#((to being nothing more than nightmares; not knowing the truth behind them? it's an interesting idea; i dig it!))

[theheadlessgroom]

https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/719251327573786624/beatingheart-bride-theheadlessgroom

@beatingheart-bride

It always surprised Wilhelm to hear that little reminder, that affirmation, that he did not deserve to be shunned or treated as harshly as he was: Although he was a proud man-proud of his heritage, proud of his family, proud of where he came from-and was never afraid to say so, a man could only take so much abuse before he started to believe it himself. He tried not to let it get under his skin, of course, reminding himself that they were just narrow-minded people who didn’t know him the way people like his wife and son did, but still...

...it still managed to burrow under his skin like a damned tick. It burrowed, it planted itself in him, slowly poisoned him-it made him stop, second-guess himself, even when he knew he shouldn’t. It was frustrating, exhausting, and demoralizing, but still, he hung in there. Call it stubbornness (the hallmark of a good Pace), call it optimism, a sort of Pollyanna-ish outlook on things, but he reminded himself that the harsh words, the rude stares, the little whispers...they meant nothing. He let them roll off his back, and instead chose to believe in the little reminders: From June, from Randall...

…and now, from Emily.

“Thank you, lass,” he smiled softly at that: Neither do you, he wanted to say, but for now, he settled on gratitude for the kind words of this sweet siren, sitting in his bathtub.

[honeybeefae]

A Mouse in a Cage (Azriel Imagine)

I've got a tiny little imagine for y'all, I know it's been a while so forgive me for any errors! (I hope I've still got it lol)

(This could work for a multitude of characters but I'm gonna write this for Azriel because I think it just fits perfectly.)

Imagine...

"Please, please don't do this!" You cry out from behind the makeshift gag that was shoved into your mouth.

The three men, one of them being your father, ignored your pleas and continued tying you up to the giant altar that loomed above one of the dungeons in the Court of Nightmares. You tried to thrash and fight, tears flowing hot down your reddened cheeks from their earlier beating, but it was as if you were a rabbit caught in a snare.

"Stop it, girl." Your father sneered, grabbing a fistful of your hair so that you were staring up at him. "This is of your own doing."

You protested once more, trying to proclaim your innocence but he wasn't interested in the truth. No, your father was only concerned about the image of the family and the embarrassment you had caused.

A mistake that apparently could only be righted by your death.

Once they had made sure everything was secured, they made a hasty retreat to the door. The mountains above you quaked and the shadows themselves seemed to hide as whatever monster awaited you grew closer.

"I would begin praying now that the Mother take pity on you, child." Your father called from the darkness, a single candle barely illuminating his face. The only feature you could make out was his cruel smirk. "I'll be praying for it as well...consider it the last act of a father's love."

The words struck deep, deeper than any physical beating you had ever felt. He didn't wait to watch even more tears flow as he followed the other two, leaving you in complete darkness.

As a child, you had been afraid of the dark, of what could be watching you, but now it was the only company you had. The cold dampness of the dungeons seemed to stick to your skin as you recited your prayers to the Mother, hanging your head in defeat with every cry of the other prisoners being tortured by Rhysand's monster.

His reputation was known throughout Prythian, how the shadows bent to his will while his dagger made everyone else do the same. You had never seen him, never wanted to, but fate was funny in that way.

What you tried to ignore would now be the thing that struck you from this life.

You couldn't stop your breath from gasping when you heard the cell beside you grow quiet. Was it your turn? Had the Spymaster had enough for today?

The overwhelming fear of the unknown was causing you to go into another panic attack, your thoughts bouncing around the ever-closing box you were trapped in which made you struggle to breathe.

It was getting worse with every passing second. You couldn't hear, couldn't feel, it was as if you were already dead.

Shadows swirled at the front of the room as a large, winged figure stepped through but you were too consumed by your own dread to pay attention.

The dark form cocked its head in intrigue at you, studying you closely while twirling its trusty dagger between its fingers. It was only when you seemed to be on the brink of insanity that it stepped forward and captured your face between its scarred fingers, illuminating the room so that you could see what was waiting for you.

You squinted and blinked rapidly at the change of light, the sudden change making you snap out of your delusions momentarily. When you finally adjusted to your surroundings, you found yourself face to face with the Illyrian warrior who haunted everyone's dreams.

His amber eyes gave nothing away, his grip steadfast as you trembled underneath him. The prayers you had chanted seemed to be all for naught as you caught a glimpse of his weapon.

"What are you doing here?" His gruff voice asked, sounding like he had not spoken aloud in years. "A little mouse like you shouldn't be down here with the rats."

Shocked was plainly written over your face as his jaw clenched, eyeing the bruises and marks that littered your body. You couldn't find it in you to respond to him, assuming this was some sick game he played before carving you up.

"Well?" The Spymaster pressed, raising an eyebrow. All you could do was watch him fearfully, your tears even too scared to fall past the corner of your eyes.

But just as he raised up his other hand to do Mother knows what, you hoarsely whispered, "Please." As your last call for mercy for a punishment that did not fit the crime.

And when he heard it, heard you, that dreaded monster stopped in his tracks as his eyes turned soft. Something in him seemed to spark at your voice, the shadows that curled around him suddenly reaching out to you in strong interest.

"I won't hurt you." He said slowly as if speaking to a caged animal. "Never."

After all the stories you had heard about him, all the people you saw quake in fear from just his name, you would think that you would have enough common sense to not trust his words but just as something snapped in him, it snapped in you as well.

It was like a light at the end of the tunnel, a hand reaching out just as you were on the verge of drowning. You didn't know what exactly awaited you on the other side but you knew it was meant for you.

He saw the change immediately. He could feel the trust you had just bestowed upon him and while he would he relish in it later, the gravity of the situation returned back to the forefront of his mind.

His eyes turned dark as his shadows curled tightly around his body once more, one of his hands gripping the base of his dagger tightly as he titled your head once more and said in a deep, terrifying voice, "Who did this to you?"

(EEEEEEE okay I hope this is okay??? It's a warmup for sure but I kinda like it ngl. I love you guys and hope this hits you guys the same way it did me. <3)

[collectorofsoulss]

Exile! Mammon x F!Reader Pt2

Previous

Next

“Liar.”

There was disbelief written across your face. Small steps, you backed up. He was a demon. Demons were liars. You refused to believe anything that comes out of his mouth. They were negative entities, constantly draining those to fill an empty void. Any form of life often decayed and grew weak. Nothing good comes from being around them. How dare he implies your husband could be one of those vile creatures! He was nothing like them! 

The response left the demon silent. Did you not know? The sound of his name did not bring familiarity. Why not? The sudden realization had him pause his own actions. Interesting.

“My husband doesn’t have any brothers or any sort of family,” you reasoned desperately. “And he’s not…one of you.”

The choices of words left Lucifer confused, bamboozled even. ‘…one of you…’ The longer he stared at you, the more the answers became apparent. The despair in your voice, the desperation in your actions. He was seen as the enemy by his own family; a family who does not know of him. 

Did Mammon deny him knowledge of your existence? The demon gave a soft chuckle. Unsure what the laugh represented, he could only shake his head in disbelief. Not again. Both of you two were kept in the shadows not meant to see each other in the light; it was as if Mammon did not want his two words to collide.

“If this was what meant to be, so be it,” he said to himself.

The devil extended his hand towards you and snapped. Instinctively you flinched unsure of what was to come. The weight of MJ’s head crashed down, arms sliding from your shoulders as his body went heavy. 

The sudden response had you roughly shaking him, “Hey, honey,” you adjusted him within your arms to see his face. “Open your eyes, look at Mommy,” No matter how much you called his name the child remained unresponsive. The same methods were used against Maxi, you patted his bottom waiting for a sound but he was silent as well.

“What did you do to my babies!”

The devil towered over you; gradually craning your neck you peered into his soulless pools of red. The vision of him disoriented into nothingness. The control of your body was relinquished to him. The once strained expression you carried relaxed as the magic neutralized you. It had no choice but to follow the orders of the demon. The will of his was now the will of yours.

“Human. Put the children to bed for their afternoon nap, then prepare dinner for the night. Once dinner is finished, fall asleep on the sofa waiting for your husband to return home, however, before he does you awake from a nightmare, this nightmare. Call him and demand he is to return home because you are afraid. You are not to remember my face. You are not to remember by name. You are not to remember me.”

There were two crows stationed outside the windowsill. Hato had taken off to deliver the contents of what occurred while Karasu remained behind to intervene. Hato had stopped in mid-flight to perch on a nearby branch confused as to why he left his post, not realizing the mere minutes were blurred from their minds. Immediately, Hato flew back joining beside Karasu. They both observed the little ones getting tucked into their beds; the intruder was no more. 

By the grace of magic, Lucifer concealed any evidence of his presence. Mammon did not reveal to his family who or what he was; Lucifer had no other choice than to honor it. A secret he will now carry for eternity.

Lucifer knew all there was to know. He had to make sure you were not a threat. There was nothing special or extraordinary about you. Nothing. There was no spell, no bribe, Mammon was not blackmailed nor forced. Everything done for you was done willingly. Which was why it grieved him. How could a mere human shift this demon’s behavior for the better he has worked eons to correct? What made you different? 

Lucifer waited and waited, however, the truth never came. He began questioning the relationship he had with his brother. Everything he’s ever done was to protect them, all of them. Did Mammon doubt him? That somehow that’ll change? After the whole ordeal about Mammon’s whereabouts, Lucifer calmly disclosed to the rest of his brothers, Mammon was simply handling some affairs for the witches, easily they believed him, disinterested in the shenanigans he manages to get himself into. 

Lucifer stilled himself, vowing to not interfere with his brothers’ life. Ignorant to the truth, you knew nothing of the supernatural world. You knew creatures and beasts lived, hidden and dispersed throughout mankind but you knew not of their story or how they came to be. For if you knew the history of their time, you’d know it was not a man you laid next to each night but a demon.

~~~

“What da hell ya mean you don’t have it!” Mammon yelled. “The hell I’m payin’ ya for!”

The side of his fist hit the stone wall he stood at; its cracks dispersing across the center. The signs were already showing, there was barely enough time. It was only a matter of moments before everything he worked hard for goes to shit! The spell needed to be enforced but lacked a few vital ingredients. The woman uncrossed her legs, sitting up in her chair.

“Look! It’s not my fault the flowers have not bloomed! And please,” she pointed, “Try not to damage any of my shit!”

“It’s been a year now, witch! The fuckin’ bind is weakenin’” he explained. “It cannot break, ya hear?”

Prudence saw the desperation within his eyes; there’s hardly been a time where he was ever serious...like ever. Mammon frantically paced in her cabin, ruffling his hair as he tried to think. If you were to ever find out – he couldn’t even imagine your reaction, the words you’d say. 

He was going to tell you, not on the first date–or third but eventually! It was the strength, he lacked. Everything was going so well, this little secret of his was going to strip away all the precious moments he’s shared with you. Mammon was afraid that’s all you’ll see in him just like his brothers. He tried to escape his sin, his past, and who he was destined to be. 

Foolishly, he thought if he doesn’t speak of it, nor acknowledge that side of him, it’ll go away. The thought of you hating him, not trusting him – everything about his character made him sick. Desperately he struggled to avoid such fate yet look where he was now. 

A pang of pain radiated within his chest, a hand, he clutched himself, fingers indenting his shirt. Would you even want him anymore? Would you want…them? Fuck! He shouldn’t think like this, of course, you’d want them. They were your kids, you’d never abandoned them but would you abandon…him? The thought scared him.

“These ingredients have to be in their ripest forms in order for it to be effective,” she reasoned, observing the components on the countertop. “They are already so rare, blooming every decade, growing in the harshest environment. It’s not something that’s easy to come by, not only do we need one dose but two.”

Due to their small potency, during each concoction, its amounts were doubled, and given to each of the children for maximum effectiveness. Mammon could not risk any slip-ups. Performed annually, eventually the flowers diminished in quantity.

“There must be somethin’ else,” he sat on the stool. “That’s all the tricks ya got up yer sleeves? The fuck kinda witch are ya?”

The woman’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance, frustrated about the lack of respect. Not only he appeared unannounced, but he also invited himself into her home. If it weren’t for their past, Prue would have his ass out. Despite his rash behavior, she took into account – he has kept promises before, surprisingly. It’s only fair to return the favor.

“I told you, I do not have strong enough magic to seal their powers,” she disclosed, placing the tips of her fingers together. “Despite them being human, given you being their father, one of the greatest sins known to mankind; their demonic heritage is far too potent for me alone to seal. I would need other members of the coven to have a successful ritual or it must be a demon of higher power. Given how discreet you are about their existence, this is the only option unless…”

Mammon perked up, swiveling around to hear the words come out of her mouth.

“Unless you are the one to seal them.”

There was a sudden vacancy within his eyes. “I…I ain’t good with spells and hexes.” He sucked, terribly; it’s the memorization of words and rituals, there were too many factors he had to take into account. It was far too risky and he did not want to chance to ruin it, causing something grave to happen to his cherished children. He’d rather leave it to someone vastly experienced and well-versed in this specialty, hence why he was here in the first place.

“It’s either risk the spell unraveling by waiting for the flowers to bloom or you learn the incantation and bind them yourself.”

However, the moment he saw Hato; it was too late.

~~~

The young boy held his head in his hands, nails scratching at his scalp as he endured a terrible headache. His room was atrocious. Clothes were everywhere, items turned over while  Junior was in the center of it all. There was an unbearable pain, something he was unable to describe. 

He could hardly move. It felt as if his skin was too tight, it didn’t make sense, but he felt restrained – suppressed. Junior’s been feeling this for a while, at first he was able to tolerate it but as the days came the pain grew stronger. In a fetal position, he was left immobilized. 

Junior didn’t make it to dinner, and he knew you were on your way up. He heard your voice clear as day, why was he able to hear your footsteps? The sound of your heart? The little whisper under your breath as your fingers glided against the railing. The cracking sensation had him groaning, his back was on fire. Something was about to break through. The gentle knock on his bedroom door was enough to hurt him, why was everything so loud?

“Honey, are you okay?”

Soon his hands were wet. Trembling, he looked at his palms. Ink-like substance trailed down his fingers. Was this supposed to be his blood? Junior was going to be sick. On his hands and knees, he coughed. He heard your fist hammering against the door, soon shaking the door knob.

“MJ, why is the door locked? What are you doing in there? Are you okay?”

A surge of pain rippled through him, his nails grew into claws, digging into the floorboards, the wood chipped. His head was about to explode, what was happening to him?

“Sweetie, open the door!”

Outside the room, you heard crashing noises and multiple items falling onto the floor. Knelt, your hand hovered over the lock. Whispering you tried to magically break it. The lock began to alter; back and forth your eyes shifted, panicking as you could only imagine what was happening. Junior started screaming until it morphed into a deep guttural growl, surprising you. 

