#[ nix's writing ]

[valleynix]

GIMME PLS 🥺🙏🙏

I WANNA READ YOUR ORIGINAL WORK

OKAY OKAY

it's under the cut (2.7k words), but fair warning it is most definitely not my best work </3 i got inspired and just finished it but haven't gone back to reread it, nor do i really have a direction for it, so i hope it makes sense LMAO

(it is pretty gay but mostly implied, and pretty angsty. warnings for blood and a little gore :-) )

my apologies for the potentially rushed writing, but:

She is drenched in her enemies’ blood.

She does not know where she is or who she is any longer, for the weight of her sword in her hand is the only thing she feels. Her fingers are cramped and tight, her wrist sore and aching, but she does not stop. She will not stop.

Her love is gone. It is their fault.

The mourning mark of her lady is smeared across her cheeks and eyes, and she wonders if it is the rain or her own shed tears that has made the mark so messy. Would it matter which it is? She supposes not.

Her black cloak blows behind her as another falls to the ground, his throat cut before he could ever think to draw his own weapon. She has done this for what feels like an eternity.

Nothing is new to her.

The man’s torch clatters against the road, his blood leaking from his neck like a river finding its course through the cracked stones. When the flames turn to embers and the blood turns to water, she continues on her path. Her unevenly cut hair sticks to her face as a gentle wind blows through this street, though she is not sure why it feels attached to her skin.

Sweat, blood, rain, tears… She does not know. She does not care to.

The weight of her sword is all she should know.

There are more up ahead, chattering away, laughing at her. Her bones ache and scream for her to stop, but she shoves the feeling down, instead choosing to focus on the way her boots and armor clank as she walks. She is making good time, but she does not know if she will find her way again.

A man and a woman hear her coming, as she has come to expect. She raises her greatsword, gifted to her the evening she swore to protect her love, and brings it down upon them. A spear is driven toward her as the man’s shoulder is cleaved straight through, the blade narrowly missing his heart. He will not live long, and his body hitting the ground seals his fate.

The spear nicks her cheek, slashing along her skin as blood now drips down her jaw. The woman comes to regret that action a moment later when she cannot lift her spear in time, and the sword severs her head from the rest of her body.

She does not bother wishing an easy rest on them as she moves forward, her sword dragging behind her, the steel blade causing sparks to fly as it scrapes against the dull stones. Her dark cloak whips behind her, stains its ends in the blood that threatens to drown her.

It won’t be long, now. This town should be the last. It will be the last.

Her curse will overtake her if she does not succeed this time. She has already failed once too many.

Her head twitches to the side, pain lancing through her skull. She pushes herself up a set of stairs, her left hand struggling to keep her standing. She must persist, must do it for her.

She will not accept another way. She cannot.

But her limbs grow heavy. When did she last eat? Sleep? Could she even call the bones and muscles that ache in her body her own?

She does not remember if this body is hers. Did she not give it up when she swore her life to her lover?

“Swear it to me,” her lady says, kneeling in the tall grass as she grasps the knight’s young face between her hands. Her long hair gently blows in the wind, a stark contrast to the paleness of her face. “You will always come back to me, won’t you?”

The knight nods, dark eyes wide and full of wonder. She takes a deep breath, raising a hand to place her fist over her heart as her jaw sets. “I swear on my dying breath, my lady. My body, my mind, my sword; they are yours to do with as you please.”

Her lady snorts and pinches her cheeks as she releases them. “Don’t be silly. I do not wish for us to grow apart when you leave.”

“When I leave?” the knight asks. She rests her hands on her thighs, clenched. “Where will I go, if I am not to remain at your side? What will I do?”

Her greatsword finds its way buried deep into the heart of a man, squelching loudly in her ears. His blood stains the front of her chest piece and what remains of the colored cloth that bears her lady’s warm colors. She is reminded of a sun setting beneath a mountain, pulling a blanket of clouds over its body as it lays to rest.

She is not deserving of these colors. Her body is no longer what it once was, when they were gifted to her.

The man falls to the tower’s floor, groaning quietly as he draws his last breaths. She continues to the cells, her head throbbing and her heart pounding in her chest.

She ignores these feelings. Her lady is near.

“You are no longer a lost puppy, sweet thing. You need not follow in my shadow.”

The knight frowns, her brows furrowing as she looks to the sword between them. “And… What of this? What does it mean?”

“Is it not a token of your loyalty?” Her lady brushes her hand along the hilt, gently tapping the deep blue stone that rests there. “I gifted it to you, after all, under the assumption you would be mine. Do my words mean nothing to you?”

“N-No!” the knight stutters out, her cheeks flushing deeply. “I mean- They’re everything to me, I… only do not know where I stand. I wish to know how… how you feel, my lady.”

“Oh? No one has dared ask me such a thing.” She giggles quietly, shifting forward to rest her forehead against the knight’s. “You should know it by now, shouldn’t you?”

A sword is jabbed at her bicep, slicing through the cloth as it finds the only spot her armor does not protect. She makes no sound as she swings her own blade over her head, cleaving the man’s arm from his shoulder, as she has done countless times before. He falls to the floor from the force of it, hissing through his teeth as his blood pools around his torso.

She slowly buries her sword into the man’s heart through his weak armor, no match for the steel that burns in her hands. Perhaps they should have anticipated her arrival, and they could have known how to stop her.

As it stands, she goes through them as if they were nothing but dirt beneath her boots.

The mourning mark of her lady drips into her eyes, heat racing up the back of her neck. It stings, but she blinks the bleariness and pain away as she walks forward, her eyes searching for her lady. She must be here. Where else could she be?

Her cheeks flush deeper as she bows her head, her hair falling into her face. It is her lady that lifts her back up, a gentle smile on her lips as she places a soft kiss between the knight’s brows. Her heart pounds painfully in her chest, and she does not understand why.

It has always been her lady that makes her feel this way. Is it not wrong of her? Are they not from two vastly different worlds, their pieces never fitting quite right?

She is a protector. That is all.

“Lost in that handsome head of yours, are you?” her lady quietly asks. Her lips find purchase on the knight’s cheek, lingering for a moment. “My father tells me you leave tomorrow. I… wish we had more time together.”

The weight of the sword now sheathed at her back is familiar as she searches the various cells in this hallway, her eyes straining against the darkness. Quiet wails sound in her ears and things shuffle within them, but she does not see her lady.

She presses on. She must be here.

Blood drips down her arm and causes her clothing to stick uncomfortably to her skin, but she pays the feeling no mind. She is so close to fulfilling her duty and her sworn promise-

To who? Does she remember her lady’s name?

It must be engraved in the locket around her neck. She reaches a hand up, shaking as she touches her neck-

It is gone.

No. No, no, no.

That was all she had left. She has nothing, and how can she? What does she look like?

“We could run away,” the knight jokes, though her lady frowns at it. “I… I’m sorry. I know this is important to your family.”

“So are you. To me, that is.”

Her heart cracks in her chest. She can’t continue like this, she can’t let her lady see how badly she has failed. She swore to protect her, to always come back, and why can’t she?

The knight shakes her head, tugging it away from her lady as she pushes herself away. “You say these things, but… I do not know how to feel.”

