dressed Adeptus standing in front of you.

"You really should be more aware of your surroundings." Xiao replied as he crossed his arms. Smartass.

"Look, I really don't need your words of wisdom right now, I'm busy." You strode past him, making your way back to the house you called home. You could hear Xiao's steps behind you and tried your best to not jump into a sprint to run away from him. Why were you so nervous?

"I can see that. Tell me what I need to do."

You stopped short at the front door and looked back over your shoulder at the teal-haired man. His shoulders didn't seem tense, his expression gave no indicator of elitism or irritation. He just looked present. You inhaled and turned to face him directly, placing your hands on your hips and nodded back to the bamboo baskets of ruined flowers.

"Take those baskets to the compost bin over there. Dump 'em out and then you can help me uproot some flowers." You half expected a remark or look, but a simple nod was all you got from him. Xiao gave no indicator of defiance; he simply did as you asked and did it without grandeur or hesitation. It was as if he was always on the farm doing these tasks. Maybe ruining peoples flowers and fixing them was part of his weekly quota in Adepti duties, you thought to yourself, grinning at the thought.

It didn't take long for the four ruined flowerbeds to be emptied and for the soil to be fluffed into a soft state for seeds to be thrown in. Xiao made quick work of uprooting the damaged roots without making a mess or shifting the soil around haphazardly. You were impressed but of course you wouldn't admit that to him.

While he was dumping the last remains into the compost bin, you were knelt down by the crispy flowers and clipping the buds off, setting them aside as you concentrated on the cut. You didn't want to cut too far down the stem as it could potentially ruin the look of the flower in the event that it did grow back, but you also had to make sure that they were of equal length, selling uneven flowers was a big no-no for a vendor of yours. And you had to learn that that hard way.

Xiao was sitting across from you, legs and arms crossed as he watched you closely. Every now and then you would sneak a glance when he'd look away at the sound of a bird or rustle in the trees that were nearby, occasionally he'd jerk his head in the direction of the creaking front door you left open until he had grown accustomed to the sound once he knew it wasn't a threat. He was aware of his surroundings in ways you weren't, at least not anymore.

"Is this all you do in your free time?" Xiao asked, breaking the silence that was inadvertently killing you.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Do you always destroy peoples flowers in your free time?" You responded, glancing up at him and smirking as he rolled his eyes.

"Your silly flowers were in the way. In all my years of being in Liyue I've never come across your little farm here."

"Oh please, just say you don't know this place as well as you thought and call it a day. I've been here for a while, you're just a shitty neighbor." You heard a small chuckle come from Xiao, it was enough to make you pull your hands and attention away from the flowers and sit up to take in the sight.

He sat there, the soft breeze carefully shifting his hair, looking so delicate, as if a sudden touch would shatter his presence. His eyes held a golden glow that could have been brighter than the sun and you couldn't help but wonder what they would look like up close. You had to be realistic.

"Well, I'd say that's enough Qingxin for today." You pushed yourself to your feet and examined the progress. Not quite finished, but a good stopping point. Xiao did the same, but his attention was on you more than anything. "I appreciate your help today, I'd say we're...pretty even, Xiao."

Xiao raised a brow and took a small step toward you that you didn’t notice. "You don't require more of my help?"

Shaking your head you said, "Nope, you did enough, and I appreciate it."

Xiao watched as you packed away the scissors used to cut the buds and place a lid on the small basket of cut flowers. He was frustrated, he felt like he hadn't done much to alleviate the problem he had caused onto you, but his expression wouldn't give that away.

It was the wind that told you he had left, holding the smaller basket and tools in your arms you finally looked at where Xiao had previously stood, wishing you hadn't said anything that would send him away. You knew better than to become overly familiar with people, especially when those people were illuminated beasts with more pressing matters to focus their attention on. You also knew better than to expect a deity of his stature to dedicate time to a simple farmer.

Sighing, you made your way back inside your home to wash up, trying your best to push the thoughts of Xiao out of your mind. You had other things to do today, it was best you started getting it done.

I tried so hard to keep it short! It's a little longer than the other by a page or two but fuck it, who doesn't like a little extra soft xiao? I was doing my dailies yesterday and read through all the flower descriptions in-game so now I have more ideas for this mini fic lol as well as a new ship that i doubt will take off :]

#flower beds xiao fic #genshin impact #xiao fluff #xiao x reader #xiao x you #xiao x y/n #xiao fanfic #genshin xiao #genshin #genshin fluff #xiao scenarios #genshin x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader

[indecentpause]

Find the Word

tagged by @oh-no-another-idea to find yellow, butter, soft, milk, and cream! thank!

cw: implied domestic abuse

from The Most Beautiful Puzzle:

yellow:

“Do you need help cleaning up?” you ask. [Josselin] peers around your shoulder at the little kitchenette. You turn around. It looks like Familiar only pulled that one paper towel out. “I’m fine,” he says. He leads you to the door, watching your bad ankle. “Who did that to you?” he suddenly asks. Your stomach drops to your feet, but hopefully you school your expression quick enough he doesn’t notice. “Nobody,” you say, as you reach out for the doorknob. “The same nobody who put that bruise on your wrist?” he pushes. You swallow and glance down at the healing yellow bruise on your pulse point. “Nobody,” you repeat, a little firmer. Josselin opens his mouth to push even further, but you interrupt. “Thanks for having me over so quickly,” you say. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow around 10:00 to let you know if I need help moving stuff.” “I--” he begins again. You gently shut the door behind you and struggle your way back down the stairs. To Josselin’s credit, he doesn’t follow you.

butter:

“Are you going in today?” Josselin finally asks. The Inspector lets out a long, heavy breath. The whole weight of his body is in his exhale. You slide your plate, still with one piece of buttered bread, in front of him. When he looks up at you, it’s like he feels so heavy he has to fight to move. You know that feeling far too well to be okay with seeing someone else you care about feeling that way. “My best friend’s parents always say the best thing you can do when you’re struggling is have a small meal,” you offer meekly. “The world sucks, but it’s a little less sucky on a full stomach.” The coffee pot burbles to life behind you as the water reaches the appropriate heat. After another long, slow, measured sigh, the Inspector looks up at you with a soft smile. “Thank you,” he says.

soft:

Josselin moves his hand from Familiar’s scruff to your knee. “I’m sorry,” he says gently. “I had a lot of bad run-ins with cops too, after my mom died. Not trouble with the law or anything, but just. Normal autistic kid in the foster system problems. Dona was the only one who ever treated me like I wasn’t just a troublemaker. He recognized I was just a fucked up kid who was trying my best in a system designed to fail.” You finally meet his eyes and say, “Thank you.” He smiles softly.

milk:

You apply at every private ambulance company but your own, for call taker, for porter, for anything that doesn’t put you on the street. No more paramedicine without proper PPE. Never again. On day four of your self-imposed quarantine, Josselin knocks on your bedroom door, and calls from the other side, “Meara, I know closed doors mean ‘go away,’ but this is really important?” You stand from the stack of milk crates that currently serves as your chair and let him in. He doesn’t step past the door sill. His face is creased up with worry and his phone is in his hand. “Josselin?” You swallow hard and nervousness jabs at your stomach. “Dona served the papers. That was just him on the phone. Your ex didn’t take it well.”

cream:

“They probably put [the cigarette] out at shoulder level. That seems to be the most common. So, if they were standing here…” He takes a step back and glances between the mark and his feet again. “I’d say they’re probably 5’9”, 5’10”? Not quite six foot.” “So. Average height for a man?” you say. “Yeah,” Josselin says, a little disappointed. “Not as helpful as I’d hoped. But at least we know we’re not looking for someone super tall or short, and we have at least one name to keep looking into.” He huffs a little breath out and it jostles the hair that’s fallen into his face with his excited movements. “I guess it’s a start.” The two of you make your way to the coffee shop down the street, pulling on your masks as you go. Plain surgical blue and white. It’s cool inside, not bright but not dim, either, just the right light level to hang around and read a book. It’s separated into two spaces by the bar where they keep the cream and sugar, just a little space big enough for one person to go through at a time. It looks wide and open and a little brighter on the other side.

tagging @kaiusvnoir @drippingmoon @nonsenseramble @avidink @nintendo-and-writeblr to find the words desert, stream, tree, snow, and rain, and share the excerpts! I did tag some new people based on someone else's 'like this for tag games' post so if you don't want me to tag you again, please just ask!

#writeblr #my writing #writeblr tag game #find the word tag #excerpt #wip #the most beautiful puzzle #sheraton academy #sheraton academy au #meara ryanne #josselin clearwater #donatien montague #inspector montague #familiar

[hookaroo]

Laden of the Torn (8 of 25)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 <3

***

How could one man's nose, monstrous though it was, be responsible for such an ungodly racket? Tearing through the glass-peaked canyons, sound waves like a cross between an enraged hornet's nest and a shoal of frenzied mermaids rattled the slab acting as Killian’s backrest. It had seemed prudent not to stretch himself flat and expose more surface area to the brutally jagged terrain, but apparently, his total exhaustion was not enough to allow sleep in an upright position. And now this nonsense.

Killian gingerly shifted his weight, and even the scrape and rattle of chains as his heavy shackle skittered along the stone was muffled by Blackbeard's drunken droning. The ring of chafed skin beneath the band encircling Killian's ankle burned with the movement. If only he had his hook back, or even a sturdy dagger; perhaps then he could work one of the links out of shape to at least be rid of the ball’s encumbrance. But as he reached down, intent on sliding the metal higher and onto less irritated flesh, the chain clanked again and Blackbeard snorted awake. He didn't even bother to open an eye.

"Go to bed, Hook."

"I pity every last man on your crew," grumbled Killian in reply. "How many have been flogged for nodding off while on duty?"

Blackbeard's snoring resumed, even louder than before, and Killian sighed bitterly. The bastard had the most selective hearing he had ever witnessed.

A brief image flashed into his mind, that of himself using the blasted spherical anchor to bash the rival pirate's head in. But the chain was too short to accommodate a height of any more than an inch or two above the ringleted skull, and as he'd already discovered, the blood pulsing into his own injured head as he hunched over to lift the ball would soon have him faceplanting onto the razor rocks at his feet. Still, the thought was a tempting one.

“Just what the bloody hell are we doing here, anyway? Are you ever going to tell me, or do I have to figure it out all on my own?”

Grunting irritably, Blackbeard opened one eye and gave his captive a sideways glance. “What, so you can devise a way to escape? I don’t think so. I told you: I’m getting my money’s worth out of you.”

“And just how do you intend to do that, exactly? In case you hadn’t noticed, this is hardly the heart of high society, here. Do you even have a clue where we are?”

“Of course I do. The legendary Blackbeard is never lost.”

“Is that so?” Killian grinned tauntingly, though he certainly felt less than prepared for banter at the moment. “All right then. Prove it.”

With a hugely exaggerated eye roll, Blackbeard reached into an inner pocket. “Fine. If it will finally get you to shut up for once…”

He drew out a folded parchment and held it between his first two fingers, barely making any effort to angle it in Killian’s direction. Killian leaned stiffly closer and plucked the offering from his grasp.

“A treasure map,” he said as he unfolded the grubby bit of crumpled parchment. “That’s your grand scheme.”

“Give me at least some credit, Hook. I’m not likely to spend a small fortune on an expedition to nowhere.”

Killian still could not see anything to make him believe this was anything other than an ordinary treasure map. A complicated one, to be sure, with a maze-like route that undoubtedly purported to navigate them through the current mess of narrow canyons. No key provided any interpretation for the scattering of symbols marking the parchment. “Then where is this taking us?”

Killian immediately spotted some false confidence in Blackbeard’s demeanor as he snatched the map back.

“If the ancient tales of this place have any truth to them… we’ll soon have the pleasure of meeting some powerful magic-wielders; creatures with the ability to grant anyone their heart’s fondest desires.”

Dubious eyebrow raised, Killian settled back against the rock face. “Creatures? What, like mythical beasts?”

Blackbeard returned the map to his breast pocket. A hint of defensiveness colored his tone as he carefully replied,

“The legends tend to describe beings more… simian in shape.”

“Monkeys?” Killian scoffed. “Magical wish-granting monkeys? I always knew you were a wily devil, but I somehow missed the fact that you were also a madman.”

“Mock all you like; this ‘madman’ will soon be celebrating riches beyond your wildest dreams.” Blackbeard tilted his hat forward over his eyes and folded his arms, prepared to resume his slumber. 

“Aye? And what’s my role in all of this? Surely you could have moved faster without the burden of an unwilling traveling companion.”

“Did I forget to mention?” Blackbeard didn’t move, seemingly not interested in Killian’s reaction to his provocation. “The going rate for wishes in this land is a mere human sacrifice. A bargain, if you ask me. I hear the monkeys consider roasted human flesh a delicacy. Although your aged bones may need a bit of extra time on the spit to properly tenderize.”

Ignoring the gibe, Killian made no effort to conceal his skepticism. “All right, mate. Say for a moment that I believe you. Once we’re in the monkeys’ clutches, what’s to keep them from feasting on both of us? Seems a dangerous gamble for such an unlikely reward.”

“Not all of us are as jaded as you are, old man. These monkeys are moral creatures. They honor their deals.” He shifted his weight slightly. “Speaking of deals… I believe you now owe me a bit of quiet.”

Killian rolled his eyes, even though the other man couldn’t see. “You’ve a disturbing amount of faith in these nonsensical stories of yours.”

Blackbeard didn’t respond, and soon, the buzz-rumble had returned. 

Though he’d expressed so much doubt for the sake of appearances, Killian had too much life experience to dismiss the legends outright. Most folk tales had some element of truth to them, and even if the magical beings inhabiting this hostile land were not actual monkeys, he had no intention to treat them with anything but caution. Magic had never been particularly kind to him.

But what if they really could grant a heart’s desire?

***

“Watch yourself, Hook,” sneered Blackbeard from up ahead. Killian picked himself up yet again, inspecting the newest addition to the dozens of cuts and scrapes already adorning his elbows, knees, and hips. He glared at his nemesis, who was in much the same state, though due to the percentage of his blood that was actually alcohol, Killian doubted the other man could feel any of it.

“You don’t say,” gritted Killian. Blackbeard stumbled, but somehow remained upright. Killian made a note of the obstruction so he could avoid a similar incident.

Their second day of navigating the menacing canyons, Killian was already completely lost. Lingering wooziness did not help his sense of direction one bit. Blackbeard frequently consulted his map, purloined from gods-only-knew-where, allegedly leading to the cannibal, wish-granting monkeys fabled to live in this inhospitable location. But knowing the way and being able to traverse the terrain were two different things. And now they were running low on water.

The pair rounded a bend and came to a rare clearing, where the walls widened into more than the average arm’s length they had grown accustomed to seeing. In the center stood a gnarled, sickly tree, also an oddity since leaving the road. Blackbeard made a grunt of satisfaction and tucked the map into his pocket. 

“Over there, Granddad. Time to get well-acquainted with some tree bark.”

Grudgingly, Killian followed Blackbeard to the tree, watching as he fished a length of rope from his satchel. 

