#Golden White Stacked Stone

[ash3d-darling]

"Mrooow?"— Ramshackle x cat reader Hcs.

GN READER. Cw: death/injury joke, may possibly be OOC In which, reader is a strangely smart cat— a specific three scraps’s cat. did they adopt reader? Of course not! Yet they’re here to stay ****************************************************** • Now, how exactly did they all meet? Cat!reader found them a stash of beans, and the scraps gave them affection. That’s it. And from then on cat!reader stuck around!

“No, we are not keeping that thing- we can barely afford to feed ourselves.” Stone said harshly. “But stooneee,” skipp whined, “they found us beans!” stone was silent for a moment, hearing what just came out of the other male’s mouth. “what the f—”

•They ended up letting cat!reader hang around, as long as they kept finding things for them.

•also, they nicknamed cat!reader whiskers. Of course they still call the kitty by name, but it’s just more fun that way. they’re truly a little endearing pack, aren’t they. •Vinnie definitely treats them like a truffle pig or bloodhound, having them sniff around for everything they need

•She also gave cat! a little bandanna! (even if it’s a little worn down, its still lovely<3) • I imagine them having a little stack of old newspapers laying kinda like a nest? Right by where they all sleep

• I can see the two of them’s relationship could be like an orange cat and a black cat.

• Skipp likes to practice his music with cat!reader around, as cat!reader always give feedback- whether it’s a flick of their tail or a purr, he’s appreciative

•It’s the same with any of his other hobbies, they’re always right there.

•Skipp is usually the one to carry them, in his arms or on his shoulders.

•The two of them’s relationship is most definitely like a golden retriever who talks, and a black cat who listens.

•Stones an interesting one,, if skipp’s not carrying them, they’re most likely laying on his shoulders!

• I love the idea that he calls them whiskers the most out of the three.

•Sometimes when Stone’s laying down or finally took it off, they’ll snuggle into his coat.

•I imagine the two of them’s relationship is like two black cats. One caring brooding void, and one silly void!

•This isn’t to say cat!reader’s an angel, no. They’re really quite a trouble-maker to the town, honestly.

•No one can’t leave bread of fruit on shelves or vendors, lest they scamper off with it. • I can see cat!reader picking fights with the actual “proper” pets, cat or dog but especially birds.

•Their first reaction to maggot was to immediately lightly bap his face, but then they felt bad so they started caring for him.

• When the pageant came, cat!reader begrudgingly switched out their bandanna for a white “necktie” (it was just a clean piece of ribbon)

•I can see cat!reader ending up scratching someone who booed at maggot

•I imagine that when the fight happened, they were going all out and ended up being like that party cat meme. “Beauty pageant horror!: rogue feline attack, 5 dead 9 injured”

• All in all, I see Maggot & cat!reader’s relationship like; weird kitten/over-protective sibling cat BONUS: they were given a toy mouse by maggot

((I have never done anything like this, so feedback is appreciated! Feel free to send asks if you’d like as well, I’ll get back to them soon as possible!!))

[izvmimi]

the god of the riverbanks takes his sacrifices drowned - young girls, once sweet, bright-eyed and naïve in the morning sun, in exchange for bountiful harvests, rain and the promise of floods kept at bay. there are rumors that they turn up unaccompanied and unharmed in villages afar, hair just slightly damp and smelling as fresh as the sea, with their memories lost yet their smiles forever just as cheerful as the jade green dragon himself who glides just below the visible depth of the wide seas.

in contrast, the god of the skies, of sun and snow, is thought to take his sacrifices burned at the stake and yet no one has seen their bodies past their first cries and coughs. young women with strange burns they do not remember abound in a country far west; perhaps their voices reach the heavens and he shows mercy towards them, allowing them to ride on his back that glitters with a mosaic of white and red scales, and see the world from above, their scars bold but their minds purged of their pasts by flame and soothed by gentle ice.

however, nothing will give you solace, because you are to be sacrificed to the god of the mountains and the earth, who is war and strife itself. the blindfold that keeps you helpless is thick, the ropes on your wrists tight and cutting into your skin. the god offers your village protection from calamity and invasion; he promises your country strength and thus your gift is necessary.

you doubt you'd be a worthy meal but there was no one else to offer up, and you hope he swallows you up quickly; the pain could be immense, but not worse than the pain in your weary heart. your chest aches as you think of your family, aches further when you realize you will never have the chance to find purpose or find love.

the mountains are still and quiet as you wait, bound helplessly to the stone shrine. there is no escape.

time passes both slow and fast as you breathe in deep and exhale half as long until your chest hurts with the stacking of breath expanding your weary lungs.

you hear a sigh.

"sick of this shit."

your eyes widen at the gruffness of the man's voice, but you can see nothing. he tuts, and you can hear a presence move around you, the stinging warmth of a flame too close to the sensitive skin of the underside of your arms. the same sensation is quickly felt in your bound legs before you before they are free.

the blindfold falls and you're staring into a set of red, inhuman eyes. vertical slits. dragon eyes.

but your visitor is a man, somewhat, even if he is practically three times your size. your breath holds as you take more of him in, sharp eyes and even sharper cheekbones, golden hair, a gaze that is less curiosity and more exasperation. there is a soft glow to his skin despite the dusky overtone of the sky and his lips are soft appearing and pinkish red, almost feminine, in contrast to the soft bristle of fair, coarse hair on his chin. smoke still comes from the corner of his mouth as he speaks, and you see flashes of fanged teeth intermittently.

"i'm taking you to the other side of the mountain, got it?" he asks.

it's a statement that is given like an order and you're too dumbfounded to speak, forgetting how to make use of your no longer bound arms and legs.

"i won't eat you. got it?" he repeats, louder. your head swims.

he doesn't wait for your answer regardless, and his wings spread - deep crimson, orange and yellow, brilliant like the crackles of a large bonfire. you're dragged into his arms without protest and cradled like a small child despite his annoyed expression, you take to the skies, your fate uncertain.

[ogh-rambles]

Rewriting Fate - Chapter 4

chapter 3 > chapter 4 (you're here!) > chapter 5(in progress...)

word count! 2k.

warnings! only curses but if u count angst as one... a/n: oh boy we're back with the famed scene (click here for the full scene of the art below!)

A short, comfortable small talk envelops your party as Katsuragi guides you both to the village, an ever-present smile on his face. 

“I see… I’m glad you left that place before the landslide hit.” The man hums thoughtfully. “And your friend…”

Katsuragi’s gaze eventually lands on the golden feather that sways from Kuni’s neck, the latter restless under his intense stare.

His dark eyes grow wide at the sight, shocked to see an item of such importance so far from the mainland where Tenshukaku stands. “You... You have the Plume of Luxury. What affiliation do you have with the Shogun…?” 

You stiffen at his words, watching as he quickly notices Kuni’s avoidance in question to the topic behind the feather. Kuni nervously clutches the golden ornament in his palm, moving closer to you.

Pausing, Katsuragi clears his throat, nodding to himself as he averts his attention away.  “I suppose it’s for the best that you keep your background to yourself.” 

Kuni nods quietly, tucking it into his collar.

Your eyes move on from the two, quickly distracted by the plentiful clusters of homes and warmly lit windows emerging in the distance, exposing a much more lively view of Tatarasuna than you were previously familiar with. The buildings were in their prime, the wooden panels worn yet steady under your feet as you made your way into the village under the cover of night.

The aching sensation in your heart grows strong as you take in the prosperous village, knowing what is to come in a matter of years. Guilt, maybe. Hope? You’re already scared of the butterfly effect that was inevitable with your arrival, but you can’t help but wonder what would happen if you gave a small hint here and there. Would Tatarasuna still be thriving in the future as it is now? 

Your wandering eyes meet the prototype beside you, who lights up under your attention, still holding onto your sleeve with his firm grasp.

What will happen to him then?

You barely stop yourself from face-planting into a wall of muscle as Katsuragi stops abruptly in front of a small home. He slides the door open and turns around, gesturing inside.

“I will take you both to my superior, Nagamasa.” Katsuragi briefly explains, ushering you both into the warm interior before he heads in himself.

Your shoulders sag at the heat that enveloped your shivering body, noticing a small, dusty fireplace nestled into one of the corners. It seems newly built, you note as you stare into the embers. A couple of leftover stone bricks were still stacked up precariously against the wall. 

Kuni looks around, starry-eyed as he stands rather close to you despite the extra space, his synthetic skin cool against you. The one room was a little cramped to be housing three people at once, but you couldn’t complain. It was much better than the small cavern you and Kuni had found a few moments ago.

You lift your head, eyes wide at the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Ah, Katsuragi. I need your help with something, do you think… Oh?” A man, a little older than Katsuragi walks in from the other room, slipping through the sliding frame doors. He looks a little taken aback by the two strangers who seem just as lost as he. “And… whom might they be?”

So this was the man who would later be the one to slay Katsuragi when everything fell apart. You hold back a grimace, the soft murmurs between the two men turning into white noise in your ears as you study Nagamasa discreetly. 

He hadn’t made an appearance in the game, so you were at least a little curious about what he looked like. Dark brows are drawn into a tight crease, and brown eyes, clear and sharp, flicker from his yoriki to you and Kuni. 

He rakes a hand through black hair as he nods at Katsuragi’s explanation. The locks were a little unkempt, loose and just barely brushed his shoulders as he moved to face you. 

“I apologise for the wait. Welcome to Tatarasuna village.” He murmurs, steady gaze flickering between you and Kuni. “Kasturagi has explained to me that he found you both while patrolling on Nazuchi Beach.”

It wasn’t really a lie. Katsuragi had found you on the beach as he said but had excluded any mention of you finding Kuni in Shakkei Pavillion. 

You nod along to Nagamasa’s words as Katsuragi turns to the other man, gesturing to you.

“Yes, this is…” Katsuragi paused, looking a little sheepish. “Ah, my mistake. I forgot to ask you both for your names in the rush to get you both here.”

You blink. “Oh. Right.”

With hidden trepidation, you tell them your name, eyes darting down to your hands. Now your name was out there. You quickly move on from there, turning to the one sitting beside you, staring at you with wide shining eyes. Right, you hadn’t even told him your name.

Kuni whispers your name under his breath, lips curving into a small smile that had you mentally squinting against the pure light that emitted from him.

“And you?” Nagamasa quirks his brow, briefly eyeing the expensive-looking fabric that the other had donned. 

Kuni shuffles uneasily beside you. “I don’t have one.” 

The older man gruffly hums, scratching at his chin while Katsuragi frowns. “Don’t have one, you say…”

Katsuragi thinks for a moment before raising an offer with a subtle tilt of his head. “How about giving yourself a name? What do you think about that?”

The puppet’s eyes widen. “A name… for me?”

"You can think about it as you settle down in our village." Katsuragi leans back, crossing his arms across his chest. He seems pleased at the other's reaction.

The prototype nods as naive hope and admiration blossom in his hollow chest. 

Nagamasa watches the interaction with an unreadable, neutral expression, clearing his throat. 

“Now, about living in Tatarasuna…”

After introducing you to his superior, Katsuragi welcomed you both into his own home, offering a place to sleep for the night before they set up a place for you both to live in for the rest of your stay here at Tatarasuna. 

As you comfortably lay in the warm futon that Katsuragi had so generously laid out for you in a spare room, you absentmindedly stare up at the ceiling. Your new companion was and had been staring at you for quite some time now, sitting on his futon instead of slipping under the covers. 

You think back to the conversation you had with Nagamasa. 

The inspector had given you two a chance to start a life in Tatarasuna after you revealed that you had no memory of ending up on the beach. You were to start learning the basics of swordsmithing by tomorrow morning along with Kuni. Despite having eased your worries about meeting Katsuragi and continuing the story as it was planned, you can’t help but feel a lingering concern. 

Sighing exasperately, you flip to your side, staring back. Innocent indigo eyes blinked at you before a whisper filled the room. “Not sleeping? I thought you said humans needed to sleep?”

“Mn. Not tired.” You prop your head up on the pillow to face him better. “Why don’t you lie down? I know you don’t need sleep but the futon is comfortable.”

You watch Kuni let out a soft ‘oh’, before sliding into the covers stiffly, unsure of his movements. He glances at you for approval. “It’s… soft.”

“Isn’t it?” Settling down, you breathe out, the heavy weight on your chest a little lighter after talking to him. “Even if you don’t need to do the things humans do, doesn’t it feel nice to do them anyway?”

A soft shuffling noise comes from Kuni as he turns to you, the covers pulled up to his chin. He nods.

The corners of your lips naturally lift in amusement. “Now go to sleep. Isn’t it boring to stay up doing nothing all night?”

Shifting slightly under the thick blanket, the puppet finally shuts his eyes, letting his body rest like he saw you do before. It’s a little strange, allowing his body to fall slack when he’s so used to being aware of everything, eyes wanting to take in everything that the world presents him with. 

Listening to your soft breaths fill the room, he can’t help but make his artificial lungs mimic yours. He knows he doesn’t need to breathe or sleep. But as he finds his body relaxing, his mind goes quiet.

Finally, he lets himself rest in your presence.

Sitting up, you watch with a bittersweet smile as your companion ‘falls asleep’. Moving slowly and quietly, you slip out of the sheets, your steps silent against the tatami mat as you cautiously move towards the doors.

You glance back with finality at the unmoving form under the sheets, your distant eyes skimming over his dark hair splayed out on the pillow to his tranquil resting face.

You had been contemplating executing this plan since you had first met him in the pavilion. Initially, you had thought that you had ruined everything by leaving the domain with him, however, things had worked out in your favour and now things were where they had always been. 

Now only you were the abnormality in this moment. You weren’t supposed to be here. Staying would only mean you would distort the story more, and the thought of a future you didn’t know frightens you. 

Feeling the biting wind against your skin, you rip your gaze away, slipping out the doors and closing it behind you with a soft click, walking across the wooden panels of the deck that surrounded the home. You had to leave before your hesitation got the better of you and you ended up making a decision that you would regret.

Your feet touch the grass as you ready yourself to leave.

“Where are you going..?”

Your heart sank, head whipping around. Shit.

He’s staring at you with wild, desperate eyes – confusion and terror written all over him. They dart frantically across your face, as if searching for any reason you might have for leaving the room without him. 

It's almost painful to look at him, his trembling hand gripping so tightly onto his veil.

“...”

You say nothing.

What could you even tell him? That this was for his own good? That you swear that you’ll come back to him in the future?... That you were terrified to ruin his life more than it would become?

His expression grows more and more distraught at your silence and he stumbles towards you, desperately clutching at your clothes.

“Do you not like it here?” His thready voice quivers, sounding smaller than ever. “That’s okay, we can go…!”

The inner turmoil was back again, hitting you in full force. It was for his own good, you think to yourself. You’d rather carry the burden of leaving him rather than—

“... I’ll go with you! Wherever you go! Wherever!” His form shudders with every word, tears pooling in his eyes. “So...! So... Please... Please, please, please, please.”

“... Don’t leave me.”

You fail to swallow down the building lump in your throat, steeling yourself as you breathe in and—

…

You find yourself back inside, face vacantly fixed up at the ceiling again. The pressure on your heart is replaced with the arms of a desperate puppet clinging onto your body, his futon discarded for your own. He’s tense, and the extreme closeness is a little stifling but you can’t bring yourself to complain or push him away. 

His face is buried into your shoulder, and your heart squeezes with immense guilt as you feel him hiccup softly against your shirt. 

Your plan failed.

Closing your eyes, you exhale slowly as you tentatively reach up and card your fingers through his silken hair. He goes quiet, holding your arm tighter.

… There was no way you could leave now.

[leapingbadger]

Sunrise

@oliviaeatworld had a post about Hunter being able to sense ghosts and I couldn't get it out of my head, so I wrote a short story about it.

Summary: Hunter discovers her can sense ghosts.

Word count: 2151

Read on AO3

                Hunter finally got up after he had been awake for over an hour. He padded over to the small kitchen to prepare the cup of caf he needed to start the day. His routine didn’t change much these days. He enjoyed the calm and quiet of the morning while the others slept. He could hear Wrecker’s soft snoring coming from behind his door. Batcher’s collar jingled as she rolled over in her bed.

It had been five months since Tantis, since they had stopped running. They were safe at last. Something Hunter had struggled to believe possible at times.

                Living in a home was something Hunter had never known he wanted. The domesticity of stone and wood over Kamino’s sterile white or industrial grey was a dichotomy he’d never imagined he’d experience. Shep had been kind enough to give them a vacant home and they had slowly set to work, making it their own.

                The home was like most of the others on Pabu with its white stone exterior and curved doorframes and rooms. It was cozy but spacious enough to fit them all comfortably. They would spend their evenings cooking meals in the modest kitchen with Wrecker taking point as head chef. He had been so enamored with Shep’s food he had asked for lessons on how to prepare it himself.

                One of the larger bedrooms was divided into two so they all had their own private space. The rooms all connected to the central common space so they were never too far away from each other if someone needed something, or had a nightmare.

Omega had helped them pick out colors for the walls of their respective bedrooms. She thrived on the idea of them putting down roots, making things their own.  Hunter was amazed at her ability to bounce back from her experience on Tantis. She would never be that same small, innocent girl they had taken off Kamino and Hunter had to wrestle with that often. She had to become a soldier out of necessity, but now, seeing her curled up on the couch with a book or laughing with Liana, he hoped she was someone who could settle in the peace of this place. It was all he ever wanted for her.

The left bedroom belonged to Crosshair. He kept his room pretty sparse but did let Omega choose a calming, pale green for the walls. His bed was lofted which gave him the space below for his art. He had taken to painting in the last few months, initially as therapy for his augmented hand but Hunter knew it had helped heal his mind just as much. Canvases were propped against the walls and stacked next to the easel. Batcher’s bed was tucked in the corner. She alternated between his and Omega’s room.

