#trolls without horns look cursed

[makelikesprinkles]

Bandstuck doodles from today on some sticky notes

#aw yeah bibbers #trolls without horns look cursed #also dirk with no sunglasses 😱😱 #homestuck #bandstuck #john egbert #homestuck kids #homestuck trolls

[ego-osbourne]

Another oneshot! Been a while :] Pirate time

Calamity belongs to @metallic-scaled-scarf , Lorelei belongs to @liches-covered-in-lich , Kynreeve belongs to @the-troll-of-the-bridge , and Heracles belongs to @mellowscrolls !

Look Alive

Word Count: 3500

Status: Complete Oneshot

CW: Oogling, Brief Mentions of Alcohol

Summary: Rakell is hot. Velehk is down bad and in denial.

It’s actually mostly just character interaction practice

~~~

Rakell shielded his eyes from the blinding sunrays that struck his face upon exiting the crew’s quarters. With a few tired blinks his eyes adjusted, but not before bumping into a crewmate or two. Everyone was in a rush, having heard the order to leave port and set sail. A bell’s sharp chime had woken Rakell’s uncomfortable rest, far later than the others, and he was still affected by the aftermath of a sweaty sleep.

Rakell chuckled to himself, knowing the heat should not have affected him so terribly. He supposed he’d grown too used to the cold of Skyrim, his dresswear reflecting that sentiment; his trousers and boots were alright, but his top was lined in fur. No matter where he was, either on the main deck in noon’s sweltering heat, or turning uncomfortably in his bed in the wee hours of the morning in the stuffy crew’s cabin, his clothes stuck to him in a grossly annoying fashion. It all accumulated to him groggily making his way onto the main deck, only half-aware of what was going on.

…Before he was given lip. “March, kyn!” was Calamity’s sharp call to him from the side of the deck as she rearranged sail ropes. “Everyone else is moving, and I know you’re quick!”

Rakell blinked before finding himself in an automatic jog. It had been a long while since he’d been in any position that required orders, and even longer since he’d been the one to receive those orders. Suddenly alert and focused, he found that the capstan of the anchor was in need of assistance and made his way to it, inviting himself in and pushing on one of the bars. The others around him were humming and chanting a shanty that he didn’t recognize, but he was able to keep in-time with its rhythm, just like the others. It helped him focus on something other than the cruel sun… for a moment.

The anchor was raising slowly, and every push made new sweat, and the sweat made him feel like he was baking alive. He cursed the fur-lined top that he wore, making every genuine attempt to push forward without fault, but there was a point when too much was simply too much. With a heave of breath, he took his hands off of the bar and walked in line with the turning axis, taking a brief moment to peel his shirt from his back. With a quick shake to free his horns, he pulled the garment through his belt and went back to work. Already, things were feeling much more free.

A couple mocking coos sounded from behind him, and one of the crewmates sniped, “Who’s you tryna impress, Daedra?”

“It’s hot as shit,” Rakell responded.

A different voice, “Ain’t you’s from the Deadlands?”

“It’s a dry heat there. This wet fuckery is a new misery.”

“Welcome to our sorry state,” the crewmate laughed.

A few more hands joined the original group in raising the anchor, quickening the process where the work would come to an eventual close. Just as Rakell stepped away from his bar, paying no mind to the commotion around him, he heard Ego’s familiar chime as they called for him. “Hey! Take my spot, over, uh,” they gestured toward the rest of the deck, Rakell raising a brow at their vagueness. “…at the middle pole,” they finished with uncertainty.

Rakell chuckled at their poor vocabulary, knowing they meant the mainmast. “Will do,” he said, already starting his jog over. A quick glance back toward Ego showed them hopping up to the quarterdeck, having been beckoned by Lorelei to man the wheel. Why she was letting him direct the ship was beyond Rakell, but it wasn’t his focus anyway. Upon closing in, a few members called him over to help pull a stubborn rope, to which he was a welcome addition to the endeavor.

With a few extra jobs done, the Mahree began on her way, tipping into a turn as the ship left port. Things on deck calmed significantly after the fact, and Rakell finally felt that he could drop his focus. He tilted his head up to the glorious blue sky as wind made its slow arrival onto the deck, sighing into the salty air and bringing a hand to his forehead to dry it. As much as he internally complained about the heat, he could appreciate moments like this.

Rakell took a quick glance around to make sure there was nothing else that might have called for immediate attention. He found others touching up some areas and ensuring everything was steady, but his lack of expertise around the ship only made him good for labor work, of which there appeared to be nothing that needed done. He pulled his shirt from the strap of his belt, only to find an elbow lightly nudging his arm. “There’s the new sailor,” Kynreeve moved just ahead of him and leaned against the railing of the ship. “You overheatin`?”

Rakell gave a light chuckle. “It’s a bit different than Skyrim.”

“Oh, just a smidge,” Kynreeve smirked, gesturing with his hand in a pinching motion. “Gotta remind ye, though, when ye hear that bell, ye have t’be moving fast.”

“I realized,” Rakell folded his arms with a grin, “I guess you saw me dragging my feet, too?” Kynreeve gave a nod. “It’s just been a while since I was in any sort of service. Forgot in the moment. Won’t happen again.”

“Aye, well, keep that in mind. A short holler from Calamity leaves ye far better off than what the captain might’ve done had he been on deck to catch ye.” Kynreeve’s gaze shifted to the side, his smile becoming a bit more forced. “Speaking of which… Don’t look now, but the captain’s got eyes on ye.”

Rakell didn’t know if it was the wind or Kynreeve’s words that sent a small chill up his back. He was suddenly stiff, only assuming that Velehk must have been mere steps away, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Finding where Kynreeve’s eyes were, though, had him realize that Velehk was out of earshot and farther than Rakell had initially feared. He calmed only slightly, asking, “Eyes on me in a bad way?”

Kynreeve lowered his brow. “Hard to tell. He’s awful focused, though.”

Rakell didn’t dare look over his shoulder, his nerves excited in a way that was hard to pinpoint. Some part of him was glad that Velehk was giving him any amount of recognition, but the majority of his head spun with feelings of worry that he’d pissed the captain off. He gave a small snicker to soften the edge, asking, “Well, what? Do I disappear?”

“No, no,” Kynreeve pushed off the railing, giving a short wave to Velehk, who stood on the quarterdeck. “Let’s have ye workin` on somethin`. I’ve got a job for ye, let’s go.”

Rakell followed Kynreeve along, tempting regret as he gave into his curiosity and glanced over his shoulder. He was already pulling back before he had even registered anything, but realized shortly after that Velehk had shifted his gaze away from him. A mix of relief and disappointment washed over him.

Or so he’d thought Velehk had taken his eyes off of him. In reality, the captain had only faked not to be looking when he saw Rakell begin to turn, then cautiously glanced back from under the shadow of his hat once Rakell walked off. Still in sight, Velehk kept a close eye on him, shifting uncomfortably against the railing that he leaned over.

Velehk couldn’t lie to himself, he’d taken quite a liking to Rakell’s appearance. Whether he be shimmering in his gorgeously detailed armor, or shimmering against the sun with his skin exposed, he was an eyeful everytime. Kynreeve had dragged him away to shuffle things about the deck, clearing out spots to be cleaned and reorganized. Velehk gazed with a careful eye, studying his movements from a distance. He silently wished he could be closer, that way Velehk would be able to easier see the muscles in his back move with every cargo box lifted, the tightness in his hands as he gripped wood and rope, hear every exhale and grunt as he fought against the weight of the crates. Velehk would make conversation, no doubt, and be able to hear his voice roll over words in that deep accent of his—

“It’s none of my business—”

Velehk jumped in his stance, anger flaring up in his face as he shot daggers at the person standing beside him. It was Ego, having taken a spot just to his right, somehow going unseen despite being so close. Velehk ignored the possibility that he was so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed them, instead hissing, “Why ain’t ye at the wheel?”

Ego gestured lazily across Velehk. “Lor’s got it,” they said, with no hint of care in their expression. “Now, look, look, I came over here for a reason, I’m not just slacking,” they grinned, pausing before adding, “Captain,” with unnecessary accentuation. They tapped their fingers along the wood of the railing they leaned on, continuing, “But you should probably try to hide your… oh, what do we call it? Your look of delight?”

Velehk’s markings pulsed a smidge brighter for just a moment, a dremora’s equivalent of a flushed face. He quickly masked the fear in his eyes as he gazed down, gesturing for Ego to meet him on his other side. They complied, realizing that it would be so Velehk could hide his face from the rest of the ship with the wide brim of his hat since the other side was buttoned up. Consequently, he was also able to get a better read on Ego’s expression with the in-tact half of their head facing him now. With a low, anxious tone, he asked, “Was it that noticeable?”

“Oh, buddy-captain of mine,” they went to pat his shoulder, but recoiled when his bird suddenly landed on said spot, intercepting Ego’s hand. Scuttle shook his head as he folded his spectral wings against his body, getting an automatic pet on his chest from Velehk. Ego instead took their hand back to their hair, pulling strands away from their face. “If there are any other perceptive romantics on this ship, they’d spot that look clear from Elsweyr.”

“Romantics?” Velehk echoed, his face twisting into a blend of angry disbelief and horror. “I wasn’t—”

“I never accused you of anything,” Ego put their hands up. “But uh… that doesn’t mean someone else won’t.” They tried to wink, but the singular eye only presented an awkward blink.

Velehk’s frown straightened as he took in their words, turning away from them again and gazing back down at Rakell. He made sure to deliberately lower his brow to stave off any aforementioned accusations… but still found his mind wandering into a world of hopeful fantasy. He hummed as his eyes were drawn to Rakell’s lower half, watching his heavy steps tread carefully across the swaying boat, gaze crawling up to—

He groaned aloud, quiet and quick, and averted his gaze once more. “He’s awful cute, but that’s all I’ll give him.”

“Knew it,” Ego snickered.

Velehk pointed at them. “Ye don’t know shit.”

“Look, look,” they turned against the railing, putting their back to the posts and visually counting with their fingers as they went down the list. “I don’t read. I’m bad at math. Worldly knowledge is still lost on me. I don’t know your vocabulary, or your songs, or your drinks. My social skills are oblivious on a good day.” Every tap of their fingers against each other made a new tink sound. “But if I don’t know ‘shit’ about your starry-eyed expression, then you don’t know shit about being a captain,” they grinned the whole way through, adding one last, “Captain,” to the end of their speech.

Velehk’s icy glare was matched by his bird, who hopped down onto the railing and waddled closer to Ego. He pecked the muscle of their arm with a hefty jab and pinch of the beak, making Ego jump with a yelp. They rubbed their new bruise as Velehk chuckled, “Good bird.”

“I’m not trying to insult you, Captain!” Ego laughed.

“Tryin` don’t mean succeedin`.”

Ego attempt to reclaim their spot on the railing, but Scuttle’s hollow glare kept them at bay, so instead they danced around Velehk to try to get close enough to speak comfortably, but stay far enough not to bother him. “All I’m saying is…” they snuck back to the other side of him, wary as Scuttle began his catwalk over. “Maybe you should talk to him,” they whispered.

Velehk intercepted Scuttle’s reign of terror across the railing, taking him onto his arm and beckoning him further up to his shoulder. “Yer insane, y’know that? I don’t have a clue why I’m surprised either; there’s stories of ye dancing with Sheogorath.” He gave Scuttle’s cheek a scritch. “Maybe I’m the fool for inviting this git onto my ship.” Ego inhaled to protest, but Velehk continued with a smirk, “No, no, that can’t be right… I’m never the fool.”

Ego’s smile straightened as they tried to wedge themself back into the conversation. “I could even help. I know Rakell, he’s a…” they stopped themself short of saying ‘good man,’ swaying their head side to side as they came up with a new assortment of words, “…loyal man.”

“I’ve got plenty of loyalty on board already.”

Ego raised their metal brow, glanced at Lorelei across the deck, but ultimately decided it would be best to say nothing. “I’m not telling you to reenact a fairytale, but…” Velehk gave them a glare beneath the shadow of his hat, and Ego thought twice about their next string of words. “Maybe you could just… have a chat with him? He’s always wanted to meet the Pirate King Velehk Sain,” they grinned wide.

Velehk’s eyes narrowed.

