#take the skeleton and get rid of that rib

[windwardstar]

"T will change a lot of things but you can't change your bones" don't mean shit.

Like. Starting t at nearly thirty I had resigned myself to the fact my body shape would always be a source of dysphoria bc I wouldn't be able to change the underlying structure (skeleton, bones) and you can't change bones.

I had hips wider than my shoulders bc both sides of my family apparently got their genetics from cartoon moms. My waist to hip ratio was something thought only achievable with corsets and a bustle. My shoulders (and arms) were usually the deciding factor in going up a shirt size (and now really are post top) but still were not as broad or the right shape and there was no way they were ever going to even sit equal with my hips. And so I just had to resign myself to the fact those things wouldn't change because you can't change your bones and dysphoria would reign forever.

Because the muscle and fat redistribution would do some work but it wouldn't undo the effects of e based puberty and bone growth. Because you can't change your bones.

Bullshit. Bull fucking shit.

You know what bones are connected by? Muscle and cartilage and tendons and all kinds of movable mutable things. Fat redistribution is a game changer. Even if you're going "but there's no fat on my hips it's just the bone which I will be cursed with forever to always have dysphoria hips" things will change.

It's not even been two years on T and like. The immutable castings of biology have bowed to the steady application store bought puberty. My hips have gone down and my shoulders have widened. They're actually even with each other. And in the right clothes my shoulders actually look broader.

Because yeah there's been a little slimming of my hips themselves but the bones don't change (it don't mean shit) but you know what has? The fat on the thigh that was the actual cause of the shape. We're talking shaped like a chicken drum stick. Wider a couple inches lower than the hip joint than at the actual joint (which was always just bone, which you can't change) but that's changing.

My shoulders have broadened just a bit. Gotten rid of that smooth curving line where snow would slide right off in an avalanche and they could never be wide enough to balance out the hips. They've squared up. Saw the challenge and went yeah I can't take it. And did.

The waist (the ribs that go in and the hips that go out, bones you can't change) has made the hour glass curves fade. The muscle and the fat has filled it in and smoothed out the curves into something that isn't.

You can't change your bones they say. You can't change your skeleton. You can't change the underlying structure (so don't start t after puberty because it won't work anyway) bull shit. Bull fucking shit.

Your bones are held together by soft tissue that absolutely does change. That can pull things into different alignments. (T has made my shit less elastic less stretchy, meaning my heds joint stay in place more but also my shoulders have the structural integrity now to be broad and square and get that not rounded bit at the joint. It's also shut down the cycle of hormones that made the extra hormones that allows your joints to become looser in order to let your joints shift your bones around. Bc the bones are held together by soft tissue that absolutely can change.)

And they're really really really overstating and over emphasizing how much of your body shape is actually made up of your skeleton.

You can't change your bones but it don't mean shit. You can change how they attach to each other. How the muscle grows around them. How the layers of fat sit on top of them.

The redistribution changes take a while on T. It's a slow process. But it's not even two full years and my hips are even with my shoulders when I was told that was never going to be possible (bc you can't change your bones) and like... the little table that comes with the informed consent paperwork says these changes are meant to see the biggest differences in the 2-5 year mark. I've supposedly got three more years where my silhouette is gonna keep changing (and even then it'll keep doing it because people's bodies are always changing at every age).

So yeah "you can't change your bones" they say repeating a fact (your femur ain't growing longer, your pelvic bone ain't shrinking) to mean "your skeleton won't change and you'll be stuck with a scaffolding that will always be that of the wrong" and that is fucking bullshit. Things will change if you give them time bc t really is fucking magic.

Also invest in stretchy pants and jackets with give in the shoulders if you find you need new clothes. I've had to buy new fitted pants like three times bc my butt and hips keep shrinking, replaced half the shirts in my wardrobe bc my shoulders got broader and arms muscle, gone up a shoe size bc there's a ton of soft tissue in there that got bulkier, and my tux has completely ship of theseus'ed itself because of all the changes.

Because "you can't change your bones" is a bullshit sentiment.

#monday trans ramble #even though it aint monday

[changelingsandothernonsense]

67% for the battery ask :D

67%. What's the worst injury they've ever gotten?

Yes! Time to talk about why Mercer Frey lives in a soul gem. Apocrypha's injuries are pretty up there too.

Snow Veil Sanctum was a massive trap, Mercer Frey thought he could deal with both of his problems in one go, kill both Karliah and Sydari, make Brynjolf compliant again, and let things go back to the way they were. So what if there was a curse, it wasn't affecting Mercer, he had the skeleton key and all the wealth he could ever want. He just had to get rid of anything that could threaten his vice grip on the failing guild.

He didn't count on Karliah's arrow hitting Sydari just as his dagger bit into her throat, he dropped her and escaped without checking if she was actually dead.

She wasn't, the poison was a paralytic and had slowed the bleeding just enough for Karliah to stop it and take her to Winterhold for proper healing. Mercer left without killing Frost thankfully, so they had a quick mode of transport.

Unfortunately, the wound damaged her vocal cords. She couldn't speak for the four months she was stuck at The Frozen Hearth and unfortunately, her literacy skills leave a lot to be desired (particularly back then, it's what made her actually learn to read and write, she didn't have a choice, and no one knew any form of sign language).

She communicated poorly through scribbles and a barely legible hand. She's lucky that Dagur and Haran were so accommodating and did help her get a better hold of the basics, they have a young daughter who also needs to learn after all.

She did eventually get her voice back, but it was never the same. She can't really raise her voice unless she wants to risk losing it for a time. So she became very soft-spoken. The Thu'um also causes her to lose her voice whenever she uses it, so she uses it sparingly. The first time she used it she couldn't speak for almost two weeks, and it also causes a lot of Magicka drain so it's very unpleasant to use. So she wants revenge for taking that (and something else, there's a second component to the Mercer revenge plot that I'll allude to later in the fic). She wanted to hurt him worse than he hurt her and she puts all of her spare time into learning how to capture his soul into a gem that she now wears on a chain. Unused, letting his soul fester. Karliah has the other half of the gem, it's a matching split soul set. Apocrypha's injuries were pretty messed up too, but her healing experience was a bit less traumatic, Teldryn spends half his time trying to make her laugh only to forget that her ribs are kinda broken and it hurts. She seems to be great at recovering in and or adjacent to taverns.

#This was fun #ask games #Sydari Aralen

[classynm]

Not a request or anything but just imagine…brooken 23

AHA BUT IM GOING TO TREAT IT AS A REQUEST 'CUS IVE BEEN WAITING

More notes on this cus I have a castle brain and these people are taking up The Corner of the ballroom.

Ben 23 would tottally make fun of prime when he found out initially about Prime's crush on Rook Prime, and then would proceed to freak out when he gain's his own on Rook 23. Rook 23 (my edition there's a more in depth idea for a au story thingy I made here)would probably have less of the uniformity of Rook Prime has because he,

1). never went to plumber school 2). wasn't around his dad as much because his dad got mind controlled and so he didn't have as strict of an upbringing in that part of his life, which was clearly a big deal to Rook Prime So Rook 23 would also probably show emotions in a more enerjetic way than Rook Prime because he didn't have those giant parts of character development. He'd just have different character development B)

#what im saying is that rook 23 would probably be a lot more like #goofy in the way he shows his crush #ben 10 #ben 10 omniverse #ben ten omniverse #ben ten #ben 23 #rook 23 #brooken #omniboyfriends #we're also assuming that they'd be in a romantic relationship in this au cus thats what im going off of #if ya dont ship the ship you can just #take the skeleton and get rid of that rib #doodle #ask #answer #anon #classynm talks #classynotme talks

[kpopwh0re]

Oh, Angel (yang jeongin)

warning(s): angels and demons! au, slight gore, fem! reader, SMUT! 18+ only minors dni, also I refer to the reader as Whyen Lastname because (y/n) takes too much energy

word count: 5k+

         “Gut him.”

You feel your eyes widen, stomach lurching at the thought. “I-I don’t know if I can do that.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, which are red like rubies and hot like Hell. Not in a sexy way, in a literal heated way. You can feel the burn of his gaze even though there’s about two feet of space between you. His eyes are literal flames. “You’re a demon and he’s a sinner. Gut him.”

Suddenly, there’s a hooked blade in your hand, heavy and silver, and crusted with maroon stains— blood. It’s probably ancient and has been used on over a thousand wretched souls. You gulp. “I- I can’t, Han.”

The soul in front of you deserves it, that much is clear. His eyes are dark and he’s been sent here— to Hell, capital H, that is— because he’s got a black soul. Murder, is what he’s in for, and you know even he— the human in all of this— senses you are weak.

The human soul laughs at your pathetic self, making you frown more. Jisung is quick to act on your behalf. He slices his own blade into the sinner's abdomen, hooking it deep into his organs before grunting and sliding it across until his guts fall onto the blazing rocks beneath you. His scream is guttural and makes you want to cover your ears, but you know that’ll only make you look even more incompetent.

Jisung grabs you by the arm, dragging you through the streets of Hell, which are surrounded by waterfalls and rivers of molten lava. It’s beautiful, really. You were born from one of those intensely hot lakes and raised here in the third level of Hell— trained too. Trained to torture, even though you never wanted to.

He drags you like a naughty dog until you’re looking at the looming castle where the Prince of Hell resides, Christopher, or to lower level demons like yourself, Chan. It’s a beautiful castle, made of black obsidian, with the ripples of tortured souls flickering across the smooth rock.

You know what Jisung plans to do. “No, please, Han, please.”

Jisung barely looks back at you and you can feel his hand leaving a mark on your skin. A burn mark. “You haven’t learned. You haven’t tortured a soul yet. You’ve spent your whole life training for this and yet you need another lesson.”

You feel shame so great you want to break your spiraling horns off despite knowing they’ll grow back in. Everything is like that in hell– continuous. Tomorrow the guy Jisung just murdered will wake up and have to be gutted all over again. Quite possibly– unless this conversation with crown prince Chan goes badly– by you.

It’s not your fault you were born squeamish. You can barely stand torturing the other half of the bad souls by whipping them, which is for low level sinners, so gutting them? You physically can’t. You throw up every time you try. And you know they’re sinners and that they deserve it, but still, it doesn’t make you feel any better about doing it.

Chan is sitting on a throne made of human bones, legs thrown over the arms of the seat as he lazily tosses pomegranate seeds into the air, catching them on his sinfully long tongue. When Jisung enters with you in tow, his golden eyes flicker with interest. He tosses the pomegranate skin at a skeleton soldier, and it gets stuck in between its hollow ribs.

“Han Jisung, Whyen,” He muses, standing only so that he can sit back down properly. “Please rid me of my boredom.”

His golden eyes flash darkly for a second in your direction, but you know it’s typical flirty Chan. He messes with all low level demons like they’re his playthings. In all honestly, you wouldn’t mind the position, but Chan only likes the demons who actually do... well, demon shit.

“Christopher,” Jisung pushes you so that you fall at the feet of his throne. “She’s refusing her duties again.”

Your palms and knees burn from where you collide with the scorching cobblestone, and you look up at Chan pitifully, hair obscuring your vision.

Chan’s golden eyes are sparkling with intrigue. “Is that so?”

“I can’t do it,” You whisper. “I can’t.”

“You do realize that these are sinners,” Chan drawls, running a ring covered hand across his jaw. His smirk is taunting. “They’re here for a reason.”

“I know that they’re evil,” You spit, and your own beetle black eyes with no visible pupil or white, radiate heat despite not being made of flames. “But that doesn’t mean I am.”

Chan laughs, looking at Jisung. “She’s in denial.”

He stands up, sauntering over to you, and grabs you by the chin so that a mix of heated flesh and cool metal kisses your jaw. His eyes blaze as he pulls your face up to look into his. “You’re a fucking demon. It’s your duty. You were born for this.”

“I didn’t ask to be.”

He pushes you away in disgust. “Jisung?”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“I’m thinking we send her upstairs for a bit, make her remember just why these sinners deserve to be punished. Awaken the part of her she’s so desperately trying to push down.” Chan pokes your side with the tip of his shoe, before looking up and smirking at Jisung. “Don’t you think that’s a fine idea?”

Jisung smiles at his boss, then sneers down at you. “The best kind of punishment.”

Before you can even react, Chan snaps his fingers, and you’re suddenly not inside of his castle, which is dark and dreary, and full of death. Instead, your eyes have to adjust to sudden blinding light and color.

You’ve only heard about the human world in stories. The first thing that hits you is the smell— ugh, even hell isn’t this pungent— it’s like rotted fruits and shit. Second thing you notice is the noise, which really isn’t quite that different from the depths. It’s insufferably loud– screaming, things breaking, moving, screeching. Everything is chaotic.

You stand to your feet and realize that you’re on a sidewalk in front of something called a Casino. You can only tell what it is because of its flashing lights, ringing bells, and sinners. So many sinners. You can tell them apart because their souls are swimming with ribbons of red. Real bad sinners, like kidnappers, cheaters, and republicans. Their souls are pure red, destined for Hell, but the ones going in that same direction are like candy canes, pure snow white with streaks of red.

You catch your reflection in the window, and you find that you look like a normal human, which is gross. No horns, no black eyes, no sharp teeth. Just human. This is how they see you, how they’ll always see you. The only way someone will know you’re a demon and see your true self is if they’re one themselves— or if they’re one of your archenemies— an angel.

You ask a person walking by where you are, but you already have a feeling. They confirm it. Sin City. Las Vegas.

You sigh. You know Chan’s not going to take you back home until you’re done observing the humans and decide that they’re horrible enough to punish them. Which means you’re stuck here. Quite possibly forever, which ironically, is your own personal hell.

You turn on your heel, to find a place to stay or something, when your eyes catch sight of someone blinding. Not blinding with beauty, or grace, but a blinding pure white soul. You have to blink a few seconds to get used to their bright glow, but when you do, you see that they’re actually quite blindingly beautiful too. Sharp jaw, almond eyes, and a smile worth a million baby pink souls.

He’s beautiful.

Then you notice the wings. They take up half of his back, and are currently tucked tightly together because they’re not being used, snowy feathers flickering with the twisting wind.

An angel.

You’re smitten. You know they’re supposed to be pretty, breathtaking, but not this badly. You swallow around the dryness in your throat, and watch him closely. The only reason he would have to be here is to help guide a human on the ‘right’ path. A guardian. That’s the only way that they’re sent down from the pearly gates. Most of the time.

Except, guardian angels aren’t supposed to be pickpocketing teenagers for their cell phones, are they? He’s sly and cunning about it, like a fox, sending them charming smiles that make them giggle and share glances with one another— and then when they’re not looking he slips thin, agile fingers into their pockets and takes whatever he pleases.

As you watch he continues to do it to multiple people, and when he’s satisfied with what he’s got he grins proudly, strutting into the nearest alleyway. You don’t know what else to do, but to follow him. Surely there must be a reason he’s doing this. He’s an angel, they don’t do anything without being ordered to by the big guy upstairs.

When you reach the alley, it’s empty and dingy, nothing but a dented trash bin and a couple of smushed cardboard boxes. You walk in anyway, wondering where he’s gone. You walk until you meet the dead end, spinning on your heel to go back out.

You almost scream your lungs empty, but he places a hand over your mouth, shoving you against the wall. He presses his body against yours to keep you pinned to his liking and his eyes that are like rich soil trace over your face, traveling up and down your figure, then above your head. You know he can see your horns, because he’s an angel and he seems to know that you can see his wings, because they flick out until they’re at full length, feathers grazing the walls on either side of the two of you.

“Who are you?” He demands. “I know you are a demon, but who?”

He removes his hand from your mouth only when he is sure you’re not going to scream anymore. You let out a shaky breath, giving him the answer he seeks without a hint of hesitation. “ Whyen Lastname.”

“And why are you following me, demon?” He demands. “I have done nothing for scum from Hell to follow me.”

Your eyebrows furrow in indignation. “I am here on business from Hell and it has nothing to do with you...”

He seems to get what you’re asking without having to ask it.

“I’m Jeongin. Yang Jeongin.” He says proudly.

There’s something odd about that, though, because usually angels have obnoxiously long titles about what their jobs and ranks are in heaven, because they like to boast. Chan moans about it all the time because he hates it.

Jeongin notices that you’re thinking a little too long about it. His frown returns. “What is this business you’re on?”

“None of yours,” You hiss, pushing him away with your palms burning. Literally burning. He hisses, finally letting you go. “Perhaps I should be asking what business you have here, because obviously, as an angel, it shouldn’t be pickpocketing humans.”

He cocks his head to the side, his wings twitching curiously. “Know a lot about angels, do you, demon?”

“I already gave you my name,” You reply, brushing off your shirt. “And it’s not demon.”

“You say that like you hate being called demon,” Jeongin observes your face. “Even though it’s what you are.”

You smile at him sarcastically. “Should I call you angel then, if that’s what you’re implying?”

Jeongin’s face pulls into a smirk. He licks his lips, eyes traveling over you again, but this time in a different way. A way you’re not sure an angel should be looking at you. “Only when you’re feeling a certain type of way, demon.”

You groan, rolling your eyes, ignoring the way it has your heart pounding in your chest. (Yes, demons have hearts.) “My Devil, you’re a prick. Are all angels as nasty as you?”

“No, I’m special.” He winks. “One of a kind. And I’m only nasty—”

He slips closer to you until your bodies are so close you can feel his breath hitting your neck. You freeze.

“—when someone begs me to be.” Jeongin’s smile is sweet, but his words are sinful. “Do you want me to be nasty, demon?”

You turn to meet his gaze, fire igniting in your veins, and your demon black eyes meet his gorgeous brown. You’re so close that your noses are inches away.

“No, angel, I don’t.”

His body reacts to your words greatly, hands reaching forward to grab you, but you pull away, walking towards the mouth of the alley. “With great offense, I have to decline. I may be a demon, but I don’t give out that easily. Especially to angels.”

You hear his laugh echo around the alleyway. “We’ll meet two more times before you give into my advances, my precious demon, I can guarantee you that! Then you’ll be dripping for me.”

For some fucking reason, he’s right. It must be some angel gift to be able to see into the future, or something else entirely, but you meet him again, even though you try your hardest to avoid him.

The second time you inevitably meet Yang Jeongin, is when you’re on the roof of a building, watching as a group of teenagers beat on a kid their own age, calling him ugly demeaning words because of his skin color and clothing. It makes your stomach twist. It’s pure evil, striping their pink souls with red.

“It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” Someone asks from beside you.

You’re so surprised you almost fall over the side of the roof right into the group of teenagers. Luckily– or not, you can’t tell just then– a pair of arms wrap around your midriff, hauling you up, and pressing your back against a warm chest. You look over breathlessly to see those brown eyes, golden smile, and a pair of snowy wings.

“Ugh, gag me,” You groan, pushing him away. “It’s you.”

Jeongin grins, and it’s so weird that it can look so innocent yet so sly at the same time. “Yes, it’s me. I can gag you if you’d like.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to the scene at hand. “It’s called a figure of speech, asshole. Do you have those in heaven? Or is it really that bland up there?”

Jeongin’s vein riddled hand comes up to grab at the base of your neck and the other pulls you against his chest. Your body is shocked that he’d do this— but it’s also on fire. Like you’re in Hell itself again. It feels amazing.

“We do have them, demon,” He whispers darkly into your ear. “We just like to take things seriously up there.”

Your eyes flick up to his and your heart beats wildly. The fire begins to roll down your body, spreading quickly at the way he’s looking at you. Yang Jeongin is dangerous, the total opposite of what you’d expect an angel to be.

“Guess I struck a nerve?” You grin, despite your situation, and his eyes flash. “Ooh, I did. Mr. Angel’s got a soft spot for his home in the clouds? What, did Sky Daddy get mad at you?”

“Shut up,” He pushes you away with a snarl. “All you demons are brats.”

“Not all of us,” You chuckle, eyes meeting his as you look at him innocently through your eyelashes. “Only me.”

He swallows as you turn back to the scene, only to see that the kids have already stopped their previously relentless beating, and the boy is laying in a pool of his own blood. You sigh.

“I’ve gotta go.”

“To help him?” Jeongin asks skeptically.

“He’ll die if I don’t.” You say, eyeing him weirdly. “Aren’t you supposed to care about innocent souls being taken too soon?”

His wings flap in irritation and his feet leave the ground. “I’ve got business to attend to, but I’ll see you again soon, demon.”

You watch him fly away and think about what the Hell had just happened. Yang Jeongin had just ignited the hellfire in you for a second.

You actually felt like a real demon for a moment— the type of demon capable of torturing a soul.

The third time you meet Yang Jeongin isn’t because he wants you to. You catch him in the act of unplugging an older man from his life support while his wife is getting food in the hospital cafeteria, having just come from your daily stroll through the halls.

“Jeongin!” You hiss, walking into the room. “What in Hell’s name are you doing?”

The angel freezes, eyes wide, and he looks up from the plug, to you, and then back to the plug. His shock quickly wears off and he shrugs indifferently. “He’s dying anyway.”

You rush into the room, pushing him away. You stand between the two with your arms crossed. “Doesn’t mean you can just kill him.”

He scoffs, pushing himself up, wings tightly coiled behind his back to keep from knocking everything over. “He’s barely living like this! Besides, he’s a racist who’s done some really sketchy things because of his views. Look at his soul!”

You look down and see that his soul is indeed a dark maroon. Lucifer, he’s a real bad sinner.

You shake your head, stomping over to Jeongin, and stab two fingers in his chest. “And who said you could play with his life, huh? Someone only dies when the two big guys in charge decide that they’re ready. Not you.”

Jeongin’s face turns red. He grabs your shoulders, pushing you so that your back is against the wall, and he’s once again pinning you down. His eyes flicker between your lips and your eyes. “And who says they care about one little life, huh? They’re so busy being worshiped and loved, they don’t have time for us. Any of us. Not humans, not demons, and definitely not angels.”

His eyes are sparkling with a deep hatred and his whole being is flickering. His wings begin to change, and like waves rippling across glass water, his white wings turn black. His soul, which had previously been pure white, is redder than Hell now.

“You’re a fallen,” You whisper, mesmerized. You’d only ever read about such angels, banished for being too evil or selfish for Heavens incredibly high standards. “A fallen angel.”

He laughs bitterly. “And you’re a soft hearted demon.”

You feel that demon fire in you lighting at his touch as he raises a hand, where his fingers are covered in golden bands with pure black flowers blossoming to decorate him, and runs them up the side of your neck, all the way up your jaw. Then he roughly grabs your chin, forcing your eyes to meet. “It’s a shame, too. Oh, what I would do to a demon. I guess I should be calling you angel instead.”

You laugh darkly, as if something has suddenly changed inside of you. You push him away, reaching over to yank out the cord keeping this sinning human tethered to life. His soul flickers before it drifts off, somewhere far away. A ghost now.

“I’m a demon, Yang Jeongin.” You say spitefully. “And I always will be.”

This makes a smile grow on his face, a low whistle leaving his lips. “Come with me, my demon. To my place.”

You snort, moving to leave the room. “I’m not giving in just yet, angel. I’ve got duties to attend to.”

And by the grace of Lucifer himself, you actually do them. You do what Chan sent you to the human world to do instead of disobeying his orders. You watch the dirty, vile humans, and you actually want to punish them. It’s like the sight of Jeongin, a fallen angel— something so good turned bad— made you realize that there needed to be a certain balance in the world. What you put into the world will be put back into you.

In the case of sinners, it’s evil and hurt.

The last time you see Jeongin is because you seek him out.

You follow the beating of wings throughout the streets of Las Vegas and find him in the biggest hotel, in the fanciest room, living lavishly. You get through the building easily, by using the skills given to you at birth. Your demon skills.

He’s leaning against the railing of the balcony when you enter, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. He’s drinking a juice pouch, watching the chaotic city below.

“Demon,” He says when you walk out onto the balcony behind him. His dark wings spread out to their full length, stretching. “I could say I wasn’t expecting you, but you quite literally left flames in your wake on the way here.”