Wrecker was next to Crosshair and had chosen a deep maroon. The color was reminiscent of their old armor. Hunter wasn’t sure if that was deliberate or not but it felt like a warm hug whenever you walked inside, if you didn’t trip over something. Posters hung crooked on the walls. They reminded Hunter of the ones they had had on the marauder. Wrecker had chosen those too now that he came to think about it.

                Omega’s room was in between Wrecker and Hunters, she had chosen a bright, golden color that seemed to sparkle in the morning sun. Hunter couldn’t help but think how perfect it was for a girl who shined light wherever she went. She had Lula propped up on a pillow on her bed. Tech’s goggles were on her nightstand, silently watching over her.

                Hunter’s room was bare like Crosshairs’. The walls were still the original, pale white. Omega asked him weekly if he had decided on a color yet, but he was struggling to commit to anything. It’s almost like there was too much choice. He still felt a little at sea. He loved their life on Pabu but almost felt that it was too good to be true. He was waiting for whatever was around the corner.

                The Pabu sunrise was glowing gold and scarlet as Hunter made his way out onto the stone patio. He was still getting used to the feel of cold rock on his feet. He missed the clang of his boots on the floor of the Marauder, but that time had passed.

He let out a sign as he sat on a wooden bench on the patio, his caf cupped in his hands as he gazed out over the harbor. Most of the boats were already out, looking for today’s catch. He closed his eyes to let his senses take over. He heard moon-yos chattering at the weeping maya tree on Pabu’s crest. The air tasted like salt and honey from the fruit trees littered around the island. He could even hear the murmuring of those at the docks and market. But there was something else.

                Hunter sat up taller in his seat and opened his eyes. It wasn’t anything alarming, but it was something his senses couldn’t quite touch, something he couldn’t quite explain. He closed his eyes again, brow furrowed on concentration as he tried to decern the feeling. It was almost like it was sending magnetic frequencies, but it wasn’t tangible, he couldn’t feel it, he just sensed it.

                His mind quickly went to the Empire. He opened his eyes and searched the sky. Was it a weapon? a ship? A threat? But all he saw was the blue Pabu sky, dotted with high clouds that drifted slowly over the sea.

                Hunter shook his head to try and push the feeling away. He was probably just imagining it.

                “Do not doubt your intuition” a voice said in his head. It sounded like Tech. It was something his brother had told him often, especially as cadets when he was trying to figure out how his enhancements worked and what good they were.

                There was a time when Hunter didn’t know what it meant to smell a droids or taste blood in the air or feel electromagnetic frequencies, when his head felt like it was vibrating on the inside but didn’t know why. Tech had been the one to take an interest, to talk him through it and help him figure out what it meant.

                 They would often camp on the floor of their bunk room, covers contorted into a sensory deprivation room. Hunter would sit inside, blindfolded while Tech remained outside and would prompt him. “What do you smell now? What can you sense? How close am I?” Hunter sometimes felt like one of Tech’s science experiments, but when it started working, when he was able to focus and recall and tap into his sense on command, it became an obsession. It became impossible not to want to learn more.

                He sighed as he shook his head again. There should be a room for Tech here, he thought sadly. No matter how much time had passed, there wasn’t a moment when Hunter didn’t turn around and expect to see his brother’s goggles staring back at him, data pad in hand, alert and ready.

                Hunter suddenly jerked his body away, involuntarily from the space next to him on the bench. In an instant it had felt like someone, or something was there. He stood up and looked at the space. He knew someone was there, he just couldn’t see them.

                He dropped his caf and let the mug break against the tile while simultaneously grabbing for his virboknife. He stood, hunched in attack position, staring at a vacant space. The birds still chirped; the salt air fell into his lungs as his rapid breathing took it in. There was nothing there.

                “Trust your senses,” The voice said again. It was tiney and faint, like it was coming ever so lightly through a speaker on the other side of the planet.

                “Tech?” Hunter said aloud, feeling stupid as soon as he did.

                “Hunter, I’ve been trying to reach you for a while. Are your senses dulling with age?”

                I’m not that old, Hunter thought as he looked across Pabu to make sure he wasn’t losing his grip on reality. Islanders were milling around, chatting as they walked to get groceries or took a pet for a walk along the winding paths.

                He turned his attention back to the empty space that somehow wasn’t empty and sat down.

                “Tech? is that you? How can I… how can you?... what…”

                “I have always been with you, Hunter. All of you” the voice said. Hunter wasn’t ready to believe yet, how could this be? Tech was dead, he’d heard him pull the trigger, Wrecker had seen him fall. He was gone. Maybe Hunter had finally let the stress of the last few years get to him.

                “I don’t know what you are but you’re not him,” Hunter said quietly, sorrowfully.

                “When we were in the rail car you didn’t speak over the comm when I mentioned Plan 99 because you knew it was the only way. You would never have asked me to do it. Would have done anything to save me, but you knew it was the only way to save you all. And so, you were silent. And that haunts you every second of every day.”

                “How can you… How is this possible?”

                “My guess is that you can sense things that until now, we couldn’t quite comprehend, Including the dead.”

“if that was the case, why didn’t that happen on every battlefield we every stepped foot on,” he couldn’t believe he was having conversation with a bodiless voice, not even a voice, a sense. He didn’t hear the words out loud; the conversation was happening in his head. He rubbed his hands over his face and eyes, but the conversation did not end.

                “It is just a hypothesis, but I imagine it involves a connection, a kinship. We lived together all our lives. You can sense me in death just like you could sense me in life.”

                Hunter signed. It sounded like Tech. He’d seen enough to know the galaxy was vast, and he knew very little about most of it. If Jedi could use the force to move objects, who’s to say he can’t sense the dead.

                “How are you, Tech?” he said out loud, his voice soft.

                “I am fine. You do not have to worry, Hunter. I do not feel any pain and I did not feel anything when I fell...It… It was not your fault; it was my choice. It was a choice I would make again, as I know you would have made it in my place if given the opportunity.

                “It should have been me,” Hunter hung his head and brushed as a tear off his tattooed cheek.

                “You are exactly where you are needed,” Tech replied

                “We miss you. Omega misses you a lot”

                “I know.” Tech said and the voice sounded sad for the first time. “I have enjoyed watching her grow up, even if I cannot be there in person. She is quite the pilot.”

                Hunter smiled, “yes, she is. She’s a remarkable kid.”

                “A great deal of that is down to you, Wrecker and Crosshair,”

                “And you,” Hunter added, looking at the vacant space on the bench. If he closed his eyes he could see Tech sitting there, a blurry white outline, but he was there. He sensed Tech smile.

                “You used to say Omega deserves to settle down with a family. Did she get the life she deserves?”

                “Yeah, I think she did, Tech. I think we all did…except you,” Hunter said

                “I am always here, Hunter. I join you for caf most mornings.

                Hunter raised his eyebrow in surprise, but a smile spread to his lips. “I’ll be sure to say hello more often, then.”

                “I would like that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must catch up with a certain pirate,”

                Hunter chuckled as he sensed Tech leave. The air returned to normal next to him, the voice disappeared and the volume of the world around him fell back into its normal rhythm.

                Hunter took a deep breath and knelt down to pick up the shattered pieces of his cup.

                “Hunter, we’re going down to the beach. Batcher needs a run. Do you want to come?” Omega strode out of the door, her blonde hair falling into her eyes, her blue lurka hound bounding after her and leaning against Hunter’s leg for a scratch.

                “Sure kid,” he said. He threw the broken cup away and put his arm around her shoulder as they started on the winding path to lower Pabu.

                “Hey, I think I’ve picked a color for my room,” he told her.         

“Really? Which one?” her eyes bright with surprise.

                “I’m thinking turquoise,”

                “That was Tech’s favorite color,” she said fondly.

                “Yeah kid. It was”

[zwhoreo]

A fic of Luffy and Reader first meeting please 😍🙏 ( I love how you write Luffy)

tysm !!! <33 this turned out so cute i think

meeting him - luffy x gn!reader

fluff

summary: while watching the ocean on your front steps one evening, you meet a boy named monkey d. luffy. he tells you about his life as a pirate, and teaches you how to skip rocks in the sea

words: 1.6k

________________________

Evening is just around the corner but the sky is still high enough over those clouds on the horizon that there’s warmth on your skin, golden and marinated. You’re sitting on the stone steps of your front garden and watching the waves crash on the white sand in the distance, because it’s warm enough that it’s still worth it to be here, letting the breeze weave your fingers.

Not many people are around at this time of night, the world is peaceful and still, but that’s why your head turns, in curiosity and focus, at the sound of wooden sandals on the sidewalk ahead, a heavy thwacking of aimless stumbling, the horizon bends with a silhouette of a boy walking down the cobble path and looking ahead, dazed, smiling over nothing.

You lock eyes. Large, brown, thoughtless and friendly eyes. You’re captivated and for some reason your heart folds in on itself in a way you can’t quite explain. His features are delicate, oddly beautiful in an unlikely sort of way, a hazel tan and greasy black hair blowing gently in the wind beneath an old, frayed straw hat. He looks like he’s been out at sea for a very long time, but although weathered he’s incredibly youthful, an older teenager, you think. He’s dressed like a pirate, you know this look well, they come into taverns drunk on cheap rum and leer at the young girls, picking fights, you didn’t think there were many good pirates left these days but something about this boy is so profoundly different. He’s not like anyone you’ve ever seen before, in some way you can’t place.

You watch him, keenly interested now, chin resting on your hands. Maybe this is why he comes up to you, crouching so close in front of you, no shyness present in his face. There’s an old scar under his left eye, tight and pale with age.

“Hiya!” His voice is raspy and loud. “You seen my crew anywhere?”

“Your crew? Mm, I don’t know. I haven’t seen anyone come by here for a while.” You find yourself talking differently than usual, not like you normally do with strangers, it’s something in your voice, your annunciation, that catches you off guard.

“Aw, really? There’s a lady with orange hair and this guy and he’s got green hair and three swords and-” He stops in the middle of a frustrated gesticulation when he sees your blank eyes. “Mm. Ok, I’ll go look in town.”

And just like that he gets up to leave. You’re saddened, but you find your words catching in your throat. Don’t leave.

But he pauses a few paces away, turning back after a brief consideration. “Hey, ya got any food? I’m real hungry.”

You look up, breath hitching. Yes, yes, this is something you can do. “Oh, yeah, I just baked some bread, actually. I’ll go get it if you wanna wait here.”

“Ooh! Sounds good. Hey, thanks!” he calls to you warmly, turning back, trotting to your front steps as you go inside.

The bread basket has been cooling on the windowsill, the crust is golden and steam wafts through the room and wets your hands as you pick it up to bring it to him. But when you come outside again he isn’t on your steps, or in your garden, you look around to find him but he isn’t anywhere, not until you step into the road and look over the rock embankment.

There’s the boy, he’s sitting in the white sand and playing with rocks, stacking them in lopsided towers with great intent. You smile when you see him. He isn’t gone. So you climb onto the beach and come to him, he grins casually, like you had been there all along, and his eyes light up when you set the bread in front of him.

“Ahh! This looks soo good!” Before his words are finished he’s already eating messily, he doesn’t care about the sand on his hands, he’s so focused.

You sit by him. You lean in, admiring his face, finally speaking, “I’m [name], by the way.”

“I’m Monkey D. Luffy!” he proclaims with enthusiasm, still not looking up. “It’s good to meet ya!” And he goes back to eating, as if this simple greeting has made you best friends and now everything is solved, but that name is familiar somehow and you like him so much already and you need to know more.

“Are you a pirate?” you ask with a tilted head.

“Mhm!” Luffy says through a mouthful of bread, “and I’m gonna be king of ‘em!”

“Pirate king, huh?” You raise your eyebrows, you’re charmed by him.

“Mm! Do you like the sea, [name]?” You feel like he’s been shifting closer to you, you hear him all around you now, his chewing remains consistent, loud.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s one of the prettiest things in the world,” you say honestly, the waves glitter in front of you, an infinite land-sky, glitter on pearl on galaxy-blue. Sunspots, stars, they twinkle on its surface.

“It’s real fun to be a pirate,” he chirps, finishing the bread and turning to you, his smile is gleaming and his voice is soft but gleeful.

“Yeah? What kinda stuff do you do out there?” You just want to hear him speak more, you realize.

“Ah man, everything! We go on tons of adventures, and we sing, and we get to make new friends wherever we go… and we look for treasure! We’re tryna find the One Piece!”

He returns your enchanted stare. He makes it all sound so easy, taming the cruel sea. His chest rises and falls, breaths heavy with excitement, his hands palm at the sand and hey, he’s really moving closer now, isn’t he? His eyes are so sparkly, it’s impossible to look away from him.

“Wanna skip rocks with me?” he asks before you have time to reply. He’s distracted so easily, reaching happily for his little tower, weighing the smooth gray stone in his hand.

Aren’t you looking for your crew? you want to ask. But you can’t let go of him yet, this mysterious, perfect boy. So instead you say, “sure, if you can teach me. I’m not great at it.”

“You live by the sea and ya can’t skip rocks?” Luffy laughs at you, tossing his stone into the sea with a snap of his wrist, it bounces once, twice, spinning in the air, a battle to fly from the ocean’s hunger, before it’s pulled beneath, disappearing into the surf.

Your hands touch as he gives you a rock, perfectly round and smooth, warmed from his palm. You throw it but your arm falters, it falls with a splash, gone before it could fly, a ripple of a memory left on the water, nothing more. Luffy laughs at you again.

“Nah, that ain’t it, you gotta flick your arm and keep it straight.” He moves close enough where you can feel his breath on your skin, hot and thick. “Mm,” he murmurs in your ear, voice low and ripe, “like this…”

He’s behind you, leaning against you, taking your arm and positioning you for the right sort of throw. His skin feels strange, like warm rubber, but your mind is so clouded with him, with his musky, overpowering scent and the tickle of his hair, you don’t notice much of anything. By accident, for the briefest moment, his salt-dried lips brush your shoulder, this is like lightning within you. But for Luffy this is nothing, it means nothing to him to be this close, it’s just what seems so natural.

You throw again, a smaller rock this time, aided by his hands on your arm. You’re so dizzied by his touch and you expect it to be even worse this time but to your surprise the rock skips once, a single heartbeat.

“See! Ya did it!” Luffy shouts joyfully, slapping you on the back, a little too hard, before pulling you in for a hug.

This is the best hug you’ve ever had. So tight, so warm, he buries his head in your shoulder, his weight nearly knocks you into the sand. You grab him back, by pure instinct, you want this closeness never to leave you.

But in an instant he’s pulled away again, unfazed by his own affection. He adjusts his hat carefully, looking back at the water, face content. He throws and skips one last stone.

“Mh, my crew’s prolly looking for me, huh?” Luffy stands up, dusting off his jeans, tilting his head at you. And then he offers you a hand, pulling you up with him, you’re face to face again and he places a hand firmly on your shoulder and says, “you can come if you want.”

“Huh?”

“On my crew. You can come be a pirate with me!” And again he has that way of saying things so simply. He doesn’t know you, how could he be so sure? But in his eyes you feel so incredibly, impossibly known.

He turns around, ready to walk away down the beach into the dying sunlight, and he turns to you once more and says, “you gonna be here tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I will!” you call to him, and he flashes you a broad smile, a thumbs-up, before running away into the horizon. You know he’ll come back.

Romance isn’t even in your mind. You just have this intense feeling for him, a certain kind of instantaneous love that goes deeper than any of that. You feel bonded, like you’ve never felt before, and you don’t know how it happened. You just stand there in the sand, dazed and misty eyed. You want so desperately to see him again. Deep breaths, calm your body, tonight you’ll have time to dream about what you’ll say.

You could see the world with him. You want to right now, very badly, so why not? Maybe it is that simple.

[femininenachos]

Thank you so much Queen for the vacation au update, much appreciated 🫡 Clarke is a lot of talk no action w that p eating tho

Ye of little faith…

Previously: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Once again, Clarke finds herself led by the hand through a warren of side streets, the irregular-shaped stone paving burning beneath the cork soles of her flip-flops. She’s still flying high from the exhilaration of the boat trip, but between the blistering afternoon heat and the effects of low blood sugar, she feels flushed and a little light-headed.

As though she read Clarke’s mind, Lexa pulls them to a stop under the shaded awning of an unassuming bakery. The aroma of freshly-baked bread, hot out the oven wafts from the open doorway. 

Lexa tips her head in invitation. “Want to grab a bite to go?”

“You did make me work up an appetite.”

And if things shake out like Lexa implied back at the cove, Clarke will definitely need to carb-load for what lies ahead.

They trade smirks as Lexa tugs them over the threshold. 

If it’s oppressively hot outdoors then it’s like stepping into a blast furnace inside. Even so, Clarke is drawn straight away to the pastries and savoury treats in the display counter. Emerging noisily from somewhere out back, a great, bearded bear of man enters carrying a large tray of bread rolls. He sets them on the cooling rack before ambling over, a broad smile in place.

“Leksa! Ha yu?” He glances between the two of them, a kind twinkle in his eyes. “Chon ste oyu brana lukot?”

“Dishe ste Klark.” Then in English, “Clarke, meet Gustus. My uncle.”

“Aulana?” He scrutinises Clarke for a second, an eyebrow going up. “American?”

What gives it away, she wonders, a little paranoid that she has a neon sign above her head that screams ‘obnoxious Yank’ in star-spangled red, white and blue.

Still, she pastes on her most winning smile, keen to make a good impression.

“Thanks for letting us borrow your boat this morning. We had such a great time.”

He says something in his own language, most of which Clarke doesn’t catch except “sadrona” (which she makes a mental note to look up later online), but she observes with interest that Lexa’s eyes slide away to fixate elsewhere while a rosy tint stains her high cheekbones.

“What can I get for you?” He directs the question at Clarke, his voice a warm rumble.

She adjusts the sunglasses perched on the top of her head and peers at the array of delicious-looking bakes through the glass. “Hard to choose when it all smells so amazing.” 

“Try the fleivatous,” Lexa suggests. “It’s a Polisian speciality, and my favourite: a flatbread stuffed with spices, nuts and dried berries.”

