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americanpsychgirl · 2 months

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Mad Scientist!Miguel O’Hara x Frankenstein’s Monster!Reader.

AN: haii! i’m like super duper new to this stuff so it took a lot of me to post this, super sorry if this is mega ooc or something!!!

Warnings/content: Decapitation, blood(?), use of numbing agent, sharp objects (to cut off heads obvi :3), brief mention of restraints, use of the words bitch and slut if you’re not into that, terrible depictions of anything doctorly i am NOT that guy… (tell me if i need to add anything!

Word count: about 1.6k

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You feel yourself waking up, blinking as your vision begins to un-blur and swearing you felt butterflies where your stomach was supposed to be upon seeing Miguel looking down at you with that oh-so loving smile, leaning down to hold your face.

Your beautiful, beautiful face, all made by him, from the shape of your nose to the color of your eyes, sometimes he was surprised he was able to make something so.. breathtaking.

“Morning, little one…” He whispers as to not wake you up entirely, kissing your forehead before immediately sticking a needle into you, the strong numbing agent coursing through your veins immediately.

You weren’t completely immobile yet, but you do start to feel your fingers and toes fall asleep.

This was the fifth time this week he had done an experiment on you, and it was only Wednesday if you had remembered correctly, “Do again…?” You murmur, trying to open your eyes as they continue to close from either your sleepiness or the numbness.

He chuckles, dragging his fingers over your eyelids to close them again, “I’m sorry, hon.. I really am…” He begins to tighten your restraints to make sure you can’t move, “You know how special you are, right? I need to do this…” His voice so honeyed you could practically see the sickly sweet words oozing from his mouth behind your dark eyelids.

He didn’t need to do half of the stuff he does to you, you and he both knew it, but your devotion to your creator helped you throughout all of his trials and tribulations.

A small hum of agreement comes from you, feeling (or not..) as your whole body becomes paralyzed, you remember the first few times where you used to be scared of when it happened.. how you used to try and resist as he pulled out his needle, now you can only feel comfort in the way he talks you through it, how he’s there with you…

He drags his large hands up and down your waist, relishing in your pure beauty to then pull his cart of tools closer to the cot you were on, “This’ll be quick, okay..? It’ll be no time until I stitch you back…”

“Stitch.. back..?” Your lips barely move as you respond in garbled speech, confused on what he meant by stitch back, was he going to cut you open again..?

He nods even though you wouldn’t be able to see in your state, “You’ll see…” He says, a shit eating grin gracing his features.

You make another noise, this one being hesitant instead as you felt the pressure of something being pressed against your neck, but not what it was exactly, your eyes trying to shoot open despite the numbing agent.

“I want you to relax…” He mutters, as if he felt your discomfort, you loved that he always knew how you felt.

What that thing was was a bone saw.

He was going to cut off your head.

He kissed your cheek before getting to it, slowly slicing at your neck as if you were just some vegetable on a cutting board your blood spraying all over him, not phasing him at all while you couldn’t be the wiser.

Finally, the last precise cut was made, your head falling off your neck like nothing, and you hear the pleased laugh he makes as he picks it up and inspects it. You were his little trophy, he could put you on a shelve if he really wanted to.

Due to you not being connected to your body, your eyes start to flutter open, finally waking all the way up with the little sniff of your nose.

“How do you feel, honey..?” He asks, trying to stop himself from kissing you any further until you answer.

Your lips curl into a smile when you look at him and his handsome face, his cheekbones and jawline making you think he was the one with his features handpicked, “Good…” You try to nod, but your face drops as you notice that you’re not connected to your neck, a frown taking over, “Mi-guel…” You warn, as if it would do anything for your situation.

He gives a faux look of pity, “I’m sorry.. you know I am…” He whispers, his chair groaning under his weight as he sits at his desk, placing you under the lamp that sat there, and writing down something that you couldn’t understand.

In your singular year on this earth, you’ve come to learn he is never sorry, no matter how soft his voice is or how pouty his lips get, the times he plays and prods at you are not the same times that he is head over heels in love.

Yet you always accept his apologies, with the hope you could officially live your life with him, not strapped to a cot with harsh light in your face or with organs from who knows where stuffed into you at random.. just out and about, maybe he would take you home if you asked.

You didn’t know what normal humans did when they liked each other, but you wished to do whatever it was with him.

“Mi-guel..?” You mutter, cheesing when his eyes quickly look up from what seems to be a report to you, he was always so attentive, “Question. I have question.” Your eyelashes flutter, making him smile right back at you.

“And what is that, sweet thing..?”

“What if sweet thing.. goes to the outside…” She pauses to add on “With creator.” quickly.

His smile drops into an ugly scowl, his nose scrunching up at the thought of letting her leave, that’s until he gains what little composure he has while taking a deep breath, “Where’d you learn that. Who told you the outside was okay for something like you.” He says in a low tone, it felt like a slap to the face and he hadn’t even said no yet.

“Sweet thing thought it would b-be okay-“

“-Well it isn’t. Did I tell you it would be okay..?”

You would shake your head if it were to be attached to anything, but it wasn’t, so you just sit there with a sad look on your face.. noting how he glances at you every so often while writing, noticeably getting more and more tense as the moment went on.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He grumbles, putting his head into his hands and sighing.

“What?” You blink a few times, drawing yet another sigh from him.

“I am so fucking hard right now, stop looking at me goddamnit.” He spits out, as if he was mad, as if she was at fault for simply looking his way.. when did he even find the time to get hard in these past few minutes..?

You gasp softly, your mouth hanging open in surprise upon his words, he was always easy to arouse, but for this to happen to him right after getting mad at you? You wondered if he actually liked you.

“Close your damn mouth.” He groans, resting his head on his forearm on the table, the other one slowly reaching towards his belt to unbuckle his khakis that were fitting way too tight at the moment, “Shit…” He seethes.

“Fuck you. Fuck you, stupid bitch.” His voice wavers as he removes the layer of his pants, the huge tent in his boxers making him shiver at the sight of his own genitals. He finally frees himself and watches as it springs against his shirt, slightly leaning back down due to how heavy it was.

It was leaky, veiny and beautiful, the base a bit darker than his actual skin tone and the needy tip getting redder and redder as the time passes, he lets out a low groan as he sits back, finally remembering that you were right in front of him.

“I think I have a.. test for you…” He breathes out, looking at you seemingly for approval, grabbing your head and not letting you respond anyway as if he wasn’t looking for approval.

You knew what to do, body or not, what you weren’t ready for is the way he shoved his cock in your mouth, not that you necessarily had airways at the moment…

And your lack of lungs made it better for him, with him writhing and moaning like a chick while watching his dick disappear within your mouth as if this was some sort of magician’s act, using your warm, wet mouth as some pocket pussy.

This was for release, this wasn’t an experiment.

“Mmf.. yeah.. yeah let me use your mouth, slut.” He says under his breath, his head rocking back and forth as if he couldn’t hold it up correctly, his teeth biting at his lip so hard he was about to draw blood.

But what else were you to do..? Walk away? Tell the man in possession of your head to stop? You can’t talk with a mouth full of cock anyway…

“F..fa… Fuck- Gonna cum in your pretty mouth, yeah?” He lets out a voice cracking whimper before stilling, letting his thick load fill your mouth to the point where it spilled out due to having no where else to go.

He gave a dopey smile at the fact that his cum was all over his pants, little aftershocks spurting out at the sight till he finally sets you back down on his desk.

“Sweet thing passed.. yes..?”

“More than passed.” He hums out.

The next few minutes consist of him stitching you back, cleaning you up and tying a cute red ribbon where the incision was. You were whole again, you were you again.

And most importantly, he loved you again.

Fin.

#miguel o'hara #miguel x reader #miguel smut #miguel spiderverse #miguel o’hara fanfiction #miguel o’hara fic #atsv smut

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cherubispunk · 6 months

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ICHOR. BLOOD. WATER. (part ii // blood.) - Din Djarin x Witch!AFAB!Reader

summary: stranded. alone. a traitor to your people, your family. aeaea is the prison of paradise you call home, and he is the prophecy you like to call an enigma. the 'man made from metal', forged in fire, melted by your spell that is no witchcraft on your part. he is the hunter, you will always be the prey. it is the way as the fates designed it.

a note from lucy: this was meant to be posted earlier and it was also meant to be longer but ive been through so much these past few weeks i couldnt bring myself to write much more. for those waiting on dealer!Joel, its coming. it might just take me a little while. thank you all for your patience. i love you all, look after yourselves.

playlist

wc: 1692 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! mythology!au, no use of y/n, dubcon, smut, p in v sex (unprotected), reference to , cussing, mentions of witchcraft, voyeurism, mentions of drinking alcohol, mentions of food and descriptions of eatin, oral sex - m receiving, orgasm denial, toxic relationships, dom!din/sub!reader dynamic, sex as a means for manipulation and control, manipulative!din, stockholm syndrome?

series m.list | m.list

You can teach a viper to eat from your hands, but you cannot take away how much it likes to bite. — Madeline Miller ‘Circe’

‘Strangle me with Aphrodite’s very pearls. What a beautiful creation. Funny how we will all die but seek love for a pitiful salvation.’ Words engraved, etched into the gravestone of…this. This creation of torture. Of serpents’ forked tongues and gnashing lions teeth. Silence so large and gaping it made your heart dare to beat only in the ricochet of the shiver down your spine. He was the sharp blade of a knife, you were the wetstone he used to perfect its slide of slice. Bleed ichor from your veins while he grazes blunt teeth over the shallow skin upon your collarbone.

You didn't care. ‘Give me that pointed, glimmering blade’, you thought, its vermillion stain now smeared too with gold. ‘Give me that blade. Some things are worth bloodshed.’

He was a killer. And his bounty was set on your spirit. Your calm. Your superiority over him. In his field, he was a master of his art. His armour gleamed as a trophy for his succession of rank. His clan– Here…he was a novice once again. Knew not a drop of knowledge of your craft, nor the whispering properties of each flower bud, fruit pit and herb stem in your garden. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme were nothing but cooking materials to him. And even that was a stretch to his mind.

You wished to be Anothny’s Cleopatra to him. Not a wicked witch of the western tides. Toughened beauty, once black coals under pressure, now gleaming in diamond and its own giant covalent structure. Him swooning over your flesh for months and his tongue speaking within your mouth. There was no turquoise over your eyes, nor the stain of the madder root over your lips to paint him with. His face was still an image that belonged to your mind. Not the reality you lived now with him tangled in your sheets. Rippled muscled under a tapestry of scars and skin.

He did some things. Mainly doted care to the child whom you sense properties in. A magic akin to your own, yet not all the same. His was one of energy, a flowing combination of entities, living a breathing through you, him, the mandalorian and each living being on this island. Mauve further. It was a balance that even you did not know the tipping point of nor the origin of its birth. It was shaking. It crumbled under the erosion of water to salt pillars until its foundations skimmed to their very bare bones.

It took with it the light of your sanctuary and morphed into Tartarus, so your soul may burn in forged cast iron chains. They were white hot in the black soot tinders. Glowing violently in your corneas while they singed sight. Scorched touch. Seared taste. The battle of yours and the child's power.

You watched in awe one night, the lights out, but a single sliver of silver from Artemis’s glow caught the sharpened tip of a knife you know strapped to your thigh under the skirts of your dress. Would his blood sizzle when it touched the blade, as you only imagined it ran hot and thick with the brazen burn of his anger. Ichor? No. He was no god. But his touch was of divinity. And left a tingle of power in its bone cramping wake. Wailing for more.

Only just the night before you had dropped to your knees in the doorframe of your chambers. Took off his armour beforehand in wordless undoing. Your tragic hero ending. And then gave him your mouth. Not words. Nor cunt. Just the mouth. Tip of the tongue, the lips and teeth. The stretch of his cock still wrung out your throat. Slick and wanting while it mimicked the way your cunt hugged the tip so well. Tased of salt and something more. Something forbidden or taboo. And he took his time with slow shallow thrusts at first, a large gloved hand cradling the curve of the jaw that went slack to let him buck deeper.

This morning was one of the first times you lamented over the now restricted motion in your jaw. The ache still nagged into the later hours, when The Mandalorian returned from your gardens, the bloody and mangled caracas of a rabbit thumping down on the table. He sat at the head of the table opposite you, cleaning the blood from his knife on his cape. You thought if you saw his eyes — be it hickory, azure, or pine — you would have crystallised in that very moment and that very form. Cured oak table under your fingertips, feet planted into the terracotta floor. His irises setting your thrumming heart dead still.

