#Feat. Flay

[courtofmuses]

from here with @chheered

               BILLY   HADN'T   WANTED   TO   GO   OUT   FOR   THE   NIGHT,   knowing   that   it   was   likely   going   to   end   in   blood   and   another   body   they'd   have   to   drag   home   to   feed   to   the   monster   in   the   basement.   Chrissy   had   talked   him   into   it;   however,   so   he'd   reluctantly   gone   along   with   her.   As   the   night   neared   the   start   of   the   new   year,   Chrissy   turned   to   him,   grasping   his   chin   and   pulling   him   in   for   a   kiss.   His   hands   moved   to   rest   on   her   hips   and   for   just   a   moment   he   thought   it   would   remain   sweet,   that   just   maybe   they   would   have   a   moment   where   their   minds   weren't   taken   over   by   something   insidious.   He   was   wrong   and   that   became   apparently   the   moment   her   teeth   sank   into   his   bottom   lip   and   he   tasted   blood.   It   unleashed   something   inside   of   him   and   he   growled   against   her   mouth,   his   bloody   tongue   sliding   into   her   mouth   so   she   could   taste   the   metallic   fluid   as   well,   his   grip   on   her   hips   becoming   bruising.

[brewstersbru]

I want to get more used to writing low stakes lil blurbs so please enjoy this, also posted on ao3 under my pseud brewstersbru :) hopefully being able to post it here will bring the perfectionism anxiety down lol

***

Astarion is perhaps the one of the most interesting, irritating, but somehow undoubtedly kind people Halsin has ever observed. Though he’d flay anyone who had the audacity to tell him it.

The duties of an Arch-Druid are many, and often arduous in nature, but nonetheless rewarding. And it all boils down to watching, observing, noticing little idiosyncrasies in the people he leads. The people who trust him with their lives and wellbeing. Halsin has become well-accustomed to watching, as any good leader must and it is no surprise that the skill has followed him to where he is now, camping with a menagerie of illithid-infected souls, searching for a cure.

Though, with this aforementioned observational skill, Halsin has gotten the distinct impression that many of them seek quite a bit more than a simple cure. Absolution, freedom, a clearer path forward. It is so often in the words they don’t say, rather than those they choose to reveal. For example, Gale never talks of an ‘after’, a concept all of the others seem so enamored with, save Astarion, of course. He simply hums and offers a small melancholy smile when conversation turns to the topic of everyone’s plans after they find a cure. It wasn’t difficult to figure him out, not when Halsin had been paying attention. Gale is convinced that dying is the only way to atone for his sins. To be forgiven.

Halsin’s heart aches at the thought; poor child, it is not a sin to wish to be loved. But he digresses.

Astarion, curiosity that he is, had immediately captured Halsin’s attention when he’d joined camp. On the surface he seemed shallow, and ill-tempered, but Halsin has not gotten this far in life by making quick judgements on a person’s first actions after he’s met them. Sure enough, he’d caught a glimpse of the real Astarion not even two days later.

It had been a long day, brimming with long, arduous battles after which they had all come out exhausted and bloodied. Wyll, with his lion’s heart, had fought especially ferociously. Perhaps too much so. His robe was torn horribly across the front and he’d had to be propped up as they trudged back to camp, unfortunately neither Halsin nor Shadowheart had maintained enough energy to heal anyone.

Astarion had almost immediately wedged himself under Wyll’s arm, curling an arm around his waist while also berating him as they walked. “What in the hells were you thinking jumping out like that! You’re weak, leave the feats of strength to Karlach you dolt!” And on and on. The words were cutting, and not entirely fair, but still, his hands remained gentle against his friends skin and he walked slowly so as not to jostle his injuries.

Shadowheart- exhausted herself, likely with a beast of a headache after all of the concentration spells she’d been slinging- had told Astarion to shut it, only hearing the words and not the worry behind them. He had obliged- another kindness-as his eyes darted around the scrunched pain painted over her expression and his own expression set in resolve. Still, he performed a pout, and everyone took it for what it was- or rather, what he’d wanted them to take it for: Astarion being his usual surly self.

Halsin took it for what it truly was, a man doing his best to aid his friends and keep their spirits high after such a grueling encounter. He’d thought they needed someone to direct their exhausted irritation at, lest they start picking themselves apart instead (something Halsin had noticed, but was unaware Astarion knew of) and offered himself like it was as natural as breathing.

The kindnesses didn’t stop there, either. When they made it to camp he’d taken Wyll to his bedroll as the others collapsed onto their own. Rummaged through the camp supplies until he found a potion of greater healing, then did not feed it to Wyll until he was half asleep and delirious.

“Mmh… Dad?” Wyll had murmured, eyes squinted closed as he moved his head around. Astarion had simply hummed and continued feeding him the potion.

For the rest of the night he prepped ingredients with practiced efficiency and left them next to the communal cooking pot for when the rest of the party woke for breakfast. Halsin had needed to trance for a few hours, loathe as he was to turn away from the scene, and when he returned Wyll’s robe had been mended, folded and placed aside his head. Astarion was nowhere to be seen. Halsin hoped he’d found his way to his own tent for a short trance.

Elves do not need to sleep, this much is true, but even a short trance would have done wonders to refresh and replenish his energy. Astarion had to know that.

Halsin is still unsure what the other elf had done for the rest of that night, but he’d emerged from his tent with just as much practiced, haughty vigor as he’d always had halfway through breakfast the next morning.

“Astarion! Good morning! Thank you for aiding me in our trek back yesterday.” Wyll had smiled at him, something warm and molten in his eyes. Astarion simply huffed and waved it off, “Well, dear, someone needed to lecture you about the dangers of heroism. None of these dimwits were going to do it.” Wyll smiled and the others gave halfhearted protests from where they’d been digging into the breakfast Gale had prepared from the ingredients Astarion had left out for him. There was a sparkle in his eye as he caught sight of them eating it, something almost like pride, if Halsin had to name it.

The others had been dumbfounded, asking around the campfire about who had done it. When no one came forward they’d simply shrugged and taken it to mean that the culprit was too humble to take credit. Besides, who were they to question a miracle such as this. No one asked the vampire if he’d done the deed, why would he have? He doesn’t eat food anymore and he doesn’t even really like them.

It’s exactly what he wants them to think. Halsin has to give him points for his dedication to maintaining pretense. Wyll doesn’t mention his robe, but his eyes dart from hand to hand trying to scrutinize any bandages or pricks that might indicate a late-night sewing session. It’s a smart move on his part but Astarion, it seems, is a masterful tailor. His fingers are unbandaged and unbloodied.

Everything carefully thought out and executed. Every kindness meticulously planned and hidden. He truly is an enigma. He would rather his friends believe him selfish and cruel, than see him for the gentle, caring man he truly is.

The kindnesses continue, always carefully implemented so as to erase any and all suspicion that Astarion may have had any part in it. He continues to be outwardly difficult and mean so as to cover his tracks. Halsin can do little but watch, as he always has, that is, until Astarion’s little kindnesses eventually and inevitably extend to him, too.

He is not so easily fooled, has seen past the performance that the other man puts on for some reason that he is still trying to parse.

It’s a quiet evening, the battles of the day had been hard, but nothing they were ill-equipped to handle. The shadow curse has been getting to Halsin, though. Seeing his greatest failure in all of it’s unbearable misery has been weighing on him. And he knows his struggle is not invisible to his fellow party members. They seem unsure what to do about it, though, seeing as he is a centuries old former Arch-Druid with life experience they could hardly fathom. He enjoys his time at camp but cannot say with certainty that he is truly close to anyone there. Though he wishes to be, he is afraid they’ve placed him on somewhat of a pedestal after his actions in the grove, forgetting that he is fallible and full of emotion, same as them.