“Can’t beat that glowing recommendation.”

Gustus loosens a chuckle. “Lexa has always had a sweet tooth.”

“That’s not all that’s sweet about her,” Clarke says, low enough only for Lexa to hear. Secretly pleased when Lexa’s face reddens further.

To Gustus, Clarke says: “I’ll take two slices, and a couple of...” She points at a stack of parcel-shaped golden pastries with a beautifully shiny glaze. “What are these?”

”Fetabeik. Phyllo pastry layered with cheese.”

“Oh, yum. Yes, please.”

“I like this one, Lexa,” Gustus says with a wink as he boxes the pastries together.

Lexa sends him a forbidding look that only results in a hearty laugh. For her part, Clarke feels weirdly at ease and unflappable in the face of this man’s gentle ribbing. It’s all she can do to stop herself from beaming at the scowl on Lexa’s face. 

“How much do I owe?” Clarke asks.

Gustus holds up his palms, backing away. “No charge.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he waves her off, saying, “No, no. I insist. Just be good to my niece and that’s payment enough for me.”

“Uncle,” Lexa says, groaning.

She snatches the box off the counter and grabs Clarke’s hand too. “We’re going now.”

“Bye!” Clarke tosses over her shoulder with a small wave but she’s already halfway out the door, his laughter trailing after them. 

“He was nice,” she says with an impish grin as they continue walking.

Lexa’s lips are pursed, but she says nothing. So Clarke bumps their shoulders and squeezes the fingers entwined with hers. Wraps her free hand around the bend in Lexa’s arm, stroking the soft, warm skin beneath her thumb. “Has anyone ever told you you’re cute when you’re embarrassed?”

It earns a grudging sigh, but then Lexa glances at her and relents. She rolls her eyes a little. 

“Wait until I visit you in DC and the shoe will be on the other foot.”

For a moment Clarke imagines introducing Lexa to her own nearest and dearest and how that might go. It doesn’t fill her with as much apprehension as she might expect.

“No risk of running into my family there. My mom teaches at Cornell in upstate New York and my dad’s in Texas for work. They divorced when I was a kid.”

Lexa offers a soft look of sympathy that Clarke meets with a reassuring smile.

“It’s fine. Fortunately, it was amicable.” She pauses. “I mean, it was still confusing and upsetting for me as an eight year-old, but they’re the best of friends now. Both remarried. We spend Thanksgiving and the holidays together.”

“So… what I’m hearing is I should come in late November or December.”

Clarke’s mouth twists. “Do you crack under interrogation? Because my mom won’t give you an easy time.”

“Parents adore me. I’m polite and respectful and very attentive to their daughter.”

“‘Attentive.’” She eyes Lexa amusedly. “I’ll be the judge of that.” 

~*~

At the farthest edge of the town new residential developments have sprung up, modern buildings that are more or less in harmony with the surrounding traditional houses: all whitewashed walls and cobalt blue shutters, the flowering hanging baskets that frame the doorways providing vibrant pops of colour in purple and pink. A backdrop of rugged, scrub-covered mountains looms in the distance while a slice of jagged coastline is visible to the west, and it all feels pleasantly removed from the historic quarter where the tourists flock in their droves.

“Here we are. This is my home,” Lexa says, nodding toward a two-storey apartment block.

“Any roommates?”

“No, I live alone.”

“Good.” 

The look they exchange makes Clarke’s skin prickle and her pulse kick up a notch. 

They climb the stoop and two flights of stairs and Clarke follows Lexa inside. The place is small, the kitchen opening out into a sparsely furnished lounge area, but the high ceilings and sunlight flooding in through the double aspect windows gives it a bright and airy feel. The kitchen window is cracked open, just enough to allow a faint sea breeze in, and the wind chime that dangles above it tinkles musically every now and again.

“Sorry about the mess,” Lexa says, putting the pastry box on the counter. 

There’s a solitary coffee mug by the sink with a spoon in it—rinsed out already. Try as she might, Clarke can’t pick fault or see anything else that’s out of place. 

“If this is what qualifies as quote-unquote mess then I’m doing adulthood all wrong. My apartment looks like a bomb site compared to yours.”

“Blame military service. Some parts of the regimented lifestyle are difficult to let go.”

“Now you’ve got me picturing you in uniform, and I’m not mad about it.” 

A coy little smile sits on Lexa’s lips, and the sight of it propels Clarke forward. She crosses the tiled floor to wordlessly crowd Lexa against the counter and kiss her, both hands gripping the back of her neck as they open their mouths. Warm, sure hands roam down Clarke’s sides to grasp her by the hips and before she knows it, Lexa has her spun around. 

Pinned between the counter and Lexa’s frame, back to front, Clarke feels humid breath ghost over her ear, her neck, the join where it meets her shoulder, lips hovering close yet still withholding, and it’s enough to make her knees buckle slightly.

She reaches behind to guide Lexa’s mouth back to hers, greedy for more. A blissful sigh escapes when Lexa runs her palms up, curving around her breasts, only for Clarke to be frustrated by the inconvenient layers of cotton and spandex between them.

They need to be naked. Now. 

Driven by that imperative, Clarke twists back around and yanks Lexa’s button-down off her shoulders. The tank top swiftly follows, landing in a heap at their feet, and their lips remain fused while she walks Lexa backwards until they bump into the couch. 

Clarke shoves Lexa down and remains standing, gratified by the wide, hungry eyes staring up at her. 

Too impatient to put on a performance, she whips off her t-shirt and steps out of her shorts. They’re still caught on her ankle when Lexa grabs her by the waist, pulling Clarke onto her lap and back to her waiting lips.

While their mouths are busy, Clarke lets her hands travel over Lexa’s chest. Feeling her way. Circling hard nipples with her thumbs. A whimper catches in Lexa’s throat and it thrills Clarke to the core. The tugging ache of arousal hasn’t left her since they fled the cove and her belly twists sharply with want as she slips to the floor on her knees between the spread of Lexa’s legs. 

Clarke kisses down Lexa’s abdomen, smirking as muscles twitch and contract under her lips, still able to taste the sun and sea on Lexa’s skin. She doesn’t abandon her grip on Lexa’s breasts until her chin grazes the waistband of Lexa’s shorts and she hears the deep breath Lexa draws in, feels her tense in anticipation.

Hooking her thumbs under the elastic, Clarke looks up the length of Lexa’s body, eyes fastening on her chest and the tempting jut of her nipples. Unable to resist, she leans up and takes one between her lips. Runs her tongue around the pebbled areola. Slow swirls at first then faster as she narrows in on the tip and sucks hard. Lexa’s low groan, how she arches into it, fingers sinking into Clarke’s hair, gathering a fistful at her nape, only adds to her excitement.

She meets Lexa’s lidded gaze and the air seems to sizzle, those darkened eyes burning, hungrily watching Clarke’s every move. 

Under that rapt attention, she switches to Lexa’s other breast. Mouths all around, eyes remaining glued to Lexa’s while she licks a wet path to the straining nipple, catching it on the flat of her tongue, flicking the tip before sucking it into her mouth.

For the next long while, Clarke gorges herself on every inch of soft flesh until Lexa’s tits are shiny with saliva and a stream of breathy little moans are dropping from her lips. She keeps moving her hips, rocking into Clarke in the pursuit of friction, sighing heavily when she edges away.

Feeling much too smug about the effect she’s having, Clarke wants to grin ear to ear, but she briefly smothers her smile in the curve of one breast. Flattens her hand between their bodies and slips inside Lexa’s shorts.

They both groan as Clarke skims through the wetness, gliding over Lexa’s clit and making her hips jump.

“What do you want first?” Clarke asks, swirling the tip of one finger at Lexa’s entrance. “This or…?”

Lexa’s throat works before she replies with, “Mouth. Please.”

“So polite.”

There’s a teasing undertone, but Clarke has no desire to drag this out and make Lexa beg, not when she’s so tightly wound herself. It’s for both their sakes that she quickly shuffles to the side and tugs the shorts down Lexa’s impossibly long legs. 

Clarke can’t help but stare, soaking up the sight of all that glowing tan skin on display. In the haze of lust, she moves on autopilot. She trails her hands up Lexa’s shins to grip her knees. Gently pushes them apart and situates herself between. Her breath catches when her eyes settle low, on Lexa, wet and swollen for her. 

It’s Clarke’s new favourite view this island has to offer.

Lexa opens her legs wider.

All the encouragement Clarke needs to hook her hands under Lexa’s thighs and drag her to the edge of the couch. The air is thick with the heady, musky scent of arousal and Clarke breathes it in, filling her lungs. Powerless not to flow forward, to press her open mouth there and drink from the source.

A shiver racks Lexa’s body and she bites off a curse when Clarke’s tongue eases in. Hands tangle in her hair, winding tighter against her scalp, and Clarke relaxes her jaw to work deeper, curling her tongue to draw more wetness into her mouth, the tang filling every space as she emits an appreciative groan. Maybe it’s a product of the local diet, but Lexa is by far the best flavour Clarke has ever had on her tongue.

Pulling back an inch, she pins Lexa by the hips and licks her slowly, deliberately, dragging her tongue up to trace patterns around Lexa’s clit. She mixes firm laps with gentle suction and little nudges with her nose, sometimes lifting her mouth away just to breathe on Lexa while she strains to get closer.

All the while Lexa is practically writhing on the receiving end, gasping and stifling a moan each time Clarke presses her tongue inside, limited by its reach and the growing ache in her jaw to just a few shallow thrusts that Lexa urgently rocks down to meet. 

And when Clarke’s eyes flick up to watch, she’s mesmerised by Lexa in the throes. Her hair has dried into a mass of marvellous curls, and Clarke is wholly infatuated with it. That, and the way the sunlight pouring through the windows paints her golden skin, catching the beads of perspiration that dot her throat and chest as she arches her spine and spreads herself even wider, directing Clarke by the grip on her hair. 

Lexa’s calves tremble with exertion as she picks up the pace, her gasping breaths becoming thinner and more ragged as she chases the pleasure.

Sensing the unspoken need, Clarke reaches for Lexa’s clit, using the soft pad of her thumb to rub tight, firm circles while she extends her tongue, pushing in as far as possible. Her jaw has gone numb but she powers through, determined not to falter.

As Lexa rocks her hips and Clarke plunges in and drags back out, their eyes lock and hold. In that moment of connection, Clarke sees her name form on Lexa’s lips before she throws her head back against the cushions and stiffens sharply, shuddering into Clarke’s mouth and flooding her tongue.

Lexa is near silent for the big finish, except for the gulping breaths she pulls in as she clenches and shivers and scrapes her nails against Clarke’s scalp.

After a few more lazy thrusts, Clarke withdraws with a rude slurp and takes her thumb off Lexa’s clit. She bends close again, intending to lick up the spill, but a weak tug on her hair draws her focus up. Lexa looks dazed, her mouth hanging open as her heavy eyes search Clarke’s face. 

She doesn’t even get a chance to wipe her chin before Lexa urges her up onto her lap and into a deep and dirty kiss, a muffled groan vibrating between them. Palms scorch up Clarke’s ribs to cover her tits, kneading, teasing her nipples while she shamelessly grinds on Lexa. 

It’s good, but not enough.

Breaking off the kiss, Clarke sits back on her haunches and reaches for the top piece of her swimsuit.

“Help me out of this?”

Together, they pull it up and over Clarke’s head.

She almost laughs at the reverential look on Lexa’s face once her tits are freed, like Lexa has been blessed with the greatest gift to lesbiankind. Clarke isn’t so conceited as to believe her breasts are a quasi-religious experience, but Lexa sure makes it seem that way.

After a second, Lexa snaps out of her trance and slips her hand behind Clarke’s neck to reconnect their lips. They both whimper into the kiss as they crush closer. The graze of their nipples feels electric, lighting sparks under Clarke’s skin and sending another jolt between her legs.

The muggy heat inside the apartment is stifling by now. Their stomachs and thighs stick together, slicked in sweat, but neither are inclined to separate, locked in a fervent makeout. Clarke is breathing hard by the time Lexa rolls her over and peels the rest of her swimsuit off.

Unselfconscious, Clarke lets her thighs fall open, and Lexa needs no greater incentive to drop to her knees. A moan slips out before Lexa even puts her mouth on her, so hyper-aware is Clarke of the gentle fan of warm breath over her vulva. But at the very last second Lexa veers away to plant kisses on the insides of Clarke’s thighs and she isn’t capable of containing her huff of frustration. 

She feels the stretch of Lexa’s smile, but before Clarke can vocalise any complaints, Lexa turns her face and licks up the length of her. Unprepared for the shock of direct contact when it’s been sorely missing, her hips fly off the couch, almost colliding with Lexa’s nose.

“Oh, fuck,” Clarke croaks, a hand shooting out to clutch Lexa’s shoulder, the other grabbing a fistful of the cushion behind her head. “Fuck.”

“I will,” Lexa says, a glint in her eye when she catches Clarke’s. Then she holds Clarke down by the hip bones and lowers her mouth once more.

Clarke’s breath escapes her in a rush, eyes slamming shut. Her body reacts, engulfed by sensation. All scorching heat and the soft, wet glide of Lexa’s tongue as it weaves up through the slick, circles her clit, before dipping low to drag over her again and again, keeping Clarke squirming for minutes on end, rotating her hips in a frantic grind.  

She peels her eyes open to look, craning her neck to witness the complete and utter rapture on Lexa’s face. She’s covered in Clarke, lips and cheeks all shiny. And her tongue... Clarke shivers and clenches around nothing at the glimpse of pink muscle lapping at her with purpose, heat coiling tighter in her gut with each deft stroke. Every now and then Lexa presses inside, just far enough to make Clarke choke on a moan and rut her hips up in a useless attempt to force Lexa deeper. When Lexa retreats she uses a little less pressure on the next lick, too gentle and fleeting to give Clarke what she craves. 

“Lex,” she pants, a hint of aggravation bleeding into her tone after the fifth or sixth time it happens. She squeezes Lexa’s shoulder.

“What?” Lexa asks lightly, her parted lips brushing against Clarke so intimately that she feels the question breathed into her body.

She stifles a noise of pure need and grits her teeth.

Nearly howls when Lexa takes her mouth away.

“You only have to ask, Clarke.” Dark, dark eyes hold her gaze. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

It’s clear Lexa isn’t toying now. There’s something in the depths of her eyes that speaks of sincere devotion, like it’s her true calling and sacred duty to surpass herself and give Clarke the best damn orgasm of her life. From anyone else, that intensity might be a little frightening, but coming from Lexa? It’s the biggest turn-on, and Clarke is more than willing to put her through her paces.

She throws down the gauntlet with all the cocky confidence she can muster in her current position.

“Isn’t it about time you brought out the strap?”

~*~

The ceiling fan rattles and whirs overhead, merely stirring the soupy, sweat-saturated air around the room. Despite having all the windows thrown open, the scant through-breeze does little to alleviate the dense humidity or disperse the scent of sex that hangs potent and heavy in the air.

Laid flat on her back on twisted sheets, Clarke sweeps the tangle of damp, frizzy hair out of her face with one hand, still trying to get her breathing under control. Her chest is heaving and her thighs haven’t stopped shaking in the aftermath of their last energetic tryst, the second since Lexa brought out the harness and a sparkly purple dildo and proceeded to screw her into the mattress with smooth, deep thrusts and small, quick jogs of her hips until she came with a strangled shout. Now Clarke’s mind is mush and her body aches in the best way, worn out and thoroughly sated—for the time being, at least.

Meanwhile, Lexa is stretched out alongside, flaunting a lazy half-smile as she unbuckles the harness. The bulbous head of the toy slaps wetly against Clarke’s hip bone before Lexa scoops it up and tosses the whole kit over the side of the bed to be dealt with later. 

Propping her temple on her fist, Lexa trails her fingers down Clarke’s side, following the curve of her breast and the slope of her ribs down to the dip in her waist, retracing the same path on the return journey, and Clarke can’t control the way her body responds to the stimulus, goosebumps rising on her skin despite the unbearable heat. 

Every involuntary twitch makes Lexa’s little smirk edge wider, like she has a newfound fixation with testing Clarke’s reactions, laughing when Clarke finally squirms away from her touch.

“Are you ticklish?”

“Are you?” Clarke threatens, trying and failing not to be charmed by Lexa’s easy half grin, how she giggles and scrambles backwards when Clarke pretends to lunge. “Don’t make me fight you.”

Then she flops back against the pillows and kicks away the covers. “Ugh, it’s way too hot. I feel like I’m melting.”

“Water?”

“Please.”

Lexa slips off the bed and slinks out the room, fully nude and without a care in the world, and Clarke’s eyes stay trained on that audacious bubble butt as she goes, amazed not for the first time that Lexa is carrying all that junk in the trunk. Really, her perfect tush should be a serious contender for the number one visitor attraction in Polis. Clarke almost mourns its disappearance when Lexa turns the corner.

Left alone to examine her surroundings instead, Clarke lets her gaze drift around the room. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s neutrally decorated and spotlessly clean; everything put away. No ornaments, photographs or other personal touches that reflect Lexa’s taste except for a framed piece of art that depicts a lonely, ruined tower surrounded by lush forest. On the wall above the door hangs a distinctive ward that’s a staple of the island’s gift shops: a hand-painted stone with four concentric circles in the shape of a blue eye.

When Lexa returns from the kitchen with a large glass of water, Clarke levers up on one elbow and takes it from her gratefully. After a few greedy gulps, the cool liquid sliding down her throat, she nudges her chin toward the ‘evil eye’ symbol.

“Are you superstitious?”

Lexa joins her on the bed. Glances over her shoulder and gives a slight shrug. “It’s a peasant tradition going back thousands of years, but it doesn’t hurt to be protected from negative energy.” A faint smile graces her lips. “Especially Anya’s when I do something to piss her off.”

“I could’ve used something similar when I dropped by the taverna yesterday.”

“In her own misguided way, she tries to protect me too.”

“From who? Me?”