This was the man you let into your bed.

He remained there, sat still in his chair while the child babbled in the kitchen with you. You took that rabbit. Skinned it. Dressed it. And roasted the meat in a marinade of white wine and spices from the edge of your fenced garden. Later you would hang the pelt and let it air — make something for the child. Mittens maybe.

For now, you took your time circling the table to place each plate down: cheese, seasoned greens, a cup for the vessel of wine to his side. The silverware gleamed menacing in dim candlelight while he awaited each plate, unmoving in his armour while each delicacy was gifted to him upon his high table. And when you retired to your seat, the child had taken his too and started his feast, sticky plum jam smeared over his lips as he dribbled innocently and unaware over his rabbit leg.

But upon your silver plate was a single strip of black cloth, folded over twice on itself.

Your eyes lifted to meet him, wide in wondering question. Only to hit a barrier of beskar when you see his visor still covers his face. Not a scrap of food had been helped onto his plate by his still gloved hands. His boots that traipsed dirt through your door were still on his feet, caked in mud on the soles.

“What’s this?” Nothing. Not a word past his lips. “Am I to figure it out for myself?” He cleared his throat, raising his head so his chin jutted out towards you. “Your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“You must wear it if you are to eat with us.”

You pouted, pressing your tongue to the flesh on the inside of your cheek, then kissed your teeth.

“You mean to dictate my freedom in my own home.” You scoffed and slung your arms across your chest, crossing them. “At my own table? You are sick in your own head, Mandalorian, if you think I am one to bend my will to the whims of others. Especially in my own house.” And he repeated,

while his shoulders drew taught under his pauldrons with the armour gleaming in the silver glare of Selene’s chariot. And he planted a seed in your stomach, turned in it, and made you feel sick. You preferred him between your legs, his name between your teeth and tongue.

“You must wear it if you are to eat with us.”

Eyes fell to the plate, that cloth once more. Would it be poisoned? The fabric snared with nettle to sting your eyes. Here you had two choices. Stay, blind yourself, yield to him somewhere other than your chambers. Or stand and leave. Either way, it was an act of submission.

You did neither. Instead, you stood, kicking your chair back behind you before swanning over to the seat next to him, taking the other leg of rabbit and sinking your teeth into its cooked flesh, all the while your eyes on him. To tartarus with xenia, he outstayed his welcome long after he passed the threshold of your home. Helios could come and smite you for all you cared, the fates could snip your golden immortal line of yarn. No horror could compare to the satisfaction you had as you stuffed your face with food you'd slaved over for him. His refusal was your gain and soon you moved onto the plumbs, sticky sweet juice dribbling down your demented smile.

You wafted the half chewn and mangled fleshy bone in his face, smirking with your mouth full.

“Go on, Madalorian.” You crooned, “have a bite. Give in a little.”

His hand snatched your wrist the moment the words left your stained lips, gloved fingertips making something click in your bones. You bit down the pain with a swallow, smirk remaining triumphant across your features.

“Put it down.” He grimaced, curling his helmet covered lip at the state of you. Unkempt and wild, shrewish in your dignity.

“Or what?”

He let go. Sat back, pushed out a huff through his nostrils.

Then he stood. You watched unphased and delighted with yourself as he took the child who cooed up at him. And listened out for his heavy footsteps as he climbed the stairs to his and the child’s room. Then silence. All the while you tossed the stripped bone to his plate and licked your fingers.

You didn’t know what you would rather prefer. Him to come back down. Or stay and retire to bed. Regardless, he’d take you eventually. Here or up in your bed chambers. Unlace your corset or nightgown. Use you as his nightcap before slipping off. Without getting a look upon him. Not a sliver of his visage to hold to in sleep.

He did come down. And with a heavy hand bent you over the head of the table, a gloved palm pressing your face into the wood.

Physically you were here. Mentally, you were back against the silver birch. His cock splitting you in two once again while you smiled sadistically in candlelight. Him seeping into you through the cracks of your ribs, the gaps between your teeth. The opening of yourself to the twisting knot of denial within you.

Between your thighs where he belonged.

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greensimp · 1 year

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Gyutaro Reader Insert AU Idea #2

Gyutaro AU: Merpeople/Sirens

Gyutaro would be an eldritch horror of a siren. I would say he’d weigh about two tons, despite being extremely boney. What he lacks in fat he makes up for in bone density and muscle. He’d be long and sinewy, probably close to the length of a school bus or two.

Despite his size, he’s as close to the perfect predator as they come. His long and flowy, yet severely damaged green fins allow him to disguise himself as kelp or pollution. He’s a master at the stalk and kill method of hunting, but even better at the wait and ambush. The only indication that you’d get that you’ve entered his territory is a pair of glowing, orange and red eyes stalking you from afar. And if you’ve seen those eyes, you’re as good as dead already. The best you can do for yourself is pray to whatever god you believe in to make it a fast and painless death.

He'd loathe humans, because they’d be the reason he would be one of the last of his kind. They’re the reason his sister was taken from him. In a world where sirens exist, it would be a no-brainer that humans would exploit the hell out of them like they do other sea life. Gyutaro is thin because his normal food sources have been decimated due to bycatch and overfishing. His body is in constant survival mode, and he’s had to struggle his way out of countless fishing nets over his near century of life. Said fishing nets are the reason why his once beautiful fins are full of holes and tears.

His main motivation is vengeance. He’ll rip apart any human he sees in the water. Ume won’t be avenged until the human race goes extinct.

There have been sightings of him, although it is very rare to capture a picture of him and live to tell the tale. As well as the camera that took the picture (there are quite a few polaroid cameras, phones, and other picture-taking devices he’s collected as trophies over the years). There’s even a surprisingly accurate oil-painting a sailor did of him half a century ago.

While siren hunting had been made illegal internationally, that doesn’t stop poachers from trying to hunt him down. He’s like the ultimate prize. The last siren. What most of them are unprepared for is just how unnaturally powerful and large he is for his kind. He can tear through a fiberglass hull like paper with his claws, which is exactly the kind of boats most poachers take into the open water to avoid getting caught by the coast guards, navies, or even the satellites.

Despite all of his horrifying characteristics and behaviors, he is said to have the most hauntingly beautiful call in the entire ocean. Not much is known about what siren calls mean, but it is most likely a song of grief. If you hear it, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s near, as the sound waves can reach thousands of miles from its source. However, no matter where you are in proximity to him, his call will almost certainly bring even the toughest of men to tears. Nothing can match the decades of loneliness Gyutaro has had to endure.

How will the reader win the heart of this Gyutaro? What will they have to do to even survive two seconds next to him? Once again, that will be up to YOU for now.

If this post gets 200 likes, I’ll share the Gyutaro siren designs I drew a couple of days ago that gave me to inspo for this AU idea.

#gyutaro #kny au #gyutaro x y/n #demon slayer #alternate universe #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro x reader #fanfic #merpeople

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mediocre-daydreams · 2 years

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𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞. 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

remus lupin x animagus!reader

𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚢, 𝚒 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠

summary: remus craves your touch and he knows you’d do anything for him, which is why he refuses to be with you. your affection spark nasty rumors from the slytherins.

notes: angst, fluff, a few slut shaming comments (will be expanded upon in later chapters), tw//the slug club :/

w/c: 5.7k

ﾟ⋆☾*･ﾟ.・。.*゜✭・･ﾟ✫・⋆。.

as if you were a mythical thing, like you were a trophy or a champion ring; if there was one prize, i'd cheat to win.

you and the girls had nice, established saturday mornings. dorcas, the natural early bird, woke up at seven without fail. lily, the overachiever, followed at seven thirty. mary began to stir around eight, and lily and dorcas would shake you and marlene awake no later than eight thirty.

you’d get ready together—you and marlene were always sluggish and slow in the mornings—and head down for breakfast around nine twenty. you always had a coffee, marlene and dorcas shared a pot of chamomile, lily liked earl grey, and mary liked experimenting with flavors. (she was currently enjoying matcha.)

marlene and dorcas would most likely sneak off somewhere, leaving you, lily, and mary to entertain yourselves. if the day was nice, you’d kill a few hours by the black lake. if the weather was poor, you’d get a head start on homework or wander the common room. you liked your saturday routine.

today was very different.

“mr. lupin is not taking visitors at this time, thank you very much,” madam promfrey quipped, sounding not at all apologetic. “please return at…” she checked her wristwatch. “this evening. preferably tomorrow afternoon.”

james batted his eyelashes. “c’mon, madam pomfrey. we’re regulars! you can’t make an exception for your favorite patients?”

madam pomfrey narrowed her eyes at him. “yes, because treating reckless quidditch players after every match is my favorite passtime.” she sighed, turning her head to hide how her lips quirked upwards. “fine, you may have ten- twenty minutes. but i’m being very generous, and reserve the right to kick you out at any time. alright?”

you and the marauders nodded enthusiastically. madam pomfrey waved you over to a curtain-covered bed, where remus’ hoarse grumbles could be heard.

“lukewarm water… can’t even read… so behind on potions… complete fool…”

“moony!” peter exclaimed, whipping away the curtain and jumping into a starfish-like position in front of remus, who jumped.

“pe- wormtail?” he stammered. “prongs? padfoot? hopper?”

“gee, don’t look so happy to see us. you might overexert yourself,” you teased, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. you took his hand, which was cold and beginning to crack from dryness. you frowned, glancing over at madam pomfrey, who looked busy shuffling through loose parchment.

“how are you?” james whispered. “after… y’know.”

remus snorted. “y’don’t have to whisper. pomfrey knows.”

“ah, forgot about that.” james scratched his jaw. “my question still stands, though. how y’feeling?”

“as well as one can feel after breaking most of their bones and transforming into a class five monster, i suppose.” remus licked his chapped lips. his undereyes were dark—an unusual sight—and his voice raspy from all the howling he’d done last night. he didn’t seem tired in the sleepy way; rather, worn down. “i’m just sick of this stupid bed. i’m fine. i’ve done this my whole life. i hate being here while everyone treats me like porcelain; like they pity me. and it’s boring.”

sirius furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “i don’t pity you, moony. in fact, i take great pleasure in kicking you when you’re already down. for example,” sirius cleared his throat dramatically, “let’s discuss last night, shall we?”

you glanced around the room. “muffliato,” you murmured. “yeah, we were right. i wouldn’t trust sirius with any secrets.”

sirius glared at you and returned to his story. “apparently, my kisses are not appreciated by a certain rabbit, but snot is fine? i see how it is.”

you looked at your feet. remus became defensive. “i do not have snot!”

james looked at sirius knowingly. “yes, you do. it was dripping out of your nose, mate. you fell asleep and i swear, there was a puddle of wet stuff underneath you. horrid, i tell you.” james pretended to shiver.

remus quickly changed the subject. “how’d you all leave in time?”

“peter,” you all chorused. you tilted your head towards the bashful boy. “again, peter’s the most responsible one when you’re not here. he bit us until we woke up and we snuck out before sunrise. you were already asleep then.”

“wait, so did you four get any sleep last night?”

james pursed his lips. “hopper did… and- and sirius power-napped?”

remus looked at you all disappointedly. peter jumped in. “in my defense, i was a rat surrounded by giants! excluding you, hopper. it’s not exactly easy to fall asleep knowing you could be accidentally trampled and killed!”

you pointed at peter in agreement. “see? see? nobody’s scared of you, moony. we’re scared of james’ nonexistent coordination.”

remus cracked a smile.

james was offended. “excuse me? you’re talking to the best chaser in gryffindor history, here! i’ve got a bloody plaque and everything!”

as peter and sirius laughed, you turned to remus and the two of you exchanged a quiet moment. “how are you, really?” you mouthed.

“‘m alright, i promise,” remus’ lips twitched before falling into a frown. he winced. it seemed as if the corners of his mouth were beginning to bleed.

you gasped. “merlin, you’re bleeding! let me get some salve or something, stay right there.”

remus chuckled. “i’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

you hurried over to madam pomfrey, practically sliding on the tiled floor in your frenzy. “madam pomfrey, do you have any salve? remus’ hands are all cracked and his lips are beginning to bleed,” you huffed.

madam pomfrey blinked at you and remained silent for a second, before shaking her head clear and digging through a messy medicine cabinet. she held up a small jar labelled “BALM” and placed it in your hand. “it’s my own recipe. very effective.”

you thanked her graciously, and as you rushed back to remus, you could feel her eyes on your back, almost like she was judging you.