Unlocked, you turned the knob welcoming a gust of wind blowing you flat against the hallway wall. Furniture broke; debris went everywhere. The wave of unleashed power seized, dropping everything in the air, you included. On your knees, you sucked in a breath – widened eyes. There was an eerie silence of bones morphing. Junior was cowered on all fours, ligaments protruding from his back – black substance coated them.

“Mommy…” Blood spilled from the corner of his lips. “…what’s wrong with me?” He looked at you with curiosity. The size of his pupils enlarged until the colors of his eyes were no longer seen. The opening from his horns trickled blood down his forehead and onto his cheeks. 

Your child was a...was a...Tears swelled in your eyes. No.

Instantly, your strength was depleted from your legs. Unable to take a step forward, you were paralyzed to the ground. Double vision, sluggishly you crawled. He was still your baby. You had to get to him. He was so afraid. The second you held him, it was like your soul was going to be torn out of your chest. He was a demon.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” you hushed, lifting him into your arms. “I’m here, baby,” voice small with fear.

“Mommy, I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled. “It hurts…” Junior curled into your chest, hugging himself tightly. He began to cry.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you whispered. All you could do was hold him, unable to bear his pain.

~~~

Mammon sprinted inside the house. The sudden power of his steps sunk his foot through the stairs. The railings were displaced from his touch as he used it as momentum to push forward. Mammon did not sense you nor the children in the house.

“Oi! Junior, MC!” he yelled, roughly dislodging his foot. 

Swiftly he stomped up the staircase, running into Maxi’s room to see a vacant crib. He touched the top of it, tears burning his eyes. Junior’s door was found off its hinges; his room was in shambles, splatters of blood staining the walls, the floorboards and whatever furniture remained. Roaming the house, he noticed the safe was open, everything inside missing. The cabinets were empty; the suitcases were gone. The last stop was the bedroom you both shared.

There, a gentle glisten on the nightstand caught his attention. Mammon sat on the edge of the bed; Hato settled on his shoulder, observing the actions of his master. Silently, the tears dripped down the bridge of his nose. In the center of his palm was your wedding band. He lost you. He lost them.

Next

[bestworstcase]

to what degree do you think ozma is projecting/flat out lying when he tells hazel salem wants to destroy remnant and die? does he know or have an inkling of what her real motives are? i would imagine he does given the breaking point between them was over the gods, but i find it interesting the degree to which he obfuscates it

wrt what ozma says to hazel, i think it’s worth keeping in mind that:

ozma believes fear is the fundament of all living beings (“the single quality that is common across all living creatures on this planet […] we so easily underestimate its power”);

ozma is a habitual, nearly compulsive liar;

when ozma tells hazel that salem craves nothing but release and she intends to doom everyone else so that she can finally die, he does so with the explicit purpose of manipulating hazel the way he believes salem manipulates his own inner circle, i.e. he is deliberately setting out to do to hazel what salem did to lionheart.

those are three solid reasons to think ozma is, if not lying through his teeth, then at least distorting the facts and lying by omission just as he did in V5. he also describes salem’s immortality as a proper curse with “as long as this world turns” as the implicit end clause, which we know he knows isn’t the truth. so there’s certainly a degree of deliberate deception and obfuscation going on here, as he’s emphasizing salem’s (notional, presumed) suicidality as much as possible in order to scare hazel out of following her.

i think he does, absolutely, know what salem really wants. not just because of their falling out over the question of whether to do what the god of light told him to do but also because of the fairytale anthology, which is like… paraphrasing,

ozpin’s notes on the grimm child: “the detail about the possessed victims of this grimm having stark white hair and dark eyes isn’t a traditional part of the fairytale, i put it here because the story reminds me of this other story about a witch who lived in the woods :) and also to underscore the futility of expecting evil to be simple and obvious, because in reality evil can lurk behind any face and we’re often the slowest to recognize it in ourselves…”

ozpin’s notes on the infinite man: “no story on remnant has been used as propaganda more often than this one. i think the man was both a hero and a fool and made terrible mistakes that may not be worthy of forgiveness. also truth is not absolute and everyone has the freedom to make their own choices.”

ozpin’s notes on the story of the seasons: “by the way, i have nightmares about a world where everyone had god-given magic. that would be terrible.”

ozpin’s notes on the girl in the tower: “hi this one is propaganda too. it ended in tragedy and the hero turned out to be a villain, but hopefully villains can turn out to be heroes too. also you should question everything, especially if you’re told it’s the absolute truth, because storytellers have absolute control over the narrative.”

ozpin’s notes on the gift of the moon, which is the last tale in the anthology and comes directly after the girl in the tower: “this is an allegory about how humans broke the world, then came together to not only replace a celestial gift from the all-powerful god of light but improved upon it through their own ingenuity. the divide between day and night, light and dark, is the real problem actually”

something something in waves of shame/we’re desperate to make amends… fairytales of remnant reads like a tortured apology to salem that he is desperately trying to contort into condemnation and that really does not make sense to me unless ozma knows damn well what she really hopes to accomplish.

he’s just in a position where everything he’s achieved rests on the precarious narrative that salem exists as the Root Of All Evil. if he doesn’t have that, all he has is the genocidal god he serves and “help me usher in the day of judgment so my god can decide whether we deserve to exist or not” is, erm, not what you’d call an inspiring cause.

[silurisanguine]

15 lines of Dialogue game

As ive been away for the weekend, not sure if anyone tagged me with this but saw it open tag so here we go. Tagging @vorchagirl @despicablediet and anyone who'd like to do it! 15 Lines of Dialogue Rules: Share 15 or fewer lines of dialogue from an OC, ideally lines that capture the character/personality/vibe of the OC. Bonus points for just using the dialogue without other details about the scene, but you're free to include those as well! Since i've written the most with Seren Jones, I shall pick her for this!

1 -"Maybe I am, but there isn’t anything left in this universe worth staying for. Whatever is in the next universe has to be better than this one Barrett, it has to. I can't bare to stay here any more, not without him, not when I could have done it so differently."

2 - "Cora… she was there, saw her dad die…She hated me, blamed me for not saving him. After the funeral, Lillian took her and that was the last I ever saw that wonderful twelve year old. I realised then I had no reason to stay in my universe as everything i loved had been taken from me. I hoped maybe another would give me a second chance. To fix things..to try again…

…That’s why I do this.”

3 - "I came here the first time with no preconception of what I’d find. I was in awe at the location, just as you are now. But what I learned here has guided my hand in relation to how I see the Artifacts, how I see Unity and the Starborn. Anyone who wants to complete the Artifact collection, needs to know the full story for themselves.”

4- "Now you see how dangerous this place is, and this is just the start. The Starborn Guardians here have lost all empathy, all compassion, their humanity in pursuit of their cause. They have nothing left in their existence except to stop anyone else reaching the Temple. …I sometimes wonder what is the point of their existence before I wipe them out of it for good.”

5 -”You washed them clean. I can say one good thing about Lillian in that she gave you the chance to do that. You’re not the same man, Sam.”

6 -”They makes me smile every time I come back here. But I’m not entirely alone, the fish there get a view unlike any other.” She pointed to the couple of little fish swimming in their tanks, sitting right at the edge of the massive view screen. “If you don’t mind taking care of them for me, they’ve been a good little crew, never complained once.”

7 - "I've never met you before. Until today I'd never met a single pirate here." That was the truth, if a little stretched Seren thought.

8 -"All this, this universe is a nightmare. I've been to so many variations and… You… everyone here is so different, so wrong. It’s like Unity decided to show me the worst outcome possible just to make me appreciate who I’d - what I’d lost.”

9 -"Neat trick, have to remember that next time I'm in a hell-hole universe."

10 -"Sorry, Sam, just picturing you over Vlad’s head brought on images of you in ballet tights and…yeah, sorry, I have too much imagination.”

11 - "Yes, justice, Delgado. See that’s behind most things I do now. In this case justice for those your fucking coloured coded Spacers have harmed- have murdered. It’s interesting really how far I got here without anyone realising who I really am... I wondered why no one noticed the SIN of my ship. Even Jess surprisingly. It was a gamble using it of course…But no one ever clocked that I was flying the Razorleaf."

12- “Until I knew for sure you felt the same way I did, I wasn’t sure how to really act around you. But now I know, expect more of this, Sam Coe.”

13 - “You know I would! I mean she called me darlin, you know that makes me melt.”

14 - "…He always said he was bad with words, yet he could say things that were like love poetry to me, that would dazzle me. He was so open with his feelings when he trusted you. Funny, absurd sometimes and he cared deeply and loved passionately. He was an amazing father and I-"

15 - "I've no idea. Being Starborn didn't exactly come with a manual."

[lordofthestrix]

“What were you like when you were human?”

"Who could ever know?" Tristan responded as if the other had asked for his perspective on the possible truth behind a legend. "The most treacherous thing in this world is a vampire's memory, Miss Pierce. Humans speak of their divergent recollections concerning the same event. Of how they fill small voids with their own fanciful interpretations and in doing so, not two of them experience the same past. But their memory is without blemish compared to ours. We are creatures of feral emotion or no emotion at all. Why do you reckon so many of our kind treacherously perceive someone they met for the fleeting blink of a few months, centuries ago, as the fateful love of their eternity only to discover, once the bliss of a short reunion overstayed its welcome, they cannot stand each other? How many turned mediocre foes into horrifying nightmares with the passing of ages? Lovers. Enemies. Friends. If all of us are stories, the nature of a vampire is to romanticize it all. We passionately idealize what is no longer there. The briefest sparks, often unworthy of the fire we remember them as. We forget the rest. Why then, would a vampire be any better at remembering a human who once carried their name? Or not even that, in your case?" Although the variation was close enough. "Our friend in common. Is it right to imagine he shows a special fondness for Katerina Petrova? Perhaps more than he ever shows such devotion for the one you became? He likes his pretenses of virtuousness, our dear Elijah. He enjoys to make projects out of people. That is crystalline enough. Perhaps if he washes enough blood spilled by others, his eternity won't allow him the time to dwell on how everlastingly red his own hands are. It is amusing, in its own right. But there is no need for you to humor his delusions." He turned to her impassively. "Diamonds have no reason to be ashamed of not being coal. Who was I as a human? I suppose it depends on who you ask. The ruthless son of a tyrannical father. A generous lord to those who stayed by my side faithfully. Wicked. Honorable. Who can tell? In the end, it does not matter. No more than the identity of the exiled, disgraced girl who once fled from monsters. There is only one quality we can know for certain. They were weak. Weaker than us, at least. Or there would have been no need for our making. And yet, their spirits proved strong enough to be forged and still survive in us instead of succumbing to the shadows of forevermore like so many others. We are formidable enough to endure as many re-imaginations of our soul as it takes. It should be a point of pride. Not a tragedy. I know nothing of Katerina Petrova. I never had the pleasure. But I do assure you Katherine Pierce makes for quite an interesting company. As for me...The past is prologue." He sentenced in unflinching, casual certainty. "Tristan de Martel is dead. Long live Tristan de Martel."

@survivingpierce

[rvby]

conversation (down. up. back. down. back.)

“fox.” 

“hm?” `there’s a curl at the end of his hum, trailed off the same way his grin tends to. the same way the smoke spills from his lips.` 

“what do you dream about?” `the silence impending is nothing he wasn’t expecting from the question, but even so, he won`

`first thing to come out of his mouth is evasive.` “what, worried I got a girl waiting for me back home?” `teasing, but never an answer. never straightforward. a non-answer that tells the uninquisitive to shut up. it tells snake that he’ll have to try again if he really wants to know.` 

“come on, fox.” `he lets out a huff. maybe fox does it on purpose, the way he finds the small frustration cute.` “i meant when you sl-” 

“rookie, when’s the last time you’ve caught me sleeping.” 

“what?” 

`the beat that passes in between them is familiar. the same song and dance they always play.` 

“you sleep.” `it’s a statement of fact.` 

`ha.` “sometimes.” 

`as much as he’d like to question why he’d be dodgy about this of all things, he figures it doesn’t really matter.` “what do you dream about?” `attempt number two to ask his question.` 

`there’s a slight pause before he answers this time. closer, but not quite close enough.` “depends.” `another non-answer. snake tried, at least.` “why?” 

“don’t soldiers usually dream of the past?” `that is to say,` “nightmares.” 

“you say that like you don’t.” `an admittance? or a mere deflection?` 

`another huff. he doesn’t see the corner of fox’s lips ticking up again at the sound.` “i do.” `he doesn’t like being talked to like he’s strange. like he’s wrong. like he doesn’t belong. even if he wasn’t telling the truth, he’d be inclined to lie on instinct, just to fit in.` “i’m asking you if you do.” 

`a longer pause this time. like he’s questioning if it’s worth telling the truth or not. if he’ll go for a fourth pass, or if he’ll let snake prod at him the way he’s itching to.` “i don’t know.” `somehow, even less of an answer than every other thing he’s said, but with more than enough weight behind it to prove it’s the truth.` “i don’t try to remember.” 

`try. that’s the keyword here. something not worth remembering. something he doesn’t want to remember. so fox is haunted by something, then. whatever that may be. and really, he can’t remember the last time he’s been turned away by fox’s being asleep either. bad enough to keep him from wanting to. yeah, sounds about right.` 

“why’re you asking, anyway?” 

`oh. right.` “i had a weird dream last night. got me thinking. that’s all.” `dismissive. as soon as the conversation’s turned back onto him, he’s rethinking bringing the subject up at all.` 

`ah, but that catches his interest now properly. sniffing out the potential for gossip, if nothing else. possibly even handed to him on a silver platter. how kind.` “yeah?” `the breath he lets out, all smoke with a hint of mirrors, borders a laugh. amused. intrigued.` “what, it freak you out or something?” `he doesn’t sound like he expect his guess to be right. he knows he is, though.` 

`hm. that’s something about fox that’s always unsettling. he always knows. why? how?` “guess so.” `it isn’t a good enough answer for fox. he’s hungry for more, and very surely not for food. he lets the pause linger while he sorts his words out. they have time right now, left in each other’s company. fox will wait.` “…you were there.” `he settles on that to start.` 

 “dead, right?” `knowing. always knowing. you’d think he could read minds or something. no, he’s just used to things like this by now. it’s always the closest ones dead in your dreams. if they aren’t dead yet, they will be soon. that’s how it always is. no one can just… stay alive. certainly not for him. he doesn’t even let snake finish whatever thought he was mulling. it’s a sad train of thought—one he’s grateful he’s more often than not too forgetful to have to worry about.` “come on, rookie. you know i can’t die.” `not won’t. can’t.` 