You stand beside him, narrowly avoiding a face full of feathers, instantly spotting the charred streets where you’d been walking. “Hellfire. It’s what demons do when they’re—”

“Excited.” He finishes, finally turning his eyes to meet yours. He’s smiling. “Oh, I know. I’ve heard tales about humans dumb enough to try and seduce demons, only to be burned alive.”

“Yet,” You say. “You still try to seduce me.”

“I’m different.” He insists, tossing his empty juice pouch over the balcony edge, moving closer. “I’m a fallen angel. I’m already burned.”

You push closer so that your chests are flush, your face is peering up into his. “It’s a shame. I was really looking forward to being your first.”

He snorts, “You move your mouth too much, demon. Maybe we can find other uses for it.”

You grin and the plant behind you bursts into red hot flames. “Fuck yeah.”

Your arms reach out to wring around his neck, his own grabbing at your waist as your lips push together in a feverish kiss. His skin is like ice to the touch and your hands barely make them warm even though your blood is burning with the heat of a thousand suns. His hands pull your hips forward and your tongues push out to meet, tangling together.

It’s messy and heated, and Devil, it’s so fucking hot. Your hands reach up to knot into his hair, one of his hands pulling away to touch one of your horns. It, like the other, is long, and spirals out of your head to a sharp point. When he touches it you arch into him, and egged on, he grabs it around the base, pulling your head back, your lips pulling apart.

Your breathing is heavy and so is his. He grunts. “Are you compliant? Do you play by the rules?”

You grin mischievously. “If I did, do you think I’d be here?”

He grabs you roughly under the ass and lifts you up so that your legs wrap around his waist. He pushes his way into the suite until he reaches the bedroom, where a large bed draped in silk white sheets is waiting to be destroyed. He throws you onto the mattress and you’re glad that he isn’t being gentle.

Something rabid inside of you wants it rough. The hellfire— the demon you, wants it so badly.

You try to lift your shirt over your head, but he slaps your hands away, ripping it off for you, tossing the fabric into the unknown. His eyes slide down to your skirt. It’s frilly and pink, and absolutely dreadful.

“I hate this skirt,” Jeongin says, nose scrunched. His eyes meet yours. “Better get rid of it.”

He hooks his fingers into the band of it and rips it off, accidentally (or not) ripping off your panties at the same time. His eyes rake over you and you’re too hot to be self conscious. You can’t be self conscious, not when his dick is hard in his sweatpants like that.

He crawls onto the bed over you, lips meeting again. His kiss is bruising, rough, and his teeth clamp onto your bottom lip just as you feel his fingers traveling up and down your pussy. You’re aching for him, pulsing around nothing with the need to be filled.

He knows this, because he pulls away, taps two fingers against your lips, and says, “Suck.”

You take his fingers in your mouth, keeping eye contact with him as his eyes darken so much they’re basically black. His other hand grabs at one of your horns so that your head snaps back a little, and his fingers slip from your mouth a bit, saliva dribbling down your chin.

He pushes you and his dripping fingers slide down before slipping between your thighs, where you ache for him the most. One finger pushes into you to start off, pumping and swirling around inside of you, and then when a moan escapes your mouth he adds the second, watching as your head falls back and your back arches. He scissors your pussy open, pushing deep inside of you, your knees shaking with the feeling of it.

“You’re so filthy,” He whispers, his voice deeper than usual. “Look at you, all submissive for me. Whore.”

Your eyes snap open and your legs attempt to clamp shut, but he pushes himself further between them. You glare at him, saliva still shining on your chin, eyes blazing with flames. “I’m not a whore, asshole.”

“Not now, maybe,” He smirks, dipping his head down. Your noses brush. “But after me you will be. My demon whore.”

You try to pull back, but his fingers push deeper inside of you and his thumb brushes against your clit. A moan pushes up your throat, back arching into him again, but as your hands reach up to grab at his back, his other arm moves to pin your wrists down.

“Uh-uh,” He whispers. “No touching the wings.”

“Fuck you.” You murmur, but it’s half heartedly said. Lucifer, he knows how to use his fingers.

“I am,” His mouth moves to your throat. “Fucking you, I mean.”

His tongue starts to flick across your throat as his fingers slowly leave you empty. You want to protest, but when he’s replacing the feeling by grinding his clothed bulge down onto your clit, you forget the words you were going to say. His hips dip again and this time his thrust makes your back arch so badly your bra brushes against his chin.

He pulls back suddenly, causing cold to wash over your body. This time you let the whine out. “What the fuck?”

He shoves a hand beneath your back, unclasping your bra eagerly before sliding it off of you and tossing it aside. His smile is playful and cute. Adorable even. “I wanted to get that out of the way.”

Before you can say anything else his head is pushing forward, his mouth clasping around one of your tits, sucking on your nipple, tongue flattening against the nub. You try to move your hands— to grab his hair, scratch his back, rub his bulge— anything, but his weight doesn’t give.

“Quit fucking squirming.”

“Let me touch you, angel. You’re so beautiful.” You moan, eyes squeezed shut.

His breath comes out in a shaky whine. “Fucking demon.”

His arm moves, freeing your wrists, and you grab his hair, threading your fingers through his black locks, then yanking on the roots. He moans against your stomach as he kisses his way lower. His moans are like him: darkly angelic and you want to hear more. You yank on his hair again, harder this time, and his eyes shoot up to meet yours.

“This is why I said no touching in the first place.”

“Want you,” You whisper. “Inside of me. Wanna hear you moan. Your voice is beautiful too.”

You think he’s going to deny you, but then he stands up and you pull yourself further onto the bed excitedly, leaving a wet spot on the sheets. He pulls down his pants and you almost faint when you see he has no boxers on. He’s such a terrible angel, it’s no wonder they cast him down from heaven. He crawls back over you, forcefully grabbing one of your horns again, forcing your head back until it’s pushing into the mattress, throat on full display, full of bruises and marks.

“Don’t think this changes who’s in charge.” Jeongin drawls, slowly pushing the tip of his cock at your entrance. “An angel never bows to a demon. Remember that.”

Your body is aching for the stretch. You want him to fill you up, you need it, and you would do anything for it. Even gut a sinner, you think.

Your eyes are hazy and your mouth fills with saliva like you’re hungry for it. “Yes, of course, angel.”

He pushes inside of you smugly and your body arches up, hands fumbling across his back, gripping at the base of his wings as he fills you up perfectly. It’s amazing, it’s delicious, it’s sinful. It’s beautiful.

You moan loudly and so does he, his tongue licking at the shell of your ear. He takes the skin into his mouth as he sets a pace, which is slow and lazy at first. When you’re adjusted and everything is comfortable, he pulls back, then slams himself back inside of you.

He sets a good pace, a great pace, and you’re glad that demons can’t get pregnant because the veins of his cock and everything feel like Heaven sliding inside of you— there’s no way in hell you’re letting him pull out. This is what Heaven must feel like, even though it’s so wrong. His thrusts are hard, deep, fast, and he fills every inch of your pussy just right.

“J-jeongin,” You manage to say, but it comes out as more of a moan. “Change position.”

“Yeah?” He pulls back until your faces are in each other’s view. His thrusts are slow and deep again. “Which one do you want, slut?”

“Doggy,” You try not to meet his eyes, but he forces you to keep looking at him. “Please.”

He chuckles at you, sitting back on his knees so that he slides out. He cocks his head to the side, observing you. Then he slaps a hand on your thigh, leaving a red mark. “What are you waiting for? Turn around. Or do I have to do it for you, brat?”

“Angels don’t bow to demons,” You shrug, biting your lip. “but demons don’t bow to angels either.”

He glares at you, but his cock twitches, and he forcefully grabs your right knee, shoving it over, throwing you on your stomach. He doesn’t wait for you to push yourself onto your knees and elbows, he pulls your ass to him, spreading your thighs open enough for him to fit between them. Then he pushes himself inside of you again, and when he leans his body over yours his teeth bite into your shoulder.

Your mouth opens against the sheets, moans breaking free, drool dripping down the sides of your mouth. He fucks you into the bed now, hard and fast, one hand slipping under your slightly raised hips. His fingers find your clit, the other raising to yank at your horns, his weight balancing on his knee. He yanks your head back so your throat is on full display, body curving up so your back makes a crescent moon.

“My pretty demon whore,” Jeongin taunts, his voice breaking halfway with a moan. “Look at yourself. Making a mess. Drooling for my cock.”

Another moan and you arch your back, one of your own hands reaching back to grab at his ass, pulling him even deeper. Your nails dig deep into his skin as he hits a certain spot in your body that has you literally screaming, body burning.

“Holy shit—” You pant, pussy convulsing. Your nails draw blood from his skin. “Gonna cum.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he pounds into you harder, so hard the bed rattles with the force. The curtains are on fire now, and so is the seat in the corner, but you’re too high on Jeongin to care.

“Fuck,” He mutters, before his grip around your horn tightens. “Fuck!”

You cum a few seconds later, your body pushing itself back into him at the same moment he thrusts forward, and the sheet is soaked with your drool. He fucks you through your high, and soon he’s cumming too, spilling hot white ropes of his cum into your pussy.

His wings flap dangerously, causing the fires to grow before he pulls out and collapses beside you.

“Christ,” He pants. “You weren’t lying about the burns.”

You manage to push away from the pool of drool you left and shakily flop onto your back, looking over at him. “What?”

Jeongin twists his hips, showcasing a bubbling handprint on his ass as well as a bloody set of crescent marks from your nails.

“Sorry.” You laugh. “I haven’t had it like that before.”

“Meaning?” Jeongin asks, pushing a damp piece of hair from your forehead.

“Everyone I’ve been with treated me like a princess,” You mutter. “I’m not the best demon out there so they don’t think I can take it, but you—"

“Treated you like a demon whore,” Jeongin smirked. “Because it’s what you are.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever.”

It was true, however much you wanted to deny it. Jeongin had awoken the demon inside of you the first time you met, and now you felt ready to go back to Hell to fulfill your long list of awaiting duties.

“Will we meet again?” He asks suddenly, looking like an innocent puppy— but you know he’s not a puppy, he’s a sly, cunning fox.

“Satan almighty, I sure hope we do.” You murmur, reaching forward and kissing him hotly.

THE END…

…

Chan is sitting on his throne, watching you closely, the horns on his head encircled with a crown of gold to match his piercing eyes. “So, have you learned your lesson, my demon?”

You feel your body react greatly to the nickname, eyes glancing down at your new dress, which is drenched in blood— blood that isn’t yours. It’s actually from hours of torture in the fourth ring of Hell— your new position.

It’s been a few months since your encounter with Jeongin, but you’re set to have another soon, however, for now you’ve been continuing your duties as a demon more successfully than you’ve ever had before. And because of your graduation in rank, your eyes are crimson, red as the blood coating your skin.

“Yes, my lord.” You say proudly. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

Chan shifts in his seat, and suddenly his golden eyes are darker, almost bronze. “And how, pray tell, did you do that?”

You glance around the throne room to see that it’s empty, and when you turn back Chan is right in front of you. One of his fingers, the one with a skull ring made of dark crystal, swipes into the blood pooled at your collarbone. You watch as it dribbles down his finger, his eyes returning to yours.

“My lord,” Your voice is soft, but it’s driven. “I thought you saw everything for yourself. In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw you in the room when I discovered myself. On a chair in flames.”

Chan’s lips pull into a grin and he pushes forward so that your noses are brushing. His lips are so close. “Oh, I see. You wanted to give a show, then?”

You grin, looking up at him innocently. “Is there a punishment you feel needs to be given for it?”

“It was entertaining, to say the least.” He returns. “So no punishment needed.”

Disappointment makes the heat in your skin subside momentarily, but then his arm hooks around your waist, pulling your chest to his. His dark eyes meet yours.

“I can only promise that I can give you something better.”

THE (TRUE) END

author’s note(s): my devil, you’re a sinner! jay kay you’re obviously just horny. anyway, hope you enjoyed this! it’s been sitting in my notes forever because I wrote it for a friend and I thot that I’d just go ahead and post it so other people can enjoy the pure sin of it 😏

#kpop smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #yang jeongin #jeongin smut #han jisung #bang chan #yang jeongin imagines #skz x fem! reader #x fem! reader smut

[emily-the-fae]

Every Day is a Lullaby

A oneshot. This honestly came to my mind yesterday night, I do not know how well the idea turned out to be.

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Arthur Ketch x OC

Warnings:probably language, blood, injury, background character death, brief mentions of sex, angst mith mix of fluff

Rated: T

Mr Ketch has many sides, likable and repulsing - but which one of his faces is truly his is sometimes an uncertainty even for him.

Harper reflects on the changes on their relationship as they get out of a hunt gone wrong. While Ketch reconsiders some of his past choices... And reasons why he is still alive.

If he's a serial killer

Then what's the worst

That can happen to a girl

Who's already hurt

I'm already hurt

The first time Harper met him was a coincidence. It was long before the whole nephilim thing, long before she found out what kind of man he was, what kind of hunter he was. Yet even back then in the span of their first couple of meetings  she felt he was no good.

A stupid hunting coincidence.

Harper was not used to hunting alone. She did that to herself - separated herself from the Winchesters. However much she loved Sam and Dean, she could not bear continuously being around them, not after everything that happened. Not after Charlie. Because no matter what Dean said or how Sam reassured her - it was her fault. Charlie was a great friend. Charlie had the brightest soul. Harper was late to help her and now Charlie was no more. It was all Harper's fault.

Driving away and going head first into hunting was the outmost Winchester way of dealing with the guilt and grief. Hunting alone while slowly coming out of her lowest phase - those were the circumstances under which Harper met Arthur Ketch.

The first time it happened it was a coincidence - two hunters choosing the same target is not uncommon. Harper was already on spot and all in the fight when he arrived. "Are you insane going into a whole vampire nest alone?" - those were the first words she ever heard from him. She might have been slightly insane, but he sure was a damn psycho. To be honest if not for him she would have probably ended up dead or turned in that vampire nest that night. Harper hates being honest about it.

The second coincidence happened just a few days after the first one - she would later on doubt if it was a coincidence at all. Perhaps it was. Harper would never really know - what she did know though was that he still had a small scar left above his left eyebrow - a mark of where she hit him with the grip of her gun, thinking it was the witch that was creeping up to her and absolutely not expecting to hear a male voice swearing after her blow. Arthur had not known her for 24 hours in sum and they were already making a scene after a hunt - Harper almost pitied she had not knocked him out straight away.

What happened on the next day? He caught her in the town and suggested to team up to avoid "future confusions". Rule number one how to become friends with Arthur Ketch: hit him in the face. Harper wasn't going to become friends with him - with any hunters for that matter - but fate seldom cared what Harper was going to do anyways.

Harper definitely lied to herself when she said that they were going to be only friends or that she was going to hate him after all the British Men of Letters invasion story. She didn't. Not with the way they met in the first place: him ripping her out of the claws of the angry remnants of the vampire pack - slightly concerned greyish blue eyes and a British accent was what greeted her at dawn that day, even though mid in fight she had accepted she would not see the sun again. It seemed symbolic how he saved her from giving up, from herself. And certainly not after the way their relationship went from mutual curiosity to blind semi-professional trust. Harper did not need a "friend" to console her: if she had wanted that she would have stayed around Sam - she needed someone unfeeling but understanding enough to see through her and consciously let it be.

She remembered it clearly - three hunts into their relationship - a month after their first encounter - they were sharing a hotel room. Two beds, late night after a hunt, she lied on her side and quietly cried. It was a demon hunt. The memories were too much. Arthur came into view and stared at her for a couple of moments before walking to his own bed.

- I'd say you can talk about it when you want to, but I doubt you will ever feel the necessity, - a brief caress of his hand against her shoulder. He did not try to relieve her, he allowed her to get to her own way of coping. For that Harper was grateful more than ever. - We all have skeletons in our closets, it's the downturn of the job.

Oh, dear Arthur, we are both now  aware you knew far too well what you were talking about. Harper doubted any hunter had a closet cemetery as large as Ketch's.

Yet... Even after that - the awkward reuniting with the Winchesters, being pulled away from him as she came back to her old friends and witnessing, luckily from a safe distance, how the man she grew to trust without actually knowing him, uncovered darker and darker sides of his personality. What was worst - after she refused to join the BMoL, he would continue to sometimes keep her hunting company, going on like nothing happened. Like nothing changed. Why worst? It let the image of the heartless killer that she should have seen before her now connect and combine with the image of the man who would patch her up on her darkest nights and put a firm hand on her shoulder when Harper was too deep in memory to restrain herself. His presence around her became a reassurance in itself - because he did not have to know to understand. And because he simply had not been there - looking into his eyes Harper wouldn't get reminded of the times when everything was still right, wouldn't get reminded of that one time everything went very wrong. Probably those were the main qualities that helped him win a spot in her heart. Those and his unending casual flirting.

And now? After everything was over, after his very dark side was revealed, the confessions were made and the redemption was played, what did she think of him? The hunter, turned out just a very well trained assassin - he had served the British Men of Letters, he had served Asmodeus - now here he was separated from any commanding he ever had, living a hunting life of his own and sometimes collaborating with the Winchesters. Therewere many dark moments forgotten for the sake of peace. Many more had yet to come up - judging by how Ketch treated his own history and interests of others.

" - I wonder where Mick went, he was always so nice... Nicer than you, anyways. Pity he went away all of a sudden, - Harper mentioned once after a hunt.

- He did not go anywhere. I shot him in the head just like Hess ordered, - Ketch seemed calm and cold as steel. " Sometimes Harper thought that leaving BMoL would change him, but moments like that she realized how slowly the changes - if any - would have to occur. That night she simply walked away, not saying another word.

If anyone ever asked Harper how Arthur's spot in her heart had shifted after all the mess he had caused? She would say that he never even had one... And think that truth to be told there was no flame hot enough to burn him out of her chest - his name carved on her ribs would have been easier to get rid of than the bittersweet affection she harboured for the moral wreck of a man named Arthur Ketch.

If he's as bad as they say

Then I guess I'm cursed

Looking into his eyes

I think he's already hurt

He's already hurt

Despite that Harper never dared pursue a relationship. Why? She was very sure with people like Ketch the only right strategy was not to expect them to be capable of attachment. The flirting, the sweet promising looks he would give her after a well-accomplished hunt... Harper would dream of believing them to be genuine. She was very well aware thinking him in any way genuine was a risk she was not ready to take. She knew Ketch would not mind letting that affair happen - he made that quite clear. She also knew it would mean absolutely nothing to him apart from some company and a warm body in his bed. Arthur Ketch was cold, unemotional and taught himself well not to get attached to anyone - and even if that was not true, he tried his damn best to make it seem so.

Harper sometimes hoped she saw it in his eyes: a silent "please keep safe" when they would part after a hunt, a sparking "I missed you" when they would meet once again. Arthur sometimes hoped she would see it too - very deep in his soul, deeper than he would ever be able to admit even to himself.

In other words, the outcome of the new hunt would have presented itself sooner or later anyways. They were actually quite lucky to have it present itself the way it did.

The werewolf did not seem such a hard target - away from bigger packs, alone terrorizing the neighborhood - just because he could. Problem and solution crystal clear - a hunt where one clearly sees the root of evil is a blessing for a hunter that's used to all the versions of heartbreaking stories. What Harper did not so clearly see was the gun in their opponent's hands. To be more precise: she did see it, but a little too late.

Two gunshots rang at the same time: her silver bullet hitting right into the monster's heart and his normal one - ... Ketch fell against the wall, sliding down to the floor: his left shoulder bled, the bulletproof vest, even though being pierced in the thinner area, had preserved him from being too deeply injured - but not kept completely safe from wounding.

Several seconds of silence - making sure the werewolf is not a threat anymore - realisation and fear finally hitting Harper.

- Ketch?... Ketch?!... Arthur! - the hunter was too disoriented to answer and his silence was taken as a bad sign. - Oh Lord, Arthur, no! - gone are the self-restraint and professional coldness: the moment she sees blood on his chest, she rushes to his side, forgetting about everything else in the world. She needs to make sure he will be fine. He has to be. - Arthur, please, don't die on me! Arthur! - she calls for his attention, the hunter slowly regaining his senses.

For a moment there he believes he hears Tony. This reminds him of some of his unlucky hunts from the years before, though back then he had certainly had it worse. Besides this definitely was not Tony.

Tony would have said "Ketch's down" and carry on with the hunt, eyes on the target, and when the deed was done she would pass him with a short "How is it?" - more out of politeness than genuine caring. That was exactly what she did the only two times he had been seriously injured infront of her.

- Ketch, answer me right this instant, don't you dare fading out! - panic in her voice, genuine. The idea of someone caring as much as to panic at the thought of his death seems too good to be true - for him at least. Arthur feels hands investigating his chest, checking for the wound: cold thin fingers running over his blood-covered skin. Not Tony - Harper.

- I'll live, darling, it's nothing too serious, - attempting to sound confident, but his voice is rasp. It's nothing serious, but it hurt nonetheless: the blow on the shoulder was much harder than anticipated and the bleeding needed to be stopped.

Harper looks into the light blue, borderline grey eyes - he is staring up at her, his gaze unguarded only for a moment that lets her see the uncommon softness and hope in his expression - just for a moment - she believes the things she guessed about him were true, she believes the pain visible in his eyes is true, only by accident revealed to her. The state lasts only a couple of moments - but even that is more than enough for his visible emotions to imprint into her mind.

Arthur Ketch was able to feel. Arthur Ketch could be in pain. Arthur Ketch was capable of needing help.

I said "Don't be a jerk, don't call me a taxi"

Sitting in your sweatshirt, crying in the backseat ooh-ooh

I just wanna dance with you

Hollywood and Vine, Black Rabbit in the alley

I just wanna hold you tight down the avenue ooh

I just wanna dance with you

It was a wonder that the hotel clerk did not stop them on their way - Ketch looked positively dying - Harper was quite sure there was no legal thing that could have happened to him that would have explained this appearance. This was the reason normal hunters chose motels: less suspicion. Harper briefly wondered where he got the money to maintain his former lifestyle, since he was stripped of the BMoL funding, but she guessed there were other sources on his side and he was just too stubborn to change his ways.

When they stumbled into his hotel room, Arthur made a move to drop himself on the bed, but Harper grabbed him by the collar swiftly, dragging him away in the other direction.

- Ketch don't you dare stain the sheets, they'll report us, - she mumbled, pushing him to enter the bathroom and dropping him to sit on the edge of the tub.

He would have laughed if the sudden movement had not caused sharp pain to shoot through his damaged shoulder, making him wince. Alexandra. He had wondered for so long whom Harper reminded him of and out of all moments they shared it was this that made him realise. The memory reappeared in his mind so vividly now.

"Artie, no! Don't go to your room, you'll stain your carpet! Mum will kill us!" - and the older girl held him under his arms, guiding him to the kitchen.

He still remembered it: the years before school, before Kendricks, him and his sister mostly alone in the house with parents constantly away. Alexandra had brought him up before Kendricks had. Alexandra had a lovely voice, she would read him bedtime stories, she would sing to him, she was kind and caring - probably the only human being in his life that ever seemed to care. When he went to Kendricks was the last time he had ever seen her... Well, alive. Alexandra was kind and caring - and that was probably the reason why she had not made it through the training. In fact her death might have been the only reason why he survived and made it to the top - having no one care about you has a benefit: you don't have to care about anyone too.

After his sister's funeral life had never felt the same and Arthur had been quite certain before that it was for the better. Now, watching Harper rush about, trying to find the medical kit to help him, he thought that he had been terribly wrong all the damn time.

How long has she known him? A couple of years, not more, but the relationship between them reached beyond the borders of friendship or companionship. That little american hunter - the first time he saw her he thought she was suicidal, the second one - bold and full of sass. The following months proved her well capable of combining both while turning out to be so much more, one of which being: to be able to love Arthur Ketch. Of course he knew she loved him - this was among those traits in her that he openly treated with polite contempt and deep down envied more than anything.

