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utterlyotterlyx · 8 months ago

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The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part Eleven

Summary - Azriel grapples with the weight of his guilt whilst you receive a visitor, and in Autumn, a meeting changes the entire trajectory of your fate.

Warnings - trauma, ptsd, betrayal, morally grey antics, friendship fluff, depression, thoughts of death, some hope (finally!)

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

There was a little nagging voice in his head, perhaps the shadow that adored you the most, telling him that he had allowed it to go too far.

Azriel lay atop the cream comforter of the bedspread that belonged to the woman he truly thought he would spend the rest of his life with if her brother would allow it. The pillows still held the faint smell of her, currents of the most intoxicating scent he had ever encountered flowing through him with every medial turn of the head.

He couldn't be there when Rhys took you, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from unsheathing the murderous tool that you often likened to a toothpick to get a rise out of him.

The bargain tattoo strained and withered around his bicep, contracting the muscle and making him regret every single choice he had made that got him to where he was. Laying on your bed, ready to tear the pillows apart just so he could hold the feathers drenched in the scent of you.

Nesta had left to follow you into a world of the unknown because of her unwavering loyalty to you, so had Elain and Lucien; Cassian was a mere shell of his former glory, Mor rarely spoke to anyone and often locked herself away with Amren, and Feyre, well, Azriel hadn't seen Feyre in a couple of weeks, nor Nyx.

Feyre had moved herself and Nyx to the House of Wind to escape Rhys, to put some space between them just in case one of them did something they would most probably regret. The night Rhys had taken you to The Prison was the night he permanently moved back into the River House, Feyre couldn't allow Nyx to grow up with the example of hatred that ran through his fathers veins.

The Prison.

Azriel could almost picture it. The cell lined with onyx stone to contain you, he could almost smell your fear and sadness, he could almost hear your heart cleaving into a thousand pieces. The Prison was a horrid place made for horrid creatures, and you certainly were not one of them. It was all his fault, he shouldn't have told Rhys that he witnessed Tamlin and Helion enter the Autumn Court, but if he hid it and Rhys found out then his entire façade would be blown and you would never get the chance to be free.

Scratches lined the palms and backs of his hands, some fully healed and others freshly scabbed over from his incessant self-mutilation brought on by his guilt. Azriel could only imagine how broken you were, that awful hum that you sang into the night still haunted his nightmares to the point where he refused to sleep, he refused to find comfort when you were on the verge of giving up entirely.

It was odd, how Autumn had moulded itself into your bones, your scent now tinged with hints of pine and mulled wine, of warm rain on the sun-kissed grass. It made him wonder how blind Rhys truly was if he couldn't tell that his sister had found her mate, and that that mate was none other than Eris Vanserra. It was obvious, the longing glances beyond the window, the void lingering in your eyes, the way your hand would occasionally drift over your heart like something was pulling at it.

The continent was safe from war thanks to your sacrifice, but you hadn't done it for the continent, you had done it for your family. A family that no longer had a place for him.

Azriel had told himself that it was fine, he couldn't blame you for hating him if you did, he deserved it, but that wouldn't stop him from doing what he needed to do.

It was silly of Nesta to believe that he hadn't seen what she had seen that day Under The Mountain, he had allowed her to think that she had found the book when they had split up, knowing that she would smuggle the tome back into Velaris and hide it. That evil was better hidden by her than it ever would be by him. Though, Azriel didn't account for Nesta hiding it so well; he had practically turned her room upside down looking for it to no avail. All he had found were a few of her raunchy novels that she usually never let out of her sight, but she had left them all behind when she had left the Night Court to join your side.

Azriel wished he had done the same, maybe things would have been different between the two of you if he had.

But you needed someone on the inside, even if it did feel like all of the odds were against you.

Rhys was stupid enough to believe it much to Azriel's pallid joy, the High Lord had no one to turn to, the rest of his Inner Circle had labelled his actions as monstrous to his face and refused to aid him further. Azriel was all he had left, and he was clinging to the Shadowsinger like the last patch of snow to the earth just before the Spring sun inhaled it.

It was too risky to tell you, everything you felt had to be real, Rhys' attention was solely on you and your behaviour and if that changed even a little bit then you would not survive his wrath, not when you had no power to protect yourself with.

Whisperings behind closed doors told Azriel what he already knew, that his family was frantically hatching a plan to get you out of Velaris and back into the safety of the Autumn Court. No matter the cost. And, in his own way, Azriel would make sure that they succeeded.

Maniacal laughter haunted what little sleep the island had tried to gift to you.

That along with the faint dripping of rain was all you could hear, the inner voice that usually caressed your mind had left long ago, and you weren't sure if it would ever return. The prisoners were relishing in the demise of the Princess of Velaris, cooing and taunting you every moment they could, and when one would fall to slumber, another one would take its place.

How you hadn't gone mad yet was beyond you.

It was you who had locked many off the vile residents of the putrid place away, and now you were one of them. Straining against the stone, you pushed yourself upright, your back hitting the glacial wall of the cell you had no choice but to call home; you shivered at the contact and attempted to wrap your thinned fingers around the blanket to contain some warmth within your decaying body, but it was pointless.

The altar taunted you, the rare stripes of moonlight pouring upon it like it was some holy artifact that you should be worshipping. A part of you had to admire Rhys' gall attempt to break you, forcing you to dwell in the same room as a thing that had ruined your life, that had stripped you of a fundamental aspect of your humanity. Looking at the glistening stone altar, you struggled to remember why people had been so afraid of you, you struggled to remember the mother tongue of your fury on the battlefield and the sultry wit that would fill the halls.

Hugging your knees to your chest, you let out a defeated sob, the pain throbbing at your limbs, threatening to allow the foundations to consume you if you didn't move. The queen within you had dimmed, leaving the weakest part of you on show for the continent to see, not that anyone would ever come for you there.

Poor little fawn. The cutest thing we have ever seen. Such a shame, to be a monster.

The little fawn is trapped. The little fawn will die here.

No one will come for her.

Raising you gaze to the ceiling, you allowed the tears to fall. If you were going to die then it would be worth it, to protect those who had risked everything to stand by your side, to protect those who had showed you love in the face of uncertainty and evil. Resting your head against the wall, you felt yourself succumbing to the words that had been chanted to you through the nights, your heart clenching at the little name that had always given you butterflies.

Fawn.

Your mind drifted, and you could almost see him. In your visions, Eris was happy, strolling through the forests with Willow in tow weaving between his legs and sunlight illuminating that gods-crafted face. You wondered if he had heard your song, if it had reached the depths of Autumn to tell him that you were still alive. Had Gwyn done as you asked? Did Eris know anything about your torture?

Before you could even think of a scenario that could bring you some hope, a quiet scuffle of feet sounded at the mouth of the hallway where your chamber lay. The sound was followed by a sweep of fabric against the floor, and your interest was captured by it. You shakily rose to your feet, leveraging your withering weight against the stone until you could find your footing. Firelight flickered, growing brighter with each passing moment, and you waited before the enchanted barred gate for the owner to make themselves known.

The silhouette was Rhys', that was undeniable, but as you watched him, you saw him shrink a few inches, you saw his usually short tamed hair grow and pour over his shoulders, and you watched as his entire body morphed into another entirely. The firelight from the torch illuminated her face, revealing ethereal beauty and the pale blue-grey eyes that you had always admired, "Feyre," you weren't sure if she heard the utter of her name from the broken cracks in your voice.

You sank to your knees in front of her and she followed suit, placing the torch against the wall and crawling to the bars of the cell, her bottom lip wobbling as she took in the sight of you. Matted hair, ashen skin streaked with tears, weary eyes with no fire or spark, chapped and bloodied lips, "I'm so sorry, y/n. I'm so sorry," her fingers reached through the bars, the pads of them massaging warmth into your cheeks, "We're trying, alright? We're trying to find a way to get you out of here."

"He'll kill you," hatred flickered in her eyes but it wasn't something she hadn't thought of already, "Feyre, you can't."

Feyre's nostrils flared, water pooled at her bottom lids and you leant into her palm, it being the first innocently warm thing you had felt, "None of us deserve you, y/n. We have all been complicit in this one way or another. and I am not the only one who can't stand to watch this anymore," sensing your wavering life, Feyre added, "You have to hold on. Your family is waiting for you. Nesta and Elain are waiting for you. Eris is waiting for you."

"You have faced things no one ever should, and it makes me sick to know that your family has done this, that we have done this to you. Even if it's the last thing I do, I will get you out of this, y/n. We all will. I need you to hold on for a little longer, alright?"

The stone collar growled in retaliation, burning into your flesh for entertaining the words and you visibly winced, "I don't think that I can."

"You must," Feyre's words exuded those of a High Lady, though she would never pull rank on you, she grasped your face in her hands and removed the matted hair from your face, "Gwyn has sent word, we are orchestrating a High Lord's meeting, then, you will be free. You have to hold on, otherwise it'll have all been for nothing and you are too strong for that. If you are going to die then it'll be when you're old surrounded by everyone who has ever loved you, not in this gods forsaken prison. Do you hear me?"

Feyre was holding back her tears, she had never seen anyone so broken, so close to allowing the darkness to swallow them whole to escape the torment they had faced. The resentment she held toward Rhys was palpable, it was rife within the creases on her forehead and in the deep hued bags beneath her eyes.

"How is Nyx?" You had often thought of the babe, if he even remembered who you were, if he missed you at all, if he had any idea what was going on around him.

Feyre smiled sadly, her fingers caressing your rough skin, "He misses his aunt, very much."

"He does?"

Feyre hummed in confirmation, her head tilted to the side, eyes peering down at your hunched over form like she had just found a wounded doe in a clearing, writhing in a bed of autumn leaves, "I have to go, before this place realises that I'm not Rhys and alerts him," her hand withdrew from your face and a whimper fell from your lips at the sudden cold that coiled around you, "I'll come back, I don't know when but I will, I promise," a dark spot pooled at Feyre's right, looming in the corner of the opening, it wasn't prominent enough for Feyre to notice it, but you were attuned to the darkness, you'd notice an anomaly anywhere.

The High Lady rose to her feet, clasping the torch between her trembling fingers and tightening her cloak around her frame. All you could do was stare up at her, "Remember, remember that you were born to make the world shake at your fingertips. Don't let him ruin you."

And with that, Feyre turned away, leaving you slumped against the confinements of the gates, morphing back into the image of her husband once she was far away enough that it wouldn't scare you.

Feyre had contorted into Rhys, just like she had Tarquin before the war, even her scent morphed into his. The footsteps fell heavy against the stone, the firelight reflecting off of the dampened walls as she stalked through the prison, winding through the halls and finding herself being grateful for the lack of chortles sent her way by the prisoners, but also finding herself yearning to return to you.

A cool breeze drifted through the hall, telling Feyre that the entrance was only around the corner, and soon she'd be back at the House of Wind with her little Nyx working with her family on the plan to free you. Though, as soon as she turned the corner, she halted, she straightened her posture and felt dread settle into her chest at the flash of blue that greeted her.

Azriel stood before her, no doubt seeing right through the body she wore, his fists and jaw were clenched and his eyes burned into her, "I have to that admit that I'm impressed, Feyre. Impersonating Rhys to sneak into this place to see her." The darkness curled around him as it always had and would, his siphons were glowering in the slick corridor, bouncing off the glistening walls wet by the most recent downpour.

Shifting to her original form, Feyre became comfortable with the possibility of hurting Azriel, after the hand he had dealt in your suffering, "I did it with Tarquin, it was easy," Feyre's fists clenched, the hem of her cloak drowning in the puddle behind her, "Are you going to lock me up as well, Az?"

Azriel stepped forward into the scope of the firelight, his eyes softened and shoulders lax, "No. I was coming to see her as well."

"You have no right," Feyre spat, her stance shifting as a blockade to prevent him from delving further, "You're the reason why she's here."

"I know that," Azriel admitted, knowing that nothing he could say could change that fact, "Do you think that I wanted to? Feyre, Rhys has lost his mind, someone needed to be on the inside, to be trusted enough to know what he has planned. None of you would be able to do it, so I had to, and I couldn't tell a soul of it, not if I wanted her to get out of this court alive."

"What are you talking about?"

Azriel ran a hand over his face in frustration and sighed, "Who do you think tipped Gwyn off to go into the River House?"

Feyre stuttered before the realisation hit her, "It was you. You've been playing double agent this entire time."

"I promised her that I would always look out for her, that I would protect her," he felt the bargain tattoo purr in reply, "If I had truly hurt y/n then I'd be dead, from my own guilt or from the consequence of breaking the bargain," his gaze flickered behind Feyre, like he was expecting you to round the corner, "I'll never be able to forgive myself for what I've aided, and I don't expect you or her to either. Gwyn will deliver the message to Eris and Nesta, they're meeting with Tamlin and Helion to tell them of what has happened here, one of them will call a High Lord's meeting. That's our chance to set her free. Tell the others to prepare themselves, it isn't going to be easy."

None of it was going to be easy, to defy the High Lord of the Night Court was an act of treason, they could all be wiped from the earth for it but it was a reality that they would all welcome if it meant that you had a real chance to live. Not just survive, but live a life that deserved you.

Azriel took a step forward, "Feyre," he coaxed his High Lady from her thoughts, "I need you to do this, for her, for all of us."

"I will," her voice lingered, "But you can't see her, she'll crumble if she sees you. You've broken her heart and thus her sanity, her mind will shatter if she sees you and we need her to hang on."

Everything within him was telling him to ignore her, even his shadows were screaming at the notion of not being able to be near you, they had always yearned for you, sought you out at every moment. Their entire spirit had dulled since the night you had left, like they were the first to know that you had denounced your place and title, they had curled down his spine and shuddered at the loss, and only became frantic the moment you had been dragged back into Velaris wearing those awful collars.

Azriel inhaled deeply, staring ahead at the pitch black hallway before resting his gaze on Feyre and offering his arm, "Let's get you out of here, we both have work to do."

Tamlin had always found a certain solace when visiting the Autumn Court, there was something about it that comforted him; he always thought it was the way the sun would kiss the browning leaves that had fell upon the grass, or that unique warmth spreading across the land like a blanket and weaving between the trees, breathing life into everything that it touched.

The High Lord of Spring had been surprised when he had received the note from Lucien, a twin to the one sent for Helion, but as soon as he saw the mention of you, Tamlin instantly agreed to the request to descend upon the Autumn Court. Though, what surprised him more was that he had been invited to the private residence of Fir Manor for the meeting, which meant that the matter was too important to speak of in a fortress of deceptive ears.

Fir Manor was a truly beautiful estate, towering oak beams encased by vines and delicate flowers, pale brickwork and a thatched but sturdy roof, large windows that oozed comfort, and gardens littered with fountains and the faint chipper of birds as they soared from branch to branch. Stones clashed beneath his feet, the sound alerting the inhabitants of the home to his presence; he wasn't exactly late, but by the faint scent of musk and petrichor Tamlin knew that Helion was already in the confinements of the manor.

The door opened as Tamlin stepped onto the porch, drinking in the wicker chairs facing outward to the pond, a blanket draped across the back that told him that it was someone's favourite spot. Nesta appeared before him, she seemed unphased by his presence, but her eyes were thankful and full of relief, "Tamlin," she greeted in monotone, she wouldn't forget what he had done to Feyre, but if he could help you then she could certainly forgive him for it.

"Nesta," Tamlin greeted with equal tone, wary of Lady Death in all of her glory. Nesta was poised, her shoulders straightened as she observed him; she stepped to the side so that he may be able enter, and he angled past her.

The interior was just as charming as the exterior, a log fire burned at the centre of the far wall, exposed wooden beams loomed overhead that connected to the coffee hued walls littered with golden embellishments; the seating area was rooted in place, large feather cushions sat atop plush red wine seating, and an array of artworks kissed the walls.

A faint scent clung to the air, one that Tamlin immediately recognised as yours, but it was a whisper on the atmosphere, like the home was clutching onto it, trying to inhale it into its bones so that an aspect of you might live with it for eternity. "Tamlin. Thank you for coming," Eris spoke from by the fire.

Noting his dishevelled appearance, Tamlin frowned, speckles of mud splayed up his riding boots, no doubt from a hasty morning ride through the forest. Eris' hair was messy and eyes weary and full of worry, the amber whisky hue dimming with every wrenching thought that shook through his mind.

Something was very off about the High Lord, and Tamlin couldn't quite put it together. He took the seat beside Helion, greeting him with the same pallid politeness before moving his gaze over to Lucien who nodded stiffly in his direction.

Tamlin returned the action and then allowed his eyes to wander about the room, noting all of its inhabitants, and then finding himself thinking of you and the intoxicating scent he often thought of. It was no secret that Tamlin held some form of affection toward you, he, like Eris, had grown up around you, seeing you grow and flourish into the impressive woman that you had become.

"Where is y/n? The note mentioned her, I thought she'd be here."

Eris visibly tensed at the question, squeezing his eyes shut and sighing before crossing the small space between the fire and the closest armchair and finding comfort within it, "Rhys has her."

The High Lord of Day frowned and moved from his lax position on the seat, leaning forward and examining the ire within the Autumn male, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Much like Tamlin did, Helion also thought very fondly of you, he enjoyed the wit and sass that radiated from you as well as the way you carried yourself, dangerously sultry yet elegant. Helion had asked Rhys for your hand multiple times, believing that you would make the finest High Lady, and his patience wavering each time he was shot down. Though, that didn't halt Helion from seeking you out at every dinner party or ball, he enjoyed your company greatly, as much as he enjoyed that beautifully knowledgeable mind you kept under lock and key.

"The day of your birthday, y/n found out that Rhys had sought to lock her away in Velaris for her entire life simply because she was more powerful than him, because her power threatened his position. Rhys used her to do his bidding, to be the terrifying monster of Velaris, he used her to threaten his enemies, but she was never able to leave the court without supervision. Rhys made y/n into a prisoner and she didn't even realise it," Eris recounted the knowledge as well as the pain in your face the moment you had figured out what he had done, "That night, y/n denounced her home and title and joined me here, Nesta, Elain and Lucien followed soon after."

"Rhys found her at the boarder to Winter whilst she was exploring, didn't realise how far she had strayed," Eris shook his head softly and inhaled deeply before he continued on, "He threatened us, he told her that he would kill us all if she didn't return, using the eons old Night Court tradition that an unmated female was the property of her family until they decided who to bestow her hand to."

Eris dragged his thumb over his bottom lip, trying to remember the way yours melted into his and the way they tasted on his tongue. It was difficult to ignore the bond that had opened within him, every inch of his essence was begging him to infiltrate the Night Court and save you, but his mind knew how dangerous that would be; if Rhys even caught one whiff of him then he would commit any manner of gut-wrenching acts upon you.

"And she's there now?" Helion enquired, the gold of his headpiece reflecting in the sunlight, scattering a glow across the ceiling, "Do we know if she is alive?"

The mere thought of you six feet underground made fury blaze within him, it was clear by how his entire body clenched, "We believe that she is, but we have no way of knowing," Nesta spoke for him from her seat to his side, "Rhys would have punished her for defecting, how, we don't know but we do know that he wouldn't have allowed her to continue on with her old life there. All of our contacts in the Night Court have been silent, there have been little to no whisperings of her, the only thing they know is that she has been said to be sick and is on strict orders to rest."

A blatant lie.

Throughout the entire display of information, Tamlin couldn't keep his eyes off of Eris, noting the way he shuffled in his seat and how his fingers would occasionally drift over his chest. Not needing to listen to Nesta for another moment longer, Tamlin cut through her words, "If you want our help then you will tell us the truth."

Eris' orbs burned, sticking to Tamlin with anguish before moving to Nesta, Eris nodded curtly and only once, a silent permission to divulge whatever it was that they were hiding. Nesta sighed, "There is a demon living within y/n. Amarantha placed it there the night she stole her wings Under The Mountain, she wanted to use y/n as a host, and if not y/n then the first child she could produce," Helion inhaled sharply, not expecting anything of the sort to ever be spoken in his lifetime. "That's not all," her voice drifted off but she didn't look to Eris, it was important that Tamlin and Helion knew everything, "Rhys also removed memories from both Eris and y/n, of the time they spent together throughout the years, of the love they shared."

A secret love that no one should have known of, but someone had sold you both out.

Helion's eyes drifted closed as he attempted to process the information. There was a demon living inside of the woman he admired. Rhys had taken you as a prisoner. Rhys had removed all memories of you and Eris from one another's minds. You and Eris loved one another. "You're her mate, aren't you?"

A gruff hum filled the void, "Yes. We are also Carranam."

Tamlin had heard of it, once, which told him that such a thing was a rarity, "Carranam," the word rolled off of his tongue, and he knew from the way Helion tensed beside him that he too knew what it meant. A bond that ran deeper than a mating bond, a bond that made the mating bond seem pale in comparison, "Rhys took your memories from one another so that her power couldn't be amplified by you, and then confined her to the Night Court so that she would never find out. A prisoner in her own home."

It was barbaric. To steal your chance of love away from you and confine you to your home court, and then have the gall to spread word of your monstrosity across the continent.

"I can't feel her," Eris strained, doing his best not to choke on the pain of the void dwelling within his soul, "He's done something to her, I know it."

Before them sat a male completely wracked by guilt and worry, who was clearly struggling to sleep, whose entire court was mourning the loss of you. Lucien was right, they couldn't sit by and allow history to paint this image of your demise.

"You're right," a genteel voice drifted from the doorway, the pop of red hair had Nesta rising from her seat almost immediately. The woman removed her hood, her red braid sweeping over her shoulders and blue eyes frantic, "I'm sorry that I couldn't send word, I couldn't trust anyone else with this information."

Nesta crossed the room, "Gwyn, what are you doing here?"

Gwyn was as pallid as a bedsheet drifting in the summer breeze, exhaustion fell from her, "Y/N sent me, and I brought you this," Gwyn presented a book from under her cloak, not just any book, it was the tome Amarantha had written that depicted every single thing that she knew of you, "I came as soon as I could."

"Y/N sent you?"

The woman nodded toward Eris, her lips curling downward, "She did. She asked me to deliver a message," her bottom lip wobbled slightly, "She asked me to tell you that she loves you, all of you," she emphasised, her sight flickering to Elain and Lucien, "She asked me to tell you that no matter what happens to her that there is no place you could go where she wouldn't be with you."

The final words of a woman losing the fight.

No.

Eris stood, "Where is she?"

The tone of his voice made the temperature of the manor rise, and the walls vibrated with it, "Rhys, what he's done - I can't serve anyone like that. I refuse."

Nesta grasped her friends forearms, willing her to focus, "I need you tell us where she is, and what has happened to her, Gwyn. Now."

"Rhys hired someone to manufacture some kind of collars, they've melted into her skin, they've drained her of all of her power and life, she's completely defenceless now. Cassian is trying to help her, so are Mor and Amren, they all know that he's gone mad. I don't think that she can hold on for much longer," Gwyn blinked hard, washing away the images of your thinning body and grey skin from her mind, "Rhys has moved her to the prison, Azriel told him that he saw Tamlin and Helion enter the Autumn Court and he moved her there as punishment."

Nesta dropped Gwyn's arms and stumbled backward, the dread and terror pooling into her gut at the image of you shivering in a cell. Alone and believing that no one was coming for you.

Eris reached into that bond, tugging at it harder and allowed part of himself to travel with it, almost whimpering when it was met by a wall of agony and darkness, pinging back to him like an injured animal searching for comfort.

"Call the meeting," Silence followed Nesta's dangerously low voice, and it only irked her fury more, "Call the fucking meeting," Nesta turned to Helion who had taken the book from Gwyn, he was flitting through the pages, his eyes pouring over every word and rune etched upon the pages. "If you care about her at all, you will do it. If you don't then I will destroy you, Helion. She'll die in there."

It had to be Helion. Rhys would find disrespecting Tamlin too joyous, but he wouldn't dare to show the same disrespect to Helion, not if he wanted their courts to continue their alliance, not if he wanted to avoid an all out war.

Helion's gaze lifted from the tome, his heart rumbling with what lined the pages, "Consider it done," he rose from his seat, his white tunic pooling at his sandalled ankles, "I'm taking this, I think there may be a code in this book which will help us free her of that demon."

The High Lord of Spring also stood, anger coursing through his veins at the revelation that one of the few people who ever truly saw him was locked away and suffering in one of the most inhumane places on the continent. It didn't matter to Tamlin that your mate was Eris, despite the tinge of jealousy that swarmed him that Eris was the one who able to call you his, all that mattered to Tamlin was that you were free and healthy, that you had the choice to be whatever you wanted to be. "It may take a couple of days, please try to be patient. I know that it's a ridiculous ask but we all need to prepare, and give the other High Lords time to respond to the request. We'll need all of them."

Approaching Eris, Tamlin rested a hand on his shoulder, "I'm sorry that this has happened to you," his words were solemn but he was being truthful, "We will return her to you, and we will do everything that we can to free her from the demon inside of her. I promise you."

Wasting no time, Helion muttered a short farewell, clutching the tome to his chest and winnowing from sight, hurrying to send the request to the High Lords of the continent to ascend upon the Day Court Palace as a matter of urgency.

Moments later, Tamlin also said his goodbyes, strolling from the hearth of the manor toward the boarder where Spring met Autumn, doing his best not to listen to the gut wrenching roar that erupted from Eris the moment he stepped beyond the treeline.

Author's Note

Breaking my own heart right now 🥺

Also very sorry for the delay, haven’t been very well recently so just been trying to recover 🫶🏻

Taglist

@mybestfriendmademe @jesskidding3 @rosewood-cafe @fandomarchiveilyd @brujitafantomatico @crazylokonugget @mai-adaptive-dreams @magicstrengthandcourage @acourtofmoonlightandstars @ysmtttty @lilah-asteria @circe143 @xyzmeh @paleidiot @namelesssav @amberlynn98 @acourtofbatboydreams @azrielsmate3 @ivy-34 @mp-littlebit @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @ifonlyiwerefiction @pirana10 @donttellthecats @padbaeamidla @oucereeng @andreperez11 @demonicbusiness @megscabinetofcurios @superspideyparker @julesofvolterra @5onedirection5 @darling006 @coldmermaidhologram @herondale-lightworm

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br7ght · 1 year ago

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I want to be yours (and yours only) Lucy Bronze x Ona Batlle

summary: Ona learns about Lucy's ex-lover who just so happens to be one of their teammates. Ona wants to make sure that Lucy knows that she doesn't like to share, or so she thinks.

warnings: dom!lucy, sub!ona, shower sex, jealousy, make-up sex, inappropriate use of the shower head, oral sex, fingering

pairing: lucy bronze x ona batlle

word count: 4,000 words

SMUT 18+

based on this ask, once again @occasionallyaurora pulling through <3

Ona had never felt so angry and riled up in the entire time she had spent with Barcelona. The team were tightly knit together, all intensely close and this meant that there was usually no room for jealousy, but she was finished just choking it down and ignoring it. She was seen as easy going and gentle, but usually the strong feelings she had, she was too ashamed to let them turn into anything bigger than a petty comment or a bit of silent treatment before giving in.

She had been dating Lucy for five months, growing close ever since the World Cup, and while it wasn’t officially announced to the rest of the girls, Lucy could barely keep her hands off of her, so it became quite transparent within the team that something was going on between them. Ona frequently coming into the locker rooms before training, dark marks etched into her skin and Lucy’s smirk as the rest of the girls questioned her about it made it quite obvious who had done that to the seemingly innocent woman.