“rem, you’re bleeding! did you not notice?” you gushed, unscrewing the “balm” and sticking two fingers into it, scoping out a generous amount of the thick paste and grabbing remus’ hand.

remus’ chest shook with laughter as he watched you fret over him with more care than he’d give to himself. you kneeled down beside him, laying his hand on top of his leg gently, so you could rub the salve into his broken skin.

“rem, i’m serious. why don’t-”

“no, i’m sirius,” sirius interjected, laughing at his own wit. peter chuckled weakly. james didn’t speak, too busy watching you and remus interact.

“-why don’t you take care of yourself more? look, your skin is all dry and cracked. do you have eczema?”

“what’s eczema?” james’ head perked up. “is it a disease? is it contagious?”

peter sighed. “no, it’s a skin condition. it’s when you have dry patches or rashes and no, james, it’s not contagious.”

james sighed in relief.

you and remus were still in your quiet bubble. “i dunno, hopper,” remus mumbled, his eyes fixed on your careful fingers as they moved across the palms of his hands in small swirls, like young, sprightly dancers across an old theater’s well-worn stage. “all the little stuff was kinda forgotten after… y’know. i got bitten. eczema was the least of my worries.” remus laughed dryly, coughing slightly from the effort.

“have you had water? remus, you’ve got to take better care of yourself,” you chided. there was a glass of water on the table beside him, and you adjusted the straw so remus could drink while lying down. remus waved your hand away, pushing himself up into a seated position, much to your disapproval. he looked you firmly in the eye as he took the straw out of the cup, and made a big show of drinking normally.

you bit back a smile at his stubbornness. remus smiled too, the corners of his mouth stretching and pulling too tightly. you placed your hands on remus’ cheeks, willing them into a loose position. going back for more balm, you rubbed your fingers together so the heat of your hands would melt the paste into something thin enough to spread.

“i- i’m going to touch your lips now, if that’s okay,” you breathed, suddenly hyperaware of your compromised position. you were eye level with his chest. “is this alright?” you murmured, sitting yourself on the edge of his bed once more and turning your torso in line with his. you were now eye level, so you could reach the skin on his face more easily.

“yeah, i- it’s okay,” remus dipped his head in affirmation, swallowing thickly. you watched, mesmerized, as his adam’s apple bobbed, and you had to tear your gaze away in favor of the salve on your hand.

“okay, just- um, sit still, please.” your finger was wobbly as it inched closer to remus’ face, and you prayed he wouldn’t notice. you found yourself leaning closer, your free hand coming up to cup his jaw; you felt the growing stubble scratch your palm. oh, how torturous it was to be so close to him, to run your fingers over the lips you’d desperately craved for three years, only to stop yourself from kissing him. he was hurt, and all you could think about was your unrealistic indulgences. you knew remus would never be so selfish.

remus had closed his eyes. you felt like you were taking advantage of him, in some way, by slowing down the movement of your fingers so you could take a couple more seconds to memorize his face. the cluster of freckles under his eyes, the little bump on his nose, the curve of his eyebrows that seemed to twitch with each of your touches, the scars across his cheek that you longed to touch and worship and love…

“okay! okay, i’m all done!” you blurted. you’d recoiled as soon as you found your thoughts drifting into dangerous territory. you smiled awkwardly at him. “sorry about that.” your face scrunched.

remus’ eyes seemed to bore into yours, like he knew what you were thinking. wordlessly, he smoothed out the anxious wrinkles on your face, a content calmness washing over his face as soon as he saw you untense. you prayed that he couldn’t feel your face burning up.

“you could give madam pomfrey a run for her money.” sirius broke the silence, making both you and remus jump.

peter glanced over his shoulder and found madam ponfrey deeply invested in her work. “it’s definitely been more than 20 minutes. y’reckon we should just stay until she kicks us out?”

“duh.” james rolled his eyes. “that way, evans won’t force me to do my homework.”

remus looked much better by monday. you would occasionally glance over at him, but only because you were worried about his dry skin. you’d convinced madam pomfrey to let you take the rest of the balm, and now you would force remus to apply it at least three times a day. he didn’t object, much to your surprise.

“can you drop it?” reamus threw an arm over his eyes as peter and james prattled on about the importance of stretching and peter’s father’s muggle pilates class that had done wonders for his flexibility. after seeing remus bedridden from a transformation, their concern and caring nature only multiplied.

“okay, but get this. muggles go to this person called a chiropractor, and they pay the chiropracter to break their bones!” james’ eyes were wide with wonder.

“no, james. they crack their bones,” peter corrected.

“i know! that’s wild, right? i think it could be good for you.” james patted remus on the shoulder. “if not, you should look into cupping therapy. it’s an asian practice; it’s worked for centuries! oh! oh! or, you could-”

remus groaned. “seriously, i’m fine. thanks, though.”

you sat on his bed beside him; the two of you preferred watching peter and james’ antics from a distance. you moved closer to remus, the mattress shifting under your weight.

“hey, i know you’re kind of sick of us worrying about you, but will you at least let me do the balm for you? it’s just that i-”

“yes, yes, please do.” remus interrupted. his eyes widened as if he hadn’t meant to say anything. “i mean, yes, that’s okay. i’m okay with that.”

you tried to hide your giddiness as you pulled the balm from the pocket of your robes (you’d taken to carrying it around wherever you went) and followed the routine you and remus had fallen into. he’d hold out his hand, you’d take it and apply the balm, and he’d squeeze your hand and you’d probably look up at him, all flustered, and he’d probably look down at you, all flustered, and you’d probably stay there for a moment before letting go of each others’ hands, all flustered.

you hated how much of an effect he had on you. you prided yourself on being collected and consistent and confident, but he seemed to shatter every one of your walls with just one look. and you hated yourself for never being able to stick around whenever he saw past one of your acts. when he’d ask you what was wrong, or if you were okay, or if you needed to talk, you’d always plaster this stupid smile on and brush him off.

but sometimes you weren’t okay. sometimes, your mind raced with thoughts of the war, and concerns about remus’ lycanthropy, and what would happen to him as not only a half-blood but a werewolf, and what would happen to you as a muggle born, and what would happen to the two of you if you ended up tog-

you didn’t want to burden remus with such things, so you didn’t. you didn’t want to burden anyone with such trivial worries, so you didn’t. that was something you liked about yourself: you cared about your friends enough to make sure they didn’t have to fall into your pits of distress because you never tied them down with anchors. you made sure that they could sail freely.

so there went the routine. you dropped remus’ hand and busied yourself with screwing the cap back on, and you could feel remus’ eyes on the crown of your head as you ducked down and tried to avoid his gaze.

“what’re you two up to now?” sirius leaned on the doorframe, taking in the scene before him.

“you’re back!” you jumped from remus’ bed and ran towards sirius, enveloping him into a big hug. sirius laughed, reciprocating. he lifted you from the ground and swayed you back and forth enthusiastically, much to your glee.

“i’m back!” he boomed. “good godric, i think i’d rather kiss my mother than take another detention with binns.”

“you’re back,” remus grumbled, suddenly sullen. peter and sirius exchanged the same knowing look that they had been for weeks now.

peter waggled his eyebrows at sirius, and james, for once, caught on. james stifled a laugh. “i never noticed, but you and padfoot look really good together,” he commented nonchalantly.

“yeah?” sirius raised a brow. “d’you think so, dove?” he lowered you to the ground and looked down at you questioningly.

“erm, what?” you smiled thinly. “like, as a couple?”

“yeah,” peter agreed, “i could totally see it. you’re both… uh…” peter struggled to find traits that the two of you had in common. you and sirius more so balanced each other out rather than complimented each other.

“you’re both beautiful!” janes shouted. “suuuper handsome. real lookers, you two.”

remus turned away from james and peter’s terrible matchmaking and settled for shuffling his feet back and forth on the floor. he tried not to tap; you always knew something was up when he tapped. he wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated.

“thanks, james.” you squinted. “are you guys okay? you’re being really weird.”

“all good!” james fumbled. “i just got excited about… the two of you, s’all.”

“oh, i know! you’re both really stubborn,” peter blurted.

you looked at sirius, confused. sirius shrugged.

“alright, you’ve officially lost it. sirius and i?” you wrinkled your nose at him.

sirius laughed in agreement. “we’d never work. i’m too ravishingly gorgeous and effortlessly charismatic for hopper. she’d blind herself trying to admire my radiance, and we don’t want that, do we?”

“for your information, sirius, i’m way out of your league. resort to your flowery language if you must, but i don’t need to prove my worth. it speaks for itself,” you humphed, sticking your chin up theatrically.

remus grinned, hiding it under his tilted face.

“alright, i’m officially done here. goodbye, marauders!” you called from over your shoulder as you scurried down the spiral staircase.

“goodbye marauder, singular!” james shouted after you.

peter looked at remus smugly. “y’good, moony? or is your skin acting up? should we apply some more balm for you?”

“yeah, y’look a little off, mate. s’everything alright?” james pitched in.

“i’m fine,” remus snapped.

“are you sure? you seem… upset,” sirius probed, inching closer.

“i’m not upset!” remus insisted. “i’m completely fine, see?” he lifted his head up and it was comically obvious that he was upset. his eyebrows were pinched and his cheeks slightly flushed.

“okay, okay! you’re not upset. would you say that you’re… jealous?” sirius grinned.

“i don’t know what you mean.”

“oh c’mon,” james whined, throwing himself backwards onto remus’ bed. “we all know you like her.”

“i- i don’t know who you’re talking about,” remus stammered.

peter clicked his tongue. “has anyone told you you’re a shit liar, moony?”

“oh, sod off, would’ya?”

“moony’s jealous! moony’s jealous!” james and sirius cheered, watching as remus’ ears began to turn red. “oooo, you so like her,” james teased.

“i do not!”

sirius shook his finger at remus. “aha! so there is a her!”

“no! i mean, i just-”

“mate, she obviously likes you back. she’s confessed her love to you at least twice now. i dunno what you’re doing, but whatever it is, stop.” peter crossed his arms, disappointed at his friend.

remus tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “it doesn’t matter if she likes me back, i don’t want to be with her.”

“why?” james yelled, absolutely horrified.

“that makes no sense!” sirius gasped, baffled.

“you dimwit!” peter scoffed.

“because she’s… she’s her, and i’m me!” remus snarled, whipping his head around to face his three meddlesome friends. “don’t you understand? i’m- i’m going to spend the rest of my life trapped by this damn condition and she’s been through one transformation with me and- and do you see how much she’s been struggling? she’s not been sleeping or eating properly; she’s constantly chasing me and she won’t let me bloody help her. i just know she’d spend the rest of her life trying to fix me but i can’t be fixed and i won’t let her waste her life tied down by someone like me!”

the marauders were silent.

“what do you mean, ‘someone like you?’” sirius croaked.

remus exhaled shakily. “a monster, sirius. she deserves so much more than a monster.”

monday potions with the slytherins was surprisingly your favorite class. you were good at potions, and as long as you sat near the front, you wouldn’t have to deal with the nastier specimens. today was no exception. you and lily—the two of you were almost always partners—were all the way up front, and early as well.

there were still a few minutes until class started and slughorn had not yet arrived. you and lily were sifting through your satchels for quills and parchment while you chatted.

“so where were you last saturday?” lily smoothed out her parchment with concentration.

“uh, mo- remus had a cold, so i went to check on him,” you lied smoothly.

“oh, remus had a cold, now did he?” lily didn’t look at you, but you could hear the teasing in her voice.

“yes, remus had a cold. and being the considerate and polite friend that i am, i went to check on him,” you stated plainly.

lily hummed questioningly. “let’s say i believe you—in terms of the friend bit, i mean. why haven’t i seen you all weekend? surely, you haven’t been sleeping over in the hospital wing. and you don’t seem very sick to me.”

“i-” you coughed. “i’ve been… busy.”

it was a flimsy lie, and you both knew it. lily sighed, tutting at your secretive behavior. “alright then, whatever you say. now, i have to fill you in on-”

“look, there’s two of ‘em!” mulciber’s crass voice interrupted you and lily’s peaceful conversation.

you rolled your eyes, resigning yourself to lining up your quill and parchment so they were perfectly parallel.

