#at least my freckles are more prominent i guess

[fluffypotatey]

it is a wonder that in this horrible heat, I have not gotten burned as much as I thought

[the-mandawhor1an]

Europa (Frankie Morales x afab!Reader)

ausa est quoque regia virgo nescia, quem premeret, tergo considere tauri, cum deus a terra siccoque a litore sensim falsa pedum primis vestigia ponit in undis;

the regal maiden even dared to climb atop the bull's back unaware of who she mounted, the god first from land and then from shore set treacherous footsteps toward the waves,  then he goes further and carries his prize across the wide ocean 

Summary: One of your friend’s bachelorette trip takes a sudden turn when a stranger makes advances at you. Prepare to be swept off your feet like in the old tales of the ancient world. 

Word count: 4k 

Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI! No one has a name but Frankie; Slightly dubcon; abduction but make it sexy; the cap stays on; non-explicit descriptions of sexual acts (it’s Frankie, you know what he’s known for); oral (f recieving); fingering; overstim; piv (be responsible and use protection!) 

A/N: This is my part for the Pedro Pantheon event hosted by @beskarandblasters – Kel has since left Tumblr but I finally found inspiration to write this, so I’m still publishing it. My ‘prompt’ was Frankie as Zeus and I  relatively quickly settled on the abduction of Europa. (The other idea was maybe writing about Hermes’s parents but that would be another Maia, haha) Idk, it felt like a nice story to ‘modernize’ and put Frankie in there. I’ve not specified if he actually is the god Zeus, but it can be interpreted, I guess. 

It’s my first time actually narrating sex, so be gentle in your criticism. It’s not proper smut, because I still struggle with being super explicit. Feels vulgar and every fiber of my being hates being vulgar. (more power to you if you can write that shit because you can bet your butts love reading it)

The jetski… I guess I have to blame YSD by @swiftispunk for that one 

The Latin part on top is from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The translation is not completely mine, unfortunately my Latin is close to nonexistent these days. 

divider made by @saradika-graphics 

and the biggest smooches to @janaispunk for beta'ing for me 💜💜💜💜

It's days like this that make you appreciate not having any ties that weigh you down. Sure, being single can be lonely, but at least you don't have to justify going on a 3 day Bachelorette trip with your friends to anyone. And you'll be the only one who doesn't have to worry about falling for a stranger at the beach. 

The four of you, all dressed in light, flowy dresses to cover your bikinis, arrive at the beach. The white sand is warm underneath your feet, sinking in with every step towards the beach bar. The air is fresh and filled with laughter as you approach the bar, the blue of the ocean slowly merging with the changing sky. Sundown is approaching, although you’ll probably have an hour or so of sunlight left. The bride to be orders the first round of drinks, colorful cocktails. The others talk about their relationships, what their partners are doing while you are out here in literal paradise. You drown out most of the noise, not wanting their discussion to ruin your mood, not interfering with their dialogue either. Part of you can't help feeling jealous, but the thought doesn't linger for too long, as a good looking stranger appears. 

He wears a light shirt and cream colored shorts, the only unusual sight is the navy blue cap that hides most of his what you assume to be dark brown hair. He is very tan, his skin speckled with freckles. A smile is plastered on his lips and you can't help but feel a little flustered when his brown eyes meet yours for a moment. He is gorgeous, like the gods had sculpted him with the utmost care to not make a single flaw. His eyes are dark, his nose prominent and his lips look plump and soft. His beard is well groomed, although one spot on his jawline is missing hair. Weirdly enough, the bald spot almost looks like a heart. 

“Looks like you’re having fun here, ladies. Any chance I can join?” he asks as he leans on the bar with one arm, facing your group. It should be obvious with your friend in all white, but she is willing to let the stranger in on the secret. 

“I’m getting married soon and I wanted to take a little trip with my friends.” She raises her hand to present her engagement ring, a relatively big diamond that sparkles in the slowly setting sun. 

“Oh, congratulations,” he replies with a genuine smile. “I hope he knows he’s a lucky guy.” His gaze wanders between all of the women, finally resting on you for just a moment too long to be accidental. “And your partners are fine with you girls going out for multiple days?” Again, his gaze is fixed on the bride, who gives off group leader vibes right now. And that’s when a mischievous grin forms on a few faces and suddenly all of them look at you. 

“Some of us didn’t need to talk to anyone about leaving for a few days,” your best friend says, giving the man incentive to flirt with you rather than her. You dart her a disapproving look, but now the handsome stranger fixates his attention to you. So much so that he actually switches his place to be closer to you. 

“Nice friends you got there, huh? I’m Frankie,” he takes a sip of his drink. His smile sure is contagious, having you practically beaming at him when you state your name. 

“They are the best. I was the first to start the ‘single forever’ jokes, I don’t mind the teasing,” you explain and take a sip of your cocktail. “What about you? You’re at the beach all by yourself.” He chuckles, a deep rumble that you can barely pick up audibly, but you feel the vibrations. 

“Waiting for my next victim, possibly.” You furrow your brows the same moment when he lifts his hands apologetically. “Sorry, it’s a joke. I live in the area and I just enjoy being here, especially around sunset. Maybe it’s a little rude of me to just approach a group of women clearly enjoying their time but I couldn’t help it.” His index circles the rim of his drink. It almost seems like he is in deep thought, or perhaps just nervous? 

You smile. Part of you wants to think he is nervous because of you. His interest in you is obvious. “How long have you been single?” 

“It’s been a while. I mean, I sometimes miss it, but … I enjoy not having to justify anything. I’m independent and I guess that’s what’s off-putting to so many men in the first place.” You shrug, it’s not like you miss your ex or anything. Sometimes it’s lonelier, yes, but, over all? You’re happy. 

“Sounds more like you’ve met the wrong men. If you ask me, that is.” Frankie takes another sip and mirrors your shrug. As much as you don’t want to agree, it does sound like he’s on to something there. 

“You’re probably right,” you finally confess with a sigh. Your friends never complain about their partners either, so maybe you’re just unlucky with your choice of men. 

“The sun is setting,” the bride interferes, just as you're about to ask Frankie if he'd be the right kind of man. You shoot him an apologetic look as the girls detach from the bar to head down to the shore. He smiles back at you and nods. You feel his gaze linger on you once again as you tread towards where the waves softly caress the light sand rhythmically. The setting sun paints the sky in the most beautiful shades of pink and orange and shifts to purple where it reflects on the water. It really feels like you’re in paradise, an otherworldly escape to mark the beginning of a new chapter in your friend’s life.

“Thank you for taking us here,” you start, resting one hand on her shoulder. The others join in until all of you are intertwined. 

“Of course,” she replies. ”All of you have been in my life for years. I wanted to make sure you know that I appreciate it. And I love y'all. So much. I know times were tough sometimes, and they might be when I turn into bridezilla,” she laughs, “but I know you'll always be there for me. All of you are my best friends and the best bridesmaids I could ever wish for.” A quiet sob escapes her lips as the whole group envelops her in a big hug. You exchange ‘I love you's and stay like this for a good minute. 

As the sun draws closer to the horizon, the saturation of the scenery changes drastically. You never thought you’d see a sunset like this ever, but here you are. 

“All that’s left is for our nun to find a man now,” Bestie intercepts, poking your side with her index. With your middle finger raised, you stick your tongue out towards her. “Frankie looked interested,” she adds. Of course she eavesdropped on your little conversation. Despite what you had told yourself before this trip, you can’t help it – you think about his soft smile, how his cheeks show a little shadow where dimples form. 

Your gaze scans over the horizon. Birds fly high in the sky and far in the distance are little spots moving on the water. You assume these to be boats, maybe even yachts, when a noise draws closer. At first it is low, almost like a mosquito whirr, just deeper, but as it gets louder you can identify it as an engine. A white jet ski appears in your peripheral. “Well, speak of the devil,” you hum as you recognize that same navy blue cap. 

“The beach is so large and yet you decide to come back and interrupt us once again,” you roll your eyes at him, a sheepish smile plastered on his face. How could anyone be mad at him? Somehow, he is like personified sunshine. Just… making you smile even if you didn’t want to. 

“I’m really sorry. But I have my reasons. No one this pretty should shed tears on one of the most beautiful beaches on this planet. It destroys the magic.” He grins as he dismounts from the jet ski. With an outstretched hand, he offers the girls to take little spins.

No one accepts the offer at first. That is until your best friend sits on the machine and draws small circles on the water, revving the engine whenever the back of the jet ski is pointed away from the group. The water that gets kicked up paints a rainbow against the colorful sky. Frankie stands beside you, taking the sight in just like you are. 

“Looks fun, huh?” he leans over and asks. You nod, but don’t turn your head away from the water. 

“It does.” 

“You should try it.” 

“I can’t. I’m … I’ve never been on one.” 

“It’s not that hard. Wouldn’t say like riding a bike but you’ll get used to it quickly.” Now you turn your head and watch him bite his lower lip, practically gnawing on it until he realizes you’re looking at him. “If you want to, you can hop on while I drive you around.” 

Originally you want to decline the offer, but you’ve never been one to make the best choices. “Alright. But don’t rev the engine like that. I will jump off,” you finally say with a nod towards your best friend, who has the time of her life. Something in the pit of your stomach warns you to be careful, but those warm, deep brown puppy eyes make you forget any walls you had put up. 

It's your turn and despite his offer, you sit in front. Frankie has no issue practically welding himself to your back to be able to touch the handlebar. The girls cheer from the shore as the engine starts and you slowly glide over the water. Maybe you should worry about not wearing a life jacket, but then again, you are in shallow water. 

Right? 

You're distracted by the sensation of him pressing into you, your back melting into his chest. The water is nice and just the right temperature, not too cold on your skin whenever a few drops land there after a turn. “See, it's not that bad,” Frankie hums from behind you, taking one of his hands from the handle to glide over your thigh. A shiver goes down your spine and you inhale audibly. 

As you turn back, a grin is plastered on his lips. You mirror the expression. “You were right. Not bad at all.” Your gaze lingers on his lips. He's so close, all you'd have to do is lean in and… 

“You want to go a little faster?” he asks, interrupting the mental image that had just formed in your mind. Soft lips on yours, his scruff scratching your skin gently. Burying your fingers in his hair. Fuck. Part of you wants to go all the way with him. 

With a nod you give him permission, holding onto the handle as well, just to make sure you won't fall off. Frankie shows you how to steer and accelerate, allowing you to try for yourself. His arms wrap around you while you take a few turns. It might be your mind playing tricks on you but you're almost certain he is grinding into you. Plus, you can't deny that you enjoy the sensation. 

“Feels good, doesn't it?” he whispers in your ear and leans down, placing a kiss on your shoulder. A little groan escapes him as he once again rolls his hips against your butt. 

“Frankie,” you hiss, but as one of his palms brushes over your thigh again, you turn silent. 

“Let's get out of the water, huh?” The purr in his words drives you mad, an ache forms in your core. 

Fueled by your reaction, Frankie continues to place soft kisses along your neck and shoulder. Completely distracted by the sensation of his lips on your skin, you don’t pay much attention to where you are going. 

It is, in fact, your friends’ voices calling your name that pull you back to reality, barely louder than a whisper over the roar of the engine underneath you. You turn your head, the shore behind you is so far away you can barely make out your friends in the distance. Not only that, the distance is increasing. You face Frankie as best as you can without completely letting go of the handle. 

“Frankie, what the actual fuck? This isn’t funny!” you scream at him. A normal conversation was off the table the moment he decided to take you out on the open ocean. The jet ski slows, the engine’s roar dying down to a low hum as you glide over the water with the leftover momentum. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. His eyes avoid your death-stare, but as you try and dismount from the machine, he wraps both arms around your torso, effectively locking you into place. “Hey, relax. If you jump off you’re out in the open. Shore’s too far away for you to swim. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” 

“That’s very comforting while you’re pressing me into your chest.” You try to push away from him, to no avail. “Just take me back. Please.” 

“Can I show you something first?” 

Part of you wants to spit a ‘Fuck no’ into his stupid, pretty face but it’s like you’ve suddenly forgotten how to say no. Something in the softness of his gaze convinces you to at least try. If he wanted to hurt you, he would just do it, right? 

Right? 

 “You better make this worth the almost-heart attack I just had,” you finally grumble, your face turned forward. He places more kisses on your neck as the journey continues. 

A short travel later, you end up on another beach. The sand looks cleaner than the beach next to the bar, and it is suspiciously quiet. The sun has set, only the orange tint on the horizon remains. Frankie is not even an after thought as you walk over the beach towards the forest that presumably separates you from civilization. 

There, in the shade of large palm trees, you find a small hut. Fairy lights are attached to the roof, giving off soft, colorful light, inviting you to come closer. The door is open, so you set one foot inside. “Hello?” you call out and wait for an answer. Carefully you walk inside further and look around. 

The inside is dimly lit, warm yellow lightbulbs create an overly cozy atmosphere. The hut barely has more than a bed, a small bathroom and a tiny cooking corner. It shows no signs of any recent tenants, the bed looks freshly made, though. You see no phone to maybe figure out how to get back. 

You’ve wasted all your time being in awe of the little getaway house, as now Frankie appears in the doorway again. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” he apologizes. You scoff and cross your arms in front of your chest. That’s not enough. You shake your head. “You’ve abducted me, Frankie. What the actual fuck, are you going to murder me now?” 

Frankie tries to come closer, but you take a step back. He looks heartbroken at the realization that you are, in fact, scared of him. A little. 

“I don’t want to do anything,” he again pleads. A hand reaches out to you, touches your arm and you let it happen. “I will not hurt you. I might be an idiot but I’m not an asshole. I wanted to be alone with you and thought the jet ski would impress you.”

“And what an idiot you are. A normal person would just ask to be alone with someone, not kidnap them.” And he knows you’re right. Although the jet ski left an impression. It’s hard to deny that. 

“Would you have abandoned your friends for a stranger?” 

“Well, you’ll never find out.” 

He sighs in defeat. You let your guard down, even as he draws in closer until you’re standing chest to chest. Slowly you start to believe him not wanting to hurt you. “Do you want me to take you back?” he asks. His eyes are darting between your eyes and your lips. Your heart rate picks up. The sensation of his lips on your skin still drives you wild. 

“Yes, please.” You look up to him, into the chocolatey brown eyes of his. His lips curl up into a smile as a thought seems to materialize. 

“What?” 

“It’s such a shame.” 

“What is?” 

Now both of his hands are on your arms, the top of his fingers barely graze over your skin and cause goosebumps to form. “You have such beautiful eyes. It is a shame that all they’re full of right now is the anger you feel for me. It’s a shame that your soft and warm skin is covered in goosebumps due to my touch. And the biggest shame of all is that your lips quiver with rage when all I want to do is kiss them to show you how sorry I am.” 

That hits you like lightning. 

Your eyes widen but before you can properly react to anything he said, you feel the same soft lips you had felt on your neck, now on your own lips. He’s soft and careful at first, but as soon as your arms wrap around him, any regards are thrown out the window. A soft, breathy moan escapes your lips as he pulls you in closer, allowing you to feel the muscles underneath his shirt. 

“Allow me to make it up to you, beautiful,” he purrs against your lips. How could anyone resist? 

How can you? 

Instead of an answer, you catch his lips once again. Frankie takes that as a clear yes and pushes you into the wall behind you. Now that you're pinned, he lifts one of your legs by the knee. The kisses turn more heated as he grinds his pelvis into yours. 

The softest little curses escape his lips whenever they let go of yours. He's rock hard when he grinds against you. Fuck. The feeling drives you insane, even though you're still separated by various layers of fabric. Your body may not show it externally, but you feel the heat traveling to your core. Every little whine and moan that echoes in your ears makes your muscles contract, practically screaming for relief. It would pull you to your knees if you weren't pinned to the wall. 

Does he know what he does to you? How badly you suddenly crave him? 

Something sparkles in his eyes as they meet yours. His pupils are blown out, nothing more than pure darkness. And still there is this sparkle. 

Some time later you find yourself on the bed. The mattress is so soft it practically envelops you in a hug, as if you are embedded in a cloud. Your dress and bikini have long been discarded when Frankie kissed nearly every inch of the skin he exposed. Right now you should feel vulnerable, naked in a stranger's bed, but you don't. 

Perhaps you're incapable to see the situation for what it could have been, because the same man that took you here is currently deeply immersed in between your legs. How can you think straight when his grip is unmoving around your hips and he drinks you up like a man close to death from dehydration. The moans that vibrate against your core send shivers through your entire body. He ravishes in the sweetness of you, undeniably turned on by the noises he elicits from you. 

One thing bothers you, though. When you look down, hoping to meet his eyes, all you see is the visor of his cap. It is downright rude of him to obstruct your view like this. As you reach out to take the cap off of him, he protests with a low growl and pulls away. Again, the vibrations of his voice on your skin make you writhe, but he holds you where you are. “Frankie,” you whine. With a sigh he adjusts the cap so you can see his face, smiling at you softly. His skin glistens in the low, warm light. Without breaking eye contact, he dives back in, but this time a finger joins in in hopes to coax more noises out of you. He cocks an eyebrow when you moan softly. His eyes are completely dark with lust when he dares to try a second finger. 