Her lady hums, a soft sound that feels like music she has never heard. “Do you find it strange? We can stop.”

“I don’t want us to.”

The knight does not know why she says these things. She is a protector, a warrior. She has no time for whatever one could call this feeling in her chest. Aside from that fact, she is not permitted. What would her mentor say, or the lord? She cannot have what they do.

Soft, uncalloused hands grasp her cheeks again, tugging her attention back to her lady. She frowns again, but it is out of concern, she thinks. “Would you mind if I kissed you? I have wondered of the taste of your lips on mine for some time.”

The knight does not know if her cheeks or ears can burn any hotter. Must she embarrass herself this way?

She stumbles back a few steps, her breathing erratic as she searches the darkness. She doesn’t know where she is, who she is. What has she done?

She has to find her lover. She has to-

She must. She is all the knight has left.

Her mother gone from childbirth, her father never returning from his adventures, her sister disappearing by the river. She has no one.

Tears prick her eyes as she stumbles down the hall, frantic in her search. She must have dropped it. It must be nearby, she couldn’t ever leave it without realizing.

“N-Not at all. My lady.” She swallows the lump growing in her throat, her eyes flicking between the golden hues of her lady’s. “This… is not proper, is it? Should a lord of higher standing not be your fancy?”

“A strong, kindhearted knight that has sworn her loyalty to me? I could not ask for a more wonderful thing.” Her head tilts to the side slightly, her eyes flicking down. “Are you uncomfortable? I only wish for you to feel yourself around me, but if this is too far-“

The knight stops her lady’s worried rambling with a swift kiss to her lips, awkward and weird. She has never done such a thing before, but it takes no time for her lady to take the lead, smiling as she settles into a rhythm.

Her heart pounds in her ears, whispers in her mind as she stumbles into a brighter hallway, blinking rapidly at the sudden light. Two men meet her halfway as she rushes through, her boots thundering against the stone as she bolts through the halls, using a small dagger at her thigh to get through any that wish harm upon her.

Bodies lie in her wake, lonesome as they stain the stones a deep red. She does not regret it, but the tears in her eyes certainly do not help her state.

She isn’t sure what she sees or who she’s looking at. Faces flash in her vision as she pushes forward, unable to get a full breath in, her hands reaching out to steady herself on the slick walls as her dagger clatters to the floor.

Voices shout at her, beg her to stop. She does not.

She cannot.

How could she forget what her lady looks like? Sounds like? She does not remember even a name.

She would be so disappointed. Perhaps it is deserved.

She breaks through a rusted door, staggering into the night and straight down a hill as she loses her balance and whoever was closing in on her heels. She tumbles down, her sword loosening from its strap at her chest and leaving its place around her, harshly smacking against her face. Her cloak strangles her, wraps around her throat, threatens to steal her breath-

She hits a river, sinking toward the bottom almost immediately as it rushes by her, water pounding in her ears. She tries to catch her breath, tries to push herself to the surface-

She must claw her way to the shore, the metal claws on her fingers digging into the sand as she blindly yanks herself forward. The current from the river attempts to lure her to its depths, promising her a name, a face-

She does not listen. The bones in her fingers ache and she coughs, only sucking in more water during her struggle. The muscles in her arms burn but she continues, pushing on, screaming as she pulls herself above the river’s rushing current.

The water she inhaled comes back up as she continues attempting to pull herself onto the dry sand, only accomplishing tugging half of her body onto it. The sand sticks uncomfortably to her face as she vomits what little remains of her insides, gasping in air before the next round hits her like a stone thrown at her chest.

It takes her some time to calm down, for her heart to settle and her ears to stop ringing. She ponders her death, if another her is somewhere in that river, struggling to find her way to the surface. She must be gone, now.

She weakly pushes herself onto her back, closing her eyes as she breathes deeply, attempting to calm her breathing. The tower remains across the other side of the river and voices continue to shout at her in a language she doesn’t understand, but for now, she is safe.

Her lady is still gone. She does not know where to find her, now, or where to go. Is she welcome anywhere? Will they recognize her?

It takes her some time before her limbs feel like her own and she knows she can move once more, despite the creak in her bones and the ache in her muscles. She will have to find her sword, as she refuses to let another memento of her lover’s find its way from her grasp.

The moon shines brightly as she stands, her arms shaking when she rolls onto her stomach, her armor poking into her skin. She uses what’s left of her strength to keep herself on her legs, despite the way they wobble and she staggers a few steps.

She breathes deeply, her heart settling in her chest. The voices continue to shout things she does not understand, and she supposes she never will.

Her blurry eyes search for any sign of her lady’s sword, and she thinks she sees it further down the river’s shore, stuck between two rocks. Its sheath reminds her of her lady’s colors, and she supposes that is all she has left.

As she stumbles down the sandy ground, leaning on sharp rocks and small trees for support, she promises herself one thing.

She will not give up, will not turn from this venture. Does she not deserve better?

Perhaps it is simply in her family’s blood to die for those they love. Has her time come? She would welcome it with open and willing arms, if only it would allow her to see one last time.

The knight reaches for her sword, grasping it tightly between her aching fingers as she stands once more.

She will find her lover, return what was lost to her.

She must.

[harbours-lighthouse]

Jason Todd with a gf who isn't good at replying to messages. It's not that you mean to be rude, it's just that you're busy and often you forget about the notification that only lights up your phone's screen for half a second. Besides, if what you're being sent are memes and random tiktoks, then those can wait. But when Jason Todd jumps into the picture? That habit of yours is a problem. At the beginning, you were on top of things, replying in a timely manner—then you got comfortable, and the habit crawled back into your life. The first time you let a message from Jason go unanswered for nearly an hour, you were left with your door hanging off by a single hinge, the wood splintered. You purse your lips together, watching the door sway precariously. Awkwardness bubbles inside your chest, though you're half-convinced it's more of the desperate urge to laugh at the ludicrous situation you're in.

Turning slowly to face Jason with your hands on your hips, you grimace at the tense line of your boyfriend's shoulders and the tightness around his mouth.

"Um...well," you clear your throat. "We know that the door isn't okay, but are...you...okay?" Jason's sigh is laced with a wariness that's bone-deep and you wince, face scrunching as regret stabs through you. You throw him an apologetic, weak smile. "Sorry..." It's safe to say that you put in the effort to consistently answer Jason's texts, purely because you'd rather like your door to remain intact, and to prevent your boyfriend from using his body as a battering ram to get into your apartment.

(And to dodge the long-winded, passionate lecture about how important it is for you to respond to him. It worries him, okay?)

[fyeahnix]

Sevika is known as "Zaun's Scariest Woman," but when she's alone with you, she could give the sweetest, most innocent dog a run for its money.

------

Sevika barely uttered a word when she came in that night. You thought to scold her when she didn't greet you as normal, but judging by her rigid shoulders and perpetual scowl, she'd had a particularly crappy day.

When she finally finished her longer-than-usual shower and night routine, she clambered into bed, reaching to pull you closer before burying her head in your chest. She sighed, then inhaled, then sighed again.

"Hi, baby," she finally said.