There was a barrier though, one of Ona’s old teammates from Manchester United had transferred to Barca during the last January transfer window, the same woman who she knew was rumoured to have had a long-term fling with her girlfriend. The team loved her, apart from Alexia and Jenni who were clearly way too touchy to just be friends with her. The training session today couldn’t have been a better example of this. Ona caught the three of them making fleeting touches against each other, Alexia’s hand always finding its way onto her hips or on her ass, alongside Jenni always sandwiching herself next to her, never taking her hands from her body when they were close. That wasn’t the problem, Ona didn’t care at all about what Alexia and Jenni were doing with any of her teammates, but every time they were close to each other, she would find Lucy staring at them, her eyebrows furrowed and her gaze locked between them; a face that couldn’t be better compared to than a jealous ex-girlfriend.

Ona stormed off after training, avoiding the team catch up at the end of the session, and hiding herself in the locker room bathrooms as she just listened to the girls talk until they all eventually left together. She heard someone still walking around the room and she knew it would be Lucy wondering where she was, knowing that she was to drive them both home. Lucy hadn’t even seen Ona slip away from the group as she’d been too busy engaging in conversation with Alexia and Jenni to even notice her girlfriends rising anger. She heard her footsteps still, a locker squeaking on its hinges and Ona knew that she had to come out now, knowing exactly what she was going to say as she’d been planning it silently in her head ever since she sat down.

As soon as she slid the lock open, Lucy heard her and turned immediately to meet her gaze from across the room. “Where have you been mi amor?” She asked, the glowing smile on her face dropping as Ona didn’t smile back, continuing to walk towards her in the most intimidating way she had ever seen the younger woman.

Ona used her strength, shoving Lucy against the lockers hard, her back slamming into the metal, a gasp eliciting from the back of her throat. She was startled, not knowing what to make of it, but she knew she could feel a shock being sent down to her core.

“I saw you acting all jealous around Alexia, Jenni, and their ‘plaything’ today, Lucia.” Ona lets out, her voice breaking instead of coming across in the angry tone that she had planned all along. “You look at them like it’s buy one, get one free.” The taller woman didn’t even know how to reply, she knew that Ona was aware of her history with their teammate, but she didn’t think Ona would ever be jealous over her, not when Lucy was so sure that she made the younger girl know that she was her only priority. “Do you want to be with her, does Ale and Jenni being all over her make you jealous?” Ona almost spits these words out, Lucy stood eyes widened at the comment, not knowing what to make of her girlfriend’s assumptions.

“Princesa, no, I’d never lie to you and maybe there is something tiny that twinges when I see her with Alexia and Jenni, but nothing that would compare to seeing you with someone else.” Lucy stated, her voice serious but gentle, noticing how high-strung her actions had made Ona and instantly feeling a wave of guilt as she replayed back her behaviour, understanding where the freckled woman was coming from. “I’m so sorry if I’ve made you feel this way.”

She reached out her hand, cupping the smaller face that melted into her hold. Ona plants a kiss against the side of her palm instantly calming the tensions between them. “I just want to feel like I’m yours and that I don’t have to share your attention with her.” She pleaded, but it didn’t sound desperate, it sounded more like a demand and Lucy was eager to comply, wanting nothing but her girlfriend to know that despite her complex and messy past with a lot of people Ona had to come into contact with, there was no one she had ever felt this way about in the same way she felt about her.

“What can I do, cariño, anything. I’ll do anything.” Lucy meant it, there was no lies behind what she was saying, and Ona knew that she really would do anything that she asked of her. “I don’t know what else I can do to show you that you’re the only one.”

“Fuck me like I’m yours Luce, show me that I’m yours.” She lets out, a smile swiped across the anger on her face from before, feeling instantly relieved at Lucy’s calm and gentle response, not wanting to do anything that would hurt her in the slightest, not unless Ona asked of course.

“Don’t ask for what you can’t handle princesa.” Lucy smirked; her lips clasped together, face burning red as she felt the arousal pool between her legs at Ona’s words. Her soft tone that she spoke in always making everything she asked for sound so much more attractive.

It was merely a few seconds before Lucy was dragging her by the arm towards the showers, pulling her into the cubicle with intense desperation, locking it behind her. Ona was gasping against her lips that were barely connected with hers, but once they fully collided there was nothing that was going to stop them now. The heat that they emitted when they kissed was unlike anything either of them had felt before, the way their hands unashamedly groped each other’s clothed bodies was laced with an intense desire to just have each other all the time.

Lucy grasped Ona’s training jersey she was yet to change out of, pulling it over her head and throwing it over the door of their cubicle, ridding her of all of her clothing, barely taking a moment to gaze at her muscular body until there was nothing left on her. Ona was reciprocating the favour through laboured, frustrated breaths, pulling Lucy’s shorts down and placing them over the door where the rest of her clothes were sat.

Once they were both naked, their lips were on each other’s again. Lucy’s tongue swipes against Ona’s bottom lip, pleading for her to give in to her advances which she does instinctively. Allowing Lucy to explore the inside of her mouth was moan inducing, the way her tongue would slide against the younger woman’s, knowing exactly how to make her weak at the knees, pleading with her hips as they rolled against her body. Lucy had Ona’s back pressed up against the cold wall of the cubicle, her hand pressed firmly against the back of her waist, holding her body as close as it could be to her own.

The taller woman turned the knob of the shower, the heated water beating down on them both, streaming down their faces as they kissed even deeper than before, Lucy feeling her girlfriends’ hips rolling involuntarily against her thigh, barely making contact but it was enough of a signal to know that teasing was the exact opposite of what she needed.

Lucy brought her hands from her waist, kneading Ona’s perky breasts against her palms, the small streaks of water aiding her in her goal of quickly hardening her nipples so she could play with them between her fingers. As soon as she swirled her fingertip against the hardened nub, Ona’s lips attached themselves to her neck, pulling the skin between her teeth with frustrated immediacy. Lucy winced at the sensation, her head throwing back and allowing Ona more space to work with, knowing that she wanted to mark her up as a result of the jealousy she had brought out of her.

Lucy pinched her nipple hard, making her moan, muffled against the crook of her neck as she darkened the marks, she was working on up the length of Lucy’s neck. “That's it, mark me up, make sure everyone knows that you’re mine.” She lets out, Ona continuing to comply with the request, every few nips of her skin and she looked to admire the artwork she was creating, marking her territory as her own.

“Make me yours Luce, please.” Ona mumbled against her collarbone, the mixture of Lucy switching her fingers with her mouth, lapping at her nipple before taking it into her mouth and sucking loosely against the nub, and the water beating down on them driving her into a sense of desperation that needed to be taken care of.

“I’m going to make you feel so good my pretty princesa.” Lucy promised, parting Ona’s thighs with her spare hand, the other trailing up her chest. She tried to work her up, dragging her fingers through the shorter girl’s folds, her wetness immediately soaking up her fingers as she whined against Lucy’s light touches. She knew not to waste too much time, dipping the length of her digit inside Ona and relishing in her echoing moan that carried throughout the room. Lucy’s neck was burning but she knew Ona needed to see her marked up in a moment of role reversal, usually wanting to be the one with the souvenirs from the night before.

Ona’s whining and squirming was something Lucy was used to handling, using her strength to show her that she could always get what she wanted when she was in control. Lucy was thrusting into her now, adding a second finger into her entrance and watching down at Ona’s reaction to the quick stretching she felt that made her catch her bottom lip between her teeth in a desperate attempt to remain as quiet as she could. Ona was seeing stars, her chest rising and falling in honest lust, her legs beginning to shake at the feeling of Lucy pumping harder into her.

“Look at you take my fingers cariño, why would I want anyone else when I have you looking so pretty when I fuck you,” Lucy praised, placing a kiss against her forehead in a gentle response to the rough movements of her wrist. As the water continued pulsating over their bodies, Lucy knew what would make Ona certain that she wanted nobody else but her. “Can I try something with you?” She asked and Ona nodded, she always did, she never even asked anymore as she was confident in the fact that Lucy knew her body better than she did, she spent enough time getting to know it in such detail that she trusted her in the moments of vulnerability that they shared.

Lucy continued thrusting her wrist, curling her fingers, and brushing up against her walls, stroking at her sensitive spot. She took the showerhead from the holder, messing with the temperature until she found the perfect heat, changing the pressure to a smaller, stronger stream of water rather than the rain setting that was beating down on them before. Ona was looking in awe at Lucy’s brain ticking as she adjusted the shower that she held in her hand, secretly hoping that she was going to do what she was thinking.

When Lucy took her focus off the shower and diverted her gaze back to Ona’s face, she gently aimed the showerhead to direct the flow of water against her clit, still continually thrusting into her. As soon as the water pulsated against her bundle of nerves the sinful moan that escaped Ona’s lips was one that she couldn’t hold back despite the semi-public nature of this act they were committing together. Lucy kept her fingers curling against Ona’s spot, hitting it harshly with every thrust of her fingers, holding the showerhead in place so it was continually stimulating her so intensely that she could feel her legs trembling, unsure as to whether she was even going to be stood up by the time she reached her inevitable climax.

“Fuck Lucy. I’m all yours.” These words made Lucy quicken up her movements, really roughly fucking into her cunt now, desperate to watch her girlfriend chase her release as she could see it build behind her closed eyes and open mouth.

“Then come for me Princesa, show me why you’re all mine.” Lucy growled softly and Ona’s determination to earn the praise that she had just been awarded with was clear as her arms loosened from around Lucy’s neck and she grabbed the showerhead, pushing it closer to her clit and holding it milometers away from her, the water gushing harshly against her bud, the sensation on the border of being too much but the quick build-up of her high was addictive. Lucy let out a moan of her own as she watched Ona chase her release, a smile curling the edges of her mouth as she let her hold the head against herself, her hand now gripping the back of her thigh to keep her stood up properly.

Ona’s orgasm rippled intensely over her body, her entire form shaking and jerking as Lucy let her ride out the intensity of the climax, hearing her name strung in the back of her throat at every thrust encouraging her to work through the arm ache and satisfy her girlfriend how she needed. Lucy captured her lips in a kiss, taking the shower head and resuming the previous pressure before hooking it back onto the wall, letting her freezing body take in the heat as she worked into the mouth of her whining girlfriend.

Ona’s kisses became needier again as the aftershocks of her orgasm calmed, almost immediately being ready to go again. Lucy had trained her up to be able to take her again and again until she was finished using her and this silently making the taller woman regret ever being jealous over Alexia, Jenni, and her previous flame.

“It’s my turn to remind you what you have now, mi amor.” Ona teased, her voice seductive in itself minus the view of her orgasm ridden body dropping to her knees, kneeling up against Lucy’s toned thighs, her hands instantly gripping her nails into her skin, determined to leave more marks than just the ones littered on her neck. Ona hooks her leg over her shoulder, gazing at her glistening folds, gulping at the sheer amount of arousal that had pooled between her legs from watching her orgasm against her hand. She nips against Lucy’s thighs, clearly not finished with marking her territory, the skin between her legs way more sensitive, but each time Ona painted her mark against her it just increased her desperation to grind herself against the other woman’s tongue.

Ona sticks her tongue out, laying it flat against Lucy, the low and raspy groan she let out making her relish even more in the taste of her. Once her hands fell in Ona’s wet hair, tugging her nails into her scalp, encouraging her to find her clit with her tongue, immediately swirling it around her bud in the way she knew would make Lucy into a groaning mess above her. She was drowning beneath the shower, the water mixing with Lucy’s arousal when it hit her tongue, but the sensations of everything was just spurring Ona on.

“You’re so fucking good. I would never want anyone before I’d want you.” Lucy admitted with transparent honesty. She looked down at Ona on her knees, looking sympathetically at the way the shower was dripping down her face, barely able to catch her breath without inhaling the water that was drowning her out. Lucy breathed slowly through the long licks through the length of her slit, taking the showerhead from the holder and moving it out of the way of Ona’s face. “Hold this in place for me Princesa.” Lucy demands and Ona obeys, moving her tongue from the taller woman’s folds, letting the water gush against her clit in the same way that she had done for her.

Lucy moaned, the sound basically replicating Ona, the water pressure against her bundle of nerves providing a sensation so unique that it was forcing high pitched groans to leave the older woman’s lips. Ona had never heard her so worked up, her lips clasping together as she made use of her position, driving two fingers straight into her entrance, feeling her knees buckle underneath her shoulder at the overwhelming feeling.

“Continue what you were saying before.” Ona pleaded as Lucy’s chest was rising quicker, laboured breaths turning into strings of tumbling moans falling from her lips.

“I only want you Ona. Just you.” It was hard for her to form a sentence with the pulsating pressure of the water hitting her clit consistently while her entrance was being stretched hard by Ona’s fingers, thrusting up against her g-spot watching in arousal at her girlfriend coming undone by the second. “You’re my pretty girl, no one’s going to change that.” Ona moaned at the words, finding Lucy’s inner thighs between her lips again, darkening the marks that were already there, with a few nips Lucy’s legs were trembling under her tongue.

Ona knew not to stop or change anything when she became silent, usually as a response to her orgasm brimming against her touches. Her breathing hitched immediately and her hips grinded against the jet of water pushing intense pressure against her clit, and Ona gasped when she felt Lucy’s inner walls clench hard against her pumping fingers, physically feeling her body fold at the sheer force of her climax.

“That’s my princesa.” Lucy let out, catching her breath as she pushed the shower head away from her pulsating clit, signalling Ona to meet her at her lips, wanting to taste herself against her girlfriend’s mouth. “Let’s get you all dry, you’ve done enough mi amor.”

Ona happily gathered their clothes, letting Lucy drape a towel around her shoulders, sitting her down on the bench in the locker room. She was determined to get her all warmed up, even grabbing her hairbrush, and stroking the prongs through her wet curls, ridding her head of any tangles from her hands being wrapped up in them a few minutes ago. Ona was humming gently at each touch and Lucy knew she was needy again already.

Lucy caught a glimpse of her body underneath her towel in the mirror across the room, gasping as she looked at the way her skin was littered with darkened marks. Ona giggled, her thighs squeezing together as Lucy’s fingers trailed up her bruised neck, not even wanting to look at the mess of bruises between her thighs where Ona had been making a trail. “I think you’ve proven your point.” Ona’s cheeks flushed pink, nodding slightly as she looked up at her girlfriend with doe eyes, not wanting to beg to be fucked again after the last session only just finished, but this is what Lucy loved about them together.

“Open up for me then, I know you need more after you’ve dropped to your knees for me like that.” Lucy grazed her tongue against the husk of her ear, eliciting a gasp from Ona who instantly obliged her request, slightly embarrassed at how she was already dripping for her. Lucy perched next to her on the bench, her nipples showing through the gap in her towel as she leant her arm over Ona’s body, gently stroking light touches against her wetness. “I think this should convince you that you’re all mine.”

Lucy grabbed her thighs, pulling Ona over her lap. Her legs opened wide as she straddled over Lucy’s hips. Lucy snakes her hand between their bodies, letting Ona sink down onto her fingers. Ona’s body moving uncontrollably as she started to ride her fingers with such desperation that Lucy was convinced that the shower hadn’t even happened.

“I’m all yours, just me.” Ona moaned against the crook of Lucy’s marked neck; her forehead unable to hold itself up as she grinded her hips against Lucy’s perfectly positioned fingers. Ona was grasping a hold of the hooks attached just above the benches, trying to keep her body fixed focus on Lucy’s thrusts.

“Yes, princesa, this is what you get for being mine.” Lucy praised, readjusting her hand so her thumb could brush up against her clit, knowing that with a few strokes Ona would let go of her release and come hard against her hand. Again. She was right, as per usual, as Ona stopped bouncing over Lucy’s lap, allowing her girlfriend to thrust into her instead, keeping herself grounded so she could feel her brush against her sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, ride it out on my fingers.” Her possessiveness had Ona close to finishing already.

She was moaning Lucy’s name again, luckily enough for them the entire building should be completely barren by now, but anyone left inside definitely knew about the ongoings of the Barcelona changing rooms this evening. Ona’s moans and gasps were spacey as her body let her climax take over her movements, announcing to the building that she was about to orgasm again. With one swipe of Lucy’s tongue across her hard nipple in front of her face and she collapsed in pleasure, the sweet sound of ecstasy bouncing off the walls.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” Ona let out after a few minutes of recovery. Lucy pulling her body into her own, sharing one towel now as the younger girl snuggled her head into the others grasp.

“You’re my only priority, always.” Lucy said with confidence, not a single regret coming to mind as Ona shared her body warmth with her, the feeling of their temperatures combining into one was an ultimately intimate romantic exchange.

“I mean, I understand.” Ona admitted, biting her fingernail as Lucy smirked at her before she could hide her embarrassed face, “She is hot, isn’t she?”

“Ona!” Lucy laughed, but nodding with her as she knew she had done her job well if Ona could joke about her ex-girlfriend’s appearance.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind watching you with her.” Lucy was too stunned to even respond, but her cheeks flushing bright red must’ve been the biggest giveaway of them all. She felt a sense of pride at how Ona was acting after their session, just showing how their communication had led them into this state of understanding, even if it was just Ona messing around.

“I think I’d want to see something different happen if this ever came true.” Lucy grinned, furrowing her eyebrows, and watching as Ona spread an evil grin on her face before they both erupted into pure laughter, sharing this moment between one towel, skin on skin.

“I think you’d have to be the one to ask her.” Ona continued playing into the joke, both of them however slightly curious about the mock fantasy they were creating in their heads. Lucy had her hands in her freshly brushed hair, tracing patterns against her scalp and twirling her hair through her fingers as they laughed innocently together.

“I guess we’d have to invite Alexia and Jenni too then. I don’t think we want to be the ones to home wreck that relationship.”

“Like a two-for-one special.”

#lucy bronze smut #ona batlle smut #lucy bronze x ona batlle #lucy bronze x ona batlle smut #lucy bronze #ona batlle #wososmut #smut #woso community #woso fic #woso x reader #woso smut #woso imagine #woso one shot #woso fanfics #woso blurbs #woso #engwnt

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totallyhextra · 1 year ago

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People? In MY computer?? It's more likely than you think!

The following is a fanvertisment and is not connected to the show. ****Yet.*** *Also yes, this is the fourth time I'm posting this because TUMBLR WONT LET ME EDIT SPELLING MISTAKES!

ANYWAY,

Once upon a time, back in 1987, Dire Straits put out this music video for “Money for Nothing”, which, as you know, was a song about wanting my MTV.

youtube

The video was made by two guys (Gavin Blair and Ian Pearson) on a very moody computer. After the video went out, these two guys went to a pub:

Ian: “Hey, we should make a whole show like this!”

Gavin: “Dude, making three minutes almost killed us.”

And so it was decided!🎉

The two guys were joined by two other guys (Phil Mitchell and John Grace) and created the Hub, which then became Mainframe Entertainment. They got even more people, and then they all holed up in this hotel.

They were mad lads with a dream: a whole cgi animated show, and they made it happen a whole year before Toy Story!

Behold! ReBoot!

(Yes that fever dream was real)

Now before I get any of this:

Let me lay this down. If you can’t with the animation of the first season because it was CUTTING EDGE IN 1994, you can close your eyes and listen to it. ReBoot wasn’t just a CGI gimmick. The characters are fully developed, the voice actors are peerless, the plot is sharp, and there’s so many easter eggs that you’ll never find them all.

Never

(And yes the episode "Bad Bob" was the actual catalyst for Fury Road. Look it up)

ReBoot is about what life is like in a computer (in the 90s, because it was the 90s) called Mainframe (because of course it is). People are sprites, the guys that look like 1s and 0s are binomes (which represent 1s and 0s). Bad guys are viruses, and the good guy is a Guardian named Bob, who is a certified cinnamon roll.

In the first season the eps are light and self-contained, mainly because there was constant friction between the Mainframe studios and the Board of Standards and Practices.

They still got away with some pretty dark stuff, like Megabyte (virus) making Enzo (the kid) watch his dog get sliced open (dog got away, obviously) , Dot (sprite) have a hallucinatory breakdown, and the fridge horror of realizing the thousands of worm things (nulls) that plunged off a bridge to their death were actually people.

And Hex's (virus

best girl) scary face single-handedly traumatized an entire generation. 🙂

But busting through a window was a no go, because WhAt If tHe cHiLdReN dID iT tOo?

Anyway, halfway through the second season, ABC cut them loose, so they were like, fuck it, we’re going to start going hard. The story shifted from episodic to arcs and things start to get serious.

Third season the show moved to YTV in Canada, which gave no fucks about shielding the innocent children.

So it got DARK

How dark?

The UK refused to show the entire season, so the audience there had to wait until pirated copies made it across the pond to see how it ended.

Also by 1997, the animation was gorgeous. (Best example of third season animation I could think of that didn't have spoilers)

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The show was green-lit for a fourth season on Cartoon Network, but halfway through production Warner Bros took over and the same fucking thing happened.

Because Mainframe was halfway done, they decided not to scrap all of it, but knowing they wouldn't be able to finish it correctly, Mainframe stripped anything that would hint at Season Four's true ending, then left what remained on a cliff-hanger of angst.

FOR 22 YEARS

(It's also why the last four eps of season four seem to make no sense)

And so it was.

Other crap happened, the soul left Mainframe, and its animated corpse spat out “The Guardian Code” in 2018.

But never say die! The year is (almost) 2024, 30 years later. ReBoot shall rise from the dead, because here come the documentary!!

youtube

Do you dare see what you’ve been missing?

What the (UK) government doesn’t want you to know??

Then come on down to ReBoot!

We got:

Magnificent bastards with sexy voices!

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(Tony Jay at his best)

Kickass women who could probably crush your head with their thighs and you’d enjoy it!

Innuendos in a kid's show!

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💗 This adorable cinnamon roll!! 💗

Insane third season glow-ups!

YOUR NEW GOD

These guys!

(Gay roller-skating binome is my boi. I named him Jerry)

Nonstop cultural refs (You'll never find them all. Never.)

(There are literally videos dedicated to trying)

So many computer puns!

Body Horror!

Existential Crisis!

HAVE I MENTIONED YOUR NEW GOD?

youtube

This is it, folks! The real thing, the gem hidden in the moose-filled forests of Canadia!🌲🌲🌲

Take a trip inside a mid-90’s computer!

See the World Wide Web! (omg):

Witness the original purple Gamecubes that randomly fall from the sky when the owner of the computer (OUR GOOD LORD THE USER) wants to play a game. If it lands on people and they lose, they dissolve into mindless energy leeches, fated to tormented by their former bretheren for all of eternity.

Just like in real life! 🙃

So watch the eps! They on YouTube!

youtube

I think they're on Pluto, Hulu, Sling, and Tubi too! Also DVDs for people who have the patience to wait for them!

WATCH! BELIEVE! SUFFER THE SOUL-CRUSHING RAGE OF THE SEASON 4 CLIFF-HANGER!* (come on, its fun!)*

HYPE THE DOC!

The more people hype, the better the chances of actually getting it finished.

NOW SHARE THIS WITH EVERYONE!

And now I will leave you with this screenshot from the ep "Painted Windows", where dicks can clearly be seen drawn upon the wall behind the fleeing anthropomorphized television.

(PS: If you heard the clown pic at the top of the page in your head, you're welcome)

IMPORTANT UPDATE

This message is now approved by Gavin Blair! He's an awesome guy. Show him some love on TWITTER (fuck you musk) at @TheRealMrSweary Also, if you want to share this with non-tumblr friends, here is my attempt at a webpage version:

theseventhstarprojects.com/REBOOT.html

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yeet-me-dad-dy · 1 month ago

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The Arcane Ch 1 - Amber Eyes

Summary: You, an ancient vampire, doctor, and expert in blood, move to Piltover to continue your research, where you are introduced to Viktor, a young inventor with a mysterious blood disease and the spark of life. If anyone can cure Viktor of his mystery illness, it's you. And who would say no to a little bit of romance along the way?

Characters: Viktor x Male Reader (Doctor Raven)

Words: 2,357

Piltover, the City of Innovation. Shining towers, bustling, colorful streets, magnificent airships… The city was magnificent – a shining beacon to all who see it, a proud example of what people can do if they set aside their differences and work together toward one grand goal. The idyllic scene was tarnished only by the smog rising from the streets across the river. The Undercity, where Piltover’s outcasts were discarded and forgotten. A neon cesspool of poverty and disease, overlooked by Piltover’s benevolent governing body. You shook your head and stepped away from the cliff’s edge, back toward the road that would take you into the city proper. You didn’t want to be here, but your research demanded travel, and so here you found yourself, despite your own wishes.

The air here was crisp and clean, and you took in the sights, sounds, and smells as you traversed the busy streets. Freshly baked goods, citrus, flowers. People laughing, chatting, working, and, somewhere in the distance, the sound of music, drifting gently on the wind. You nabbed a nearby enforcer to help you with your map, and he kindly pointed you down a nearby alley. Your new residence was around here somewhere in this labyrinth of rainbow light, you just had to find it.

Professor Heimerdinger, who had been following your research for quite some time, had been the one to invite you to Piltover, and made sure you had proper lodgings. He also offered you a lab in the academy proper in which to conduct your research, which you had graciously accepted.

The offer did have a condition, though, as they always did. Heimerdinger had an assistant, a brilliant young inventor named Viktor, who was rather ill with a mysterious disease of the blood. He wanted you, the leading blood expert in quite literally the entire world, to become Viktor’s primary doctor. He assured you that it wouldn’t get in the way of your research and might, in fact, even help to further it. You certainly weren’t going to say no to studying someone with a mysterious blood disease, so you had accepted that task as well, with an appropriate amount bellyaching.

You finally found your apartment, which was relatively nearby the academy, and dropped your only two suitcases inside beside the door. It was easier to move around when you had fewer things to take with you, so you kept your wardrobe small and never bought anything you didn’t absolutely need to survive. You had a few pieces of equipment, as well. A microscope, some vials and slides, needles and syringes. You were a master of your craft, and could make do with very little. Besides, Heimerdinger had assured you that the lab was already outfitted with all the furniture and equipment you would need.

And indeed it was. A large octagonal room with dark blue and grey walls awaited you at the top of one of the academy’s towers. A long metal workbench spanned three of the walls, there was plenty of storage – both shelving and drawers – and a huge chalkboard took up the entire left wall. A ladder sat propped up against it, set on rollers and reaching all the way to the ceiling. You would need it to reach the highest parts of the board, and you were certain that each and every inch of it would end up covered in your scribblings eventually.

You drew closed the curtains, covering the large windows on each wall behind the workbench and blocking out the sun. Then, you got to work sorting through the equipment that had been provided to you. Someone must have seen you enter the building and alerted the professor, because after only a few minutes in your new workspace, there came a knock at the door.

“Come in,” you called.

You turned as the door opened with a hiss and Heimerdinger trundled into your lab, followed closely by a skinny young man with a cane. He caught your attention immediately, and it was him you were focused on as you greeted Heimerdinger. You noticed his eyes first, bright gold and shimmering with life. He noticed you in return, his gaze raking up and down your body as you knelt down to shake the professor’s hand. You and he shook as well, when the professor finally remembered to introduce you.

“Doctor Raven is a brilliant scientist, Viktor. If anyone can help you, I know he can!”

High praise from Heimerdinger, but it wasn’t flattery. He was right. If anyone could solve the mystery of Viktor’s blood, it was you.

“Now, if you two will excuse me, I have to prepare for a council meeting.”

He made his way out with a skip in his step, leaving you alone rather abruptly with your newest patient.

“Interesting fellow, the professor…” you smiled at Viktor.

He smirked and hobbled over to the nearest chair, where he plopped down to take the weight off of his bad leg.

“I’m not sure ‘interesting’ really covers it,” he chuckled.

You watched him prop his cane up beside him and rest forward with his elbows on his thighs.

“I’m sure he wanted us to get started immediately, but I haven’t even sorted through this equipment yet,” you told Viktor.