Ego caught themself, “Captain Velehk Sain.”

Velehk nodded with acceptance, forgiving the slip-up, but ultimately continuing to ignore Ego. They sighed, widely gesturing out to the deck where Rakell worked. “Just try to meet him. Privately! Not in front of a crowd acting all boisterous with the higher-than-thee attitude—”

“Thou, anchor, higher-than-thou. If yer goin` t’quote yer landlubbin` literature, then at least know what yer sayin`.”

Ego stopped, raised a claw in recognition, and pointed out, “I told you I didn’t read much.”

“That much is obvious.”

“But still, you—”

“And none of my attitude is an act, either, git,” he stopped them again. “I’m the same man on and off deck.”

Ego’s voice wavered as they went to jump in and correct him, but they stopped just short of insult. Velehk’s eyes went wide and angry all at once, knowing exactly what they were bound to reference. He made a heavy step toward them, to which they fell back, but he continued his pursuit. “Somethin` on yer mind?” he hissed as Ego backpedaled to the side of the ship. “Anchor?”

They gave their telltale nervous chuckle, shrugging innocently. “No, no, all empty up here.” They side-stepped toward the stairs in an effort to escape, but Velehk was quick to draw his sword and strike the wood just to their right, stopping them in their tracks. They jolted, and their nervous grin turned cocky. They met eyes with Velehk, having a sudden look of fake realization. “Though… there is one thing.”

Velehk straightened himself.

Ego kept their voice quiet. “If I remember our time together,” the grip on the sword stiffened, “you never once had that look in your eyes with me.”

“That doesn’t mean shit,” Velehk whispered back.

“Does it not?” Ego let themself relax. “I saw you make a lot of revelations that night,” they tapped the blade of his sword, “But never once was I convinced you had a crush.”

With one quick movement, the tip of the sword threatened the bottom of Ego’s chin. “Keep talkin`,” Velehk furiously encouraged.

Ego shook their head. “Talking? Sorry, Captain, my head went empty again. Lost my thought.”

Velehk bit his tongue, heat burning in his chest from offense. He pulled the sword away, stepping right into Ego’s space and fisting the collar of their robe, threatening to push them over. “Ah ah!” Ego interjected, making him pause as they reached for their hip, retrieving a dragon priest mask that was fastened to their belt. “Just… entertain the thought. A drink or two with him wouldn’t kill you. I think you’d like his stories, too.”

“I don’t owe ye anythin.`”

“I wouldn’t be benefiting from anything,” they pointed out, slipping Volsung over their head. After a pause, they relaxed fully. “You can flip me, now.”

Velehk sighed through his nose, shoving their chest and lifting their leg in a split second, letting them topple over the side of the ship. He swore they laughed as they went down and crashed into the water.

A couple entertained whistles and celebratory claps rang across the ship as Velehk regained his composure. He turned back, calling, “We’ve got at least two minutes of peace, enjoy it!”

Rakell couldn’t stop the dopey smile that spread across his face — it was the first time he’d seen Velehk flip someone, and the joy was multiplied upon seeing that the victim was Ego.

“That’s the fourth fucking time.” He heard someone curse as they approached. Rakell turned to find a short Imperial meeting Kynreeve, asking with annoyance, “Spare wax, Kyn? Gotta fix that railing.”

“Yessir,” the quartermaster complied with a smile.

“Fourth?” Rakell echoed, tailing the two of them as they walked to the stairs leading below deck.

“And they just keep coming back. Dragon-fucker boat-ramming blond bastard,” the Imperial groaned, turning to Rakell. “Heracles. Hera. Either or,” he introduced himself.

“Rakell,” he responded, holding out a hand too late as Hera had already turned away, unintentionally missing the pleasantry. “Have ye sparred with the Captain yet?”

Rakell lowered his hand. “Sorry?” he blinked, pausing just before the stairs.

“Ye plan on stayin` with us?” Hera paused too, glancing back as Kyn walked ahead.

“If I can.”

“Then you’ll be sparrin` the captain soon,” he repeated. “It’ll probably happen before we land in the next port. Hope yer not sore by then.”

“What’d you mean ‘spar’?”

“It ain’t tonal magic, Oblivion-walker,” Hera raised a brow, “The captain tests yer strength to see if yer worthy of bein` on board.” He turned to the stairs, leaving Rakell behind. “But if yer as slow as ye were today, it’d take a miracle for ye to stay!” Kyn was at the bottom of the stairs waiting on Hera, and he rolled his eyes with a joking smile. He called back up to Rakell, “You’ll be fine, kynsman. But be ready!”

Before Rakell could respond, the both of them were gone, and he was beckoned to move out of the way of the doorframe by another crew member passing. He was left somewhat speechless, his head racing with thoughts. Sparring Velehk Sain? He didn’t realize that was part of the quota for joining. He turned his gaze towards the quarterdeck, finding Velehk pushing through the doors of his quarters and disappearing behind dark wood. A fleeting feeling rose in his chest, gone in an instant, but its echoes left tremors in his body. He palmed his sternum to ease his heart, feeling hair and skin, and suddenly becoming very self-aware of the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt while Velehk was watching.

He hadn’t felt so… nervous for two centuries.

Thankfully, Ego’s return was able to distract him from his thoughts. They arrived while adorned in glorious colors, horns, and wings — Dragon Aspect, something Rakell had seen before, and realized that much of the crew had probably also seen if this was their fourth return. Rakell made his way to the soggy Dragonborn to ask about the other three times.

In the captain’s quarters, Velehk was rubbing his face in terrible despair. Scuttle fluttered from his shoulder to the dresser, giving little cooes of reassurance as Velehk paced around the table in the middle of the room, tapping each chair as he lost himself in thought. He silently cursed Ego’s name, then his own, and thought of that twice damned Dagon dremora…

Velehk sighed aloud and shook his head. “Scuttle,” he spoke, “Maybe I am the fool.” The bird fluttered down onto the table, stationing himself close to Velehk’s hand as he leaned against the furnishing. He grinned down at Scuttle, hardly able to believe that he was playing right into Ego’s words.

He went to his desk, searching through one of the drawers and pulling out a coin purse. He fished out a handful of septims, already planning what type of drinks he’d buy for Rakell when they hit port. “Nah. Not maybe,” he murmured to himself, continuing his earlier sentiment. “I definitely am.”

#rakell #calamity #ego #Lorelei #velehk sain #Kynreeve #heracles #scuttle #tes #tesblr #sitw #salt in the wound #ozzy writes

[nine-of-words]

Out in the Cold (Part Two)

M Orc x M Troll (Hulder) Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG || NEXT

Wordcount: 3473

Content Warnings: Emetophobia (Brief Mention of Vomiting)

I’ve been snowed in today, so it seems very fitting to post more of this story now :)

You’re not afraid to admit it; self control has never been your strong suit.

And in a way much reflective of your nature, you’ve completely lost steam. Relaxing as much as you can on the uncomfortable rock you’re sitting on, you fondly think back on the day you came here last winter, while chewing on more of your meager rations than you should. It’s hard not to feel nostalgic, even with the frankly pathetic way you ended up on the settlement’s doorstep.

They still took you in, even when they didn’t have to- and now you have a full year’s worth of memories of the orcs you’ve lived amongst.

…You suppose those memories will always be twinged with a more bittersweet quality, from now on. 

You’ll have to learn to live with it…

It’s not like you need them, anyway, you try to convince yourself. It’s gotten harder to do that now- after everything that’s happened- than when you first arrived, that’s for sure.

You're knocked from your thoughts by the reverberating sound of a hunting horn in the distance, carried even over all the ground you've covered because of the thick blanket of snow.

"Dammit-" You curse and scramble from your seat at once, then haphazardly shove your remaining travel provisions back into your pack.

Your daydreaming got out of hand, and now your headstart is spent. The orc hunting party will be on your tail any moment now, with strides much bigger than yours. You take off once again, footsteps nearly silent as you dash through the snowy woods.

Over the next few hours, your inescapable streak of bad luck rears its inevitable head. 

That tree looks familiar. And you’re pretty sure you've seen that configuration of rocks recently…

You brush it off as nerves, at first. You’re just getting into your own head. You know where you’re going- after all, you did have the brilliant foresight to pack a map and a compass, to combat your unfortunately lacking sense of direction.

…Until you come across a set of tracks in the snow.

There's no way they caught up already, let alone lapped me!

Taking a closer look, they're definitely from boots. Petite ones.

Not an orc’s, for sure. Who else would be out here? This isn’t good hunting weather… Out of curiosity, you line up your own boot next to one of the tracks.

…It’s a perfect match.

You… have managed to come across your own tracks in the snow.

Oh no. No, no, no- Not again-

You dig in your pack, looking for your compass and map.

…Which are not there.

A pit of despair knots in your stomach. You must’ve left it behind on the rock you were resting on earlier, after the sound of the horn spooked you.

Then it dawns on you - not only are you lost, you haven't even attempted to cover your tracks.

Your palm meets your forehead in irritation with yourself. You let out a long sigh, your fluffy tail swishing violently. 

This was supposed to be simple. You planned your exit strategy for weeks.

And yet you’ve already managed to screw it up this bad.

Why is it always like this?

Why are you always so unlucky?

The Spirits must really have it out for you…

LAST WINTER

“Here’s your package, granny.” You say in the most charming voice you can muster as you approach. “You look absolutely radiant today, I might add.”

Since you’re a newcomer to the tribe without skill in an applicable trade, for the last few weeks you’ve been here, you’ve been doing general odd-jobs. Some other orcs do this sort of work as well for various reasons, but it seems to be where everybody starts, outsiders included. You tend to favor the delivery jobs; you’ve always been quick, and they’re hard to mess up too badly.

“Oh stop, you’re such a sweetheart.” The elderly orc stops her work at the loom and stretches her leathery green hands out to take the bundle. She pauses when she sees the label, though, and immediately bursts out in raucous laughter.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, your soft, pointed ears flattening back against your head in dread.

“Hahah- Oh no, little one, that package is for the other Ghorza. Ghorza Gog-Burzog. The one that lives by the mill? It says right here…” She taps the text with her fingertip.

You swear internally as you make your way back across the entire settlement. Though the orcs here speak the universal tongue for the most part, all of their writing is in the Orcish alphabet, and while you’ve started to recognize some of it, you haven’t fully gotten the hang of reading it yet.

At least granny gave you a jar of her winter berry preserves to take home with you for your trouble.

This is not the first time this has happened today. What should’ve been a morning chore has taken you into the late afternoon. By the time the other Ghorza gets her package and you head back to the middle of the settlement, the sun is starting to paint the horizon with streaks of red, mocking you.

Maybe he’ll not be here and I can just… pick a quick, easy task from the board to finish before sundown. That way, I'll still make the job quota for today…

You cringe as you walk into the vestibule leading to the great hall, and are unable to miss Torg’s looming presence sitting in his attached office, the door propped wide open. You attempt to pass unnoticed by the open door, towards the job board posted right beside it, utilizing all of your skill in stealth trained over years of being an accomplished thief, to try to save yourself the misery.

Then he says your name, and you cringe, cursing internally before slinking back into view of the doorway.

It’s not that he’s rude or cruel to you, but he’s just so damn observant. You can barely do a task, it seems like, without him showing up to check on you. Half the time you’re surprised he’s not still watching you like a hawk while you sleep at night in your singles’ dormitory bunk- criticizing your method and ready to give terse advice on how to get better rest.

It’s like he’s just waiting for you to screw up. And when you do, because it is a question of when and not if- he’s right there to witness your incompetence and correct you.

“Where have you been?” Torg says gruffly, not looking up from the papers laid out in front of him. “It’s nearly evening.”

“There were… some complications.” You rub your neck.

“Got lost again, then?” If you didn’t know any better from his weary, disappointed tone, you could swear you see the edge of his lip twitch in amusement around his tusk.

“No!” You let out an exasperated sigh. "Simply a minor mix up. Don't you worry, I came back to take another job before the day's out. I’m not trying to slack."

"No need." He rises out of his chair, tidying up the papers a bit as he does. "I have a job you can help me with instead."

“What would that be?”