“Is this where your monkey friends live? Inside a decaying old tree? Doesn’t appear very magical to me.”

“Don’t worry; this is only a quick layover. We’ve quite a ways to go yet.” 

Killian engaged in a token struggle as Blackbeard grabbed his arm and shoved him back against the tree trunk, but secretly, he was glad of the opportunity to rest. His whole body ached, and his ankle was so chafed from the ball and chain that he wouldn’t have been surprised to find smears of blood beneath the iron band. 

“I don’t expect this to hold you for long,” Blackbeard commented, wrapping the rope around the trunk. He fashioned a quick noose with one end, slipped it around Killian’s neck, and then bound his hand with the other end. Now, too much movement of that arm would tighten the loop encircling his neck. “But it would be foolish to try and find your way out of here without this.”

He flashed the map in front of Killian’s face, then stuffed it back into the front of his coat. Cautiously testing his bindings and making no effort to disguise his movements, Killian growled,

“More foolish than peacefully accompanying you to my death?”

Blackbeard shrugged. “Try it, then. You have no chance of outdistancing me.” He rooted around in the bottom of his satchel for a moment and located Killian’s hook, sneering,

“Don’t want you getting your hand on this.”

Then, after also pulling out their empty waterskins, he tossed his satchel carelessly nearby. “If you do get the gumption to lose the ropes, feel free to clean yourself up. I’m off to fetch water. It’s a bit out of the way and it would take three times as long if I dragged your dead weight along with me.” 

He inspected his knots once more and then patted Killian condescendingly. “Be a good little sacrifice and stay put.”

Killian didn’t waste time watching Blackbeard swagger off; instead, he sank slowly to a seated position, careful to allow the rope enough slack that he didn’t choke himself along the way. Almost immediately, he located a protruding piece of bark and got to work loosening the knot securing his wrist. He didn’t expect his captor to have overlooked any means of self-defense in the satchel, but he was hoping a certain other item may have been deemed unimportant enough to be forgotten…

#ouat fanfiction #laden of the torn #wish hook #ouat blackbeard #sleep disruption #haha #blackbeard's plan #human sacrifice #monkey legends #alleged wish granting #tied up

[wizardofrozz]

Ignite the Stars (2)

Darth Vader x Sith!Reader, OCs

Word Count: ~3.8k

Warnings: light swearing, mention of violence, angst

<< Part 1 | Part 3 >> | Masterlist

The Executor was bland. All harsh metal edges, boring grays and whites, and dull blinking lights. You had hoped a Super Star Destroyer would be more impressive aside from its sheer size but so far, it bored you. Even the stupid chairs sucked. You shifted again, recrossing your ankles where they were propped up on the table in the meeting room, your boots leaving another scuff mark on the dark surface. Vader was lingering across the room, his arms crossed over his wide chest that you definitely weren’t taking notice of. 

         “Why are you here?” cut through the quiet room.

         “I thought it’d be fun,” you sassed without looking up from the datapad in your hands. Vader, unsurprisingly, said nothing, his gaze burning holes in your face and for some reason, you felt a little guilty. He was seemingly trying to make conversation so maybe this whole trip wouldn’t be miserable. You blew out a long breath and lifted your eyes over the top of the datapad. “The Emperor requested I come to Coruscant. I learned a long time ago that it hurts less if I do what I’m told.”

His head tilted in question and you had to chew on the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling at the almost cute gesture. For all the horror stories you’d heard about the menacing and ruthless monster that was Darth Vader, he seemed oddly subdued each time you’d encountered him. He continued to stare at you, his loud breathing setting a relaxing rhythm that you were coming to enjoy. 

         “I don’t think I need to explain what I mean,” you huffed, dropping your eyes to the report again.

         “No, you don’t.” Suddenly the conversation felt too raw, too deep and you needed it to end. Thankfully, Vader left it that and repositioned his arms, the weight of his eyes on you disappearing. His looming presence was like an itch you couldn’t scratch, wearing your patience thin until you couldn’t ignore him any longer.

         “For kriff’s sake, will you sit down. You’re making me uncomfortable,” you snapped, narrowing your eyes at the wall of metal and flesh. You felt the instant his eyes snapped back to your face, raising a challenging brow when he didn’t move. A deep rumbling sound arose from his chest that struck you as almost animalistic in nature but he complied, dropping aggressively into the chair opposite you. 

         “Must you put your feet on the table?” Vader grumbled, crossing his arms again.

         “Does it bother you?” you asked, tilting your head and blinking coyly.

         “Yes.”

         “Then, yes,” you snorted. Vader could’ve easily removed them physically or through the Force but he just stared at you, letting his frustration fester like an open wound. “So, what’s the plan, big guy?” Vader leaned back in his chair and if he could, you were sure he’d have let out a loud sigh. 

The halls of the Super Star Destroyer were filled with troopers and officers chattering quietly, only sparing you a few anxious glances. You could only bare Vader’s silent and imposing company for so long before you felt the need to do something, even if it was wandering the massive ship. One corridor led to another and eventually, you found yourself facing the room that could only be the trooper mess hall. This was probably the first time you’d seen so many Stormtroopers in one place that weren’t just stoic statues. You could feel eyes on you from every direction as you wandered through the trooper-cluttered room but no one made a move to stop you.

         “Need somethin’?” the young man behind the empty meal line asked. He seemed indifferent to your company, merely raising a brow when you continued to squint at him. 

         “Caf if you have it,” you replied hesitantly, stepping out of the way of a trooper too engrossed in a conversation to notice you. The worker gave you a stiff nod, fumbling with something out of your line of sight.

         “Haven’t seen you here before,” he noted, glancing up at you. 

         “I’m aiding V- Lord Vader on an assignment,” you huffed, crossing your arms.

         “Mm, sounds important,” he hummed without sparing you another glance. The man’s complete disinterest in your presence shouldn’t have bothered you so much but, at the same time, it was kinda…nice. So many times your presence was met with fear or anger and to be seen as nothing more than a person, an equal to the men and women surrounding you was a welcome change of pace.

         “What’s your name?” you found yourself wondering, your features softening slightly. 

         “You care?” he scoffed, shifting his eyes to you again. Were you really the first person to ask his name? You kept your features neutral but not without sparing a moment for a subtle eye roll before addressing him again. 

         “Yes.” He paused, lifting his head to meet your gaze as if it was so hard to believe that you wanted to know his name.

         “Dax,” he mumbled, reaching for a lid before handing you a cup. “I guess I’ll be seein’ you around more often.”

         “I supposed so,” you sighed, cradling the warm cup against your chest. “Thank you, Dax.” He offered you a silent nod but you caught the hint of a smile before you went back to dodging preoccupied troopers. 

You spent another few hours exploring your temporary home, making small talk with a few stray Commanders and even a Major General. It seems like every person on the ship was miserable and it made you wonder how the hell anyone got a damn thing done. Your roaming eventually led you to the corridor you’d be housed in for the foreseeable future but you hesitated at the end. The unmistakable figure stood outside your room, staring at the floor, completely ignoring the world around him and you took the opportunity to just observe him for a moment.

Stories floated through rundown cantinas about the Emperor’s fist. You’d find yourself laughing under your breath as you listened to the whispers about what was really under his suit and where he came from. You really only knew who was under the suit but all you had were the tall tales about what happened to him. The fact that he was human eliminated a lot of the stories you’d heard in passing and as you spent more time around him you picked up on things. For example, why didn’t he shift his weight if he was standing for extended periods of time?

You set a slow pace, taking your time closing the space between you and him and it wasn’t until halfway to your door that he moved. With his gaze still glued to the floor, Vader tilted his head slightly and you felt the shift in the Force a beat before his head snapped towards you, his posture straightening again. 

         “Is this gonna become a normal thing?” you asked with a smirk, leaning against the wall opposite him. Vader just looked at you, his head falling to the side again, and damnit, it wasn’t cute. “You know, menacingly looming outside my room so I wonder if you’re gonna break in and kill me.” Vader’s modulator made a faint crackling noise like there was feedback and your brows pinched together.

         “We are required for a meeting with the Grand Admiral,” was Vader’s response. He stepped away from the wall, hesitating long enough for you to fall into step with him. “And I do not loom.” 

         “Please, that’s all you do,” you snickered, glancing up at him. You nearly stumbled at the small yet sharp flicker of amusement that colored Vader’s Force signature and it was gone so fast you thought you imagined it. He stayed quiet for the remainder of the walk but it wasn’t awkward for once. 

The clicking of keys and his stable breathing hardly cloaked the rumble of the Executor’s engines, the endless tunnel of hyperspace swirling in the lenses of his helmet. They were closing in on their destination, a newly inducted planet on the edge of the Mid Rim that was struggling with a rebellion uprising. Vader glanced down at where you stood at his side, noting the glazed look in your eyes as you split your consciousness between the physical world and the Force. He thought about joining you but found that he was content to just observe you for now. 

You had changed into a black officer’s uniform at Vader’s request but not without frequently reminding him how much you hated it. He gave you another once over and despite your distaste for the uniform, it suited you, flattering your physic which was a thought he would be keeping to himself. The chatter on the bridge started to pick up as they neared the jump point and Vader turned his attention to the twisting space in front of him just as he felt you pull away from the Force. He rested his hands on the front of his belt, waiting for the jolt that came from dropping out of hyperspace.

         “How much talking will I have to do?” you asked, pulling Vader out of his mindless staring. 

         “I would prefer you kept it to a minimum,” Vader replied without looking at you. He waited for you to bristle and argue with him but instead, you let out a relieved sigh that drew his attention. 

         “Thank the Maker, I hate political jargon,” you mumbled, shifting your weight and crossing your arms. 

         “That is a feeling we share,” he confessed, watching the corner of your mouth twitch with a faint smile. 

         “No, you’re telling me you don’t like negotiating with nobility? I’d have never guessed,” you teased, your expression softening with your smile. Vader shouldn’t be so charmed by it but he found himself enjoying the sight of genuine pleasure on your face. It made you look less worn, dulling the shadow of years of suffering that was etched into your face. 

Vader gripped his belt tighter and clenched his jaw under his helmet. Enough of this foolish fascination. I am a Sith Lord, not a pathetic child. 

         “You will stay at my side at all times. You may be accompanying me on this operation but I am taking command.” You lifted your gaze to meet his, your eyes narrowing in defiance but after a long few seconds, you caved with a tight nod. Vader should’ve enjoyed the power he held over you, savoring the thought of you bending to his will but it pleased him for an entirely different reason.

This was you placing your trust in him. Something, if he was being honest, he hadn’t entirely earned. If Vader was in your position, he wasn’t sure he’d have done the same but for reasons that eluded him, you saw something worth trusting. 

Another part of you that he found strange. 

Giving someone your trust should’ve made you appear weak but Vader had a sinking feeling that if he wasn’t careful, you’d come out with the upper hand. Then it hit him like a runaway speeder. No, this wasn’t a sign of weakness, it was a powerplay. Would he be dense enough to fall for the trap you set? Vader was not one to participate in a back-and-forth game like this but oddly enough, the idea intrigued him.

No one ever saw his face so he paid no mind to any expressions be made but to his surprise, he took notice of the way one side of his mouth lifted in the faintest of smiles. Though you’d never know it, you’d accomplished a feat no other being had come close to in many years. 

         “I have yet to learn your name,” he found himself saying, pointing his mask toward the viewport again. 

         “You didn’t ask and it’s not something I give away freely,” you retorted with a shrug. Vader’s irritation started to grow again as you continued to beat around the bush; you were going to make him explicitly ask for it. The material of his belt squeaked as his fists clenched before he released it completely, drawing his arms under his cape again. 

         “What is your name?” he forced out. The sudden wave of uncertainty around your answer surprised him. Had you really not expected him to press you on it? 

         “(Y/N),” was barely a whisper but he heard it nonetheless. What was left of his biological body stiffened and he blinked slowly as he absorbed the information. That wasn’t the name of a Sith apprentice, an identity passed on from a Master. 

It was you, the person beneath all the hatred and pain. 

         “Keep it to yourself,” you growled, your usual sharp attitude back in place. You stared up at him with a hard, narrow-eyed look for a few more seconds before brushing past him. Vader turned enough to watch you storm across the bridge and he started to wonder if your trust was a powerplay after all. He secretly hoped it wasn’t. 

Life was agonizingly lonely when everything stayed sealed behind impenetrable walls and it appeared you knew that feeling just as well as he did.

It wasn’t the first time you’d seen them but the beautiful snow-capped mountains that broke up the long stretches of grasslands on the surface of the small moon stole your breath. The crisp, clean air was such an extreme contrast to the filtered, stale air of Courscant that taking a deep breath made your lungs sting faintly. Vader was still milling around inside the shuttle but you didn’t mind the few seconds of peace, a sensation that always hovered just out of reach. You let your eyes fall shut and drifted into the Force, letting out a long sigh. You could sense the ground under your feet and the thousands of species roaming the moon and for a beautiful second, the frigid grip of the darkside relented.

Vader’s presence was faint as he exited the shuttle, his emotions locked behind tight shields as he moved to stand at your side. You were almost reluctant to reel in your senses again but you didn’t have time to stop and smell the flowers. The chill returned to your core as you looked up at Vader, blinking away the heaviness in your mind. His posture stiffened, his stare searing into your eyes as he slowly, almost mindlessly, lifted a hand. Maybe it was your brief meditation or raw curiosity but you didn’t step away, lazily dragging your eyes around his angular mask. The feather-light touch of leather at the corner of your eye sent an involuntary shiver up your spine. The touch seemed to surprise him like he wasn’t aware that he was moving and his hand fell away, pinning you in place with his unseen gaze. 

An officer hurrying down the ramp called for him, shattering the quiet moment and you blinked, your brows furrowing. You didn’t watch Vader walk off but the ghost of his touch burned the corner of your eye. It would’ve made you laugh if someone ever told you Vader had the capacity to be gentle but it was becoming harder and harder to find the idea funny now. 

Especially when your stomach was still somersaulting from the intimacy of it. 

What the hell is happening to me?

Vader fell into the middle of the group, letting his Captain lead the way to the royal family’s home. You were walking somewhere off to the side a few paces ahead of him, engaged in a conversation with a Commander he couldn’t put a name to at the moment. When you turned your head to talk to the Stormtrooper at your side, he could see your eyes had shifted back towards gold again but they were muddled with the undertone of your natural eye color. 

Vader flexed his hand, his mind playing tricks on him because he couldn’t actually feel sensations through the prosthetic. The lingering warmth of your skin was an illusion that made his frustration spike. This seesawing of his views toward you needed to stop; you’re difficult, brash, and arrogant, all things that grate his nerves. Yet the more he thought about it, the less confident he felt about his conclusions. 

What made you different from him?

As the procession approached the royal home you dropped back a few steps, filling the empty spot at Vader’s side. He could feel your anger lingering around your shoulders, the dark emotion occasionally brushing against him only for it to be overlooked. Vader’s continued disregard of your ire towards him made it swell and grow more imposing but luckily they arrived at their destination. Troopers cleared a path leaving him to stand in front of the thin, terrified maid that answered the door. 