"Hey. You...feeling better?"

She nodded and tightened her grip around you. "'m sorry. Didn't mean not to speak earlier. Wasn't mad at you or anything. Just...had a day. Needed to unwind."

You brushed strands of her loose hair out of her face. Innocent strokes traced arcane marble, massaged her skin until you journeyed to train fingers through dark hair. "You know I'd help you with that if you asked."

She buried her face deeper, muffling her voice. "You're helping a lot now."

You smiled.

Having moved to lay between your legs, Sevika rested there, nuzzling her nose into the side of your breast. She breathed. Deeply.

You sat with her for an unspoken amount of time, feathering your nails across her scalp and down her neck for the occasional shiver that rolled down her spine. She wasn't sleeping—not yet, anyway, even in the dim, amber-lit bedroom you shared—but soaking in the comfort. For a person like Sevika in her line of work, high stress was a given, an expectation. Day in and day out was a fight for survival and a fight for freedom. There would always be days like this, where she'd come back to you in one piece but her mind shattered from the day's events, where she'd search for solace in your embrace to help piece herself back together. You always regretted destroying that modicum of peace with the same probing question that came to mind.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Indignation colored the breath that escaped her flared nostrils, and she slow-blinked into the distance. You'd seen that expression enough times to know what fueled it. She left the question to linger in the air. You respected it.

She reached for your free hand. Pulled it close and kissed your knuckles one by one. Then pressed her lips against the heel of your palm. Another. Then another. And on and on until she inched higher and landed in the center of your palm. Like a meditative process, the motions calmed her, relaxed her facial muscles 'til serenity returned to take control.

"Not now," she whispered and motioned closer to fit her scarred cheek between your collar and neck. "Just wanna lay with you."

And so you did.

Silence overcame once more and for a time you lay still, only interrupted by the sporadic moan that escaped Sevika as she succumbed to sleep.

------

taglist: @gaudesstuff @archangeldyke-all @abitohoney @sexysapphicshopowner @iamaboringrattat

@ash-fall7 @the-anonmaton @peanutbutterprincess @thesevi0lentdelights @kylorey25

@thegothicchangeling

[nix-nihili]

still thinking about George saying that the Agency reflected the attic in St Hilarion's at first but the boys reclaimed the space, made it their own with trinkets and books and board games and so many warm lamps like the lantern and basically built the bare space from the ground up. they took the manifestation of the attic, a place where one of them died, and changed it into a place that could be called home because it was also the beginning of the rest of their afterlives together.

[comfortless]

Deep Water

nix! König x fem! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. no.. intentional harm done to reader but there are sporadic mentions of murder (drowning), König is kind of a creep here do you guys forgive me (say yes), implied sex; dubcon everything. König is wearing a fishing net rather than the usual hood because. it made sense to me sorry.

notes: yet again, i have found that i can not manage to write anything except for silly fantasy nonsense… bear with me this will pass (it will not). if you’re uncertain of what a nix is, i recommend skimming over this (or tl;dr— a shapeshifting water spirit).

You’ve always been told to beware of the river, especially on nights like this. When the singing starts up you were to run, as far and as fast as your feet could carry you. It would be the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, as well as the last. Whatever beast lies in wait along the silt of the riverbed luring people in with its haunting song isn’t kind. The drowned bodies resurfacing bloated and paled are enough for the townsfolk to assume that assuredly, a monster lies in wait someplace within the glassy water.

For all of the fear, town myths were just that— myths.

As always, there’s no singing when you seat yourself on smooth, mossy stones by the river’s bank. The moon hangs low, casting its brilliant reflection on calm, dark water. The air is alive with the buzzing of cicadas clinging to the trees at your back and night birds calling out to the wind. Nothing is amiss; it’s only peaceful, and that’s why despite the warnings, you often find yourself here when the temperature is favorable.

There are nights when the river isn’t calm, and currents are the most reliable reasoning for the deaths from past summers. The water is full of large rocks with sharp corners, teeming with plants that could so easily snare an ankle, and when the water is frothing and cruel it’s no surprise that one could be thrashed to unconsciousness if they weren’t careful.

You didn’t come here to take your chances on swimming, anyhow.

If anything, it’s a mere reprieve from the bustle of the town. No one wanders here any more since the myths gained traction, passed from mouth to listening ears time and time again, leaving this place entirely untouched. Occasionally the obnoxious teenager would cross your path on the walk here, declaring loudly to their friends about how they supposedly saw some slimy beast, eyes like moonbeams and scales like razors lying on the bank.

During your little adventures here, you often carry a snack with you, but not for yourself. Tonight, it’s just a small package of vanilla flavored cookies. In truth, they were awful— dry and near flavorless, but you suspect your friend here wouldn’t mind too terribly much, and if it got them out of your pantry without wasting it was a win for the both of you.

When the large dorsal fin crests over the water mere meters from the bank, you gratuitously crush the treats in a closed fist and toss the crumbs into the water. Time and time again, you’ve fed the large animal, watching as it thrashes about just below the surface before disappearing back into its depths. You’ve never gotten a good look at it, either, but you imagine it must stretch out past your height or further; some sort of gar or sturgeon.

Just as many times before, it glides further in, fin entirely out of sight now. The only evidence of it ever appearing at all were the small waves rippling in its wake. All is quieted once more as you embrace the placid bliss, readying your small flashlight and losing yourself into the book perched in your lap.

The next night, you’re greeted by a large snake basking over the rock you typically sat upon. It lies still, coiled into itself as it regards you, forked tongue flicking out for several moments before it simply slithers off, hiding itself away beneath the moss and stone.

“Best to leave you alone, huh?,” you ask to it’s retreating tail, feeling a bit silly for speaking to the reptile at all. It doesn’t respond, of course, nor does it bother to come out of hiding either.

You opt to seat yourself on the hill overlooking the water instead.

You find that after a day occupied by tedious tasks, there truly was no greater place to abandon your woes than here. Everything was peaceful; wild yet simplistic. Even with all of the death that seemed to haunt this place, you never feared the thought of ghosts. You’ve even entertained your imagination a time or two, that if you ever did meet one, you would only ask it not to disturb the wildlife you have grown so fond.

There’s a freedom and a mystery to places like this, places without the foot traffic of other people. It brings with it a sense of whimsy, especially when you glance towards the water and see the surface reflecting every twinkling star above.

The fish doesn’t appear, even as you listen to the water in wait, your head tilted as you lie back on soft grass to watch for ripples, for the swell of a large fin moving beneath. Nothing. You read your book as the night progresses, nearly completing it entirely before you make your way back home.

Weeks pass by like this— work, river, home and repeat. Occasionally it’s the same large snake that greets you when you wander there, more often it’s the large fish circling about waiting for crumbs of whatever treat you choose to bring. The bank and the small hill overlooking it have become a separate home to you, one where you can be away with the fairies, talking to your animal friends that never seem to stick around for long.

When the weather grows warmer, you even dare to take a swim.