“I can help,” he offered brightly.

You regarded him curiously.

“If you want to, I certainly won’t say no to an extra hand. I need to find the needles and syringes, the centrifuge, and the microscope first.” You glanced around at all of the gear laid out on the workbench. “There are machines here that I’ve never seen before, let alone know to use...”

Viktor pushed himself to his feet and moved to stand next to you. He picked up a small, cylindrical device and turned it over in his hand leaning his hip heavily against the edge of the table.

“I doubt you’ll use most of this,” he said.

“Then I’ll need a place to store it so it’s not in the way… Those drawers there will do for now.” You gestured with your head to a set of deep drawers beneath the rightmost workbench. “I imagine you know what most of this stuff does. If you find something that you don’t think I’ll need, just chuck it in a drawer.”

You turned your back to him, working your way across the room to a glass case encrusted with frost that you assumed was a miniature refrigerator of some kind. It was his turn to regard you, and he did so with just as much curiosity as you’d given him.

“What exactly is your research, Doctor, if you don’t mind me asking?”

You flipped through one of the newest issues of a medical journal that had been left for you.

“I’m trying to dilute my own blood while still maintaining its restorative properties in order to create medications for a range of different ills without the patient perishing.”

The answer came out sounding more rehearsed than you meant for it to. Probably because it was rehearsed.

“Dilute your own blood?” Viktor asked. “Restorative properties? I’m not sure I understand. Your blood is special somehow?”

You turned your attention away from the rectangular machine with pointy arms that you had been studying and toward Viktor.

“Heimerdinger didn’t tell you?” you asked.

A crease appeared between Viktor brows.

“Tell me what?”

You sighed. You found it was more trouble to hide your true nature than to be open about what you were, but you were at least hoping that Heimerdinger would warn Viktor ahead of time.

“I’m a vampire, Viktor,” you said plainly. “I understand if you’re not comfortable with a vampire being your doctor, I can talk to the professor-”

“It’s not a problem,” he interrupted you.

“No?”

You were surprised. Most people who found out abhorred you.

“No,” he reassured you. “It doesn’t bother me. Though, I am surprised. I thought your kind went extinct four-hundred years ago.”

You frowned and cast your gaze downward.

“I’m the last,” you said with a sad smile.

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

You composed yourself and offered him another, much brighter smile.

“The Blood War was a long time ago,” you said. “I grieved for many years, but finally accepted that I’m all that’s left and moved on. That’s when I started my research. After it had caused so much pain, I wanted to find a way to use vampire blood for something good. To help people.”

“A noble cause,” he said softly.

“I like to think so,” you chuckled.

You asked Viktor about his medical history while the two of you got your lab in order. He explained that he’d been to many doctors over the years, and they’d all come to the same conclusion. Something was wrong with his blood, but they couldn’t tell him what. No one could. It was the Great Mystery.

“Did they even give you a hint?” you asked.

“Something about toxins or a mutation of the red blood cells.”

“Those are two very different things.”

He shrugged.

“And when they realized they didn’t know how to help you, they just… gave up?”

“Mmhmm. I was told I should find a specialist.”

You nodded, dumbfounded.

“Well… It may have taken a while, but I suppose you did find a specialist.

“And a good thing, too,” Viktor chuckled and slumped back in his chair.

It was then that you realized just how tired he looked. How pale. How sick.

“And your leg?” you asked him.

He sighed.

“I was born with bones twisted and bent. This is one problem that you won’t be able to solve, Doctor. You just focus on the blood.”

He didn’t believe that you would be able to cure his blood disease either, but he didn’t say it aloud. He was interested in your research, and, by being your patient, he was in the perfect position to learn everything that you were willing to teach him.

He stayed in your lab with you for hours, helping you get everything set up just how you wanted and teaching you about any machines you didn’t recognize that you may be able to benefit from. When you finally checked the time, it was late in the evening.

You sighed and swore under your breath.

“Everything alright?” he asked as he slid the last of the medical textbooks onto a shelf.

“It’s late,” you said. “And you haven’t eaten. You must be starving.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t have much of an appetite.”

You frowned.

“As your doctor, I must insist that you have something to eat tonight.”

“Already pulling the ‘doctor’ card, huh?” he smirked.

“If I must,” you smiled.

He studied your face for a moment, then sized you up thoughtfully.

“Fine. There is a restaurant not far from here. I will show you around a bit, but you’re paying.”

“I don’t have a carriage, Viktor,” you reminded him.

He was already on his way out the door.

“I could use a walk,” he said. “It’s close, and it’s good to stretch my legs.”

He knew his body better than you, so you didn’t argue. You followed him out of the academy, back toward your apartment, and he told you all about the shops and buildings that you passed on your way there. The restaurant, when you finally came to it, was more of a cafe, built halfway between home and work, placed for the convenience of academy students. It was cozy, decorated with vibrant colors and soft lighting, like much of Piltover. The waitress greeted Viktor like an old friend, beaming when she saw him come in. He didn’t give her much attention in return. He also didn’t eat much, preferring to pick at his food rather than actually put it in his mouth. You did get him to drink some water, though he did so begrudgingly.

“What do you eat, Doctor?” he asked when you didn’t order.

“Do I really need to answer that?” you asked, brow raised.

He chuckled and nibbled a french fry.

“I’m curious. Most information on vampires was destroyed after the war, and what remains is up for debate. Am I wrong for wanting information directly from a reliable source?”

What a cheeky little fucker, you thought.

“I drink blood,” you confirmed, watching him through red eyes while he gazed back through gold.

“Human?”

“Anything I can get my hands on. But, yes, human is preferable.”

He considered that for a moment.

“Would you eat someone like Heimerdinger?”

“What, an eccentric?” you chuckled.

“That’s not what I meant,” he smiled.

“A yordle, you mean.”

He nodded.

“Yes, I can drink the blood of yordles. The fur does get in the way, though.”

“Would you drink from me?”

You smirked.

“Why? Are you offering?”

He shrugged and offered his own sly smile.

“Just wondering.”

He was very curious to know how exactly that worked. Would you take a sample with needle and vial, or drink directly from the vein?

When it was clear he wasn’t going to eat anymore, you offered to escort him home. He politely declined, saying that there was more to do at the academy.

“Heimerdinger always paperwork that needs sorting,” he said.

“Then we’ll walk back together. I’d like to get my notes organized and ready for tomorrow.”

“Will we start tomorrow?”

“I’ll draw some blood and give you a once-over, at the very least,” you replied.

You said your goodnights in the elevator, where he stopped on the floor that held the professor’s office, and you continued up to the very top. You pulled open the curtains and gazed out over the city with a sigh. New life. Same research. But this time, perhaps, with the help of your new patient, you would arrive at conclusions that you hadn’t even considered before. This time, perhaps, you would stumble upon a breakthrough. You pulled your notebook from your bag, settled back in one of the rolling chairs with it, propped your feet propped up on the worktable, and settled in for a long night.

This was Piltover, the City of Innovation, and you had work to do.

#my writing #arcane #arcane viktor #viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #viktor x male reader #arcane viktor x male reader #arcane fanfiction #arcane fanfic #my gif

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rel124c41 · 4 months ago

Text

GOT YOU (WHERE I WANT YOU) (AS HEARD IN THE MOVIE DISTURBING BEHAVIOR). jade leech

In Jade’s logical mind, there is only one concrete truth: You are getting bored of your boyfriend.

1/3.

tags: no grim AU, established relationship, social criticism, piercings/tattoos, misunderstandings, hurt/comfort, punk!jade leech

word count: 9,684

It is hard to pin down when it started.

For a man who likes to keep himself organized – his books, his shoes, his bedsheets, his life, his mind – it should not be this difficult to pinpoint the start. Perhaps because this change can be attributed to a number of variables, it puzzles him so. In his mind, he tries outlining all of them: Is it because your three month honeymoon phase has passed?; is it possibly an underlying issue he has never noticed?; or, could it be — well, Jade would rather not think about that third option.

Perhaps it is not really important to pin down when it started. Does the beginning matter when already so deep in the middle? Besides, there is a more pressing matter at hand: “How about this one,” Jade holds it up to his brother, “if you do not use it, I’m throwing it away.”

What he holds in his hand is a long sheet of glistening paper. A tattoo sticker measured to be a full arm sleeve that depicts a lion head at the top, prayer hands, and three crosses at the bottom like headstones. Not Jade’s style. “Naaaah.” And apparently, not Floyd’s either. Jade tears it down the middle and discards it in his trash.

As he flips through the other choices, the same question winds itself around in the train station of his mind, stubbornly refusing to halt. It is hard to pin down when it started. When did it start?

Maybe it started in the prologue. Or perhaps it predates the prologue, starting in the preface. The preface where his stomach twisted itself into the most complex, intricate sailor knots when you looked at him. That awful preface where he had to hold a hand to his heart to muffle the sound of it when you smiled at him.

If he was trying to pin down when his attraction towards you emerged like some parasite, there are so many prefaces to start upon. For example, there is the time when:

You sat perched on the cobblestone wall in the main courtyard with a pocket-sized copy of Animal Farm in hand, balancing it between your fingers like teacup ceramic. Dark, heavily mascaraed eyelashes flutter as your eyes slice up each sentence and devour them on your tongue like greasy, hot pink stripes of bacon. Then, those cold marbles – that looked at him fleetingly, glossed over like he was not worth dissecting – caught him beyond a window and held eye contact undeterred.

– or –

You sang with a microphone in hand, caught in a spin with one leg tucked up so your skirt fluttered with your single circulate, “Exhibitiiion is the name! Voooyeurism is the game!” Pinched between forefingers, you lifted up an edge of the box pleat skirt to cheekily reveal a lace pair of coconut white thong panties. In the back, Floyd — who Jade was sent to retrieve after he abruptly left his shift at Mostro Lounge — hammers away on the drums, taking up the spot for an ill Kalim at your pleads.

– or –

The time you had piqued the eel-mer’s interest by stumping and finding a flaw in his land knowledge due to a simple misunderstanding. Jade – who admittedly still had a lot to learn about the current world above sea – had heard in the rumor mill he frequented that you wore a two-way. He had assumed it was something less than innocent until you flipped open a prehistoric device not even talked about in Land Boot Camp and told him excitedly it was cutting-edge technology from your world.

– or – “I like that one.”

Snapped out of his reminiscing, Jade blinks down at the tattoo sticker he has not fully been paying attention to. It depicts an oceanic scene of a Poseidon made of water rising from the waves where a doomed ship falls into an octopus’s grip. It also ends with a sunken statue head of Poseidon where Jade’s wrist would be.

The one that Floyd likes, Jade does not find himself sharing the sentiment. Bit too on the nose. Besides: “I don’t think (Name) would though.” Which is why he goes to place it back down. His bones jolt in surprise before he can pick up the next one.

“AHA! I knew it! ‘Just wanted to change my own aesthetic’ – knew this was for Shrimpy.”

On Jade’s desk, sixteen more of the remaining tattoo stickers lie. Fifteen remain on the desk when Jade pointedly analyzes one to ignore Floyd’s revelation. He subtly grits his teeth in annoyance, upset that by slipping into memories, he also allowed his words to slip.

“It is not for her. I am simply keeping her preferences in mind. We are dating after all.”

Those concrete words – dating – help to alleviate a small sliver of Jade’s anxiety over his current situation. That despite the feeling of everyone wanting to have a piece of you, he had been the only one to succeed. He got the whole pie and he would not be sharing a slice with anyone. He is impossibly greedy to the end.

Yet, it seems his disdain for this situation (because it is so hard to pin down the start of it) must show on his face. “Aw poor Jade.” His brother’s voice is more mocking than sympathetic. “Trouble in Shrimpy paradise?”

“Nothing of the sort.”

Floyd hums as he leans back into bed. “It totally is. I can see it ya face.”

“Please, keep talking. And I assure you will soon find out what talking while missing a tooth feels like.”

“Hehe. Yeah, you wish.”

“Wishing is for people afraid to act. Let me remind you, I am very much a do-er.”

The laugh that escapes Floyd is genuinely amused. Jade drops fake malice from his grin into something softer. At least, Jade can count on his brother for when matters in life get too complicated, both can retreat to this small dormitory and rely on the other.

Matters of dating are so complicated and unnecessary. For moray eels in the Coral Sea, the equivalent of dating involves typically half a decade of elaborate gifts and proving themselves as a fierce protector before a kiss even happens. On land, it has proven to be much more complex. Friends can evolve to lovers; they can vary from lasting three months to two years to the rest of their lives. How fickle. Cater Diamond had mentioned that phrase humans go through, a three month honeymoon, before the other partner ‘flakes out’ (Cater’s words) with their affection. When a child grows bored, they find a new toy under the Christmas Tree to tear into.

Jade likes to think you would not be the type … but, as observative as he is, he knows better. It is almost scary how similar and identical the disposition between you and his brother is. You two are always chasing the next high. Fluttering through life, you refuse to be bored ever.

Which is why, perhaps, Floyd is finally able to pinpoint the start. After an interlude of silence, shuffling through a few more prints, Floyd breaks the quiet with a contemplative sentence. “It’s because of that time ya went to that record store, ain’t it?”

Hooked like a fish, Jade only gives his acknowledgement of Floyd’s response by tearing a lightning bolt through the sticker. A faultline forms through a pinup sitting cheekily on a pair of dice and a heart with a king’s crown hovering over it. As the casino-themed sticker is casted aside into the trash, his twin knows he hit the nail on the head.

“Pike Cichlid again? That guy’s so lame. He’s got nothing on you, Jeido.” And though his twin’s encouragement is genuine and coming from a good place, it is like a teaspoon of water thrown with intent to douse out a forest fire.

That had not been the start. It had been when Jade had already found himself waist deep in this situation. So rarely caught off guard or unsure of where the start is, this whole situation seems to be the equivalent of a trap. Is love not one of life’s most fantastical imprisonment? Covered in saccharine sentiments, love can hide the worst and best in one’s self. It certainly seems that way when Jade found his ankle crunched between love’s many bear traps.

He had only noticed at the record store. Numbness worn off. Pain crashing in. And, after watching you laugh so genuinely and talk so animatedly and dance so freely, Jade realized he had fallen into an emotion that he thought he could avoid for his entire life with demure logic.

“I love that band!” Before Jade realizes what had happened, your hand had slipped out of his. The clunk of your platforms sound like ricocheting gunshots on the floor. “I thought I was the only one that knew about it.”

You glow a bit brighter with your excitement. As a frequent observer, Jade knows when the zenith of your excitement floods through each of your veins like lightning chords of gaiety. It shows so clearly on your face. You have not glowed in a while because of your concerns of filling Cater’s and Lilia’s spots in the band. A band to you is family. So, seeing someone across the store pick up a record you know fairly well, it causes each synapses of joy in your veins powers on; you glow a bit brighter, smile a bit wider.

Before he can even cover the distance between the rows of records, your mouth is moving a mile a minute. You are asking about their favorite single off the album, diving into history you know about the makings of the album, and (simultaneously jumping in place and swaying back and forth on the balls of your heels) talking about the chords you like the most, imagining yourself fully dancing along to them. Your energy is infectious. Like a sun in a solar system, everyone turns their face to you to feel your warmth. It is because of this bewitching nature of yours that Jade is late to revealing who you are talking to.

Until he notices the macaw feather that dangles from the stranger’s left ear and the golden bracelet wrapping up the stranger’s wrist, that odious laugh falling from the stranger’s lips and disrupting your laugh … Insecure is an adjective that poorly describes Jade; it is not synonymous with himself.

Other people have made you glow: Cater, Kalim, Floyd, Lilia, the list can go on. It has yet to bother him with those people. Watching how you glowed at that time was somehow different. It is different than watching Floyd bind himself around Riddle Rosehearts or Azul suction himself to Jamil Viper. The glue between the three of them is tighter than a breakable bind or a suction; their new friendships are insignificant and do not worry Jade. However …

“Nothing on me? I am assured that that guppy is irrelevant. I am hardly worried.”

The way fate sorted out their Unique Magic is nothing sort of an advantageous miracle on Jade’s behalf, what with the way Floyd’s gold eye narrows in skepticism.

“Sureee.”

The center of the situation is this: Jade could not go back to being nothing in your eyes. A sentence to skim over. A body to ignore in the crowd. A musical chord progression you do not find interesting enough to play.

So, he pulls out another tattoo sleeve sticker from the pile.

It depicts a scene of engorged, psilocybin mushrooms with fat stems that travel in a mountain trail spiral. Some of the psilocybin will reach up to the skies on his shoulder. Like a giant artifact, a larger-than-life skull is found on this pathway, vomiting up bulbophyllum phalaenopsis. Which are actually interesting species of flowers Jade would love to tell you about as long as your attention persists.

“Help me apply this.”

“We’re twenty. Why don’t ya just a real tattoo?”

“Pliers or my fist?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ya.”

If you put up with him a bit longer, he will prove the rest of the student body is dull.

With two of your band members graduated, it has been a wild scramble from both you and Kalim Al-Aism to find people to fill those holes.

This timeline, Jade has outlined perfectly. In September, yours and his relationship was on a rocky tectonic plate. Switching and rolling between the waves of will they, won’t they. Even though you were only friends, Jade had V.I.P tickets to the absolute distress of coming back to practice with only a drummer and singer to make up the formation of a four person band. He has never seen you act so distraught:

“You played bass?” Though the structure of it was a question, it sounds more like an accusation coming from your mouth. Marching into his space, you aim the question slash accusation at him like a knife. Your face and eyes are not friendly at that moment. The expression on your face reeks of perfidy, like he is some knight that committed treason against his King.

Which Jade finds ridiculous and endearing. The emotion in your voice as you ask him about the instrument he used to play in middle school is just so uncharacteristic that it makes him hum happily.

Not bothering to stop in his trek, Jade says with an artful dodge, “Yes. Floyd, Azul, and myself happened to be a band.” Then, he no longer elaborates. He wonders how you found out. Though, right now, he focuses on making his strides short so you can scurry after and match his pace.

“And you what? Never thought to mention it to me?”

There you go, faithfully matching his steps.

“Is it really that interesting to you?”

“I’m in the Pop Music Club. Of course it is.”

“My apologies, I did not anticipate my middle school years would be so interesting to you. Are we to now have slumber parties and reveal our deepest, darkest secrets to each other while watching a romantic comedy?”

“Jade, this is friendship 101! You tell your best friend about your time in a Band.” You say band with the paramountcy as if you found out he has been secretly working undercover for the Mafia. Capitalized importance aside, you look so cute when frowning. He wishes you were his.

“So did you use a Fender, a Gibson; I think you strike me as an Ibanez man! Oh … wait, those brands might not exist here though, right?” The way your frown morphs into genuine sadness causes something odd – concern? – to twist in his guts. Hoping to alleviate your stress, Jade answers punctually.

“I’m afraid I never heard of those brands. I played a Downton brand double bass.”

“... Double bass?”

The face you are directing towards him is horrid. It isn’t cute like when you are drawing your lips into a pitiful pout; it does not have him chuckling with satisfaction when you look at him like he has betrayed you. It is something else entirely. He has seen it before at the start of the Entrance Ceremony, where you surveyed the crowd like each individual was a wad of gum on the bottom of your soles, observing everyone’s matching robes; this is some private university, isn’t it, you spat with disgust.

Is jazz really that disgusting to you? He had never known you hated it so.

As you look at Jade like he is vomit upon your shoes, his heartbeat quickens. Under your breath, you mutter, “Ah … nevermind … that’s not what I meant. Shit.”

“(Name)?”

“Thanks for your help, Jade. I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

“For that sleepover? I would not miss it for the world,” Jade jokes with his customer service smile.

Trying to appear unbothered, he beams. It is disheartening because you are rushing away from him, lengthening your strides twice as long as his. At least, won’t you depart on a lighthearted joke and laugh with him? It would soothe some of his worries. Yet, you simply rush away, distractedly muttering, “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

Then, you have slipped through his grasp once again.

However, that September night, about three months ago, you did apologize to Jade for your rudeness. As you both took to watering your extensive number of pots housing oleander and planting talismans into the soil to ward off the three, ill-tempered ghosts in Ramshackle, you explained about how you are simply in a rush to fill up the spot that Cater Diamond and Lilia Vanrouge left behind. As the singer, you felt responsible for finding two new players – bass guitar and electric guitar.

Plucking a straw of sage incense from its paper sleeve, Jade assured you it was of no harm. He understood you felt a little lost without the cement foundation of a band. He knew why too. As wisps of sage incense bloomed the stick’s tip, Jade took to telling you, sincere and quiet, that he would allow you to lean upon him if you needed to.

Still caught between the riptide of will they, won’t they, both of you grew flustered. The rest of the nightly ritual of implanting protection charms and talismans against ghosts was spent in silence. That night in the parlor, you two sat a little closer to each other on the moth-eaten couch.

That had been some time ago. Since then, you managed to fill both of those spots after a lot of trial and error. Cater and Lilia had left some impressive shoes to fill, one the wildcard bass player and the other the mediator guitarist. Those sacred spots could not just be given to anyone who could successfully play a simple riff; those spots were meant for someone who viewed music as a lifeline and chords as their heartbeats. At least, that is how you described it to him.

Forming a band – in Jade’s eyes – is much like forming a business. All the gears need to be oiled and attuned to each other. Where one section is struggling, the others must take up the helm. As Azul, Floyd, and himself balanced each other out, you, Cater, Lilia, and Kalim did the same. Though the new gearheads you have acquired might be a bit too clunky or rusted, it seems that your personal business is going well.

Jade only wishes you would not mix business with pleasure – despite the glaring fact that your business is your pleasure.

Jade likes to imagine your pleasure lies somewhere else, perhaps with him.

Right now, Jade is so engrossed and deeply in the middle of business. At least until Floyd barges through the V.I.P door, loud enough that he startles the pen out of Heartslabyul student’s hand. Jade watches, stifling a grin all the while, the delicate roll the pen makes as it falls away from the contact and moves down the marble table.

“Floyd,” Azul barks indignantly.

Delighted and elevated, Floyd takes no qualms with Azul’s harsh tone. Instead, humming a light tune that Jade does not recognize, Floyd sweeps into the private meeting with a drink in his hand. His twin seeks him out right away, making his way over to the couch he is seated upon, nudging a glass in Jade’s face and repeating, “Try, try, try!”

As Jade takes the milkshake glass in hand and swirls the peppermint patterned straw, the words of Azul’s annoyance at his twin are a great thing to hear. “Floyd. How many times must I remind you not to interrupt these important meetings. I’m terribly sorry …” Jade does not listen to the student’s name, having already forgotten it, as he takes a sip of the ruby red concoction in front of him. The taste of chocolate raspberry floods his tongue.

“But, Azuuul, try this.” The peppermint straw is forcibly removed from Jade’s mouth as his twin bends it towards Azul (who sits on the same couch as Jade).

The housewarden’s face crinkles with disgust. “I would rather not. Sharing food with you two is extremely unhygienic.”

“I’m clean.”

“You wound me, Azul.”

“The both of you,” Azul grunts, shaking his head. He turns back to the Heartslabyul student, noticing the pen at the very least back in the victim’s hand. Anger mulled over a bit, he instructs Jade sternly, “Jade, tell your brother to take back his drink. We have specific times that we discuss menu item additions.”

“But I don’t know the recipe, Shrimpy made it,” Floyd whines.

“Well, quite frankly, I don’t care about that. She can —.” But before Azul and Floyd can get into an argument, Jade interrupts.

“Raspberry Riptide.” He looks contemplatively down at the red slush. Takes a sip so deep that his cheeks hollow a bit. “Hm,” he hums with the taste on his tongue, “or perhaps, Red Sea.” The milkshake glass is about halfway lighter than before when the vice-housewarden stands up elegantly.

“Huh?”

As Jade starts to speak, musical and low, he methodically takes off his blazer plus scarf and rolls up the sleeves of his lilac undershirt dorm uniform. “I’m quite assured we have everything completed here. Our dear card soldier seems to have come to a conclusive decision. I’ll return shortly.” And even if the card soldier is hesitant, the way Jade’s new tattoo moves as he flexes his forearm should be warning enough. Don’t make a dumb move.

As Jade and Floyd exit, the sound of a pen scribbling on a contract their departing sound, Jade reflects on how much influence tattoos hold.

Appearances are influential. One must learn how to construct their appearance to be what they want to be perceived. Perception starts with the linear body, speech and action comes secondary. The beginning there is easily defined and clear-cut. How you look makes all the impact stick, as Floyd has found with shoes and Jade has found with keeping his outfits ironed so neatly that not a thread is out of place.

Tattoos hold a certain volatile quality about them. Coming in such a wide variety of styles, images, and spots, each tattoo is scrutinized by an outsider’s perspective with so many unpredictable thoughts. Their father has an oceanic canvas of the Sea Witch dragging the princess’s boat down to the watery depths, all done by the extensive method of chisel tattooing. The scene inscribed upon his shoulder blades and spine commands respect. Depending on how a person wants to present themselves, they seek to alter their appearances in the best way to match their embellished image of themselves.

You’re in your uniform. Jade observes it as Floyd and him close the distance with a warm smile. Not an NRC uniform of any sorts, rather the uniform Crowley gave you for your job as janitor. You are not enrolled as a student in this college on account of having no magic.

Your appearance goes like this: the top of your coveralls is tied around hips to expose the tight, form-fitting tank top you have underneath; bumblebee yellow mechanic gloves are gripped in your right hand which you balance on your waist; a pair of thick stereophones hang around your neck (ones you found in the back of a dusty, unused computer lab); and, lastly, there is a smudge of oil on your cheek like a delicate kiss.

“Try hitting the switch now,” you instruct the Mostro Lounge worker. “Don’t hold it longer than five seconds but don’t do it less than three either. Got it?”

As the worker does as told, Floyd whispers to his brother, “Shrimpy been textin’ ya back?”

Displeasure presses an intimate kiss to Jade’s lips. As he scowls, he says with polite resistance, “As of this moment, no. That is typical though; her communication device is quite primitive and, frankly, faulty on its best days.”

“Hey, if Shrimpy heard you talk about her pager like that, she’d slap ya.”

“Perhaps. But I’d accept any reaction of her’s.”

“Sap. Ya let her kill ya?”

“I would not be opposed.”

And since they are drawing closer to you and the trash compactor you had been fixing, his brother sings one last time, “sap~” before pushing Jade towards you. Not as though he needed the shove, you were his final destination after all. Still holding the milkshake glass, predictions about what you will name it floating around in his head, Jade presses the chilled glass upon your pierced ear.

You jump; you squeak like a mouse; then, you turn your body sharply towards Jade with wide, surprised eyes. How absolutely adorable you are. The hand holding your gloves holds itself protectively over your ear as you stutter, “J-Jade! What was that!”

Giving you a toothy, mischievous grin, Jade pulls the drink so it is eye level with you. “Shouldn’t you recognize your own handiwork?”

Get it; as you are a handyman of this college? Jade waits patiently as you open your mouth, perhaps to tell him he isn’t funny (he is) or – well, your retort is unknown as the student by the sink’s trash compactor cheers happily, “it’s fixed!” And whatever fleeting amount of your attention Jade was gifted with immediately flies towards your actual handiwork. You are a bird forever uncaged.

“Good,” you say. “Now, be more careful with what goes down there. Pasta and bread, no matter how little of it, shouldn't be thrown out in the disposal. It clogs. Got it?” The staff member nods as you take to slipping your gloves inside your coverall pocket. “Good, good,” you tut in repetition.

With that, you lean down to organize your suitcase of screwdrivers and wrenches. You are filing away your hex keys by sizes. As you do, Jade steals your attention once more, “Have you ever considered working at Mostro Lounge?”