“Wort and I had kitchen duty for dinner tonight, but Wort sprained his ankle on a tree root earlier and can’t put weight on it for now. You will be joining me instead, so Cook doesn’t have to work on one of his nights off.”

“Er… I can’t say I have much experience cooking, but I’ll do my best.”

“Great. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

It doesn’t take long before you’ve arrived in the kitchen, washed up and donned aprons. 

Yours, of course, hangs halfway down your stomach, because this apron is designed for Orcish proportions. 

“Here.” Torg shakes his head with a sigh, motioning for you to come to him. “Turn around. I’ll shorten it.”

You comply and turn your back to him, and you feel his hands start tying the neck strap into a knot at the midpoint.

You barely manage to keep from audibly gulping in fear. This man could squash you like a bug with minimal effort, and you’re showing him the bare nape of your neck, completely defenseless. You would be shuddering in fear, but his fingers are surprisingly gentle against your skin as they work the fabric into a knot.

It’s sickeningly anxiety-inducing and oddly intimate- and then it’s over just like that.

“There you go.” He nods, then ducks into the pantry. He returns in a few moments, coming over with a huge basket of various tubers and leafy greens under his arm.

“Since you said you don’t have much experience, we’re going to keep things simple: Winter Root Stew.” He places the basket down with a soft thump. “How comfortable are you with using a knife?”

“I know my way around one.” Sure, you’re more used to cutting purse strings with them and not vegetables… But he doesn’t need to know that, right?

“Good. You’re going to peel and cut these, and then put them in the cauldron. Greens get washed and then go in later. Easy. I’ll be cooking the game that the hunters brought in earlier, if you need help.”

Work goes surprisingly fast, and your deft hands are soon slinging cut root vegetables into the bubbling bone stock at a snappy pace. In fact, things go so smoothly that you are surprised you've managed to complete the task without any unlucky hiccups. 

When you've finished, you're drawn to the other side of the kitchen by the sound of sizzling fat and the scent and browning meat. Torg is there, tending to a large, open oven. 

"That smell is heavenly."

Torg grunts in agreement, strong arms working to stoke the burning logs underneath.

The food here has been surprisingly good, especially after having it conditioned into you growing up in a more civilized town that Orcish cuisine surely must all be grey slop. It's definitely heavier than standard faire, but you've found that it has its own rustic charm- with its rich flavors, game meat, and tendency towards rib-sticking density- that's begun to grow on you.

“Venison. A few late winter fowl as well."

"Damn, who doesn't love a man who can cook…?" You sigh. 

Torg is oddly silent for a moment before letting out a small chuff of a laugh, then promptly changing the subject.

"Did you season the stew yet?" He brushes off your flattery with a wry smile.

"Ah, no I have not. What should I use?"

"Mostly salt. But some basic herbs and spices will be good enough." He points out the jars on the shelf to use and dictates what quantities, slowly and deliberately, since you can't fully read their labels yet.

"Okay, got it."

You confidently return to the prep area, mentally repeating a mantra of the ingredients and their amounts. You manage to collect most of the bottles just based on your sharp memory, until you come across the last needed ingredient. Two apparently identical versions of the same bottle sit side by side, even the labels looking nearly identical.

Urgh, which one is the ground mustard seed? They look the same…

Maybe there’s two bottles of it?

You chew your lip in thought, looking at the script on the bottle labels. The squiggles might as well be chicken scratch to you.

You peek back at Torg. He’s completely engrossed in basting the meat, with his back turned to you. 

You don’t want to bother him. You want to stay on his good side to keep your cover and not get kicked out before you’ve finished your job. But strangely, you also are beginning to harbor a strong desire to prove that you’re competent.

…Wait, it’s definitely this one. I recognize that letter!

You take the cap off and take a whiff. The familiar, pungent, biting scent fills you with confidence.

Yep! That’s mustard alright!

Now, how much did he say again…?

You can’t recall. So, you unceremoniously dump an enormous amount of each seasoning into the cauldron.

The more flavor the better, right? Plus, this is a huge pot…!

When you’re done, you help Torg with a few other easy tasks while everything finishes cooking. By the time the stew has had enough time to boil and meld together for a while, Torg is pulling the meat out to rest before slicing. 

He walks over to the cauldron to taste a small spoonful of the liquid.

Why are you suddenly filled with anxiety? It’s just vegetable stew, and you’re not even a real cook… But you find yourself dangling on a ledge waiting for his reaction.

“Hmgh-” He winces slightly, one bottom eyelid twitching, but quickly covers it with a small, tusky smile. “A little over seasoned- but not bad at all.”

“Really?” Your voice perks up.

“Yes. You did a good job.”

“...Thanks.” You can’t stop yourself from beaming.

Why is a bit of simple praise over such a menial task making you feel so happy…? Sure, you don’t exactly get praised that often, but still… You don’t need it…

You’re just here to do a job, you remind yourself. Once you figure out where the artifact you’ve been sent here for is, it’s the simple matter of getting your hands on it and getting out cleanly.

You don’t need to care about approval from any of these brutes in the least…

“Well then, let’s get this stuff out to be served.” Torg grabs the handle of the cauldron with both hands, lifting the heavy wrought iron vessel with barely any exertion besides a rough grunt. You’re nearly caught up contemplating the easy show of raw physical strength, before Torg’s instruction snaps you back to attention. “Grab some of the bread baskets and follow me.”

You comply, and soon you’re set up methodically ladling hot stew out of the cauldron and into the waiting wooden bowls of hungry orcs queued in the grub line.

This is… almost kind of nice?

No one is looking at you with pitying looks as you make another mistake or struggle to complete a task. Just a nod, maybe an appreciative grunt or mono-syllabic expression of approval, before they move on.

You can’t help but feel a pleasant, calm focus, and a boost to your self-esteem as you work through the line, working to the sounds of the lively dining hall.

Unfortunately, the peaceful sense of accomplishment is tragically short lived.

Suddenly, the good cheer of mealtime is disrupted as a loud tremor of havoc winds through the dining hall. Wooden chairs and benches and tables scrape loudly, some overturning and falling to the floor, though that’s barely audible over all of the booming voices yelling.

You’ve not really witnessed any brawling yet, despite being told to expect it; that orcs are violent and dole out black eyes and rip off earlobes with their teeth like it’s nothing, over the smallest of disputes.

This doesn’t seem like a brawl, though.

Torg swiftly leaves the serving line, immediately parting the crowd to get to the heart of the issue. You watch as a few different orcs are dragged outside by others, into the snow.

“Nothing else served!” One of the other orcs on the serving line barks after convening with someone that’s run over to them from closer to the commotion. You let the ladle rest on the edge of the cauldron, a sinking feeling from your throat to the pit of your stomach.

That’s how you find yourself sitting on a stool in the kitchen hours later, your hands bound with scratchy cord and two gruff, irritated looking orc guards watching you closely. 

Not long after, the huge, seething Chieftain returns to interrogate you. 

“What kind of poison was it?!” He roars as he storms into the room with a bang, the door threatening to explode off the hinges behind him.

“P-Poison?!” You barely squeak out. You shield your face with your hands, if only to dampen the larger man’s thunderous volume. 

“Don’t play dumb! Everyone who had a serving of the stew you made fell violently ill within minutes!” He gestures widely towards the door to the dining hall.

“I didn’t poison anyone! I wouldn't- !”

Poison has never been your style…

“Then explain! ” He snarls, nostrils flaring and teeth fully bared in anger. “What did you put in that stew?!”

Despite the yelling, you feel strangely safe. You don’t think this is going to get physical. You’ve never seen Torg get violent with anyone, and if anything, he seems to be struggling to keep his loud, expressive rage reeled back.

Moreover, during the interrogations you’ve endured at the hands of other authority figures in the past… the beating usually would’ve already started a while ago, if it was going to happen.

“N-Nothing, except what you told me to!” You whimper, quickly rattling off the list of spices you memorized like an incantation. “Salt, Pepper, Paprika, Dill, Mustard Seed-“

Torg turns, and his eyes scour the shelves of spices as you list off items. His hand hovers above the bottle of mustard seed, and after a moment of thought, he grabs both it, and the bottle beside it.

He brings them over, presenting both of the bottles to you. You lower your hands slightly to look at them.

“Tell me,” He says your name grimly, and takes a deep breath before asking his next question, voice still dripping with barely restrained rage. “Which of these is mustard seed?”

“That one.” You point to the bottle you used with your bound hands.

His shoulder jerks as if he’s about to fling the bottle to smash against the wall, but he apparently resists the urge, setting the bottle on the counter instead and releasing his white-knuckled grip on the lid.

“This is not mustard seed. It is bellow-seed.” He says through gritted teeth.

“Bellow-seed?”

“A spice made from a plant in the mustard family. Not a poison.” A bit of relief is clear in his voice and body language despite the clear vestiges of rage still burning inside.  “But in large quantities, it is a powerful emetic.”

You look at him blankly.

“It makes you empty your stomach.” He speaks slowly, forcefully annunciating each word. “Violently.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry.” You say weakly. “I- They were just right next to each other and I couldn’t read the label, but it smelled like mustard, so-”

“If you were unsure, you should have asked! I was right there!” He growls, his large palm finds the side of his head in disdain. “I told you to ask for help.”

You don’t have an answer for that, besides your inflated sense of ego and wanting to avoid your own embarrassment. You simply sit there pitifully, soft feline ears swiveled back in shame.

After a few moments of you failing to come up with an answer or excuse, Torg pinches his glabella and lets out a long, exasperated sigh.

“...Did you do this on purpose?” He finally asks.

“No.” You look him directly in the eye and say with conviction.

Torg nods, then undoes the ropes holding your wrists together himself in tense silence.

“Is… everyone going to be okay?” You ask tentatively and rub the indentation on your wrist, the guilt of your mistake already eating at your conscience.

“You- go to tell Shaman-” He ignores your question and gives one of the guards orders, then the other. “And you, take him home. He stays there until morning, until his story is confirmed.”

You’re pulled to your feet, then lead back towards the dormitory. As you trudge through the snow, you can’t shake the feeling of guilt. It follows you all the way back to your dormitory, and weighs on your chest as you’re finally in bed for the night, tossing and turning.

What’s your punishment going to be? Surely, nothing good. And sure, your cover didn’t get blown yet, but they still might exile you for putting people in danger, and you wouldn’t be able to finish the job- 

What’s your guildmaster going to do when word gets back that you ruined the one chance to do the job? Fritz has never been the most understanding when it comes to failure.

You suppose you could just go on the run if you fail, but… you have a feeling that messing up such a big job will earn you a grudge, and he has a well-earned reputation for not letting those go. You doubt you’d get very far without the past coming back to haunt you.

You heave a sigh.

More importantly… What if you really hurt someone with your seasoning mishap? Usually the only one paying for your mistakes is you…

 You don’t sleep well that night.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST >> ☕ KO-FI

#exophilia #monster lover #monster romance #monster x reader #orc x reader #orc #male reader #male monster #troll reader #mlm #mxm #male x male #oc: reyr #oc: torg #series: out in the cold #nine of words

[sonicasura]

Personal Headcanons #4

Some more headcanons for you folks but this one is gonna be a bit special. I'll be including an OC and an AU version of a character as well! Enjoy!

Knack

Absolutely shy and skittish in the first two weeks of his creation. It wasn't uncommon for Doctor Vargas or Lucas to find Knack hiding somewhere. A few spots were creative while some... I think the 13 foot fellow made out of relics hiding behind a potted plant is very obvious.

Sporadic copycat. Knack tends to copy certain things he sees from actions to basic body movement. Blinking? Definitely copied despite not needing to. Homing Attack? He saw Lucas play Sonic once and thought it was cool. Knack even mimics the Doc's way of stimming which is tapping his fingers to make a random beat.

Can actually purr funnily enough. Even when he's in his smallest form, 2'6 and mute, Knack somehow able to purr. The only explanation the Doctor could think of is the chest orb is just copying the action via a loud acoustic hum. Still doesn't stop Knack from rumbling like a mini jackhammer as a 32' giant.

