#no work only headless knights

[labellefleur-sauvage]

The Curse of Sleepy Hollow

In the quiet village of Sleepy Hollow in the human lands south of the Wall, there’s a local legend: that every All Hallow’s Eve, the ghostly form of a headless fae on a horse from the lands north of the Wall haunts the town for an evening, looking for his missing head and a human woman to take as his bride.

Too bad for Elain Archeron, the headless fae has found his head; now he’s looking for a bride, and he’s set his eyes on her.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7K

Read on AO3

Happy Monstertober! Thank you to @wilde-knight for the gentle encouragement and inspiration you provided for this fic. I guess if we want ye olde sexy times, we gotta write it ourselves.

XXX

“Don’t forget your letters, Timothy! I’m expecting a perfect assignment from you on Monday!”

Elain sighed to herself as she watched the crowd of schoolchildren tear off down the hill towards the small village. Young Timothy, in particular, paid his teacher no heed, his school bag full of hand me down books, crumpled parchment and half-broken pencils hanging precariously from his bone thin shoulder. In truth, Elain was surprised he’d come back to school this year; after the untimely death of his older brother, she thought for sure the young boy would be pulled into the fields to work day in and day out to harvest what meager crops managed to grow in the family’s rocky soil. 

Some of her other charges showed more promise, or at least a more stable home life. Clare had dreams of becoming a school teacher herself, and Isaac, with his parent’s approval and coin, had applied to the University in the south to study mathematics. 

Whatever became of these children, Elain hoped they would do what she couldn’t seem to do: get far, far away from this desolate, cursed town, and the nearby Wall haunting everyone who lived nearby.

Elain shivered as a sudden cold breeze whipped the air around her. She pulled her shaw closer around her shoulders. Just thinking about that damned Wall—what it stood for, and what was on the other side—always seemed to bring ill omens to her.

No one had warned Elain about the peculiarities of Sleepy Hollow when she took the school teacher position just a year ago. “The position is usually vacant,” her professor had said haltingly, avoiding her eager gaze. “The village may be willing to pay more, considering…”

Elain had ignored—hadn’t even noticed—her lecturer’s clear hesitation to speak about the job opening, too caught up in jealousy over her peers who had no trouble landing teaching positions around the realm. When the small piece of faded paper had been tacked onto the jobs board that morning, the weekly pay crossed out time and time again and a new, higher amount subsequently written in, Elain had grabbed it and sent her application letter that very day. 

And Elain had regretted that decision for the past 364 days. 

She shook herself from her memories. “No point in standing outside gazing at nothing like a crazy woman,” she muttered to herself. Elain walked back into her one room schoolhouse and tidied up as best she could and as much as she wanted. Like everyone else, she wanted to get home as soon as possible to enjoy her weekend.

When the floor had been swept, the chairs pushed in, the slates wiped clean and the books straightened out, dusk had fallen. Elain glanced down the hill towards Sleepy Hollow. The town was tucked in a small valley, and isolated from other settlements and villages. Warm, cozy lights flooded the dirt streets out of small houses. Chimney smoke lazily floated above the settlement. 

If only Elain were going there. When she’d arrived in town for her teaching position a few weeks after she’d applied, she’d been dismayed to learn the small house included in the job’s room and board had inexplicably burnt down the day she had sent her application. “But don’t worry,” the aldorman had said, putting on a brave face. “Housing was included in the posting, so housing you’ll get!”

What she had gotten was a small, cozy stone cottage that had been previously abandoned but quickly tidied up by the village when word of a new school teacher got out. The bed was large and comfortable, the rugs surprisingly soft, and the fireplace busy with an unlimited supply of wood from the villagers, all free.

If only it weren’t through the forest, on the other side of the town, and far too close to the Wall.

Gathering her cloak around her, Elain set off down the hill towards the forest. Most evenings she didn’t mind the stroll back home. It was an easy walk, one she could complete at a leisurely pace and admire the beautiful trees and singing birds. 

Tonight was different. Tonight was All Hallows Eve, and Elain had been a fool to forget it. 

As Elain neared the forest, she paused. The back of her neck prickled in unease. There was no one around her, yet she felt eyes on her, appraising her form, her appearance. Her breath escaped her mouth in a white vapor as something dragged across her neck, her throat—

Elain whipped around. She was alone. Even the birds had abandoned her.

Breathing harshly, the sudden chill making her weak, Elain turned back to the forest and marched onwards.

XXX

Sleepy Hollow had a…heaviness to it. It was as if the town was stuck in a permanent dream-like haze, a stupor hanging like the morning fog over the area. The town had a way of sinking its claws into anyone who stayed there too long, dragging them into its lair until it was too late, until they realized that they just couldn’t leave. Your one horse might fall and turn lame and need to be put down, or the money you’d been saving for months, years, had to go towards putting food on the table because you lost your job or the fields suddenly turned barren. Even those attempting to leave on foot always came back, one way or the other: they got lost in the woods and somehow turned around so badly they ended right where they started, or, in Timothy’s older brother’s case, his body returned in a wooden casket after it was fished out of the river, his neck unnaturally bent. 

And Elain worried that she had been here too long now, that Sleepy Hollow would never let her go. 

She had tried, this past spring. Deciding that life in the valley wasn’t want she wanted and missing her family, she’d written home to her father, requesting a small advance to ship all her belongings home and to secure passage home. But he had gotten sick, his following letter revealed, and could no longer work. With no income and all his money going towards his medicine, there was no money left to bring Elain home. Elain hadn’t earned nearly enough money as the one schoolteacher for Sleepy Hollow, and so, she had stayed. It was just an unfortunate turn of events, she reasoned. 

But Elain couldn’t help blaming it all on the Wall. 

That damned Wall, put in place to separate the weak human lands from the unnatural fae lands to the north. Erected more than 500 years ago, after a long and bloody war, it was supposed to keep the two sides apart, supposed to keep the humans safe and the cruel, animalistic Fae sanctioned away.

If only it actually worked. 

Elain heard it all, eventually, whether overheard from villagers along the streets or in the one lone pub, or from her pupils who blurted out the long held truth they didn’t know they were supposed to keep secret: the Wall had never held in Sleepy Hollow, and the town had been cursed by the Fae because of it.

At first, Elain dismissed it as false, the silly superstitions of a backwards, barely literate isolated village that needed to blame its bad luck on something other than themselves, rather than admit its own shortcomings. But then odd things started happening.

It started small: lentils scattered within her ashy fireplace when Elain certainly hadn’t spilled them there, or her clean stream water suddenly turning brown and filthy whenever she tried to scrub the floors. 

Then it progressed: a dead rabbit, clean of its fur, left on someone’s doorstep. The local blacksmith’s tools melted down overnight and his forge ruined, forcing him to use his life’s savings to keep his family in their home.

Then winter came. 

“It comes—hiccup!—in waves,” the town drunk, Aranea, whisper-shouted to her one winter evening in the corner of the pub. A local child had gone missing that day, and everyone gathered at the pub after a long day of searching to regroup and warm themselves up. “First, small things: broken cups, stolen food, things like that. Then, as spring comes and summer deepens, things get worse. Destroyed crops. Someone vanishes. Then it’s All Hallows Eve and…”

“And?”

“Get me another cup of wine and I’ll tell you.”

Gritting her teeth and returning with wine, Elain set it down in front of Aranea. “And then, on All Hallows Eve?”

Aranea reached a shaking hand out and drank half the glass in one gulp. In the low light of the pub, sweat dotted the older woman’s temple and upper lip. “Then He comes.”

Elain had to use all of her patience learned through dealing with unruly children to keep herself calm. “And who is this man?”

“Not a man.” Aranea looked around, reaching for her drink and taking another large gulp. “A fae.”

Elain’s stomach dropped. She put on a false bravado. “If it’s just a fae—“

“But it’s not just a fae.” The corners of her mouth turned down and Aranea swallowed. “He’s worse. Different. Only one night a year, just one, He—“

Perhaps the wine was not needed to soothe Aranea’s drunken ache, Elain realized, watching the terror gradually overwhelm the old woman’s face, her eyes red and panicked. Perhaps the sweat was not due to the roaring fire. 

“But you need to know,” Aranea said quietly, like she was talking to herself. “It’s not right.”

“What’s not right?”

Aranea looked around again and lowered her voice. “The aldorman doesn’t like us talking about Him. But it’s not right that you’re left out.” She took a deep breath, and Elain forgot to breathe in anticipation. “The fae’s got no head—“

Elain couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her mouth. Clearly, she was getting worked up over nothing. 

“It’s not a joke,” Aranea replied harshly, and Elain stopped. “Every All Hallows Eve, the headless fae rides on his horse through the Wall and into the valley, looking for his missing head he lost in the war over 500 years ago. He only has a night, and when he finds his head, he goes on a rampage, killing and murdering. But some say…”

“Some say what?”

“Some think he’s looking for more. Looking for a woman to take as his own.”

The din of the pub quieted. Glancing around, Elain saw several groups filing out, no doubt starting another patrol for the missing child. She should go too. Soon. 

“Has anyone ever actually seen this fae?”

Aranea paused. “I did. When I was younger. He cut down my husband when we were walking back to town. A flash of red on a steed as black as night, then my husband’s head rolling down the road.”

Elain stared wide eyed, open mouthed at the old woman. “I’m sorry,” she whispered eventually. Then, confused. “Why doesn’t everyone leave, move away?”

Aranea turned towards Elain, and where her eyes had been red, bleary and hazy before, now they were dull, flat. Dead. “You don’t think we’ve tried?”

XXX

They found the child, eventually. The girl’s mother opened their door one morning to find the child sleeping on the dirt right outside the door, curled around her stuffed straw doll and looking like she had never left.

(The child wasn’t the same, though, Elain heard later on. A shame, the women of the village clucked amongst themselves, to be cursed with a changling for a child.)

The year progressed as Aranea had predicted: the random and odd events became dangerous, threatening, culminating in the death of Timothy’s older brother. A part of Elain—the educated, logical part—still railed against everyone and thought these were all just unfortunate and odd situations. Accidents, or the work of a mischievous child. As for what Aranea said, her own history, well, clearly a red-haired highwayman murdered her poor husband. It was tragic, but not a dead Fae come to reclaim his head and wreak havoc. 

But a smaller part couldn’t completely dismiss what she’d seen and been told, and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine a galloping headless fae terrorizing the woods, especially on a night like this. The wind seeped into Elain’s wool cloak, making the fabric feel thinner and lighter than the lace doily covering her kitchen table. Above her, the bare tree branches creaked and groaned in agony, like they too wanted to be free of these woods and put their roots somewhere else. 

She scoffed to herself. This was another normal night in a completely normal wood. Soon, she’d be in her perfectly normal cottage to settle down with a cup of tea and a good book by the fire. 

In fact, Elain thought happily, she could see one of the last landmarks along the forest path that signaled her walk was almost over. She had four such landmarks: a wide tree with a particularly large knot at its base, a rock worn down by the elements so that the top was a natural basin, two snarled and thorny bushes, and a small trickle of a stream. She’d just passed the snarled bushes, and right around the bend should be the stream—

Except there was the wide, knotted tree that marked the beginning of the path when she entered the forest. “What is this?” Elain murmured, looking around. Had she gotten mixed up by mistake? 

She must have, she decided, walking a bit faster now. Most of the trees above her were bare, but the thick branches still managed to conceal the last weak rays of light the sun had to offer. It would be dark soon, and Elain had never traversed the path at night.

Picking up the bottom of her cloak so as not to trip, Elain moved as fast as she dared. There was the basin rock, there the bushes and there—

Elain felt a sob rising in her throat, her chest tight. There was the knotted tree. It made no sense, she knew she hadn’t walked off the path or gotten twisted around. She ran now, heedless of her cloak. The cool air bit her cheeks. If she could just run fast enough, surely she’d get home.

Somewhere behind her, a faint gallop echoed throughout the trees.

Eyes wide and breath choppy, Elain stopped, nearly tripping over herself. She listened, but all she could hear was the hammering of her heart. Eventually it slowed. It was silent around her. ‘A trick,’ she thought to herself. ‘Just my nerves playing with me.’

The galloping resumed. Closer. Louder.

Elain didn’t wait. She sprinted down the dirt path, the path she’d already walked down thrice. The galloping was now accompanied by harsh, animalistic breathing and grunting, like whatever hoofed beast was working as hard as she was. She darted a look behind her and wished she hadn’t: through the slim sliver of moonlight that passed between the branches, Elain could make out a huge, black horse, its eyes blood red, and a cloaked figure atop it.

Pumping her arms and legs faster, Elain charged ahead. Perhaps she could get off the path, run into the woods. But she knew that would only put her in more danger, that she had no hope of evading her pursuer through an ancient forest she wasn’t familiar with.

There—there was the stream, the last landmark before her cottage. If she’d had the air in her burning lungs for it, Elain would have cried. She could feel the giant beast’s warm breath right behind her, its presence looming. Just a bit further, almost safe…

A strong arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her easily onto the back of the horse. She landed hard on her stomach on the back of the running horse and whatever breath that was in her lungs fled.

Momentarily dazed, Elain looked up. She couldn’t see her captive’s face, but she could just make out a jagged, rough cut around his entire neck and a shock of long, red hair.  

There was screaming coming from somewhere, louder and louder, a wail that reminded Elain of her mother’s funeral when she’d been a little girl. It took several seconds to realize the sound was coming from her. Her capture’s bare hand darted out. A large, warm hand settled on the nape of her neck, and Elain knew nothing else.

XXX

Elain’s back ached. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so horribly—probably the first night in the stone cottage outside Sleepy Hollow.

Sleepy Hollow. Her cottage. The woods. The Headless Fae.

She gasped. It wasn’t a nightmare, what had happened to her. Elain tried to roll over but couldn’t. She flailed her limbs but made no purchase. 

“I’d stop struggling if I were you. It would be a shame for your beautiful skin to bear such ugly bruises.”

Elain blinked and finally took in her surroundings. She was laying on a large, stone slab several feet off the ground. Some fabric was underneath her body, protecting her from the brunt of the cold, sharp stone—small mercies, but she acutely felt the sting of the wind across her body. Her arms were tied above her head and the rope secured to the stone; her legs were spread and similarly tied and bound to the stone. Dozens of wax candles were placed on the ground and hanging from tree branches above her, creating a hazy, shimmering effect that her eyes struggled to adjust to.

And there, sitting at the foot of an ancient tree several feet away, watching her, was a man so handsome Elain thought he must be the devil.

But no, that can’t be right, she thought groggily, her brain gradually waking up. Not unless the devil was actually fae.

Odder things have happened.

The figure wore a flowing, long-sleeved, deep green shirt, the top few buttons undone to reveal bronze skin. His shirt was tucked into brown trousers, and riding boots covered his calves. Overall, his outfit wouldn’t be out of place in a more affluent town south of the Wall.

The rest of him, however, would mark him as other. His long, luscious red hair hung straight down past his wide shoulders, more vibrant than any human hair could hope to be. His ears were long and pointed, as all fae’s were. The eyes staring at her were mismatched: one was dark brown, and the other looked…golden. No, Elain realized, squinting at his left eye, one of his eyes appeared to be made of actual gold. It glittered in the candlelight. Long, white scars criss crossed over the side of his face as his golden eye.

“Had I known you would be looking at me so much, I would have procured some painting supplies.”

His voice was raspy, like he wasn’t used to talking much. Or maybe, Elain thought, panic bubbling inside her, it was because his head and body had only recently been reunited. A grim, jagged line was etched across the long column of his throat, and his face appeared slightly ashen looking.

It was true, then. The silly, far-fetched tale she assumed the bumbling villagers of Sleepy Hollow concocted to blame their misfortunes on was real. Very real, sitting just a few feet from her, and looking at her like she was his next meal.

“Or perhaps I should have brought the paints for myself, to paint your beauty. Your eyes are like stars—“

“Where am I? Why am I here?” She tugged on her bonds. Elain didn’t want to hear whatever mocking words he had for her. The sooner she figured out why this creature had abducted her, the sooner she could plan her escape.

The being frowned at her. He sighed. “Fine, no pleasantries then, human. You’re in my realm, north of the Wall.”

Elain’s stomach tightened. She wanted to scream, but what good would it do? She’d been warned, when she first moved to Sleepy Hollow, to never cross the Wall, and to stay as far away from it as possible. Not that she didn’t already know that. Although fae were nonexistent in her home in the south, everyone knew the threat they were to those who dwelled in the north.

There were humans who didn’t share the same view of the fae, though. The Children of the Blessed worshiped the fae for some twisted reason, too easily charmed by their supposed riches and otherworldly beauty. Every now and then rumor reached the Hollow that a few of the fanatics had breached the wall, but they haven’t been seen since.

She’d never heard of a human who ventured beyond the wall and returned, Elain realized, cold dread trickling down her spine. What hope did she have of ever returning to the human lands, dreary and dangerous as it was?

“Who are you?” Elain croaked. “Why did you take me?”

He gave her a calculated look. “Are you aware of the curse that hangs over this land?”

“Er, not really,” Elain said haltingly. “I know odd happenings occur to the people in Sleepy Hollow. Stolen goods, ruined crops. And the headless fae who, who…”

He nodded his head to her. “My name is Lucien.”

Lucien. A nice name. Certainly a nicer name than Elain assumed her dead fae captor would have.

Lucien’s posture was casual—sitting, leaning back against the base of the tree, one long leg stuck straight out, the other bent at the knee, an arm lazily resting on top, like this was a normal situation to find oneself in. Like Elain was perfectly safe. 

She wasn’t fooled by his relaxed demeanor, however: whatever this being was, whether ghost, demon, or devil, she knew, in her gut and her brain, that he was dangerous.

Elain should have been terrified, and she was, but she also felt curiosity towards the fae in front of her despite the danger, like a mischievous kitten tempting an old, ornery work horse. She knew she needed to tread carefully, but…

“Alright, Lucien,” Elain said as calmly as possible, noticing the flash of surprise that flicked across his face. “You say there’s a curse.”

He nodded slightly. “A fae curse. Cast over 500 years ago at the Wall. A human general from the valley betrayed his fae lover, and her sister cursed his people to suffer forever in their homes in the valley.” Lucien looked at her shrewdly. “But you’re not from Sleepy Hollow, are you, human?”

“No. How can you tell?”

“There’s more…life to you,” he replied, looking around her. “It clings to you, barely. But give it another few months and you’ll be stuck here like everyone else.”

Elain scrunched her eyebrows. “What do you mean stuck?”

“Well, human, as I just said—“

“My name is Elain!” she interrupted. “If you’re going to steal me away and tie me up, at least have the courtesy to use my name!”

Lucien smirked. “Very well, Elain,” he purred, and Elain momentarily lost her breath. “The curse over Sleepy Hollow ensures the humans here are to suffer forever in the valley. Those who dwell in Sleepy Hollow cannot leave, no matter how hard they try.”

“But I wasn’t born in Sleepy Hollow!” Elain exclaimed, stomach sinking. “I’ve only been here a year!”

Lucien shrugged. “That makes no difference. The curse prefers adults. It doesn’t mind letting a youth wander free every few years. Not the adults though. The curse feeds and grows more powerful off the misery and despair of those under its thrall, and nothing is more delicious than humans realizing their lives are forfeit, and that they’ll only be more miserable year after year after year, and are powerless to stop it. Children with their innocence usually don’t realize this until their late teens, and by then it’s too late.”

Silence. There was a buzzing in Elain’s ears. “I’m, I’m stuck? I can’t move home, or leave? I’m trapped in this cursed town forever, to be tormented by a fae curse?”

Lucien shrugged again and began inspecting his finger nails. “Appears so. Seems you’re doomed to a life of loneliness and constantly watching your back so the curse doesn’t finish you off.” His head was lowered but his eyes darted up to look at her. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“I too am affected by a curse. Help me break mine, and I’ll see if we can break the human curse after.”

“You're cursed?” Elain asked, surprised.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Did you think I was a ghost or a dead abomination?”

Elain flushed. “Well, you’re headless! I just assumed…”

“Stupid humans,” Lucien tsked. “I’m not quite dead, though not quite living except for one night a year. Every All Hallows Eve I am doomed to ride south of the Wall to retrieve my head—that’s not difficult, it’s usually in one of two or three places every year—but it’s the second part that’s tricky.”