It is too much. 

Your head falls back and your eyes roll into the back of your skull as you feel pleasure take over and you revel in pure ecstasy. There’s only one word on your tongue, his name over and over, like a prayer. You ride out the waves of your high as best as you can, but Frankie continues to touch you, feel you, taste you, and it is too much to handle. Before you can feel another orgasm build up, you grab hold of the arm that still pins you to the bed. 

“Frankie, please. That’s enough,” you plead with him. You look down to see him watching you intently. With one last kiss to your inner thigh, he lets go of you and crawls upward until he’s eye to eye. Half of his face sparkles, but now that little spark in his eyes is missing and the warmth has returned. The cap gets pulled down into its correct position and he plants soft kisses on your cheek. 

“If you want me to do something else, you’ll have to tell me.” He continues to pepper kisses all over your face. He lowers his body onto yours, allowing you to feel his weight and also how painfully hard he still is, turned on by your pleasure. “Tell me what you want, baby,” he purrs into your ear. 

“Fuck, Frankie, fuck me,” you gasp. 

And fuck you he does. Hours upon hours you two are one. Sometimes it’s you on top, but most of the time he hovers over you, relentlessly snapping into you while his lips capture yours. He whispers the filthiest things into your ears to drive you mad. “You feel so fucking good.” “You’re all mine.” “Just look at how beautiful you are when I fuck you.” “You’re so gorgeous when you cum, fuck.” 

When he is finally done, the sun is about to rise. The sky is changing colors once again when he plops down on the bed beside you. Both of you are spent, out of breath and sweaty, but nonetheless he pulls you into his chest and places soft kisses on your forehead. “Fuck,” he whispers and you can’t help it, you chuckle. “Would you have come with me if I asked you?” he wonders. As if that is of any importance now. 

“I don’t know,” you reply and kiss his jaw, specifically the little patch that looks like a heart. “All I know is that you won’t have to abduct me next time.” 

Gently, he catches your lips with his and kisses you again. “Next time?” There is hope in his voice and his eyes once again remind you of a puppy all of a sudden. 

“Stop pretending you don’t know that I enjoyed that,” you reply. Now it’s you who kisses him and places one hand on the back of his head. 

“Me too,” he whispers in return. 

“Where even are we?” you ask and turn around to look outside of the little hut, press your back and butt into him. The beach is close by and besides you and Frankie there was no sign of life all night long. “Doesn’t have a name… yet,” he says with a shrug. So this is his island but it doesn’t have a name? 

“It doesn’t have a name? Why not?” 

“Haven’t found one I liked.” Kisses are planted along your shoulder and neck. “Your name would be quite fitting, I think,” he adds. Either it’s the kisses or the night you two shared, but you like the idea. 

“Can’t deny that it sounded good when you said it over and over again.” Now you shrug and turn your head to look at him again. 

“Guess it’s official then,” he finally says with a wink. 

[daughterofcain-67]

𝙾𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 (𝚙𝚝.5)

(Soldier Boy x Female Reader)

(masterlist)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Butcher, Ben, Hughie and yourself go to the Twins’ place so Ben could get some answers he needed, at least he hoped that would be the outcome. But afterward, a certain interference with Homelander brought back some memories of past events leading up to your retirement, which Ben doesn’t take lightly. You may have to find a compromise or some sort of middle ground.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of Herogasm,spoilers to S3E6 - to an extent (same ideas happen, executed in different ways), if you haven’t reread part four, the way Ben and Y/N have met has changed if you’d like to reread that so things can make more sense in this chapter. That was the only part that was changed in the previous chapter, (basically she met Ben in ‘45 after WWII ended because Liberty wanted her to meet Edgar and be involved with Vought as a minor hero, they didn’t get along initially.) Mentions of how Y/N retired, brief and indescriptive mentions of torture, implications of smut or leading up to it at the end.

You were sitting in the back seat of Butcher’s car with Ben and you looked out of the window while the four of you were driving to Vermont to interrupt TNT’s herogasm celebration. Seventy years since that mess started and you still don’t see the appeal. It just wasn’t your thing, never has been.

You could hear Ben softly snoring beside you. You had forgotten how long you were on the road and how draining they could be most of the time. While Butcher and Hughie were talking about some nonesense, you glanced over at the man beside you. Softening at the sight of him, a part of you wondered if this was still some sort of dream you were in. You wondered if this was actually your reality and Soldier Boy really had come back somehow.

Ben’s head was tilted back while his eyes were closed, his freckles seemed more prominent today than normal. He was handsome and you knew you had to treasure the little moments like this for as long as you could. You never knew what could happen after all.

You let out a soft breath before you leaned to the side and placed your head on his shoulder. You didn’t try to sleep though, instead you kept your gaze on the road from the backseat. Eventually, you realized that Butcher was pulling up somewhere discreet that must not have been that far away from the twins’ home. This must’ve been your stop since you realized the brooding man with the accent had turned off the engine.

“Ben, wake up.” You whispered and softly have his leg a little nudge.

He opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings, realizing the ride was over. He looked down at you and gave you a soft grin before he started getting out of the car with the others.

“You coming with us?” Ben asked you and you sighed a little.

“Are you going to be blasting the Hell out of people or are you going to talk first like a sane person?” You asked with a little smirk, Ben rolled his eyes at you.

“We’ll see what happens. Just as long as people don’t get in my way.”

“Then I guess I’ll go with you to at least be on lookout. Lot’s of Vought’s supes will be there.” You sighed, getting out of the car, you just hoped he’s stay out of trouble.

Once you were out of the car, you walked along side Soldier Boy as you both followed Butcher and Hughie to the site. The four of you his behind some trees while Butcher pulled out a set of binoculars so he could see what exactly the group was getting yourselves into.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t hard to figure out what the group was getting themselves into because you could already hear the distant sounds of pornographic moans from people going to town on each other in broad daylight.

“So this is just some fucking Supe orgy.. Great…” Hughie said, sharing your disgust.

“Still a thing, huh? Wow.” Butcher said and Ben scoffed.

“Yeah, my thing. Founded it in ‘52 with Liberty. Good times…” Ben said, and you wondered how he would react about the news revealing she was also known as Stormfront, a former Nazi. That would be an interesting conversation to say the least especially since he fought the Nazis. Or so he likes to claim.

“And you knew he started all this?” Hughie asked you and you shrugged.

“What he did before he and I started getting along is beyond my business and I never cared to butt in. Especially with his…. Extra activities and interests.” You said for lack of a better word or phrase.

“Frenchie’s gonna be mad when he misses this.” Butcher joked, you didn’t know enough about Frenchmen to say anything but you still didn’t want to know what his interests were if he liked this kind of thing.

You heard Hughie discussing with Ben how he would go there first so he could tell Ben exactly where the twins were so no one gets hurt by getting in Soldier Boy’s way. You had a feeling that would be something that was easier said than done. You just leaned against one of the trees while they discussed their plans.

“You’ve got three minutes, Kid.” Ben said and that was when Hughie ran off and disappeared.

Ben watched you leaning against the tree, looking down at the grass. He smirked a little and wondered how you would react if you actually stepped into that room, how wide your eyes would get when you saw everything that was going on in that house. “You know it really isn’t as bad as you think it is.”

“Oh says the one that’s been to like a ton of them.” You said and shook your head, cringing at the thought of what was going on inside, and outside apparently.

“Of course I did, I started it after all. Liberty and I invited you, remember? It’s not like it would have killed you to go.” He reminded you and you cringed.

“No but it probably would have traumatized me. I don’t want to see everybody’s business.” You replied, Ben just laughed at you and you looked over at Butcher.

Butcher pulled out his phone while you two were talking and he looked at the time, then he glanced over at Soldier Boy, “His three minutes is up, Mate. You ready to get this show on the road?”

Ben finally looked over at Butcher and saw that he was putting his little rectangle device away then he looked down at you, “I’ll be in and out. Two more names crossed off the list and we’ll be one step closer to all of this being over with.”

He watched you lift your gaze to meet his and you nodded, “I’ll keep an eye out from here. I’ll give you a rumble or something if I can see any trouble.”

“Just as long as you stay out of trouble too, Doll. Payback knows I’m after them.” He said.

“I know how to keep watch. And I know how to take care of myself too if something’s not right.” You reminded.

He smiled, thankful you at least had his back even if you didn’t agree with this and didn’t even want to go into this. Butcher tossed Ben the binoculars and he handed them to you so you could keep watch. You took them as Ben leaned down and placed a soft kiss on the top of your head before he started walking off so he could head to the house, Butcher following behind.

He was one step closer to his goal in finding out who was behind his team stabbing him in the back, and he was eager to find out who exactly had the audacity to do such a thing.

You watched as Soldier Boy left with Butcher and you mentally wished him luck, truly hoping for the best for the outcome of all this. You just hoped that this wouldn’t be a repeat of what happened back in town when Ben accidentally killed all those innocent people. All you could do at the moment was wait and see what would happen.

A few minutes had passed and your eyes widened when you saw a blast shoot from the side of the building. Soon enough the entire building went down and you could hear so many people screaming in terror and pain from what was happening. You lifted the binoculars to your eyes for any sign of Soldier Boy through the rubble, ignoring the sites of random supes totally naked.

Everything happened so fast! He just walked in and he was just supposed to talk to the twins first! What the Hell happened in there?!

From what you could see, it was barely a glimpse of Ben putting a hand on one of the now burned couches. He looked around with confusion and you could tell he hadn’t realized exactly what he had done.

What the Hell was causing his black outs? How could you help get them to stop so he wouldn’t be killing so many people? You knew this couldn’t have been on purpose, could it?

Then trouble came by. It was only a glimpse and you had to do a double take but when you looked up at the sky, you could see a man in blue wearing a cape.

Homelander.

“Shit!” You cursed. So you dropped the binoculars, raised your hands and the earth beneath you began to rumble and that was your warning for Soldier Boy and Butcher.

Then, you shifted your feet and raised an arm before a pillar shot up from the earth several yards away from the entrance of the house and knocked Homelander from the sky to take him by surprise.

You made the same exact motions for another pillar to knock him around but he dodged this time. Unfortunately, this much power you were trying to use was starting to drain you.

“Fuck, why do I have to be so rusty with this?” You muttered and you stomped your foot and a large boulder popped up from the ground made up of the concrete in front of the entrance to the twins’ house and you hurled it as best as you could towards Homelander but he just used his laser vision and broke the boulder apart.

“Damnit!”

You were feeling weaker and weaker the more you tried to manipulate the earth, then when you realized that Homelander was now flying in your direction, you realized you might have been screwed.

“Fuck…”

A lot had happened within the past several minutes, and the first ten he had blacked out. He knew that he must’ve been the one behind blowing up this house. He could hear people screaming in terror outside when it happened but he didn’t remember any of it. He had no fucking clue what happened.

Maybe this was a part of why you were so hesitant about this entire thing.

That was when he felt the rumbling beneath him and when he looked over at Butcher, it was like both the men knew another fight was about to happen. But they could hear more commotion and when Ben walked outside, he saw that some random pillars had been made leading to the entrance of the house.

When he caught a glimpse of some boulder, clearly of your making, hurling towards some guy in a star-spangled cape only for it to explode from the two lasers in his eyes. But the moment Ben realized that the man he assumed was Homelander was flying in your direction, his eyes widened.

“Fucking Hell, Y/N…”

“Oy, what’s happening out ‘ere?” Butcher asked, rubbing his head to check and see if he had any bumps from the damaged building.

“Quake’s about to get herself into trouble if we don’t haul ass, that’s what.” Ben said as he started running into your direction.

He hated this feeling, and he only had it whenever you were on a mission before you retired. He never had this feeling with his other teammates, not until what happened to you after the ridiculous stunt you pulled back in the day.

Deep down he knew you were strong and capable. Hell, you could manipulate the earth however you wanted to and he was sure that if you had to, you could take down armies single handed, at least you could way back when. But Ben knew next to nothing about Homelander, and he didn’t know how good you were in a battle against another supe, especially one with a reputation like Homelander.

Especially since he knew what happened to you in ‘83.

When Ben made it to you, he saw that you were in combat with the so-called hero. You were trying and struggling to keep Homelander enclosed with some rock and soil wrapped around him since you didn’t exactly have concrete on hand and Homelander broke through your hold easily. Ben noticed blood dripping from your nose and he knew something was wrong.

Ben watched as Homelander flew towards you and he suddenly had his hand wrapped around your neck. With one effortless move, the hero flung you further into the forest and your back and head hit one of the trees, knocking you out. Then, Homelander turned to Ben and Butcher.

“Soldier Boy.. so you really are back from the dead.”

Ben’s jaw tightened and he could feel the rage building up, but he wanted to know what this condescending prick had to do with Butcher and why he was wrapped up in this shit anyway.

“Butcher, you and I had a deal. You brought outside interferences…. Deal’s off.” The next thing Ben knew, Homelander used his laser vision on Butcher and knocked the dust off him. Then the man in the cape turned back to Ben.

“You know… I really am a fan. I looked up to you, grew up watching all of your movies. You were the only person I could think of that was as strong as me.” Ben rolled his eyes at the comment.

“Look, Bud, I don’t need some fan boy to tell me how he thinks he’s so strong when he’s wearing some cape. Like what the fuck kind of weak son of a bitch needs a cape?”

“Weak? Compared to you, Old Man, I’m the upgrade.”

That was when the battle began between the two heroes. Ben had no idea just how strong this kid was until they started fighting. It was impressive, honestly. When Ben was backed up against a tree, he threw a mighty punch in the hero’s face and used his shield to push him off. That was when Butcher finally came to and used some laser vision he must’ve been keeping secret and he blasted the fuck out of Homelander to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Homelander was taken back from what Ben could see and he realized that the two were using their laser vision against each other and that could last who knew how long. Ben rushed over and pulled the hero by the cape and tugged him towards himself and threw yet another punch to the face, only for Homelander to return the favor. Butcher decided he wanted in and he managed to land a couple of punches against Homelander, who was getting frustrated by being cornered.

Ben used one last punch and used all of his strength and punched Homelander right in the face and it managed to knock the hero down to the ground. Butcher tackled Homelander down to the ground and pinned him there.

“Now!” Butcher yelled and Ben knew exactly what he meant and he put his hands on Homelander’s shoulders and other arm to make sure he couldn’t try going anywhere.

Ben closed his eyes and focused on absorbing as much energy as he could so he could prepare to blast the Hell out of this guy. Hughie finally decided to show up, ass naked, as he helped keep Homelander pinned to the ground. The energy building up in his chest was getting stronger and stronger by the second but he could feel Homelander struggling beneath him.

Suddenly, some sort of adrenaline from his life being in danger must’ve struck Homelander because some sort of strength overpowered him and he got out of Hughie and Butcher’s grasp and flew up and away to wherever the fuck he came from.

“Fucking Christ! We were so bloody close!” Butcher cursed, pissed off with how that went down. Understandably so…

Ben could feel the energy in his chest dissipating as he tried not to use it to blast anyone he didn’t need to. then he turned his attention to you. He saw your figure laying in front of a tree and he immediately got up and went over to check on you. What the actual fuck were you thinking drawing attention to yourself?! You were supposed to keep watch, not get yourself wrapped up in the fight!

“Y/N?” He questioned when he made it to your side and when he checked your pulse. He let out a breath of relief when he realized your pulse was still there, you probably just got the wind knocked out of you or something. It still didn’t change the fact that he was a little pissed at the situation you put yourself in.

Well… maybe more than a little pissed.

“How is she?” Hughie asked as he covered himself as best as he could.

“She’s fine. She’ll probably have a concussion, she’s been through a Hell of a lot worse.” Ben said and he set down his shield before lifting you up and he slung you over his shoulder. His brows narrowed as he recalled how easily Homelander slung you into a tree. What would have happened if you hit your head just right? You could have died if you weren’t careful.

“Uh… You alright?” He heard the runt ask and he didn’t respond. Instead he just lifted his shield once more and started walking to the car.

You had woken up several hours ago. You didn’t need to be checked out despite Hughie’s relentless suggestions to do so. All you had was a bit of a bump on your head and a bruise on your back from where you hit that damned tree. You were lucky, and you knew that. But it helped that you already had a lot of durability anyways.

However, things were tense in the backseat between you and Ben. You knew that he had a lot of things shooting through his mind at light speed. And you also knew that he wanted to tell you a lot of it, probably lecture you on how you were stupid or something.

He always hated when you were on a mission and he wasn’t there. No matter how many times you reassured him in the past that you didn’t break easily, he still hated when you were reckless. Especially after the last mission you were involved in that ultimately lead to your retirement.

It was 1983

You had been an official hero under Vought for several decades at this point, since 1946. Naturally you refused to be a part of Payback when they offered, you liked being one of the lower heroes despite Vought thinking your abilities would be good for Payback for their upcoming plans to get supes into the military.

Anyway, even though you wanted to be a lower rating hero and you wanted to avoid being a spectacle for the public you still wanted to do something that mattered. You were tired of being put on some sort of neighborhood watch and take care of petty crimes. You had read the newspapers and heard the reports on the radio. The Cold War was at its worst, and you wanted to help defend the country in a way Vought wasn’t allowing you to.