`it’s something they’ve talked about before. dying. but this was different.` “you wanted to, i think.” `he remembers the feeling, the thought of it. the memory sits in his mind too vividly, still fresh.` “asked me to.” 

`‘asked him to?’ he thinks about that. about what he might ask. to be killed? (he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about it before. he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.) no, certainly he wouldn’t. certainly not him. he breathes out a scoff.` “wouldn’t ask you to do it.” `as much of a denial as he can manage, really. he’s distracted now.`  

`and it definitely isn’t much of a denial.` “but you would ask.” `someone. generally.` 

“nah.” `as far as he’s aware.` “i can’t die yet.” `not while he’s still got a job to do.` 

“yet.”  

`a sigh.` “i don’t know. you aren’t curious?” 

“curious?” 

“about what it’s like.” 

“to die.” 

“yeah.” 

`hm.` “i guess.” `he doesn’t think about it that hard, and certainly not hard enough to want to ask to experience it.` 

`well. that’s about as much of an explanation as he can offer.` “that’s all. it’s not like i can ask without actually dying.” `and isn’t that just too bad. lamenting, really` 

“you should’ve had my dream then.” `weird as it may be to hear your nightmare had credibility, he feels a little better about it anyway, hearing fox talk about it like it’s no big deal.` 

`fox’s lip twitches, the way it always does when his lips crack back into a smile.` “maybe. then it wouldn’t scare you so much.” `teasing.` 

“it didn’t scare me…” `it did. it scared him, how satisfying it felt to kill.` 

“freaked you out enough to ask me about it.” 

`does he always have to be so smug?` “i was just wondering what kind of dreams you have.” `excuses.` 

`ah, it’s always too cute.` “right. here, next time i remember, i’ll let you know.” `he’s not going to remember.` 

`or rather, he will. but snake knows him well enough to know that answer’s as good as being told he won’t. he doesn’t care all that much, in the end, so he just huffs out the rest of his protests with his breath.` “…sure.” `he can’t say no to him anyway. his dream told him that much, didn’t it?` 

[strwberri-milk]

Could you do headcanons of Emperor Kaeya with a Harem that includes Khaenrian Nobility and "Nobility" from the other seven nations that were conquered, because his father forced him to, after the Alberich Dynasty was founded, Khaenri'ah triumph over the seven nations and the archons, after he betrayed Mondstadt once finding out some hidden truth?

How would he deal with that?

this might be?? not what you were looking for and is a little angstier?? it really reflects how i see kaeya and his conceptions of mondstat vs. khaenriah and stuff but yes yes its very interesting - also - i dont quite see him having a harem of his own accord but i have incorporated it bc i think it might be interesting if you wanna see my take on it long story short i hope kaeya lives pls dont kill him genshin

Kaeya didn't expect to be back here, sitting on his Father's throne ordering around his Father's troops. It's not too unlike the cavalry back at home, sorry, Mondstat, so he supposes it's a good thing that he's got the experience.

The Gnoses sit somewhere behind him, displayed in a case for all to see and fear. It's a reminder of what they've accomplished together. What he accomplished to prove his worthiness for the throne.

(He doesn't want the throne. Not at all. But not wanting it was more dangerous then "wanting" it.)

It haunts him, every day. He's able to hide it all - he's had a lifetime of practice after all. He's got a lovely smile, the prettiest face, the most charming tongue. Once again, he's got adoring fans, this time both admiring him and his family's legacy.

His Father is proud for once. He no longer looks at Kaeya with a pained look, something far beneath the surface that Kaeya can't place. The little boy who was abandoned inside of him rejoices, pushing him to do more. Be better. Conquer more. Do everything he can to make his Father continue to smile down on him, praise him for his efforts.

That means Kaeya puts up with any and everything, his more rational side falling to the wayside if it means doing what he thinks needs to be done.

His Father gave him a harem, adding to it every once in a while when he finds someone "worthy" of Kaeya's time. Whatever that means. Unfortunately for him, Kaeya finds the pursuit useless.

The dead way they look at him, or false niceties, fear, whatever it is. It deeply unsettles him as he knows their "adoration" is not true. It's not born of anything meaningful, and it sickens him to see them and know that they're stuck here because of him.

His guilt eats at him, mixing in with the guilt of all the fallen nations that have been doomed by his hand. He can't do much to alleviate it, rarely visiting his harem and instead making sure they're well cared for in his absence. He's not stupid - he knows what the goal of the harem is but there's nothing inside of him that's willing to do something he feels so disgusting, unsure if he could even bring a child born of love into the world if this is what is set out for it.

He wishes for the nth time that things were simpler, staring out the window of his bedroom after excusing himself from his daily tasks. He's clinging onto some thin thread of hope desperately, praying that someone will hear him and let him wake up from this nightmare, wishing that he was able to make his own choice rather than being forced into one side.

He's reminded again of the irony. Khaenri'ah just wanted freedom, the ability to live as they pleased and escape the tyranny of the Seven. Yet, here they are doing exactly what they were fighting against without showing mercy.

Perhaps there are a few people he can talk to. Maybe Khaenri'ah's legacy was one that was always doomed to fail.

[seiya-starsniper]

and if I get burned, at least we were electrified - Chapter 5

Link on Ao3 [Here]

Chapter summary: A little bit of domestic fluff, as a treat. Also, Dream shows up in Hob's dreams :)

They talk. Really talk. The next morning, Hob and The Corinthian sit in bed for hours and speak openly for the first time about their pasts, and their history with Dream.

Hob learns about The Corinthian’s creation, how warm Dream had been in the beginning, how the Endless had only grown colder and colder over time. How jealous The Corinthian had been when Dream had started his appointments with Hob. The Corinthian had been around for all of Dream’s failed lovers, and Hob could feel the loneliness the nightmare felt every time Dream fell in love again, along with the anger that followed every time Dream took out his sorrows on his realm, on his creations, on The Corinthian himself, when things eventually soured. 

The Corinthian also opens up, for the first time, about his time in the Waking prior to meeting Hob. Hob of course had done his initial research, had devoured documentary after documentary, book after book, podcast after podcast. The world was obsessed with The Corinthian's crimes. But now Hob knows the true story behind each of the victims. Some were random, others targeted. Hob feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner quite a few of them resembled Dream's mortal form. But he had been preoccupied with other things at the time.

One particular tale catches Hob's interest though.

"Wait, so the man you killed the night we met…he was also a criminal?" Hob asks, shocked.

"Oh yeah, big religious type, set fire to a bunch of people's houses he didn't like, put his son in the hospital for being gay even though he had a thing for guys himself, real charmer," The Corinthian shrugs. "He was fleeing an assault and arson charge in the US. I thought he was interesting so I followed him. He ended up being a huge disappointment though. All that rage and he ended up begging for his life when someone stronger came along.” Hob snorts at the distaste in The Corinthian’s tone.

"Wow," Hob says. "I was so concerned about you coming for my head next I didn't even think about looking up an obituary or anything like that."

The Corinthian grins. "Good, he was boring. I was a much better use of your thoughts."

Hob can’t disagree with that. “So, by the time you and I met, you were already bored with regular murdering?”

The Corinthian hums. "Not quite bored , but definitely looking for variety. Which I found a lot of with you."

"Makes sense.” Hob agrees. “I was really prepared to try harder to convince you to stay with me here."

"Hard to say no with the bargain you gave me.” The Corinthian shrugs as if it were an easy decision. It gives Hob a warm feeling, like they were always inevitable for each other. 

Hob knows his next line of questioning is going to upset the blond. "And then when you went back…"

The Corinthian's expression sours like curdled milk.

“Nothing worked,” The Corinthian grates. “I tried criminals, I tried total innocents, I even tried to be as depraved as possible, nothing worked .” A pause. “Sorry if that relapse disappoints you,” he finishes moodily. 

“Hey, hey, no, you're here,” Hob reassures the blond. ���I mean yes, I am extremely unhappy that you went off and did all that…but you know I've done bad things too.”

“You didn't know they were bad at the time,” The Corinthian grumbles. "You said everyone else was doing it. How could you know?" 

“No…I think I did. I just refused to see the humanity in other people who didn't look like me,” Hob admits. It's an ugly truth he's had to face over and over again over the years. Society has made progress for sure on that front, but Hob still sees old attitudes creep up from time to time, passed down generations like an old blood stain that fades but is never truly gone.

“And anyways," Hob continues. "You're something other than human, it's more of a challenge for you to emphasize, me enslaving my fellow man, woman, and even children for money though…”

“No,” The Corinthian says with finality. “We're not comparing bad deeds Hob. We'll be here all day. They happened, and you’ve been atoning for them in a variety of ways, least of all, trying to reign in a rogue nightmare…I don't even know where I'd start for myself.” the blond admits. 

“I'm sure Dream has a few ideas,” Hob replies.

“Dream tried to unmake me,” The Corinthian bites.

“And now he won't. So he probably has some ideas. And if he doesn't, then he has a good friend to help him come up with some.” Hob pats himself on the shoulder.

“I'm sure that's a conflict of interest Hob,” The Corinthian says. 

Hob then hears something he hasn't heard in a while. It's a quiet "tsk"-ing noise, followed by a small click and he knows for a fact it did not come from The Corinthian's primary mouth.

"Cory, did you just roll your eyes at me?" Hob asks, fake offended. 

The Corinthian just smiles and says nothing.

"You little shit," Hob laughs, then kisses the blond. 

Eventually, Hob's stomach grumbles and it's all the motivation they need to get out of bed. Hob knows for a fact that he hasn’t moved anything around in his flat since The Corinthian left, but the blond still decides to sift through Hob’s drawers instead of his own for something to wear. It makes something possessive curl in Hob’s stomach, to see The Corinthian wearing his clothes.

Hob takes over the conversation while preparing fried eggs and toast. While The Corinthian had been able to see all of Hob's memories via his eyes, Hob still prefers to relay his own experience to the blond himself, and The Corinthian seems more at ease talking about Hob’s experiences than his own. Or, more accurately, he seems to take more delight in poking fun at Hob’s more embarrassing experiences, such as his raging jealousy of William Shakespeare in the 1600s. 

“I can’t believe you tried to feed Dream duck, and he ditched you for a poet, ” The Corinthian laughs.

“Ugh, I’m still mad about it. I had enough food for a whole dinner party! He ate none of it ,” Hob groans. “I don’t care how revered old Shaxberd turned out, that was one of the most embarrassing nights of my life. Here’s your eggs, did you want anything on them?”

“Hot sauce?” The Corinthian asks, perking up. Hob rolls his eyes.

“ Americans.”

The Corinthian gets his hot sauce. He drowns his eggs in them, and then dips the toast in the mixture of egg yolk and sauce. It’s nauseating. The things Hob does for love. 

Hob does feel a bit bad about not having a set of eyeballs for The Corinthian to consume along with eggs, but the blond just snorts when he mentions it.

“My diet is not exclusively eyeballs, Hob.” The Corinthian says.

“I know but they always made you so happy!” Hob explains. The Corinthian mumbles something under his breath that Hob doesn’t catch. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I'm happy to just have breakfast made by you again.” The Corinthian stabs at his egg and hot sauce mush with his fork as if the admission physically pained him to admit. 

“Aw, Cory,” Hob coos. “I’ll make breakfast for you every day.” He would too. Terrible hot sauce and all. Hob may or may not have added the infernal ingredient to some of his meals that last two years just to give himself a reminder of the blond.

“You’re lucky I love you,” The Corinthian grumbles in response. “You’re so sappy, it’s gross.”

“Oh, you should ask what Johanna has to say about that,” Hob replies.

They settle into a comfortable silence after that. The Corinthian finishes his breakfast relatively quickly and then moves his chair next to Hob’s so he can nestle into the immortal’s shoulder. Hob thinks it’s adorable but decides not to say anything for now. If The Corinthian is touch starved and wants to cuddle up to him as much as possible, Hob’s not going to ruin the moment by pointing it out. 

Hob still has end of term papers to grade though, so once he’s finished his breakfast, he takes the dishes to the sink and starts to make a kettle of tea. Luckily, none of the essays were permanently damaged when The Corinthian and Dream had blown into his apartment like a tornado the night before. Even though Hob could reprint anything that got damaged, that would require going to the university, and he doesn’t want to leave The Corinthian for anything if he can help it.He still can’t believe his lover is really here after all this time. 

“Tell me about Rose Walker,” Hob says once they’ve settled on the couch with tea and Hob’s papers. 

The Corinthian does. He explains to Hob how dream vortexes are born, how there’s no real explanation for why they come into being, and the reason why they’re so dangerous to the fabric of reality. He also explains why he wanted to get to Rose so badly. It’s heartbreaking. Hob puts down the essay he’s grading and pulls the blond into a tight hug.

“All this time, I didn’t know how scared you were of Dream,” Hob says. “I should’ve pushed you more about the identity of your creator but…”

“Yeah, I saw, Dream didn’t take too kindly to being told he was someone’s friend. ” The Corinthian’s ocular mouths release that soft clicking noise that tells Hob he’s rolling his eyes. “It worked out that Dream being a dick made you afraid to ask more questions about me.”

“I suppose it did,” Hob agrees reluctantly. “Would you have told me his identity if I’d asked?”

“I…I’m not sure,” The Corinthian admits. “There was always just something that made me not want to.”

“Might be just another trait you inherited from him,” Hob teases. “Maybe all your fellow dreams and nightmares were under strict orders to never reveal Dream’s name to me.”

“Oh please, almost none of them even knew you existed. Dream kept your meetings such a secret, he nearly unmade me when I found out about you.”

“He what?” Hob exclaims, aghast. “Why would he do that?”

The Corinthian shrugs. “He’s pretty possessive of you. I didn’t understand it before, but I sure as hell do now.” The admission warms Hob’s heart, but he’s still having a hard time reconciling the aloof and distant way Dream treated him in the past with the overly possessive way he guarded his meetings to the residents of his realm. 

“Hmm…he sure had a funny way of showing it, all things considered,” Hob replies. “At least, back then. When we met after he escaped from the Burgess estate, he was…different. A lot more open and affectionate for sure.” Despite himself, Hob smiles at the memory.

“Really now?” The Corinthian asks, waggling his eyebrows. “Were you cheating on me with my maker, Hob Gadling?” 

“Oh, hush, like you have room to talk!” Hob swats at The Corinthian’s shoulder playfully. “But no, nothing happened, all we did was hold hands…and well, then the news came on and ruined the mood.”

“Let me guess, news coverage of me?” The Corinthian says, pride evident in his voice.

“Hey don’t look so smug about that, I was worried about you, you prick!”

The Corinthian laughs. “I can’t help it. But oh, I didn’t tell you, there was a whole cult dedicated to me that I found out about in the States!”

“A cult,” Hob repeats, disbelief clear in his voice.

“Yes, with a whole convention and everything, they invited me to be their Keynote speaker.” The Corinthian confirms. Hob thinks The Corinthian should not be proud that he inspired an entire cult of murderers, not when they worked so hard for him to not be needlessly killing but…it is a rather impressive feat. After all, only the most infamous serial killers had followings. He won’t admit that out loud though.  

