#as long as i can shake off the rust sometimes

[pencap]

Yay! Word prompts 😊 mine words are - girl, fire and wolf

you can call me delicate, bright and pretty as a candleflame safely trapped in the jar breathing perfumed air into the room.

but i know a candleflame can become a wildfire and still holds the same burning, devouring hunger.

you can think me docile, sweet and tame as a pet dog well-trained at the end of the leash rolling over to show you my soft belly.

but i know a dog was once a wolf and still harbours the same sharp teeth and wild instincts.

yes, i am a pretty little thing delicate and docile and hungry like fire wild like a wolf

yes, i am a pretty little thing devouring and sharp-toothed like a girl.

[ha-rinrin]

Hiding From The World

Summary: After a meeting with Silco, Jinx goes missing, leaving you to go find her.

Pairing: Jinx x Fem!reader

Wordcount: 1k

Authors note: The long ass story is still not finished im so sorry guys im gonna try to publish it as soon as I can 🤞🏻. I also did this at 2am, sorry if its bad I literally fell asleep in the middle of writing it.

Masterlist

It's been hours since you last saw her. Jinx was supposed to come back to the hideout after a supposedly urgent meeting with Silco, but the minutes dragged on, turning into hours, and still no sign of her. You tried to convince yourself she was just blowing off steam somewhere, but you couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in your gut.

Without a second thought, you head to the one place she might be. It’s a little secret basement in an abandoned building tucked away in the darker parts of Zaun, somewhere she figured no one would ever think to look, when you and Jinx first stumbled on this little abandoned building while exploring Zaun’s hidden alleys. The structure was half-buried under layers of graffiti and rust, but Jinx saw it as treasure—something forgotten by everyone else but perfect for the two of you. Together, you’d set up this place over the months, stringing fairy lights from the cracked ceiling, stacking old crates to make makeshift chairs, and even securing it with a series of hidden traps to keep intruders out.

The shadows stretch longer as you approach the building, slipping past the creaky metal door and down the stairs that lead to the basement. You disable the traps one by one, the steps so familiar you could do them in your sleep. Finally, you reach the heavy door that leads into the basement, taking a breath before pushing it open.

And there she is.

Jinx is slouched on the floor, leaning against the wall with her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes flicker with a mix of frustration and exhaustion, and you catch the way her hands keep fidgeting, as if even while sitting still, she can't quite find peace. She looks up when you enter, and something in her expression softens ever so slightly.

"Y/N," she mutters, sounding almost relieved. "Guess I’m not as good at hiding as I thought, huh?"

You close the door behind you, crossing the dimly lit room until you’re in front of her. “Not from me, anyway.”

She scoffs, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. You slide down to sit beside her, close enough that your shoulders are almost touching. For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is comfortable, settling like a blanket around you both.

You glance over, studying her for a beat. “Rough day?”

She lets out a bitter laugh, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “Silco thinks he knows everything. Says I’m too… reckless, like he doesn’t know me by now.” Her fingers toy with a stray thread on her pants, pulling at it absently. “Sometimes I think he just doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get me.”

You nod, listening to every word. “Sometimes I don’t think he deserves to.”

Jinx looks over at you, that fire in her eyes simmering down, replaced by something softer, something almost vulnerable. She doesn’t say anything right away, but her hand inches toward yours, her fingers grazing your palm as if she’s testing the waters.

You intertwine your fingers, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “We don’t need him, you know,” you murmur. “We’ve got this place. It’s ours. Away from everyone else.”

She leans her head back, gazing around at the dim room, where the fairy lights cast soft, warm glows over the walls. It’s far from fancy, but it feels like home, like yours. The two of you worked to make it that way—a sanctuary in the chaos.

Her gaze drifts back to you, a small, genuine smile breaking through her tough exterior. “Guess that’s why I wanted to come here… I knew you’d find me.”

“Always,” you say softly, brushing a thumb over her knuckles.

For a while, you sit in comfortable silence, her head eventually finding its way to your shoulder. The weight of her against you feels reassuring, grounding, like the world outside doesn’t matter when it’s just the two of you in this little hidden corner of Zaun.

“You know,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, “this place… I’d never let anyone else in here but you.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you turn slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her hair. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to share it with anyone else.”

She smiles again, her eyes half-closed as she leans into you. In this moment, with the flickering lights casting shadows across the room and the muffled sounds of Zaun fading in the background, you both find a rare, quiet peace.

Jinx’s head grows heavier on your shoulder, her breathing slowing, steadying. You glance down to find her eyes closed, the furrow in her brow smoothed out. It’s rare to see her like this—unguarded, peaceful, away from the chaos that usually surrounds her.

Carefully, you shift, wrapping an arm around her to support her as you slowly stand up. She stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake, her head resting comfortably against your shoulder as you carry her over to the old, beaten-up couch you both dragged in here ages ago. Easing yourself down, you settle back with Jinx still in your arms, her body now draped across yours.

She mumbles something incoherent as she nestles closer, pressing her face against your chest. One of her arms wraps around you, clutching the fabric of your shirt as if you’re an anchor keeping her steady.

You can’t help but smile, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ear. She looks so serene, her usual smirk softened, her breathing deep and calm. Gently, you stroke her back, your fingers tracing light, soothing circles as she relaxes even further against you.

The warmth of her settles into you, a quiet comfort that makes the dim room feel like it’s lit up with something more than just fairy lights. Holding her like this, feeling her heartbeat thrum in sync with yours, it’s like all the weight of the world fades away.

As minutes slip by, you let your head rest back against the couch, one arm wrapped securely around her while your other hand continues to run softly up and down her back. You could stay like this forever, hidden away with her, in a place that’s just for the two of you.

In this little pocket of the world, it’s just you and her, and for now, that’s all you need.

[phoenixblair666]

When It Rains It Pours

|Logan Howlett/Wolverine X GN!Reader|

This is a headcanon about Logan x GN!Reader, set during the first X-Men Movie. Reader has similar powers to Storm, having the ability to control water and rain. Logan doesn't exactly appreciate their power during this particular moment, but it's okay because it's you.

Word Count: 761 (I haven't written in years, gotta start somewhere)

Warnings: Fluff, Kissing, Very Light Mentions of Smut if you squint real hard

You stare out of your window watching and listening to the heavy pitter patter of the large drops against the roof. You watch as droplets of water race down the glass.

The weather must have been caused by a certain X-Men. Just this morning the forecast called for clear skies and sunshine, but now it's absolutely pouring. At the moment the rain is mainly above the gardens at the school. You assume the professor asked Storm to give the vegetation some care.

You're pulled from your thoughts when three heavy knocks rap upon the old oak door that connects the hallway to your room. You scooch off of your queen-sized bed, shuffling to the door quickly, brushing off your clothing, making yourself look more presentable to your unknown visitor.

You gently pry the door open, earning a creak from the slightly rusted hinges. Once fully open a tall bulky frame looms in the opening. To anyone else, this figure might be intimidating, but it makes you smile instead. Standing in your doorway is a soaking wet Logan.

"This you?" he asks pointing to the ceiling, a serious look on his face. He must be referring to the ongoing downpour outside. He looked annoyed, but it was cute in your opinion. The way his heavy brows furrowed together and the small downwards pull of his lips. You loved seeing this big gruff man pout like a child. It only made you adore him more.

"No, it's not me. There's lightning and thunder out there. You know I can't control that. I can only pull the water from the clouds." He takes your observation into account, seeing a strike of lightning outside of your window.

"Must be Storm then. She should really warn a guy before she unleashes a fricken' tsunami." he scowls, only making your smile grow. His eyes meet yours, and his hard exterior begins to soften. You had always had a soft spot for him, and him you. Often, he would come to your room to catch up, talk about plans for a mission, or sometimes do other things. You never officialized your relationship with him, though. As far as you knew, you were still just friends even if more intimate matters occurred on occasion.

You take his hand gently into yours. The size of his completely engulfing yours. His skin is freezing cold, and you can feel the wetness meet your palm. "Come in. Let's dry you off." You tug his arm, and he follows behind without hesitation.

He stands in the middle of your room, thick drops of water falling onto the old wooden floorboards. You chuckle to yourself at the sight. His clothes are drenched, and his once peaked hair is now flat. You can see small droplets of water beaded in his beard. At your amusement, he raises an eyebrow. "You bring me in here just to laugh at me?" he asks. His tone wasn't harsh, but almost amused. He could never be truly mad at you. You were just too sweet to be mad at.

You shake your head and hold out your palm, gently wiggling your fingers in an upwards motion. The water on his clothes and hair begins to float right off of his body. As it floats above his head, a growing ball of liquid is formed, each drop making its way to the rest. With a flick of your wrist, you fling the ball of water to a large empty glass that sits upon your nightstand, filling it almost all of the way to the brim.

You turn back to Logan, watching as he checks himself for any residual dampness. To his surprise there was none. You smile at him as your eyes meet, a flint of appreciation washing over his features. "Thanks, sweetheart." He begins to take long strides towards you.

He places one of his large, calloused hands on your hip, while the other makes it to the nape of your neck. He towers above you, leaning down mere inches from your face. "Don't know what I'd do without you." You giggle in response, not something he expected. "You'd probably melt." you joke, making a small smirk appear on his lips. "Probably would." he agrees, now smiling down at you.

You lift yourself on your tiptoes, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. Nothing is better than this moment. You don't know if you'll ever be official, but right now none of that matters. All that matters is that he's here with you, and you're here with him.

[drabblesandimagines]

I absolutely love how you write Halsin, can I request a fic with a fem Tav having a nightmare sometime after Orin's kidnapping. The possession scene still haunts me to this day and keep imagining Tav seeing that over n over on top of struggling to rescue him. It ends with him waking and comforting her. Keep up the great work!

Thank you, lovely anon! I hope you enjoy - please let me know! xxx

Nightmares

Your limbs feel heavy, vision somewhat blurred around the edges as you walk past strangely empty tents in the camp on the outskirts of Rivington.

There’s an overpowering smell of rust in the air as you approach the barn, the dirt soon growing damp under your boots and it isn’t long before a squelch accompanies every step.

A sinking feeling in your stomach as a large figure emerged from the shadows.

Halsin – your sweet, caring druid - looms over the lifeless bodies of Gale, Astarion and Shadowheart. They’re splayed out almost atop of one another, arms and legs at unnatural angles, gruesome tears in their flesh, the straw sodden with red that matches the splatters across Halsin’s bare chest.

“What…?”

“Go,” Halsin growls between gritted teeth. There’s a look in his eye you haven’t seen before, his muscles shuddering with exertion as he tries to catch his breath. “Go - now - before I do the same to you.”

“No.” You shake your head, furiously, as if it might change the scene. “This isn’t real. it can’t be. You wouldn’t, Halsin-”

“It’s this city,” he grunts, thumping his chest with his fist as he glares at you. “The corruption, I cannot hold it back any longer. Why did you bring me here? I said-“

His eyes flash gold for a split second before the light engulfs his entire body – fur swiftly taking its place as he transforms and emits a mighty roar.

You take a step back in retreat and immediately trip over something – an arm or a leg – falling and knocking the back of your head upon stone. Above is no longer the ceiling of the drafty barn but what appears to an endless chasm. You sit up, scrambling back on your hands, heart pounding as you recognize your surroundings.

The Temple of Bhaal.

Halsin lies on the altar, his knuckles grazing the floor as his arm hangs off the side. You stumble up to your feet without further thought, not even checking for any Bhaal cultists or Orin herself, only focused on reaching him.

His eyes, once so full of warmth and love, stare blankly skyward - lifeless and bloodshot.

You’re too late.

There’s a scroll clenched in the fist resting upon his still chest. You tug it out with gentle fingers and unfurl it, only for to burn into ash immediately, only allowing you a glimpse of what was written at the top.