A part of you had regretted not being a part of Payback, but they were going about this whole military ting all wrong. They were more concerned about their ratings, how well their movies were selling, none of them cared to actually go and see any combat. You wanted that to change and you wanted supes to be legitimate, you wanted Vought to be responsible and show their supes that being a hero was different from publicity stunts and movies.

You were naive thinking you could actually make a difference in the country by your unauthorized little mission.

You found out a way to make some sort of fake identification for the government to disguise yourself. You were able to sneak into one of the secretary offices and find some files that the government didn’t want to release to the public and cause even more of a panic. You found out a lot about the nuclear arms and some of the testing sites, some known to the public and most unknown.

You found out a hell of a lot more than you wanted to, more information about both America and the Soviets, than you preferred. You found that the Soviets were reported at NATO. You decided to go to the hangar and see exactly what could prevent a war from happening. You found out was the Americans testing their bombs, mock bombings on Soviet territory. The air force and the navy were both involved and they were getting away with it. You even found out about the situation at NATO. And to those who payed attention to their history lessons, they know that NATO was a catastrophic event and it nearly caused the third World War. You weren’t the only one that was trying to help prevent everything.

But in the midst of this information gathering, you had been caught going through the files and you were mistaken as a spy.

You were taken into custody and when it was discovered that you were a Vought supe, they conducted experiments on you to try and find out what exactly gave you the powers you had. They were even getting the idea to take your DNA and find a way to take your powers away, just incase other countries had supes and it wasn’t just America.

They took countless amounts of blood, poked and prodded your brain, tried to find anything that would take your ability away and make you into a normal person, no powers whatsoever.

However, because Vought didn’t want anyone to know about the serum, Edgar sent Soldier Boy and Crimson Countes to retrieve you. And you had been in a rough shape because of the experiments used to try and take your powers. You were significantly weaker when they found you and it was never determined just how much of your abilities you lost, if you had lost any.

Vought ended up covering your involvement with the government, and Soldier Boy and Countess were able to destroy any evidence of the government’s experiments on you to find their biological weaknesses. Vought had become skilled in covering up scandals, failures, and anything that would ruin the company.

That was when they forced you to retire and you ended up working with Grace Mallory for a short period of time.

You blinked the memories away of your failure, and now you knew exactly why you felt drained while trying to fight Homelander.

You had forgotten just how much energy those experiments seemed to take away from you. Those experiments seemed to have taken away some sort of endurance you had in the past. Your powers weren’t taken away, just the amount of time you could use your powers. It was humiliating to know just how eat you were now, knowing that you could only use your powers for a small amount of time.

The car eventually pulled up to The Legend’s place so they could all stay there while Butcher would look for Mindstorm. Everyone else got out of the car and you heard Ben open the door on his side, “Come on.”

You could tell from those two words alone that he wasn’t exactly pleased, but what’s done is done and it’s not like the mission was ruined. Still, you got out of the car and you followed the rest of the group into the house, much to Legend’s annoyance.

“Hey, you guy’s can’t just waltz in here like you own the place!” He protested and Ben was dismissive as always.

“Hotel was too cramped. We need a place to crash while we find where Mindstorm is.” He said.

“That paranoid fuck? Do you know how long that’s going to take? How many cabins you all will have to go through?”

“As long as it fucking takes. And you.” Ben directed his attention to you, “You’re with me. Now.”

You sighed and rolled your eyes, not exactly wanting to hear the inevitable lecture. But you followed him nonetheless and you could hear Legend in the background.

“Problems killing the twins?”

“Twins are dead. It’s the fight with Homelander and how Quake got knocked around that’s got him pissed off.” Hughie answered.

“Oh wonderful… we may as well try to find a start on Mindstorm. The sooner we find him, the sooner I can get you kids out of my house.”

Ben found the spare bedroom and he slammed the door shut behind him since you were already in the room by that time.

“You wanna tell me what the actual fuck you were thinking back there?”

He heard you let out a scoff and turned to look at him, “What I was thinking? I didn’t know what the fuck happened to you after that blast you created! I didn’t know when you’d collect yourself and I saw Homelander was coming! I did what I had to do!”

“I was perfectly fine! You were supposed to give a small signal if something went wrong! Or is that something you forgot before Homelander slung you around like some fucking rag doll?”

“Oh so I wasn’t supposed to help you out after you destroyed a building and killed even more people?”

“Look, my blackout isn’t the problem here! You know what happens when you use your powers like that! I hate when you get fucking reckless because you always, without fail, get yourself into trouble! Look at what happened in ‘83!”

“I can look out for myself, Ben. It’s been years since those blasted experiments and it’s not like I used my powers all the time after that! I lied low for a reason and it was a lot more than just those damned experiments.”

“Yeah. Mallory. I remember her from the military when I was shipped off. Butcher and Hughie told me about your little record after I was gone. I’m surprised you didn’t get yourself killed sooner.”

“Ben, I’m not incompetent. I know how the fuck to handle myself. I was a hero long before that disaster.” He could hear you say and he rolled his eyes as he put his shield down somewhere.

“You know, you’re lucky you were never a part of Payback. You wanna know what I would have done to you if you fucked up like this under my watch and under my leadership?” He asked.

“Let me guess, you’d beat the Hell out of me just to teach me a lesson. You were never a good leader, Ben. You were better off working alone like when you supposedly stormed Normandy and the Eagle’s Nest.” You told him and his jaw tightened before he lifted his hand but stopped himself when he was close to wrapping his fingers around your neck.

He sighed and put his hand down and walked off to the window, gazing out of it as he tried to collect his thoughts.

“You know, after nearly half the century we’ve known each other, I hoped you had grown out of that smart mouth of yours.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes before he looked back at you crosssing your arms over your chest.

“I know they drained something out of you. You can’t hide that from me. If you were at your full capacity you wouldn’t have passed out after Homelander tossed you to the side.”

He saw you lift your gaze to meet his before you looked away from him.

“You were the one that wanted me to come along with this whole revenge thing remember? You were the one that agreed to kill Homelander and wanted me to be here with you on this whole mission. You must’ve known I’d have to fight eventually if I thought there was trouble especially when it comes to you.” You said, and Ben sensed a slight change in your tone, becoming a little less argumentative which made him change his tone a little.

“I know that. But my point is when you do have to fight, do you have to be so damned reckless? What would have happened if you used too much of your abilities and that asshole slammed you a little too hard to a tree? What if you hit your head just right or broke your neck or some shit and you end up losing your life because you didn’t stick to just being a lookout?”

“Awe, was the strong, stoic Soldier Boy actually worried?” You said and he knew you were trying to lighten things up, but it wasn’t really working for him. He walked over to you again and saw that necklace you still wore.

Ben lifted his hand and hooked his fingers around the chain of the necklace and watched as the pendant copy of his shield dangled from your neck, “Yes. I was… And it pisses me off because I’m supposed to be the strongest man alive and I’m not supposed to have worries like that. I never worried like that until what happened.”

“Even the strongest people in the world have their own worries. Some are just better at hiding it from others. But you have to realize that I know what I’m capable of. And when I know you’re in danger, I’m going to do anything I can to make sure you’re alright and nothing happens to you again, no matter if my life is at risk during the process.” He heard you say, causing him to sigh and he hated how stubborn you were but he also knew it was practically no use in fighting with you about this.

“But you’re right… I did make mistakes. And I know I said I wanted to go with you to make sure you stayed out of trouble, but it’s kind of pathetic now that I know my abilities have limits, huh? Little hypocritical too…” He heard you say, sounding a little discouraged because of it all.

Ben let go of the chain around your neck only to cup your face in the palm of his hand, “Maybe we’re not so perfect, but we try.”

He watched you look up at him again and he noticed one of your brows arch upwards, “That doesn’t sound like you at all. The Ben I know would never admit to imperfection.”

“To be fair, the Ben you knew trusted people that stabbed him in the back and shipped him off to the Ivans where they had radioactive shit pumped into him.” He corrected.

“I don’t know if that compensates… but I guess it’ll work.” You let out a soft chuckle, causing Ben to give a alight grin.

“But you know that I’ll still have your back even if my methods tick you off, right?” You said and he sighed.

“So we’re still in square one from where this little fight started?”

“Well… maybe step two. I’ll be careful, but I’m still doing what I have to.” You said and he hated that he had to compromise, but Ben supposed this was as good of a compromise as he’ll get from you for the time being.

“Fine. At least for now I’ll work with that.” Ben finally replied after a few moments before he walked over to the bed and sat down on the corner of it.

You watched Ben sit down and he ran a head through his hair. You could tell a lot was going through his mind and the risky move you made didn’t help much. But with Ben you had to stand your ground otherwise you’d get nowhere. But you could tell something else was bothering him.

You slowly walked over and you sat next to him, placing your hand on top of his that was gripping the edge of the mattress, “What did the Twins say before they died?”

“They said they didn’t really have anything to do with the group sending me off… they said that Noir was behind all of it.” He finally said and he rubbed his hand over his face before putting his hand on his thigh.

“Noir? But he’s too loyal to Vought. Surely they didn’t want anything to happen, they couldn’t have told Noir to orchestrate it. You were their top hero for so many years.” You said, becoming just as lost as Ben was.

“I’m not so sure anymore, Y/N. Something’s not right about this and I’m hoping that once we find Mindstorm, I’ll know more even if I have to beat it out of him.” You sighed a little.

“You really need to figure out a different way to find information from people. Killing and beating people up isn’t always the answer and maybe that’s why they were so eager to betray you in the first place.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just some tough love. They fuck up, I teach them a lesson so they don’t screw up next time.”

“A lot’s changed, Ben. You can’t just beat your teammates anymore. People don’t stand for that abuse nowadays and you could get yourself in trouble for that. There’s just a lot of things you need to catch up on.” You said, knowing most of these changes he more than likely wouldn’t agree with.

“Wait so the country’s just been raising a bunch of pussies all these years?”

“Ben, let that be a rant for some other time. Think about where Mindstorm could be. Do you know of anything that could help Butcher find him any faster?” You said and he shrugged a little.

“Not really, just that the paranoid fucker’s in some shack or cabin somewhere in the woods. I wouldn’t know for sure where that would be or even what areas to look anymore.” He said and you leaned over and kissed his cheek softly.

“I’m sure Hughie and Butcher are capable of figuring it out. I mean they found me and I didn’t want to be found either.” You reminded and he hummed lowly before he pulled a little container from one of his pockets. One of the guys must’ve given him something to help calm him down.

Before he lit up his cigarette, he perked up and looked around. You saw his eyes darting around the room, “Did you hear something?”

You tilted your head a little before you shook your head a little, “Ben, I don’t hear anything.”

He let out a soft hum before finally lighting up his cigarette that you assumed had weed in it and he lifted it to his lips. You hoped it would calm his nerves down a little and you had a feeling he was suffering with some form of PTSD. You wondered if that had something to do with his over the top energy blasts.

“Why don’t you get out of your uniform and relax? It’s been a long day and it’ll take a few days to find Dan.” You said and Ben hummed again and put the cigarette in the ash tray.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. You know, you could always help me out of my uniform.” He told you and you smirked and rolled your eyes.

“You don’t need my help with anything.” You replied and he placed one of his large hands on your thighs, giving it a light squeeze.

“No, I don’t…. But you’d make it more fun.” He said with that cocky smirk of his.

“Besides… we could pick up where we left off from the night I went to your place.” He said and you realized he was leaning down. The next thing you knew you could feel his breath on your neck followed by his lips.

“Ben… Now’s not exactly the time or the place, is it?” You asked softly, trying not to let out any sorts of noises after you felt his teeth nibbling at the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Legend’s heard way worse… besides, I think this is long overdue.” He continued his work on your neck and you placed your hand on his shoulder.

“I-I suppose it could be.” You said softly and he lifted his head from your neck and you saw a familiar, deliciously dark look in those beautifully colored orbs of his. Then he leaned in and captured your lips with his own in a breathtaking kiss.

Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @fanfic-n-tabulous @chriszgirl92 @hobby27 @nancymcl @globetrotter28 @jackles010378 @capricxnt @k-slla @angelbabyyy99 @david-tennant-obsessed-blog @deangirl96 @mimaria420 @ashdoctor @muhahaha303 @prettyinplaid94 @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden

[alwaysaslutforfic]

Kyoutani Headcanons ❤️ - NSFW

Guess who’s back with some more headcanons 😏 Apparently I have a thing for mean, blond boys

Warnings: again nothing super explicit, mentions of costumes, oral, recording videos

Minors DNI! There is nothing for you under the cut! I MEAN IT!

Unbeta’d cos 🤷🏾

Despite his aesthetic, he’s actually pretty smart. (I mean he did transfer into an academy so) and is also a pretty gentle tutor. He knows what it’s like to be discouraged from doing something you enjoy so he would never make you feel bad for trying even though your answers are just so very wrong

Very high-key low-key scared of heights. You once got trapped on the 20th floor in an elevator with him and seriously considered knocking him out. If you go to a theme park, he will gladly Watch you ride the rollercoasters. (He loves the teacups though)

Actually has a really charming, boyish smile but it only ever comes out around you

Summer freckles. There aren’t a lot of them, but they are prominent. And a gorgeous tan. If it weren’t for the RBF you’d be more worried with how handsome he is in summertime

Loves to push your buttons but would also never want to disrespect you, so you have a lot of random consent talks; “Can I smack your ass?” “…Like right now?” “Just whenever.” “Sure?” “Cool, lemme know if you want me to stop.” — Proceeds to smack your ass literally every time you walk past him, no matter where you are. You nearly slapped him once when he happened to see you in public cos you thought it was a stranger

Says the sweetest shit with the most deadpan of expressions. Has zero shame or reservations about how much he loves you. He’s a straightforward person through and through. Just wanders into the room you’re in and hits you with “You know your my reason for breathing, right?” ����

Posts gym thirst traps, but without the intent of them being thirst traps. He just likes to track and share his progress but dude is so buff that it just works out that way (he sends all his actual thirst traps to you directly)

Sweaty, sweaty boy but he doesn’t really smell. Probably sweats so much cos he’s always warm and for that reason winter is his favourite season. He doesn’t sweat as much and you’re always cuddling up to him for warmth

Loves anime. Will watch it for hours with you. And not just Shounen too, this man is an anime connoisseur and has the best recommendations no matter the genre. But beware, cos he waits for no one. If you miss an episode that’s on you

Oh shit and his grime selection! Elite!! He heard one song and he was hooked. Started calling Oikawa a wasteman and is endlessly amused by it

Outside of that though, he will listen to any and everything. Music is music and as such his Spotify is a trash heap. Like shit is jarring, and is predominately yelling. Boy doesn’t know the meaning of the word playlist

Be his jetpack 😭 he loves being the little spoon. He nuzzles when he’s sleepy

An early riser but not a morning person. And even worse, he hates the taste of coffee so he’ll just glare blearily for at least an hour whenever he wakes up

But he really enjoys herbal tea. Him showing you his collection is what prompted your biweekly selfcare nights. He doesn’t really know what’s happening, but he’s content to spend time with you and let you do whatever. (He also never knew skin could feel that fucking soft)

Oh and good luck waking him up. There’s a video in the OG Seijoh group chat of him sleeping through 4 different foghorn alarms. He was banned from naps after he slept through lunch and missed his next class and was 15 minutes late to practise cos he just wouldn’t wake up. Just dead to the world once his head hits a pillow

He likes when you wear trashy, slutty outfits. Naughty firewoman/man, naughty nurse, naughty cheerleader, naughty grinch. He likes it even more when you play it up. The naughty teacher fulfilled fantasies he didn’t even know he had

He calls you puppy during sex when he’s feeling particulary dominant and you surprised him with a costume on his birthday compete with ears and a tail. He went three rounds that night and you lost count of how many times you came

He gets worked up being ignored by you, likes having to work for your attention. He could spend hours kissing up and down your neck as you read, ignoring the hard on he’s grinding into your ass. It’s only when he’s manhandling you that you break the ruse

Goes gooey eyed for some head. I’m talking knees shaking, toes curled. Man turns to straight mush. The first blowjob you gave him lasted mere minutes, but it was so hot listening to him whimper as he came in your mouth that you weren’t that upset

(Speaking of whimpers) Deep, growling moans, and pretty little whimpers when he cums. He just sounds so good during sex that you actually get a little excited when he has to go to away games cos that means hearing it directly in your ear through the phone

Loves taking videos of the two of you. He just loves having the view of you and him together on hand. And if he plays them in the background while you fuck once or twice, well your embarrassment only makes it hotter

Will eat you out after the gym. He actually gets upset if you shower first cos you washed off the ✨sparkle✨. He just loves the way you taste in general. He mouths wet kisses into your skin when you fuck just so he can taste you

I have one more of these in the works atm 😜 can you guess who it is?