He very nearly misses it, when it happens, too caught up in his thoughts to hear the slight shuffling near the entrance to his tent. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and emerges with a small smile.

Astarion freezes at the sound of his emergence, crouched over something small and wooden at his feet. Then, almost as if possessed, his shoulders relax and he looks up with a devilish grin. “Halsin! My dear, I was just looking for you. Some wretched little thing of a child has gifted me with perhaps the ugliest wooden duck I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on. And these things are in no way ‘beautiful’ on a good day. I cannot have something so… distasteful loitering around my tent. You mentioned you liked ducks so I thought it would be of better use here. Otherwise I’m throwing it in the river.” It’s a lot of words, more than the vampire generally tends to use in casual conversation, as much as he pretends he’s an insufferable chatterbox. That’s the second clue Halsin gets that perhaps there’s more to this than Astarion is telling him. The first being the way he froze, as if he hadn’t been expecting Halsin to be there. “Looking for you”, right…

Astarion stands and nods at the duck on the ground. It’s small, a little misshapen, but it’s got hearts carved where it’s eyes should be and for some reason Halsin finds that hopelessly endearing. He kneels and cradles the thing gently in his cupped palms.

When he looks up Astarion is grinning at him, still in that sneering performative way he likes to, but in his eyes that shine of pride makes itself known. Halsin likes the duck, it’s obvious. And Astarion is proud of himself, but he’ll never tell. He’ll never let anyone else be.

The third clue is dripping sluggishly down Astarion’s finger, stark and red against his deathly pale skin. Halsin remembers the first time he’d whittled. His hands had looked much of the same. He smiles.

“Thank you, Astarion. This is very good. Would you like some salve for your hand?”

Astarion’s eyes widen, only fractionally, but noticeable if you’d been looking in his eyes. And Halsin had been. Still, his expression shutters and he pastes another smirk on before turning his nose up at the duck.

“Thank the Gods, that ugly thing is your problem now. And I’ve no idea what you mean dear, my hand is perfectly serviceable.” He rushes away with a perfunctory wave, likely to rob Halsin of the opportunity to call him out on his bullshit. Halsin only smiles and cradles the duck. He’d bloodied his hands for this, for him. The surge of affection that washes through him is entirely involuntary but wholly welcome.

Astarion wakes from his trance the next morning to a gift settled gently at the entrance of his tent. It’s a wooden cat, masterfully carved from a dark oak and undeniably beautiful. Perfectly fitting the vampire’s tastes and sensibilities.

A note lies beside it in what he recognizes to be Halsin’s messy scrawl.

Thank you, Astarion, again for the duck. It thrills and delights me to know that you care. It did make me feel better, you know, and I still have that salve if you need. All you have to do is ask. I thought I’d return the favor, seeing as you do so much for the camp but refuse to let anyone see it, or thank you.

I see you. I thank you.

Yours,

Halsin

[yandere-yearnings]

súton. (Female Yandere!Fae Princess x GN!Reader)

feat. Iolanthe

♡ oneshot, approx. 250 words

♡ post-specific warnings: yandere themes, implied murder, gore, implied vomiting

♡ a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while and i thought i might as well share since it seems like it fits the whole october thing and i won't be posting much this month anyway. unedited, not proofread.

Crystalline eyes. Opened under thin lashes, spattered droplets of red that glimmered unlike tears when the light caught them. The sight would’ve taken your breath away, had you had any left to give.

Carnage spread out before you, like having been stitched inside a body butterflied; around you, flesh and viscera sprawled endlessly. Limbs torn and teethed, organs flayed, leaking coagulating fluids that went as high as your ankles. Iolanthe sat in the middle of it all, pretty, looking like a painting.

Your grandmother had warned you. Told you about the fae, that they were dangerous creatures, not what they seemed in the slightest, and though bound to truth — liars by any other name. Finally, you understood.

Nightmares could never be this vivid. Your imagination alone could not conjure the stench that clogged your airways, the squelching as you fell, nor the feel of your knees in their carcass and bone. Stomach turning, warm phlegm and spit as you heaved, dry against the slick ground. Hacking out your lungs, burning alive from the inside out, you choked on your screams and the acid in your throat.

“I told you that you were better off, my dove,” that voice you had loved, like a river running, now closer to you, “not partaking in this ceremony.” Thin fingers guided you down until your head rested in her lap. Unable to move, into diaphanous silk, you cried louder. Wailed.

Iolanthe leaned down, kissed you softly, and despite it all, her lips felt like sunlight on your skin. “Hush now,” she said, gentle, “bad omens come from mourning sacrificial lambs.”

[wryderz]

if you stay, i would even wait all night

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Robin jolted in her bed, heart pounding. She hadn’t been asleep—Christ, who could sleep after everything that happened— but had instead been staring up at the ceiling, trying to think about anything other than the events of the past week. Her bedside lamp dimly illuminated her room with a warm light. However, this did nothing to quell the tight, tense panic that had settled into Robin’s body, even after the figurative storm.

Tap. Tap.

There it was again, that noise. She couldn’t convince herself that it was just a stray tree branch or a nocturnal animal, no. She sat up, reaching for the kitchen knife that she had placed on her dresser. Flattening her body against the wall, she peeked out the window that faced the street.

TAP!

Something small, blunt, and round hit her window, and Robin flinched, pulling away from the glass in an involuntary response. Now her hands were really shaking, trembling in the lamplight glinting off of the knife. Shit, she thought to herself. Shit. She could handle everything—the Russians, the Mind Flayer—but that was when she had Steve. And the eleven-year-old with superpowers. And, well, everybody else.

But now she was alone. She looked out the window again, praying that it had just been a trick of her mind. A figure stood outside of her window, only partially illuminated by the streetlight, face hidden. Panic flooded her mind. Was it the Russian government? Maybe they sent someone to kill her, to threaten her or finally silence her once and for all. Or maybe it was another person who’d gotten… mind-flayed. The image of a Lovecraftian horror breaking into her room, tendrils drilling, ripping into her flesh, flashed briefly in her mind. She shook her head, and looked at the figure again. She was so, so screwed. She opened the latch to her window, making sure that the silhouette of the knife in her hand was fully visible.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she called out to the street as quietly as possible, so as to not wake her parents. She tried to make her voice tough, angry, but it quavered on want, her fear betraying her. Her voice, uncertain and small, echoed back to her, mocking her.

To her surprise, the voice that answered was deeply familiar.

"It’s Steve," came the answer. "Uh, Harrington?" The fact that he had to specify amused Robin, and the corner of her mouth lifted into a small smile. She didn’t realise it, but it was the first time she had smiled all week.

"What are you doing here?"

"I…" he was silent for a moment. "Can I come up?"

Robin hesitated. It could be a trap. But she still had her knife with her, and it wouldn’t hurt…

"Yeah, okay," she said, her guard lowering at his warm voice.

He clambered up the side of the house expertly, as he had done so many times before, and pulled himself up through the window in one swift motion. His hair was tousled from the feat, reminiscent of a scene from Romeo and Juliet, ironic considering the circumstances.

"Wow," he said, breathless, after catching a glance of the knife in Robin’s hand. “You really did stock up.” Robin could tell that he was trying to lighten the mood in a way of explaining his situation. She could’ve joked in return, but instead, she set the knife down and hugged him fiercely. Steve relaxed at her touch, hugging her back almost desperately. As if he hadn’t touched anyone since everything that had happened. His breaths felt uneven and heavy, as if he were on the verge of tears.

"I just," he said with a shaky breath, "didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I—"

"Hey," she said, holding him tighter. "It’s okay. Me neither." They stayed like this for a good long while, just embracing and feeling a blanket of relief at the other’s presence.