Speak with the dead.

Halsin’s body is illuminated in an eerie green glow. Not the greens of nature that he so adored, but something entirely unwordly. His neck cracks as he turns his head to face you, a hollow, foreign voice emitting from his mouth.

“You did not come for me.”

“No, I did. We did. We were just-” Cold fingers encircle your wrist, keeping you in place by the altar.

“No.” He cuts across, emotionless. “You left me here to die – alone.”

“No, Halsin. No, I swear. I don’t know what happened. We were just in camp and-“

“I called out for you.” His fingers squeeze your wrist so hard you swear the bones are about to break. “I called your name over and over and over, until my voice grew hoarse.” He places his other hand at the base of your throat, fingers splayed out over your collarbones. “I called for you, the one who lay with me, claimed to love me… yet still you did not come.”

“Halsin, please, listen-”

“You killed me.” He trails his fingers up your neck, pausing to cup your chin. “And, now, with the Oak Father as my witness, I will reset the balance of nature.”

With one powerful squeeze around your throat, your breath is cut off.

--

Whilst most elves favour four or so hours of trance, Halsin has proved to be quite the heavy sleeper in comparison – most likely due to the time he has spent in his ursine form – though a whimper from your lips is enough to wake him immediately, concerned.

He releases you from his spooned embrace, laid upon the pile of furs upon the ground, in fear that he’d somehow caused you pain, perhaps squeezed a little too tight in his dreams as he sought your warmth.

The furrowed brow, twitching limbs and mumbled, somewhat frantic protests, however, suggest you are in the throes of a nightmare. The druid swears his heart breaks, knowing it is best that you wake under your own steam rather than him call or shake you.

Mercifully, he does not have to wait long. You sit bolt upright with a desperate, gasping breath, drenched in a cold sweat, eyes flitting furiously side to side as you try and work out where you are now.

Your heart is pounding dangerously loud in your ears, so much so you can’t hear how hard you’re trying to gulp down mouthfuls of air, but it’s as if it stagnates at the top of your lungs, never truly getting deep enough.

Tears burn at your eyes at the effort and Halsin cannot hold himself back any longer. He places a large hand against the small of your back, hoping his gentle touch would help ground you.

You flinch at the contact, eyes widening as you finally see him in the dim light of the tent. There is a momentary flicker of fear across your face that Halsin prays to Silvanus that he will never see again.

It’s a short, gasp of a breath in and out and the colour now drained entirely from your cheeks that drives him to act. He pulls you onto his lap in a smooth motion, pressing your back snug up against his chest, ignoring another flinch as he places a palm between your collarbones.

“Forgive me, my heart,” he bends his head to speak directly into your ear, too aware of how hard your heart is beating and wanting to be sure you’ll hear – he can feel the dull thud against his own chest. “I need you to breathe with me.”

His body feels warm. You twitch, trying to turn to face him, check his face over for injuries, feel his heart beat beneath your fingertips, but he has you nestled perfectly between his thighs, keeping you still.

“I have you, petal. I promise you are safe.” His breath dances across your neck. “Close your eyes, focus on my touch and breathe as deep as you can. Please.”

Dark spots are dancing around your vision now, so it’s easy to close your eyes. Halsin is breathing deliberately slowly - exaggerating his inhales and exhales so your body shifts with each of his breaths in the hopes that you’ll mimic the movement.

It is trial and error - more than a few resulting in short, sharp gasps and spluttering breaths – but, slowly and surely, your heart beat slows and your breaths grow more productive.

The scent of moss, wood smoke, various herbs and flowers permeate through the panic and you finally recognize where you are in – in your dwelling in the commune.

It has been four months since the fall of the Nether Brain.

You twist in his lap again, desperate to see his face, to check if his eyes are still lifeless. Halsin permits it this time and it is with a sigh of relief that you see your druid whole and alive.

“My love?” His tone is so cautious that you break into a sob.

Halsin pulls you back against his bare chest in an instant, maneuvering you into a more comfortable position with ease as you cry. He does not make to hush you, or ask you what is wrong, only rocks you back and forth in his arms, pressing periodic kisses to your crown as he does.

Even when your sobs eventually cease into teary, pathetic hiccups, he does not press for details, remaining in silence until you build up the courage to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, unsure if he has even heard.

Halsin presses a final kiss to your crown. “There is nothing to apologise for, petal.”

You look up at him, shaking your head. “No, there is. I was too late. T-the Bhaal Temple. I was too late. You-”

“You were having a nightmare. Please”, he lifts a hand to your cheek, stroking away a stray tear with his thumb, “do not torment yourself with recollection of such dark dreams. All is well – we are both safe.”

His other hand leaves your side for a moment, grabbing something you can’t see. You make to protest – it’s not safe, it’ll never be safe, Bhaal still exists, what if it was a message, or a threat? – but it dies on your tongue as he holds up a small bouquet of dried flowers under your nose, the scent calming you almost instantly.

“Humour me a moment, do you recognize the scents?”

“Mm-hm.” You take them from his hand, twirling them between your thumb and forefinger. “Lavender, roses, daisies…”

“Very good. I feared I had been somewhat distracting during our lessons.”

Lessons – that coaxes a soft, breathy laugh from you. Long, leisurely walks around the lands surrounding the commune, all with the intention of Halsin imparting his knowledge of the natural world had often turned into anything but.

Of course, he had always started off with pure intentions, he’d even keep his hands behind his back in an attempt to give focus, but all that seemed to break it was you bending down to inspect a sapling, or take in the perfume of a flower he’d pointed towards and then somehow you’d find yourself pinned against a nearby trunk or tackled oh so gently down into a flower bed, hot open-mouthed kisses pressed across your throat and collarbone…

“Mm, a little. But not enough that I don’t recall what you’ve taught me,” you look down at the dried bouquet. “For I do know that these are all known for their calming properties.”

“Indeed.” He chuckles. “I find placed under the pillow works wonders for troubled sleep, as well as keeping bad dreams at bay.”

You look up at him then, brow furrowed. “You have trouble sleeping?”

“I did – not for a while now. I find that having you nestled in my arms, my heart, is more soothing than any of the Oak Father’s creations.”

You feel the warmth prickle across your cheeks – Halsin’s compliments never fail to leave you a little flustered. He chuckles again as you drop your eyes back into your lap, a tell he has come to know well during your time together. He tilts your chin back up and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep again, petal? Dawn is still a way off.”

Tomorrow will be another long day. Though the commune continues to fall into place more and more each day, there is always so much to be done.

“I can try.” You concede.

“Here,” he plucks the dried bouquet from your hand and slips it inside your pillow, giving it a firm pat to make sure it remained comfortable. “With the hopes that it makes your dreams as sweet as you are.”

Halsin coaxes you to lie down wordlessly, spooning you against his chest and draping an arm around your waist with a light squeeze.

“Comfortable?”

You inhale deeply, the bouquet of dried flowers seeping out from the pillow, the warmth of Halsin behind you, the way his hand begins to rub gently up and down your side.

“Mm.” You mumble, closing your eyes. “I love you, Halsin.”

Halsin smiles as he feels the tension leave your body fully at last – he hated seeing you in any sort of distress, whether it be minor or major.

“I love you too, my heart.” He bends his head down and starts to kiss your neck slowly and softly -  a favourite spot of both his and yours for a few moments before he retreats.

“Now, sleep, petal. Regain your energy so that I can show you precisely how much I love you in the morning, hm?”

He is unsure you have heard for sleep seems to have claimed you once more...

..but that doesn't mean he won't keep his word when dawn breaks.

---

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[nqctar]

εϊз salt air, and the rust on your door ; anton lee

pairing. bf!anton lee x f!reader. genre. fluff, childhood friends to lovers. inspired by tsitp. synopsis. (the summer house pt. 1) breathing in the salty air during a hot august night spent at anton's summer house alters your brain somehow. you gather the courage to tell anton that you love him. warnings. kissing/make out, physical touch. wc. 883 words. author’s note. sorry that i disappeared for so long, i was on trial for fraud :/ i’m back now though !!

( 🐚 ) ONE SUMMER CAN CHANGE EVERYTHING.

you awake from your nap sometime late into the evening. in the distance you hear something orchestral, it’s soft and melodic and surrounds you like a chorus of angels welcoming you into your new forever. “must be anton’s cello,” you think.

of course it was. you step out of his bedroom, the floorboards creak one by one as you tip toe out into the living room. you’re greeted by his silhouette, the point of his shoulders broad as ever as he sits up tall, hands moving the bow as he plays. you hear him mutter a few frustrations.

he pauses, and then halfway turns to you.

“finally, you’re up. please sit down and tell me what the hell i’m doing wrong.” you smile as you sit crisscrossed on the shag carpet in front of him, somewhat reminiscent of the first kindergarten day you’d ever met him.

anton begins again, his eyes focused on the sheet music in front of him. you admire how handsome and focused he looks, his movements sophisticated to a standard you’d never seen before. he proceeds to play something that makes you feel as if you’re floating in the clouds. every note rings out thick through your ears, you’re practically surrounded by music notes by the time he’s done. whatever he’d just played had changed your life in only three minutes.

“fuck you forever,” he mutters. it catches you off guard and you look at him like a deer caught in headlights. anton notices your expression and quickly follows up. “oh my god, not you. the cello. i didn’t mean you.”

“why do i suck at playing today?” you shake your head at him. suck at playing? anton?? there's no way. "that's impossible," you retort. "i think i literally ascended just now. you're fine, anton. actually— you're perfect." he flashes that wide grin at you and woah, you are so glad you were already sitting down because you would've collapsed otherwise.

"thanks, baby. i hope you aren't just saying that because you're my girlfriend." you shake your head at him again. you could never lie to anton. to you, he was the greatest cello player on earth. you'd spend an entire lifetime proving it to the world if you could.

"anton, i'm saying that because it's the truth. and also because i love you." his head jerks back at your words, eyes going wide as ever. your face goes red and you question what overcame you to finally admit the quiet part out loud. was it the salty cape cod air altering your brain chemicals? had you been possessed by cupid himself?

anton puts his bow down and steps away from his instrument. you're curious as to what he's going to do. he walks over to you and then somewhat crouches onto his knees, caressing the back of your head with his hand. you're face to face and closer than you'd been all day. the air must be doing something to the both of you, because any of your usual shyness is gone. far, far gone. anton gives you a soft smile. you admire how pretty he is up this close, lucky that you're the only one who gets to see him in such an intimate way.

the silence between you two is more than comfortable. it feels like it was your destiny to be here, in this moment. the sound of waves crashing against the nearby shore fills the space around you. in a way, it's harmonious. it's just as comforting as waking up to the sound of anton practicing. perfect doesn't even begin to describe your summer.

he leans in and kisses you. first softly, and then with more intensity. his hands run through your hair, they caress your skin and light little fires all over your body. the both of you end up laying on the floor as you're on top of him, with your hands in his hair this time, sending shivers down his spine as he tries to find the meaning of love within your lips. by the time you both pull away for air, your lips are red and faces flushed with nervousness. "there's that familiar shyness creeping back," you think.

"i love you too, y/n. i love you so much." anton whispers as you hover above him. you two move so that you're sitting next to each other, backs against the couch. you lean your head on his shoulder and take his soft hand in yours. "you're so sweet," you say. "how did i get so lucky?" if the intensity of your feelings are only temporary, damn, you never want the honeymoon phase to end. you savor this moment. you savor every moment as if anton would disappear right before your eyes.

"i still don't believe you. tell me i suck at playing the cello and then we can do that again." anton says, disturbing the silence.

"oh my god, shut up."

"fine, you suck." you obviously lie to him.

anton smiles as he leans in once again.