“the prude and the slut!” somebody laughed, their identity lost underneath the layer of chittering students who began to flood into the classroom.

you looked over at lily, examining her reaction. her eyebrows, thin and straight, twitched noticably. you watched as she pursed her lips momentarily before pulling them into a strained smile. “like i was saying, i’ve got to fill you in on mary’s minstrations at lunch.”

you smiled warmly at her. lily wore her heart on her sleeve unabashedly, and you were always better at hiding your feelings. that’s why people flocked to you for comfort, you assumed.

“hello, lovely ladies!” sirius suavely sat behind you, resting his elbows on the desk and propping his head up. “what a beautiful morning it is, but not quite as beautiful as you two,” he flirted.

you pinched his cheek. “hey, gorgeous,” you purred, looking him up and down. “i could say the same to you.”

remus slid into the seat beside sirius, smiling stiffly at you and raising his hand in greeting.

“oh! hi, remus!” you were caught off guard and your voice was pitched higher than normal. you cleared your throat. “i mean, hi.”

remus looked around nervously. “yeah. hi.”

“GOOD MORNING!” slughorn boomed, somehow even more passionate than usual. there were a few murmurs of “good morning” and other halfhearted greetings, though slughorn wasn’t at all put off by the lack of enthusiasm.

“is it just me, or has he lost it?” you heard james whisper to peter from beside you.

“has he ever had it?” peter rebuked, making you chuckle under your breath. lily looked over at you questioningly. you waved it off.

“as you all know, your o.w.l.s. are coming up, which is why the rest of our classes this year will be dedicated to content review.”

the class groaned.

“however!” slughorn beamed. “this year’s examinations will focus primarily on brewing and less on history, which means i will be making all essays worth a quarter less.

“instead, we will be focusing on more challenging in-class potions in partners. now, i understand that you’ve all been allowed to choose partners in the past; however, to ensure that your brewing capabilities are not dependent on a certain partner,” slughorn looked at avery and crouch in the back, “i will be randomly assigning different partners for each class.

“today, we will be brewing the wit-sharpening potion—godric knows some of you need it,” slughorn muttered, “and these will be the pairs:

“evans and pettigrew, potter and crouch…” james’ head fell to his hands in defeat.

“longbottom and mckinnon, y/n and snape…”

the four marauders and whipped their heads to you in mortification. lily saw their expressions and rolled her eyes. she patted your arm reassuringly. “aw, sev’s not so bad. he’s great at potions; you’ll be such a fantastic team!”

you smiled painfully at lily, nodding along. “yeah, i bet. thanks, lily.”

“…let’s get moving, folks! the group with the best potion will be exempt from the 3 page essay for homework.”

your eyes widened. you really wanted that exemption.

“severus!” you called out meekly. “hey, it’s good to see you… again.” the last time you’d seen snape was when he’d come looking for lily only to walk in on a conversation which mainly consisted of you airing out your distaste for the boy.

“do not call me severus.”

“a- alright then!” you tried your best to be optimistic. “shall i get the ingredients, or would you like to?”

“i’ll get them,” snape scowled. he dropped his voice to a bitter hiss.“i can’t deal with another incompetant muggle-born messing things up.”

you raised your eyebrows but remained silent. there was a time and place for picking fights, and it would do no good to sacrifice your potions grade over some carbon copy blood supremacist. plus, a bad grade would only fuel the misconception that muggle-borns were less capable.

snape returned, handling the ingredients like they were precious. “you can boil the water.” snape didn’t spare you a glance before beginning to cut up the ginger root. his cuts were slow and measuredd; snape sat back and examined his work smugly. when you glanced over at his handiwork, you scoffed.

“it doesn’t matter how carefully you cut the ginger,” you sighed in disapproval, “if the pieces aren’t even.” you held up the two slices he’d cut, holding them in the air next to each other. “see, this one has a bump, which probably adds two or three grams. just because they’re the same length doesn’t mean they’re the same volume.”

snape narrowed his eyes at you. “do you really think i would’ve missed that? you’re not better than me. keep your little comments to yourself.”

you glared at him. “sure. why don’t you run and grab a scale, snape, and we’ll inspect your work.”

you were right: snape had cut the ginger pieces unevenly. you didn’t bother rubbing it in, knowing that just being proven wrong was a blow to his ego enough.

snape dropped the trimmed pieces into the cauldron and the two of you admired the nice green that the potion changed to. snape, who liked to remain emotionless, seemed to be surprised. you cheered internally. last class, slughorn had told snape his potion coloration was slightly dull. if it hadn’t been for your advice, this potion would’ve ended up the same way.

“armadillo bile,” you read off from the blackboard. “you can do that, if you want. i’ll prepare the scarab beetles.”

snape agreed, much to your surprise. you could hear snide comments from the back of the room emerge and snape’s willing compliance.

“taking orders from a mudblood, is he?”

“he’s such a humiliation.”

“dear salazar, bella would throw a fit if she was here.”

you paid them no mind. in fact, you found yourself enjoying the slytherins’ belittling of snape. they truly were gryffindor’s opposites; no loyalty to their follow housemates.

grinding the scarab beetles turned out to be an effective stress reliever. you fell into a comfortable rhythm with old mortar and pestle, almost missing the look remus flashed at you.

you caught his eye before he could look away, and remus mouthed, “how’s it going?”

you gave him an exaggerated look of distress in response. he covered his mouth, but you watched as his eyes turned into little crescent moons, indicating his laughter. you bit back a smile.

“quit whoring around with the half-blood,” snape spat. he eyed the powdered beetle shells disdainfully, and snatched the mortar from your hands. “merlin, you’re useless.”

you let snape sprinkle in the powder and from the corner of your eye, watched as he added more armadillo bile. you were reoccupied with watching the back of remus’ head as he bent over his steaming cauldron. remus waved a hand in front of his face to fan the steam from his eyes. his partner, mary, was giggling. their hands brushed as they both reached for more ginger root, and you found yourself tensing up.

“since you’re so particular about it, why don’t you cut up the rest of the ginger?” snape jeered, sliding the knife towards your side of the desk. you barely looked up before you began to cut. you could feel snape’s watchful gaze boring holes into your hands as he searched for any reason to ridicule you, but your hands were steady. you were confident in your potion-making abilities, and it showed.

“here,” you held out four nearly identical slices of ginger root to snape, and he picked them up from your palms delicately as if the slightest touch or brush over your skin would burn him like acid.

the potion turned a pale, buttery yellow. focused, deliberate clockwise spins of snape’s wand began to reveal a pigmented buttercup color. you tapped snape’s shoulder and he recoiled, but allowed you to take over the mixing. a couple more stirs and you were left with a rich ochre potion, which had reached a consistent temperature without much bubbling.

“this is wonderful; truly fantastic work!” slughorn commended, clapping his hands together. “you should be very proud of yourselves.” in your potion-brewing haze, you hadn’t realized that slughorn had already reviewed most of the class’ potions. james and barty crouch sat in front of a cauldron that seemed to be hissing, while frank and marlene high fived each other, satisfied with their average outcome.

“you may be dismissed! the two of you,” slughorn waved at you and snape, “please stay back. and miss evans, i’d like to speak to you as well. you’re not in trouble, don’t worry,” he chortled.

lily hurried to your side, taking your hand and squeezing it reassuringly. she seemed pleased to see snape and smiled at him kindly. snape nodded his head in response, his oily hair falling from where it’d been tucked behind his ear. he pushed it out of his face bashfully.

“as fifth year students, i’d like to invite you to what i call ‘the slug club.’ it’s named after me, see?” slughorn pointed at himself jovially. “i invite the most promising fifth, sixth, and seventh year students, and i’d like you all to attend. the three of you have demonstrated incredible ability in my classroom.

“now, i’m hosting the first slug club event of the year this sunday at eight in the spare room across from my office. it’s an important meeting; you’ll introduce yourselves and get to know each other. dinner will be served as well, so there’s no excuses! i expect to see you all there.” slughorn patted his belly happily and made his way back to his desk, excusing the three of you as he squeezed through the rows of tables.

lily was sprightly as she manuevered easily through the desks. you patted your satchel, making sure you’d packed everything up. snape, who was always in a rush to get out of the classroom, lingered.

you paid him no mind as you buttoned everything up and tightened your straps, slinging your bag over your shoulder. it clanked as it hit corners and sides of tables—fifth year textbooks were much thicker and heavier than the years before.

you could feel snape’s gloomy presence behind you, trailing along like the stubborn smell of smoke. he was going down the same row of tables you were, most likely to bother you. he was so close that you could feel his sticky breath on your neck; he smelled of salty sardines and wilted cabbage. you shuddered.

snape cleared his throat ostentatiously, and before you could move aside like any decent person would do, he shoved past you proudly. his bag, heavy laden with textbooks and other snape-y evil contraptions, hit your hip. the bag bounced off of your body and flapped open—he’d forgotten to fasten it—and out fell a small book. it thudded on the ground, but somehow, snape didn’t seem to notice. you didn’t think much of it; you weren’t inclined to chase him down and return it.

curious, you slipped it into your bag for further investigation.

the marauders were waiting for you outside the classroom. “what was that, thumper?” james slung an arm around your shoulder, leaning his body weight on you until your knees buckled. the two of you wobbled before james grabbed onto remus’ forearm and grounded himself.

“slughorn invited me to ‘the slug club. it’s for promising students,” you sneered mockingly. “please, what’s so promising about me? i’ve got a couple major felonies under my belt that i’ve yet to be prosecuted for?”

sirius laughed. “godric, i love you. where’ve you been all my life?”

“in the library, with remus.” you snuck a glance at the tall, brown haired boy to find him smiling down at you, eyes darting across your face.

“ugh, you two are so infuriating.” peter kicked his satchel, which had been lying on the ground, in annoyance.

“what?”

“why?”

“because,” peter droned, as if it was obvious, “you’re so perfect for each other. the two of you must be the smartest, stupidest blokes i’ve ever met.”

“that’s quite the oxymoron,” remus noted.

“see?” peter pointed. “proves my point!”

“i don’t understand why you haven’t just ki-”

lily saved you from a very awkward conversation. “y/n, babe!” she skipped towards you, elated. “you’re going to slughorn’s event, right? sev promised to be my date, and i think you should find someone too. it’ll be a blast!”

james sputtered. “sev? what the bloody hell is ‘sev?’”

lily stared at him judgememntally. “…severus? sev, severus?”

sirius’ jaw dropped. “your date is snivellus?”

lily scowled. “how many times have i told you not to call him that? he’s not so bad—babe, tell them! he was nice during potions today, right?”

you stretched your lips into a thin, pained smile. “yeah, he was… civil.” you thought that was a bit too generous.

“see?” lily sighed happily. “i don’t understand why you can’t give him a chance. he’s very nice once you get to know him, i promise.”

you nodded slowly, unconvinced. you looked at remus, who looked at james and sirius, who looked completely outraged.

“evans, please, don’t go with him. hey- hey! you could go with me! mcgonagall told me slughorn invited me too, during transfiguration. ditch snivellus, we’d have a much better time together,” james winked.

lily wrinkled her nose. “you’re rancid, potter.” she turned to you and her expression softened. “bye, y/n. see you later!”

“wait,” james paused, “you don’t have a date, right? will you be my date to slughorn’s… thing? pleaaaase, thumper?”

you grabbed james by the shoulders (which was admittedly a bit difficult, because he was much taller than you) and shook him. “no need to beg, prongs. i’m all yours.”

remus began tapping his foot.

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dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night · 9 months

Text

You Can't Follow your Heart if There's a Stake Through it chapter one

TW: stalking, kidnapping, captivity, obsession, death threats, fear of death, burns, muzzling, restraints, displayed dead body parts, delusional thinking, creepy whumper, human whumper, vampire whumpee, captive whumpee

After months of Jacob watching Rurik from afar, they were finally making eye contact. A lovely moment, truly a dream come true, and surely their lives would grow all the more happy the longer they spent in each other's company.

The love of Jacob's life stared up at him, stricken with panic and fighting against the leather padded silver restraints. Despite his disappointment, Jacob couldn't blame him for it. Rurik was, after all, muzzled and tied up in his own earth filled casket.

Jacob tucked a piece of hair behind Rurik's ear. It was softer than it looked, like Jacob was petting a rabbit. He ran his fingers through it a few more times, the first gesture of affection of many more to come.