He sometimes hates being small. Without the ability to use relics to manipulate his size, Knack is effectively mute and has difficulty pulling down a large lever. Although his 'cute' appearance doesn't scare the crap out of people like a relic behemoth with sharp claws, large teeth paired to a scary mug.

Jim Lake Jr (Half Troll)

Has multiple cases of dysphoria after being transformed. Sometimes Jim thinks he's smaller like as if he was still human. Blinky or Claire had to pull him out whenever he got stuck. In need of food therapy too as Jim keeps trying to eat human food only to make himself sick later.

Sensory overload in the smell and hearing department. Jim tends to get overstimulated so much that sometimes he will just shut down. Claire gotten him some noise cancelling headphones while his troll mentor got a face mask to help with his heightened sense of smell.

Gets the zoomies. Considering he's technically an infant in troll years despite being 16-17 half human, Jim has a LOT more energy to burn. Blinky might've stolen a drone for his half troll student to chase. No one wants to deal with a hyperactive kid on a long ass exodus fron California to New Jersey.

Decides to learn how to make troll food. Jim can't really eat most of the stuff he used to as a human and eating just utensils tends to get stale. Plus he misses being able to eat his own cooking. Blinky got him a lot of cooking books and tries to procure any ingredients he can.

Tikki Cho (OC)

Likes collecting various stuff akin to a tame hoarder. Tikki has an organized stash of various items from books, collectible figures, movies and videogames. Any duplicates are given to children related charities, the local library or friends.

Tikki's love language in general(both platonic and romantic) is physical affection. She likes to hug or nuzzle people if given permission. Even holding hands is enough for her. It's easier to notice Tikki's Angora Rabbit traits as it isn't uncommon for someone's arms to vanish in her fur via hug.

There are often misconceptions when it comes to Tikki's eyes. Some people tend to think she's blind or imagine what her full face looks like. A bias stemmed from how her hair practically covers everything the nose. Tikki politely clears any misconception whether verbally or brush her hair aside to show her green eyes.

Rarely curses. Tikki doesn't swear much as she doesn't care about foul language in general. Is in the 'Will Say Fuck' section cause any big emotional reaction guarantees a curse from her. Rage tends to get the most.

Jim Lake Jr (Beastformer/ Troll or More)

Has accidentally set trees on fire multiple times with his horns. Jim had quite a temper when he was younger which usually led to fire shooting out than smoke. He gotten better since he began living with Barbara but it still happens.

Mischief maker. It isn't uncommon for Jim to prank others in the dead of night. Most of his antics are harmless like burying someone's bird fountain in acorns or a water balloon trap at the door. Although folk he doesn't like will find a bite taken out of their cars and goats in their backyard.

Definitely had to take a bath multiple times cause he got really dirty. Sometimes punk teenagers would dump paint over him in vehicle mode or Jim lands to a big mud puddle in beast mode. Barbara always hoses him down as going through a car wash feels too weird.

You know how a octopus will suddenly punch a fish out of spite? That's Jim right here but it's just a bad habit. In vehicle form, he often opens his car door just for a cyclist to crash into it or punch an unsuspecting troll before hiding his robotic arm. In Beast form he just headbutts people like a goat. Jim lightly tap his horns against Barbara a few times at best and rammed Strickler twice at worst.

And that's it! Until next time folks, I'll see you later!

#sonicasura #personal headcanons #trollhunters #tales of arcadia #tales of arcadia trollhunters #toa trollhunters #toa #knack #knack videogame #knack ps4 #jim lake junior #jim lake jr #james lake junior #james lake jr #tikki cho #my ocs #troll!jim #troll jim #half troll jim #half troll!jim #transformers series #transformers #beastformers #beastformer!jim #beastformer jim #beast!jim #beast jim #cybertronian jim #cybertronian!jim

[halloweensuittruffles]

YOYO i saw you write for our favorite partytroll lanque, could we have lanque dragging the reader and he ends up confessing red feelings to them, in the most hardass way possible?

AYEE!! Id love to! It’s fun to think about that lil jade having to say how he feels 💚💚 Hope you like it!!

❤️❤️Lanque x Reader❤️❤️: Confession

Good lord this wasnt happening.. Lanque was cursing at himself repeatedly as he was reapplying his eyeliner and pure black lipstick in the mirror. Of course he’s got karma coming at him like this. An alien (aka you reading heh) just shows up and ruins his whole persona.

He found you funny to pick at at first, you were strangely cute to him despite it looking like you had a mutant troll disease and no horns. You were someone he had never seen before (cause you were a damn alien of course)

So he would sometimes see you at more and more parties and how carefree you could be without doing anything too crazy. It bewildered the jade but fascinated him at the same time. What confused him more was the color feelings he was seeming to have in the first place for you.

They weren’t hate, they were pity. Red. Pure red. And Lanque wanted to rip his hair out for it-

Ok enough! Enough! He thought.

“Stop being such a fucking pussy!!”

Lanque spat at himself with distaste in the mirror. Unfortunately for lanque his anger at himself melted away as quickly as it showed up and he just felt pathetic. Why was this so hard?? He felt like a wriggler that could barely reach it’s grub food due to its large horns.

As usual Lanque had a party he could go to tonight, he knew you’d be there sense you both had texted eachother about it previously

So why the hell is he acting this way..

The jade let those thoughts just stay bottled up though and waited for when the hive (the party was at) as blasting noise and color almost as big as the green sun itself. Lanque slipped inside making quick pace to squeeze easily past the fellow trolls near.

You were exactly where he thought you’d be! You were sitting on the edge of a couch in the living room with one of those red party cups in your free hand (though it didn’t have liquor in it, just soda pop of a purple color with pink swirls in it)

When Lanque saw you look up in his general direction he couldn’t help but grin at you slightly. Your eyes focused on him eventually and you smiled back waving at the jade.

You were so well…alien to put it lightly haha! It just interested the troll so much..

You scooted a bit to give room for Lanque to sit down. It was always fun to see your ol buddy Lanque. You quickly finished the sentence you were typing on your phone before giving the jade your full attention

“I didn’t expect you here actually,” you chirped sipping your cup “I thought you preferred more…uh..out there parties!”

Langue snorted a laugh, running a claw through his black locks of hair

“That Was last Week, sometimes eVen I need a fucking break” He playfully nudged his elbow into yours as he spoke. Earning a laugh from you

“Didn’t know that was possible” you giggled

“Do you eVen know what you’re drinking?” The jade questioned his nose crunching up some

You go to answer that question but your face quickly drops. Huh. Yea you actually really don’t know? You saw other trolls picking it up and drinking it so you just joined.

“This is squeakbeast poison.”

Even though you had only taken a sip and already swallowed it you started coughing and spitting everywhere. Good lord!! This is how you finally kick the- uh just die I suppose!!

You’d be panicking more if the roaring laughter of the jade next to you didn’t make you stop you probably would just have kept coughing

“WHAT?!?” You yelped

“Joking, it’s just soda”

You huffed turning away slightly from Lanque with him still snickering

“Geez I didn’t know I was THAT gullible..”

You noticed Lanque’s expression soften from the corner of your eye making you turn to him directly. He seemed to be trying to scramble his think pan and figure what to say

“No nevermind-“ Lanque finally said to which you quickly protested

“What??”

The jade frowned at you, he looked like he had the worst headache and stomach bug at the same time.

“Ok I, look. I don’t understand this myself ok? It’s fucking confusing and I Want to stop feeling like this right the fuck now-“

Lanque leaned his face closer to yours and continued

“I really don’t get it- What it is about you that so- so-“ He paused, really trying to think

“You’re Just- someone I Want like, in my sweeps, but like more then now. Like I Want it to be constant.”

“You…want to hang out more?”

“Not just that- I-“

Finally, Lanque rested his claws over your hand looking deeply into your eyes, you felt your cheeks glow brightly with color

“Damnit Y/N I’m so flushed for you. Just, the thought of you, not being around sounds like torture. Or I- I don’t even know for FUCKSAKE if it’s flushed I’m feeling but- I Want you, as my quadrant..”

You didn’t know what to say- you, you just hugged him- so tight oh lord you hugged him. You’ve been waiting for that, but it never felt possible with Lanque..

#hiveswap #fanfic #fic request #hiveswap friendsim #x reader #lanque bombyx #lanque x reader #thank you for requesting! #THIS WAS FUN!! #SORRY FOR MY LATENESS #💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

[thecrews-shenanigans]

ANCESTORS!!!!!

I’l so so proud of how these 4 came out, I haven’t drawn them all in full lined art or colour in soooo long-

Anyway, from left to right, LORE + INFO TIME!!!!! [REBLOG > JUST LIKING‼️]

—————🔷——————-

[Our Gallant King, The Misfortunate] Ernezt “Dunkan” Giakna, 13 Sweeps, Gender-Fluid [Male presenting lean], Seer of Heart, Derse, 6’5, EDAAMP’S ANCESTOR. [The Wanderer, The Forsaken] Tozule Rhitis, 12 Sweeps, Agender [It/its, still presents male], Bard of Space, Prospit, 5’10, SKABEN’S ANCESTOR. [The Soldier, The Hornless] Torias Larksin, 12 Sweeps, He/Him, Maid of Mind, Derse, 5’9, Edaamp’s other dad, no direct sign descendant. [The Forager] Mazilk Harkux, 13 Sweeps, Transfem [She/Her], Sylph of Blood, Derse, 6’0, no known direct sign descendant. Tozule had slaughtered Mazilk and Torias in a fit of artificial rage, breaking the last remaining horn off of Torias and stabbing it into his gut, leaving him to bleed out. Mazilk fought back her previous matesprite with equal rage, only to have her throat punctured with a broken bottle of Smirnoff, slowly draining her of her life.

That only left Ernezt, the King of the Ceruleans, to finish the regret filled Tozule off with his trusty shovel. They were all such close friends, Mazilk was his Moirail in who he had known since he was young, and Torias was his matesprite, a noble weapon supplier and guard…What went wrong? He was the only one left alive, but not for long. A sweep after the tragedy and the hard, heavy hearted decision of leaving his grub Edaamp on a light year away planet…Ernezt had drowned himself in a river near his kingdom, never to wear the crown ever again. Ernezt still continues to look over Edaamp, though cannot muster up the courage to speak with him directly. He gives him gifts every wriggling day without him knowing where any of them come from. All four trolls’ souls are still cursed with the wounds that killed them, continuously bleeding; Ernezt is constantly dripping river water and spitting it up along with a broken horn due to Tozule’s impulsive attack, Tozule retains an eye scar Ernezt had given it before landing the final blow on its side, Torias’ horns are shattered to rough stubs along with his tattered gut, and Mazilk with her hole in her neck, forever open and disrupting her breathing every day life as a wandering ghost.

#Homestuck #homestuck art #homestuck troll #homestuck fanart #homestuck fantroll #fan troll #fantrolls #fantroll #homestuck ancestors #Ernezt Giakna [The Misfortunate] #🧿 #Tozule Rhitis [The Forsaken] #🫗 #Torias Larsin [The Hornless] #🚬 #Mazilk Harkux [The Forager] #🪴 #Edaamp Giakna #🍝 #original character backstory #oc backstory #homestuck oc #backstory #art #artist on tumblr #oc artist #artists on tumblr #digital artist #small artist #original art

[cerberling]

i don't wanna respond to the post i saw calling homestuck a good story about stories because they clearly enjoy it and it'd be rude to rip it to pieces on their post, but man, no.

it's a bad story from a storytelling perspective. it's not redeemed into a good 'story about stories' simply because of a metanarrative or themes about media / the type of media it is.

'the characters are meant to be real people, you need to view them through the lens of real people'. no, it's a story, at a base level they're characters. applying standard character analysis is appropriate because this isn't real life, and it is a story. if the end of the character's participation in the story is badly written/plotted out, this will predictably sour the reader's experience of the character, and will make the story worse. there are exceptions to this for specificially-nuanced media, but homestuck is not one of those exceptions.

homestuck is a story written by an author that hates it, who throws away whatever they want without care when they get bored of it or when it inconveniences their plot. Hussie just gives up on so many concepts. Terezi might as well have no denizen. Nepeta's planet is a throw-away joke because it makes a funny acronym, and has no further significance. there's character death, but then that's gotten rid of too many interesting characters so now they're brought back into the story, and we need to introduce double-death to have some semblance of stakes for them. we can't have Vriska actually die, no she needs to survive the black hole which has been (albeit only briefly) built up as the ultimate death, so that we can keep her around.