You’re stood on the slick stones of the bank, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s not proper swimming attire, but you reason that you’re not at the beach, not a soul is around, and it doesn’t really matter at all that you might look a bit silly. The prospect of swimming along that behemoth below is a tad terrifying, but you wouldn’t dare to wander too far in. Maybe the fish would even be intelligent enough to not attempt to eat you after you’ve been so kind to it.

It’s hot, and with a sticky layer of sweat glossing your skin, your worries seem minuscule in light of an easy way of cooling off. You toe at the calm water for a moment, testing its temperature before willing yourself to take a step forward, then another before you seat yourself in the vibrant expanse of darkened blue. Here, you realize, is the best place to stargaze, too; they shimmer all around you, within reach as you tap at the surface of water, watching it undulate beneath the pressure of your fingertips.

You could reach the moon, too, if you swam further out. A few meters from the bank and you would be directly beneath its reflection, bathed in that ethereal glow.

You watch for your friend for a time, trying to prioritize your wariness over your whimsy. When the fish doesn’t tread by you, the water remaining calm, you rise to your feet and take slow, metered steps as the water parts and flows against your shins.

Though the river is disturbed no matter how gently you stride forward, nothing slides out from its depths in pursuit of you. Nothing happens at all when you reach out to splay your hand out against the reflection, the water now gently lapping against your stomach rather than your legs.

You hadn’t expected any sort of shift in your reality, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps some sort of clarity; a further calm for a weary mind. It doesn’t come, and with a disheartened splash you wade your way back towards the shore.

This has been your sanctuary for some time. Excusing the snake, there’s not been any sort of threat to you, not here. A safe water world all your own. Though, that peace is shattered the moment that you make it to the bank and hear the water shift some small distance behind you. Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of a man, the bulky muscular silhouette towering in the patch of moonlight you had just stood in. Bright blue eyes catch the light, reflecting like an animal’s as you scramble back to where you’ve left your shorts.

He stands there, silent and unmoving like an obelisk even as you hastily dress yourself with a thundering heart and breaths that sound more or less like gasps, senses heightened by your panic as you turn tail to run.

No one had been there. You were sure of it when you sunk into the water. There was no sound when this person had swam over to take your place. He was just there, as if he had been the entire time and you somehow failed to notice.

You make your way into the woods framing this place, hurried steps and untied shoelaces. You don’t even bother with your flashlight.

Finding your way back home with aches in every muscle, the desperate rampage you had taken to get away finally coming to a close when the door slams shut behind you, you quickly shower and mull over what’s just happened. A ghost, perhaps. It had to of been. Any other person would have made noise in their approach, especially being that big. The mind could play its tricks; what you had seen was likely not even there at all— a terrifying figment of your imagination. That sets you at ease, somewhat, but not enough.

You don’t sleep well that night, tucked beneath your blanket and staring at the filtered moonlight through your curtains. Work isn’t on your mind at all come morning until your phone chimes with a notification from your manager, questioning your tardiness. A languid crawl out of bed follows, another shower, an unsatisfying breakfast, all before you opt to send a text back to let him know you won’t be in today.

It could be excused, you’re reliable and decent enough at the job; not one to boast, but far more eager to please than the rest of your coworkers. You would be entirely useless if you went in on no sleep, you reason.

You don’t want to go back there, not under the veil of night, but you find yourself horribly curious the longer that you bide your time indoors. You had to know if the thing that you saw was really there, had to calm your nerves. What if he had always been watching each time, and you simply hadn’t noticed? The forest bordering the river is terribly dark at night, anyone could crouch behind the shield of a tree and remain undetected until they willed the courage to drag you in, cup a palm over your mouth to silence your cries.

Maybe it was the monster the people in town rumored about.

The thought of some strange, silent thing living beneath the water waiting for an opportune moment to take you by the neck and drag you down to the silty floor to watch you drown horrified you. Yet, that’s the one conclusion that sticks. Those eyes… so lurid and haunting, no human being had eyes like that.

You inhale sharply, steeling your nerves as reach for a pocket knife for defense, toss it into the bag slung over your shoulder, and storm out the door.

The trek there is nothing short of dull.

No matter where you look, what shadows rise up beneath the dim glow of a falling sun, there’s nothing out in the woods. The river is equally tame. The water babbles over rock, cicadas buzz off in the distance, and not a thing seems amiss. Your search for footprints that don’t belong to the soles of your shoes turns up empty. The only thing that suggests just maybe it wasn’t all in your head is the book you had neglected to retrieve in your fear the night before.

The cover, every page within, now warped as though it had been pulled into the water and spit out to dry. You pick it up, peeling through damp pages, running your fingertips over the smeared ink. It’s possible that a particularly aggressive splash could have sullied it, but something tells you that that isn’t the case. Either way, it’s unreadable now. You sulk a bit as you slip the ruined thing into your bag and step towards the smooth stones to watch the water instead.

Night creeps in slowly with you there, and you’re on high alert for a time before you begin to relax as usual. Even giggle to yourself at how silly it was you believed you saw a ghost at all as you entertain yourself by skipping small stones across the water.

No large snake, no massive fish, no titan of a man appears before you, only a calming crescent moon and a few wandering wood ducks, gliding down from the bank to splash about. A thought comes to mind as the calm emboldens you: what would happen if you got in just one more time?

There’s nothing to suggest that you’re playing with fire as you leave your shoes neatly in the dry sand. If the ducks could swim unbothered by fish or men, then surely you could, too. You watch the little creatures a distance away as they dip their heads beneath the surface and chitter away amongst themselves while you take your first step in.

You don’t dare to go as far this time, stopping when the water brushes over your knees. You wait there while time seems to slow to a crawl, expecting the absolute worst, glancing further down the river, dipping your hand below the glassy surface until your fingertips brush the sand beneath.

It’s horribly hot and you’re still exhausted from the sleepless night before. The water feels nice, and you feel as though you have some sort of claim to it as you’ve been here more often than anyone else would dare to. Ghosts and monsters be damned, you seat yourself and let the water lap over your shoulders, tilting your head back to watch the stars.

When the singing begins it takes a moment to register just what it is that you’re hearing. It’s not beautiful, not like the myths have said. It’s hissed, a low whisper, a mockery of what a human song would sound like. The voice is rasped, lilted yet cold. The realization that it sings words from your book of poetry is what terrifies you the most, the warped pages all making sense now.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, forward, before realizing the voice is coming from behind you. Cold spreads through your veins as you try to force yourself to stand, but in your fear you find yourself petrified, rooted in water that would surely become your grave.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around, to inevitably find your eyes locked onto the shadowy frame of a man far too large, his eyes glistening and pale like the moon hanging above.

The voice pauses when it finds you unmoving, and you can hear the rustle of the creature shifting its weight where it’s stood on the rocks lining the bank. You’ve no clue how deep the river gets, where the opposite side leads, but your only chance of escape seems to be swimming through in the hopes that this thing doesn’t choose to chase after you. A part of you knows that he would, that that is exactly what he expects you to do, goading you to flee deeper with his eerie song so that he can drown you just as he did the others.

You do the opposite as you squeeze your eyes shut and crawl back towards the bank, making sure to keep some distance despite your willful blindness. You wouldn’t look at it, wouldn’t talk to it, you would just go home and never come back.