"You scared me at first, you know," Robin said, after they had released each other and were laying next to each other on the bed. "I thought you were, like, another Russian agent. Or one of the Mind Flayer’s cronies.

"Yeah, sorry," Steve laughed. "I just thought it’d be weird if I came and knocked on your door. Like, all, 'Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Buckley! It’s past midnight, but can I see your daughter?'" Robin snorted, but she wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

"It all just doesn’t feel... real, you know?" she said.

"I know," he said.

"I feel like I’ll never be able to sleep again. I jump at everything. The shadows on the wall, the sound of a car passing-"

"About that," Steve said. "I was wondering… can I…?" He looked at her hesitantly, not wanting to verbalise his request. His eyes were filled with an empty feeling of abandonment, of loss, of hopelessness that wrenched Robin’s heart. In the warm light, a purple bruise now stood out like a stamp on his cheekbone, and Robin reached up to touch it tenderly. Steve didn’t flinch away, but instead leaned into her touch.

"You’re staying here tonight. Every night, if you want," she said with a finality. Steve’s eyes flooded with relief.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice barely audible. Robin turned to clamber onto her bed, fixing the sheets and fluffing up the pillows. As she laid onto the mattress, Steve stood to look at her.

Awkwardly, he said, "Uh, I can just sleep on the ground, if you want. If you have an extra pillow-"

"Get up here, dumbass," she said affectionately, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the bed. "I wasn’t making my bed for nothing." He slowly clambered onto the bed, as if he was afraid of making Robin uncomfortable.

"It’s gonna be okay, you know," she murmured, her eyes locking with his in the dim light.

"I know."

[st-danger]

Okay but do they make Dew piss please I must know.

A continuation for you! Part one linked above))

Hysteria rises, bubbling up and choking. He can hardly breathe; the sounds Rain and Swiss are pulling from are involuntary and uses up what little sips of air he's able to take.

He doesn't mean to- he never intentionally cries- but they've been too mean for too long and his lashes are damp. Wriggling, fighting, sobbing out pleas for mercy- all on deaf ears. Swiss reminds him once again he's asked for this.

And he has.

"Stop- stop, please, Rain-"

Swiss snuggles him then, holding just as tightly as before, but really nuzzling him. Affectionate, one might say.

"Oh sweetheart," Swiss smiles, the gesture bleeding into his tone, "we can tell when your no's mean yes."

"Oh no, oh stop, stop, I'm gonna- please, please," Dew wheezes, sounding flayed and raw.

Sometimes he surprises himself with the depth of his depravity, the depth of his masochism. He's having a truly terrible time, and he'll be ready to ask for the same treatment as soon as tomorrow, he's sure. A glutton for punishment; if only he didn't love it so much.

If only.

Rain focuses all his attention on his head, the frenulum and the hair on the back if Dew's neck prickles, a neat little rush of anticipatory dread.

"Cum or piss, up to you." Rain says it so calmly, so reasonably that Dew could see himself agreeing with it.

He cries out, shaking, protesting while Swiss murmurs encouragement into his ear. Gives the lobe and his neck a wet, sloppy kiss- not and easy feat with the amount of struggling Dew is doing.

He's so tired. Swiss is too strong and he is so tired and he is getting absolutely nowhere at all.

He mewls and goes riged when he feels the familiar lack of control, a rush of heat and-

A spurt of piss he can't tense enough to hold in, and Rain gives him one more vicious polish and withdraws his hands.

He fights it for a moment more, thighs tensing, the muscles jumping, but too little too late. He loses the fight, and an arc of piss shoots out, messy everywhere without a hand to aim it.

The reaction from Swiss and Rain is immediate and richly approving, and the relief he feels, the nasty, sick pleasure he derives from letting them see something so private, making a mess- it's equaled only by the flare of shame that burns in his chest and on his face.

He's whimpering, too tired to struggle, too defeated. Swiss is so hot and hard against his back, and Rain-

Rain is reaching for his cock once more. Dew can't even find it in himself to flinch, but does manage to watch him aim his cock towards him, so Drw can spray all over Rain’s stomach and thighs.

"Fuckin ' filthy," Swiss moans. Rain closes his eyes, luxuriating in the warmth and Dew gives a pathetic little hiccough once more. "That's so good. Get him all wet," Swiss continues, and the satisfaction and sickness wash over him as wonderfully as ever.

[seldaryne]

tagged by @illithidactivities

Name: Velrith. No surname as of yet (& that's not some hint at any future matrimonial plans--finding a first name she felt comfortable taking on was already a feat in itself) but if it ever becomes an issue, she can address it at that time. She hasn't yet arrived at that bridge, though, and can't really forsee it being a problem any time soon.

Nickname(s): None, really. Technically, you could probably file Astarion's rolodex of endearments under this category, but she always had the impression those were more a result of his pre-existing speech patterns. (They were also very helpful in her nameless interim--Darling and Dearest sound much kinder than Hey, you there or Paladin.) She likes to her the petnames, though. They're mostly sweet, barring the Bhaal-themed variety she's expressed open disdain for ("If this is your attempt at reassurance and comfort, it's failing. Painfully so."). She likes the ones with a slight possessive ring to them--my love, my sweet, etc. It's an active reminder that she's still being chosen, despite her baggage.

As of now, she's never been given a nickname, and it's to her understanding that you aren't supposed to give yourself one--they come from your friends. She doesn't expect this, mostly because her chosen name is already on the short side with two syllables, but if anyone ever did decide to give her one, she would be genuinely touched by the gesture. Seemingly meaningless or "normal" acts of affection are things she can't help but take seriously, after all.

Pronouns: She/Her, but more in the sense that she accepts the designation by strangers & never actually put more thought into it past that. if pressed, she would probably admit to not feeling any particular kinship with masculinity, despite not really meeting the definition for feminine on paper either.

Star Sign: Whatever the in-universe equivalent of Capricorn sun/Virgo moon/Cancer rising is. Pragmatic, methodical outer shell, , perceptive, soft & sensitive inside.

Height: Average-ish at around 5"6. People tend to read her as taller thanks to a combination of horns and the most rigidly perfect posture the Sword Coast as ever seen.

Orientation: Again, not something she's put much thought into. Based on behaviours, she's likely demiromantic with a generally open attitude towards sex.

Race: Levistus Tiefling Bhaalspawn

Romancing: Astarion. You know those couples that have the vibe of "thank god you two found each other because neither of you should break containment into the general public"? Yeah. Turns out, there's a lot of compatibility to be found in someone else who is also deeply, deeply fucking weird. (Note: neither party is actually aware of the extent of this, and that's important to the emotional ecosystem.)

Fave Fruit: Pomegranates. This isn't a hidden symbolism thing, she just... really loves them. They're not too sweet, the seeds are pleasingly compact, and it's a pretty colour on top of everything. The first time she had pomegranate seeds, it was in Baldur's Gate. They were pre-opened and already in a bowl, which is the ideal way to enjoy a pomegranate. The second time was her attempt at opening the fruit itself, which is usually an ordeal at the best of times. She got at the seeds eventually, but not after looking like she'd witnessed a small massacre first.

(The third attempt featured a guest appearance by an agitated Astarion, who, despite scarcely thinking of her as a friend at the time, did not have the patience or self-control to sit quietly and watch someone be that terrible at opening a fruit. Armed with a knife & righteous irritation, the pomegranate was flayed open into a star-shape and dropped back into her hand before she could say anything. This was not an act of kindness; if he had to watch her perform the same hack job on it again, he was going to start throwing things.)