You stifle a laugh and reply with sarcasm — without turning to Jade’s disappointment — “, of course. It’s been my lifelong dream to work after high school.”

“If you are diligent about it, I’m sure you can secure the position. It would allow customers to indulge in the drinks from an alien race.”

“Alien? Heh.” Focus entirely on your plies, you click and snap each tool back into their proper placement in the suitcase’s labyrinth. “I was thinking of naming that extraterrestrial drink Raspberry Riptide.” Your head then turns and Jade almost anticipates finally getting to see your eyes. Instead, chin parallel with your shoulder, you continue, “or Red Sea. I couldn’t decide.”

“Both are creative choices.” Jade smiles fondly behind you, proud of himself for guessing correctly both of your workshopping names for the drink you made. He thought surely only one of them would be right.

“Too much alliteration in the world.”

“I disagree, you can never have enough alliteration.”

“Riveting Raspberry Riptide?”

“Riveting, Rapid Raspberry Riptide?”

You laugh, hand hovering by your lips, and it is as if all the tides have gently washed over Jade’s body. Whenever he is around you, it feels like he has drunk hundreds of candied milkshakes and smoothies. So saccharine, your mere voice leaves a tattoo of sweetness on his taste-buds.

“You’ll have all your customers tongue-tied trying to say it,” you chuckle and close your suitcase. The back of your neck is exposed as you latch all the locks. Truly, you do leave yourself too unguarded around him.

You almost hit him with your thick suitcase as you whirl up and around, giggling happily, “Hey! What’s with you today!” The back of your neck drips with the condensation from the bottom of the Riveting, Rapid Raspberry Riptide’s glass. An appreciative hum bristles in Jade’s ribcage as he catches the scent of dark oil and rich sweat radiating off your body.

Finally, looking at me again.

“I assure you, I’m acting as I typically do.”

You appear unconvinced. “Mmm, yeah right.” Those seductive witchcraft eyes map a miniature flight across Jade’s visage. “Hey, you aren’t in uniform. What gives?”

He wonders how long it will take you to discover it. Scrutiny is not a labeled weakness or strong suit of yours; your observance skills are perfectly average. However, Jade’s patience for this has been biding a fair enough amount of time until you two collided paths again. He wants to drink your reaction now. Swirling the fountain glass, red undulating in the glass like blood in his veins, Jade waits.

“Well? Is this a guessing g–?” Then, your torpid eyelashes bounce up, suddenly alert. It is good for you that Jade has a .00001 probability rate of ever spilling anything in the lounge, or you would have ended up with a new color on your tank top. “Holy hell! Jade!”

“Fufufu … don’t squeeze too hard now. The skin is quite tender.”

You hold onto Jade’s right arm as if it is a rope thrown out in rescue. As if it can save you from the boredom you must have felt all day without him here at your side. Content to be a helpful hand, Jade allows (perhaps even preens under) your constant ministrations. You are like an unstoppable force. He only has to stop when you attempt to twist his whole arm, which would have surely split Riveting, Rapid Raspberry Riptide all over yours and his shoes.

A mischievous (yet almost softly giddy) smile anchors up Jade’s lips. Silver teeth peek through as he requests, “Would you perhaps kindly indulge me on your … mile-a-minute thoughts?”

Bouncing on the balls of your feet, tracing the lines, you are full of energy. Each time your nail scrapes across the outline of a psilocybin’s stem or traces along the edges of the skull, it sends a brillant tingle up his spine. You look as if you hope to memorize the new artwork upon his skin like it is enchanting braille.

“Jade.” You squeeze his wrist and he thinks the bones might bruise. “Jade!” A wide smile blinds. “This is so, so cool! And the mushrooms! Oh, I love that it fits you so well. There’s more above your elbow right; does it go all the way up? When did you get this done?”

“Floyd helped me with it last night. The design –”

“He did the design!” You turn your head, waving at Floyd who is pestering and stealing bites from a line-cook. “Floyd!” His head springs up. “This looks so good!” From far away, Floyd’s thumb pops up to get you a positive response, chewing on rosemary bread he stole. Your mouth only halts from shouting out something from across the room again, uncaring of who hears, when something wet touches your cheek.

Like a turtle, you shrink away. Wide-eyed, you turn bewildered to stare as Jade as he removes his thumb from your cheek. “You had a bit of oil on your face.” The material of his glove is slick with his own spit and your oil. It seeps into the fabric like gray moss.

Those centipede legs of mascara flutter. Your face slowly morphs to a brighter hue, rosing up with a blush, as you suddenly turn your head away. It almost seems like you will continue your conversation with Floyd. Has his actions offended you? He had anticipated a thuggish smile on your face, not a quick, avoidant head-turn.

Under your breath, you still urge him to tell you more about the tattoo by saying, “It is a very intricate design. You and your brother work well together.”

“Fufufu, I’m glad you think so.”

You blink hard twice at the floor before remusing being yourself. Looking up at him, you question, “So, how’d it feel to be under the needle?” When he gives you a befuddled quirk of his lips, you supply him with, “during the tattoo?” That does not clear up his confusion.

“It was done with a sticker. The magical properties –”

“Boring,” you mumble under your breath. It is an ugly truth; you never say comfortable lies, too blunt for that. No guilt is your eyes. Perhaps because you thought he did not hear.

Your words spear through Jade’s chest like a whale-hunting harpoon. Or more appropriately, eel-hunting. Yet, he continues steadfast in his explanation, making sure not to stumble once. “Magical properties make it –” Yet once more, he is interrupted and it is by a student saying that they need you to look at the light fixtures while you are still here, maybe Mostro Lounge blew a fuse somewhere, could you please check?

Everyone needs to disappear. It is the only coherent thought in Jade’s mind as he shimmers silently in anger. If everyone could go away today and forever after, he would not have to play an elaborate game of hopscotch to keep your attention on him.

Always in motion, you reply to the student (who will now be working overtime tonight and receiving less pay too), “Yeah! I’ll be right there!” To him, “ Tell me about it later, yeah? I’m sure it’s … cool!”

Then, you stand on your tippy-toes to kiss his cheek. He imagines the distance must feel like a burden. After such a torturous day fixing areas of the campus, do your toes ache when you have to kiss him?

“Well, I have to shuffle along. Ain’t no rest for the wicked.”

Suitcase in hand, you follow after the student. The glass in Jade’s hand has started to drip, condensation like a dewy rainforest on the shining surface. Love you. He watches you with a forlorn brow, missing you already. Who knows when you two will see each other. It is like trying to keep track of a bus that never arrives on time, always unpredictable.

Until next time, Jade thinks, certain.

A moment or two pass.

You come barreling back into the kitchen.

You almost wipe down a staff member holding a tray of drinks. Yet, still moving like a train, you push a hand under the silver metal, steady its balance effortlessly, and continue on your track steadfast. Your destination? Well, it is quite clear as you drop your suitcase and tightly interlace your fingers with Jade’s gloved ones.

He blinks twice as you stare with the magnitude of a galaxy.

“You! Scarabia! Tonight! Will you come!”

The smile you knocked off his face in surprise slowly re-emerges. Too fast for life itself, you often give out invitations at the last moment notice. Not that he minds as he has grown to appoint free minutes and hours for your spontaneity’s usage.

Slothful and intentional in his words, Jade murmurs for only you to hear, “I would be delighted to come.”

You might as well have bioluminescence with how alight you turn at his mere words. “Sounds razer!”

Then, like a shooting star, you are gone.

There is no need for elaboration from you: him, Scarabia, tonight. Those words make a clear outline for what Jade should be expecting. If it is not a concert in Scarbia, this will be a rare glimpse of Jade’s mental prowess growing old with age.

Imagine that, he just turned twenty last month. No, he is sound of mind. He knows his starts and his ends.

There is a portion of the upcoming Animal Languages exam which he was planning on studying tonight. However, the review can surely wait for another time. It is not often you remember to invite him to one of your concerts. Always racing around, it is a frequent thing for some of your thoughts to slip out your head like cubes of bar soap. An invitation from you is something to cherish.

Jade is intentional when he chooses an outfit that will show off the full expanse of his arm. Besides the top part of his shoulder that is covered by a tee sleeve, the majority of mushrooms are shown. On pale canvas, spiraling columns of psilocybin paint an eldritch picture, slowly growing grotesque. More frayed like torn curtains and oozing like wounds.

If you had only waited a little longer, you would have seen that.

However, one should not fool themselves into thinking a perpetual motion ever stops for one silly person. Jade has always been deliberate when letting Floyd satisfy his impulses. You and his brother match in dispositions. Walking through the maw of a venomous snake with his twin, the mirror shimmering like crystals, Jade knows he only feels so assured of their bond because they are blood. Matching with fingerprints and mirroring irises.

You and him are fragile in a terrarium he is just starting to construct. The environment is so volatile. Jade chews on the words three month honeymoon and the human culture implications of it, as Floyd races away from him, calling out Sea Otter and Sea Snake.

Late in the night, Scarabia starts to cool down. The pocket dimension’s sun sets and the pocket dimension’s moon rises. That does not mean the light in Scarabia is snuffed out though. Instead, acrid scent coats the air like a thick, overused perfume. Sulfur waves puff up from the campfires placed around like chess pieces and trickle out from the lanterns that hang overhead like bats.

His nose is not used to the smell of fire. Magical fire is clean without expelling residue. Fires like the one in Scarabia – correct in nature’s chemical code and unheard of in the Coral Sea – irk his senses.

Still, Jade endures as always.

Walking deliberately, he takes in the sights of campfire light flickering unsteadily. As expected, there is quite a crowd here tonight. Most are Scarabia students, resting on draped carpets or snacking by the hors-d'œuvre, but there are a good handful of Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, and Pomefiore students. Most are gathered near the empty stage, waiting.

Some items feel out of place without their owners. Like how uncanny school hallways and mall outlets can be devoid of people walking in them. The desolate microphone on stage seems almost sad without its owner howling and singing into it.

“Jade! Jade!” But, its loneliness will soon be cured. As will his own. “Jade!”

Jade allows himself to be barreled at. He has been hit harder, but he finds he revels in the weight of your abuse the most. He wishes you would squeeze tight enough to crack a rib (as if it were a mere toothpick) as you hug him and bounce giddy on the balls of your boots.

As is routine, his nose finds the crook of your neck and inhales deeply as you ramble. “Jade! You’re not going to believe this! I get to have the first hour of the set to myself instead of having to wait the second hour! I’m so excited! Hehe!”

You pull back slightly to show him all your teeth, grinning and glowing. With your eyes closed like that, Jade memorizes the shade of eyeshadow you have on your lids. The base color is gold and the top layer mimics a tiger skin pattern. Those pretty witchcraft eyes pop open when he asks, “What will you be playing?”

“Ah, I was thinking some Suicide Machines, some Offspring … Oh! I really wanted to do Inside Out by Eve 6 but I don’t know if our new guitarist has the chords down yet.”

“New guitarist?”

“Yeah, our last one said he needed to focus on his studies more. Truth be told, I think he left because he hated how Kalim’s playing dominated over the guitars.”

“Well, Kalim certainly has a unique way of playing.”

“Yeah, but isn’t it more fun when you try out new things!”

“I suppose so. Playing without any variety is a tedious endeavor.”

“Exactly! Better to switch things up!”

After the hypocritical sentence falls out of your mouth, Jade shifts his hands from your shoulders to the swell of your hips. Now, that’s not entirely true, is it, pearl?

He will not say those words; he does not want to cause you unnecessary pain. However, he lets his hands speak for him as he comfortingly rubs the side of your left hip.

It was a grievous experience to you when Cater and Lilia graduated. You stood before them, bottom lip ceasing to stop quivering no matter how hard you bit it. There were no tear drops hanging on your centipede-leg eyelashes, but your body seemed to be stuck in mid-sob all the same. You did not deal well with band members coming and going. Yet, you slapped on a facade all the same. Perhaps you just choose to rush away from grief in the same manner you choose to rush away from everything.

“I’m sure he is a fabulous addition. Do I know him?”

“Yeah, you do! He’s actually –!”

“(Name)! Ah, I’m glad I found ya. We’re starting in ten, ya dummy.”

Jade is not surprised. The face he wears is one of clear anticipation for this very moment, cool eyes and slight smile lifting as his attention moves to your new guitarist. Truthfully, Jade had been prophesying this exact moment.

He would be a fool to not be at least three steps ahead of everyone in this lawless world. So, sliding a bare hand down the length of your arm to interlock fingers, he replies for you, “Sounds like plenty of time. I won’t keep her for much longer than five.” And then the rest of hers and mine life.

The Scarabia student with the macaw feather earring tears his gaze away from you (good) to look at Jade. His face briefly pinches before flattening out, gruff in his mannerisms yet light in tone, “as long as ya promise to deliver her to me before the show starts.”

“I can assure her punctuality.”

Diverting from eye contact, the Scarabia student looks towards you for your confirmation. “I’ll only be a few minutes, Iago! I’ll be on stage at five!”

Iago nods. When he leaves, Jade notices how many rings are on his fingers. Would that not obstruct him from playing his guitar? “You’re the boss. See ya, (Name).”

“I’m not the boss!” Iago smiles mischievously; you start to laugh. “C’mon! You know I hate that!”

“Aye aye, captain.”

You are giggling up a storm as Iago leaves. Big and toothy, like all the ones Jade adores to see. Soft, you glance up at Jade and there is something carefree in your witchcraft eyes, like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. “He reminds me of,” then you say your old guitarist’s name. The one from your original world.

Sea-urchin quills pierce his lungs like balloons. Jade’s hand tightens around yours as he is going to lose you again. Expression neutral, he hums, “is that so?”

“Their mannerisms are kind of similar! Their playing style isn’t a perfect copy but it is pretty damn close! It’s like … a warped fingerprint of each other … ya know!”

He supposes he does not. Jade never met your old guitarist, probably won’t ever either. Praises, however, were sung loud and often enough to feel he had sat down in a past life and drank tea with your old guitarist. As a retired musician himself, he knows a bit about the DNA residue of other musicians – most intimately he knows Floyd’s and Azul’s musician thumbprint – that he can safely nod. “Similar but not quite identical.”

“Similar but not identical! Yeah!”

How enthusiastic. Cute. Jade opens his mouth to dissect (and maybe exploit the weaknesses) in your old guitart’s playing style with Iago’s when you are suddenly squeezing his hand tightly. “Jade! Wow! This is!” Your eyes are glued to his arm, mesmerized. How enthusiastic.

It has morphed since the last you saw it. Around his biceps, psilocybin mushrooms come apart like time-lapsed fruits, bruised and decomposing in sunken holes. Like a book-cover or sticker coated in felt, you touch the unique texture of real life bulbophyllum phalaenopsis lying on Jade’s porcelain skin. As you pet the orchid family plant, Jade smiles.

“Bulbophyllums are one of the worst smelling plants in Twisted Wonderland,” like a child hearing a story, your eyes draw up to observe Jade, “they grow deep in the heart of the Sunset Savanna. Warthogs are the only animal that can digest them and their smell is said to drive men to want to cut off their noses.”

“I would ask how the smell would work against the undead, but I would rather keep my nose intact.”

“As would I.” He taps you on the very appendage. “An adorable feature deserves to stay on an adorable face.”

“Is there a reason they smell so bad? Like are the pheromones supposed to protect something?”

“It is to deter most animals looking for a snack. Once past the smell, there is –”

“(Name), Kalim can’t find his drumsticks!” And though your attention was fiercely focused on him, it evaporates like a drop in the summer sun. Your neck almost cracks with the speed you use to turn back towards where your band members are gathered. Iago waves at you urgently.

Lip wobbling, you murmur guilty, “Jade…”

“Go. I’ll be off to the left side of the stage. Perhaps, if it is not too much strain, blow me a kiss?”

You turn with gratitude in your expression. “Thank you,” you breath relieved. Before you race off, you gift him with something even sweeter than a blown kiss from the stage. You press your lipstick painted embrace on his cheek, leaving a mark that is dark as fresh blood. “I love you. Thank you.”

Logical and intelligent, Jade is correct about one thing irrevocably. The microphone stops looking uncanny as you take it in your grasp.

It is as much a part of you as his sturgeon scale earring is a part of him. An undeniable accessory to your body that you fit into the mold of yourself like a puzzle coming together. Microphone held in your grip, you speak minutes later (rarely without shouting), “This is a song that came out last year in my world before I came to Night Raven. It was September 1998. And, at the start of my senior year in high school, it was all anyone heard on the radio. I practiced it every day after school until I memorized the chords. I decided when I graduated in 1999 that I was going to be a woman like that – a rockstar.”

Kalim, energetic, slams a beat on his drums, getting the crowd hyped. A grin materializes on your face. Fond, you shuffle a few steps back on the stage, looking towards your drummer, before turning to face your beloved crowd.

You howl into the microphone — everyone … please make some noise!! — as the band starts to play.

Jade thinks to himself, there are certain places people belong.

The first time you two officially met, it was after Azul’s overblot.

Too distracted about the success of having two hundred and twenty-five magicless students under his thumb, Azul had not anticipated the slothful Leona Kingscholar deciding then and there would be a perfect time to destroy the contract between the two housewardens. Given Kingscholar’s haughty disposition, it was only natural that he would take to unraveling each and every contract Azul ever made. From there, the spool of Azul’s self control unraveled until he was naked, lying on the floor, come undone like a sweater.

In the aftermath, sprawling among his unthreaded mind and magic, Mostro Lounge had suffered significant damages.

Smashed plates, broken tabletops, shattered ornaments, and an indoor aquarium leaking out corpses of fishes and intestines of underwater plant-life. Jade himself happened to lose a one-of-a-kind tea kettle that was a family heirloom. However, his grief was a mouse compared to the elephant in the room: the irrefutable fact that Azul had truly lost so much in mere hours.

Not that Jade held any doubts that Azul would bounce back better than ever. There has always been an undercurrent of confidence in both Floyd and Jade that is Azul trips, he comes back sprinting.

A rich image, though, if you imagine a slow, eight-legged Azul ever being able to achieve a sprint; simply, it is all metaphorical.

Hilarity aside, yours and Jade’s colliding paths happened after Azul’s overblot. It is an easy start to label. Puppetered by fate or perhaps coincidence, Jade had found himself unable to fall asleep that night. A teacup, drank down to the granular leaves at the bottom, sat on both the nightstand of Octavinelle’s housewarden’s bedroom and his own brother’s bedroom. Not wishing to usher himself into sedative-induced sleep just yet, Jade slipped into the wreckage of Azul’s restaurant and found you dancing upon it.

Now, you were not vindictively celebrating a release from contract. Nor were you particularly happy about the overblot in general. At this point in time, you have not even met Azul before, much less held a reason to revel in his misfortune, but still you danced.

It is a violent twitching and lurching motion like you are trying to dispel a ghoul out of your body. Juxtaposingly, it is a gentle swaying and gyrating like you are performing on the thawing, icy floes of northern waters. It is a combination of motion Jade has never seen before. Some he will later learn have names and rules about how they are done; others are merely the eldritch and true hypnotism of music puppeting your body.

I think I know them; Jade squints. Perched on the stone walls in the courtyards. Caught in the middle of cleaning an empty classroom. Finally, the memory flutters in: you, pitching a fit at the Headmaster, saying you did not want to be attending college, much less a private college.

You are the janitor. He knows you. Not intimately (and he does not even know your name) but he does recognize who you are. Dull and colorless in his world, there is no reason for you to be here when Jade came to the lounge to fight his own insomnia through cleaning up the mess.

And, you aren’t even cleaning up anything. You might as well be a thousand stars away, a hundred planets, and ten galaxies away from this place right now.

In hand, you have your trickling mop which you strum invisible frets on. As if determined to wring music out of a cleaning supply, you violently took to dipping it as if caught together in a macabre tango, jerking it like horse reins, and pounding it against your sternum when a particular hard chord is struck. Despite the violence, it would take a blind man to not immediately recognize you know what you are doing with your fingers.

As you strum and pluck at air, the motion in your phalanges reminds Jade of the incessant twitching of shrimp legs as they glide down underwater vegetation. Fluid as if you were a machine constructed for the purpose of playing the guitar until fuel runs out, your programmed raison d'etre.

Jumping like a restless rabbit, your boots slam upon the lounge floor. Pound. Airborne. Pound. Airborne. It is a repeat that only ends when you plant them both down. Your hip ticks back and forth as if you are balancing on a surfboard. Then, in a mannerism he has seen of many beastmans, you throw your head back and howl.

It is not at all like the cacophony of those beasts. From your pursed lips, you eject a bewitching melody that threads itself through Jade’s ears like a dangerous conjuration. It causes the teapot in Jade’s hands to tremble slightly.

“Awooooouuuuh! Got you where I want you!!”

What peculiar lyrics. He has never heard anything like that before. Although, with the pair of ancient headphones over your ears, you might as well be as unreachable as the moon. Jade still has to evacuate you from the lounge. Talented singer or not. Holding onto his kettle of sympathy, he makes his way over to you.

The only reason that there is a .00001 probability rate of Jade spilling drinks in the lounge instead of being a plain 0 is because … well, frankly, it is sentimentally embarrassing. Yet, when you turn around, lyrics like cigarette smoke on your lips, and face him, you perform a spell. Now, Jade knows you are magicless.

This knowledge is contradicted by the way your eyes instantly cut each of his Achilles tendon and drain all tangibility of his legs from underneath him.

Or perhaps it is because of the spot you left wet from the mop.

“Dude! … Sir! … Um, shit! Whoever you are, ugh! Idiot!” Headphones yanked around your neck, you race forward and leave your mop-guitar behind.

Now, Jade has not had legs for as long as his peers. He got them at seventeen, practiced with them over the summer at Land Boot Camp, and he is now nineteen in his second year of college. So for approximately two years, he has been anchored by hamstrings, calves, ankles, etcetera. He is familiar with them enough to know when he cannot recover from a fall.

It is quite a shock to the walking eel-mer when he does not in fact hit ground – despite the clear, piercing sound of another family heirloom being broken to bits, at least he can fix this one, all the chipped pieces congealed in one place – and it is not an act of magic this time.

“You okay there?”

Starstruck, Jade blinks at your face hovering over his. Briefly, he feels your knobby knee on the small of his back. His body is bent uncomfortably like an abused violin bow; yet he feels no dull sense of pain. The touch of your embrace is irreplicable, as pleasant as home. Into your swirling eyes, Jade stares and recalls a childhood memory from the days that legs seemed an impossible addition to his body.

The bottom of the northern Coral Sea is dark and cold, yet it is home. Additionally, it is not entirely the bottom of the sea where he grew up. There are still depths unexplored before in that great expanse of stretching black sand.

Jade is seven and a quarter (he likes to count his age meticulously) when he comes across one of those unventured abyssal areas that he has never seen before. He knows he has gone further than ever before because he has never seen such an eccentric trench before. When he is eighteen, he will find that manholes closely resemble the sight.

It is one giant manhole. It is like some behemoth man carved a circle into the seabed. Where the black sand underneath him is seeable, this sudden descend is full of a nebulous black without any sort of gray or silver shadows. A ring of ineffable ebony.

It is wide enough that if he stretches his tail across he might be two feet off from measuring out the mere radius. The diameter is twice (and then some) as long as his tail. Approximately, Jade calculates diligently in his head, the trench is 5.282 meters long across. And since it is a perfect circle (this has Jade entranced as trenches do not form like this in the environment) it is a full 5.3 meters in each direction he could swim across it.

Not that he would dare. No. He is too terrified to even calculate the time it would take to swim that distance.

Yet still: “Goin’ to swim across?” His mother eggs him on.

Young Jade looks behind with wide eyes. A swarm of impish intent is swimming in those violet blue hues. He loves his mother dearly but her errant ways are sometimes too much for him. Now so more than ever. As he feels his sinking stomach drift down and down, he replies dutifully and clearly to her troublesome inquiry, “No, Mama.”

Then, because he is still a child, his eyes mistakenly slide back to the circular trench. His stomach lurches. Jade relocates behind his mother. He tries not to let his chagrin show as she laughs at him, high pitched and musical like a witch.

She eventually turns her head around, talons delicately placed on her chin which is parallel with her shoulder. Like jellyfish tentacles, her deep black hair sweeps across her nose and cheek much like scars. Jade shivers at the water breeze, not cowering but using his parent as a shield.

“Afraid, baby?”

“No, Mother.”

“Do not lie.”

“... I’m not afraid.”

It is a half-truth from a squeamish boy. But it is spoken with the conviction of a man. So, his mother only turns her head a bit more to glance down at Jade who stays firm behind her back. Her violet blue eyes narrow like they are knives meant to dissect his larynx.

She likes ugly truths and loathes comfortable lies.

A soft smile graces her face. And, Jade, who was keeping his eyes intently focused on his mother’s slithering teal tail, steals a quick glance up at it. His tense muscles unwind. Then, as his mother does whenever one of her two boys hide behind her, she grabs Jade by the black strand and tugs him hard in front of her body.

She digs her talon in his shoulders, almost draws blood (would if he were anyone else), and pushes his body to overlook the trench.

His mother does not relent, even as Jade binds his tail around her forearm almost hard even to break the bone (would if she were anyone else). Without a single whimper, he squirms in her harsh hold. His dual-colored eyes are wide in fright. The abyss looks bottomless. If his mother loosens her talons, he will surely fall in and never be heard from again.

Delicate and dangerous like a nightmare, his mother puts her head onto Jade's and whispers, “fear, insecurity, and anxiety are like curses. You’ll learn about curses soon in school. The more power you give them, the worse it gets for you, Jade.

“So,” here her grip relents finally and Jade starts to unwind his tail from her forearms, “banish it.” The cavern swallows like flowing sheets undulating over his head.

That exact feeling is mimicked by the stare in your witchcraft eyes.

And those eyes fall all over town.

#twisted wonderland #jade leech x reader #jade leech #twisted wonderland x reader #punk jade leech #twst jade

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sageluvsjoel · 4 months ago

Text

Lost and Found

part two to; a different kind of miracle

jackson!joel miller x reader x autistic! daughter

Requested HERE

masterlist

summary: A couple years after Joel had accepted and learned to adapt to his daughters autism, he loses his temper with her and she disappears

genre: hurt to comfort, post outbreak, fluff at the end

wc: 1.4k

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It had been an exhausting week, one of those stretches of days where everything seemed to go wrong. Winter was coming early to Jackson, the temperatures already biting through the air, and Joel was on edge. Supplies were running low, and the town was trying to organize runs to gather essentials before the weather turned too harsh. He’d been so focused on making sure everyone was prepared—on doing something—that he hadn’t noticed how much it was weighing on him.

And, of course, his little girl, now ten years old, had her own struggles. Lately, she’d been more withdrawn, more prone to sensory overloads. Jackson was a safe place, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t noisy, chaotic, and unpredictable—three things that sent her into a spiral. Joel knew this. He understood her in a way he hadn’t a few years ago, but that didn’t mean it was always easy.

She had a routine—one she relied on to get through the day. That routine kept her grounded, kept her focused. But life in Jackson didn’t always allow for perfect routines, and today had been a prime example of that. Joel had asked her to do something simple—help him clear a path outside their house so they could prepare for the coming snow. She’d been reluctant, focusing intently on the puzzle she was working on, her mind miles away from the task he wanted her to do.

At first, Joel had been patient. He always tried to be patient now. But with everything else gnawing at him, his frustration had bubbled over.

“I need you to listen, alright?” Joel had snapped, his voice harsher than intended. “I’ve asked you five times now, and you’re just sittin’ there like I’m talkin’ to a wall!”