“Who the hell is hosting a convention for actual murderers?” Hob says instead, exasperated. 

“Well, it was called The Cereal Convention. You know, C-E-R-E-A-L,” The Corinthian supplies.

Hob groans. “Excuse me, that pun has no business being that clever, I’m offended.”

They look at each other and then both burst out laughing. They don’t stop for at least ten minutes, and Hob is wheezing from the effort. The Corinthian, on the other hand, has the audacity of being a literal nightmare who doesn’t need to breathe, and laughs even harder once Hob starts struggling to reclaim his hold on oxygen. Eventually, once Hob insists that he absolutely needs to calm down, they settle into a comfortable silence.

Hob’s pretty sure this is the first time they’ve ever been domestic like this, lounging on his couch, wrapped in blankets, and The Corinthian making snide comments about some of his students’ writing styles from time to time. 

“Do you think he’ll be coming back today?" The Corinthian asks when Hob decides to take a break, a few hours later.

Hob shrugs. “He didn’t say. Ugh, it still doesn't sit right with me, that Dream has to kill someone so young,” he laments.

“There's no other way. There’s never been any other way.” The Corinthian replies. 

“No other way, before , remember, Dream's changed. He'll find a way to fix things without killing a young girl. I'm sure of it.” Hob’s not sure why he has such faith in Dream, but he does. The Corinthian, on the other hand, understandably, does not. It will take more than just a single heart to heart to undo all the damage between them. Hob’s patient though. He’ll walk them both through it if he has to. 

—

They make love again later that night. It's as soft as their lovemaking the night before, if not more so because this time, The Corinthian is the one inside of Hob, their foreheads pressed together in a gentle rhythm. Hob tilts his head up to bestow a light kiss to The Corinthian’s left eye, causing the blond to gasp. He snaps his hips hard into Hob, and the immortal curses loudly when it hits his prostate just right.

"Fucking Christ, Cory do that again," Hob growls and The Corinthian obliges immediately, driving his hips into Hob at a punishing pace.

Hob thinks The Corinthian is the most lovely in his reactions to tenderness. It's like watching a dam burst under the pressure of a storm, or a star explode into a supernova. The Corinthian may not have been originally created to love or to be loved, but he still absorbs it like parched soil soaks up rain. Hob would give this beautiful creature everything and more, just for the pleasure of seeing his reactions.

When The Corinthian touches the spot on Hob’s chest where he carved his name all those years ago, the skin lights up, shocking both of them.

"Fucking Mary's tits!" Hob yells, grasping at his collarbone. The pain is something fierce he’s never felt before, so much so that he doesn’t feel The Corinthian slip out of him. He’s still clutching at what he expects is some sort of burn mark when The Corinthian moves his hands away to inspect the damage to Hob’s person.

“I'm sorry I have no idea what happened I didn't mean to…” The blond cuts off, suddenly silent.

“What? Is it that bad?” Hob asks. Do they need burn cream? Is this the sort of thing that could be treated with burn cream?

“I've…bound myself to you,” The Corinthian whispers, astonished. He traces his fingertips over the burn spot, and Hob feels a shiver go straight down his spine. He looks down at himself and sees The Corinthian’s name outlined in gold on his chest. Hob runs his own fingers along the mark, and The Corinthian gasps and shakes as if run through with a live wire.

“What…what does this mean Cory?” Hob asks, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “Binding sounds like enslavement and you know I don't want-”

“No, it's different,” The Corinthian reassures, and thank God for that. Hob doesn’t want to think about the semantics of accidental supernatural slavery. Johanna would have his head. Dream would have his head.

“It's old magic,” The Corinthian explains. “It allows…it allows you to call out to me from within The Dreaming. The mark here,"  he points to the bed, "is a protective measure, to keep other nightmares away from your dreams. The mark on your shoulder means you need only call out to me in your dreams and I will go to you."

Christ. The idea of having access to The Corinthian from within his dreams, to be able to call out to him from within the Dreaming, when Hob’s never had a lucid dream in his entire immortal life, gives Hob an indescribable feeling of warmth and softness. 

“So, if I understand correctly,” Hob begins. “Whenever I'm having a bad dream, I only need to call for you and you'll come?”

“You shouldn't be having bad dreams in the first place,” The Corinthian grumbles. “The mark-”

“I know, Cory, but you can't hide me from my bad memories,” Hob interjects. “Those will always stay with me, whether there’s a nightmare to trigger them or not. But at least now I know you can wake me up if I get too lost in them.”

“It's…not quite like that,” The Corinthian says, suddenly shy. 

“No?” 

“I…if you call me, I would be able to take you to a safer place in The Dreaming. To…wherever it is I'd consider home.”

Home.

The Corinthian had told him he hadn't felt like The Dreaming was home since at least 1916, when Dream had tried to unmake the blond. If this mark means what Hob thinks it means then...

“Feeling homesick are we?” Hob can’t help but tease.

“Shut up it's not…it isn't like that.” And isn’t that adorable? The Corinthian is pouting so it definitely means what Hob thinks it means.

“Hmmm I think it is, pet.” Hob says, as conclusively as he can manage. “Otherwise this thing would've come about a lot sooner with the way we fuck.”

The Corinthian’s response is to try to smother Hob with his own pillows. Rude. They wrestle in the sheets for a while and naturally Hob is the first one out of breath. It’s truly a miracle he was ever able to spar with the blond. The wonders of a fight or flight response.

“I'm glad, you know.” Hob says once they’ve called a truce on their pillow fight. “That you and Dream have made up. And that's not just me being selfish, I swear. But you were always so sad when you used to talk about him.” 

“I wasn't sad,” The Corinthian replies. “I was…angry,” he finally admits.

“Which is really just another facet of sadness.” Hob replies. “ And why wouldn't you be? There's so much history between you two. More so than with me and him, and I fell for him even so.”

“I guess…”

“Look, I know I said we'd talk about things more today, but if you need to ruminate more that's okay too,” Hob says as placatingly as possible. He can see and feel the tension melt off The Corinthian’s face and shoulders.

“Thank you,” the blond says. 

“In the meantime, I'll try not to abuse having access to you in the Dreaming, I don't want you to shirk your duties on my behalf.”

“I don’t care if you abuse it, I love you, I’ll come whenever you call.”

Hob smiles. “Tell me again, love.”

“I love you.” The Corinthian repeats and kisses him. Hob knows he won’t ever get tired of hearing it.

“I love you too.”

—

“What do you know about polyamory, Cory?” Hob asks two days later when they’re rewatching season 2 of Hannibal. 

The Corinthian wrinkles his nose. "That thing the Mormons do?"

“No no, that’s polygamy, an entirely different concept, and also I’m pretty sure the entire religion doesn’t practice it.” Hob says. He takes a deep breath to prepare for his next sentence. 

“Polyamory is, well, it's when more than two people are involved in a committed relationship with one another. It’s actually become more popular in the last few decades, especially in queer relationships.” Although, more popular did not exactly mean common , per say, but Hob’s pretty certain that neither Dream nor The Corinthian really care about outdated standards for traditional relationships. Johanna had been in few multi-partner relationships over the years as well, and Hob’s been texting her on and off asking about logistics on them. Johanna had sent over a lot of emojis and exclamation points. She also called him “a man with zero survival instincts, immortality be damned.” But she was helping nonetheless.

The Corinthian has a thoughtful look on his face as he digests Hob’s explanation. “Okay, I’ll bite, why are we talking about this?”

“You really don’t know?”

The Corinthian sighs, rather dramatically in Hob’s opinion, and then maneuvers himself so that his head is sitting on Hob’s lap. Hob looks down fondly at the blond, who has not worn his glasses the entire time he’s been in the flat. There’s a bit of tension in the way The Corinthian’s eye mouths grit their teeth, but the rest of the nightmare’s face seems more curious than anything else.

“I guess now’s as good a time as any to talk about it,” The Corinthian says. Hob can tell he’s trying to be nonchalant, but the immortal knows better. It seems silly to him that someone otherwise so confident would be so insecure when it came to their relationship, but then wonders never cease, Hob supposes.

“Look this is not something you need to make a decision on now, but something to think about, before you go back with Dream,” Hob says. He runs his fingers through the blond’s hair, soothingly. It has the intended effect and The Corinthian’s eyes flutter shut, finally relaxing fully.

“Who says I’m going back?”

Hob just smiles. He swears he feels the mark react as well. He leans his head down to press a kiss first to The Corinthian’s left ocular mouth, then the right.

“I thought we said no more lying, darling,” he whispers to them.

The Corinthian sighs happily through all three mouths and shudders. “Ok fine, let’s talk then.”

“Is it something you want?” Hob asks. “To be in a relationship with not just me, but your maker as well?”

“It sounds like something you want,” The Corinthian replies far too quickly.

Hob hums. “It is. But, if it isn’t something you want, then I don’t need it. Our relationship is complete with just me and you. I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.”

The Corinthian surges up to kiss Hob instead of responding. They kiss until Hob’s neck starts to bother him, and The Corinthian whines as he pulls away to unstrain his neck.

“Now…that being said,” Hob picks up from before. “It’s pretty clear Dream’s already part of this relationship in some way, just because of how entwined our lives are with him. If you want to keep things the way they are, we can, but I also feel that we can have something more.”

“But what if…” The Corinthian pauses, unsure. “What if he doesn’t want it?”

“Then that’s fine too,” Hob shrugs. “He’s allowed to not want to become involved with us for whatever reason.”

“And then what if he only wants you and not me?” The Corinthian demands.

Hob laughs. “Darling, I told you, he loves you. And there’s nothing that will keep me from you. Maybe I met Dream first, maybe I had romantic feelings for him first, but I loved you first, Corinthian.” The Corinthian visibly shudders at the use of his full name, and Hob takes the opportunity to gently push the blond upwards into a sitting position so Hob doesn’t have to strain his neck to kiss him. It only takes a little bit of maneuvering to get The Corinthian fully in his lap from there.

“You left your mark on me, a golden tattoo for everyone to see,” Hob whispers in The Corinthian’s ear. “I've made my commitment to you and I'm sticking with it, so please stop worrying your pretty head about things that won't ever happen.” The Corinthian keens at a pitch Hob knows humans cannot normally reach. Hob tightens his arms around the blond and nuzzles his face against The Corinthian’s neck. They sit there quietly for a few minutes, simply enjoying the intimacy.

“Yes,” The Corinthian finally says, gasping. “Yes I want you, I want him, I want everything. ” 

Hob smiles and kisses The Corinthian again, long and slow. “I figured you might. Well then, now that we’re in agreement, how do you want to go about things?”

“Ugh I don’t know," The Corinthian groans. "I feel like I don’t even know him as he is right now.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start. Getting to know one another.”

“What, like dates?” The Corinthian asks incredulously.

“Exactly like dates!” Hob confirms enthusiastically. “And hugs. Lots of hugs. Maybe some hand holding too.”

“You’re such a sap.” The Corinthian's tone is deprecating but Hob can feel the fondness underneath.

“A sap that you love!” 

–

When Hob goes to sleep that night, he wakes up in a field of green.

It's peaceful here. He knows he's never been in a place quite like this in the world and yet it feels like home. Hob can hear babbling brooks and waterfalls, can smell the wildflowers in bloom, and can taste the crispness of the air. He lies in the grass, enjoying the feel of the blades between his toes (He’s barefoot? Neat.).

There’s a crunch in the grass, an unknown amount of time later and Hob sits up suddenly at the sound. Someone is approaching. He should stand up and greet them, he thinks. It feels like he should.

Hob scrambles to a standing position just as he recognizes the figure approaching him. 

"Dream,” Hob whispers, awed. Dream is different here, he’s somehow more radiant, more present, more everything. Hob feels as though he is looking upon an angel, no, a god, no…he knows the word now.

Endless.

"Hello, Hob,” Dream greets him. His smile, though small, is warm and absolutely breathtaking. Does he need to breathe here?

"This is…this is the Dreaming, isn't it?" It’s so relaxing, Hob can’t imagine he’s anywhere else. He feels lightheaded, almost floaty. His thoughts come and go like wisps of smoke. It's almost like being high on hallucinogens, but not quite.

"It is, my friend,” Dream confirms, stepping closer to stand directly in front of him. “And I see you're now able to walk freely amongst it."

Dream is very pointedly staring at Hob's chest and then the immortal suddenly remembers the mark The Corinthian gave him. Hob looks down at his collarbone and the mark is giving off a brilliant glow. It’s so bright Hob is sure it could be seen from the sky, no, from space. 

“Oh shit, I didn't know it could do that!” Hob exclaims. “Is…is that normal?” 

“Only in the Dreaming,” Dream confirms, and thank God for that. Hob’s not sure how he’d hide the thing if it glowed like that all the time when he was awake. “You have been marked by one of its most powerful residents, so naturally the mark's radiance will reflect the strength of its originator.”

“Wow uhm…that's pretty crazy,” Hob says, unsure of what else he can add to this conversation. He’s never had a lucid dream before tonight, and he’s feeling rather discombobulated. 

Dream touches the mark. Hob swears he was wearing a shirt prior to this exact moment, but now he is very much shirtless in front of Dream. He thinks he should be self conscious about this. He’s not. He's far too focused on the fact that Dream is touching him , and if he thought touch in the waking world felt electric between them, touching in the Dreaming feels like he's unlocked a whole new sense, just for this. 

“This mark is old…and yet new,” Dream notes, tracing pale fingertips along the curves and lines of The Corinthian's name “ How curious. ”

"Uh yeah…" Hob swallows thickly. "When Cory first started living with me, he actually explained a bit to me about how the mark works. He meant to only carve it on my bedpost at first to keep out nightmares but then…you know, we got a bit carried away…"

Dream raises an eyebrow. "I see. The Corinthian is not known for taking half measures so I suppose that makes sense.” He moves his hand away from Hob's chest and somehow Hob does not whine, just exhales a breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

“Uh…yeah, exactly that.” Hob confirms, dizzy from the interaction. “But it healed over back then, and only just recently appeared the way it did.”

Dream's expression softens significantly. “He has reclaimed his place in the Dreaming then.” Dream sounds…relieved? And maybe a little happy, Hob thinks. “He had previously cut ties with it, which is why I had chased him into the Waking.” Dream does not mention that he had no intention of bringing his creation back with him.

“He did say that," Hob says. "He also said I could…call out to him here?”

“You could…if he were currently in the Dreaming.” Dream replies, a faraway look now in his eyes. “As it stands, he lies next to you in your home in London.” Dream purses his lips. “I imagine he has realized I am speaking with you.”

“Oh uh…is that going to make things awkward?” Hob asks sheepishly. He looks around as if expecting The Corinthian to pop up out of the grass like a weed. 

“He has not come storming through Fiddler's Green to claim you, another curious matter,” Dream replies, thoughtful. “I would have expected him to be more cautious of our interactions, lest I attempt to turn you against him.”

“Ha, Cory said the same thing you know. I had to spend some time trying to convince him my loyalty doesn't flip that easily, no offense Dream.” Hob expects his oldest friend to at least take some offense, but instead, Dream simply looks confused.