Lexa tilts her head side to side, neither confirming or denying. She studies Clarke for a moment, something indecipherable in her eyes. A muscle in Lexa’s jaw tightens, then she smiles again, if a touch more guardedly. “Mm. You have serial ‘heartbreaker’ written all over you.”

Clarke gapes at her, half shocked, half offended. She places the glass on the bedside table before she accidentally spills water on the mattress. 

She scoffs, “That couldn’t be further from the truth. One, because I work 80-hour weeks on average so how would I even find the time? And two—which is related to point one—the only people I meet are at the hospital, and since they’re either coworkers or patients under my care, they’re strictly off-limits.”

Lexa quirks an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You’re a doctor?” she asks, honing in on that part and ignoring the rest of Clarke’s protestations.

She runs her eyes over Clarke, like she’s the one fantasising about uniforms now, nevermind that a lab coat, surgical scrubs and a stethoscope aren’t in the same league as combat fatigues. 

All the same, Clarke wouldn’t be opposed to some steamy ‘on-call’ room role play, which does an effective job of neutralising her outrage.

She reclines again. 

“I am. Clarke Griffin MD, vascular surgeon in-training. About to begin my fourth year of residency.”

Lexa’s eyes, which had strayed below Clarke’s neck once more—so gay, so predictable—leap back up, widening a fraction. 

“Sha?” Her gaze turns admiring. “Beauty and brains.”

“And a helluva rack, to boot.”

“The full package.”

A flush on her cheeks, Clarke accepts the compliment, enjoying the flattery.

“Sometimes I question my sanity for putting myself through the stress and the endless grind, working nights, weekends, and holidays while getting paid peanuts. Oh yeah, and not forgetting the mountain of student loan debt I graduated with from med school.” 

With a doleful sigh, she stares off into space as she contemplates the decade of loan repayments ahead of her. But she snaps out of it and brightens up. 

“Being a doctor is all I’ve ever wanted to do, though. Helping people. Making a difference in their lives.”

Silently, Lexa bobs her head in understanding, but Clarke can tell she’s slipped into her own thoughts.

“What about you?” Clarke asks in a softer voice. She picks up Lexa’s hand and plays with her fingers. “After travel and adventure, what do you dream of doing?”

Lexa lifts her shoulder and lets it drop.

“There aren’t many career opportunities here. The economy is shit, so I’d go to Barcelona or Berlin. Maybe Copenhagen.” She purses her lips as she mulls it over. “I’d like to finish my degree in Political Science. I went to university on the mainland after my year in the army, but” — a flicker in her eyes — “I had to quit halfway through.”

Clarke waits for Lexa to go on, sensing she has more to say when her face cycles through a series of complicated emotions.

“My mother got sick and I came home to help my father and Anya take care of her.” Her jaw works side to side in a microscopic movement before she swallows visibly, lashes lowering. “It was cancer.”

Clarke’s heart clutches.

“God, that’s rough. I’m sorry.”

During her rotation in oncology, she’d witnessed firsthand the devastating effects of a cancer diagnosis on patients and their loved ones; seen battles hard won and tragically lost. To think of Lexa’s mom going through that same hell, the profound emotional toll it must’ve taken on the family, on Lexa herself… Lacking the words, Clarke gives the hand in hers a gentle squeeze, hoping to convey her genuine care and concern.

It appears to shore Lexa up. Taking a fortifying breath, she lifts her eyes and offers the slightest of smiles.

“She’s better now. How do you say it?” She casts about for the translation.

“In remission?”

A nod. 

“All clear for four years. And I remained in Polis. Too much time passed for me to return to university. But… I regret not completing my studies.”

Clarke feels for her. Lexa had to put her education and entire future on hold for her family and now she’s in limbo, her ambitions unrealised, hemmed in by circumstances and an income that’s reliant on seasonal tourism. Polis is a wonderful place, but it’s too small to contain someone like Lexa. 

Before Clarke can offer any platitudes, Lexa pulls on their joined hands. “Come. Those pastries are calling to me.”

~*~

Out on the terrace, a fresh breeze brings cooler air down from the mountains. A table and two patio chairs overlook the cliffs and the shimmering expanse of sea, the water lit up in streaks of red and orange as the setting sun hangs low on the horizon, the sky a glorious haze of yellow and gold.

Wrapped only in a bedsheet, Clarke nibbles on a fetabeik, the buttery flakes melting in her mouth. She hums in appreciation.

“Good?” Lexa asks, mid-demolition of her own slice.

Clarke catches a crumb on her lip and licks it off her fingers. “So good. I’m gonna have to go back and get some for Wells and Octavia to try.”

“Your friends, are they doctors too?”

She shakes her head, no.

“I was classmates with Octavia’s brother in pre-med organic chemistry. He had a crush on me, but…” She makes a face, enough to get across it was entirely unreciprocated. “Junior year, I got introduced to O at a party on campus and we just clicked. Instant ride-or-die. Wells? He and I go way back. We grew up on the same street, went to high school together, shared some extra curriculars: mathletes, chess club. I’ve basically known him since we were rugrats and he hasn’t gotten sick of me yet.”

Lexa peers at her, nonplussed. “Mathletes?”

“It’s like, competitive math as a team sport. Facing off to solve equations against the clock.” It occurs to her that she just outed her teenage self as a giant nerd and now she has reputational damage to repair. “We won at Nationals three years in a row. Even got featured on the local TV news.”

The smile on Lexa’s face only gets bigger while Clarke digs a deeper hole for herself.

“It’s cooler than it sounds. We had jackets!”

“I’m glad to see you didn’t let the fame and accolades go to your head.”

She huffs.

Shoots a faux glare in Lexa’s direction.

“And I bet you ruled the school,” Clarke says. “Probably had that effortless, cool, collected, zero-fucks-given attitude down as soon as you could walk.” 

Lexa dips her chin, still smiling. She plucks at the hem of the loose shorts that sit low on her hips. “Honestly, I was quiet and kind of a loner. It wasn’t until I joined the swim team that I found my confidence and my people.”

Clarke taps her knuckles on the table.

“So you were a jock. Called it.”

Those abs aren’t the product of a weak workout regime.

“Years ago.” Lexa’s lips take on a proud tilt. She catches Clarke’s eye. “But I still like to stay in shape.”

Brazenly, Clarke lets her gaze travel over a trim, toned stomach up to Lexa’s snug black sports bra and the biteable lines of her collarbones. 

She casts her mind back to the two rounds with the strap and clicks her tongue. “Well, I’m no fan of the gym, but luckily sex is great cardio. So, in my professional opinion, we should do more of that.”

“How much more?”

She tilts her head, pretending to ponder it.

“Oh… a minimum of two orgasms at least once a day.”

Lexa looks at her at length.

“And when you go? How am I supposed to cope without my fix?” 

Part of Clarke dares to hope Lexa isn’t just referring to missing her body once they’re thousands of miles apart.

A hint of nerves enters her voice. “I haven’t figured that out for myself yet.”

Lexa’s eyes don’t leave hers.

“Will you stay?” Off the flash of alarm on Clarke’s face, Lexa appends calmly, “Here, tonight.”

Right.

Of course that’s what she meant. It wasn’t an invitation for Clarke to fucking emigrate.

It takes several seconds for her heart to stop pounding and the heat to dissipate from her cheeks. She weighs the options: functional air conditioning and the guarantee of a restful sleep in crisp, cool sheets at the villa versus waking up in an unfamiliar bed, sweaty, hair in her face and her nose in the crook of Lexa’s neck. 

No contest, really.

“Depends. What are you making me for breakfast?”

[marigold-hills]

Dunes & Waters, part 39

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

There's a courtyard. Sun-bleached, limestone-pale.  In the middle of it a square, ornate pond. The water is shallow. A single red lotus flower grows in the middle like a drop of blood in the stillness.

A woman wades through the water. From the richness of her skin to the way she moves, everything about her is stated affluence. She wears a dress so white and sheer each line of her body can be seen. She looks to where she’s watched, and says: “im(i) Hr.k, Í mry.t,”. Pay attention, my beloved. 

She holds a pair of golden scissors and cuts the stem of the flower. Picks up the bloom with open, outstretched fingers, careful not to bruise the petals. Murmurs soft words and it levitates next to her, follows as she steps out of the water, onto the stone ground, where in a sunken divot logs are stacked up and burning. Atop them, a copper bowl, the metal softly steaming.

Pay attention.

She holds a vial of clear liquid and pours it into the hot bowl. It hisses as it hits the surface, bubbles up immediately. When it calms down, she picks up a branch. It’s thorny. The leaves are green and lush. She rips them off with deft fingers and throws them into the boiling liquid.

May you live, she says, as a warm, honey-filled scent raises from the bowl, “ȧmȧ ānkh.ek,”. The leaf-free stick she uses to stir it, three times in the way the sun raises, five times as it sets.

She takes off a necklace and there’s a lock of hair braided into the cord. Unpicks it. Adds the hair (black, curled) into the bowl. Stirs it again, watches with hawk-eyes that it doesn’t boil.

“Uaḥ-tep-tah,” she says once she’s finished stirring. Live long life on earth.

Plucks the lotus flower from the air. It’s beautiful, flawless, perfection in the spiral of leaves. Hands brought together as if in prayer she crushes the petals into pulp. Throws it into the simmering liquid.

“wnn pt wnn.T xr.i.”

As long as the sky exists, you will exist within me.

The potion turns a sunset red. She places the wood she used for stirring into it, and it floats on the surface, turns in lazy circles.

There’s a clay pitches by the pond and she fills it with its water, uses it to douse the flames. The potion she tips into a glass vial and corks it.

Do this on a day of new moon, she says, and use when it’s next full.

The memory fades. She smiles wide, with teeth.  NOTES:

Í mry.t is the female version of “my beloved” :) just a little hidden thing

NEXT PART

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

@digital-kam

@remoonysiriusly

@sweetstarryskies

@a-sunset-outside-my-window

@procrastinatingstuff

@annaliza999

@arasael

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[rpgsandbox]

Official photos of the upcoming LEGO Dungeons and Dragons Red Dragon’s Tale set (21348) are officially here! Stacking up to nearly 3,800 pieces, the upcoming set celebrates the RPG’s 50th anniversay with six all-new minifigures, a giant Cinderhowl red dragon, and tons of other fiends.

The set has officially been named LEGO Ideas 21348 Dungeons and Dragons Red Dragon’s Tale – a departure from the fan-submitted model, which was called Dragon’s Keep: Journey’s End by original builder Lucas Bolt (known as BoltBuilds). The differences between the model that’s actually hitting store shelves and the original creation aren’t all that noticeable, but there are some adjustments!

LEGO’s first Dungeons and Dragons kit celebrates 50 years of the role-playing game from Wizards of the Coast and Hasbro. It stacks up to 3,745 pieces and assembles a fantasy scene. There’s a medieval building on the left, which is integrated into the stone of a dilapidated castle. There’s an extra 700 bricks from the original version. That increase goes towards a more detailed model, as well as giving some more love to the side build.

We’ve covered the Dungeon, but what about the Dragon? The LEGO set includes a massive giant Cinderhowl red dragon. It can perch on the castle tower, or just fly around in your own little adventure.

Alongside the actual model, the new LEGO Dungeons and Dragons set includes a handful of minifigures, as well as creatures for them to do battle with. There are six adventurer minifigures, including an Orc Rogue, Gnome Fighter, Elf Wizard, Dwarf Cleric, a Bard, and more. You also get three LEGO skeletons, too. The kit also includes a Beholder, as well as the Displacer Beast. We also get a small glimpse of a brick-built Gelatinous cube and the Owlbear. It’s a really solid mix of figures and beats for them to do battle with.

In true Dungeons and Dragons fashion, the LEGO set also includes a digital download for an adventure to recreate with the included figures.

You’ll be able to buy the LEGO Dungeons and Dragons Red Dragon’s Tale set (21348) starting next month. It officially goes on sale to the public on April 3, but LEGO Insiders will be able to get this one early – as per usual. It’ll drop at midnight on April 1 for those with a free account. It debuts at $359.99. The LEGO storefront page is at this link.

Plus, a Collectible Minifigure Series on the way

Alongside the main LEGO Ideas set, the collaboration will be continuing over to a Collectible Minifigure Series based around Dungeons and Dragons. The lineup will debut later this fall as a second installment of the 50th anniversary action and will include 12 different characters from the role-playing game. That includes Tieflings, druids, bars, and even the Mindflayer. The LEGO Group has now confirmed that it will launch in September.

Here’s a full breakdown of the Dungeons and Dragons Collectible Minifigure Series. Each of the blind box LEGO figures will sell for $4.99, and includes a minifigure alongside a fittingly-themed accessory. 

Tiefling Sorcerer with Red Baby Dragon

Golden Dragonborn Paladin with Shield

Tasha the With Queen with Cauldron

White Aarakocra Ranger with Dog

Mindflayer with Intellect Devourer

Dwarf Barbarian with Axe

Strahd von Zarovich with Sword

Githyanki Warlock with Knife

Halfling Druid with Bird

Halfling Bard with Lute

Lady of Pain with Cube

Szass Tam with Skull

[nerdythebard]

#62: Sun Wukong, the Monkey King

[Art Credit: GameScience Studio]

All he ever wanted was to chill with his monkey friends and eat delicious fruit. But the Bureaucracy of Heaven said nooo...

Time for the one and only Sun Wukong. The Handsome Monkey King. The Great Sage Equal to Heavens (self-appointed). The Immortal Troublemaker. As requested by @otakuboysworld. Without any futher ado, let's get into some monkey business! This is going to be quite a bananas build!

Next Time: With a raven's mantle and a doctor's mask... the Hunt shall begin!

Wukong is the earliest example of an overpowered anime protagonist I can think of. With his extensive repertoire of powers and skills, I had to restrict myself to only the most famous few, so let's see what we shall focus on:

Stacks of Immortality: Sun Wukong has gained immortality on at least four separate occasions and originally emerged from a mysterious stone (which adds to his durability). We need to be as tanky as possible on our journey to protect the goodest of monks.

Friends in High Places: The Monkey King, although often clashing with the Bureaucracy of Heaven, does have a few immortals looking out for him including the Bodhisattva Guanyin or Taibai Jinxing, the Great White Golden Star.

Monkey Games: Although a competent and powerful fighter, Sun Wukong is also an accomplished trickster, relying on illusions, transformations, and manipulation to accomplish his goals. Only don't make any bets with the Buddha.

---

1. BACKGROUND

This one is pretty obvious - we're going with the Hadozee from Astral Adventurer's Guide. We shall put +2 into our Dexterity and +1 into Constitution, gain 30 feet of running and climbing speed, and the Dexterous Feet ability, which lets us manipulate objects with our feet as well as we would with our hands. We then have the Glide ability - whenever we fall at least 10 feet above the ground, we can use our reaction to open our skin flaps and glide using our running speed without taking any fall damage, flying squirrel-style. In this case, I would ask the DM to reflavour the Hadozee skin membrane into Sun Wukong's Jin Dou Yun, or "Cloud Surfing" ability. Or, as you may know it better

We also get Hadozee Dodge - whenever we take damage, we can use our reaction to roll a d6, add our proficiency bonus, and reduce the damage by the result. We can to that a number of times equal to our proficiency bonus per long rest.

For the Backround, we have a few options (Acolyte, Sage, Folk Hero among them), but as a pilgrim making their Journey, we shall grab Far Traveler. We get proficiency in Insight and Perception (to better spot the demons), proficiency with one musical instrument or gaming set, one language of our choice, and the All Eyes on You feature; our accent, mannerisms, and... well, being a monkey, certainly draw attention, but we may use this to our advantage by obtaining information or favours.

2. ABILITY SCORES

We will start with Constitution - we are a monkey made of stone draped in layers of immortality; we can take several heavy punches. Strength will be next, being able to lift an entire pillar supporting the underwater dragon kingdom is no small feat. We will put Dexterity as the next one - we are, in the end, a nimble monkey.

Charisma will be next; we are, after all, the (self-proclaimed) Handsome Monkey King and our reputation among the yaoguai preceeds us. Wisdom is on the lower end, but it shouldn't worry us as the (self-proclaimed) Great Sage Equal to Heaven. Finally, we're dumping Intelligence - we are, in the end, an impulsive monkey.

3. CLASS

Now, there are a few interesting ways we could've build the Monkey King, ranging from the classic Kensei Monk through Matt Mercer's Echo Knight Fighter to simulate his hair clone technique; but I do like what I came up with.

Level 1 - Druid: Starting off with Sun Wukong's connection to his homeland, Mount Huaguo. Druids get d8 as their Hit Dice, [8 + Constitution modifier] initial Hit Points, proficiencies with clubs, daggers, darts, javelins, maces, quarterstaffs, scimitars, sickles, slings, and spears as well as light armour, medium armour, shields, and herbalism kit. Really good options, so let's grab a quarterstaff and a scale mail armour. Our saving throws are Intelligence and Wisdom (we sure need those), and we get to pick two class skills from the list (Medicine and Religion).

Druids start by learning Druidic, a secret language and writing system used to communicate secrets across. Additionally, we start with Spellcasting. Wisdom is our casting ability, we learn cantrips, regular spells, and rituals, and we get to prepare [Wisdom modifier + our Druid level] spells every day from the full spell list. We start with two cantrips (Primal Savagery and Thunderclap) and one 1st-level spell (Jump).

Level 2 - Druid: We unlock Druid's signature ability - Wild Shape. Simulating one part of Wukong's 72 Earthly Transformations, we are now able to take the form of a beast we've previously encountered, with a max CR of 1/4 (no swimming or flying speed), for [our Druid level / 2] hours using our Bonus Action. We can transform twice per short or long rest.

We also get to pick our first subclass, our Druid Circle. For Sun Wukong, whose entire campaign against the Heavens started because his peaceful life on Mt. Huaguo was disturbed, we will go with Circle of the Land. We get to choose a bonus cantrip (Shilelagh), Natural Recovery lets us regain some spell slots during short rest, and we also get some additional spell depending on the Land we decide to associate with; here, we'll go with Mountain.