She had flinched, her small body going rigid as her fingers hovered over the puzzle pieces. Joel immediately regretted his tone. But it was too late—the damage had been done. She closed herself off, retreating into her own world, her face expressionless, her eyes downcast. Before he could soften his words or try to reach her again, she was gone—out the door, moving fast.

“Hey!” Joel called after her, but she didn’t stop.

He’d thought she needed space, so he let her go, figuring she’d come back when she was ready, as she always did. The town wasn’t big, and she often found quiet places to be alone when she felt overwhelmed.

But hours passed, and she didn’t come back.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted streets of Jackson. By the time dinner came and went, you and Joel were growing increasingly worried.

"Have you seen her?" you asked, anxiety creeping into your voice as you looked out the window. The sky was bruised with dusk, and there was no sign of her.

Joel shook his head, trying to keep his own fear from showing. “She’ll turn up. She just needs some time. You know how she gets.”

But as the hours stretched on, and the cold deepened, doubt started to gnaw at him. He’d checked the usual spots—the quiet corners of town where she liked to hide when she needed to be alone—but there was no sign of her. And with each empty space he searched, the knot of fear in his chest tightened.

You grabbed his arm, your face pale. “Joel, what if she’s… what if something happened?”

It was the question he had been trying to avoid, but he couldn’t deny the possibility any longer. He had seen too much, lost too much, to take anything for granted in this world.

“I’m gonna get Tommy,” Joel said, his voice strained, the panic rising in his throat. “We’ll start searchin’ in pairs, see if anyone’s seen her.”

Tommy didn’t ask questions when Joel showed up at his door, his face drawn and tight with worry. Within minutes, half the town was mobilized, everyone searching every corner of Jackson, calling her name.

The minutes dragged on, turning into an hour, then two. The cold was biting now, the wind picking up as night settled fully in. Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, each passing minute heightening the terror that something had happened to her.

Had she wandered too far out of town? Had something—or someone—gotten to her?

The questions battered his mind, a relentless barrage of worst-case scenarios, each one more terrible than the last. He tried to keep it together, tried to stay focused on the search, but the weight of it—the thought of losing her—was suffocating. It was his fault. He’d yelled at her. He’d made her run.

You found him pacing near the stables, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. “Joel,” you called softly, your voice trembling, “we’ll find her.”

But Joel barely heard you. His mind was already lost in a sea of guilt and fear. “What if… what if somethin’ happened to her? What if she’s out there, and it’s my fault because I couldn’t keep my temper in check? I should’ve never—”

Before he could spiral any further, a voice crackled over Tommy’s radio. “Hey, we think we found her.”

Joel froze, his heart leaping into his throat as he grabbed the radio. “Where?”

“She’s in the old storage shed behind the library. Looks like she’s just sittin’ there.”

Joel didn’t wait for a response. He was running before Tommy could finish speaking, his boots crunching through the snow as he sprinted toward the shed. You were right behind him, both of you breathless and frantic.

The door to the shed was slightly ajar, and inside, huddled in the corner, was your daughter. She was sitting cross-legged, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring down at the ground, completely still.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t panicking. She was just… sitting there, lost in her own world, oblivious to the chaos she had left behind.

Joel fell to his knees beside her, his heart hammering in his chest as he reached out to touch her shoulder. “Baby girl,” he rasped, his voice thick with relief. “Where have you been? We’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you.”

She blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream, and looked up at him with wide eyes. “I didn’t know you were looking for me,” she said quietly. “I just… needed to be alone.”

Joel’s heart ached at the simplicity of her words, at the quiet truth of them. She hadn’t run away because she was scared or in danger. She had run because she was overwhelmed, because the world had gotten too loud, and she needed space to breathe.

And he had panicked because he hadn’t understood that, because he had let his fear take over.

You knelt down beside her, brushing a hand through her hair. “You scared us, sweetheart,” you said gently, your voice shaking. “We were worried something had happened to you.”

Her brow furrowed, her expression soft with confusion. “I was just sitting here. I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

Joel closed his eyes, the weight of his relief crashing over him like a wave. “It’s alright,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re alright. That’s all that matters.”

You pulled her close, and Joel wrapped his arms around both of you, holding on like he was afraid to let go. For a long time, none of you spoke. The only sound was the soft rustling of the wind outside, the quiet hum of the world moving on.

When you finally stood up, Joel kept a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. “Next time, you tell me if you need space, alright? I’ll give it to you. Just… don’t disappear on us like that again.”

She nodded, her face still calm, but there was a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

As you led her out of the shed and back toward home, Joel couldn’t shake the lingering fear in his chest. The world was still dangerous, still unpredictable. But as long as they were together—as long as he understood her, truly understood her—he knew they’d be okay.

She was his miracle, and he would never lose her again.

dividers by @kodaswrld

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#the last of us #the last of us 2 #joel miller #joel tlou #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller au #ellie williams #joel x reader #autism #tlou hbo #tlou2 #tlou #pedro pascal

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alittlepassionfruit · 6 months ago

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Here are my three least favorite takes on ALL:

1. Jude is unlikeable and an asshole; couldn’t wait for him to finally do it.

People are so uncomfortable with “imperfect” victims, specially when they have never experienced any abuse themselves. Jude can be stubborn, snarky, petulant, bitter, cynic, a liar, hateful and vengeful even. Yes, those are all negative characteristics. No, I don’t think he needs to justify those behaviors to the reader (to the people in his life, maybe). Why is he not allowed to be that way sometimes? Why does Jude have to explain to you, the reader, what triggers that behavior in him? Why does he have to rise above? Normal people are not immune to being assholes. Well, neither is Jude. That being said, he’s actually a really wonderful, compelling person and there’s about 100 scenes that demonstrate that, which is why it’s really hard for me to understand how anyone arrived to the conclusion that he’s unlikeable. I think it says more about the reader than it says about Jude.

Side note: One time I read a comment from someone complaining that Jude made fun of someone (not to their face) for the way they pronounced a vegetable. That was it. That was their example of Jude being an asshole. That was his crime. God forbid a former gardener has opinions!

2. Jude ending up so rich doesn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be so wealthy.

This one is funny because it usually comes from the same people that call this story trauma porn. Oh, so you wanted him to stay poor? You would have liked to see him SUFFER MORE?

Also, Jude didn’t aspire to have money just to have it. His whole purpose was having enough money to cover his extensive list of medical bills and to be able to protect himself and never depend on anyone else for anything. He is intelligent, disciplined, and so traumatized he would do anything to occupy his mind long enough to avoid leaving space for his thoughts. That’s how he succeeded in learning complex subjects and multiple languages: he didn’t want to think about shit else!

3. Jude “fell in love” with his best friend Willem.

As soon as I read this sentence in that Vulture article, I chuckled.

That simply never happened. I genuinely believe that’s the wrong way to describe their transition from friends to lovers. Jude loved Willem as a person, as friend, his best friend. They ended up dating because Willem realized he was in love and asked for a chance. Not because Jude was sighing looking out the window, lovesick for Willem, waiting for a chance. If anything, after much thinking on his end, Jude was basically like “I guess.”

#a little life #jude st francis #these get me heated sometimes!

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aishangotome · 21 days ago

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Azel Radwan: Chapter 20

Chapter 19 Premium Story

Thank you @passthechloroform for providing the video for this chapter!

♡———♡

A few days after the owner returned, Silvio visited the temple, and his first words made my blood run cold.

Emma: Prince Clavis and Prince Luke are missing?

Silvio: Yeah. They haven't been back for at least a few days.

(Come to think of it, I haven't seen them since the night of the party at the castle.)

(I just assumed they were away on a long trip for information gathering...)

My grip tightened on the tray I was holding.

Silvio: Apparently, the servants haven't been told anythin' either.

Silvio: Tanzanite, noticin' their disappearance, has started a search.

Silvio: Whether it's an accident or an incident... the details are unknown, but fortunately, this is the Land of the Gods.

Silvio: Azel, you know something, don't you?

When I turned around, Azel, who had been leaning against the window upstairs with his eyes closed, slowly opened his mystical eyes.

Azel: Knowing everything about the actions of foreign guests would be no different from surveillance.

Azel: I would never do such a terrible thing, would I?

Silvio: That's debatable.

Azel: But yes, there is one thing I can say...

Azel: Prince Silvio, are you aware that the Conqueror Beast secretly visited Rhodolite a few months ago?

Emma: Eh?

Silvio: Yes, I heard a rumor.

(Prince Gilbert came to Rhodolite again?)

(And secretly, too?)

The military power Obsidian is an aggressive nation, and even at the goodwill party held when I was Belle, Prince Gilbert's presence brought an unusual tension to the atmosphere.

The visit of a royal from a country that is both an archenemy to Rhodolite and unwelcome in Benitoite is enough to give rise to all sorts of speculation and, in the worst case, become a source of conflict.

*flashback*

Azel: You're keeping secrets from me, aren't you?

Azel: No, not just from me. You're hiding something important that probably even Miss Emma doesn't know.

Azel: Something that, if revealed, would fuel distrust throughout the continent... am I wrong?

*flashback over*

(So this is what Azel was hinting at back then.)

Silvio: But how do you, in a small country, know about their movements?

Azel: I wasn't watching Rhodolite, but the Conqueror brat.

Azel: I wonder what he, who rarely shows his face outside his country except for war, was doing visiting Rhodolite.

Azel: He probably made a deal. An important one, considering the Beast himself came.

Silvio: For example?

Azel: He must have asked Rhodolite to investigate the true intentions of Tanzanite, Acroite, and Ruby.

Azel: Rhodolite is the only country that "keeps its distance" from the three of us.

Azel: It's perfect to use as a spy to investigate the purpose of the Tri-Nation Alliance.

Azel: Rhodolite must have also been offered some kind of reward by Obsidian.

Azel: A limited-time truce, or perhaps the disclosure of advanced technology...

Azel: Either way, the return must have outweighed the risk.

Azel: But I doubt the shut-in Conqueror brat would go for a stroll just to make such a trivial negotiation.

Azel: There must be a bigger evil scheme brewing behind the scenes.

(I had a feeling things weren't going to be simple ever since Prince Gilbert's name came up...)

Knowing how terrifying that person is, I unconsciously gulp.

Azel: I have a general idea, though.

Silvio: Don't beat around the bush, just tell me.

Azel: ...Hehe, it's so expensive that even a billionaire's eyes would pop out.

Silvio: So you're not goin' to tell me?

Azel: Information is also a commodity.

Azel: Besides, it's just speculation. Giving you vague information would only cause more confusion.

Emma: ...What does this have to do with the two of them going missing?

Azel: Miss Emma, that's a good question.

Azel: Perhaps they were individually asked to run some errands by the Conqueror brat.

Azel: To be precise, it might not be "them," but just Luke.

(Luke?)

Azel: This disappearance might be related to that.

Silvio: The way you're sayin' that... you knew they had ulterior motives from the beginnin', didn't ya?

Silvio: If so, you should have denied them entry before it became a problem.

Azel: You're joking, right? Refusing envoys from another country without any reason would affect our international credibility.

Azel: Especially since Tanzanite has just become an open country—it would be a bad move to refuse them based solely on my poor guess.

Silvio: Well, that's true, but it's turnin' into a big problem as a result.

Silvio: A prince from another country goin' missing... if this were a different country, it could lead to war.

Azel: That's why we're deploying as many soldiers as possible to prevent that.

Azel: We've organized a large-scale search party, so it's only a matter of time before they're found.

Silvio: That would be fine normally, but isn't it risky to allocate a large number of soldiers to guests when the city is unstable?

Azel: Desperate times call for desperate measures.

(Azel's story is just speculation, so I won't know for sure until I actually talk to Luke and Clavis.)

(But I'm worried. I hope they haven't gotten involved in something dangerous and are in trouble...)

Emma: Prince Azel, I'll go and ask around town too.

Emma: I might be able to find some clues.

Azel: I thought you might say that, so I've prepared a special item.

Emma: ...Item?

Azel came down the stairs and stood in front of me, illuminating me with a smile so bright it seemed like a halo might appear.

(That swindler-like smile...)

Azel: Your hand.

(Does he want me to hold it out?)

When I held out my hand palm up, Azel's smile twitched.

Azel: ...What's with that way of holding out your hand? Are you planning to shake my hand or something?

Emma: No. I just sensed that you were about to give me something.

Emma: It was a conditioned reflex to prevent exorbitant charges.

Azel: You're perceptive.

Emma: Thank you.

Azel: I wasn't complimenting you. ...Honestly.

Contrary to his words, his starry eyes lit up with a soft color, making my heart skip a beat.

Azel: You can resist, but it'll be a waste of time.

Emma: ...Then, please don't try to scam me.

(It's unfair, I'm weak to that face.)

When I obediently turned my palm up, something cold was dropped onto it.

Emma: ...An ear cuff?

It was a moon-colored ear cuff with a unicorn and star motif.

When held up to the light, it glittered as if sprinkled with stardust, and somehow, that sight reminded me of Azel.

Azel: It's a good luck charm. A very blessed item with plenty of benefits.

Azel: The amulets I personally give are worth the equivalent of the average lifetime earnings of an ordinary person, but––

Emma: I-I humbly return it!

Azel: But it would be strange to give thanks to Akatsuki and not to you, wouldn't it?

Azel: And since you're so modest that you don't even seem to pray to God, I'll give this to you as a special parting gift.

(...Parting gift?)

Azel: I have to do this much, or that scary father of yours won't be satisfied, right?

My heart was in turmoil, but Azel brushed it off.

Azel: The unicorn is a symbol of the Living God. May you be blessed.

It might have just been a customary phrase for Azel, but the ear cuff, imbued with the words of a God, felt like it truly held blessings.

*remembering Clavis's words*

Clavis: I once heard that unicorn ornaments are worn by those close to God.

Emma: ...Thank you very much. I'll treasure it.

(I never thought I'd receive a gift from Azel... I'll make it my treasure.)

I immediately put the ear cuff on one ear, and the unicorn swaying beside my face felt unexpectedly reassuring.

Silvio: Don't I get one?

Azel: Of course, if you wish, I can deliver 100 or even 200 of them right now.

Silvio: ...No need.

Azel: Oh, come on... Miss Emma, please advertise that product to Prince Silvio.

Azel turned his back, his voice not sounding particularly disappointed.

Azel: If you're going to town, it's best to go with Prince Silvio.

Silvio: Ha, last time you ended up chasin' after us.

Azel: I have no idea what you're talking about.

Silvio: Is there some kind of spectacle starting in town?

Azel: ......

(...Is something really happening?)

Azel: Miss Emma, don't cause Prince Silvio any trouble.

Azel: And also...

Turning only his head, Azel smiled gently.

Azel: Thank you for your hard work.

(Is he talking about the cleaning...?)

Even if I wanted to ask what he meant, the God had already disappeared into the depths of the temple.

I couldn't help but exchange glances with Silvio.

Emma: Well then, I'm going to start my inquiry.

When I visited the market as usual, it was crowded with people again today.

The lively market was full of tourists, and everyday life seemed peaceful.

(Azel made it sound like something was going on, so I was on guard, but it seems like I was worried for nothing.)

Silvio: Who are you planning to ask?

Emma: For now, I'll try asking everyone I can.

Silvio: That's like trying to find a tiny jewel in the sand.

Emma: But Prince Luke and Prince Clavis stand out, so many people should remember them—

Emma: ...Wait a minute, Prince Silvio.

(Something's wrong.)

I stopped in my tracks and looked ahead at the market.

In Tanzanite's market, a statue of the Living God, as a symbol, sits prominently.

People were crowding around the statue—a usual sight—but there were no smiles on their faces.

As Silvio and I moved forward, we finally realized that time in Tanzanite was not flowing as it normally did.

Silvio: ...This is awful.

(What is... this?)

I instinctively covered my mouth with my hand and stumbled backward.

The statue of Azel, at the end of my gaze, was defiled with red paint.

The sight, as if the God was bleeding, was filling the surrounding people with fear and anxiety.

(This paint... it's still wet. It's fresh.)

(...It might only be a matter of time before this spreads throughout the city.)

Silvio: Hey, what's that thing that fell on the ground?

When I looked down as prompted, I saw a large number of papers scattered around the statue of the God.

The content––I didn't even need to pick them up to read them.

Emma: "The time of the end has come."

Silvio: "Kill the God and create a new era."

Emma: "A thunderous applause for the advent of the human world."

Emma: ...Isn't that a death threat!?

(Who would do such a thing...!)

Silvio: It seems the one who issued the threat had no intention of runnin' away.

Silvio suddenly pulled my shoulder and urged me to look into the distance with his eyes.

A little way off, several soldiers were restraining an ordinary-looking man.

(That man, he looks familiar... he's too far away to see clearly.)

(But that person is the culprit, right?)

Silvio: To not only defile the sacred object in broad daylight but also scatter flyers... that takes guts.

Emma: This is unforgivable.

Silvio: Don't go hittin' him, okay?

Emma: I wouldn't do that, of course...

(...Ah)

Perhaps alerted by the commotion, a figure emerged from the parting crowd.

The apostle, clad in pure white robes befitting a clergyman and wearing a benevolent smile, accepted the salutes of the soldiers while looking down at the culprit pinned to the ground.

Apostle: This is most unfortunate.

Apostle: To think that there is someone in our country who would defile the sacred body of the Living God.

Apostle: You have lived until this day under the protection of the God. If you say you have forgotten that grace...

Apostle: Then I must give divine punishment in the Living God's stead.

Apostle: ...Burn this man at the stake before everyone.

Apostle: Let us burn away the stain of impurity with sacred flames.

(!?)

I was speechless, hearing such a cruel punishment in contrast to his benevolent smile.

Apostle: All according to the will of the Living God.

Tanzanite Soldiers: "All according to the will of the Living God."

(What do you mean, "according to the will of the Living God?")

(Does Azel really wish for such an extreme punishment?)

(Don't they realize that handing down an arbitrary punishment in the name of God is itself an act of disrespect!?)

It was the same as the aphrodisiac incident.

Regardless of whether Azel wanted it or not, the apostle would decide everything and act on it.

To me, it seemed like he was just shifting all the responsibility onto God.

*flashback*

Azel: The true identity of the last God on this continent...

Azel: Is just a pitiful slave.

*flashback over*

(...I refuse to call that "love for God.")

(Love... isn't something so unsightly.)

I felt that Azel was being blasphemed even more than the statue––

Just as I was about to jump in, driven by my surging emotions, the man who was being held face down on the ground started laughing.

Like a madman, or like an actor on a stage.

His laughter echoed loudly enough to shake the illusion of peace.

???: "All according to the will of the Living God." How ridiculous.

As if shaking off the hands holding him down, the man forcefully lifted his face.

(...Basil!?)

He wasn't wearing his usual glasses, but there was no mistaking him.

Basil, who would occasionally visit the temple and talk about Azel with sparkling eyes, glared at the apostle...

And spat at him.

Tanzanite Soldier: You bastard!

A soldier pressed Basil's head back down to the ground.

But the fuse, once lit, could not be extinguished.

Basil: Listen! Soon, just as prophesied, the God will die!

Basil: When that happens, will this old fool, who is neither a God nor anything else, speak the words of God?

Basil: Will you all cling to those words and live your lives?

Basil: Are you all okay with being reduced to such pathetic livestock!?

Despite being manhandled by the soldiers, Basil did not stop shouting.

Tourists and Tanzanite citizens alike watched with bated breath, like an audience at a play.

Basil: If the death of God is an unavoidable future...

Basil: Why don't you try to think about living in a "world without God?"

Basil: That is the ultimate blasphemy and insult to God!

Apostle: ...

Basil: That person's only wish is...

Basil: Everyone, wake up already!

Basil's blood-curdling voice echoed far and wide.

(...It's as if he's speaking for Azel.)

(No, rather than speaking for him, he might have actually been given a script.)

(I can't imagine Basil, who loves Azel so much, defiling the statue of his own will...)

(Which means, this is all the will of God.)

Suddenly, I recalled the words "God Killer," which I still remembered vividly.

If those words, undoubtedly written in Azel's handwriting, were not a dream but a guaranteed reality––

One of the soldiers kicked Basil in the stomach.

(...!)

I immediately tried to run over, but Silvio pulled my shoulder back hard.

At the same time, something tore through the air with the speed of a shooting star, aimed at the apostle.

A nearby soldier instinctively shielded the apostle, and the projectile pierced his back.

(An arrow!?)

Silvio: Tch, so that's it. That bastard...

It seemed the attacker was not alone, as arrows were fired in succession.

The people, understanding the situation, instantly fell into a panic.

Silvio: Woman, come over here for now!

Silvio pulled my hand forcefully and led me into a nearby alley.

Without a moment to catch our breath, there was already someone there.

Kamal: ...

Emma: Why is Kamal here?

The bewitching beauty smiled as if she had been waiting for us.

And what she held out was my bag, which should have been at the temple.

(...Does this mean I should leave?)

Along with the bag was a package containing a clay tablet and a "special service voucher that grants any wish."

(Coward...)

(Making me incur debts without my consent, and then kicking me out as soon as I'm no longer useful.)

This "end" that was thrust upon me turned my bad feeling into certainty.

(Because Azel is a swindler.)

*flashback*

Emma: You won't die... right?

Azel: There are certainly a number of people in this world who want to die, but at least I've never wanted to die.

Azel: Even if there's a prophecy from the first Living God, I still have things I want to do while I'm alive.

(He said he "doesn't want to die," but... he didn't say he "won't die.")

Emma: Kamal, please tell me just this one thing.

Emma: Is Prince Azel...

Emma: Trying to take his own life?

Dramatic End Ch. 21 | Romantic End Ch. 21

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#ikepri azel #ikemen translations #ikemen prince translations #azel #azel radwan #azel radwan main route #ikemen prince azel radwan #ikepri jp #cybird otome

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astra-ravana · 5 months ago

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A Selection of Weather Magick

Whistling Up a Wind

Whistling up a wind is one of the most common forms of weather magick and has been practiced for hundreds of years. Depending on the pitch and tone of whistle, a witch can create a gentle breeze or a sharp gust of wind. You can physically whistle with your lips, use a wind whistle or even a glass bottle. The tone, pitch, and length of the whistle you make determines the type of wind you will get. For example, a low pitched whistle will form a light breeze and a short, sharp, piercing whistle will form a huge gust of wind

A Storm is Likely to Come When

• Deciduous trees flip their leaves due to wind direction

• Birds fly low in the sky and go quiet

• There's a Southerly wind

• There's red dawn in the East

• Layers of nimbus clouds move in opposite directions

• The morning grass is dry of dew

• An earthy scent rises from the soil and flowers

• Pine cones remain closed

• A halo rings the moon at night

• Nights are warm in Winter (cloud cover insulation)

• Smoke swirls and descends instead of rising steadily.

Storm Casting

Storm casting is the art of creating storms through magick. There are many different methods for casting storms ans bringing rain. One method is to fill a jug with water and while sitting outside (or facing an open window) pour the water into a basin or bowl. Dip the tip of your finger in the water (you can also use a pendulum/necklace) and make five slow, clockwise circles in the water. As you are making the circles call the wind to bring in a storm by blowing or whistling a continuous low note, like wind over the mouth of a glass bottle, over the basin.

Untie the Wind

Sailors used to buy knotted cords from witches. When the knots were untied the wind would pick up. The more knots untied the more wind there would be. This can still be applied today using one's breath or the wind itself. On a windy day take yourself to a high place where the wind blows strongly. Take a red cord with you, to be knotted in three places. Focus on the wind and when you feel connected to it, begin tying it into knots. Left side first, then right, and the last knot center. Accompany your actions with a charm such as,

"Each knot I make, and then untie,

Will stir the wind, to fill the sky".

Keep the cord in a high place and when you want to summon a wind, simply untie the knots in reverse order. Chant:

"This knot is untied, so the cord is free,

As the cord is freed, the winds shall be".

For a strong gale untie all three knots.

Stopping a Storm

Dispersing: This method involves spreading the storm out over a large area, there by minimizing its effects. You can disperse a storm by calling winds to blow it away (or in a certain direction).

Binding: This method is called 'storm catching' and involves catching a storm and binding it with an object (usually a bottle) so it can be released gradually at a later date.

Storm Water

One of the easiest forms of weather magick is to collect storm water (also called thunder water). Set a bowl or vessel outside during a thunderstorm. You're not just collecting water, you're also collecting the potent energy in the atmosphere. The thunder, lightning, and pressure all charge the water with extra energy. When the storm is over bottle and keep for spellwork, anointing, and more.

Ancient Latin Wind Invocation

Stand outside and say the following:

"Venire ventus venire, sinere solus sentire relaxari, venire nunc nunc venire venire venire venire"

Ancient Latin Rain Spell

Look up to the sky and say:

"Elementum recolligo huie commodo locus mini vestri vox Elementum ego unda dico vos Permissum pluit es est meus nos sic vadum is existo"

Meteorological Symbols

• Can be used as sigils

• Use for weather summoning

• Can substitute a certain weather condition required as a spell component

Herbs, Trees, and Plants used in Weather Magick

Alder: Raises winds, commonly turned into wind whistles

Broom: Thrown into fire to calm winds, thrown in the air to raise winds

Cotton: Thrown into fire to bring rain

Ferns: Thrown into fire to bring rain

Garlic: Warn to ward off bad weather

Heather: Thrown into fire to bring rain

Henbane: Thrown into water to bring rain

Oak/Acorn: Protects against lightning strikes and bad weather

Pansy: Brings rain and storms, if picked on a sunny day brings storms but if picked early in the morning while covered with dew brings rain

Rice/Grain/Wheat: Thrown into the air to bring rain

Saffron: Raises winds, assists with control of the weather

Thistle: Thrown into fire to redirect lighting

"There are some things you can only learn in a storm."

#satanic witch #satanism #withcraft #demons #magick #witch #demonolatry #lefthandpath #dark #witchcraft #weather magic #weather #storm magic #storms #eclectic witch

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writing-whump · 1 month ago

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How about Isaiah's POV after Seline took care of him? Maybe she gets sick on the way back to Vienna and he takes care of her? I don't know if they took the train or drove, but I'm picturing a "holding her up while she throws up by the side of the road" kind of scenario. And Matt is purposely hanging back because he's happy to see Isaiah stepping up for his pack.

And, and, and, before that happens, maybe Isaiah and Matt are talking about the conference, and Shawn, and Rip, etc. And Seline is getting quieter and quieter . . .

No pressure if this doesn't work with your plot. But I somehow want to see Isaiah returning the favor to Seline. Love you, Sol!

Lis, this fits so perfectly to everything happening, I was like, whoa, what is this🤩 thank you, thank you, thank you! I just changed the location from car to train, cause I got an idea how to use it ;).

Sick on the train

"All in all, the conference was a great success," Isaiah said as the train got moving.

They had two and a half hours in front of them, which was alright. Considering they planned a day trip and ended up staying four days, had a crisis over Dylan's fever over the phone, and Isaiah and Matt got sick only once...

Matt was currently leaning against the window, watching it with a strangely thoughtful expression. They left the opposite side for Seline, so she had more space with seat next to her empty.

"Yeah? Taking you as the Executioner and all?" Matt asked.

"It was success in the sense I figured out a lot of things. State of affairs," Isaiah said. "There is a big rise in the number of wolves coming to Vienna and the other towns for studies and jobs. The packs are a little overwhelmed by it. Handling that many wolves, especially new and young requires capacities for training they currently don't have."

Isaiah leaned back in the seat, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He didn't wear a tie today, just the suit jacket and the white button up. His chest felt still tender and a deeper breath hurt, but he was mostly back to normal. Still crazy he felt the aftershocks for three days after.

"Don't the packs want more members?" Seline said. She had a suit jacket too, a blue one she liked. While he and Matt basically inhaled the croissants they bought at the station before boarding, Seline still had half of hers on the table between them, looking at it unenthusiastically.