[synonymroll648]

no hummingbirds, no butterflies (just soft whirrs & peaceful daylight)

pairings/relationships: queerplatonic keefex, minor mentions of dex’s dynamics with his parents, + referenced dadwin (keefe & elwin as a parent-son duo of sorts)

tws: minor (autistic) overstimulation, anxiety, touch starvation, swearing, implied sexual humor (keefe’s here, what’d you expect), and i think that’s it - but please let me know if there’s more that should be added! 

summary: “I—okay, fine. You’re not patient with gadgets or alchemy or anything that’s a project,” Keefe laughs, and then his voice goes…gentle. Like midnight rain. “But you’re patient with people. You’re patient with me.”

You’re patient with me, Keefe says, and Dex thinks, What an interesting way to say ‘I love you’. 

-

OR: An exploration of what Keefe and Dex’s dynamic could’ve been if Keefe hadn’t run off to the forbidden cities.

additional notes: happy final day of @keefex-week 2023, even if this is for the day 1 prompt queerplatonic! i started this fic back in feburary as an ayyam-i-ha gift for the one and only wonderful @bookwyrminspiration​, but didn’t finish in time, and then i tried finishing it in time for its tumblr bday, and didn’t finish in time for that either. but at least i finished in time for this! i hope you enjoy the third draft of keefex being queerplatonic and neurodivergent (i wrote this with autistic!dex in the front of my mind. also, this entire fic was inspired by this keefex shitpost i made [and the really gay eckodon scene in book 4].) comments and constructive criticism are appreciated!

word count: 6.4k

ao3 link (recommended)

taglist: @gay-otlc @purplesoup-lad-le @when-wax-wings-melt @asexual-juliet @cowboypossume @xanadaus 

fic under the cut :)

Out of all the things that can surprise Dex Dizznee at 12:21am, getting hailed by Keefe Sencen isn’t one of them. 

The buzzing of his imparter laying on his bed cuts through the quiet ambiance of the noisemakers carefully placed in his room. The gadget Dex has mindlessly fidgeted with for minutes on end gets set down on his desk, and he carefully steps through the mess on his floor to pick up the hail. 

(After turning the volume down, because Keefe has accidentally woken up Dex’s parents from laughing too loud on more than one night like this.)

“Heeeey, Dexy,” Keefe deliriously croons across the line. 

Deliriously is the correct description, Dex knows, because Keefe only ever uses that tone when his guard is down—and after Loamnore, lowered guards only ever occur after a mental breakdown or from serious sleep deprivation. 

Or both.

“Hello to you too, at this totally reasonable hour for the two of us to be awake,” Dex sits down on the edge of his bed, tucking his feet up onto the mattress. 

A snicker. “Tooooootally.” 

Dex does a brief internal analysis of his face—he doesn’t have enough time to be thorough without being awkward, but no mental notes at all is bound to leave him floundering later on in the conversation. 

Dark circles → Keefe is probably at least halfway out of his mind.

Bedhead → Keefe is definitely at least halfway out of his mind.

Lots of blankets and pillows → Keefe is either content or in the middle of an existential crisis. 

Slightly more prominent freckles across the bridge of his nose than usual →  Congratulate Keefe on getting some sunshine. 

Keefe starts talking again, and Dex is glad that he doesn’t have to be the one to resume conversation. “What’d I interrupt?” 

“Me trying to get work done for the Black Swan or school but being too tired to think properly.” 

“I’m guessing you’re also too awake to go to sleep.” 

“Bingo,” Dull exasperation on Dex’s end. 

“Relatable.” Fatigue softens the ‘t’ so much that it’s only implied at best. Relatable is surrender wearing a humorous mask; Keefe’s favorite shield.

You need to say something. It’s the start to an all-too familiar chain reaction. He almost lists out all the ways You need to say something evolves into something much more panic-inducing, since lists usually help, but this is one of those few exceptions where listing it all out will screw him over. 

So Dex starts on the steps to prevent that, with an inhale quiet enough that Keefe hopefully doesn’t think he’s sighing. Next is grasping for something to contribute. Something silly, preferably. 

Dex is a second slower to reply than he’d like, but he finds something that works. His headspace relaxes once he asks, “Is the bingo card or the bingo pieces or the bingo itself relatable?” 

“Hmmmmm, good question…” Keefe tilts his gaze up to the ceiling of his starry bedroom at Splendor Plains. 

Dex takes his thoughtful pause as an opportunity to study Keefe further. He notes gulon pajamas, and eyelashes that are long and dark and confusingly nice to look at—which makes him think of the eckodon ride to Alluveterre, the first time he’d really noticed them—which makes heat begin to fester under his skin, because that was a lot of physical contact and—

—Keefe starts talking again, and it’s enough to get his brain to shut up. “Bingo pieces, probably. Sometimes I get put in situations where things work out, and sometimes I get put in situations where they don’t. Comes down to everyone else’s luck.” 

The Keefe is either content or in the middle of an existential crisis part of Dex’s mental notes from earlier resurfaces at the front of his mind, and he leans a little more towards preparing for helping Keefe through an existential crisis. 

Then Dex leans a few degrees back into the or part of the note, once Keefe cracks, “Kinda like all the backstories we came up with for Keebler elves.” 

Laughter, fast and loose and loud, threatens to explode out of Dex’s chest. He quickly covers his mouth, unable to help looking away and throwing his head back while he tries to not disturb the sleepy nighttime air that blankets Rimeshire. 

When Dex looks back down at Keefe, there’s a proud grin crinkling the corners of his eyes, smushed up against the cozy mess of his bedding. Keefe wrestles a hand out from under the blankets it was trapped under, and points directly at his imparter camera. “You thought it was funny, don’t deny it,” 

“I won’t,” Dex relents. A wistful sigh almost turns into snickers, since he’s apparently spent way too many nights talking with Keefe over the past few months. “That was probably the funnest reason for pulling an all-nighter.” 

A giggle. More than one giggle, actually. A whole stream of them, like a human song kids would get hooked on. (Giggles. Keefe is undoubtedly delirious, guaranteed to be more than halfway out of his mind. There’s no other explanation for him being so light and sunny at 12:26 in the morning.) “Best all-nighter eeee-ver! No school, just the silly.” 

Dex arcs an eyebrow like the sunrise that’s hours away. “The silly?” 

“The silly!” Beaming a childish grin, Keefe’s fist punches out of his heap of blankets and up into the air, almost as if he’s cheering for something. 

The force of it sends Keefe’s imparter—wherever it’s propped up on—toppling over. The view on Dex’s imparter shifts to close-up constellations behind glass. He hasn’t done well enough in his Universe class to be able to identify anything before Keefe cries, “Dex! Mrs. Stinkbottom! My dearest companions! Noooooooo!” 

This time, Dex has to gently bite down on his knuckles to keep himself from laughing too loud. 

(Dex has to stop himself from wondering too much about the depth behind My dearest companions too. Because he’s gone down far too many rabbit holes about whether or not he’s romantically attracted to Keefe and been left with a confusing answer of no, but also not being satisfied with the label platonic either. He just focuses on the joy of someone finding him valuable outside of his tech and alchemy skillsets.) 

There’s a smile on Dex’s face so wide it makes him feel dumb as he watches Keefe lean over his bed to try and grab at his imparter. Awkwardly angled footage goes a little fuzzy as Mrs. Stinkbottom gets pulled up before Dex. Well, not Dex, the imparter, since Dex is leaned back against his pillow and headboard and not collapsed on Keefe’s bedroom floor, but no one cares about technicalities like that other than Dex. 

Finally, Keefe’s hand presumably wraps around his imparter, and Dex’s screen is a blur as Keefe hauls ‘him’ up. “I got a little too silly for the world to handle,” he pouts. 

“The world? I don’t think me and Mrs. Stinkbottom count as the world. Pretty sure there’s a lot more to the world than that.” 

“Well, that’s the only part of the world I care about right now.” 

Don’t read into it, don’t read into it, don’t read into it— 

Dex doesn’t read into it. Because he’s a master at this seemingly mythical thing called self-restraint, if his friends are anything to go by. “I dunno, I’m pretty sure you care about your blankets and pillows right now,” 

Keefe’s lips thin into a disconcerted line. “...Yeah, I do. Caught me red-handed,” he mumbles, relaxing further into the comfortable disaster he’s wrapped himself in. “But that’s it.” 

You sure about that? he wants to ask, but takes the few seconds of silence to consider his options and turn the conversation towards something else instead. “How much have you slept?” 

Things That Would Replicate Keefe’s Hysterical Laughter at That Question When Mixed Together Properly:

Tea kettles when their contents are boiling. 

Monkeys screeching. 

Gasps from someone who almost drowned. Or ran a long distance at a high speed and finally got to stop. Or something like that. 

A recording of someone’s sobbing or laughing that could pass as both to unaware listeners.

It’s a little startling—startling enough that he jumps at the unexpected change in sound. Frantically, he turns down his imparter volume. And then Dex tries to climb under his covers as quietly as he can and curls up on his side, so he can fake being asleep if his mom pops in to check on him. (She’s a light sleeper, which she’s jokingly coined as her proof that she married into the Dizznee family instead of being born into it.) 

Keefe wipes at his eyes. “You gotta specify a time frame, Dex. Tonight? The last twenty four hours? The last week? Etcetera,” 

It takes a blip of time to remember what they’re talking about. “Last twenty four hours.” 

“I took a nap after lunch. Ro woke me up for dinner. After that, I painted until I spilled my water jar on accident. Cleaning up made me realize how tired I was, so I tried to sleep. Buuuuut…” Something about the way Keefe’s facial expression just barely shifts makes Dex suspect that he’s either gonna cough up a hard truth or lie to cover it up. “my brain wouldn’t shut off. And now we’re here.” 

Dex takes a shot in the dark—literally. The only thing lighting up his room is his open curtains. Moonlight washes the room in pale silvers and a whole scale of blues. “Was it that you couldn’t stop thinking period, or you couldn’t stop thinking about the wrong things?” 

The steady, easy rise and fall of Keefe’s form stills. It resumes when Keefe sighs and says, “Does anything get past you?” 

I’ve spent my whole life analyzing everything to the best of my ability, because I’ve spent my whole life out of the loop and fighting to get in it. It’s late at night, and your guard’s down. Of course nothing you do gets past me. Too serious, too blunt. Killjoy of a response. Dex condenses it into something lighter, but still truthful. “When it comes to you, no, not that I know of.” 

“I feel like that’s a sign that I’ve overshared on one too many nightly hails over the past few months,” Keefe tries to laugh it off, but Dex can sense the nervous undertone. 

“I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable, I can stop you next time you try to open up,” Dex offers. He hopes Keefe doesn’t take him up on it. 

Dread begins to stir in his stomach as Keefe pauses to consider. It dissipates when Keefe says, “Nahhh, I trust you to not take advantage of me being stupid. Also, like—actually, you know what? Can I ramble about something? The only way my brain can make points is through stories right now. But if you want me to shut up, that’s fine.” 

“Ramble away,” Dex says. It’s nice being your number one person to talk to, even if I’m sure it won’t last forever. 

“Okay, so, earlier today—well, technically yesterday now, but no one cares—anyways. Anyways.” Keefe clears his throat, fist in front of his mouth. Eyebrows downturn in a way that’s either ironically or unironically serious; Dex can’t tell. 

Dex poorly suppresses a smile. Turns up the volume again to hear him better, and resolves to just remind Keefe, No sudden noises please, if he gets too loud again. 

“So basically, after Ro woke me up, Elwin knocked on my doorway today and told me dinner was ready if I was hungry. It was in the usual spot he leaves it for me since being in the same room as people is hard and he’s cool about me eating alone, y’know? I feel like I told you about that already, but whatever.” (Keefe has indeed told Dex about this routine. On multiple occasions.) “I hear his footsteps walking away, and I open the door and I say ‘Elwin?’”

“Out loud, or using signs?”

“Out loud,” Keefe confirms.

It’s been a month or two since Keefe managed to start saying short phrases to people aloud again, but it’s still difficult enough—especially without preparation beforehand—that it’s always a surprise to hear him mention talking out loud face-to-face recently. Dex’s eyebrows nearly touch his hairline. He holds back the Wow, Keefe, incredible job—genuinely, ready to jump off the cliff’s edge of his tongue. Lets Keefe keep talking. 

“So he turns around and he tilts his head in this way that’s like, hey, keep going. My nerves started acting up, but I managed to ask if we could eat at the table together. I had to clear my throat and clarify—well, I was really just rambling, but whatever—that sitting, like, right next to him would be too much. And I’d probably have to sit on the opposite end of the table, but he told me that was totally fine. No disappointment or anything. And we—we actually had a conversation. Not just a few sentences. I could keep up with talking back and forth for longer than a few minutes. And there was this point where he said…” Keefe stops. “He said, um. Hang on.” 

Keefe flops his face into his pillow. Dex suppresses an instinctual smile at the unintelligible noises that come out of Keefe’s throat, because he doesn’t know if they’re positive or negative. Yet. 

So he asks. “Is this good or bad?” 

Keefe nods. Confusion forms in a crease between Dex’s eyebrows. Some absurd part of Dex suspects Keefe can sense it through the screen, because he turns his face towards his imparter and clarifies, “Good. I think. I’ve just forgotten how to handle affection in general. And I’ve never known how to handle it from parental figures.” 

Parental figures has delighted surprise lighting up Dex’s face for a split second before he smooths his expression out into something neutral again. Elwin’s always been a lot better than Cassius. Keefe maybe, just maybe, finding someone else to call ‘dad’ or something like it would be good for him. 

Dex hopes they get there. Eventually. 

Dex also doesn’t know if it’s too early to tell Keefe that, so he errs on the side of caution. “From what I’ve heard you tell me, I don’t think Elwin minds that you don’t really know what you’re doing. But what did Elwin say to you? You cut yourself off.”

Keefe blinks, a bit slow to respond. “Sorry, I was processing that first sentence. Uh. He said that he was really proud of me. For,” —Keefe’s laugh in between words is bittersweet— “being so brave about all of this. And I thought he was playing up how he felt to make me feel better, so I told him that he didn’t have to lie to me. Then he told me that he was being dead serious, and he was sorry he didn’t say it more often. And he tried complimenting me more, but, um, I—I told him to stop because I didn’t want to start crying, y’know? Especially since I couldn’t—can’t hug him. Or anything like that,” 

Dex doesn’t really know how this relates to whatever point(s?) Keefe was trying to make earlier about trusting Dex, but he’ll roll with the punches. “I’m not a professional on emotions or anything, but I think it’s okay to get overwhelmed by someone being nice to you when you’re used to literally nothing at best.” 

“That’s…” Keefe goes quiet. Dex wonders if he said the right or wrong thing. Hopefully it was right. It feels right, at least. “That’s good to hear. Thanks.” 

“No problem,” Dex says, and gives him a tired smile. Not because he’s tired of Keefe, but because it’s who knows what hour in the morning now and Dex has been on a losing streak with his sleep schedule for roughly a week now. 

Keefe sighs. “I wish I could hug you,” he whines. “You’re always so nice about putting up with my bullshit, and you’re cute when you’re tired, and I call you all the time but I still miss you because it’s not the same as when I could wrap my arm around you and say I’ve got you, Dexy, without physical consequences.” 

There are many, many things that Dex could think in response to that. There are many, many things that Dex does think in response to that. But the first thing that comes to mind is if this conversation had been a string of imparter texts, Keefe would have written something along the lines of “:(((“ at least once just now. 

Keefe bulldozes on. “Like, you’re so…patient,” 

And then Dex cuts him off with a snort. “You are the first person I have ever heard call me patient. Ever.” 

“I—okay, fine. You’re not patient with gadgets or alchemy or anything that’s a project,” Keefe laughs, and then his voice goes…gentle. Like midnight rain. “But you’re patient with people. You’re patient with me.”

You’re patient with me, Keefe says, and Dex thinks, What an interesting way to say ‘I love you’. 

It’s an observation. Not a revelation, because Dex has known for months now that his dynamic with Keefe is defined by oddities. They are misfits on the outskirts of everything they know. They are two boys that don’t fit neatly into any boxes—one with a genetically modified ability that’s drastically altered his life in ways no one knows how to fix, and the other the son of a bad match that’s become a regent at 15 and a Black Swan technopath even younger. They are more than that, too, and they see all of that more in each other. They see all the mundane more and the wild more and all the more in between that doesn’t fit into any box society likes. They’ve been seeing more of all the more in one another over these past few months, and scrapping their discoveries together like spare parts into something that’s probably confusing and worthless to the rest of the world, but it works for them.

Progressing without refining, coloring outside the lines—it’s not what mechanics or artists are supposed to do, but for this piece, for their style, for their invention, it works for them.

This weird version of love that they have, that seems to permanently float either between or outside platonic and romantic binaries (Dex is too sleepy to tell): it works for them.

It works for them.

“You make being patient worth it, Keefe. You always do, in the long run.”

Half-lidded eyes shoot wide, and Dex can’t tell if the glaze over icy irises is due to tears or lighting until Keefe’s turning away and whining, “Dex, what the fuck did I say about not wanting to cry?” 

Dex is glad that his words touched Keefe, since his hands can’t. Appreciation presents itself through amused exhales at the smile on Keefe’s face that won’t go away. “I thought you liked honesty, though?” he teases. 