He watched Harper come to his side, sliding his hunting gear off his shoulders - her movements so gentle, her eyes filled with worry and guilt.

- I'm so sorry Arthur, I should have... - you're always sorry. You always think it is your fault and none else's. This was most probably the main reason why it was so easy for him to openly reject her feeling: they both knew she loved him, they both knew he saw it, he toyed with her so many times, being suggestive, flirting. "As long as I enjoy the physical aspects of having an affair, the emotional attachment that other people believe necessary to form is rather pathetic" - he told her once. He actually said that, those were his words. I would like to fuck you as long as you shut your disgustingly human little heart. She stared at him for a moment, her beautiful face almost successfully hiding the hurt - then turned away silently, shrugging her shoulders. He was being a jerk. Harper never stopped him from that, Harper seemed to take it all in and believe he was right, believe that her feeling for him was utterly pathetic. That it was her fault.

- It was no one's mistake, love, it was an unlucky accident. Besides it didn't turn out that awful, - he trailed off. She was cleaning his skin over the wound now, preparing to apply stitches. Arthur could sense a little shudder in her at the word "love". He was so used to saying it that he forgot about all the connotations it held. Lord, was he bad at this.

Harper continued her work silently. She felt him studying her face and prayed to be finished as quick as possible - she did not need another heartbreaking hope and she had already made the mistake of looking into his eyes that night. When the last stitch was done, she turned away to put the materials aside and sensed him straighten up behind her back - Harper felt he wanted to say something else, but she could not give him that opportunity. She almost thought he would die that night - seeing him on the floor made her blood run cold - she did not need any more pain to add to the aftermath of the shock.

- I'm going to my room, but please call me if you feel worse during the night, - she spoke, not turning to face him, ready to walk out of the bathroom. Harper felt his hand grab her wrist in a rushed movement and turned abruptly only to see him staring back at her with unguarded softness in his eyes. The only time she remembered Arthur look at her like that was when she twisted an ankle during the hunt all due to his mistake. It scared her a little to see that expression on him.

- Why won't you just stay to keep an eye on me? - his voice low, with an undertone she so often heard when he flirted with her.

- You're a big boy, Ketch, we both know that even stitching you up was superfluous, you can perfectly well tend to yourself, - a smile. Harper tried to brush it off jokingly, ready to make her leave, but his grasp on her wrist only grew stronger.

- Stay.  At least for this night. Please, - the smile disappeared from her face. He sounded wounded, he sounded like he really pleaded. Harper broke away from his grasp, taking a step back.

- You don't need a... - she shook her head.

- But I do, - he stood up, taking a step towards her, not letting her increase the distance between them. His fingers came up to caress her cheek gently. - Harper, stay, - she shut her eyes, standing still and quiet for a couple of seconds, seemingly fighting back emotions.

- You don't mean this, - she said, looking up at him sharply and confidently, but in a moment, failing to restrain herself, she continues more quietly and softly. - Why do you have to be so cruel to me? - he could see tears brimming in her eyes.

They stood frozen in front of each other, her face so close to his, her eyes watering - not because of this particular evening, but because of all those times before he had behaved in similar nature. It was the first time she had so directly addressed the issue of her feelings for him. "Why do you have to be so cruel to me?" She seemed to be waiting for an actual answer. Why was she always so kind to him? Like he was normal, like he didn't hurt her? Arthur leaned down, his hand still cupping her cheek, his lips touching hers gently and firmly.

Harper closed her eyes - not as a girl would do in a pretty romantic movie - she shut her eyes, pressing her eyelids together, holding her breath, shuddering. A single tear ran down her cheek.

When they parted, though his face still stayed just a few centimeters away from hers, Harper opened her eyes again, her breath shaking.

- Arthur...

His free hand circled her waist, pulling her closer to him, as his fingers slid away from her cheek,  moving behind her head, running through her hair. Arthur leaned close to her ear, his breath ghosting over her neck.

- Because I hate how you make me feel like I can still have a life, like not everything is lost. I hate how you make me feel worth being cared about and able to care. I hate how you make me feel, - he said that rushed and quiet. Pressing his front to the side of her head, breathing deeply.

- And what if you are lying? What if this all is for the sake of one night? I'm tired of guessing if you have a soul or not, Arthur, I'm too worn out, - she wispered after some time, leaning her forehead into his uninjured shoulder.

- Then trust me this one time. I promise. Please.

- Why?

- Because I need you. I need you to feel alive.

Arthur felt her let out a deep breath, her petite form pressing itself to his, her arms sliding behind his back to hold him close. She raised her head, freezing for a moment before their eyes met, then leaning up - their lips meeting now less gingerly than the first time.

- Does that mean you'll stay?

- You're such an asshole, Ketch...

- I know.

Harper hid her face in his chest, sobbing quietly, her form shacking, worn out both physically and emotionally. Arthur kissed her temple softly, caressing her back, for once feeling like he did everything right. For once feeling like they had a chance.

Happiness is a butterfly

Try to catch it like every night

It's escaping from me into moonlight

#supernatural #spn fanfiction #arthur ketch x oc #this is written half at night and half on school breaks please don't judge me #i havenot revisited this fandom in such a long time #arthur ketch x reader #arthur ketch #sam winchester #dean winchester #british men of letters #angst #happiness is a butterfly #lana del rey #oneshot #songfic

[popatochisssp]

Aesthetics Ref - SF Bros

Nickname: Mal (Swapfell Sans)

Height: 4” taller than you (OR 5’3”)

Eye-lights: Electric purple (#BF00FF)

Magic Specialty: Purple, green

Scars/distinguishing marks: None…immediately visible (does have faint lines along his ribs, spine, and arms, near-misses that didn’t cut quite deep enough to leave obvious marks; only visible from very close or through touch)

Preferred Style: Rich bitch Classy gentleman is the look he aims for, trying to radiate ‘skeleton of means and standing’ with every article. His closet is more quality over quantity, not filled with a huge variety of clothes, but more than enough to coordinate outfits to suit any occasion; all tailored to his figure and made of the fine, expensive materials he tends to gravitate towards. He favors black and purple and wine red, and high-contrast color matching (mostly black but with strategic pops of bright color).

Outerwear: Blazers and racer jackets, with the occasional long wool overcoat for the drama winter

Top: Long-sleeved henleys and button shirts, sleeves down for business or rolled up for pleasure; a far greater collection of novelty t-shirts than anyone would suspect or that he would admit to (mostly extremely nerdy math puns and, as he cannot reveal himself as a nerdy pun-lover without damaging his reputation, they are sadly at-home-only shirts)

Bottom: Slacks and dress pants, with a few scattered pairs of jeans for casual occasions

Footwear: Mostly boots, either ankle-cut or thigh-high—he has no in-between. He does have a pretty wide range of heels, though, and can choose stilettos, blocks, platforms, riding heels, et cetera according to the situation and his preference.

Trademark accessory/accessories: He has three—his purple scarf, his purple leather gloves, and his old bronze pocket-watch. He’s liable to have all three on him at any given time, regardless of whatever else he’s wearing. He likes to think they add an eccentricity to his overall look!

-

Nickname: Rus (Swapfell Papyrus)

Height: 1’4” taller than you (OR 6’3”)

Eye-lights: Dusky violet (#6C3082)

Magic Specialty: Purple, blue, cyan

Scars/distinguishing marks: Gold tooth (right canine), lots of defensive chips on his forearms and nicks scored into his ribs from the back, one long deep scar carved up through most of his spine

Preferred Style: Soft grunge, emphasis on the soft! A lot of his look is based around looking a little tougher and more intimidating than he really is, but texture is high-key important for him so if a textile feels bad, he doesn’t want it on him, full-stop. He naturally tends towards high thread-count fabrics, fine cotton, cashmere, velvet—hell, even corduroy, if it’s good to touch, he likes it. He tries to balance out all the softness of the materials with a harder look and doesn’t do half bad. Favors dark colors, but especially cool ones (i.e., plum, navy, emerald).

Outerwear: Lots of hoodies, both pullover and zippered, to choose from; one very cozy fur-lined parka that he’s never going to get rid of but only breaks out when it’s cold

Top: Long-sleeved shirts and sweaters (notch-neck and v-neck mostly, but not shy of a turtleneck); any kind of novelty t-shirt, as long as it’s the right material

Bottom: So many varieties of jeans, the majority dark and a substantial portion of them ripped, splattered with paint or ink stains, or both; prefers skinnier cuts personally but thinks baggier cuts are better for looking more intimidating, so he’s got those on standby too

Footwear: Combat boots, the clunkier, the better. He likes the kind with the laces, at least shin-height so he can tuck his pants into them, and he’s definitely got at least one pair with a fur lining for winter. He has a few pairs of canvas sneakers lying around too with paint on them (some intentionally customized, some accidentally spilled on).

Trademark accessory/accessories: As prominent as his gold tooth is, he’s still a little self-conscious of it, so it’s gotta be his collar—soft, worn black leather worn around his vertebrae, with a gold buckle and a gold bone-shaped tag on it. It was a gift from his brother and he pretty much never takes it off.

#undertale #for reference #sans #papyrus #swapfell/fellswap #sf!sans #sf!papyrus #headcanons

[cookie-run-kingdom-story]

(Cookie Run Kingdom) Episode 7: Forgotten Academy

GingerBrave: Where are we? What a spooky place… Wizard Cookie: Hmm… The Sugar Swan couldn’t have pointed us in the wrong direction…

Ice Cream Ghost: Hello? Want some ice cream? Ice Cream Ghost: This ice cream will chill you to the bones! It’s a taste to die for! GingerBrave: We have no bones! Wizard Cookie: Um, do you happen to know anything about the magic academy? Ice Cream Ghost: Why yes, the students would come to our city for ice cream all the time! Ice Cream Ghost: But not anymore. Strawberry Cookie: I wonder what happened to them… Wizard Cookie: Hmm… We must go to the academy. Can you show us the way? Ice Cream Ghost: You can ask a ghost whom we call “the Ferryman”... But you will have to earn his trust first, he he!

GingerBrave: Hello there! Are you the Ferryman? GingerBrave: Can you take us to the magic school? The Ferryman: … Custard Cookie III: Oh, creepy… Chili Pepper Cookie: A creepy skeleton with a scythe! Now that’s somethin’... The Ferryman: ...Greetings… Do you wish to travel to the Academy of Magic? The Ferryman: ...I can take you there, for a price. Chili Pepper Cookie: But we’re broke! Er… want some flour dust? The Ferryman: Your company and a conversation will suffice. The Ferryman: Follow me… Boneless Cookies!

Custard Cookie III: Are we walking on water? That’s so fun! The Ferryman: Very fun, indeed. He he… The Ferryman: In the past, many a student used to come to our city. The Ferryman: We even used to hold ice cream eating contests. Strawberry Cookie: Who’d win? The Ferryman: Me, of course. As you can see, I only have my bones. The Ferryman: Whatever I eat, falls right through! Wizard Cookie: How intriguing.

The Ferryman: Oh no, a school of slimy squids ahead. Be careful. Wizard Cookie: We can handle them. We Cookies know how to handle the slimy. The Ferryman: But I am your guide. I will remain by your side until the very end. Chili Pepper Cookie: Nah, just stay away from the Battle, m’kay? The Ferryman: Fair enough.

The Ferryman: Do you wish to hear a rib-tickling joke? The Ferryman: Oh no. But you don’t have any ribs? Ha. Ha ha. Wizard Cookie: That’s absurd.

Custard Cookie III: Such a grand gate! Chili Pepper Cookie: The fence is pretty nice too. GingerBrave: They must be the Blueberry Yogurt Academy! Wizard Cookie: Hm… Smells like magic! Wizard Cookie: I can’t believe it! To arrive at a magical source like this one is a dream come true! Gatekeeper Ghost: I’m the Gatekeeper. I can’t let you pass. GingerBrave: look at that! This ghost is very transparent. I can walk right through him! Ha ha! GingerBrave: Come here! Gatekeeper Ghost:  … Gatekeeper Ghost:  Bye!

Strawberry Cookie: Where did White Lily Cookie go…? Strawberry Cookie: To run away all of the sudden… I’m worried about her. GingerBrave: To be honest, I’m worried too… GingerBrave: But let’s think positive, Strawberry Cookie! After all, White Lily Cookie likes to travel alone! GingerBrave: I’m sure she’ll come back once she has sorted everything out! Chili Pepper Cookie: He’s right! As for us, we have this bush to get rid of!

Custard Cookie III: Hey, where’re all the students? It’s only the ghosts here. Wizard Cookie: WIthout any doubt, something bad must have happened. Wizard Cookie: Look at this vegetation: no one has taken care of it for ages! Chili Pepper Cookie: I don’t like these bushes. Let’s get rid of them!

Wizard Cookie: Who could have known: an abandoned building! Custard Cookie III: Whoah! Such a magnificent building was behind the leaves! Let’s go inside.

Chili Pepper Cookie: What… is this place? Chili Pepper Cookie: Old and dusty! And there’s nothin’ valuable around! GingerBrave: W-White Lily Cookie! Custard Cookie III: What is she doing inside a mirror? Do you like it there?!! Strawberry Cookie: She looks hazy, just like the day we first met… White Lily Cookie: I… When I heard the Sugar Swan, I remembered something. White Lily Cookie: I survived the Dark Flour War, but lost all my friends. White Lily Cookie: I was devastated. Perhaps, that’s why I lost my memory. GingerBrave: All because of Dark Enchantress Cookie’s evil deeds! White Lily Cookie: Dark Enchantress Cookie… destroyed this place. The magic school where Pure Vanilla Cookie and I studied together. White Lily Cookie: I don’t understand. Why would she attack the students… GingerBrave: White Lily Cookie! I’m sure there’s a reason you woke up again! GingerBrave: Maybe you’re the only one who has the power to confront Dark Enchantress Cookie, just like Pure Vanilla Cookie did! GingerBrave: We’ll find a way to return your memories! And then, we’ll defeat Dark Enchantress Cookie! White Lily Cookie: Thank you… All of you. White Lily Cookie: Please, help me find my memories.

Tangent: White Lily Cookie’s Report Card

Pure Vanilla Cookie: Whoah! Top of the class AGAIN, White Lily COokie?! White Lily Cookie: When did I let you see my report card?! Pure Vanilla Cookie: Alright, alright, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! I came to congratulate you and… White Lily Cookie: ...And how did you pass your exams? Pure Vanilla Cookie: Well, rest assured- my score is WAY below yours. Still, I’m second, right behind you! Pure Vanilla Cookie: Bet you can skip a grade this time! White Lily Cookie: Yeah, I was thinking about that myself. This class is too easy for me... Pure Vanilla Cookie: WHOAH! Typical White Lily Cookie! Actually, I was thinking the same thing! White Lily Cookie: Why? I thought everybody in your class liked you. Pure Vanilla Cookie: Yeah… But I really wanted to study together with you! Pure Vanilla Cookie: I think we have similar interests in magic! Am I right?!

Lost Ghost

Lost Ghost: Um… Crunchy Cookies! Can you help me? Lost Ghost: I came here to play a long, long time ago! But then I got bound to this school and couldn’t leave! Lost Ghost: Now I can’t go back home, but there’s one thing I miss so much! ICE CREAM! GingerBrave: The one that chills you to the bones?! Lost Ghost: YES! That’s the one! Lost Ghost: One of the local ghosts has it! Could you convince him to share some with me, please? Lost Ghost: So I can feel complete once again!

GingerBrave: Yeah! Got the ice cream! Wizard Cookie: That… wasn’t too easy. GingerBrave: Let’s go back to the Lost Ghost!

Lost Ghost: M-m, vanilla! So sweet! Lost Ghost: Thank you! YUM! Custard Cookie III: That ice cream does look delicious! Lost Ghost: That was so, so nice of you to help me out! Let me open the library door for you. Lost Ghost: But remember: keep your voices down!

Tangent: Broken Teacup

White Lily Cookie: I made some tea. Would you like a cup? Pure Vanilla Cookie: M-m-m! So fragrant, thanks! White Lily Cookie: Glad you enjoyed it! I must leave for a while. Pure Vanilla Cookie: Huh? Where’re you going? White Lily Cookie: My lily aroma is so strong… It will spoil the taste of your tea. Pure Vanilla Cookie: What are you talking about? I like your lily aroma! Pure Vanilla Cookie: Besides, it’s a shame to drink all this delicious tea alone! White Lily Cookie: ...You’re too kind. White Lily Cookie: Don’t let this kindness of yours betray you. Pure Vanilla Cookie: That’s not gonna happen! Everyone likes to be treated with kindness!

Tangent: Secret Note

White Lily Cookie: “Pure Vanilla Cookie! Instructions are in the note.” Pure Vanilla Cookie: “Got it! Third shelf from the left, right?” White Lily Cookie: “Hurry! The Librarian is coming!” Pure Vanilla Cookie: “Found the book!” White Lily Cookie: “Give it to me! The Librarian’s gone. Now!” History Professor: And what do we have here? White Lily Cookie: Ack! History Professor: This section is for professors only! It’s off limits to students! History Professor: Banned from entering the library FOR A WEEK! Pure Vanilla Cookie: Crumbs! We got caught… But I have the book! White Lily Cookie: You’re the best, Pure Vanilla Cookie! Let’s open it.

Nightmare-ridden Librarian: YOU...THINK OF A NIGHTMARE… Nightmare-ridden Librarian: A HORRIBLE, STICKY… ENDLESS NIGHTMARE! ONE THAT SEEMS OH SO REAL... Nightmare-ridden Librarian: I CAN SHOW IT TO YOU...

Chili Pepper Cookie: Books, books, books! Why are there so many boring books here? Wizard Cookie: This place is called a “library”! A library is a place with books! Nightmare Archivist: THIS IS THE LIBRARY! SILENCE! Nightmare Archivist: WHO IS TALKING? WHO IS WANDERING THE RESTRICTED SECTION?! Nightmare Archivist: I SHALL TEACH YOU A LESSON!

White Lily Cookie: … Pure Vanilla Cookie: Ah! I knew I’d find you here! Pure Vanilla Cookie: Why didn’t you show up to class? I was worried! White Lily Cookie: I would have learned nothing new anyway. Our experiments are much more complex and interesting. Pure Vanilla Cookie: Yeah but… How about we go together next time? It’s so boring without you. White Lily Cookie: If you wish… I’ll do it! Pure Vanilla Cookie: Um, what were you doing? White Lily Cookie: I was looking into ways to make Cookies less crumbly. Pure Vanilla Cookie: Typical White Lily Cookie! I’m sure some Cookies will find your research very helpful! Pure Vanilla Cookie: I’m glad to do things for the good of all Cookies with you! White Lily Cookie: That’s right! There are those in the world who need our help. White Lily Cookie: Pure Vanilla Cookie… You were my only friend. White Lily Cookie: Those days… will never come back.

#chili pepper cookie #White Lily Cookie #Pure Vanilla Cookie #Gingerbrave #strawberry cookie #Custard Cookie III #wizard cookie #cr dialogue #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #crk

[yuckydraws]

It happened yet again… I deleted an ask on accident 🤦‍♀️ but! I also remember what it said. It was from an anon who asked for 24 with a skeleton of my choosing!

24 - hugging with a height difference

I’m gonna go with Sugar (HT Papyrus) because he’s the tallest of them all, and he would be taller than literally any reader;)

••••••••••

“You know you don’t have to come with me to my appointments, right?” Your datemate, Sugar, asks. You nod.

“I know, but orthodontist appointments suck, and I want to be here for you!”

“… and I appreciate that, I just feel bad that you come to every appointment. It’s not exactly like anything ever changes. I’ve had these on for years, and they haven’t even mentioned when I can get them off.” He sighs, wringing his hands a bit. You place you hand over his, and give him a reassuring smile.

“Well, I like being here for you. Plus! You never know, maybe today is the day you get good news!”

He looks doubtful, but he returns your smile. When they call him in, he waves to you as they take him into the back for his appointment. You wave back and relax into your seat, knowing you’ll be here for awhile.

You end up picking up one of those trashy magazines they leave out in the waiting room, and are guiltily invested in one of the articles when you hear Sugar call your name excitedly from across the room. You look up (and hastily get rid of the magazine by not so gracefully shoving it between the seats) and you see him absolutely beaming at you.

You stand up as he walks over to you, and he immediately pulls you into a hug which you eagerly return.

You love hugging him.

He’s very tall, and you barely reach the bottom of his rib cage, but you don’t mind at all. You make yourself right at home in his arms, looking up at him by resting your chin on said rib cage, and raising a brow.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s got you so excited?” You ask, and you feel Sugar’s bones rattling with his excitement.

“Guess!” He exclaims, letting go of the hug and holding his hands in front of him in anticipation.

“Hmmm… do you finally understand that reference I made in the car?”

“No.” He says, rolling his eyes. “Guess again.”

“Do you-”

You’re interrupted by Sugar’s excited squealing.

“My braces come off next appointment!” He yells, then covers his mouth sheepishly when people start to stare. You’re shocked, you lean over to make eye contact with the doctor, and he nods to confirm.

You didn’t think you could grin this wide.

You quickly pull Sugar into another hug, squeezing him hard and shaking excitedly with him.

“Congratulations!” You tell him, pulling your head away from him to speak more clearly and look him in the eyes. “Told you I should be here.”

“Yes yes, you were right.” He huffs, pulling away and folding his arms. But that smile and blush are still there.

“Guess you could say, I’m your lucky charm.” You brag in a jokingly smug tone, putting your hands on your hips. He blushes some more and starts wringing his hands.

“… I’m not superstitious but if you could come to my next appointment…” He trails off.

You do exactly as you did earlier - you place you hand over his and smile up at him.

“Of course, love.”

#anon #yucky answers #yucky writes #very much late #I’m so sorry #been busy with life sadly #but! #here it is! #also oh my shit I can’t believe I did this again #it’s not that hard to not delete asks I just move in autopilot and it fucking happens #note to self : stop clicking on asks when you’re half awake. #undertale #horrortale #ht papyrus #horrortale papyrus #ht papyrus/reader #ht papyrus x reader #gender neutral reader

[tickly-trashcan]

Spooky Scary Skeletons {ShinKami}

A/N: ah i’m so glad i got a request with shinkami! they’re a really cute pairing, i adore them~ I recently found there was a dance someone made a dance to the song, so that was kind of the inspiration for this one! hope you enjoy!

Summary: Shinsou is trying to do his homework, meanwhile Kaminari is trying to learn the Spooky Scary Skeletons dance. What could possibly go wrong?

Word Count: 1.3k (under the cut)

Shinsou was on his last nerve. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. He was currently in his boyfriends dorm trying to finish up his homework, but all that rang through his ears was Spooky Scary Skeletons as Kaminari stood next to him trying to learn the dance.

Shinsou sighed, loud and exasperated, when Kaminari played it over again, pausing it at the exaggerated noise Shinsou had made.

“What’s up? Having trouble with your homework?”

“No, I’m having trouble with your music. Is it absolutely essential that you learn that dance?” Shinsou asked, his tone clearly annoyed, something that Kaminari managed to not pick up on.

Kaminari nodded. “Halloween is in less than a week, and we’re having a party at Mina’s dorm and I wanna perfect my sick moves!” Kaminari explained, doing a hip thrust before striking a pose. Shinsou snorted.

“Your… moves look fine, Denki. Can you stop the music just for now while I finish up?”

Kaminari blinked, not responding as Shinsou turned back to do his work. It was quiet, so Kaminari probably got the message. Shinsou settled his pencil on the paper once more, but just before he could move it…

Spooky Scary Skeletons…

Shinsou spun around in his chair, glaring at Kaminari as he danced wildly, the music on full blast once more. Kaminari lost himself in the dance, so Shinsou got up himself and turned off the music.

“Hey!”

“If you play ‘Spooky Scary Skeletons’ one more time, you’re gonna get it,” Shinsou threatened, pointing at Kaminari. Kaminari blew air through his lips.