"Shhh," Jacob whispered. "You're alright. I've got you. I won't hurt you. I must say, you're even more handsome up close."

Rurik tried to speak, but the large bit in his mouth harshly stopped his voice from escaping his curled back lips. He leaned away from Jacob's touch, still frightened despite his reassurances.

Rurik's fear hurt Jacob down to the marrow of his bones. All Jacob wanted to do was show him the love that had blossomed in his heart so long ago. But reason still meant something to him, and he realized that he wouldn't make any progress until Rurik felt he was on equal footing with him.

Vampires were all proud creatures. Narcissistic, vain, and prone to flattery. Being tied up and muzzled by a human must have been a humiliation. Jacob hated himself for putting Rurik through so much pain, even though it was necessary.

Jacob gently lifted his beloved's head to unfasten the bit, and set the wretched thing on the floor. Oh, how Rurik's fangs gleamed. Vampires were perfect killing machines, and never before had Jacob looked at one with such glee. Not even after staking dozens if not hundreds through the heart, listening to their screams with sick satisfaction.

"I'm sorry about that," Jacob apologized. "It's just that I didn't want you escaping. I won't muzzle you again if you behave yourself."

Rurik didn't answer. He moved his jaw, trying to adjust to the bit having been removed. His eyes flicked around the room, but he didn't look once at Jacob. His eyes widened as they came to rest on something behind Jacob- Jacob loved those cat like orange eyes, with their thin pupils and gorgeous lashes -and Rurik began struggling all the harder against his restraints.

Jacob turned to see what was bothering his beloved, fully intending to do away with it. His eyes met with his various "trophies" and he mentally kicked himself. He should have hidden the macabre display before opening Rurik's casket. He hastily threw a large blood stained towel of the glass display case, hiding the fanged skulls and other morbid curiosities.

"There," he said, looking down at Rurik, "is that better?"

Rurik shook his head wildly. Jacob couldn't find anything else in the room that could be bothering his love, so this confused him greatly. In all his years as a vampire hunter, he had never seen one looking so much like a frightened prey animal. Rurik must be deeply misunderstanding the situation.

"I am not going to hurt you," Jacob promised. "I love you. You don't need to be so frightened."

"Кто ты?" Rurik shouted, working himself into a panic as he failed to escape his shackles.

"I don't understand you," Jacob said apologetically. "Could you speak English? I know you know how."

It took Rurik a few minutes to calm down enough to speak properly. Jacob waited patiently, hating his inability to learn other languages. He had tried Russian, along with Spanish, Japanese, and German. But his brain was like a leaky bucket when it came to foreign words, let alone grammar and sentence structure.

Still, Jacob liked the way Rurik spoke, even if he didn't understand what was being said. He had such a lovely voice. It evoked such lovely shades of brown and gold, reminding Jacob of cattails growing on the banks of the river he grew up next to. A childhood lovely memory, brought to the surface by the colors of Rurik's voice.

Finally realizing that his struggle was useless, Rurik tried to curl up and make himself a smaller target, holding his arms tight to his chest.

"Who are you?" he asked.

After spending so long watching Rurik and becoming intimately knowledgeable about the inner workings of his mind, Jacob had forgotten that the love of his life didn't even know his name. But this could be quickly remedied. Surely as soon as Rurik gave Jacob a chance, he would fall deeply in love, just as Jacob had fallen in love with him.

"My name is Jacob Amity," he said, going back to stroking Rurik's mousy brown hair. "I love you, so you mustn't struggle. I know you must be shocked, but I've been planning this for such a terribly long time. Please be patient. I'll get you situated."

"Please don't kill me!" Rurik begged. "I haven't done anything."

Jacob growled in frustration. Rurik clearly wasn't listening. Why couldn't he just listen?! But as he gave the matter more thought. Jacob realized this was his fault.

Vampires from different parts of the world were divided into their own subspecies, all with different abilities and weaknesses. Rurik was Russian, and this made his position all the more terrifying. Being restrained in his burial casket made him vulnerable to Slavic practices of vampire slaying. Jacob had learned of these methods in obsessive detail.

A hawthorn branch driven through the vampire's heart while they slumbered, staking them to the soil of their grave. A brick placed in their mouth to keep them from biting as they fought to survive. Their head removed and placed between their legs, so that they could not heal from the decapitation. Finally, the casket sealed and buried as a final precaution.

Many people debated whether or not the vampires were really dead, or if they were simply sealed away in eternal torment, incapable of ever healing from their injuries. But Jacob couldn't care less about that. He realized now Rurik's intentions in how he positioned his arms over his chest, though they were still shackled to the casket. He was shielding his heart.

The sight filled Jacob with anguish. This hasn't gone according to plan, not one bit.

"If I let you up, will you try to run away?" Jacob asked.

"No- No, I will not."

Jacob withdrew a key from his pocket, and began undoing the shackles around Rurik's ankles. He removed them from the casket, and set them on his desk. He went to work on those around Rurik's wrists, leaving the cuffs in place but removing the chains holding him down.

The silver tucked away within the leather padded cuffs would keep Rurik from shape-shifting into mist or some wild beast, an obvious precaution when fear made him so flighty.

Rurik stood up, and Jacob gently brushed some of the grave soil from his back. Rurik flinched and bolted away. Without hesitation, he twisted the handle of the only door in the room. His shrieks of pain were the worst noises Jacob had ever heard, despite hearing similar screams from so many other vampires. Rurik clutched his horribly burnt hand, shielding it from further injury.

"That's silver," Jacob yelped. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have told you. I'm such a fucking idiot."

"Why am I here?" Rurik demanded. "Where is here? Who are you?"

Jacob knew he had made several serious blunders. How could he convince Rurik to love him now? It seemed so impossible. But surely, if Jacob had made it this far, he would succeed.

"My name is Jacob Amity," he said in a soothing tone. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm sorry about the door and the restraints. They're necessary, just for right now."

Rurik stared at Jacob, his gleaming orange eyes meeting the dark brown of Jacob's. Jacob knew full well that the superstition that vampires could hypnotize people was a thing of pure fiction, but he felt it must hold true. How else to explain these feelings?

"Permit me to leave, Jacob Amity," Rurik ordered. "I need to return home."

"But I want to keep you here," Jacob pleaded. "Please stay. I know things haven't gone well so far, but I'll make it up to you. I love you, Rurik."

"We never met," Rurik growled. "You are vampire slayer and I want to return home."

"You don't get it," Jacob said, heart broken. "You really don't get it."

"Get it?" Rurik asked. Whether his confusion was over the odd English phrasing or over the true meaning behind the words, Jacob had no idea.

"I mean, you don't understand. I've been watching you for months. Finding out everything there is to know about you by following you. I knew you'd never love me unless I did something. You're right, I am a vampire slayer. But I would never hurt you. I want you to love me the same way I love you. You're a remarkable creature who has seduced me without even trying. Please don't try to leave me."

Surely Jacob baring his innermost feelings to his beloved would have them returned. Even a vampire couldn't be cold hearted enough to reject him after all the effort he put in. If it took hours, or days, or weeks, Jacob would make up for every misstep.

"You can't love me," Rurik said, backing himself into a corner of the room. "You can't love me. I am not seductress. I did not seduce you by mistake."

Jacob nearly started crying. How? How could he be so misunderstood? Was it a simple matter of Rurik being panicked and injured? Was Jacob not explaining himself well? Or, worst of all, did his love only view him as a threat instead of a devoted partner?

"I can kill you," Rurik said. "Bite you. You will bleed and die. I will return home."

So, he did view Jacob as a threat. What a horrible revelation. Jacob had no idea what he could do to make his intentions any more clear. Why was Rurik so stubborn? All Jacob wanted was to listen to his golden voice, braid his lovely hair, and show him any other kind of affection he could muster.

"You can't," Jacob explained. "That's the only door, and it's lined with silver. You can't change form, because of the silver in those cuffs. You can't leave. And if you kill me, the other vampire slayers here will kill you."

"Other vampire slayers," Rurik repeated, his chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. "Others? More?"

"Yes." Jacob nodded. "I want to keep you alive, so you have to stay here. This is my room in the stronghold. You're allowed here. If you leave, they will murder you. Only I can keep you safe."

Jacob grabbed Rurik's hands, careful not to cut himself on the sharpened claws. Finally being allowed to touch the love of his life filled him with heavenly joy. Rurik's hands were as cold to the touch as was expected of his undead nature. It reminded Jacob of flipping over his pillow in the night, tired of the warmth produced by his own body and enjoying the untouched chill of the flipside. Human blood ran too hot for his liking.

"I love you," Jacob repeated. "You may not know me, but I know you. Just give me a chance."

Finally coming to his senses, Rurik nodded, still staring at the door. He pulled his burnt hand away, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, leaving Jacob feeling guilty for having touched it.

Taglist: @hugh-lauries-bald-spot @devourerofcheesecake @heavenly-whumper @whumpsday @whumpshaped @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

#Abraham original: Hot off the press #Whump #Stalking whump #Captivity whump #Vampire whumpee #Vampire hunter whumper #Human whumper #Nonhuman whumpee #Creepy whumper #Intimate whumper #Captive whumpee #Whump writing #Whumpblr

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hamilgodd · 7 months

Text

The beginning

ProSenna child LewisAu! Pt. 1

Abu Dhabi is probably one of the most beautiful places he has visited and is undoubtedly the most painful memory he now has. Fireworks paint the dark sky with vibrant colors; reds, yellows and greens that flash and dance celebrating the victory of a man who has become a champion.

A world champion.

He is familiar with that emotion, with the celebration, the excitement, the flashes and the taste of warm champagne. He knows the weight of the trophy, the tiredness of his bones after the race, the way in which everything seems to disappear, as nothing really matters. Seven times he has been on the podium celebrating a new championship that bears his name; the eighth is not for him.

There are a thousand things he wants to say, to do. He wants to run, hide, scream; he feels how tears accumulate in his eyes but he doesn't let them run; the cameras still focus on him and he doesn't want to give them more material to be judged mercilessly.

It's what they always do.

It hurts, it burns; it's like a fire that doesn't know how to put out. It burns in his throat and he wants to let out a sob; he wants to seek the comfort of familiar arms that he knows are looking at him. He lowers his head too embarrassed; he has let everyone down.

His steps are trembling and he moves by inertia inside the paddock; his hands tremble and he throws the trophy they gave him aside without caring that the pieces were broken by the impact. It may have been days, hours or just seconds, but it feels like an eternity he is aware of that, of the hollow feeling, the dark shadow lurking.

He is alone in his motorhome.

He is alone.

The clock moves forward without stopping for a minute, and he can't take it anymore. This is how the German finds him.

"Oh my love" Nico whispers shattered to see Lewis like this, to his mind comes a memory that feels very distant but at the same time very close; an unpleasant one; a memory of when everything broke between them. "I'm already here, it's okay..."

It is a repetition, a dejavú that should never have took place; anger, disbelief and pain are mixed in his chest. He can't believe what's happening; not again.

They spend that night hugging each other in the hotel where they don't even know exactly how they arrived; the bed sinks under the weight of both of them and he says nothing when he feels his shirt wet from the tears finally shed.

He caresses the soft cheek, there are some wrinkles in the corner of his mouth; he is surprised how far everything he has come. He is in charge of driving away the nightmares that come to knock on the door; he guards his dream, he does not let anyone take away the tranquility he finds in the kingdom of Morpheus.

At least for those hours, the outside world can't touch him. At least for those hours, Lewis is safe.

Safe in his arms.

—

The hotel restaurant is full, but the small private area that they arrange to book only has them. His hands play nervously with the cutlery and the edge of the tablecloth. His eyes do not move away from the door knowing that at any moment he will arrive.

"Mon solei... please calm down" Alain's voice always manages to reassure him, it is his beacon of light in the middle of the storm. The only one who can make his heart stop beating so fast in the face of the imminent encounter.

"Papá..." whispers Lewis as soon as he sees them when he enters, Ayrton doesn't wait a second longer. He got up in a hurry almost turning the chair where he was sitting; in a few seconds his arms had already surrounded his son.

He held it carefully, like when Lewis was still a little boy with his knees scratched. He began to whisper senseless sweets in Portuguese, in Spanish, in English. It didn't matter, the only thing he wanted was to find a way to stick those fallen pieces of his son's broken and lost heart.