[spicybunni]

YANDERE KARL HEISENBERG HEADCANONS

I think I’m just gonna do Yandere headcanons for all the Lords because why not?

Karl as a yandere was so hard to write for 😰 he just has such a idgaf vibe! But I hope y’all enjoy it!!

WARNINGS : YANDERE TENDENCIES/ VIOLENCE TOWARDS DARLING / INVASION OF SPACE / SUBMISSIVE DARLING / BLOOD (not darlings)

⚙️Karl strikes me as a cocky yandere. He is obsessed with you but also loves playing with you. Meaning if you want to fuck around and find out he is all for it, but expect to be screaming for your life by the end of it. The best place to be is by his side always.

⚙️For example, he would let you roam the factory on your own. Making you feel a sense of freedom until you happen upon one of his awful experiments walking towards you. He has full control of course, and would only let his metal corpse puppets go so far until having them pull back and leave you alone.

⚙️Usually you would just run back to him out of breath and shaking. Cue his wolfish grin at your state “Why darling, back so soon?”

⚙️This guy is strong, so if you’re being a brat he has no problem just hoisting you up and taking you to your room/cage and settling you there for the remainder of a day.

⚙️I feel like Karl would use a metal collar or ankle cuff so if you get too ahead of yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re defiant or compliant because he’ll just drag you using his metal powers with the collar/cuff.

⚙️Likes it when you cling to him. It makes him feel good. Will order you to hug him or hang onto his arm when going through the factory together.

⚙️You best believe this man has all eyes on you. If you think you’re alone roaming around, he’ll just interrupt your thoughts through the camera speakers “What are you up to darling? Anything interesting?”

⚙️Hates it when you ask questions about him or his family’s past. You either will get a passive aggressive answer or a long rant about Mother Miranda. Or he would just tell you to shut up.

⚙️A defiant darling would amuse him. He loves your resistance and spirit. Watching you struggle and overcome the horrors of his factory. But it only amuses him so long before he ends up chaining one of your legs to a bedpost and keeping you in a rusting metal room.

⚙️A compliant darling wouldn’t be as entertaining for him. But you would be granted certain freedoms for your good behavior. Such as roaming the factory with minimal jumpscares and no monsters purposely attacking you.

⚙️If compliant darling does get injured by a disobeying monster in the factory or outside, Karl will rescue you and kill his creation on the spot. You would whimper and shake at his brutality, but would still clutch to his trenchcoat for security.

⚙️A compliant darling would make him feel weird sometimes, like his chest hurts when you start to cry because you miss your family/friends or just simply because you’re afraid. His heart sinks but also tries to be as comforting as he can. Giving you a big hug parting you on the back “There, there! You’re going to be fine, enough with the tears!”

⚙️Yandere Karl Heisenberg is part Lycan. I can’t explain it, but he is. So he can definitely have bloodlust over you when you piss him off. He would just leave to hunt animals in the mountains behind the factory so he doesn’t harm you.

⚙️Comes back to you with either human or animal blood dripping from his mouth and on his hands. His golden eyes never leaving yours as he only says “You’re lucky I love you darling…”

⚙️Tries to get a rise out of compliant darling, but is immediately turned off when you start to cry at his teasing. Sometimes you do get pissy and he thinks it’s so adorable.

⚙️Almost too easy for defiant darling to get upset at his obvious teasing.

⚙️I feel that Karl wouldn’t force darling to sleep in his bed but knows that they will eventually come to him on their own? Because let’s be honest that factory is full of awful stuff that could walk into your room any minute. Like I said, the best place to be is by his side.

⚙️As a yandere I don’t think his goal is to have a mind broken darling that’s just a ghost around him. He wants darling to always be themselves, just so long as they can obey him and be by his side.

[mychlapci]

There’s multiple times in idw where other racer frames comment OUT LOUD that blurr is, apparently, fat for a racer. They use different words for it but basically they all comment that he’s overweight. I think knockout even mentions it to him and, meaning well, tells him he’d be happy to shave down his plating to help him lose weight.

Now sure you could read it as he Literally weighs more, like his plating or something is thicker, but given that blurrs response to this is always to immediately either a, show the other racer he’s way faster then them, or b, basically tell them to fuck off, I’m going with he’s chubby.

For a racing frame.

Obviously to most other cybertronians he isn’t, he’s pretty normal, but you know who totally should notice?? Swerve. And I think it should drive him a little crazy.

Blurr isn’t afraid of indulging himself on all the wonderful treats and luxuries his fans send him, and with how many fans he has he’s never left wanting. So when a little red and white mini bot hands him some homemade energon and rust flavored jelly’s as he’s heading to his transport, he can’t help but try some on the way back to his hotel. And after he’s done licking his fingers, groaning as he leans back against the transport wall (who would be blushing if he could, hearing the noises the racer had been making) blurr decides he Needs to find that bot again. Swish, or… swerve, that was his name.

Which is how swerve gets the biggest racing star on cybertron into his bar, every night. He makes the racer some of the best food and drinks he’s ever had, and they’re just Packed full of nutrients and oil. It’s not long before blurr fills out more, now that’s he’s added swerves as a mandatory stop every night. It drives other bots Wild seeing blurr slowly filling out on screen every race. (And he keeps winning too, eventually inspiring other racers to start slowly putting on some weight)

Eventually there’s a few days when blurr can’t make it, an off planet race you see, and of course he burned through all the food he requested to go to hold him over until he got back! He just couldn’t help himself, and the thought of letting anything get stale… he has standards, thank you.

When he eventually lands on cybertron again, he ignores all his little interviews and sponsor meetings and heads right to swerves, who’s made his idol a whole Feast to welcome him back. Even helps him finish it while blurr lays back and rubs his stomach. And swerve is losing his god damn mind. Blurr literally pulls two of swerves large fingers into his mouth at one point to suck the sauce off of them, he can’t not end the night panting as much as blurr is!

Being so close to his idol and being able to touch him, seeing how he’s been changing the more swerve feeds him, is making swerve the horniest little pervert on cybertron. He is jerking it Constantly, sometimes even secretly behind the counter while he watches blurr eat. And eventually he gets… ideas. Starts easy enough, not wiping away his sweat as he makes some jelly’s, letting it drip down into the pot. Maybe he starts spitting a little more when he talks to himself while making melted metal pastries.

And it rides him over for a while! But eventually… he starts to lean into it, shaking as he watches blurr eat something he knowingly, willing spat into. And he doesn’t notice, how could he? Maybe he starts doing things to the food, after all that dough looks so soft before he cooks it, he just, just has to be careful not to cum, can’t think about blurr eating it, having no idea his favorite fan fluffed it up with his spike.

Sometimes blurr will note if something is off. The texture is wrong, it’s too salty. He has standards, after all. And swerve nods frantically, does everything he can to fix the problems. But eventually he does cum. He can’t help it, he’s just so excited, but he doesn’t have enough time to make something else! So he has to sit there, frantically taste testing what ever he fucked, doing his best to fix it and balance the flavors. Blurr can’t know he- that he-

He creams in his panels again as he brings it out, putting in front of a much thicker blurr, who just shoots him his iconic smirk and thanks him before digging in. And swerve nearly blacks out at the noises he’s making while he eats. Especially as they slowly turn more… sexual. Not, not normal sexual -well the normal sounds Are sexual just only to swerve- but like, blurr is moaning. Actually moaning. Swerve can see him rocking a little against the stool he’s sitting on and blurr doesn’t even seem to notice, too caught up in just how Good, how creamy and wonderful the food is.

It’s not until he’s cleaned the entire plate that swerve is able to really focus again, and by then blurr is already leaving, stumbling a little and blushing as he makes his way out, seemingly none the wiser that something was off.

The wet spot swerve frantically licks off the bar stool tells him otherwise. And soon he’s doing everything he can to have blurr eating and drinking as much of his transfluid as he possibly can. (and on one embarrassing occasion his waste fluid ((he totally wants to figure out that later) And oh boy does he! by the time he finally cracks, finally asks a much bigger blurr to please, please have sex with him, blurr is already well acquainted with the taste of this mini bots transfluid. Not that he knows that until he pops the little things spike into his mouth and immediately gets a shot of it.

Something in his processor immediately wants him to recoil away, he- he Knows that flavor, but he’s just so horny (especially now that he’s gotten a shot directly from the tap) that he can’t bring himself to tell swerve to stop when the mini bot goes down and starts frantically fucking into his soft, swollen valve with zero protection. And he cums so Much! Swerves stamina is awful, but he makes up for it with big tanks and a lot of enthusiasm.

By the time swerve is done blurr has been knocked into recharge for at least a few rounds, and he’s almost Definitely pregnant. Swerve frantically stuffs his transfluid back into his valve and pushes it deeper to make sure of that.

obviously a carrier needs lots of their sires transfluid and all the tasty, tasty food they can eat to make a big, strong sparkling. And swerve makes the best food, and transfluid on cybertron! So obviously, Swerve reasons with himself, blurr can’t be mad!

After all, Blurr has standards.

oHoHo yessss chubby Blurr supremacy. He fills out even more as he starts stopping by Swerve's every night, all that bar food is just full of oil and dense minerals, going straight to his thighs, ass and tummy. And plenty goes to his titties, too. Swerve is so nasty, feeding him his transfluid...

hrghh and Swerve is sooo into getting his favourite racer pregnant, the fact that Blurr doesn't tell him to stop and pull out immediately makes him shoot a fat load straight into his forge, and he doesn't stop until he's sure Blurr is knocked up. Blurr will now have to take a break in his racing career to focus on carrying, which he is pretty frustrated about, but Swerve's enthusiasm and love for his swelling belly makes up for it.

hgrhh Imagine Blurr making a public appearance again and he weights twice as much now, his little bitty fussy in his arms as it gets hungry for mommy's milk... It'll be a while before he can race again, but I bet you this milf can still out-speed all the other cocky racers like it's nothing <33

[kayleigh-83]

WIP of a house I'm building for one of my families in Brightmaple, plus some bonus scenery shots. I so often play with much of my hood deco turned off now, to save pink flashing, that I have to take a look sometimes and appreciate!

Also feeling sooo rusty (and under-inspired) for building! I haven't really had anything needing to be built in my hood for a while, and not much of the build and decorating bug just in general. But now it needs to be done for at least one household immediately before I can play it, plus more coming up before long. So I have to shake off that rust! But made a good start so far.

[numinousmysteries]

more a headcanon that got out of a hand than a fic. tw: 2020. that whole thing. [on Ao3] @today-in-fic

For years they feared a mass contagion of extraterrestrial origin spread by swarms of bees. Instead, the virus that grounds the world to a halt is an earthbound molecule transmitted invisibly through laughter, kisses, shared spaces, and spoken word.

A pall falls over the house. Banished from campus, William half-heartedly watches lectures on Zoom. Mulder starts the tiger show but turns it off in disgust before the first episode ends. 

Scully is the only moving part, chugging along in sharp contrast to their inertia. She’s long existed in the liminal state between the sick and the well, the living and the dying, but the sheer volume of devastation brought by this virus is wearing her down. Out of desperation, the hospital administration pulls her off her normal caseload and assigns her to the overcrowded ER. 

On a purely scientific level, the work—the once in a lifetime opportunity to chart a course of treatment for a novel virus in real-time—is thrilling. There are no textbooks, decision trees, or best practices; only instinct, trial and error. But this isn't just cells in a microscope—it's a protein expanding and exploding in human bodies. Bodies with children, parents, spouses, loved ones. Bodies that can no longer fit in the hospital morgue and need to be carried out to refrigerated trucks lining the streets outside. She's never felt like more of a failure.

She doesn’t want to talk about the work. She comes home still masked and then locks herself in the guest room in an attempt to protect them from whatever she’s been exposed to during the day. 