We can also grab another 1st-level spell (Protection from Evil and Good).

Level 3 - Druid: We don't unlock new class features here, but we are being supplies with some spells. From our subclass we get Spider Climb and Spike Growth (feel free to flavour the latter as Wukong's hair tossed on the ground and transformed), and we unlock 2nd-level spells, which lets us grab Hold Person.

Level 4 - Druid: We get our first Ability Score Improvement. We'll put one point into Constitution and round up Dexterity with the other. Our Wild Shape also improves, now including creatures with the maximum CR of 1/2 and swimming speed, and we gain one new cantrip (Produce Flame) and one 2nd-level spell (Enlarge/Reduce to use on ourselves or our staff).

Level 5 - Paladin: We're changing a tune for a little bit, but hear me out: Wukong is a holy warrior whether he likes it or not (and we do need better combat). Multiclassing into Paladin gives us proficiencies with the full spectrum of simple and martial weapons, as well as armours and shields we already are proficient with.

Starting with Divine Sense, we can now focus our magical monkey senses to detect all celestials, fiends or undead within 60 feet of us, basically allowing us to walk up to the suspicious old lady and go

We also get Lay on Hands, which grants us small pool of [our Paladin level x5] healing energy, which we can use on ourselves or another creature as an action. Alternatively, we can spend 5 of those Healing Points to remove an illness or a disease from our target.

Level 6 - Paladin: At this level, we are now able to pack a proper divine punch with the introduction of Divine Smite. Whenever we hit a target, we can now burn one spell slot to do additional radiant damage. The damage is 2d8 for 1st-level spell slot and increases by 1d8 for each higher slot (to a maximum of 5d8 or 6d8 if the target is a fiend or undead).

We also unlock our Fighting Style here; we'll pick Dueling for a +2 to our damage rolls since we're only using our staff and no other weapon.

Finally, at this level we unlock Spellcasting. Charisma is our casting ability, and we only know regular spells - no cantrips or rituals. Since we're mixing up two casting classes, feel free to use this [calculator] to know how many spell slots you'll be getting. We have a full access to our spell list, but each day we can only prepare [our Charisma modifier + half of our Paladin level]. With how we are right now that means we start with two 1st-level spells: let's grab Searing Smite and Compelled Duel to yell "COME AT ME, BRO!" to any demon encountered.

Level 7 - Paladin: With Divine Health we are now immune to any disease. We also get to pick our second subclass and pledge our Divine Oath. For Sun Wukong, whose goal is to become the Number One In All Heavens, it's obvious to pick the Oath of Glory.

We get a few extra spells (Guiding Bolt [funny idea: flavour this spell as your staff extending and hitting the target] and Heroism) and a Channel Divinity options (which we can use once per short or long rest):

Peerless Athlese: As a bonus action, we can enhance our physicality. For the next 10 minutes we have advantage on our Athletics and Acrobatics checks; we can push, lift, drag, and carry twice our normal capacity; and our jumping distance and height increases by 10 feet.

Inspiring Smite: When we deal radiant damage using our Divine Smite ability, we can use this Channel Divinity and, as a bonus action, distribute a total of [2d8 + our Paladin level] healing Hit Points to creatures of our choosing within 30 feet of us (ourselves included).

Level 8 - Druid: Going back to the man monkey of nature, we unlock 3rd-level spells. Take Erupting Earth and flavour it as extending your staff and striking the ground, causing tremors and difficult terrain. From our subclass we also unlock Lightning Bolt and Meld into Stone.

Level 9 - Druid: We unlock a new subclass feature. With Land's Stride, there isn't much that can stop us now. Non-magical difficult terrain no longer impedes our speed, and we can move through non-magical plants with hazardous elements such as thorns and grasping vines without any problems. For this level's spell let's take Water Walk to chase our enemies across all surfaces.

Level 10 - Druid: Halfway through the build and we unlock 4th-level spells. Time to get even better transformation abilities with... Hallucinatory Terrain. The reason I'm not taking Polymorph here is because that spell, much like our Druidic Wild Shape, is also restricted to the 'Beast' category. With Hallucinatory Terrain, we can mess up with the enemy's perception of their surroundings and add a sneak attack or two while they're confused. Classic trickster behaviour.

We also get two more spells from our subclass (Stone Shape and Stoneskin).

Level 11 - Druid: Oh, a lot happens here. First and foremost, another ASI. Let's take one point of Constitution and one point of Wisdom to finally become a little smarter. Next up, our Wild Shape impoves once again and now we can assume the form of any Beast with the max CR of 1 (which usually means a giant version of regular animals) and we can finally include creatures with flying speed!

Finally, we can get another 4th-level spell (Locate Creature).

Level 12 - Druid: At this level, we only unlock 5th-level spells. From our subclass we get Passwall and Wall of Stone, and we additionally collect Control Winds.

Level 13 - Druid: We get our last cantrips of the build (Resistance) and another 5th-level spell (Scrying). We also get another subclass feature. With Nature's Ward, we can no longer be charmed or frightened by fey or elementals, and we're also immune to poison and disease.

Level 14 - Druid: We unlock 6th-level spells here. With Wind Walk we can transform ourselves and our group into Flying Nimbuses... Nimbusi?... which can be re-made as summoning the clouds for everyone.

Level 15 - Druid: For this level's spell, Bones of the Earth will let us manipulate the battlefield and deal some damage. For our ASI we will get the Tough feat to further boost our Hit Points.

Level 16 - Druid: Unlocking 7th-level spells grants us another great crowd control ability - Whirlwind. It not only deals 10d6 bludgeoning damage to any target caught within, but we can also move it 30 feet per turn, effectively sweeping the area like a hoover.

Level 17 - Druid: Time for our final subclass feature. Nature'e Sanctuary forces a Wisdom saving throw onto any beast or plant that attempts to attack us and make them choose a different target (and miss) if they fail.

For this level's spell, let's further roleplay Sun Wukong's immortality by picking Regenerate. Just remember to be selfish with the heals ;)

Level 18 - Druid: Unlocking 8th-level spells here gives us access to Control Weather (yes, that's actually a power Wukong has) to wreck even more chaos.

Level 19 - Druid: For our final ASI we will grab the Observant feat; as Wukong was elevated to the Buddahood and gained his all-seeing eyes, we get a +1 to our Wisdom, read lips if we observe a creature for a minute, and get a +5 to our passive Perception and Investigation scores. For this level's spell, we're getting Sunburst to fully unleash our newly acquired divine might.

Level 20 - Druid: Our cap is Druid 17; it doesn't give us any new class or subclass features, but we do unlock the pinnacle of spellcasting, the 9th level spells. At this point, we can finally perfect the 72 Earthly Transformations with Shapechange.

4. RECOMMENDED ITEMS

Now, this here is a new section I'm trying out, please let me know your thoughts. Basically, to complete the build, I would like to list two or three items found in the D&D source books that you might want to consider pursuing. See, I am under the impression that the players shape the story as much as the DM; it is completely fine to ask your DM if you perhaps could have a storyline about getting these items, which would make for interesting plot hooks or storylines. Anyway, for Sun Wukong, you should consider the following (both given to the Monkey King by Ao Guang, the Dragon King of the East):

1) (Blue) Dragon Scale Mail - This Very Rare item gives us a +1 to AC, advantage on saving throws against Frightful Presence and breath weapon of dragons, and resistance to lightning damage.

2) Pole of Collapsing - To simulate the Ruyi Jingu Bang's dimension changing properties, I would ask the DM to fuse this one with the quarterstaff we use as our main weapon.

---

And that's my take on Sun Wukong, the great Monkey King. Let's see what we ended up with:

First and foremost, we have a solid pool of Hit Points. With the average of 216 we place on 3rd place of all build so far, right after Kratos and Atlas. With a plethora of healing options, we can simulate the layers of Wukong's immortality easily. We are a scout and a vanguard first and foremost - with Wild Shape, Divine Sense, and Wind Walk we can search out dangers along the way and let our party members plan out efficiently. We are also able to hold our own, adding the Paladin SMITE to our strikes or use our support spells to confuse the enemy.

Our AC is 16 (18 if we get the Dragon Armour), we have a +3 to our initiative, and the average of 216 Hit Points.

Unfortunately, there are several weaknesses here: first and foremost, none of our ability scores reach 20. Next up, a lot of our spells require concentration, so we need to be careful there. Finally, our mental stats are pretty low, which might prove challenging when facing enemies with mind control or illusion powers.

---

And that's it, my dears. I wanted to release this during the height of Black Myth: Wukong's popularity, but since my creative brain hates me... I have scrapped the entire build as I was at the very end. Yup, originally I intented to make him Kensei Monk and Trickster Cleric, but decided to focus on his transformations more. Hope you enjoy this, remember to be good to yourself, and I'll see you in the next one!

-Nerdy out!

[thepythakorean]

parallels between the boy and the heron and this painting, plus general analysis

Arnold Bocklin, Island of the Dead. 1880

i want to preface this by saying i am by no means an art history nerd, i just happen to know some stuff about the background of this painting in particular.

as soon as mahito is sucked into the tower floor he is standing at the shore of an island surrounded by an endless ocean. he is dwarfed by a large set of golden gates that say something like "those who seek my knowledge shall perish" and an even taller forest of cypress trees. these features all frame a white dolmen (primitive tomb usually made of giant rocks stacked like below) that beckons to him.

this scene immediately struck me since it has so many of the visual elements of the painting. mahito is even framed in the foreground to be so very small approaching these giant, daunting structures just like the boat heading for the island in the painting. besides the tombs, the cypress trees are also traditionally associated with mourning and death at least in europe/the mediterranean. other ghibli movies have lavish european aesthetics tied to characters (howl, yubaba, etc.) but it feels particularly intimate here given that mahito's great granduncle, the creator and ruler of this world, is apparently european and can only pass on his role to a direct descendant. (btw not saying the gaudy european decor signature of howl and yubaba aren't important to their characterization, it def is! i'm just saying it stood out to me in this movie especially.) the cliffs full of stone entrance passageways are prominent later in the movie as himi takes mahito through the parakeet's domain, and interestingly, in the delivery room where natsuko is, there is another dolmen behind her (can't find pics since the movie hasn't been uploaded yet urgh).

the backstory to the painting continues to parallel to the events of the story! so there's 5 versions of this painting. the first three versions were painted in a cemetery close to bocklin's residence which was also full of white headstones and sculptures, and cypress trees. one of his infant children, one of many children he lost, was buried there. the one i posted above is the first/second-- while bocklin was working on the first, a the soon-to-be wife of a politician visited his studio, saw the wip, and commissioned her own version with the added white figure and coffin to commemorate her first husband who had just died of diphtheria. already somewhat similar to how mahito's mother died in the hospital fire (well. she died from the fire but presumably she was there because she was sick) and when his father shortly remarried. these were also added to the initial wip and stuck in later versions of the painting. bocklin later wrote to her, "you will be able to dream yourself into the world of dark shadows". the movie is also very dreamlike-- it's a fantasy world filled with strange creatures, alternate versions of people he knows, and passages that seem to alter the fabric of time and space. people also seem to forget about it as soon as they leave even after spending long periods of time in it like a dream. the painting is also very dreamlike, but why? the warm lighting, maybe not in the version i posted but in a couple others, may explain it, but the island itself resembles the curtains and stage of a theater (referencing the audio clip below the description). even if it doesn't look EXACTLY like that to you, it's definitely a too-perfect little scene in a nebulous expanse of space. this theatrical quality is also shown in the movie by the parakeet uprising side plot as well as the scene when himi and mahito collapse in front of the delivery room-- the curtain falls directly in front of the viewer over them as though a stageplay just ended. oh and a friend mentioned to me how this is a classic hero's journey plot and mirrors orpheus in the underworld. island of the dead has also directly inspired NUMEROUS other works of art, including other paintings, stage productions, and symphonic poems. apparently the painting was so popular many people in berlin hung prints of it in their homes (i do too)! as i stated above though, a lot of the visual elements in the painting were already traditional symbols relating to death so i don't want to 100% conclude that miyazaki was directly inspired by this painting, he may have just also resonated with those symbols independent of bocklin which i still think is awesome.

the first time we see himi also reminded me of the painting. she's wearing a white dress and standing at the bow of a small wooden boat, and though her intentions are to save the warawara from the pelicans, she inevitably kills some of them too. visually and thematically she's like the white figure at the front of the rowboat in the painting. she acts as a guide for mahito (analogous to the rower? he traveled to this world of his own volition but needed a guide) for a good part of the movie and is a collage of life and death. she is a younger but kind of omniscient version of his dead mother; she's known all along she is mahito's mother but is about to be born into the world by the end of the movie and accepts her fate happily. she can control fire which envelops her like how she died in the real world, but is harmless to the touch unless she directs it as a weapon, and as we see with the warawara and pelicans it helps creation but also destroys much like fire's role in the natural world. natsuko, though a separate person from himi, is still connected as a sibling, and we see her wandering into the forest at the beginning of the movie while wearing white like himi, back turned to mahito, and that is what prompts him to first enter the tower. the strange nature of her character that doesn't adhere to a proper time or space parallels the way the white figure completely stands out in the painting, at least the ones with darker lighting. another crazy parallel surrounding fire and wwii between the painting and the movie is that the fourth version of this painting was destroyed during wwii due to bombing, again like how mahito's mother's hospital was presumably set on fire by bombing during the war.

the looming effects of war alluded to throughout the movie eventually tie into its resolution, when mahito accepts his new family that he initially rejected, his own imperfect being, and the fact that one must seek out love to be happy in this bitch of a world. his great granduncle is confused as to why mahito wouldn't want to recreate his own world like him. why would you want to return to the world that killed your mother and rejects you as a person? the world that forces your people to die in war and will eventually drop the deadliest weapon mankind has ever seen even a century from now onto your home? you can make everything perfect here! he's created something of a "paradise" himself, full of lush tropical plants, parakeets, and strange insects (some of them looked like the bugs from nausicaa, another fantastical world of lush nature which is also threatened by war. interesting), almost like a garden of eden, and it so happens to be at the very top of the tower. funnily enough, bocklin also painted this several years later:

Arnold Bocklin, Island of Life. 1888

i don't know much about this one so idk if it's an explicit companion piece to the island of the dead but it certainly looks like it. the similarities are now less apparent to the movie if there are any, it's much less lush but there are exotic plants and uh birds and stuff. this is definitely more likely a case of shared inspiration from the symbols themselves rather than movie directly looking at the painting. anyway clearly the promise of a perfect paradise isn't real, as this is interrupted by a war of his own unwitting creation, the uprising of the parakeets he wanted to breed in a paradise that literally bring about the end of the world. no world will ever be perfect when left long enough to its own devices. life finds a way! plus, this world was created through so much death (the construction workers in hazardous conditions, the way the tower keeps spiriting people away. btw in the english sub mahito's dad calls the whole ordeal a "disappearance" but he says "kamikakushi" in japanese which means "hidden by god" in reference to people who mysteriously disappeared as if from supernatural circumstances and yes that's the word they used in the japanese title of spirited away!!!) and is on the verge of collapsing from reality every three days just because of some building blocks?? the real world may be on fire but it'll go out/burn less badly someday, and at least it won't completely disappear in a snap, not in an easily imagined timescale for a human anyway. it's up to you to make the best of it, and this is what mahito decides. there are also visual allusions to other ghibli movies about the constantly present threat or consequences of war. the only other landmark aside from the island mahito lands on is a line of ships which kiriko later tells him are all fake. it immediately reminded me of the stream of planes in porco rosso which were the souls of dead fighter pilots moving on. the shadow people in the swamp were also reminiscent of those in the train in spirited away, which are never explained to my knowledge but the given that spirited away's characters are largely spirits and the way souls are so similarly designed in this movie makes me feel that they were also souls of people in spirited away.

through this imagined otherworld, there is also the blurring of lines between life and death, reality and imagination. himi plus her dyad with natsuko (they're sisters AND they look exactly the same AND both are mother figures to mahito) are great examples of this. mahito's mother is gone, he knew this and set foot into the world anyway. he rejected natsuko as his new mother but in going through the struggles of the tower he comes to accept familial love for her and even keeps confusing "natsuko" and "mom" while reaching out to her in the delivery room. a family is made up of different people but inevitably you will see each other in each person. in the delivery room scene we see the paper hanging from the ceiling lash out to attack and stick to mahito like tape, it even leaves red marks on him. this is one of the best scenes in the movie to me because of its visual contrast to him rushing to save his mother in the fire. in the fire scene, the real world around him is blurred and distorted and at times so is mahito and especially his mother. the fire doesn't seem to burn him or his clothes (i could be remembering that wrong tho) and the scene cuts off before it shows him possibly going in further. in the delivery room, everything is drawn with clean lineart, no stylization. there is no mistaking the reality of this situation even though this world is conjured, the dawning realization upon mahito that this person is his mother is so visceral that he actively fights through the paper literally snapping its jaws and natsuko spitting her hatred towards him. when mahito is ready to leave the tower, himi leaves through a separate door to be born as his mother sometime in the past though she is not a warawara and knows what has happened/will happen, an exception that further demonstrates the nonlinear nature of time and space in the movie.

after coming out of the tower, the heron tells mahito he should forget everything that happened in there. even his grandmother seemed to have forgotten the whole year she spent in there (it seems like tower time reflects irl time judging by the events of the movie). anything that comes out doesn't just disappear, it transforms into a real-life counterpart as we saw with the pelicans leaving as they were (presumably minus the ability to speak) and the parakeets going from big bloodthirsty things to regular parakeets. so mahito can't just forget, especially because he comes out changed from his experiences in there, not just himself personally but also his changed relationships with natsuko and the heron, and also his little souvenirs. then the movie abruptly ends with mahito narrating that they left for tokyo again shortly after the war ended. i like to think that this was a hopeful ending where mahito maintained that character development and was able to welcome natsuko and his new sibling into his family while being able to seek more friends and family in the future. i've seen other analyses talking about how this movie was semi-autobiographical for miyazaki and i can see it, how events early in his life shaped his personality and how he had to fight to find beauty in a world that otherwise treated him poorly, so i'm glad he ended the movie on that note, although in less words. pretty similar to how spirited away ended, although there was arguably more loss involved, but still hopeful, and that's what i find so powerful about this movie. and like this movie, spirited away involves a dyad between yubaba and zeniba as a device for the hardships and beauty of life, how they're not so discreet at times. as a last kindasorta tie-in to bocklin's work, i'll point again to the island of life which was created after the island of the dead, plus a composition directly inspired by the island of the dead, a symphonic poem with the same title written by sergei rachmaninoff. the last time i listened to this was in high school and it's like. 20 minutes long so i'm too impatient to give it a relisten now but from my vague recollection plus some quick searches it's a very somber piece that escalates into emotional climaxes yet still contains warmer tones, and goes back to the same "rowing" motif at the end. it weaves together evocations of life and death in one piece, also illustrating how the two really are so closely connected.

tl;dr, this was me the entire movie because miyazaki SEEMS to be heavily inspired by this one symbolist painting i happen to like a lot:

also also here's a self portrait of bocklin:

yes, all of his paintings are that cool.