"We are so proud of you" Alain joins the hug. "In our eyes, you are the best pilot and keep in mind that we are great references in children's sport" the three laugh and it is one of the most beautiful sounds that Ayrton has had the opportunity to hear in his life.

Their son has sadness engraved on his face, they can easily notice that. His hands tremble and he avoids looking at them, but it's okay; there's no problem with that. They both know well that he needs time, that he needs his family; that the fact that everything was so unfair is going to hurt and above all, they know that he is going to recover.

That he's going to come back like never before.

Stronger.

Faster.

Better.

The laughter and the familiar moment make them not notice the camera flash. That's why the next morning when the news comes out, it's a surprise to see the face of the three on the front page and the most accurate title but that also carries with it the most important secret they have.

Lewis Hamilton or Lewis Prost-Senna?

#lewis hamilton au #Lewis Prost-Senna Au #Lewis is the Prosenna child #lewis hamilton fic #formula 1 au #social media au #drabble #ayrton senna #lewis hamilton #alain prost #brocedes #prosenna

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argisthebulwark · 9 months

Text

TES Summer Fest Day 4: mortal/sanctuary

summary: Miraak finds that learning how to be mortal is a challenge he's unprepared for. warnings: none @tes-summer-fest | day one day two day three

Ink stained skin had become pale during his years of seclusion, scars stark and unfamiliar. His mask was forgotten among the Dragonborn’s overflowing trunk of trophies and old robes were folded neatly in the bottom of their wardrobe. Stripped of the power he'd known for ages, leather armor was Miraak’s only protection from the world. He felt vulnerable, soft. He felt human.

Every sensation was stronger than he remembered. Decades had come and gone in a flash since he was sealed in Apocrypha, nestled away from most basic human feelings. A gentle breeze ruffled through the grass and somewhere nearby livestock chattered. Miraak sucked in a deep breath and felt the chill of early autumn in his lungs, grounding him. He stood on the shore of a lake and took in the world around him; the frigid water lapping at his boots and chilling his toes, the swaying of trees along the property's border. It was all far louder than he remembered.

He'd become feeble without Mora's power. Deep in his gut Miraak knew that the Dragonborn had saved him. They'd cleansed him by wrenching him free instead of delivering his prophesized death, but doing so had revealed a weakness even his perceptive eyes hadn't spotted. His reliance on Hermaeus Mora was stronger than Miraak had realized.

His throat was torn from hours spent attempting to summon the power of his Thu'um. He felt the ability within him but it had atrophied, withering just out of reach. Apocrypha may have heightened his abilities but it had become a crutch he relied on too heavily. It had been too long since the well of power had belonged solely to him and Miraak mourned the years he'd wasted allowing it to become weak.

The Last Dragonborn's demonstrations were both helpful and annoying. Their Voice was so clear, Shouts as natural as breathing. Miraak thanked them for their aid but there was a nasty, squirming jealousy tainting his words. Their ease unlocked memories stashed away of a life he'd once lived. So desperately he wanted to blame them for it but Miraak knew the Dragonborn was not at fault for his Voice becoming rusty, barbed words often dying before passing his lips. As always, the Last Dragonborn sought only to help him.

Becoming mortal again had never been part of his grand plan. He'd sold his soul without a second thought, trading his humanity for Mora's protection from the ravages of time. As the years wore on he found some small part of himself wishing to become more than a ghost but became resigned - it was never a real possibility. Mortality was a weakness he could not afford if he intended to rule. Humanity was a downfall Miraak would not allow.

Witnessing the Last Dragonborn stand before Hermaeus Mora on his behalf had sparked a hope he'd snuffed out long ago. Mortals were soft and weak but this one was far braver than he'd ever dared to be. They stood their ground, negotiating with a deity as if Mora were nothing more than some lowly shopkeeper. They'd selflessly won Miraak's mortal form back with nothing more than a few teasing comments from the old god, unfortunately restoring all the aches and pains it encompassed.

Never again would he taste the addictive power of a daedra but Miraak had been given a second chance. He would not languish and allow it to be wasted. He would practice every Shout until he was hoarse, would swing each weapon from the Dragonborn's armory until his arms went numb. He would not let his new body hold him back. Miraak would become fearsome once more.

Knowing that he was nothing more than flesh and bone terrified Miraak. Shedding the protective hide of Mora had left him vulnerable but he would ensure the Last Dragonborn never regretted their choice.

Bracing himself and Shouting once more he watched ice sparkle and freeze sections of the lake, grinning past the pain in his throat. He was getting stronger. Even as a mere man he would not let those years be wasted. Miraak would prove that mortals can become as terrifying as the gods.

#skyrim #skyrim fanfic #writing #tesfest23 #miraak #prompt: mortal

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evolutionsvoid · 1 month

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The tales speak of a horrid village deep within the haunted wood, where blasphemous arts and dark magic flow in abundance. Some say it is a nest of witches, brewing noxious concoctions, chanting forbidden words and performing vulgar acts. Others claim a cult has set themselves up within that overgrown hovel, praying to evil gods and beckoning malformed things from Beyond. No matter who lives within this hidden village of horror, the tales have them bowing before the same entity. A horrid beast, warped by an ancient curse, shaped into something profane and sickening. To many, it is an abomination, yet these heretics look to it as a king. What vile acts do they commit in its name? What do they gain from feeding it blood and souls? What ambitions lie within its blackened heart, as its horrifying howls ring out during the full moon? No one can say, for few dare venture there, lest they are gobbled up by this terrifying monstrosity. Many monster slayer have plunged into the darkened wood to claim their trophy, or to stop the strange disappearances and horrible noises that come out at night. None of them have ever returned, no doubt devoured by this bestial abomination, or sacrificed by its maddened cult. To the people outside of these horrid place, the entity and its rabid followers will forever be a mystery, but hopefully one that will never rear its head in their little town...

But if they did really want answers, they could just, ya know, ask nicely. And no, storming into the forest with blades drawn and blood lust in your heart doesn't count as "nice." Yeah, it is a scary looking place, but that is kind of the point. Meant to keep people away! But if you did delve into the dark wood with no weapons hidden in your cloak and no malice in your bones, you may actually be welcome to the odd little village within its heart. If they see that you are no foe, than perhaps you may actually meet their bestial leader: King Chimera. If you actually put in the effort to be polite and open, you would find he is a pretty decent guy! Yes, he does eat blood, but that's kind of his thing. You'll see.

It should be known that King Chimera wasn't always a monster, or beast or whatever you call him. He used to be a human, though he doesn't talk too much about his past life. From the short and simple way he explains it, it sounds like he came from a royal and prestigious family, one that was obsessed with reputation, image and legacy. From the way he tells it, it was pretty miserable, all stuffy nonsense, manners and making sure you sit just right and pick up the right fork or someone else may see and spread besmirching gossip. It was a life of following everything to the letter and doing precisely as tradition tells it, sacrificing your own self for the sake of the family's image. The only time he could cut loose while he was a human was at parties, where he took advantage of the cheery open atmosphere to be the second most drunk person there (which was important, because the number one most drunk person was the one who absorbed all the gossip and closed doors slander). Life was....not great, but he didn't know any different, and that wasn't about to change anytime soon due to his position in the family. King Chimera was said to be next in line to inherit the family's fortune, power and reputation, to sit upon noble councils and weigh in on royal affairs. He wasn't thrilled about it, but perhaps this new found power would allow him to loosen up a bit, and find more freedom up on top.

However, other members of his family were not keen on having him be the sole inheritor. Other siblings stuck behind in line wanted the fortune and power, and other relatives did not think he was fit to carry the title. In his human days, King Chimera held certain ideas and opinions that some folk didn't want tied to their family, ones that would no doubt soil their prestigious title and possibly associate them with filthy commoners. So it was decided in secret to get rid of him, before everything was dished out and he got hold of the family's future. Murder was an option, but one that would be too messy. Having him die before his inheritance would be suspicious, and other families would forever whisper and spread rumors about it. Instead, they looked to his partying ways and came up with another idea.

One night, while their family held a raucous ball, a stranger came knocking on their door. The human who would be King Chimera was the one who answered, or at least did their best attempts to due to the copious amounts of liquor already consumed. An old woman stood outside in the cold, and asked for food and shelter. Tales dress up the following interaction into something horrid and violent, of a drunken noble hurling a poor old woman off their doorstep and showering them in mockery and hate. According to King Chimera, it was more "I was pretty tipsy and got a little mouthy with her. Was a bit rude, to be honest." Regardless, the old woman who had been snubbed by this rich noble born into decadence revealed herself to be a powerful witch. For denying one in need when showered in such riches, she struck him with a terrible curse, transforming him into a terrible beast. With his body twisting, swelling and rupturing with wretched growths, he fell into a mad panic and fled into the night. The tales speak of this noble vanishing into the wilderness, eventually mutating into a massive bloodthirsty beast, cursed forever by their avarice. It is a cautionary tale, and one the rest of the family secretly enjoys, with their newfound wealth and positions. Odd that they tend to leave out the numerous drinks they pushed on him that night, and their insistence that he be the one to answer the door...

Indeed, King Chimera became this way through an old witch's curse, forced to forever be some inhuman hybrid of monstrous beasts. He found his body a patchwork of various creatures, cobbled into something grotesque. His mind felt animal instinct growing stronger in his brain, a feral side desperate to be let loose. In his days following that fateful night, he wrestled with these bestial emotions and changing body, fighting to understand what he was becoming. But eventually, he won. And eventually, he found that this was all pretty awesome.

While others may be haunted by their new inhuman form and lost life, King Chimera was thrilled by it. The shackles of his family name and tradition had finally been shed, and for the first time in his life he was free. He could go anywhere, do anything. He ran through the woods like an excited dog, scaled trees, rolled in the dirt, chased prey and feasted upon freshly caught food in the messiest ways he could find. This new life was a primal one, but he found much joy in it. For quite a few months, he lived in this simple way. In time, though, he would stumble upon an abandoned village deep in a gnarled forest, and find a couple of runaways desperately trying to hide and survive. Their plight reminded him of his old life, and how others were trapped like he once was. Some folk are born into lives they do not want, and escape seems impossible. King Chimera vowed that he would be the one to help them break free, and find a better life of their choosing.

King Chimera would build up this overgrown village and help hunt down the materials needed to make it work. He would then seek out those who wanted an escape, and whisk them way to this hidden settlement. People stuck in miserable lives would "vanish" one night, and the family would be baffled of where they went. Little did they know that a great beast had crept to their homes and carried off this starved soul. They would find a new life in this lost village, and eventually others would learn of its open doors and accepting ways and seek it out. Indeed, witches and other despised groups made their way to the village, and all came together to create this secret community. And at the head of it all was King Chimera, serving as their leader and protector.

To this day, King Chimera keeps watch over his people, ensuring they are safe and happy. Due to his position and visage, the inhabitants of the village have taken to worshiping him like a god, bringing offerings and seeking him for wisdom. Though to outsiders, this appears very much like a cult, it is honestly way more laid back and King Chimera rarely uses his position to make demands or take from his followers. In fact, he is a rather charming, relaxed, and with a love for hedonism. Due to his stifled human life, King Chimera has shaped his new path to involve as much pleasures and indulgences as possible. Drinking, smoking, drugs, partying and anything to feel good. When he isn't out hunting or helping people, he can be found lounging in a wooden throne made of gnarled branches, guzzling down blood wine or smoking various substances from his pipe. His neck of the woods is always down for a good time, and festivities are plenty. It should be noted, though, that sometimes he goes a little too hard. Eating too many mushrooms or the latest pipe full of odd herbs causing strange effects. The result is a wild animal running around the woods with reckless abandon, clawing trees, howling at the moon, and rabidly devouring the occasional livestock. Most of the time, no one gets hurt and he wakes up the next morning with a killer hangover. However, these nights of drugged out lunacy do create some scary stories for the locals, talking about the rabid monstrosity that haunts the nights.