“That name…” Dream says, puzzlement clear in his voice. 

“What na-Oh you mean Cory?” Hob asks.

“His name is The Corinthian…and yet…”

“Yes well, The Corinthian is a bit of a mouthful," Hob explains. "Plus if you recall from our aborted meeting, the name Corinthian is a tad infamous around the mortal world, and I needed to not draw attention to ourselves. Ergo, Cory.” 

Dream hums. “The Corinthian has never been one for nicknames, and yet you give him one so easily accepted.”

“Oh, that's not true and you know it Dream,” Hob accuses.

“What do you mean?” Dream asks.

“My little nightmare? That's a nickname if I've ever heard one.”

“I…suppose so,” Dream concedes.

“Or do you call all your nightmares that?” Hob asks. He knows Dream doesn’t, but he wants to hear his friend admit it.

“No…you are correct. I had forgotten about that aspect of our relationship. To our detriment it seems.” Dream sounds rather melancholy about this, and Hob has to stop himself from smiling at that fact.

“Well, there's no rule saying you can't start again,” Hob says, chipper. “I think he’d really like it.”

Dream looks taken aback. “You are certain of this?” he asks, and there’s just the slightest amount of naked hope in his tone. Hob wants to hug him, but he holds himself back.

“With the way he was shaking when you said it the other night? Absolutely,” Hob confirms. “Which, by the way, I don't want to press but…are you coming back?”

“In time, ” Dream replies.  “I need to work on rebuilding the realm. And I must collect my thoughts. I do not wish to cause a further rift in our relationship. I have…many relationships to repair in my realm it seems.” Dream has that faraway look in his face again. Hob wants to ask more but something tells him he’s about to wake up. Once he figures out how time works here, he’ll ask as many questions as he can of Dream and how his realm works. For now, he’s focused on just helping repair the relationship between The Corinthian and Dream.

“All right, well you know where to find us,” Hob says. “Take your time, but not too long, okay?”

“Of course. Thank you for your time Hob. This dream is over.”

Hob wakes to The Corinthian's eye mouths right above his own eyes.

“Hey you,” Hob whispers, then pulls The Corinthian down for a kiss.

“You looked like you were having a good dream," The Corinthian says.

“Mmmm yes. It would've been nicer if you dropped in too,” Hob says.

“Not yet,” The Corinthian replies. “You were right, he and I need to talk, just us first. There are things we need to resolve first before…before we try to do something new.”

Hob smiles. “Well, he said he'd be by soon once things settle down. Let's do a bit of tidying up while we wait so he comes back to a clean home, yeah?”

[heartsechoed]

@apaise​

the name tatiana patton had always been synonymous with success. when genya first began taking an interest in makeup, she found herself drawn to this woman and the story of her rise to celebrity status. she wanted to be just like her, for her talent to be known by many and be considered the best in her field. getting an internship at her company had been a dream come true at first... but genya soon realized it was more a nightmare than anything else.

though the internship should have her work under tatiana as a makeup assistant and learn the ins and outs of this business, genya was relegated to assistant work instead. her days were spent shadowing tatiana as she hoped     but only to bring her coffee or review her schedule for the day. tatiana turned out to be a ruthless boss as well, overworking genya with dozens of tasks that kept her busy well beyond her daily work hours.

she knows she should leave, that tatiana will likely never give her a chance... but she was no quitter. and genya would never forgive herself for wasting an opportunity like this. she’d make up her own luck somehow.

when tatiana announced genya would be joining her on her trip to new york for her son’s wedding, she had been foolishly excited at first. she should’ve known tatiana would just end up dumping all sorts of ridiculous errands on her     from getting her fresh pastries from the bakery four blocks away, to spending hours in line to pick up miscellanious wedding items. not so different from back at home, then.

what does surprise her is a request concerning shane’s bride. genya had met avery on occasion ( always from behind tatiana and her enormous shadow ), but other than a polite smile and a handful of pleasantries, they never said much to each other. she seemed perfectly lovely. which was why it shocked genya when tatiana revealed she didn’t trust avery, and that she wanted genya to find dirt on her. it made no sense. did tatiana think avery some sort of gold digger? even if that turned out to be true, surely she could find someone better to find out the truth.

“ she needs someone she can trust, ” tatiana had told her. “ you two seem like you’d become fast friends. ” not a single word was a compliment. genya had long since learned not to trust tatiana’s sweet smile; it was all for show. genya had no wish to trick this poor girl, but it wasn’t as if she had a choice... tatiana always got what she wanted, after all.

perhaps this will all turn out to be paranoia, an empty fear of avery coming for the family wealth. the idea of returning to tatiana’s side with no results is nothing short of terrifying, but maybe genya will be lucky, and tatiana will realize there’s nothing to accuse avery of. hopefully.

she stands outside of avery’s hotel room now, thinking over her actions. with or without results, she’s lying to this girl regardless. it makes her sick, but the idea of saying no to tatiana is far, far worse.

with a shaking hand, she knocks at avery’s door     hoping with every fiber of her being that she’s away at the moment... but no such luck. avery opens the door a moment later; she appears to be surprised to see genya, but quickly masks it with a bright smile.

“ hi. ” genya offers one of her own, hoping it comes off just as seamless. “ i’m genya, tatiana’s assistant. ” despite them having met before, genya introduces herself all the same; if avery’s anything like the people in tatiana’s circle, she won’t remember her. “ sorry to show up like this. miriam called in sick and she won’t be able to do your makeup for tonight’s dinner     so tatiana sent me instead. ” for all that genya had wished to actually put her makeup skills to use, this was a bittersweet victory.

“ i have experience, ” she’s quick to add, not wanting avery to worry. “ i promise you’re in good hands. ”

[reilliane]

Conqueror ★ Scaramouche

— ★ Concept: In which a conqueror meets a tyrant. — ★ Words: 3k — tw: mentions of death, war, and slight details of gore A/N: HE'S HERE! AFTER SO LONG, BEHOLD, THE OTHER LOVE INTEREST, incoming~ ready to meet Nightmare#2 yall? ♪(´▽｀)

He is the Prince who began his rule at the young age of eleven.

A seemingly impossible task, but he's always had his objectives and priorities straight ever since the dawn of reality.

The concept of age is nothing to someone whose eyes have been opened to the nightmarish artifices of life. Can it be helped when it is nothing but the truth?

Even the gentlest of angels can become the most nefarious of devils.

They say that he is the eidolon of such a saying—they being the assemblage of senescent ministers who only know how to lick the underside of his boot.

Ah, well, it needn't be said that he prefers them sycophants than backstabbers.

Perfidious officials are a hazard after all, aren't they?

But sometimes, he seeks the thrill of betrayal. Call him mad, but there are moments when he thirsts for those fat, old commissaries' blood upon his sword. For a valid reason, of course.

Before his ascension, the Kingdom of Kuni was once a chessboard.

A King and Queen sit at the top, but even they are nothing more than pawns. They are powerful, but such power cannot compare to the hands behind the board, the player.

The High Court, comprised to the brim of senile nobles who have unlocked their magic, is the true sovereign. A collective.

He can barely remember for he cared little about their ascension to power and the royal family's descent. Plus, the absurdity doesn't concern him, it isn't like he's the heir to the throne.

Well, until his family has fallen prey to the High Court's madness.

It happened when he was so, so young. Six? Seven?

'Twas nothing short of pernicious.

He embraced the feeling of loss, anger, and the warranted desire to enact upon them the same fear and oppression he has gone through.

It had been a foolish decision of the Court. Even if he wasn't the heir to the throne, they shouldn't have underestimated his noble descent, as told by Yae.

The consequence of that judgment of theirs birthed the unsealing of a magical power lost in the myths and legends of their ruined Kingdom.

No one has ever considered it to still linger—and no one definitely considered it to be within him. A son of a murdered Count and Countess.

The dreaded power of nemeses, second only to the lost magic of dystopia. Two of the most feared benedictions of the pantheon for its ability to be so destructive.

So grand, that power is, and even more terrifying, for it laid once in the hands of a child who only burned with hate. Oh, what are the cowardly ministers to do but bow to his every whim?

Their measly magic can't possibly compare.

His powerless cousins, Princesses Makoto and Ei have abetted his early rise, with the former giving up her puppet throne. Change had come and no one can say if it's for the better or for the worse.

Scaramouche only ever feels the everlasting burn of spite in his heart the moment he has awakened the divine art. He only ever sees his end goal; to see the rest of the Six Kingdoms fall to his feet.

Is it revenge? It had been, in the beginning.

Now, he feels as though the negativity of his magic has influenced his psyche to act upon the insatiable need to conquer. From lands to seas, and hearts to minds.

Time has seen his accomplishments; Gunnhildr and Viridis have fronted the end of their reigns, falling into his dominion.

It took eight years in total, four each, but who is he to complain when they've given up their crowns—through force, obviously—to him?

Whilst out dying viridescent fields sanguine, he leaves the care of the Kingdom to his cousins. Magicless they may be—therefore deemed inferior by the ministers—their voices aren't unheard by the High Court now that he is set to be crowned come the advent of the blue moon.

The Princesses do not question his absence, nor his oppressive habits.

Why, he's inclined to believe that deep down, even they wish for the crumbling defeat of the Six Kingdoms. After all, the selfish decree of antiquity cost the lives of their own parents.

Now, at the rise of the sun, with the head of Gunnhildr's King impaled on his own troops' guidon, he returns triumphant.

Albeit having known more of skirmishes than gossip, he is far from oblivious to the news that ran along the mouths of messengers.

The border he has crossed is no longer that of Maya's, but Khemia's. There had been a change of rulers, he's heard two years ago.

And that change is nothing short of sudden and dreadful. It is unfortunate that it hadn't been him to behead the previous King and Queen, but he'll have to acknowledge the vigor of the new sovereign.

As far as he is aware, the Maya royals are kind and benevolent, so for someone to usurp the throne when the treatment is nothing but kind...

Oh, a lust for power, perhaps?

The clip-clops of his horse's hooves against the stone as he approaches the looming gates of the castle come to a pause. He brushes his hair, reminding himself to give it a trim later on.

He's been on the battlefield for too long, only stopping at an inn by the outskirts to get some adequate rest and to freshen himself up.

Wouldn't want blood dripping all over the floors, right?

Peering upward, he denotes the manner in which the atmosphere has dropped in spite of the setting sun. If he lingers for longer, he'll be able to see the wisps of black swirling in the breeze like a miasma.

Like invisible thorns that warp around the entire Kingdom, encasing it in its own dystopia.

He sees no wounded people, but for a reason he's yet to fully understand, it reeks with the stench of blood. Feels like he's returned to a battlefield, and not a Kingdom.

“Bloodthorned Queen...” his lips turn up, recalling the grim sobriquet, “Hah, interesting.”

For her own people to conjure such a name, he wonders how far she had gone to unleash her tyranny. Were the streets that are now pristine once bathed in red?

Did the blissful sky once weep for them all?

Were there valiant spirits who strived to overthrow the ruler, only to fail and be a part of the aggregation of skulls and bones?

In spite of having lived on the fields dilapidated with years of ruination, tittle-tattles have not gone unheard. During respites, or when messengers come, news from all the other Kingdoms are acknowledged.

Thus, he's heard all about the oppressive Queen.

A handful of guards hasten to bow upon seeing the flicker of his Kingdom's insignia on the war flag carried by one of his personal Knights.

Or perhaps the violet is enough of a hint—it is only Kuni that represents such a pretty color, after all.

But he'll have to admit that the ominous black of Khemia is appealing, it works far better than Maya's previous azure.

As he is escorted without delay and question, he denotes a couple of things; from the sharp posture of the servants and to their twice as competent services. For a ruler who knows only how to bestow terror, there certainly are a lot of people in the palace.

Are they not afraid to have themselves beheaded?

Indeed, a question to ponder.

And for a tyrannized Kingdom, both foreign and economic affairs are rather spectacular and lucrative, rivaling Ragnvindr in its prime age. He's heard it all from a loose-lipped Count.*

Curiosity gnaws and prowls like an obstinate feline within, insatiable and festering when he comes to realize how they've stopped in front of a closed entrance.

After a look over his shoulder and a nonverbal cue for the pair of Kuni Knights to stay behind, he eases the tensions in his neck.

Voice clear and loud for all to hear, the Herald by the door announces.

“His Royal Highness of Kuni has arrived!”

If he's going to be honest, his mind fails in attempting to envision the probable features the tyrannical majesty beholds.

Will she be some kind of rugged barbarian picked up from the outskirts, fashioned in a disguise of a noblewoman? Or a battered pauper that's promised a life of opulence in exchange for being a crowned puppet?

Myriad possibilities, endless odds, and oh—unceasing pondering.

As per proper etiquette, he dips his head in reverence upon reaching the base of the dais. Gruff and brash he may be on the battlefield, not once has he forgotten the proprieties required of a noble.

After all, in the time before he found himself talented with the blade, he was the child who knew nothing but excellent decorum.

Though he's assuming that it needs polishing now that he's spent most of his time out dying his silver sword crimson than clinking teacups against porcelain.

“Your Highness,” a dulcet voice, one he's not expecting to hear, “So we finally meet.”

Being addressed, he raises his head, pausing at the briefest of moments to let his vision be enraptured by the vision of the Queen.

Sundry qualities he didn't expect to see make up the renowned lady; a crownless head, ruby-painted lips, and [c] eyes that mimic that of a predator's.

He hasn't seen plenty of women, but the ones he came across prefer to be accoutred in pretty, poofy gowns with ribbons and laces. Yet, the woman above the dais dresses herself the opposite way.

A snug gown that billows toward the floor, capturing a figure usually meant to be hidden. Ah, should he describe her as daring? Or merely someone who doesn't wish to stand by the customs of uptight aristocrats?

“At long last,” he keeps his chuckles to himself as he takes the lady's gloved hand and kisses its back, “Your Royal Majesty.”

An unusually cold hand despite the covering, he observes.

Letting go, he uprights his posture, tipping his head with a curved smile and a half-lidded gaze. “I hoped for your endued gratification upon receiving my tributes.”

He hadn't meant to delay his personal greetings, but one can't really expedite a war, no? After Gunnhildr relinquished, he sent a messenger bird to his cousins requesting them to send the gifts in mind toward the tyrannical sovereign.

He had a little trouble deciding whether to send jewels or other kinds of riches, but in the end, he settled for the suggestion of his Knight.

“Am beyond gratified, the Prince knows well the felicitations and presents. I had thought that I would be gifted an incarnadine headpiece, yet I was blessed with confectionaries.”

Chocolates.

Glad to say that it worked. He'd have to extend his regards to Cyno sometime soon.

The usage of figurative speech catches him a little off-guard, but it isn't something that's too tricky to the extent that he's unable to decipher what it means.

On the contrary, he understood what it meant in less than a minute.

An incarnadine headpiece... Scaramouche hums, having understood the allusion. To be analogous, a bleeding crown.