“Second part?” Elain asked faintly, head swimming.

“To break my curse, I am to find a human bride and she is to live with me for one year and a day. Then, I’ll be fully restored and free to live my life.” He said this without any dramatics, as if he were inquiring about the weather, or what Elain had had for breakfast that morning. 

“What a specific curse,” Elain muttered. Her head felt like it was being smothered by cotton. She bit her lip. “But surely you don’t mean…?”

“Oh my dear,” Lucien said silkily, in a voice that sent heat straight between her legs, “I most certainly do. Become my bride, and once my curse is broken, I’ll work on breaking the curse that hangs over Sleepy Hollow and you.”

It was ludicrous. Madness. Become a cursed fae’s bride? In what world was this possible?

But then she remembered what Aranea had told her, all those months ago. Some think he’s looking for more. Looking for a woman to take as his own. 

“Why me? Surely there are other humans you could have chosen over the centuries.”

“You’re the first outsider to move to Sleepy Hollow in decades. I can still see the faint vestiges of life surrounding you, life the curse hasn’t completely sapped away yet. Any other human from Sleepy Hollow I would have taken would have died the instant they crossed the Wall, as the curse dictates.”

Elain took a steadying breath. “And what if you can’t break the curse over Sleepy Hollow?”

He raked a long hand through his long hair. “I’m not that concerned about it. It’ll probably involve tricking the fae who placed the original curse, or beating them in a duel.”

Elain stared at the fae before her. He seemed a bit too confident for her taste, with a barely concealed danger to him that kept the gooseflesh on her body raised. What if he was lying to her?

Did she have a choice?

She mustered what little confidence she had. “I accept. How are we to, uh, seal our arrangement?”

Quicker than she could see, Lucien was suddenly above her, standing above her at the head of the altar. This close, she could smell a faint whiff of smoke and damp earth lingering on his skin. It wasn’t unpleasant.

Lucien cocked his head and stared down at her. “With a kiss,” he said, then bent down to press his lips to her.

As far as kisses went, it was rather tame, especially considering the reputation fae had for their passions. Elain held herself still, the faint press of Lucien’s lips surprisingly warm against hers. A faint stab of disappointment pierced her—she had expected a bit more than this.

He withdrew, and Elain sighed. She was about to ask him to untie her when sharp teeth nipped her bottom lip. She gasped, and Lucien’s lips and tongue tangled with hers.

This was the passion Elain had heard whispered about the fae. Still above her, and upside down from her, Lucien slotted his mouth fully against hers while his tongue stroked hers. His hands, warm like his lips, cradled the sides of her face and stroked her cheeks lightly. 

“So responsive,” he murmured when he broke their kiss and Elain objected. “Will you make such sweet noises for me if we continue?”

“Yes,” she whispered, craning her neck towards Lucien. Smiling, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the candlelight, he trailed a hand down her throat, squeezing slightly. Elain gasped, more heat flooding her core. 

“Such sweet sounds you make, my bride,” Lucien said appreciatively. Elain blushed. His hand released her throat then slowly made its way down her chest. “I wonder if I can create a symphony with you by the end of the night.” He caressed a breast through her thin shift, stroking an erect nipple, and Elain moaned loud enough to be heard south of the Wall.

Lucien chuckled and withdrew his hand, stepping away from her. Elain arched her back. “Don’t stop!”

“I can smell your desire,” his voice slithered out from around her. Elain couldn’t see him but she knew he was nearby. She squirmed against her bindings on the stone—an altar, she realized at last, to her and their union—desperate to be free for reasons she never thought: to touch, taste and feel the cursed fae she had bound herself to for the next year. 

Cool air hit her breasts and legs and dripping core. Elain looked down to see Lucien tearing her shift from her body and stepping in between her feet at the other end of the stone slab. In the low light, he looked otherworldly: his face sharp, pointed teeth just barely visible from his panting mouth, shoulders hunched. His eyes were focused on her spread legs. “Do you taste as sweet as you smell?”

Without waiting Lucien leaned down and licked a hot stripe through her wet folds. Elain let out a strangled groan as his tongue swiped over her sensitive bud. 

“You do,” Lucien remarked, raising his head. “Better than the sweetest wine.” He gave her an appraising look. “Although I love your moans, I think I can put your mouth to better use.”

His hands came up to his neck and Elain stared, first in confusion, then horror, as with a wet pop Lucien tugged his head from his body. She screamed as his headless body set his head down between her legs. His head was alive, conscious, and Lucien’s head immediately stroked her sensitive pearl, his eyes intensely staring at her.

Elain wasn’t sure whether to scream in terror or ecstasy. A fae, who had just detached his head from his body, was licking her folds, tasting her, bringing her such intense pleasure she thought she might faint from the emotions tearing through her body. She struggled on the altar.

There was a hand on her shoulder. Elain leaned her head back and shrieked. She’d been expecting it, but seeing a headless body above her, moving on its own, was unsettling and disturbing in a way she’d never before thought. 

“Be still, wife, and open your mouth.” Lucien’s head stopped feasting between her legs to utter the command. Elain broke out of her terror and bared her teeth down at her new husband. She was about to tell him where he could shove his head when his hands grabbed her head and shoved the tip of his throbbing cock in her mouth. 

Elain froze, shocked. Lucien’s hips gently rocked into her mouth, putting more of his thick length in her mouth. Through the dim light, Elain could just make out the rest of his substantial manhood she still had yet to take. She hadn’t been aware of when he’d taken off his trousers.

“So good,” Lucien praised from between her legs, giving her bud a small kiss. “Relax your jaw and use your tongue, just like that. Good girl.”

Elain whimpered, his praise sending bolts of lightning to her quim. Above her, Lucien’s body kept using her mouth for his pleasure, gradually thrusting more and more of his length down her throat, all while his head continued his sensual assault on her lower lips. Elain gagged and tensed as a particularly rough pump of Lucien’s hips cut off her air. 

“You look so good with my cock stuffed down your throat,” Lucien’s bodiless head said. She coughed when he withdrew his length and Lucien’s hands stroked her cheeks. Without waiting, Elain silently opened her mouth.

“So perfect for me,” Lucien sighed as his body placed his cock back in her mouth and resumed a gentler thrusting pace within her. Elain focused on licking and sucking the fat tip of his length while Lucien took her bud between his lips and sucked hard.

Elain moaned around his cock as a tingling began in her lower spine. It grew, quick and intense, and Elain came, whimpering around Lucien’s hard girth as his tongue stroked her pearl. 

Lucien’s body withdrew his cock from her mouth. Elain gasped, her chest heaving. She wasn’t aware of Lucien’s body reattaching his head, or the bindings falling away from her trembling body. The next thing she knew was Lucien, in one piece, as naked as her, taking her head in his hands and kissing her. 

“Magnificent,” he whispered. Lucien pulled her off the altar and turned her around so she was bent over the stone with her legs on the ground.

But Elain needed more, now. Keeping one leg on the ground for leverage, she lifted her other leg onto the altar and crooked it at the knee, widening herself for Lucien.

Lucien hummed appreciatively. “My good little human, spreading her legs for me, dripping for me. All it took was licking your perfect cunt and you’re willing to offer yourself completely to me, aren’t you, Elain?”

She didn’t answer, instead continuing to move her hips against the altar, hoping to entice the fae into finishing what he started. 

“Use your words.”

“Oh, please,” Elain whispered, wishing he would just slide himself inside her, quench the fire he’d somehow ignited within her. She could feel her release dripping down her thigh, the moisture cooling against her heated skin.

Lucien hummed. She felt him step behind her and Elain tensed with anticipation, excitement. Just a short time ago she’d been scared for her life. Now…

Now, she’d been pleasured beyond words by a cursed headless fae (who she still wasn’t quite convinced wasn’t at least partly dead), who wanted her to be his bride and help break his curse. Elain was too lust drunk to think how ludicrous this all was.

Her thoughts were broken by a pressure at her entrance, and his finger entered her in one stroke. Elain gasped as Lucien leisurely thrust his finger inside her.

“So tight,” he praised her. More pressure, and Elain felt her walls stretch as he pumped two of his long fingers into her willing channel. 

“What a perfect bride you’ll be,” Lucien whispered into the back of her neck. “I think you need more.” Three of his fingers slowly entered her body, working her tight quim open. 

Elain buried her head into her arm and groaned. Now the stretch was tinged with pain, pain that gradually lessened as Lucien cooed praises in her ear and stroked her tender and swollen bud with his other hand. She was going to come again. She rocked back onto Lucien’s fingers, taking everything he had to offer, wanting to feel him inside her as she found her release…

“No!” she begged when Lucien withdrew his hands from her between her legs. She tried to rise off the altar but one of Lucien’s hands pressed between her shoulder blades, keeping her top half against the stone. One of her legs was still propped up on the altar, the other on the ground.

“I think you’re ready,” Lucien growled, deep from his chest, and Elain remembered that this wasn’t a human man she was with, this was an undead fae male who stole her from the Human Lands for the sole purpose of claiming her. A thrill of excitement shot through her lower stomach as Lucien fit the wide head of his cock at her entrance and thrust inside her.

They gasped in unison. Even though Elain had had his cock down her throat, she didn’t realize how thick he’d be in her channel. He was right to ready her with his fingers, Elain conceded, resting her forehead on the altar and gripping the stone as he pulled out to the tip and sunk back in.

“Good,” Lucien praised her, working more of his thick length inside her. “So good. My beautiful bride. My perfect mate.”

Elain didn’t know what a mate was, but she didn’t particularly care at the moment, not when she felt his hips finally reach her bottom. She moaned at how full she felt. 

Above her, Lucien’s body quivered, from his strong legs pressed to the back of hers, to his hands gripping her hips. He snarled something in a foreign language—harsh, full of hisses and sharp consonants—then withdrew his cock and slammed back deep within her. 

He gave Elain no further time to adjust to his conquering manhood. Keeping his hands on her lush body—squeezing the fat of her hip, plucking a peaked nipple, digging his hands into her shoulder—Lucien claimed Elain like a male on a mission. Which he was, Elain thought dazedly, holding onto the stone as he pumped within her, hitting a sensitive spot of her walls.

All the while, Lucien murmured words—some she couldn’t understand—into her skin and into the wind: “So lovely, so soft,” he rasped against the shell of her ear; “Mine. Only mine,” he grunted as he bit where her neck met her shoulder. It was pain and euphoria all in one, and Elain never wanted it to end.

One of his hands slammed down on the altar not far from hers. His forearm was corded with muscles, the brown skin gleaming with sweat. Elain watched, hypnotized by the strength in his body when his other hand reached between her legs and began stroking her bud again in time with his hard thrusts.

She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. She was going to find release again, soon. Without thinking, her hand nearest to Lucien’s reached out and touched his, just barely grazing his smallest finger, wanting to feel more of him. Lucien stuttered and stopped. Elain wanted to cry. She’d ruined it, gotten sentimental, human—

Lucien resumed pumping his cock into her cunt and his fingers touched her bud at the same time he moved his hand over hers and intertwined his fingers awkwardly with hers. He was so warm, so big, and she felt the pulse in his wrist beat erratically against her arm.

Pleasure unlike she’d ever felt before—bone deep, primal, and all-encompassing—ripped through her body as Lucien’s clever fingers and cock worked between her legs. He paused, letting Elain work through her release. Eventually her breathing evened out.

Lucien withdrew his cock and gathered Elain in his arms. Snatching their cloaks and throwing them on the ground, he gently laid her down on her back and spread her legs. “Again.” His hips snapped into hers with brutal efficiency, hitting deep inside her. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock.”

Elain could only hold onto Lucien’s shoulders as he rode her and drove her higher and higher towards another steep precipice. He bent her legs over his arms and opened herself even wider. The angle of his cock and the closeness of his body made her see stars behind her eyelids. Elain felt drunk and dazed, having never felt so exhausted before in her life.

His hand reached between them towards her cunt again and Elain shivered. “I—I can’t,” she gasped. “Not again.”

“You will,” Lucien said simply, his thumb brushing the tender hood of her bud. He looked down between their bodies and growled so fiercely Elain craned her head to see what elicited such a response. She felt her face redden: in the orange candlelight, she could make out her swollen folds, his slick cock, and the white cream of her release staining the base of his length. 

“My beautiful bride,” he whispered against her lips. He kissed her, slow, steady, completely at odds with what the rest of his body was doing. If Elain didn’t know any better, she would say it was almost loving. 

Lucien tenderly cradled her head as he kissed her. It was far too early to have feelings for him, Elain knew as she stared at him deep in the eyes, and he stared back, but there was something there. They both knew it. 

“Mine,” she whispered against him, her tongue darting into his mouth, and Lucien groaned. His thumb circled her bud as his hips thrust wildly into her. With a shout to the skies Lucien came, emptying himself within Elain’s body. She took everything he gave her, even one final release that seemed to rob her of her bones and leave her a shaking, tender mess.

Eventually, Elain’s heart slowed. “I’m assuming you haven’t done that for 500 years?”

“No.”

Elain huffed a breath. “That’s impressive, considering.”

Lucien chuckled. He rolled them over so he was on his back and she was laying against his chest. They were silent for a few moments, the only sounds their hearts beating together. Eventually, Elain spoke. “What has the last 500 years been like for you?”

Lucien didn’t answer right away. “I’ll tell you everything sometime later. It’s…difficult for me.” He kissed her forehead. “Besides, we have a year together, I don’t want to run out of things to talk about well before then.”

“Only a year?” Elain asked hopefully, casting a shy glance up at her headless fae. 

Lucien grinned.

#elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my fic #my fics #just in time for monstertober #dont look at the plot #this is just a smutty one shot so treat the story accordingly #also dont look too closely for typos and what not #i also struggled so bad for this title #this is honestly the best i could come up with #womp womp lmao

[gerbiloftriumph]

Floating Castle Liveblog (third read)

In 2020, I read the first king's quest adaptation novel. Again. Because 2020 was awful.

August 22, 2020 –

page 0

I'm not going to read this aga--oh wait no who am I kidding I'm trapped at work for another four hours and it's *not* a good day and I just want my tea drinking wizard tree and frog prince and mcguffin king and headless ghosts and the soft delights of smarmy sassy villains. (also the kq series is the only series i have easy access to rn so shhh)

page 3

"Castles do not fly." The title of the book says otherwise, sir.

page 10

Gotta admit, Telgrin's perpetual single thundercloud over his castle still gives me ridiculous amounts of joy. I'm sitting here grinning honestly for the first time all day. I love my melodramatic sassmaster.

page 14

I comment on it every single time I read this (yes this IS the third time I've read this in three years, leave me alone), but I seriously love watching Graham being an actual king. I love adventures, and I love royals, and I love adventuring royals, but I also really like the sturdy basis of kindness and clarity Graham just has as a leader. It's really pleasant.

page 20

IT HIM. Heeeeeeere's Telgrin! Do you think Telgrin spent hours shuffling around trying to perfect that gliding walk? Stars, I hope he did. I mean in any other villain it would just be natural but with my emo goth drama king who tries too hard, everything is carefully plotted for maximum visual aesthetic.

page 22

Totally seriously, though, the contrast between Graham's tightly contained fury and balance of how he's been treating the assembly and Telgin's wide swept theatrics and overblown personality is SO good. This sort of subtle contrast really does raise this book from generic game adaptation to surprisingly pleasant fantasy. It's still genre light, but it has confidence and solid bone work.

page 23

"The news reached me that you were gathering all your knights here today, Graham, so it seemed a convenient time." Because Telgrin won't do anything without an audience to oooh and ahhh over his antics.

page 30

"Everything seemed muted, vague, unreal." Oh, did you mean my life right now? No? Close enough.

page 33

"and a small pear." Yes, a crucial thing to make sure you pack on your voyage. Good call.

page 38

TREE WIZARD oh stars my whole heart is happyyyyy. What a mood improvement.

page 40

"So, that castle belongs to this guy named Telgrin." "Oh yeah, Telgrin. He's evil. Don't mess with him." "You know him?" "I know his reputation." Stars, Telgrin would be SO PLEASED to know his reputation precedes him now. I hope he started some of those rumors himself.

page 40

I still can't handle the density of this conversation. "Telgrin is a stealer of souls." "A stealer of souls? What's that?" Alexander. Alexander, pleaaaase think about what you just said. Please. I love you, but seriously.

page 45

Even when you are a tree wizard, that is, a wizard slowly and literally turning into a tree, it's still important that you get your morning cup of tea. Morowyn knows it. So should you.

page 47

In other words, Alexander, you're just a glorified babysitter. You could have asked Big Knight Brian Blessed to be your partner in crime on this heist and gotten a better result. (i'm kidding of course I love Cyril to absolute pieces, look at this farmboy wizard lad he's so squishy and blond and round and I love him.)

page 54

heist heist heist heIST let's plan a HEIST.

page 58

The moat monsters also have a taste for the finer things in life. Like feather-capped adventurers. Castle Daventry is literally the most perfect fantasy castle there is. It even has a hoard of moat monsters. Like, you can't get more Fantasy Castle than this place. Telgrin only wishes his castle was that cool. He just has to make do with personal thunderclouds.

page 63

A small thing, but I super love Mills's emphasis on color. From the rain slanting golden in the yellow torchlight, to the hills here slowly changing from an angry maroon to a deep indigo with a band of yellow slowly disappearing as the sun sets...it's heavily visual, like he's literally painting a screen from the games, and I find it rather peaceful, somehow.

page 64

Literally just the ringwraith scene from Fellowship of the Ring, but with King's Quest protagonists instead of Frodo and friends. The audacity of this book. I love it.

page 69

Mills was absolutely just rereading Fellowship of the Ring when he was asked to write this book. It's not even subtle at this point. .........and I super love every single reference with all my silly fantasy heart.

page 89

I can't think of a single other fantasy in which the protagonist lassos a kelpie and attempts to ride it. I can't imagine why not. It's a flawless plan.

page 96

I feel like that's just magic homemade whiskey. Getting the prince drunk might not be in everyone's best interest.

page 97

Alexander, you gotta stop calling people "ho." You're gonna offend someone. (I'm kidding, of course. "Ho there" is as traditionally delightful as "Who goes there," and highly welcome to behold.)

page 99

platform boots

page 100

I'm sorry, I know I commented on this when I read this last year, but...again. Telgrin has One Single Lone Stupid Thundercloud, which "hovered over a high central tower. From time to time, this cloud would light with an internal fire, and a low, menacing rumble would break across the land." It's like the Winnie the Pooh raincloud, with ambient sound effects. The audacious aesthetic of this guy is a DELIGHT to behold.

page 107

Aaah yes the Road to El Dorado sequence. Truly, this book is nothing but the best hits of adventure tropes crammed into a book 300 pages long.

page 108

Does this mean that Telgrin has also been to Narnia? Oh dear.

page 112

Again. "The cloud." Not many clouds. Just the one. A single, lone, silly, thundercloud.