"They do, but it's hard with wolves not socialised in their structures," Isaiah said. "It's a sign of progress really. The conditions are so good that wolves don't need big packs to have families and raise kids anymore. But when the pups grow up, they are drawn to bigger places, territories, cities. Want action, contact, witches, rivals, to train and develop. And the packs don't know how to train them, so lot of them give up or end up as strays."

Seline wrinkled her nose. "That's really brutal, to end up on the streets cause you can't get the right training."

"According to the tradition, older male relatives raise the pups in the pack. Maybe that's the root of the problem here—that no one feels responsible to take over," Isaiah mused. Or maybe it was also the lack of techniques. Someone used to teach by example wouldn't know how to work with grown pups with hierarchy issues.

"Roy has been adopting lots of strays though, hasn't he?" Matt interjected.

Isaiah nodded with a smile. Street fights and wolves outside the Big Three were more of Matthew's domain. "Yep. Roy Jung raised his pack from new wolves alone after his father's defeat and death. He's definitely figured out things that work."

Roy founded a restaurant at the start to finance his wolf activities and to give his wolves some place to stay and work out the kinks of interactions with humans and territories.

For not having any experience with cooking or bussiness, Roy managed that really well. He was creating a network of reputations over the city, making his own brand. Building on the people he gave a chance and brought up.

"It's a good model, but not one that the bigger or more conservative packs could learn from," Isaiah said. There was nothing to connect the newbies or the bigger packs with the smaller ones.

He looked at Seline for comments or questions. The train ride was a great opportunity to talk it over with her, analyze the problems, and gather what she and Matt observed and came up with on their own.

But Seline closed her eyes with an uneasy expression. Did she not get enough sleep last night? Or was the socializing more exhausting for her and then he realized?

Isaiah took a deep breath. He was not supposed to be disappointed, but grateful. "Thank you again. Both of you." He looked at Matt and then at Seline. "For coming with me and showing your support. That really helped a lot."

Seline's eyes fluttered open at that.

Matthew snorted. "No worries, man. Besides, weren't just showing you support. We are supporting you."

Isaiah rubbed the back of is neck a little sheepishly. "Yeah. Thank you. I just don't-" He broke off with a sigh.

"You don't want to rely on us, cause you are obsessed with being able to handle everything on your own?" Matthew suggested with a smirk.

Isaiah groaned. "That's not it." Sorta. Not all of it, at least.

The black-haired wolf shook his head, rolling back his shoulders. "The point is, that I was forced into a position before I knew what I wanted to do or who I wanted to be. And it was very confusing figuring out what was wrong, what was right and what was just me. I don't want to put you guys through something like that."

He propped his elbows at the table, intertwining his fingers. "I don't want you to agree or follow me or feel like you have to get involved because I'm an Executioner or your leader or because we are friends. I want you to be able to keep your lives and do what feels right to you, outside of what I'm doing and whether you agree with it or not."

That was what Isaiah was the most afraid of at the end. Once he took up that role again, once he got active and started making decisions, it would alienate him from Matt and Seline.

Maybe they would resent him for his decisions. Maybe they wouldn't understand them or maybe he would make mistakes or their philosophies would part. But someone had to make these decisions.

Executioner job wasn't one up for a debate, councils or democratic votes. One person had to be in charge, take the responsibility and realize their vision. No room for compromises for someone else.

That's why each city or region's Executioner was a bit different and made their territory to their image. Packs tended to move between them, when they didn't like something instead of trying to force their Executioner to change.

Matthew put his hands up on the table as well, leaning forward as if to mirror Isaiah's pose. That was a good sign. "Okay, I hear ya. But that doesn't mean we can't agree or help you, when we like what you are doing, right? Or would you like it more if we don't get involved with your Executioner work at all?"

That was a good question.

Isaiah was quiet for a minute, watching the sunny mountains passing through the train's window. "It's just that my decisions as Executioner might not be something I, as Isaiah, would have done," he said finally. "I'll have to explain this to Hector as well—that I can't be siding with the Wolfson interests just because he is my brother. I want to help him when I can, but as Executioner, I might end up opposing him in certain matters."

Matthew nodded, no humor in his expression now, dark brown eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

"So basically, you leaving us out of matters in the future doesn't mean you don't trust us," Seline said suddenly into the silence, "but that you want to give us the freedom of choice. We can get involved however much we want, but we must respect that as an Executioner, your interests are different than when you are just you."

Isaiah swallowed heavily but didn't dispute that. It was an excellent summary, as always. He would like to have a place where he could just be himself. Taking on the role necessarily meant he was splitting himself up to fulfill it.

"Okay, I can live with that," Matthew said, running a hand through his dark red hair. "But I would still like to get involved more. Like preferably before you bleed out somewhere or have a heart attack while at 'work'."

Isaiah tensed. "You don't have to feel obligated just for that-"

"And because," Matthew gave him a wide grin, "with your shadow training or not, I really do like the fights."

Isaiah snorted, relaxing a little. He looked at Seline with a smile, trying to gauge her reaction, but her face was all closed off, eyes shut again.

His expression fell with confusion. "Are you tired? There was a kitchen wagon on the way, I can get us some coffee if you want?"

Seline's eyes opened just barely, as if she was looking at him from under her whimpers. "I'm alright, thanks. I don't want anything."

Isaiah looked at Matt this time, but the red-haired wolf just shrugged. So he wasn't missing anything obvious. It was strange.

Seline balled up the half-eaten ham and cheese croissant up in paper and put it aside, then got to her feet. She had to hold against the seat as the train swayed. "Gonna be right back," she mumbled.

Isaiah watched her go, noting she left her handbag behind, so she probably wasn't going far.

"You think...it was too much? Maybe I shouldn't have ask her to come," Isaiah said quietly.

Seline was a huge help there during the conference. He knew how much she loathed exerting her influence as a witch, but it didn't lessen the effect. He himself seemed much more reliable with a witch on his arm. Not to mention how amazed he was at the socializing she was able to pull off.

And Isaiah thought he was the one with great masks. Seline could charm the fur of a wolf, when she wanted to.

"Nah, man. We are glad you asked instead of vanishing off there alone," Matt said. "And if she hated it that much, then she'll say no next time. No worries."

But another fifteen minutes passed and Seline was nowhere near sight. Isaiah had trouble not bouncing his leg under the table. Right now he hated she didn't have her bag, cause he couldn't even text her what was wrong.

"Girls sometimes need time for themselves in the bathroom," Matthew suggested without much confidence.

"Yeah, but not Sel." It was rare to see her remaking her makeup during the day. Lipstick and eyeshadows were also reserved for special occasions (like the conference). She hated that stuff and that everyone seemed to be wearing it and pushing women to wear it to be taken seriously.

Actually, the whole visual side of girly look seemed to tick Seline off something terrible. Isaiah only noticed after they broke up that she stopped wearing it and was a lot more vocal about her distaste of beauty standards for women. Apparently, she felt obligated to put it on with him to be a good girlfriend.

If he knew, he would have stopped her a long time ago. Very stupid of him not to notice.

"I'm gonna go check on her," Isaiah said, getting up before Matthew gave an approving hum. What if she fell down between the seats and couldn't walk?

"Maybe she just met someone she knows...?"

"Hopefully so." Isaiah headed in the direction she disappeared in, focusing on his senses. Around crowds, it was challenging to be so sensitive to sound and scent, so he tended to ignore and muffle it, but now it would come in handy.

But that had been a conference for wolves. He should have escorted her from the start, witch or not.

Isaiah passed two "Ruhezone" wagons until he reached the in-between connective part with two toilets. The train was marching forward with great speed, the view blurring together into a green mess.

There he found her.

Seline was sitting on the steps next to the toilet cabin, head between knees, hands tightly curled into her jeans.

Isaiah hurried to her side, kneeling next to her. "Sel? Hey, what's wrong?"

Seline lifted her head slowly, squinting at him. "'feel sick," she got through gritted teeth.

"Motion sick? Is it the train?"

She gave a tiny shake of the head. "I'm fine with trains. But..." she put her hand in the air to her jaw, "I can feel it over here. The nausea. Like I'm drowning..."

Isaiah brushed her haif from her face. No fever. "Okay, okay. Is that why you stayed here? Cause you feel like puking?"

Another tiny nod. With another sudden lurch of the wagon, she went pale as a sheet, squeezing her eyes shut. "'t's moving too much...I can't-" She let out a whimper. Isaiah felt like getting punched.

"Alright, alright, we can figure this out." Isaiah opened the bathroom to get an overview. It was tiny, and with how much the train was moving from side to side, it was hard to aim or stay still.

He returned to her side. "Come on, I'll help you. Take my hand."

Seline looked up at him, eyes glinting with tears. "Zaya?"

"Yes, sweetie, what is it?" He was doing his best to sound calm and collected although he was anything but.

"My handbag- there is-there is a scrunchie in there-" she gulped down heavily, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth with a wince.

"Can you hold on until I get back?" He didn't have his phone on him or he could have texted Matt for help. Damn it all.

The blond nodded, curling into herself, arms around her chest. "Hurry."

Isaiah did so, even summoning up his shadow to help with the speed. It could take his weight, which was usually handy for sound and sneaking around, but it also meant the unreliable gravity of the train didn't slow him down so much as he ran through the corridor.

He muttered a quick explanation to Matthew as he was turning around with Seline's handbag, running straight back.

The sick girl was leaning over her lap and panting when he got back. He had her bag thrown over his shoulder and took her by the elbows from behind to help her stand up. "Come on, darling, let's get you up."

Isaiah wasn't aware of what weird nicknames he was using (utterly inappropriate since they weren't together anymore), just trying to somehow ease that painful discomfort on her face.

He maneuvered her into the bathroom, so she was standing over the toilet, locking the door. It was more than tight with both of them, but this way she could lean against him.

Seline spit out a string of saliva into the toilet with a quiet moan. Isaiah gathered her hair awkwardly from behind to pull it into a messy skewed ponytail (he should really learn how to tie up someone's hair), then held his arms around and in front of her.

Seline grabbed onto them like they were the railing. Isaiah had his feet steadily pressed against the walls, so while the train was swaying from side to say, he wasn't. An anchor point for her.

"I'm gonna vomit," she said tightly, both her hands digging into his sleeves on his forearms. She was leaning over them, but he was careful not to bump into her stomach.

"Go ahead. You are safe, it's gonna be okay."

For a while, nothing happened; she just held herself tense as a string and dug bruises into his arms while he fought the train's gravity to keep her as still as possible.

Suddenly, she shuddered, back arching into him. A thick wave with the bits of the croissant and water felt into the small metal toilet.

"There you go," he said quietly into her ear, wishing he had more arms.

Her shoulders hitched with the next retch, barely getting up a thick mouthful of glob. Then she sagged into him, strength leaving her all at once.

Isaiah caught her around the waist and pulled her upright against his chest. He managed to sneak out a hand to flush the toilet, the loud scrapy sound vibrating over the walls.

"Okay? Feels better?" Isaiah asked anxiously.

"I'm sorry," she whined, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so sorry, that was-"

"Jesus, what do you have to apologize for?" he said with a tinge of disbelief in his voice. "You are sick, it's alright."

"Sorry, that was so gross," she sniffled, taking a wad of toilet paper to mop at her mouth.

"You know, right now I really don't care. Priorities, you know?" He pulled her against his shoulder so he could get a better look at her face. "How are you feeling?"

"Still don't feel good. Stomach hurts and I still feel nauseous. Don't think I'm gonna throw up again though."

"Okay. Would it help to lie down?"

She let out a huff. "At the train? How?"

"Leave it to me," Isaiah said, already coming up with an idea.

Once Seline had her bag and felt half-way steady, he took her into his arms, bridal style and went up to the wagon with the second floor. It was some kind of VIP class with almost no people with a line of those one-seats on the side.

Isaiah put her into one of them, then shook of his suit jacket to lay it out on the last one, then held the seats next to it down with his knee. "Come on. Your bed is ready."

She gave him a curious peek with a tiny shake. "I can't belive you."

"What? I bought all the seats, we are in the clear. Come on, you can lie against my jacket, right?"

Seline looked like she wanted to protest, but then swayed as the train took a turn and climbed up the one-seats as he suggested. She could stretch out all the way, laying through three of those, nuzzling her face against the inside of his suit.

Isaiah crouched down next to her. "Anything else I can do? Water? Meds? The kitche's gotta have mint tea in it somehwere. I can get my coat as a blanket for you, if you feel cold?"

She sighed almost contentedly, looking up at him. "I'm fine. This is helping." She muffled a quiet burp against the fabric under her face, cheeks reddening.

"It's alright," he said softly. "You are okay. Little sick but okay. I'm going to take care of you, deal?"

"Thank you." Her eyes narrowed a little with mischief. "You are fussing."

Isaiah snorted. "Is it helping?" He reached over to let her hair down, brushing the golden strands behind her ear.

Seline gave him a small smile, opening her hand. He took it without hesitation, feeling her fingers curl into his sleeve again. If it helped against the moving sensation, all the better.

"Can I sleep a little?"

"Of course. I'll watch over you."

#emeto #sickfic #vomiting #hurt/comfort #whump #whump writing #caretaking #werewolf wip #Seline #my writing

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sanctity-in-sexuality · 6 months ago

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Are there any good detailed free resources on NFP online? Maybe it's just because search results prioritize products but everything I find is either trying to sell a course, is a personal anecdote rather than a guide, or is very shallow with imprecise descriptions like "you can chart temperature and mucus" with no deeper explanation. I don't want to sign up for anything or join a class, I'm shocked that it's been difficult to access this knowledge!

It is kind of amusing how vague explanations of NFP methods often are.

The thing is, fertility-awareness based methods (FABM) have rules that must be followed precisely in order to accurately function as family planning, which is why they are almost exclusively taught in the confines of a classroom. Most people need guided instruction and practice under someone experienced with the method to understand its proper use. That's why free resources on it are hard to come by.

However, I'm happy to give you an overview to give you a more detailed idea of how the methods work. Just promise me you won't use this as your only instruction for family planning!

The Method Types:

There are three main methods of modern FABM: the Creighton Model, the Marquette Method, and the Sympto-Thermal method. There is some overlap, but the main difference is what biological signs of ovulation the method tracks.

Creighton (and its predecessor, Billings) traditionally tracks just a woman's cervical mucus. Marquette utilizes daily urine tests to track chemical estrogen levels. Sympto-Thermal combines mucus, temperature, and cervical position tracking. I use the latter, so I'll explain that in the most detail.

Context:

When a woman ovulates, the egg released is viable for fertilization for about 12-24 hours. This means conception is possible for up to a day after ovulation has occurred. However, sperm can survive within a woman for 3-5 days after ejaculation, so a woman can potentially conceive if she has sex up to five days before ovulation or one day after - or six days total of a "fertile window". FABM work by using one or more of the aforementioned biological markers to identify when ovulation will occur.

Cervical Mucus:

As a woman nears ovulation, her body will begin secreting discharge called "cervical mucus". The mucus is necessary in providing a hospitable environment for the sperm to survive. It often starts out kinda thick and white, but the closer she gets to ovulation, the clearer and stretchier is becomes, and she can track this change in consistency.

In both the Creighton and Sympto-Thermal methods, generally the first day a woman notices cervical mucus is considered the start of the potential fertile window; if she wishes to avoid pregnancy, she must abstain from sex from now until she identifies the end of the fertile window (generally when she's had three days of "drying up", i.e. little or no mucus, after previously noting fertile mucus in the same cycle).

Basal Body Temperature:

A woman's body temperature changes slightly depending on where she is in her cycle. If she tracks her daily temperature, she can identify when she ovulated based on temperature change. Temperature cannot predict ovulation, but it can accurately tell you when the fertile window is over.

To track accurately, the woman must take her temperature at around the same time every morning before starting her day (as getting up and moving around will cause the temperature to rise) using a thermometer that measures to the 1/100th degree. If she has a sudden temperature spike, especially if it coincides with one of the other fertility markers, it might indicate ovulation. To rule out flukes, she must wait until she has had three days of elevated temperature in a row. The cluster of elevated temperatures must be at least 0.4F higher than the previous six day's temperatures. If it falls short of that benchmark, the woman must wait an additional day before marking the end of her fertile window.

Example: I usually average 97.6-97.8F pre-ovulation. When I ovulate, my temperature in the morning spikes to around 98.2-98.4F and will remain at that level until a few hours before my period begins.

Cervix:

Ovulation causes the cervix to physically change in texture and position. A woman can insert a finger into her vagina to feel her cervix and record her daily observations to assists in identifying when she nears ovulation. As she gets closer, the cervix will move higher up the vagina and soften.

This sign can be tricky to track because it relies on feeling alone. Some women (like me) can't really tell much difference in their cervix. However, this biological sign can be useful in corroborating one of the other ovulation symptoms.

Estrogen and LH Testing:

The Marquette method can optionally adopt any of the other symptom tracking, but it's main methodology is tracking a woman's hormone levels using disposable test sticks. Estrogen and LH hormones will rise leading up to ovulation.

For this, a woman must use urinate on a test strip (similar concept to pregnancy tests) around the same time every morning, and then insert the sample into a digital fertility monitor. When a sufficient level of estrogen has been reached, the fertile window begins.

This method is especially popular with breastfeeding mothers who are avoiding pregnancy but unsure when their cycle may return.

Conclusion:

Again, this is just a basic overview, so there are a lot of little rules I didn't go into. But this should give you a basic idea of how the various FABM work.

Some NFP instructors can get weirdly superior about their methods, but the truth is that it really depends on the individual woman.

#ask #NFP #fabm

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eldritch-spouse · 2 years ago

Text

[Part 7 of Gifted. Fem reader.]

Previous poll winner: Sit still and wait to seduce the angel (65.2%)

TW: Implied mind break; Character gore

New choice! [VOTE]

Now alone, you take a moment to better study the room around you.

It looks basic, that much you had appraised earlier. No windows whatsoever, a black carpet, dark walls, the purple bed sheets you sit on, pink pillows, a small armchair, and an even less remarkable vanity in the corner.

There are paintings on the walls, but you can't quite tell what they're meant to be. Who made those? It's as if someone who had no concept of reality tried to illustrate very specific images, failing miserably, creating a chaotic blend of colors and shapes that definitely resembles something you might have seen before, but twisted enough that you can't put your finger on it. If ever there was a prime example of the eeriness of the uncanny valley, this would be it.

The more you stare at the three paintings above the bed on the wall, the more you're filled with a sense of dread. It's wrong, it's all so wrong.

Fuck, you hate this place.

A fearful voice within the walls of your cranium screeches that if you dare search the corners of this room alone, the ground will grow teeth to bite you with, the walls will pull you in to a slow, suffocating death and the furniture will snap your limbs off. Oh, you wouldn't put it past this inexplicably horrid building to do any of that- No matter how ridiculous a thought that would have been to you not even a day ago.

From the moment you opened your eyes and were graced with moving flowers, it became clear nothing could be taken for granted, not even the most simple of truths. And you really, really don't want to have your sanity challenged any more by scouring this dark little motel-like room.

It seems you'll have to rely solely on that angel to break this stalemate.

What an odd sort.

That staff he carries on his back is trouble. You remember the way he shoved it so close to the gargoyle's throat. He was confident... As if it could pierce through the incredible density of the blue monster. Might as well play it safe and assume that it really is capable of cutting through Pebble like cheese. It's going to be a little risky to push his buttons when he's got that thing at arm's reach.

But then again, he's apparently easily flustered. There's no doubt about it, from stuttering as he tried to pull you off the other monster, to chiding you for vulgar language and reacting with guilty denial the moment you pointed out his hardness. It wouldn't be too hard to get under his skin and coax something out of him, you just have to take care not to irritate.

He said he'd be back...

What are you going to do then? Lay down and invite him to bed? Psh, as if he'd respond. Either he'd chastise you or flee, most likely. Perhaps he needs to feel more in control, needs you to act casual about it- Giving the angel a taste of something he considers "vulgar" without forcing him to acknowledge it. If it works, you could probably lure him into taking you outside again, some way or another. Though, thinking back on the crowd of people that gathered in the garden since you woke up on that bench... Is that actually a good idea? Debatable.

One way or another, you need his favor.

Yes, perhaps playing along with his demands might be smarter in the long run. Rising from the bed, you look for a second door, one that should lead to a bathroom, just like the one in the incubus' room. And yet... Nothing's there. Just the wall, staring back at you. This must have been the most low quality room he could have gotten. Then again, he likely wasn't concerned with your comfort.

You glance at the spot where the door would be just one more time, to be sure, to hope and pray that a miracle doorway had been summoned in that brief pause by sheer will, that this haunted playground had been merciful for once- Still nothing. Riveting.

That means you'll have to freshen up as best as you can in in this sorry state, with no water to help straighten your hair and clean the gargoyle seed still occasionally sliding past your entrance. Frankly, you think as you straighten the dress, the odds aren't looking good right now.

Thinking about it, all you've accomplished thus far has been getting fucked and tossed around between strange monsters. Every single time it seems as if you're walking in the right direction, some cruel force throws you back several steps, laughing at you, making you enjoy it. You feel awful. Which is obvious, naturally, but it's starting to wear you down. Or maybe it's the adrenaline leaving your system now that you're not in immediate danger or dealing with yet another monster.

You know it's over if you let that despair take over. The key to getting out is to keep up momentum. Stay strong, focus. There's no time to cry.

... Where is he anyway?

It's been a while. Maybe he's jerking off in a dimly lit corner, seething that you noticed his erection at all. Damn it, if he comes back to you having relieved himself, it's going to make things much harder.

In the eerie silence of the untouched room, it would be difficult to miss those approaching footsteps. Firm, rhythmic, like a footsoldier. Him.

You spring to action, sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the front door. Spine straight, legs pressed together and hands on your lap, a neutral look on a tired complexion. There's only time for one rattled sigh before the door is pushed open, and in he steps. The angel. With what looks to be a mildly damp towel.

Immediately, all three eyes narrow at you.

In hindsight, it's not too hard to guess why. Everything is exactly as it was when he left, but you sit in a position that totally reads as suspicious. You are scheming something, and it shows. Bare legs sway over the edge of the bed, waiting for him to make the first move. Maybe you can sell something here.

" You are... More obedient than I expected. " He murmurs, probably to himself.

Hues bounce every over every shape of his furred figure, searching, searching- Ah, there it is! Oh, he's not full-mast anymore, but there's definitely something still interested in his weird outfit. You can work with that.

Quickly, your eyes flicker back to the winged one's face. " Well... I've been thinking, aren't you an angel? "

He hasn't moved since stepping inside. That double-axed staff is still attached to his form. Careful.

" Celestial would be the more correct term. Though I suppose, yes. Why? " The towel is folded for now. You have a hard time conceiving the thought that an angel would readily work here, amongst demons. It contradicts everything you've ever been told about these creatures- But then again, his mere sight is one huge, confusing contradiction.

" Then you're the one I should be listening to. Angels are supposed to be respected, after all. " Buy it, oh my God please just buy it, you're pulling this out of your ass on the spot, it better work.

The other sighs, eyes rolling. " And you came to that conclusion now? "

Yeah, he was there when you got brought to the whole gang, wasn't he? Hm.

" W- Well- I was scared and confused then, I- I know better now. " Do you though?

" So you claim you've come to your senses? " The angel pushes.

There's a shrug, your eyes leave his intense lavender pools for a few seconds, afraid they'll burn you to a crisp. You are being judged.

" Perhaps, mister... " It's your turn to squint, not even having a name to call him.

" Belo. " He nods, moving towards you.

A secret smile dances on your lips. " I see. Thank you for your mercy, Belo. "

The angel blinks a couple of times. You're not sure what gave him pause, it could have been the sound of his name on your tongue, the false sincerity in your tone, or the mention of mercy. It was a lapse in demeanor regardless, one you're all too keen to take advantage of.

" Were it not for you, I'd probably still be on that roof. " In a calculated move, your gaze drops to your lap sadly, fingers interweaving. " Maybe the other gargoyles would have gotten to me. Or I could have fallen into the hands of dangerous perverts. "

A pang of guilt flashes on his gaze. Brief, but not brief enough to miss.

Obviously, he didn't pluck you from the roof out of the goodness of his heart, that's ludicrous. It worked however, you want him to stew in his own guilt, if he's even capable of feeling that much of it.

" ... You're welcome. " Belo replies, though none of his eyes meet yours for a second. The worker recovers quickly. " P- Part your legs, please. "

This might be a lot easier than you expected. Hah.

" But why? " You feign ignorance, and a bit of discomfort, causing the other one to stammer and hesitate further.

" Well I- You need to be minimally presentable. " He very subtly shrugs, as if to say 'what do you want me to do?'

" But Belo I- I've been touched there by such brutes. I don't want to be hurt anymore. "

As if. You sooner kill a man to admit out loud that the sex you've had here was mostly enjoyable, even if you'd rather it have taken place under literally any other circumstances. Nevertheless, you committed to the bit, now you have to sell it, so you shield your sex through your dress, bottom lip wobbling. Crying on command is hard, you hope you won't have to rely on it.

The angel's authoritative demeanor wanes further, he seems to be appraising you with genuine pity, getting second thoughts perhaps. " I promise my intent isn't lecherous, but I do have to clean... " Big eyes spazz again, looking every which way, the words tight in his throat. " You are dirty. " Belo settles for, taking a step forward with newfound resolve.

The slight whimper you let out has him slowing down briefly, before coming to a squat before you. One lightly furred hand rests on your knee. " I'll be gentle and quick. "

" I trust you then. " You reply after a thought-out pause, masking the growing mirth within you as soon as you spread your legs to the angel, fully.

He's given a positively nasty view.

Not that much time has passed since you were folded beneath the stone monster, and your body still shows signs of being highly sensitive. From the flushing of your cunt, to a still peeking clit and, of course, the obscene cream-colored fluid you have no choice but to drip. Remnants of arousal still pulse within you at the sensation of your own warmth and wetness, finding a depraved sense of joy from how full of cum you have been throughout this entire day.

Maybe you should add him to the tally.

No. The longer you stay here, the less straight you think.

Belo looks absolutely enraptured by the sight before him, spare hand tight on the towel as you sit there, dress hiked up for his access. The monster man doesn't move for a long pause wherein you can see two pupils dilate slightly, the fluff on his chest pushing against that black outfit.

It's odd. You won't question why he's reacting to the sight of you this way when most of his coworkers seem vastly desensitized. You could be wrong, but perhaps he's relatively new to this place? That would make manipulating your way into a better position easier, but then, his conviction in this Admin person, in this lord he keeps speaking of- Being new here doesn't exactly mean he isn't already washed into a certain way of thinking.

Apparently, the two of you have spaced out at the same time.

Though, as you consider calling out to him, Belo shakes himself off the trance and finally gets to work.

Exactly as promised, those pale hands are nothing but gentle when they drag their way up from your inner thighs. And, in all honesty, you'd be lying to say it doesn't feel nice. Because it does. It's an attentive type of aftercare, even if the angel wasn't the one who plunged into you, or even remotely emotionally attached to you for that matter. For a moment, seduction games and thoughts of escape fade into the back of your mind, becoming static noise to the sweet sensation of humid cotton on skin.

Your eyes close, a deep sigh relieving some modicum of stress. Until Belo finally has the guts to touch you where it counts.

The moment you glance down, you find his eyes fixed on your face, although they quickly redirect to the spot between your legs. His grip is shaky at best, collecting the beads of spent as they show themselves and turning the towel around so he can smooth it over your womanhood. A nudge too close to your button is all that's needed for your leg to twitch and a noise to escape.

" P- Pardon. " Belo instantly excuses.

Although, he doesn't stop.