“Hey, Will,” Mulder whispers conspiratorially one April afternoon. “Did I ever show you how to pick a lock?”

But their son has all of her practicality and simply shakes his head in resignation. They compromise with a private salute to their personal healthcare hero, clanging pairs of All-Clad pans out the kitchen window to herald her arrival home. Even through her N95, they can tell it makes her smile. 

*****

William watches lectures and does his problem sets, but his heart isn't in it. Staring at the screen all day isn't as engaging as exploring physics in-person with his professors and classmates.

Mulder's got them in the habit of running laps around the property for exercise—or, as Scully says, to prevent bed sores and blood clots in their otherwise sedentary lives—and sometimes they'll do what William calls "prison workouts", push-up, planks, and bodyweight squats until their quads ache. They'll toss a ball in the yard or play one-on-one basketball on the rusted net in the driveway. 

Mulder knows their son is miserable, marooned in this house with his parents, so he's trying his best to keep the kid entertained. Secretly, he enjoys this little stolen time with his son. The kid should be out there, learning about the world and his place in it, but this could also be their last chance to spend every day together like this, and he knows better than to take it for granted. He just wishes Scully could be with them and not on the other side of a locked door.

They FaceTime with her and can hear her in-person voice preceding its echo on the phone by a few milliseconds. Will calls it mom from the future and mom from the past. They both wish she could be here in their present.

"Can we please come in?" Mulder begs quietly to the closed door one night, tracing the grooves of the wood with his fingertips. "We can all wear masks. I just need to see you." His voice cracks with need and desperation.

"I don't know," she says. "I'd never forgive myself if I got either of you sick."

"But you feel fine, right?"

"For now, sure," she concedes. "But I could be incubating the virus. Asymptomatic transmission is real and happening all over the world."

"What if we're outside, appropriately distanced, and wearing masks?"

He can hear her thinking, then sighing, from the other side of the door. "Fine. You two go outside first and sit on one end of the lawn. Then I'll come out in a few minutes and sit several feet away."

"Great!" He leaps to his feet to gather three lawn chairs and tell William the plan.

Muller and William set hers up closer to the house then measure out about six feet further out in the yard before placing two chairs for themselves.

They take their seats, put on their masks, and wait for her to emerge.

His heart breaks a little when he sees her. He watches her go to work and come home every day through the window but he hasn't noticed how thin she looks or gotten close enough to see the dark hollows under her eyes. He knows it's been rough for her. She’s tougher than most but this situation is unbearable. He's tempted to close those six feet between them and take her into his arms, coronavirus be damned.

"Move further back," she says, waving her hand off in the distance when she sees them.

He notices William is about to protest but he brings his hand to the kid's forearm and shakes his head. She's the boss in this situation. They're lucky enough to get to see her, what's a few more feet?

*****

The days drag on. Experts talk about flattening the curve. The curve does not flatten. Experts advise not buying masks, to save them for the healthcare workers who need them most. Experts say to wear cloth masks. Experts say cloth masks are not effective. The president advises drinking bleach. Bodies keep piling up. Scully keeps showing up for work and secluding herself at home. 

"Listen, why don't you quit or take some time off?" he asks her through the door. “We can afford it.” 

"I took an oath," she says solemnly and the conversation ends. He knows better than to fight against her sense of duty. He knows better than to argue she should put her own health first. The only cards he has to play would be himself or William, but she keeps isolating herself to keep them safe.

William itches to go beyond the property on his runs. The dirt road that leads away from the house is typically empty so Mulder doesn't mind if he does a few miles out and back.

"I’ll cross the street if someone is on the same side as me," William says. That's enough for Mulder.

"Should we make sourdough?" William asks one afternoon, briefly looking up from his phone.

Mulder doesn't know where this sudden culinary interest comes from but he's excited to do anything that gets William away from his screens. Especially something they can do together.

They consult with Scully who, of course, knows about starters and mothers, live cultures and pre-fermentation. From the other side of the door, they take notes.

"We'll cut your slices real thin and slide under the door," Mulder says.

The grocery store in town is doing curbside pick up so they order their ingredients online and then drive up to receive their bounty.

They mix the starter together first, watching as the liquid thickens and bubbles in a mason jar. It reminds Mulder of their old kitchen science experiments from William's childhood. Baking soda and vinegar volcanoes. Mentos in soda, although Scully didn't like the cleanup after that one. Just like he was as a kid, William is methodical and delighted by chemical reactions. 

The starter has to rest in the fridge for several hours so they take a break to research recipes. No one has ever made bread in this house, he thinks. Scully's a good cook, but she prioritizes nutrition and efficiency. She's not about to spend hours in the kitchen plodding through the steps of an elaborate recipe. Mulder is even less so. His culinary prowess has expanded from his bachelor days, when boiling water was an occasion, but he still sticks to the basics, evolving as William's tastes grew and matured.

Why had they never done this before?

"It smells good!" Scully shouts from her quarantine.

"At least we all still have our sense of smell," William jokes.

At night, Mulder and Scully sit with their backs to the door and try to inhale the familiar scent of each other. He hasn't touched or held her in weeks. It's the longest they've gone without physical contact since he was dead and buried. And the longest they've gone without sex since the first couple of months after the trauma of William's birth. He'd do anything just to hold her hand, rest his palm on the small of her back, bury his head in her hair. He knows this is harder for her, but it isn't easy for him either.

After William retreats to his room for the night, he knocks softly on her door. "Are you up?" he asks.

He hears her get out of bed and step over to the door.

"I'm up," she says, softly.

"What are you wearing?"

She gives him a hollow pity laugh. "I miss you."

"I'm right here.

"You know what I mean."

"Oh, I know," he says. He knows in the deepest reaches of his being. "I miss you so much."

"Let's go somewhere when this is all over."

"Mmhmm," he agrees. "You and me on a beach. I'd say Will, too, but I'm pretty sure he's sick of us—or at least me."

"How's he doing?"

"He's holding up alright," Mulder says. "It's tough for him but I think he's putting on a brave face for my sake."

"He's a good kid."

"The best."

They're quiet for a minute. He strains to hear her breathing on the other side of the door and imagines her sitting there.

"Are you sure I can't come in?" he asks. "We can wear masks. Sit on opposite sides of the room."

"Mulder, no."

"I really want to see you."

*****

By May, it's warm enough for them to spend most of the evening outside, sitting or walking (at a safe distance) together for hours. Will retreats to his room to do homework or, they suspect, chat online with his friends, but Mulder and Scully like to stay out until after the sun sets, talking or just enjoying each other's company in the silence.

"You haven't gotten sick yet," he says, one night, initiating his latest plea to get her to open the door between them. "And I read case numbers are going down. Don't you think we can relax a little?"

"Trust me, I want to," she says with a sigh. "I miss both of you."

"You have no idea how much I miss you," he says, seriously.

"I think I have some idea," she says, the corner of her lips arching into a smile. 

"Do they know if this thing is sexually transmitted?" he asks. "We can wear masks. That could be kind of hot."

"If we're close enough to do that, I think we're close enough to infect each other," she responds quickly, making him realize she's also thought about it and that makes him smile in turn. 

They're quiet for a while, walking and feeling the air cool down as night settles over them. These chaste days feel like the early years of their partnership. He isn't sure what's worse—never having touched her or not being able to know once he knows how sweet it can be to be. Actually, he's sure the latter is worse. Now he knows what she feels like underneath him, what her skin tastes like, the sound of her little moans. They've had phone sex, quietly, from different ends of the house, after she let him leave her little pink silicone vibrator outside the door one night.

"I wish it were you," she sighed over the phone the first night.

"It can be," he said. "Just let me in."

"You know I can't."

Back on their walk, his dick pulses just thinking about the way she sounded on the phone that night. Husky, breathy, like a storm building and breaking overhead. The first time they were together, the force of her orgasm blew him away. He knew she wasn't putting on a show for him by how embarrassed she seemed afterward. He kissed her gently on her neck, her breasts, her collarbone as she came down, her breathing slowed, and let her know he'd never seen anything sexier in his entire life. Scully screamed when she came. She twisted her tiny features up in a gasp that seemed to straddle the line of pain and pleasure. Her whole body came along for the ride, spasming and pulsing, and he knew he'd spend the rest of his life trying to see that again and again. Fortunately, there were lots more times after that. As William got older, they'd learned to be quieter, which only made it more thrilling when he left for college and she realized she could come with abandon again. Of course, COVID brought him back, and sent her into the guest room, so they hadn't had a chance to be loud in months.

"Call me later," she says. It's a demand, not a request.

"You know I will," he replies. "I'm torn. I want to stay out here and be with you, but I also can't wait to go to bed and talk to you."

"Well, I was hoping we'd do more than talk."

"You know what I mean."

"Oh, I know," she says. "I'm also looking forward to that."

Crickets fill the silence of the balmy spring evening. It's nice, just being with her like this. At this point, he'll take whatever he can get.

"I spoke to Frohike today," he tells her.

"Please don't tell me he's bought into these ridiculous conspiracies about the virus," she rolls her eyes over her mask.

"He has some interesting ideas," Mulder smiles. "But you know he's mostly harmless."

*****

She's among the first at the hospital to get her first vaccine dose that winter. William and Mulder celebrate from their side of the door with whiskey shots of their own.

"I still need the second dose in a couple of weeks, and then it takes two weeks after that to be effective," she says.

"But we're on the right track," Mulder calls out.

"The end is in sight!" William shouts.

“To our hero,” Mulder toasts, clinking his shot glass against the door. He never thought he’d be so intimately familiar with the texture of their guest room door. 

"Where should we go on our vacation?" Mulder asks. “You know, when this is all really over.” 

"I'm going back to school," William says.

"Good!" Scully calls from her side of the door. They both know how much he's missed his friends and his classes. In a few weeks they’ll pack him up with masks and home tests and warnings to avoid superspreader events. It’ll be a mostly virtual semester, but still good for him to get out of the house.

"I guess that leaves me and you, woman," Mulder says to the door. "Where am I whisking you away to?"

"Somewhere warm," she says longingly. "On the ocean."

"That can be arranged," he says. He's dreaming of long afternoons in the sun—well, as much actual sun as Scully will allow—holding on to her as they wade out into the ocean. Full days where they don't leave their hotel room bed. They've earned it. She certainly has.

[iwaasfairy]

ETCHED IN RED | RUST Part 2

tw. dubcon, yandere, kidnapping, mention of murder, power imbalance wordcount. 1.5k

read part 1 here or see the valentine's masterlist

millions knives x reader

Everything else has an almost imperceptible coat of dust— it’s in the air, in the way the sand and dirt creeps through the crevices and lingers. You push yourself up from the warm bed to peer through the spaces between the rickety shack. Your sister still sleeps tight, with her pillow wrapped tight under her arms— and the soft snoring of your parents in the other room also stays steady. One split second you choose against better judgment not to wake her. Have you ever seen a God?

The blanket clings to you while you stir, but slips off when you get onto your knees. A small sliver of light whips around in the distance, quiet, as a hum fills the air. It flickers distractingly through the narrow windows, breaking through the cracks in the door.

It looks almost biblical.

The light that shines above the town, as the earth rattles beneath. You softly tiptoe around the sleeping person as you rub the sleep out of your eyes, open the door to the cold midnight air. Something’s in the distance. Vague and big, it coils in the darkness as if looking for something, and a heaviness settles into your stomach. Have you ever met a God? 

Without a single thought, you set off towards the tower, trying to quiet your steps so as not to attract attention. It’s not a stretch to guess that whatever it is, it’s here for your plant. One you, and all the people nearby, need. The heavy rattling, the drilling noise gets louder and louder, until you’re sure that it’s right upon the town.