[monstersinthecosmos]

okay I think we should take inventory of what we learned about Marius's house.

In fact, the impression was one of comfortable messiness.

(i think the tiktok kids started calling ADHD clutter clustering or something LMAO marius de romanus cluster girlie i guess. thanks i hate it)

Here's some stuff that Marius had on his island!!!!!!!

stone benches

a lighted oil lamp on a stand

a pair of heavy wooden doors

a sarcophagus with a plain lid, cleanly fashioned out of diorite

The lid plated in iron and contained

a golden mask, its features carefully molded, attached to a hood made up of layered plates of hammered gold.

a pair of leather gloves covered completely in tinier more delicate gold plates like scales.

a large folded blanket of the softest red wool with one side sewn with larger gold plates

Magnificent Grecian urns on pedestals in the corridors

great bronze statues from the Orient

exquisite plants at every window and terrace open to the sky.

Gorgeous rugs from India, Persia, China c

giant stuffed beasts mounted in lifelike attitudes-

--the brown bear,

--the lion,

--the tiger,

--even the elephant standing in his own immense chamber,

--lizards as big as dragons,

--birds of prey clutching dried branches made to look like the limbs of real trees.

brilliantly colored murals covering every surface from floor to ceiling

a dark vibrant painting of the sunburnt Arabian desert complete with an exquisitely detailed caravan of camels and turbaned merchants moving over the sand

a jungle warming with delicately rendered tropical blossoms, vines, carefully drawn leaves

creatures everywhere in the texture of the jungle-

--insects,

--birds,

--worms in the soil-

too many monkeys in the jungle,

too many bugs crawling on the leaves.

thousands of tiny insects in one painting of a summer sky.

a large gallery walled on either side by painted men and women staring at me

Figures from all ages these were-

--bedouins,

--Egyptians,

--Greeks and Romans,

--knights in armor,

--peasants

--kings

--queens.

--Renaissance people in doublets and leggings,

--the Sun King with his massive mane of curls,

--people of our own age.

droplets of water clinging to a cape,

the cut on the side of a face,

the spider half-crushed beneath a polished leather boot.

a library, blazing with light.

Walls and walls of books and

rolled manuscripts,

giant glistening world globes in their wooden cradles,

busts of the ancient Greek gods and goddesses,

great sprawling maps.

Newspapers in all languages lay in stacks on tables.

Fossils,

mummified hands,

exotic shells.

bouquets of dried flowers,

figurines and fragments of old sculpture,

alabaster jars covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

comfortable chairs with footstools,

candelabra or oil lamps.

a forest of cages.

birds of all sizes and colors

monkeys

baboons,

Potted plants crowded against the cages-

--ferns and

--banana trees,

--cabbage roses,

--moonflower,

--jasmine,

--other sweetly fragrant nighttime vines.

purple and white orchids,

waxed flowers that trapped insects in their maw,

little trees groaning with peaches and lemons and pears.

a hall of sculptures equal to any gallery in the Vatican museum.

adjoining chambers full of paintings,

Oriental furnishings,

mechanical toys.

fine rosewood paneling with framed mirrors rising to the ceiling.

painted chests,

upholstered chairs,

dark and lush landscapes,

porcelain clocks.

A small collection of books in the glass-doored bookcases,

a newspaper of recent date lying on a small table beside a brocaded winged chair.

the stone terrace. where banks of white lilies and red roses gave off their powerful perfume.

a pair of winged chairs that faced each other

a dozen or so candelabra and sconces on the paneled walls.

brocade cushions

[accidental-king]

BURYING THE NOT QUITE DEAD: A DISCO ELYSIUM FANFIC

My take on the events after the game featuring a multi-fic HarryKim slowburn. I'm also just a sucker for case fics. This is just a snippet from Chapter 1 but I actually have several chapters written. I'll be posting them on AO3 eventually but I'd like to run it by some beta readers first. Feel free to DM me if you're interested!

SHIVERS - As the sun begins to lower over Jamrock, the dome of an old silk mill shines like brass in the golden light. It's not difficult to see a time in which masses of workers filed in and out of its entrances, and the motor lorries lined up along its western wing to collect their wares. Miles upon miles of lustrous textiles to be shipped across oceans and isolas to glide across the skin and furnishings of those few who can afford it. The Revacholiere will never be one of those people. 

The long and blocky building projects off of either side of the dome like a russet brick ladybird, splitting its chitinous hide and stretching its wings between half-demolished tenements and modern high rises alike. Its masonry tells tales of a time before the deathblow. A time when even the utilitarian still showed a thread of residual vanity in the form of granite steps, sharp stone arches, and molded concrete cornerstones. Original varve clay brick, brown like dried autumn leaves, sit in contrast to newer, coppery replacements, highlighting the scars of war and neglect in cracks, blotches and even an entire end of one wing. Always visible like a reality you can't unsee. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - It has been a Police Precinct longer now than it was ever a Silk Mill but its old purpose still lingers in the bones of its columns, trusses, and long abandoned smoke stacks.

INLAND EMPIRE - It’s all that you have left.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the North?

SHIVERS - A peninsula. A district left abandoned by its surrounding infrastructure. Bombed out ruins and mountains of shipping crates slowly turning red. The harbor has been locked up tight since shots rang out in the square. Blood and heavy fuel oil paint an old mosaic red and hang in the air like a fog that dares to challenge the sunlight. Motor lorries still sit abandoned in the circle, where you left them. A bookstore is no better now than your last visit, and a hostel is now empty of guests minus a few lucky souls who now grieve their lost brothers in the Union booth.

INLAND EMPIRE - It was your home for the past week.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - It is your birthplace. Born of a drug and drink deluge, on a floor covered in a lifetime of mistakes. 

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - An islet of crumbling concrete and steel. The wind whistles through water reeds and swathes of tiny white petals that push through the last spring snow. Ashes of a fire long gone out blow out into the sea to be swallowed like the memories of the cause that built it. Its only resident is gone now, taken away for medical treatment and for a prison sentence that will see him to his final days.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the south?

SHIVERS - An apartment building. Mostly stone, though partially the ivy and wisteria that have done their part to claim it in an attempt to reach the heavens. They are a part of one another now; inseparable without either coming to ruin. Inside, a marriage has been strengthened thanks to an unusual discovery made by an unusual officer of the RCM. Husband and wife embrace as they look over the colorful image between them.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - A wind whips down the long stretch of Boogie Street that barely contains the buildings and crowds on either side. Neon signs illuminate dark windows that are rattled by the music within. Lively chatter fills the air both inside and out. A young woman walks out with her lover in hand. She presses close to his side to fight against the chill of the spring air as her dark brunette curls whip about her face. The man flashes a charismatic smile and he pulls her in closer to lead her away to a shiny white lacquer motor carriage parked just off the main street. They each know something the other does not.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the south?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the east?

SHIVERS - Seemingly endless blocks of brutalist apartment buildings that tower over the residences that survived the revolution 43 years ago. The whole district lies in a millennium old riverbed, leaving it forever in shadow of Jamrock to its west, the GRIH to its north, Grand Couron to its east. Grand Couron and the Old South district maintain their borders with two of La Delta’s canals. 

INLAND EMPIRE - A mark of constant probability. Everyone of Revachol West is just one bad couple of weeks away from moving to the Eminent Domain or the Burnt Out Quarter.

SHIVERS - Across the water, a woman in a satin robe sits with her elderly dog, surrounded by shining white marble as she peers out her 11th story window. The glass leaves the evening in an emerald tint. She would have the Eminent Domain wiped from the face of the Earth if it meant sparing her view. The canal and a financial cushion are all that separates her from the proles.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La rivière Espérance and Revachol East

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the West?

SHIVERS - A home you will never see again. Trees and underbrush devoured the old hospital and surrounding buildings of the Pox long before you even had a chance to remember it. Stray vagrants find their way through the bombed out ruins, shuffling past abandoned wire bed frames and rusted carts of broken tare. There is nothing left to be found here but a little bit of shelter from the wind. But the Valley of Dogs lurks nearby and most know never to stay unless they’re entirely out of options. This place will likely never be safe again.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s in this building?

SHIVERS - As day begins to fade and the lights begin to slowly begin to blink on across the city, multi-story factory windows will slowly transition from the concealing darkness to exposing illumination of what is no longer the East Insulindic Textiles Company. The loading docs have now become the motor pool for the 41st Precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia. An old Coupris 40 whirs past a vehicle of a similar model and one of a decidedly newer model as it turns into the garage for the evening. Both MCs it passed do not belong to the 41st.

Inside the building proper, a stern looking man in a well tailored uniform walks toward the elevator at a brisk pace. His left breast is heavily decorated in medals and ribbons. One from the Suzerain, three from the Commune, most from the Moralist International. He bears the weight of the whole city on his shoulders but he carries it with an air of pride and authority. He’s heard tell of some strange happenings and without seeing it for himself, he’s not sure he believes it. 

Across the precinct, in the East wing, tucked into the far end of the first floor an eclectic group of men sit inside a dimly lit Lazareth. Three surround one in a way not too dissimilar from how the interviewee had been earlier in the day.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - A violent shudder passes down your spine and you find yourself suddenly aware that you have been staring off into the ether for about 3 minutes. You are one with your body once more.

PRECINCT 41 - The Lazareth Office of Dr. Nix Gottlieb is small despite the size of the precinct that it maintains. Cabinets and shelves line just about every surface in some manner or capacity. And each and every surface was crammed packed with medical supplies, specimens, and piles upon piles of folders and textbooks. There isn’t much space to move, let alone work. The center of the room is dominated by a surgical table that is currently sporting a flimsy pad that serves as a cushion for your injured ass.

INLAND EMPIRE - This is the closest thing to private healthcare you’ve seen in years.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Your bullet riddled leg has already been looked over. You’d managed to pull your stitches and partially reopen the injury during your little jaunt about Martinaise and the islet.

PAIN THRESHOLD - You wish you’d been unconscious like the first time you got sewn up. Gottlieb is quick and efficient but he’s merciless in the empathy department. In other words, you cried. And your leg still hurts like a bitch.

EMPATHY - Kim radiated pride and relief behind his subdued expression when the doctor had complimented his work.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - [legendary: failure] He’s just glad it wasn’t worse.

NIX GOTTLIEB - The doctor is a bespeckled elderly man, dressed in civilian clothes, a dark, woven turtle neck covered by a brown blazer that stopped fitting him in the shoulders about 10 years ago. His forehead and brow are permanently creased by stress and a deep look of concentration. His brow deepens when you shake yourself out of the thought. “Welcome back, Detective.”

RHETORIC - That was sarcasm. He doesn’t care.

PERCEPTION [smell] - On his breath, mingled with the scent of Tioumoutiri cigarettes, you catch a whiff of peppermint schnapps.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - If we play our cards right, maybe he’ll share a belt.

VOLITION - We’ve been clean this week. Don’t fuck this up now.

NIX GOTTLIEB - He scratches at his wispy white hair and beard as he speaks over his shoulder at two other men. “And how long would you say these episodes tend to last?”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your partner of the last seven days looks between you and the blue notebook in his hands, occasionally flipping through its pages. He still stands in his field attire; Orange nylon bomber jacket zipped up to his collar, white crew shirt hidden beneath it, brown aviation mechanic pants tucked neatly into his black boots, and his brown leather driving gloves. 

KIM KITSURAGI - He thumbs over a couple of pages before answering, “Anywhere between a few seconds to several minutes. This… is one of his longer episodes.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Wait! Has he been taking notes on you?

LOGIC - [medium: Failure] Of course not. We’ve already established that this is his method of working through his thoughts. This is likely a method of recall for him.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - A lean blonde man in a tailored suit looks over you from where he stands, with fascination glittering in his hazel eyes. You saw a similar light when you spoke with him in front of the defunct Feld R&D when he spoke of their pre-revolution efforts. He was also one of the only ones in the fishing village who stood up for you against your partners onslaught of insults.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - This man is a special consultant taken onto the Major Crimes Unit in C-Wing. His well-traveled knowledge and personable demeanor has lent itself invaluably to the task force.

AUTHORITY - /Your/ task force.

INLAND EMPIRE - Not anymore. You’ll be lucky if they’ll even let you back into the field as a patrol officer, given the circumstances.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - “And what do you experience during these… lapses, Harry?”

HALF LIGHT - Don’t. This is a trap.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

+1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 This sounds insane

[VOLITION: legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -1 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - Really? Anything else?

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Nope.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

RHETORIC [challenging - Failure] What spills forth is a vomited spew of half finished sentences, aborted gestures, and some words you’re pretty sure you’re misusing. You throw in some apologies and self-depreciation for good measure like a dog half-heartedly trying to bury its own shit.

NIX GOTTLIEB - “Try again. But in Vacholian this time.” His arms cross and his fingers drum impatiently on his bicep.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

[VOLITION - legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -3 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -3 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - “Just a real shit show of an internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “It’s inconvenient at times, but he often comes through with concepts and ideas I never would have considered. Unorthodox as it may be, it was invaluable to the investigation.”

DRAMA - [Medium: Success] He means it, sire.

EMPATHY - He’s concerned about your well being, but he also doesn’t want to see you misrepresented in the eyes of these men.

+1 Morale

[creamiesstoryconer]

Yandere Harpy x Reader Part 1

Chance Encounter

I ended up rewriting this whole chapter and reusing some of the content from the teaser I am so sorry!

This is my OC I'll probably post some more info about him at a later date and some world building stuff!

Word count: 1.5K

Total reading length: 12+ Minutes

Requests:Open!

TW:Blood and fighting

Baskets woven of fresh twine and twig, sitting on the soft palate of green crumpled underneath its own weight. Stacked high with the long forgotten labours of yesterday, fruits stained with the dew of early sun and ripened with the bitter winds of the night. 

Air crisp, smoking as you exhale, the condensate rising - dancing as it allows itself to be carried away by the senseless wind of the day. Gentle nipping of one's flesh, all warm bodies fall victim to the spring morn.

Haze settled in the distance, creating a golden sea that is bound to the floor. Almost a pure white light within the sky paints an ombre from deep greys and sea blues to a dusty hue.

Gravel path under foot, leading to rustic wall a deteriorating fence, scrapes and rolls each step taken. Tiny pebble tumbling down path, momentum faster than you can keep up with. A gentle smile nestled snugly upon your face. 

The start of spring, a true new year here. 

Following small path embed into ground, leading to a  patch of heaven. Plot of land, on the edge of the garden packed with love. Vibrant colours embraced alongside one another, roots embed into soft browns, out of sight yet still make themselves known. 

The scent as one passes by is catched in the breeze, pine that mutes the undertones of lavender. A refreshing scent against the early damp morning air.

Finger brush against aged wood, a gate whom had lived many a storm, shown upon the peeling of its face Overgrowth of ivy that had cast its grip upon the barrier. Ridges in the warping material cling to the moist air, the faint feeling lingers upon your skin as you pass yourself through. 

Into the arching corridor of nature that leads to the woods,  a path that is no longer rock, nor even dried mud. A long neglected walkway that mother earth had taken back for herself, tall grass flattened, a trace that you had been here just days ago. 

Trees hand in hand enclose the pathway, a canopy of dampened greens blocking out the sea of light that lay just above this seemingly separate part of the world.

Isolated and almost silent, it seems that time has grown stagnant. Further foot trod into the canopy walk, the gentle russell of leaves brushing against each other. The first songs of birds drowned out what little was not natural to mother Earth herself. High chirps and low croaks of frogs that called home to the rushing river just out of sight.

Flickering breaks in thick trunks that stud tall and proud, give opening to a flash of water that follows down hill. Cold clashes against stones that  leaves speckled clear upon plants that rooted themselves in the sloping waters. 

The natural web of nature, adhering to the splashes left by the waters. The transparent pearls that adorn exquisitely plumped ropes. glimpses of sunlight peeking through the thick foliage, its warm, golden light illuminating everything underneath.

Further onto ground you continue, colours finally spring to life, a refreshing taste to the repetitive greens and browns that had painted the day so far. Bunches of flowers finally make the canopy walk look bright, overhead gaps finally form allowing for break from dampened light.

A bit further up the overgrown trail you are familiar with, an annual springtime ritual. To make a sacrifice, to hope for world harmony, to continue a titration you have become tired of. Children should not be terrified of the customs and stories of the elderly; they are nothing more than fairy tales. 

At the opening's edge, feet stiffened as the deep green canopy of the trees gave way to a torrent of gold. Warm on the skin and a striking contrast to the morning breeze, the honey-coloured light completely engulfs the clearing. 

A few seconds it takes for your eyes to adjust. To be able to see a sea Of Clashing colours festival seemingly brought together by nature.Clashing smells of floral fight to enveloppe your nostrils. 