Fave Season: Winter. They're all nice, of course--she enjoys being outside in any seasonally pleasant weather--but the Levistus bloodline tend to fare well in the cooler temperatures. She can happily doze off under a gentle dusting of snow, if so inclined.

Fave Flower: Bleeding heart flowers. They're so wonderfully delicate, and she's fascinated by their intricate shape. She also thinks they smell just as beautiful as they look. She's also fond of fox gloves, heliotropes, & larkspur.

Fave Scent: She loves clean smells, like fresh sheets or soap. Ocean air can have its pleasant notes. The scent of caramel or toffee can often be enticing enough to make her enter a bakery she wasn't planning to stop at.

Coffee, Tea, or Hot Chocolate: Peppermint tea is her favourite. Another recent, delightful discovery. Most teas aren't strong enough unless she over-steeps them, and that can sometimes make them too bitter, but the peppermint can counteract this (in her mind). She doesn't add anything else to the cup. It was the first thing she asked for after rejecting Bhaal, and oftentimes if she's been drinking earlier in the night.

(Now, if someone were to introduce her to peppermint hot chocolate, she might just find herself unable to choose which was the ultimate favourite.)

Average Sleep Hours: Post-worming, pre-heritage revelation, maybe two hours a night if she wasn't worried about the sleep-murdering or that wretched little creature calling himself her Butler haunting her consciousness. She was absolutely not doing well at this time but carried it as best as she could, and would at least allow herself something similar to a trance if real sleep was off the table. After rejecting Bhaal and ridding herself of Sceleritas (she's unsure which was actually the bigger victory here), she averages out to a more normal 6-7 hours.

(That first week after was the outlier, though. Velrith had no idea over-sleeping was a thing, or that her body would feel so bad after finally getting some desperately needed rest. By far, that was the most disorienting week in her recalled memory.)

Dogs or Cats: Scratch and the Owlbear baby have her heart, but she would probably love a cat too. Truthfully, Velrith has the capacity to enjoy all types of animals equally. There's something comforting about the presence of something four-legged and soft bedside her, who seems to understand her emotions without words (or even judgment).

She's not killing the spiders in the bathroom, she's getting a cup & paper and gently releasing them in the yard.

Dream Trip: Possibly cheating, but anywhere is an answer that works here. So far, her working memory is limited to the Sword Coast & Baldur's Gate. Those places are fine, really, but she's keen to see literally anywhere else if for no other reason than to say she's done it. Besides, how else can she verify if the disgust some of the public seems to feel towards Baldur's Gate is justified?

Amount of Blankets: She's either wrapped under enough blankets to match her own body weight, or nothing at all. As she's come to discover, she seems to crave sensations that exist as some sort of extreme. She's happy at either end of the spectrum, but probably won't be particularly comfortable under just one comforter. (Note: it's possible to replicate the effect of a tiefling's weight in blankets using the body of One (1) vampire. Unlike the blankets, however, he tends to move around more than a quilt, so mileage may vary.)

RandomFact(s):

Her hair is insanely long, thick, & very healthy, the soft white tresses hitting somewhere near her waist when loose. She didn't actually realize this could be a point of vanity until Haelryne (yes, yes, dual protagonist AU) teasingly expressed envy after catching her taking her braid out. Consequently, she discovered how pleasant it could be to allow someone else to brush & play with it. She's slightly self-conscious of this at first, but there's something pretty healing about experiencing your first 'girls nights' with people who seem genuinely excited to have you around.

Her threshold for registering pain is pretty high, and even when she's injured, she's typically pretty calm (life-threatening injuries notwithstanding). She's able to make herself sit for things like stitches or the resetting of bones, expressions of discomfort usually coming out in slight grimaces. There have been multiple occasions where she's alerted someone to needing help with a very even-toned "Oh, I'm bleeding," only for them to turn around & see her holding a cloth up to a wound that's absolutely gushing & would be an understandable cause for panic in literally anyone else.

If she's going to take a bath, it's either on the cusp of a boil, or there's a literal sheet of ice on the water surface. As you can imagine, the number of 'romantic couple's baths' she's partaken in is small.

She rarely raises her voice. "Soft-spoken" seems to imply a level of quiet, or a certain pitch that don't really apply to her (the closest comparison I would make is Katheryn Winnick as Lagertha in Vikings), but it's probably the most applicable shorthand term. While she doesn't typically have a lot of tonal expression, she speaks with a certain melodic quality that's actually fairly soothing if you listen. Of course, she's really only known to speak for extended bouts if she's genuinely comfortable, so it might be some time before you pick up on this. She'd make a wonderful singer, if she was ever so inclined (she will not be).

Her body temperature tends to run a bit lower than most people. Touching her doesn't feel uncomfortable, if anything she's pleasantly cool, especially if you're on the warmer side.

tagging: @ineed-to-sleep, @mybookswerealltome, @champagne-pain, @ysali

[italicized-oh]

friday afternoon hello operator excerpt from ch 14, feat. friday afternoon starbreaker massage time.

There’s a knock at his office door. Speak of the devil. Jace says “Yep” as loudly as he can (not very, right now) and puts his forehead down on his desk. Waits. The solid thuds of Porter’s boots as he enters the vice principal’s office make Jace’s already throbbing headache worse. He groans, pressing his forehead harder into the desk, and whimpers, pitifully, until Porter gets the hint. Jace hears him chuckle, and then there’s the heavy, warm weight of his massive hands on Jace’s shoulders, thumbs kneading into muscles Jace didn't even know he had. Jace makes an effort to speak without moving his face. “Y’re sooo good ‘t that. Why.” Porter laughs again, gives a gentle (for Porter, anyway) pinch to the nape of Jace’s neck. “Starshine, I’ve been dealing with your neurotic mess for years now. You think I don’t have tricks up my sleeves?” Jace lolls his head to the side a bit, sighing as Porter digs into a particularly hard knot. “Asshole. You and I both know your tricks are mostly in your pants. Where’d you actually learn this?” Porter hums, tips Jace’s head back to the other side with a swipe of his thumb. “A lady never tells.” Jace honest to god snorts at that. “I’d love to see you try to pull that on Zara. She– mm, right there, yeah– she’d flay you where you stood.” “Nah, she’d laugh. ‘S long as I promised her a massage, she’d probably let me at least sit down before she flayed me.” Jace huffs a laugh that turns into a groan. He’s rapidly becoming sorcerer soup on the vice principal’s desk, and he does not even care. It’s Friday afternoon.

after this mary ann tries to kill jace. if you even care <3

[katyawriteswhump]

the power of love part 7 (steddie, stobin, steve whump fic)

Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

(also on AO3 here)

Chapter Seven

Eddie POV

Steve insists on being pathfinder lead for the next hour. 

Eddie’s gotta admit—following Steve, as he thrashes his way through the undergrowth, is the best entertainment that banishment has provided yet. Steve’s tight-fitting pants don't do any harm. Goddammit, the perspiration patches on Steve’s shirt make Eddie sweat even harder than Steve is.

“You need the fedora hat,” calls Robin, “and you’ve totally nailed the junior Indiana Jones look.”

Steve smirks over his shoulder. “I was channelling that guy out of Romancing the Stone.” 

“Michael Douglas? No way as hot.” Eddie flashes his best flirtatious grin with ever greater confidence. This afternoon, Steve has begun returning them. “Stick to Indy, man.”

By the time they reach the logging camp, however, they’re all beyond exhausted.

Eddie’s feet are raw with blisters, and Robin’s been complaining of the same for the past hour. She limps through the door of the first cabin they come to, which fortunately turns out to be a bunkhouse. She throws down her pack then throws herself onto the bottom of one of two sets of bunks. Steve collapses onto the other lower bunk and appears to fall instantly asleep.