August 24, 2020 –

page 114

Wait, what came first, this book or the Muppet Christmas Carol movie? Because all I can picture is Scrooge's Statler-shaped Muppet door knocker, but with extra teeth, shrieking.

page 117

Is Alexander is the only person in the series to ever have a proper sword fight? I mean, not counting....uhhhh is it Owen in KQ8? (Super didn't play KQ8, everyone said it wasn't worth the effort.)

page 123

Like, I gotta say: binding souls to armor, cool. Great scheme, very evil. Making it so that just knocking the helmet off releases the soul into the night forever? ...nooooot the most ideal.

page 126

You know in Princess Bride, when Westley tries to wrestle Fezzik, and just kinda runs at him and squeezes him and absolutely nothing happens? Alexander, right here, vs the black knight.

page 131

A barikar is not a real fantasy monster--the only google result that comes up is that, yes, Telgrin owns one. But it's a huge rabbit with a rat nose, dog fangs, fish scales instead of fur, and human like hands with claws. It sees about as well as a human, but it can hear well, thanks to the rabbit ears. It's absolutely ridiculous. I love it. I wonder if I can convince my dm to make it a fight in our campaign.

page 133

My sweet babiiiiies. Alexander making Cyril stand behind him to protect him and Cyril absolutely refusing and taking the front anyway. I love these kids. I say, fully recognizing that they're semi-close to my age and know how to handle swords and magic.

page 133

Oh, no, excuse me, the Bariker doesn't have rabbit ears--it has bat ears. Which just kind of further emphasizes how much I want this thing in a campaign. It's so ridiculous.

page 139

Where was he? Yes. Who was this beside him? Yes. How long had he been asleep? No way of knowing. Alexander, those are not answers to questions, except maybe the last one. You've answered nothing. Alexander, please.

page 141

headless ghost headless ghost headless ghoooost i can't stop smiling he's holding it like a football it's amazing

August 25, 2020 –

page 142

Lydia's mom caught Anime Mom Protagonist Disease. It's a tragic illness. No hope of recovery.

page 142

"Owen took a brief pause, while Alexander reflected on the fact that he was getting used to carrying on a conversation with a beheaded man. It was starting to seem almost normal. Almost." How is this a real book. I love this book.

page 143

tragic telgrin backsto--oh wait it's not tragic at all he's just always been a brat.

page 144

"Somehow a beheaded man on his feet was infinitely more alarming than a beheaded man quietly seated." o rly?

page 145

Look, it is a *little* creepy that he would install magic mirrors of spying in his daughter's bedroom without her knowledge, but considering Owen admitted to teaching Telgrin everything he knows, including presumably soul torturing magic, we can kind of assume Owen isn't actually that good a guy after all.

page 149

Glowing moss in fantasy must be the most useful plant ever cultivated.

page 155

Obviously, there's nothing wrong with describing Alexander's haunches, but it's also just a little weird. It's not...a word I hear often, especially in reference to humans.

page 156

I like a good wizard who knows that a cup of tea soothes most ills. A man after my own heart.

page 156

"After allowing himself to wallow in depression for a short while, he pushed his mood aside with a firm effort, squared, his shoulders, and said, 'Well, the sooner we get going, the sooner you'll get your bath and your tea.'" Ah, yes, of course, just push aside your wallowing. Why didn't I realize it was that easy?

page 158

"A few wary, rather mincing steps, brought him to the vestibule." Alexander, your author is making fun of you. Just a bit.

page 161

The book is very, very clear that it's just Graham's face floating in the soul-capture orb. The book is very, very wrong. It's a tiny Graham floating around in there. Like, full body, but like two inches high. This is fact, and better than a disembodied Wizard of Oz-style face. I'm just letting you all know that the book is misprinted. Every copy. It's a full body'd Graham. Just smol.

page 162

YEAH BOI PUNCH AN UNDEAD KNIGHT...oh no, your arm, why did you just literally punch a suit of armor, you donut, you know better than that

August 26, 2020 –

page 167

To be fair, the door is now open. As is the floor, and the wall, and...well, the room, to the sky. Definitely very open.

August 27, 2020 –

page 169

It's turned into Dragon's Lair instead of King's Quest, for this scene. Super into it. Wouldn't want to play it as a video game, though--the amounts of game overs....

August 31, 2020 –

page 169

"But this insignificant event raised within him an unexpected fury. He cursed the poor root to withering, black perdition, cursed it deeply and sincerely, cursed it with all his soul." Gods, Alexander, I get it. Man, do I ever get it. I'm so tired.

page 177

"This was it, the nadir. It could not get any worse than this." You sure about that, kid? I think we've got one more scrape at the bottom of the barrel we can squeeze into."

page 181

Alexander is thiiiiiiiis close to snapping. Kid, I understand you. Critically and crucially, I understand.

page 183

FROG PRINCE. I told you there was one more level we could reach. The royal family gets transformed into animals rather frequently. At least this time he's not a snail, poor kid.

page 183

"With a sense of profound shock, he realized that he had been transformed into a frog--a rather large and handsome frog, it's true, but still a frog." You can't make this stuff up. This book is perfect. The ideal. The author is calling Alexander a handsome frog. He's a frog, but a good looking one. I can't handle this.

page 185

"Did you speak, Sir Frog?" "That's Prince Frog, to you." Alexander, be nice. Don't pull rank. I don't think you have rank to pull anymore. Smelly swamp rank, at best.

page 186

I like to think that was just Alexander swearing, but it was masked as a ribbit.

page 187

To be fully fair, Alex, you do kind of need him to reattach Graham's soul, so maybe it's for the best that he doesn't go far.

page 189

If I were a soul-armor, and this frog decided to enter the castle, to be honest, I think I would probably just let it. Because it's a frog.

page 194

There's fanart of this scene too because it's hilarious. She kisses a frog, he becomes a man hanging half over the rim of a fountain, and all she can say is "Goodness! But...you're beautiful." Ridiculous.

page 194

HA and then she tries to recover saying, "I haven't seen that many men in my life. Hardly any, actually. I'm sure that you're really very ordinary." Kid. Please, stop insulting him, you're going to make him sad(der than he already is)

page 198

It's at this point that Alexander just sort of gives in to the sass and the snark and starts leaning into the nonsense. "Creature?" "She's not entirely human." "Uh, in what way is she not human?" "To begin with, she has two heads, no hair, only three fingers on each hand, and is fully seven feet tall." "You're right. That doesn't sound entirely human." Pleeaaaaase this book is a deliiight.

page 200

That twilight area between wakefulness and sleep, with thoughts centered on nothing at all? my brain, today. fully. I've got nothing left to offer anyone, except not-very-funny remarks on this book.

page 202

Nothing Telgrin does is ever common. Overblown and ludicrous, maybe, but never ever common.

September 1, 2020 –

page 209

When the two headed guard calls to the intruding man like a person tempting a kitty cat. "Come here, man, pspspsps. Man, man, maaaan." Instead of catnip, she can bring tacos.

page 211

Again, I just gotta let you all know that the books have been misprinted. It's not a disembodied head floating in the orb, even if it's probably supposed to be an Owen's decapitated head parallel, because that's dumb. It's a tiny two-inch tall Graham floating in the orb, not just his face. I don't know how all the copies got misprinted like that, but they did. It's really a tiny Graham. Cute. Okay? Okay. Onward.

page 212

I love One Stubborn King.

page 216

I can't actually make snide jokes about the text when I'm actually just outright enjoying it. The sheer blissy silly triumph of Telgrin, the stubbornness and sharp agony of my dear sweet Graham, Alexander standing there ruminating on what loyalty means--this is exactly my flavor of fantasy jam.

September 17, 2020 –

page 225

I still kind of sort of love that Telgrin apparently decided that the best way to use the magic staff was to make it respond to wishes. "I wish for a giant fireball." And thus, one appears. It just...speaks to some strange childishness that I find totally hilarious in this big bad villain.

page 230

Again, the book is misprinted. I'm not about these weird Wizard of Oz style floating faces. They're weird. It's a fully bodied apparition of Telgrin yelling at Alexander, hands on hips, just as it's a tiny full bodied shape of Graham in the orb. My version is better.

page 231

"I could kill you now, if I wanted." "I don't think so," Alexander said defiantly. "Is *everyone* in Daventry this obstinate?" Sir. My dude. My man. Palberto. You messed with the wrong royal family, and they come from knight stock, not actually blue blood at all. They're going to *wreck* you.

page 232

"I'll live, I think." Alexander, your ability to comfort others leaves a little bit to be desired.

page 234

I'm not actually kidding. If Mills hadn't read Fellowship of the Ring at least a week or two before writing this, I will eat my whole entire adventuring cap. That's the Watcher in the Water, as there was literally lembas bread earlier and a ringwraith before that. Fantasy tropes or not, this is just sneaking Tolkien references in because Mills is a fanboy (I mean, obviously: he's writing company-approved fanfic).

page 237

Again, Alexander, realize this: Telgrin learned everything he knows from Owen. One might assume, especially knowing how dark those mirrors felt, that Owen himself is *not actually a very good guy.*

page 241

It's kind of like cheerfully presenting Sweeney Todd with his shaving tools. "At last, I am complete again!" Not.....super great, I feel.

page 242

I love that it's not actually magic keeping the castle moored, but a big ol' safety pin. That's not even actually much of an exaggeration. "At the bottom of that well you will find a large golden pin embedded in the paving stone. You are to remove this pin. It may not be easy, but you must do it. It will set the castle free from the moorings of the earth."

page 248

The fact that Telgrin now has to wear an eyepatch is great enough. The fact that he took the time to make sure it perched on "his bald head at a jaunty angle" is almost too much to bear. I hope he stood in front of his cracked and smoking mirror adjusting it just so before coming down for this final confrontation.

page 248

"I'll probably never see out of this eye again, I hope you're happy with yourself." "I mean...you *were* trying to kill me." "Irrelevant." Boys, please, there are serious issues at hand.

page 250

"All I've ever asked in return is that you marry me, and that you not burden me with your opinions." Telgrin, the ultimate flirt. Magnificent.

page 251

Telgrin's snarky sassy meltdown is the greatest. "She's now willing to marry me, merely to save your worthless life! Willingly! Well, I won't have it, I tell you. She shall marry me unwillingly, or not at all!" Telgrin, you are absolutely bonkers and you're my favorite villain in any piece of media ever, full stop. The sheer ridiculousness of *you* with your wish-magic and bloviating and grandiose posturing....divine.

page 253

Telgrin's pasty complexion is enough to "make a marble statue appear dark by comparison." If this were a modern AU, Telgrin would be that emo kid hunched over twitter mansplaining at everyone, while listening to the rainy mood app constantly. He's an absolute delight from start to finish, especially because he *is* a threat and he *could* win if he wasn't so obsessed with the *aesthetic* and the need to show off.

page 255

Ahh one of my favorite lines in the whole book: "It's blame-everything-on-Telgrin time, is it?" What villain talks like this?? Who does this?!! No one but Telgrin, author Craig Mills, and this goofy novelisation of the very sassy, very cliche, very delightful, King's Quest series. Fantasy tropes, sass, snark, and everything. This book is nothing but pure sugared joy for me.

page 266

No more than two feet of earth held the entire castle in place, and now they're floating away again like the house in Up. Delightful.

page 270

Telgrin, you can't behead someone who has already been beheaded. Be sensible.

page 273

"Can you think of any way for us to get down from [this steadily rising floating castle]?" "I could attempt to fly you down!" All in all, Alexander thought he would rather just jump. Boys, please.

page 288

A Valanice story, I think, would have been very welcome. I'm glad for the trilogy we got, but I really would have enjoyed an official novel from her perspective. This lonely image of her standing alone before the throne, with her husband dying in the next room and her son gone for at least a week to face an unknown villain alone, while her kingdom is ravaged by evil knights....it feels worth exploring.

page 291

I absolutely one thousand million percent love this strobing effect of two Grahams floating together, his transparent and delicate soul settling down into his body again. It's delightful.

page 292

Pleaaase Graham, say "A heart is a heavy burden." I know this book came out like a decade before the Howl's Moving Castle (the movie at least, I don't know the book's publication date), but pleaaaase. I know you won't, but I want you to.

page 293

SHRIEKING. I don't ever ship things, but this is my otp for liiiiiife look at these two precious beans together I'm just THRILLED the smile on my face is enormous ahhhh Valanice and Graham have hardly anything going for them in the original games since they hardly ever interact on screen but this book and this scene is just DELIGHTFUL.

September 17, 2020 – Finished Reading

Again, five stars out of five stars

#king's quest novels #king's quest #kings quest #cyril (king's quest) #alexander (king's quest) #theoretically i'm reading it for a 4th time this year but i haven't actually gone past page six so that's it for liveblogs of book one #for now anyway #maybe i'll add book 2 and book 3 too #i haven't read them nearly as many times they've never captured my attention like this one did #but they are still fun and it might be good to have everything contained here anyway

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

Vlad plasmius headcanons?

(Mainly focusing on his ghost powers/biology hcs and how it differs from Dan, Dani, and Danny's biology because I made a couple of hcs on him here)

-He wasted at least five years trying to repress his powers out of fear.

-Comparing Halfas to (nintendo) Kirby's species, Danny is Kirby and Vlad is Meta knight. Danny has a wide variety of powers that he seemingly 'keeps forgetting' because he's still young and he and his powers are still adapting themselves to each other. He'll gain and lose out on more powers as he finds out what does and doesn't work for him while Vlad already has himself and his powers figured out and wont lose or gain any new ones. (unless a macguffin does that to him)

-Vlad has a 'ghost sense' but it works much differently than Danny's does. Where Danny's ghost sense is a cold breath, his is the ability to see ectoplasm in infrared thermal vision. This has the advantage of being able to see intangible ghosts and the drawback of having a lot more 'false positives' as people who are frequently in contact with ectoplasm (like Mr. and Mrs. OSHA Violation, pretty much anybody who works with him on a daily basis, a *lot* of Amity Parkers...) also show up when he's using his ghost-sense-vision.

-He saves energy by incorporating stray ectoplasm he can see into his ecto-blasts, shields, makeshift weapons, simple structures, and his copies.

-For the most part, he can't tell the difference between ghost powers unique to him and ghost powers any ghost can use.

-The exception to this is one power Vlad himself has, hates, and fears to the point where he will only use it if an outside force controls his body and makes him do it. He did not name this ability, but the way it works is that he 'leeches' life out of his opponent victim via infecting them with a ghostly virus and restores his own health to an extent in the process. Exactly as he did on his first deathbed: hurting and healing...

-If you used the Fenton Peeler on him as Plasmius, and if you used it for long enough, removing his 'main form', you'd see a form that looked like a dissected cadaver with an incredibly messed-up face (Appearance seems to be in its 30s), underneath that, a bandaged hospital patient (Appearance ranges from early 20s to early 30s), underneath that, a headless college student wearing a lab coat over a packers-colored sweater. You cannot remove more without killing him completely. He is unlikely to answer any questions about the 'reemerging head', especially if you asked him immediately after finding this out.

-His core is damaged and doesn't function properly, he's unable to use elemental abilities.

-Misinterpreting this to think that Vlad is a 'weak' halfa would be dangerous to a would-be opponent. There's no such thing as a 'weak halfa' as it requires an immense amount of strength to survive a ghost portal accident and or to survive the process of being 'born' half a human and half a ghost.

-This is more of an observation than a HC, but most of his 'vampirism' in his appearance comes from the cape, the hair, and his fangs. Looking at other parts of his ghost form: the white suit, the shiny black boots, belt, and gloves, the black triangle...

It begins to look a little...

Familiar...

#danny phantom #vlad plasmius #vlad masters #danny fenton #jack fenton #maddie fenton #If you asked me to un-vampire Vlad's ghost form #literally all I would do is replace his cape with a lab coat #and change his hair #that's it #he can keep the fangs as a treat.

[imarvelatthestars]

Just A Man: II

Pairings: Jango Fett x f!Reader

Content: this is a Headless Horseman au set during a historical time period on Earth with a special focus on Māori culture to honor Tem's heritage; warnings include - decapitation, violence & warfare, mercenary activity, explicit references to colonization, (D)jango is morally ambiguous and a problematic king but we love him anyway, and also (eventual) smut

Notes: yeah, so instead of doing homework, I cranked out about 6k words in a sitting, but at least the writing is out of my system temporarily (until I get possessed by the ghost of headless horseman Django again).

a playlist | previous chapter

important vocab: aotearoa - literally 'the land of the long white cloud', the māori name for new zealand iwi - tribe tamariki - children pītau - baby fern fronds pūkana - to stare wildly or widen the eyes, used during haka performances as emphasis poi - a small ball on a rope or string spun in accompaniment to songs and dances mokopuna - grandchildren (tā) moko - traditional māori tattoos reo - language pūkauae - the type of chin tattoo that women receive mana - the supernatural, indestructible power of the gods that exists in everything django - possibly from a romani word meaning "i awake"; fetu - alternate spelling of the māori name "whetu" (wh- = f-) [you can stick some of the māori words into this dictionary and have it pronounce them for you, if you'd like btw]

November 1820

Josiah can’t stand it when Dr. Kirk comes to call. He loathes being doted on as if he were incapable of taking care of himself, though both you and Kirk try to affirm that this is not the intent of these visits. However, he happens to be one of the most stubborn men you know and so the progress of his healing is slow.

Teaching has slid to a halt. With Josiah unable to work, it falls to the rest of the house to pick up the slack. Your lessons now revolve around menial tasks like caring for the livestock and the horses, which Cora seems to enjoy the most, second only to her love of socializing, helping to bundle and prepare the rest of the harvest goods for selling in the market. Moses does not exactly enjoy this, but he’s always happy to leave the house and see whatever parts of the world he can. This is where Cora shines the most and her bubbly personality, sweet smile, and kind words are enough to encourage many townsfolk to your stall.

You’re so proud of them. In the weeks since the scourge of All Hallow’s Day, they have proven themselves to be far stronger than you or Josiah ever gave them credit for, although they do still climb into bed with either one of you when the dreams strike. And the dreams come for all of you, not just the children.

You wake more often than not drenched in sweat, heart pounding out of your chest, and the image of the knight scorched into your eyes. He is a mountain of silver and blood. His broad shoulders spattered with red, the rusted edges of his helm wired shut. He cuts Josiah down even with a bullet in his back, rounds on the children. God, the children. You still cannot remember if they were the ones screaming or if it was you.

You never dream of your triumph. It seems to vanish the instant you close your eyes. In your mind, you are always cut down and the children are always taken. Death lingers when you wake.

The knight haunts you so vividly that you find yourself buried alive in your paranoia. Every instant the children aren’t in your sight, you panic. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves in the grass, any man whose gait falls too heavily sends your chest heaving. You are so desperately afraid, not even for yourself, but for the little ones. What if he comes for them again? Will you be able to beat him back a second time? Will he even give you the chance?

This fear grips you so tightly that you don’t even realize Cora’s gone until you blink out of your trance, call her name, and she doesn’t answer.

“Moses. Moses, where’s your sister?”

The boy looks up from the handful of coins he’s collected from your latest customer. Counting, just like you told him to. He frowns. “I dunno. Maybe she went to one of the other stalls.”

Your body goes white hot. “I thought I told her to stay put?” Before he can so much as respond, you race out into the main street, shouting Cora’s name so violently that your voice is almost immediately hoarse with the first try. “Cora! Cora Minor! Where are you?”

It’s suddenly difficult to see, to breathe. Every nightmare that has wrenched you from your sleep this week is suddenly coming to fruition. She’s gone. Even worse, she’s dead. And it’s all your fault. Josiah will hate you and he’ll throw you out, and you’ll have nowhere to go but back home to the family you despise, and all because you let your mind wander when you ought to have been focused solely on her and her brother.

“Cora?”

People are watching you. You can see their mouths moving, but you cannot hear them over the blood rushing in your ears.

“Cora! Where-?” Oh God, you can feel it bubbling inside you, the bile and the fear and the anxiety. You’re going to be sick. “Cora-“

There’s a flash of brown and silver, and then, “I’m right here.”

You practically trip over yourself trying to get to her. Your hands fly to her face, thumbs smoothing over her skin, across the birthmark above her brows, fingers tracing the lines of silver in her otherwise dark hair. Her nose is all wrinkled up and you can see she’s irritated with the sudden onslaught of affection, but she doesn’t fight you.

“Where were you?” you breathe as you fall to your knees. “Cora, sweetheart, you frightened me.”

This softens the lines that have wrinkled along her browbone. “I’m sorry.” Her face tilts down and she holds her arms crossed over her chest, not quite hugging herself. “I didn’t mean to. I thought I saw something in the field over there, so I followed it.”

This time you’re certain you’ll retch on the both of you. “Cora, it is far too dangerous to go wandering without an adult. You could have been hurt!”

“I’m not afraid!” she huffs. “I was only curious!”

She jerks herself out of your reach and turns her shoulder so you can no longer see her. Your mind is a flurry of equal parts fear, relief, and anger, and for a moment you almost snap and tear into her right there. You want to. It’s what you would do to yourself if you could, for allowing her to disappear while under your charge. But then you see her little shoulders quivering and it breaks something deep inside you.

“Cora, look at me.”

Her hair bounces when she shakes her head.