“Best to leave you alone, hm?”

You still as your fingers brush against wet moss, the voice no longer a whisper but loud, loud as it echoes your words from days past just above you. Beating back your own curiosity proves futile, because you look up at the damned thing then, expecting to see an impossible terror before you, sharp fangs wet with blood and appendages too spindly reaching out for you. Instead, you see only a man.

He’s crouched, only a meter or so away, and you immediately recognize his broad figure. The same as the night before. From this distance you can make out the finer details, the length of net covering his face and neck, the webbing between each finger. Still a scary sight, but only in the way it’s unfamiliar and imposing rather than instilling any sort of primordial fear.

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself fully out of the water, rising to your feet and taking a tentative step back. You’re prepared to run, a coil pulled too tight on the verge of snapping.

The man, creature, whatever he may be just tilts his head, lets the silence hang in the air for a moment before he has the audacity to laugh whether to himself or at the strange, bewildered expression on your face.

His stare is assessing as he sucks in a breath, follows suit in rising to his full height. From the size of him alone, you know you’re not getting away. A mere stride for him would be two or more for you, a deliberate tug of your wrist from him could snap it in an instant.

Yet, he doesn’t reach for you, only gestures toward your bag lying on the ground with a subtle flick of a finger. You give him a quizzical glance in turn, not bothering to retrieve it. You could come back during the day with a friend, gather it and never return. Only, your knife sits somewhere inside, the only protection that you’ve got. The realization spurs you to bend over and toss the strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

The stare remains fixed upon you as you take another step back, blinking slowly every now and then as you both remain in some strange stasis.

It takes you a moment to put the pieces together. The reciting of words from the book, the mimicking of the words spoken to the snake, the hint at your bag… he’s expecting something and it’s not to steal away your life, only to be fed and have your company. It’s not charming, it’s awfully strange and eerie, but you find yourself giggling at the prospect of taming some murderous, shapeshifting monster with subpar treats and poetry.

You pull open the bag, searching for anything you may have brought along that he could eat, eventually prying out a small package and offering it out to him.

“Is this what you want?,” you ask, voice hushed and trembling.

He shakes his head, rustling the net cloaking him in the process. So, he understands, he’s just been willfully ignoring every other thing you’ve said prior. You store the package away with a perturbed expression crossing over your face.

“Then what?”

Any relief you had felt seems to dwindle when the giant takes a half-step closer. His skin is cool and wet as the river as he brushes his hand over your forearm, curling a set of fingers around it. The touch is gentle, but there’s a promise of violence lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he urges in that harsh whisper from before, delicately squeezing as he pulls you towards him, leading you back to the river with a tight grip and a step back over the stones. Though his touch is passive, there’s a frightening strength lurking someplace beneath his flesh, tacked to bone, and as your gaze trails lower to rest to rest at your feet, the space between you two, the evidence of a life prone to violence and strength is laid bare before you.

You don’t fight the hold as he leads you to water so deep it caresses the base of your neck, right below the milky glow of a waning moon. Deeper still, as you’re pulled below, pressed down to the very bottom with his body lain over you. You can only hold your breath so long before an involuntary gasp leaves you, and a wave is funneled straight into your lungs.

Panic is fleeting, but the adrenaline stays ever-present. You claw, push, kick, to no avail. Pinned down by a hand weighing like an anchor you feel your vision flooding and hazy as his head knocks against your jaw, mouth sealing tightly over yours. It’s not a gentle kiss, the net fashioned into a hood digs into your skin, teeth scrape over your lip until you feel the sting of blood drawn.

All at once, your vision darkens and it’s over.

You find yourself lying back on the shore as the morning sun warms your face, causes your dampened shirt to cling to your skin. Disoriented, but alive, brushing your thumb over your lower lip as you sit up to stare at the subtle waves lapping over moss and rock.

Just a dream, you tell yourself, knowing full well you hadn’t fallen asleep.

Just a dream, even though you avoid the river entirely now. Your route home from work changes too, avoiding even a glimpse of the path that leads down to that place. You don’t even replace the book, you toss what remains of it after fishing through your bag, murmuring something about it surely being cursed and entertain yourself with film at night instead.

Sleep remains tentative, you wake with every sound, and your dreaming is filled with visions of a figure pushing you down into deep water, his weight bearing down upon you so heavily that you can not move until you wake with a start, eyes searching your bedroom.

Several weeks, and the fear does eventually fade.

The morning that the rain begins to fall, you realize you haven’t even thought about the river in days. There’s no monster prowling your nightmares anymore. You lived through what may or may not have occurred, and that was the end of it, simple as it may have been.

A late shift at work has you wandering out into the rain, umbrella in hand. You’re grateful that you live close, that you’re not entirely soaked to the bone when you step inside of the mundane building. Your coworkers notice your change in demeanor immediately, chirping about how glad they are that you’re finally feeling better, looking more yourself as the hours pass you by. It brings a smile to your face, a real one that you haven’t had in place since that last night.

Even in the summer, there’s a chill to the air in the late afternoon as you hurry home from work and make your way inside, stripping out of your wet clothes and setting your umbrella aside. It’s darker outside than it should be, even more so indoors. Reaching for the switch to turn on the lights proves useless— the power’s out.

You light your way with your phone, ignoring the way your pulse quickens and your heart flutters with the fear that something just doesn’t feel right. Your skin prickles with the thought of some unseen pair of eyes watching you, blue and cold. You only relax when you slam your bedroom door shut, locking it and pressing your forehead to the wood as you sigh. The puff of breath that escapes your lips is not the only in the room, you find out when the light of your phone illuminated your bed. Crouched beside it, a towering figure with a face veiled by fishing net. Words don’t come when you open your mouth to speak, and your heart stutters in your chest as you stand shaking but otherwise petrified.

“You didn’t come back.”

Of course you hadn’t.

Most people wouldn’t have.

“No. I’ve been… busy,” you choke out the excuse, hoping to pacify whatever emotion you imagine lurked beneath his tone, undetectable through the hiss of his voice. “I’ll visit soon, promise,” you lie, back pressed against the door as your fingers curl over the knob.

Your fear seems almost unwarranted. He doesn’t move toward you, only stands to wander back to the window where he must have broken in.

“Tonight?,” he asks in a voice so soft, the voice he must use as a lure because tugs at your heartstrings immediately, makes you want to follow despite the threat this thing poses merely by existing, despite everything.

“It’s cold— I’ll get sick,” you murmur. “How did you even find me..?”

“I will keep you warm.” The question goes unanswered.

You find yourself stifled again as he lumbers towards you, brushing cold fingers across the side of your face. It’s not a mockery of a kiss you receive next but a firm bite where your neck meets shoulder, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you shiver, to grip at the wall of muscle that makes up his chest.

There’s a desperation to his movements as he herds you towards the window, pushes you toward the path leading back to the river. You’re soaked to the bone in seconds, hardly able to keep your eyes open past the weight of dampened eyelashes. The rain is so heavy it feels as though every step is like the first you took into cursed water, your feet sinking into the mud along the path with each tentative stride. The realization that you’re there doesn’t even hit you until you’re chest-deep in the chill, violent waves pushing against you, each carrying the threat of toppling you over entirely.