 Blues and pinks cramped by one another, twisting and fighting, reaching for the sea of light that washed over the bed of natural beauty. Delicate petals, untouched, pure.  Embodiment of times untouching hands where humans are not. 

Though at the moment feet had frozen, they had begun to move once more. The harsh cut out in the sea of purity, a feeling that causes legs to move upon their own.

A splatter of ugly red, tainting once faultless blossoms. A mark of impurity of ingrace. 

Flattening of the flower bed, a sin upon Mother Nature's Beauty, ones core told them to investigate. 

Your steps are cloaked by the cushion on greens and vibrance, Edging closer and closer to the flat  patch. In the air a metallic stench rises, the rusted colour of crimson upon translucent petals morphs from speckles to harsh thrashes. 

A trail leading to it…

Eyes glancing upon it, at first tanned skin, human. Deeply kissed by the sun, broad chest heaving. His warm breath clashing with frigid air that still plagued the thicket, a gutterel  wiring escaping from his body. 

A lingering look for too long, the source of what defiled the flowers around the laid body. A piercing arrow, through his shoulder. It’s deep oak and shaft crowned with it’s flesh wound. 

As if second nature, your fingertips reached forward, to aid or  to provide comfort you do not know. Softened Digits that grazed upon taunt skin, one exposed to the elements seemingly for a lifetime. 

Gaze focused upon the stranger's face for a reaction, though his features obscured by a mess of locks, a mixture of braids and tatters.

Then a hint of gold made itself  known through the nest of chestnut that hid most of the beings' identifying features. 

Time is still for only that moment. Only for a moment …

A blur and a impact,

The faint memory of something sharp around your waist before a harsh impact to one's back.

The coarse texture of dried bark entangled in once soft locks of hair. Throbbing, building a deafening silence is what over stimulates the nerves. Soothing warmth trickling down your neck, tracing itself past your crook. Allowing for a bud of red to flow and root itself onto once pristine white clothing. Now defiled with browns and quickly darkening crimsons. 

The rising of your chest like hard labour, air having been stolen from your lungs. Hoarse gasps replace a steady rhythm that was once there. Drying your mouth as a once cared for body folds in upon itself. 

Ringing in your ears causes one's head to spin. To not focus is to not be able to see. 

Blurs of greens, a blue perhaps the sky. Golden shines for a moment. Then the sight of flesh. 

Flesh unclothed, blotches of maroon identifiable upon the sun kissed skin. A guttural scream escapes your lips, ripping through your vocal cords, straining already fatigued muscle despite no fight being given. 

Cheeks, red as puffed eyes strained to stay open, salty water - your own tears-  sullying your face. Teeth bared as saliva bubbles and leaks from the corner of your mouth.  Instinct forces your disorientated body to stay awake.

Fingers tangled within a sickenly soft plumage of feathers. Almost comforting to touch under dirt stuffed nails.

Air that was once almost refreshing to the lungs now reeks of desperation and fear. Tawng of metallic lingering, your own blood that was long dried and flaking. A dried river of rusty colour liquid fashioned from your own wound, wrapping around your neck like a macabre necklace. 

It’s animalistic eyes boaring into you, pupils blown to unnatural size. Tilting its head, forcing itself to envelope your sight. It’s chest rumbling, trilling… studying.

Hands still entangled with the red feathers, weakened digits clasp desperately. Unable to keep your head straight for much longer, a final fight escapes your limps. Harsh, violent yanking down upon plumage in hand. 

Pure red decorating your hands and the floor below. Feathers flown, taken from the scene of pure instinct by the gentle winds.

Ringing in your ears accompanied with an unworldly screech, piercing a cry that would shatter one's heart .

 All within a moment a peaceful day ended with your hands painted in red , head once again snapped into wood. Before the shuddering that was your world goes black within a moment. 

Yet body still feels the dragging across the field of mother earth's patch of hidden gold.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Seven

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

She called him at ten o’clock the next morning, right as he returned from breakfast. She sounded very excited. And scared. They agreed to meet the next afternoon not at the shop, but on a broad street from where they would walk to the Baron’s office. It all had more secrecy than a muggle dabbler merited, but Tom played along.

“Ready?” she asked once they were outside his building, a tall wide limestone white manor.

“As ready as you are,” grinned Tom, his eyes glinting. He was teasing her, and enjoying it far too much.

“Oh dear, I hope not,” she chuckled.

Its doors were as big as city gates, thick old wood with one much smaller door inset on the right. Above it in a shield of stone, a fat snake swirled as it ate a child, legs first. It was a biscione, the Baron’s sigil.

She pushed a button on a metal box beside the door, and a low voice answered on the other side.

“It’s us.”

The door unlocked with a buzz.

The inside was wide and sparse, a naked vault that rose high into the darkness, all cold corridors and decorous marble. There were no carpets, no paintings, not even chairs or tables, only stains and scratches on the stone to tell there ever were any. Golden candleholders clung lightless on the walls, replaced it seemed by fake-crystal fixtures that hummed with electricity.

There was a lift, but they ignored it and went up the stairs instead.

“I’ve been to mausoleums with more life than this,” said Tom.

She giggled. “He’s had to sell a lot of his family assets to renovate the shop. He could probably have them replaced by now, the last few years have been profitable. But I guess he prefers it like this. It’s just his way.”

They climbed the wide and stately stairs up and up and up, going past the first floor, and the second, and the third, and Tom began to wonder if the building was abandoned when a hollow noise came through. A steady murmur. A monologue.

They reached the fourth floor. She opened another door, the only one there between two naked walls, and they stepped into a vestibule.

It was a little livelier and richly decorated. Low red sofas lined the walls on either side, and a tall stove made of ceramic tiles was fixed into the corner. Bookshelves lined the walls, and busts of ladies in black marble were set against the corners.

In the centre, behind a tall imposing desk, sat a woman who nearly dwarfed it with her presence. She was flanked by stacks of papers and a telephone. Although her suit of blue and bronze was feminine in shape, Tom felt a bit emasculated. Her hair was pinned in a harsh style, slinked back and practical.

“Ciao, Berit! Come stai?”

“Bongiorno. Bene.”

“He’s still speaking?”

“Yes. You’re free to enter, silently.”

“I think we’ll wait here. Oh, by the way, this is Tom Riddle. Tom, this is Mrs. Berit Boveri, the Baron’s secretary.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Tom, staying where he was.

The woman was impressive, and he wondered briefly whether this Baron had hired her for security rather than for answering his letters.

“Please,” she said, extending a hand in a quick, precise movement, “sit down.”

She appraised Tom coolly, quickly, before turning her attention back to the newspaper before her. An orange the size of a child’s head was cut open on the desk beside her, filling the room with a fresh scent.

The pair of them sat down, and Tom turned his attention to the sounds coming from the room behind them. A man was speaking in a low and shaky drawl, droning in Italian about what sounded to Tom like the Malleus Maleficarum, a compendium on witchcraft and demonology written by a sadistic German inquisitor in the 15th century. The silence of his audience was heavy and intense, chairs groaning now and then beneath their anxious squirms and ink pens scratching eagerly on paper.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered to her after a sudden thought.

“What?” she whispered back.

“About the nero di seppia… I looked a perfect fool all night, didn’t I?”

She giggled. Tom frowned at her.

“I warned you not to order it.”

“Yes, but perhaps next time I’d like an indication as to why.”

She was going to say something else when the doors opened, and the Baron’s audience ambled their way out. The air buzzed with their excited murmurs, some laughing nervously, some crying.

The pair of them got up, ready to greet the Baron. Tom looked over the crowd as they filed out, a mixed group of all sorts of people, from students to the elderly.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“He’s coming over,” she said.

“Where? I can’t —” He was going to say he couldn’t see anyone else, but then he looked down.

The figure that approached them was far from what he had imagined. Although not diminutive in size, the white and wrinkly lump that came took Tom by surprise. He sat, like a deflated balloon, in a stout but polished wheelchair, and was rolling toward them.

“Hello, Baron,” she greeted with a little bow. “Thank you for seeing us today. This is —”

“Come to my office,” said the old man as he rolled right past them.

II

The room was golden-lit with deep and intimate colours, as natural as an autumn forest. There was something to look at everywhere. The walls were dense with paintings and photographs in black and brown of little groups of men. The chairs were wide, majestic things with crimson wings and cushions. The carpet was a floral red, the windows tall and gilded. A crystal chandelier hung overhead, low and opulent and gleaming, and from a cabinet on the side a set of golden spoons with handles like rose stems shone among fine china glasses shaped like gaping koi. It couldn’t be anything further from what Tom was used to.

The Baron’s desk was small and delicate, overburdened with ink wells and notes, a lone lamp hard at work between them.

“So, how are you?” the Baron asked them once they were alone.

“Very well,” she answered, smiling widely. “And you, Baron?”

“Fit as an ox on the field, and twice as strong,” he answered in an imposing voice. “Is this him?”

“Yes,” she said, her nervous gaze flitting to Tom. “Should I —”

“Thank you. You may go.”

She nodded and turned without another word to Tom, her eyes lingering on his for just a moment as if to wish good luck. He watched her as she left like a chastened child, then turned his attention back to the old man.

“Pleased to meet you, Baron,” he said with a light bow. “My name is Tom Riddle. At your service.”

The man rolled his way slowly from behind the table, his face set in a frown — or perhaps the rolls of skin were so heavy that it was his fixed expression. He’d clearly been corpulent once, but old age and disability drained him of his strength. He stopped in front of Tom, the wheels almost atop his shoes, and extended his hand — to shake? to kiss? Tom had never met muggle nobility before… Although he was looking at him from two feet below, the old still managed to look down his nose at him.

Tom squared his shoulders, took a breath, and shook the Baron’s hand.

“Julius Eugenio Victor Agarda,” he introduced himself. His grip was still quite strong. His mouth seemed flimsy beneath a sparse moustache, and he spoke with a slight lisp — unless Tom’s eyes deceived him, he was missing a few teeth — but his eyes, a clear blue, had a steady gleam to them. “How do you do?”

“I’m well, sir, thank you,” said Tom, finally getting his hand back. “I came about the books.”

“So I’ve heard.”

With a flourish, the Baron directed Tom’s attention to the right, where a pair of doors stood closed.

“Help me with those, will you?”

Tom looked at him, feeling a bit puzzled, but he maintained his air of calm. He steadied the messenger bag over his shoulder and bowed.

“Of course, sir,” he smiled.

The doors were delicate and white, with carvings on their edges like a frame. Tom grabbed the brass handles and pushed. Beyond them was a large and sunny room in the same style as the Baron’s office but much wider. Its centre was dominated by a dark brown table and its walls with books. The east of the room was all tall windows framed by a thin balcony, and beyond that was the street and the canals.

“My most precious possession. My private collection.”

Tom rolled the Baron through, but quickly let go of him to stroll along the bookshelves without waiting for an invitation. They held every kind of esoterica, from the Corpus Hermeticum to the Grimoire of Armadel. Archidoxis was there, as was De Umbris Idearum, a book Tom had not seen since his first year at Hogwarts.

Others were more recent books, like a cluster on Bacchanal arts written in the 19th century. There stood among them also a well-worn copy of the Metaphysics of Sex. Tom curled his nose at it and looked over his shoulder with disgust. Some books were held in chains, with locks connected to the bookcase, and others were held safe behind glass panes, bright lights in the darkness.

“Impressed?” asked the Baron from the doorway.

“A remarkable collection,” said Tom as he turned.

The old man rolled forward with a peculiar twist of his heavy brows that Tom suspected to be pride. He went to one shelf in particular and reached as high up as he could, carefully picking out a volume. It was bound in leather so aged it was completely black, its spine capped in silver fastenings.

“Look at this,” the Baron said.

Tom stepped forward and carefully lifted it from his hands.

“Michael Psellus, De Operation Daemonum,” Tom read. “Byzantine books on demonology are hard to come by. It must be worth a fortune.”

“Seventeenth-century edition,” he said, slipping right over Tom’s praises. “One of five copies. They survived hidden among the volumes of Psellus’ Mathematics. Only the most important families of the time had access to them.”

Tom smirked. With the Baron’s toothless mouth and his scraggly sparse hair, he didn’t cut a very noble figure. “I don’t suppose you inherited it.”

The Baron took the book from him and set it on his lap, his fat hands folded over it. “I might have,” he said measuredly. “My family traces its roots to the eleven hundreds.”

A mocking smile played on Tom’s lips. He hid it with a timely bow. He’d rather not tell the old man he could brag of the same through Salazar, and so instead he said, “I’m honoured, then, to be in your presence.” But he didn’t hide as well as he meant to.

“Don’t be obsequious,” said the Baron tersely.

Tom straightened and looked down at him, steadying the strap over his shoulder once again.

“I showed my collection to you to illustrate a point. I have some of the rarest editions in my collection, first. And second, there is nothing that I want that I cannot acquire. Now, you may attempt to barter with me.”

Tom regarded the old man coolly for a moment, then took the messenger bag off his shoulder and placed it on the table. The Baron, after that little speech meant to humble him, had nevertheless given himself away: he may have had a grand collection, but he was still willing to entertain a nobody, a stranger, an unknown, for a chance at something rarer. A small man with a big ego and an insatiable hunger, Tom thought, I am well familiar with his kind.

“Then let me show you what I’ve brought for you today,” he said, “and you’ll tell me if it meets with your approval.”

The Baron went to place the books back on its shelves, and by the time he turned back, Tom had lined them all along the table.

There were six books in total. First was the Liber de Lamiis et Phitonicis Mulieribus, a 15th-century manuscript on witches and demonic possession. Then, the Liber Belial,a medieval grimoire with an unknown author, highly sought after and obscure. He took out The Grimorium Verum, an illuminated copy of The Sworn Book of Honorius, the Codex Palatinus Germanicus, and finally the colourful Le Livre de la Vigne Nostre Seigneur.

The Baron approached, retrieving from his breast pocket a thin-rimmed monocle that he perched upon his nose. He looked down at the books while Tom waited a little to the side, one hand stuffed casually in his pocket.

He picked the first one up, his old hands trembling slightly, and opened it, spine cracking. He threw his eyes over the frontispiece, then peeled away the first few pages.

Tom waited patiently as the Baron looked through the second book, and the third, and not a word was said. He could only hope the illusions he had cast on them would hold. It was difficult to even tell what the old bastard was thinking.

When the Baron was done, he took the monocle off, and slowly rolled to face him.

“Remarkable,” he said, his fat plum lips aquiver. “What vitality in these images… And The Grimorium Verum in particular I have been hunting for years.Where did you find them?”

Tom breathed a sigh of relief and grinned. “I’m afraid that will have to remain one of their mysteries. So, I take it you are interested in a trade?”

“I am,” he grumbled, taking from his pocket the list of books Tom had provided, “but it can not go forward.”

Tom cocked a brow. “And why is that?”

The Baron rolled forward and past him, going back into his office. Tom frowned at him and packed the books again before he joined him. With one last longing look at the vast library, he turned and closed the doors behind him.

The Baron was back behind his desk, stuffing a black pipe with tobacco.

“I wish I could,” said the old man, “but I cannot afford it.”

“I’m sure we could —”

“No,” he said, “I do not mean fiscally. I mean ethically.”

Tom regarded him without blinking for a moment. He searched the Baron’s mind for truth and found only a nest of brambles. Too many ideas, conflicts and confusion, plans that stood to shatter at the lightest touch. How much was going on with his little bookshop? Was it to do with that ‘auction’ he’d heard about?

“I don’t see how ethics come into it.”

“Nor do I,” chuckled the Baron with a puff. “That’s the problem.”

He fixed his steely gaze on Tom, and then he understood. Distrust. The old man didn’t trust him.

“Ah,” Tom smiled, “that is a pity.” He bowed, the books tight by his side. “Thank you, nevertheless, for your time. I shall be in Rome for at least another month. If your ethics should change, I would be honoured to be invited to see you again.”

“Be sure I let those books leave my office with a heavy heart, Mr. Riddle.”

“Oh, I know, Baron,” he grinned. “But you might yet see them again. And me.”

[safeturnip]

acorn-cerning surprise

words: 1.8k

characters: the snails. GeminiTay, Grian, Joel Smallishbeans. (ish. Gem and Grian and Joel are here in spirit)

summary: snail shenanigans!! featuring acorns and Joel's cyberpunk city

AO3 link

***

It was a lovely day on Hermitcraft, and there was a pair of horrible snails. 

The intricate machinery of the airship they had been left in rattled and clanked, the heat exuded from the engines warming the polished wood of the room the snails had taken over with their series of challenges. It had been weeks since their latest target had participated in their game, winning back some of his items with a confident promise to return for the rest. He’d never returned, and the snails were bored out of their limited number of brain cells. They weren’t meant for this feeling of idleness, of sitting in place and waiting. The blue snail twitched an eye at its pink companion, who responded by dropping down from the ceiling and making its slimy way towards the door. The snails abandoned their commandeered airship, dropping off the edge and tucking their bodies into their shells to bounce safely off the ground, setting out to find another source of entertainment. 

The noontime sun was high in the sky and the snails were sluggish—or snailish, as the case may be—as they sloped their way across the terrain towards the cherry tree–covered plateau in the distance. The landscape unfolded before them, almost overwhelming to such small creatures: Waves of rippling grass, a river that wound its way toward the sea, a giant stone pyramid constructed from shades of black and grey and white. They passed through a small village with palm trees scattered here and there amidst the nondescript brown buildings, where, in the distance, a metal satellite dish on the top of a repurposed fortress caught and reflected the sun. 

(They did not go near the ocean that skimmed this village’s edge. There was something about the hidden depths that caused an instinctive, primal dread, even in this pair of molluscs who never felt emotions like fear.)

It was at the area where cyan and red and brown buildings had been built into the side of the mountain behind them, where soil transitioned to salt-crusted wood beneath their feet, that the snails’ journey came to a stop. 