         “Lord Vader,” a booming voice called from somewhere out of sight. The man he assumed to be the king appeared behind the young girl, shooing her away silently before bowing, an action that made Vader want to roll his eyes. “Please, follow me. My General is anxious to begin strategizing.”

Vader chanced a look down at you and caught your eye only to clench his fist when you raised an expectant brow at him. He followed the veteran king through the corridors, acutely aware of your presence a few paces behind him. 

Finally, you arrived at your room. Hours and hours of briefing and planning made you want to claw your eyes out. Your skill set didn’t involve battle strategizing; during the war when you were sent onto the battlefield, you listened to the plan and acted. The plotting, revising, then replotting attacks made your head hurt, and all you wanted to collapse into bed but things were never that easy. 

Vader’s massive frame made the sitting room feel tiny and paired with your annoyance about the arrangements made it feel suffocating. 

         “You are being dramatic,” Vader rumbled, crossing his strong arms over his chest. The sound of your teeth grinding together only aggravated you more as you spit out a few unsavory insults in Huttese. “That was rude.”

         “Oh, shut up,” you huffed, walking into the room you’d claimed and shutting the door with a wave of your hand. It wasn’t quite fair to be angry with him when he, obviously, had no idea why but no one ever said you were reasonable. It only angered you more that you weren’t actually mad at Vader. His stunt outside the shuttle confused you more than anything.

You flopped onto the huge bed against the wall with a sigh, staring up at the intricately designed ceiling. You could make out the thump of Vader’s boots as he moved around in the small sitting room until his footsteps retreated into the other room opposite yours. There were a handful of other things you could be doing but frankly, you didn’t feel like it. So instead, you slid out of bed, barely containing the urge to throw the kriffing uniform over the balcony and tugging on the comfortable clothes you’d been longing for all day.

The sitting room was…pleasant. The walls were a soft neutral tone that complimented the slate flooring and delicate rugs. The two eggshell couches were accented with gold along the seams that matched the metallic end tables and a bar filled the corner near your room. It was pretty but what begged for your attention was the large doors that opened onto a balcony facing the mountains. The snowy peaks look even bright in the twin moonlight, twinkling like the stars overhead. 

His approach was as quiet as humanly possible for him but you didn’t acknowledge him. 

The gentle breeze lifted the end of his cape, the heavy fabric brushing against your leg and you were surprised to find that he was still wearing all his armor. You thought about bringing up what was bothering you earlier but you just didn’t have the energy to go at it with him. 

         “Pretty, isn’t it?” you asked instead, leaning into the railing. Vader made a quiet rumbling sound in response that you took as his agreement. You had to duck your head to hide your smile when the thought, he sounds like a loth cat purring drifted through your head. 

         “He is testing you.” The statement came out of left field and you just blinked up at the side of Vader’s head for a second, trying to get your thoughts in order. 

         “Who’s testing me for what?” you finally asked. Vader rested his huge hands on the railing, completely enveloping it but said nothing, continuing to stare out at the endless grasslands. 

         “He is interested to know if you could replace me.” 

         “Excuse me?” you choked out, turning to face him fully. His head tilted slightly as he looked down at you, his breathing suddenly sounding too loud in the quiet night. “Why?”

         “My Master does not like to be disappointed,” Vader replied, his mask and tight shields giving nothing away. “If I fail him, he will replace me.”

         “I don’t want that,” you whispered, shaking your head. Cold, all-consuming fear bled into the marrow of your bones, and your eyes glazed over. Flashes of bright blue light, burning flesh, and waves of pain flashed through your mind and you took an instinctive step back. If you thought Dooku was bad, the man that made him had to be even worse. 

Every muscle went rigid when a large hand closed around your arm, stopping your retreat.

         “(Y/N).” The deep rumbling voice snapped you back to the present and you blinked at the expressionless mask that was significantly closer than it was minutes before. It didn’t matter what you wanted because unless you ran and continued to run, you were stuck under the Emperor’s thumb. 

         “What choice do I have?” you asked softly, relaxing into Vader’s grip. 

         “The same one I have.”

Do as you’re told or face the consequences. 

The new information was too much, too overwhelming to handle after the day you had. Vader suddenly turned into a rival for a position you didn’t want. You wanted to stay far away from Sidious if possible but it was starting to look like that was a pipe dream. Whatever friendship that had been forming between you and Vader was null and void, it had to be unless you rolled over and gave up. Your head felt too heavy, a faint pulsing starting in your temple that would quickly form into a migraine. Without much thought, you dropped your head forward and it didn’t register that your forehead was resting on his chest until Vader tensed. You blinked a few times, your brain catching up with your body and you were ready to stumble away when a rigid hand lightly rested against the back of your head.

It was almost comical how bad Vader was at offering comfort but the gesture still brought a small smile to your face. Things would change come daybreak but until then you relished in the illusion that whatever had been growing between you and him wasn’t doomed from the start. 

Taglist: @the-official-memester @dokoni-mo @burn-bunny @guinea-pig16 @alisu-id @vanillacoffeeaddict @astra-1780 @yvette-ace​ @instantnoooodles​ 

#darth vader x reader #darth vader x sith!reader #darth vader #star wars #darth vader fic

[annaphoenix1994]

Ch.73 - Welcome to the World - Part 1

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

Baby time is getting closer! Simon is overjoyed, yet terrified for the first stage of Kiera's labor; Simon finds comfort in a simple, yet subtle word that leaves Eva's mouth.

The following morning, Kiera awoke with the beginning of intense contractions. Though they were over a few minutes apart, Simon began to grow more and more nervous as it slowly consumed him that he was soon to meet his son and daughter for the first time. "Sleep okay, love?" He asked as he entered their bedroom with a bowl of chicken noodle soup he had made for her. He smiled at her obvious glow, the way her hair framed her round face as she was sat upright in their bed, the white sheet concealing her legs and her robe still clung to her shoulders. I'm so fucking lucky. 

"Somewhat," She shook her head, smiling at him as he entered the room, setting the bowl on the side table before getting a pillow to sit on her lap so she could eat in bed. "Thank you, babe." 

"Are you comfortable?" 

She nodded, leaning her head against his lips as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. He frowned as she tried to eat, not able to eat the entire bowl even though it was probably the best chicken soup she had ever had. Sorry, mom, but Simon makes really good soup.

Contractions were now less than five minutes apart and Kiera began to grow nervous. "Babe, I think we need to start getting ready." 

"Is-Is it happening?" He asked, his tone of nervousness. 

"I think so," She sighed, pressing her hand against the side of her belly. "Will you help me take a shower?" 

"Of course. How far apart are your contractions?" 

"About four minutes, but they're not bad contractions and that worries me. They feel like period cramps. What if it's like second stage or something? Hell, I don't know." 

"It's alright, love," He assured her, picking up her phone to look at the app she had been keeping track of her contractions on, seeing that they were averaging at least every three minutes and thirty-eight seconds. "May just be an early warning to get to a hospital before they get worse." 

"I hope so. They're just not hunched over and taking me to my knees bad." 

His adrenaline was pumping at this point, noticing how his hands were subtly shaking as he took the bowl from her, rushing it into the kitchen and putting the leftover soup into a Tupperware bowl and setting it in the fridge in what he felt was record time before he made his way back to the bedroom, offering his hand for her to grab as he assisted her out of the bed, Kimber sitting at Kiera's feet, nearly tripping on her on her way to the bathroom. "God, my ankles are huge!" 

"You'll miss them," He poked. "Those were your all-access pass to unlimited foot rubs." 

"Oh, so that's why you always offered foot rubs even before I was pregnant?" 

"You know you'll always get them without asking," He shrugged, reaching towards the tub to turn on the shower head before helping her untie her robe. "I think this is going to happen today," He smiled with excitement. "You're glowing more than you have before." 

"I'm so nervous." 

"Me too, love, but you've got this. Already mum of the year." He assured her, letting her grasp his hand as she stepped over the side of the bathtub, letting the warm water cage her shoulders as she refrained from washing her hair to save time, Simon keeping a close eye on her as she began to suffer through another contraction, leaning against the shower wall and shifting her body to where the water was running against the small of her back - a desperate attempt to relieve any type of discomfort. 

"Can you mark another contraction on my phone?" She panted, Simon doing as requested and moving to the countertop where her phone sat, marking another contraction on her app, frowning at having to see her in discomfort with nothing he could do to stop it, only able to provide a soft hand and encouraging words to get her through it. This is going to kill me watching her go through so much pain.

That contraction lasted for more than a minute, Simon taking the loofa from her hand and scrubbing the soap along her back, careful with his gestures along her scars, afraid he would hurt her if he gave too much pressure. "I really think this is going to happen today." He grinned.

"You're so confident, babe." 

"I can tell by just looking at your bump that they've dropped." 

"I can definitely feel it. My hips are aching." 

Simon was her personal pit crew - helping her dry off with a second towel and rushing to grab the set of clothes she had set out days prior: a simple t-shirt, sweatpants, and a pair of her favorite Hey Dudes that she had to buy a size bigger to accommodate her swollen feet. As much as she didn't like how she looked in the "pajamas" she had picked out, Simon thought she was the cutest thing to walk in front of him. 

He walked closely behind her as they walked towards the front door of the house, Simon turning off the lights as he passed by before he took Kimber into his grasp, remembering that Eva was eager to keep an eye on the puppy for when the time came and Teeter offering to check on the cat every few hours as well as help take care of the puppy. "Hello?" Kiera's mother said from the other side of the phone, Kiera holding an excited grin on her face to tell her the news. 

"Can you come outside and get Kimber? We're on our way to the hospital-"

Eva shrieked in excitement, making both Kiera and Simon laugh, "R-Right now?! Oh my goodness! Yes I'm on my way!" 

"We're parked right outside the house-"

"I see you, sweetheart!" She laughed, ending the phone call as she sat her phone on the outside table, rushing down the stairs to meet Simon at the truck, Kimber in his arms as he stepped outside to meet Eva. She gave Simon a comforting hug, able to tell that he was anxious as he stood at the front of the truck, escorting her to the passenger side to see Kiera for the last stage of her pregnancy. He opened the passenger side door, grinning at Kiera as she and her mother shared an embrace as well as Kimber desperately trying to lick Kiera's cheek as she was still in Eva's arms. "You look so beautiful, honey," Eva whimpered, her cheek pressed against Kiera's as her free arm clutched around her shoulders. "Promise you'll call me when you need me?" 

"I will, momma," Kiera replied, fighting tears of her own. "I'll call you after I get settled at the hospital." 

"Having bad contractions?" 

"No, just uncomfortable right now, but they're less than five minutes apart." 

"You're definitely close!" She smiled, kissing Kiera's forehead. "I'll see you soon. I love you, honey." 

"I love you too, momma." 

She placed another kiss to Kiera's temple before turning to Simon, embracing him and frowning at how she felt him nearly trembling against her. "It'll be alright, honey," She assured him, rubbing her palm against the skin of his shoulder. "I love you. You'll be just fine. I think you're only shaking because you're ready to be a dad." 

"I think so too, but I'm not going to lie: I'm scared," He frowned, returning the hug. "I'm even afraid to drive her because I'm worried about someone running a red light." 

"It's okay to be scared, Simon, but it'll all be okay. Keep me updated when you can."

"I will," He nodded. "I love you too." 

*

Once at the hospital, Simon offered his arm to her to cling to as she leant against him as they walked across the parking lot to the hospital entrance, Kiera occasionally having to stop to catch her breath as her ankles felt as if they were on fire, aching with every step. He helped her sit in the nearby chair of the lobby before informing the receptionist as to why they were there. Within ten minutes, a nurse met Kiera in the lobby with a wheelchair, Simon walking behind the nurse with only one bag he had managed to get after he had parked the truck.

It was the bag that had all of her clothes and toiletries in it, knowing she'd either want a snack or a shower later in the day. 

Once she was settled in the room as well as changed into a hospital gown, Simon's hand couldn't keep away from rubbing her belly. "Looks like a beach ball under there, love." 

"Definitely feels like a rock," She giggled, sighing. "I feel like shit - like I've been wanting to throw up." 

"Well, you look really beautiful right now." 

"Thank you," She blushed, reaching towards him as he took a seat beside her. "Ever since we got here, this is so surreal. I thought I was ready, but I'm terrified." 

He nodded, grasping her hand and placing a delicate kiss to her knuckles, "Me too, love. I don't think I can handle seeing you in pain." 

She giggled, "You do know that when these contractions get worse, I'll probably blame you at some point, but don't take it to heart because I'm going to say shit I don't mean-" 

"Your mum warned me in advance," He chuckled, placing another kiss to her knuckles. "She told me you might say worse things than that, actually. Then it turned to a storytime where she cursed your father out when having your brother. Something about him being nearly nine pounds when he came out." 

"He also had a cone head," She giggled. "She told me the same story too. Except when she was cussing out my dad, he was laughing because she rarely cusses and he said it was cute." 

"Your mum is one of the most precious people I've ever met. It would definitely catch me off guard if I heard her curse." 

"It's pretty funny when she does."

About ten minutes later, two nurses arrived in the room to prep Kiera with the heart monitors for the babies that wrapped around her belly as well as a heart monitor for herself complimented by an IV in the crease of her elbow. 

As the hours continued, Kiera began to grow more and more restless with her contractions beginning to get more intense. It broke Simon's heart to see her like this, trying his best to empathize with her, but he knew he couldn't compare any of his pain to hers. 

By hour six, Simon kept his sharp gaze on her as she was finally comfortable enough to sleep, sitting back in his chair next to her bed to find the time to call Soap to inform him that not only was it time for Kiera to have the babies, but that he needed to check on the cat. "Hope you know you're interrupting Big Chief, mate-"

"Shut up, Soap, fuckin' hell," He grumbled, irritated that Soap had began laughing on the other line, knowing he struck Simon's nerve. Per usual. "Can you or Teeter check on Church?"

"Why aren't you home?" 

"Maybe because Kiera is in labor and we're at the hospital?" He scoffed sarcastically.

"Oh, shite!" He shouted, the phone being muffled by the sound of Soap moving with his phone in his grasp. "Teeter! Kiera's having a baby!" 

"Bout damn time!" She shouted from across the room. "Are they here yet? What's going on?!" 

"We've been here for about seven hours now. No babies yet," He sighed, frowning with anticipation. "The nurse told me she's going to come back and give her some Pitocin to help induce labor. Hopefully soon." 

"That's good news, L.T. We'll go and check on the cat. Where's the dog?" 

"Her mum is puppy-sitting. She's leaving her with her father and is on her way." 

"Why didn't you tell me when all of this was happening?" Soap poked. 

"It was need-to-know." 

"What if I needed to know?" 

"You'll know when they're here, how about that?" 

"So... are you going to give me the official title of being an uncle?" 

"Keep pushing your luck, Sergeant." Simon warned.

"I'm just poking," He chuckled. "Looks like you've finally got a win, L.T." 