You slip through the door and sprint up three steps at a time until you reach the platform, taking a single deep breath as you take in the faint glow. The plant’s tired, you know this. She’s uncurled herself just barely, face hidden within her hands— sometimes you try to reach out to her. You place your hands on the tank, press your head against the glass. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” you promise, and as if hearing you, understanding you; the beautiful leaves slowly seem to bloom a little more.

A frightening mechanic screech fills the night, and whoever wasn’t awake before, surely startles as the entire town shakes. The building with it. You stumble to your knees and turn, just in time to watch the metal roof being ripped off and the bladed, robotic arms to slither in. The man lands with no sound, and blue eyes zero in on you— as you stand to place yourself between him and the plant. The whirring appendages sprouting from his back drip in blood, and it’s only then that you can hear the screaming and crying from outside.

“You can’t take her- she’s sick,” you say, wrapping your arms around it as if in a desperate embrace. Your bottom lip wobbles in the silence, one you fill with a plea. “She’ll die if you take her.” Barely half of his face is visible from underneath the hood, but he towers, and his mouth corners flatten when you shake your head. “Please don’t hurt her.” Crying continues, as your palms heat up. As light gets brighter and brighter in the cold room, and your eyes widen.

You turn to see that the plant’s opened up, and her hands are pressed back against the glass in response to yours— heat surging through your body as you gasp. Though your body stands between him and his prize, he too drops his shoulders, and the mean snarl that was on his face vanishes. It doesn’t last long, before she tuckers out— but it’s enough for you to stare back at him in shock, mouth falling open at the stunning display. Small orbs of light still rain down around you. “The plant—” You don’t get to finish, before one of the arms wraps around you and yanks you towards him; not disemboweling you in the process. The other arms pick up the plant and pull you all out of the building, through the mess of shacks he’s destroyed.

“Wait, please! I-” you try to fight against the blades, but it’s no use. You only cut your skin open further, being dragged through the street kicking and screaming. “Stop, my family! Let me go!” Your arm is caught within a hand, as your sister hangs on with all her weight and almost pulls your hand clean off, planting her feet. She’s crying, and her eyes are bloodshot and frightened. You’re hurting. “Aw, aw!” You say her name, try to cling onto her fingers as hard as you can. Until you go blue. But it’s no fair fight— and as soon as sweat makes you slip, you’re out of her reach.

As you watch her wipe blood splatters off of her cheeks, crying out for you.

He’s moving too fast. The image of your destroyed town doesn’t stay for long enough for you to print it into your mind.

+

The furniture is cold when you touch them, dragging yourself around the room with a monotone sigh. Aside from that blue haired freak who glares, or the Doctor, Knives doesn’t get a lot of company. They rushed off in some state earlier, where Nai had barked at you to stay where you were— but you don’t doubt they’ll be back soon. You’ve seen what the blond can do. You’ve seen what’s left behind when someone tries to steal his precious plants. The camp is cold and metallic and clean, and you’ve learned that he doesn’t feel these things the way you do.

Instead you’re stuck in this room, and wait for the alarm to stop blaring soon. You place yourself on the well-kept leather seat, and softly press a few keys of the organ— jumping when the door slams open too violently. You cling onto the instrument as you turn, only to stare in confusion. Your mouth cracks open, and you frown. “Where’s master Knives? Are you here for the plants?”

He’s got almost the same face, but it’s not him. Hair too long, eyes too gentle. He’s got mechanical parts where Nai doesn’t— as he stands in the door disarmed. “I’m here for-”

“Vash, step aside.” The deep voice fills the room, and the golden blond aims his gun now at Nai. You can’t help it, you hurry over to his side. Knives at least, has shown that he doesn’t have the intent to harm you. This stranger however, keeps glancing between the two of you with frightening precision. Nai’s quick to pull you behind him out of direct reach, and tangles his hand with yours as you stare. They must be twins, your mind supplies. He squeezes your smaller, softer hand in his, then glances over at you. “Are you hurt?”

“N-no, I’m fine.” When you manage to get over your shock at the intrusion, you want to pout. It’s not like you trust him. He stole you, locked you up- you have every right to be angry. But still. He’s kept you from the Doctor’s experiments. And if Legato or any of the other ones had their way, you probably wouldn’t be so cared for. Dolled up. How should you understand this? You cling to his arm, as you peek your face from behind him. “What’s happening?”

The deep voice sounds again, and then the extra appendages come out gleaming in the low light, careful not to nick you in the process. “Vash is just leaving, pretty. Don’t worry.” He brushes a quick hand over your head, before pushing you down to the floor behind the couch. “Stay there.” They’re both back down the hall quicker than you can blink, leaving you behind in the otherwise empty room with only your heart thumping in your chest.

+

Your legs get yanked further down the bed, as almost luminescent eyes stare down at you. You wish you could say you were asleep, but Legato turned out to be right. Even master Knives has urges— that are now being inflicted upon your body as he nestles between your legs again. “Nai, promise me- I want you to go check on my family. I want to make sure they’re safe.” He’s ignoring you, circling your nipples with playful fingers before he leans down to kiss you all over. “Knives~”

After he sucks another hickey into you, he gets nose to nose with you, before dipping to kiss you there too- and biting your bottom lip as he groans. “You’re so whiny.”

“You promised. If I stayed with you… you’d take care of them. My sister and my parents will worry.”

His handsome face is always so awfully blank. In sharp contrast with the brightness of his eyes, and all that you can convince yourself to see in them. It’s so much easier to sacrifice yourself, when you know that you’re doing the right thing. You dig your nails into his shoulders, and pout. “You took the plant… All I want is for them to be okay.”

“They’re taken care of,” he mumbles robotically, before raising a brow. “I promise. Wouldn’t lie to you.” The hands instantly start roaming again, as his thighs push yours open to create more room for his hips, and the way he’s pushing inside you ever so slowly. The low groan he lets out is rumbly, cockhead stretching you around him so that your back arches. The wetness between your legs is hot, and ever since the first time, he’s wanted to be inside you as much as possible. The slick sounds fill the room as he sits back and watches his cock slide into you, squeezing your hips tight.

You cling onto him when he bottoms out, and forces another kiss onto your mouth. Whispers your name as he pulls out, and fucks back into you with a grunt. You can’t help but be grateful that master Knives isn’t all that bad.

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[silverskye13]

"You're bleeding."

It's an obvious statement, one Tanguish feels a little foolish for. Of course Helsknight is bleeding. He just won his match. It's amazing how strong these Colosseum fighters are, how much damage they can do to each other, especially when they're matched up well. And Helsknight is the Champion of Hels -- if for no other reason than the popularity with the crowd, every one of his matches is a good match. It has to be. Anything less and it's not the Champion, is it?

Helsknight looks dazed. It's a familiar look. After a particularly rough fight. It's like the knight can't believe the fight has stopped. It takes a few minutes for his heart to stop sprinting. So he goes through the gate, dragging his sword up to the nearby wall and plants himself on the bench, and he stares into the middle distance, breathing, bleeding, waiting. It's a familiar look. Today he's spattered up to the elbow in blood, and it runs between the links of his chain mail in thin calligraphy lines. It gathers in the bends in his pauldrons, makes more stark the dent in his chest plate. If it's not cleaned and polished off in the next few hours, it'll settle in those places and poison them with rust, and the next time Helsknight fights, he'll be more vulnerable. Blood is such an insidious thing sometimes, the way it weakens when it flows.

Tanguish moves to the knight, a bowl of water in one hand, a healing kit in the other. He takes the knight apart like he's a machine, slipping delicate fingers across the gauntleted hand, undoing straps and buckles to show the bruised knuckles beneath the armor. Metal and leather can only do so much. Bodies break surprisingly well, when they're testing their limits. Helsknight sighs as Tanguish massages his hand, searching for broken bones. The knight is almost feverishly hot to his frost-laden touch, and Tanguish watches the swollen skin start to pale as the cold soothes it.

"You don't have to do that," Helsknight says, his voice a thin and distant rasp, still lost somewhere in the adrenaline crash. "Just... give me a minute to rest."

"I am," Tanguish answers him gently and keeps working, unclasping the buckles on the chest plate and pulling it free. He lays it gently on the ground, and takes pride in how Helsknight breathes easier. The knight rests, eyes fluttering half-closed and sighing as Tanguish works. Cold hands trace over blooded armor and fevered skin, setting right the wrongs. He dabs at cuts, eliciting hisses of pain that he immediately soothes. He puts ice to bruises, and water to sweat and blood, and Helsknight revives, slowly. His breathing lengthens and deepens. The flushed skin cools. The muscles relax.

"How did the fight go?" Tanguish asks when Helsknight's eyes flutter open again.

"I won."

"You can say it better than that."

Helsknight smirks, his vitality slowly returning. He sniffs and runs a tongue across his teeth, making room for the words where there once was blood. Tanguish doesn't know how the knight stands the taste, but then again, Helsknight has been in a great many fights. Maybe blood loses its flavor after so long.

"You watched the fight."

"And so did they," Tanguish looks up to the ceiling, where the cheering of the crowd still sometimes surges and roars. "But none of us can tell the story the way you can."

"Blood is memory without language."

"See, that's what I mean."

"Weaving bard's tales already?" someone asks, another fighter sitting on another bench, cleaning a bloodied sword. "You haven't even rested yet."

"He's resting now," Tanguish says, running the damp cloth over a gash in Helsknight's arm. That one will need stitches, or a health potion. Helsknight's hand shakes when Tanguish cleans it, and there's color in the cut that means its too deep, gruesomeness he doesn't want to put names to, for fear it'll make him sick. Helsknight spares the wound a glance before pointedly fixing his gaze away from it. It always strikes Tanguish as funny, that the knight can't look at his own wounds. He can inflict them, he can tend them in others, he can ignore them, but admitting he's wounded is a mountain he struggles to climb.

Helsknight closes his eyes again, but the eyelids keep moving, like a man dreaming or searching for words.

"Where do you want me to start?"

"When they opened the cage."

Helsknight nods. He sits in silence for a long moment. In a few days, when all wounds are healed and all aches soothed, Helsknight will write in a little book he keeps under his pillow:

Blood is memory without language The wounded creature screams And though the sand drinks life away We lay linked by crimson streams

Brothers you and I, creature Kin on parched and bitter sand Though mine is spilt for glory Yours is spilt by crowd's command

What place is this, what hell endured That brings us to this yield But happenstance and hubris And hungry crowd's bone field

What beast are you to me, creature What creature I to you You are a footnote in a story And I the death of you

Again repeat what we both know Whilst life, for now, entwine That we are linked in blood my love Shared memory divine

[scaryscarecrows]

"We gotta get rid of her," Mark says shortly, not even twisting around to look at the corpse. "It's unsanitary."

"'ve stayed in worse places," Antoine wheezes, at the same time that Jason murmurs, "Arkham was worse."

"Both of you shut up. No. You be quiet and sit with your ice pack, you shush and think about your life choices."

Jimmy eyes the corpse. There's a lot of ways to get rid of a body if it's intact; a tried and true method is to slap a face mask on it, get on the bus, ride about an hour, and then slip off during a rush. By the time anybody realizes that 'sleeping, sick person' isn't doing so hot, you're long gone. Unfortunately, the boss shot her head off and there's not much you can do to hide that. Missing hand, sure. Hell, a broken neck you can manage; get a cheap brace at the pharmacy, or get real creative with a scarf! Head gone? Not so much.

"You got a cleaver?" Trent's already moving. Antoine blinks at him for a few seconds.

"Yeah?"

"Riley, go get that for me. Frank, go out and gemme a cheap eight by ten rug."

"Seriously?" Jimmy asks. Trent shrugs.

"Meat 'n bone all cuts the same. And since her head's gone, my options are limited."

"What do you want me to do?"