like come on. tell me how Equius lost his horn without giving a 'ooh it could be anything' copout. (not to shit on pesterquest but c'mon. even if they hadn't sat on the fence, answering after the story is a major copout. that's JKR levels of bad exposition. same for canonising June Egbert over a fucking toblerone.) tell me what Mituna's great sacrifice was. look me in the eyes and tell me Hussie didn't throw away all possible importance of the 10 unimportant alpha trolls to take a dig at tumblr.

what about the plot of the ending itself? what happened to the curse of immortality that HIC had? how was muse!Calliope's magic meant to work? did Hussie just want to finish his story, with no regard for cohesion or closure?

how do you excuse the literal retcon? this (amongst other things) is atrocious storytelling, it doesn't get a pass because of homestuck's special media format or its metanarrative. the worldbuilding gaps don't get a pass because of the interesting structure of the lore.

in my opinion, homestuck is alright and has a bad overall story, but as a bad 'story about stories', it is a good cautionary tale of why authors should make sure not to introduce core concepts that they'll get bored of later.

#homestuck #my post #uh idk what to tag this as really. not for other people to find it just as like categorisation #sorry if this isn't cohesive it's just. homestuck isn't god's gift to earth. imo it's not even good except for: the personalities of the #main cast; the jokes; and the structure of the lore.

[windy-trickster]

[CERVIN] -> It's all a dream, wake up

It was near closing time as the Blueblood librarian walked around the various shelves, wheeling a small cart filled with books in front of himself. They were all newly returned ones in good condition, just like how they should be. The soft tapping of Cervin's dress shoes against the freshly polished floor was the only sound to be heard. There wasn't a single nighttime critter even active, which was normal for the area Cervin's library was in. You really wouldn't see much around the area as well besides a couple of other establishments. Nothing too special, but oh well. It was a quiet little area and Cervin appreciated that dearly. Peace and quiet. Just how he liked it... The Blueblood turned a corner and started to walk down another aisle of shelves, planning on putting the books back. A soft chime rang out. Cervin looked up from the cart and blinked. That... That was the front doors. It was nearly closing time, who in the world would be coming to a library when morning was only a few hours away? Did this troll have a death wish or something? Cervin sighed. Duty called. He turned sharply on his heels and walked towards the lobby area, adjusting his glasses and putting on his typical neutral expression. But when he reached the front, he could feel his eyebrow twitch upwards in confusion. No one was there. The doors didn't even look like they had been touched. But he could've sworn he- A choked breath escaped his lips as someone's hands wrapped around his throat from behind, pulling him backwards without warning. His eyes shot wide open, his own hands reaching up to try to pry off his attacker's hands. His head tilted backwards instinctively. The color drained from his face at the figure above him. A tall, looming adult troll in a strange mask looked down at him, his one yellow eye seemed to glow. Dressed in Alternia's finest fabrics, jewelry and dark colors. And his horns... They were the same as Cervin's. Cervin clawed at the adult's hands, frantically trying to free himself. But the hands only gripped tighter and tighter, making the younger troll struggle to breathe.

The adult troll kept his eye locked onto Cervin's. This... Was this his Ancestor? But how? His Ancestor should be dead! Dead and buried in some unmarked grave! But here he was... Trying to strangle the life out of his own descendant. Cervin closed his eyes. He could feel his will to fight grow weaker and weaker by the minute. His futile attempts to escape his attacker's death grip weren't working. He was going to die here. Die to a man who's.... Supposed to be dead. Cervin closed his eyes and forced whatever strength he had left into talking, straining his neck upwards in hopes of getting some room to breathe. To speak. "You're.... You're not.... You're not.... Re a l! YOU'RE NOT RE A L!" Buzzzz... Buzzz... A dark room met Cervin as his eyes snapped open. The small heater in the corner of his respiteblock hummed softly, moving side to side to keep the room warm. Cervin sat up and looked around the room. His curtains were closed, blocking out the harmful sunlight that threatened to kill anyone who dared to walk in it's blazing glory. Buzzzz... Buzzz.... His palmhusk. He had missed messages. He reached over to his nightstand, feeling around for his device. Curses... He didn't have his glasses on and couldn't see shit! Ugh. He felt around for a couple more minutes before acquiring his glasses, slipping them on his face so he could properly read his messages. He had three. M9st Hated And Esteemed Kismesis: Call me when y9u wake up ne7d. Amdala Ravvna sent you an image Freana Elkena: Don't st4y up too l4te, Cerv. You know you need more sleep! ))_ Cervin sighed as he read the messages and looked over the image. Nothing felt.... Real at the moment, but getting to see these messages were at least... Comforting. ------- Mentioned trolls: Dracma Picpic - @wormstuck Freana Elkena - @jaded-daydream

#cervin dulcha #the scribe #writing #oc writing #windy writes

[typhoidmeri]

you're closing the door, you leave the world behind

It’s freezing, like flipping Space Hell freezing, and they’re lost. Miles from the stone circle where this nightmare of snow and ice was birthed into the world. The memory of ancient stones covered in blood runes and sheets of ice curdles in her belly.

Not for the first time Darcy wishes she had her mother’s gift. But no, her brothers got that. Darcy got skin that is incombustible, nails that needed an angle grinder instead of an emory board, and a pair of tiny horns (easily hidden by one of her many trademark hats (or the slightly illegal jar of glamour ointment from the Troll Market).

“Hurry up before my tits freeze off, Storm,” Darcy whines. Her teeth are close to chattering. Her nose won’t stop dripping. Little balls of snow bounce off the windows. The wind howling a mournful song for the ice demon slain by a prince of the Fire Nation and her own fair hands. The gun in her hands went without saying, she was her father’s daughter after all.

The Human Torch is hovering over a pile of logs, twigs, and crumpled balls of newspaper. He looks like hell frozen over. “Now that would be a tragedy,” he croaks.

Beads of sweat gather on his forehead and the skintight blue uniform sprayed onto his body looks like it’s seen better centuries. Johnny still looks good, half dead and Darcy spends far too much time admiring the shape of his ass as he crouches half inside the stone fireplace.

A shiver rattles through her body, from the tip of her slouchy beanie to the wet socks failing to keep her feet warm. Darcy tucks her gloved hands in her armpits cursing the whole mission. Fuck interdepartmental relations. The eye candy was not worth the price of B.P.R.D. working with the Fantastic Four.

read more on ao3.

@darcylewisbingohq

Darcy Lewis Bingo

Prompt: apocalypse

Bingo square: stone circle

#darcy lewis #johnny storm #darcy x johnny #meri writes fic #darcy lewis bingo

[muppenthings]

hm... Do you want to write a bit from Remy's perspective in the mythical au? Maybe him going to a coffee shop instead of seeing where Virgil's gone, or one of the tines he took Virgil out to get Big, or something?

I made a combination of the two kinda! You get a bonus Emile! ;)

---

Warnings: Food and coffee

Word count: 530

---

It was the perfect time and place for a second cup of coffee. The early morning rush for caffeine had died down, leaving only a few customers in Remy’s favorite coffee shop. It was nice and calm.

Remy closed his eyes as he took a long sniff of his freshly made pumpkin spice latte.

It was a treasured moment that couldn’t be spoiled by anything.

Except maybe the look Emile Picani was giving him across the table.

“… Do you want a different cookie?”

Emile sighed and lightly shook his head while pushing the offered chocolate chip cookie, still in its wrappings, away from himself. It was Emile’s day off, so he had dropped by the coffee shop for some breakfast. He had spotted the salamander sitting snugly in the couch group, latte in hand. A place he knew his colleague was not scheduled to be in at this hour…

“I thought you were supposed to take Virgil out of town?”

“I am. Soonish.” The salamander confirmed as he rather loudly slurped on his coffee.

“Where is he?” the witch asked.

Remy glanced towards the windows, not that Emile could tell where he was looking behind the dark shades. He couldn’t tell even if he wasn’t wearing the shades, with his black sclera and irises.

“My car.” Remy replied without missing a beat.

The witch made an affronted noise, oversized glasses sliding down his nose.

“You’re making him wait in the car?!”

“Look I’m gonna be stuck with him for hours later alright? I deserve this.” Remy tapped a finger on the side of the latte’s container to emphasize.

Emile corrected his glasses as he leveled the salamander with another look, not saying anything. His silence making Remy slightly squirm in his seat.

“He can handle a little waiting!” Remy exclaimed when Emile raised an eyebrow. “He’s not a kid-”

A loud drawn-out car horn blared from outside, effectively cutting Remy off.

A second, equally long blare was unleashed. Customers and workers inside the coffee shop turned to look outside, wondering what the fuss was about.

The car horn kept blasting, each signal effectively pushing Remy’s button just a little bit more.

“… But he is a brat.” Remy all but growled, a thin wisp of smoke curling from his lips.

Emile didn’t bother trying to hold back his amused chuckle. Remy let out a string of curses before getting up from the couch, tail swishing in irritation behind him. Outside the car horn blasted away.

“You want that?” the salamander gestured to the cookie; the witch smiled and shook his head again saying the angry troll in the car might be appeased by it.

Remy snorted and collected his things, cookie included, and bid his colleague adieu before marching towards the exit. The annoying sound of the car horn spilled into the shop as the door opened only to abruptly stop once Remy stepped outside the building; Emile guessed the troll could see Remy’s expression from there.

Emile followed Remy’s quick strides towards his parked car, thin smoke trailing him. Was this how the two usually got along? Maybe he should offer to take the troll out next time…

#Ask #nonbinary-octopus #mythical au #Muppen writes #Sanders Sides #ts Remy #ts Emile #ts Virgil #mostly mentioned #Oh this was so much fun to write xD #Thanks for the idea! #tw food

[arsenicxarcana]

WANF: Legacy

(questionable canonity, way after all the other tales so far)

***

Lucio peers down into the small black crib in the small dark room in their small dark home in Nevivon.

The figure inside the crib is so small. So fragile.

He thinks he wants to kill it.

He doesn’t know why. Before he was imprisoned in the realms, the idea of children was a baffling but delightful thought, some beautiful fantasy of having a legacy left behind beyond what damage he’d done to Vesuvia. He would have doted on the child, loved it like his own mother never had.

But looking down at this thing, this lump of mortal flesh some swarthy middleground between the blinding pale complexion of one parent and the rich darkness of the other, this thing with a thin coat of dark hair over its body matching a small auburn tuft on its head, this beautiful, horrible, miraculous product of arcane magic he would never understand - he wants to kill it.

Maybe it’s simply because it isn’t his. Like a dog killing the pups to force the bitch back into heat.

But he has no interest in making one of these with either of them, even if Arsenic wasn’t in a state of deep sleep to recuperate their magic from whatever rituals they performed to bring this thing to life.

The Devil thrives on chaos, so it can’t be that part of him that rejects this thing.

Maybe it’s even simpler. Maybe he just doesn’t want them to pay more attention to this thing than him.

It sounds so silly even inside his own head, startling a little chuckle from his throat, like the rattling of bones in the darkness. The figure in the crib begins to stir, shifting like a larva in a cocoon made of blankets.

He reaches for it without thinking, claws first to keep it silent - and he stops cold, all the breath knocked from his lungs, as its tiny eyes open.

Piercing silver stares back at him.

Not green, not gray, not even some weird mix of the two, but silver. Nearly pale enough to be white, cold as the Southern tundra.

His own eyes, and the eyes of his mother before him.

Why does it have his eyes??

The eyes stare at him for a moment longer before they begin to well with tears, its tiny face scrunched up in the kind of anguish only a small child can manage, the thin line of its mouth growing into a gaping maw, emitting a low whine that turns into a sharp wail, its small limbs flailing about, tearing apart its cocoon.

Before he can escape, its tiny hand catches one finger of his gauntlet and doesn’t let go, trapping him in its strong little grip. He doesn’t know if he can move without shredding the little hand into ribbons.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming.” His husband’s voice murmurs somewhere down the hall, more tired than ever.