Or, to be ghastly, the head of a corpse.

It appears that the Queen is very much aware of who he is and how he operates not on the grounds of politics, but of warfare. Mm, he's quite flattered—but the way those [c]s peer as though she is scrutinizing him...

Ah, should he feel challenged, instead?

“One may think that the Prince has no touch of flattery, but I am proven wrong.” her smile does not appear practiced nor fake when it's shown, “However, it feels as though I am thoroughly spoiled, by chocolates, no less. May I assume that such a blessing is in fact, a quid pro quo?”

She enjoys the feasible burgeon of dispute but seems to restrain herself just right, holding back an intrinsic dose of venom. It makes sense, given that behind the customary greeting, Khemia and Kuni are far from being allies.

For someone who is rumored to have dyed the streets red to her leisure, she can be rather judicious. For a so-called tyrant.

Scaramouche snickers. “The Queen can be so jesting, gifts are meant to be given without the thought and need of desiring something in return.”

His delivery is carried as if he is speaking to a benighted person and it is noticed with ease. Well, he isn't trying to hide it, anyway.

To his amusement, however, it is not the Queen who outwardly reacts in a possible fester of truculence, but the silver-haired man who stands before her throne.

An inconspicuous twitch of a hold that rests upon the guard of a sheathed sword. Aha. He can't help but chuckle.

From the looks of it, he is the lady's Knight.

How surprising, he ponders, that someone is offended on her behalf.

What kind of tyrant deserves something such as concern? He knows the ministers in the High Court wish for nothing more but his death and very few nobles are in touch with him for fear of being smitten.

Can it be? Someone actually views the Queen as a human... and not some sort of monster? Ah, he's getting more piqued by the minute.

“Truly...” the royal in question hums, folding her arms as she flitters her eyes toward him once more. “Then the Conqueror desires nothing from me?”

Aha. An upfront woman she certainly is, going as far as to enunciate his standing.

A conqueror who desires nothing, it's a little ironic in the situation.

“Oh, shall I be relieved or affronted?” she sighs, sounding dejected, yet the tone belies the growing smile on her face. Is it a subtle prompt?

A way to imply that whatever he asks of her, she can give without any problem? A way to say that she isn't someone to be deemed incapable?

The possibilities are endless, it's such a shame that he doesn't have the power of time. If he does, surely, he'd freeze it in favor of thinking of said possibilities.

But alas, he doesn't, so he settles to answer the wish. What is it that he wants?

“A name to put to the face, then.”

The Queen arches one of her eyebrows.

“Names are immeasurable,” she simpers, “That for chocolates is an unfair exchange, do you not think so? Is my title not enough?”

She poses a sound point; names are powerful and this is indeed an unfair exchange. Chocolates can't possibly compare to the bestowment of a name.

Few people can utter the name of a monarch—and very few actually know their names.

“Why, I only asked in fear of offending her Majesty.” he retorts with a shrug of his shoulder, turning the tides. “It's unseemly for someone who conquers to not want something, no?”

Delight flares in [c] eyes, the grin of pearly whites serving only to imply her joy in the conversation. She must've thought him funny, to challenge her words, a mere Prince yet to be crowned King.

Still, she does not offer him what he asked for—perhaps not now—, turning her back to saunter to her throne. With a flourish and an elegant sweep of the fabric that cascades to the carpet, she turns back to him as she sits.

Cheek resting on the palm of her hand, she announces, “There will be another celebration in four days' time. One of Khemia's olden festivals following the Harvest Moon, you are free to come.”

An invitation or an order?

Regardless of what it may be, it's the opening of one's arms; a welcome to Khemia, the very Kingdom on the verge of war with his.

It may be an antecedent to a peace treaty, but with a 'tyrant' like her, it can mean many things. Perhaps she only ever extended it since she's taken with the idea of his return, maybe she's fascinated by him in general, he'll never know.

At least... not until the celebration.

Displaying the same upfront boldness, he steps up to the platform, inching closer to the royal without a semblance of shame.

His baffling gesture calls the same silver-haired Knight at the side to step forward, a second away from unsheathing his sword, but the [c]-eyed majesty snaps her fingers. Immediately, the Knight stands by.

Scaramouche gazes down at the pool of [c]s that holds his stare, stuffed to the brim with dangerous curiosity. It sparks a fire of lure within, like an adventurer facing the perils of the unknown.

He lowers himself to a knee, taking the gloved hand resting upon the throne's armrest and planting a kiss goodbye on it.

“Then expect my arrival,” he gives his answer post-haste, dipping his head with a promise. “My Queen.”

A chuckle resounds.

“Then I shall do so, dear Prince.”

Adieus bode, he stands back, turning with a flick of his cape. He meets the eyes of the Knight who had been a second away from raising his blade and presents a lopsided smirk.

The silence in the throne room is deafening as he's escorted back to the outside hall, where his own Knights await his return. With a mention of his plans for the coming days, they set off with the intention to return to Kuni as soon as possible.

His visit may have been short and he has satiated a rather small portion of his curiosity, but that's not something to stress over. He will come back, after all—to attend a celebration, no less.

Will the Ragnvindr be present? Oho.

He wonders what awaits him on the eve of the ball.

[1]* - Heard it all from a Count - If you all remember Tyranny(i) in Xingqiu's part, MC is able to identify the fraudulent nobles. A man known as 'Count Tricus' is a part of it and is the same person who stole money and slipped information to Kuni.

a/n: and so they finally met.. the LIs are complete, and now the plot shall advance! ONWARDS TO - TO OH NOES! Because really, Scara's appearance is going to bring a castle down to the ground :>

[loversindevildom]

hello! I'm not that anon but thank you for the other period-related hcs, if it's okay, may I ask for the brothers' reactions to an MC who doesn't have painful ones, but bleeds A Lot and is terrified of getting communal/the brothers' stuff dirty? people with monster uteruses unite

((Definitely!! Currently on my period while writing this and felt it-

((Also would you look at that, the me is posting again-

Masterlist

The boys x MC with heavy flow

Lucifer

It all began when one of your worst nightmares came true.

You woke up early in the morning having bled all over his sheets.

You were panicking. Badly.

Lucifer was still sound asleep on his side of the bed, having noticed nothing.

Without thinking, you immediately get out of bed and go fast towards the wardrobe to grab some sheets.

You had no idea how you were going to change them without waking Lucifer up but one step at a time.

But he was already awake as soon as he felt you get off the bed. "MC?" He mumbled your name quietly before opening his eyes.

You wished a hole could open underneath your feet and the earth would swallow you. You also happened to be wearing white pijamas and so the blood was obvious all over you.

Lucifer had just woken up and was not thinking straight so his first thought was that someone attacked you or that another demon attempted to eat you and immediately rushed to you and pulled you in his arms. "Who?"

"what?"

"Who hurt you?"

"no one... I'm so sorry!!" You cried in dispair and that's when Lucifer started understanding what was going on.

"It's your menstruation? I thought someone attacked you... It's alright. I'll go fill in the bath for you."

Thankfully you changed the sheets before he realized you got them dirty.

Or so you thought. In reality he had noticed but didn't want to embarass you.

Mammon

He knew you were on your period.

You had told him the moment it came.

But it didn't matter to him much. He didn't know many things about it, only that you're in pain.

"Hey, come on, sit with me." He patted the couch beside him in his room.

He knew you were hurting and he wanted to cuddle you and watch some movies with you and spoil you with chocolate he stole from Beel.

When you shook your head in return, his heart shattered. "I'm not really in that mood."

"B-But! It's your favourite!"

"I'll just go to sleep."

"We can sleep together here."

You sighed and he felt the world twist. You didn't want him anymore? That's it? It was over?

"What did I do?"

"nothing! I just don't want to get blood all over your couch!"

"Ohh..." He felt relieved. That was all. Truth be told, this couch was pretty expensive but you were worth ten times that couch...

"Don't you wear that pad thing you talked about?" After you nodded he added. "Then it's fine. Get your stupid pretty human ass here now. You don't wanna miss the beginning."

Leviathan

He wanted you two to cosplay today.

You had been planning to go to that convention for months.

The day had arrived and he had excitedly changed into his costume only for you to come out and say you're not going.

And he's ???? So confused ????

He thought you wanted this as much as he did.

Did you fake your interest?

"look, Levi, I'm sorry. I was really looking forward to the con but I got my period today."

Ohhhhhhh it was because of that thing. That was a relief.

"it's fine! The con is a week long, we'll go by the end of it. And we can wear the costumes inside and cuddle!"

The idea horrified you.

"NO!" The costumes were amazing and Levi had paid of them. You couldn't ruin it.

"why?" He was confused again.

"I'll get blood all over it. I always get things dirty. You should keep me away from your stuff." After all you knew how much he valued his merch.

Leviathan rolled his eyes and walked over to you. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you down with him. He wrapped a TSL blanket over you and proceeded to play games with you all night.

After all, you were more valuable than all these together.

Satan

You two had visited Devildom's public library to get a book he had ordered for you.

He had seen how fascinated you were as soon as you heard it came out and immediately ordered it for you.

You were looking around the shelves with him while the staff was going to bring you your book when you felt an intense pain on your lower parts.

Looking down you realized blood was leaking everywhere.

Panicking, not sure what to do you hid behind a bookshelf.

Satan panicked as soon as he realized you were gone.

What if another demon had fetched you and eaten you?

"MC?" He called out your name. Once, twice, thrice...

"Here..." You said in embarrassement. You had the idea of using a jacket to cover the mess in your pants. But you had accidentally grabbed his...

When he finds you he was relieved. "There you are, I was worried..." Then he scanned you. "My jacket looks good on you."

You weren't sure how to tell him, so you continued and went all the day back to the house of Lamentation when you immediately put it in the washing machine.

Of course, he had noticed. You had been dripping on the floor.

But being aware this was a normal thing, he decided not to embarass you and make a big deal out of it.

Asmodeus

You were screwed.

You were seriously screwed and not in the good way.

This had been a lesson to you to always keep in mind when your period was coming.

Because the one time you had forgotten, you had wore Asmo's clothes to sleep.

He told you you could use them whenever you wanted.

It made him very happy to see you wearing his clothes and it made you feel very comfortable so why not?

This was the reason not to.

Because waking up that morning, you had gotten blood all over his clothes.

"Shit."

Your exclaim and panic woke him up, but he was too focused on your face to notice the blood at first.

"What happened, my love? Are you okay?"

"I'm so sorry, Asmo!!"

It took him a few seconds but then he realized exactly what you were talking about. He took a deep breath. This was a disaster, but you didn't do it on purpose.

"It's fine. It's your time of the month? Come on we should get you changed. Wanna run a bath together? I can give you a massage too." He winked as he got up to get the water running. He prefered to focus on you than his ruined clothing.

And this, my friends, is called love.

Beelzebub

You were always careful when it was your time of the month not to get anything dirty. Always.

However, the unfortunate day had arrived.

You were in his bed, playing on your DDD while Beel was picking up some food from the kitchen.

And then it happened. The major pain. And you realized you had been bleeding all over his sheets. You should change them before Beel-

Speak of the devil....

Beel walked in happily and let the food down on the tray next to the bed. As he leaned down to put them there he noticed the blood and frowned.

You were scared you had disgusted him.

"are you hurting too badly? I'll bring you some medicine."

Cause he's that sweet.

Diavolo

Yes I will say this every single time I write about this one;

He's busy.

So even if you do get blood in his stuff you'll certainly have time to clean it.

However, fate isn't very nice...

When Diavolo is in his study, he likes to work with you sitting on his lap.

When you felt the sharp pain in your stomach you immediately jumped off his lap and fell on the floor.

"MC? What happened!? Are you okay?" He asked worrily.

You didn't answer him, instead you run towards the bathroom.

Yes, you didn't get anything on him but it was big a jumpscare itself.

Diavolo knocked on your door once. "Dear? What happened?"

"nothing! It's fine, my period just came!"

He was silent for a bit. You thought he left but as soon as you opened the door he was standing right there and he hugged you. "I see... Come on, let's go back. I promise we'll cuddle when Im done."

"I'll get blood all over you!" You argued back.

In response he picked you up and walked back to his chair where he made you sit on him again.

Simeon

Simeon is such a sweetheart.

He probably has already noted your circle on his calendar.

He remembers when it's that time of the month always.

Usually, so do you.

Usually.

You had miscalculated this time. You thought it was due for next week and so you had wore a nice white dress for your date with Simeon.

He wasn't sure what to say. He thought you looked gorgeous in that one but...

"Sweetheart, are you sure? I love the way the dress looks at you but I don't want you to feel bad if it gets dirty."

You were so confused. "What?"

"You said you avoid wearing white when it's that time of the month... Unless you're late? Oh my lord, are you late?" His eyes were shining and that's when you realized what he meant.

"shit! No I am not! Wait here!" You rushed back into your room to get changed and indeed found blood between your legs.

You couldn't find yourself feeling bad tho.

All you could thinking about was the way Simeon's eyes had shined at the thought of being a father.

Solomon

As a human like yourself, he treats it much more normal than the others do.

He doesn't treat you any different then really, unless you're in pain.

Then you're getting backrubs.

You were sitting on the couch with him and he was telling you a story about how he first formed a pact.

When he was finished you felt the need to go to the bathroom.

Then you noticed the red stain in your pants.

Shit that was a lot of blood. Had you gotten it on the chair too?

Thankfully, when you returned it was gone.

And thankfully, Solomon knew magic to clean it quicker.

[desmondellis]

There was an even deeper form of intimacy that she was asking of him now. Even alone it was difficult, made even worse so knowing he wouldn’t be sleeping out of necessity but comfort. It seemed so natural for everyone else. With that came a new uneasiness in the truth, for what reason could he now conjure up that would explain why he so adamantly opposed the idea altogether. Nightmares no longer plagued him. Death had become palatable, inevitable, eventual. Desmond had made a point to level it with every part of his mind under the expectation that it could happen it any time.

But sleeping beside her and surrendering himself to that comfort that was so intuitive to her nature was as unlike him as just about everything else this night. It meant succumbing to the idea that they were safe when he knew that wasn’t so, but further than that, accepting that she would be safe. Whenever he felt strong enough to take the truth to the face he came to the realization that every act of resistance was done for her, and ultimately for the preservation of her life, even if right now it didn’t seem as dire. The thought ruminated in his mind as he watched her jolt up and dip into the kitchen for something else he didn’t need, sighing to himself as he stewed in his defeat.