"What any good friend does on moving day." Trent grabs an ankle and hefts the corpse off the floor. "Call take-out and rustle up some beer."

"I got vodka," Antoine rasps. Mark hisses at him. Trent hums.

"Good. Jimmy, man, just call somebody and get that shit flowing. Sober dismemberment's boring as all hell."

"Watch for booby traps," the boss suddenly says, sounding more awake than he did earlier. "S'how she got the drop on me."

"I'm not surprised." Trent cracks his neck. "Relax, boss, this ain't my first rodeo."

"Yeah, I know." He swallows, cracks a wry grin. "But she beat the shit outta me first. If you go on a rampage, you can do some damage."

Jimmy scrolls through Domino's website while Trent trudges towards the bathroom. A trail of blood marks his path, but honestly, there's blood everywhere right now. Headshots are messy, and apparently Antoine put up a decent fight because there's bloody handprints smeared in several places.

Okay...it's been a while, but his memory's pretty solid. Alfredo pasta for Riley, bacon black olive pizza for Antoine and Mark, double mushroom for Trent, Canadian ham and red onion for him, calzone for Frank...

"Hey, boss, whatcha want from Domino's?"

"Hrm?"

'You gotta eat something."

"Oh." He shrugs. "Pepperoni's fine. Doesn't matter."

Fine. Pepperoni it is. Maybe he'll snag a slice of that. It's been a while.

"We got half an hour. I'll just meet him outside. Hey! Half hour to pizza!"

"Good!" Trent hollers. "Now where's my vodka?"

Yeah. That sounds good right about now. Antoine always gets these good mixers, too; ginger beer with an actual bite, mostly, but sometimes grapefruit. Or blood orange.

Ginger beer today, and once Trent's happy with a lidded cup to keep blood spatters out, he pours himself a strong one.

Christ. There'd been about forty minutes that he'd been convinced he'd kick the door down to...not this. And there'd been several hours that he'd been waiting for Antoine to call and tell him it was all over.

He gives himself a good shake, pours out some more, and gathers them onto a rusted-over cookie sheet when he doesn't spot a tray.

"Vodka is served."

[imreadydollparts]

Derusting tutorial! -Ish.....

This is one of those things that I would like to make a video of but I just can’t do videos.

Sometimes you know a pony has rust inside because you can see rust coming out of the base of the tail, turning the hair that distinctive ruddy orange.

Sometimes it’s seeing discoloration from the outside.

Sometimes it’s rust or black mildew visible in the rooting holes on the mane.

And sometimes, there’s a rattle when you shake them that sounds like sand or a handful of little rocks.

That’s the tail washer having disintegrated.

Sea Breeze had everything but visible rust seeping out of her tail hole.

I popped her head off (she was cooperative! I always appreciate that), pulled out her tail, and took a look inside.

It’s difficult to get photos inside a pony with my phone, but you can see she’s pretty evenly coated with black mildew, rust, and some rusty chunks of metal here and there from her tail washer.

So! Here’s how I fix this.

I put the pony in a plastic container just big enough that they can fully lie down in with their head off, and deep enough that you can fully submerge them.

I only use these containers (which I thrifted and they were really gross at the time, but ponies aren’t the only gross things I like to clean) for derusting ponies and soaking doll/pony clothes.

These are not exact measurements, I just happen to have an old baby formula scoop in my Oxy Clean, but toss about a tbl/1 oz of Oxy Clean in there.

And add boiling hot water. You do need hot water. It’ll help kill off anything living inside the body and you need the body to be as soft and malleable as possible throughout this process.

The tools I use most often to scrub rust and mildew out of ponies is a toothbrush that I’ve cut the bristles shorter on (this allows it to get into the legs without the bristles ending up bent and useless), and long-handled cotton swabs.

I like to squish the head with the toothbrush to make sure it’s all full of Oxy water, and will flip the body after it’s been in there for a moment so that every bit of ick is coated and the hot water can start working it loose from the vinyl.

I can’t take photos of this part of the process because I need both hands, but you put on some gloves, pick up your pony, and start scrubbing.

Scrub inside the head, scrub the roots of the hair both inside and out if you need to, scrub all around and inside the body squishing and pulling and scrunching so you can get into every little crevice and dislodge that grime.

If you’re lucky it’ll all come off without having left rust stains behind.

Rinse them out every time they start to cool and become harder, then toss them back into the hot Oxy soak to soften again.

Keep scrubbing with the toothbrush and rinsing until everything you can get off is off. You may need a swab to get into the tips of their hooves (very helpful if they’re hot and soft as can be for the legs), ears, noses, unicorn horns, and if they’re a pegasus, scrunch them up really well and get into the tips of their wings with cotton swabs.

If you have mildew coming out of the rooting holes, don’t forget to part the mane and scrub the vinyl between the rows.

Also don’t forget to do that if you’re deflocking.

All clean!

About the tail...

I prefer bar soap for this part. It’s about control, since liquid soap is drippy.

You’ll also need more Oxy Clean which acts like a scouring powder, here.

What I do is split the tail so it lies flat, then wet the toothbrush, scrub up a little of the bar soap (again, this bar of soap is ONLY used for this so I don’t have to worry about it being rusty or gross), dip it into the Oxy Clean to pick up some powder, and scrub.

Like before, keep repeating this process of scrubbing, picking up soap and Oxy Clean, and rinsing until the rust is gone. I like to take a paper towel and wipe up the rusty yuck water on the counter every time I rinse the tail, too. Luckily Sea Breeze’s tail crimp wasn’t rusty.

And that’s it! It does take some time, more or less depending on how bad off the pony is.

Oxy Clean is rough on the hair, so you will need to condition their hair before restyling.

There is still some mildew grime in the rooting holes. There’s no way to get in there to scrub it all out without removing the hair. The long, hot Oxy soak will help to kill it off, at least.

[ktsumu]

three ticks and i’m home.

pairing: dainsleif x fem!reader, 4.2k words

summary: gods are never innocent; neither are godless men.

(or: a timeline of dainsleif's grief through the life of his broken watch, one that ticks backwards and the one you fixed, first.)

note: someone tell me to stop reading his lore and i will. beware for plot holes because genshin is nuts. crossposted to ao3 also!

content: major character death, destruction, angst, talk of children, you're a clocksmith, angst with like a sprinkle of fluff in one scene, a lot of worldbuilding regarding khaenri'ah + the cataclysm

Five years before.

Dainsleif is a serious guy.

He needs to be — it’s a must-have quality for a Commander. He smiles at children that look up to him, doesn’t leave bars with women who want to. His schedule is so tight that some say it wears a corset, or at least his friends do. He takes his job with the pride of a boy who grew up watching the soldiers march, a boy who now leads them.

Dainsleif runs a tight schedule.

That is, until his watch breaks, and disorder comes soon after.

He complains in the bunks for twenty minutes that night about the chaos his time regulates until one of his friends recommends an old friend, a clocksmith in the heart of the city. 

( “Get a digital one while you’re there. That thing’s ancient.”

“People are allowed to like old things, Halfdan.”

“Not things that break like that.” )

Dainsleif visits you the next day, setting the metal watch on your counter with his arms crossed. His brows tug together and his expression is more wary than it is expectant.

“Can you fix it?” he asks.

You look it over, rubbing your thumb over rust. “Who’s it from?”

“Can you fix it?”

You set the watch back down, looking back up at him with a little grin.

“For a price, Commander.”

Dainsleif swallows, rolling his shoulders back and digging out his wallet.

It takes you four hours to fix his ancient watch, and you even get the rust off of the band for him. You clasp it back around his wrist and tell him to get back to work when he tries to thank you, standing around for way too long. When he leaves, you set aside and refund his money.

15 years since the Cataclysm

“What do you mean you can’t fix it?”

“They call us horologists, sir. Not magicians.”

Dainsleif huffs, leaning on the counter and shaking his head. “My friend recommended you,” he says, pleads. “He said you can fix anything. Even this. Did you try?”

“I—”

“Try.”

The watchmaker tilts his head, an unsure look on his face. Dainslef’s shoulders fall. “Please,” he whispers. “Try.”

The man purses his lips, sighing, and extends a hand. His fingers wriggle.

“For a price.”

Dainsleif takes out his wallet and pays him double what he paid you — the watch takes four days to fix, and he doesn’t remove the rust. Dainsleif collects it with haste.

“Sorry, couldn’t change the time,” he tells his client. “That thing will always run backwards.”

Dainsleif nods. “Oh.”

Four.

Your favourite day is Sunday.

Dainsleif allows himself one day to relax, one day that he’s mandated, and what day other than a day reserved for a god you never had would be a better fit? On Sundays, you stay in bed, under your linen sheets and against his chest. Neither of you move until absolutely necessary; sometimes hours, sometimes less.

“Breakfast soon?” he asks. 

“I thought maybe a little while longer.”

“That’s fine.”

“Ugh, I love it when you agree with me,” you tease, giggling when he scoffs. He agrees with you most of the time; you’re reasonable people. 

Dainsleif sighs, humming when you curl further into his side. He's a serious guy, but that doesn’t count on Sundays. Not during your beautiful, godless mornings. He raises an eyebrow at the vase on your dresser, “Those are new.”

“Hm?”

“Inteyvats,” he comments, “the flowers.”

“Is it so wrong of me to show some nationalism, Dain?”

He grins, shaking his head as you laugh. You laugh and it shakes your shoulders. You laugh and it shakes his chest. 

“I just didn’t know you liked them,” he says, “that’s all.”

You settle, humming against the cotton of his shirt. “I love them.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Maybe someday, we’ll have someone to use their name.”

He thinks for a moment, “A daughter?”

You tilt your head back so you can see him, to the point where it aches to hold yourself up like that. “Would that be so bad?”

Dainsleif thinks for a moment — you and a daughter. “No,” he says, “not at all.”

“That’s down the road, anyway,” you laugh. “You know what isn’t?”

“What?”

“Our anniversary,” you say, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “How do you want to celebrate it?”

Dainsleif thinks about your one year anniversary, lying in bed with you on a Sunday, talking about a family and the flower you’ll start it with. He thinks about how content he would be if you did nothing at all but this; lie against his side and kiss his jaw, talk about the daughter he hopes will look just like you. He doesn’t think he could ask for anything more.

“This is okay.”

“Mm, alright,” you say, your smile against his collarbone. “I love you.”

Dainsleif tilts his head so you can stay where you are. “I love you," he echoes, "I love how you speak our language.”

“Oh? What’s so special about it?”

He smiles to himself.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Fifty years since

The watch breaks again on what would’ve been your seventy-fifth birthday.

The smith Dainsleif found this time looks over the stuttering clock hands, the numbers written in something unintelligible to him. He tosses it in his hand, a curious look on his face. “Old watch, no?”

“Very. Could you restore it?”

“By ‘restore’ you mean…”

“Fix it to tell time,” he clarifies. “And to still tick backwards.”

The clocksmith looks up with curious eyes, one of his eyebrows quirking up. “You want me to fix it ... to be broken?”

“If you can.” 

He hesitates. “I’ll do my best.”

Dainsleif lets him swivel around in his chair, flicking a light on over his desk as he hunches over. The shop he operates out of is personal, messy — never Dainsleif’s style, but he can admit it is quaint. Quilts and sewn tapestries line the walls, textbooks from the Akademiya line a bookcase filled with papers; a frame hangs on the wall.

A painting of a flower; inteyvat.

“Excuse me,” Dainsleif coughs, “I can’t help but notice your painting.”

“Hm? Oh, the flower.”

“Yes — you know where it’s from?”

The smith hums a laugh, nodding. “Khaenri’ah hasn’t been gone long enough to forget it.”

Dainsleif swallows. “I was just surprised to see it, is all.”