Eddie considers crawling up onto one of the top bunks and seeing if sleep takes pity on him.

He doubts it would. The choppers were a stark reminder of the nightmare reality snapping at his heels, and he’s wired as hell. He begins to unpack their supplies. Robin, having taken a moment, sits back up.

“We should check this place out,” she whispers. “There must be a clean water supply somewhere, maybe a generator. Definitely canned food and that kinda stuff, for when the loggers come back in the autumn.” 

“I guess it’ll make a change from cardboard-flavoured cereal.”

“God, I know, right! I’d literally murder for some Count Chocular right now.”

They split up to search the various cabins. Eddie hits the jackpot first, in the guise of a crate of bottled beer. 

“Seriously?” says Robin, when she meets him outside the bunkhouse. Eddie sits on the beer crate he’s dragged out, taking a well-earned rest. “You’re gonna get buzzed?”

“You got it in one, sister.”

He doesn’t feel the need to justify this—I saw Chrissy butchered in front of my eyes. I’ve spent a week on the run from the cops. I BASICALLY DIED IN A WHIRLWIND OF EVIL KILLER DEMOBATS. And now I’m on the run again, with Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, and I’ve fallen stupid hard for him. Oh, and there’s a small but real possibility he’s been flayed. Or something else freaky along those lines.

Robin hasn’t quit scowling at him. His smile is the first overtly false one he’s bothered with for a while:

“Forgive me, Robin. I’ve reached the point where, to quote my sweet old Granny—there ain’t nothin’ fuckin’ like it for me nerves. ’Course, she favoured hard liquor.” He offers one of two bottles he’s gotten out to Robin. “Want one?”

“I’ll stick to the cardboard cereal.” Her scowl lessens, though she remains deadly serious. “Look, promise me you won’t give too much to Steve.”

“Why?”

“What kinda pea-brain question is that? Despite the super-commando act, he’s still struggling, it’s totally obvious. Getting trashed is not gonna help.”

“Yeah, but… he’s improving, right?” Her slight wince betrays that, once again, they’re thinking the same thing. Perhaps Steve’s getting stronger, because he’s getting closer again to Lover’s Lake, Hawkins, Vecna, the Hive-Mind, and yet… “You know our little worst-case scenario, Rob? I’m still not buying it.”

The wind rustles the nearby trees. In sync, Robin’s hunched shoulders soften a little. “Me neither. Hand on heart, if Steve had a link to that evil shit, any at all, I’d sense it by now. Although… Was it just me who thought it was weird when the choppers came over, and then it suddenly clouded up?”

“Yeeeeaah, that really was just you. I was too busy eating dirt and shitting myself.” Now he thinks about it, mind, it was darn convenient.

She shrugs. “I guess I’m super-paranoid that way. I literally spent my Middle School years spotting aliens everywhere.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Then I realised they weren’t aliens. It was the Fae all along.”

“You sure it wasn’t dragons?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” Her laugh sounds as manic as his latest crazy smile. On the other hand:

“Maybe Steve really is getting better naturally,” he ventures, “and the set-backs are because he’s been overdoing it. I mean, yeah, we keep an eye out for anything cuckoo, watch for connections, make sure he takes rests, but… Time heals, huh?”

“Not always.” She purses her lips, veering straight back into scary mode. “Steve doesn’t like people to know, but since his second major concussion, he’s not supposed to drink. Of course, he does sometimes, but—”

“Message received. I’ll just have the one—for medicinal purposes, ’kay?” 

“Please yourself. Then wake Steve long enough to put our own bedding on those disgusting bunks. I don’t wanna be bitten to death by bed bugs.”

Robin stomps off toward the camp generator. Eddie is executing the important business of prying the top off his beer, when Steve appears, leaning in the cabin doorway. “Why did you both let me… Hey, is that beer?”

The top pops off with a treacherous fizz. “Uh, no?”

“You’re a useless liar.” Steve closes in. His messy, sleep-mussed hair renders him totally edible. 

“You got me.” Eddie darts his tongue nervously across his lips. “This indeed is the amber nectar of the Gods. You want some?” 

There’s a skewed logic behind Eddie’s offer. If he told Steve he couldn’t drink, like he was his mom or something, Steve would probably get mad. He opts to play a good cop, bad cop routine with Robin, who… 

Eddie glances toward the generator.

She’s not there. If bad cop isn’t gonna show, then he needs a Plan B.

“I guess I’ll have one.” Steve stretches to take the bottle. 

“Just gonna test it. Been here a while.” 

Eddie takes a glug, splutters it out across dusty ground. “Oh man, it’s worse than cat-piss.” He’s only slightly exaggerating. “There’s a reason those lumberjacks left this garbage behind.”

Steve yawns into the back of his hand. “Gonna be honest. I’m not supposed to drink anyhow. Long story.” Ooookay. That went easier than predicted. “Got any water left?”

“Yeah. By my pack.” Eddie hurries into the bunkhouse, and Steve follows. It’s the last bottle, so he hopes Robin’s busy locating fresh supplies. Though that proves the least of his worries.

Half a minute later, he’s sitting on the edge of a bunk, thigh-to-thigh with Steve. They pass the bottle of water and a bottle of beer between them.

And being this close to Steve, now Steve seems so much better? Exchanging chitchat about how long they can hideout here, and if any of them have the skills to hunt a deer or something?

It sends tingles up and down Eddie’s spine.

The way Steve looks at him underlines exactly why Steve was angry last night, when Eddie “assumed” he was straight. Eddie suddenly can’t look Steve in the eye. Trouble is, he then can’t stop staring at Steve’s mouth—those shapely, slightly chapped lips, moist and glistening with water and bad beer.

Then Steve blindsides him with: “Do you honestly think you died, Eddie? Before I did the CPR?”

“I dunno, Harrington.” Eddie squirms on his butt, all kinds of defences flying up. “It was like a dream. Apart from that, it wasn't a dream. It was a place, and Dustin was there, and Robin was there, and you were there, too.”

“Wow. Seriously?”

Eddie cackles out a mocking laugh. “I’m misquoting ‘The Wizard of Oz,’ dude.”

“Oh.” Eddie glances sidelong. Steve appears… oddly crestfallen. “It’s just… You know, I said when I get hurt, I feel like I come back different each time. I mean, I don't know if it's true or not, but... I never knew you before... and I know you now and... and…” Steve fluffs his hair. “Jesus, I’m blabbering.”

“Nah,” says Eddie. “You sound like you’re getting somewhere.” 

Compared to the meltdown my brain is having.

“Okay, well, here it is. I like you, Eddie. I really like you.” 

Eddie half wants to flee for the hills. He fixes on a beetle scuttling across the dirty floorboards. “Dude, you sure you’re not in love with Wheeler?”

“I… I… No!”  Steve doesn’t sound angry, only bewildered. “Yeah, I believed that once, and maybe I was. I guess she fitted in so many dreams I’ve had of my future, and I owe her a lot. But now I’m with you, and…” Their eyes finally meet. Steve’s earnest warmth sends a brutal shockwave through Eddie. “I know this seems fickle, but…” His gentle laugh is too much. “Who knows? Perhaps it’s because Nance has never been dead. Or, near dead. You know, we’ve gotten that in common, right?”

“Riiiiight,” Eddie says, stupidly, then, “Screw it, I like you too, Stevie. I really like you.” 

They fling their arms around each other, and tumble into the kiss.

For Eddie, the sensations are like no make-out session before, such is the hunger that zings between them. Eddie’s so blown away, that the brush of Steve’s lips seems to kindle an actual crackling, electric friction..  Damn, the boy can kiss! 