“I’m just practicing, it’s not a big deal.”

Shinsou’s eye twitched. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he sighed loudly, looking up towards Kaminari with his hands together.

“Can I have five minutes of quiet? Please?”

Kaminari blinked again, Shinsou narrowed his eyes. Kaminari merely shrugged, and Shinsou turned back around to finish his work. He picked up his pencil again, writing down his answer for one of the last questions on the page. He paused for a moment after he finished writing, just waiting for Kaminari to turn the music back on again. But he didn’t.

A small grin crept up Shinsou’s face as he turned back to his paper, beginning to write down his next answer, when he heard the song start up again.

He clenched his fist, breaking the pencil in frustration as he turned to face Kaminari once more, who was still dancing to the song. Shinsou jumped up from his chair and walked menacingly over to Kaminari, who barely even noticed him.

“Hey, what’s up? Wanna dance?”

“What did I say?”

Kaminari stared at Shinsou with his mouth wide open, trying to find the words as he had already forgotten what Shinsou said.

“Not to play the song?” He finally managed, Shinsou now crossing his arms.

“And what did you do?”

“Play the song?” Kaminari asked slowly, bringing his arms up in a shrug. Shinsou scowled, pushing Kaminari down onto the bed as he yelped.

“What else did I tell you, Denki?” Shinsou asked, cracking his knuckles as he loomed over Kaminari.

Kaminari gulped, sputtering. “I don’t know?”

Shinsou pushed Kaminari back down when he tried to get up. “I said, if you played that damn song again that you were gonna get it.”

Kaminari scooted back further on the bed, grinning nervously as he held a hand up in front of him.

“Wh-What would that imply exactly?” Kaminari asked, though he had an idea of where this was going. It was one of Shinsou’s only methods of getting things through Kaminari’s thick skull, and it normally worked pretty well.

Shinsou raised his hands, his hands clawed as he smirked at Kaminari. “I think you know exactly what it implies, Denki.”

Kaminari went to jump off the side of the bed, but he was easily caught by Shinsou, who pulled him back and pinned him down with his legs, resting his hands on Kaminari’s sides. Kaminari looked up fearfully at Shinsou, before flashing him an innocent grin.

“If I taught you the dance would you forgive me?”

Shinsou stared at Kaminari for a moment, a very done expression on his face as Kaminari smiled sheepishly. It was his last resort, but it didn’t seem like Shinsou was interested in learning the dance anyway.

Kaminari barked out a laugh when Shinsou’s hands moved, squeezing his sides quickly as he threw his head back, laughter pouring from his lips. He reached his hands down to grab at Shinsou’s wrists, trying to pry them away from his sides, but to no avail.

Shinsou drew his hands down, now prodding at Kaminari’s hips. Kaminari let out a squeal, peals of laughter followed as he shook his head from side to side.

“NyAHahahaha! H-Hitoshihihihi! Nohohoho tickles!” He begged, kicking his legs out under Shinsou as he continued to dig his fingers into Kaminari’s sensitive hip bones, rubbing his thumb right along the bone as Kaminari arched his back, cackling. 

“This is what you get for not listening to me,” Shinsou quipped, scribbling his fingers over Kaminari’s tummy as Kaminari shrieked, arching his back again before flopping around like a fish out of water, swatting at Shinsou’s hands as he roared.

“HAHAhahah! WahahahahaHAHAHAIT, HitoSHIII!” Kaminari yelled out, banging his fists on the bed as tears began to prick the corners of his eyes, his face turning a bright red as his cheeks began to hurt from smiling so widely as laughter continued to spill from his lips.

Shinsou paused for a moment, holding his hands on Kaminari’s hips as he breathed heavily, some stray giggles still falling from his lips as he looked up at his purple-haired boyfriend, who currently sat above him with his classic indifferent look on his face. 

“Are you gonna keep playing the song?”

“I need to learn the dance!”

Shinsou sighed loudly, giving Kaminari’s hips one more firm squeeze. “Are you sure you do?”

Kaminari yelped at the touch, squirming away from it as he hesitantly bit his lip, unsure of how to answer. Slowly, he nodded his head that yes, he did need to learn the dance. Shinsou shook his head disappointedly as he clicked his tongue.

“Suit yourself.”

Kaminari practically screamed when Shinsou’s hands were suddenly on his ribs, drumming his fingers along them and paying special attention between each bone, poking and prodding as Kaminari glued his arms to his sides, trapping Shinsou’s hands as he arched his back again, cackles flooding the room. He was so loud he was sure that the rest of the dorm could hear him, but he didn’t care, all he cared about was getting this torture to stop.

“NAHAHAHAhahahaha!! Stohohohop, pleeease! Not thehehehEHEHERE!!” Kaminari screamed as his worst spot was tortured by Shinsou’s dextrous fingers, digging in between each rib in the worst way possible as Kaminari could do nothing but laugh. Shinsou chuckled.

“Sometimes I forget how ticklish you are, damn.”

“It’s nohohOHOHOT my fault!”

Tears spilled from the corners of Kaminari’s eyes, trickling down his reddened cheeks as he shook his head from side to side, a small amount of drool also spilling out of his mouth as his laughter only continued to rise in volume as Shinsou continued his cruel torture. 

Shinsou paused again, his hands being crushed by Kaminari’s arms that held them in place as he continued to giggle, peeking one eye open to look up at Shinsou again, breathing in as much as he could with the residual laughter.

“Are you gonna turn on the music again?”

“Nohoho…”

“Promise?”

Kaminari nodded, a few giggles still leaking from his lips as Shinsou retracted his hands and walked back to his desk, Kaminari immediately sitting up and rubbing his ribs, trying to get rid of the tingles that still lingered on them. 

Shinsou set back to his homework, picking up a new, not broken pencil and setting to work, finishing as Kaminari laid down on the bed tiredly, panting heavily.

“When you’re done can I teach you the dance?” Kaminari asked, biting his lip after the words left them. There was a short pause, and all that was heard was the scratching of Shinsou’s pencil against the paper. He set it down, turning his head to face Kaminari, flashing him a small, rare smile.

“Sure,”

#shinkami #shinsou #kaminari #i-am-definitely-not-straight #mha #prompts #halloween #halloween prompts #tickle fic

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Nine (finale!!)

Ao3,  Masterpost,   C.1   C.2   C.3   C.4   C.5   C.6   C.7   C.8

Relationships: queer-platonic intruality, background platonic dlampr

I did it!!! I fucking did it!!! It’s been done!!! The end!!

Warnings: cursing, food mention, (brief) alcohol mention, kissing, relationship negotiations, cuddling, So Much Sap.

Word count: 4,147

Everything in the Mindpalace was going well.

Patton repeated that sentence to himself like a mantra, a water-filled mason jar clutched between his hands as he leaned against the kitchen bar.

Everything in the Mindpalace was going well.

Months and months went by without anyone having any sort of falling out, aside from petty arguments and occasional disagreements. Patton was attending each meeting, Remus right beside him. Life went on without a hitch. 

Patton tried not to give Remus all the credit for everything good that had been happening. Logan, he knew, was working very hard to better himself and be more open. Janus was acclimating to his new surroundings more every day, and tentatively building new relationships while fixing up the old ones. Roman had been trying so hard, okay, and everyone could see the ways he hesitated less and less each time he went to speak. That’s not to speak of Virgil, who’d managed to slot his past and his present together into one big future, and not without considerable effort.

Patton could laud them all for that, for the peace that fell over the Mindpalace, but… 

Part of him knew he never would’ve noticed that peace if he was still locked in turmoil with himself. And all of him knew exactly who it was that pulled him out of that hole. 

Which isn’t to say it wasn’t an equal thing. He learned that a while in, that he was picking up Remus’ slack as much as Remus was picking up his. They functioned together, complimentary. 

Everything in the Mindpalace was going well. The aching etched across Patton’s skin had faded, the ice solidified over his skeleton had thawed, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so content.

Everything in Patton’s Mindpalace was going well.

Morality grinned against the edge of his drink, fighting the urge to laugh. He wasn’t even drinking anything, and still there was this giddiness. But that was how he always got at parties, and why he preferred to not drink alcohol anyway- he didn’t need to get any more jelly-brained! 

Even if ‘party’ was a generous word for the gathering: It was just a family meeting gone awry, to be honest. No one had been in a working mood, not even Logan, and it was late in the evening already and the food was already there and. Well. Things morphed from there.

Remus was almost entirely glued to Patton’s side, despite how obviously he buzzed with energy. The simple fact that there was music, and food, and everyone enjoying themselves seemed to turn him up to 100- or, 110, since he usually operated with a staggering amount of energy either way.

But it was nice, hearing him talk, watching him flicker around excitedly. Patton, as was the case more and more these days, could hardly keep his eyes off him.

It wasn’t exactly like that was a problem. He doubted that a single side wasn’t aware of how completely and utterly entangled the both of them were with each other by that point, even if some of them still found it strange. They were… surprisingly supportive, of whatever kind of relationship the two of them had formed.

Friends, Patton reminded himself sternly, what else would it be? Patton had never wanted to date anyone, after all, and this wasn’t exactly an exception. It was just… 

Strange. It was strange, but so was Remus- and honestly, so was Patton- so maybe it made more sense that way. 

But just the same, things were smooth, and for once Patton wasn’t feeling too neurotic about it. He was half-sitting on the bar comfortably, swinging his leg, not chatting too much out of calmness more than anything. Remus was cross-legged on the counter as well, pressed up against him, buzzing and fidgeting but otherwise relaxed. Virgil leaned against the bookshelf crosswise, talking quietly with Remus. He only looked a little overwhelmed, and that was really unavoidable in any situation (Patton knew that if things were actually too much for him, Logan would already be taking care of it- it was like he had a sixth sense for that sort of thing). 

“-and anyway,” Virgil was saying, “It’s not like I haven’t seen it before, but I’m not about to tell Roman that, because-”

“You have to see his reaction!” Remus interrupted, grinning mischievously. 

“Right, duh- you can’t just, like, pass up an opportunity to show somebody that.”

“Misery loves company!”

“And that movie is miserable,” Virgil nodded to himself, and okay, Patton had no idea what they were talking about. 

He smiled at them anyway, though, because it was probably something to do with horror. Remus and Virgil could talk about horror for hours; it was a wonder there was ever a time they didn’t get along, honestly. 

But Patton knew that his brain was rolling around everywhere except for the present- and he always got all reminiscent and unfocused when he was this happy- so he shook himself, standing up. 

“I’m gonna check the oven, the food’s probably done by now!” and then, just to Remus: “I’ll be just a second, Mess.”

Remus smiled at him, let him go, and barely took a breath before he was talking again. (“So what’d he think? Did he scream at the end? That ending, I mean…”)

Patton slipped into the kitchen- which was barely another room, considering that wide open wall- but it was just a little quieter and a lot more pizza-roll-smelling than the living room. 

Which Patton did actually have to take out of the oven, but it just so happened that getting up and moving around also got his head out of the clouds. That, and the mindless actions of snack-prep let him tune in better to what was going on around him. (“That’s the thing, he went dead quiet as soon as the scene started. For a second I thought I broke him-” and then Remus was laughing, and Virgil was shushing him while also snickering.)

Patton slipped on an oven mitt, grabbed the tray, set it on top of the stove. More noise erupted behind him, (Logan and Roman arguing about something that obviously didn’t matter, getting about as heated as they usually did.) and he shook his head, pouring the snacks steadily into a dish. Patton then grabbed the bag and spread some uncooked rolls out on the now-unoccupied pan, and slipped it back into the oven for another batch. (Janus heckling the argument. Virgil joining in, needling them.)

Patton rolled his eyes fondly, going through the motions of getting some tea ready. Might as well try to calm the dizzy exuberance in his chest while he was up, if he could, and some nice chamomile wouldn’t hurt.

  (Remus wasn’t audibly teasing his brother with his snark-fueled companions, which was unlike him; to just sit there quietly.)

Patton rifled through the cabinets. Every mug was cracked or chipped or held together with glue and hope, and they sure had plenty of mugs. They kept conjuring new ones, but Patton wondered if that was doing them any good: all the mugs ended up in disarray eventually, so it was easier to just deal with the fissures as long as the cup was still, you know, vaguely functional. 

Patton grabbed his favorite- easily the most beaten and battered out of them all, with a thick line splitting up the little cat face painted into it, a large chip in one part of the rim that had been sculpted to look like a cat ear. Whatever he poured into it always tasted a little like the super-glue holding it together, but it was just too darn cute to get rid of!

Patton smiled to himself, and thankfully had set the fragile thing down before two lanky arms twined around his waist and scared him half to death. 

“Remus!” It didn’t sound scolding at all; Patton was laughing too much. 

Remus spun him around, looking immensely proud for startling him, and raised himself up to drape his arms over Patton’s shoulders.

“What’cha smiling about?” He asked, grinning wider than Patton was even capable of. Patton laughed again, softly this time, and leaned back against the countertop. 

“Mmm, you first.”

“Okay,” Remus squirmed, like he’d been hoping someone would ask- which was silly, considering that he was always smiling ear-to-ear. “You.”

Patton rolled his eyes, “Nuh-uh, I already asked-”

“No, you,” Remus poked him in the ribs, “You’re why.”

“Oh,” Patton melted, just a little. “Ohhh,” he pulled Remus into a proper hug, burying his face in the side’s hair, and the giddy feeling he’d been stuck with certainly wasn’t going away any time soon after that, “Aww, Mess!”

“Jesus, you’re so mushy. That line wasn’t even any good,” Remus cackled, like he had any right to be aloof when he was coiled all around Patton like he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re the one who said it, you big sap!” Patton playfully argued.

“Yeah, and you never answered my question!” 

Patton pulled back- although that stretched the term; he’d pushed himself up onto the counter, with Remus between his knees, essentially still touching. 

“I’m just in a good mood, that’s all. It’s a good night!” And it was, but Patton had to admit- “Maybe it has something to do with you, also.”

Remus smirked at him, leaning forward and planting his hands on either side of Patton’s legs. 

“It better. I’m a riot at parties!”

This is barely a party, Patton thought, you’re always a riot, but he didn’t say either thing. Just hummed, tapping his fingers on the laminate countertop, staring into the middle distance pleasantly. 

The rest of the sides were sprawled around the couch in the living room- which was mostly visible from the kitchen- and their argument was swiftly getting louder. Not a single one of them wasn’t laughing as much as he was shouting, though, so Patton decided to let them be. They were caught up having fun, and so was he, to be honest.

Remus was watching the others, too, but only in glances. He tossed a look over his shoulder every now and then, eyes darting around the room wildly, which was almost normal for him. Except that he looked so focused about it, scanning over them and then back to Patton with purpose, almost like he was… waiting for something. 

His claws were tapping on the counters, too, but it was a feverish beat. Patton covered Remus’ hand with his own, twining their fingers together and squeezing them comfortingly- and Remus’ eyes locked immediately back onto his. 

“Hi,” Patton said.

“Hey,” Remus said, “I love you.”

Patton went still. He blinked rapidly, and took a minute to remember how to think. The admission couldn’t have been surprising, of course they loved each other, but- it felt like it was the first time it had been said. It also didn’t feel like that was possible, because after all their time together how could they have skipped saying it, it was so obvious? They were so close, so blunt, Patton was pretty sure neither of them knew the meaning of the word ‘unspoken’. 

Oh, but either way, he should probably- “I love you, too!” 

Yeah, weird or not that they hadn’t done this before, that part was still pretty important.

But Remus hardly reacted at all, just a twitch in the corner of his lips- maybe-almost a smile, hypothetically. If anything, he was jittering even worse than before the reciprocation; Patton took his other hand just so he’d stop trembling, like a paranoid chihuahua, clutching that one the same as the first. 

“Hey, what’s wrong, Buddy?” Patton implored. Remus stared at him, through him, and his eyes were visibly sharpening like little red camera lenses. 

“Patton, Patton, Patton,” a wild mantra, “I must have the restraint of a saint, waiting this long to- to, I mean- Can I-” he took a breath, a set in his jaw showing just how much effort it took to pull his thoughts together. “I wanna do something. With you.”

Patton paused, and thought very carefully about that statement and everything that it could mean. There were… many possibilities. 

“Is it gonna hurt?” Was the question he eventually settled on, squeezing Remus’ hands. 

“Uhh, Probably not? If it does, then I’m definitely doing it wrong.”

“Okay, well-” Patton took a breath, met his friend’s eyes, and how was that as enticing as it was troubling? “Why don’t you?”

“...Can I?”

Remus looked about ready to shake out of his skin, so if whatever it was made him calm down, then Patton didn’t have any objections. Plus, hey, he was dense, but he wasn’t that dense. 

“Has that question ever stopped you before?” 

Something steeled in Remus’ expression, and he grinned. Patton grinned back, and that was when he knew without a doubt what was about to happen. 

Remus jolted forwards and kissed him, square on the lips. 

It was over as soon as it started, with Remus wrenching backwards and looking even more wild-eyed, before Patton had the time to really process it. If it was even actually a nice kiss, for example, was something that he could not honestly answer- only that it had happened, and now, here they were. But gosh, had it happened… 

Remus watched him closely, tensed up like a string. He looked unaccountably silly like that, or maybe it was just the giddiness, but Patton giggled either way, smiled, and ducked his head. He felt a flush in his face, and like his heart had filled up with something- warm and wild and not like anything he knew how to name.

And gradually, Remus relaxed from tension into confusion, a hesitant laugh escaping him. He tossed out a dozen sentence fragments, which Patton deciphered with ease.

“We’re-” aromantic, “We don’t-” do that, “I’ve never-” wanted to before.

“Doesn’t matter,” Patton said decisively, “I don’t care.”

Remus searched his expression for a moment, before breaking down into hazy laughter again. He looked gone.

“Fuck it- if you don’t care, I don’t care! Let’s- Let’s just-!”

His eyes were darting around again, looking back through the open wall- and the argument was still raging, no one was paying any attention to the kitchen. Patton pulled one of his hands out of Remus’ and did something very impulsive.

He grabbed Remus’ jaw, dragging the trait’s gaze back to him. 

“Don’t look at them,” he said, “Look at me.”

If it weren’t for the hush in his voice, the gentle-saccharine softness of it, the unmistakable Patton-ness of it, it would’ve sounded downright narcissistic. He could feel bad about that later, though, because as it stood the words made Remus send him a lovely little look, which made it very hard to be sorry about anything. 

“No complaints here,” Remus grabbed Patton’s wrist, making it very obvious that he wanted his hand to stay right where it was. “But that’s the only time you get to boss me around, so don’t get cozy telling me what to do.”

“Oh yeah?” Remus’ voice had been light, nothing like the way he used to talk about Patton’s bossiness. There was that obvious hint of sarcasm, like a little in-joke between them. Patton already knew what the punchline would be. “I bet I can prove you wrong.”

Remus’ eyes glinted excitedly, “Doubt it!”

“Kiss me again.”

Patton got the sense Remus couldn’t have cared less about being wrong, with how fast he launched into it. 

 It took three tries to turn the doorknob, and again, not a single alcoholic beverage had been had by either of them that night. It was just that they refused to stop holding hands or cracking up laughing long enough to get the stupid thing open. 

Patton shoved his way through first, kicking the door shut behind them and all but dragging Remus along. They were giggling senselessly, tripping all over each other and grinning at nothing and everything, before promptly collapsing onto the bed together. 

That was the moment when Patton registered the room as Remus’, which only made him grin wider, because it was so alive in there. The shadows in the wallpaper all coalesced and reached out to Patton, and the floor purred under his feet, rippling like the skin of some giant animal. It was all so creepy the first few times he’d slept there, but now it was just adorable; every part of Remus, down to his room, was so ecstatic to have him there that it tried to pull him in and hold him.

But he couldn’t very well cuddle a wall, so Patton turned his attention back to the side himself, giggling and pleasantly delirious. 

Remus was staring at him. Their hands were still clasped between them. 

“Hey,” he started.

“Hiii,” Patton answered.

And then, in unison:

  “What are we?” “C’mere and hold me.”

Patton blinked at him, and Remus laughed. 

“Compromise: I hold you while you tell me what this-” he held up their hands, “-makes us.” 

Yeah, that seemed fair.

Patton shuffled over, fitting his arms around Remus’ shoulders and weaving his fingers through the Duke’s hair, scratching at his scalp. Remus curled all around him in a way that had become perfectly familiar, resting his chin on Patton’s chest and staring up at him expectantly. 

(and Patton answering questions in a way that made sense was unlikely in most situations, but with this one? Oh boy).

“So, um, I love you,” he settled on eventually, working out a particularly dense knot of hair with his fingers. 

Remus snorted. “Yeah, you mentioned,” he tapped his claws against Patton’s sternum, seeming to turn things over in his head. “We’re friends?”

Patton thought about it. He frowned.

“We are, but… that doesn’t feel special enough. I wouldn’t-” he felt himself flush, “I know I’m touchy, but I wouldn’t do all this with just anybody. I wouldn’t do it with anybody but you.”

“Okay. Me neither. So, uh- boyfriendssss?” 

They winced in unison, Remus dragging the word out in a hiss.

“No,” Patton said.

“Yeah, that ain’t the one.”

“I mean, we don’t, um-”

“We aren’t exactly gonna fuck, you mean.”

Patton squeaked, inadvertently tugging too hard on a knot of hair. “I- first of all, you can date without- that, but second of all- mhm, that’s a definite no.” 

Remus scrunched up his nose, scratching where his scalp had been pulled.

“I know you can, but I meant, like…” 

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut childishly. Patton patted him on the back sympathetically, equally as frustrated with Words and their lack of General Correctness at that moment as Remus clearly was. 

“Why’s everything so fucking complicated?” The trait whined, “I mean, feelings are your job, you’re smart! What’s- what’s-” Remus sat up suddenly, straddling Patton’s legs, grabbing one of the side’s hands and pressing it against his chest. The fabric of his sash was rough against Patton’s fingers, and beneath that, an irregular pattern of heartbeats, and beneath that, there were… there were definitely some feelings. “What is that, Pat?” His voice dipped low, that strained whispery sound that Patton just loved. “It’s gotta be something.”

Patton tried to focus, however hard that proved, and reached down inside to find a name for the sensation. The sensation that matched his own so well, and that gave him an odd little feedback loop of emotion that made everything sort of dizzy- trying to figure out other people’s emotions through his side ability always made him dizzy, despite the fact that he was apparently very good at it. 

“It sure is something,” Patton muttered, flushing brighter. It was so much, and if Patton was anybody else but himself, it would’ve been too much. But he wasn’t, and it wasn’t; he couldn’t get enough.

“I didn’t know you cared about this,” Patton let his hand fall, smiling bemusedly up at Remus, “A label, I mean. I always thought you’d be the one saying they were stupid. Not that there’s, you know, anything wrong with it either way.”

Remus rolled off of Patton, flopping down beside him again. He pressed up against Patton’s shoulder, chewing his lip in concentration. 

“I care about stuff. Stuff like you, and this is about you, so. Don’t blame me for worrying about it now, you’re the one who infected me with feelings in the first place.”

“I don’t blame you,” Patton said, and he was absolutely grinning at that. Remus narrowed his eyes. Patton stifled a laugh.

“What? What is it?”

“It’s just- You sounded exactly like Virgil,” Patton giggled, shaking his head fondly, “‘Infected with feelings’, gosh, that’s so silly.”

Remus blinked at him, before his face split with a smile. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that one.”

Patton hummed. And then, he leaned over just enough to kiss Remus’ forehead, just because he could. 

Remus caught him by the jaw and pulled him in for a proper kiss, which he happily reciprocated. That kicked off a nice five minute break from the conversation at hand, as Patton took the time to appreciate the feeling, noting the reverent gentleness that Remus always touched him with was just as present as ever- and yes, for the record, it wasn’t a great olfactory experience, but softness of him more than made up for it. 

“So,” Patton started, once they’d finally parted. “I think I know what we can do.”