A shaft of yellow-orange lamplight proceeds the familiar, haggard countenance of Julian, his wild auburn curls half slicked back by sweat and a new parent’s anxious fidgeting, the plague-tinted eye fully visible, both weary and unfocused and already directed approximately at crib-height.

He staggers into the room, heading straight towards the child - then stops and gawks at Lucio as though he is some sort of apparition or waking dream, scrubbing at his eyes with his free hand and squinting at him more closely.

“Er, Lucio? What are you doing up?” He glances down at his trapped finger. “If you’re going to tickle him, you could at least use the other hand.”

Lucio doesn’t immediately answer, breathing a sigh of relief as the child lets go the moment it spots its father, wails already quelling even before Julian scoops it up into his arms. A brief flash of childish jealousy worms through him.

“Why does the kid have my eyes?”

Julian stops cold, something between guilt and surprise dancing on his face. “I, er, suppose you would eventually notice that.”

“Answer the question, Jules.” His own eyes narrow, tail twitching behind him. “I didn’t participate in your little baby-making ritual. I told you I wanted no part of it, it wasn’t safe, with all the-- y’know. So where’d it get my blood?”

His husband murmurs something unintelligible, looking down at the child instead of him. He has half a mind to snatch it out of his hands.

“What?”

“Listen-- you were very drunk and very distraught we were doing this without you, even though-- you know, you said you wouldn’t.” The taller man shifts his weight uneasily, still not looking at him. “Now that I think of it, I don’t think you really realized that’s what we were doing. You just wanted to be with us.”

He doesn’t remember the night of that ritual. He hates that he doesn’t know.

“You hurt yourself. Pretty badly. I don’t remember how, I just remember taking you to the clinic to sober up.”

“So my blood got in there--”

“By accident, yes.”

“Then why are you hiding it from me like you stole it??”

Julian sighs, gently bouncing the child in lieu of the guilty squirm. He could see it in his body. He could hear it in his voice. The silence in the room is deafening.

“Your blood .. didn’t actually hit the spell circle.” He says, finally. “I smeared some of it in myself.”

He couldn’t understand it. “Why would you DO that?”

“And I may-- please forgive me-- may have goaded you into hurting yourself. For this purpose.” He finally looks at him again, and he’s not sure what expression is on his own face, but the one on Julian’s is pained. “I just wanted to share this with you. This is our baby. All of us, together.”

Lucio feels his hackles raising, something between anger and betrayal coursing through him. “You’ve cursed that fucking thing, you know that, right? Either it’s going to grow horns or it’s going to kill you or both.”

“You’re not inherently a monster. It’s not your nature, and it surely isn’t going to be his.”

“How do you know?”

Julian smiles. “I don’t.”

Another long moment passes.

“Do you want to hold him?”

He wants so badly to kill it, before it kills Jules like he killed his own father before him. Before it begins to make its own mistakes, following in his footsteps.

Before he has the chance to train it into the same sort of ruthless killing machine he had become, following in his mother’s footsteps.

He feels himself slowly nod, as though compelled.

The small, helpless thing is gently placed in his arms, right hand instinctively supporting its tiny head, its quicksilver eyes gazing up at him with the same sort of befuddlement he feels right now, looking at it. It’s too warm, too soft, too fragile.

The child seems at ease now, smiling and babbling. He feels a light smile tugging at his own lips, and he isn’t sure why.

“He’s gonna look just like you.” Lucio says after a moment. “Hairier than an ape.”

His husband chuckles, relaxing as if he hasn’t just handed his only child to a monster. “Alas, that is the Devorak curse. Mazelinka suspects we descended from mountain trolls.”

One long finger gently boops the thing’s little beaky nose, grinning as it grabs for his hand. It’s a bright and gentle grin that makes his heart ache.

The grin falters, an exhausted, pleading look soon taking its place.

“I suppose you’re not going to help me take care of him.”

“Not on your life.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

He still wants to kill it.

#the arcana #we are not friends #writing #lucio #post banishment lucio #julian #arsenic #parent of the year magically creating a whole ass human baby #inspired by more Dad LI posts

[remmushound]

Curse of the Clan Part 43! @selfindulgenz @scentedcandlecryptid

Content warning!! Mentions of blood, various horror mentions

“Hey guys—“ April returned to the rest of the clan.

“I mean, it's bound to make the news, right?” Leonardo was saying, “Giant brain thing covered in spikes spotted over Tokyo! We can track him like that!”

“He’s an oni, you uninformed fool!” Draxum snarled, “He can cloak!”

“And why would he be over Tokyo?” Donatello scoffed; he was laying his head on the table, his arms folded over his muzzle to muffle his senses.

“He’s achieved the power of flight.” Michelangelo nodded, “Good for him.”

“Guys—” April tried again.

“I thought oni were supposed to be these big troll guys with horns.” Cassandra admitted, “Not… whatever they’re describing.”

“Different kind of oni.” Draxum scoffed, “They’re not all the same you know.”

“No, I don’t know, Draxum.” Cassandra slammed her hands down on the table and glared at him. “How would i know?!”

“GUYS!”

April’s shout finally got the attention of everyone at the table in their entirety. April took a few slow breaths before explaining what had happened to her.

“I think we should listen to Karai and try to find out what happened with these kappa— she said I had to unlock the rest of the story, like some twisted game or something I guess— and them kappa are the only clue we got!”

“Kappa can live for hundreds of years…” Draxum mused softly, “It is possible they could still live. Possible, but unlikely.”

“Great.” Leonardo snickered, “Now we just gotta find these kappa. Any bright ideas?”

“There is a small population of kappa in the Hidden City!” Sunita offered.

“Most of them still live in their native Japan.” Draxum added.

“I’m not too keen on heading back there.” Leonardo sighed and rested his head on his hand.

“I’m not sure how many other options we’ll have, Leo.” Raphael admitted, “Gram Gram said we had to find these guys, and I trust gram gram!”

“But we don’t even have any idea where to look!” Michelangelo whined, “Maybe we could—“

Donatello stood suddenly from his chair, the loud disturbance making all those gathered flinch before looking at him. Donatello didn't move for a while, supporting himself entirely on his chair while gripping it so tightly the wood began to splinter. His eyes were lost— glazed almost white as they focused on nothing.

“Donnie…?”

Leonardo reached a slow hand toward Donatello. His fingers brushed against the softshell’s arm and Donatello’s entire body seized. He lashed out, striking his arm hard into the soft part of Leonardo’s chest. The moment Donatello made contact, the fear in his eyes turned instead to horror as he realized what he had done. It didn't hurt, but Leonardo still recoiled from the touch, eyes like saucers.

Donatello didn't stick around to see any further reaction.

“I gotta go get some air.” He hurried out of the room, head low, before anyone could stop him.

The eyes of the clan remained trained on him in various stages of pitiful sympathy, though none of them moved to follow until Sunita stood up.

“I’ll go stay with him.” Sunita told the group, nodding to each of them, “You guys stay here and keep talking.”

Sunita didn't stick around. As she left quickly on Donatello’s trail, she heard the group behind her return to their bickering.

Sunita found the softshell turtle alone in the hallway; he hadn’t managed to get that far from the room where the rest of his family remained before he had collapsed to the ground, sitting with his knees pulled tight to his chest and his arms around his legs, rocking in a stimming motion. All the cold emotions spiraling around Donatello in a dark storm cloud soaked into Sunita like a sponge; that was one of the downsides of being a polymorph yokai. Everything, good and bad, soaked into her and made her color shift dark.

“Hey…” Sunita slid over to Donatello’s side, making her form as small and unthreatening as possible when she addressed the emotionally lost mutant. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing…” Donatello said softly— almost too softly.

Sunita hummed and pursed her lips. “I don’t buy it. Us polymorphs are great empaths, you know. All that… icky illy stuffs going around in your head…” Sunita made wide, circular motions, “I can feel it too. And your cogs are a’turning!”

Donatello took a slow breath. What use was lying when he was already called out on it? It seemed like a waste of time and energy to resist the well-meaning polymorph, so he didn't. He could at least tell her what was on his mind, no matter how vague his theory was. He couldn’t voice it to his brothers, not without choking as the memories of their lying counterparts forced their way front and center. The first time he had truly believed it was them! It was so real, so honest it must have been true! Then they started to rip each other apart with teeth and claws and powerful grips like animals fighting over scraps of food. Then they had turned their attention to Donatello with the same intention. Every cut and scrape and bite he had felt inflicted as if it was truly happening. He could still the blood going down his body and the laughs of his brothers as they stole everything from him…

Donatello let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. “Uh… when I first met t… that oni, he…” Donatello swallowed, “He said that it was good to see me again…”

Sunita frowned. “Have you met him before…?”

Donatello shrugged. He felt hot tears on his face—for a moment he mistook it for blood before he recognized the sensation was too light to be such.

“D... do you know how Karai kinda… became April?” Donatello spoke slow, choosing his words carefully as he made wide motions.

“Yes.” Sunita answered with a slight nod.

“W… well… April said that… that the kappa had our colors and… and our weapons and kappa are turtles and we are turtles—“ Donatello winced when he realized how fast he had been talking, and he made a conscious effort to slow his words. “If… if Karai can become April then… then maybe those kappa could have become us! And… and I have a really bad feeling that the oni did something horrible to them…”

Sunita listened wordlessly, her eyes swimming with the emotions that were both her own and Donatello’s.

“I… I can’t…” Donatello started again, “I can’t bring myself to look at my brothers because I just see what that oni… what Krang… made me see them as. Could… could you tell them? I… I want to help them, but I…”

Sunita placed a surprisingly warm hand on Donatello’s knee; the touch brought Donatello to look up at her, blinking enough to dismiss some of the tears from his eyes.

“I’ll tell them.” Sunita reassured, “Don’t you worry; this is all going to work out.”

#sunita time! #surprise! there’s three big sisters #the lesbian big sister (April) #the other lesbian big sister (Casey) #AND THE THIRD LESBIAN SISTER (sunita) #a whole family of lesbians

[self-indulgent-imagination]

Goodbye

Characters: Mad-Eye Moody, Sirius Black, You (Y/N) 

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Marauder’s Era, Soft!Sirius, Emotional!Sirius, Mature!Sirius, Angst, Romantic, Interpret the end any way you want to

Summary: You have broken up with Sirius and are behaving rather cruelly with him. But why are you doing it? And what happens when he finds out the real reason behind it? 

A/N: Hello, there! This is my first fic on Tumblr, and first that I’ve written in the second person, so do tell me what you think of it. (And as you can see, I don’t really know how to write an author’s note.) Oh yeah, it’s unedited. So, sorry about whatever mistakes you might encounter  :( 

Word count: 1642

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

You exit the girls’ dormitory silently, after making sure that no one is awake. Throwing a Disillusionment Charm over yourself, you leave the common room. You sneak through the corridors and hallways and finally reach your destination. The seventh floor, opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by the trolls. You walk past the wall thrice, and a door appears. The Room of Requirement.

You enter to find Moody there already. “Y/N,” he grunts. You nod. He throws a jinx at you out of the blue. You side step. The next curse you deflect with a flick of your wand. And so it goes for next three quarters of an hour. He grunts to signal the end. You stop, pretend to relax, let him relax (well, as much as Moody can relax) and then throw the Jelly-Legs Jinx at him. He tumbles down like his legs are made of, well, jelly. He inclines his head towards you. You beam because coming from him, that is like a sign of admiration. “Well done, lassie. Let this be your lesson and remember. Constant vigilance!” he says. You nod.

An awkward silence takes over the room. Both of you know what’s coming. You have been training for it for past few years, but it’s still difficult to speak aloud of. But he is Moody. He takes the bull by its horns, “You know what you have to do?” 

“Yeah. Go to Voldy-boy, suck up to him and join him. Then send back the intel to you however I can.” 

“Yes, good. It’s going to be incredibly dangerous. Your should be Occluding all the time. If you slip up, you will die and take us down with you. So, there’s no margin for error. Got it?” 

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t know what to say. After all, what do you say in farewell to someone you’ve trained to go in the jaws of death? You don’t know what to say either. The enormity of what you’re about to take up and how dangerous it will be hits you all over again. You hug Moody. You’ve never hugged him. But this might well be the last time you get to hug someone you like and respect. Maybe the last time you get to hug, ever.