“Cora.”

It takes some gentle prodding, and you are both crying once she relents and allows you to turn her toward you again. She’s still holding her hands to her chest, as if she were protecting something she doesn’t want you to see.

“Promise me you won’t go running off the next time you see something curious. Sleepy Hollow isn’t safe any longer, and I’m frightened that something awful will happen to you and your brother. That’s why I need you to stay close to me when we’re in town. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I understand.”

For the first time all day, you finally find yourself able to breathe easily. So long as she is safe in your arms, everything will be alright, you’re certain of it. She bends to your embrace, though her agitation is clear in the way she withholds herself from you.

“What did you find out there?” This is your peace offering. “May I see?”

Cora’s eyes narrow. “Promise you won’t be angry?”

“I promise.”

Her slender fingers uncurl to reveal two small pieces of bone, each carved so intricately and carefully that you could almost swear it was something alive. A hole has been made near the top and a leather thong threaded through to create a necklace. The artistry on these bones is unlike anything you have ever seen before, unlike any piece of Lenape artistry you know. You hesitate to assume, but the feeling in your gut tells you this was not crafted by the hands of anyone from around these parts.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I don’t know. But there was a man, he gave it to me.”

This time your body goes cold. “What man?”

She shrugs. “Just a man. I’ve never seen him here before. He said they were for me and Moses.”

You promised. You know you promised, and it would only make things worse with Cora if you were to break it, but the fear that strikes you is so powerful that all you want to do is rip the bones from her hands and throw them as far and hard as you possibly can. Whoever this strange man is, wandering about and offering children bones, you pray he stays far away from you and that he never returns. Whoever he is, it isn’t good, that much you feel certain of.

“Come on,” you choose to say, rather than the string of highly uncouth words you’re currently biting back. “I think it’s time we went home.”

He waits for your husband to leave. It is a long wait brought on by his own foolishness, he knows, for the man’s arm is still in a sling and carefully bandaged, but only then does he approach.

Django is not a nervous man, but he feels his apprehension grow with every step that brings him closer to your door. He knows this is foolish as well, that it may end in disaster, but there is no other way that he can see. He can either try or he can continue on with his miserable, lonely existence, knowing all the while that his children are cut off from their mana here, so far away from land that first gave them breath.

There was never a choice to be made, simply a way to go about acting upon it.

The woman that answers his knock appears to be a servant, old and round-faced and wrinkled, and she screams when she sees him. He sighs. His forearm braces against the door when she slams it shut, heaves it back open so he may saunter in.

“Where is the woman of the house?” he asks in what he thought was a rather unthreatening tone.

But the servant only continues to shriek and it’s enough to draw the attention of the others who work with her. A man comes to her aid, but he is old and frail as well, and is of no concern.

“Where is the woman of the house?” he asks again. He wonders if perhaps his English has gone unused for too long, for the words are awkward in his mouth and they do not sound the same as the words he’s heard you and the children use.

When neither servant answers, Django elects to find you on his own. It’s a familiar path that he remembers from the hazy illumination of a town on fire and waxing moonlight a month prior. Why does it feel as though so much is different from how it was, as though the walls themselves are as changed as he is?

There’s no time to dwell on it because you appear so suddenly before him that it nearly takes him by surprise. It’s clear he surprises you as well. Whatever you had been expecting when you heard the screams of your workers, this had likely not been your first assumption.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Lady-“

You take off in an instant. He doesn’t catch you the first time he attempts to, but he does the second, and immediately, he is hit by a barrage of fists. And more shrieking. Gods above and below, is there no end to it? Have you all not adjusted to his presence by now? Can you not see that he poses no threat, weaponless as he is?

You’re shouting now, panicked and terrified, and he’s surprised by just how strong you are despite it. It’s a deceptive strength that packs quite the punch, something he notes when you strike him between his armor plates and his ribs immediately begin to protest. Strange. He can feel you. He’s fought many battles, been assaulted countless times over the centuries, and each blow has left its mark behind to varying degrees, but never has he felt his body in the way he does now with you.

“Bellamy! The children!”

His helm snaps up to focus on your face. Now that is exactly what he doesn’t want. You may protest and fight all you like, but he won’t let you take the children. They are his, whether you know it or not. And 224 years of instinct overwhelms him as his body reacts. Your wrist catches in his waiting palm, his other hand pinches your shoulder and twists you until you’re pinned to the wall and entirely at his mercy.

“I am not here to harm them,” he growls.

He can see you thinking. The fog that usually accompanies the world around him feels a little clearer now, and he can properly see for the first time in forever. Curious, then, how he can see so much now that he is so close to you. Like the distinction between your eyelashes, the texture of your skin, the pulse ticking under your jaw, and he can only see it because your head is tilted so far back that your throat is fully exposed.

It could be so easy… He doesn’t even need his weapons to take your life, he could do it with his armor, dig the corner of his vambrace into your flesh and tear until you bleed. He can almost smell it now. The metallic rush of red that would trickle over his hands, down your dress. And for a moment, he considers it, tilts his helm forward so it rests on the wall beside your head, and he can listen to you breathe, feel you tremble beneath him.

It's intoxicating.

You bring all his senses into focus, you strange, soft, vibrant thing, and he almost wishes that killing you and licking the blood from your skin would fix something that broke within him long ago. Because he really thinks it could work.

But something stays his hand. A voice he recognizes from long ago, the voice of his dreams that stole him from his tribe and swept him across the waters. The voice tells him to wait. For surely you will taste much sweeter once his children are returned to him and his victory is solidified.

“I have a request,” says Django. “Will you hear me?”

Still, you’re frozen in place. He cannot work with you if you give him nothing.

He jostles the wrist he still has in his grip and leans into you, hoping to prompt you into responding. “Speak, woman! Or have you no tongue?”

Finally, finally, you crack. Your lips part and a sound comes out, but he cannot hear it properly through the armor. “Again,” he prompts.

The hand he’d left free suddenly smashes into the underside of his helm as you thrust your weight into him. “I said, get off of me!”

Such a thing would normally be incapable of phasing him, but this time is different. This time his helm is not correctly affixed, and it leaves his head vulnerable, makes it easier for the attaching stitches to tear, makes the secret he holds so close that much more precarious, so he lunges for you again, pins both your wrists to the wall and presses you so firmly to its surface that there’s not a single inch of space left for you to move.

“You test my patience, Lady. You will hear me, even if I must force your ears to listen. Stay. Still.”

Oh, and now you’re huffing and spitting like a viper, wriggling in his grip and making this mission all the more impossible. If you would only be still and allow him to explain, none of this would be necessary!

“… filthy hands off me! Bellamy! Bellamyyy, help! Hel-fffmn!”

“Must I gag you as well? Lower your voice or I will remove it altogether. Do you understand me?”

The warning, however, comes too late, for he hears the distant slamming of metal on wood, footsteps running up the stairs, the shouting of half a dozen male voices, and all of it spells trouble. Dammit all, you took so long to corral that he wasted the time he needed to bargain with you. He sees all the terrified spitfire in your eyes wonders if this battle is even worth fighting, if the trouble is worth the price, but then he thinks of his children. He thinks of the centuries he spent without them and all the good it never brought him, and he knows there is no returning to what once was. This is all there is now.

For the second time in his life, Django runs and this time he is not alone. He bursts outside with you half struggling, half paralyzed by his grip at the base of your neck, and he marvels in the moments between moments just how much clearer his senses have become since he cornered you, how even the sun seems to shine brighter and the chill of the air bites at his bones once more. He watches you stumble alongside him. Fascinating.

He knows the woods better than he knows anything else and it’s remarkably easy to slip into the brush and entirely disappear. The men are too busy shouting, calling your name, stomping too noisily through the brush to hear you struggle against his armor. But he can hear you. He swears he can almost hear your heart thundering beneath him.

The men travel fast into the farther reaches of the forest, leaving only the two of you under the partial canopy of the red and orange leaves. He eyes a fallen log some paces away.

“I have no desire to harm you. I want only to talk.” Django removes his hand from your mouth very cautiously. “Will you hear me?”

You have a vexing tendency to stay quiet specifically when he requests otherwise, so once a few moments of silence pass, he jostles your arms. “Yes!” you snap, still limp in his hands.

He guides you to the old tree that has grown over with pītau and grass, and finally releases you, but he does not stray far from the trunk. His helm is tilted as far down as is possible so he can watch you seat yourself.

“Do not run.”

Your body goes still. “What do you want?” you ask, and Django can easily distinguish the way your voice wavers. You’re afraid. Good. That means you’re smart.

“The children.”

It’s then that your head snaps up and your eyes lock on his, somehow, through his visor. “If you want them, you’ll have to kill me. And their father.”

The venom in your words is understandable, but irritating nonetheless. “I do not wish to take them,” he sighs.

It’s a half-lie, not entirely false yet not entirely the truth. Taking them by force would end poorly for all, and he has no desire to see his tamariki flee from him or be injured, but they need him. They are cut off from their mana here, so far away from land that first gave them breath. He knows he cannot take them and run for there is no iwi to return to, and he suspects that his wife would return from the dead and haunt him were he ever to set foot on Aotearoa’s shores. Nor would they come with him willingly, not so long as he continues to present himself the way that he does. He knows they dream about the night his wrath spilled over. He hears them whisper about it sometimes, like he hears you wake from your slumber and cry, too, and for once he feels guilty.

“How many years have they?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“How many?”

The log creaks under your weight as you shift uncomfortably. Then, “10, both of them.”

Of course they are.

“As were mine.” His mouth feels dry when he says it, his heart burns, and not for the first time, he’s grateful for the helm he hides behind. He doesn’t want you to see the first tears he’s felt on his cheeks in over 200 years.

He’s even angrier when he sees the light of understanding in the black of your eyes, how it almost borders on pity, and he does not want pity. He’s killed others for less. But he can’t kill you, and he knows it. Perhaps you know it now, as well.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

For a moment, he’s overcome with emotion as he pictures his children, the carvings they wore around their necks, the songs they used to sing. He pictures Poa’s fierce pūkana and Omeka’s handling of the poi. He pictures all the battles he would have missed and the mokopuna he never saw born, and he feels his jaw tighten and his throat constricts (as much as it can).

“What are they called?” he finally asks. “The boy?”

“Moses.”

He’s familiar with this name, has heard multiple times in a variety of tongues, but it doesn’t suit his son. He shakes his head. “Poa.” You repeat it back to him, but the word is awkward in your mouth. “No,” he says, “Poa.”

It’s better the second time.

“And the girl?”

You almost dare to smile then. You must be fond of her. “Cora.”

This name is at least somewhat similar to the one he knows, although the sounds are rearranged. “Omeka,” he corrects. “They are mine, as they are yours.”

Your face crinkles with frustration. “But they’re not-“

“They are.” No room for discussion. “What do you know of the rebirth of souls?”

“‘The rebirth of’…? What are you talking about?”

“My children are yours now, Lady. Their spirits reborn in new bodies that you have nurtured.”

It’s no easy thing to accept, he realizes, but he had hoped you would understand, that there might be a chance. But it’s clear you think him crazed and lost within his mind. He sees your hands twitch in your lap, your eyes dart to the side as you survey your surroundings. You’re going to run, and with you will go the last chance he has at atoning for his greatest sin, the last chance he has to see the little ones he once loved grow old. This is exactly what he feared.

Django is accustomed to taking. He takes every day, takes risks and lives, and he takes to survive, to keep going even when he finds there is nothing to continue surviving for. He watches you now and sees the future of his tamariki flicker like a flame. It all hinges upon you.

He cannot take this time, but he does take your hand. It startles you. You are, for all intents and purposes, as frightened as a wild hare, your body trembling and stiff, your nose twitching as you assess him, but this time he is a wolf who bares no teeth and hides it claws. He lowers himself onto his knees and does the one thing he swore never to do: he lifts his visor.

He's not sure of the state of his head. You have no way of knowing it’s severed from his body, held in place only by hope and metal loops wiring the helm in place atop his shoulders, but he knows you’re able to see most of his face. It’s been so long since another person saw it and lived that he half wonders if he’s changed over the years, become the beast he set out to be. He wonders if the lines of his moko frighten you, if you, like so many of the settlers that have taken this land as their own, see the color of his skin and the breadth of his nose and think him monstrous for it, and thus unworthy of being heard.

“I have nothing in this life beyond them,” he proclaims, laying himself bare before you in a moment of desperation. His heart is pounding, threatening to rip itself from his chest. “I ask for nothing from you, Lady, but to see them brought up in the ways of their ancestors, to speak their reo again, to learn the songs and dances of their tribe as they once did.”

But you shake your head even as he clutches your hand to his chest. “They’re not yours. It’s not possible.”

It whispers to him again, the lust that rattles deep within him, yearning for blood when things don’t go his way. You have no idea what mercy you’ve been dealt or how you’ve been spared his wrath. You don’t know how easily he could take from you everything you hold dear, how he could snatch the children up now and gut you like a fish, leave you gory and dying and ten times more miserable than he is.

The beat of your pulse thumps in your fingertips. He tugs you closer, gently so as not to startle you. He can’t help his gaze dropping to the trembling line of your mouth. “I had hoped not to take them from their mother.” Your shoulders drop as he leans closer. Unguarded and unaware. How foolish. Django exhales through his nose in a sort of laugh as he suddenly pulls on your wrist, dragging you off the trunk and directly into him, and in an instant, he has you flat on your back with his hand at your throat. And how his body sings when he sees the terror in your eyes. “It would be easier with your blessing.”

The nearest tree groans in the wind as its branches bend, and the cold is harsh on his face for the first time in memory.  He closes his eyes, breathes, feels the thrumming of your life force under his hands, and he knows he cannot kill you. He hates that he can’t. He hates that he wants to. But then he thinks of the terrorized faces that cowered behind you that awful night and he withdraws himself from you as if he were burned. His hands tingle within his gloves as he does, and he half wonders if you did, if your touch is as dangerous as a flame.

Silence hangs heavy between you. It lingers on his armor like dew, like sweat, and it worries at the inside of your cheek where you’re chewing on it. You move to sit up. He does not retreat, nor does he advance. He simply waits.

He’s waited 224 years, he can wait another few minutes until your decision is made.

What sort of man is this? You thought him a devil at first, some ghoul from the pits of Hell itself sent to torment the town and snuff out whatever life it found. He’s haunted you from that very night, lingered in the back of your mind until you’ve made yourself sick with worry, yet now he kneels before you, not a spirit but a man. There is flesh behind his armor, dark and sickly as if it’s never seen the sun, and his face is carved with curls of ink that follow the lines of his cheeks, mouth, and brow. He smells like a man, musky and sweaty and old, but not in the same way that the elders of the town do. He smells old in the same way the land does, less of a proper sensation and more of something that you sense when the wind tosses his scent your way.

He's human. And even if you had doubted that, you know it by the way he regards the children. There’s a reverence there, an honesty so true that it’s beyond fabrication. He genuinely believes they’re his. He’s so determined to have them again, to teach them – although what he might wish to teach them is beyond you – that he’s willing to do anything to try, even go so far as to… capture you? Threaten you? Beg you for a chance, all within the span of a few minutes?

What’s worse is he seems to think you’re their mother. Would he kill you if he knew the truth?

A surge of bravery enables you to glance his way and assess the knee taken, the face beneath the armor, the empty holsters and the missing pistols, the dried and rusted blood caked into the corners of his chest plate. This knight is a killer. He left a bloody trail the length of Sleepy Hollow in his wake the morning of All Hallow’s Eve, he left Josiah injured on your bedroom floor, and he very nearly killed you then. Only he didn’t.

Cora and Moses. You wouldn’t be surprised if they were the reason.

“What happened to your children?” you ask before you can think better of it.

The knight flares his nostrils, seemingly taken aback by the query. His eyes search the grass for something you cannot fathom. “Dead,” he finally responds, his jaw angrily squared off and his eyes suddenly very far away. “Many years ago.”

You thought as much, and in fact, your mouth finds a course of its own as it opens to explain that the children lost their mother years ago, too, until you realize that you are, in his mind, their mother and your jaw quickly snaps shut. “Their grandmother,” is the correction that you offer him with a shaky, barely convincing smile. “They were very close to her. But I suppose that’s not the same, is it?” He merely blinks. “I am sorry, sir, that you lost them. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

He must be very lonely. The thought strikes you rather hard and it pierces straight through your heart. You could be wrong, of course, but something tells you you’re not. Lonely people don’t see their deceased children in strangers. Lonely people don’t traipse the forest in armor centuries out of date, nor do they go on bloody rampages in sleepy towns. They don’t beg on their knees to see a couple of children that ought to mean nothing to them.

How do you know you can trust him?

For the first time, the knight smiles – it’s strange how the corner of his mouth quirks into a vague resemblance of the thing. “You don’t.” Then the smile vanishes and that same fire you saw burning in his irises when speaking of his children burns anew. “But I would not harm them, Lady. Not ever.”

And you, in all your foolishness, believe him.

You’d be less nervous if there was pistol pressed between your eyes. There might as well be, you tell yourself rather dejectedly. The knight – Django – had after all threatened you in all but name. It was an excellent motivator to whip up a believable lie, to tell the children of the old family friend who had journeyed very far to wish you well in your new home and would be coming to visit very soon, so long as they were good and diligent in their studies. But now as the hour of his arrival grows closer, you feel yourself dissolving into a nervous wreck.

This whole thing is a terrible mistake. You know what he is, who he is, the things he’s done. You saw it with your own eyes, yet you’re allowing this man to insert himself into Moses and Cora’s lives? Are you mad?

You ought to go running and screaming to the mayor, to the house of the strongest, fittest men and beg them to protect you against the demon in armor that’s haunting you. But you know he’d find you. You know he’d kill you. And selfish though it is, choosing your life over sanity is a much easier decision than you ever thought it could be.

Still, you do take the precaution of hiding a knife in the pocket of your apron. It’s the only thing that will keep you from losing it entirely.

The thundering knocking of metal on wood shudders through the house, cutting right through your lesson. Cora and Moses both look up from their chalkboards, eyes wide in giddy anticipation. You don’t want this to happen. You’re not ready. What if he hurts them? What if he hurts you? What if, if-?

The blur of movement that is Cora rushing to the window snaps you from your thoughts.

“It’s him!” she shouts. She starts bouncing up and down on her toes, beaming as she points out the window to the gravel path below. “He’s here, he’s here!”

Moses attempts to remain more composed, but you can see he’s curious. He raises an eyebrow at you. Well? he seems to say. What are you waiting for?

You smile through the sudden bought of nausea. “I think our lesson will have to wait for later.”

Cora, meanwhile, has her face pressed up against the glass. “He looks mysterious. Why’s he dressed like that?”

Your stomach drops. Oh no, did he come in the armor? The whole town will bury you alive if they see him like that, if they know it’s because of you. Oh, you’re going to be sick now, there’s no debating it.

“You don’t look well,” Moses notes.

“I don’t feel well.” It’s the first honest thing you’ve said all day.

He frowns so much that his entire brow crinkles. It’s a look he’s been giving you more often, usually when you ask him to do something he has little interest in, or when he’s in a mood. But you worry he’s frowning now because he knows you too well, because he’s remarkably observant and he’s using it against you at the worst possible time.

You need a chamber pot. Or to go lie down and rest. You need the villain you’ve invited into your home to go back to wherever he came from and leave you be.

The study door creaks open to reveal Harriet. “Pardon me, ma’am, but you’ve a visitor.” She’s trying to appear pleasant, but you can see she’s as curious as the children are and more than a little suspicious. She leans into the door and lowers her voice to a more conspiratorial tone. “Strange face, he’s got. Sounds foreign, too.”

You’re sure they can all hear you swallow. “He’s not from around here.”

Somewhere behind you, Moses snorts and Cora ‘oo’s and ‘ahh’s. God above, you need to get this over with before you make yourself legitimately sick or something worse happens. The idea of him forcing his way inside and into this room, taking the children because you took too long to answer when he called, it scarcely bares imagining.

How you manage to drag yourself from the study to parlor room, you have no recollection, though you’re distantly aware of the two little shadows following along. But all you think of is him. And then Harriet pushes the door open for you, and all you see is him.