Remus stared at him, looking distinctly dazed. “What? Make out some more?”

Patton smacked him (lightly) on the arm, smiling despite himself. 

“No- well, maybe- but I meant about us.”

“Right, right.” 

Patton sat up straighter (haha), leaning back against the headboard and bringing Remus up with him. He tipped his head to one side in thought, then to the other (which was mirrored, adorably, by the Duke).

“We can make it simple if we just, y’know, cut out the middleman,” Patton took Remus’ hand again, tangling their fingers together. “So, I don’t have to be your friend, or your boyfriend… What if I’m just yours?”

Remus always had a very intense stare to him, but Patton had never felt quite as pinned to the spot by those laser-sharp reds than he did in that moment. 

“Oh,” purred Remus, “Ooh, I like that.”

Patton smiled sheepishly at him, running his thumb along the Duke’s knuckles. “So- yes?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Remus leaned over him, fixing his free arm around Patton’s neck possessively. “You’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours. Sounds like a plan to me.” 

Patton laughed, almost overfull with giddiness at just how eager Remus managed to sound about that. It- it felt good, to be something that someone got so excited over. To be wanted. 

To want, too, wasn’t as foreign a concept to Patton. But he was wanting now, and it was worlds different than before. Because he was actually getting the source of that yearning, this time, and of course that only made the feelings stronger, and-

Thinking about it made him tired. Deliriously happy, of course, but absolutely exhausted. For once, he was almost completely devoid of the urge to psychoanalyze himself; he was happy, in love, and loved. Patton could count on one hand the number of times he’d had all three of those things in his life at once, and he didn’t want to waste this one. 

He tugged Remus into his lap. Remus was incapable of sitting still at all, but he hardly minded. Remus squirmed around, drummed his fingers against Patton’s back, buried his face in Patton’s shoulder (and, completely shamelessly, smelled him). It was so him, to not be settled at all even in such a contented moment. Endearing in every way.

And he started chattering, at some point, because of course he did. At first he was talking about them, but that topic didn’t stick around for long before he was jumping around all over the place with his words. 

Remus ranted for two reasons: one, he was frustrated, needy for attention. Two, he was too excited not to talk, and there was so much going on that he couldn’t shut up for a second to even breathe. Patton was intimately familiar with telling the difference between the two, and, sorting that occasion into the later category, he wrapped Remus up in his arms and waited patiently for the trait to tire himself out. He didn’t mind that either. 

Eventually, though, Remus did. 

Eventually, it wasn’t night so much as it was morning, and Patton was tired and warm and half-asleep already, and Remus was laying contentedly on his chest while the rambling steadily became faint mumbling.

Eventually, they were sleeping, just like any other night together. 

And the last thing Patton had in mind, as he flitted in and out of awakeness, was the dim realization that he’d forgotten how it felt to be cold. 

the end <3

Taglist: @donnieluvsthings @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @intruxiety @thefivecalls @gayformlessblob @did-he-just-hiss-at-me

#sanders sides #ts #intruality #fanfiction #fanfic #qpr intruality #patton sanders #remus sanders #ts fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #my writing

[jaketeachesdeath]

Hellooo. I found a dead bird on my back porch that is fully decomposed. I was wondering how do I preserve the bones? I’ve never done anything like this before and I don’t want to mess up, sorry if I’m bothering you.^^

Hey!

Well presuming that the bird is legal to keep in your location the first step is a good clean.

If it is fully decomposed there shouldnt be any flesh left at all and it should be able to go straight into warm soapy water for a scrub, species dependent on how gentle you need to be.

The beak sheaths may still be in existence so see if you can slip those off, quick clean and leave to dry else where.

Id recommend taking the head from the body first as its got lots of little bones that can easily go walkies if they havent already.

Once clean leave to dry and voilà youre done!

However should want to get rid of staining or are still worried about bacteria you can soak in either biological washing powder (just make sure theres no bleach added or anything) or peroxide, here in the UK the legal limit is 12% but on other areas in can go higher. Id suggest watering down a higher percentage.

If you cant get the food grade liquid peroxide you can often pick up the cream from pharmacies.

And the same goes for the rest of the bones. Should you want to clean them for articulation id advise cleaning things separately (wing left, wing right, leg left, leg right, vertebrae, ribs and then the rest)

However if there is any remaining flesh you can chose to try and pull it off with tweezers or marcerate for a while.

Marceration is just putting the body in water and allowing the bacteria to strip the flesh depending on the time of year time scales can alter again Id split the bones up if you plan on building the skeleton back up

Hope that helps

#answered

[dakshinakali]

Kali -from the beginning of time

The story begins from the times primordial, the origin of everything from the abstraction of nothingness. The concept of creation roots back to the time when desire emerged in the Supreme Force to be multitudinous. our creation is the result of the kamana that crept up in the mind of the singular, Primordial Entity. The Upannishads quoth

Ekaki na Ramate

Cha kamayate : Eko’ham, bahu syam.

Meaning anyone who is alone is not happy. I desire that since I am alone, let me be many.

Thus, the Para Brahman split into two : the Supreme Goddess and Supreme Lord. This Lord waited for the right time to be manifested while the Goddess relesed all her vivacity into the creation. Energies of the world was now released into a singularity, which was smaller and denser than anything we can imagine.

The goddess resembled depths undiscovered, and assumed the form of mysterious darkness, having a thousand faces and limbs. This Adyaa or primordial form of the goddess is known as Mahakali, or Adyaa Kali.

Now,Let me narrate the story of Bhadrakali...

The goddess now harmonized her supremacy to create a deity resembling her attributes,but manifested as a male force, the one of the Three Supreme purushas, Maha Vishnu. The goddess made him indulge into her Maya, her power, and Maha Vishnu was put to sleep in a divine slumber, the Yoganidra, by the Yogic powers of Yogmaya Mahakali.

When Brahma, another member of the Trinity, was just created from the lotus-navel of MahaVishnu, he was sheer inane. He was just like an infant, unknown to exactly what his purpose was. However, he was but a child, and his urger for a populous world full of care was also like any other human new born. But here, the new born Brahma was to become the progenitor to satisfy his own desire of a populous world. He did not know so, but saw glimpses of the creation (that he was to endeavour for) in the all overwhelming smile of the dark goddess on whose lap was he seated as was all that was existing and was yet to exist. In the laughter of the omnipotent mother he say glimpses of the creation and his desires began to grow passionately intense. He began the creation. He urged the Mother Mahakali to help him. So, she appeared as Maa Kushmanda and released the celestial objects from her smile (essentially from her tongue), ie, from Mahakali or the rooted omnipresent dark energy was released the percievable mass and strength which led Mahakali to be manifested as the illuminati Kushmanda.

However soon, the demons Madhu and Kaitabha arose from the dust in the ears of Vishnu, who was absolutely unaware of the incidents, slumbering divinely. These pig-ignorant beings tormented Brahma, who called out to Kushmanda for succour. Now, Kushmanda entered Sri Vishnu's ears, adsorbing all the dust to awaken him. Once again rose the goddess of dark complexion, who wakened Vishnu, and inducing her maya, she lead Madhu and Kaitabha to their doom all by themselves. This form of Kali is calm and the bestoyer of Maya to devise divine ploys so that she may create events and attributes to her wishful choices. Thus she is Bhadrakali, or the calm Kali or the Yogamaya Kali.

Bhadrakali appears in the following descriptions too

Upon coming to know that her father Daksha was planning a yajna to insult Shiva, Sati became clearly determined to refute her father's opinions. She, Mother of the creation, knew that no world would be equilibriated without Destruction, her husband Shiva, who was the complete manifestation of the Supreme Lord as Mahakala. However, as Shiva refused to let Sati visit her father and question him, Sati was hurt. To top this all, Shiva camouflaged his fear of losing Sati behind the arrogant voice of a dominating husband. She flared up and revealed to Shiva her very primordial form. As a glaring illumination emanated from Sati, she stood no more in front of Shiva as the same benevolent wife, clad in all the earthly indulgences . No longer was she bedecked in jewels of gold but a garland of apes and men alike, she revealed the Ugra form of Mahakali in herself. Howbeit, as Shiva ran affrighted, Sati was struck with pity. She calmed down and stood before Shiva as somewhat sangfroid and soberly mild, yet dark as blue iris. This milder form of Mahakali is the 1st Mahavidya, Bhadrakali, who calmly spoke out to Shiva that he better calms down and relents his wife to live to her decisions. However, Shiva ran out of fright, only to be encountered by the rest of the 9 Mahavidyas.

Incidentally, the same Bhadrakali reappears when Shiva came to know about Sati's self immolation. After Shiva became the destroyer Panchanana and utilises a lock of his matted hair to create Veerbhadra, the latter becomes bound by Maha Vishnu at the Daksha Yajna site. To release him, Shiva invites Sati to reincarnate and avenge the wrong done to them. Sati's soul, that of the great Mahamaya, enters the 3rd eye of the North Face of Panchanana, and emerges as Bhadrakali, iris blue as the eye of the North Face of Panchanana Shiva. She is diplomatic in words, calmly frees Veerbhadra after an exchange of arguements on basis of justice. Next, she calmly fetches Daksha, brings him to Veerabhadra and again reunites with the lifeless body of Sati,yet housing all the divine vitality, to rid her worshipper’s body of all sins, proving the fullest blessings of the Mother Supreme.

The same Bhadrakali appears again in the slaying of Darik. He was a demon who ruled in the Darikavana, utilising the powers of his wife Mandodari, also called Daruki, and is not to be confused with Mandodari of Ramayana. The wife Daruki was a great devotee of the Goddess Parvati. Hence she attained immense powers though tapas and imparted the good of her yogic attributes to enable Darik stay overwhemingly poweful. Parvati blessed that he may remain undefeated unless rendered to her displeasure . However, he became so amorous and torturous to women that Parvati was troubled. To top it all, Darik captued and began torturing a snake-man , Supriyo, who was worshipping Shiva in his kingdom. This infuriated Shiva, who instantly came to save Supriyo in form of Nageswara jyotirlingam. Now, Parvati was humiliated to an ultimatum. She decided to teach Darik a lesson, for, by saying that Parvati would spare Darik provided he doesn't disrespect her, she meant her disregard in all respects, be her own self, her abode, or her beloved. And fool was Darik to assume that Shiva's devotee would repose not in Parvati,’s heart.

Into the third eye of Nageswara entered Parvati, and appered in a form of blue complexion, absorbing the colour of the Prussian hued poison in Shiva's neck. Again she stood as Bhadrakali, who slew Darik with great aplomb, yet did not lose her mind in the liquidation of the fool asura. She remained clam and did not continue the blood-shed once Darik met his end. Bhadrakali is thus the exact bearer of her duties.

As Bhadrakali Parvati indulged in her happy domiciliary life with Shiva at Kailasa, Daruki began to practice severe austerities to propitate Shiva, that she may avenge the death of her love.

Now, let me narrate the story of Bhadrakali's transformation into Ugra Kali. We shall again come back to the Daruki episode later.

In the meantime, Sumbha and Nisumbha began their abuse. The maltreated world, afflicted with misery, cried out for help. To top it all, they attacked the Gods while the son of Ugrasena, Kamsa, took over the mortal world. Such was their tyranny that every nook and cranny resonated with cries for relief.

The Gods approached Kali Parvati as she was going to take a dip in Mansarovar . She manifested herself from the Kosha or cells of her body, appearing as the wheatish complexioned, the radiant Kaushiki. As Kali remained in yogic trance, Kaushiki went to serve her task.

Kaushiki took birth as the daughter of Yashoda while Sri Vishnu manifested as Krishna, taking birth from Devaki's womb. As Krishna's father interchanged the children, Kansa appeared to kill Devaki’s 8th child, prophesised to be his death itself. Having already killed her previous 6 children and thinking her to have miscarried the 7th pregnancy, finally he would become immortal, thought he. However, as Kamsa took the girl in his hands as was about to thrash her to death, she flew out of his grip. A thunderous laughter of the celestial lady overwhelmed all directions as she proclaimed that his death incarnate was intact , and disappeared.

She went to to the Vindhya Mountains and assuming the form of a very young girl, a Kumari, she slept her Yogic slumber. The trinity performed the Kumari Puja to awaken the damsel Goddess. The Goddess rose as a young maiden, with the attributes of MahaSaraswati, and lured the demons. As Sumbha and Nisumbha sent a marriage proposal, she rebuked it and invited them to fight. Instigated, they sent their comarades to fight, but all were sent to the abode of death by the Eight Warrior Sisters whom Kaushiki created, headed by the skeleton-thin, fierce, blood-red necked Chamunda, the slayer of Chanda and Munda. However, quite opposed to the common notion that Chamunda is same as Ugra Kalika, she is not. They are similar in their dark complexion but different in genesis and their seed syllables. Chamunda was created by Kaushiki from her eyebrows and after the slaughter Of the asuras, she reabsorbed Chamunda into herself. Whereas Kaushiki herself arose from the Bharman within the Koshas of Kalika. This Kalika gets enraged and becomes the Ugra Kalika. Moreover, the physique of the goddesses differ in the sense that Kali is described as a plum woman, having full breasts and a youthful radiance of the feminine; while Chamunda has a thin, malnourished appearance with protruding ribs . However, both Ugra Kalika and Chamundika have fearsome expressions and are extremely stormy, angry and malevolent in destruction of the negative elements of the Universe . The emergence of Ugra Kali in the story is as follows …

When Raktabija arrived at the battlefield, Kaushiki went on stabbing him with her trident but with the flow of hus blood rose thousands of Raktabijas. So, she invoked Kali Parvati. Kali Parvati woke up on the banks of Mansarovar and incarnated on the battlefield as Ugra Kali. She slew all the raktabijas abd drank their blood. The drops that fell were consumed by jackals following her.

Kaushiki then killed Sumbha and Nisumbha. Meanwhile, Ugra Kali became extremely stormy and aggressive. The dance of her feet struck sheer destruction on Earth. Her tongue lolled out in desire to consume more blood. This signifies how Kala or time dissolutes into the goddess of time . Her all devouring tongue signifies the all engulfing Kala or time.

Finally, to pacify her, Shiva lay as a corpse at her feet. This shows how Shiva or Purusha is just a corpse without Shakti or Prakriti. Stepping on Shiva, whom she loved dearly and placed him in her bossom, the malevolent act aroused a perdurable sense of guilt for causing pain to her love. She bit her tongue in guilt, as Kalika is portrayed for popular worship.

As Ugra Kali calmed back into Bhadrakali, she retreated into the forests of Darukavana, guilty of having performed such unnecessary destruction and having harmed the Purusha of her heart.

It was here that Daruki was performing tapas to appease Shiva and avenge Darik's death. Shiva was forced by her tapas to grant her a boon. Daruki asked for a boon to avenge her husband's death. Shiva, the Ashutosha, got quickly satisfied. He was already preoccupied with thoughts so as to console his consort, who was troubled by what she had done and was residing somewhere in the same Darukavana. Shiva gave Daruki few drops of his sweat, such that one when sprinkled by which would be afflicted with tremendously irritable and painful eruptions on one's appearance.

Daruki now sought for Bhadrakali. Finding her, Daruki sprinkled on Bhadrakali Shiva's sweat. As a result, she was Bhadrakali was extremely pained by the blistering eruptions in likeness of chicken pox. Anguished , she questioned Shiva , in the trauma of her maim, what wrong she had done in punishing Darik that too in compliance with Shiva's wish.

Shiva sent Ghantakarna, one of his ganas to medicate and remove her rashes, which detrimented and saddened Bhadrakali Parvati all the more, for she knew not what caused Shiva not to come himself, unknown to the fact that Lord Indra had come to meet Shiva. Hence she sent the gana back.

Indra, the king of Gods, wished to send some apsaras to assist Shiva help console Bhadrakali. As Shiva approached her, he found the fair complexioned apsaras advancing , and he addressed his consort as the ‘O dear Kalike, my Dark One’, and called out to the apsaras as “ O ladies of divine radiance as fair as the pristine snow, the possessor of Divine Arts, I hope you shall take no offence in assisting me to serve my little woman here… she is quite pained. ”

Bhadrakali-Parvati took offence at seemingly racist comment . She believed Shiva was mocking at her black complexion and that Shiva too was harnessing the traditional mortal belief that fairness was beauty and became depressed and dolorously declared,--- “since i am such an ugly burden to you that you can take such liberties with me as afflicting me with quite an incessant pain and since you again look down upon me in public; it is better that you may stay without me forever. As for the scars of these boils I have on my soma, let it stay forever thus, blemishing my skin to mark how REALLY BEAUTIFUL I AM.”

Bhadrakali retired to Kanchipuram as a yogini and began penance beneath a mango tree , dedicated to a Shiva lingam she made out of sand . The greatest of all Yoginis as Parvati is, her anger, the force of destruction, the primordial energy of the most intense enigma, i.e., the darkness that comprises the depth of the unkown where all converges into and diverges from, is all lost within Parvati and she becomes the fair maiden. This incident does Not eulogise racism but denotes the fact that Parvati is not ashamed of her colour, be it as the fair Parvati or the Dark Mahakali. Quite opposed to popular notions that Parvati was born Dark…, Parvati was the FAIR born Goddess Mahakali, she was fair and not dark from birth. It is a simple fact and no comment made on the preferred colour of the skin. Hence she simply reverts to her original form.

I intend to end this narrative on a more softer and delicate note, the story of their reunion after the episode of Shiva-Parvati’s previous fall out.

Narada, the divine mischief maker, sage of the gods, visited the Yogini Parvati, who was now her original self. She was, by now, terribly missing Shiva and having carved out a sand Shiva linga to be consoled by his physical appearance near her, was now continuing her penance with grit and determination so that no force might deter her from extracting one just sorry from her beloved.

Narada however ployed some fun and notified the Goddess that Shiva was not at all unhappy without her company. Rather, he showed no signs of grief in her absence. The fair Parvati, dedicated and dolorous to hear this, sat down to concentrate in an even deeper meditation.

Shiva was woebegone at his loneliness, would watch Parvati from the branches of the mango tree. Unable to bear it any longer, he called upon Ganga to break Parvati's penance. As Ganga tried her best to counsel her sister, the latter showed no signs of budging from her trance. With every passing moment, she was becoming even more radiant and was as if on a journey to get re-incarnated as a maiden, with a newly youthful glory. She had as though made up her mind to test Shiva with her allure and check if it were only the outward beauty which appealed to him or he was actually the very ascetic she loved so dearly.

Ganga, unable to break Parvati's austerities, decided to flow in and flood the area with all her force, her waves smashing into the Shiva ling to destroy its sculpture. At this, Parvati woke up with a start, and assimilating all the love she So dearly cherished in her heart, hugged the lingam with her youthful nurture, in form of his eternal inamorata. She thus emerged as Kamakshi.

Ganga notified her of Shiva's longing and advised her that she need not have changed to prove in adverse to Shiva's heart, for the heart of her man loved her in all her attributes and that she was not to be objectified, neither should she have given in to this objectification, nor was she at all objectified by the PARAMA Purusha Shiva.

Parvati, nurtured in good counsel, decided to test the same and visited Shiva in her renewed manifestation as an young damsel of 16, named Sorashi, the queen of all seasons, the 2nd of the 10 Mahavidyas, who is the same as Kamakshi.

As Sorashi asks Shiva who resides in his heart, she finds the imagery of the damsel she is in the guise of- — the beauty of Sorashi. Just as Parvati is downcast to find that outer beauty is what seemed to be appealing for Shiva, a closer glance revealed the picture in Shiva's heart to be Kali, the primordial, and then Parvati, as she had always been and ever shall be . Sorashi's heart melted and with it was washed away the misunderstanding that separated them . She reverts back to Parvati, in whose form she became the consort of the householder Shiva.

Thus were the Purusha and Prakriti reunited…

Source : quora

[ask-the-riders]

Not Unlovable

In this, you get to see a bit of Famine's past - part of his childhood, then part of his adulthood before he died and became a rider. Unfortunately, the boy's haunted by ghosts of his past mistakes, however, and it's up to Retribution to provide him the comfort he needs

Because of the contents of this, I'm gonna offer a bit of a trigger warning for implied character death, as well as the actual depiction of character death. It's not super gory or anything, but hey, better safe than sorry, am I right?

"Sans... Take your brothers and go home. I'll meet you there shortly and we can make dinner together, alright?"

The skeleton child stared up at the human woman with wide sockets, another skeleton child standing beside him and holding onto his coat while a babybones was in his arms, smooshed against his chest. He glanced around, noting the look on the adult monsters' faces; Their eyes were sunken, they were thin from starvation, and among the group, the ones with fur looked as though they'd somehow contracted mange. Sans met his step mother's gaze again and frowned, not wanting to leave her side, "Mom, I can't. I don't wanna leave without you." The woman sighed, lowering herself to her knees in the snow and reaching out to gently cup the child's face, offering him a small smile, "Sans, please. This won't take long, I promise. Just be a good boy and take your brothers home. I'll be back in time for supper, I promise." Sans' frown deepened and he leaned into her touch almost desperately, his voice a fearful whine as another adult monster stepped closer to her, a sound similar to a growl escaping its maw.

Lila gently stroked the skeleton child's cheek with her thumb in an effort to soothe him, a pleading look in her eyes as she murmured, "Sans... please. Just... please just do this for me. Can you get your brothers home?" The fear the bubbled in his stomach became too much, causing a blue tinted tear to run down his face as he nodded and sniffled. Lila's expression softened as she wiped away the tear, sighing as she pulled him into a hug, careful not to crush the toddler in Sans' arms. Holding him close, she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and murmured against his bone, "I love you, Sans... Look after your brothers for me, ok?"

Sans nodded again, trying to bury his face in the crook of her neck and muttering, his voice shaking now, "I love you too, Mom." Gently tugging a tiny Papyrus closer, Lila pulled him into a hug, also kissing his forehead as well before mumbling, "And Papy... You're such a brave boy. Do you think you can help Sans look after Toby for me while I'm away?" Papyrus eagerly nodded his head, "OF COURSE, MAMA. WHEN WILL YOU BE COMING HOME?" Her smile became one of sadness as she hummed, "I'm not sure yet, but hopefully soon... I love you, ok? Don't forget that." The skeleton child beamed at her, his grin wide, "I LOVE YOU TOO, MAMA!" Lila released him, her attention settling on the youngest of the children.

As the toddler peered up at her with wide sockets and innocent confusion, she fought to choke back a sob, kissing his head and whispering, "My baby... Stay safe, Tobias...ok? I love you so much." The toddler reached out to grip the sleeve of her coat, his voice soft, "Love you, Mama." As the small circle of monsters began to close in on the tiny family, Lila slowly rose to her feet, gently nudging Sans and trying to usher him away. As Papyrus latched onto his elder brother's coat again, Sans held his step mother's gaze, a mutual understanding passing between them. As a realization clicked into place, his eyes widened further in horror, and more tears pricked at his sockets. He took a few steps back away from the human, then turned, using a shortcut to whisk himself and his two younger brothers away. Lila's chest began to heave as she turned to face the small gathering of monsters around her.

Offering them a saddened smile as a tear finally ran down her face, she sniffled, "I... I know you're starving. I know you're doing this because you're hungry. So please... if you really plan to eat me, promise me that my kids will be safe, and that they'll be cared for. Promise me you won't leave them to die." Her bottom lip quivered, and she cried out as she felt someone's teeth sink into her shoulder. She let out a much louder sob; her final thoughts circling in her mind, "I'm sorry, boys... I won't be home in time for supper..."