"I always win." 

"Yeah, in the battlefield. You winning in life is definitely new." 

"Ain't that the truth," He scoffed, turning his attention to another moan of discomfort as Kiera had woken up with another contraction, struggling to move onto her side in a desperate attempt to ease the pain. "Got to go. Call you later." 

Giving no time for Soap to respond, he hung up the phone, setting it on the nearby table to tend to her. The sound of the babies' heartbeats from the monitor had Simon's anxiousness at top-tier, glancing over every chance he got to see them again, thankful that they were still there. "I-I'm not ready, Simon." She panted, her eyes squeezed shut. 

"I don't think you have much of a choice right now, love," He sighed. "You've got this. You're more ready than you think." 

Another two hours went by and Kiera was still showing no signs in active labor. With contractions still roughly three minutes apart, a group of nurses piled in to administer Pitocin as well as break one of Kiera's waters manually to further along the process. 

As much as Kiera didn't like it, she obliged to not only letting them break her water, but for Simon to peer his curious eyes over the leg he was holding to watch them do it. He rubbed gentle circles on her bare knee for comfort as well as reassurance as he got to watch her water break, which was truly an amazing experience for him. You continue to amaze me every day, love. 

Kiera's mom watched from across the room, wanting to give Kiera space as well as standing back to let Simon have his moment with her - to be there for her like he vowed to be, even though he felt Eva had every right as much as him to be there. After all, she was her mother. She deserved to be there for her daughter in such a beautiful moment. 

"How're you feeling, sweetheart?" Eva smiled, approaching her bedside after the nurses had left to let the Pitocin kick in as well as administering a catheter. She fought tears as she leant over the bed to kiss Kiera's temple, the smell of her sweet and loving scent filling Kiera's nostrils. 

"Better, for now," She sighed. "I feel lighter after they did that." 

"I'd say so. There was a lot of fluid that came out." Simon commented. 

"I brought you some food," She smiled, reaching into her purse - tote - to reveal a bag of Chic-fil-A she had snuck in. Complementary with a bottle of Coke and Dr. Pepper from the vending machine on her way to Kiera's room. "Two chicken sandwiches and a large fry." She giggled. 

"I-I can't eat anything, mom." Kiera frowned. 

"Who said?" 

"The nurses?" 

"Well, I didn't hear it myself. A little bird told me you hadn't eaten since this morning and didn't eat all of it if I heard him right. I know those pretty eyes of yours are eyeballing this bag." She giggled, getting a chicken sandwich out for her and setting it on the tray next to her bed before handing the sandwich she had gotten for Simon to him.

"Might as well say it was Simon who told on me." Kiera chuckled, laying her head back as she felt another contraction on the horizon. 

"I didn't want to put him on the spot." Eva poked, handing Simon a bottle of Coke as she noted it to be a soda he had enjoyed, taking the seat on the opposite side of Kiera's bed to keep an eye on her daughter. 

"Know me so well." Simon chuckled, opening the sandwich.

"You're not too hard to figure out, honey. Besides, Kiera told me so much about you while you were gone and by the time you came home, I already knew you like one of my own." 

Home. 

A subtle word to come from Eva's mouth, yet made him feel whole.

#simon riley #simonriley #simon ghost riley #simonghostriley #simon riley x oc #simon riley fluff #simon riley x og female #simon ghost riley cod #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley x og female #cod mwii #callofduty #simon riley cod #soap cod #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty mw2 #call of duty modern warfare 2

[umbrellagoblin]

Transmutatio Infernalis

Hey there! Long time no see!

Sorry about my absence for the past like, two months. School and work both have been hell. However, I finally had some time during the winter break to sit down and write again, so here's something I had in the works for a while! For @kwillow as always.

After what felt like an eternity of cruel torment, it appears Comte DeLuxe's story comes to a bitter end... Or, perhaps, there is a new beginning for both him AND his tormentor! Be wary, though, it involves lots of magic and even potentially some GAY content (gasp)!

// CW: Mental and Physical Anguish, Torture, Bloodletting, Despair, Satanic Imagery, Death.

Cold. It’s so cold this time around. Usually in October, this far south, the sun shines and shimmers even way during the month’s end. Yet, the gloomy, gray sky with moist, chiseling snow dropped heavier than shackles on a prisoner’s ankles. The harsh, rocky terrain did not go easy on a prisoner’s gilded hooves, either, as the captive himself stumbled and limped through snow-capped rocks and roots of olive trees. And as he trudged through torturous, slippery soil and gravel, the prisoner chuffed and moaned through the gilded muzzle, bestowed upon him akin to a crown - encrusted with runes for “protection,” no doubt. There is nothing but a while gown marked in runes of sangue on the prisoner - so the cold shudders eventually get to him, and so he falls again.

The Hierophant posing as the Good Shepherd leads his Sacrificial Lamb to slaughter… Or worse.

It happened on the outskirts of a boreal desert. Comte DeLuxe was deceived and pushed into the heart of Killinger territory. Back in the olden days, Mortimer’s family served as advisors to the Basileus, so they were granted a tiny, yet most privileged estate - quite close to the Holy Mount, no less. One really could wonder how such a noble bloodline got lost in foul sorcery and hedonism, but that’s too big a rabbit hole for anyone to explore. Even the Killinger heir, himself. But that’s besides the point! What matters is - the old Killinger estate is quite nearby, abandoned and ripe with energy for Mortimer’s ritual to commence. 

Ambroys’s leash clicked and clanked against the muzzle as he was shoved and tugged on it by Mortimer’s gloved hand. “Come on then, your gait is lacking!” he grumbled, impatiently yet encouragingly. The wizard-doctor’s hide-booted paws hurried atop a rolling hill. Perhaps he’s gone too fast - there’s a muffled “Oomf!” following suit. Oh Heavens, another bruise on the old count’s kneecap. All the more disappointment is added to the fat cat’s pouting face. Mortimer slowly turned around and gazed down upon Ambroys, with utmost contempt in his eyes. Ambroys, in turn, didn’t dare look up, shuddering and sniffling like a stray dog. 

“…You were right. I should have left some more spirit in you,” Mortimer said then, “You’re too weak to run, to walk, or even curse me. What a waste.” 

Something within Ambroys still boiled and threatened to pour over. His pride, his poor, insulted pride got him back on his feet in an instant. The potion’s effects are wearing off. His halo flickers and tries to form. The glorious, angelic donkey prepares to use his horn to pierce the wizard’s heart, and finally free himself of bondage with sheer strength and passion! 

…Yet all he gets in turn is an awkward stumble forth. The fat cat’s leash be damned! And, to add more injury to insult, Mortimer suddenly bent up, then down. His leg was raised, and the heel of his boot urged Ambroys to fall further. Harder. Painfully so. The joints popped on that aging noble-pony, and a muffled, pained yowl soon followed. The warlock ground the hard iron heel into his face, then went back to clacking along the rocks with speed Ambroys could never hope to catch up with. 

“Told you,” he said, “You’re pathetic, Your Grace. Nothing screams of helplessness more than your raging and bickering. And yet, it entertains me so… Keep walking, lest you want me to geld you before my lords and saviors.” 

And Ambroys followed. Chuffing, Comte DeLuxe was nearly brought to tears with the pain in his guts and on his face, his shackled wrists reached up to wipe the salty wet and soot off the latter. Thus, the stumbling continued at an increased pace, with increased proneness to frostbite and injury. This was no spot to collapse again. And so, Ambroys no longer walks out of fear or out of pride - he walks out of sheer spite for the second wizard that screwed his life over. 

Those pesky wizards… How did he even get here? What WAS the cause of such a tragic downfall? Hyden. It must be Hyden’s game all over again, the pony thought, grumbled, professed. Yet, there isn’t a Hyden to be seen around here, so he refuses to acknowledge Mortimer’s power over him - even after several months of mocking captivity in one’s own home. It was time to continue the path “home”, however. No room for thought. The unicorn stumbled forth, and, at last - the two found a clearing on the steep cliff they climbed, below which there was nothing but cold, dark saltwater. 

A house stood on that cliff, too. An old, rugged manor of brick and mortar - so little wood it almost felt like a cave, both within and without. Broken columns surrounded the outer courtyard, while a tiny stone chapel was juxtaposed to the abandoned manor. However, the first Killinger estate isn’t as abandoned as it would seem upon first glance: Eight servants in all-black, save for their neckerchiefs, slowly come out through the front door’s dark portal. All carried a dagger of silver and a big torch of sweet sage. Once their hoods of sangue and soot were lowered down, it’s clear to Ambroys that most of them are dogs. The bigger ones are twice Mortimer’s size, and yet they wordlessly follow his gestures and directions. Frightening beasts, yet still servile to the core… Disgusting.

Ambroys’s muzzle and shackles were, at last, undone. Truth be told, they were there only as ballast and cheap tools of Mortimer’s entertainment. There was no need to restrain the once-shimmering, haughty unicorn. His weak state was going to be his downfall - and he wouldn’t run a hundred meters even if he put his mind to it. Mortimer also bestowed the honor upon himself to do this, so that he could wrap his grabby paws around Ambroys’s malnourished waist and snatch him by it. How sweet of him.

Everything was prepared for the ritual. Way in advance. There are three magical circles forming a target around the rotund, heavy altar of Roman concrete. Some evidently tried to turn it into a fountain of sorts, but failed miserably at doing so. Within the magical circles, there were plenty of runes and symbols etched. Inscriptions in old tongues, scriptures going from left to right and right to left, akin to snakes eating their own tail. And by each column, there was a mark - the four cardinal directions, and the adjacent directions with them. Trails for liquid were placed right where the servants stood, and they led directly to the multiple circles etched into stone. 

Now, this was a sight as grim as any. Still - Ambroys tried to be courageous in the face of the enemy… And he failed at it miserably: 

“I ah, I still haven’t figured out why you’re so obsessed with me, Witch,” he finally spoke, panting yet smirking. 

Mortimer stopped in his tracks. The whole preparation process stopped, in fact. The fat cat’s ears flickered as his eyes trailed down to gaze upon the grinning prey. “Really? Give me a rundown of ideas, then,” The “Witch” inquired, as the celestial bastard started chortling. 

Ambroys laughed in Mortimer’s face, perhaps out of fear and desperation. The frail, drained unicorn’s grin missed a tooth or two, but it was still there, mocking the warlock’s efforts at breaking him down. Because of one reason he states after the fit ends: 

“Heheh! Heh… Well it could be anything with you, really! Spirit of competition? Some sick need for validation? Ph- Perhaps some, some utterly perverse sexual gratification out of making me suffer?!” 

A confounded silence followed. Mortimer’s face was unimpressed with such blatant accusations. Yet, this is all Ambroys had. Perhaps embarrassing him in front of his servants was the only way of getting back at him, now that the warlock’s achieved nigh absolute power over the celestial halfblood. 

“…Interesting. But what makes you think about that last bit, though?” Mortimer inquired some more, moving in closer and leaning over the prostrated unicorn. 

“You make it obvious with your flamboyance and gests, you idiot,” Ambroys snarled in turn. 

“Oh, is that so? If that would of been the case, dear Ambroys, it wouldn’t be wrong of me to claim you’re the most decadent, frilly little fruit for all Uranians wherever you go,” Morty replied then, “Have you seen the way you dress? Gest? Speak? Compared to you, Amby, I am but a humble romantic in search of a little fun~”

“So you DO admit you’re a homosexual?! I knew it!” Ambroys got even more accusatory, now, and pointed his lithe finger at Mortimer looming above. The cat, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and gently pushed the hand away. 

After a long, winded sigh - Mortimer felt like his actions deserved an explanation. It’s something akin to a confession during the saint’s last supper: “…Why yes. You’re right. I am gay, Ambroys. But I’m certainly not gay for you. And I’ve no need for gratification - you serve no purpose but being my current target and sacrifice, and, well... Ahem. Because, while you might have some attractive qualities, and a rich, vapid taste in garments - it’s not what I am after. For me, you’re nothing but a means to an end. A tool I have used to get a cushy resting place for a month, and will use to finally bring a good friend of mine here. The last droplets of your blood, your sweat, your tears, your everything are what I’m after. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

“But… What of the torment? What of the passion you have demonstrated? Wh- What about your stupid, disgusting means of seeking MY approval through “healing” me?! What was all that for?!” Ambroys yelled, rising back to his hooves and shaking his fists. 

Now it’s time for Mortimer to smile and chuckle: “Ahh, the torment… Nothing but cheap entertainment, really. I don’t hate you, Amby. I don’t love you and I don’t hate you, I just don’t… Have any strong feelings for you. There isn’t anything of worth in my connections to you, besides your flesh and blood of course. Evidently I don’t need your money to support myself, and - I don’t need your company. It’s you who wants to live the life of a rich lordling, deceiving others into believing you have a modicum of nobility, and yet…”

“But you… You… Liked, me. You did, I- I saw your dirty little diaries, I…” Ambroys stammered then, and then some. His fists were clutched so tight tiny specks of his golden blood rushed down the fingertips - the sharp, overgrown nails dug in too deeply. Shocked, baffled, and angered to the core, he was juxtaposed to a calm and calculating cat right before him. Mind you, the guards were ready to tear the pissy prissy pony apart for such strong words and yowling, but Mortimer gave each a command to standby. After all, it was his mess to handle. 

Mortimer nodded, and spoke of the events long gone rather somberly: “That you did. A long time ago. I’ve simply grown out of it, Amby, and you should have, too. I don’t have too many attractions to the material plain, as you might have noticed. The riches come and go, so - I don’t need some fop to mooch off of me for the rest of my days here. Sorry, not-sorry.”

“Quit your bullshit, Killinger!!!” Ambroys yowled, on the verge of tears, “You did all of this to me only because you were bitter I never liked you! YOU liked me first! It was YOU!!!”

“Stop humiliating yourself,” Mortimer replied, “You’re b- Well, actually - no. You aren’t better than this. What are you going to-”

Fall down and bang his fists on the floor. This is exactly what Ambroys did. His halo flared up and flickered, quite weakly so, as his words grew incoherent and his face was blinded with rage and tears. Clearly, the cat’s had enough of that bickering, so he calmly walked up to the tantrum-ridden unicorn, and smashed his heel into his liver. That finally caused the celestial to quiet down and hungrily gasp for air, his still-teary eyes flickering up in more blind rage. Mortimer, on the other hand, was cold and hateful in his eyes, as he loomed over the poor thing once more and growled over his floppy ears: 

“Would someone that loved you even for a second do THIS to you? Quit struggling and prolonging the inevitable, you stupid, vain, ugly, good-for-nothing Piggybank of an ass…”

These words hurt. Physically and mentally. Ambroys sobbed and tried to get up, but couldn’t. Mortimer’s face grimaced in suppressed anger and disgust, as he nodded to his servants. And thus, they carried something heavy out of the abandoned manor. A pole of wood with another log nailed to it, whilst more and more nails soon made it out to the rune-covered flooring. The ritual was nearly prepared, and so - Ambroys finally gave up on his attempts to stop it. The pony finally sat still and silent as Mortimer proclaimed “NAIL HIM!” With a voice loud as thunder. There was no stopping as to what was coming, but hey… perhaps there will be some relief soon to come. 