Keefe rolls back over in his twist of bedding to glare at his imparter, but it looks more like a pout. “Yeah, but I also like not having a crisis over whether or not—I’m pretending I live in an ideal world that doesn’t hate me, by the way—I want to draw you a bajillion times or paint you a bajillion times or tickle fight you until you’re in hysterics because I like the way your laugh sounds or hug you for an eon normally or hug you for an eon the way we did on the eckodon or if I want to kiss you. And I know that last part’s probably overreacting, but also, I can’t tell if it’s wanting to, like, kiss you on the cheek? Or more than that? Or less? Which makes things harder and way more confusing,” 

Dex’s eyebrows aren’t practically touching his hairline, they are touching his hairline. (In spirit. Because eyebrow muscles don’t work like that in the real world. He thinks.) Dex adds You want a REPEAT of the eckodon ride? onto his mental list of conversation topics, then asks the slightly more pressing question he got from Keefe’s rambling: “You want to kiss me?” 

Because Keefe Sencen? Renowned heartthrob that had half the girls at Foxfire wrapped around his finger without even trying that hard? Wanting to kiss him? Him? Dex Dizznee? The sheer notion was fucking absurd. Bonkers. Ridiculous.

“I mean—like—listen—okay, just, just let me explain before your brain runs wild, I know how you are,” Keefe splutters.

Dex suppresses a grin at Keefe being the flustered one for once. “Oh, I’m definitely listening.” 

“Okay, so, first off, kissing was a brief idea that popped into my head when I thought, How do I show Dex how much I care about him? Kind of like an afterthought. And the original afterthought was, like, impulsively kissing your cheek. In a goofy way. Not full-on making out with you or anything.” Keefe pauses, and two things shift in the meantime: Keefe’s facial expression tipping off of panic into thoughtfulness, and Dex’s facial color gradually sliding from its pale base color to a blush that only gets more vivid as Keefe talks. “Though I probably wouldn’t complain if we made out, but it’s not something I’m yearning for every second of every day or anything. The possibility only just hit me, after all. I want it if you want it, I mean. But if you don’t, I’m all good. We’re all good.” 

Dex blinks. Throws all caution to the wind, and thinks about it. Thinks about whether or not he’d like that kind of kissing from Keefe. Keefe would most likely start slow, because that feels like a Keefe thing to do, so Dex imagines that. Imagines how he might feel if they were whispering to directly into each other’s ears instead of each other’s imparters, if Keefe pulled him in for a kiss instead of keeping his distance without compromising himself—

—and almost immediately thinks No thanks. Which is a little odd, since he likes the way Keefe looks and acts, but his stomach hollows out at the idea of another mouth moving over his, no matter how kind the intention. Mashing two mouths together is an overrated display of affection hyped up too much by mom’s romcoms and other romance enthusiasts is the explanation for it that pops up into Dex’s head. The lack of spark or pull that Dex feels towards kissing in general plus the weirdness of textures and germs interacting through mouth to mouth contact probably factors into his opinion too.

Overriding that kind of mind and body instinct feels wrong, so Dex offers up more honesty to Keefe. “I think I’ll pass on the kissing. Making-out kissing, at least. Kissing anyone makes me feel weird—a bad kind of weird, if you get what I mean.” 

“Sir yes sir!” Keefe barks out, giving him a cheesy salute, and Dex giggles. “Thank you for making it easier to make my brain shut up about kissing you. The identity crisis prevention is appreciated.” 

“Of course, of course,” Dex jests. “But for the record, I don’t think you potentially wanting to kiss boys in general is a bad thing. As long as they’re good for you, y’know?” 

Quiet overlays Keefe’s demeanor, and Dex can practically hear the gears in his brain turning. Processing. Then Keefe gives a small smile and says, “Thanks, Dex. I’ll keep it in mind. Buuuuuut,” Keefe claps his hands suddenly, and Dex nearly jumps out of his skin. “I’m not in the mood for heavy introspection right now! Soooo…maybe you could tell me about the things I said that you’d be okay and not okay with instead? For the sake of, like, boundaries and stuff.” 

“Ah, yes. Discussing boundaries when we’re both sleep deprived and not thinking straight. Incredibly intelligent move.” 

Dex apparently didn’t put enough lightheartedness into his deadpan, because Keefe scrambles to backtrack. “I mean, yeah, you have a point, we can do that sometime later in daylight, or later, or never. Whatever you feel like. No worries.” 

“I was joking. We can and probably should talk about it now, even if we’re not 100% functioning,” Dex reassures. 

“Okay. Um. Where do you want to start?” 

Dex references his mental conversation prep list, and plucks out a relevant item he hasn’t used yet. (He will use the sunshine comment before the end of this hail, or so help him.) “Can we talk about the whole ‘basically wanting a repeat of the eckodon ride’ thing? Because in the moment you seemed pretty eager to end that, and I’m simultaneously confused and curious at your…change of heart, so to speak.” 

A hypothesis Dex will never be able to test the accuracy of: If Keefe weren’t under the weak starlight of his bedroom walls and somewhere brighter in this moment, Dex would be able to see a flush crawling over Keefe’s ears. Perhaps even over his cheeks, too. The musing is based on evidence—the hand running through Keefe’s bedhead, the loaded exhale, the averted gaze, the upper teeth worrying his lower lip. 

Anxiously, Keefe chants strings of swears under his breath before composing himself a little. “First things first, just to know how much of my dignity I’m losing here at whatever time of night it is right now, can you tell me how often you think about the eckodon ride? And what you think of it, if you do think of it at all?” 

Oh god. Dex had not prepped for actually talking about that. At all. 

So much for not floundering later on in the conversation, he curses his past self. 

“Do you want me to start right now and then just pause and backtrack when I word things wrong, or do you want me to try and get things sorted out before I talk?” Clarification and a counterattack, a delay of the inevitable. 

“Take your time,” Keefe murmurs. 

Dex does. While Keefe breathes in a purposeful pattern he messes up every now and then, Dex rearranges the scramble of thoughts in his head until every piece is in the right place. And then he double checks to make sure it’s right. And when he thinks Maybe I should triple check, he forces the words out into a freefall and hopes that when they collide into the connection between him and Keefe, it won’t hurt. “Before I get into emotional vulnerability, I would like to say that I still stand by my opinion that your breath stunk. You need to invest in having carry-on breath mints at all times, dude.” 

Keefe bursts out laughing, and it’s everything from playful ocean waves curling and splashing at his lower legs on a shoreline walk to distant melodies whispered in the wind. “I’ll do that, next time I go out,” Keefe promises, and for now, only Dex will ever know how big it is to hear Keefe make plans for a more social future he said he’d given up on at the beginning of these nighttime hails. “But only if you do too. Because I swear, your breath rivaled gulon farts, my guy.” 

But only if you do too. My guy. It softens Dex like the glow of the stars outside his window. His smile is a crescent in the dark. “Fine, fine, I will. Maybe I’ll make my own and hail you so you can watch alchemy antics.” 

“Please do. But finish talking first.” 

Dex takes a deep breath. “Okay. Uh. Where was I?” 

“Emotional vulnerability, I think?” 

Exhale, trace back to which thought he left off on, and go. Hurtle out of comfort and into the brilliantly terrifying unknown. Speak before the end of the fall. “Right, emotional vulnerability time. I don’t think of the eckodon ride every second of every day or anything. But it pops up from time to time. More often when I’m talking to you, of course, but it’s not like I can hear whale songs or see Z-shaped objects without at least briefly thinking about it. As for what I think of the eckodon ride, I think…” Dex falters. Stumbles. His carefully constructed thoughts flutter just out of reach. 

What was I thinking earlier? What have I thought about it before? “I think it was nice. Confusingly nice, but nice. I felt—it felt—it was different. A lot more physical contact than I was used to. And I guess I liked looking at you close up more than I was willing to admit before. Noticing little details was interesting—like how long your eyelashes are, since I didn’t really have anywhere to look but your eyes and I usually try to look close to people’s eyes but not quite since I get distracted by their eyes when they talk if I make eye contact, but we weren’t talking, and I just got to look, and—ugh, I’m rambling. That sounds weird. My words aren’t, I dunno what the word is—wording? Right? That’s wrong, but whatever. My words aren’t wording. You get what I mean.” 

Dex drags his hands down his face, and grimaces at the light layer of sweat that’s built up there in such a small amount of time. Has the freefall ended yet? Will his stomach please stop hollowing out? 

The freefall crashes to an end, and Dex slips out of the wind into into safe waters when Keefe asks, “So you didn’t mind how close we were the whole time?” 

With only the moon as a witness, the timidness in Keefe’s voice is clear. With only the moon as a witness, all the air empties out of Dex’s lungs when he says “I didn’t really mind, but I thought you did,” into what feels like six feet underneath the sky. 

Thuds pulse loudly in his veins and ears in the real silence. Every gentle slide of fabric moving with the crests and troughs of Dex’s breathing feels like the edge of too much, but Dex doesn’t know which side of the edge it falls onto. Staring at his imparter is too much now, too, so he turns his face into his pillow and swipes his thumb back and forth across his sheets as a nearly futile distraction from his frazzled senses. 

Keefe reels him out of it, out of the increasingly weird stimulation levels and the imaginary water. “I didn’t really mind either, and I didn’t know what to do with that, so I shoved you away and jumped to something that I understood. And then I tried not to think about it. Which worked for a while, but then Loamnore happened, and now it’s really hard to not think about how much I miss being close to people, which makes it extra hard to not think about the eckodon ride when I’m around you, and now we’re here.”

A hum vibrates in Dex’s throat; it resonates with all the gadgets scattered around his room on sleep mode. “So originally, you didn’t want to fully process the eckodon ride, but now that you have, you miss that kind of proximity?” 

“Yes,” Keefe breathes out a syllable and longing. 

“That makes sense,” Dex nods to himself. 

Contemplation lulls talking from either end of the line to sleep for a little while, but not Dex. Yet. At some point, Dex’s imparter slipped so that he couldn’t see Keefe and Keefe couldn’t see him. Not focusing on the changes in his expressions and environment, when it’s so late and quiet and Dex woke up at 2am yesterday and hasn’t slept since, makes it a little difficult to stay awake. 

“So if I end up being able to handle touching people at some point in the future,” Keefe starts, and Dex starts at the sudden verbalism and the hope in his voice that they both thought he’d lost, “kissing you is a no, but hugs are a yes?” 

“Hugs are a yes,” Dex agrees. 

“What about, um—” Keefe stops short. 

Laziness compels Dex to flick his imparter upright with telekinesis instead of just reaching over and grabbing it. He raises an eyebrow at Keefe. “What about what?” 

Dex is the furthest thing the elvin world knows to an empath, and yet. And yet. He can feel Keefe’s embarrassment through the countless miles separating Rimeshire and Splendor Plains. Keefe’s almost completely buried beneath blankets, pressed deep enough into his pillow that only some messy blond tufts are visible. 

“This is so stupid,” Keefe grumbles into fabric. 

“I think this is rather funny, actually. Hilarious, even,” Keefe can’t see Dex’s shit-eating grin. “Share with the class, Keefe. How were you gonna finish that sentence? Be honest,” 

(Dex turns down his imparter volume to the lowest setting. Just in case a certain froster is wandering around the halls with those silent mom feet of hers and walks in at the worst time possible.) 

Dex thinks he hears Keefe mumble holding hands, but that seems far too innocent to be correct, so he asks, “What?” 

Keefe pops up out of his cocoon. He looks like he wants to shrivel up and disappear to somewhere that’s anywhere but near his imparter. “Holding hands. That’s how I was going to end the sentence.” 

Suspicion narrows Dex’s eyes. “Considering the kind of jokes you like to make, I feel like it takes more than the idea of holding hands to get you flustered,” 

“Not anymore,” 

Dex can’t tell if Keefe is whining or scraping the surface of loneliness that he’s shoved aside for tonight, and decides it’s a good idea to pull him away from that. He can lament his losses when the sun’s there to smatter more freckles along the bridge of his nose. “Getting back to the point—you wanted to know how I felt about you wanting to hold my hand?” 

Slowly, Keefe nods. 

“I don’t see why it’d be anything to get flustered about. We used to hold hands for light leaping all the time. Extending that doesn’t seem like a huge deal, in this hypothetical.” 

“How the fuck are you so chill about this but I’m not,” Keefe says, and yeah, he’s definitely whining now. 

Dex laughs. “My serious answer is because 1) I’m not touch starved and 2) we’re talking theoreticals, and my emotions kind of take a backseat during conversations like these so my critical thinking skills can take the wheel, since it feels like there’s no stakes since it’s all, as I said, theoretical. My joking answer, on the other hand, is because I’m cooler than you.” 

Keefe cracks a smile. “True, true,” 

“Anything else you wanted to talk about?” 

“Is there anything else I said earlier that you’re not cool with?” Keefe returns. 

“List it off again?” 

“Uhhhh…” What some humans would call Keefe’s ‘Adam’s apple’ bobs as he tips his head back and thinks. He raises one hand and flips up a finger for each item he rattles off. “Stuff we haven’t talked about yet: Me wanting to draw you a bajillion times, me wanting to paint you a bajillion times, me wanting to get into a tickle fight with you just because I like how your laugh sounds, and teeeechnically cuddling?” 

This is the kind of thing that Dex should probably have to mull over for a while, but answers come to him oddly easily. “All of those are fine, but I will warn you that I might kick you on instinct if you tickle me too much. Which isn’t that hard. My dad makes fun of me all the time for still being ticklish. He said that Dizznees usually have built up immunity to tickles by my age.” 

Keefe blinks. Numerous times. Exaggeratedly. “Normally I’d be losing my mind at you being cool with me using you as a pillow for no reason, but I’m way too stuck on tickle immunity being a thing you can build up.” 

Dex forgets to be quiet with his wheezing. “Dude, I have so many whack stories about things me and my family have done that have to do with tickling. Like, my dad said that when he was a level two he’d make elixirs specifically to give him vampire fangs so he could bite his siblings harder when they tried to tickle him,” 

The tea kettle monkey screeching hysterical laughter from before comes back with a vengeance, and Dex is very glad his imparter is as quiet as it can be without deafening Keefe out entirely. “I need the full story now,” he gasps out. 

“You’re in for a ride,” Dex says, settling into a more comfortable position on his bed. But then he remembers one thing he swore he’d say before this hail ended, and makes sure to look the camera head on when he comments, “Oh, by the way, before I don’t shut up for another three hours, good job getting some sunshine. The freckles look nice on you.” 

Horror rounds Keefe’s eyes comically. He frantically runs his fingers along his cheeks as if his aforementioned freckles were braille spelling out some awful message on his face. “You can see them?” 

“How else would I know they look nice on you?” 

Keefe groans and curls up like the roly poly bugs Dex loved to pick up as a kid. Keefe’s imparter falls forward, and the imparter screen thumps into fuzzy blackness. “I chase Bullhorn around the property so Elwin can have a break for a day one time, and this is how the world rewards me,” 

“As I basically told you already: I think it’s a great reward. Anyway. Wanna hear about just how petty my family gets or not?” 

“I’m 100% down, Dexy. Hit me with good old storytime.” 

Storytelling hasn’t ever really been Dex’s thing, but Keefe doesn’t seem to have high standards, which is nice. (The other explanation is that Dex is better at storytelling than he thinks, which he refuses to believe because he hates being wrong about anything ever.) He laughs more than Dex expected, and insists on getting his sketchbook at one point to draw out certain parts, and then they both giggle so hard they can’t breathe. They gesture and talk and talk and talk until Keefe says his throat and ribs hurt, and Dex agrees on that last part. 

Dex’s last thought before his breathing slows and evens out is some hazy musing of how nice it is that he can be Keefe’s person without having to feel hummingbirds or butterflies to get there. 

Both of their imparters are on when they fall asleep to soft whirrs and wake up to peaceful daylight.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: My Time at Sandrock

Rating: M

Pairing: Fang x F!builder

AO3

Chapter 1: a visit

Summer, 104

Sage

—

Sage stepped off the bus from Portia as a cloud of dust floated up into the air and she reeled back breathing it in, eyes watering and nose tickling. She sneezed into her sleeve and reopened her burning eyes to be greeted by Logan. Taller than her by at least half a foot, and eyes as blue as the oasis, Sage understood why her twin sister was immediately magnetized to the man the day she saw him. On a wanted poster no less. It still made Sage chuckle to this day.

Logan stole her suitcase right out of her hand and beamed at her.

“Where’s Violet?” She asked.

“I’ll give you one guess.”

“You need to make her take days off.”

“You think I can make her do anything? She’s as stubborn as a boxing jack. Worse actually.”

Sage sighed. “Yes. She is.”

“She says you ain’t much different.”

“Perhaps. But have you considered there is a reason she gets that first place trophy every year?”

“She told me once, that you let her win.”

“I’m here to tell you she’s lying.”

Logan chuckled at that while curling his hand around his belt buckle. “Well, come on, maybe once she sees you, she’ll realize her commissions can wait.”

“I do admire your optimism,” Sage said as she trailed after Logan.