You clutch him. He holds you awkwardly and pats your hair. “Be safe, girlie,” he says in a suspiciously choked voice. You nod and turn away from your mentor. You will cry if you don’t and you don’t want to embarrass him by being witness to his tears.

As you are leaving the room, you become alert. Someone is watching you. There’s a faint sound of breathing in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. But no one is standing there. You can’t detect any Disillusionment Charm. You pretend not to have noticed anything and walk away. You’re being followed.

You affect carelessness and walk towards the fourth floor. There’s a secret passageway behind a large mirror where you plan to apprehend whoever it is that is following you. And then it hits you. You can only hear the faint sound of footsteps and breathing. And there is no such thing as a perfect disillusionment. Invisibility Cloak.

You relax a bit. Once you’re both inside the passageway, you speak with a semblance of casualness, “Following around someone who has dumped you sounds pretty desperate, even for you.”

Sound of a cloth rustling. And then he is standing there, right behind the mirror. Sirius Black. Your heart misses a beat. You force your face to remain indifferent, bordering on cruel. You cannot let him know that you still love him. It would be too dangerous because he is recklessly protective of people he loves. And you can’t bear to have him put his life in danger like that.

You take in his face. He looks desperate, as if someone has just destroyed his life. You have seen that look on his face only twice before this. You wonder what he is thinking about. For a moment you fear that he knows exactly why you ended things with him. Exactly what you’re going to do. But no, you reassure yourself, how could he possibly know?

He still hasn’t retorted to your taunt with something cutting that you will pretend didn’t mean anything to you but will shatter your heart. After all, that is how it has been since your “break-up”. But he’s silent. You have to play your part. You raise an eyebrow and look at him contemptuously (you hope), “Not even a retort. Exactly how pathetic have you gotten?”

“Stop it, Y/N. Don’t you get tired of paying the part?”

You feign confusion. You can’t let him know how much it hurts you when he calls you a liar, a cheat, a ‘wannabe Pureblood’. You steel yourself for an acidic remark that is not going to come. 

He walks towards you and stands before you. You do not back down. Something is wrong. You don’t know what’s going on. You’re about to say something when he falls to the ground. Sobs wracking through his body. You freeze. You don’t know what to do. Should you pretend to be cruel? But you know your limits. You know that you won’t be able to maintain a halfway decent façade of derision or apathy when the love of your life is breaking down like that. So you don’t say anything. Your body is tense with the effort not to reach out and hold him, comfort him.

It is when he takes your fisted hands, pries them open gently and kisses them that you look down. He is looking at you with such utter heartbreak in his eyes that you have to look away. You slowly drop the pretense of coldness. Your shoulders slump. “So you know,” you whisper, still not looking at him. 

“Yes.”

You nod and sink down in front of him. You let free the tears that you had been holding back for so long. You lean into him and he takes you in his arms. You do not know how long you stay like that.

“I’m scared.” You don’t realise you’re saying it until after you’ve said it. You know that it’s true. He holds you tighter.

“You’d be an idiot if you weren’t.” 

Silence.

“You’re an idiot,” he says. “You should’ve told me.”

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want to put you at risk...”

“And?” He knows you too well.

You sigh, “I was afraid that you would blow this. I still am.”

He laughs without humour. “Just because I play pranks doesn’t mean I don’t understand the gravity of a situation. The seriousness, if you will. You forget that it is in my very name.” You groan. 

“Serio - really?”

He grins through dried tears. “Sorry, darling, can’t help it. Besides, it made you smile, didn’t it?” And it’s true.

He sighs, “Anyway... I understand what we’re facing, Y/N. I know that you’re going to do what needs to be done. It’s probably difficult enough for you as it is, I’m not going to make it even more difficult by whining or trying to stop you.”

You look at him, surprised. He smiles sadly.

“I wish you had trusted me. But that’s the water under the bridge. I’m not going to ask you not to do this. I’ll keep out of your way and pretend that we’re done. I want you to know and remember that whatever cruel words I may use to mock you will not mean anything. It will all be a pretense. Don’t worry about me. Focus on keeping yourself alive and safe.” 

He pauses, contemplating. Then he continues in a softer voice, “There are some things bigger than just you and me. And this is one of them. We can’t put the future of the world on line just because my blood pressure shoots up on seeing you in danger.” 

You look at him with a newfound respect. You’re seeing a serious Sirius Black for the first time and you fall in love with him all over again. You kiss him gently, almost hesitantly. You lean against his chest and stay there.

“Thank you,” you murmur. He kisses your hair, an arm around you, his hand rubbing your arm.

“You’re a shit actress, you know.”

“What?!”

“Every time I insulted you, I could see the heartbreak and pain in your eyes and I would be left feeling so confused and guilty. You were acting like a first-rate bitch, but your eyes were telling a different story and I didn’t know what to believe. If you act like that in front of Voldemort, you won’t last a day.”

“Voldemort doesn’t know me as well as you do.”

“You have to assume that he does. Be prepared for the worst, not the best, Y/N, because I find that I rather like you alive.”

You smile and kiss his chest. Wordlessly, you throw a Warming Charm on both of you and a Cushioning Charm on the floor. Sirius looks at you quizzically. 

“Might as well get comfortable for the night,” you shrug.

“Show-off,” he mutters.

“Learned from the best,” you grin, nudging him. He grins, too, and kisses you.

You spend the night in his arms. Just you and him and silence. This night will be your driving force for many years to come, but you don’t know that yet. For you, it is the last night of peace and love before you step in the devil’s lair. 

It’s dawn when you get up to leave. Sirius stops you. He pulls you in his arms. “Don’t ever forget that I love you, sweetheart,” he whispers.

“And I, you.” And then you part ways.

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A/N: If you’ve read it completely, kudos to you! And thanks for sticking around :) Please tell me if there’s something in particular that you liked or didn’t.

#sirius x y/n #sirius black #mad-eye moody #reader #sirius x reader #emotional!sirius #soft!sirius #mature!sirius #angst #romantic? #harry potter #fanfic #imagine #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfic #sirius black x reader

[undignifiend]

AU alliance between Morgana and Gunmar (short scene)

Years ago, Morgana fled to the Wildwood; a tactical retreat from a broken and fearful society, and a near-blind rush into uncertainty. But it was hard to fear uncertainty over the false peace of Camelot.

Arthur had little patience for theory and risk, but he could yet be shown a better way. He would understand it, he would want it, if only it could be proven possible.

It would take many sacrifices, of course, but if she could make it real, she had to.

So she went to build that better way with her own two hands.

+++++

Einarr held Morgana tightly as he raced to the treeline, her blood soaking the front of his jerkin. She clutched the severed end of her left arm in an instinctive attempt to stem the bleeding, feeling as if she was watching it all from a distance. Behind them, she could hear Faldron and Dezoka screaming in fury and hatred as they fought to buy time for their Queen to escape.

Somewhere behind her, Arthur called her name. She could hardly recall his expression before Einarr had swept her up and Tessa whirled in on a storm of darkness and deflective shards, doubled in magnitude by Lunn’s symbiotic augmentation magic. There was a crackling flash as Dezoka changed into her troll form, taking advantage of the temporary shade.

Morgana jolted under a surge of agony that seemed to barrel through the air like a tide, and for a moment, she wondered if the trees had all splintered under the force of it. Impossibly, they did not even shake. Einarr gasped, falling to one knee and gritting his teeth as his eyes watered.

The air pressed down on them, sharp and heavy like a row of teeth, radiating from a source too enraged to stop or alter course. Morgana felt him thundering toward them now, trampling the underbrush, the pounding of his hearts echoing in her own chest.

“It’s Gunmar!” Merlin shouted. “My King! Run!”

There was no time to get out of range. Einarr shuddered and grew into his trollish form, curling around Morgana and cradling the back of her head in a hand the size of a water-pail. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, frantic, offering the only protection he could. The ground quaked. “I’m sor - ”

All of existence plunged into a caustic roil of terror and wrath. Beneath that, was something like watching the surface of the ocean above grow darker with an anchor welded to her bones. And almost worse, an inexhaustible strength and hunger, a pitiless obsession, to never stop reaching anyway. Far below, something impossibly vast and unfaceable writhed.

Gunmar roared past, carrying his monstrous ocean with him.

“To the horses!”

“Hold, Tessa, he’s not after you!” Dezoka snarled, holding her side and leaning on her spear. “Keep your shadows on the Underlord! Give him a path!”

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up!” Tessa called back.

“They have the Dark Prince, hold as long as you can!” an unfamiliar troll shouted. Gunmar’s entourage caught up, cloaked and armored trolls swarming past Einaar’s huddled form and onto the shaded battlefield.

Dezoka spat a curse in Trollish as she launched off her forward foot and joined the chase. “Lunn, give Tessa everything you’ve got!”

Morgana touched Einarr’s jaw. “Let me up.”

Einarr rallied himself and obeyed, drawing his axe as he helped her stand, and hovering close, keeping three wary eyes on the Gumm-Gumms.

Morgana trudged back out of the treeline, glimpsing her brother, his soldiers, and her former mentor riding into the distance. Too far for even Gunmar to catch, and shielded from psychic harm. Tessa’s reach could only extend so far without growing unstable, so she chose caution, leaving the Underlord pacing at the very edge of the shadows. His howl reverberated off the forest edge and the cliffs, sounding more like an open gateway to Hell than a troll.

Morgana took a deep breath of the cool dark, and extended her own, overlapping Tessa’s shadows to shelter the trolls. “I have it, Tessa. You can let go.” Both her apprentices sank to their knees as they obeyed, winded and leaning on each other. Morgana rested her remaining, bloodied hand on Tessa’s shoulder, and Tessa covered it with a shaky hand of her own.

Lunn wobbled to her feet. “Master, please, let me.”

Morgana nodded and rested the bleeding stump of her forearm across Lunn’s hands. Veins and arteries began to re-route and seal, but Lunn was still an apprentice, and it would take much longer to close more flesh than that.

The Gumm-Gumms moved, and when Morgana looked, it was like watching a wave recede. Gunmar towered among them as he stormed back toward the trees, silently ordering his soldiers to regroup in the forest. Morgana only knew because the order brushed her mind, too; a broadcast made imprecise by barely contained rage, every bit as sharp and swift as Excalibur had been.

As if drawn by pain, Gunmar regarded her with his lone, cold eye, and strode toward her. Dezoka, who had been trailing him in helpless awe on her way back to her Queen, balked before continuing. Einarr stepped forward to shield Morgana, even as he trembled.

The air around Gunmar no longer hurt when he tread close, looming above them, but Morgana sensed that he had only reined that horrific mantle in tight around himself. If he was at all winded after charging like that, it did not show. He might as well have been a statue freshly brought to life for all the unnatural control in his movements, and the way his eye followed things as if watching through some other, hidden layer of reality. All hands of his primary and vestigial arms clenched, and the cruel scythe-like limbs emerging from his back seemed to float above his horns, high and tense. Faced with him, Morgana felt a little absurd, possessing only one hand now.

Gunmar’s eye flicked to the bloodied stump. “Camelot has until nightfall,” he growled.

Morgana had known from the beginning that her project, now grown into the hidden fortress-community of Annwn, would require sacrifice. All of which would be worth it to save lives on both sides, and hopefully, Arthur from himself.

But as the years passed, Arthur kept charging into the woods to kill trolls and destroy their villages, to hunt her apprentices as witches, and threaten everyone - trolls, half-trolls, changelings, and humans alike - that she had sworn to protect. She could no longer pretend that there was any getting through to him. Maiming her, she could resent on her own time, and possibly forgive one day in the distant future. But if Arthur truly had captured the son of her most dangerous and unpredictable ally, her silence would be unforgivable. If she did nothing, she would fail the very ideals she had founded Annwn upon, and Gunmar would raze both false castles to rubble and ashes in his son’s name.

Knowing that Arthur wanted her dead would not make placing him on the altar any easier. Morgana’s throat tightened, but she refused to shut her eyes. “They don’t even have that long.”