The palm splayed out against your bare back keeps you upright, leading you to a smooth rock jutting out in the midst of what seems a sea of frothing white and blue. The sea above is just as dark, angry clouds roaring as you’re pressed down onto your back, shivering terribly.

He keeps his promise though, a tight grip on each thigh as he pries your legs apart, sinks in between them and blankets you from the rain. Even with the cold pressed to your back, you feel the warmth of a summer sun above you, scorching from inside, just as blazing as the look in his wild eyes. The last of any resolve slips when you’re pulled beneath the violent waves, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses coaxing oxygen into your lungs. Each roll and pull no less tumultuous than the waves overhead. A placid end when the rain comes to an impromptu halt, just as he stills over you. Hands rush to cup your face with one final, desperate and biting kiss.

When the morning sun pulls you from sleep, cool moss against your back and the weight of his head resting over your middle, the shallow water lapping lazily at your figure, you find that you no longer fear drowning.

[nixcloud]

EWE single father/surprise fatherhood AU

It's 10 years after the war when Harry, whose life was just starting to get better and to move on, gets a call that Dudley Dursley has died, along with his wife in a horrible accident leaving behind a daughter. Whom to everyone's surprise, though they were survived by his parents, Dudley has her guardianship willed to a Mr. Harry J Potter. He has been requested to take custody following the burial. 

And so Harry finds himself putting on a suit, and trying to calm the rising panic of having to attend a funeral. A lot of things were hard after the war, at Hermione's behest he had been seeing a mind healer to deal with what muggles would describe as PTSD. And things were getting better, truly better. But he would be lying if he didn’t  admit that some things he had never truly been able to deal with. Funerals being one of them. 

He had seen too many deaths in the war, too many bodies whose souls were magically striped from them, too many who were buried in haste without proper goodbye, to many who were buried with their whole family watching. There was something about seeing a body lowered into the ground, or encased in marble that shook Harry to his core, that left him gasping for air. 

When he entered to wake he walked slowly up to the open casket, could feel Petunia and Vernon's eyes on him as they wept loudly for the room to hear. Harry never saw Dudley at this age until now, he still had that same round Dursley face and short black hair. And he looked wrong, so wrong. This man… this boy who had tormented him his whole life looked wrong, and harry could feel his hands shake. He sat in the back pew for the remainder of the service walking slowly behind the crowd as they moved the body into the cemetery. 

That's the thing about freak accidents, you can't prepare, you can't leave a note explaining your crazy decisions or why of all people, you want your child to live with a man who is a stranger, to live with the grown up child you tortured. And Harry doesn't know why he's here, he knows he shouldn't have come. But this was also literally the last chance at closure he was ever going to get with dudley and so he followed the precession. 

It was the worst out on the lawn. The gaping hole in the ground waiting for them all. Casket closed, people huddled close, weeping mixing with the call of the crows. He couldn't breath, his vision was swimming. He could feel his magic threatening to burst out and protect him from this too familiar threat, from this too familiar ending. He knew a panic attack when he felt one and he was desperately trying to keep it to himself. And so he barely even noticed when Petunia was walking up to him holding the hand of a 6 year old girl dressed in a matching black gown. 

“This is Aedelle Petunia Dursley.” She clung tightly to the child's hand, unwilling to relinquish her.  Harry could only stare at her. Petunia was right to cling, it made no sense for Harry, a stranger at best, to take this child from her grandparents as awful as they were, they loved their son, and they would love his daughter. She deserved her family, she deserved to be loved. He would give up his guardianship, he wouldn't take the last thing she knew from her. 

“I don't know why Dudley willed her to you but we will not stand for it.” Petunia whispered sharply. Many faces turned to look at him accusatorily as if Harry had any say in it at all. He wanted to apologize, tell her he didn't understand either. But then the priest was there, and the casket was moving. Harry couldn't hear anything over the blood rush behind his ears. His legs trembling as they lined it up over the great gaping hole in the earth. The dark shadows stretching to reach up and wrap around the wooden box. It was too much. Harry could picture to many faces trapped inside there. To many limp bodies and broken promises. And now he could imagine Dudley in there too. 

And then the screaming started. Loud shrieks, and for a few moments harry thought it all in his own head yet it grew in volume, and the weeping grew in volume, and he knew then that it was real. Dudley's daughter screamed and screamed as his casket was lowered into the earth. Aedelle is old enough to know what is happening and yet still too young to understand. Though Harry supposes no one ever truly gets old enough to understand why their loved ones die. 

A great wind picked up then, pushing flowers from their arrangements. Pulling peoples jackets off their shoulders and empty chairs to the ground. It blew so hard the men holding the coffin stumbled, sending it a little too loudly to the deep earth below. 

The wind was strong, not just in the way it moved the world but in its pressure. That familiar glittering sweep of magic washing over the whole venue. And Harry looked at the girl in front of him whose pain was now washing over the earth, washing over her fathers casket in a great sweep of magic. Pouring out of her like blood from an open wound. And Harry knew then why he was asked here. Knew what Petunia seemed blind too. Dudley had a magical child, and Harry was the only one who he knew could help her. 

And his tears began falling all at once, for the child of magic who had lost their parents, whose closest family couldn't be trusted to love them, for a child with nothing now being thrown into the great unknown. Wept for a child who had seen too much, given more responsibility yet again. 

He crouched to his knees in front of her. Looking at her reddening face and doing nothing to quiet the painful wailing. But he took her empty hand in both of his own, tinier than his own godsons had been at her age. And he whispered “hi Aedelle I'm Harry, I am your dads cousin.” 

And he sobbed openly in the grass, the sound only muffled by the great roar of wind. 

Across the cemetery, a groundskeeper in a long black coat stopped short. He had been lugging great rolls of grass which he would lay over the burial sight once the family left. A burst of wind swept at him, begging him to keep his distance; this happened occasionally when a wizard found themselves at the muggle funeral home. But Draco just walked on, drawing closer and closer to the grave, looking to see who was causing such a great magical disturbance in the presence of muggles. 

Draco had been working here for a good 5 years now, and found a somewhat tortuous path to healing by providing peace and calm for deceased muggles and their surviving loved ones. It had seemed a fitting role for him after all the deaths he encouraged, that he should be able to at least respect their lives enough to keep the grass green and their headstones polished. It was hard work, lonely work, but it worked for him. 

And from a few yards away he could see the small child wailing as he made eye contact with a man crouched in the grass, green eyes dim, face streaked with tears. Who looked just as desperate and scared as the child in front of him. Harry potter, in the place he deserved to never be again, a cemetery. 

[navybrat817]

Lovelies, I took my kiddos to Trunk or Treat yesterday at their school and one of the cars had kids pick out a treat AND a book to keep. Totally a librarian!Bucky move (and have to once again share this beautiful Nix edit.)

Which one of your fictional husbands is giving out books along with candy?

[nix-far-scourge]

everybody remember, there is plural joy out there. you don't have to suffer and be miserable to be a system. sure, might suck sometimes, and some will have their struggles, but you will make it through the dark. Remember the good that comes from being a system, things that happen in headspace, the internal support, everything that you didn't have before that you needed desperately. you will live, we all will. we're all systems regardless of origins and what terms we may use, we need to support each other. and hate isn't fucking punk!