In appearance, King Chimera is a bunch of animal parts fused into a single being. He has traits from mammals, reptiles, birds, amphibians, fish and even insects. He has the ability to alter these parts of him, picking certain traits or powering up certain appendages for a desired effect, but doing so requires fuel. And true to the legends, King Chimera's fuel is blood. The nature of his curse and his power requires him to consume blood in order to tap into his own flesh. Like mana being burned in a spell, the blood he drinks is used to fuel his shapeshifting and body enhancements, the cost growing with the complexity of the change. He can swap out limbs for that of different animals, or beef them up to boost his movement or strength. With enough blood, he can also gain powers from other beasts, like breathing dragon flame or unleashing bursts of electricity. Due to blood being the catalyst for this, his elements tend to be crimson in color. Another ability is creating bone spurs and blades, once again fueled by blood. It should be mentioned that while King Chimera has succeeded in changing his body into a variety of things and abilities, he cannot create human body parts. His curse forever prevents him from even coming close to being human (but that's just fine with him). Also, he cannot fly, but that is less the curse's fault and more so he can't figure out how to do it. No matter how much blood he guzzles down, he can never get his wings to grow to a functional size. It really frustrates him.

Due to his need for blood for power, King Chimera's diet consist largely of the crimson fluid. Despite the legends, though, he doesn't bleed people dry or suck it from his followers. Instead, his people collect it from livestock and game, or buy blood meal from nearby dryad settlements. These are then mixed into liquor, baked into cakes and puddings, and generally made into a wide variety of dishes. Blood pudding, blood sausage, blood cakes, blodpattar and such. King Chimera is sure to keep a few "blood cubes" hidden in his fur for when he needs a quick fix or boost. Sometimes his followers will give a small offering of their own blood, as human blood is more potent for him, but they never give more than they can handle. He never demands his followers to bleed themselves, and is honored whenever they give their blood to him. The only other time he partakes is when he eats monster slayers or witch hunters who threaten his home, as he does not hesitate to kill those who would harm people simply trying to live their own lives. The taste is certainly invigorating, but he must be careful in his consumption, as there is still the locked away parts of his curse that yearn to be free. Times when he snaps to instinct when startled, times when his hunger for the hunt tugs at his mind. He is indeed still cursed, but he does his best to tamp down what would rob him of control. Just don't scare him from behind, as his serpent tail is faster at reacting than he is, and he won't be able to reign it in before it sinks its fangs into someone.

The Knights of the Wrong Table wind up encountering King Chimera when they hear tales of people going missing and terrifying abductions in the night. Homes torn open and victims dragged screaming into the darkness. Legends of a horrifying winged chimera that descends upon towns and carries its prey off, never to be seen again. And from these disappearances, slayers and knights have charged into the haunted forest to slay the beast responsible, and don't return alive. The Knights of the Wrong Table show up on the scene to see if the tales are true, and to find out who is behind these disappearances...

--------------------------------------------

"King Chimera"

Hey look, new Wrong Table character! A real party beast!

#chimera #monster #creature #king #art #drawing #beast #knights of the wrong table

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miss-celestia13 · 2 months

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Steal My Breath

Jake x MC Smut One-Shot

Words: 2.2k

A visit to her childhood home brings up an interesting question for Jake. “Have you ever fucked someone here?” He takes her negative response as a challenge.

It's been ages since I wrote for this, and I'm glad I managed to get back to these two. As usual, it's just a smut and love one-shot. If anyone wants to read, nothing needs to be read before reading this. There is no plot, only filth. MC's name is Manon.

Breathplay.

Manon’s POV

The clock beside her bed ticked past 2 am and she took to memorizing Jake in her old room and wondering how she had gone from being utterly hopeless to this. Having nothing but hope and joy for the future, it was a gift, and she didn't want to waste it ruminating on the ghosts.

She looked at him, admiring the firm line of his stubbled jaw and the lips she knew better than her own. He was her peace in a world of war and bloodshed. And he was the chaos and desire when their world was bright and open and beautiful.

All of him, fashioned just for her. All of her forged in fire and blood for him.

His face was oddly severe as she stroked her fingers over his thumping heart and let the heat of him ease her chilled bones. She wanted to remind herself she was alive and thriving, that no matter how hard it got, there was good waiting for her.

She had to swallow a few times. Her mouth was so dry, but she managed a silly joke.

"What are you thinking? You look like you're trying to solve a math problem in your head and you're failing," she laughed. Her earlier stress faded away under the power of his attention as he met her venom gaze.

"I was wondering..."

His lips twitched, his hand trailing over the flare of her hip and gripping her tight, the heat of him like a branding through her clothing. Concern still lurked in his gaze, but he sensed the shift in her mood and reacted in kind.

He looked at her through a fan of thick black lashes as she waited for him to elaborate.

She wasn't very good at waiting.

Manon arched a brow and said, "Yes?" When he just kept touching and touching her.

His indigo eyes blinked and locked on her, lust threading through his irises. And they were darker than they were seconds ago.

"Have you ever fucked someone here?"

Manon laughed, cackled really, "No, do you think anyone other than Steve would have made it past my dad?" With an unladylike snort, she shook her head at the mental picture of a poor, horny teen boy, rosy-cheeked and stuttering, as her dad read him his rights. She went on, "I had to fuck myself."

"But you lived here alone for a while," he reminded her.

Manon rarely ventured back to those days, even now, multiple lives away from it. She never sought those memories out of the locked wrought iron cage in the back of her hive of a mind.

Sex had been her drug to fill the numb, hollow plain where her heart used to reside. She didn't go out all the time, no, too lost in her head for that.

But when she went out, she drank just enough to feel warmed through and buzzed, seeking her target for the night.

Some nights, she left empty-handed. Often, she went home with someone. She took no one back to her place. They were one-night stands, and she just needed to feel something, not embed them in the fabric of her shattered life.

They'd discussed past loves before, and she felt no anxiety opening up about this.

"I never brought them home. They took me home."

Nothing but quiet understanding shone in his crystal eyes, a slight tightness in the corners of his closed, smiling mouth told her he wished he'd been there for her then just like she would trade all the money she had to be at his side as his world became a real life thriller without the promise of justice until she demanded it for him.

He was everything to her, and she knew she was everything to him. Like he was a trophy or a champion ring, she coveted and hoarded him inside herself to keep him safe and hers. The possessive way he touched her echoed her silly thoughts, and she wanted to feel the heaven in him meeting the hell in her.

Leave this place with a wonderful memory to ease the pain of all the awful ones.

Jake grinned like a devil as he read the thoughts on her face, his heated gaze holding her in sway.

"We're here now, and no one can stop us."

As she smirked at him, his hands pulled her in and wound around her, heat and light glittering through her as he brushed his lips over hers.

Featherlight and gentle, so at odds with how hard he gripped her hip and made her skin bloom wild with violets. She wriggled closer and laid a possessive hand on his neck. He pulled back and searched her eyes for any sign of distress, and she knew he didn't find it when the shadows in his sapphire gaze vanished.

She tilted her head, admiring the sparkle of her engagement ring as she said, "What are you waiting for?"

He instantly lunged and captured her lips in his, hungry and urgent; he kissed her until her head spun and aching want pulsing through her veins until her entire body trembled with it.

Her shaking hands laced through his hair as she swung her leg over his and pressed in as close as she could.

Manon's blood shimmered.

His wandering hand found her jaw, fingers tracing along and curling behind the bone, trailing down her neck, and wrapping around her throat to feel her pulse skittering under his fingers and thumb.

Her breathing quickened and slowed with the pressure of his hand as it tensed and relaxed, scalding, wet heat cascaded through her. Pooling between her thighs as a hollow ache opened inside her.

There was an invisible cord of love and deep trust between them, and a heady, liberating sense of having no control that ran through her. She gladly handed herself over to him. And knew he would take care of the need rising like a tide to drown her.

She whined low in her throat as sweet desperation and nerve flaying anticipation pricked over her skin like needles as his free hand wove through her hair to pull her lips more firmly against his.

His tongue slid alongside hers, bristled lips teasing and bruising her mouth as she smiled into it, greedily inhaling his arousing scent with every scant breath.

The simmering heat in her abdomen, the familiar catching sensation in her chest, and the wild thrum of molten blood in her veins. It was the most intimate and cherished thing she'd ever known.

His body aligned with hers. She melted into him and filled every hollow space between them, absorbing his fierce heartbeat as it pounded alongside hers.

How good and right and real he felt pressed into her. It was all that mattered.

He was like fire and she raised no resistance as he burned his way in. His lips seared against hers, one roasting hand splayed wide on her lower back as she wriggled until his knee parted her legs, and she sighed into his mouth, happier than ever.

There was still a slight hint of, "we shouldn't do this. We will be caught any minute." In the back of her mind, that almost made her want to laugh.

It intensified her desire instead.

The hand collaring her throat tightened. A strangled moan left her when he eased up.

All that strength — he was so very careful to leash it with her, and she took great delight in pulling at his every trigger to make him loosen his hold on himself.

He pressed his fingers into the veins under her skin, cutting off the flow of her blood again and again, creating a dazzling rush of euphoria. She felt high, so sensitive even the air whispering against her skin felt like a heated caress against her dewy skin.

They hurriedly undressed each other. No shame or hesitation. Both hungry and wanting.

He kissed every scar as he unveiled them. Hot mouth sending flares of flame spiraling through her and she grew so wet. He chuckled possessively as he dipped a finger into her soaked folds. She tasted the salt and musk as she dragged her lips across his chest as she nearly ripped his shirt from his body to get to the skin underneath.

Soon, nothing stood between but shivering anticipation and deepest, darkest desire.

His hand came up to grip her throat again, her body arching and trembling as his lapis eyes watched her every reaction. He taunted her with a gentle squeeze on her neck that restricted her breath, a single finger grazing her clit as she gasped and writhed.

She was so ready for him. So wet and hot and pliant he didn't torture her for long as he palmed his hard cock, vicious lust etched across every line of his handsome face.

He gave her an order, "Hold on tight, don't let go, Sweetheart."

Her hands instinctually lifted and grabbed hold of the wooden bedposts, arcing her body into an elegant arch as he spread her thighs wide.

She felt the head of his cock pressing into her. Thick and very hard, he pushed in. He glided through her slick cunt so fast her eyes rolled back and her knuckles bleached white on the wood as she struggled to absorb him.

Pressure and fullness. It obliterated all thought as her body acclimated to his invasion. He was holding his breath, eyes shadowed and breath short as he felt her cunt yield to him, wetness dripping from her with every tiny shift of his cock against her fiery flesh.

When he moved, it was emphatic and utterly devastating.

Forceful thrusts into her tight clasp, fingers cutting into her hips as he pulled and pushed her body with every snap of his hips.

The tension was like a screw being turned too tight inside her, twisting and twisting, tightening until her skin quivered and his name rolled off her tongue.

Heat and fire bled through her as her legs wrapped around his waist and he braced his elbows on either side of her head.

He took her mouth with the same ferocity he took her cunt with. Rapid flicks of his tongue against hers, sliding and tangling together, joined so closely they felt like one being as she shuddered and keened.

His cock grinding and jabbing deep, his groin catching her swollen clit, and his ravenous mouth all worked together to destroy and heal her.

All she felt was pleasure, love, and desire so intense, her toes curled with it.

She was moaning as he fucked her. So lost in him and the whirling flames of his lust for her, she never wanted to be found.

Jake was insatiable. Tearing moan after moan from her and demanding more with every brutal lunge of his cock inside her taut heat. She saw the black desire eating away at him. Her fingers itched to pull at his hair to feed it, but his hand came up and enveloped her throat once more.

She could only burn and feel and breathe through the incredible pleasure threatening to steal her sanity as his hand flexed.

Tension strung so tight she went rigid, her eyes flashing her distress at him as she needed more to fly off the precipice, slicing her in half. He immediately understood and nodded, silent permission that made her loosen her hold on the headboard.

She worked one hand between them, fingers soon soaked in her own essence as she circled her clit. Her other hand weaved through his hair and dragged him in, kissing him so forcefully he paused in surprise before returning her famished kiss with equal fervor.

Her swirling fingers on her clit sent embers flying through her, the tension pulled so taut she wailed as Jake rattled her with a thrust so savage she felt it in the soles of her feet.

Sweat beaded on their skin. The sharp and heady scent of her own arousal was unmistakable in the air between them. It was like a humid warmth that cloaked them both and turned their desire up to lethal levels.

Jake broke free of her mouth and sobbed her name as her cunt clenched down hard, her busy fingers pushing and pushing her to release as the skin on her belly trembled.

The sound was like a siren call to her. It slithered like a shiver through her nerves and coiled in her core to intensify the pressure of his cock filling her again and again.

He was so warm. He was hers. Her world wasn't cold with him and never would be. The thought sent her over the edge with another flick of her fingers.