As the brutes brought Ambroys to his back, Mortimer tossed his hood away and revealed his full ceremonial outfit: The all-black cloak was folded and thrown elsewhere, and thus revealed a sleek robe of harsh cotton and wool - all painted black and crimson. The seal of some infernal beast was present on Mortimer’s chest, welded into a copper medallion. It was polished. Prepared. Glistening and steaming from the temperature contained within. Shining, shimmering boots with pointed heels seem to grow all the shinier, too. Falling snow thaws within the circle, even as the blizzard starts to get stronger. Something about this whole place is dry, filled with death. Uncomfortable. One could even say disgustingly-warm. It’s clear - there is a summoning the wizard has planned, and most certainly an infernal one: 

The unicorn’s weak, limp body was then carried off to the cross by two hounds at the front. Mortimer was too busy adding logs to the fire by the circle’s east. The cross was put on the opposite side - the circle’s very western border. And so the hammers did their harrowing deed - causing the shimmering unicorn to scream in utter agony, as the three nails of wrought iron caught both his wrists and his crossed ankles, thoroughly nailing him to the logs of smoked sandalwood. There was no use in pleading or crying anymore - not that Ambroys had any more tears left in him. Either way, the wrought iron is already set, and rust starts running down his bloodstream… 

That wasn’t the only damage done. There would be no mercy - no single slit to the throat, no. Instead, Mortimer personally came over, and, smiling from ear to ear - slit both his wrists with an aluminum knife. Ambroys stared right into his glowing coals for eyes, defiant to the very bitter end. Mortimer let the pain of a wound that couldn’t regenerate seep through, causing the angelic creature to gasp and call unto its father’s name. In spite of his defiance, however - the summoner knew just how to break his victim. And so, the last thing that broke Ambroys in two was a deep, disgustingly-squelchy stab in between the ribs, right by the left. 

There wasn’t anything human about the felinid looming above the prostrated unicorn. That smile had a dozen teeth too many to be human, all of them fangs. Serpentine tongue slithering in between them, almost chomped off and drawing blood. And the eyes indicated nothing but infernal joy over yet another soul being brought down to its inexistence. With that last look before departure, Killinger stepped back, and a mere step later - Comte Ambroys DeLuxe was crucified. Hoisted above ground as he bled, and the droplets of gilded sangue befell the soil marked with someone’s seal. Someone powerful, no doubt… Yet not as powerful as one could presume. 

As Ambroys struggled to stay awake, moaning and screaming his gargling lungs out, the flames in the pyre opposing him burst high into the sky - and the summoned revealed himself unto others, much to the Count’s horror: A period-piece straight from the Wild West appeared in the center of the circle. A leopard, no less than eight feet tall, in a cowboy get-go of red, brown and gold. His boots’ heels clacked against burning-hot stone as he got up onto his feet and gave each of the hounds a disgusted look with his amber eyes, whilst the whole of his body was still coated in smoke. Grinning and clearly overwhelmed, Mortimer dropped to his knees and kissed the seal resting by his neck: 

“Ganic Tasa Fubin, Flauros! Ganic Tasa Fubin…”

Ambroys was horrified. He never knew his blood, pure and clean, could be used for purposes so nefarious. Well - he did, he simply never saw it. Because unlike Killinger, Hyden had the decency to never harrow his trusted blood donor. Now, the disgraced celestial could see and feel the true potential of angelic blood - as an infernal creature stood right before him, staring Killinger and his servants down for a long, tense moment. Everyone fell quiet besides Mortimer, who went on with his enns and praises until what looked like a bounty hunter loomed directly over him. The tiger then spits off to the side, and lowers himself down to one knee: 

“Why. The fuck. Did you bring me back to this shithole?”

That question rumbled across the field with thunderous volume, as the summoned contract killer’s voice roared in proper feline fashion. Even Mortimer looked a little flabbergasted - but not nearly as pissed-off as Flauros, himself. When the bigger cat took a look around, his flaming gaze focused on Ambroys. For once, amidst all the surrounding bastards - he felt a bit of… Empathy? Towards him in particular? It couldn’t be - a damned demon was more invested in his health than anyone else surrounding him. “...We’ll talk in a moment,” he said then, growling next to the wizard’s ear, “For now - take this poor creature down, at least!” 

The hench-dogs looked rather confused as to who they should listen. Disappointed and desperate to suppress his own anger, Mortimer nodded, replying: “Well - you’ve heard the man. Take that… “Poor creature,” down from the cross. And don’t forget about the nails, or they’ll end up in your wrists, instead!” 

With all that said - Killinger and Flauros walked together in a tense silence, while the wizard’s servants got to mounting Ambroys down. By this point, he was left entirely unconscious, and seemingly losing his breath with every strained huff. With a common shrug amongst the remaining hounds, they pulled the cross down, the nails out, and quickly dispersed from the lodge, leaving the dying unicorn to rest in the slowly-pouring rain… 

***

“GAGH!!!” - A loud, gurgling grunt yowled past Mortimer’s lips. A kick to his gut, then another directly to his chest, incapacitated the whole of his breathing. To say Flauros was furious with his sudden summoning would be a grave understatement.

“You annoying, pestering, fffucking bookworm,” Flauros growled at the panting cat, “I told you not to kill in my sake on the grounds again. I fucking told you, several times, and you did it again!”

“I h-had good reason for it,” Mortimer stammered, “Flauros, listen to me, I had a damn good re-EGHRNGhh…” - another kick to the spleen left the mage coughing and sputtering, almost to the point of actually drawing blood. There was no threat like a demon scorned, and even though Flauros was enraged - he still tried to listen: 

“Really? What good reason?” he inquired, “Name one good fucking reason for killing another halfblood celestial in front of everyone. Sure. Enlighten me.”

For a moment - one could see true fear and uncertainty in Mort’s eyes. Something so-very rare nowadays, even his older henchmen couldn’t recall a moment like this. Yet, he spoke like a complete coward, with his voice growing shaky in Flauros’s presence: “H… Heyyy, Flauros, you ought to relax a lil’ bit! Chill, Mr. Danger - I think I finally have a proper trail to Hyden! This mutt I brought over for ya? He’s got a real lea- ACKhh… GaACKhh…”

As soon as talk of Hyden resurfaced - Flauros simply grabbed Mortimer by the neck and made sure the fire from his palms licked at the flesh underneath, his squeeze utterly merciless. 

“I told you, Killinger - I told you,” Flauros snarled, “To put that damned wizard’s name off your TONGUE! Three hundred years ago I told you so, kept telling you so until this moment, and I’m telling you so now. Shut UP, about Hyden, he is GONE!!! Stop killing in my name for something that doesn’t exist!!!”

“But I didn’t do anything in your name!”  Mortimer warbled some through the tight grip, “All I gh- did was t-try and find more clues, more leads, and I finally found proof that he still exists!-”

“Killinger…” The bounty hunter sighed, and let go of the hopeless fool. Flauros then took a pause to pinch at his nose and cool his senses off - this was his patron overground, after all. “...I don’t care about your passion for Lord Hyden. I really do not. You must understand. I only care about the fact you kill celestials, halfbloods or not, so fucking overtly.”

Oh, Mortimer wasn’t too happy to hear about that. So, his tail swayed, and his own coatrims caught fire as he angrily stepped past Flauros. “Really? You don’t care?” he said, “While I do understand why, I don’t understand why you never bother to look deeper into this issue.”

“What other issue is there, besides YOU committin’ bloody murder of the blessed?! Murder, that attracts attention to ME?!” Flauros snapped, “All you do is meant for your own gain, no matter how many of your employees, co-workers, friends, family you have to step over the heads of. I will NOT be that guy, Killinger - I will NOT get smited just ‘cause YOU wanted to meet your stupid fuckin’ sensei!!!” 

The smaller cat could only roll his eyes, as the leopard fluttered and fumed right behind him. “If you feel like you aren’t cut out for the job, we can end it there and I’ll find someone else,” Mort said, “Though it would be a shame - never thought Flauros the Kinslayer of all creatures would be willing to break contract. Over a few bodies, no less.”

“Look, Killinger,” Flauros snapped, “All I’m saying is - you should summon me for more important matters than jus’ some ghost-huntin’. I care about my own safety first, but also about yours. Haven’t you ever thought it might be dangerous for a Sylvanian t’provoke the higher powers so much? No, seriously…” Flauros then stepped forward. Cooling off a tad, he squatted down in front of Mortimer and placed both hands on his shoulders, staring him down intently: “...You sure you ain’t goin’ mad? Cause the Baron Killjoy I know would never.”

At long last, the two of them have come to their senses. With Mortimer’s eyes dashing over to the altar hill, he simply trailed off for a good while. 

“...No. I don’t think I am going crazy - in fact, I’ve always been a bit of an obsessed loon,” Mortimer said then, hushing his voice down and returning to his mercenary, “But I knew DeLuxe. He had a strong, strong connection to Hyden. Stronger than I ever did. I summoned you here just so you could try and track him down. Please, Flauros, just this once - take a whiff…”

It was rather unusual to hear Mortimer beg for something, for he nearly-never does. That caused the spotted bounty hunter to raise a flaming-red brow, only for the smaller witch-cat to pull out a fanciful rug stained in Celestial blood. A few seconds of pondering passed, and so - with eyes closed and heavy chest heaving steam - Flauros took Ambroys’s soaked neckerchief. 

“I swear by my titles and fortune, Killinger - if this is another ruse, our contract is void,” he said then, bringing the silky rag up close. The leopard first took a whiff of it, then - licked over the traces of blood, dried and wet, left on top of it. Muttering something under his breath, Flauros snapped his head elsewhere - so much so it crackled in a gut-wrenching snap. The whole body of his was soon to turn in the direction opposing the altar hill: 

“Northeast,” he said, “I sense a strong, yet contained, magical presence there. Far, as far as one can go, but it’s there… Smells of, hold on… Rabbit.” 

“See?! I told you, this hunt is going to be one of my last! I’m almost at my goal!” Mortimer beamed and bellowed right after Flauros’s analysis, “Come, come with me, we are heading out now!”

And so, the fat cat started rushing back up the hill, with the bounty hunter slowly trailing behind him. “You know there could be more than one wizard who just happens to be a rabbit, right?” Flauros said, only for Mortimer to turn and snap back: 

“Why yes, but there’s only one DeLuxe spent lots of time with, and only one who could give off a trail so potent… So lively now, I’m getting my cart as soon as we get upstairs!”

Baron Killinger was in a hurry like no other. He didn’t even care about the altar any longer - he won’t be here to witness Ambroys be thrown off or buried, anyway. Flauros, grumbling under his breath, rushed to the front and lead the way. With his getaway vehicle already prepared, Mortimer quickly planted himself within and let Flauros handle the directions, leaving his henchmen to do the rest of the work on their own! The bounty hunter, naturally, didn’t share the same passion, but if rescuing someone Killinger admired meant a big payday for him, well… He can at least pretend to care about earthly things for a short while. And so they were off, in such haste the clouds of dust covered nearly the entire place of sacrifice. With the Comte’s cross pulled down, there was nothing left to do, besides get rid of him…

…With that out of the way, it seems the yearning student caught onto his teacher’s distant trail. 

***

“So, boys - what da HELL do we do wit’ dis thing?” One henchmen asked the other, as more and more dogs piled around the body of a barely-breathing unicorn. Taken off the cross, it disassembled and used for parts, all that remained as the evidence of crime was Ambroys, himself. Lost in thought, or lack thereof, the big dogs looked between one another as the disgusting, near-death gurgles of a man soon to fall into the depths of Hades. An unbearable sight at best, with the arms slit and the face falling limp, Killinger’s houndish henchmen started to scram. 

“I asked, what do we DO?!”

“J-Just leave ‘im there, no one comes ‘round here anyway!”

“Nah, nah, get the fuggin gasoline, we can’t let anyone-”

“Drop that cunt down th’ ditch an’ be done with it, I wanna go home an’ have a smoke already!”

“Y’know what? Dat’s a good idea!”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah. Down th’ ditch it is…”

Ambroys… Tried to shake his head, in a last-ditch effort to protest his seemingly-inevitable fate. His spine and lungs hurt too much to budge more than an inch, however, so, grimacing, he was forced to lay limp and continue bleeding out on the scorched field of sacrifice. New tears found themselves running down his cheeks, with his face losing color and his mind losing its grip on reality. This whole ordeal was already beyond-humiliating, but… Oh Father Almighty, is he really going to be tossed down a cliff by these oafs?! No, this cannot be!

“Nghrnhh… Rn-RNHGHNHHRNHH- Nghoohh! NghhRNHOHH yghooh fghrrnghh!!!” - the fanciful pony bellowed through grit teeth and the last seconds of rage he could possibly ever experience. However, the pressure was too much. His wounds squirted more of that precious sanguine fluid out, and soon, he started to drift into sleep, right as his wrists were grabbed and the meatheads laughed at his misfortune. Not for long, however, will they laugh, as, through the veil of death-slumber - Count DeLuxe heard profanity and the same disgusting gurgles. Hot, slimy fluid rushed itself over his stripped frame, yet it wasn’t just rain. Rain could not of been slimy, not in these arid parts, no… 

Surely it must be someone’s blood. A hound’s blood.

With all the forces he had at the moment, Ambroys opened his eyes, and saw a hooded figure slice and gut Mortimer’s hench-dogs, one by one. The clacks of jaws indicated canine origins of his sudden savior, as well. He… Couldn’t see too clearly, as his eyes started rolling back and more blood splattered all across him. With all the threats now either gone or limping and gurgling, Comte DeLuxe’s guardian angel turned out to be nothing but some small, thin, yet rather fit dog, with his muzzle barely sticking out of his cloak’s hood. Too weak to say or do anything, Ambroys laid there, barely bleeding at this point… And that’s when things started to get really weird: 

“Adoni, atama ki’ire tama ava’akim ve ke sakha to no cheloh,” The dog spoke in an unknown tongue, yet in spite of his senses signing off - Ambroys could hear every word of it. Something about it seemed so pure, yet so… Disturbing. Nothing good came of it in the long run, and yet - there was no more pain in his wrists and forearms, as they itched more than ivy and started to spasm. Ambroys’s chest burnt as the mysterious dog placed his arms onto it, even leaving proper red marks once he withdrew them and raised his frame to look to the northeast. “Ten lolah ku’um, Adonai! Ten lolah ke’mariim, Adonai!” - the hound continued to bellow and violently toss his arms to the northeast, bowing and kneeling and then jumping back up, until Ambroys felt a mysterious, foreign force pull him back up, and… 

He gasped himself back into consciousness. 