~

Tilting his head and grinning widely, Sans curled his fingers into his empty socket, watching as Toby weakly attempted to crawl through the snow, dragging himself away from his eldest brother with wide, fearful eyes. Sans chuckled softly, his pace casual as he stalked toward the child, his voice now a baritone growl, "Sorry, little bro... I wish it didn't have ta be this way. Really. I love you, and I did my best ta keep ya safe like Mom wanted, but y'know... we're all starvin'. There's no food and rations are startin' ta run out. There's barely enough food for Paps and I, let alone you too. We tried ta make it work, we really did." He paused, roughly stomping on one of Toby's legs and appearing unphased as the child screamed in pain. As he began to sob and plead with his eldest brother to stop, his small body began to tremble, and Sans sighed, continuing, "But it didn't go the way we wanted. We can barely feed two mouths, and with you here... it's makin' gettin' enough food even harder. 'Sides, you're sick and weak anyway. By gettin' rid a' ya, I'm actually helpin' you. Puttin' ya out of your misery, y'know?"

Tobias whimpered, "S-Sans, brother, please! Please don't do this!" Sans hummed, leaning over his kid brother to reach around him, his stained fingers tracing along his jaw. As his grip suddenly tightened, his smile faded, now a frustrated frown, "Toby, I been thinkin' about this whole thing nonstop for a while now. I've exhausted myself from it, and we've already run out of other options. This is the only thing left that we can do." The child sobbed, attempting to turn his head and look up at Sans over his shoulder, "Sans, come on... I love you, brother! You're really smart, there has to be another way! Maybe something you haven't thought of yet!" The eldest of the two growled softly in irritation, shaking his head, "I'm sorry, but there's not. If it makes this any easier on ya, I love ya too, and I so wish I didn't have ta do this." Processing Sans' words, Tobias began to thrash in the snow, screaming and calling out for their other brother to come help him. Sans grunted, roughly jerking his little brother's head to the side. There was a loud crack, and just like that... silence.

Sans let out a deep sigh, releasing Toby's head and stepping away from the body, hanging his head in shame as he began to tug at the edge of his head injury, mumbling to himself, "I tried ta protect him and Paps, Ma. I really did. I couldn't do it though, and I... I let you down, didn't I? I'm a disappointment, a failure, a disgrace. Ya shouldn't have gone and left us alone like ya did. If you were still here right now, we wouldn't be-" "SANS? BROTHER, WHERE HAVE YOU GONE OFF TO NOW?"

Upon being interrupted by Papyrus, Sans blinked, taking notice of something wet on his face. He gently touched the wetness then pulled his hand back, noticing the blue tinted tears on his fingertips; Huh. So he'd been crying, it seemed. Papyrus appeared at the end of the path and called out to Sans again, snapping his older brother out of his hazy train of thought. When the two finally left, an apparition appeared, standing beside Toby's body. It became the shape of a human woman, frowning as she looked down at the child who laid in the snow. As a single tear ran down her face, she knelt, reaching out to gently run a hand over his skull. One of his eye lights reappeared, now resembling a snowflake as it flickered in his socket. He lifted his gaze, his tears now crimson as he whimpered brokenly, his voice barely audible, "M-Mom?..."

~~

Thunder clapped loudly, causing the walls of the house to shake. Famine could hear War nearly shrieking through their thin, shared wall, and he sighed, slowly sitting up in bed. Moving over to his window, he pushed the curtains aside, peering outside and watching the sky as he listened to the sound of the pouring rain. He hated and loved thunderstorms at the same time; It was always cool to watch the lightning that came with it, but the noise from the thunder and the way the rain made everything wet? He could live without those. Along the edge of the nearby forest, he could've sworn he'd seen a figure moving. Squinting his sockets as he tried to get a better look, lightning flickered across the sky, illuminating the figure again.

It was a woman.

That hair, those clothes, the way she held herself... It was familiar, somehow. Through his fractured mind, he attempted to put the pieces together and make sense of it, his memories not quite aligning with one another. Lightning flickered again, and a second figure appeared, smaller than the first. The way they stood together made it appear as though they were holding hands. Just as Famine thought he'd figured out why the first figure seemed familiar, both of them vanished. A moment passed before he spotted the next flash of lightning, and the childlike apparition that now stood much closer to his window. Tilting its head up to lock gazes with him, the apparition stared, crimson tears running down his face. Famine also stared in a mix of confusion and shock, his sockets widening. There... There was no way. That wouldn't make sense. There was no way in hell that could be Toby... right?

The temperature of his room dropped by a noticeable degree and the rider let out a shaky breath. As he began to hear a woman crying, he slowly turned around, his soul pounding in his rib cage. A ghostly figure now stood in the room with him, tears running down her face as she watched him. Drawing in a sharp, trembling breath of her own, she sobbed, as if completely heartbroken, "Sans... Why did you do it? Sans, why?..." Famine began to tremble, frozen in place as he stared at her. She reached out to him, her touch chilling him to his very core as she continued sobbing, "Please tell me why, Sans... Why did you do it?..." Blue tinted tears began to drip down his face and he shook his head, his rough voice cracking, "...I... I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so... so sorry." Chest heaving, he used a shortcut, vanishing from the room.

Reappearing in his partner's room, he practically dove into bed with him, shoving the curtains that surrounded the bed out of the way. Visibly startled, Retribution stared up at him, his brow bones becoming knit in confusion, "Famine? What are you-" He yelped as Famine lunged forward, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him tightly. As he pressed his face into his boyfriends chest, attempting to hide in the fabric of his pajama shirt, his body shook and he began to cry. Feeling sadness, fear, and guilt practically rolling off of him in waves, Retribution frowned, gently wrapping his arms around Famine and holding him close, gently petting his head. Clinging to him, Famine sniffled, his voice soft, "Ret, 'm sorry... I didn't mean ta just... appear like this. I needed ta get away from her though. I can't face her, not after what I did." The former prince sighed softly, his normally sharp tone now soothing, "Hush, hush... It's alright, Famine. It's alright, I don't mind you coming here... Who did you need to get away from, though? What happened?"

Famine reluctantly pulled back just enough to meet Ret's concerned gaze, pointing in the direction of his room with a shaky hand, "M-My mom... and Toby. They're supposed to be dead, but they came back. Mom was... she was cryin' and she kept askin' me why I did it. She was askin' me why I killed my brother, why I killed Toby. I couldn't... I couldn't deal with that, and I had ta get away from 'er." Sensing nothing but truth coming from his partner, Retribution hummed, continuing to delicately run a hand over Famine's head, being mindful of his head injury. Without a second thought, he asked, "Would you like to stay here tonight? I'll be up for a while yet, so I can keep an eye on you, if that'd make you feel any better."

Famine seemed to immediately perk up, his single eye light growing brighter as he stared at his partner hopefully, another tear dripping down his face as he nodded, "Y-Yeah, I'd like that... Are ya really ok with that though?... I could ruin your bedding with my claws and spikes. Then you'd also be close ta somebody that used to eat people, somebody who kills kids, somebody who murdered his own baby bro, somebody who-" Retribution sighed deeply, narrowing his sockets as he cut off Famine, "Famine, do us both a favor and shut it. I know what I'm getting into, ok?" The taller rider trailed off into silence and as his eye light dimmed the slightest bit, the former prince's expression softened. Gently wiping away the stray tear, he continued, his voice softer than before, "I know what I'm getting into... I've known since I started feeling things for you. Hell, I've known since I became your friend. I know what you've done. While those things can't be undone, you've learned from them. You have no desire to repeat those mistakes, so you're a different guy now. I never thought I could've learned to love someone who could so readily kill their own family... their own marrow and magical essence. But..."

The smaller of the two paused again, hesitating a moment before he delicately traced his thumb over Famine's teeth, his own cheekbones flushing cyan. Sheepishly meeting the taller's gaze and holding it, he offered him a small, yet genuine smile and murmured, "But I did. I learned to love you, regardless of the things you've done, and I don't intend to let anything change that, either. Also, Famine, I couldn't care less if your claws and spikes ruined my bedding. I have money. If we need to buy more, then we will. It's not a problem to me. If you'd feel better here with me, then I'd be happy to have you." Famine continued staring at Retribution, a blue blush slowly spreading across his face as he processed everything the other had just said to him. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a low mumble, "You... Ya really mean all that, Ret?... Ya really... love me?" Sensing the embarrassment and confusion coming from his partner, Retribution smiled softly, his blush visibly darkening, "I apologize if the words are too strong or sudden, but yes. I really do love you, Famine."

The taller rider was silent, his eye light becoming brighter again. More tears pricked at his sockets and he whispered, "Why though?... Look at me, Firefly. 'M a child killer, a former human eater, I scare everyone who looks at me, and I'm hideous. I got so much baggage, and I'm... I'm unlovable. Why would ya love someone like me?..." Retribution sighed softly again, gently cupping the other's face with both hands, "I love you because I can see all the guilt and pain you carry, and how despite that, you press on. You keep going, and I think that's admirable, and so, so strong. You don't let your past define you anymore, and that's beautiful. Also," he paused, his tone growing stern, "Don't ever call yourself hideous or unlovable again, understand? I don't want you saying such things about yourself. Not when you're so full of love to give, and so very handsome."

Famine's blush darkened several shades and he nodded, still clinging to his smaller partner. At his silence, one of Ret's ghostly tendrils appeared, hooking itself around the covers beside Retribution and pulling them down. Pointing to the open space with his tentacle, the former prince murmured, "There you go, you big oaf. I hope the bed is comfortable enough, and that you're able to sleep well tonight." Famine smiled sheepishly, and as he began to loosen his grip on Ret and move away from him, the same tendril from before stopped him, gently wrapping around his arm. He glanced at it curiously, then shifted his attention to Ret, who merely lifted a hand to lightly tap on his teeth, playfully arching a brow bone at him, "What, no kiss goodnight?" Famine felt more heat rush to his face and let out a deep breath, smiling slightly, "Damn, I shoulda figured ya might want that."

Retribution chuckled softly in amusement, the sound dying down as his partner kissed him. The kiss, though soft, lingered a moment, and as the two began to part from it, Famine breathed out, "I love you too, Ret. Ya dunno what you mean ta me..." Ret's cheekbones became dusted cyan again and he smiled softly, watching as Famine laid down beside him, curling into a ball on his side and trying to muffle a soft yawn. It didn't take long for Famine to doze off, still curled into a ball as he snored softly. Retribution's gaze was full of affection as he kept watch over his sleeping form, occasionally caressing the top of his skull or touching his face. As he decided to finally call it a night, he made himself comfortable beside Famine, feeling vaguely embarrassed as he cuddled closer to his partner.

He'd felt himself beginning to doze off as well, but then he snapped to full awareness again as he began to sense the emotions of someone who'd just appeared in the room with them. As the first of two figures began to make their way around the bed, Ret's cyan eye lights locked onto them, watching closely as they drew nearer and nearer to Famine. The ghostly apparition of a human woman passed partially through the curtains that hung down around Ret's bed, her cheeks stained by tears as she looked down at Famine. As one of her hands reached out to gently touch his face, he shivered, but otherwise remained asleep. Tapping into the woman's emotions, Retribution felt her sadness and a sense of betrayal, he felt her disappointment and anger, but above all else, he felt her immense love for Famine. Turning her head, the woman met the former prince's gaze, offering him a small smile. Although it was very faint, she murmured, "My son... You love my son... Thank you..."

Retribution blinked in surprise, while the spirit shifted her attention, watching as a smaller figure moved around to Famine's side of the bed to stand with her. The former prince stared as a child pushed aside the curtains, appearing much more solid than who he'd assumed was his mother. With his good arm, the child reached out to delicately pat his elder brother's arm through the blankets, radiating not a single ounce of hesitation or fear. The child wrapped his arm around his brother in a half hug, momentarily lying his head on his back despite his spiked spine. Famine grumbled something under his breath, but showed no signs of waking up.

Then almost as soon as they'd appeared, the two figures were gone again. Though they were strange and slightly spooky, Retribution squeezed his eyes shut, deciding to brush them off. Cuddling close to Famine again, he felt heat rush to his face as Famine shifted, wrapping an arm loosely around him. This was precisely what Retribution had meant when he'd said his partner had a lot of love to give, and he wished Famine knew what he was doing right now so he could make his point. When the next morning arrived, the taller rider stirred first, groaning faintly as he opened his sockets and yawned. He absentmindedly stretched his arms and legs, but then he paused, feeling someone clinging to him. He blinked; Oh yeah... this wasn't his room, was it?

Looking down at his shorter partner, he sighed, smiling softly. The former prince was still asleep, cuddled as close to him as possible and tightly clutching his shirt. He gently placed a hand on Ret's face, and despite his aching back, he leaned down a bit, pressing a soft kiss to his head and murmuring lowly, "Good mornin', Beautiful..." Retribution yawned, releasing Famine's shirt to rub his sockets. As he began to wake up and register the other's presence, he hummed, his otherwise sleep-laced tone holding a hint of playfulness, "Good morning, Handsome." Famine snorted softly in amusement, arching a brow bone, "I dunno if 'handsome' is the word for it, but yeah, I guess maybe I have a certain charm, huh?" Retribution hummed again, his tendrils suddenly emerging and capturing his partner. While Ret scooted back away from him, two tentacles gripped his arms and pulled him up into a sitting position, while the other two wriggled behind him. The first two pushed him back down onto his back, his spiked spine cushioned between the second pair of tendrils.

As they widened and grew in size, the first pair released Famine's arms in favor of joining then, adding to the cushioning beneath him. Famine's sockets widened in surprise as Retribution climbed on top of him, straddling his hips and trying to look stern as he crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the cyan heat that rushed to his cheekbones. Famine's hands instinctively moved to hold the other's hips, his entire face immediately flushing a deep shade of his signature faded denim blue as he stared up at Ret. In turn, the former prince huffed, his eyes narrowed in false irritation, "Famine, don't try to say otherwise. I'm attracted to you, and I think you're handsome... Very handsome. Do you really wish to contradict me?"

Famine nervously swallowed, shaking his head, "Nah... 'm not tryna contradict ya, firefly. S'just that I don't see what you do, I guess." Retribution let out a deep breath, rolling his eye lights. A brief moment passed before his expression softened and he tilted his head, looking down at the taller of the two and murmuring, "Firstly... you should see yourself when you're in the kitchen. When you're in your element and cooking for everyone, your movement becomes graceful and knowing. Everything is done with purpose, and is deliberate. Secondly, although your sense of humor is questionable at times, it's unique and it's part of what makes you... You. And then next up, there's your eye..."

He paused, slowly leaning down over his partner and gently cupping his face with both hands, lowering his voice further, "You might've lost one of your eyes a while ago due to a series of rather unfortunate events, but the one you still have is utterly captivating. When our gazes become locked, it's like I'm mesmerized. I can't bring myself to look away. That eye of yours ignites this flame in my soul, and I can't describe the way it feels." Famine felt as though he couldn't breathe, still staring up at his partner with widened sockets, flushed blue all the way down to his shoulders. Noticing the rush of surprise, embarrassment, disbelief, and elation that the other was feeling, Retribution smiled to himself; He wasn't lying when he'd told Famine that he found him handsome, but at this particular moment, there was nothing cuter than that look he was wearing. So surprised, so flustered... Ret loved it.

#writing #four horsemen of the apocalypse #riders of the apocalypse #undertale #undertale au #retribution.exe #famine.exe #lila.exe #toby.exe

[vidalinav]

Cassian’s Love is Warm (4/4)

Summary:  Nesta’s recovery in the Illyria and her developing relationship with Cassian or the part where it all comes full circle. 

Links: AO3, Fanfic.net,  Nesta’s Love is Quiet Chapter List, General Masterlist 

All of you knew how this was going to end so don’t @ me.

Essay of an Author’s Note on the bottom (Please read)

~

Nesta comes home with three broken ribs and a sprained ankle and Cassian has to stop himself from adjusting her coat every time she breathes. Margery, it seems, makes a fine soldier.

“How did this even happen?” He asks, his voice a tightly wound string. He places a hand gently on her forearm guiding her past the living room and the pictures that wink and wave beyond their control. The glaze in her eyes saying too much.  

“Training near the cliffs is not a good idea.”

That’s exactly what Margery tells him when he arrives in the med clinic hours earlier, his heart thumping loudly, a pounding in his head telling to hit everything in sight. She is lying on a cot, the near identical glazed look staring back at him.  

It’s the tonic, Margery explains. A special mix of willow bark and poppy fluff that would make Nesta loopy for a while, but not feel a thing. When he asks her how she’s holding up, Nesta merely smiles, one-side of her lips raising while she leans her head against the wall. He takes it as a sign that the tonic is working

Cassian swallows the urge to grumble as the healer takes forever to appear, mumbling to the room that she should set her priorities straight and heal patients. But the healer, probably having her fair share of encounters with overbearing fae males, is quick to hold up her hands as she enters the tent, her voice assertive as she explains.

She needs to take this every few hours. Plenty of sleep, perhaps a warm bath, and absolutely no training. Cassian memorizes the list. He ignores the part where she says she’s fine, because only time will tell and the fact that she’s fae means nothing when she is sitting there in a daze, having obviously been hurt only hours before.  

Nesta says he’s being dramatic.

Cassian can’t deny the claim. He only knows that as Nesta shuffles towards the chair in the dining room, she sits extra slowly, wincing as she twists in the seat. Even breathing seems to hurt her, and Cassian unconsciously holds his breath. Sympathy pains, he thinks, not some slight pull on a string they have barely acknowledged.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, anxious to do anything that is not standing their awkwardly, hoping that she will tell him where it hurts and what to do about it.  

Nesta shakes her head. Cassian huffs in frustration.

“I can make you food.” He suggests, but Nesta merely lays her head on her arms and closes her eyes.

Cassian has to stop himself from touching her. He wants to run his hands through her hair, to pat her head until she leans against his palm, to hold her until she’s fast asleep and even then he swears he wouldn’t let her go.

He does none of this of course.

“Leave me alone.” He hears, the sound muffled by her sweater. Cassian taps his foot on the ground, the impatience getting the better of him.

“No.” He asserts. Nesta lifts her head, glaring at him with that look he’s seen a million and two times. If Cassian wasn’t so worried, he would have laughed outright. “Not until you’re better. After that you can kick me out of the house, toss me in the mud, throw me all the way back to Velaris. But not until then. Not until I know you’re okay.”

Nesta sighs and Cassian wants to continue arguing—listing all the ways she can dismiss him entirely, but she puts her arms out as if to say carry me and Cassian all too readily obliges.

He ends up setting her down on the cushioned mattress, pulling the duvet up and over. Her hair tangling with the silvery blue, but he doesn’t comb it like his fingers ache to do. Instead, he rushes to get her a glass of water and another drop of that healing tonic, which she swallows with a twist of her mouth.  

Cassian waits until her eyes droop, until they close, until her hand goes slack on the glass, that he carefully unfolds and sets on the counter. He places her hand on her stomach and pretends that her skin doesn’t feel as soft as silk or that she doesn’t smell like aching dreams and heartache.

He wants to stay but he doesn’t.

Because it’s intrusive? He asks himself. Because it would mean too much, his heart answers back. Because there’s something about her that makes him want to be soft. To tuck away all the cares of the past, fluff every pillow, ridding them of the melancholy woes and the hopeless nights, gathering the quilts until they sit on top of both of them. Nothing but sweet dreams and lavender smiles.

But it is all a dream, he thinks. Nothing more than that… The two of them, just a collection of everything he has taken for granted, a mere reminder of everything he could possibly regret. There is no them, there is only her and him. Two separate beings tied by a war-tangled history and childhood sorrow.  

Pain recognizes pain. Anger recognizes anger. That’s why he is pulled towards her, not some invisible string barely knotted. It is not because gazing at her is like waking up and finding he is young again. Not five hundred years filled with wars and scars too match, but the insatiable desire to learn and relearn and learn some more. Everything new and bright.

Every color of discovery is hidden behind her eyelids, and Cassian wants to wake her up. Wants to shake her, jumble her clothes, mess with her perfect hair and her perfect pin-straight spine, and ruffle the perfection out of her and strangely… Cassian wants her to yell at him for it, wants her to get so mad that she’ll explode like those distant stars behind him. He wants to see her purse her lips as if sharp teeth will shred him into two, wants those eyes of hers to pierce his soul, seven shades of grey and blue starlight.

Cassian wants her to tell him those things he hears in his dreams. Not the laughs or the breathy moans, but the trembling, fiery words that have his knees melting to the floor.

Bastard... Nobody… Weak. Coward. Not worth the time. Never good enough. It was all the same to him. He’d heard the words enough times to brush them off quickly, but not from Nesta. Not in the way that mattered.

Cassian wants to hear them from her now… wants to stop dreaming strange, improbable dreams.

He walks away to keep himself—to keep his hands—from causing such a raucous.  

Cassian goes to stand in the living room and waits, past the loveseat and the cushions, past the pictures judging him as he paces. He huffs on his way to the kitchen, pulls out a pan and then puts it back into the cupboard. Opens the cabinet, takes out bread, makes a sandwich. It tastes like sawdust in his mouth and he plops it back down on the plate.

He starts moving the furniture as a last act of desperation. Cassian hates moving the furniture and Nesta is never satisfied. She says it’s because they’re missing something, and she can’t quite put her finger on what. And though it’s originally Cassian’s idea, he merely replies that he has better things to do than spend hours comparing how the couch looks against each wall.

Truthfully, perhaps it isn’t in him to make homes out of war zones or pretty things out of bones and blood. Scars don’t decorate the living room as easily as they do his body and the house was never really his home. Just a skeleton structure with tattering walls and worn wood. Never with a mat at the front door saying welcome, how have you been, stay a while. He has never been welcome here.  

The house isn’t like that now, he thinks, a fact that makes Cassian smile as he tosses the throw pillows aside. He lays his head against the soft grey of the couch, looking out into that big picture window. Nesta could read there, he thinks. He imagines her feet tucked in, the light playing with the color of her hair, her eyes, the book open and wide as Nesta devours it. The dust of snow in the background. Maybe he’d be sitting across from her, watching her eyes scan the pages, or maybe he’d be in the kitchen, a savory fragrance drifting through the house like dawdling clouds.  

Cassian shakes his head to stop the dreaming, his feet firmly planted on the burgundy carpet and not out in that burgeoning yellow sky dusted with powder blue. She won’t like it here, his mind keeps repeating,  taunting and tantalizing all the ways Nesta can say I hate you in looks. She won’t need them when she can say it so well…

Though, Nesta’s never actually said the words. Good morning, yes. You idiot, most definitely. You brute, his favorite. But never, I hate you.

She could, though, and that scares him most of all. The idea that she can change her mind like he is merely a paint color or some bunched up fabric tossed aimlessly on the bed.

What if… what if he opens the door, lets her move in, change all the furniture, move it around, a plant here, a clock there, some pretty pictures on the wall, and she walks out no worse for wear, ready to leave it all behind? What if he is so easily left behind? Not even worth a memory. Not even called a mistake. Just a moment in an enduring lifespan, so long-lived that every choice could mean someone else. Something else that is not him.   

And, maybe, that’s why Cassian doesn’t tell her that he misses her every time she leaves, that he stores conversations in his brain so he can recount them to her later, every part of his day filled with will Nesta laugh at this? What will Nesta think about that? Such joy in revealing himself like filling in lines, coloring in glass, until they all but gleam in the morning sun. Something holy and sacred in the fragments.

Something breakable.

Cassian once wishes for more time and here it is. He spends it wringing his hands and running his fingers through his hair, mulling over the thousand different shades of Nesta Archeron. Not yellow, because it doesn’t hurt to look at her. Not green because her age never correlates with that smart mouth of hers and the wit that keeps him roaring. She could be purple because his skin always aches after touching her. Possibly blue, but not the blue that hides pools of mystery, that pulls and lures and drowns, but the light blue that he looks up to every morning, the color his wings and heart yearn for. Baby blue like forget-me-nots and bright eyes.

Eyes that she could look down at him with, he thinks.

Cassian sighs frustrated, picking up a pillow that presses uncomfortably at his side. The room feeling small as his thoughts abound around him, leaping past like dancing shadows. He can’t sit still. Not when his soul feels as if it will jump out of his body and find someone more stable minded.

Cassian looks around him. So many fragile pieces, so many happenstances…

Nesta is right when she says something is missing. Cassian feels it too.