Gone is the armor that lights up your nightmares, gone are the weapons and the promise of violence that lingers in the cracks and crevices of the metal he hides behind. A cloak replaces cold steel and a high collar reaches nearly to his jaw. His throat has been wrapped in a kerchief and knotted above the bend in his neck. The rest of his clothes are strange, certainly older than is appropriate for the current fashion and stained in places they shouldn’t be, and though you hope it isn’t the case, you suspect it’s the result of blood seeping under his gear.

Without the helmet, you can see more of his face and the full reach of his markings, as well as the dark coils of his hair that have grown shaggy and uneven. However, Django isn’t even looking at you. His attention is focused solely on the children.

His children.

The thought is startling and entirely unbidden, but it tugs at your mind like Cora often tugs at your skirts. It’s ridiculous. It’s not even possible. The ‘rebirth of souls’? Such things are the stuff of fairy tales and exotic regions on the map, and he is clearly out of his mind if he truly thinks that.

But then you look at Moses and you see Django’s nose.

No.

No, that’s not possible. You know it isn’t. You must be feeling more ill than you first thought. Perhaps you’re feverish.

But then Cora tilts her head to one side and her hair falls over her shoulder, moves exactly the way that Django’s does. It’s such an insignificant thing, but his voice is already whispering in your ear, a memory of the afternoon in the forest when he dropped to his knees and begged like a man instead of a monster.

The rebirth of souls, reborn into new bodies.

Such things are impossible.

They have the same eyes. Dark like the earth when it’s damp and freshly dug, rich like the smell of Harriet’s morning coffee. It’s the exact same color. And their brows; Moses’ have the same angular ridge at the top, and Cora’s aren’t much different, albeit a little thinner.

All this time, you’d thought they looked so much like Josiah. Now all you see is Django.

“Why do have you lines on your face?”

“Cora Minor!” You know now that he would never hurt them, it’s a knowing that penetrates your bones down to your very soul, but he is still the knight who drowned Sleepy Hollow in its own blood, and you would prefer it if he weren’t offended. “That’s very rude.”

“I’m sorry,” she starts to say, but Django raises a hand to stop her.

“Have you seen lines like these before?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No, sir.”

“Do they frighten you?”

She shakes her head a second time, but this time she’s enthused. “No! I think they’re wonderful. Only… what are they for?”

There is a change in the room then, a change within Django that seems to utterly transform him. However handsome his eyes were before, they were dull and mostly empty, devoid of any true sensation. But you see him come alive as new light sparks within his irises and illuminates his entire face.

“These are the sacred marks of my people,” he begins, and even his voice is different. It reaches new depths you hadn’t even known were possible, and the tone of his accent changes to match it, the consonants rearranging themselves and the vowels elongating with an elegance you wouldn’t have thought possible by someone like him. “Tā moko. It is an ancient art, meant to honor our chiefs and great warriors.”

She’s enraptured, wholly and completely. You could swear there were stars in her eyes with the way she watches him.

Django takes a step forward, then another, and it stirs up the worry in your belly again, but only for a whisper of a moment. Whatever danger there once was is now gone.

“A young woman like you would receive hers when she came of age. Here.” He crouches to press his thumb to the divot in her chin. “Yours is a pūkauae.”

Her face wrinkles up much like her brother’s often does. “A what?”

The word is strange to all your ears. The only language they truly know is English, though they’ve picked up some Hebrew from their prayers. But this tongue that Django speaks in clipped verses is unlike any you’ve ever heard before. He speaks it with a certain rhythm, almost as if it were a poem or a song.

Once he feels that Cora has managed to pronounce the word properly, he turns to Moses. There is less softness here in the space between two not-quite men, one too young and one too old, and both entirely too stubborn to see eye to eye. Already you feel that their journey will be a harder one than Cora’s, and that’s just from the stink eye the boy’s casting his way.

“You have the heart of a warrior.” Moses doesn’t appear too outwardly impressed by this, but you know him better than that. “You are strong. Brave. Your moko will be great, like mine.”

His little nose sniffles. “Did it hurt?”

Django nods seriously. “Yes.” His fingers trace the path of one line of his tattoo. “My marks were carved into me. I did not eat for three days after.”

“That’s weird.”

This boy is going to be the death of you. “Moses. Be polite to our guest.”

But the man before him doesn’t devolve into a fit of rage. His voice does not threaten, his face remains calm, and you swear you almost see him smile.

“It is strange to me that the people of this land do not mark their faces as I do. I wonder if they have no mana here.” His gaze slips to you as he says this and though it doesn’t seem to be a threat, you know you don’t like the sound of it.

Moses juts his chin out a bit as he thinks. “What’s that?”

“Mana?” His voice rumbles low in his chest when the boy nods affirmatively. “It is the enduring, indestructible power of the gods, our atua. Inherited at birth by all people.”

“There’s only one god, you know,” Cora interjects as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You had hoped she would ignore that bit.

Yet still, Django is not offended by their candor and is, if anything, humored by it, possibly even proud of their curiosity and honesty. He even laughs. A real, genuine, human laugh! “You are not the first to tell me so, little one, nor will you be the last. But your god is not the god of my ancestors. Mine are great and mighty like the sea and the sky, brighter than the sunset and shining like the stars.” And when he crouches down to her level again, they smile at one another in a way that halts your breath. “Shall I tell you about them?”

“Where’s he from now?” Josiah asks over dinner that night. “Your friend.” His drawl is still honey-sweet, but there’s something new behind it, a glint in his eye. You’re not sure if it’s mischief or condemnation.

“Uh, he, he never told me.” True enough, but it still feels like a lie. Unless this is just your guilt coming back to bite you. “Europe, I think.”

“I ain’t never heard o’ people like that in Europe.”

“I like him,” says Cora between bites.

Looking her in the eyes is much easier than it is with her father. Either of them, but particularly Josiah. “Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Only she’s still so excited over this afternoon’s visit that she doesn’t even listen. “I hope he comes back. I want to hear more of his stories. Like the one about Rangi! That one was good.”

Moses huffs. “I thought he was weird.”

“Why’d’ja say that, son?”

His eyes shift until they’ve narrowed down to slits, then he shakes his head and stabs at a vegetable on his plate. He doesn’t put much heart into it. “Dunno. Just a feeling.” Then he looks to you, and you see that too-knowing shine in his eyes like he had when Django first knocked at the door and sent you spiraling. “Thought maybe he was making you nervous.”

He’s so perceptive. Too perceptive. He gets that from his mother, apparently. Josiah’s always said she was a quiet, observant woman who kept her cards close to her chest and her secrets even closer. You see it in him now with how much he picks up on without you ever having to say a word.

“I wasn’t,” you assure him, but it’s clear he will not accept that lie the moment you tell it. “A little. But only because so much time has passed since I last saw him.” This is a better lie, far more believable and convincing enough that you almost fool yourself. “I had hoped to make a good impression on him, and that he would make a good impression on all of you.” This much is true, though its truth lies in your fear of Django’s wrath should the meeting have gone poorly.

It is enough, mercifully, to throw Moses off your scent. Whether he believes you or not is another matter entirely, but one you needn’t worry about for now.

Silver clatters on china, the fireplace crackles, and evening settles upon the Minor household. Somewhere out there, beyond the tree line, you know that he’s watching, waiting. This first meeting is just that – a first. He won’t be satisfied with only this. Neither would you be if your situations were reversed, and you don’t begrudge him this, but it does make you worry.

A singular visit is an easy pill to swallow. It is easy to explain away and just uneventful enough to eventually drift out of memory with enough time, but Django needs more and you’re afraid to give it to him. How can you possibly convince Josiah to allow more visits? How can you explain it to yourself so it doesn’t shatter the very fiber of your moral code? Josiah is their father just as Hesti was their was mother, yet you plan to allow a man who views himself as truer than fact into their home?

Even setting that troubling dilemma aside, what would Josiah think of you, what would the children and the staff think of you, if you continued to host such a strange person on your behalf? A man. Governesses are almost always forbidden from entertaining male guests. It’s a matter of decency, and you certainly don’t want people thinking that you and this man from your nightmares are being, well…, indecent.

Does he even understand such things? He comes from a land so distant and foreign from yours that you can’t help wondering if he knows what is considered appropriate. Then again, he’s a murderer. Even if he was aware of societal expectations, you doubt he would care enough to heed them.

Tomorrow, you decide later that night. You have tucked yourself under the covers and dressed warmly enough to fight against the biting cold that seeps through the walls, but still sleep eludes you. I will talk to him tomorrow. Surely the two of you can come to a reasonable solution.

prompt: omega 💛✔️

@clonexreaderbingo

taglist: @moodymisty @wolffegirlsunite @clonemedickix @bobaprint @freesia-writes @deewithani @wings-and-beskar @rain-on-kamino @wizardofrozz @anxiouspineapple99 @multi-fan-dom-madness @deejadabbles

(please let me know if I forgot you on the list or you'd like to be added/removed!)

#jango fett x you #jango fett x reader #jango fett #star wars #x reader #cfb2023 #omega plays quite a role in this chapter!! good for her! #historical au #halloween au #also you know how i said there would be 3 chapters max? #yeah i think i lied #i can definitely see it moving up to like 5 #the word document says 16k words so far

[throwaway-yandere]

!!!Yandere Genshin/Reader 2.5k Follows Mini-Event: Secret Penpals (Masterlist)!!!

cw: contains yandere themes, including stalking, possessive behavior, etc. do not engage if you’re sensitive to the topics mentioned. prioritize your mental health first, you matter.   

Time remaining: █ days, █ hours, █ minutes (closed!!! please wait until Thoma delivers all the letters <3)

✧ Inazuma is currently holding another Irodori Festival and the Yashiro Commission and Yae Publishing House has a secret pen pal service going on... Perhaps you should write a letter and hand it over to Ms. Hina! Who knows, maybe you'll find another Paimon!

Possible Rewards: A new friend : )

“How is the list, Gorou?”

“Well, I got the names of some of the penpals. We got Always-So-Busy Sakabashira, Widower Momiji, A Headless Knight, Calx, and a couple more weird and whimsical names… There’s like… around 10 or something.”

“Ah, I see, Sakabashira is █████ isn’t it– wait, even Calx is joining? Isn’t he a Mondstadter?”

“Aren’t you one too? Now that you mention it, there’s a couple of foreigners joining this event– we even got someone from Snezhnaya.” 

“Haha, where do you think Blue Eyes White Dragon could be from? Betting on Liyue.”

“Hmm… I have a hunch that they’re from Fontaine...”

“But what if they’re yokai, though?”

...

“... Do yokais play TCG?”

"... I know Itto does…"

[match-up event guidelines under the cut]

—-------

SALUTATIONS! Mx. Ansy here– thank you so much for the 2k follows! I don’t celebrate White Days so this will be the reason why this event exists. No clue why that happened, but for the celebration’s sake, here’s a mini event as my thanks!!! (Even though it’s long overdue since I’m at 2.5k hahahaha…) 

Thank you to everyone that followed, liked, left comments (omg), reblogged, etc. ILYSM!!!! <3 (Don’t worry, I’m still working on the idol au ehe. I need you all to know about music composer!Tighnari’s mental fatigue.)

Here are the event guidelines and an example of how this works provided by “Ms. Hina” and “Fixer”!

Event Guidelines ✥:

NO NSFW MESSAGES. (Please remember someone is writing behind all this lmao. I’m asexual so my humblest apologies.)

Feel free to go nuts with your pen pal's name! No need to use the word “anon”. As long as you kept your identity a secret, you’re safe! There’s no real rule, just make sure it’s not longer than 6 words. 

Why is six words the maximum? Well… My best friend, Fried Tofu With All The Frills, “suggested” that it’s better that way…

Remember who runs this event behind the screen. Expect stalkers, monsters, etc. to respond to your letter.

You don't know who your pen pal is. Don't name who the receiver of your letter is. This is luck-based, and if I'm feeling like a gremlin I might just send your letter to Reckless Pallad if you do this lol. 

As the event name suggests: some might get villain NPCs & non-yandere character/s. Welcome back to another round of RNG if you aren’t already fricking tired from artifact grinding.

Only one penpal per person. No repeats. Every time I do an event, the yanderes are loyal.

Are you reading the guidelines? Good. Take note of this specific instruction or else I won’t add your letter to the event registration: greet your pen pal with a “Happy Irodori Festival!” or anything similar. That’s how I’ll know you’ve read everything.

Your letter could be around 200 words max but don’t feel forced to hit that threshold haha. Talk about whatever you want then send it in this blog’s ask box! I’ll pass it on to Ms. Hina or Fixer ♡

The response you’ll receive varies, but expect a minimum word count of at least 100 (some characters just won't write long). Hard to fit things with a single letter. Maybe your pen pal would be desperate enough to write 2 pages on their first reply. But don’t count on it. I’m trying my best to give out short replies to this event. The last idol event had 2k-6k word counts (when my plan was 1.8k max). This is me trying my best to exercise self-control lolololol.

Every letter is made on Canva. Huge shoutout to that website for carrying my SHS career and this event because I have S-tier garbage handwriting.

Also, a huge shoutout to @/watatsumiis! General inspired me to do this event, so please check his works if you want to read fluffy fics that’ll make you giggle! He provides such amazing brain rots, I swear. Unlike this gremlin right here, he’s wonderful and wholesome both as a writer and a person.

Well then, time for an example! Please copy Ms. Hina’s lead when you write your letter &lt;3

Tutorial/Example ✥:

“Dear Secret Penpal,

Happy Irodori festival! My name is Miss Hina, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I know that festivals tend to make everyone exhausted, so whoever this letter is addressed to, I hope you’re taking care of yourself. Remember to eat and drink water regularly! Even when to be honest, I already know who you are. I’m not great at talking about myself, but if anything is troubling you, don’t keep it all muzzled up inside.

- Ms. Hina”

The “penpal”’s reply (example only!!!):

Hmm, wonder who that could be? /s

Have fun!!! Happy Irodori Festival!!! (even though it’s windblume rn. I just can’t think of a book-based genshin event so lol here’s an advanced irodori patch for everyone.)

List of penpals/Masterlist:

SOME ARE CURRENTLY A SECRET

Don't get too cocky, though. Some of them aren't who you think they are ehe

"Calx" - Luthien

"Deshret" - Lisa

"Blue Eyes White Dragon" - ????

"Always-So-Busy Sakabashira" - Second Hand Of Time

"A Headless Knight" - Choco Found In Puppy's Tummy

"Widower Momiji" - Starlight

"Big Ears" - Honey On A Stick

"Fixer" - Tofu

"Fratello" - ????

No name - Vermiculis Creatio

No name - ????

#ansy-writes #yandere genshin impact #just a small event! #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin #thank you for 2.5k ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ #not tagging who the characters are here yet. #yandere albedo #yandere alhaitham

[steelcladbutterfly]

Yandere Headless Horseman: Haunted

This comes from my latest Halloween works. It’s my getting back into the groove stuff basically. I’ll probably post the other nine sometime during the next few days if I have time.

Prompts: Haunted, Forest 

The headless horseman is a mythical figure that has been seen in folklore since the Middle Ages. Popular examples include the dullahan from Ireland, the Green Knight from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and the headless horseman from the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, which will be the one this story is based on. The dullahan and the Green Knight both carry their heads around, though the knight is able to attach his back to his neck. The headless horseman is most commonly seen carrying a flaming jack o lantern in place of his actual head, the original story heavily implies it is someone disguised as the myth, while other adaptations make it more likely that it is a ghost rather than an actual human in disguise.

To be honest, this is inspired by the horror movie Smile a little bit. MINOR SPOILERS FOR SMILE The idea that whoever sees the victim die is the next victim is an interesting idea.

A Tv playing reruns of Whose Line Is It Anyway? suddenly began a breaking news story. The mostly quiet room turned even quieter as everyone focused their attention to the reporter now on screen. 

“We are sorry to interrupt your broadcast, but a truly horrible incident occurred just this morning, and for public safety we have elected to inform the general public as quickly as possible.” 

They shuffled their papers slightly, looking queasy and scared as they began. 

“Amanda Halls, the leader of the town council, has been found dead in her home. We will not show pictures at the moment as it is graphic and brutal, but she was found headless. Her head nearby had been split into pieces by a tremendous force. This first came to attention when Cassidy Rath received a frantic phone call from Amanda. We have received permission to play it back from Mrs. Rath, so we will take a moment to describe what happened before it is played to you. At approximately 6:08 am, Mrs. Rath picked up the phone to hear Ms. Halls begging for help as she reportedly ran through the halls of her home being chased by what she described as a demonic horse with a headless rider taunting her from a flaming pumpkin. Mrs. Rath stated she could hear it all and seemed to begin running out of her house still on call, begging Ms. Halls to stay on the line and keep running. She first called to her husband to phone for help to Ms. Halls’s abode. At this point, crashing sounds could be heard and both woman exclaimed at the sound of what Mrs. Rath asserts is the sound of a horse whinnying. The call ends on Ms. Halls side with a scream and what sounds like something being slashed at before the call drops. Her phone was found beside her body in pieces. We will now play the audio for those of you still listening in.” 

What followed was more or less note for note what the reporter described, however the sounds of a horse or someone other than the two woman is noticeably absent. Only the sounds of items being shattered and broken enters into audible range. After it ends, the reporter appears once more to finish the broadcast. 

“Mrs. Rath is absolutely certain she heard the same noises Ms. Halls had before her death, but the phone call has no such audio to anyone but her. Authorities are uncertain on the true cause, but what is known for certain is that Amanda Halls is dead. More information will hopefully be uncovered soon. Until then, make sure to stay safe.” 

The broadcast ended and the reruns continued before it was shut off as well, leaving the horrified faces of those in the small bookstore to be reflected back, distorted and darkened upon the silent screen.

~~~~~ 

Your hand shook as you placed the remote down. You stayed still, trying to get your breathing under control as the customers and book club filtered out, looking worried and scared as they did so. Soon, your store was almost empty, leaving only you and Dorthy, the woman who ran the town book club that took place in your store. You jumped as she gently laid her hand over yours. 

“Oh, (Y/n), you should head home soon too and check on, what’s his name, Dakota? Make sure he’s fine and let him know you are too. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut for a few moments before trying a shaky smile as you slid out from behind the counter, following Dorthy out the door and locking the door. You would worry about any mess or anything tomorrow. 

“Yeah, I should probably check in with him. Knowing Dakota, I’m sure they’re worried out of their mind. In fact, I’ll probably get a call from him soon.” 

As if on cue, your phone rang, displaying Dakota’s name. You smiled weakly at Dorthy as you trotted off to answer them, hearing only the last thing she shouted after you before you turned the corner. 

“Tell him that I said hello! I’m sure he’ll remember me!” 

You chuckled under your breath, waving a hand her way absently as you finally answered the phone. 

“Hey Dakota. I’m heading home now. I saw the broadcast and, well, it didn’t feel right to continue with no customers since everyone left almost immediately after.” 

His sigh rang through the line, slightly tinny and exasperated as they no doubt messed up the hairstyle they had put together that morning. 

“I don’t doubt it. I’m actually at the scene right now, otherwise I would have come to pick you up. Make sure to go straight home! And lock all the doors and windows! I know we’re on the second floor, but I don’t want you taking any chances. I don’t know what I would do with myself if you got hurt.” 

You smiled slightly. Dakota always worried over you, made only worse by his job and constantly seeing the darker side of humanity. The apartment came into view and you quickly typed in the code and headed into the lobby. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m just gonna check the mail real quick then I’ll head upstairs. Love you!” 

You hung up before he could protest and tried to put the broadcast out of your mind as you collected the mail and headed up the stairs. Hopefully, this would be the end of the incident and life could continue on after they caught whoever was doing all this. With that hope in mind, you aimed to continue life as normal until this was all over. 

~~~~~ 

Dakota returned late at night, face dark and concerned. You hurried over, unsure what to do to cheer them up as they collapsed onto the sofa. Before you could do anything however, he finally spoke in a hushed tone. 

“I’m sure this will be on the news soon, but Cassidy Rath was found dead in the same way as Amanda Halls. This time, it was in a supermarket. One minute she was fine, the next she’s screaming and running as shelves fall over, the next she’s fallen herself and her head has wound up crushed before anyone could do a thing.” 