Eddie’s gotten a semi already, fingers threading up through Steve’s hair, toying at the nape of his neck. Steve does amazing twisty things with his tongue. Gnng! You wanna kill me again, Baby? Even the scrape of Steve’s shallow stubble totally unhinges him.

They work the kiss with their whole bodies, striving to get beyond close, as if they could slide beneath each other’s skin. Eddie can’t help wondering—can they get each other off, before Robin gets back?

Then something changes.

He senses Steve gasp, then moan into Eddie's mouth with something other than dumb teen passion. His arms, clinging around Eddie, falter and slip away.

“Stevie?”

Too late. Steve crumples against Eddie, totally senseless. 

“Steve?” squeaks Eddie, struggling to stop Steve slipping to the floorboards. “Robin! ROBIN!”

Part 8

tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

[courtofmuses]

               SHE   LOOKS   STUNNING   LIKE   THIS.   Bloodlust   suits   her   in   a   way   that   he   could   not   have   expected.   She's   almost   more   vicious   than   any   other   creature   created   from   the   Upside   Down,   other   than   himself,   maybe.   He   can   feel   the   part   of   himself   that   has   yet   to   be   completely   taken   over   by   the   Mindflayer,   screaming   screaming   screaming.   He   ignores   it.   It   won't   be   long   before   the   Flayed   takes   him   over   completely   and   he   can   be   free   of   the   consciousness   that   simply   refuses   to   comply.   He   smiles   when   she   steps   closer   to   him,   her   hand   on   his   arm,   smearing   blood   along   his   skin.   He's   not   quite   as   covered   as   she   is   since   he   let   her   do   most   of   the   work   to   sate   her   murderous   appetite.   He   grasps   @chheered's   chin   almost   roughly   and   tilts   her   face   up   so   he   can   kiss   her   lips.   ❝   No   more   tonight,   ❞   he   says   firmly.   ❝   We've   had   two   and   we   don't   want   to   make   ourselves   too   obvious.   ❞   This   was   a   small   town   and   the   news   of   the   two   people   dead   already   would   cause   a   stir.   They   had   to   be   smart   about   this,   space   it   out   to   keep   the   game   going   longer.   

she stared at him , watching the blood drip from his hands. an excitement ran through her being. a step closer was taken towards billy ; a hand running down his arm slowly. poor cop. shouldn't' have run into them that night. not when the scratching behind the walls of her mind were stronger - snapping through. "let's go for another , @courtofmuses." her voice darkened as a bounce was given. this town would bow to them then the whole world. just like he wanted.

[helloescapist]

To Protect

Word Count: 1389

Setting: reader pining; Amajiki x GN!reader; SFW, short

Content Warning(s): none

Summary: As a member of the Support Course Deparment Studio, you were no stranger to the sight of gore whether it was the reminiscence of battle left on hero outfits to be mended, or the aftermath of Hatsume's failed test subject, but this time was different. As the caretaker of Suneater's hero costume, it was shattering to see the damage left behind by the Hassaikai Incident.

[not my art, credit goes to the artist!]

Torn fabric, flayed seams, seared edges, even the occasional frostbite damage, you had told yourself you had seen it all from your work bench nestled in the back of the Support Course Development Studio, but this was different. This was his.

Intentionally set up, away from Hatsume prying eyes, and undetectable unless you were being specifically sought out, you held the garment tight in your hands. The nuts and bolts that strayed from Hatsume Mei’s station, the first year prone to leaving a trail of mechanics and waste in her wake held a stark difference to that of your own supplies. The profession-grade sewing machine locked and loaded, meticulously cared ever since the fateful day Majimia-sensei set it up at your work table. The tears had threatened to spill over that day as the Excavation Hero apologized relentlessly for the lack of proper tools prior to your arrival. In his defense, it was often himself who undertook the minor mends students’ hero outfits often required. Very few students were handy with a needle, and even less willing to shoulder the task. Unlike yourself, the rare few doing so only out of obligation, having left only a practically inoperable home sewing machine in their wake. The old thing had been prone to snagging, unnecessary tangles, the occasional puncture, and more than you would like to admit, the occasional devouring of a piece, and ever since that day its replacement had remained carefully tended to. (Your soul had nearly left your body when you caught Hatsume eyeing it with her drill, swiftly swatting her away with a paper fan). Next to it, the occasional cute cactus and vine plant hung in view, trailing pass shelves lined with pencils, fabric markers, and drafting paper. Diligent sketches of costumes that often visited your desk tacked to the bulletin board, one of which you now held tightly between your fingertips. Your eyebrows drawn. Your thoughts straying over all of your creation accomplishments. You hated admit the similarities between Hatsume and yourself, but much like your younger counterpart, you had a love of costume designed, likely the reason Majimia-sensei had splurged on the latest model—not that he would ever admit it. Your gusto having led you to many fabric feats, vanquishing even the most difficult of repairs, and there had been many. Tarnishing signs of emitters inflected not only on their opponent, but occasionally, on their selves had familiarized you with elemental repair. Transformation quirks were complicated, the breathability and dependability of unique fabrics, and then there were the mutant quirks that presented their own unique obstacles and forms. Yes, over the pass few years at U.A. Academy, you had told yourself that you had seen a bit of everything—from combustion to water damage, the ever changing clientele had ensured your skills were polished, and adept even going so far as securing employment post graduation. Although, you had suspected it was likely the desire to keep trade secrets under wraps, your quirk certainly was a risk to company security and development, and yet, nothing compared to the damage you held close to your breast. Squeezed eyelashes, and tight breath as you attempted to process what was revealed before you.

                The dwindling light of the workshop created light shadows across your desk. The faintest glow from the city offered in flickers from the window, chasing shadows across fabric panels, the last of your classmates having called it a day, and bidding you goodnight after reminding you not to work so late. The late hours had become a recurring theme for the Support Course Development Studio as a whole. Evident by the light snoring of Hatsume opposite to your desk, curled in a heap of metal scraps and papers. When she had last returned to her dorm, you weren’t sure. Unlike your own, her was certainly stationary, doing your best to drown out her exhausted snuffles. Majimia-sense would be giving you both quite the earful in the morning, but for now, you were focused on the task at hand. Doing your best to swallow the guilt in your throat. The dim flicker of your desk lamp providing you minimal light as you threaded a needle carefully as you choked back the rush of emotions that ebbed your chest, burned your nose, and blurred your vision.

Only weeks before had you worn the same garment between your fingertips, thumbs pressed carefully against your ring fingers, catching fabric between them as your hands formed the o-shape your quirk had familiarized you with. Murmurs of classmates that glimpsed at the telling gashes on the fabric. Lead burns torn through cloak fabric, pierced pass the chest piece you had secured to paneling, until it had reached its mark of the black bodysuit of its victim, Suneater. Between clinched teeth, you could hear your classmates appraisals, some whispering the quality of your work must have been at fault. Others dismissing the opposition as it having been some rare weapon, and Hatsume shamelessly demanding details, practically foaming at the mouth for relative information on the mysterious ammunition. Your anxiety forcing you to activate your quirk, Chemical Analysis. Your finger tips working quickly to break down the information as you squeezed your eyes shut. Barium, antimony, lead, and traces of oxide, the information rolling through your thoughts like a printed sheet of lab results. The blossoming of a headache forming at your temple as you attempted to dive deeper, but at the time, Maijimia-sense had quickly placed a firm hand on your shoulder, the l-shape pieces at his fingers drawing your attention.. Hushing the class, and instructing them to return to their work before addressing you, “[L/N], don’t waste your time. Suneater is fine. So just focus on the repairs.”