When she returned she happily jumped into bed with a distinct comfort that Desmond couldn’t find envy for, only more worry. Her smile soothed him like her cover of a blanket, the warmth in her body radiating and joining him between the sheets. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about on that matter considering you’ve just showered.” He scoffed, even though just moments prior he’d been doing the rounds in his head. Lighthearted, Jazz reminded him again that he was safe and it almost certainly cemented the idea that he wasn’t, but coming off her lips he almost believed it. No stranger to the ignorance of strangers and boundaries, she slipped her fingers through his drying curls and her hand fell wistfully to his cheek.

He could only reference the attempts of affection from others as a measure of his own interest now, and how swiftly they met their rejection. It was almost intuitive, like a wall being set in stone. Women had tried before, even so much as being as forward with touch. The most peculiar difference was the intention behind it and how innocent it felt, like the naivety never left her soul. It filled him with the comfort she was so desperate for him to achieve and so he appeased her. He let her watch as he closed his eyes and kept them shut, listening intently to the lengths of her breaths, the pulse in her hand, a tell-tale sign when she had finally fallen asleep being in the weight of her arm as it slunk down.

Desmond watched her then, this peaceful angel as she slept. Her nose whistled just so and sometimes her eyes would dart around under her lid, and every so often her toes would wiggle. It went on for some time until he felt their breathing sync, knowing his body would tire from its own exhaustion eventually, and he relented, leaving her hand where it fell at his neck.

“Oh really?” He chimed in, happy to divert her attention away from the current subject. “Should’ve let me find out for myself.” The reprieve was short lived, as it was becoming clear that she was almost as stubborn as him. Even with what he felt as a grand, extroverted gesture by touching her hand it did not appear to sway her. Desmond was patient with her, not changing the tone of his voice to detect any anger in fact, he was hardly bothered at all.

The night couldn’t have passed any quicker, which had become a point of contention and thing of irony. The passing of time seemed like it had stretched itself thin and moved through with calculated speed - slower, more intentional, and somehow rosy around the edges when it happened. She would smile, eyes in tandem with her lips as joy spread over her face and into his chest, and the seconds multiplied. It was the very thing that kept him from leaving, from denying all the favors and good will, for taking advantage of her kindness by not being his genuine self.

Desmond knew coldness in someone’s eyes as much as he knew innocence, and there wasn’t many eyes like hers he’d ever seen before. Had it been his own recruit, he would have turned them away for being too soft for the world. Jazzmyn was. No matter that she may be stronger than most and uniquely independent, the dangers of the world were without her knowledge, and all th death and pain of the world had not yet touched her eyes. Unknowingly, he’d already started to create a bubble around her, curating an image and idea of a world where he was just a regular person, lying for the sake of an impression.

He watched the movement of her hands as she extended each finger, upset with himself that he might have offended her. “If it makes you feel any better I’ve felt worse and would’ve gladly taken a couch.” He wagered with himself that it couldn’t possibly be the case, given how touchy she’d been the entire time, but the doubt still lingered though small. Another swift disregard for his compromise, instead of resolving to let him win she insisted on joining him, which shot his earlier convictions in the foot and created an entire leg of another problem. His eyebrows knitted together, and she gave him no time to change her mind before she moved to the bathroom.

Desmond had time to contemplate his next move. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for him to leave now. At the very least he wouldn’t be around to see her face when she found out he’d rather brave the storm than sleep with her in the same bed. Desmond knew he wouldn’t make it far enough, and would have to brave the failed journey and her face when he returned again.

His hands got clammy, especially when the clouds of steam pooled onto the floor and filled the room with the sweet scent of whatever combination she used in the shower. “No.” He choked on what he wanted to say for a simple no. “There’s plenty of room for me on the floor, so it’s..” he laughed nervously, trying not to get hung up on the soft noises she made. “You know we could sleep like lincoln logs. Head to toe, so you feel more comfortable. It’s.. we probably shouldn’t even cause we might not fit, I can just, I can go on the floor.”

[ddarker-dreams]

Darling Fighting to Escape Yan Childe / HCs.

Warnings: Yandere themes, minor character death, and unhealthy relationships. Note: good luck to everyone pulling for the whale boy !! let us celebrate his rerun with some hcs. (reposted due to it not showing in tags).

Childe:

It would be an event that Childe gradually works up to. He’s already confiscated your Vision — and your weapon by extension — so you’re reduced little more than a declawed cat. You can hiss and curse at him, but that’s the extent of your resistance in this current state. That’s when you notice certain things out of place. A door inconspicuously left open there, a weak lock in usage there.

He wants to see how you’ll resist. It’s a thrilling game of cat and mouse, or at least it is for him. Childe is just that confident. He feels no matter what you pull, he’ll stand as the victor in the end. You resolve yourself not to let him get what he wants so easily. If it’s a fight he wants, you’re going to deliver the most brutal, ruthless one possible. Nothing will be sacred in what will likely be your final showdown.

Through some sneaking around and planning, you manage to find where he’s stashed your belongings, and that’s when the chase begins. You’re sharp enough to know he’s allowed you this much due to his inflated ego. That doesn’t mean you won’t seize the opportunity, so you run, planning on heading to a port town to get far away from Schnezaya. As long as you’re deep in Fatui territory, he has an unfair advantage.

A trail of blood will be left in your wake. Fatui Agents that had been alerted of your escape and hunted you down, underestimating your abilities, met a swift death. They showed you no mercy, so why should you show them any? This is the logic you’ll force yourself to repeat when crimson taints the snowy earth beneath your feet, the sickening scent of iron festering in the air.

Childe was content to sit back and watch for some time, finding pleasure in seeing your abilities evolve. He loves knowing that it’s all because of him. Just like when he fell into the abyss that pushed him past his limits, he’s pushing you past your limits, making you an even more tantalizing opponent to subdue. The twist being his personal interest, naturally. Childe’s fun is ruined with the Tsaritsa herself catches wind of his little dalliance, wholly unamused that her men are being slaughtered for what she considers, “A lovers spat.”

That’s when he steps out of the sidelines to reign you back in himself. Truth be told, he does miss your presence, the push from Tsaritsa just served as the final catalyst to get you back. Thus marks the start of the real hunt, with you as his adorable and unsuspecting prey. He gets chills every time he thinks about it.

Another aspect that really gets him going is how you must be thinking about him nonstop. Even if you’re hundreds of miles away physically, he’s certain you’re constantly looking over your shoulder, haunted by nightmares of him when you’re brave enough to sleep. Childe has always wanted to be the center of your universe, so even if it’s in a negative way, he’ll take what he can get.

True to his word, he’ll catch up with you, but not without playing a few mind games first. He is still a little sulky that you decided to slink off and leave him behind. Isn’t he your beloved husband? A husband who provides everything your heart could ever desire, might he add? Childe pushes down the sting of your ultimate rejection — the rejection of his selfish love — smothering it in bloodlust.

You realize the edge you have over him right away. You’re fighting to kill, he’s fighting to incapacitate you. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. The conflict would be full of blood, sweat, and tears. Childe starts out talkative, like this was nothing more than an everyday occurrence. He’ll ask you how it’s been going, if you’ve missed him, what you plan to do to earn his forgiveness; all in a rather lighthearted tone.

As the fight progresses, however, he turns eerily silent. You should’ve been down by now. Any other opponent would have been. You’re aiming for his heart, his brain, his jugular; he’s aiming for your legs or to knock you unconscious. He might make a sly comment that you should feel lucky he’s going easy on you.

Childe doesn’t want to use his Foul Legacy on you for a few reasons. One, he wants to prove he can defeat you even without using his full strength, as extra salt on the wound. Two, he’s partially concerned by the madness that consumes him when it’s in effect; the last thing he wants is to kill you. However, the deadlock between you two doesn’t seem to be ending anytime soon, and he’s had just about enough. The option is growing awfully more tempting.

In the end, he manages a slim victory, which could be attributed to your exhaustion from being on the run for weeks in a foreign country. Childe doesn’t concern himself with the pesky details. When you collapse, every ounce of your energy used up, he just sort of... stares at you with vacant eyes. In what could be considered a moment of brief lucidity. The risk that you took to break free, making an enemy of the Fatui in the process, all so you could get away from him.

Childe would normally feel so pleased after a good fight like this. However, as he lifts your unconscious body up, he’s uncharacteristically silent. Your wounds that need immediate treatment will be dealt with. Without pain killers, of course, you do deserve punishment for your transgressions against him. And that will conclude your first — and likely your last — escape attempt from the Eleventh Harbinger.

[cheri-translates]

Headcanon - When he sleep talks

Original title: 当他说梦话

Original author: 君兮耶君兮

[ VICTOR ]

It’s nighttime, and Victor is sound asleep beside you. With a practised hand, you feel for your phone from underneath the pillow. Tapping open the e-novel application, you start “committing a crime”.

Since he has repeatedly prohibited you from staying up late to use your phone, you carefully scrutinise Victor’s actions, deathly afraid that he’d suddenly wake up and catch you red-handed.

“Dummy...”

The rustling of fabric drifts from behind you as Victor turns over. A large hand wraps itself around your waist, and you instinctively lock your phone and hide it beneath your pillow, pretending to be asleep.

A long time passes without any further movements from the person behind you. Turning your head slightly to observe the situation, you discover that he’s still asleep. What happened earlier was simply him sleep talking. Relieved, you feel for your phone again, continuing with your little antics.

Soon after, the person behind you begins to mumble again. “It’s not that I don’t like you.”

Your finger pauses on the screen. You seem to have heard something interesting? As someone in the media industry, the acuteness in your DNA causes you to tap on the recorder app to capture what’s going on.

Victor’s chin rests against your head. Cushioned on his arm, you can clearly hear what he’s saying. “I’ll always like you.”

“Who?” You whisper.

“Dummy.” He responds quickly. If you hadn’t verified it earlier, you might have suspected that he wasn’t sleeping at all.

The corners of your lips curl into a slight smile. Closing the recorder app, you place your phone down. Scooting backwards against him, you sink into a peaceful sleep.

-

While Victor is preparing breakfast the next day, you lift your hand and wave your phone in front of him triumphantly. “Victor, you confessed to me last night!”

He cracks an egg into the frying pan. Hearing what you said, he remains unaffected as he continues to cook. “You had a dream?”

“No, it’s the truth!” 

You knew he wouldn’t believe you, which is why you had the recording prepared.

“...”

After hearing it, Victor turns off the fire. He takes your phone to check its veracity, then returns it to you with a glance and a dry laugh. “You recorded this at 1.13am. Looks like a certain someone slept pretty late last night.”

Your heart sinks, and you completely forget about the recording as you retort. “No I didn’t! You saw wrongly!”

How could he not understand you? While he metes out the punishment, he places a plate of warm omelette into your hands. “From tonight onwards, you’ll sleep half an hour earlier than before. You’ll also give your phone to me.”

[ GAVIN ]

If you hadn’t witnessed it personally, you never would have believed that the all-powerful Officer Gavin would turn into a clingy little wolf at night.

-

Returning from a mission, Gavin manages to fall into a deep sleep when it’s still relatively early. Grabbing a book, you sit on the bed to keep him company. Reaching out to cover him with a blanket, you suddenly hear Gavin’s voice.

“I want a hug.”

Finding this humorous, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. As though you’re coaxing a child, you pat him on the back. “Here you go.”

“Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.” You aren’t sure what he’s dreaming about, but his brows are tightly knit, and he seems uneasy.

This causes your heart to ache, and you respond gently. “Silly Gavin. I won’t leave you.”

Perhaps hearing this assurance, Gavin presses himself against you. After a while, he clicks his tongue, muttering hazily. “I want a homemade bento.”

This is the first time Gavin is asking for a bento directly. Before, he always dropped hints along the lines of, “Sometimes, my colleagues would bring homemade bentos”. You feel tickled by this. A childish Officer Gavin is especially adorable, and adorable children always get special treatment. “Okay, I’ll prepare it for you tomorrow.”

Gavin mumbles to himself softly. “The dishes in the canteen aren’t as delicious as what you make.”

Your smile falls. Didn’t he mention that STF doesn’t have a canteen? 

Putting on a professional smile, you lean closer to him and whisper into his ear. “Gavin, what’s the salary of the aunties working in the STF canteen?”

“$620 a month.” Gavin responds without hesitation.

“Good. Very good.” You straighten up, smiling wryly as you flip to the next page of the book, as though nothing had happened.

-

“I’m off.” Gavin gives you a goodbye kiss, his spirits high as he heads out of the door carrying an exquisitely wrapped bento box.

“Be safe!” Your smile is the same as every morning.

“Gav, what delicious food did she prepare for you today?” Eli pulls Tang Chao over so he can experience the pain of being single too.

Mentioning the homemade bento brings a smile to Gavin’s eyes. While responding, he opens up the bento. “I don’t know either. She was really secretive about it in the morning, and said I should only look at it at noon...” 

Very soon, he isn’t able to continue smiling. Slices of green bitter gourd are neatly laid out in the box. Aside from that, there’s nothing else inside.

“HAHAHAHA. Does sis-in-law want to help relieve your internal heat?” Eli chuckles boisterously, and Tang Chao’s shoulders tremble from suppressing his laughter.

The chopsticks in Gavin’s hand are on the verge of snapping. As they continue rubbing salt into his wound, the chopsticks curve.

He shoots them a glare. “Get out!”

“Gav, don’t murder your squad mates!”

[Trivia] One of Gavin’s “Go See Him” lines is - “There isn’t a canteen in STF, but the nearby eateries aren’t bad.”

However, in an official post about Loveland City, it’s revealed that there IS a canteen. This has been a running joke in the CN community because we still don’t know if it’s a mistake by Papergames or if Gavin really lied to MC so that she’d make him bentos (っ˘ω˘ς )

[ LUCIEN ]

Mr Lucien has always lacked a sense of security, and this is something you’re well aware of. However, the vulnerabilities he reveals to you are mostly meant to tease you, or used to stir up sympathy. You can only get a glimpse of his genuine unease after Lucien falls asleep.

“Mm...” Lucien’s eyes are shut tight, as though he’s having a nightmare.

Since you drank a cup of milk tea before heading to bed, you aren’t drowsy at all. Sensing Lucien’s movements, you pat the large hand wrapped around your waist. “What’s wrong?” you whisper.

Thinking that Lucien is feeling uncomfortable due to the heat, you attempt to put some distance between the both of you. However, the arm around your waist tightens. Not knowing if he’s awake or not, you don’t dare to move much.

Lucien embraces his treasure as he mumbles to himself. “My... Little Butterfly belongs only to me...”