You flinched, not expecting something like this to emerge. As you locked eyes with Dakota, it seemed clear to both of you something was going on that may not be able to be stopped. 

“…Was there anyone who saw or heard something different?” 

Dakota winced at your hesitant question, staring towards the ground for a moment. 

“Yes. Dorthy Langland, the book club leader, the one that goes to your bookstore for meetings. She said there was a man on a horse chasing Cassidy through the aisles. Apparently he didn’t have a head and seemed to be covered in fire.” 

He chuckled darkly at that, shaking his head and closing his eyes as his shoulders slumped. They were obviously exhausted and if the first two deaths were in anyway reliable as tells, it was only going to get worse from here. 

“I tried to have her called into protective custody, or at least have a detail on her, but apparently there is not enough precedent to do so. Honestly, I think the rest of them just have a sick want to see what’ll happen next, the bastards.” 

Dakota’s teeth began to grind and his back tensed in anger. You laid a hand across his back and he slowly relaxed. You tugged them up and towards the bedroom. 

“Look, if you can’t right now, try again tomorrow, first thing. For now, it seems like there’s nothing you can do, so let’s just try to get some rest, alright?” 

They sighed and squeezed your hands gently before nodding and allowing you to pull them along. Two deaths in less than a day and Dakota was already stressed. The only hope you held onto was that Dorthy would be able to survive without troubles, not realizing it was already too late.

~~~~~ 

Across town, screams rang out as Dorthy was lifted into the air, before something separated her head from the rest of her body. She had called the book club to meet in the park since they had forgotten to pick up the new book for the week from her earlier in the day. Most were reluctant, but still showed up, only to have it interrupted when something spooked Dorthy and two other members of the club. What followed was chaos ending in Dorthy’s body slumping to the ground. Her head soon followed before it was crushed under the foot of something massive like the two victims before her. 

Then, whatever was there seemed to fade, leaving a shaken group to answer those that approached the disturbance. Most of them dispersed when allowed to, heading home and looking constantly over their shoulder. However, instead of one witness that saw something more than just air, there were two. 

~~~~~ 

You heard cursing as Dakota raced out the door. You yawned emerging from the bedroom and pulling out something easy for breakfast before turning on the news, at which point you quickly found out why Dakota had raced out so fast as it talked of both Cassidy and Dorthy’s deaths, now showing photos of all three deaths, if cropped and censored to cut out the worst of the gore, as well as the two witnesses claiming to have seen what the previous victims had before. 

Jerry Walters and Chrissy Forger were both members of the book club and you couldn’t help but fret over your thoughts about the rest of the group if three members had now been targeted. But, once again, you knew that worrying over it would not help and tried to busy yourself with chores you had half started the day before. 

Time flew, and soon it was just after noon, at which point you discovered Dakota had left his lunch at home in his haste to get to work, as he often did. Knowing the awful options around there otherwise, you tried to ignore your fear and made your way out to catch a bus to the precinct, a familiar route from the number of times you had done this before. 

Upon arriving, you found it mostly empty, just the receptionist and a few officers looking over paperwork, the rest you assumed were at the sites of the murders. The receptionist recognized you instantly as you walked over to check in. 

“Should I just leave this here or can I give this straight to Dakota?” 

You were unsure where he was, but the receptionist waved you on. 

“He’s questioning the witnesses at the moment, but it’s been hours and I’m sure they would all appreciate a quick break. If nothing else, you can drag Dakota away so the rest of the officers can discuss a protection detail or protective custody for the two of them.” 

You nodded, waving slightly at the officers in the corner as you headed to the room pointed out to you. Knocking lightly on the door, the quiet murmurs within went quiet and Dakota called for you to enter. Their eyes widened briefly when they saw you, but he quickly noticed the bag in your hands. You waved slightly to Jerry and Chrissy. Jerry waved back hesitantly, while Chrissy just nodded. 

“I’m just here to drop this off, but they want your input on whether to give them a detail or keep them in protective custody. But, I guess that’s for you to decide, so I’ll be heading home now.” 

Dakota nodded and kissed you on the cheek, waving you off, before turning to the two at the table. 

“I’ll be right back, I’ll leave the door open, so just shout if you need any help.” 

With that, he swept out, walking through a phantom solid and present only to the two at the table. They shivered as a voice filled their ears before the figure vanished once more. 

“It seems I have found my goal. My revenge is almost complete, but let’s not rush it, shall we? I shall be back after I have some time with my beloved. But be warned, one word of this to anyone here and you both will be dead.” 

~~~~~ 

The ride home was quiet, with only a few others on the bus by the time you reached your stop. Despite that, you felt at ease as if Dakota had come back with you. Instead, unbeknownst to you, it was the creature that was causing all this beside you, trying desperately to hold your hand, hug you, or even just touch you. 

Despite what it had said about not rushing things, if anyone could see it now, they would see how much desperation was present in the murderer’s form. 

You continued past your apartment to pick up a few items from the corner store, especially since the supermarket was likely still an active crime scene. The phantom continued to follow, unseen fire flickering wildly the longer you continued to chat with the cashier, oblivious to their presence. It calmed only once you were alone once more in the so called safety of home. 

~~~~~

And so it stayed for two weeks, during which time the figure grew hateful of anything that ruined the time spent alone with (Y/n). They both found out, through Dakota, that Jerry and Chrissy were to be held for two weeks, and if nothing happened, then they would be released with a twenty four seven detail to keep them safe. 

“Considering how fast the first three victims went, and the fact that holding them is more distracting for the higher ups, they set the limit at two weeks. I had to push for the details after that, otherwise they would just be released with no protection. It’s so irritating!” 

Dakota grumbled, falling back with his head coming to rest in (Y/n)’s lap as they giggled at him before combing their hands through his hair. The angered figure swiping at Dakota from their position nearly wrapped around (Y/n) went unnoticed by both. 

“Hey, at least you got it. So, just another week and then hopefully the detail will keep them both safe. Both of them were always so polite at my store whenever they stopped by for the meetings. I hope they will be alright.” 

Dakota looked up at the despondent look on their face. He sighed, lifting himself up and turning around slightly to wrap their hands gently around the sides of (Y/n)’s face. They sealed their fate as he sweetly kissed them in front of the suddenly still creature shadowing their lives. 

“I promise, I will do everything in my power to keep them and you safe from whatever is causing all this. So, make sure to stay as safe as possible and I will try to do the same.” 

He leaned in to kiss (Y/n) once more, and then one more time before they fell back onto the bed, covering them with most of his body. The creature stood there and took it all in, white hot rage coursing through him at what took place before him. The only thing holding him back was the plan that found a place to root itself within his mind as he swiped furiously at Dakota, gently stroked (Y/n)’s cheek, and stood up to leave, still unnoticed by the couple. A smile widened as flames roared to life. They stepped out of the apartment and were almost instantly on ground level, atop a massive horse that took off at the flick of its reins. As it sped through the streets, unnoticed by all it passed, the dark promise that slipped into the air hung for only a moment as a spine chilling laugh followed after, causing a shiver to go down the spines of those in the area. 

“Enjoy divinity while you can, Dakota. For in a week you will be left with nothing, as you deserve.”

~~~~~ 

The day had finally arrived. Dakota parted ways with (Y/n) as they headed to their bookstore, while he got into his car and headed into work. Jerry and Chrissy had been silent and shaky the first few days, but slowly relaxed as nothing seemed to happen. He hoped it would stay this way and that the protection details helped keep them safe. 

Most of the day was filled with paperwork and filling out shifts for the officers on the details, but finally, as the four officers assigned to the first shift headed towards the houses of the two, Dakota arrived at the holding room to bring them both home. However, upon opening the door, what greeted their eyes was a bloody mess from a headless Jerry and Chrissy following suit as a sword swung and slid through her neck like butter, a spray of blood following that splattered around the room and across Dakota’s uniform. Finally, he saw what monster was causing all this as the horse reared up before bringing its hooves down upon the detached heads. A voice seemed to resonate from no where and everywhere at the same time as a gloved hand pointed directly at Dakota. 

“Run if you want, but I will track you down and kill you the same as all the others. You will be my final bloody sacrifice to the tragedy your ancestors caused long ago. And then I shall finally reunite with my beloved (Y/n).”

Dakota bolted, somehow avoiding being seen as he rushed to the car and started it up, the only thing on their mind being the possibility of getting far enough from town with (Y/n) that the beast could not follow them any further.

They should be closing the store soon, so with their first destination in mind, they sped off, refusing to give up and let the monster win, not when there was still a chance to escape and survive this horrible series of events.

~~~~~ 

The sound of screeching tires reached your ears as you locked up the store. You didn’t pay it any mind until a very familiar car was barreling down the road and pulling to a screeching stop right beside you. You could only blink in confusion as Dakota, with blood covering part of his uniform, got out of the car and started tugging you towards it. You balked, unsure what to make of this situation. 

“Wait, wait, wait! Slow down, Dakota. What is going on? Why are you covered in blood? Aren’t you still supposed to be at work?” 

“There’s no time (Y/n)! They were all right, the killer is a headless horseman! And now he’s after me and you. We need to get out of town now before he starts coming after us.” 

Dakota used your confusion to finally pull you up to the side, gently shove you in, and buckle you firmly into place. They came around to the other side and he buckled in himself. They started up the car once more before peeling off down the road once more. Dakota was frantic and obviously scared, but if what they said and saw was true, then there was no doubt why. Still, you felt this was a little extreme and voiced your thoughts as the paved road became shadowed by the tall trees of the forest and the sign wishing you happy travels from the town flashed by. 

“I refuse to take this lying down. I’ve been after this monster without knowing what it truly is. And if what he said is true, then I certainly don’t want him to get his claws into you, as well. All of these deaths and incidents have happened in town, so I’m just hoping beyond hope that if we get far enough from town we may be able to escape.” 

You furrowed your brows as Dakota sped up, driving recklessly on such a narrow sighted road, but before you could say anything, the sudden sound of thunderous hoofbeats filled the air and a menacing cackle broke through the otherwise silent forest. 

“Run, run all you like! But you haven’t escaped me yet Dakota!” 

Dakota flinched as you turned to look through the back windshield. 

“Don’t tell me you can hear him (Y/n)?” 

Your eyes widened as you spotted the towering horse racing ever closer to the car and the large figure perched steadily atop it, clad in a dark coat, with black boots and leather gloves encasing the hands. A long sword sheath could be seen at the waist of the figure, and blood could be seen splattered lightly on the tan riding pants encasing the legs of the figure. But, most notably, there was a flaming jack o lantern held firmly under one arm as the other was occupied with urging the horse onward. As soon as you laid eyes on the pumpkin, it felt like the eyes locked onto your form and the grin carved into it seemed to widen as your breath stuttered at the sight. You fell back into the seat. 

“I can. And I can see him too. I’m pretty sure he saw me as well.” 

As if to prove your point, the voice rang into the air once more as Dakota tried to keep up the speed as the road began to wind. 

“Lovely (Y/n), can you finally see me? It’s been centuries and my soul called out but yours never answered. But now you see and soon you will know. Stay where you are and I shall have you once more, as it should be.” 

Confusion and fear filled you as Dakota slammed on the gas, pushing the car to its limits in an attempt to stay ahead of the beastly form steadily approaching. However, there was no time for anymore conversation as Dakota tried to take a quick glance behind and wound up spinning off the road. As the car slammed into a tree and the airbags quickly deployed, the clopping sound of hooves was ear deafening before fading slightly from earshot as it wound up rocketing past the crash. An angered scream trailed off as you slowly came back from the sudden pain throughout your body. Your side of the car had impacted the tree, leaving you to rely on Dakota to quickly pull you out. You cried out in pain, but Dakota continued to tug you out and brushed off as much glass as he could from the shattered window before lifting you into his arms and staggering into the forest. 

They had been injured as well, but the adrenaline coursing through their body enabled them to make it far enough into the trees to stay out of view when the monstrous horse and rider stomped towards the wreckage. His angered shouts pulled you from your near black out as the car shrieked in protest as it was torn and smashed in a fit of rage. Dakota carefully set you back on your feet, taking your hand and running further off into the forest as the threats and sounds of metal faded further behind your retreating backs. 

“I’ll find you! I’ll find you and I will tear your head from your neck with my bare hands Dakota! You can’t run from me forever, I will find you and I will kill you! There is nothing you or anyone else can do about it!” 

You sniffled, stumbling slightly as tears filled your vision, but Dakota tugged you onwards. A sudden steep drop stopped your frantic run in its tracks. A rushing river, filled with rapids and sharp rocks was all that awaited you below your feet. The pause to consider which way to go gave you enough time to hear the now menacing sound of stomping hooves growing closer once more. You took the lead now, racing off towards what looked like a building towards the right. Dakota panicked but quickly caught on and took the lead once more as they heard what you did. The building turned out to be a covered bridge, stretching from one side of the ravine to the other. Dakota raced onwards, tugging you along, focused only on getting to possible safety, as you looked over your shoulder as the horse burst through the woods, creating its own trail through the forest and onto the path you were on now, closing the distance in mere seconds. 

Your scream filled the air as you squeezed your eyes shut, expecting to get trampled. Instead, a firm arm looped around your middle, tearing you away from Dakota’s grasp and up, up, up into the air before you found yourself held firmly to the horseman. A scream left your lips once more as you saw Dakota get trampled instead, bringing him down just before the bridge. 

The horse trotted around their downed form before coming to a stop at the urging of the rider. You squirmed, trying to get out of the iron like grip he had on you, stopping only as his other arm was raised to bring the flaming pumpkin up to eye level. A whimper escaped your lips as the eyes seemed to take in everything they saw before a voice seemed to emerge from both the pumpkin and the stump where his head should have been to begin with. 

“(Y/n). You have not changed at all, still as lovely as the day I saw you last, the day they took everything that mattered from me. They called you a witch, screaming for your head just as they had for mine. But you did not come back like I did, a wretched beast living only for death and destruction. No, you have come back perfect and whole. And I shall never let you leave again. I will never let you be taken again. I shall never let you die again. I will keep you safe once more, my love. Now, stay put while I deal with the last of this trash.” 

His hand placed the pumpkin over the stump on his neck, fire roaring from the top as the pumpkin took the place of his missing head. Before you could truly react, his arm uncoiled from your waist as he hopped down. Then, you found yourself suddenly tied down to the saddle, with rope pulled from a saddle bag, stuck until he decided to unravel the knots suddenly binding your body to the horse. You still tried as he approached Dakota, but could do nothing as one large hand grabbed their hair and yanked them up as the other wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze. 

“Now, I believe I did promise I would tear your head from your neck with my bare hands and I always keep my promises. Hold still, this will only be worse if you struggle.” 

You should have looked away or struggled harder or done something, anything to prevent this horror from playing out. But the adrenaline had run out, fear had overwhelmed you, and the pain from the crash was no longer dulled by a race through the trees, so you watched every second of the horrible feat of strength, heard every agonizing cry and tear of flesh from Dakota, and could smell the fresh blood fill the air as it sprayed from the now dead body of your lover. Dakota’s head was dropped from bloody, gloved hands. You sobbed as it rolled slightly to reveal the fear still engraved on the face. 

The horseman approached the saddle, tugging the ropes from your form and pulling your limp form up to lean back against his firm chest, hands leaving bloody smears everywhere they touched. You couldn’t even bring yourself to struggle as he flicked the reins and the horse started moving once more. It stepped over the remains, one heavy hoof falling on the head and caving it in with a loud crunch before beginning to pick up speed once more, racing along the side of the cliff. With the jack o lantern still firmly on top of the neck, it left him a free hand to hold your form close as his voice filtered into your ears above the thundering of the running horse. 

“I was a little worried there darling. A little farther and I wouldn’t have been able to get either of you. But, it matters no more, Dakota is dead and you are safe in my arms. As you should have been from the start.” 