Before them was a pile of acorns—not the sort made by squirrels storing food for the winter, more like the sort made by squirrels storing food for several winters, and also the apocalypse. Acorns of all shapes and sizes and colours were all stacked on top of each other: Golden acorns with a proud, glossy sheen; large, dark brown acorns with dull and scratched surfaces; small acorns that were an unripe green, their rough, bristly caps pulled low over their heads. They were piled so precariously atop each other that even the lightest gust of briney wind would cause a cascade of acorns to tumble down and roll across the wooden ground. 

As the pair of mischief-seeking snails regarded this shifting pile of acorns, they experienced something truly remarkable: Their shared two brain cells drifting close enough to form a synapse of coherent thought, an extremely rare occurrence for these gastropods. They had a brilliant idea for what to do with this surprise gift they'd happened upon. In unison, two pairs of glassy black eyes rotated towards the nearby cyber-city, with its neon lights and bright colours and skyscrapers that strove determinedly upwards as if they wanted to touch the sun. Perfect.

These snails did not have the means or equipment to move the acorns, did not possess pockets or bags or even shulker boxes, never mind the sheer amount of acorns that had to be moved. And what an amount it was! The acorns must have numbered in the thousands. If the snails could do maths, they would've counted 10,758 precisely; unfortunately they did not have the brain convolutions needed to count that high. All they needed to know—and all that they did know—was that it was truly a staggering amount of acorns, perfect for the mischief they had planned.  Yet despite this lack of any form of transport, somehow these clever snails managed to drag their soon-to-be prank all the way around the circumference of the hollowed out mountain to the base of the colourful, cramped city.

(If these snails had a working memory, they would have thought back wistfully to their getaway helicopter that they’d used to steal someone’s diamonds ages ago. Unfortunately, they had the memory of a river stone: nonexistent.) 

Like the snails, the city was a nocturnal organism, slowly shaking itself to life as the sun dipped below the horizon. Lights blinked open and flickered on in the dark, heat emanated from buildings and caused the cool evening air to shimmer, electricity raced and tumbled over itself through the glass tubing of neon signs. The quiet of the night made the ceaseless sounds of the city even more apparent; the murmur of pipes that spanned both the height and width of buildings, the whisper of curtains being whisked shut in penthouses at the top of the tallest skyscrapers, the low creak of window shutters drifting open and shut. The city was built in a fashion where—because it had no space to expand outward—it was forced to instead extend upward like a tree whose roots had split open the rock face of a mountain after finding no more room to grow. Buildings were nestled so close together that they seemed to merge into one huge mass of concrete and metal, until you looked closer and spotted the narrow, winding alleyways that separated them. 

Once the sun had fully set, the snails got to work. 

They went about their task silently and wordlessly—there was no other way a snail could do a task, after all, owing to the absence of vocal cords or teeth or a palate. Knowing that its wormy companion was still very new, the blue snail took the lead, demonstrating where best to deposit acorns in places that would be the most annoying. Acorns scattered in the middle of footpaths to catch unsuspecting feet, stuffed between wooden planks of building walls directly at eye level so that they would be impossible to miss, handfuls placed precariously on narrow railings so that they would tumble to the ground in a cheerful clatter if someone brushed close by them. The pink snail caught on quickly. 

The snails were in no rush. They knew the creator of this city was occupied by the game far away in the shopping district of water and ravagers, lily pads and the tranquil glow of froglights. It was highly likely that they would have the entire night to lay out this prank, and maybe even part of the morning too, if they needed. 

Underneath the glow of neon lights, the snails glided over this ecosystem of concrete and metal and glass and stone, depositing acorns as they went. Trails of slime were left everywhere in their wake, less so incriminating evidence forgotten behind by an amateur and more of a calling card placed deliberately at the scene of a crime. Acorns were stuck in the canvas banners that hung along the sides of storefronts, tucked into the dress folds of a statue of an ancient ocean goddess, dropped into the pools of the bath house and the ponds in the gardens dotted around the city. Acorns were placed in the eye sockets and mouths of the horse heads that decorated a fountain built before a glowing purple portal, hidden in the many, many chests scattered in the streets and buildings. The blue snail even left an acorn in a beehive located in the honey farm, and was almost stung by a very angry bee in the process. The snails stayed away from the beehives after that. 

Despite having no hands or fingers, the snails were still able to place acorns in the most dexterous of places, like between books placed tightly together in bookshelves and along the tops of door frames. What talented molluscs! Anyone watching them work would be impressed. 

About halfway through the night, the blue snail began crawling up the gate that separated this cyber-city from its neighboring cyber-city, its pink friend following closely behind. The gate was a towering giant of deep red wood and dark stone, with ends that curved upwards toward the sky like the fingers of a cupped hand. At the top of the gate, the blue snail began to lay out a line of acorns—not the smartest idea, seeing as how a strong wind would immediately blow all the acorns off the gate. If snails could roll their eyes, that was what the pink snail would be doing right now. But, due to the lack of eye sockets and extraocular muscles, the most it could do was wiggle its eye stalks around. Its friend continued to deposit acorns along the topmost part of the gate, unbothered, moisturized, happy, in its lane, focused, and flourishing. 

(As this liberal distribution of acorns went on, the wormy snail began to do the dastardly thing of wedging everything that could be wedged open with an acorn, sticking acorns into the hinges of doors and windows in a way that let them close only halfway. The blue snail was so proud.)

The pesky snails were beginning to run out of both acorns and places to hide said acorns. They crammed the mailbox full to the brim with acorns, popped acorns into the pockets of the workers in the industrial buildings, who merely side-eyed the snails and hummed in disgruntlement, and—oh no, they’d managed to get an acorn wedged in the mechanism of the glow berry farm. Oh well. No one ever bought glow berries anyways. 

The moon continued its journey across the sky, and the stock of acorns continued to dwindle down into nothing, signaling the completion of this snail acorn prank. This snailcorn prank. 

Finally, as the sun began to drift upwards and the sky lightened to shades of peach and lavender and pink, the job was done. Nestled in the hand of the giant gorilla armour stand perched at the top of a skyscraper, the two snails took a brief moment to admire their work: Hundreds and hundreds of acorns scattered and littered and tucked away in every imaginable nook and cranny of this towering electric city. Even with their limited intelligence, the snails knew that this prank didn’t seem especially impressive or aggravating right now. No, the fun will start when the owner of this city finds the acorns. When he will continue to find the acorns. And it seemed for a brief moment that they wished—well, not wished, exactly, they didn’t have the mental capacity for that—they had a flicker, beginning, suggestion of thought about having a set of lungs and a diaphragm like a human in order to laugh themselves to stitches over their job well done. 

Through a bob of a pink head and an answering downward tilt of a blue shell, the two gastropods seemed to come to an understanding. It was time to return to their snaily airship for a well-deserved nap. 

And in the distance, there and gone so fast that it could be dismissed as a trick of the light, was a flutter of wings and a flash of bright orange hair.

[truearchangel]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 Word Count: 2,554. Includes more art from Akari.

   The desk was littered with hundreds of papers, piles of them stacked up high enough that the Archangel was struggling to see where one pile started and another ended. In front of him was a half rolled up scroll, the pen scribbling methodically across the bottom of it as he wrote. Notes taken, lines written down, paragraph after paragraph. Another problem in the clouds left to the Sword of God to have to deal with. He would have loved, at some point, for things to manage themselves but if it hasn’t been managed after ten thousand years, it won’t now. 

   A knock on his door pulls Michael from his writing and he raises his gaze slightly from his paper, watching as the Messenger of God slipped inside the room. The door was shut just as quietly behind him, the other’s long blonde hair pulled up onto a bun today. Neat, posture perfect, shoulders squared and a gentle smile on his face. Yet, as kind as it looked, there was a tense line to it that Michael noted quickly. The pen was placed to the side and he leaned back in his chair, watching his second in command approach the desk. 

   “Good morning, brother.” 

   “Gabriel.” His gaze flickered across his profile again, noticing each of the creases of stress, the hands that were held behind his back. “Did you need anything from me?” 

   “Ah. Unfortunately I do.” If it was anyone else, he perhaps would have felt more annoyed. But Gabriel didn’t dump things on him needlessly. He actually knew how to take care of things on his own, and tossing them at Michael was a last resort. One he tried hard to not do, and Michael appreciated that. Which means as his brother rolled his shoulders and seemed to tense a bit more, the angel simply waited patiently. “Father has, um, requested you.”

   Oh. 

   Out of anything he could have told him, that was not what he expected to hear. It was rare that God wanted to talk to any of them. Typically, the old man sat in that white cloud realm of his, in that overly large gold and white chair. The stone crystal-like pillars in that holy bright room of his. Things were so empty and echoing in there that the slightest sound carried like it was a large wave. Drowning and suffocating. Reverberating to your very core in terrifying ways. None of them actually like being in there when they’re summoned. Now it seemed it was apparently his turn to do that.

   “Very well.” Pushing his chair back he stood and turned in place, grabbing his white coat from the back of it and pulling it onto his body. Michael fixed it properly in place, brushed his hair to fall more neatly where it was meant to and then dropped his hand to the keys settled around his waist. “I’ll let you know if it’s anything important, Gabriel.” 

   The entrance to the realm where their Father lived was inside the Golden Palace where all the Archangels resided. The secret to actually getting into it though was a key that only a select few of them possessed. The key was more symbolic than actually needed, the power that coursed through it was what actually gave entrance into the Father’s Realm. The door itself was passed the garden, nearly on the opposite side of the entrance of the building, guarded by two wing shaped doors. Pure white in color, an intricate golden waving design wrapping around the edges of it. 

   As long as the key was on him, all Michael needed to do was pull one of the doors open and quietly slip inside, tugging the large handle behind him as he entered to close it once more. Immediately the overly bright purity of the space attempted to blind him, the lights brighter than even Heaven itself. The silence was about deafening, not even animals living in this space that the Father had created for himself. 

   An escape was what it felt like. A distance from everything he created. A reason to not be involved. Whatever it was, he’s long since grown numb to the information that God had shut himself away and left them to more or less fend for themselves. Sometimes he has to wonder, briefly and fleetingly. When the humans pray, does he still hear them? 

   He takes the first step in the direction of the second set of doors that closed the actual throne room off from the hallway. The heels of his shoes clicked loudly in the empty space, his gaze briefly flickering across to take in the tall, pure white and crystal standing pillars that held the place up. Along the edges of them, bordering the hallway, were statues with eerily dead eyes. Built into the shape of the place and reminiscent of the ones on Earth. More accurate though to what angels actually looked like. The six and less wings depending on the angel in question. Being the only things in the wall, dead hallway, there really wasn’t that much to look at. 

   Finally reaching the white doors the Archangel took a deep breath and attempted to strengthen himself before grasping the handles of the door and yanking them open. One step after another, he dragged himself inside the room and allowed the doors to fall shut behind him, the sound painfully loud and announcing his presence. Not that God didn’t already know he was there the moment that he had stepped a single toe into his realm. Still, the sound was horrifyingly announcing in his mind, and he swallowed back the growing nerves as he chanced a risk at the man on the throne. 

   The single large eye he had was focused on the book beneath him, the form masculine today though he has been prone to change it or go with neither. Like with most of the Archangels he had gone with the more modern form of dress. A bright white suit, a sharp golden vest and a matching pair of white pants. There were no shoes, and that he thinks was more just a fact that he never quite got used to wearing them. 

   Strange creature, for sure. 

   When God doesn’t speak, Michael feels it’s inappropriate to interrupt his book and thus turns away from his staring to focus on something else. Anything. Almost desperately to push aside this discomfort that was rattling his very bones. He ends up staring at the glowing bright yellow and red ball of light in the near middle of the room, a magical portal that gives insight into the various things in the realm. This time, God seemed to have it focused on Hell itself. Michael takes a step closer toward it and blinks at the sight of his brother. Lucifer, outside some tall building with a revolting choice of name, talking to the girl who looked just like him. A clear mirror image of his own twin. That had to be Charlie. 

   Michael had read the report from the last extermination, the attack on the Hazbin Hotel. The premeditated attack that had been threatened to happen during Charlie’s visit to Heaven. Something he had not known about because Sera deemed it not important enough to take it to people as high as the Archangels. 

   Michael hadn’t seen Lucifer since the war in Heaven, and he’s never laid sights on Charlie. It feels–weird to do it like this. Impersonal and invasive. 

   Was this how God kept tabs on all of them? Well, it wasn’t as if it was a secret. He’s always watching was a phrase that the humans coined yet seemed quite true.

  “Do you regret your choices?” 

    God’s voice echoed loudly in his head, reverberating through his very chest as it reached Michael’s ears. The Archangel had his back turned to his Father, his gaze focused on that image of Lucifer, that very bright smile on his face as he engaged with his daughter. Truly caring for her with every single fiber of his being. It was noticeable. He took in the sharp pointed teeth (very weird), the bright rosy cheeks that adorned his face, the flickering of a tail of all things behind him. The distraction did not take awake from his ability to focus on the other being in the room though. It never would. God would be seen and heard when he wanted to be. 

   And his question was one that struck Michael right in the lungs, practically stealing the air from him. He knew what that question was for, he knew what his Father was asking. The unspoken details, the further questions, the meaning behind his words. Since he got that letter on the exterminations, since he heard what happened during them, the question that had started to be asked had dug itself further into his head. As had the regret over the exterminations the moment he saw Sir Pentious in the Office of the Seraphims. 

   Sinners. Being redeemed. 

   The apple and free will. 

   What was truth and what was lie. 

   What was a mistake and what was right. 

   Does the crime fit the punishment. 

   Was the devil right. 

   There are questions one doesn’t ask in Heaven. There are things you’re not allowed to say. For Michael, any thought that went against the Grand Design, the Heavenly Order fell in line with those things. They were dangerous to ask and if your halo cracks you’re no better than Lucifer himself. Another angel tumbling from the edges of the clouds, falling apart and crashing toward the ground. Fleeting, broken, fallen. 

   The answer to the question that the deity posed should have instantly been no. That is the answer that he should have given to him. No, no, no. He doesn’t regret his choices, he doesn’t regret the war in Heaven, he doesn’t regret pinning Lucifer to the clouds, he doesn’t regret the exterminations. Sinners are sinners and they should be tortured and punished for the crimes they committed. For turning off of the path of holy light, from falling from God’s Grace. They deserve to rot with the King of Hell who gave that apple away and gifted them the ability to be horrible, monserious creatures. 

   And yet, the answer doesn’t come. 

   Those words don’t leave his mouth because they feel wrong. They feel unfinished. Like a thought he is meant to have but he doesn’t actually believe. A thought that should already have been found inside of him yet feels forced into his mind. And that was wrong of him. He was supposed to have unwavering faith and devotion to the being behind him. So why can’t he say he regrets the things he’s done? 

   What comes out is something entirely different. 

   “Do you think Lucifer was right?” 

   To give that apple away in the first place, to believe so strongly in the humans in Eden, to want to see better for them and to free them from the chains of Heaven? Was the apple right and Eden itself wrong? Is paradise only a thing that can exist if people are controlled to believe a certain thing and told how to act? Does what one person sees as right being wrong for someone else make sense? What is right and what is wrong? 

   Again his gaze flickers across his brother’s face and finally Michael turns away from the image of him, feeling just the smallest bit braver, enough to continue speaking. “Are not all sins equal? Does someone deserve damnation for what they did or does the reason it happened play a part too? Can they be forgiven for them and let up here? What about the victims who reside in Heaven? Should they have to share space with the people who harmed them? How do you make the crime fit the punishment when things are weighed so differently? What is free will?” There’s a hitch in his words, his voice lowering as that doubt grew more, his words tapering off as he realized again who exactly he is asking these things of. 

   What does it mean when the Angel of Faith questions God? 

     There’s the sound of a page turning, loud in his ears and heavy in his chest. His Father didn’t look at him, but he had clearly heard every single word. This was the first time he’s turned a page in ten minutes and it doesn’t take God that long to read. “Is there a right or wrong answer to your question? Is there a right and wrong way to view this? Is the Heavenly Order black and white or shades of gray, as Samael believed it. Are all crimes equal and therefore should Hell even exist?” The book is shifted in his lap and God finally picks his head up to look at Michael.

     “I can read your questions as easily as I can read you, Michael. Just as I read them in Samael before he gave Eve the Apple of Knowledge.” That had him tensing up, the thought he was starting to question things like Lucifer. It was a common saying up here; that if you questioned too much like the devil you would fall as he did. None of them want to end up like that, thrown from Heaven for doubting the Heavenly Order. For making the same mistakes as the devil himself.

  God either didn’t notice his discomfort or didn’t care. “Perhaps you’ve taken on too much lately. You always try to shoulder the weight of Heaven on your own. Why don’t you go and search for your answers rather than asking me. Come back when you can answer my original question without more forming in yourself.” 

  That had not been a suggestion, there was no question in it. That had been an order as gentle as God had been in giving it. It was always hard to disconcert what their father was thinking and he never gave anything away himself. Impossible to read and impossible to understand, it often left the Archangels as a whole wondering more things than when they entered the room. Even trying to get a straight answer from Gabriel was never something that worked. At least he stopped talking in riddles at some point, which had made everything worse for several millennia. 

   With no further need to talk, Michael nodded his head to God and quickly turned around, all but fleeing from the white realm to get out of there. He stumbled briefly, catching himself on the wing shaped doors and with a deep breath tugged them open to sleep back out into Heaven itself. And there, as he leaned back against them to collect himself and his breath, he realized something else that should have struck out in God’s words. 

   He can read Michael as he did Samael. 

   Did he know? 

   Did he know what Lucifer was planning? 

   Did he know he was going to give away that apple, that he was going to storm Heaven, that he was going to kill and hurt their brothers? Did he willingly sit there while Michael rammed a sword through his twin’s back and threw him from Heaven? 

   Did he really know and let him do it? 

   Why? 

   Why? 

   Isn’t he supposed to care about them? 

   ĦɆ ŁɆŦ ĦƗM ĦᵾɌŦ SȺM?