“GAAH!- G-Get away! Get away from me!!!” Ambroys yelled at the top of his lungs, stirring awake and lucid, utterly terrified and freezing-cold due to the rain. Staring upward, he soon found his sudden savior walk among the corpses of his kin, only to take his hood and cloak down to reveal himself: 

Ambroys was right - his savior was a dog. Most definitely a dachshund, judging by his rather distinct height and spread of body mass. He looked prim, proper and noble, with a sapphire-blue waistcoat hugging rather tightly around a crisp-white shirt and a black neckerchief wrapped just as taut about his neck. His beige breeches were, no doubt, made of the finest material - so was his tailed greatcoat, hanging rather loosely on one ornate silver button. Goodness, there’s quite a lot of jewelry about him for someone stranded so far away from his presumed home! Even his boots’ belt buckles appear to be made of silver or cobalt instead of brass. 

The hound’s fur contrasts greatly with his cool outfit, however - as a warm beige domineers over his short, plush fur, with a longer “mane” stylized as hair being a hot redwood ginger. Darker circles over his eyes and black nose also indicated for spots of interest, and lastly - the warm, trustworthy, russet-brown eyes stared directly downward, the patron’s gloved hands soon planted directly on the blood-soaked ground just to move in closer to the pony at hand. 

“It’s okay, Your Eminence - it’s okay, you’re okay, now,” the hound spoke, his voice mellow and soothing. He tried to get to Amroys at a face’s reach, yet the unicorn stumbled back in terror. 

“Wh- Who are you? Who hired you? A-Are you here to put me back on the gurney?! Answer me!” the Count snapped, over and over again, until the dog silently raised his hand and explained himself: 

“Your Eminence, I’m… My name is Douglas. Douglas Dollopworth. I, too, am Sylvanian nobility, more recently promoted than your house, and I’m here to help you. In fact, I believe I’ve saved you from the-”

“Shut up!!! Shut up, I get it!” Ambroys bellowed again, as Douglas rose with a quiet “Yes Your Eminence.” Wobbling and trembling, the horse - yes, horse - got back onto his hooves, and looked downward - only to witness his horrifying reflection: Above him, there was no halo. Nothing, indeed. His hair, of gold and silver, simply turned to a dull, shimmering steel and a harrowing ashen-grey where gold once used to be. His face - sagged, with twice the wrinkles adorning it, alongside much, much darger bags under his eyes, and his spine suddenly no longer able to support his weight as much. Ambroys slouched, and touched his face repeatedly in utter horror at what has become of him. 

“What… Where… Wh-Where is it? Where’s the halo, the, the essence, the… Where are my powers?!” Ambroys wailed, so much that his voice returned a couple of times from the hills nearby. Douglas did not answer, at first. The Count’s eyes flicked between his reflection and the hound that “saved” him, absolute terror evolving into soul-scorching despair. More tears soon fell down the olden pony’s cheeks, with the whole of his face blanking out before a set of screechy, broken wails echoed across the hills once more.

Ambroys knelt. He knelt before his scarred, aged, disgusting reflection, demonstrating and reminding him with every passing second that he was now a mortal. He couldn’t look, he couldn’t face the facts, so instead the once-unicorn rolled on the ground and brayed in unabashed hysteria. Then, after the initial panic had set in - Ambroys hyperventilated, his chest heaving so much his heart looked like it was ready to jump out. Eyes wide and rabid, he soon turned to the edge of the cliff, slowly starting to crawl toward it… Only for the dachshund to swiftly catch him and wrap his arms around him, with surprising strength and tightness at that. 

“L-Let me go, I cannot, I- I cannot exist like this-” Ambroys stammered, only for Douglas to hus him up:

“Y-Your Eminence, you simply cannot do that! Your existence is a detriment to solitude!”

“What does it matter if I am no longer MYSELF?!”

“You’re still you, Your Eminence! Please, you have just been brought back and you’re out of blood! It needs to be restored before-”

“Shut up! Shut up and let me go! I no longer wish to be around, n-no one can SEE me like this, I SAID LET ME GO!!! IT IS AN ORDER!!! LET ME GOOO!!!” The Count broke down into a full panic attack once more, though at this point - it appears Douglas wet a cloth with something sweet and herbal-scented:

A soft press of said fabric over Ambroys’s muzzle followed not long after. Doug held onto the wailing and thrashing husk of Ambroys DeLuxe, slowly letting the valerian and poppy take hold of him instead of sheer strength. The violently-writhing horse’s eyes rolled around in panic and despair some more, marked with tears of what appears to be silver, which soon turned transparent the more he “bled” liquid from his eyes. So much for holiness, and yet… The sedation forced Ambroys to be at peace, in spite of a storm still raging within his mind, still. 

“You’ll be alright, Your Eminence,” Douglas whispered to Ambroys, “You’ll be alright…”

A few whines slipped past the ex-celestial’s lips, until his limbs were too weak to protest. Douglas moved silver hair out of the Count’s face, and simply let him drift off to a peaceful sleep. Celestial or not, it doesn’t matter now - at least, Ambroys felt like he was in strong, safe, trustworthy hands. And that thought, that thought alone let him drift away to slumber, finally at peace and no longer bound to a gurney…

#amaranthine #ambroys deluxe #mortimer killinger #my wriitng #my wrist is dead #for that matter #semi-fanfiction #WOO who loves seeing this honse tormented raise your hands!!!

[suspicious-whumping-egg]

Alec: Whumper’s Soiree, Part 2

This is NON CANON and the continuation of my whumper’s soiree writing! @the-whumpers-soiree