Tears continued to trickle down your face as the horse pulled away from the river, heading further and further into the darkening forest, taking both its rider and captive away from help, leaving only a wrecked car and a brutally dismantled body to be found behind them.

~~~~~ 

In a somber studio, another news report was being broadcast, this time with more horror than ever before.

“In other news, the murders that have plagued our town find no solace with the fact that the fourth and fifth victims; Jerry Walters and Chrissy Forger, have been discovered dead just before their release from protective custody. The lead on the case, Dakota Koche, was supposed to see them off but when they did not return, and the bodies were found, a search had been initiated, with Dakota and their lover; (Y/n) seeming to have vanished from town.”

Censored images of the two bloody bodies are shown, followed by pictures of the next two possible victims appearing on screen. This is quickly followed by more grave news. 

“Authorities soon discovered a wrecked car off the road through the forest and matched the plates to Dakota. They followed a small trail to the side to discover their body, in much the same condition as all the other victims at a covered bridge leading further into the forest, the only difference seemed to be that his head had been brutally ripped off rather than cut off. However, (Y/n) has still not been found, leading us to believe they may have gotten away for the time being. The forest shall be searched to try to find them, whatever condition they may be in. Remember, any information you may have on the victims or the mysterious killer will be helpful, send in any evidence as soon as possible.” 

The broadcast ended with a scrolling list of the victims and the information gathered so far, while the image of the missing person remained smiling to the viewers.

#yandere #yandere monster #headless horseman #yandere x reader #yandere mythology #Folk tales #still no idea what exactly to put in the tags #Murder #there is murder in here

[pacificwaternymph]

i just found your raven au and i wanna know if you thought abtout it recently

Oh that one. I made like three posts about it and then completely forgot it existed haha.

Honestly, I haven't had any other thoughts about it other than "Lizzie would get really huffy when people accuse Jimmy of bringing misfortune. Not only because they're being mean to her brother, but also because they're attributing her work to him! It's completely unfair!"

I think unlike Jimmy, Lizzie revels in her role as a bringer of death. She enjoys it.

She adores watching the mortals run around like headless chickens, always trying to pinpoint where everything went wrong but never once thinking to look towards the sweet, pink haired lady who would never hurt a fly.

The only one she refuses to touch is Ren. Originally she was just going to use him as another pawn in the chaos, but he is unfairly endearing and next thing she knows, she's gotten attached. The rest of the world can burn, as long as her brother, her husband, and her knight are safe, that's all that matters to her.

She can be a little evil. As a treat.

#the raven au

[creepy--claws]

Creepy. SexymanStuck AU.

it's like.. Set in 2013 and the game is fully released to the public.

The kids n trolls(4 now):

- Onceler (knitsWit [KW] ), Prince of Light (huge thanks 4 Ziin for helping meh with this)

- Junko (aphroditesBitch [AB]), Witch of Rage

- Queen (digitizedDiva [DD] ), Rogue of Void

- Popee/Hanabishi (lunaticPierrot [LP]), Bard of Heart

- Nagito (muttsAmbition [MA]), Prince of Hope, Cobalt.

- Scourge (hemoglobinUnguis [HU]), Prince of Blood, Olive.

- Bill (psychadelicArmegeddon [PA]), Lord of Rage, Purple.

- Jessie (serpentineVanity [SV]),Knight of Heart, Violet

-Reigen (metaphysicalPhony [MP]), Thief of Mind, Teal

-Tony (kronossVexation [KV]), Heir of Time (thanks again Ziin!), Jade

- Marceline (vampiricRocker [VR]), Knight of Blood, Rust

The Guardians + Dancestors (4 now):

-Mettaton (Queen's dad)

-Isabelle (Onceler's mom)

-Nichiteru/Papi (Hanabishi/Popee's dad)

-Mukuro (Junko's sister)

-Kaworu (Nagito's dancestor)

- Joxter (Scourge's dancestor)

-Yosano (Jessie's dancestor)

-Cecil (Bill's dancestor)

-Homura (Tony's dancestor)

-Marshall (Marceline's dancestor)

-Cedric (Reigen's dancestor)

Ancestors (4 now):

- The Fake Idol/Gromaeda (Kaworu & Nagito)

- The Huntsman/Bokutachi San (Joxter & Scourge)

-The Swordswoman/Peko (Yosano & Jessie)

Random funny facts! :

- Hatsune Miku is the Nic Cage of this whole fuckin thing

- Junko and Onceler met on moviestarplanet, Popee and Queen met on a Vocaloid RP forum

-The Fake Idol and Huntsman are doomed boy yuri. this ends up making their descendants either love eachother or be best friends

- everyone, if not most of them calls Onceler "Hatfreak"

-Nagito's typing quirk is 4 and Kaworu's is 12. Why? Because 4x3=12

-Nichiteru and Mettaton worked together once at a show

- There's a running joke where Nagito ends up headless one way or another, I mean his dancestor IS Kaworu after all

- sometimes, Vocaloid songs are used as symbolism.

- Onceler's mom is homophobic so he knits in his room in secret because he didn't want his mom to think he was a sissy.

- order of who connected to who:

Onceler > Junko > Hanabishi > Queen

- Scourge dresses emo

- Onceler has Dirk's splinter problem (again, thank you Ziin)

- Sans and Papyrus are the cherubs in this and their juju is actually a fucking rocket pop

- I have a fucking hs weekly account of 4$ale (Onceler♠Nagito) on TWT and I post there on thursdays.

Playlist thing 4 Ancestor story:Voices of Svaahaa, Alice of Human Sacrifice, Song For Great Satan, Sleepyhead, De Kieru and Ballooon Syndrome.

So basically Gromaeda starts a cult, a few members find out what's been going on behind the scenes and in the end Gromaeda execution by beheading. this is also the reason why there's a running gag about Nagito losing his head alot.

misc songs I associate with this: You In The Building, Ekoroshia, Fun Escape From The Human Flesh Forest, Cotton Candy, Dancing in circles until my little clown feet fall off, Neri Chika & ZONED.

Hoooky shir dude. This is the longest I assume idk

n e ways hope u liek it!!

[● Going to pretend Junko isn't in this

Also I'm going to assume Scourge is from Warrior Cats and if that's true, holy piss that's funny and awesome (I am a huge Scourge fan bc he's just like me fr)

This is kind of epic and I like the 2000s/2010s world building you've done to make it feel like homestuck, and sort of make it feel realistic in a way

I also appreciate the care you gave into everything, like selecting the dancestors and ancestors for the characters, selecting their chum/trollian handles, and even the Gromaeda stuff. I also appreciate the song associations you made, I only recognize like 2 but I think they're very fitting. Thanks again for this epic post!]

[lesbonym]

Hey so after I got home from work I immediately passed out and I wasn’t able to complete it until now so… sorry about that

btw throughout typing all of this I was imagining you playing with me while a rambled. Holding a wand against me or just using your fingers, making me feel so good as long as I keep talking and being good for you :3

So the D&D campaign I’m currently in the process of world building is based on the Mythos of the Four Horsemen Of The Apocalypse, the four horsemen being Conquest, Famine, War, and Death. The entire story takes place in the world of Strinamora, also called The Torn Lands. Three continents construct the world, two large continents separated by a long canal stretching the full length of both landmasses, giving them an appearance resembling a pair of lungs. The third continent is the only one I’ve written out so a lot of this ramble will be about that.

The third continent is a smaller landmass to the north and a bit to the west. The land is based on Ireland and is controlled by the horseman Famine. The continent itself is called Isle Gorta Mór (Gorta Mór being the Gaelic term for the great Irish potato famine) and contains three nations within it. These three nations are Solfege, Aswin, and Traedahl. Solfege is the southernmost nation and has severely been impacted by the famine plaguing the land. Solfege does have the benefit of being the closest to the mainland of the other two continents, allowing it to mildly sustain itself through exports, though they are struggling to do so since their economy was agriculturally based and the majority of their crops are affected by The Blight (basically the potato blight but affecting more types of crops and consuming it makes the person who ate it violently ill). Solfege also struggles with the massive influx of migrants from Traedahl as they attempt to flee towards a different continent and presumably a better life (we’ll get to Traedahl soon). Aswin is between the other two counties and is generally the least affected by the Blight. Aswin is a territory of the Dirasite Empire and has the benefit of frequent exports and financial aid, as well as a manufacturing based economy which allows it to continue functioning fairly normally. Traedahl is the country most affected by the famine, having been entirely agriculturally based and generally the poorest. Its population has lately been free falling as people get increasingly sick from having to eat Blighted crops and from a mass migration of people looking for a way out. Traedahl is also home to the Caudic Islands, a pair of islands far off the east coast of the nation that have been mostly unaffected by the famine. They have been a fishing based society for centuries, so an agricultural famine barely affects them, and they used to send excess food to Traedahl where they could, but those exports have recently and inexplicably stopped, no scouts have returned to give and answer.

While Famine controls Isle Gorta Mór, he doesn’t do it publicly. Each horseman has a human disguise to hide in plain sight, and Famine’s is Dr. Eminaf (famine backwards :3), a charismatic plague doctor who provides free care to the poor and the ill. Eminaf is typically located in Traedahl but does travel often, occasionally disappearing entirely for days on end. There are some rumors that he has shady underground dealings with various country leaders, though no proof has ever been found.

Isle Gorta Mór, being based off Ireland, has many encounters and side quests based on Irish mythos. Things like Fear Gorta (famine zombie), The Oilliphéist (giant sea serpent), the Fomorians (while D&D does have its own Fomorians, those aren’t very true to the original mythos, so I made my own. Those being drowned knights emerging from the sea, riding kelpies, and attacking coastal villages), and the Dullahan (the headless horseman).

And for the most part, that’s all I really have. I plan to base the horseman of War off the character Apollyon from the game For Honor, as she is a terrifying villain that fits the personification of War perfectly. I also have it that Death herself doesn’t specifically control any land, but since she rules over the other horsemen, she controls everything. She’s also a very sick and sadistic woman that, instead of guiding souls as they pass or claiming them for herself, finds more enjoyment in watching those souls suffer (and that will be very relavent in my next ramble about the story my friend and I made for the creature I mentioned yesterday. I’m making that separate because this is already so very long)

-🐦‍⬛

(Also sorry it took me so long to get to this. I wanted to give you a good response.)

I would love to play with you and make you try to ramble all this again. Speeding up my fingers just to make you moan and stutter, making you repeat yourself. "Sorry, I couldn't understand you, could you repeat that?"

(This is probably going to be train of thought notes lmao)

Now being not horny, I love ideas based off the four horsemen. Horsemen characters are like my favorite (love the headless horseman so so much). I'm normally not super interested in map stories, but this is genuinely sick.

Oooo, I love the Gaelic to tie the continent to Famine. More sick names. Potatoes. I love how deep the lore of each nation is, like how you thought of how each would be affected by the Blight and famine stuff. You thought of exports???? Dude, this is is sick. Fish and dead (missing?) scouts.

Yo, Famine sick. Atleast he tries to helps those that need it. Imma find proof of those shady dealings.

MYTHOLOGY, I LOVE MYTHOS. Though I don't know much Irish myths, but kelpies are cool. Oh my god I didn't even see the mention of the headless horseman here 💀. This is genuinely my reactions while I read it.

I'm not super familiar with the game For Honor or the character Apollyon (but pictures look cool). I have no idea what Death looks like but my brain is picturing basically Mother Miranda (RE8) so she can step on me.

Excited for next ramble. Just might take me a few days cause I got real bad ADHD lmao.

#long ask #long answer #🐦‍⬛ anon #emoji anons #emoji anon #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #nblw #anon ask #anon asks #lesbian nsft #wlw nsft #sapphic nsft

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Heading home

Of course, a headless horseman never is. The poor creatures are always found laden with the part they never missed, still bearing its burden, just in the wrong place. The crook of an arm, perhaps. The grip of a calloused hand; or resting on the slight curve of a hip, like one of the village girls collecting water from the well.

Heavy lie the arms that bear their own crown. They travel as Perseus, with the gorgon's head tucked under his arm; as the Green Knight, returning from the feast; as a martyred saint, a cephalophore, decapitated and depicted as such. They bear their wounds for all to see, proud or ashamed - and sometimes with an axe in the other hand, just to hammer the point home.

There's a superstition about vampires: cut the head off of your dead, the villagers say, and prevent them coming back to haunt you. In truth, it's the only way to ensure that they will. Ghosts are said to linger because their lives are incomplete, their business unfinished, their souls disturbed. The headless dead are themselves unfinished, and they remain in search of someone who can make them whole again.

It's a traumatic experience, decapitation. Even post-mortem, spirits don't feel right leaving a body in that way: the dead need to be put to rest, and are known to haunt their open graves, their desecrated tombs, until things are put rite. Until then, they live a lost existence: headless, heedless, roaming far across the land in the faint hope of one day finding peace.

None are content with their new lot - tethered to existence, untethered to their body, always moving, never to move on - but the strength of their reaction varies. Some are merely frustrated. One horseman may be seen with his head in his hands, worn down by the burdens of its skull and the restless eternity it brings him. Another may turn violent, taking revenge against his executioners - and some completely lose their heads, creating likewise broken victims of their own.

That is why I have to stay. I appreciate your offer to resolve my own trauma, I really do; you're right about my unfinished business, and one day I intend to complete it for good, and move on from your mortal plane. But just as you found me, I seek out the horsemen: those unfortunate souls whose problem is harder to fix. No living surgeon can work with ectoplasm, you see. Their needles pass directly through the skin, and not in the way you'd like them to.

How many surgeons become ghosts? I'm the only one I know, and I've been looked since before you were born. It might be that I'm their last hope, you see - these long-dead hands the miracle to reunite their broken parts, to suture fully severed necks, to end a century of wandering and finally lead them home. That's why I'm here, as I'm sure you'll understand. I have to stay, or else they always will.

#writing #short story #writeblr #creative writing #original writing #tagthestag

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #44 — Censere and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcape

This issue is about the Necrobot, who we haven’t heard about in a hot minute! Anyone remember what his whole deal was?

Ah, right. Thank you, Rewind.

Rewind’s busy bothering Rodimus while he moves furniture, Chromedome follows from a distance because he starts crying if his husband isn’t in his line of sight.

Megatron, meanwhile, is busy trying and failing to banter with Ultra Magnus, as they consider the bullet Velocity yanked out of Swerve’s shoulder at the end of the last issue.

Can you two leave some room for space Jesus? For fuck’s sake, you’re his superior officer, Megatron.

Megatron is assuming that Agent 113 is Vos, though he’s got no idea how the fucker can do his signature “firing a bullet through the eye of someone’s Autobot badge” thing since Vos has claws.

Which, I mean, he’s a gun, so it wouldn’t really matter if he’s got stiletto nails or not. Megatron, did you not pay attention to your extreme employee review team?

Someone finally opens the door for Rodimus, and he chides the two for discussing top secret matters in public, except it doesn’t really matter anymore, because the video inside the bullet was played in front of everyone’s favorite blabbermouth.

…Okay, maybe this sentient pile of knives could have an issue pulling a trigger.

So it turns out that the Vos we know isn’t the same Vos that Megatron was thinking of, being a replacement for Knife Vos here, who is our Agent 113. The bullet he popped into Swerve is a warning that he’s potentially been compromised, and considering the Vos we’re all familiar with is slightly less pointy, I think Knives McGee might have been right on the money.

Because the bullet sat in Swerve’s shoulder for literal years, most of the info in it is either corrupted or old news. The only thing the gang really has to work with is a potential location for the Necrobot, which is why Rewind was talking about the guy earlier. Rodimus makes a reference nobody but Swerve would get, while everyone else states what a waste of time going to visit Necrobot Planet would be. Magnus’s main concern is how they’ve been taking a lot of detours on what’s supposed to be the Knight Quest. Magnus must really want Megatron tried in court again. Can’t say I blame the guy.

Chromedome goes to bat for his husband, saying that it wouldn’t take that long to see the Necrobot, but Rodimus is certain that Necrobot Planet is in the opposite direction of where they’re supposed to be going. How could he know this, if Thunderclash is the only one who has the map to Cyberutopia in his brain, and he’s taking a big fat chronic illness nap?

Turns out that Rodimus has been chipping away at this since the explosive start of this adventure, mistaking it as run-of-the-mill carving shit into his desk up until Magnus finally said something. Still, Rodimus is very happy to have this proof of connection to Primus, or at least that’s what he thinks it is. It’s at this point that Chromedome eggs Rewind on to tell Rodimus the real reason he wants to see the Necrobot.

Because the big thing about the Necrobot is that he records all the Cybertronian deaths that happen in the galaxy, he would know if Dominus Ambus is dead or not, which would clear up a lot of stuff for Rewind. The whole point of Rewind signing up for the Knight Quest was so that he could search for his first husband.

Megatron agrees to help Rewind, probably because he knows that Rewind probably wouldn’t hesitate in murdering him again if need be, and so Rodimus is overruled. We’re going to Necroworld! Yaaaaaay!!

As the Lost Light makes its way, Ultra Magnus calls a private meeting with Rewind. Or rather, Minimus Ambus does, though the headless Magnus armor does make an appearance, looming off to the side in a rather grotesque fashion.

Just in case you forgot about all the quantum bullshit that happened a few issues back, Rewind mentions that they’ve had this conversation before, Rewind having assaulted the quantum duplicate of Minimus Ambus after he’d made the claim that Dominus was dead. Our Minimus called this meeting to level with Rewind, since the chance of actually confirming Dominus dead is pretty high. As was established in Last Stand of the Wreckers, spark twins can feel each other’s sparks, and actually depend on both sparks being maintained to survive. Dominus and Minimus aren’t twins, but they are brothers, and the fact that Minimus doesn’t feel him anymore doesn’t leave much room for hope.

Rewind then mentions how similar they look, and Minimus says “gee thanks, I get that a lot and I hate it, this is why I spend all my time in a mech suit.”

Later, we approach the Necroworld, which Rodimus thinks looks lame as hell. Mainframe asks for orders in relation to hailing the planet, Rodimus confuses the poor bastard to hell, and it’s revealed that not everyone is going down, as the Rod Pod is stealthily launched in an attempt to catch Cybertron’s Bigfoot.

Skids needles Nightbeat, asking how far he’s going to stick his nose into things on Necroworld, though Nightbeat seems to not be feeling the best. In what feels like a bit of a non sequitur, though maybe I’m just tired, Skids then talks about his lack of faith.

I’m sure the narrative isn’t going to make you eat those words later, Skids.

It’s at this point that we’ve gotten close enough to the planet’s surface to see that it’s covered in statues of Cybertronians (and also Windblade). So that’s a weird thing we’re going to have to figure out while we’re here.

The Rod Pod lands, and Nightbeat races after a closing door on the only building in the area, having seen someone go inside. He doesn’t make it, but points for trying. Swerve— who I’m not sure should be out of the hospital just yet, even if Velocity is also here— and Tailgate discuss how their plan of attack might have been misguided, while Mainframe has fun messing with the hologram statues. Chromedome hypothesizes that once a Cybertronian dies, the Necrobot turns off the statue for them, basing said theory of having found Ambulon’s plinth. Also, Ambulon’s full name is a little fucked up.

This is a Sakamoto issue, if you couldn’t tell.

Off in the tree line, Ravage is griping about how Megatron totally let Rewind walk all over him for this sidebar of a trip. Megatron, however, sets the record straight, saying that he agreed to to go to Necroworld to extend his time among the free and living. Rodimus suddenly having a map got him spooked, because it puts an actual timer on things.

Back over at that fortress Nightbeat smashed his face into, Detective Ikea is staking out, claiming that he won’t leave until the Necrobot lets him in. The Necrobot, who probably knows how stubborn Nightbeat is, gives in pretty quickly.

Damn baby, that’s a sick-ass cape. You get that at Hot Topic, along with that nondiegetic halo?

Over with the married couple, Chromedome is explaining to Rewind what Mainframe told him, about how all these statues probably have a singular database they’re pulling from, and that as such, he can hack one of the empty plinths to find Dominus’s status, so they don’t have to wander the whole planet looking for the guy. While Chromedome runs some tests to make sure this is actually going to work, Rewind messes with some of the blue flowers that are simply all over the place.

Chromedome calls Rewind over so they can do this thing. As he’s about to hit ‘enter’ however, Rewind hesitates, not sure he actually wants to know. He tells Chromedome to tell him what to do, like Chromedome doesn’t have a cocktail of complexes over his husband’s holding a torch for his ex.

The two of them kneel in the grass under the setting sun talking about how this will affect their relationship and calling each other pet names until Rewind finally hits the button.

A moment of silence for our Chromedome/Dominus endgame.

Back with Nightbeat, the Necrobot has lead him into a room decorated in what I’m going to call the “Gilded Rodimus” style, as they discuss how a lot of the folks who came out of the Rod Pod should be fucking dead. Guess the Necrobot didn’t consider the possibility of quantum duplication. Rookie mistake.

Necrobot— whose real name is Censere— reveals himself to be old as balls, having been around prior to the Functionists. He also explains what his whole deal is, saying that he’s just a guy who pays respect to the dead and catalogs them, so their death record exists in at least one place. Nightbeat looks disappointed, having expected he was magical, or perhaps even diefic. Unfortunately for Nightbeat, the internet exists, and Censere wouldn’t be living up to his name if he didn’t know how to keep records of who was around and how they generally lived their lives. He knows where to go and has a means to get there because his machinery has quantum tech that can scan for spark signatures. Censere seems kind of put off by Nightbeat’s questioning, and is beginning to wonder what’s up with Detective Ikea.

Nightbeat, you forced yourself into this man’s home and accused him of being the fucking tooth fairy, you can’t be mad when he doesn’t meet your wild-ass expectations.

NIGHTBEAT WHAT DID I JUST SAY

Yes, it turns out that being shot in the head and spending a few years in the Dead Universe actually did get to him a bit more than he typically lets on. He’s convinced that there’s no afterlife in any sense, and now that he’s back in the saddle of life, it tortures him to think that this is all he gets.

Hey, Roberts, did Nightbeat bully you in grade school or something? Why do you keep giving him existential crises? I’m starting to become concerned.