[nixie-writes-aot]

Levi Ackerman Fluff Headcanons

Warnings: None

Characters: Levi Ackerman, unspecified/gender neutral reader

Author's Note: I just wanted to write some Levi fluff but god I'm not good at writing long Headcanons but fuck it 💀

General Headcanons

I've had this idea since Bad Boy got released despite not reading it that Levi probably encouraged Mikasa to go short on her hair. That's because, to him, Mikasa and Kuchel look similar. Too similar. For many, the idea would provide comfort but not Levi

He cares for Mikasa SO MUCH. Probably teaches her specifically how to make tea and clean up (and the others) but of course he's a little "rude". He just wants her to live a long, peaceful life to the best of her ability

In fact, semi related, that's how he feels about Gabi and Falco too. They remind him of not only Erwin and Hange but Isabel and Furlan too. He loves those little rascals!! Especially as he opens up

This man 100% opens up a tea shop at some point in his retirement. Visits Mikasa whenever possible but prioritizes caring for the smallest generation of little ones

Romantic Headcanons

Okay so. Let's go. Levi absolutely adores you. Would make time for you, invite you out to spend time with Gabi and Falco. The works!

His ideal date is one that doesn't require going out. He's a homebody. Maybe a nice movie, some tea. A night spent being really cozy and comfortable

Levi isn't used to affection. If you sat down and really pampered him, he wouldn't know what to do. In a good way! Lean into your touch, staring into your eyes with his own unreadable expression and consider your placement in his life. How lucky he is and how special you are

Levi 100% hesitated introducing you to Hange and Erwin. If you ever ask though? He will do so without a doubt. You asked after all! But he will drag his feet. It's not about you, or even them really. It's about the idea of what it means for him. How much he has committed to the idea that you and him will last

Levi is 1000% bad at feelings

[nixon-stars]

If I can't draw ivorycleo you better believe I'll write for them. For the @transmcytshowdown this competition means so much to me you don't even know

What if the showdown was an actual fight?

(Okay warnings, slight injuries, shipping and some teeny tiny violence)

Ivory was a mess. Dark purple bruises already blooming on rosy pale skin, damp white hair sticking to her forehead, sitting, relying on her arms to hold her weight from fully collapsing onto the floor. Cleo definitely didn't look much better, void, she could already feel her stiches coming loose, and the faint throb of a punch to the head early on making itself very known.

Ivory might not seem like much at first, but Watchers above, she was stronger than she looked.

The zombie dropped to their knees, ignoring the ingignant groan her joints gave to ge used. Later problem.

"You fight well." The demon (angel? Cleo couldn't tell) didn't respond. Just stared her down in that same unreadable expression she somehow kept this entire time, or at least, while Cleo was watching. It must be hell playing poker with her.

Cleo took the opportunity to search Ivory's face. She had big eyes, turned downwards and framed with thick white eyelashes, the eye one not completely pink and surrounded in scar tissue being a milky peach colour that just seemed to bare right through the undead's soul. Her nose was straight and pointed, and as Cleo's eyes darted lower, they landed on the demon's lips. They were full, blushed pink and parted slightly to let the flow of air in as she continued to heave. And right next to them - a dark bruise the size of Cleo's fist. They winced sympathetically, and before they could even think otherwise, her hand was on Ivory's face, thumb gracing over the purple spot they left.

Ivory's breath caught for a split second before regaining her usual composure. "I could say the same about you. Well done Cleo, you deserve it."

The larger grunted in what could be affirmation or maybe gratitude as she continued to rub light circles around the bruising. "Sorry about that, by the way. Didn't think I hit so hard."

She just shrugged in return. "I've gotten worse." And it was true, but the zombie's expression still had the slightest hint of guilt in it, something Ivory couldn't bear. Her tail snaked around the redhead's leg, omitting the slightest smile from them.

"Hey, if you're that guilty about it, there is something you can do for me." Ivory remarked, grin playing at the edge of her mouth.

"Really? And what's that?" Cleo says leaning in slightly.

The smaller of the two also moves forward, before picking one of the flowers that decorate her head, admiring it's large pink petals, twirling it, before placing it gently in orange curls.

Her attention flicks back to Cleo, snaking two slender, rosy fingers in between the cloth choker and the cold undead flesh of their neck, before pulling them in and resting her mouth by the zombie's ear.

"Win."

Ivory's voice was smooth as silk, her words embedding deep into a heart that had long stopped beating.

With one swift movement they moved against Ivory's lips, savouring the warmth of the other against her.

Ivory pulled away first, blinking contentedly at them before pushing them away.

"Go, win it for me Cleo." She commanded, and Cleo would be a fool not to listen.

They would win. If not for themself, then for Ivory.

[harbours-lighthouse]

“Hey, so…” you clear your throat, “I’m gonna die someday and—” 

Jason visibly recoils at that. The painful reminder of both of your fragile morality is not one he wants to think about, or for his case, remember. 

You keep going, though your words come out slow, hesitant and soft.

“I want…I want to let you know that I love you. A lot. More than what I know what to do with.” 

“Baby—” Jason’s voice falters, and he drops his head, shaking it.

What is he supposed to say to that? It feels as if you’ve taken a sledgehammer to his chest and cleaved it in two. You’re not breaking up with him. You’re not screaming that you hate him. But why does this feel worse than those two combined? 

Jason swallows thickly, feeling the burn of the rope chafing against his wrists, and the blood leaking down his temple is hot and thick.

“And,” your voice begins to shake, “I don’t wanna die without telling you—” 

“I know,” Jason cuts in, a sense of helplessness clawing inside his chest. Bringing his gaze back up to you, he says in a softer tone.

“I know, sweetheart.” 

You purse your lips together, willing the burn in the back of your eyes to fade away. The desolate cell around you both feels like a cage. Mildew clings to the stale air. The coppery scent of blood lingers in your nose. How many people have died here?

Jason’s heart is rampaging against his ribcage, like a frightened bird violently beating its wings and desperate to be freed. 

He says your name firmly, and you lift your head from where you’d been staring at the floor; the tiles are cracked, dried blood stains the grout lines in a black-red.

Your eyes are bright, watery in the dim light. It sends Jason’s stomach churning with dread. 

“We’re gonna get out of here, okay?” there’s a weight to the words, and you can almost imagine them burning themselves into your skin, marking you with a severe promise. 

Keys being jingled unharmoniously against someone’s hip—coming closer to you—sends your skin crawling, erupting into goosebumps and fear. 

Jason’s eyes harden. His shoulders tense. The clinking metal becomes louder.

“You just need to listen to me. Listen to what I say, yeah?" he eyes bore into you, sapphire and jade burning. It urges you to nod your head.

The clanking sound echoes, loud and shrill and horrible. Jason's eyes don't leave yours, and you can see the plan formulating behind them; a sequence of actions you can't envision for yourself, but you know you won't have to.