He stares out that window where the light filters through, imagines their lives in this house. Pictures the coy looks, the surprising smiles, the way they move around each other, some pull from the pit of his stomach to the bottom of her bodice that keeps them coming back for more. Never far from each other, his arms reaching for her. Always reaching— Their noses almost touching.

And maybe…

They knock into a bookshelf or two in their effort to get closer. Run into a coffee table on their way to the couch. Maybe they don’t even make it, maybe they just fall into the small chair in the corner, Cassian careful not to knock the book that is perched on the arm. He can imagine the sharp look Nesta gives him when she thinks he’s lost the page, his own answering smirk when he sets it carefully on the table.

Perhaps, the ice on the window makes them cold, but instead of pulling the blankets out where they rest on the back of the chair, they scramble to meet. Every inch of their skin touching the other, wanting to make each other warmer. Softer. Infinitely more pliant—

Cassian is almost afraid to blink as he sees it all. The room awake, the fire roaring and loud.

He knows what’s missing. He wants to laugh at how obvious it is.

When Cassian enters her room, Nesta is sleeping soundly. Her chest moving steadily up and down. Some part of his brain whispers creep, but Cassian can’t help but stare. Not because she’s beautiful—she’s always been too beautiful for words or quick glances—but because a possessive part of him, the part that’s buried in the middle of his chest, squeezes like a tight fist and says here she is, in our house, in our room, in our bed. She is not afraid of us.

She is not ashamed of us, it says, and Cassian breathes in the words. A deep inhale of possibility as he steps closer, pulling up the blankets she’s aimlessly pushed away.

But, Cassian is quick to step back as he catches his actions. His hands curling at his sides. He is not here to dream, he thinks. Not here to ponder on what might have been or what can be if he ever finds the guts to stop living in fantasies.

Instead, he zones in on the bookshelves tucked into the corner, framing the walls like studious soldiers standing proudly erect. They are tall, a little past his height. Cassian wonders how Nesta can reach the highest shelves for she has filled them all. He laughs under his breath as he sees her trying.

Nothing ever could stop an Archeron sister.

But, Cassian is careful as he collects each book, laying them down on the chair that sits beside it. He counts them as he goes. Twenty turning to thirty turning to fifty in mere moments. How she can read all of them and still want more, he cannot understand.

Once he is finished, he takes the edge of the shelf in his hands and shuffles it forward. Cassian hears a clink from behind.

A picture frame falls to the floor…

Cassian is quick to grasp it, cutting himself where the glass cracks in the corner, but he can pay no mind when he sees the image. The blood welling up in the space between stars.

It’s the two of them.

Her and him. Imagined with such soft smiles, and something in their eyes he doesn’t want to name.

Cassian wants to cradle the picture to his chest, hide it before Nesta can see. He spares a quick glance in her direction, but she is not standing over him ready to snatch it from his hands. He doesn’t think he could let it go now even if she demanded it.  

Cassian traces his fingers along the image and wonders if it is possible to jump in the frame and ask the two of them a thousand different questions. All of them bordering on improbable. An impossible dream.

How do you love when you do not know how to love?

He swears he sees their mouths move, their voices loud and bright.

Love the best you can.

~

Nesta pads to the living room, her body aching as she makes each step. She rubs her eyes and yet when her hands move from her face, Cassian is undoubtedly there.

She can’t help the soft smile that appears. It has been easier to smile lately, and Nesta isn’t concerned about how foreign it might look across her face. He is there. He has always been there.

But, the living room is new.

And as Nesta uncovers all of it’s secrets, Cassian’s grin widens satisfied.

Her bookshelves frame the window and the armchair sits to the side. The couches mirror the fireplace, roaring and loud, and all of it works somehow. Like it never has before. Cassian moves around her as she moves along the walls, tracing her hand over the soft fabric and eventually over the books that sit unperturbed by the light of the sun.

Cassian doesn’t say anything, but he stands behind her as she peruses the living room, her gaze going up to the hanging lamp and the chandelier they picked out all those weeks ago. It glimmers blue and green and leaves triangles on the white oak coffee table as it sways.

Her presence is all over this place. She is in every pillow, and every book, and every candle that litter the tables. Every color, every sound, ever touch…

Cassian is there too.

Little accents of fur and Illyrian suede and weapons that hang neatly on the rack. He is there and she is there and together there is place for both of them. It makes her heart clench to think this is hers and her eyes start to burn as she clutches her chest.  

She turns to face him, expecting warm looks and soft embraces.

She’s met with a frame instead…

Nesta wants to claw it out his hands. Like some secret buried and never forgotten, rising from beneath her feet.

Her eyes begin to water as she stares, Cassian watching for bolting signs or some feral vindictiveness ready to storm and rage out of her. Her hands scrunch into fists and she can feel herself reaching, ready to fight for her last instance of security. Danger going off in her head like loud cymbals.

The two of them blink back at her in the frame. Wide-eyed and innocent.

“Why do you have that?” She asks. Cassian hikes up the image, his eyes rolling over its structured planes as he contemplates her question. Her voice a soft drum compared to his roaring silence.

“I found it.”

“Were you sneaking through my things?” She can hear the shrill yell like an echo in her ears. Distant. As if she were holding onto the moment by bare hands as the anger threatens to pull her away. Some distant winds already grabbing hold of her feet.

His nostrils flare, ready to argue, but Nesta steps back, holding her hands up as she reaches for her neck, swallowing a whole universe of shame and hot, fiery words.  

Cassian follows. Down a rabbit hole, an abyss of unsaid feelings, tripping over himself as he reaches for her.  

“I want this too.” He vows. His eyes wide and shining. “I want this more than you know.”

Nesta shakes her head, her back and chest sore. The pain getting worse as she breathes deeply, as if she can’t breathe at all. Like she’s already drowning, and no more air can reach her lungs.

“You shouldn’t have seen it.” She croaks, trying to force out the words. “You weren’t supposed to see it.”

Cassian rushes forward, his hair floppily landing across his face. His arms outstretched as they stop near her, curling back like withering vines and roses that fall at their feet.

“I can’t take it back,” He admits. To her. To himself. To the quiet walls that hold their breath. To the sleeping books all around them. To the people in their picture who do nothing but smile as if nothing at all is wrong with the world.

Nesta doesn’t snatch the picture away, but she closes her eyes, places her palms where stars start to form behind her eyelids.

“I want this.” He repeats and the words do nothing to calm that restlessness she has learned to embody like a second skin.

“You’ve said that already.” Nesta huffs, her movements careful as she wraps her arms around her middle, her hands clutching her dress. All of it giving too much away.

But, Cassian moves gently, steadily, carefully as he places his hands on her shoulders, moves them until he cradles her neck, her head titling to look up at him.

She can see it in his eyes—the familiarity.

She doesn’t have to hide with him. He knows.

Cassian knows what it feels like to wear pain as a fur coat, to collect anger like sticks thrown in a fire that spits and glares. All of it to keep them warm when their hearts have been buried under rock and ice and rain. When they have no home to return to, no roof over their heads, no family to burrow into. Nothing but soft winter nights and harsh winter words.

Nesta still has to remind herself that it’s spring and she wonders if Cassian will put up with her bitter frost in spite of blooming May’s… if he will still want her in the sunny July’s.

“You and me,” Cassian says as he sets his forehead on hers. “I want this more than anything.”

Nesta shuts her eyes, bleeding stars erupting behind. A mixture of snow and petals sprinkling down. Down. Down.

“Do you want this too?” She hears him whisper.

The smell of firewood burning reminds her of February forests and she buries her face into his chest. Squeezing him tighter as she hears the distant crackling in her ears. Sticks thrown into the fire and readily forgotten.

It is time to do more than burn, Nesta thinks. It is time to be more than frost.

“Yes.”

~

Nesta is not proud that she can beat them. She is not proud that her fists can be made into flames and her mind into an undisputable weapon. She is not proud that her enemies can grovel at her feet, or that she is safe from all of them.

When the sword in her hand shines like a mirror, she sees who she is. It is not a little girl with bloody hands. Not a young woman scared and alone. It is not a fae who doesn’t know where she belongs. It is simply, Nesta.

For whatever it’s worth. Whatever it costs.

There is nothing truly special about her at the core. Reduced to the literal, she is merely a human heart in a fae body, but beyond that she is just a person. Someone who thinks and feels and cries and laughs and sometimes regrets her life and circumstances, but she is not the only one who dreams.

And just like the others, she is strong. Weak, but strong.. and willful, often. Arrogant and pathetic. Uninteresting… humorous… even disastrous at times. Sometimes beautiful.

She is capable, Nesta affirms.

She is lovable.

Even if that word has never been one to describe her, even if that is only one part of who she is. She is loved, and she loves, and she is not ashamed.

Even so…

Love is not enough she thinks, as she rips open the envelope and out comes her sisters’ letter. Because the worst sound she has ever heard is the voice of Feyre telling her to leave, and the worst words she sees are the ones perfumed on the paper. Her eyes trailing the contents on the way to the kitchens.

Love has never been enough.

It is not enough in that little cabin. It is not enough when Feyre hunts. It is not enough when her father carries ships across seas. It is not enough when he falls to his knees, his head twisted to the right. The blood pooling like spilt paint.

It is certainly not enough when they ask her to come home, because they do. Elain first and Feyre following. She sees it in their handwriting, a joint letter this time, and Nesta wonders why they keep trying. What about her is so appealing?

Love is certainly not enough, now.

Nesta contemplates this as she rushes to Emerie, whose unloading a bag of flour that is half her size. Nesta grabs one end, Emerie at the other, and they both lug it to the corner, the bag flattening on the dusty floors.

They exchange greetings as Margery walks in, a long sword attached to her side. It is their turn for chores and admittedly it is something that Nesta has learned to look forward to, if only because she gets to see them, twice a week.  

“Do you plan on cutting carrots with that sword?” Emerie questions with a raise of her brow and a light tilt to her voice.

“And a nice rat, too, if we’re lucky enough to find one again.”

Emerie mockingly gags and Nesta smirks at her friend’s antics. She supposes it’s just the price they pay for living near a forest and being the easiest access to food.

Margery tilts her chin towards her, “How’s your back?”

Nesta raises both hands in assurance, seemingly touched by the subtle affection. “All healed.”

She means it, too. In fact, Nesta has never felt better. She awakes now with little more than a dream, not a wink of a nightmare, and yet… she thinks of her sisters’ letter weighing heavily in her pocket.

Is it love when they write her? She questions. Because Nesta thinks she knows what love is. This is love.

These females laugh with her, they talk with her, they value her opinion. She has never once felt belittled or uneasy and yet all she can think about is the fact that at any moment it can all disappear. Nesta is almost afraid to blink in fear that she has made them up in some half-intoxicated dream. That she’ll waken to her grungy apartment, the four locks clamped shut, pieces of glass shattered on the floor.

This is their fault, she rages. For leaving her in the middle of nowhere when she was falling a part at the seams.

“I’m surprised our illustrious commander didn’t gut me for the injury.”

“Cassian isn’t like that.” She answers, trying to swat away the feeling of betrayal as she focuses on her friends.

“Oh, it’s Cassian now.” Margery smirks, looking to Emerie as her eyes light up. “Not that one or him.”

Emerie adding, “or buffoon or that oversized bat.”

“Yes. Yes.” Nesta concedes, grabbing a ladle hanging from the wall, and giving them a dry look. “He’s all of those now.”

Margery huffs a laugh, going into her routine of ranting about her week. Nesta breathes a sigh of relief. She starts with Lord Devlon making her do drills to prove herself.

“If I have to do one more drill, my legs are going to fall off.”

“You’re still training?” Emerie asks and Margery sits in a chair at the table, leaning back as she places the sword and the harness all over the countertops. Nesta wants to roll her eyes. Margery has never been one to embody domesticity. Even the simplest of chores is somewhere in the range of pulling teeth and all she usually does is shine the steel until it gleams.

In typical fashion, Margery takes out a cloth and a bottle of polisher she’s conveniently stashed away. Emerie gives Nesta a look. Of course.

“The Rite is going to come up faster than you think, and there’s no way I’ll survive if I don’t get prepared.”

“You’re competing?” Emerie asks and Nesta supposes it would be surprising, given that Emerie never trains and straight up refuses when asked. She wonders if that’s also why they make good friends.

Margery merely shrugs, “If they let me.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Well,” Margery explains, her lips pursing, “then I guess I’m just going to have to go by Marco for a couple of weeks…”

Nesta blinks back in surprise.

“Or Jeremiah. Maybe Claud?” Margery jokes.

Emerie does not laugh and Nesta can’t tell if admiration is hidden in her eyes or something more akin to horror.

For Nesta, Margery is bold and Nesta has never been so bold as to demand what she wants. She wonders if she even can, if she has the ability to go against the choice people make for her—the life that people want for her and all of the roles that come with it. Mother knows, she’s never shown satisfaction, but Nesta has never spoken the words allowed. I don’t want this, she wants to say.

In fact, she admires both of her friends. One for running at the target headfirst and the other for refusing the target entirely. She could only wish to be half as brave as they are and though she is stubborn and angry and crass, Nesta always, always gives in.

“Personally,” Emerie starts, “I don’t understand the appeal of wreaking havoc in the mud.

“Why have the Rite anyways?” She questions, looking to Nesta.

She doesn’t voice her opinion and it’s a topic Emerie has been vocal about before.

Her lack of response doesn’t deter Emerie though, and Nesta thinks it’s because she finally has people to say it to. No one in their little group will judge her for it or kick her out into the snow and mud. No one except for Margery on occasion, whose will to fight sometimes outweighed her reasons.  

“Why must fighting be the only things we’re known for like some war mongering peasants?”

“We live in a war camp.” Margery mentions casually, giving Nesta a look.

“Exactly, my point,” Emerie sifts, pointing her index to Margery who lounges and Nesta who tries to at least finish peeling the potatoes. “Why must we live in war camps, will we be at war for the rest of our lives? Will we be bearing sons just for them to die who knows where, for a cause that seems useless in comparison?”

“Do I have to mention that you make a living off selling weapons to these war mongering peasants or are you going to negate that in the next speech?”

“I could make a living doing anything,” Emerie scoffs. “I could quit right now and become a cobbler. You try and stop me.”

Margery snickers at the image, and Nesta can’t say she sees it either. But she refuses to mention how unlikely the possibility is, when just a year ago, Emerie is nothing but a daughter at the hands of her father, in search of some well-off husband. Just like her.

It’s just their life, she thinks. Is it so wrong to be the person people expect? Is it wrong to give in and get over it? All of their potential stored in their wombs and their breasts rather than the edge of their minds and their viperous tongues. Is it wrong to be a liar, when lying is taught at such a young age and rewarded with a wealthy life and six children? Did she want the wealthy life and six children? Is that the choice she gives up by becoming fae?

Is that choice she blames the world for?

“Who likes fighting anyways,” She exasperates, her voice rising as Emerie shifts to Nesta, her eyes bright and burning. “Do you like fighting?”

Nesta pauses at the words. Margery stopping her incessant need to see her knife shine like emerald seas and diamond-shaped skies.

She has been asked this question before. Nesta remembers it well.

It has been so many months… so many different Nesta’s before, each worn like a set of costumes and painted faces so that she could be tolerable. Easily chewed and swallowed.

Does she truly enjoy fighting?

Is the answer easy to digest?

Nesta takes a deep breath, looking towards the knife in her hands and the peelings littering the table like bodies in a battlefield.

“I like—I like that when I work hard, my muscles ache and it feels like proof that I did something. Does that make sense?” Nesta taps her fingers on the table, a nervous tick as Emerie nods. “I like that I get to spend time with people—with you all—when before I had no one.”

She clenches her fist around the hilt as she pauses. Her mouth having trouble finding the right words, or rather the ones that don’t yell at her to be said. Her throat burns and she gulps them down, but Nesta is tired of keeping her mouth shut, when all she needs to do is whisper.    

“But, I don’t think I like fighting. The act…or the concept. I… sometimes, just… can only see the war.” She turns away, refusing to look at them, “I see the bodies and hear the screams… and I see it all. And I feel it all. And I just want to shut my eyes.” And Nesta does so as she speaks, the horror an echo in her memory, in her ears as it rings and rings and rings.

 “I just want it to stop, but it’s the only thing keeping me awake. And I can’t lose myself again. I can’t.”

Emerie shifts towards her and Margery leans closer, setting down her sword on the bench. Nesta shakes her head, holding a hand to her throat, her body shaking.  

“I’m afraid that if I stop, everything will go back to the way it was and I won’t be me anymore… and I won’t feel anymore… and I’ll be alone again.” Nesta hides face with her sleeves, “I don’t want to be alone.”

She trembles at the thought of them denying her for her weakness, but Emerie merely shuffles the potatoes away from her, placing the bowl on the counter. She comes to sit beside her, taking the knife from the table, sticking the tip into its wood. Nesta counts each twist.  

“My father died in that war,” Emerie admits, looking to the floor even as she clenches her fists. “And I am happy that he did. I know I should be ashamed of such things, but I’m not. I couldn’t even cry.”

She drops the knife and places her hand on top of Nesta’s and her eyes widen in surprise.

“I don’t want to be alone either… So don’t fight if you don’t want to.”

Nesta sniffles, but nods, wiping her eyes where they’ve teared up without her permission. Emerie snaps her fingers and Nesta looks up quickly.

“In fact, come with me to the shop today. It’s not interesting work, and I can’t pay you much…or at all really,” Emerie trails, “but you could help me in the shop. I have to go to the blacksmiths today and I’ve been designing some of my own pieces if you’d like to see.”

Nesta agrees because it’s another choice she’s been granted, and Nesta can count on one hand how many she’s been offered over the years.

She stands to grab another bowl and get on with the chores that need to be completed before anything else can begin. This one is filled with cabbage; the green leaves dusted with mud. But, Margery grabs her arm, tugging lightly. A shadow passing over her face.

“My brother. He came home last spring and he still hasn’t looked any of us in the eyes. I like to imagine I know what he went through, but I know I never can. I want to learn to fight, so my brothers don’t have to…”

Margery stares, the conviction heavy in her eyes. “Never again will I let them go alone.”

She releases her hold, but Nesta can’t stop staring. Her gaze following as Margery moves to pick up the sword again, stepping to parry and swing in the small room. A true warrior, not because she can fight, but because she chooses to fight for the people she loves. The people who mean something to her.

It is enough to write her sisters.

~

They’re drunk on fairy wine, Nesta admits, as she stumbles out the doorway of the tavern and Cassian trips on the skirt of her dress.

“And that’s how I got banned from the Summer Court,” Cassian finishes, his cheeks red and his smile bright with intoxicated glee. “You see, it wasn’t my fault at all.”

Nesta gives him a look.

“It wasn’t!” He offers incredulously and she laughs at the face he makes, his cheeks flushed and bright red.

The air feels cool as they slow into a steady pace away from the tavern, the sky filled with specks of color. The mountains outlining constellations while all the stars are lit like a city in the clouds. She understands why this is the Night Court.

Cassian wraps her scarf around her shoulders as the wind picks up, and Nesta doesn’t tell him she doesn’t feel cold. Only clutches the fabric closer to her chest.

“Tell me something about your life before.” He says, his shoulders touching hers. In fact, there hasn’t been a moment where he hasn’t been touching her. Hands clasped, thighs brushing, fingers combing through her hair. Lips against lips are only one fraction of the ways the two of them can show affection, she learns.

“My stories are not as exciting as yours,” Nesta replies, settling into quiet contemplation. Too silent for a beautiful walk in the night.

Cassian glances at her, encouraging. “I want to hear them anyways.”

So, she tells him.  

She tells him about the lessons. The governesses, the days her father wasn’t there. The brand-new piano he bought her when he missed her eighth birthday. How her mother was strict and frivolous and demanded perfection from her and how Nesta never was the daughter she wanted. She tells him about the sickness—that it took her mother quick and her father was never the same but that Nesta had never loved him the same after that too, because it was the first time he had failed her and it wasn’t the last.

She tells him how he lost everything and how the debt collectors came and broke his leg, Feyre watching while she ran upstairs with Elain. How after that, her father stopped being anything…stopped being alive. Her mother had died on the outside and her father had died on the inside and Nesta died with them because at some point she’d wanted to die…or felt like she was.

“I still love them now,” Nesta says, contemplating the lunacy, “even if they’re gone. I don’t know why. But I do.”

She shakes her head, her hand swiping over the side of her face, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “I remember hating them even as I loved them and now… I can’t even remember how. I can imagine it, but I can’t feel it.”

The stars flicker in specks of gold and silver and Nesta watches as they brush against the painted sky. How many do exist across the universe? She wants to know. That light up solely so someone can dream, and someone can wish, and another can fall in love. How many times does she herself, dream that things are different? How many times does she look up and wish?

“Do you think you’ll ever forgive them?”

Nesta turns her head, Cassian’s eyes never leaving the planes of her face.

“My parents?” She asks.

“Your sisters,” He clarifies, his face grimacing as he catches his breath, “Rhys… Amren… Azriel, Mor… me.” He finishes lamely.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” She lies.

Cassian scoffs. “I told you I didn’t understand why your sisters could love you and then played an accomplice—guiltless, I thought—and dragged you here without your consent.”

As if nothing has ever been taken from me without my consent, she wants to say.  

“Thank you for the recap.” Nesta admonishes, walking ahead. Cassian steps forward, trailing behind.

“I say it because I know it’s going to end. This—” He stops to gesture around them, to each other, “being here. I know eventually we’re going to have to go back and it won’t be just us anymore.”

“It was never just us.”

“It’s different being here. You feel it, too, I know. It’s…easier.”

Nesta crosses her arms, “For you—it was never easy for me.”

“But that’s what I mean,” his voice stressing the words, “after all of this—after it’s done and we go back home—back to Velaris, I mean, will you forgive us? Will you forgive us when we’ve hurt you so badly?”  

“You’ve hurt me?” She asks, a thrumming anger settling in her stomach. She almost forgets what it tastes like but as it bubbles up her throat, Nesta remembers.

There you are, she thinks.

“We didn’t help you—I didn’t help you after the war. I didn’t know what you needed,” Cassian explains desperately. “And I was certain what you needed wasn’t me.

“But if I was there—if I had pushed—things might have been different. It might not have taken so long.”

“Taken so long for what?” She spits, “For me to become someone I still don’t want to be.”

Nesta paces exasperated, her hands planted at her waist, her fingers itching to point and to prod at Cassian’s chest. You did this, she wants to say.

But that’s an excuse and Nesta is tired of excuses.

“All of you think you have so much control over me. That I yearn for all of you, and as soon as I don’t get your attention, I’m dying or angry or sad.”

She faces him. Her spine going rod straight, her chin raised high.

“My pain is my own. Only I can fix it.”

The words settle in her stomach and Nesta is strange to find relief instead of that regret gnawing and chewing through.

There is an end to her pain. It isn’t out of reach and unattainable, always loading over her head and heavy across her shoulders. It is in her grasp… to change how she feels, to actively work against what causes her shame and anger and horrifying despair. It is in her control to be who she wants, to say what she wants, to feel what she wants. All others be damned.

There is no one to please, and no one to be but herself.

Every day she can choose to fight and not with a sword or a bow or some knife strapped to her thigh, but with her mind, her attitude, her will to live. Against those false and very real memories and the lies she keeps telling herself to sleep at night. She doesn’t need magic to see things differently. Just a strong-will and an unrelenting hope for something better. To dream in a land of make-believe and to love in a world that was all but hopeless.

Nesta is capable. She is proud. She is loved and she feels…so many things. Her life is messy, sometimes regrettable, but not unforgettable. She could do something with it. Make something of it.

And who are they to fix her like some broken doll, tell her what to do like some little girl?

She is not a child and she cannot be broken.  

Cassian gently grabs her hand and Nesta unclenches her fist in his palm. How easy it is for him to calm her as much as it is to light her aflame.  

The quietness settles around them. The hot summer sun turning to cool summer nights.