Nightbeat has a seat, and Censere comforts him, saying that just because he died and didn’t see anything, doesn’t necessarily disprove the afterlife existing. Who knows, maybe he didn’t die enough before the Dead Universe nabbed him to actually find out. It’s not like he can visit the afterlife to check, right? Maybe it’s fine!

Anyway, Nightbeat is still a detective at the end of the day, so he gets back to asking questions, wanting to know why Censere let him in.

Smashcut to Swerve taking a selfie with the goddamned Necrobot, while Rodimus calls the married couple to come back to the Rod Pod. Wonder if Misfire follows Swerve on Spacebook, I’m sure he’d die of jealousy if he knew this was happening.

Perceptor (who is also on this little excursion) is examining the weird blue flowers that are all over the place. It turns out that they’re made to hold residual spark energy, and the glow they put out is from the dozen or so sparks Censere’s shoved into each. Also, Nautica is posing in the background for some reason. She wasn’t back there a panel ago.

Chromedome and Rewind show up, Chromedome seeming to have fallen off the wagon once again, offering to yank the information about Dominus’s passing out of Rewind’s head. Before a lovers’ spat can start up, Nightbeat grabs Rewind and pulls him along to see something interesting. The interesting thing is a wall labeled “In Memory of the Disappeared”, and Nightbeat’s name is on it. Nightbeat’s statue is also known to be turned off, since when he got shot back in his Spotlight, Censure didn’t find his body and assumed that a headshot did the trick. There are many names on this wall, but only one is really relevant to Rewind, and it’s not the one that I’m choosing to believe is “Omlet”.

Chromedome/Dominus can still win.

We hit the epilogue, Nightbeat and Censere shaking hands as everyone else boards the Rod Pod. Nightbeat, being himself, asks another question, wanting to know if Censere would have saved him if he’d gotten there before the Dead Universe did its thing. Censere says that that’s against the rules. Nightbeat reminds him that Censere literally made every single guideline that he operates under, and oh hey, did you know that Cybertronians are an endangered species since their means of reproduction aren’t working anymore? Just a thing to consider, Mr. Necrobot.

Rodimus is ready to ship out, but his fellow co-captain is still out, having decided to got on a little jaunt with Ravage, since he found out what the flowers are really for.

See, Censere only plants flowers at the base of the plinth of the robot who killed the sparks housed within. And if there’s one thing Megatron’s known for—

—it’s appreciating a garden!

#transformers #MTMTE #issue 44 #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #comic script writing

[fumblingmusings]

I had never really gotten into fem England but your series has really peaked my interest! How are the sibling relationships/dynamics different between Alfred, Matthew, Jack, and Zee based on the parenting of Arthur and Evelyn? Specific emphasis on the relationship differences between Alfred and Matthew. I would imagine Arthur invokes competitiveness in his children but at the same time, I wonder how Evelyn relying so heavily on Matthew impacts his relationship with Alfred. Keep up the great work!

Thank you!!! I try to write Evelyn as having a bit of a long game in mind re Alfred and his 'siblings' in that her asking him to write to Jack was as much genuine altruism as it was just blatantly trying to insert the kid into Alfred's life on the hope that one day something might be there. It never panned out that way, but they are good mates now and she pretends it's thanks to her. It sort of kind of isn't really but... it's certainly way more than Arthur ever attempted.

Similarly, I have Eva running around like a headless chicken trying to get Matthew and Alfred in the same room for most of the 17th Century, I think she would really push the righteousness of Alfred and Matt being together and belonging as a unit in a way that Arthur wouldn't quite, because Matthew was always sort of just...the other...one. Never on equal footing. And he's not quite on equal footing in Evelyn's mind either, she tells Matthew that he never stood a chance against Alfred after all, but at that point in time she was projecting hard onto the boys. She had a terribly lonely childhood, distant from her siblings. She didn't want that for Alfred, Matthew was the best bet for him to not be so.

And then all she had was Matthew and it was like extended fart noises. But the brothers do love each other. I don't know if anyone picked up on it, but in the War of 1812 chapter, Matthew says he never saw Alfred on the battlefield. There's a reason for that. Alfred wouldn't fight Matthew. He just wouldn't. No-one can force him to do it. Matt's the only one he willingly let near during the Civil War. Alfred is playing a long game himself, which will maybe be clear by the final chapter, of why he treats Evelyn the way he does. She told him when he was a baby that they would all be together. He still very much believes that.

I'm not sure how different that is though, to what their relationship as compared to being raised by Arthur would be. Comparison is the thief of joy but I think Matthew compares himself non stop meanwhile Alfred is at time the epitome of:

when he's out yee-hawing or something in the West.

I think Matthew is a little bit more secure with Evelyn as a mother. She carved out a niche for him. It ain't a healthy niche, being practically her caretaker at times but... it's something Alfred was never emotionally capable of being (because he's her kid and he shouldn't be). But Evelyn encouraged Matthew to be himself a little bit more than Arthur would, so I think his confidence is just a smidge better. She fought hard to have him in a way that Arthur didn't. She loves her tall noodle chilly baby just the way he is. Does good for his pride.

Zee is precious baby who's the cleverest girl who can do no wrong in either parent's eyes and is insufferable regardless of if it's mum or dad raising her. Arthur maybe encourages white knighting for her a bit more though. Evelyn is a bit more aware that female nations don't quite need protecting the way human ones do.

Jack and Matthew are way more fractious with Evelyn as a mother though. Never to anything long lasting, but Jack is far more jealous than if Arthur was his dad. With Eva, he's the one doing all the comparing to others. Alfred's the golden boy who got away, Matthew is ma's favourite, Zee is the... girl and baby. What is Jack? He tries so hard to be useful, and the most important, and he just... never will be. And there were times that Canada really did kind of drop Oz in the shit to prioritise Matt and Alfred. Jack I think is the one that suffers the most from having a mother rather than father. With Arthur there's far more irreverence and simply shrugging off slights. With Evelyn, there's resentment, but it comes from a genuine place of love. A fear I guess. The jealousy and not being first in anything, and Evie does at times use that fear against him, reminding him that she wanted him, no-one else. Which isn't true, not really. It's...not great to be honest.

Ah. I've rambled. Does all that makes sense? I'm not sure I've done much comparison there... I think genuinely the characters would be mostly the same, the relationships are mostly the same. Comparing Evelyn and Arthur, I think the changes are: Alfred is softer on Matthew but also thinks he's an enabler of Eva's... hysterics, has a good personal relationship sooner with Jack even though Jack is genuinely frightened of the grip Alfred has over their mum, and Maia is...negligible regardless to him. Matthew is a bit more confident in himself when comparing or standing against Alfred, has a slightly more fractious relationship with Jack who views him as the golden boy, and is generally less involved in Zee's life. Jack and Zee's relationship remains the same. Peas in a pod those two.

#q&a #but thank you thank you thank you i'm glad you have been enjoying #i've been sick this week so the 1920s chapter is going to be next week i think... #fanfic ask #hetalia #fem!england #hws america #hws canada #hws australia #fem!new zealand #hws new zealand #hws england #headcanon

[quanblovk]

Sir Mordred finally managed to pinpoint the whereabouts of the escaped demon beasts. Immediately, he set off, swiping the keys to his motorcycle off the desk. There was no time to waste, he couldn't let those rouge demons leave his territory. He had to sedate them and bring them back safely. They were valuable subjects, afterall. As he travelled deeper into the rocky plains, he noticed a sudden change in the air. The astral could sense bloodlust, extreme bloodlust. A sweet, metallic pungent scent hit his senses. The smell was strong, just enough to put him on edge. This was definitely blood, there was no doubt. Mordred stopped and parked his bike, opting to go by foot instead. The knight carefully walked forward, observing his surroundings as he approached closer to his destination. He was met with corpses, many corpses. They only grew more in quantity as he went on. The cadavers of the small beasts were mutilated beyond recognition, the only thing left fully intact and uninjured were their numbered tags. The bigger ones kept their bodies, however, all of them were missing their heads. This disturbed Mordred immensely. What sort of demon beast could've done such a thing? Unless, it wasn't a demon beast, but rather……a person? He stretched his arms and materialised armored gloves on both hands, preparing for battle. It wasn't long until he found the one responsible for the massacre of his beasts. Mordred looked up at a mountain of headless corpses and the culprit sitting right there at the top. There they were, slightly slumped down as both hands gripped a large greatsword. Slowly, their eyes opened and gazed down at the knight.

"Greetings, I am Sir Mordred. From the work you've done, I can only assume you're "The Beheader" of the sky astrals. May I know your name, Sky warrior?"

"That IS my name."

"Oh, well. Beheader, these demon beasts you've slaughtered all originally belonged to me. Not to mention that you've trespassed upon my territory."

"You….you're telling me that you raise these vile demons? And that THIS is your territory?"

"Well, at its borders, but-"

The Beheader furiously stood up and raised his voice at the knight. Pointing the tip of his greatsword directly between Mordred's eyes from above. He snarls back and unsheathes his claws in response to the threat.

"There is a village nearby that could've been overrun by these evil creatures! I only did what was right. I have no fault here!"

"Your morals do not have any say in the law here, cloud dweller. You've destroyed very valuable research. But how would you know the importance of scientific work down here? Go back to your palace and I'll forgive your little blunder today."

The sky warrior's eyes widened, bloody veins forming webs on the light blue sclera. Through clenched teeth, he took in a short, sharp breath and roared in immense anger at Mordred.

"ARROGANT FOOL! I WILL CRUSH YOU INTO STARDUST!"

"Let's see what you can do with that slab of metal you call a greatsword!"

-Present-

"And that's how we met, Uther."

"H-HOW ARE YOU TWO MARRIED?!"

#true love! #quan blovk #kirby nintendo #kirby oc #Sir Mordred #The Beheader #Sir Uther #my fiction #kirby fanfiction

[atamascolily]

princess tutu re-watch, episode 18

oh hey, it's the forest from the opening credits!

and we open with Fakir having a real KNIGHTmare, so to speak

Fakir: My subconscious can go shove it.

meanwhile, Ahiru, Pike, and Lilie are all excited about Fakir's return to school but for wildly different reasons

they are interrupted by a group of avant-garde theater kids practicing mime, one of whom (who identifies as "Shrimp") instantly pegs Ahiru as "duck".

[I am impressed by how long those two girls can hold her up in mid-air, that's quite a feat of strength]

They want Mytho to dance in one of their performance, but Ahiru correctly believes this to be a bad idea and so volunteers Fakir instead

this is Fakir's CALLING, by the way, I've been saying this for a while now, but is he grateful for the opportunity? Of course not.

Neko-sensei is unexpectedly helpful, calling into question whether there is truly such a thing as "impure" love, name-dropped Odile (the Black Swan, aka the inspiration for Rue) as an example

Fakir: This script hits a little too close to home. A ghost knight? And what happened to the ending? There's a pattern emerging and I don't like it… So, uh, where did it come from?

Drama Club: No idea! We just found it one day and figured we'd put on a show! And the fact that there's an actual ghost knight running around means more publicity! What can possibly go wrong?

Fakir touches original copy and has instant war flashbacks.

Fakir: Okay, I'll do it… but I sure hope this doesn't awaken anything in me!

Drosselmeyer: Hey, Ahiru, what about those heart shards? You had ONE job…

oh THAT's why Mytho was so dismissive about Rue's chances of capturing a heart… because the Raven's whole schtick is built on the premise that no one will ever love her but the two of them (and you can only capture someone's heart if they love you enough to surrender it willingly).

cut to a stellar sequence of Fakir practicing his role for the play, A++ use of animation budget

Drama Club: This is great! It's like he was BORN to play this role or something!

Fakir finishes his routine and is disappointed to discover Ahiru ran out halfway through to run errands, lololol

The Drama Club asks him to join them permanently and Fakir should totally say yes, but instead he's having PTSD and walks out and everybody chalks it up to him being a broody Byronic hero-type.

Mytho: I love your hair, Rue. It's just like feathers, which are objectively best, and like crows, which are better.

Rue: you need to work on your pick-up lines, dear.

The two of them decide to enlist the ghost knight to fuck with Fakir.

Fakir (walking through fog just like his dream): I HAVE A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS. To the stables! *horse neighing*

Ahiru: Wait, how did I end up in this creepy forest?

Fakir: HI-YO SILVER, AWAYYYYYY!

Turns out the Headless Horseman ghost knight has a heart shard, and Fakir's plan is to fight to the death and have Tutu deal with the aftermath. Ahiru is less than thrilled with this and jumps into the battle instead, forcing Fakir to tackle her to safety.

Tutu wins by her signature finishing move: a hug.

The ghost vanishes, Mytho gets his sense of Pride back, and Tutu collapses, and returns to duck form, leaving Fakir to cradle her in his arms and cry.

meanwhile, a hooded figure steals the original copy of the script out of the storage cupboard in the drama club room and walks off

Drosselmeyer: Oh shit this is bad, and I don't have anyone I can bully into fixing this! If only my puppets didn't sacrifice themselves… It's so hard to get good help these days… nobody wants to work anymore... blah blah blah...

the episode ends before the performance, so we don't get to see what happens there, but I still think Fakir should join the drama club. It would be so good for him!!!

#princess tutu #lily liveblogs

[dream-meister-translations]

ALEX AFFECTION # 1

━

One night, I was walking by the common space after work and… KNIGHT 1 : Did you actually see the ghost on that battlefield? ALEX : No. I've only heard rumors about it, but it seems to be a famous story in that area. KNIGHT 1 : I see. EMMA : Um, what's going on? KNIGHT 2 : Oh, Emma, it's just a ghost story. ALEX : There's a rumor that there is a ghost on the expedition we are going on tomorrow. EMMA : A ghost!?

KNIGHT 2 : A battlefield is a place where many lives are lost, it shouldn't be that surprising that there are many stories about ghost sightings. ALEX : There is also a story about a headless soldier who walks the graveyard. And a story of a skeleton that wanders the battlefield at night, lost, and confused. Unaware that the battle is over. KNIGHT 1 : Oooh…. KNIGHT 2 : Interesting! I'd love to hear more. ALEX : I don't mind. EMMA : Oh, um…I have to prepare for tomorrow, so I'll leave you guys to it! EMMA : (This topic will keep me up all night!) ALEX : Emma, wait. EMMA : Alex? ALEX : I'm sorry I scared you…Maybe I shouldn't be telling stories about that before the expedition. I should be more considerate. EMMA : (I guess he was worried about me…) EMMA : It's not that I'm scared…I'm just not really a fan of ghost stories. I'd probably have nightmares or something. ALEX : Hmm…I see. Alex suddenly reached out a gentle hand to stroke fingers delicately through my hair. EMMA : Alex? ALEX : You could always dream about me. If anything comes out to attack you in your nightmares, I'll use my sword to drive it away. ALEX : What's wrong? I'm sorry… EMMA : No, I'm fine. I know that you would come to my rescue, even in my dreams. ALEX : Of course I would. As a knight, I would come to your aid anywhere. Alex's soft words lifted my cowering heart from the darkness. If I could see him in my dreams, maybe I wouldn't mind being haunted.

#Otome #Yumekuro #Yumekuro Translations #YMKR translations #YMKR #Dream Meister Translations #Otome Translations #Dream Meister And The Recollected Black Fairy #Dream Meister And The Recollected Black Fairy translations #alex #alexaffection

[sparatus]

Late to the party but whoops, for the dragon asks: Ice and/or Breath!!

well now im even later cause im answering this like a month and a half late oops

dragon asks

putting under a cut for length

Ice: share a snippet where a character is taking a risk.

hmm lots of good options but let's do this bit from broken mirror ch55:

--

“Here.” Viktoriya tossed Shepard the bag, and they caught it automatically, brows popping up in surprise. “The big box is a complete clone of Hislop’s terminal. Everything he knew about or had a hand in. Do not let it connect to the extranet. Cerberus codes all their high-ups’ stuff with bio-keys that run a self-deletion protocol if anything happens to them. As soon as those files get the signal he’s dead, you’re right back to where you started. There’s an OSD in the front pocket with a virus to scrub the keys off it, just put them together in an isolated server and let the virus do its work. Don’t let it touch your stuff.”

Shepard and Nihlus shared a look, and Shepard hastily started patting the bag down to check for anything else. After a moment, they pulled a small data drive out of a mesh pouch on the side, and Viktoriya pursed her lips. “That’s the formula for the antidote to the poison in that knife,” she said, gesturing to the hilt still sticking out of Saren’s knee. “I wanted to steal some of the actual stuff, but that’s a bit harder to swipe than some data.”

Shepard’s eyes nearly bugged out of their head. “It’s poisoned?” they yelped, practically choking on their tongue from the sound of it.

“Ricin mixed with something from Tuchanka,” Viktoriya confirmed. “I don’t know all the details, but it’s slow-acting. They like their subtle, slow methods so they can get away before you realize what they’ve done. Fucking cowards. You have a week, ten days if you’re lucky. I’d send that ahead if I were you.” She looked between them, and there must have been doubt somewhere in the picture, because she scowled. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to booby-trap an antidote, no matter what you think of me. Scan it for viruses if you want, I don’t care. It’s a terrible fucking way to die.”

Shepard swallowed and stuffed the drive back into the pouch. “Thank you,” they said, slinging the bag over one shoulder. “Really.”

Viktoriya snorted and rolled her shoulders. “You want to thank me? You’ve only taken out one of three. Eva Coré and Jack Harper are the other two. Find them and put them down like the fucking dogs they’ve stylized themselves as. I’ll take care of the rest.” She jammed her helmet back onto her head and adjusted it until she was comfortable, then shook herself and nodded to Saren’s body in Nihlus’s arms. “Get him home. I don’t know what the beef is with his brother, and frankly, I don’t give a shit, but nobody deserves to die like that.”

Nihlus had, quite honestly, been starting to wonder if anyone was going to remember Saren’s desperate need for medical help, and didn’t need to be told twice to gather the bundle of albino twigs close as he rose to his feet. “Come on, Saren,” he urged, running one hand over his crest. “Come on, we’re going home.”

He chose to take the faint pressure against his palm as a good sign.

Shepard adjusted the bag and made to follow, only to pause and look back at Viktoriya. “What about you?”

To Nihlus’s surprise, she actually gave a frustrated groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, would you go already? I can take care of myself. I have to remove all traces of me being here, or I’ll be in a hell of a lot more danger than you are.”

“But-”

“Look, I appreciate how many fucks you give about me, but I don’t need a knight in shining N7 armor, got it? The only hero in my story is me.” She barked a short laugh. “Hell, maybe I’ll make the carnage worse, hammer in why nobody came out to help. Don’t feel bad about making Earl’s cat an orphan, he stole the poor thing from his ex anyway. Being headless is a fucking improvement, you should’ve seen the stupid fucking mullet they made him shave off.” She shook her head, apparently realizing she’d gotten onto a tangent, and flapped her hands at them. “I can handle myself. Now, go!”

--

like. she's literally giving away vital information on her ruthless employers who've already been shown to remove body parts and enforce obedience so aggressively she's basically only a step or two above being classed as a slave, but she wants to be free and see her family again so badly she's willing to trust shepard despite knowing what will happen if she's caught, and we see in the post-script she is caught and we're gonna find out pretty soon in itlog what the consequences are but god that show of desperation and wanting to believe in something is just :justright:

Breath: share a snippet that makes you laugh.

well last time i shared the ol' "saren gets lifted bodily off the ground because nihlus fears neither god nor death" from rabbit so let's revisit this bad boy from itlog ch12 shall we:

--

“Agent Kryik, if this is some elaborate ruse to announce your intent to retire, I'm not amused.”

Shepard suppressed a snort. Nihlus hadn't even particularly wanted to tell the councilor what they were about to do, and had only reluctantly made the call so Sparatus could let Saren know if things went belly-up. They'd put it off to the last possible minute – they were currently loitering in the system maybe half an hour's flight from Purgatory, and were waiting on the ship to confirm permission to dock.

Nihlus at least had the courtesy to fight his mandibles back down his face before his smirk was too obvious on camera. "Ierian, believe me, when I retire, I'll tell you so from the comfort of my own bed, already holding Saren like a stuffed toy. There's no Saren in this picture, so I'm afraid I'm entirely serious."

Sparatus took a moment to stare into his hovering camera. Shepard couldn't decide if the look in his eyes was annoyance or resignation, but either way, there was definitely a healthy dose of I can't wait until you aren't my problem anymore. Then he looked down again, back to rubbing his face with a washcloth. Nihlus had texted them an explanation that it was soaked in an oil that kept his scars from getting too stiff and was applied every night; they had apparently caught him just before bed. 

There was something surreal about it, even moreso than talking to him in his own living room the week or so before. That had at least still had a level of separation to it; everyone was clothed and prepared to talk business, takeout boxes aside. That version of Ierian Sparatus had still felt like Shepard's boss, a dignified old prosecutor grouchy about being disturbed but willing to do his job. On the other hand, there was something... intimate about seeing the old man at such a simple point in time. He wasn't even wearing a shirt, the sprawling cultural tattoos across his arms and torso (xepoa'väch, Nihlus explained in another text, very Tiirti and very closed to outsiders) on full display. His vincorit glittered cheerfully in the light as it clinked around his old-man-bony wrist. He'd set his camera against the mirror so he could have his hands free, and Aediteia occasionally wandered past behind him as she went about her own routine. Peaceful and domestic, quiet and normal. No pressing matters except whether or not he'd taken the meds waiting for him on the counter. There was no councilor here, only an elderly turian getting ready for bed.

And then there was Nihlus, feet kicked up on the dash and grinning like the hoodlum Sparatus almost definitely thought he was. Shepard actually pitied the old man.

Sparatus grumbled as he pulled the washcloth from his face. "I'm going to impose a moratorium on calling me outside office hours. Call Valern. I have to be up early for a doctor's appointment, you know."

"Valern would just tell us to call you, and you know it." Nihlus uncrossed and recrossed his legs. "Besides, would you rather know ahead of time so you can give extra orders, or find out afterwards and complain about what we didn't think to do while we were there?"

"I have so few pleasures in my day-to-day, Nihlus, you would really take complaining away from me?" Sparatus tossed the cloth off to the side and picked up his toothbrush from its holder. "I suppose you have a very good reason for this very bad idea?"

--

rabbit/exdiff nihlus is really just. a menace. i love him so much

#press conference #thetrashbagswasteland #ierian's writing