It was just a short stretch to walk from the bus stop to Violet’s workshop. But it was enough for Sage to realize she’s over dressed, roasting under her long sleeved shirt with a matching belted harness and cape. Her trousers were loose at least, and laced boots knee high to keep all the sand out. But every piece of her outfit was too much black for a desert sun. She mumbled an almost inaudible incantation to keep herself cool while lagging behind Logan’s long-legged stride, hoping he hadn’t noticed. Though, the man probably knew their family secret. Still, better to be safe.

“Does my sister have to run to keep up with you?” Sage commented when they arrived at the gate.

She steadied herself on the fence to catch her breath and wished she would’ve kept up her training with Arlo the past year.

Logan laughed. “I have to run to keep up with her!”

He held the gate open and Sage peeled herself off the fence to follow him into the yard. Somehow she believed that what Logan said was true. Violet was always flitting about like a bee, buzzing along to her next task. Veering to the right, past the stables, Sage spotted her sister slouched over, painting steady strokes of blue onto some flower boxes. Her white shirt sleeves were rolled up to her muscled shoulders, sweat shining in rivulets that trailed down her tanned triceps. Sage was similar in build, though she’d been kissed more delicately by Portia’s summer sun, her freckles less prominent.

“Hey Darlin’, look who’s here,” Logan said.

Violet glanced up from her work, her dark blue locks pulled back into a thick braid while a few strands framed her face, her grin spreading wide as the bright sunlight glinted off her nose ring. The brightness almost obscured the freckles that dusted her nose and apples of her cheeks. She set the box aside, wiping her hands on her red and white striped work apron and threw her arms around Sage. She wrapped her sister up in a long, overdue hug and squeezed. When they finally parted, a string of half dried paint clung to her shirt and Violet swept it away with a chuckle.

“You want to take a tour of the town?” Violet asked. I need the paint to dry on those boxes so might as well give you the lay of the land.” She plucked her leather work gloves off and pocketed them in the front of her apron.

“You act like I’ve never been here before.”

“A weekend at the Blue Moon Saloon and the church, mostly cluttering up your schedule with wedding duties is hardly what I’d call getting a feel for Sandrock. Besides, Mi-an, Wei and I have spruced up so much more since you were here last month.”

“Very well, show me your pride and joy,” Sage said with a smile and Violet clapped enthusiastically.

Violet practically vibrated with joy. “You’re gonna love our little town, Sage. Can’t wait to show you around. Maybe I can even convince you to move here, yet.”

—

The valley stretched as far as her eyes could see but Sage’s drifted up to the sky. Inside the tram cart, she imagined herself flying and free. The way the fluffy clouds swirled on the horizon, soaking up the sun's rays and glowing in orange, with ruffles of purple, made her wish she had wings. She was ready to float on air after a day of endless introductions and small talk.

“It’s gorgeous up here.” She dangled her arms over the side of the cart and watched a bird flit across the sky and disappear behind a distant peak.

“It is,” Violet replied from beside her with a little sigh.

“Can’t believe you built this.”

“Me neither. I didn’t do it alone though,” she continued. “The Sandrockers are just always working together to pull through for me. They’re good people. Real good.”

“They are. The way you talk about this place, plus the views and the warmth of the people—makes me want to leave my old life behind and live here.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because—well, Vi.” There was only one reason really but she didn’t know how to say it. “I just can’t.”

“You can. You’ve told me time and time again how you’ve never wanted to be a builder. So, why don’t you stop holdin’ yourself back and start working toward your future? Logan and I would be more than willing to get you settled in here.”

“You would?” Sage cocked her head sideways at her sister.

“Of course.” She grinned while throwing her arm around Sage’s shoulder. “Plus you know me, I always want you around. It would be so nice to have you here in Sandrock. You could come with me to Saturday night story time with Owen and Sunday fireside meetin’s that always end up with a little party back at my place and—”

Violet launched into a speech of activities to participate in together as Sage turned back to the view. The sun sunk halfway below the horizon, brushing the sky with hues of pink and orange that had her believing her sister's words. She could move to Sandrock. Minus all those activities she was planning.

There was nothing holding her back. Well, nothing except her misplaced hope that he might return.

—

Sage pulled fresh rolls from the oven and slid the tray on top of the stove. The savory scent of caramelized onion and garlic she added to the dough before it baked filled her nose and her stomach rumbled.

“That smells heavenly,” Violet told her in a sing-song voice and then the doorbell rang.

“Did you invite someone over for dinner?” Sage asked.

“I sure did. But it’s a surprise so you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“This better not be a blind date. You know I’m not ready. I didn’t come here for that.”

Violet booped her nose and chuckled. “Not a date. I promise. He’s a friend and I just think you’d get along. He’s quiet. More than you, even. But he’s real kind.” She hurried towards the door but stopped in the frame and glanced back over her shoulder. “But it wouldn’t hurt to put the feelers out.”

Sage inhaled deeply to keep from shouting at her sister and turned back to the rolls. Violet disappeared and Sage reminded herself that her sister’s intentions came from a good place. Sweet even. Another deep breath and she noted that the tops were perfectly browned and ready to serve and smiled to herself with pride. She dug around in the cupboards for a basket to put them in and spotted one high up on the refrigerator and climbed the counter, stretching herself across the small gap. The tops of her fingers curled around the basket. She teetered but regained her balance, snatching the basket and clenching it against her chest, she crouched down and then jumped to the floor.

She busied herself with setting the table and then stirred the stewed mushrooms on the stovetop. Adding just a hint of extra cilantro, she left them to simmer a tad more while tossing the alfalfa salad with a few extra fresh veggies and a light vinaigrette. She set the salad bowl on the table with tongs and returned to the stovetop just as her sister ushered in the most beautiful man with blue eyes and long silken black hair she’s ever laid eyes on. He was nearly as tall as Logan but much more slight, dressed in a simple white button up and slightly tattered trousers, she gathered before averting her gaze. It’s rude to stare, she reminded herself.

“Sage, I want you to meet Doctor Fang,” Violet said.

The name sounded so familiar but she couldn’t quite place where she’d heard it before. She raised her hand in a small greeting. An awkward wave. “Hi,” she said.

Doctor Fang’s expression was unreadable as his eyes fell on her. A raven suddenly swooped in from behind him and landed on his shoulder. It whistled then said, “Pretty bird! Who’s this?”

“It’s—the builder’s sister,” Doctor Fang said in the softest, most comforting voice Sage had ever heard. She wanted to wrap herself up in it like a cozy blanket and fall asleep under the stars.

Picking her jaw up off the floor, Sage blinked. “That’s right. I’m Vi’s sister, Sage” she said to the bird.

“This is—X,” said Doctor Fang.

“Well it is a pleasure to meet you, X.” She offered a small smile. “And you, Doctor Fang.”

“Now that we’ve got all the introductions out of the way,” Violet clapped excitedly, “let’s have a seat, dig in and eat!”

Sage slid into the chair next to her sister and filled her plate with salad and then buttered her roll liberally, delighting in the way the softness just melted in her mouth as she took a bite. Meanwhile Violet told a story about her most recent adventure. Something about trying to collect cactus flowers for Doctor Fang when a boxing jack (which Sage had heard about plenty of times but fortunately had never come across) knocked her on her ass. Thankfully Logan had been at his outpost and spotted her in time to assist. Violet and Logan took turns telling the story of his heroic save and Sage listened while filling her stomach with the delicious foods on the table. By the end of their storytelling, Sage was done eating and collected her dirty dish from the table. She didn’t learn a thing about Doctor Fang because he barely said a word. Not like he could really get a word in edgewise anyway.

Eventually Logan and Violet dropped their plates in the sink and she was surprised when the Doctor joined her, drying the dishes she'd set in the drying rack.

“The rolls—did you make them?” He asked as he pulled open the cupboard, stacking the plates he'd dried.

“Yes,” she replied.

“They were very—good.”

“Thank you,” she said as she worked at cleaning the pot next.

She bit down on her lip while she scrubbed, channeling all her focus into cleaning. She almost forgot that Doctor Fang was with her and that she’d left him in silence for a decent length of time. But she only had one dish left.

Sage wiped the last dish clean and handed it to Doctor Fang. The walls shook and there was a low groan that

filtered through the floorboards as she briefly grazed his long fingers in the dish exchange. Flushing red, she muttered an apology. But Fang acted like it was nothing.

“I must—return home,” he said as another moan, much louder and longer than before, washed over them.

Sage refused to be left in the house with her sister and Logan, so at the risk of sounding desperate she asked, “can I please walk you home?” She cringed.

“Yes,” he stated simply, unaffected by the sounds going on around them. Or at least appearing not to be anyway.

Sage wished she had half his decorum.

“Thank you,” she breathed, following after him as he made his way toward the door.

The cool air washed over her as she sighed with relief, easily keeping pace with the Doctor as he led the way to his home in the night.

—

“You live in the clinic?” She asked once he stopped just outside the door, one hand pushing on it, letting the light spill out, grazing the top curve of her black boots.

“Yes,” he said simply. One foot was in the doorway, the other with her.

She wasn’t sure if he was waiting for her to go or for her to come in. Each minute passed made her second guessing worse.

“Come in!” Squawked X. “Don’t be shy! Shy!”

“X! Be quiet,” Doctor Fang said softly.

Sage took that as a sign.

“Wanna go back?” X squawked again.

Sage stared at the two of them a bit baffled. “Not particularly. I need to find something else to do while—” she hesitated. There was no need for an explanation. He was a stranger. They owed nothing to each other. “I hope you two have a good night,” she said instead and turned around.

“Thank you.” Fang’s words were a whisper of a hand on her shoulder but as she glanced back, the door clicked shut as the clinic bathed her in its warm red lighting.

Sage knew she couldn’t go back to her sisters just yet and she didn’t want to go to the Saloon. There was just too much noise and brightness there and she was far too exhausted from the day. She wandered over to the bench, situated between the clinic and the Golden Goose, and took a page out of her good friend Mint’s book. Curling up with one arm under her head as a pillow, she closed her eyes and let sleep take her.

But it wasn’t long before she dreamt of the Rogue Knight again. He had pinned her to the ground, his sword at her chest and his laughter echoed as his mask melted away. The kind brown eyes of a betrothed betrayer mocked her. She thrashed and glanced away, not wanting to see the face behind the mask. Pain rippled through her nerves as the edge of his blade tore through her clothes and nicked her skin. Then he plunged it deep. A sharp intake of breath and she threw her eyes open, jolting upright. Five years gone and she hated the hold he had on her even after all this time.

X was pecking at her shirt and she didn’t mean to swat at him. “Wanna go back!” He was shouting over and over as she came to, blinking. It was still night.

She sat up and X landed on the shoulder of Doctor Fang. “Are you okay?” He asked.

“Yeah. I just—I had a nightmare. I’m sorry.”

Doctor Fang stared at her, tilting his head quizzically then turned away. He gestured for her to follow. “Come with me.”

[essayofthoughts]

Which version (i.e the comics, cartoon, original campaign art, other fanart, etc.) of Percy and Vex do you typically visualize when you write your stories? Is that version of them your favorite?

This is probably gonna sound kind of arrogant but for the most part, none of them? Like, certain things have influences on how I tend to envision the characters but I'm not a terribly visual thinker or writer; if you look at my fics you'll note I tend to dwell much more in emotion and tactile senses than I do visual. It's kind of why I envy people like my dear friend @cosmonauthill or the excellent @exhaustedwerewolf - both have this fantastic knack for creating a single striking visual that helps you build out a scene or a character in your mind from that.

Like. At the end of the day there's only one art piece that I tend to really look to as a visual guide for any of the characters and that would be This Fantastic Piece of Percy and Orthax from the lovely @agarthanguide, and that's more to do with the artistic style of the piece (which. I just love) and the fact Hannah is a dear friend who's art I've enjoyed for a long time, meaning I'm biased towards her art anyway.

As it is, I don't particularly care for the animated series - I find the designs too simplified to the point that they're boring to me, and I'm someone who likes the animated shows I watch to have a clear style; to me the animated series looks altogether too much like many other shows.

The comics are fine, I guess, but they don't really stick out much to me, and I have nitpicks about a few things in the fanart of others - namely that a lot of people draw half-elves' ears like they're full elves. If they're half elves, then elven ears would be like those of the World of "we have an ear fetish" Warcraft elves and I find those kinds of ears just to just... beggar belief. I need a bit of verisimilitude and the ear size/prominence is a nitpick for me.

I certainly take cues from some art. I used a mixture of the comics art and the group picture done by AnenomeTea to judge the height differences of Vox Machina, which, yes, I did sit down and do, I'm like that, and I love @crithaus' golden freckles idea for Vex, I like the sheer ludicrousness of Vex's hair in @alienfirst's art, and I like how long and awkward Percy's face is in the comics, but I also like the art of @2impostors which always makes him look like his nose has been broken at least once (a headcanon I share) and I also like just how young he looks in the original stream portraits with that round face. It really brings home that he was only a teen when he went through so much. That's another reason I really like alienfirst's art as well, because they similarly give Percy a rounded, young looking face - though I personally tend more towards how Hannah - agarthanguide - draws Percy's hair than anyone else.

And that's before we get to specific AUs of mine - Percy's differently weathered and worn in Delia AU and Ripley's Assistant because he wasn't physically tortured; in Ghost Cass he's much better rested and doesn't look so sleepless, and of course for Tiefling AU, I lean very much towards the lovely art @blorbologist did.

So... yeah. What visuals I do have are very much a mishmash of personal opinion and specific AU, and while I might take cues from this and that it doesn't really create a single coherent image so much as a few specific details I can then write in for people to apply to their own image of Percy. Hope this answers your question!

[salaciousslut]

Done! Also do you have a favorite tequilla brand? Just curious! 🫣

Technically i have freckles all over my face but i only really count the ones that are darker and in a line under my eyes and over my nose, the other ones aren't prominent enough to call them freckles imo. And i'd feel more than lucky if you did worship me, sweetheart<3

I would love to take you to the gym with me, it honestly helped me with my depression as well! And of course i'd watch over you sweetheart<3 i wont lie, i love to go after dark bc theres less people. And i had the same problem but now i catch myself and try to stand straighter. I mostly lift weights when i work out so I know my posture improved due to needing to have a straight back to lift. Plus its super fun imo!! I miss the gym so bad but i hate going alone. I also miss feeling sore, im a bit of a masochist so i love feeling sore the day after working out🤭

Dont apologize for giving me info<3 organization's overrated anyway. Ive found that girls with glasses tend to be my type🫣 you literally sound so pretty sweetheart<3 i knew i wasnt wrong calling you a pretty princess<3 im kissing the tip of your nose and your forehead rn🥰 you are literally so cute, puppy coded too🥺 ive never had crawfish it seems yummy but im not sure if i should try it! Shrimp ceviche used to be my favorite but then i developed a shrimp allergy to uncooked shrimp and around 17 i had to call it quits bc it stopped being worth it to risk it. Im still pissed but at least i can still eat shrimp its just gotta be thoroughly cooked, not just get cooked through the acidity of lime juice like its sucks so bad i just miss ceviche so bad. Ohh just a butch latina and a pretty asian girl what ever will they do hehe<3 and i knew but not cause you told me 🫣 your dni made it obvious, like yeah im just now saying hey but ive been aware of you for a little bit now🫣 also please lemme be ur body pillow one day<3 savory is good!!! Whats your favorite kind of snack?

Also thats adorable, youre just a cute little puppy that has to get off once a day to function her best<3 i mean if i were stressed from school i'd probably need the same thing🤭

tbh im not too picky about my brands, as long as it gets me drunk, then im happy!! also tequila makes me take my clothes off oopsies i think i should warn u about that!! but if im buying for myself, i typically will get espolon bc i feel like its yummy and reasonably priced!

yes i love feeling sore after a workout!! i am also a bit of a masochist (omg who knew)!! but ive never lifted weights before. all the dude bros scare me and i feel like im always being judged but if we went together i know u would take care of me!! i like aerobics and like calisthenics (i had to google how to spell that word) and love yoga sm!! the burn of stretching feels amazing!!

hehe i am very puppy coded! i used to think i was more kitten coded but now ive grown and realized puppies are sooo fun!! so much energy and just wanna be cherished and loved!! which is everything i want!!

nooooo thats so sad that ur allergic to ur fav food :(( i love ceviche but at least u can still tolerate the cooked version. i know its not the same but its still something!!

ohhh i forgot that i put that in my dni, people are so weird about race here smh i just gotta cover all my bases so i can have fun on this website!! but aww we would look soooo cute together

im a sucker for chips. u know how they say all bi girls do is lie and eat hot chip? yeah all i do is eat hot chip hehehe. not so much lying but hot chip very much so. i also loveee chips and salsa and chicken wings and yeah all the fun savory stuff i guess!!!

hehe cumming is like a lil treat!! a reward for myself for being sooo good you know? but it would be a million times better if someone else was making me cum rather than myself 😳🫣

[reallygrossstuff]

day one, dirk strider sluttification?

It ended up being brain ghost dirk instead of dirk prime, but hopefully this suffices!

“...you’re gonna have to tell me what I’m looking at here, Jake.”

“What do you mean? It’s all perfectly straightforward, I think.”

Dirk hadn’t been around to Jake’s house for a while, but he wasn’t surprised things hadn’t changed much. It would make it easy to find the heat gun he’d left behind, but it also made the one prominent difference much easier to spot, not that it was subtle in the first place.