In fact, a minute or so of this light treatment passes before you start growing suspicious of his motives. I'll be quick, he said, and yet here he is, petting your pussy like a timid boy that's been shown a pair of tits and doesn't quite know what to do with them.

What is he hoping to achieve really? You think for a second, trying to keep a straight face. Does he just want an opportunity to caress a woman's privates? Is he hoping that you'll make a sound? When the angel begins edging the towel up repeatedly, never failing to gently bump your now interested clit, you realize it's definitely the latter. This dirty little bastard wants you to make some noise. It turns him on. Perfect, you need him to be horny for this.

" Belo. " Your hips shift forward the next time he combs over your pussy.

" Ah- ... Yes? "

You're not sure if it's sweat, but something's definitely running down the side of his face.

" Please, don't touch me there so much. It makes me... " Staring away, you feign deep shame.

He gets the picture, eating up the act you feed him without doubt- Or, who knows, he could be onto you yet still enjoy the pretend game.

" Oh dear. " The angel murmurs. " Then perhaps we should leave it as is. "

When Belo gets up, probably about to flee again, the fucking loser, you grab onto the edge of his coat. Cape? Whatever it is. " Stay. I should thank you for being so soft with me. " You plead when he faces you over his shoulder.

Those head wings flutter nervously. " I don't- I can't. I can't waste time here, I have to- "

" I'll be quick. " The corners of your lips quirk up, the tiniest hint of mischief present.

Belo spares a glimpse at the door, then back to your figure. There's a second where he looks ahead fully, and it's crystal clear he just lost the battle with his sense of duty.

" Alright... " The angel faces your seated frame again. " I suppose a moment longer won't hurt. "

He's consistently avoiding eye contact, and now you can be sure why. He got hard again, probably just from touching you through that towel, the shape of it straining against his suit. Oh for sure, he's hot under the collar enough for you to drop this silly charade. Grabbing the pale one by the holes on the sides of his "pants", you pull him forward rather forcefully, planting a kiss to his hidden erection.

Belo squawks, entire form tensing as his wings spread a good bit. He huffs and grabs the side of your head with both hands to keep it still. It's not an uncomfortable hold, thankfully.

" J- Just what- What in Eden do you think you're doing?! "

You don't answer the startled monster right away, blinking up at him innocently, then moving to place more chaste pecks along the length of his hard-on, nuzzling against it like the debauched voice that's been leering in the back of your mind all this time beckons you to do.

" Thanking you. " Simple.

" Lesser, with all d- due respect- " His next words melt into a desperate little " Uhn- " when you reach to kiss the tip of it.

Flattish head. Workable shape. No knot, thank goodness.

He doesn't seem like he knows what to say right now, torn between putting a stop to things and letting it all happen. The trick is, of course, not letting Belo think for too long. Nimble fingers search for a zipper on the angel's suit, finding nothing. Worried, you stroke the monster through the feather-patterned black fabric, poking and pinching at the front of his suit until -Ah, so here they are- You find nearly imperceptible buttons. It's a breeze from there on, fast motions undoing his outfit while the angel sputters and tenses.

" You- Good lord, you don't have to... " He pipes up when his member is freed. " We shouldn't. This is getting out of hand. " The desire to roll your eyes is overwhelming.

Is it weird to say his dick is pretty? Because it is.

It reminds you of Grimbly's, in a way. Smooth, a tapered sort of head, definitely proportionate to his size. Its pallid pink coloration, only ever getting darker at the root, makes him look soft and inviting. His arousal beads steadily, and you have no qualms taking Belo into your hands.

" Human... "

You'd rather he call you literally anything else, to be honest.

Right, so, you ponder while slowly working him up, the plan here is to either exhaust him, or at the very least catch him off-guard enough to leave. After all, you didn't hear him lock the door again when he came in. If you can make a dash into that elevator, then you can split from him and try to race somewhere. Not an ideal strategy, or a bright one for that matter, but you'll have to make do. There's an even smaller chance that the angel will feel merciful enough to lead you out, but you'd be an idiot to trust such a hopeless possibility.

Ah fuck it, one step at a time, you don't have time to mull on the finer details.

Focusing on the present, you plant several kisses along the length of the angel's cock. Not giving him time to stutter out any useless exclamations and letting a small tongue explore him from top to bottom. His legs shake visibly, even the fingers previously static on the sides of your head now tremble faintly, Belo seems flustered by his own reactions.

" You don't get treated well enough, do you? " Your smile is sweet superficially, but you wouldn't blame it if he took your words as an insult.

Although Belo seems to be far away right now, all three eyes lidding as he stares down at you, fixated on the movements of your lips more than the meaning behind them. It's ridiculous how quickly he's getting undone, and, curiously, you note that his large wings are closing in around you- As if to shield the world from the disgusting act being performed.

Even if you'd like to draw things out, time is against you here. Every second that passes is a bead forever lost to the hourglass of your survival- You're sinking in quicksand. It's with that urgency in the forefront of your mind that your lips wrap lewdly around Belo's pink girth and take it as far as possible without gagging.

" Hha- Ohhn m-mercy my lord...! "

His taste is nothing to write home about, but his noises? The finest of melodies. The angel's voice already had a melodic undertone to it, now it really is as if he's singing for you. Horny little hums becoming full-throated moans while he pleads this lord entity for forgiveness. Somehow, you doubt he's referring to any sort of god you know. Part of you wants to taunt him that there's no god involved in your oral skill, but his little cries are too amusing to halt.

" Mmn- I'm bad, I'm going to be punished for this... " Belo laments, even as the fingers holding your head subtly encourage you to bob on his cock faster, hips tilting ever so slightly forward. " I- It's all because of you. Filthy- Ah- Lecherous woman- My lord those lips ohn... "

You're not even trying that hard. Though his theatrics are a little flattering.

The next time he rocks into your motions, he gets greedy, causing you to choke around the base of his shaft, messily drooling as you gag. The sight isn't pretty, and you assumed the prissy angel would get turned off, yet instead, he throbs in your mouth. Hah, the puritan is a sexually repressed pervert- Who could have seen that coming?

Belo sheds self-control and dignity for every second that you suck him stupid, and his righteous mask falls entirely.

" Hharder... " He whispers, voice so broken you actually shiver, heating like a furnace. " Harder harder please- Mm faster, you feel so good! "

Who are you to deny an angel's beautiful begging?

Motions speeding, you make it a point to moan around him, the thrill of his wanton calls making your loins boil alive. He's such a slut in heat, you'd delight in bullying this one to his knees. The desire to make him come takes center stage and the sloppy noises of your work fill the room, the fur around his slit soaking with drool and precum by now.

" Fffuh yes -Oh I'll pay, I'll pay for this- Keep going keep going please I'm so- "

" So what, Belo? "

The room drops several degrees in temperature. It's a miracle you didn't bite Belo's cock in fright.

He rips himself from your mouth, quickly using both hands and wings to shield himself while he steps away from your figure- Effectively leaving you to clean your face hurriedly before you spot the new figure who has walked in silently.

It's a woman.

Not just any woman. A human. Like you.

For a long, pregnant pause, you think you're hallucinating. Giving a blowjob to an angel was a terrible decision and his fluids have induced hallucinations in your mind. You're high. You're tripping. There can't be another human in this cesspit. Or rather- There can't be an untouched human in this home of horrors.

The person in front of you looks very well groomed. Her hair is straight and short, a brunette hue matching the irises on calm, watchful eyes. This petite smile sits on an otherwise pale, perfectly polite face. Tones of purple adorn a somewhat intricate dress-uniform, topped by a small hat with a logo you've come to recognize here, fishnets, and heavy-looking boots. She holds an air of importance and passive authority, something that compels you to never take your eyes off her, to listen, to behave.

There's no doubt in your mind this woman is not a poor lost soul like you. She holds power here, this is not a friend or a savior come to your aid by any stretch of the imagination. Be on your toes. Belo's reaction to her appearance doesn't help either.

" My- Lady Admin, it's not- " He fumbles, searching for an excuse he knows he can't make up on the spot. She gives him a placid glance. " W- We- I- "

" You're hopeless, Belo. That's what you are. " She completes. The door to the room slams shut behind her seemingly on its own, causing the two of you to jump.

Admin.

So it's her. All this time, he was talking about her. Fear claws at your throat the longer you stare at this peculiar woman. Outwardly, there's nothing off with her, but her mere presence is so oppressing that you fail to fetch any words. It's as if something hides behind her eyes, speaks from inside her mouth, listens through her ears. Her body language is imperceptible, revealing nothing but her awareness of others' intentions. You don't know what you're dealing with, she scares you more than any monster ever could and you can't place why.

Belo prostrates himself before the smaller female figure, head glued to the ground as he shakes in trepidation. " My lady, I failed you! I'm an impulsive beast and I disappointed those above me. It will never happen again- I promise! I swear on my vows! Please punish the lord's servant as you see fit. "

Fixated on the angel's pathetic beseeching, you only notice Admin's gaze is trailing you a touch too late. She cages you in place without words, studying, deliberating. Her brows rise slowly, as if she had just heard something surprising, certainly not whatever mindless babbling her subordinate is spewing gratuitously. Finally, after a small eternity, she veers towards Belo, a delicate gloved hand grabbing the halo protrusion on the back of his head and yanking it up so she can stare down at shrunken inhuman pupils.

" We can arrange that later, you animal. " She spits, voice distorting towards the end in a manner that nearly stops your heart and makes him whimper. " Get up. "

He instantly springs to a stand. " Yes, lady. "

The woman pries his wings off his front, met with only minor resistance, as a warning glance is all that's needed for the angel to bare himself, a neglected shaft bobbing under her gaze.

" You. " She calls while leading Belo forward by the wrist, back to his previous spot in front of you. " Finish this. "

" M- Me? " You stammer, quickly facing Belo's cock again.

The brunette works fast, looping a purple groove around his length and quickly pumping the angel. She does it casually, but in a practiced manner, as if this is common place around here. Which, honestly, you don't know what to expect anymore. The puzzled glance you spare at Belo is not returned, his three eyes glazing again as he simply subjects himself to whatever she wants without complaint.

" Yes, you. " Admin arches a brow. " You've aroused him, now fix your mess, I need him functional for the rest of the night. "

This is getting so weird on so many levels.

When all you do is blink and attempt to stutter out questions, her calm demeanor cracks and she swiftly takes matters into her own hand.

Actually, to be more accurate, she takes your hair into her hands and forces you onto the angel's cock. You yelp at the pain, getting bobbed condescendingly onto Belo's length a couple of times before you start doing it on your own, tear tracks sliding down your face from the pain of her ruthless grip. Did you just feel clawtips on the back of your head?

Belo moans out again. The grip on your hair recedes.

" There. Make him come, I don't have all day. "

Yes ma'am...

Because what else are you going to do, now that your plan went to hot shit? With her around, it's essentially game over, isn't it? You needed to have escaped this room before she arrived, perhaps attempting to seduce the angel was only a detrimental waste of time.

She observes you work, entirely unfazed by the gross noises taking over the room. The sensation of judgement weighs heavily on your shoulders, her piercing gaze leaving you no room to slack off or make mistakes. In fact, fear makes you work faster, until Belo is twitching in your mouth.

" Tongue. " She demands, a hint of a smile on her face.

Looping over the head of his member every now and then, you get to see Admin shove two digits in her own mouth, then drop them to Belo's slit, slightly disturbing your pace before slipping them under the base of his cock to pump mercilessly.

" A- AH! Lady-! "

The pale monster shouts his sudden pleasure, fur ruffling and pupils dilating. His head curves back slightly, the woman behind him not missing a beat when she bites down on a tender spot of his wings. What a sight, you think to yourself, mildly distressed by your enjoyment of the scene. You had never been that much of a voyeur, but this is... Different.

Belo's hips are then harshly pushed forward. You choke and sputter disgracefully, too distraught to hear the start of his mellifluous cry before you sense ropes of hot cum coating your throat. There's no choice but to swallow, or else you'll only choke further.

He's pulled off you before his peak is finished, left to tremble and stain himself in pearly white strings, his punishment so far being a mildly ruined orgasm. You're not holding up much better, coughing some of his spent back out in your effort to breathe clearly. The two of you are a disgraceful mess, his face burns as hot as yours.

" Scram now, you desperate sod. " She says, after a drawn out beat of silence, possibly only to let the shame sink in.

The angel hurries to shove himself into his suit, buttoning it back up and murmuring rushed apologies before speed-walking away with his head down like a beaten mutt. The door opens for him, closing softly once the monster is out of sight.

That leaves you and her, Admin, the person he wanted to take you to since the start of all this madness. You have no idea what to expect, and it must show clearly, though she only stands wordlessly, opening a shelf in the bedside table and retrieving spare wipes to clean her stained glove.

" ... You're a human. " It slips out, you quickly regret it.

" Some people have stopped seeing me that way. " She cocks he head for a second, tossing the used wipes onto the table.

" How did- How did you survive in here? " It's a confused whisper. She not only survived but acquired some mysterious form of authority over these depraved monsters. They revere her, or at least the angel clearly does.

Admin turns, offering an almost pitying expression, then sits on the edge of the bed, far from you, her legs crossed. The woman is suddenly static like a doll, facing the wall rather than you.

" I'm responsible for the flow of this building. I saw its birth and I will live to see its fall. As my worship's vessel, it'd be worrying if I wasn't respected, no? " She has a certain humorous drawl now, but there's nothing funny about it to you.

So she's in charge, for lack of finer wording. You're more worried about the repeated mention of this lord figure, this "worship", whoever they may be. What was it Belo said, when he had found you and Pebble on the roof? Kulu? Vurlu?

" Krulu? "

Chestnut eyes fix you from the corner of her vision. She sits straighter. " So you've been told? Do you know of our lord? "

" No... I heard someone say it. "

She deflates almost imperceptibly. " I see. Address him formally. " It's a warning, not a suggestion. " Clean yourself as best as you can. Strip. You will be taken to him for evaluation. " Admin tosses the rest of the wet wipes package your way. It falls flat on your lap.

You don't move to grab it.

Not at all. Your heart is hammering in your skull, the sound of that is horrendous. It feels as if you're glancing at the end of the rope, your hourglass is running out of sand, the ride is slowing down as its end approaches. On this foreign bed, with this borrowed dress, next to a stranger- You realize your fate is sealed.

And the desire to cry takes you over.

She doesn't need to look at you to understand you're sobbing faintly.

" B- But- I don't want to die! " You blubber. You got so far, after all. It's anything but fair.

" What you want is irrelevant to me. " The brunette states, expression molding into an air of boredom. " You will be presented to my lord. Clean yourself if you'd like better chances. I cannot and will not guarantee anything. "

You consider making a scene.

A proper scene. Screaming and raving and throwing shit around until she's forced to kill you herself -You don't doubt she can- Or getting on your knees and begging with every breath you can draw. But Admin doesn't seem like the type to fall into schemes, to be blinded by flattery or moved by pity. She's a stone wall, your emotions truly are meaningless here.

It's funny that, out of all the monsters you've met here thus far, she's the most inhuman one of them all.

Yes, there's no use getting on her nerves.

Eventually taking the wipes, you clean Belo's stray cum off your skin, dabbing at any dubious spots on the pink dress. Digits comb over your own hair, attempting to fix it even if you know the effort is fruitless. So this is it. This is the end all be all of tonight.

You could die.

You might die.

It all depends on this "lord".

When you look at Admin, she's glancing back at you expectantly, fingers steepled. A moment passes.

" I said strip. "

Oh. You forgot that.

Hesitation claws at you. But then, you've been through so much already, is there any point in being self-conscious around yet another heathen in this place, a human on top of that? Fuck it, you're sure she'll just force you if you don't do it fast enough.

There's a nod when you begin moving, silent approval of your unspoken logic.

The light cloth is easily removed, and just as you expected, the brunette has no comment ready. She blinks, appraises you some more, then gets up, moving towards the door.

" Come. " Admin beckons.

Her neutral complexion quickly sours into a frown when you stay put, bare and uncomfortable.

" E... Evaluation? " You pry, hopeful that it's not something deadly which you're about to be subjected to.

" Yes. "

Another silent beat passes. For fuck's sake, she's just infuriating, isn't she? If you weren't so intimidated, you'd let her know.

" ... And what does that entail? "

The woman rolls her eyes. " I prefer to let Master Krulu do the talking. " The door parts before her. " I won't have to drag you, will I? "

No, you've been subjected to enough shame for a lifetime today.

Covering your breasts and nethers, you grimace after the other human, grateful there don't seem to be monsters roaming the long hall of doors. Admin requests the elevator, and it arrives within a few short moments.

However, much to your growing misery, it's not vacant. A single furred, bulky monster is inside it.

Although you pale like a sheet of paper, you're pulled inside by the arm, made to stand placidly beside Admin while the doors close and she presses the button beneath the last endless row.

How can she feel safe right now? You get that she's apparently a big shot here, but how come she thinks monsters will leave her alone?! This woman is ten times more insane than you initially judged her to be.

The leering thing in front of you, all beady eyes and far too many teeth, licks its filthy chops, boring holes into the two of you. The brunette is utterly unfazed, posture impeccable, confidence clear. You, on the other hand, are cowering like a corralled rabbit.

Maybe that's why he opts to reach for you first. Easy prey.

Fear glistens in wet eyes when a clawed hand lifts, he leans forward, entirely focused on you specifically. You're about to shout for Admin, to ask her if this is part of her plan, if she's blind, if she won't help-

But then there's a sickening

Crunch

And his fingers peel open. Like apple shavings, the flesh, skin, ligaments and blood vessels peeling off bone in a gored mess that has your stomach doing cartwheels. He doesn't scream, he chokes on his own cries and heaves dryly, watching the events unfolding with as much terror as you. Nothing prepares you for the blood-curdling shriek the monster emits when his arm breaks, shards of crushed bone jutting this way and that while his limb contorts into positions it was never meant to take. As blood pools steadily on the elevator ground, he hurls his dinner onto his own shirt from the pain and appears to pass out from shock. Whatever force held his arm in place vanishes, and that large body splashes onto the small river of blood it made, droplets flying everywhere.

The walls, the buttons, Admin, you.

You'd rather be coated in ten loads of cum than this, shaking in trepidation that the same thing will be done to your appendages at any moment.

Admin is ever passive by your side, chestnut hues cast curiously to the mildly deformed figure. Did she do that? To help you? It's probably not the case, but in the off chance you're correct, being polite may keep you alive for longer.

" T- Thank you, miss. " Your voice is much quieter than you were expecting.

The woman smiles. " That wasn't me. "

Oh okay. Sure. Don't think about it.

The sensation of sinking feels ever intense while the elevator takes its sweet time reaching the destined floor. You know this place is massive, you know it can't possibly adhere to the laws of reality- But it feels like you're drifting infinitely into unknown depths. Like it'll stop at the Earth's core and boil you alive.

It steals the breath out of your lungs, makes you acquire an exotic breed of claustrophobia. Can it even go back up after all this height? What if you're stuck down there forever now? What if it never works again? What if it fucking jams midway through and you die here- In nowhere land, deeper than any corpse ought to be buried. What if-

Ding

Oh. Nevermind? Yes, let's shelve that panic for the several breakdowns you'll have at some point, if you live through this.

When the elevator doors part, you kind of wish the thing did get stranded on the way down.

A creeping darkness slithers its way into the golden walls of the elevator, as if about to drag it into itself, like a black hole. You can't explain why, you've never been that bothered by the dark, but this one is suffocating. You know something looms there, can feel it in the heaviness the air sports, whatever's here takes up every inch of space, stealing the oxygen for itself, clouding the surroundings.

You don't want to step in. You fear for your eyes. You fear that this blackness is so thick it'll never fade from your vision, blinding you in perpetual terror. You look into that sinking gloom and the world twists at the edges, flickering and distorting.

You hate it. You hate this all. You want to go back up. You're not supposed to be here, this is not for you, you need to go you need to-

A candle flickers into a burst of sickening wisteria flames.

Your startled screech echoes back to you even louder, painting your cheeks in shame. Admin blinks at you with a slight air of parody.

A lulling smoke barely cuts through the darkness, you can make out a smooth, glass-like floor. Ah, so it's not a bottomless pit after all. Good, at least that, your depressed mind cheers.

The brunette slips into the darkness like it's her home, disappearing from perception entirely until the candle is lifted, the thing barely illuminating her figure while she walks back towards you. Was that a grin on her face? For the briefest of seconds, you could have sworn her teeth glistened...

" Come. " She repeats, stepping just barely into the elevator, expectant.

Not a single muscle in you moves. It's childish, foolish, pointless, but you look pleadingly at her. As if the woman that orchestrates this place, the person making sure the cycle of depravity never ceases, the one who's seen this building's rise, would have a sudden change of heart and whisk you away to safety.

No, there's not even the barest hint of sympathy there. She isn't seeing a person in front of her. Only a part of a goal. An element in a task. An asset to take from point A to point B. You are no more complex to Admin than a potted plant hidden in a corner of a forgotten room.

" I'm scared... " You whisper.

" You should be. History forgot the masters, but your senses will always know them. "

What?

" Move. "

When you refuse to, the world spins and you fall onto the freezing ground, palms barely fast enough to shield your head. A sharp pain on your lower legs makes you wince. She must have kicked you.

" Know that I will scrape your face across these sacred grounds, if I must. "

That certainly gets you to stand, blind like a mole if not for the weak wisp of the dark candle she holds. When the brunette begins to walk, her boots clicking faintly, you chase after her instantly. The last thing you want is to be left to your own vices in this piercing void. It's impossible to tell where the walls are, if there even are walls. Is this place decorated? Is everything as cold as the chill you feel pricking at your bare feet? This location feels infinite, but it could just be your mind playing odd tricks, trying to fill in the gaps.

Admin traverses its expanse with the same ease one will take a stroll through the local park. It's as if everything is perfectly lit for her, or maybe she just dwells here too, somehow. Turns blend into more turns, sometimes the feel of the ground will alter slightly, but you're never given time to process it. Every miniscule change serves to keep you perpetually alert, never allowing for the most insignificant of comforts to console you. Any moment now, there could be a bottomless pit and you just wouldn't know it.

" You're about to be bestowed a great honor. " She starts, in wording you can only imagine comes straight out of a low-budget movie. " You don't even know how lucky you are. "

What a curious definition of "luck" she has...

" You won't ever be the same. "

Shut up. Just shut up, stop talking.

You're not sure if you're wise to feel relieved when more candles, all identical to the one Admin carries, become visible. Hues of purple surround what you can outline as an altar of sorts, carved to Hell and back in symbols you can't make heads or tails of, spinning into intricate patterns on discolored marble. Silhouettes of foreign tapestry can be glimpsed at every time one of the candles roars slightly brighter.

This cult shit will be the end of you. Because it's real.

When Admin halts, you nearly walk past her, steadying eventually. That you know of, no one stands on the altar, which is equal parts puzzling as it is disquieting.

" My higher. " The woman bows to the darkness. " She's here, exactly as you wished. "

The silence that follows drags across your skin like nails on a chalkboard. A minor disturbance in the air makes the flames veer into the left for a moment. Oh you sure as fuck are not alone, your animal brain screams.

" Forgive the delay, Belo faltered. "

When her head rises, a gust of comparatively steaming air is blown your way, and you look ahead just in time to see two large orange slits open in the nothingness, sharpened pupils strike the fear of gods into you and your breath perishes in that instant. Help.

" Leave us. "

Admin tenses, her eyes widening. " Yes, m'lord. " Shock is quickly and effectively masked, the woman standing, retreating from whence the two of you came. Only the clicks of boot on ground fading away can indicate her departure.

Had you not been as paralyzed with ancient terror as you are, you would've shouted after her.

Slow, ever-uncomfortable seconds pass. You're not sure if you should bow like your escort did previously, or just turn tail and flee. Speaking is out of the question.

The privilege to choose is coldly ripped from you when the candles erupt into bright streams of fire, your sanity burning as well the moment a gigantic form presents itself.

There are no words. There can't be words. Your mind isn't given time to ponder on what it's actually seeing, just that it's witnessing the form of a god, compacted in a shape the human mind may be able to perceive. But not without pain, not without the ringing that stabs into your cranium from all sides at the sight of numerous charred arms and the flickers of red taking over your sight as your eyes nearly sizzle at the organs perched on his abdomen. A thin, vaguely emaciated figure extends to a height far beyond that of any monster's you have ever seen. You can make out charred, curdled flesh crossing that magnificent hide, horns, sharp jutting protrusions on hard shoulders, a curling, bony tail tipped with a scythe.

Every time your brain tries to fix and determine what it's looking at, parts of your comprehension falter and blend into others. The mere exposure to this being is breaking down your thought process, turning it into a mindless soup swirling to a nauseating rhythm. Basic shapes become unknowable mysteries, the smallest movement from their figure causing a searing headache to paralyze you. Colors become tastes and sounds turn to smells, sight is touch, your footing falters.

In a matter of blinks, sensation across your body starts to fade, becoming a distant murmur. And for a blissfully vacant moment, it's as if you're outside your own husk, glancing down from above, watching yourself stumble and heave.

Are you dying...? Is this what it feels like? Is it ending?

Something slender reaches out from the molding mass before you, past the corner of your vision. Faintly, the sound of maddened screeching reaches your eardrums -Is that you?- Before several points of contact are established, sending ripples of bile-churning goosebumps through your scalp and neck and-

Everything's calm.

It's not a good sensation. In fact, you're on the precipice of coherence, as if your impending meltdown is being held back by a transparent barrier, the fringes of your fraying conscious held together by the fickle webs of a spider. Something's is drying on your cheeks, your nose is too clogged by blood for you to breathe, so you end up coughing red onto your own chin. Finally, you're given enough motor control to blink, eyeballs burning, ears itching, though never able to turn your gaze away from him.

No wonder they call him lord. What else can you call an entity this supreme?

The god of this land spares you an unreadable expression. You'd piss yourself in fright if your bladder hadn't frozen.

" Nuisance. " He booms.

And every bone in your body rumbles. You won't talk. You should never talk. What is there to say, and how do you say it, to a deity? The word sounds from everywhere at once, the room feeding it to your senses by force.

" At its core, that is what you have been. "

The god moves now, flames dimming to shadow over his body once more, welcoming it, what you now recognize as a spidery hand briskly abandoning your head. A long tail drags across the floor audibly. Are you being circled?

" Thrown to my grounds by one of the... Guests of honor, I assumed you to be no more than a measly gift of gratitude. "

So he knows. Did Vesper tell him? Did he see it? Have you been watched this entire day?

" Bait perhaps. Scraps for the starved of lust. "

There's a gust of warm air on your back, though you dare not twitch, not even to wipe the crimson running down your face. You're going to die from this, probably. For some reason, the thought isn't as panic-inducing as it should be.

" It even crossed my mind that your presence here was more of a distraction. A means to disorient the servants, stir enough chaos for one of them to get fruitless ideas. "

Massive claws hold your upper body still, a stray, rough hand tugging one of your legs up with no care for your safety. Your hip joint pops harmlessly and you quiver with fear as your genitals are appraised by them. By a god figure.

" And, merit where merit is due, you have been most successful at distracting my workers. In just one day, you sank five to blind fucklust. "

There's a snort. No, an inhale?

" You drip these conquests like an offensive perfume. "

Oh yes, he's definitely angered you've apparently bothered the staff team here, no doubt about that. There was no winning here, was there? Being cooperative, being rambunctious, it all would inspire his wrath anyway, wouldn't it?

" I do not quite care for what makes you so special. " The voice sounds a little more distant, your limb unceremoniously dropped, body released. " It is a busy, busy night, lesser. "

" Killing you is on the cards. "

You guessed as much.