Inspired by this prompt by @a-whumped-tea!

~~~

Alec knelt on the floor, hands chained above his head and anchored on the wall in front of him. The cell he’d been moved to was uncomfortably warm, and the drafty air stung against the dozen lash marks throbbing over his back, but at least his gag had been removed. For some reason, Vei had given him a break from it all. His head swirled and spun when he tried to listen to their conversation, the words too distant for him to make out with the remnants of the drug clouding his brain. 

He heard them approach a moment later, and the handle of the whip was shoved under his chin, forcing him to glance up at his tormentor. 

Yet it wasn’t Vei he stared back at. It was Raina. 

Alec’s blood ran cold in a heartbeat. He thrashed instinctively against the chains, his heart seizing with an icy spike of terror. “Nonononono—” he whispered, barely realizing he’d spoken aloud. “Please—”

Raina scrutinized him for a moment, pressing a finger over his lips to silence him. 

“You should’ve put your hair up,” she remarked. “But I noticed you were wearing what I gave you.” A grin played at her face. “It’s like you were just waiting for me to show up. I thought it’d be a nice touch if I arrived fashionably late, in time to give you a little surprise.”

She let her hand fall to her side and took a step back, cracking the whip over his already tattered skin. Alec made a sound between a whimper and a moan, squeezing his eyes shut at the furious burn of the lash. He felt a fresh trickle of blood run down his back, and he leaned away from the pain instead of into it.

It was just outside his limits when Vei whipped him, but with Raina, he couldn’t even find an ounce of enjoyment. 

To his surprise, he didn’t hear the crack of the whip again. He twisted around to glance behind his shoulder, noticing Raina had turned to stand next to Vei. 

“Get on your knees,” she said softly, placing a gentle hand on Vei’s back. 

“He’s already kneeling,” they replied distastefully, taking a step away from Raina’s touch. “I like my boys the same way you do.” 

Raina stepped closer once more, her hand sliding to the small of Vei’s back. “Then I suppose I wasn’t talking to him, then, hm?”

She kicked the back of their knees and Vei dropped to the ground with a thud, cursing, as Raina manhandled their wrists behind their back and restrained them with zip ties before they could struggle out of her grip. Vei kicked out at her legs, stumbling to their feet, and Raina brought the whip down on them. The crack resounded through the air, and Vei cried out, stumbling as they tried to stay upright. 

Raina shoved them hard to the ground, digging a knee into their back and winding the whip around their ankles. 

“Now that you’ve gotten between me and my plaything, it looks like I’ve gotten a little extra something from this whole ordeal…” she murmured. She tugged a blue glow stick from her pocket, popping the red one off of Vei’s wrist and replacing it with the other. 

“You know exactly what I have planned if you try to run, right?” She threatened, locking Vei’s ankles together with a pair of thick shackles before she pulled the whip away. “You know this all way too well to do anything stupid. I’d hate to have to kill you just to defend my Alec.” 

I’m not yours, Alec resisted the urge to hiss. Yet Raina was less stable than he’d ever seen her, quicker to turn to violence and definitely not someone he wanted to anger. He remained silent, simply grateful that someone else had her attention. 

“You won’t fucking get away with this,” Vei snapped, writhing in their restraints. “The guards, they’ll recognize me—“ 

Raina clapped a hand tight over their mouth, before rising to her feet and stalking over to the drawer full of gags. 

“Open up,” she said condescendingly, dangling a muzzle from between her fingertips. “Or I could give you some of the anectine Alec’s become quite familiar with, muzzle you up anyway, then drag you out out of here.”

Vei shot her an icy glare and cracked their jaw open, although they still tried to pull away as Raina shoved the bit between their teeth and buckled it around their head. It covered the bottom half of their face nearly completely, except for the holes poked into the leather so Vei wouldn’t suffocate.

She then retrieved Vei’s blazer from where it was draped over a chair and shrugged it on herself. It was a nice addition to the silky lavender pantsuit she wore. 

“They shouldn’t recognize you now, then,” she said coldly as she unlocked Alec’s handcuffs and let him collapse weakly to the floor. 

“Now come along,” she ordered Vei, hefting Alec into a bridal carry and stroking a hand through his hair affectionately. 

He shuddered at the touch, squeezing his hands into fists as an effort to keep their trembling at bay. But, if nothing else, at least he was now Raina’s favorite. 

Alec and Raina taglist:  @hopepetal @painsandconfusion-moved-shoo @warm-my-whumpee-heart @dont-touch-my-soup   @yesthisiswhump @infinite-olives @crimson-wrld @bastard-illusionist @onlywhump

#blue writes #the whumpers soiree #alec and raina #alec is a twink #raina is a girlboss #RAINA IS MORE IMPORTANTLY BACK ON HER BULLSHIT

[ghostt0wns]

The Sixth Tally || Petty Revenge

The tattoo machine in Kestrel's hand buzzed as they added a line to their ankle, making a total of six tally marks. Their expression remained stoic as they inked in the new line before turning off the machine and setting it aside. Served the fucker right.

@crazedhatesoul

trigger warnings for: violence, murder, gore, harm to animals

Earlier that Day

Phase 1: The Snare

Every day started out the same. Signing themself out at the ranger station with whoever was working and heading into the woods. Today was no exception as Kes walked a familiar path, checking snares and finding them empty this morning. The greens of the trees blended together as they walked, breathing in the smells of the forest. The only sounds were the flapping of a bird's wings above and the crunch of their feet along the winding paths between the trees.

Today they were meeting Dakota in a clearing fairly far out in the woods to help him start to get the hang of hunting. At least, that was the idea, though Kestrel had invited him under false pretenses. It hadn't taken much digging to figure out he was the one who left the weights out at the gym that nearly brained Kes when they tripped. To say they were mad was... an understatement.

They reached the clearing early, and hopped up on a boulder before lying back and closing their eyes. The forest was calming, reminding Kes of their first few weeks of freedom. They let the breeze waft over them as they ran through their plans one more time. They'd spent almost a month gathering enough information to pull something like this off, and while they had planned on waiting a bit longer, it was time to put their planning to the test.

The sound of a branch snapping alerted Kestrel to Dakota's arrival, and they cracked an eye open, peering at him from their perch on the rock. "Glad you managed to find your way here, I was pretty sure you'd get lost." They teased, sitting up and raising a brow. Nobody knew they were meeting up today, thus the separate arrival times. Kestrel scooted off the rock, walking over to Dakota and patting his shoulder.

"The first lesson is knowing the forest. When you know the forest, you know your prey." They began, shifting into a serious mood. "You need to become familiar with the terrain, sure, but it's more than that. You need to know the sounds and smells of the woods." They gestured around them. Here they were, and it was like Dakota had stepped blindly into the carefully laid trap, eating up every word of advice Kestrel had to offer. "Close your eyes. I want you to spend several minutes just acclimating to the sounds around you." He did, and the kind expression fell from Kestrel's face as they slid the concealed knife from their sleeve.

Stepping forward with a speed that was surprising for someone of their stature, they struck quickly. A manic grin spread across Kes's face as they drove the knife up in between two ribs with practiced ease, stabbing the man in the heart and quickly withdrawing the knife before hopping out of range. Dakota would likely be occupied with the fact that he was about to bleed out in- oh less than a minute- but just in case, they wanted to steer clear of any defensive wounds. "The second lesson is to learn who you can trust."

They took pleasure in watching his face contort, blood pooling on the ground as he tried to apply pressure to the wound on his chest and called for help. No one could hear him, save for Kestrel. In 48 seconds it was all over, and he'd bled out. Now came the annoying part. Those monsters couldn't just tear people up, they had to go and disembowel them. Kestrel griped internally. Such a pain to mimic.

Phase 2: The Stage

It was messy work, methodically snapping Dakota's ribcage open. The sickening crunch of bone was familiar to Kes, but they usually heard it from breaking the bones in a living body. This would be their first dissection, though if things went to plan it would likely not be their last. Once the ribcage was open, then begun the task of cutting out all Dakota's internal organs, still warm inside his chest. Kestrel worked deftly, placing the organs in a bag as they went.

A quick clean up in the river and a change of clothes later, Kes snapped on a pair of gloves. Their fingerprints weren't anywhere in a registry, but as with most stages of this plan, better safe than sorry. They'd stashed a bag out here the day before, and quickly began taking things out to set the scene for a tragic death to the ghosts that tormented the town. A tent with the symbol of protection painted on, horrible slash marks through the side, a half empty bottle of moonshine. They made sure that any trace of their presence was erased before packing up and heading towards their usual route through the forest.

Phase 3: Loose Ends

As soon as Kestrel had arrived in town and started hunting, they'd made an offer to one of the farmers out by the edge of the woods who raised pigs. They didn't want to waste entrails and things from the animals they hunted, so they'd drop them in the troughs for the pigs on their way back from a hunt. They'd done this routinely, all in preparation for this moment. Dumping out the bag of Dakota's innards, they watched as the pigs all came running, eating with abandon. That was one piece of evidence on its way to being digested.

They'd grabbed a few rabbits from the snares on their way back, tying them by the legs and slinging them over their shoulder. It wasn't much but some hunting days could be slow like that. Now came the hardest part of the plan: the ledger. They needed to distract whoever was working long enough to check Dakota back in and ensure that nobody would go looking for him when sunset drew near. Stepping into the Station, Kes waved at Rusty. "Checking back in, no ghastly death for me today." They deadpanned, throwing a sarcastic thumbs up. They watched him flip the book open and sign them back in before continuing. "Oh, and there was a deer edge of the woods that looked hurt but was like.... staring at the station?" They'd barely finished the question before he raced out the door. Bleeding heart. Probably worried it was his weird collared deer pet or something. They grabbed a pen, using their non-dominant hand to fill in a return time for Dakota, and promptly left the station.

The final bit of their plan... hadn't been planned. About an hour after their return to town, the skies opened up and rain began pouring down. Sitting in their living room, Kestrel smirked. That would certainly muddy up the crime scene, making it much harder to tell the events which had occurred. They headed up to bed, excited to see how the town would react when they found out that poor Dakota Hart was dead and gone.

#kes #kes.dakota #kes.rusty #and i oop

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

The 10th and final chapter of my jmart roommate au is now up! Not gonna lie, I’m really fond of this chapter. Read from the beginning here, view the latest chapter on AO3 here, or read it below:

The man in the fog wasn’t sure where he was. He wasn’t quite sure who he was, either. He had a name, he was fairly certain of that – he could feel it in the back of his mind, on the tip of his tongue, but any time he tried to focus on it, it slipped away.

Someone was shouting in the distance. They sounded upset. He tried to make out the words they were shouting (or was it just one word, repeated over and over again?) but he could hardly hear them over the howling of the wind.

It was windy, wherever he was. And cold – he was numb from head to foot, and when he glanced at his hands, he saw that they were turning a sickly shade of blue. As he looked at them, they started to fade from view, growing more and more transparent until he could see straight through them, could see his feet and the rocky shore of the pebble beach and the fog snaking between his ankles.

That was… bad. Wasn’t it? It seemed like the sort of thing he ought to have been worried about, but it was hard to feel much of anything in this place. The more he faded, the less he cared, the less he worried, the less he felt. It was nice, really. That wasn’t true, though – to be nice, it would need to be something. What it was was not bad. His memories of the time before the fog were all a blur, but he was fairly certain not bad was a marked improvement.

The voice was getting closer. He could finally make out what it was saying.

“Martin! Martin!”

Martin. Was that his name? It certainly sounded familiar.

The fog was so thick that Martin didn’t see the person until they were just feet away. They stopped when they saw him, and their eyes locked onto his.

“Martin!” they repeated, softer this time.

“Jon?”

He wasn’t certain of his own name, but he knew Jon. He would have known Jon anywhere. There was something about Jon that was important, he knew that, but every time he tried to pin down what it was, the memory escaped him. Jon was… powerful? Was that it?

He didn’t look powerful. He looked small, and frightened, and exhausted. He didn’t take his eyes off Martin as he spoke.

“I– I’m here,” he said. “I came for you.”

“Why?”

“I thought you might be lost.”

“Are you real?”

“Yes! Yes, I-I am. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“No,” Martin said. “No, I don’t think so.”

Martin barely heard the words coming out of his mouth. They didn’t matter, really. Nothing did, in this place. Jon seemed to hear them, though. His face fell, and oh, Martin was upsetting him, Martin was ruining everything, just like he always did…

Jon’s words were growing fainter. When Martin glanced down at his hands, he found that they were gone.

“Obviously he’s done something.” He could still hear Jon’s voice, distantly. “Peter’s done something to mess with your–”

He blinked, and Jon was gone. He was alone once again.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there. Time had no meaning in that place. The only thing that really existed was the sound of the waves lapping against the shore, and the cold.

It was so very cold.

Jon was back. How long had Jon been back? He was speaking to him again, but the words slipped through his brain like water through a sieve, leaving nothing behind but the vague memory of having been spoken.

“Listen, I know you think you want to be here, I know you think it’s safer, and well– well, maybe it is. But we need you. I need you.”

“No, you don’t,” Martin found himself saying. “Not really. Everyone’s alone, but we all survive.”

“I don’t just want to survive!”

Jon was upset again. Martin had said the wrong thing, as usual.

“I’m sorry.”

He turned away, turned toward the endless expanse of fog that beckoned him home, but Jon set a hand on his cheek.

“Martin,” he said, voice strained and shaky. “Martin, look at me.”

Martin turned back to look. He took in all the component parts of Jon: dark eyes and salt-and-pepper hair and a face scattered with worm scars. He looked the way he always did, if a bit worse for wear.

But when he spoke again, his words were thrumming with Compulsion.

“Look at me, and tell me what you see.”

And Martin… Saw. He the strain and hope and worry in Jon’s eyes, saw the tension in his limbs as he reached out to anchor Martin to reality, saw the crease between his eyebrows that always appeared when he saw something he cared about in trouble – a friend or a houseplant or a bakeoff contestant who was putting too much sugar in their creme pat.

Martin Saw something that he very much wanted to call love.

“I see…” he murmured, while Jon watched him with those eyes, those lovely, tired, frightened eyes. “I see you, Jon. I see you.”

“Martin,” Jon breathed, and the fog had cleared enough for Martin to hear the relief in his voice. Martin collapsed forward, a wave of emotion crashing into him all at once, and Jon caught him in his arms and held him firmly.

“I… I was on my own,” Martin sobbed. “I was all on my own.”

“Not anymore,” Jon said, loosening his grip on Martin’s shoulders and pulling back to look at him. His eyes roved over Martin’s face, and whatever he saw, he must have found it reassuring, because the beginnings of a smile flickered at the corners of his lips.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

Home. Martin wasn’t sure he had a home anymore, but he let Jon take him by the hand and lead him away from that cold, windswept beach, and he didn’t ask where they were going. He would have followed Jon anywhere. He would walk through the gates of Hell, he thought, if it meant he never had to let go of Jon’s hand.

***

The fog around them began to lift, bit by bit, and the pebble beach beneath their feet was slowly replaced with concrete. The wind died down, and the sound of waves gave way, eventually, to the sounds of London streets – running engines, and shouting tourists, and seagulls fighting each other for discarded chips.

Martin hardly noticed the changes. He was lost in thought.

The thing was, Jon didn’t love him. He knew that. That was one of the fundamental truths on which Martin’s world rested. It was something that Peter Lukas reminded him of often – never directly, he was just barely too subtle for that, but constantly, through reference and implication and unabashedly feigned sympathy. That moment was a lighthouse, guiding him back to the Lonely any time he strayed too far: He had told Jon he loved him, and Jon had run away.

Jon wasn’t running now.

He gripped Martin’s hand like a lifeline as they walked, and glanced back constantly to make sure that Martin was still there, that he hadn’t disappeared into the fog again. 

Martin didn’t realize where they were going until they reached the building. It made sense, really. The apartment was, after all, the closest thing either of them had to a home. 

They kept their hands linked as they walked through the empty hallways. When they reached the doorway, Jon began patting his pockets with his free hand.

“Hmm.” He turned to Martin. “You, erm. You don’t happen to have your key on you…?”

Martin shook his head.

“Not to worry,” Jon muttered softly, fishing a bobby pin out of his pocket. He looked down at their joined hands for a long moment, flicking his eyes between them and the doorknob as though weighing his options, before he reluctantly disentangled his hand from Martin’s. 

He knelt beside the door and started working on the lock while Martin kept watch for the neighbors. After a few minutes, Jon let out a quiet Aha! of victory, and the door swung open.

The apartment looked different than he remembered it. There was a layer of dust on the floor, the tables, the windowsills, and the dim blue light coming in through the windows gave a melancholy air to the empty, silent rooms. Jon began flicking on lights in an attempt to dispel the gloom, but they only served to make the shadows more stark. 

Martin trailed his fingertips over one of the windowsills, tracing thin lines in the dust. When he turned, he saw Jon watching him with an anxious expression.

Jon cleared his throat. “How– Are you– I mean, how are you–?” Before he could formulate a coherent question, his phone began to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket and frowned at the screen.

“One second,” he murmured. “It’s Basira.”

Jon wandered into the kitchen while he spoke with Basira, and Martin couldn’t help but be grateful. Jon’s gaze had been kind but intense, and Martin couldn’t handle the scrutiny. He couldn’t handle much of anything at the moment. 

He drifted through the apartment, dazed and numb. On the windowsill closest to the bookshelf he found the remains of his philodendrons. He’d cared for them assiduously, once. He’d monitored their leaves for any brown spots, bought plant food from the greenhouse down the street, spritzed their leaves with water when the humidity was low. He’d pruned them and fed them and named them after characters from his favorite books. Merry, he remembered, was the one in the green pot with sunflowers painted on the side, and Pippin was the one with more pink on its leaves.

It was hard to tell them apart, now. The leaves of both were shrivelled and brown, and when Martin reached out to touch one, the leaf crumbled between his fingertips. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. 

Stupid. After everything he’d been through, all of the people he had lost, here he was crying over plants. It was ridiculous. But the fact remained that they had relied on him, and he had let them die.

Jon wandered back into the living room, still on the phone, and Martin let himself get distracted listening to his half of the conversation.

“…What about the hunters? Were they-? …And Daisy?” There was a long pause. Then Jon murmured, “I’m sorry.” Another pause, then he said, “R-right. Yes. We’re at Martin’s apartment. I can text you the address… Thank you.”

“Basira’s on her way,” Jon explained when he hung up the phone. Martin just nodded. He turned away and tried to discreetly wipe the tears from his eyes, but he didn’t think he hid his sadness well.

“Martin,” Jon said gently, so gently, as though a sudden noise might make Martin shatter like glass, “How are you feeling?”

How was he feeling? The only thing Martin could think to say in response was, “Cold.”

“Right. Of course,” Jon whispered, half to himself. He grabbed the blanket from the couch and threw it over Martin’s shoulders, then steered him into a seat at the kitchen table. “I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, fiddling with the blankets one last time before he did to make sure they were still firmly wrapped around him. He worked quickly, diligently, but there was a clear and present anxiety behind all of his movements.

When the water was on the stove to boil, Jon took a seat at the table as well, pulling his chair around to be closer to Martin.

He set a hand on Martin’s, and flinched at the cold. “Oh,” he said, voice soft and surprised and mournful, “your hand.” 

He wrapped Martin’s hand in both of his own and began gently massaging warmth back into it. Jon stared down at their hands as he worked, his face wrought with grave, single-minded focus, and Martin stared at Jon.

He looked tired. The dark circles under his eyes had gotten darker, and there was an odd tension in his posture, as though if he allowed himself to relax for even a moment, he’d pass out. Had he looked like this, the last time they’d spoken? He didn’t know. He hadn’t really seen Jon then; there had been too much fog in his head.