In Jake’s preferred armchair, sat sideways across Jake’s lap, was a second Dirk. His face was identical down to the freckles, he wore his hair exactly the same, he even had identical shades perched on his nose - though his pair lacked the small red light indicating Hal’s potential presence in them.

“Jake, there’s two of me,” Dirk deadpanned, fighting the skin-crawling sensation of seeing an unaccounted splinter.

“Well, technically it’s something more than two! How many of you do you have running around out there right now? But no, I suppose you haven’t met this one yet, hm. Say hello, Dirk, it’s only polite.” Jake gave a slight nudge against the new Dirk’s ribs, as if giving him permission.

“Sup.” The uncanniness broke down slightly as the new Dirk moved, his motions a touch too choreographed, as if designed to be appealing to watch. “I’m Brain Ghost Dirk, Jake made me.”

“I did do that!” Jake shot one of his goofy grins, patting Brain Ghost Dirk appreciatively on the hip as he drew him closer in. “Once you said we needed space, Clementine, I thought, there’s no reason to keep a spare in my back pocket when there was an open space here. So I hoped a little harder, spent some time at the drawing board, and here he is!”

“Yeah, I can see that.” With the uncanny valley traversed, Dirk felt a little more steady on his feet - more willing to bring up the other question he had. “Why’s he dressed like that, though?”

Aside from his movements, Brain Ghost Dirk had another even more obvious difference to Dirk. Where Dirk’s clothes were almost identical to what he’d worn at sixteen, the clone was dressed as if to club - tight orange gogo shorts clung to his hips, and a snug top covered only a third of his chest, leaving a large swathe of lightly-tanned skin exposed. A cropped jacket was wrapped around his shoulders, the fabric a very particular shade of green matched by the lace choker accentuating his throat. Dirk couldn’t see a single hair anywhere below the ghost’s chin, his body smooth from his chest, down the length of his bare legs, all the way to his gleaming white high-tops.

“Ah, that! It’s only fair I get something nice to look at, isn’t it? And Dirk enjoys it, of course.”

“Does he.” Dirk levelled his unimpressed look at the ghost, trying to bore through his nonchalance.

“Oh, obviously. Go on, moppet, you love putting in some extra effort, don’t you?”

If the target wasn’t an estranged splinter, Dirk didn’t think he would have noticed the change these words had on him. Jake’s eyes flared with glittering gold as he asked, and even through the shades Dirk could see that same glow reflected in his doppelganger’s eyes. His whole posture shifted incrementally, leaning more into Jake’s space, the hand on Jake’s chest slipping slightly lower. “Can’t think of much I like more,” the brain ghost murmured, pitched low in a way Dirk never would have tried even when he was the one dating Jake.

“See?” Jake’s attention turned away from Brain Ghost Dirk the next instant, like he lost interest the moment he knew the man was still his to guide. “Nothing much else to say on the matter, is there?”

“I, uh, I guess not.” Dirk resisted the urge to take a step back, even if the reminder of Jake’s power was... distressing, to say the least. “So I’ll just... go grab that heat gun, huh?”

“Go right ahead!” Jake waved in the general direction of Dirk’s old workroom. “I haven’t touched that old cave, haven’t needed the space, so even odds it’ll be wherever you left it.” Nodding, Dirk started to leave, but Jake called out his name a moment later to halt him. “Also, ah, maybe consider leaving through the back door when you go? Only Dirk and I are about to have a moment, and I’d rather not be interrupted.”

“You are, huh?”

Jake grinned, just as wide but somehow not as bright as his more common beguiling looks. That same gold glint caught in his eye, and without instruction Brain Ghost Dirk tucked in closer against Jake’s chest. His lips played idly under Jake’s jaw, the hand on his chest now drawing slow, inquisitive circles against Jake’s treasure trail. “Yes, I rather think we are.”

Dirk nodded stiffly, turning to go where he’d been directed. He heard the murmur of voices behind him, and wondered for a moment to turn around and see exactly what use Jake got out of his replacement boyfriend... but he knew some things couldn’t be unseen, so he left the room before any more noises could reach his ears.

[liqdrababbles]

a (not so) “short” headcanon about Dirk and Dave and their different scars 

(ngl at first this was going to be short... but apparently this is my destiny every time I try to translate my thoughts)

⚠ CW(s): brief mentions of suicide attempt, self-harm, self-destructive behaviors, and child abuse (non-sexual) ⚠

------

Recently (...well, not so much...) on twitter I talked about how much I love (and at the same time it's pure torture) giving small details to Dave and Dirk's skin (spots, freckles, acne, scars). I love it because I feel like they look kinda sexy that way and it matches a lot of headcanons I have about Dave and Dirk's childhood... but it tortures me because every new drawing I have to remember to put every detail in its right place

Dave is especially hard to draw at times due the large number of scars I imagine he has. His childhood was full of fighting (training) against Bro, and I don't picture Bro as a particularly careful person when it comes to sword fighting. Let's consider Dirk's sometimes intense/obsessive nature, and mix it with Cal's negative mental influence, and yeah he's the worst choice for determining proper limits when fighting a child. The apartment where they both lived was not a very safe place either. As we saw at the beginning of Homestuck, the area was full of sharp weapons stacked (often in unexpected places, tending to collapse easily).

However, I can't imagine Bro putting Dave in mortal danger. I think he was careful enough not to inflict life-threatening/fatal wounds, but was also aggressive enough to sometimes inflict superficial wounds on him. The goal was not to incapacitate, torture, or kill Dave, but rather to teach him how cruel and aggressive the battlefield could be, and to teach him to be prepared for anything, including pain.

With this I'm not trying to justify what Bro did, I'm just analyzing a bit his way of seeing his own actions. The way he raised Dave was horrible and totally counts as child abuse. What's more, one of the things I always find surprising is how Bro managed to prevent Dave's training/injuries from drawing the attention of the neighbors or Dave's school teachers... I guess it was a combination of rehearsed lies, intimidation and/or bribery.

But well... concluding: Dave's skin is full of quite noticeable long scars, randomly distributed throughout the upper, middle, and lower part of his body. I tend to change some between ideas, sometimes because I forget them or sometimes because I'm thinking of some AU... but I always try to be constant in the ones on the face: two on the nose, three on the right side of the face and three on the left side (between his eye and jaw), and one on his lip (left side)

(btw, important fact to mention: although in my headcanon Dave has a certain kind of albinism, this is not full and it mainly affects his hair and (kinda) his eyes. His skin is very light and somewhat delicate, but doesn't have the exact color or behavior of a skin with complete albinism. I didn't try to be full accurate in these details)

Now, by comparison, Dirk is "easier" to draw, at least if I only consider the scars. Although Dirk's childhood was full of more dangerous confrontations (killer drones), he had the help of his robots and he's also incredibly good at sword fighting (in my headcanon, better than Dave). His scars from drone fights are relatively few and vary between cut scars and bullet scars, not too prominent (also, I imagine his skin less delicate than Dave's skin, having a more efficient healing regarding wounds)

However there are 2 groups of scars that I like to highlight when drawing him: a long scar that goes all the way around his neck, and many small scars on his hands.

The scar I draw on Dirk's neck is from a wound prior to his first decapitation in the webcomic. I still can't decide if it was the result of Dirk trying to hang himself or trying to cut his own throat... but it's definitely from a (failed) suicide attempt.

I imagine this event happened a few years before the first time he is featured in the webcomic, so maybe it happened when Dirk was 12-13 years old. I like to think that all of this was very much tied to Hal's existence/birth (either as a "cause" or as a "consequence"), but I haven't fully decided on the details.

Although sometimes I want to draw obvious self-harm scars on Dirk, I admit that the subject makes me a bit uncomfortable (drawing it myself, I have no problem seeing it in other people's drawings), especially when the scars follow a certain pattern / organization in the skin. So I don't think I'll do it in the future. However, I like to think that some of his scars are "self-inflicted" in a more indirect and random way. Maybe by hitting things in moments of negative emotions/anger, doing especially intense and long fights against his robots, or almost suicidally starting a fight against a drone. All situations where Dirk would normally follow a strategy or be more careful / know the limits of his body... but he decides to ignore all this and just indulge in pure self-destructive actions. I imagine that some scars are more directly self-inflicted, in moments of extreme dissociation while handling sharp objects, perhaps grabbing them directly at the cutting edge.

This is part of the explanation for the scars on his hands. Although part of them are due to minor accidents while he was building robots, many of them were caused during times of heightened emotions, depression, anger, or extreme dissociation. Dirk started wearing gloves to protect his hands from further damage (and later, to avoid questions about it).

[aquarii-writes]

Memories (Foolish x GN reader)

Notes: heavily implied AFAB as well as Reader being given different variations of momma/mommy. This turned out a bit sadder than I intended fuckin hell

WARNING: Death, pregnancy/after birth

Genre: angsty

WC: 1,864

Memories meant the world to Foolish. The memory of meeting you, your first kiss, and when you first spent the night were ingrained in his head. They were everything to him; especially since one-day he knew you wouldn't be here again.

Though seeing you now with his son? This might be the most special yet. Your baby boy sat wriggling in your arms. His eyes had yet to open but Foolish could already guess that they'd be green like his.

The baby's skin was already shining a gold color once all the blood was wiped away from his body. Tears fell from Foolish's eyes as he got closer to you. Sweat lined your forehead but you couldn't have been more beautiful.

"Can.. can I hold him?" Your husband's voice broke as he spoke to you. With a gentle chuckle you allowed your husband to take the baby in your arms; your precious son.

Holding the bundle in his arms, Foolish swayed to try and get Jr to open his eyes. "Common buddy. Lemme see your eyes" Foolish cooed at his son.

Puffy attended to you. Your bleeding had yet to stop but so far it was normal, just needed a few stitches to patch everything back up.

Jr kept wiggling around in his father's arms. Poor thing just wanted his momma so he cried out for them. Jr's crying broke his father's heart, did the baby already not like him?

With a swift hushing Puffy pulled the baby boy away from his father and placed him back to his momma.

"Dad?" Puffy turned to her son, a curious look settled on her features. "Are they supposed to be this tired? I know birth is hard but-"

Puffy cut off her boy. "Everything (Y/n) is experiencing is normal bubs. They'll get their strength back in due time"

But that was nearly two months ago. You had suddenly grown weaker. Puffy couldn't find a reason nor could Ponk. The two of them checked you over and over yet still found no reason why you got so sick.

However your baby boy kept getting stronger. After you and Foolish were home and got back settled into a routine Jr quickly found comfort within his father's arms. Sweet thing was passed around between aunts, uncles, and grandparents but he would cry and scream towards everyone of them till he was back in your or Foolish's arms.

Though Jr seemed the sense that his momma was getting weaker. His glassy eyes would only stop when he found you.

Time seemed to work in Foolish's favor. He tried everything he could think of but nothing seemed to make you better. Till eventually just four months after Jr was born you started to finally get better.

So everything got better. You started to become yourself again and eventually the two of you had another child. A baby girl named Fin.

Jr was around a year and a half when his sister was born and the boy wouldn't stay still as he wanted to see you. Once everything was said and done Jr couldn't wait to see his momma and sister.

His jumbled sentences calling for Foolish to let him see momma. "Calm down we're gonna see momma" papa's chuckles made Jr smile. Once finally in the room Jr cuddled up to you and asked to see Fin.

Finley was wrapped in Jr's old baby blanket and small fins poked out from her head and back. Tiny little scales littered parts of her skin and looked like freckles. She looked more like a shark than a totem, but she was very much still Foolish's daughter.

A familiar worry bubbled up in Foolish's stomach. Would you get sick again like you did after Jr's birth? Birth will always be hard, but maybe it was easier this time now that Finley was a second baby.

Sensing his worry you waved for your husband to come over. "I'll be okay love-" the sweetness in your voice could've made him cry, "But incase something happens promise me that you won't neglect the babies. They will need their father"

Foolish's kisses lingered longer than he intended. Your two children were now asleep in your arms, but Foolish still worried. Your smile, albeit rather tired, was still bright.

"Can I hold her?" the line brought a sense of nostalgia. A gentle smile rested on your face as you held your daughter out to your husband.

"Of course my love"

Rain fell in waves as your daughter slept against her father. He held an umbrella over himself and Jr. The little boy didn't understand what was going on but kept crying that mommy wouldn't be able to get up if they were in the dirt.

While somber Foolish didn't let his tears fall till well after his children's bed time. Finny was only 4 months old and Jr was almost 2 a widow in just a matter of months.

The atmosphere was somber as Puffy picked up her grandson and attempted to explain that mommy won't wake up again, but just gave up in the end. Silent tears would just run down the rams face.

Foolish wouldn't leave your grave for a while. His arms numb from holding his baby girl but she was still asleep; it was only her whimpers to the cold and rain did he think to finally return inside.

Once the children were down to sleep did Foolish finally let out a sob. Heart wrenching cries filled the living room as he poured his heart out to his hands. You had written a letter before you passed and he couldn't bring himself to read it, at least not now. Not after he had to bury you.

Memories meant everything to Foolish, and he didn't think that he could forget you any time soon. Though he could still see you from these memories and from your letter and he could still physically see you in your children.

Jr had your hair though it was much darker while Finny had your eyes. Beautiful (e/c) eyes always shined through the little girls iris'. He could see you in how Jr acted and the way he touched his sister; always so gentle just as you had taught him to be. Finny would always reach for the things she knew were yours.

It just brought him to tears however Foolish knew new memories would be made with you still in them. Your beautiful eyes and personality will always be present in your children.

After a few years, once he got a handle of caring for two children on his own, Foolish finally opened your letter. Elegant script was written on the page.

'My Dearest Foolish,

If you're reading this then I've died. Whether it be not long after I write this or after a long life I am still dead, though I have a feeling its the former. How have our children turned out? I don't know if Jr will understand and Finley will have no memory of me... Does Finny still have my eyes? Is Jr still gentle with Finny? I know little boys can be so rough..

But aside from such please know that I love you. If I held the choice I would've stayed longer, but I'm on my last life. Maybe Lady Death could give me a pass? Maybe I could come back and see my babies? Oh if I continue thinking like this I'm going to cry..

I love you more than anything in this universe and I love our children all the same. I know that some day you'll find another to love, maybe it'll be me reincarnated? Just.. don't dwell on my death too long, if not for me for our children. Jr and Finny deserve to see their father happy.

I do hope that the both of them know I love them very much.. I know memories mean everything to you so please make new ones with Jr and Finny. Let me live on through them.

Forever with love, your dearest (Y/n)'

Tears fell on the aged parchment. It had been weathered before, presumably from your tears, but new wrinkles formed. Foolish has new memories. Your children did keep you alive within them.

Finny's eyes, while hers, were still yours. Her eyes shown just as bright as yours once did. While Jr is as gentle as ever with his baby sister. Snowchester was a new home for them all when you died, but it now means so much to the babies.

Foolish covered his mouth as he leaned over the coffee table. He didn't notice the tiny feet padding towards him. Finley's small hands gripped at her fathers fore arm. Big (e/c) pools stared into him.

Acting as though he wasn't crying Foolish dried his eyes and picked up the little girl. "What are you doing here sweetheart?"

"I got cold" Finny mumbled to her father and curled into him. Her scales had turned a golden color after you had passed. It was a shame you couldn't have seen how pretty Finny turned out to be, even at 5.

"Where's bubbas then?" evening out his tone Foolish sat back with Finny. The snow outside had started back up again to add a new layer to the landscape.

"Bubba is playing with Michael still. Mr. Tubbo and Mr. Ranboo asked if I wanted to come inside, but I wanted to play with you" Finny looked up at Foolish. She was tired and wanted a nap so she cuddled further into her father.

"Well you look pretty tired, sweets, how about we just go to sleep?" Finny shook her head no and stared at the open letter.

"Why were you crying daddy?" Finny's voice was quiet. Almost like she wasn't supposed to ask the question.

"Well... I was remembering mommy and reading a letter she gave me.." squeezing his girl, Foolish rested his head on hers. Jr nor Finny had ever really asked about their mother.

"What was mommy like? Mr. Ranboo says she was really nice before she went to sleep for a long time.." Finny played with the ends of her hair as she spoke to her father. Memories of you flooded his mind. The most prominent thing was how loving you were. You gave up all 3 of your lives for people you cared for.

"Well.. mommy loved you and bubbas very much. She loved a lot of people. Mommy was also very kind and helpful.. She would do anything to make sure people were happy-"

"Do I look like Mommy?" Finley gazed at her hands. The golden freckles that glittered her skin were something she had seen on no one else.

"You look a lot like mommy, Finny" Foolish lied through his teeth. She had your eyes but looked very similar to him over all. But if his little girl is happy then what of it?

Seemingly satisfied with her prodding Finny became silent again, and soon enough her little snores alerted Foolish to the fact that she was asleep.