It was your fault, you cursed yourself as you steadily dusted crystal pieces from the seams. Winced at the trails of blood that had stained the lining, the chemical break down already at your finger tips, set aside for the later in the cleaning process. Fumbled pass crystals, agonized over glass and rubble. The sinking feeling in your stomach growing. The demands of the uniform practically etched into your memory, you had after all taken care of it throughout your time at U.A. You knew its required materials by heart, your forlorn thoughts wandering to the elven hero. Amajiki Tamaki had always been soft spoken with you, and considerate. Always apologetic to the damages his outfit obtained, remorseful for the addition to your work load. Shyly enduring measurement after measurement, especially after his growth spurt second year. The blush across his features was adorable, so much so that what had been an innocent appraisal—an occupational necessity had morphed into something that felt devious—you had grown to understand the meaning of occupational hazard that day. Your heat had pounded through your eardrums, and how either of you managed to make eye contact after that day, you had chalked up to camaraderie built over your time together. The rare pudding left at your desk, and the praise for your work that reddened your cheeks. How could you have let this happen? You should have delved deeper. As though the ground had crumbled beneath your feet, the harrowing realization that everything had changed. The days of peaceful patches brought on by training, and minor mending from patrols had been replaced, and you should have realized it the day the bullet wound crossed your desk. The anxiety and tears that threatened to roll down your cheeks as your finger tips met a painful prob. An ill placed pin jabbing you deftly, drawing blood in the faintest of pricks. The flash of his soft smile the last time he had visited you, leaned against the wall shyly observing your handiwork as you rattled on about what repairs you had made. If only you had known they weren’t enough. Maybe if you had checked the paneling. Layered the protective padding closer together. Was there a way to minimizing the spacing? Even a centimeter seemed too vast, an opportunity that could be seized by an opponent. Thicker? No, no, thicker wasn’t an option with his mobility. Perhaps you could improve on the carbon fiber? There-there must be something…

                The glimmer of moonlight that dripped onto the fabric, as the tears escaped. No, no I don’t have time for this, you thought to yourself. Drawing your brow, and rubbing your eyes. I have to do better. Determination and rage pouring through your pores, captivating your will and fueling you through the night as you worked through all hours of the night.

I have to protect him.

[nekropunks]

gore CW || lingchi/death by a thousand cuts +face flaying hehe!!!!!!! (feat my btd oc)

[victoriadallonfan]

If Rain had been the primary viewpoint of Ward, how do you think that would've impacted the portrayal of Victoria's ongoing conflict with Amy?

I feel like that question boils down to “what does rain think about the amy vicky situation?” the answer to which is “not much probably”. He doesn’t even know what Amy did till arc 9. I guess at that point he might connect it to being flayed alive, but he doesn’t really have any tender family ties. Maybe might think of Erin betraying him?

Guy’s got no clue what’s going on in vicky’s brain. Which makes sense because she’s his mentor and he tends to look to her for advice more than looking to understand her. vic would have to explain it to him (a feat on its own) and he’d go “damn. that’s fucked” and go back to trying not to get torn to shreds by his cluster.

Nonjoking though, in honesty though there are plenty of interesting lines of thought rain could explore about vic and amy in relation to his own situation (cradle: “you took me from me!”) in a world where rain is the POV character. I think the only issue is that it’s missing the familial betrayal aspect.

Not to say it wouldn’t be possible, but it may require Rain actually talking to Amy (which he never does in story) for it to be a big “oh this is fucked and I get it” moment. It’s like, pretty much all of breakthrough in some form or another has some aspect of their backstory that reflects the Amy Situation back to victoria. Personal autonomy and the violation of it, the nature of self, how much of “me” is really me?, etc. having rain as POV is just a way to examine a different facet of that three dimensional shape of the Amy Dallon cube.

His pov would him carving out an understanding (hopefully with his swords)

[bullet-prooflove]

Choices!Series Part 4: Slaughterhouse Rules - Nestor Octeva x Reader

Warnings: Brief mention of rape

Tagging: @annetje @anime-weeb-4-life @drabbles-mc @alwaysachorusgirl @witches-unruly-heart @annetje @mysoulisasunflower @the-wandering-lunatic @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @est1887

Part One: First Date (NSFW) - Nester and you have an unusual first date.

Part Two: Familia - (Feat: Marcus Alvarez) - Marcus discovers your relationship.

Part Three: Fair Trade - Miguel makes a proposal.

It’s Nestor that binds your wrists.

The man you love and the man who is now going to deliver you to the slaughter, that’s how he sees it.

He stands in front of you with a thick, black zip tie in his hands. He’s done this a thousand times before and it’s never been as hard as it is right now. You’re docile, gaze lowered. You haven’t said a word since the conversation with Marcus. You are uncharacteristically compliant. He steps forward reaching for your wrist, but you shake your head.  He stops immediately, thinking you’ve changed your mind but instead you turn around putting your wrists behind your back, one resting on top of the other.

“It’s more believable this way.”

Your voice is little more than a rasp and it feels like someone is driving a knife in between his ribs. At least with the front you have a fighting chance, but this will leave you completely at your captor’s mercy.

“She’s right.” Miguel says as he descends down the stairs, his fingertips are plucking at his shirt sleeves, making sure they fall just so underneath his suit jacket. “It has to be believable.”

Nestor almost can’t bring himself to do it. He stares at the zip tie in his hands and he thinks that he’s signing your death sentence, that this is the choice that Marcus was talking about the day he confronted Nestor about your relationship. He meets the other man’s eyes over your shoulder, and Marcus inclines his head just slightly. He knows what you mean to the Alvarez family, he trusts that Marcus knows what he’s doing, that you do.

He loops the zip tie around your wrists, his thumb traces over the small tattoo of a rose and he hopes it brings you some comfort before he cinches them together tightly. He steps back and adopts his usual stance, hands clasped together in front of him.

Miguel checks his watch before jerking his head towards the door.

“It’s time.”

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

The exchange takes a place inside a disused slaughterhouse, the stench of blood and fear still clings to the walls, along with the staining. In a way it almost seems fitting.

Christopher Howard stands before you, in black combats and a black t-shirt that clings to his chest. His eyes are a piercing shade of blue and it feels like he’s flaying you alive when he looks at you. He’d be handsome if it weren’t for the lack of soul, you remembered thinking that even back then, when the Major introduced him in a bar back in Kandahar. Private military contractors in Afghanistan were bad news, they did the jobs that no one in their right mind would consider humane.

Nestor’s grip on your arm tightens just a fraction, enough to bring you back to the present, to remind you he’s there. His presence is reassuring amongst the rest of Miguel’s men. You sense his unwillingness to let you go so it’s you that takes the final steps forward.

The only way through hell is to keep moving, you remind yourself.

Christopher comes for you himself; his eyes never waver from your face as he strides to the halfway point and thrusts a manilla envelop into Nestor’s hands. His fingers twitch and you know this man’s desires go far beyond killing you. You wonder if he read the autopsy reports, if he knew each individual slice as intricately as you did.

“Did they ever find your brother’s dick?” You ask him.

You don’t see the blow coming but you expect it. It’s open handed, instead of a closed fist, smashing into your face with a crack so audible it practically vibrates through the room. The force of it staggers you, almost knocking you off your feet. That sudden eruption of pain is clarifying, it awakens something inside of you, that violent savage side, the part of you that wants to fight. Christopher’s hand threads through your hair, gripping it at the roots as he pulls you upright. There’s blood on your lips, you can taste the copper on your tongue before you spit in his face.

He doesn’t flinch, he uses the pads of his fingers to wipe it from his cheek before his hand comes to rest on your throat. It’s visceral, a sense memory from another time. The present and the past, they blur together. It’s that cloying scent in your nostrils, the gasp as the air is forced out of your lungs, the black spots that dance across your vision, the feel of his body pressed against yours.