Pleading doesn't seem useful with him. If it meant nothing to Admin, then you're more than certain this one will crush your skull like a pea should you irritate him too much. Let him talk, you suppose.

" But so is a much more useful alternative. "

Oh?

" Which is the only reason I have deigned to talk to something as filthy as you. "

Are all gods like this? Is this what humanity has to look forward to? You have no reference, no expectations, no norms- This is brand new, uncharted, impactful territory. Giving the nuances of the situation any more thought than you currently are will unravel the small mercy of mental stability he bestowed upon you. Just as you have done since the start of this rollercoaster, you opt to live in the present. Think in the moment. Act on the second. Everything else is conceptually inexistent.

" With enough... " There's a long, low hum. " Guidance, you may come to serve me. " What must have been a wispy chuckle follows, as if the idea was a tad humorous to them. " Never as a worker here. Yet the ones sworn to me need to weened off my vessel, the future will require a certain level of distance. The sooner I fetch holes, the faster this will cease being a point of concern. "

... So, he's offering to let you remain alive, if you become a glorified cock-sock for his men?

What small shred of hope resided within you ebbs away in depressing seconds, face falling to a pained frown. Your tear ducts aren't working properly, but you're crying silently nonetheless. That's it, the culmination of all you've done in life.

It has led you here, to this moment, to this unspeakable humiliation.

What did you do that was vile enough to warrant this?

A flash of sizzling orange lets you know you're always being studied. The shadows grow more oppressive in their caress of your naked silhouette, he's closer now than he ever was before, every hair in your skin standing at attention.

Krulu's laughter roars loudly enough to momentarily deafen you.

" Do not illude yourself. " The god hisses. " Your kind is not permitted to leave these grounds. If you are to keep living then you will pay me tribute! "

" You will be of use, however your higher sees fit... "

A lulling, deceitful silence settles when his words fade into murmurs carried by the room's echoing.

It boils down to a very simple choice, one you can make sense of and see coming, thankfully.

When the numberless candles around the altar flare again, those bursts of wisteria ascend to the very ceiling of this room, spreading around the two of you like a dome of ethereal smog. More incomprehensible sigil-work and images eat up what little you can see of the walls, reredos and tapestry. Only now does the golden hue of jewelry adorning the entity's cruel body become clear to you, as does the yellowed snarl beneath such stern glowering.

One of those six hands darts its way to your blood-soaked jaw, claws hooking into soft skin like knives through melted butter when you're violently yanked onto the marbled surface of the altar. Krulu's face dwarfs yours, the glow of age-old hues holding immeasurable hate boring into the very depths of your soul.

" Waste my time no longer, pestilence. It is not often I offer agency to the inferior. "

You can only gulp.

" Give yourself to me, become property of my domain. "

The grip on your jaw softens just enough to let you move it, the soreness stinging harshly.

" Or perish, and the night will resume without you. "

Even if your throat feels as if it has been all but sealed with trepidation, you know this is a choice you'll have to voice.

Because, it could very well be the last choice you ever make.

And the higher is offering you the smallest amount of consideration by letting you write your own path.

#Belo oc #Krulu oc #monster x reader #monster smut #terato #terato tag #monsterfucker #terat0philliac #minors dni #not sfw #Gifted🎀

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kimberlyannharts · 7 months ago

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Ultraman: Rising!

Sure we all know the Power Rangers reboot has been passed on at Netflix but instead we have this hot new piece of toku instead: Ultraman: Rising! And I finally got the chance to check it out last night.

I know Ultraman is one of the big toku/kaiju genre staples but it's never really been on my radar of things to watch. I'm not sure why! I guess Super Sentai/Power Rangers just has more of the it factor that appeals to me. So because of that I really have no context to the story besides it's a guy who can turn into a giant silver superhero that beats up kaiju.........or maybe it's an alien who looks like a human and the silver superhero is his true form? or maybe the human and the silver superhero are two separate beings that share the same body? idk. It's probably all three of those things depending on the series. But this film was marketed as a standalone that new fans could enjoy AND....the big one.....it's ANIMATED, so I felt more inclined to check it out.

And it was really really good!! I enjoyed it a lot!

Spoiler-ish thoughts on the film below:

= Let's get this out of the way: the biggest draw to this was the animation and art direction, and yeah, it slaps. The textures and stylization (always love 2D painted effect animation on explosions and things) and lighting were a full-course meal and the scenes where they focused on Ultraman's shining eyes staring through a window or computer screen were just SO striking. To the point where I feel that if I got around to watching the actual live-action Ultraman, it might feel a little underwhelming in comparison. Oops

= It does kind of fall in the cliches of the "selfish guy learns maturity by having to be a father" plot (with bonus "son is estranged from his dad and mom is missing but they work to improve their relationship" sprinkled in) which makes me appreciate The Return even more (sorry, I'm still Returnpilled) but it's still charming and I can hope if we get more movies they give a little more focus to Ami and Emiko (speaking of which, I know they weren't doing a romance this movie, but Ami having a daughter and the movie being about Ken raising a daughter? oh you know it's happening and I'm here for this because they're both so hot)

= I think Ken is also a better example of the "showboating egotistical hero who learns to mature" than most because the movie isn't afraid to show him vulnerable even before his character development. I was genuinely surprised at that scene where he starts crying out of the stress of balancing his baseball career and figuring out Emi

= Apparently there was some discussion that the movie didn't bring up Ultraman's origins which, as someone who knows next to nothing about Ultraman, that didn't really bother me? Obviously I can still give more benefit of the doubt than people who don't know much about the tokusatsu/kaiju genre to begin with, but even so, I was still pretty down with the concept of "this guy has the ability to turn into a giant silver superpowered man and passed the ability down to his son" - and I think in the age of superhero blockbusters in general the idea isn't that farfetched that it requires more explanation. In any case it's a bit of a moot point since future movies are clearly going to talk about Ultras and their origins more, based on the stinger.

= Is Emi a clear kid-appeal character meant to be shown off in marketing and merchandising because of how squishy and cute she is? Yes. Is she just so fucking squishy and cute and my newest baby child? YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES. I am not immune to monster baby. I think it helps that I always found the old monster screeches cute and applying them to a baby babbling was kinda genius in its execution. And I'm glad they kind of got the obligatory "haha babies poop and are smelly and gross" jokes out of the way early (yeah they had the whole "acid reflux" thing in the second act but I've seen way worse in other media)

= The subtitles calling Sato's Ultra form "Ultradad" and his Ultra mustache were both really funny

= Obviously I knew Ken wasn't going to die when he threw himself on Dr. Onda's mech (btw the mech was sexy) but I definitely expected a little more than just a busted arm with how they were building up how the blast would have "destroyed them all" kdjkfdj maybe they cut to after he had recovered a bit. Though in general I'm not quite sure of how durable Ultraman is

= Kind of a milf. reblog

#text #ultraman #ultraman rising

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scotianostra · 5 months ago

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On September 7th 1736, Captain Porteous was dragged from prison and lynched by an angry mob in Edinburgh.

I love when I can connect posts from previous days, if you remember this Thursdays post on Robert Fergusson birth date, in his poem The Daft Days, he mentions the ‘Black Banditti’ oh and the Aqua Vitae, is of course whisky!

And thou, great god of Aqua Vitae!

Wha sways the empire of this city,

When fou we’re sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepar’d

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

The City Guard.

Captain John Porteous, was a Scottish soldier and Captain of the Edinburgh City or Town Guard, the old “police” force of auld reekie. The story of the unfortunate Porteous starts in January 1736 when three men, Andrew Wilson, William Hall and George Robertson, were charged with smuggling and attempting to rob Collector of Excise, James Stark at the Pittenween Inn, Fife.

All three men were initially faced with the Grassmarket gallows, though William Hall had his sentence revoked for returning King’s Evidence against his fellow conspirators. Judgment day for Andrew Wilson and George Robertson was set for 14 April. A few days before the execution date Robertson managed to escape his fate, leaving Wilson alone to face the hangman’s noose.

The following is from Edinburgh Poet, Allan Ramsay, (who I also mention on Thursday as Fergussons “muse”) for a first hand account of the events……..“

A true and faithfull account of the Hobleshaw [riot] that happened in Edinburgh, Wednesday, the 14th of Aprile 1736 at the hanging of Wilson, housebreaker.

On the Sunday preceeding viz the 11th, the two condemn’d criminalls Wilson and Robertson were taken as usual by four sogers [soldiers] out of prison to hear their last sermon and were but a few minutes in their station in the Kirk when Wilson who was a very strong fellow took Robertson by the head band of his breeks and threw him out of the seat, held a soger fast in each hand and one of them with his teeth, while Robertson got over and throw the pews, push’d o'er the elder and plate at the door, made his escape throw the Parliament Close down the back staire, got out of the Poteraw [Potterrow] Port before it was shut, the mob making way and assisting him, got friends, money and a swift horse and fairly got off nae mair to be heard of or seen. This made them take a closer care of Wilson who had the best character of them all (til his foly made him seek reprisals at his own hand), which had gaind him so much pity as to raise a report that a great mob would rise on his execution day to relieve him, which noise put our Magistrates on their guard and maybe made some of them unco flayd [unusually afraid] as was evidenced by their inviting in 150 of the Regement that lys [lies] in Cannongate, who were all drawn up in the Lawn Market, while the criminal was conducted to the tree by Captain Porteous and a strong party of the City Guard. All was hush, Psalms sung, prayers put up for a long hour and upwards and the man hang’d with all decency & quietnes. After he was cut down and the guard drawing up to go off, some unlucky boys threw a stone or two at the hangman, which is very common, on which the brutal Porteous (who it seems had ordered his party to load their guns with ball) let drive first himself amongst the inocent mob and commanded his men to folow his example which quickly cleansed the street but left three men, a boy and a woman dead upon the spot, besides several others wounded, some of whom are dead since. After this first fire he took it in his head when half up the Bow to order annother voly & kill’d a taylor in a window three storys high, a young gentleman & a son of Mr Matheson the minister’s and several more were dangerously wounded and all this from no more provocation than what I told you before, the throwing of a stone or two that hurt no body. Believe this to be true, for I was ane eye witness and within a yard or two of being shot as I sat with some gentlemen in a stabler’s window oposite to the Galows. After this the crazy brute march’d with his ragamuffins to the Guard, as if he had done nothing worth noticing but was not long there till the hue and cry rose from them that had lost friends & servants, demanding justice. He was taken before the Councill, where there were aboundance of witnesses to fix the guilt upon him. The uproar of a mob encreased with the loudest din that ever was heard and would have torn him, Council and Guard all in pices [pieces], if the Magistrates had not sent him to the Tolbooth by a strong party and told them he should be tried for his life, which gave them some sattisfaction and sent them quietly home. I could have acted more discreetly had I been in Porteous’s place.”

A total of 9 were reported to have been killed and at least 20 wounded by the City Guard. Porteous was arrested the same afternoon and charged with murder. He was tried at the High Court of Justiciary on 5 July 1736. There was no shortage of enthusiastic witnesses to testify against Porteous’ actions. The jury, no doubt spurred on by the mob gathered outside, did not hesitate in finding him guilty, and he was sentenced to hang on September 8th.

When the news reached London, Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole managed to secure Porteous a Royal Pardon. Porteous was still being held at the Tolbooth, the history is a bit vague about why, I surmise it may have been for his own safety, as there is mention of the guards being increased at the old gaol leading up to the day in question.

A 4,000 strong mob took to the streets of Edinburgh. A total lockdown was ordered by the City Guard and all gates, including the Netherbow Port were closed – shutting out many troops stationed outside of the town. The enraged mob made their way to the prison and set the doors ablaze, Porteous attempted to flee but was eventually grabbed by force and dragged up the Lawnmarket, then down along the West Bow towards the Grassmarket where Andrew Wilson had met his end. Porteous was strung up on a dyer’s pole and brutally lynched until he ceased to move. The government would later declare a reward of £200 for any information of those responsible for Captain Porteous’ murder, but none of those guilty would ever be found.

Sir Walter Scott’s famous novel The Heart of Midlothian written in 1818 would later recall the events in great detail.

If visiting Edinburgh and you find yourself in Greyfriars Kirkyard you can find Captain Porteous’s grave is towards the west wall, once a year the re-enactors of the Town Guard pay “respects” to the man there.

The pics are "The Porteous Mob" by James Drummond, The Porteous Riots, A Scene from the Heart of the Midlothian by James Skene and The Porteous Mob by Stanley Cursiter.

You can find a contemporary account of the Porteous affair here from the excellent Newgate Calendar https://www.exclassics.com/newgate/ng187.htm

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #Riot #Lynching

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myreia · 5 months ago

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Desiderium

CHAPTER FIVE: THE DARK IN THE LIGHT

Chapter Rating: Mature (full story Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureia/Thancred Chapter Words: 3,206 Notes: Set during early Endwalker, spoilers for the start of the expac. Summary: After arriving in Old Sharlayan, Aureia wants to see Thancred’s old haunts. He could not be happier to oblige, but his thoughts are occupied by something else entirely. Prompt: ii. hands | blush Chapters: one • two • three • four • five Read on AO3

They do not sleep.

It’s tempting, of course, to close one’s eyes and while away the time. The silence up here is comforting—it’s in the gentleness of the light shining through the windows, the old and forgotten furniture from days gone by, the stillness of the air. The creak of the couch and the shift of its white cover as they move, the way their twinned breath rises and falls in tandems, these small, ordinary sounds filling the quiet.

Aureia lies on her back, nestled next to Thancred with one of his arms around her shoulders, and stares idly at the ceiling. It’s easy to get lost in tracing the patterns engraved above; even without the glowing constellations there are still hundreds of curving lines and unique shapes to find. She exhales a breath and stretches out, flexing her bare feet as she shivers slightly beneath his coat. Now the heat of sex has subsided, she is yearning for her own clothes again.

But putting them on would mean leaving. And leaving would mean that time would start again.

Thancred rolls onto his side, his gaze trained on her face. “You’re wriggling,” he says. “Everything all right?”

She holds back a smile. “That is called a stretch, sir, and I’m only doing it because my back is getting sore.” Making a face, she sits up and swings her legs over the side of the couch. Tilting her head to the side, she brushes her long hair out of the way and digs her fingers into her shoulder blade. “Ugh, I’m getting old.”

A firm hand brushes hers aside. “Picking up my bad habits, I see,” he chides gently. “You’re far from old.”

“I know. But I certainly feel it these days.” She closes her eyes and leans into him, murmuring in pleasure as he massages the taut muscles. “Some day the world will call on the Warrior of Light and they’ll find naught but a wizened old woman chasing them out with a broomstick.”

“Interesting. Never thought you the type to look to Matoya as a shining example.”

“Some days I think she’s the only one with head on straight. Maybe we would all do a little better if we retired to a secluded cave and relied on animated brooms and frogs for company.”

“I suppose there are worse fates.”

His tone is unexpectedly reluctant. He knows Matoya about as well as she does—which is to say not personally at all—but he has never sounded judgmental of her lifestyle. She pauses, pursing her lips as he retreats into silence and concentrates on the knot in her shoulder blade with singular focus.

“I think this one is perfectly amenable,” she says finally. “Perhaps more than a little appealing.”

He snorts. “You think so?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Considering you once lived in the Dravanian wilds, I wouldn’t think you one to judge.”

“It’s not that, it’s…” He cuts himself short, a grumble on the tip of his tongue. “Tell me honestly, Aur—would you be happy like that? A recluse, secluded on purpose from the rest of the world?”

Her lips twitch. “I haven’t given it that much thought, but I’d be lying if I said the thought wasn’t tempting.” The peace and tranquility this room has offered are washing away, retreating like the tide. Why can’t anything be easy? If it isn’t some impending doom or immediate disaster pressing in on them from the outside, then they seem to resort to making problems for themselves. Sometimes she wonders if it isn’t self-sabotage—as if there is something buried deep in both of them that still believes they are too damaged to deserve happiness. “Maybe not a cave, exactly, but… somewhere far away. A village where no one knows me, or failing that—if none of those exist anymore—then a little home in the wilds, the kind that sees a stray passerby maybe once or twice a year.”

“I… see.”

She can feel the wheels in his head turning, already overthinking the gravity of this topic. His hands are still moving across her back, absently working the same spot over and over again. The knot has long since disappeared, but she doesn’t have the heart to tell him.

“And you?” she asks hesitantly.

“It’s not exactly how I intended to spend retirement, no.”

“And how do you intend to spend your retirement?”

“That’s just it, Aureia. There is no plan. ’Twould be easier to count the ways in which I would not spend it than those I would.” He pauses, a breathy little sigh escaping his lips. She knows that sound—the heavy, weighty acceptance that comes before admitting something difficult. “Until the Telophoroi are dealt with and the Forum’s schemes unveiled, I cannot look that far in advance. And even if I did humour you and played into this fantasy you’ve conjured for us… I cannot see myself partaking in it. Nor can I see you, for that matter.”

Her heart twists, stung by his comment even though he is right. She is reaching for an idea she hasn’t fully thought through, one borne from a desire that is nice in theory, but will never work in practice. He can never stay grounded to one place for long; neither can she, for that matter. Even if they live long enough to consider retirement, they will never stop moving, never stop helping others wherever they can.

All this talk of home and homecomings since arriving in Old Sharlayan must have gone to her head.

A hollow knot forms in the pit of her stomach, distant memories echoing in her mind—white sands burning under her toes, ocean waves lapping at a shore beneath a sky burnt orange. Dense temperate forests humming with hidden wildlife. Laughter and chatter weaving through the square, too indistinct to make out. That was the Garlemald of her childhood, a provincial hometown long forgotten.

Sprawling steel forts that dominate the skyline. The tang of ceruleum polluting the air. The relentless red and blow glow of magitek paired with the heavy tread of soldiers and the long shadows of airships passing overhead—and the relentless snows and ice-crusted streets of the Imperial capital. The Garlemald of her adolescence, of her young adulthood.

There are no parents to return to, no childhood friends to fondly greet. No libraries to disappear into, no cafés to frequent. No markets to stroll about, no mentors to remember fondly, no old haunts to find. Even if they did exist, she would be dead the moment she stepped foot on Garlean soil without an army at her back, blood splattered across those crisp, bone-white snows.

Zenos may have claimed the privilege of fighting her for himself, but that doesn’t mean his former legions will follow suit. She isn’t just the Warrior of Light, their enemies’ greatest asset—she is the nation’s greatest traitor since its founding. There isn’t a Garlean alive who doesn’t want her dead.

A confrontation with Garlemald is inevitable. The country may be in disarray following the civil war, but even fractured as it is the military might of its legions cannot be underestimated. Not to mention that jester of an Ascian is pulling the strings from the capital itself. Zenos does not concern her. Fandaniel does. He promised her that the crown prince would be waiting for her at “the heart of the chaos” and she believes it.

The only question is what else waits for her.

Stop it. Don’t think about that now.

The self-given command cuts through the din of her mind. She’s spiralling in silence, Thancred oblivious to her trail of thought. And all this because she thought of home. Because in the midst of witnessing her friends’ homecoming, she found herself—once again—searching for something she does not have. Not because she wants it, but because she keenly feels yet another way in which she lacks an experience the others have come by naturally.

Gods, just thinking it she sounds bitter.

Thancred curses softly, sensing her tension. He bows his head and leans against her, his brow pressing into her shoulder blade. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Perhaps I made too harsh of an assessment.”

“Don’t be,” Aureia says gently. “And you didn’t. Today’s been an odd day.”

She presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, cutting herself off before she says more. The urge to ask him a barrage of complicated questions with no easy answers—what does he want from their lives? How does he see their future?—flares and dies. Now is not the time for this discussion. This moment is precious, and already too much of reality is creeping in. She is fighting it off second by second.

So she closes the door on it.

The tension releases its grip on her and she relaxes, sagging forward, her hands on her knees. He exhales a sigh of relief, his breath soft against her back, and runs a hand down her arm. He’s still yearning to touch her, to feel her skin’s warmth beneath his, to make their reprieve last as long as possible.

It’s tempting, so very tempting. To succumb to his impulses, surrendering to another round of desire and heat and pleasure. Tonight he wanted to focus on her, getting off on making her come, but a reversal tastes just as sweet. Some other night—and soon—she will follow through. She has several ideas in mind to wrap him around her little finger.

“Aur?” he murmurs.

She casts an eye across the room, spotting her clothes where they lie in an unkempt pile, his armguards beside them. The broken strap stands out, lying at an odd angle. A blush burns her cheeks. She really did let him undress her right there on the spot, didn’t she?

“Hm?” she whispers.

He catches the length of her hair, toying with the deep crimson ends. For some reason the red is always strongest there; she doesn’t know why. “Should we…?”

The unfinished question is clear. Do you want me? I want you.

But she is already filled, sated, her core still pleasantly numb. Her body is fatigued from the long day, her mind still fuzzy from the voyage overseas, and her back now sore from lying on the old couch. Though it breaks her heart to leave the privacy of his haunt and return to the world outside, a good night’s rest would do them both some good.

With a small smile, Aureia turns and catches his face between her hands, kissing him. Thancred groans against her lips, this time not with the heat of desire, but with the warmth of familiarity. She lingers for a moment, running her fingers through his hair. A pause, a breath—and then she lets him go.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her lips a hair’s breadth from his.

He rests his forehead against hers. “Whatever for?”

“You know.” She strokes her thumb across his cheek. “Let’s go home.”

She takes no note of the turn of phrase. It is merely words.

Drawing away, she rises and shrugs out of his coat, dropping it in his lap. She pads naked across the room and gathers her clothing from the floor, spine tingling as she feels his eyes on her. It takes her longer to dress than it did for him to undress her. Funny how that goes.

Thancred stays on the couch, watching her from heavy-lidded eyes, his hair mussed, and his cheeks flushed with colour. He spreads his coat across his knees, tugging absently at it. It isn’t until she has laced up her boots and collected his armguards that he finally moves, scooping up his shirt and pulling it on. His movements are slow, lethargic, as if he is half-asleep.

A chronometer chimes, deep and thunderous.

He snaps out of it. Standing quickly, he runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to straighten it out, pulls the coat on, and strides across the room. He takes his armguards from her and slips them on, twisting the broken strap around and tucking it beneath the metal. It will do for now.

Together, they leave the chamber to the dust and moonlight, its solitude broken for the first time in years.

It doesn’t take them long to go back the way they came. Aureia is the first to step out into the depths of night, eyes wide and mouth agape as she enters a winter fantasy. The snow is falling quickly enough now to cover the ground with a fine, shimmering layer of white. Large, soft flakes drift lazily through the air, the kind she can imagine children chasing and catching on the tips of their tongues. The chill chafes at her face and turns the tip of her nose red, but she finds herself not caring. She is too mesmerized by the way her breath puffs like mist in the cold.

Thancred follows her out from between the two buildings, and comfortable silence settles between them. They stroll the streets arm-in-arm, taking the time to enjoy these last moments of peace. Old Sharlayan has transformed in the dead of night, silent and steadfast, its lights casting a golden haze across sleepy streets. There is not a soul to be seen.

When they finally reach the Annex—for real, this time—and open its doors, they find Ojika asleep at his desk, a mug of old coffee an ilm away from his outstretched hand. He snorts and snuffles in his sleep, lingering on the cusp of waking only to fall back into a deeper slumber. Thancred shakes his head, murmuring something about the sleep schedules of scholars, and strides around the desk to pick the Lalafell’s fallen jacket off the floor. He drapes it around his shoulders.

Aureia glances at the doors to the main hall. Broad and heavy and very much closed. Either the discussion has gone late into the night, or they have missed the meeting entirely. She can envision Alphinaud with an anxious crease between his brows, pacing back and forth, arguing that they cannot continue with part of their party missing while Alisaie huffs and rolls her eyes in the corner.

“Should we stop by?” she asks under her breath, careful not to disturb Ojika.

He makes a face. “I suppose we must.”

She flashes him an encouraging smile. Careful not to make too much noise, she tugs the great doors open and slips inside.

The hall is dark. The high windows—their frosted glass as black as obsidian—look out into nothingness. In the sliver of warm light creeping in from the threshold, she can just make out the maps and posters that cling to the walls, their parchment pulling up at the edges. Large bookcases line the far wall, the old wood creaking as they settle in the silence, obscured by the shadows of a lopsided ladder or two. The outline of a large table occupies the centre of the room, pulled from its regular place to make room for the mismatched chairs arranged neatly around it. If the Scions did gather here, they are long gone.

Aureia glances over her shoulder at Thancred and catches his eye. He cocks his head towards the door, eager to leave.

“At the risk of sounding like an old matriarch—” a crisp voice calls. “—you’re late.”

A shadow unfurls from a high-backed seat and Y’shtola steps into the light. Her tail is curled behind her and the folds of her black dress rustle at her sides, the skirt rumpled from the way she was sitting. She carries a book in hand, a finger pressed between the pages so as not to lose her spot. True to form, it is far from light reading material—thick, leatherbound, faded letters on the spine. Her keen eyes stare straight ahead, sweeping over them with casual familiarity. Her aethersight must have spotted them the moment they opened the door.

“Yes, well…” Aureia smiles apologetically.

Thancred shrugs. “One could argue we’re fashionably late,” he supplies, crossing his arms.

“And one could also argue there is quite a difference between being fashionable and disregarding etiquette entirely.” Her ears twitch, a small smile on her lips. Her gaze has fallen on his armguard where the broken strap has worked its way loose. That silvery sheen misses nothing. “I expected such from you, Thancred, but for you to pull Aureia into it…”

He blows out a puff of air. “Schooling me on behaviour while you have a Noumenon manuscript in hand? Something tells me the librarians did not part with it willingly. Or perhaps they do not even know it vacated their premises without permission.”

She throws back her head and laughs, snapping the book shut. With it pressed now to her chest and her tail swishing back and forth, she looks ten years younger, like a student halfway through their term at the Studium but without the frazzled nature. “Let’s call it an Archon’s privilege and leave it be,” she says, pressing a finger to her lips.

“Dare I even inquire about the contents of the book you stole?”

“No.” Y’shtola is sounding remarkably un-Y’shtola like. Judging from the flush on her cheeks and the giddiness of her tone, Aureia wonders whether a glass of wine has been involved. “Histories. Mysteries. The like. My lips are sealed.”

“Ah, so recreational reading. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Silence settles throughout the hall. Y’shtola draws herself up to her full height and steps into the light, crossing the room. Though she is several ilms shorter than Thancred and Aureia both, she commands the presence of someone much taller. Her heels click against the floor and she opens her mouth to speak, ready to unleash the riposte of a century.

“Hic!”

Y’shtola slaps a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

“Well—hic—” She flushes. “—if you would please pardon me.”

Aureia’s mouth twitches and she bites her tongue, trying to keep from laughing. It would seem her guess was right.

Y’shtola swallows another hiccup and coughs, covering her embarrassment. “If you thought I stayed up for the sole purpose of chastising you for behaving like a pair of lovesick students, think again,” she says smoothly. “It must be said we have all taken this evening to indulge ourselves after a long voyage. Truth be told, no made it back in time to reconvene save Krile. I simply chose this hall as the perfect place to study uninterrupted on the assumption all others would be distracted elsewhere. We can debrief on the morrow.”

Aureia and Thancred exchange looks.

Y’shtola’s smile softens. Glancing at Aureia, she gives her a deep nod, then turns her attention to Thancred. She rises up on tiptoe and presses a hand to his cheek, her eyes searching his, bright silver to hazel. Something passes between them—an understanding of very old friends, returned at last to the place that brought them together.

“Welcome home,” she says and passes by, heading for the doors.

He nods, glancing over his shoulder to watch her go. “Same to you, Shtola. Same to you.”

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