Her cunt clasped his cock so tightly she took him down with her. His shocked shout bled into a rippling growl she felt between her quaking legs as release surged through her like a landslide of molten lava.

A storm of tingles and shocks burst under her skin as she shivered and shook. Her breath came in great gasping bursts as wave after wave of glittering, searing sensation rolled through her. She was mindless, lost in utter glory, and pleasure as it swamped her system so thoroughly she thought it would never end.

She was aware of herself making noise but couldn't understand a word of it as Jake kissed her to soothe her. He swallowed every twitch and sound her orgasm incited and she reveled in the feel of him still locked inside her body.

His body blanketed hers as her useless, boneless legs fell away from his waist and flopped down on the bed. She held him close, nails scratching at his damp skin and hands smoothing over firm muscles as they made their way to his raven hair.

Tiredness forced her eyes shut as he nuzzled her neck and breathed her in. She just kept holding him. She didn't let go until they woke up later that day and they began packing the things she wanted to keep.

**********************

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antianakin · 5 months

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I find it really interesting that you don’t like kallus at all bc say what you will about fulcrum or kalluzeb but he’s the first ex-/imperial character that we saw on screen who wasn’t already defected when we met him. Like obvs you’ve got Han and Sabine who started off in the academy and then left bc they realised in wasn’t what they wanted and tala who’s already a mole for the path by the time she’s on screen but most other characters we interact with regularly and significantly either stay imperial or have never been one as far as we know. And I think that watching kallus’ arc play out as he realises that no the empire isn’t worth it actually and it is worse and the rebels he’s fighting and trying to capture are better and are the good guys is just so fascinating to watch. If anakin’s arc in tcw and the prequels is about him getting worse and worse and making all the wrong choices again and again then kallus’s overarching storyline is about learning that actually his choices were wrong and he is the villain and he needs to accept that and try to do better as best he can. Ymmv on how well it was executed (and I do think there are parts that could have been done so much better) but the bare bones are there (and also I do love the interactions he has with kanan and Ezra post defection pre extraction where they’re like “this guy 😤” and are doing things like throwing him through glass screens to cover for him bc hey! They’re helping and they get to be a bit petty about it bc they still don’t like him and he just. Has to put up with it bc he’s on their side now and they are technically helping him)

I don’t know I just think it’s a pretty interesting arc to follow and I do think that however clumsily handled (again ymmv on how clumsily), the idea in his character of “it’s not too late to change and to choose to do better, you can unlearn your prejudice and biases and you can always start trying to do good no matter who you are” is a really important message that feels like Star Wars yk

(Side note: I just wanted to add that I love the anakin salt and the pro Jedi posts. I always pop around your blog when I’ve seen a few too many “he’s misunderstood” takes for my own good and it’s really cathartic to see someone else point out he sucks in new ways I hadn’t yet considered. I also find your Ahsoka takes super interesting bc most other things I see either just straight up do not like her or think she’s perfect where I always fell in the middle of “she’s interesting and narratively seems to be there to point out how anakin could have been if he’d made different choices since their flaws are so similar” ❤️❤️❤️)

This probably should have been split into two asks but I’ve written it all out now and my break is over so I guess it’s going to be one

Hi! I'm glad my blog helps provide you an area to just feel a little bitter sometimes when fandom gets hard, that's exactly why I made it for myself, just an escape when I'm starting to forget why I like this stuff sometimes and I just need to get rid of some of the bitterness.

I'm not against the IDEA of an Imperial character who turns against the Empire, of watching an Imperial character start to learn better and change sides. I promise I'm not!

I just think it shouldn't have been Kallus. I don't personally believe that they had a redemption arc in mind for Kallus when they were writing him in the first season at all. I don't know when the idea first got brought up for the writers, but it doesn't really seem to be one they had in mind in early season 2, either, so it just comes out of NOWHERE in that episode with Zeb where they get stuck in the ice. And the side effect of this lack of set up means that they really were writing Kallus as an irredeemable villain. He led a genocide against Zeb's people, he laughs at Zeb about being a survivor, he uses one of the Lasat's weapons as a trophy he took from that genocide. He turns against one of his own fellow officers at the end of season 1/beginning of season 2 when Tarkin and Vader show up and want someone to answer for their failure on Lothal. He helps lead Tua to her death and SMILES about the whole thing. Tua's death could've been a way to begin that journey, give him a crack in the wall where he feels doubt about what they're doing, but it DOESN'T, it just makes him MORE of a fanatic.

So when you get to that episode with Zeb in the ice, all of the sudden you have to take Kallus at his word that he DIDN'T lead the genocide he's already been saying he led, that he DIDN'T steal the Lasat weapon he already said he stole, that he totally had a sorta sympathetic reason for wanting an entire group of people eliminated from the galaxy, and that he apparently cares about having friends in the Empire. This isn't just a retcon of his backstory, it's a retcon of his CHARACTER. And they have to "all lives matter" the entire situation to do it by having him point out that Zeb judges all Imperials the same (and sees them all as enemies) which is somehow equivalent to Kallus judging an entire SPECIES for the actions of ONE PERSON and choosing to go genocide the entire species as a result. That's not just clumsy, that's OFFENSIVE. This is one of the WORST written episodes of Star Wars I have ever seen, which is saying something since I've seen the Ahsoka show and the Book of Boba Fett and The Mandalorian Season 3.

I think my major issue with Kallus's "arc", beyond the offensiveness of the retcon of his entire character, is that it isn't really an arc at all. It's ONE episode. The next time we even SEE Kallus, he's already willing to help Sabine escape from the Empire and then season 3 goes on to basically tell us he's been acting as a spy most of the season now. We DON'T actually get to see that arc for Kallus, he spends a few hours in the ice with Zeb and that's all it takes to turn him against the Empire really. The few times he shows up in-between don't do a lot to really emphasize a JOURNEY he's going on, he's just already on the side of the rebels and trying to push back against the Empire. And he fucking SUCKS at it, too. They have to come rescue his ass TWICE because he wasn't good enough at being a spy to not get caught and then he has the fucking GALL to think he's thrown off Thrawn and refuses to run when Kanan and Ezra risk their necks to save him which is what directly leads to Chopper Base being discovered. So not only is his redemption "arc" barely there anyway, he's an awful rebel and an awful spy.

This is why I keep arguing that it should've been PRYCE to be the Imperial defector. She isn't introduced to the story until season 3, and so her character is basically a big blank slate. They'd MENTIONED her, but all we knew is that she was the governor of the planet or something and she was gone on Coruscant dealing with stuff. This and the fact that she has an ACTUAL connection to Lothal by being FROM THE PLANET gives her a really really excellent pathway towards turning on the Empire. Maybe she sided with the Empire because she genuinely believed it would help save them from what everyone else suffered by fighting back. Maybe she was promised certain advantages if she sided with the Empire that they could show haven't been kept. Let her CARE about Lothal and its people just enough for her to have a REASON to turn against the Empire and see its truth.

It's one of the other reasons I don't like using Kallus, he's not really emotionally connected to any character but Zeb. Turning Kallus does very little for the main characters Ezra and Kanan. If they were going to turn an Imperial character, which IS a fairly big thing to put into a narrative, I feel like it should've impacted the MAIN characters far more than it actually does. Let Ezra, the person whose story is being told here, be a part of the reason that Imperial character turns. Let that journey away from the Empire be something they're actively WORKING on rather than something that primarily happens off screen in Kallus's head.

I think the only reason they chose Kallus for this was because fans already liked him and they couldn't figure out what else to do with him at this point. He's a basically ineffective villain because he keeps having to lose and the only times he "wins" against the crew is when they LET him win by sacrificing themselves or something. And they were already starting to write him out as an antagonist by including Vader, Tarkin, the Inquisitors, and they might've known they were bringing in Thrawn in season 3 (and maybe that Pryce would finally show up) by the time that ice episode was being written. Kallus was becoming irrelevant, but fans enjoyed him so they had to figure out a way to make him relevant moving forward, and so, quick and dirty redemption "arc" so he can move to the rebel side. You'll notice he barely does anything in season 4, though, once he's moved to the rebellion he's just kinda... there. Irrelevant again because he's not actually good enough at anything to be worth having him DO anything important or interesting to the plot.

A LOT of people seem to think Kallus's "redemption" was really well done and I just can't agree. I think it would've been better to take Kallus a different direction, to really have him just succumb to being evil, to become even MORE of a fanatic for the Empire moving forward, and then just pick someone else to be the defected Imperial character. Or they should've had a redemption arc in mind for Kallus from the beginning. Using Tua's death to start the process of doubt in his mind, or having him be the one the Empire turns on would've both worked. They didn't give themselves enough time to really write him a good redemption arc where the reasons for why he turns on the Empire actually feel in character to what we've been told and shown of him so far.

I think if you just... start in season 3 and act like Kallus has HAD a true redemption arc already by season 3, then those scenes work. The humor of the Rebels crew starting to discover Kallus is on their side now and not entirely trusting that and wanting to punt him through a window IS funny! I, too, would like to throw Kallus through a window several times, even perhaps over a cliff or out an airlock. But those scenes come with the context of having seen the first two seasons and feeling the VERY abrupt 180 his character took without the show doing any of the actual work to make his defection seem realistic or reasonable. Season 3 is fine for Kallus, the scenes are funny, etc. But he wasn't actually redeemed yet and neither season 2 nor season 3 do the work to showcase that journey.

And I think that this is likely one of the reasons we DON'T see very many Imperial redemption stories and most of the Imperial defectors we see are already defected when we meet them. You can count Gorn and Taramyn from Andor in this category, as well. It's HARD to take a character who's been set up as violent, selfish, and cruel, and REALLY do the work necessary to turn them around into someone who would genuinely turn on the Empire and join the Rebellion. It's by no means impossible, but it takes a lot of work and a lot of focus on said character. Most of these shows and stories aren't willing to put in that kind of work because they're focusing on someone else who needs their story told instead, so it's easier to just... have someone who's already changed sides.

All of that being said, there IS a character who we've seen go through this arc that I think was done MILES better than Kallus.

Reva Sevander. An Inquisitor (possibly BY CHOICE unlike all of the others who were presumably captured and broken into it) working for the Empire, who DOES do violent and selfish stuff, but who ultimately leaves that behind by the end of the season. Reva, who obviously was written with that turn in mind, and so her tragedy is BAKED into her character from the moment the show begins (we literally start the ENTIRE SHOW with a flashback of Reva at the Temple when Order 66 starts, and the terror of that night). The twist in her character, that she's doing all of this as a way to get closer to Anakin so she can kill him as vengeance for the Jedi, doesn't feel like it comes out of nowhere. It's just always been there FROM THE BEGINNING. Making her an Inquisitor, something Jedi: Fallen Order and some comic books have fleshed out into people who weren't given much choice in becoming monsters, was an expert choice. Using her to parallel and foil Anakin, someone whose primary storyline is that he was a GOOD person who turned bad and still had good in him, also helps her out.

I'd argue Reva hasn't gone on a full "redemption arc" as yet, she's sort-of barely scratched the surface of it, but she does obviously make the choice to STOP going down the path she's on, to turn away from her anger and vengeance, and leaves behind being an Inquisitor and the darkness she'd succumbed to. The reasons for why she does the things she does MAKE SENSE, they're narratively relevant, they're important to the main character of the story she's in, and the writers didn't wait too long to tell us more about her and her motivations. It's expertly done in my opinion.

So while Kallus might have been the first Imperial defector to show up in mainstream Star Wars, he is not the ONLY Imperial character we have seen to turn against the Empire. And yet Kallus gets praise and accolades for being such a great character with such a great character arc, while Reva got panned and critiqued for being unlikable. I wonder what could be the reason behind that.

So I think you and I have fairly similar feelings on this in that the IDEA of a redeemed Imperial character whose journey towards turning on the Empire is actually shown is a GOOD story to tell (with a very Star Wars style message, as you say), but that the way it was done with Kallus was REALLY badly written. You seem to be leaning towards liking the concept enough that the clumsiness of it is outweighed, whereas I hate the clumsy way it was written so much that my positive feelings towards the concept are outweighed.

And I deserve a good Reva show where we get to follow more of her character post-OWK where she still has to work on herself and figure out who she is now that she's left the darkness behind. Finish the arc she's only just started on.

#star wars #reva #reva sevander #anti kallus #anti aleksander kallus #kallus critical #aleksander kallus critical

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