“That’s it…” he says as he dips his head low, capturing your gaze. “That’s what makes you so beautiful, it’s the fear in your eyes, it brings out something in you. I wonder if this was what my brother saw he was fucking you. I wonder how it will feel when I fuck you.”

You didn’t hear the gunshot, not over the rush of blood in your ears. Red hot liquid spatters across your face and suddenly you could breathe again. It tears from you like a choked sob, one filled with terror and anguish. You can smell the cordite in the air, hear the click of a knife behind you, feel careful hands releasing you from your restraints. Marcus’s voice was piercing the veil, his face in front of you as his hands come to rest upon your shoulders and beyond him Nestor, his gun still smoking before he returns it to his holster.

Love Nestor? Get added to his tag list!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[princess-of-the-corner]

And for all of this, I am hated. For being there at the outset, for laying the foundations that others would willingly build on. I think they wish to find something in this story that explains things - some moment of decision, some choice that could later be regretted or accounted for. But it's just as I said - none exists. I have always been on this road, never turning never deviating. A long time ago, aware of my limitations, I formulated an expression to capture my condition: blessed is the mind too small to doubt. I am very attached to this maxim, and propagate it wherever I can. I hope it will be taken up with enthusiasm once our task is completed and the False Emperor is expunged from eternity. For now, though, I am content. I am loathed by those I betrayed, and loathed by those I guided into betrayal. I have brought a Warmaster to the Truth, and cracked the galaxy's vaults to speed his armies. I have burned worlds, and been burned by them, and who thanks me for this? This rebellion does not even bear my name - it bears the title of the scorpion I stayed closest to, the most dangerous of the breed who will ever live.

Now I observe my disgrace. I consider the wounds I have suffered, and the pain that will dog me forever. I consider those that inflicted such ignominy upon me, and how they started their stories so nobly and will end them in the gutter. They hate me not because of what I am, but because of what they were. They hate me because they turned, and I did not. The records of our enemies call us all turncoats, but I changed no allegiance. I was always here just as I am now, aware of myself and the universe that made me. I lied with every breath I ever took, except to myself. That is purity, of a kind, and something that no other soul in this grand armada of renegades can boast. I look on Terra now from my void-cold vantage and see its huddled lights glimmer in the fragile dark. Soon the order to attack will come and the final act will be entered. The monsters I created will burst from their fetters, giving no thought to what long labours brought them here.Horus mutilated me, my own primarch discarded me. That could be a cause for self-doubt, here on the edge of Terra's fall. That could make a lesser soul slink away, gnawing on his failure even as humanity's bastion collapses at last. But that's never been my way. I've been stung before and I always come back for more poison. I'm still the boy in the shadows of Colchis, pulling on the garrote-string and feeling my blood pump.The old games never really ceased, in truth. Only the players changed.Nothing remains to be explained. I can whisper these truths to my own screed-inscribed face, if I wish, that I can now hold up in front of my own eyes as my only audience. The ragged flesh is dry and cracking now, and will fall apart soon, but I keep it, just as I used to keep my mirrors for the same purpose. I took this face from another man, once, to become what I wanted to be. Now it is my reminder, that all despots are fragile, and that the hand of destiny will always be despised. Such is my power, now, I could fashion a new skin in moments. I choose not to. My face still weeps blood under my helm, glistening on flayed muscles. It hurts, and that too is a reminder. I was there at the start. I was there before we even had names for all the things we're doing now. I have no congregation any more, but I will again. The faithful will come back, thirsty for accounts of how this feat was achieved, and I will have stories waiting for them. Such stories. Stories that will make their ears bleed and their hearts burst. So it's not done yet, Erebus. Not yet. Just watch. Just watch.

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

Monologue of Erebus from Warhammer 40, about himself.

Like, there is reason why "F*ck Erebus" is most repeated phrase in Warhammer 40k

Gonna be honest I was low-key freaked out at first because I didn't realize you were quoting something

But also OOF

[anemoaday]

An Emo A Day… K. Flay X Pierce The Veil

[veronicaphoenix]

Writings' playlists | 🎶

Find below a list of songs that have inspired some of my works or that I tend to listen to while writing certain scenes/chapters :) Be aware that my music taste is all over the place ✌🏼

ೃ⁀➷ The Inevitability of Love at Second Sight

Given that this fic covers a timespan of nearly thirty years (starting with Noah and Lia being kids), there are some songs that are very chapter/scene specific. For instance, I used to listen to "Feeling a Moment" quite often when I was writing the lake scenes with Noah and Lia, "Sweet Disposition" for their first kiss 💕 and "I'd Come For You" when Lia is in the hospital and she finally wakes up and finds Noah waiting for her 💔 I have a lot of specific songs for certain scenes from Zutto, but I can't say yet, otherwise I'll be spoiling the story 👀

༯ Ikigai - Kids in Love by Mayday Parade - Live & Learn by The Cardigans - No Freedom by Dido - Sweet Disposition by The Temper Trap - Ordinary Love by U2 - Renegades by X Ambassadors - 10 Feet Down by NF (Feat. Ruelle) - Fly by Sleeping with Sirens - Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks - Right Girl by The Maine - Walking Disaster by Sum 41 - Pieces by Sum 41 - Feeling a Moment by Feeder - Don't Cry by Guns N' Roses

༯ Koi No Yokan - January Rain by PVRIS - Just Pretend by Bad Omens - If You Only Knew by Shinedown - Periscope by Papa Roach (Feat. Skylar Grey) - Bones by Young Guns - La Di Die by Nessa Barrett (Feat. Jxden) - You and I by PVRIS - Drown (Acoustic) by Bring Me The Horizon - Save a Place by 1969 - Hurts Like Hell by Fleurie - Have We Lost by Flyleaf - Let You Down by NF - I'd Come For You by Nickelback

༯ Zutto - Hysteria by Def Leppard - Feel Like Home by Papa Roach - Not Afraid Anymore by Halsey - Déjà Vu by Sleeping With Sirens - I'd Do Anything for Love by Meat Loaf - Separate by PVRIS - Affection by Cigarettes After Sex - Take Me Dancing by The Maine - Where the Streets Have No Name by U2

ೃ⁀➷ The Unmaking of a Warrior

I mostly listen to samurai meditation music from Youtube, but these are a few songs that I found myself playing on repeat while writing certain scenes for this fic:

- Samurai/Devotion - For Honor Soundtrack - Bushido by Derek Fiechter - Bushido Beats - Dear God by Lawless - Trojan Horses by Agnes Obel - The Death of Peace of Mind (Nightcore) by Bad Omens - Rain by Sleep Token - The Summoning by Sleep Token - Endless War by Within Temptation - And the World was Gone by Snow Ghosts

ೃ⁀➷ Into the Abyss of Bad Habits

This entire fic is so smutty that I listen to a lot of rock from the past century. Is it just me or are those songs perfect for wild dirty sex?

- Baby Said by Måneskin - Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N' Roses - Bad Habits by Ed Sheeran (Feat. Bring Me the Horizon) - Blood in the Cut by K. Flay - Bad Decisions by Bad Omens - Beautiful is Boring by Bones UK - Going to Hell by The Pretty Reckless - Babydoll by Ari Abdul - Cry Baby by The Neighbourhood - Gasoline by Måneskin - Shameless by Camila Cabello - You Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC - Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard - Passion Rules the Game by Scorpions - Cherry Pie by Warrant - Bad Reputation by Joan Jett - Rotten by The Naked and The Famous

ೃ⁀➷ The Sweetness of Love & Pain

This fic is entirely inspired by TDOPM album by Bad Omens. As I progress on the writing, I'll update this section.