“Most are,” he replies, his eyes not leaving the watch he works on. He rummages through his drawer for tweezers. “It was a gift for my daughter.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes,” he replies, happily. “We named her after them.”

Dainsleif takes a deep breath.

Three.

When Dainsleif comes home from his shift, you’re sitting at the table with your chin resting in your hands.

“Good evening,” he greets, shrugging off his jacket and kicking off his boots. He doesn’t seem to notice that you don’t reply in the twenty or so seconds it takes to writhe out of his uniform, or that you don’t bother to even look in his direction at all. The only time he realizes that something in the room has shifted is when you move away from his kiss. “Hello?”

You grit your teeth.

Dainsleif crosses his arms, slowly rounding the table to face you from across it. “What is it?”

You look up at him, finally. “Where’s my blueprint, Dain?”

He blinks. “I — your what?”

“Don’t act dumb,” you say with a pointed finger, your head shaking. Your body might as well be, too. “My analog blueprints, digital ones — they’re all gone and guess who is the only one I trusted enough to tell?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. “It wasn’t me,”

“Who else was it, then?” you shout, standing up to try and match his height. “Who? Tell me, Dainsleif, who else could it have been?”

He swallows, pulling one of your dining table chairs out. It squeals against the floor like it hates him just as much as you do. “Sit, please.”

“You know what I think, Dain?”

“Sit down, please.”

“I think you stole them for the factories you Guards don’t tell anyone about,” you whisper, “the metal soldiers you make.”

“They’re field tillers,”

“Field tillers don’t have missiles in their chest,” you spit. The air thickens as you shake your head.

He gestures to the seat you once sat in, but you don’t bite. Not that easily, not ever.

“Lie to me again and I’m gone for good.”

Dainsleif swallows again, folding his hands and looking down at them. You’re scorned and he’s holding the heat; there is no explanation he can offer that makes this look any bit okay to either of you. He’s dug his grave — now, he lies in it, shovel at his side.

“Tell me,” you plead, “tell me what you’re making an army for.”

Dainsleif shakes his head.

“Gods don’t like godless men,” he says, so low you hardly hear him. So simple, like he's being reasonable.

You shake your own. “Godless men don’t even like themselves.”

His eyes meet yours.

“I want my designs back,” you tell him, more desperate than you let on. “Every page, every scribble, everything. And I don’t want anything made with them.”

Dainsleif takes a deep breath, his eyes averting themselves back down to the table. He doesn’t need to see your face anymore — not when he knows you’ll hate him once he tells you.

“You can’t.”

“You—”

“I can’t,” he says. “It’s too late.”

150 years since

“Wow, this watch is beat.”

“It is — can you fix it?”

This one is in Fontaine, the clocksmith is — she’s eclectic, a little disorganized like you were, with a scary love for crushed velvet by the look of her shop. There’s metal dust everywhere and things that don’t belong to clocks or watches, but someone swore up and down she knows her stuff. Knows it well, too. 

She looks back up at Dainsleif with a wink. “Got Mora?”

He tosses a pouch on the counter. “Anything you need.”

He doesn’t bother watching what she takes from it, instead opting to turn and watch the bustling streets outside. He’s fond of Fontaine, it’s full of life and running water — every shop is full from wall to wall.

The girl he’s trusting to fix his watch is trying to speak to him, but he’s not listening; all he can see is the eye of a Ruin Guard that hangs in the window of a pawn shop across the street; marked down to half value, less if you trade-in for credit. Dainsleif thinks about the lives those parts were worth almost two centuries ago. 

No one in Khaenri’ah was ever worth just a couple hundred coins. 

Two.

Taverns in Khaenri’ah have so many songs that they fill walls with the lyrics.

They are loud and they are lively — you know something’s wrong when you catch one quiet and half-empty. The windows all made of stained glass, rustic to contrast the world around them; taverns in Khaenri’ah are like a world of their own. In them, people dance like such.

You dance that way, yourself. Not with him, but it’s nice to watch you spin again.

Dainsleif watches you clutch someone’s shoulder; he doesn’t know who he is but he’s wearing his uniform, someone he leads. He thinks he remembers you saying that you made an exception for him — you don’t date ‘snobs from the Royal Guard.’

(Dainsleif has hope that, maybe, you still remember your pact and, maybe, you try to keep it now.)

The wooden floors groan beneath stomping feet and gliding boots, the room a whirlwind of exhausted workers and the select few from the Guard that deem little places like this worthy of their presence. 

He catches your eye for a second, only one, but your smile fades quick enough for your dancing partner to whisk you around again. A blur of your dress, and then, you’re grinning again.

Halfdan sets a drink down on the bar in front of him, kicking out the stool beside Dainsleif and sitting down. He follows his commander’s eyes and they land on you; they typically do on Friday nights.

“It’s alright,” Halfdan says, with a heavy-handed pat on his back. “Everyone has the one that got away.”

Dainsleif shakes his head, you laugh against his knight’s chest. “It’s different.”

“How so?”

“It does not matter, now, does it?”

“Mm, and yet, you’re still watching her.”

Dainsleif sips on the drink that was brought to him, turning to face the bar instead. Halfdan purses his lips, drumming his fingers on the table.

“You know,” Halfdan says, “I worry about the … field tillers.”

Dainsleif nods. “They’ll work.”

“Godless doesn’t mean we need to create our own, Captain,”

“You don’t know the things that I do,” Dainsleif cuts, harsh but not mean. “All of this has been discussed before. Let us make the orders, Halfdan, let yourself follow them.”

Halfdan hesitates.

“Captain Dainsleif,”

“Halfdan.”

“I apologize for overstepping,” he says, “but I’m just afraid of what will happen to us.”

Dainsleif rolls his shoulders back, nodding subtly. He clinks the bottom of his glass against the table.

“I am too,” he replies, tilting his head back and his glass up.

When he sets his glass back down, swallowing with a wince, he turns around. You’re the only one still on the floor, and you’re looking right at him.

500 years since

Dainsleif has spent his life figuring out where to drink. He finds that Mondstadt is the best place to.

The taverns there are quiet enough, and he isn’t bothered by anyone — they’re less lively than the ones way back when. It's a blessing that he isn’t haunted by the laughter, and a curse that he forgets what it sounds like. The tap beer is good, too. Mondstadt only serves you in bottles or chilled glasses.

But Dainsleif knows that no good comes after two in the morning, and nothing good comes from watching the Knights of Favonius pour in. 

(It’s a little too familiar; he’s watching his bloodied soldiers laugh and topple to the bar.)

Dainsleif leaves enough Mora to cover his tab and tip, and bolts for the door.

He makes a beeline through the center, cutting the body of the bar in two as these faces he recognizes comment on his attire. He knows he looks like a fish out of water, he feels like a fish out of water. Five hundred years spent in this place and he still feels hated — he’s sure the next five centuries won’t change.

He knocks shoulders with someone near the door: “Woah there, pretty small hallway this must be, huh?”

He’s about to apologize, too, maybe count it as his crooked form of atonement, until he looks the guy he hit in the eye. Yes, eye — there's only one showing. The other hides beneath an eye patch.

He’s looking at him, but somehow, he’s now looking at you.

He’s lost in them, his eyes, and this new guy seems to notice — judging by the way he’s dressed, Dain guesses he’s a captain. He clears his throat.

“I know you’re heading out, but maybe another drink wouldn’t hurt?”

Dainsleif panics, because now he’s trapped. He doesn’t see you until he sleeps — not until he’s locked in bed somewhere, until it doesn’t matter what he says because no one else is there to listen but you and him. He can’t see you here, and he can’t see him.

“Sorry, but I’m afraid that I'm in a rush. I apologize for hitting you.”

(He doesn’t get very far.)

The man takes his wrist, making him turn around. 

“Please?” he asks, but it’s not really begging. More like a proposition, probably. “I’m not sure how to say that in Khaenri’ahn.”

Dainsleif lets out a breath.

One.

It is your old day, Sunday , when Dainsleif enters your shop again, the broken watch on his wrist thrumming against his pulse point with every jerk of its hands.

The bell rings above your door and he’s almost surprised the door isn’t locked — he remembers unlocking it for you after he had to go, way back when. Kissing you goodbye, apologizing for holding up your business. You aren’t far, either; you come out with a smile that fades quicker than he likes to admit.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” he says, all too formal. He winces, almost. “Uh, it's broken again.”

“Of course it did. It’s ancient.”

He just sighs a laugh, nodding, undoing it from his wrist, from beneath his sleeve. “Yes, it is. Do you think you can fix it again?”

You glance between him and the watch. Him, and the watch. “Let me see it.”

“Of course,”

“Okay.”

You examine it with delicate fingers, screwing off the back of the body with a small driver, squinting at its insides. Dainsleif watches you.

“Dain, this thing isn’t gonna last long.”

“I don’t mind. I can pay double.”

“Why do you like this watch so much?” you laugh, dropping it on the counter and crossing your arms. “I mean, they don’t pay you enough for a digital?”

Dainsleif shakes his head. “I like this one.” He coughs. “You fixed it, first.”

“Yeah, and I’m shocked it still works.”

“You craft well.”

The two of you don’t speak for a moment; you dwell on the watch, its body pulled apart on the table. Your fingers pull at your threading jeans, and Dainsleif must see you mutilating your pants because he leans on the counter, lowers himself to you.

He lets you look at him for a moment. “What is it?”

“Nothing,”

“What is it?” he asks again, like it isn’t the second time.

You take a deep breath, tilting your head up.

“I’m sorry about your designs. Every day.” He shakes his head, looking in behind you. Your desk is still full of paper. “I will reap what I sow, and that’s the only comfort I can give you.”

“I know.” “I’m sorry. Endlessly, I am.”

You huff. “I’ve had better things since. It’s not what bugs me, Dain.”

“What is it, then, my dear?”

Your tongue pushes against your cheek, regretful hands reaching out to grip his own. It’s like you know you’re doing yourself no favours, but you’ve always been a masochist.

“Are we going to be okay?” you ask. “Not us. This place.”

He can tell you’ve been sitting with this thought alone, he’s just not sure how long. Since you brought up the field tillers? Since his last expedition? When was he last here, he’s not entirely sure.

His thumb wipes over your knuckles. He doesn’t tell you whether you’re going to be okay.

“I will protect you,” he whispers, “even in my dying breath.”

The second time he meets the Traveller is when they ask him.

“What happened to Khaenri’ah?”

ZERO.

There is little you can see in smoke and ash. What Dainsleif can see, it is blurry and most likely dead.

(He doesn’t want to think about what happens to those who live — simply surviving is not enough, they’ll seek retribution in the living, too.)

He feels guilty for saying it, but he was glad when the castle fell — relinquished of his sworn duty, free to run to where your shop lives. It came down in a blow of fire, the castle did; more than just four mighty walls, built of minerals made to last. He’s afraid to think of what happens to simpler stones.

(He runs like you stand a chance.)

He’s running in the opposite direction of other people — hell, he’s directing them out of there. Whatever is behind them is a lost cause, for him it’s a little hope. The havoc being brought down on this place is proof that they’re not allowed to have hope, but he promises it’ll be his last bit. He’s assuming they can hear him when he prays for it.

The windows of your shop are blown out. He ignores the sound of crunching glass because you’re screaming his name.

(You stop when you see him, swallowing it. He drops to his knees and says you’re allowed to yell, even when he’s there.)

“Dain,”

“Just breathe, hold on,” he breathes, chest pumping as he starts to heave the rubble off of you, the thick pillars that bar you from moving. He lifts one, another falls down. He lifts that one, and another, and another.

“Dainsleif.”

He’s still heaving, grunting now. Sweat lines his forehead and he’s coughing up soot he smelt ages ago.

“Dain,”

He’s crying.

“Dainsleif,” you spit, grabbing his wrist. You shake your head. “You’re hurting me.”