#toa au #Morgana still loses her hand but she survives #Eldritch!Gunmar #Protective Dad Mode #some minor ocs #Morgana runs to the Wild Wood and founds her own community #still not settled on 'Annwn' (ah-noon) for the name... #short scene

[sonicasura]

Imagine if Albedo managed to combine Troll DNA into his new Ultramatrix ?

It probably throw Jim and the others through the loop to see evolved and sinister looking versions of Jim's Troll forms😰

Like Crystalback with sharp red spins on his back and horns, Pandora whose sinister persona reminds everyone of Dictatious when he was Gunmars advisor, and Mystic who in Albedos Ultimate form gives him a whole main of hair and furious glowing eyes that remind Aaaarrrgh too much of his old self😣

Albedo's Ultimate Trolls would indeed be powerful but won't be a match for Jim's Aether variants. The Etherix creates an ultimate form who awakened to their true magic potential known as Aether. It doesn't just change the appearance and strengthen them but every form can now cast powerful spells.

Plus even if Jim is restricted to his normal trolls, he can still win despite the difficulty. Unlike Ben or Albedo, our boy has learn way more than how to use his forms for battle. He met and interacted with every troll species he got.

Jim understands them in a way that neither the other watch wearers cannot match. No amount of simulation based evolution can equal to heart and understanding. That's how Jim is able to take on Albedo's Ultimate Trolls.

He later curses the Galvan with Aether Magicka so he cannot use these forms without a nasty price such as intelligence or vitality. They are a mockery in Jim's eyes. One he will not stand for.

#sonicasura #sonicasura answers #asks #cf8wrk4u us #trollhunters #tales of arcadia #tales of arcadia trollhunters #toa trollhunters #toa #ben 10 albedo #albedo #omnitrix wearer!jim #ben 10 #ben 10 series #ben ten #ben ten series

[maaaddiexo]

The Within Series | Legolas Greenleaf

Book 1: The Devil Within - 1.6

Mainlist | Serieslist

Nyx of Tyndall does not know love or kindness. Cursed at a young age by a jealous witch, Nyx has lived a life of solitude and death.

Until Gandalf the Grey requests her presence and uncontrollable skill in assisting a young Hobbit across Middle-Earth with nine others to destroy a ring so powerful all fall victim to its evil.

Not only must Nyx face Orcs, demons, and creatures she’s never seen before, but also the devil inside. Controlling the devil is the key to finding freedom in a spell that can’t be broken. But it will not be so easy for Nyx when every obstacle she faces pushes her to an edge she cannot return from.

Chapter Six

Through the woods they ran. The sun had barely begun to rise when they heard the screeches of the Nazgûl once more.

“Hurry!” Strider shouted from the front of the line, Frodo thrown over his shoulder. His skin had paled and small groans came through his lips every time he was jostled around.

“We’re six days from Rivendell,” Sam replied. “He’ll never make it!”

“Have faith,” Nyx said, though she feared Sam was right. “If he can withstand the Ring he may be able to stay off the poison in his veins long enough.”

They moved as fast as they could until the next sunset, finding refuge in thick foliage, surrounded by three trolls that had once been turned to stone. Nyx touched one gently. “Bilbo turned these to stone sixty years ago. Gandalf told me about it when I was younger.”

“How did he turn them to stone?” Merry asked as he wrapped an unconscious Frodo in an extra blanket. The poor Hobbit had begun to shiver.

“Trolls cannot stand sunlight. They will turn to stone if any sunlight touches their skin. Bilbo saved the entire company from being eaten that night. It was the first time he proved himself helpful to Thorin Oakenshield.”

“He’s waking up!” Sam shouted. “Look, Frodo. It’s Mister Bilbo’s trolls!”

Frodo could only moan and groan, his eyes enlarged and his skin a pale blue. All of the veins in his chest were visible. Sam touched his cheek.

“Mister Frodo? He’s going cold!”

“Is he going to die?” Pippin asked worriedly.

Strider looked sadly at the Hobbits. “He is passing into the Shadow World. He’ll soon become a wraith like them.”

Frodo gasped painfully again, and the Ringwraiths screeched in response. The noise came from all around them.

“They’re close!” Merry gasped.

“Sam? Do you know the athelas plant?”

“Athelas?”

“Kingsfoil.”

“Kingsfoil? Ah, it’s a weed.”

“It may help to slow the poison,” Strider said. Sam nodded and moved to leave but Nyx stopped him.

“I will go. I know what the plant looks like and where to find it. Besides, I am still uneasy from last night. I believe some time away from people may help calm me down.”

Strider hesitated and then nodded. “Alright. Don’t stray too far. There is another plant, echinacea. I will search for that.”

Nyx nodded and the two left the Hobbits alone and moved into the woods, searching for their respected plants. Nyx had just found hers when she heard a new voice. Not a wraith, but a woman.

“What’s this? A Ranger caught off his guard?”

Nyx grabbed her scythe. “Drop your weapon.”

“It’s alright, Nyx,” Strider said. “She is an old friend. Only having fun.”

The woman stood up straight and sheathed her sword, revealing porcelain skin and pointed ears. An Elf. “My name is Arwen. I bring no harm, but it is my job to patrol the borders. When we heard of Ringwraiths, I was sent out further to investigate.”

“Our friend, Frodo, he was stabbed with a Morgul blade,” Nyx said. “Can you help him?”

“Not here.”

“He’s this way,” Strider said. They returned to camp, Arwen with her white horse. Frodo’s head rolled to the side when they approached, but Nyx was unsure if he was truly seeing them.

“Frodo,” Arwen whispered. Frodo’s lips moved but nothing came out. Arwen said something in Elvish Nyx could barely hear. I have come to help you. Hear my voice. Come back to the light.

The Hobbit’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as some colour returned to his face.

“Who is she?” Merry whispered as Arwen knelt beside him.

“She’s an elf,” Sam said in awe. He had never seen an Elf before.

“He is fading,” Arwen whispered.

Nyx knelt on the other side of Frodo, ripping up the plant she’d gone out to find. Arwen pulled back Frodo’s shirt to examine the wound, revealing purplish and black veins stemming from the wound. After chewing on the plant, Nyx placed the plant over the wound, cooing at Frodo as he gasped in pain.

“He is not going to last. We must get him to my father.”

The three stood up and Strider picked up Frodo, moving to place him on Arwen’s horse.

“There are five Wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know.”

“They’ll be back,” Nyx said. A sense of dread filled her heart.

“Let me take him,” Arwen said.

“Arwen,” Strider sighed. Something in his eyes told Nyx that Arwen was more than just a friend to him.

“I do not fear them.”

Strider conceded, moving to let her mount her horse. “You must ride hard. Don’t look back.”

“Wait!” Nyx moved past Strider, reaching into Frodo’s pocket for the Ring. It immediately felt heavy in her hand, calling out for the devil within.

“Nyx!” Strider said harshly. “What are you doing?”

Nyx ignored him, stringing it onto the plain chain hidden underneath her dress. “Giving them a better chance.” Nyx moved to Strider’s horse, mounting it with ease.

“But they saw his face at the watchtower!” Merry shouted.

“Exactly. If the Ring is separated from the one who once had it, it will buy Arwen some extra time.”

“Nyx,” Strider warned. She looked down at him.

“I was telling you the truth the other night. I don’t want the Ring. But Gandalf believed that Frodo is destined to carry the One Ring. And if he is, he needs to be alive to do it.”

“Does it not call to you?” Strider asked softly.

“It does,” Nyx admitted. Already she could feel her resolve weakening against the curse. “But the evil inside me wants the Ring for itself. It does not want to give it away.” She tightened her grip on the reins. “I will see you all in Rivendell. With the Ring.”

“We need to hurry,” Arwen said. Nyx nodded and the two took off together. They rode through the night just like Strider had said – hard and fast. They did not stop at daybreak and they did not stop for food. At one point, when they had to cross a river, they let the horses drink momentarily and eat some grass by the shore, but then they were off again.

“How is he doing?” Nyx yelled as they rode through a meadow.

“The athelas isn’t working anymore!” Arwen replied. They both spurred their horses to go faster. The meadow ended just as suddenly as the forest began and the Ring around Nyx’s neck felt heavy with evil. Something churned inside her.

“They’re here!” she shouted to Arwen before pulling her horse away from the Elf and Hobbit. The Ring burned under her dress, begging her to take control of it. Give it to the Nazgûl. And the evil inside of her begged her to put it on and use it for herself. Nyx screamed aloud, forcing herself to stay true to her journey and dodged the trees. Hooves sounded loudly behind her and Nyx knew the Nazgûl were upon her. Through the trees to her left, she saw Arwen with a Ringwraith on either side of her. Normally, Arwen would have been able to fight them off. But Frodo was fading and she had to hold onto him to keep him on the horse.

“I cannot outrun them!”

Nyx reached for the necklace, pulling it over her head and dangling it in front of her. She didn’t have to say a word before the two Ringwraiths turned to her and left Arwen alone. “Go, Arwen!”

Nyx weaved through the trees as Arwen galloped straight ahead. They were almost at the border of Rivendell; Nyx could feel the magic in the air. The trees thickened and the air became colder as Nyx neared the riverbank. She could barely hear the trinkling of water over her laboured breath and heavy heart. The trees broke on the edge of the riverbank, and across the way she could see Arwen. She joined her side and together they watched to see if the Nazgûl would cross.

They screeched at the touch of the water.

“Give it up,” one growled.

Nyx held up the necklace while Arwen unsheathed her sword. “If you want it. If you want him, come and claim him.”

The Ringwraiths waded into the water on their horses and Nyx moved back. Arwen looked around them, muttering elvish under her breath. Nyx chanced a glance at Frodo. He was wheezing now, and green liquid was dripping from his mouth.

Something rumbled in the distance and all parties looked upstream as a tsunami of water came rushing at them. Wordlessly, Nyx moved to the shore and watched as something reached out from the rushing water.

“Horses?” she wondered. They trampled the Ringwraiths without hesitation, washing them and their horses downstream. Nyx smiled in delight, turning back to Arwen and Frodo only to see the two of them on the riverbank.

“No, Frodo!” Arwen cried. “Don’t give in.”

Frodo wheezed softly and Nyx dropped to her knees, pushing his sweaty curls out of his face. “Frodo…”

Arwen pulled the Hobbit into her, tears falling freely as she cradled the boy. “What grace has given me – let it pass to him. Let him be spared. Save him.”

Frodo gasped for air, but his eyes were still enlarged and the whites of his tinted red. Nyx looked at Arwen. “What did you do?”

“I gave him a little more time. Come on.”

Nyx mounted Strider’s horse and they were off once more. From the dirt came a stone pathway and stone arches overhead. Elves in armour watched as they raced past them but did not try to stop them. An Elven horn was blown somewhere behind them.

Arwen stopped in a round stone courtyard, and they dropped to the ground as a man with Arwen’s hair and bright blue eyes approached them.

“Arwen.”

“He’s been struck with a morgul blade. He needs help,” Arwen said. The man nodded and touched her back. Arwen hurried down the corridor on the right. Nyx moved to follow her but an arm prevented her from doing so.

“It has been a long time, Nyx of Tyndall.”

Nyx dropped into a quick curtsey. “Lord Elrond.”

“You carry more evil with you during this visit. What has happened?”

Nyx touched her sternum where the Ring rested. “Not here. And tell your men to expect more company. A Man and three Hobbits.”

Elrond nodded and led Nyx to the Council Room. “Tell me everything that has happened.”

Nervously, Nyx pulled the chain over her head and placed the ring on the table. It felt too heavy in her hands for just a ring.

“That cannot be,” Elrond gasped. The two stared down at, dread in their stomachs. “The Ring of Power has been found.”

Part 1.7 ➺

#legolas #greenleaf #legolas greenleaf #lotr #lord of the rings #the fellowship of the ring #fellowship of the ring #the two towers #the return of the king #return of the king #legolas imagine #legolas greenleaf imagine #legolas fanfiction #legolas fanfic #legolas greenleaf fanfiction #legolas greenleaf fanfic #love #romance #adventure #magic #witch #witchcraft #legolas greenleaf x oc #legolas x oc #gimli #aragorn #gandalf #frodo #frodo baggins #samwise gamee