The blood began to flow back into Martin’s hand, and with it, he started to regain feeling. Jon’s hands, he found, were calloused and bony and rough with scar tissue, but still unfailingly gentle.

They sat like that for a long while before Jon broke the silence.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured suddenly, as though responding to something Martin had said, or perhaps his own train of thought. “I thought…”

Whatever Jon was going to say was interrupted when the kettle started whistling. Jon let go of Martin’s hand and stood up to prepare the tea, leaving Martin’s skin tingling in all the places he had touched it.

For a few minutes, the kitchen was filled with the familiar, reassuring sounds of water being poured, and boxes of tea being rummaged through, and spoon clanging against mug. When was the last time Martin had made tea? When was the last time someone had made tea for him?

Jon pressed the mug into Martin’s hand. “Here,” he murmured, “I think I remembered how you like it.”

It was too hot to drink, and with the state Martin’s hands were in – still so cold and so stiff – it was too hot even to hold, so he whispered his thanks and set it down on the table.

Beside him, Jon fidgeted nervously. “There’s something I ought to tell you,” he said. “And I know this isn’t a great time; I’m sure you’re not in the best headspace to hear this, after everything that’s happened, but, well… Well, it might change how you feel about– about me, and a-about our next steps. So I think it’s only right I tell you now.”

He took a deep, steadying breath. “I love you. I-I have for… quite awhile now, really, and I should have told you before, but I was scared, and… A-Anyway, I know you don’t feel the same way about me, anymore, and I‘ll do my best to move past these feelings and be the kind of friend that you need right now, but if you’d rather we go our separate ways, I’d… I’d understand. I just… I thought you deserved to hear it said.”

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. The foundation on which his world rested shattered into pieces, and he was left with only one thing to anchor himself.

Jon loved him.

“Jon…” he whispered, and Jon turned away.

“You don’t have to say anything…”

“Jon,” he repeated, more insistently. He cupped a hand around Jon’s cheek and turned him back to face him. Jon’s eyes widened, hope and uncertainty fighting in his expression. “I love you, too.”

Jon’s mouth fell open. For several long moments, his lips moved silently, as though struggling for words, before he finally asked, “Can I kiss you?”

Oh. Martin drew back, letting his hand fall from Jon’s cheek. He wanted to, he did, but… “I don’t think I can,” he said, shaking his head. “After everything, after the Lonely… I think it would be too much, too fast.” He was still half-numb, and the other half of him was on fire with a thousand sensations that he’d all but forgotten how to feel over the past few months, and he didn’t want to kiss Jon when there was still so much fog clinging to them both. The first time he kissed Jon, he wanted to really feel it.

“I understand,” Jon said, eyes brimming over with care and concern and love. “Would– W-Would a hug be alright?”

Martin nodded, because a hug was more than alright, and Jon wrapped his arms around him. Martin pressed him close to his chest, squeezing tight, as though he could press Jon into his rib cage and keep him next to his heart forever, and Jon clung to him just as fiercely.

“I love you,” Martin whispered. It was hard not to think of the last time they had done this, and everything that had happened after, but this time Jon tightened his grip and whispered back,

“I love you, too. God, Martin, I–” Whatever else he was going to say was lost as he buried his face in Martin’s neck, and Martin pulled him closer.

After a moment, he pulled back. “What did you mean, before?” Martin asked, the thought that had been gnawing at him finally coming to the surface. “Why did you say ‘I know you don’t feel the same way?’”

Jon chewed nervously on his lip. “In the Lonely, you said… you said, ‘I really loved you, you know.’ Past tense.”

“Oh, Jon…” Martin murmured. He didn’t remember saying it, he didn’t remember much of anything that had happened in the Lonely, but he didn’t doubt Jon’s memory. “I love you. Present tense, future tense… Any tense you want.”

Jon brushed away the tears in his eyes. “Present perfect?” he suggested with a watery laugh.

“I have loved you,” Martin said, casting his mind back to primary school grammar lessons, “for a very long time. And that isn’t going to change.”

Jon grabbed Martin’s hand and squeezed it, pressing more warmth into his cold skin. After a moment, he lifted it towards his lips, then paused, looking at Martin for permission.

“May I?”

“You may,” Martin whispered, breathless.

Jon brought Martin’s hand up to his lips and gently kissed the back of his palm. The kiss was brief and chaste but reverent, and it sent a thrill up Martin’s spine. Jon hesitated, then lifted his hand again and pressed a kiss to each of Martin’s knuckles in turn. Then he set Martin’s hand down on the table and gave it a quick, awkward pat.

I love you, Martin thought, and then it struck him all at once that he could say that. He had said it, and Jon had said it back, and he could say it again any time he wanted.

He didn’t, though. Instead, he grabbed Jon’s hand and raised it halfway to his lips.

“May I?”

Jon smiled. “You may.”

Martin repeated what Jon had done – one kiss to the back of his hand, then one to each of his knuckles – and Jon shivered at the contact. When he was done, they simply stared at each other, too giddy and besotted to think of anything to say. Martin felt almost drunk with the feeling, and judging by the expression on Jon’s face – awestruck and adoring and still a bit nervous – it seemed that he was feeling much the same.

He reached out and laid a hand on Martin’s forearm, turning it over and grazing his fingers lightly over the inside of his wrist.

“May I?” he asked again.

“You may.”

This time Jon lingered, taking his time, kissing Martin’s pulse point as though it were something truly precious, and Martin let his fingers reach out and tangle in Jon’s hair.

After that, Jon brushed his fingers against Martin’s cheek.

“May I?”

“You may.”

Jon kissed him on the cheek, quickly but with feeling, and when Jon drew back Martin could still feel the warmth of his lips burning against his skin.

It went on – Martin’s forehead, his nose, the corner of his jaw, just below his ear.

“May I?”

“You may.”

Martin responded in kind, reaching out to graze careful fingers over Jon’s temple, the center of his palm, the scar on his throat left by Daisy’s knife, what felt like a very long time ago.

“May I?”

“You may.”

They moved cautiously, hesitantly, as they explored every bit of exposed skin on each other’s bodies. Each kiss seemed to drive away more of the chill and the fog, warming Martin from within more effectively than the cup of tea that was currently growing cold, untouched, on the table beside him ever could have.

Eventually, he raised his fingers to Jon’s lips.

“May I?”

Jon studied his face. “Are you sure?”

Martin just nodded, too nervous to speak. Jon nodded as well, and leaned forward, lips parting, tilting his face up to meet Martin’s as Martin leaned down to kiss him.

Their lips had barely brushed when there was a knock at the door. They both jumped.

“That’ll be Basira,” Jon said, reluctantly pulling away. Martin stood up with him and followed him to the door.

Basira eyed them both carefully when she stepped inside, sizing them up. If she noticed the anxious way Martin hovered beside Jon, she said nothing. If she noticed the way Jon’s hand drifted out unconsciously to rest on Martin’s arm, she likewise didn’t comment on it.

She didn’t comment on the way they clung to each, as though one or both of them might disappear if even a foot of space opened up between them, or the way they pressed their chairs together when the three of them sat down at the kitchen table to discuss their next moves, or the fact that their hands were interlinked under the table. She focused on the task at hand.

“Daisy has safehouses all over the country,” she told them. “She hasn’t told me where all of them are, but I think this one should still be stocked.” She passed an envelope to Jon, who opened it and lanced inside. Over his shoulder, Martin could see an address and instructions written out in Daisy’s scrawling handwriting.

“Scotland?” Jon asked, glancing at the address.

“I doubt the cops will follow you there. I can’t say for certain, though, so don’t get sloppy. How much cash do you have on you?”

“£20, maybe?” Jon said hesitantly.

“£300,” Martin said, prompting strange looks from Jon and Basira. “Peter gave me spending money sometimes,” he explained.

“Right,” Basira said. “That should cover you for the trip. Once you reach the safehouse, there’ll be more cash in the safe — the combination’s in the envelope. Whatever you do, don’t use your credit cards.”

“I know,” Jon replied, a bit tetchily. “I do have some experience being wanted for murder.”

Martin could almost have sworn he saw Basira roll her eyes before she said. “The cops will be on their way here soon. How fast can you pack?”

The answer, it turned out, was very fast. There wasn’t much that Martin needed to take. He grabbed shampoo and a toothbrush from the bathroom before heading over to his closet and shoving some clothes in a bag.

The door to the bedroom creaked open, and when he turned, Jon was stood there, framed by the dim orange light of the hallway.

“Almost ready?” he asked.

Martin zipped his bag closed, and slung it over his shoulder. “Ready.”

He slipped his hand back into Jon’s as they walked back through the living room. They lingered on the doorstep, turning to take one last look around.

“I’m going to miss this place,” Jon murmured.

“Me, too.”

There were so many memories attached to the tiny flat. It was a place they’d laughed and argued and made each other tea, the place where Martin had mourned and Jon had recovered from about a hundred different injuries, a place that had felt safe in spite of everything. 

It had been their home.

Still, Jon was clutching the envelope Basira had given them in one hand and Martin’s hand in the other, and there was a train leaving in half an hour that would take them to Manchester, and they could board a train from there that would take them to Inverness, and from there they could catch a bus to a small, out-of-the-way village where a safehouse was waiting for them.

It was time to find a new home.

#tma fanfic #tma fic #jonmartin #jonmartin fic #Scottish Safehouse fic #(sort of)

[maracujatangerine]

please can you describe what scars Cory has? thank you!

Hi!

Certainly! Thank you for asking! 💖

Cory doesn’t really have any scars to his face, all his previous owners were careful not to destroy his appearance.

His worst scars are all over his back, from being whipped and caned and cut. It is a criss-crossing jumble of red and pale scars and raised welts.

He has deep, red scars circling his wrists and ankles, from being tied up.

He also has scars around his neck from wearing a collar, and small scars on the side of his neck which are burn marks after wearing a shock collar. But those scars aren’t as deep as the ones around his wrists and ankles.

He has small scars on the soles of his feet and one jagged cut to the back of his right calf. He has scars hidden by his hair, from being hit in the head. He also has the WRU tattoo on his left underarm, with the number 247084.

Coriander has problems with his left shoulder, it was probably dislocated and badly reset, perhaps more than once. Indira has said that he probably needs to see a physiotherapist, but that he would need to get some x-rays done first. Lydia hasn’t really wanted to put him through it, but she knows that they have to deal with it sooner or later. It is not really visible, but he favours his left shoulder when he moves.

When Cory first arrived at Lydia’s place, he was really thin and malnourished and pale. He had a lot of bruises and needle marks along the inside of his arms and had marks from having a muzzle tied tightly to his face, but all of those faded quite fast. He overall looks much healthier now, less pale, still a bit too thin, but not as starving as before.

Here’s a description of Cory when he first arrived: https://maracujatangerine.tumblr.com/post/657223822786838528/16-watching-each-other

I have some face claims, too - if you like that sort of thing: https://maracujatangerine.tumblr.com/post/661887071577849857/do-we-have-art-or-face-claims-or-moodboards-for.

#lydia and coriander #thank you #thank you for the ask! #original character

[casspurrjoybell-17]

Hart and Hunter - Chapter 40 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

Dane Hunter

"I shall not be joining you."

"What?" roused from his stupor, Julian is on his feet, his face ashen with exhaustion and shock.

"What do you mean you're not joining us?"

Smiling, Rhiannon takes his hands in hers.

"Son of my son, the sight of you fills my heart with joy and heals wounds even time could not mend. For a moment, I dreamed I might return with you to a life of light and happiness and love but it cannot be."

"Why not?"

"Because this nightmare must end, once and for all," she says.

"I shall fill this pool with stones, one for every tear that I have shed and you must seal the other side as well, better than your ancestor did."

"But there are other portals," Julian argues.

"What difference will it make to block this one?"

"There are others, yes... they come and go and always will. This portal is different. I suspect it is at least partly artificial... probably created long ago, in a lost age, by some unholy magic. Likely by Dark-Fae."

"Dark-Fae?"

"What the skin-changers once were," she says.

"We Fae are already long-lived but for some, even this share of life was not enough. Through forbidden magic and knowledge, they became powerful sorcerers and necromancers. In time, probably through some cataclysm of their own making, they grew decadent and degenerate,and forgot the magic and knowledge that gave them power. The skin-changers are all that remains of them now... a monstrous echo of former glory."

Julian shakes his head.

"There must be another way. I'm not leaving you here. You don't deserve..."

"But I do," she interrupts quietly, her smile still soft, though her eyes shine with tears.

"I was banished here as punishment for a terrible sin. That I was manipulated into committing it does not make it less terrible. As my James would have said, two wrongs do not make a right."

"What about your promises?" Julian argues, unwilling to yield.

"You gave Rian your word you'd take him back to Faerie and promised to speak on behalf of these others."

He gestures at Darragh's former followers.

"Will you break your oath?"

"No but I have carried my word as far as I am able and now I pass it on to you. You must see that my brother's body is brought home and you will speak on my behalf, as well as for these others. Perhaps I shall be pardoned... perhaps, in time, I shall return to Faerie, myself. Meanwhile, this place is not all darkness... there is light above and the ruins of ancient cities touch the clouds. It is a fitting place for an exile to make a home. I shall spend my days in quiet solitude and I shall be well, for my heart is at peace. You need not grieve for me."

Seeing he cannot persuade her, weary resignation marks Julian's face.

"It isn't fair," he says and she smiles.

"My James often said the same of life. Here."

Reaching into another pocket of her strange garments, she withdraws the book of runes and places it in his hands.

"I wish I had the time to tell you everything myself but alas... these old, twisted words will have to do. Guard them well. Now, you must waste no more time or you will miss the window. Go and live joyously... the both of you."

Taking my hand as well, she joins it with Julian's.

One by one, we enter the pool, each with a strand of fungi bound about an ankle.

Two Fae guide Halloran's tightly wrapped body into the water, while the other four carry children clinging to their chests.

Erickson has his niece, while Freya, Ingrid and I carry the remaining three, leaving Julian and Danni unburdened.

Julian takes one last look at Rhiannon, who stands on the shore with her hand raised in farewell, before ducking beneath the dark water and swimming after the lead Fae.

With a final glance at the Shadowlands, a silent prayer to the gods of good fortune and a deep breath, I follow him.

Rhiannon did not lie, though and the return trip is an easy one.

The passage seems both shorter and... thankfully... far less narrow than last time and even the two Fae guiding the body encounter little difficulty.

The glowing fungi provide just enough light to follow and one by one we emerge into a larger space and break the surface, finding ourselves once more in the cavern beneath the row of shops.

Freya and I help the others from the water and then in a wet, shivering, straggling line, we make our way back up and through the tunnels to Stephanie Wong's shop.

Erickson collapses, shaking with fatigue and relief and even the Fae look about done-in.

While Freya and Ingrid search the thrift shop for dry clothes that will fit the children 'somehow I doubt Stephanie would mind' I test the landline phone near the register and check the time.

There's a dial tone and it's a little past 2 AM.

"What are you doing?" Julian asks, coming to stand at my side.

I see he's wrapped his grandmother's journal in a dishcloth, probably hoping to soak up the excess moisture and help it dry.

I sigh and look down at the keypad.

"We got two things to do before we can call this night over," I say.

"Erickson's sister is still babysitting a skin-changer and we'll need help getting this lot to the stones before dawn."

"Who did you have in mind?"

"The only person I know who will answer her phone in the middle of the night."

Frowning, I dial a number.

Sure enough, the other end picks up.

"Chief," I say, when she answers in a grouchy, sleep-addled voice.

"It's Dane Hunter."

"Hunter? What the hell..."

I hear what sounds like sheets rustling and imagine her rolling out of bed and turning on a light.

My eyes stray to Halloran's shrouded form and I almost hesitate.

Then I take a breath and harden my resolve.

I trust Coleridge with the truth and she deserves to know it.

"Yeah, Chief. I'm afraid I've got some bad news."

[ekebolou]

Last post again had me thinkin'. And now I'm thinkin' you will be upset with me:

Are there tattoos or other body modifications prevalent in the cultures of Kostas?

There USED to be.

So remember when Aunt Gráinne stopped by to make sure her favorite (only) nephew wasn't fucking up his life by vetting his Midraeic boyfriend and ended up taking him through a dry run of a traditional marriage feast dish by having him draw intricate designs on a duck in berry sauce?

[Wait, did you know Aunt Gráinne has kids? Cole has cousins! They don't talk. He is not in the line to inherit anything on his mom's side and his Dad doesn't have anything, including a side.]

(Surely by now you have suspicions that Cole's family on his mother's side might not have totally abandoned the Old Ways)

So this designs on the duck thing is incredibly difficult to do with edible foodstuffs, like a plain berry sauce, even reduced to its utmost limits, especially if you like to eat your roast duck hot (which is not necessarily all that common - roasts fresh from the oven happen but depending on things like politesse and just practical matters you might be waiting, not to mention unless you're stewing your leftovers you might as well just eat the duck as-is - you're not going to bother getting the oven up to reheat it, and really, even if your oven is already hot because it's winter or whatever why are you going to turn eating leftovers into a production to heat it up again when you can just plop down and eat).

ANYWAY. There are plenty of ways to make it happen, sure, but it's really the last (barely) surviving vestige of the old Ainjir custom of tattooing. This was going out of style when the first King really united the place, never mind many centuries later when Keadar-Ainjir came along and rousted out a lot of the old ways.

While the idea for Old Ainjir's tattooing culture was based in the Pictish body-painting tradition (like big whorls, the whole Celtic knot idea, whole-body), these days I more imagine it more like dot and line than full black bars, like the Samoan traditional tattooing style, but more curvy and whorl-y, on the body like Samoan tattoos but in appearance more like Maori tattoos - not copying or based on or infused with the same meanings as those traditions, of course, but in terms of scoping out what was possible with the kind of tools the Ainjir would have had and what kind of tattooing they would be focused on. (I didn't see them as figurative tattoo-ers, which robs me of the chance to slap my favorite designs, the curvy animals of Scythians and the Altai Princess, on them)

I imagine, given their combative history, ritual scarification was less prevalent than just havin' scars. If anyone's got ritual scarification it's probably the Adineh, but I haven't really worked out the other cultures' relationships to body modification.

I would imagine the Midraeic people were big on tattoos, though I see them as kind of minimalists, and mostly see their tattooing as a feminine tradition. Like I could easily imagine the girls of the Galen family with stripes and dots and little designs around feet, ankles, and hands - maybe collar bones or necks and faces, though probably not very markedly tattooed. Maybe not as complicated as Mehndi, but in line with the Bedouin tattoo tradition, and for some of the same kinds of purposes - life stages, affiliations, luck and/or blessings and wards, but probably also just for fun. I would imagine its tendency to become less marked would date to the height of the Midraeic Empire, when jewelry and precious medals in place of prominent or striking tattoos would have been peak fashion (because they can be changed, and are a sign of your prosperity and place in society, unlike tattoos which are permanent - these prominent folks would still would have tattoos, but they would mostly be tattoos indicative of devotion, and thus more striking and simpler in visible places and larger and more complex in less visible places).

But, of course, that empire falls, and becomes a sign of the Midraeic people's loss of connection with their faith and condemnation by their god. So a lot of those cultural practices are pretty darn faded. And, of course, the Galen family is half Ainjir-Midraeic (different from Nika's dad's Geronese-Midraeic culture), which means tattooing in general would be out of favor because just like in Ainjir, it would signal that one is different, out of step, or passe. (Ainjir-Midraeic are much more assimilated compared to Geronese-Midraeic people, and well... breaking down that whole difference leads to a discussion of why the war the broke out the way it did, which is kind of beyond the scope of this post).

I bet the Wulsh just pierce the shit out of everything. They're Like That. But with minimal dangley bits because they're also big sailors, and that shit can get caught and make one's day worse than it already was.

Anywho, all of this to say, I have denied us the pleasure of a tattooed Cole and Nika, and thus stories of them getting tattoed, or maybe getting tattoos together, or maybe discovering each others' tattoos, and it's a sin.

#kostas stuff