“I have to get you out,”

“To where?” you whisper, voice shaking. “Where are we going to go?”

Dainsleif doesn’t cry intentionally. His eyes are so wet that he can’t see clearly and they’re cleaning off his cheeks, but if tears were invisible you would never be able to tell.

You shake your head. “I’m not going to die in the street.”

“Don’t be so blunt, dear, please.”

“There is no other way to p-put it,” you say with a shiver, swallowing the hurt that threatens to spill out between your teeth; you smile instead. You feel weak already, even weaker in front of a commander. “Don’t cry about it,"

“I can’t stop it,” he chokes out, shaking his head. He cradles your head in his lap, brushes back your hair until his fingers get caught in knots. “There is nothing I can do.”

The weight of your life, his world, is in his lap, and he thinks about tomorrow. One, or both of you, will be dead, and yet that weight will still be there.

“There’s no one but the gods that could stop this, Dain,”

“I—”

“I love you,” you gasp, “I forgive you. I love you.”

“No.”

“Say it back, you stubborn, stubborn man,” you grit. 

(Dainsleif keels over you, and he says it back. He repeats it until he feels your grip on him loosen, until your head lulls the other way. He repeats it until he feels sick and out of breath, because he knows he will never say it again. He repeats it until he's about to gag.)

He remains in your shop for the next few hours, unmoving, leaned up against the front desk that amazingly still stands. He’s holding your hand.

Dainsleif waits for something. Probably a sentence, to death or otherwise. He waits here for a chance for the roof to cave in, or to be struck down by someone that finds him. He hopes the gods get to him. He hopes this shop still stands if they pry him out of it. He hopes they call him Atlas and tell him to hold it up.

“This watch is never gonna work.”

Dainsleif blinks at the man across the counter, who looks at him with raised eyebrows — probably in shock that he even thought it was fixable — and a condescending frown. “You are sure?”

“Dude, this wasn’t supposed to work the last time you had it fixed. This looks like it’s centuries old.”

“It…”

Is. He doesn’t finish that.

“It’s an heirloom,” he says instead. “It's impossible, then?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m pretty good at what I do, but this is … miracle talk. This should have been up-cycled three hundred years ago.”

“I see.”

The two men stand in silence for a moment, and the clocksmith brings a hand down on the watch.

When he strikes it, he knocks the last bits of air out of its lungs; the watch ticks a final one, two, three times, and Dainsleif hears laughter to his left.

He turns, and there you are.

You’re sitting on a bench, alive, breathing. You’re holding a popsicle and leaning back like you don’t have a care in the world. 

Dainsleif thinks of all the things you can say to him. That you blame him, that you love him, that you hate what he did. That you wish he could save everyone, that you wish he could’ve maybe saved you. That you’re thankful you died and never had to live as a curse. That you think of him, too.

(You don’t do any of that.) 

Instead, you smile, close-lipped and gentle. And you wave.

The watch stops after the third tick. He loses you in a blink for one second, and you’re gone.

“Can you hit it again?”

“When I tell you that was its last life, I really mean it. I’d guess it had ten of them.”

He swallows, nodding, staring down at his broken watch. He’ll never see you again, hear it tick three times and go back to your bed on Sunday, hear it tick three times and listen to you say you love him in his native tongue. He’ll never go home, but he’s glad he saw you one more time.

He’ll never go home, but he’s glad he saw it one more time. 

“So? You gonna try and bargain, or…?”

Dainsleif is staring at the bench you were just in; his fingers itch for it. If he has to spend the next lifetime looking at that bench, he’s going to do it alone, and he’s going to learn how to do it without you.

You deserve to rest — he was the one cursed to live forever, not you. You did not die in vain.

He turns back to the clocksmith, who honestly looks pretty bored of him by now.

“Can I sell the parts?”

[isa-ghost]

May I humbly ask for more q!phil headcanons? 👉👈

Fuck yeah concrete >:D

Previous Sets: Set 1 Set 2 Set 3 Set 4 Set 5

M O R E

He'll go above & beyond for his friends for as long as it takes, but when a situation proves futile or hopeless, he gives up. And hates it. He feels guilty for it even when he knows there's nothing more he can do. He also HATES being helpless (it's part of why he's taking being grounded so hard)

Once his mind is made up, it's made up. It's very hard to change his mind. You practically need a PowerPoint of irrefutable facts & proof of why he should think another way

Yeah. He's stubborn. It can be infuriating. But it comes from a place of life experience, knowing what he wants, and a hint of paranoia for flavor. It's not exactly a flaw, but it does act as a detriment sometimes

And don't get him wrong, he doesn't always like being stubborn. Sometimes he just can't imagine things any other way than how he's picturing. He does feel bad sometimes about being the way he is. He has a hard time trusting things that aren't his gut or Rose

He's grown to like walks. He misses flying obv but walkies are pretty okay. He still gets to see neat stuff, and clear his head if his paranoia isn't too awful

He knows he's losing touch with reality slowly. He's just unaware there's words for it (derealization, dissociation). And he tries really hard not to think about it, it makes him sick with dread because once again, it gnaws at his ability to control his situation or himself

Btw that's one of his deepest fears if it wasn't obvious. Like yeah he has basic bitch fears that most other people have like losing loved ones or w/e, but his personal Big Fear is the loss of his autonomy. It's part of why he's an anarchist & hates the Federation, another part of why being flightless is killing him inside, and part of why Ender King scares him. Especially after Rose's most recent message (1/17/24) said EK has no vessel. Phil's mind shot right to "He needs a vessel and that vessel is me. That's what he wants."

He does NOT like acknowledging that to a degree, he & Ender King DO have things in common. He constantly rationalizes it in his brain as "I have crow brain, I collect the things that look shiny & cool. Ender King is malicious, it's not the same."

Lowkey hates the quiet. It's nice to get out of chaotic environments for bit, but that doesn't mean the silence will grant him peace. He starts getting lost in his own head, or winds up understimulated. Music is a good buffer. Ideally though, he likes having the kids or one person to bounce off of (& keep him mentally grounded when he's stressed). It's why he adventures with Fit so often.

Speaking of silence, and calling back to fears, there's something so inexplicably uncomfortable to him about footsteps that aren't his, esp in quiet. See, the admins invisible Federation workers that just monitor things, he can usually tolerate those bc it's easy to guess when it's them he's accompanied by & not an unknown presence. But man, when he knows he should absolutely be alone atm but hears movement that isn't his own, his adrenaline shoots through the roof. (Little does he know, that's Hardcore Instincts kicking in. He's used to that movement being a mob out to kill him)

Rose's Sanctuary is a fitting enough "altar" for her, so to speak. Even though she made it herself. The Goddess of Death however, Phil needs something for her. He has a locket with a wither rose engraved in it for now, he doesn't want to be questioned by his friends why there's a weird purple & black altar in his house when,,, he might have to tell them there's (an entirely different) purple & black motherfucker trying to maybe possess him who Is Very Bad. Also there's no way they'd believe he's married to a goddess. He can hear Fit laughing already.

He keeps getting distracted but he really wants to either build a practice range for bows or just. Go on a solo adventure shaking off the rust on his aim. He misses the rush of pride he gets when he snipes something so flawlessly. He also procrastinates on it when he's Not distracted bc he has the scythe & he's in love with it. (Also it's a symbol of Death Wife)

Every now and then he'll banter with the invisible Feds trying to bargain with them for the Good Shit(tm) Mexican food they had at Mexican Independence Day. Things have been so chaotic lately he hasn't gotten the chance to ask Chayanne to make them & like HELL he could successfully make them himself

That said, he's actually not a terrible cook like he claims. He just hates how laborious cooking can be LMAO.

Even so, he still really wants to cook for Missa. Purely for bonding reasons. He has no idea Missa would probably crush even harder on him, Phil still thinks they're mutually platonic.

[hannahssimblr]

“I have to say, this is an impressive body of work.”

I shift in my seat, “By impressive do you mean that it’s good, or that there’s a lot of it?”

This gets a laugh. “Both,” says the man, Paul, flicking through a sketchbook with tattooed hands, fingers stained from nicotine. I notice things like this now. Hands. I notice their lines and their bones, all their interesting details, and perhaps Paul himself could gauge this now as he pours over my figure studies where there are pages upon pages of hands, old and young, my friends, my sisters at the piano, an old woman clutching at a handrail on the train, and my own, a hundred times in different ways, blisters, plasters, hangnails and bruises from the rugby pitch.

The woman, Ida, shuffles through a stack of watercolour paintings I did last summer, mostly seascapes, the beach and the rushes, the whitewashed houses and rusted iron of the Wexford coast. Just looking at them I can recall the grit of sand under my bare feet as I warmed them on the deck of our holiday home behind my portable easel. In three months I’ll return again for one last summer, and after that I expect I’ll miss it there. 

“And you said you didn’t do a portfolio preparation year?” She says, peering over the rim of her glasses. 

“No, I’m still at school.”

“Highly unusual for a sixth year,” her eyebrows climb up her forehead, “You've clearly dedicated a lot of time to this.”

I shrug, “Yeah, I like making art, I don’t know.”

It’s difficult to tell what this woman is thinking. Everything about her is harsh, dramatic, from the sharp fringe that sits straight and neat above her brows to the slash of her mouth, thin lips, pointy chin, hard eyes, but I have to assume for the sake of my own self esteem that she doesn’t positively loathe my portfolio. She spends some time looking through my work, slowly, methodically, sometimes leaning closer to frown at something, maybe some proportion that’s off, bad composition, a clumsy attempt at ambient occlusion that doesn’t hit the mark… 

“It’s beautiful,” she says simply, and I exhale. 

“Oh look, a familiar face,” Paul holds a portrait to Ida, “That’s the girl that we were interviewing a few people before this, what was her name again?”

“Michelle,” I say, “My girlfriend.”

Paul nods, “Michelle, right! Good likeness,” and places the notebook back onto the table. Leaning back in his chair, he cracks his knuckles, “Look, Jude, there’s no two ways about it here, your work is outstanding. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a portfolio that hits every mark, every requirement and goes beyond, I mean,” he lets out a puff of air and gestures to the table, “this is nuts. And for a sixth year? Come on. This stuff would blow some of our third and fourth year college students out of the water.”

I feel like I could melt off the chair with relief, but try to suppress my utter delight so that they don’t think I’m too hungry for validation.

“Cool.”

“It’s the sensitivity,” Ida adds, “Your observation skills, your sense of weight, movement, knowledge of anatomy. It’s rare to see this kind of work from a secondary school student. Your efforts are just… so impressive.”

“And look, we know it depends on your Leaving Cert points, and yeah, that’ll be a contributing factor when it comes to acceptance, but, like,” Paul looks over the table again, tossing his hands up conclusively, “as far as I’m concerned, we’ll see you in September.”

Ida’s mouth curls into a smile, “We hope. If you choose us.”

If I choose them? Am I dreaming? How have I become the kind of person who is coveted by an art school? Surely not. Surely soon I’ll wake up and discover that this whole interview has been a product of my dreams. Too much time spent stressing out over art, the requirements, the brief... Almost certainly I’ve fallen asleep somewhere and none of this is real. 

“That’s really kind of you to say. I’m glad you liked my stuff.”

“Blown away,” says Paul, and he leaps to his feet to shake my hand like I’ve just won a prize, “all we need is a pass in the Leaving Cert, you can surely manage it.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure I do.”

They’re smiling at me as I gather up my work, and still smiling as I give them one last sheepish wave from the door, and I realise I am still smiling too as I face the hallway of waiting students, staring at me with portfolios rested against their knees. I probably shouldn’t look too overjoyed, it might knock their confidence, so I try to look very bored instead as I pass by, though I may explode from the inside out.

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