“I’m sorry I wasted time.” He rattles, his lips loose from the alcohol and the night that hides them in pockets of intimate darkness. He reaches his hand out to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, but he pulls away fast, as if she burns him.

Cassian clenches his eyes shut and Nesta can see him questioning. All of the thoughts going through his brain and writing them across his face. But instead of denying her like she’s sure he will, he rushes to cradle her neck, tipping her head to meet his.

They’ve been in the position before.

Nesta remembers it well.

“You were worth the wait.” He says and Nesta’s eyes blinks at the admission, “not just these months… The 538 years. You were worth every minute and you’re worth every minute more.”

“You said you wanted time with me.” She says hazel meeting blue. Her eyes trailing to his lips without her permission.

“I meant every word.”

She glides her fingers along his and places her hands where they rest on her face and she leans into his palm as his thumb brushes against her cheek.  

“Do you think we could start now?” She whispers.

Cassian grins. A bright look—one that she can see in the stars.  

“I’m already yours.”

~

Their lips meet. They can’t help themselves. They sink into each other, arms entwined in arms. Crashing and pulling, like their hearts and their arguments—like their hearts are trying to argue if this is right. They plough into cabinets and walls, and distantly they can hear the shatter of glass and picture frames. The ones they chose together. It tumbles to the floor with the rest of their doubts. It is swallowed by the sound of their breathing. They don’t need to say anything; their tongues whisper all their secrets.

The door of her bedroom is both her friend and her companion, crossing its threshold seems matrimonial. Cassian gives her space, but she demands his body against hers, their figures making shadow puppet on the wall. Along with the rest of the house, the walls are decorated. The wood panels and cream-colored sheets protecting their attachment to skin and heartbeats.

Her hands grasp the bed sheets and he leans into her, breathes her in. She figures they’ve already become a part of each other, as sure as the fusion of metals and the weapons he pulls from his belt. They clash to the floor.

He pulls at her shirt and she tears the button off his, and their lips never leave the others, except to map the planes of their existence. They only separate long enough for their clothes to end up on the floor, nothing between them. Even their souls say it isn’t close enough.

Nesta bares her neck to him, Cassian looks at dip of her neck to her shoulder, the gravitational pull of her skin and her smell calling to him. She expects him to leave little bites and love marks, like that first time in another world across the wall, expects the roughness of his teeth and the scratch of his stubble. Instead, he leans in gently and presses a kiss where her heartbeat meets her skin. It is loud and tumultuous; it echoes his own. 

She clasps their fingers together, and he places their entwined hands above her head, as he kisses down her body, until she is gasping and flying, her eyes trailing to the wings that expand above him. The deepest shade of black they shine indigo from the light of the moon.

Her distraction is his leverage and he kisses his way down her body. She gasps, and he pushes. He groans, and she pulls. They move together, slow at first, steady, turning into the untamable flames they knew thrived and burned long before they each existed.

Their lips only part to call out their names. Prayers in the darkest night.

~

Her nightmares sound like the voice of her sisters. Sometimes it the harmony of their demands—telling her she needs to leave. Sometimes, it’s their voices never even reaching her ears. Sometimes, it’s not her sisters at all. It’s her own. Her own sweet words that rupture and tear.

But in the morning, when her head is on his chest and he is tracing stars on her arms, she shuts out the voice in her head that tells her she doesn’t deserve this. That she will undoubtfully make a mess out of the love she cherishes and protects.

If her soul is a fire, she will burn their house to the ground. Their love turning to ash even before she can count the ways Cassian silently says, “I love you,” into her skin. A part of her is already burning.

“You’re sisters miss you; you know.”

She picks at the thread of the purple duvet and gulps the urge to roll her eyes.  

“They’ll live.”

Cassian says nothing at her indignant response and Nesta helps him with little conversation. Instead, she chooses to indulge him between pattered sheets and fur. Distraction as much as a weapon as her mind and his sword.

Nesta doesn’t tell him of all the times she wishes her sisters are near, that she could talk to them and bundle into that one bed across the wall in a cabin she doesn’t want to remember. She doesn’t tell him either, that for many years she’s loved them more than herself, and even after all this time Nesta still never shows it well enough.

She loves them still, but she loves herself, too. Enough to know they are all better off and she wonders if this is what love means, to give up or to give in, and if any of those options are palatable. Easily swallowed.

They are not right in sending her off, and she is not right for letting herself get carried away. By both, her grief and her past. They’ve done wrong and she’s done wrong and they’ve altogether done so much wrong that she thinks they all must be monsters. Grotesque and inhumane and unfeeling. They all look like monsters anyways, down to every fae bone.  

But it’s a small price to pay and Nesta prefers being called a monster over the fraudulency of her life.

So when Cassian pushes and pulls, Nesta would rather let go. Let her remain the witch, the bitch, the thorn in their side. Let them remain happily ensconced in Velaris allure with twinkling lights all about.

It makes no difference to her.

How are you, we miss you, we wish you were here. It’s not the same without you.

“Do you hate them for sending you here?”

You were killing yourself and we couldn’t watch. We’re doing this for you.

“I could never hate my sisters.”

~

Go on a date with me.

Why? We already slept together.

Does sleeping together mean I can’t take you on dates?

No. I just think it’s a little backwards.

We are backwards.

Yes, but a dates going to end up in the same place we started with.

Is that a no?

I didn’t say that.

Then, you will?

Ask me nicely.

Nesta Archeron, regardless of how much I will probably regret this, will you go on a date with me?

That wasn’t nice—don’t roll your eyes.

Say yes, please.

Fine.

So tomorrow then?

I said yes.

I know but I wanted you to say it again.

Your face is going to get stuck like that if you keep smiling so much.

Your eyes are going to fall out if you keep rolling them like that.  

~~~

Nesta can’t escape the darkness. Like a lover, he grabs her hair seductively. Like a lover, he pulls strands out with his grip. Like a lover, he nibbles sweetly on her ear. Like a lover, his teeth sink into her flesh. Like a lover, he leaves a scar she can never get rid of.

~~~

Cassian holds her hand, gives her a rose. She chooses a dress made of fresh snow. The color reminds her of blood.

~~~

Sometimes, Nesta dreams of wars. Sometimes, she lives them.

There is no color on the battlefield. No death that floats above their heads. No face is familiar, but she thinks she sees her friends. All of them people she has met before.

Their banners mean nothing. Their weapons mean less. Death does not laugh, and they do not scream. She only hears grunts and shallow breathing. It isn’t just Illyrian men who serve. It’s Illyrian men and women and her, standing beside each other to protect their home.

In her dreams, Death is a villain. He is cruel and mean and arrogant. On the battlefield, Death is each and every one of them fighting for the chance to survive, to kiss their children good night, to build their homes, to wrap their lovers in their arms. Tightly. Softly. Locked in an embrace that not even death can sever.

Death does not mock her. It does not smile cruelly or kiss up her spine. There is nothing seductive in its kiss. It lives inside of her—disguises itself like a fae in wolf’s clothing, like lies in sweet words. It is dressed in her armor, with her sword in her hand, with sweat down her back. Like magic under her skin. Death, like magic disguised as fire.

It explodes like the rage she keeps inside of herself.

Explodes before it can even tell her its name.

~~~

Cassian holds her body. She chooses a dress made of roses. It reminds her of blood.

~~~

Cassian's love is as soft as rose petals and as dangerous as a wound. She hears his voice. Feels his hands, his soft breath against her forehead. Where she once feels nothing a pain blooms... and burns... and takes. Like hatred and anger in a once-human turned fae and the love between them both that leaves no survivors.

She thinks his love is something akin to fire, their love something that burns them both in the end... But perhaps it is sweeter and softer and more fragile than matches. Because, Nesta remembers. Nesta never forgets. And as she feels the subtle softness of his trailing fingers, the rough edge of his palms, Nesta thinks of all the ways that lead her back to him.

Cassian’s love is the books left outside her door. The pump of her heartbeat, the feel of skin on his, the hills filled with daisies and the flavor of life in every piece of pie. The color of strawberries and chandeliers and the people who laugh and smile and grimace and cry.

His love is the blood on her hands, the sun she sees outside, and the stars that wink and wave beyond their control.

Cassian’s love is the home wedged between mountains, where the fire is always lit.

Cassian’s love is a small flame.

It isn’t so difficult to choose the light.

The light is warm.

~

Tags:  @dreaming-of-bohemian-nights , @missing-merlin, @strangeenemy, @saltydreamcollector, @midnightbluhm, @my-fan-side, @queenofillea1, @tswaney17, @gloriousinlove, @ekaterinakostrova, @thebluemartini, @anishake, @lord-douglas-the-third, @soitsgorgeous, @lolasjournal

(PLEASE LMK if you want to be tagged or you want to be not tagged or if you asked and I forgot)

AN:

Good enough (shrugs) I can’t fix it anymore than this. 

I feel like I made this part complicated, but it was necessary. I wanted to tie in so many voices and ideas that came up in the beginning and I still didn’t want Nesta fully healed because there’s no such thing and I wanted Cassian’s POV and his to seem just as complex. SO it ended up being so long and so full. I hope it wasn’t so confusing to follow. But...

I have to say all of the comments I have gotten from this fic whether it was on tumblr or Ao3 or fanfic.net have been incredible and have made me feel so amazing, especially since writing on a regular basis is very, very hard to me. Sometimes, it feels like physical torture which is unfortunate because I absolutely love to write and to you know perfect the craft so to speak. Believe me when I say that this fic would have stopped after Nesta’s Love is Quiet without all of your encouragement. It means the world to me. <3 I am glad to belong to such a wonderful fandom who really likes to analyze these characters.  

“Love is Bright Red, Hope is Dark Blue” the last part of this series, won’t be done for a while, if it happens at all. I have so many fics I have stopped writing on, but this is one of the longest goes I’ve had, so it’s going to be all about the timing, I suppose and the ideas that come up when I start really writing for it. I’m writing Queen of Monsters now and it’s a lot of the same ideas but with more plot and more characters and places and so on and I really want to get on that one. 

Even my AN are long, so I’ll just stop here, but please like, reblog, kudos, or favorite for which ever platform you choose to read on, but mostly comment because again I just like talking to y’all and I want to know what you think and how these characters come across to you. Message me even, I’m lonely most days and I need more book friends. 

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acofas #acosf #acowar #nesta x cassian #cliw #vidalinav

[kermitbread]

help

was this unnecessary? yes. am I going insane? probably. pls send hananene I'm dying

How did it get to this? Nene asked the same question over and over in her mind, as she sat still on unknown territory. It had water on the ground, so she could still identify it as a boundary.

It was a dark, rather dim looking boundary. Human bones were scattered around the ground, like someone deliberately piled them in one place and kept them there. And to make matters worse...

"Ah! It's Amane's assistant!"

The dreaded little brother of the Honorable No. 7 was also stuck with her.

How did it happen? She had no idea. All she remembered was she was with Hanako, trying to get rid of a rampaging apparition, then blacking out.

Shuddering at the sight of Tsukasa, it didn't really help that she was also sitting on human skeletons. Look, everything on the fear meter was cranked up to a maximum whenever he was there. The complete opposite of how she felt when Hanako was around.

Unfortunately, he shared the same face as his brother, so it surely did not make anything much better for poor Nene.

Well, it was better than being alone in a creepy boundary, at least.

"H-how did we get here?" She tried to speak to the boy, hoping he would settle for some civil conversation. Tsukasa tilted his head at her for a second, scratching his cheek.

"Hmm... dunno!" He cheerfully replied, with a big smile to top that. Nene sighed. She expected that answer sooner or later, especially from him.

She stood up, but a sudden pain forced her to sit back down quickly. She felt the pain sear on her right ankle. For some reason, she had sprained it, not too badly, but it hurt enough to make her back down.

Guess fear made her forget a lot of things.

"Geez... how are we supposed to get out of here?" Squinting her eyes, she tried to get any glimpse of a way out to the boundary, but all she got was a sea of darkness and more bones.

Honestly speaking, her leg hurt, everything was scary, and there was no sign of escape.

Everything's gonna be fine! Hanako-kun will come! He always does! It's just about a matter of time before he arrives!

Kept in her thoughts, she didn't notice Tsukasa making his way next to her, squatting down with his hands on his knees, eyes boring directly at her.

Nene flinched when his palm went to her cheek, and to her utter shock, his touch was surprisingly gentle. If it weren't for the intimidating stare he was giving her right now, it would have felt like it was Hanako and not Tsukasa.

"W... What is it?" Her voice was a little shaky.

"You're crying." Was his simple answer. She touched her other cheek, feeling the wetness travel down her skin.

Since when did she start crying?

"So...?" Nene struggled to form words, but it was rather hard when Tsukasa was invading her space by leaning even closer to her.

"That guy told me I'm supposed to be nice to girls. So," He put on that smile, moving his hand up to her head and pat her. "Everything will be okay! Yeah!"

She blinked owlishly, mouth parted open at his actions. It reminded her of their encounter back in the Mirror Hell, except it ended up with Tsukasa making her faint, which she rather not let it happen again.

If only he didn't look like Hanako-kun! I'm somehow scared of him, but at the same time I'm not! What's going on with you, Nene?!

A rumbling noise made her jump, and the ground beneath her began to shake. The bones rattled against the water, as the rumbling was replaced with loud stomping coming closer, accompanied by a ringing noise that was irritating to the ear.

To her horror, a gigantic skeleton appeared from the shadows, on a rampage. Its bony hands crushed the skulls underneath, roaring at an extreme volume.

While Nene stared on with fear, Tsukasa seemed... oddly delighted at the sight. Well, when was he not happy?

"Uwaah! It's an odokuro! I've always wanted to see one!"

"Y-you know what this is, Tsukasa-kun?" She trembled, looking back at the boy.

"Yeah! I heard they're indestructible. They take humans and gobble their heads up! Pretty cool, right?"

Not cool. Not cool at all. Nope.

The odokuro swiped a long arm around the boundary, as Nene squinted her eyes shut, preparing for impact. Not until she felt her body being lifted up from the mass of bones and suddenly—

"Hey, hey!" Tsukasa spoke next to her, and she opened her eyes, almost letting out a gasp. They were in the air, a few meters away from the giant skeleton, and he was carrying her princess style.

And if Nene was being honest, the heights they were on right now... didn't really help. Those sharp rib bones stuck out on the ground like spikes on a floor. A fall from that height would mean instant peril.

"Wait a moment! I might fall!" She unknowingly clung closer to him, not even noticing his eyes go wide at that. His attention, however, went back to the odokuro, who was scouring through the bones looking for them.

He smiled darkly.

"Oi, odokuro!" He waved a hand at the skeleton, getting its attention. "I got a tasty human for you! Come and get it!"

"Tsukasa-kun!" Nene screamed, and Tsukasa merely laughed at her face of pure terror. The skeleton screeched and started to make its way to them, the ground shaking at it's every step.

"I'm just kidding!" Sending out his kokujoudai, he lifted an arm forward, right in front of the odokuro. "Besides, I don't think Amane would like his assistant dead just yet!"

Nene didn't even have the chance to blink. The black will-o-wisps went in a flash, and in an instant, the skeleton shattered, destroying it completely.

She turned her head at Tsukasa, who was just staring ahead, not meeting her in the eye. The extent of his power never ceased to frighten her. Well, it was to be expected, he did manage to defeat a School Mystery IN their boundary back then.

But it bothered how he didn't hesitate to save her from the skeleton. Probably because of his attachment to Hanako, but Nene knew there was probably something more to that. Doing a favor for him? Or was he the one asking for a favor? Was she overthinking right now?

"Aww, it broke so easily! What a bummer." He sounded pouty, like a child who had broken their favorite toy. Descending down back on the ground, he poked at the remains of the odokuro with his kokujoudai, as if he was expecting for it to move.

"Oh well! Another one will come around soon!"

"Another one?! Not another one!" It was too much. She hid her face on his chest, not wanting to have to look at yet another giant skeleton approaching. She didn't care if this was Tsukasa, she was NOT having any of it!

"Hanako-kun, where are you..." She mumbled timidly, the tears starting to build up again. This whole situation was a mess. One, big, ridiculous mess. And on top of that, her leg still hurt like shit.

Tsukasa blinked, not expecting this sort of thing to happen. Here he was, standing, carrying that radish-legged assistant of his twin brother, who was currently crying onto his shirt. Oh, and did he mention she smelled good? Like, REALLY good?

(a/n: smh tsukasa always getting sidetracked with things he has a low attention span)

He promptly plopped himself in a sitting position, having Nene practically on his lap. She was too busy bawling her eyes out to notice, though, but she did flinch when he put his fingers under her chin, tilting her head to him, forcing her to meet him in the eye.

Teary-eyed, cheeks red. In his opinion, it was a good look for her.

"You're such a crybaby. Amane's assistant is such a crybaby." He commented like it was the funniest thing in the world. Nene mustered up a glare, forgetting that he could probably snap her neck in seconds.

"I have a name, you know."

Tsukasa looked up at the air, pretending to think, before turning back to her with a proud smile. "Can I call you radish legs then?"

"No!"

"Fish girl?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Then..." His eyes narrowed, and he almost looked like a predator out for the kill. "Nene?"

"...Eh?" She couldn't say another word at that. First name basis already? They weren't exactly friends, though.

"Amane calls you Yashiro, so I get to call you Nene!"

"Uh... s-sure." Nene just went along with it. Who knows what kind of crazy stuff would happen if she refused one more time.

"Ouch!" A yelp escaped her mouth when she accidentally moved her right ankle across the ground, as it began to react strongly with pain. Tsukasa observed her whimpering for a few moments, before reaching out and holding her by the shoulders.

"Eh—what are you—"

"Giving you a present." He smirked, leaning forward and she felt his lips press against her cheek.

Her eyes went wide, her heart began to pound fast. What was he doing?! What was he doing—

He lingered there about a few more seconds before pulling away, looking quite proud at himself. "Nene's very clumsy! I gave you a protection charm because rescuing you again would be too much work."

Nene put her hand on the cheek he had apparently cast a spell on, staring at him. For a moment, it was like Hanako had been there with her.

Maybe Tsukasa wasn't so bad if he just tried to? Emphasis on "tried".

Footsteps crunching on the bones approached them, as finally, Hanako and Kou had arrived. "Yashiro!"

"Hanako-kun!" She called out, wanting to stand, but Tsukasa's hold on her was really tightening for some reason. He didn't say much as a word, just watching as his brother and the young exorcist came closer.

"Tsukasa! Let her go!" Hanako readied his knife as Kou put himself in a fighting stance. Nene looked at Tsukasa, and he shrugged.

"I was just having fun with Nene! Can't I borrow her for a little more, Amane?"

"What?!" Both her and Hanako simultaneously shouted. Tsukasa chuckled, and as if to tease them, he let his fingers through her hair, leaning down close to her, cheek to cheek.

"She smells really good, Amane. And she's really warm. So that's why you cling to her a lot. I kinda like it!" He nuzzled his cheek against hers, ignoring her stuttering protests.

"Leave her alone, you bastard!" Kou shouted, gripping on his staff tightly as it began to spark with lightning. Tsukasa pulled away from the poor girl and pouted childishly.

"Aww man. Well... okay. Only because Amane's probably gonna cry soon. I would have wanted to see that, but..." He got up from the boundary floor, calmly walking up to Hanako, and just putting her into his arms like putting a sack away.

Nene automatically clung to Hanako as he unknowingly sighed with relief. Overall, he just couldn't stand being apart for this long.

"It was fun playing with you, Nene! I'll be seeing you real soon!" Snapping his fingers, Tsukasa vanished along with his kokujoudai, leaving a trail of black smoke behind.

"We should get out of here, too. Let's go, kid."

--

"Hey, Yashiro." Hanako asked. He and Nene were in the school's infirmary, while Kou went to fetch the school nurse. Nene sat on the bed, trying not to move her hurting leg too much.

"Yeah?"

"What did... what did Tsukasa do? Did he hurt you?" He seemed to be really worried and scared, as she could now see through his tone. Putting a hand on top of his, she smiled at him.

"He didn't hurt me, Hanako-kun. He was surprisingly... nice. He saved me from that giant skeleton that appeared before you came."

"Oh." Was all he could say. Inwardly, he was a little jealous his little brother was the one who rescued her this time. And calling her by her first name?! Very unfair!

"Ah, and he... also... uh..." Nene shyly averted her eyes from him, as Hanako looked at her with curiosity. "He also gave me a protection charm, just like the one you gave me before."

He blinked. Protection charm. Protection charm. Protection char—

Wait.

Squinting his eyes, he noticed the faint outline of something on her skin, and he probably was now going to lose it very soon.

There, written in black, was the number seven. Tsukasa's own spell.

Hanako felt like a heavy anvil dropped on his head and crushed him.

And as if it weren't already worse enough, Tsukasa suddenly appeared out of nowhere, immediately tackling Nene from behind with a hug. "Nene!!"

"T-Tsukasa-kun?!"

"Did you like my present, Amane? Looks great, right?" He cheekily smirked at Hanako, who was now in the middle of snapping.

"WHY IN THE WORLD WOULD YOU DO THAT?!" Hanako yelled angrily, as his twin laughed.

"Just because!"

"AND WHY WOULD YOU CALL HER BY HER FIRST NAME?!!"

"Only cuz you wouldn't! Right, Nene?" Tsukasa poked Nene on the cheek.

Nene tiredly sighed. It was too stressful to deal with this right now.

Things were going to get weird now, and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that.

#jibaku shounen hanako kun #toilet bound hanako kun #yashiro nene #yugi tsukasa #hanako kun #anime #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #there's some hananene #if you squint #hananene #but its mostly just #tsukanene #yeah #im so sorry

[serenfire]

this is how avatar of the extinction martin blackwood can still win (not clickbait)!

with the information that 175 has given us about the extinction, i am here to prove that martin blackwood (might could possibly) be an avatar of the extinction.

the closest thing that the extinction’s domain has to an avatar is, described directly from quotes from this episode: 

something [that] lives in the anthropocene age… a native

that knows that it is home

does not know or care what a human is

there is only one (and it is getting bigger)

it is our replacement and it is welcome to the world

let’s break this down. the anthropocene age is:

[ID: noun. the current geological age, viewed as the period during which human activity has been the dominant influence on climate and the environment. “some geologists argue that the Anthropocene began with the Industrial Revolution”]

while jon’s statement leads us to believe that it is not human because it is a replacement for humans, (“does not know or care what a human is”), and that it has a pretty long hairy tongue, saying that it belongs to the anthropocene means that this creature isn’t a warped apocalypse creation, but something (or somebody) that already exists. humans do exist in the extinction domain, as leah exists to catalogue the warped changes in the domain, and the extinction doesn’t seem focused on getting rid of her.

“does not know or care what a human is” as we’ve seen in 170, there are other forces that can get one to forget who humans are, specifically the lonely’s influence on martin. martin has been primed by forgetting his life in the lonely to be a part of the extinction.

“there is only one [avatar]” i’m very keen on the endgame theory that jon dies and martin survives. even if this doesn’t end up happening, annabelle specifically called martin to try and isolate him from jon. helen has hinted that only martin can fit in her tunnels, so there’s been a bit of foreshadowing about isolating martin and him being the only one left.

now, taking all of this and applying it more directly to martin: the forgotten bone jon sees is “familiar,” and it is specifically a rib. this could be jon’s skeleton, sometime in the distant future. but it is only one skeleton—there is no martin. why would martin not have died with jon? why would he not be extinct?

because martin asks about adelard dekker. martin pays attention to the extinction in a way jon does not, demonstrating a care and possibility to interact with it as an avatar and not a victim. martin wants to know if dekker was right about god, and it’s not a stretch to assume that martin also wants to know if dekker was right about the extinction. if anyone was going to be an avatar of the extinction, it would be adelard dekker; and if anyone is going to take after dekker, it would be martin blackwood.

thanks for listening.

#tma meta #tma theory #tma #the magnus archives #magpod #the extinction #martin blackwood #extinction!martin