He'll tell you, but you'll also have to listen to the unsaid things, too. 

and then i lost the plot...literally. there is absolutely no context here and i don't know what this is or where it's going, or if i should burn it or expand it into a fic.

[fyeahnix]

Ambessa Medarda expects nothing but the best from her pets. How else would she be able to show them off in front of the other warlords?

cw: wlw, consensual D/s, inspection, fondling, fingering, smut

------

"Display."

The command from behind snapped you out of your brief reverie. You spread your legs apart and placed your hands behind your head with elbows spread wide. Held still. Naked and still with your eyes cast downwards.

Warlord Ambessa Medarda hummed as she circled you. "Hm, faster this time, eh? I'd almost believe you'd been practicing without me. Even still..." Her words lingered. She stopped behind you once more, and you shuddered when her lips ghosted the shell of your ear. "...your stance"—she pushed the inside of your thigh with two fingers—"needs work. I expect them wider."

You widened.

"Forty-five degrees, pet, like I taught you," she scolded. When she reclaimed her spot in front of you, she examined the space between your legs. "Not sixty and not thirty. Don't make me repeat myself. Understood? Speak."

"Yes, Warlord."

Despite your official status as her beloved concubine, you didn't have the luxury of undermining her right now. Ambessa was a large and intimidating woman, ruthless and cunning beyond her stature. The scars decorating her dark skin dictated a thousand stories of war and betrayal, situations of life and death you'd never be able to comprehend. In what world would you jeopardize her position and claim to authority for a temporary ego boost? This wasn't the practice session for it. You'd have ample opportunities in the future.

"Straighten your back, little one." When you did, Ambessa proceeded with her study of your form. "I did inform you this banquet is important, didn't I? I see you've taken that to heart. But did I tell you why?"

You did not respond, only made the minute adjustments to your form as she demanded.

"We Noxians respect power over all, no matter what form it takes. What better way to display such power than through the subjects you command?" She paused. Gave you a once-over. She cupped your cheek with a large hand, then ventured south over your collar to balance one breast in her palm. Your lack of a reaction earned you a pleased nod. "The banquet is nothing more than a gathering of warlords eager to boast about their claims. Important, still, but a...networking event, so to speak."

You swallowed as her touch lingered at your breasts, unable to help the shiver from the possessive graze of their undersides.

"You'll be on display. At my side, of course. You are my most prized pet, after all. But you will be scrutinized by the other warlords. Touched..."

She pinched a nipple.

"...Fondled..."

Kneaded your ass.

"...Violated."

Two fingers slid along your cunt.

You whimpered and flinched, nearly dropping your stance.

"Your ability to keep your composure reflects upon me." She teased your entrance before breaching slowly. "What kind of lord would I be if I couldn't train my own pets? That's why I demand perfection from you. All of you. But especially my prize."

You dripped around the one finger that had entered you, and a single bead of your arousal slid down your thigh. You fidgeted in place, mentally begging to be put out of your misery in this godforsaken position. But you had to hold on. For you and for her.

"I have high expectations for you, pet. I need to know you're ready for what comes ahead. It'll be a special day for us both."

Your breathing grew erratic. You blinked multiple times in succession, hoping to rid yourself of this nightmare.

Another finger filled you as the pad of her thumb caressed your clit. Your breath hitched and you could not take any more.

Ambessa shot you a look that bordered between mischief and pity, a look you barely caught out of the corner of your eye. "Hm? Is there something you need to say? Speak freely."

"M-May I come? Please..."

"Already?" Her scarred lip twitched in mirth, and she withdrew her fingers, pulling a groan from your chest. "I've barely touched you."

You whined.

Ambessa tutted. "Ah ah. Don't you dare. Use your words."

You sighed instead. "Please, Warlord? Please let me come..."

It may not have shown on her face, but Ambessa broke in seconds. She found your whining unbearable, but hearing you beg never failed to make her falter.

"You did improve your timing today. Though, I still expect better from you in your positioning." She pressed her palm against your pussy, and you jerked against it, breaking your rigid stance. She sighed dramatically.

"You may."

You only lasted four thrusts after she plunged back into you. Noxian swears dribbled from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you. Shaking and spent, your knees buckled and you collapsed into her chest. Your heart clamored in your ribs while hers beat with the whisper of a soft drum, utterly calm and at ease. When she pulled her hand away, your cunt twitched and grasped at nothing.

She held you close, and you floated away in her arms to land in the plush satin of the canopied bed you sometimes shared with her on nights you desired her embrace. When your brain reset itself and your attention returned, you opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue as you were trained to clean up your messes after making them.

Ambessa wiped her still-wet fingers across and down your tongue, painting your mouth with your own essence. "You should know, pet, I don't plan for anyone to touch you in the ways I do. It would be an act of aggression against me. We Noxians may exhibit pride in our strengths, but we aren't barbarians. You can at least expect a level of respect when you're there."

When you cleaned off her fingers with your lips and tongue, Ambessa cupped your chin. "Now, what do you say?"

You locked eyes with hers, the only time you were allowed during your training and scenes. "Thank you."

"Good," she husked, and released you thereafter. "That's enough training for today. Now, come. We both need a bath. That is...if you can still walk."

[nix-nihili]

thinking about The Agency. Edwin and Charles' Agency. their office, their storage, their own place, their home. because that's what it is, isn't it? their home. a collective of themselves packed into one (presumably) rented office space. and it might have started off as an office space, a place to take their cases, have a modicum of professionalism, but it has clearly evolved into something more.

because there are trinkets and knick-knacks littering every surface; memories from cases and three decades of friendship. there's a closet full of board games and shelves full of books and a caseboard full of slips.

this is their safe space. the space where they strip their layers and lounge around. the space where they return to. a space which they could navigate with their eyes closed.

they may have gone their whole lives as humans without a space to call home, find comfort in, feel loved, but The Agency is all of that for them as ghosts. only after death do they find a place to properly live.

(live together, to be exact. because without each other, The Agency is simply an office space and nothing more.)

[phoenixdaneko]

AFTER LIKE. 15 YEARS. HERE WE AREEEEEE

New chapter!!! Some varied perspectives and some interesting thoughts! I hope you all enjoy~

@archangel-fucking-judas @dressycobra7 @duhsty1 @glitzybunny @tway-la

@fnafmybeloved @aboutchicken298 @reaurelynios @yakamashi-ao3 @cody-welsh

@catboy-pentheus @ghosts-cant-die-twice @venomous-qwille @laymedowntorest

@maldefekt @art1sty @papercrown301 @d3m0l1t10n-lvrs @crystalmagpie447

@celticwolfie @remidraws @dracoria-nebulae @thegrindragon @robinette-green

[thenixkat]

Ken really tried to sing and pose at Jiji to assert dominance (b/c he's concerned that Jiji might be trying to steal the girl he's in love with) and Jiji really went 'fuck yeah singing and posing' and just joined in on the song and posed back at Ken.

Wild.

Ken was really over there jealous, seething, loosing his mind about Jiji being hot and the possibility that Momo might fall for Jiji, while Jiji thought he made a new friend in Ken.

[webstersdiary]

some winnix wip for you all this sad sack sunday (working title of this is 'winnix nix can see the future' for context)