You smile in resignation. Lucien has always been stubborn when it comes to staking his claim on something. This doesn’t upset you. In fact, you have the impulse to tease him even though he’s asleep. “Really?”

“We’ll see who dares to snatch you away.” Lucien’s brows furrow even more, dyeing his expression with an intimidating aura.

Having a bad feeling that you accidentally stepped on a landmine, you decide to soothe the atmosphere so that Professor Lucien wouldn’t feel troubled in his sleep. Before you can do so, you hear a dry chuckle. “A collaborative partner? Hmph.”

The threatening tone in his voice causes you to tremble, and an iciness travels up your spine and into your brain. You instinctively tense up, and you decide to wake him up.

“Lu...”

“Pete, could you bring me that box of scalpels?” His gloomy voice makes him seem like an entirely different person. “Little Butterfly, you can only be mine. Forever.”

You shut your mouth. The Ultima Bioresearch Centre measures its scalpels in boxes?

Sensing your movements, Lucien opens his eyes slowly. In the haze of drowsiness, he kisses your hair while speaking with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Your survival instincts cause you to shrink your neck backwards, and you nuzzle into the arms of the big fox. “Goodnight.”

[ KIRO  ]

“Miss... Chips...”

A soft mumble rouses you from the world of novels. Turning your head, you watch as Kiro is sprawled on the bed, quietly tugging the blanket over his bare chest.

Kiro nuzzles the pillow with a slight frown. It seems as if he’s dreaming about something troubling. “Miss Shrimp Strips...”

Your fingers pause on the screen when you hear this familiar yet unfamiliar term of address. Although the both of you often eat shrimp strips, he has never called you “Miss Shrimp Strips”. Does Kiro have another snack in his life?

Thinking of this possibility, your expression turns cold, and you decide to observe further. After waiting for such a long time that you start to doubt if you were merely hallucinating earlier, he finally speaks. “Miss Drumstick...”

Okay. You didn’t mishear earlier. There’s a Miss Drumstick now.

“Miss Popcorn...”

It’s said that dreams portray the most genuine reflections of reality. What one thinks about in the morning is what one dreams about at night. You never imagined that Kiro would be this sneaky in his dreams. Taking a deep breath, you inch closer to him.

The arm of justice reaches out to the unsuspecting Kiro. The second before his head is ripped off, he suddenly twitches, giving you a fright and causing you to pause.

“No! All of you are fakes!” His voice carries with it a sense of righteousness.

There’s a dramatic twist in his dream?

Kiro releases a “hmph”. He shakes off the blanket with a hand before exclaiming, “I, Kiro Bohu, will find the genuine Miss Chips!’

You burst into laughter. If you’d known earlier, you wouldn’t have forced him to watch “Tang Bohu Spots Autumn Fragrance" with you earlier. Covering him with the blanket properly, you pat his golden coloured hair. “Your Miss Chips is right here.”

As though he’s able to hear this, Kiro curls his four limbs as he nuzzles against you. “Mm... Miss Chips...”

“Goodnight, Mr Chips.”

[ SHAW ]

“Tsk.”

A noise sounds in the quiet and still room, causing your fingers to pause. Did he realise that you’re staying up? You quickly turn around to look at Shaw behind you. 

At this moment, his eyes are shut tight, his breathing is even, and he doesn’t seem to be awake. You heave a sigh of relief. As long as you don’t get caught, you'd continue using your phone.

“What’s that?”

Another sound drifts over, but it sounds a little unhappier than before.

“What’s what?” You find yourself responding instinctively after growing accustomed to retorting him.

Shaw purses his lips, and he appears to be having an unpleasant dream. You shift a little further away, afraid that he’d progress from simply retorting to whacking you.

Shaw turns over, unable to break free from his dream. “Dragonfly Eye. Don’t lose it again.”

“Your dream’s pretty exaggerated.” You roll your eyes. You’ve only lost the Dragonfly Eye once - and it was 99% due to a certain someone’s “assistance”.

Shaw doesn’t seem to have had his fill yet. He adds another grumble.

“Silly woman.”

The familiar term of address leaves absolutely no doubt that his current dream involves you. You take a deep breath. “Carry on if you dare!”

“Stupid.” 

Even when he’s asleep, Shaw is the same as when he’s awake, meeting you head-on.

Fuming, you give him a kick to the butt, sending him off the bed.

Shaw is startled awake. He scans his surroundings in confusion, then covers his injured area while standing up, gritting his teeth. “What’s up with you!”

You respond with a glare. “You insulted me! Twice! You pig!”

Shaw, who was kicked awake but has no idea what happened: ???

More translated and original works: here

-

[ Permission to translate ]

君兮耶君兮: Can, just state the author and the source

[aggravatetheaxe]

Hi there! I was wondering if I could request an imagine where a victim “escapes” from the slashers and hurts s/o in the process. What would the slashers do during and after? Thank you!!

Hi! I wasn't sure which slashers you wanted for this, so I put my list into a randomizer and went with the first 5!

Walter Sullivan

Thomas Hewitt

Jason Voorhees

Deacon Billings (OC Ghostface)

Erik ("The Phantom")

SLASHERS WHOSE VICTIM HURTS THEIR S/O

cw: mentions of suicide, reader being injured/in mortal peril, mentions of torture and killing etc etc

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Walter Sullivan

Oh no. Oh dear.

You are possibly the only good, pure thing in this world or the Otherworld and someone hurt you? Walter is ... not happy, to put it lightly. The only person who should ever hurt you is him, and he won't do that unless it's for your own good.

This only enforces his belief that the world and everyone in it are monstrous. It drives home the truth he's already convinced of - this existence in terrible and torturous and needs to be destroyed if anything holy is ever going to be allowed to blossom again.

Whether The Victim is pre- or post- Walter's suicide, he's already stopping at nothing to go after them. He doesn't view it as personal, he doesn't hold any particular hatred for most (most) of his victims; they're simply links in a chain. But this person, the one who hurt you ... it's personal. They'll die in absolute agony.

If the victim in question is pre-suicide, Walter will bring them down and find somewhere to keep them for later. This will not be a quick death.

While they're bound/gagged or knocked out, he'll check on you. You're special, possibly even the Mother Reborn, and he can't let you die until the time is right. If you're seriously injured, he'll see to it that you're taken to the hospital, and pray to a dead God if he has to that you'll be alright. If you're not seriously injured, he'll do his best to patch you up - he lived on the streets for many years and had to take care of himself, so he knows basic first aid.

Once he's certain you're safe, he will put you somewhere where you won't witness what he's about to do. Even if you want to see it, he'll insist you stay hidden, saying the sinner doesn't deserve to be in your presence. You'll have to really convince him if for some reason you want to watch.

Their torture will depend on what they did to you. If it was just a few scrapes and cuts, he'll let them feel every ounce of pain before they die. If they really hurt you, their torture will be prolonged. In his mind, and according to his religion, death is a sacred sacrament, and this evil being doesn't deserve its release. If they did something to seriously traumatize and/or sully you ... the crime scene he leaves behind is going to be grisly, to put it lightly.

If the victim in question is post-suicide, the results will be similar, but he has absolute control over the Otherworld - and he will utilize that. He will have his creations take care of you and keep you somewhere safe ... they may be terrifying, but they won't hurt you unless he wills it. As for the victim, he can twist them into their worst nightmares over and over again before killing them. He will make them see their wrongdoings and pay for their evil. They will beg for mercy and there will be none.

After it all, he will simply move onto the next one, with you somewhere safe ... until it's time. Until it's time. You are so perfect.

Thomas Hewitt

Dammit. If he'd just been quicker or smarter, he could have caught them before they escaped and hurt you. He immediately blames himself.

There's no time to beat himself up over it, though. He briefly checks to make sure you're not bleeding from anywhere vital and sends you (or locks you up) somewhere safe before going after the victim. You're on your own for first aid for now - unless you're literally dying, he can't let them leave the property.

If you are literally dying, he's staying and doing all he can to help you. But if Hoyt yells, he may have to pawn you off on someone else and hope they do a good job taking care of you. He'll hold your face and give you tender kisses goodbye - whether you want them or not - because this might be the last time he ever sees you.

He chases the victim in a fever, much more erratic than you would expect from him. He's faster, less careful, more inclined to put himself at risk just to get a swing in at them. It's not generally anything personal when he kills someone - it's something he does for the good of his family, and because he was told to. This one he's not interested in saving for meat. They hurt you. You, his special person. He's going to grind them into the mud, and he's not even going to let Hoyt have a go at them.

Sometimes, sometimes, he struggles to see the animals in his victims. But this one ... he doesn't even feel the urge to twist them into an animal. That's a whole human, an evil one, one he wants to kill. It's a different feeling for him.

Once it's all over and everything's calmed down, he's rushing directly to your side. People don't come around all too often, so he's comfortable putting down the chainsaw for now. He neglects any skin projects he planned and lets someone else do the butchering, focusing on taking care of you, especially if you're seriously injured and put up in bed.

If you're not as seriously injured and tell him you're fine, he's still keeping an eye on you ... and making sure you're well-fed. You've been through a lot and it was all his fault. He doesn't want you to be exposed like that again. Next time someone comes around, he'll insist you hide somewhere.

Jason Voorhees

It's a toss up whether or not he'll actually notice you're hurt. Not because he doesn't care or anything, but because Camp Crystal Lake is a lot of ground to cover and there's a low chance he'll be in the same area as you at any given time.

For this imagine, though, let's assume you've found your way to him or he's sensed you're in trouble and has rushed to you.

You were supposed to be safe in the cabin, so he's a little irritated that you wandered out, but that's completely overshadowed when he realizes you're hurt. He stops everything he's doing and clinically and thoroughly pats you down, identifying every solitary injury.

Just like his mother before him, he is a vengeful soul, so he is not letting this go even if you're just scraped or bruised. If you are critically injured, he'll at least get you to the cabin and get a tourniquet on you.

Otherwise, he leaves you behind. Not very mindful, but you should know that he wants you to get back to the cabin or at least stay out of the way. He is no longer thinking of you - he has established his target and knows what he has to do. He's laser focused and decisive as he stalks after them, using anything at his disposal to get to them.

Their death is quick - he doesn't play around - but he has a lingering sense of irony and playfulness. If there's a particularly interesting weapon nearby, he'll take them out with that; or perhaps he'll hurt them in the way they hurt you, just, you know ... more fatal. And a lot gorier.

After that, he'll move onto their friends, until every last one is dead. Once his objective is completed, he is returning to you directly and finishing the job of patching you up.

He can't help but feel a little guilty that you were hurt. You shouldn't have left the cabin, true, but perhaps he should have been watching for you. He should have locked you up. Pamela might say rude things in his head. Then again, she might comfort him. If she doesn't like you, maybe she'll even wish he'd left you to die.

Deacon Billings (OC Ghostface)

Well ... you usually keep him around to scare off other Ghostfaces - something he's very handy at - but you don't usually run into trouble with his victims.

He doesn't really tell you to go anywhere in particular when he's killing. He knows you can take care of yourself. But now he feels stupid for not having a backup plan. Of course some asshole was gonna eventually identify you as his loved one and try to get cute. He should've had something prepared for that.

But, if he's good at anything, it's improvising. He skids into whatever room you're in, drops his weapon, and pulls his mask off right away to check you over. If you're only mildly injured, he's visibly relieved, and tells you to stay put while he deals with whomever hurt you. If you're more seriously injured, he'll grab your phone and shove it in your hand. "Get in the car, get the fuck out of here. Drive to the emergency room if you have to, just leave."

If you're unable to drive, he'll make you call emergency services - or call them for you, if he has to. The game is over, he's done playing; this isn't fun if he's not winning. Everyone in this place is gonna be dead and he'll be long gone by the time the ambulance shows up for you.

The one who hurt you is going to get an extra special surprise. A particularly grisly death, and a bunch of selfies/short videos of Ghostface with the corpse - taken with the victim's own phone, posted to their instagram, tiktok, facebook, sent to any discord groups, and any other social media they have. If he has the time, he'll even make them in meme formats (definitely posting with meme captions, the fucking troll). He'll probably send a copy to you as a "hey, look what I did!"

If there are survivors, especially if that survivor is the one who hurt you, you better believe he is immediately doxxing them. Since he's had a little time to cool down, he might even play the long game, maybe catfishing and blackmailing them. Ruining their pathetic little life even further would be pretty fun. In the end, though, they'll die like all the others.

When all is said and done, he's going to be there for you, helping you recover any way he can. He'd suggest rest (for an amount of time relative to your injury), some movies and candy, maybe some video games. And time spent with your favorite Ghostface, of course, right?

He'll never forget what happened, though. Even though the person is dead, he'll be stewing and pissed off about it for a long, long time. And he won't let something like that happen again, or at least, not without a contingency plan in place.

The hash mark/tally mark he stitches into his costume to symbolize this kill is gonna be twice as long and large as the others, maybe in the place you got hurt as a reminder.

Erik

You already know what's about to happen.

If anyone so much as hurts your feelings they're getting menaced and receiving a strongly worded letter - actually physically harming you? That's suicide.

If he can't immediately kill this person, or if you're seriously injured, his primary objective is helping/comforting you. He has to push down a lot of wrath to do it ... every instinct tells him to immediately dispatch the fiend responsible ... but you are more important to him than anything in this world, even revenge. He will administer any first aid you need and may even drug you with ether to ensure you rest.

Don't think that means your attacker is off the hook, though. As soon as he decides you're well enough, he will put you somewhere safe - lock you away if he has to - and kill them. His preferred method is the Punjab lasso, but if they did something particularly egregious, he'll knock them out and take them to his torture chamber. They have a lesson to learn before they go to Hades.

Another option is, like Deacon, playing the long game ... playing with his food, stalking them, making them live in fear before they die. But he has a lot of wrath in that skinny little body, so it's a toss up as to whether or not he'll actually be able to follow through with that for very long. It depends on his mood, really!

He will keep the killing and torture hidden from you, of course ... unless you express an interest in seeing the vengeance being carried out. He would be worried for you, however, and advise against it. Those sights are not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for someone as beautiful and good as you.

Once all is said and done, it's as if it never happened. As if that person never existed! What a happy thought! Sometimes you even think Erik has completely forgotten the incident ... until he's stalking another victim and he locks you away again, and you remember you are always on his mind. He will never, never let that happen to you again.