I don't think I'll ever forget you (Y/n), but Finny sure won't let me try

[paintalyx]

got a couple of extra headcanon asks on my zombie-mode art instagram from my irls. i'm rather happy with them, so i'll repost some here for the sake of archiving and an illusion of consistency. genshin impact round, here we go!

kaeya:

kaeya has dimples when he smiles. this is a hc that my brain came up with at like 4a.m. one night and i haven't been the same ever since. ugh.

self-proclaimed best emergency babysitter ever. he's only mildly better with younger kids (think klee's age) than teens. they think he's cool because of the whole pirate vibe he has going on and because he lets them do stuff other adults don't. he probably didn't get to goof off a lot as a kid, so he's just as excited to try out all the stupid and crazy ideas.

because his brother is diluc ragnvindr, who couldn't tell a lie if his life depended on it when he was a kid, kaeya honed the skill of crafting cover-up stories to perfection. my hc is that growing up, he was the more mature, responsible and cautious sibling, to contrast with diluc, who was kind of naive and reckless, prone to accidentally getting into trouble

he's never been on a proper date nor in a committed relationship (we relate to stan a king with commitment issues). rumours say that he's bedded at least half of mond and he's yet to disprove or confirm them. he tends to joke that it would be a crime to unfairly deprive people of *gestures* "all of this"

he and sister rosaria have a... very complicated relationship. on first glance, one would be forgiven to think that they are good friends. they drink together, talk about philosophy and conspiracies in-between ships of wine, and it seems like they have some sort of an unspoken understanding between them. and that's the thing! takes one to know another! they both have certain suspicions regarding each other, and as much as they find amusement in easy banter that goes on between them, both know that getting close would be nothing but danger

diluc:

jean and diluc had an unspoken *something* going on before diluc left the knights. was it just a crush? was it more? maybe less? they are on good terms even after crepus' death and they clearly still care about each other, but this *something* is always hanging above their heads when they interact

he has freckles!!! they were more obvious when he was a kid because he used to be out in the sun a lot, but you can still see some faint spots over his nose and cheeks (and arms, if he rolls up his sleeves while working)

though he's quick to deny it, he has a soft spot for venti after everything that happened with dvalin. he knows that the bard is sneaking into the winery to steal grapes, apples and wine, but every time he gets caught, diluc's threats sound more like an obligation. there is a lot of banter between, but it's clear that they enjoy each other's company. on rare, special nights, when either of them is feeling like it, they talk about the past.

going off from the previous hc, diluc knows a lot about mondstadt's history and culture. he probably had to learn about it when he was younger, but i like think that he's always been passionate about it. heck, he and jean were probably nerding out about it all the time when they were kids. when he became friends (???) with venti, he got to listen firsthand retellings of so many stories he read about and his love for them only grew

you know bennett, fischl and razor? benny's new (unofficial) adventure team?? well, yeah, they are diluc's emotional support children now because you can't be knockoff batman without knockoff batfam. fischl is his goth theatre daughter. razor is always free to crash at the winery if the weather is too bad for camping. diluc himself has no idea how's it come to this, but, frankly, he should've known what he was singing up for when he didn't correct bennett for slipping up and calling him "dad" the first time

bennett:

drawing your faves with freckles is good for the soul and i have no-self control. bennett is outside all the time, so they are kind of prominent. it adds to his charm!!! (though people keep mistaking him for being younger than he actually is, partially because of them)

he has good luck only in card and board games. but, like... ridiculously good luck. he is practically banned from playing ludo because he has all four figures out before some players can even roll their first six

he will inevitably start calling every older male that sticks around him "dad" sooner or later. he accidentally slips up in front of diluc once and that's so embarrassing, he wants to die— diluc is caught off guard and confused for a grand total of five seconds before he internally goes: "well. guess i'm a father now". almost everyone is surprised when it sticks

he's a surprisingly good writer! he never thought of it as something that he wanted to pursue, but venti's poem class was the kick he needed. early on, he's mostly writing poems and short stories on scrap pieces of paper when he's bored. it isn't until razor offhandedly tells fischl about the hobby and she insists that they need to get him a proper notebook that he starts taking it more seriously. maybe he'll write the next adventurer handbook one day?

he is the kind of guy who can get a crush on anyone who's remotely nice to him (someone tell this boy that standards are a thing). then he never does anything about it. ever. nope. taking it to the grave. he would be extra dense when it comes to romantic advances to boot, so who knows when he'll settle down?

(gotta love my irls. smooches for them. also here's venti headcanon batch in case anyone wants to see it)

[harrypotter-imaginess]

A/N: I got a tiiiiny bit of power and my first thought was my need for validation through my fanfiction lol. Hope you enjoy!

<This is Part 1!> / Part 2 Here!

- You’re in the middle of a blizzard, reading to pass the time, the power cuts in and out- giving you just enough time to scramble about trying to make your home just warm enough so you don’t freeze to death

- You sigh when it flickers off again, taking a sip from the hot drink you managed to make while you still had electricity

- Eyes turn back to the book in your hands, with the poor cell reception, and lack of television you’ve found the only thing you can bear to do it read and sleep

- Only occasionally withdrawing from both to eat whatever cold meal you can

- You’ve settled on reading the Harry Potter books, easy enough to read, even in your current condition

- The books are waterlogged, in terrible condition, you treated them quite rough when you were a child, though not all the blame is yours

- It’s an eclectic group, some hardcover some paperback, some borrowed from friends and never returned, some you got as a good deal at your local used bookstore

- You smile when you see all the parts with Fred and George are highlighted

- They always were your favorites

- You stiffile a yawn, you’re just getting to a good part-

- But a small rest won’t hurt will it?

- You feel your eyes drift close

- When they open again you’re looking at rolling hills, a wisp of steam curling into your view every so often

- Huh what a nice dream

- You close your eyes again only to feel a sharp sting in your neck that your eyes shoot open

- You don’t feel pain in dreams

- You’re in a train compartment an empty red bench in front of you

- You’re alone, the green hills rolling by outside the window

- You’ve seen this type of scenery before maybe in a movie, or a book-

- It looks a lot like something out of Harry Potter

- Your thoughts come to an abrupt hault, the memories slowly filtering in

- You’re a witch- your parents passed away in the first war, and you were brought up by your muggle godfather

- Don’t be mistaken, this isn’t some unfortunate Harry-Potter orphan story, your god father loved you a lot

- Even though he was a bit of a sl*t, the revolving circus of women that left his room every Sunday was practically your childhood form of television

- You even did a report on it in muggle school, high left several faculty members feeling concerned

- Still he loved you a lot, and he tried to be as honest as he could about your heritage, and your parents

- But well- he was a muggle, there was only so much he could do

- Still, he took you to kings cross himself, taking you to your gringott’s safe where your parents meager savings had increased by ten fold over the years, helping you pick your wand and books

- “Now I can’t go with you onto the platform, so write and let me know when you’ve reached safely alright?” You nodded, as he pulled you into a hug

- “I’m going to miss having you home”

- “But now you can bring women to the flat whenever you want” You were only joking but it makes him sniffle

- “I’d trade all of that to have you at home for just a few more years”

- You only pat his shoulder reassuring him you’ll be back during the holidays

- You had tried your hand at a few spells, but nothing drastic

- You were excited to see what Hogwarts would bring, what you might learn, and the friendships you might build

- You were so excited that you didn’t sleep all night, finally succumbing to a nap when you collapsed in an empty compartment

- And that brings you to the present, where you’re practically sweating buckets in the red bench.

- Okay, so you’re in Harry Potter now- some how

- And yeah, you’ve always kinda wished you could go to Hogwarts-

- But not like this!

- For one every book, like 3 kids die

- Even the cute ones, like Collin Creevey-

- And honestly if a main character like Fred Weasley died, what chance do you have at surviving?

- You’re probably just one of those nothing characters that dies at the battle of Hogwarts- if not sooner

- You look down at your hands

- Not to mention you’re suddenly eleven years old

- How many times did you have a nightmare you suddenly had to go back to middle or high school again because apparently you missed a class?

- Well this is like a nightmare come true

- You look under your shirt, holding the neck out only to sigh

- It’s your body still, you vaguely remember looking like this when you were younger

- But god-

- It’s like a strangers body at this point

- Ugh you don’t have time to think about this

- your goal right now is to survive

- A knock on your door pulls you out of your thoughts

- “Change into your robs, we’re getting close” a muffled voice says from the other side and you sigh

- Of course you are

- You sigh as you pull out your plain black wizards robe, almost looks like a graduation gown to be honest

- And that’s the uniform here is it

- Strange

- As you tug on the sleeves you think how you’re going to get out of this

- If you’re right the year is 1990, a year before Harry Potter shows up

- Okay so as far as you know- nothing really happens this year

- You don’t have to worry about all the Pureblood crap because both your parents were wizards, so you’re a half blood at least

- Now it’s all about house-

- If the books are 100% accurate then it’s between Slytherin and Gryffindor, Snape will turn a blind eye to any of your transgressions because of favoritism

- And McGonagall would go to bat for you if the circumstances were unfair

- Still- the Slytherin house seemed problematic what with the old money in that group

- Not all of them were probably like that- just the most prominent characters- you’d really rather not get involved with all that if you could

- And then- Gryffindor was even worse, you might be safe this year, but next year you would be plagued with death flag after death flag- no thanks

- Sprout seems nice enough, but you’re not too sure about that common room, in the dungeons- hard pass

- That leaves Ravenclaw, Flitwick seems nice enough, and the dorms are in a Ravenclaw tower

- Luna Lovegood will be there soon, and well, that could be pretty fun

- So you’ll try for Ravenclaw you think- pulling on your bag and joining the horde of students

- You’re about to join the other first years when you feel a tug on your bag.

- You turn towards the feeling to see two identical boys, a splatter of freckles across their nose, and flaming red hair

- “Are you (Y/N) (L/N)?” The taller of the two asks, a grin curled onto his lips, and his eyes full of stars

- You only nod

- They’re both looking at you like they’ve just seen a movie star and you can’t figure out why

- You’re only eleven years old after all, what could you have possibly done?

- “Was you Mum-“ the shorter starts

- “Was she the famous auror?” The other finishes

- Ah- of course

- Your mother was indeed a famous war hero, known for her noble efforts during the war

- Your god father had told you that at least

- “I’m George, and this is Fred” the shorter - George- says jerking his thumb to his twin

- Oh

- So they’re Fred and George Weasley?!?!

- Honestly you should have known by the red hair

- You can’t believe you’re meeting some of your favorite characters

- You stick your hand out, hoping it’s not too sweaty

- “(Y/N),” you say, “but you already knew that”

- George grins as he takes your hand first, with Fred repeating the motion

- “What house do ya think you’ll go to?” Fred asks

- “We hope you’re aiming for Gryffindor” George adds with a sly grin

- You can feel your face warming up under their gaze

- Alright- change of plan- you’ll try to get into Gryffindor so you can be friends with George and Fred

- It’ll be a little risky, but until the end they weren’t really in any of the serious adventures.

- Besides maybe if you hang out with them, you can save Fred near the end

- “Maybe” you smile at them, hearing a voice call your name for a carriage

- “See you around!” You wave goodbye, stepping into you assigned carriage with a group of other first years

- It’s sort of a mismatch, you don’t quite recognize anyone in here

- Than again the children an age above Harry were never really mentioned

- “Ugh I can’t believe my glasses broke, what rotten luck” a girl besides you says- you turn to see a girl with long dark hair, fiddling with a pair of broken glasses in her hands

- “Ah here, can I?” You ask, holding out your hand, and the girl wordlessly hands you her glasses

- Your murmur a spell and watch as the metal expands curling until it wraps around the broken edge, resembling intertwined vines

- “It’s not the best, but it’ll do for now”

- It’s only when you look up to hand the girl back her glasses that you notice everyone’s watching you

- “How did you do that?” A boy asks, and you shrug

- “Oh well I just said the incantation-“

- “I’ve never heard that one before” another girl murmurs

- You shrug again

- “Anything can be an incarnation of you just put enough feeling into it right?”

- The children clamor at you all at once

- It turns out the two girls were Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott- both Hufflepuff’s if you remember correctly

- Guess they were a year older than Harry in this world

- And then the boy is Blaise Zambini

- You know in the books he’s in a morally Grey area at best.

- “So like this?” He asks and you shake your head

- “You have to put your wrist into it more”

- But now, as he’s begging you to teach him the repairing charm that you cast, all you see is a little boy who wants to learn

- Change of plans, if you get into Slytherin maybe you can watch over Blaise and be his best friend

- That way he won’t get all mixed up in that Death Eater crap

- Maybe you can even get him onto your side, make a coven of witches and wizards and do some non-alignment stuff during the war

- You’re all gathered in the hall, answering a roll call from a rather lithe and strict woman- professor McGonagall no doubt

- After that you’re left waiting, and feeling somewhat bored, and somewhat like you may have had too much pumpkin juice- you hobble off into the corridor looking for a bathroom

- “Hurry back I think we’re about to go into the sorting ceremony” Blaise says and you nod

- You do not, in fact, hurry back

- Because after relieving yourself- you are incredibly lost

- It doesn’t help that all the portraits keep on shuffling around, or that all the corridors here look equally dark

- It’s only on your third time around the portrait of a woman eating an apple do you see what appears to be a person

- “What are you doing in the corridor?” As you come closer you realize it’s a boy, a yellow and black striped tie around his neck. “Shouldn’t you be at the feast?”

- He’s quite pretty, with thick brown hair and rosy cheeks

- “I went to the bathroom and got lost,” you hear him murmur first year and raise an eyebrow “What’s your excuse?”

- He lets out a laugh, running a hand through his hair

- “That’s fair,” he admits. And then after a moment he says:

- “I’m hiding”

- Your eyebrows thread together

- “Like from a crazy ex lover or..?”

- He laughs again, shaking his head

- “No, from my professor.” And then after a moment, before you can ask ‘is it because you’re having an affair with them’ he says:

- “They want me to be prefect for my house next year, and I don’t know how I feel about that”

- You let that sink in,

- “I know I should do it- it would give me an opportunity to represent my house, and look out for all my friends, and I’m sure my dad would be awfully proud but-“

- But it’s a lot of responsibility

- You get it.

- You sit beside him on the floor

- “You should do it-“ and before he can give a reason why you say:

- “You would get your own bathroom and I think that means a lot in a place like this”

- He laughs again, only this time the laugh leaves in loud gaffs, somehow you feel like this is the first real laugh the boy has shown you

- “I’ve heard a lot of reasons, but having my own bathroom is definitely a first”

- He looks at you in a way that makes your hair stand on end and your skin feel hot.

- “I’m Cedric, Cedric Diggory.” He says with an extended hand

- Ah, so this is pretty boy Diggory.

- He does kinda look like a young Robert Pattinson to be honest

- You take his hand in yours giving a firm shake

- “ (Y/N) (L/N) “ and you see his eyebrows shoot up

- “ (L/N) like the-“

- “ Yeah that’s my mum, the famous Auror”

- Cedric’s mouth curls up in a lopsided grin

- “I was going to say inventor- the inventor for the portable infinity box”

- Ah yes, your dad was an inventor. You didn’t know much about it though. Just that his inventions had left you a small fortune

- “My parents were both pretty remarkable huh?”

- And even though they’re not really your parents, and this isn’t really your body, you feel a little sad thinking about them.

- Before you can give Cedric a chance to offer his condolences, you stand up brushing off your robe.

- “We’ll come on Mr. Prefect in the making, show me to where I’m to be sorted” you say with a wave of a hand

- He grins

- “As you wish”

- Maybe being in Hufflepuff wouldn’t be so bad,

- and if you can manage to get close to Cedric, maybe he’ll let you use the prefects bathroom

- Huh, that does sound enticing

- Okay change of plans, you’ll get into Hufflepuff

- For the nice bathroom privileges

- When you get into the hall you feel all eyes turn to look to you

- And even though you’re an adult, you feel awfully embarrassed

- “If you get in Hufflepuff let’s get a butterbeer to celebrate, my treat..” Cedric whispers in your ear, and you catch a glimpse of the lopsided grin curled onto his face before he pushes you forward towards the group of first years

- Your face still feels hot when your name gets called

- You gulp as you move towards the chair

- Well it’s do or die- and you don’t plan on dying here

- You gulp again as the cold wood presses against your thighs as you take a seat

- All you have to do is ask for it to put you in -

- Wait

- What house were you aiming for again?

- Logic dictates Ravenclaw, it’s your best chance-

- But well, you’ve always wanted to be friends with Fred and George it just seems like so much fun

- And then, Slytherin’s not so bad, it would be nice if you could change peoples opinions about that house

- Oh and Hufflepuff might be nice too, you would have someone to look out for you- and you in turn can look out for others like Susan and Hannah

- And so it seems you’ve made peace, no matter which house the hat chooses, you’re happy with the outcome because there’s good and bad in all of them

- These things aren’t one dimensional, they nuanced. And that’s okay

- You feel the hat place on your head, and several long moments of silence pass

- .

- ..

- ...

- ....

- Shouldn’t something be happening by now?

- Like at least whispers in your ear from the hat or something right?

- “I-“ it finally chokes out

- Ah good a decision

- Well what’s your future going to be like?

- “I don’t know” the hat finally sputters, a collective gasp filling the room

- You drop your face into your hands, as small murmurs begin to spread through the tables

- “F*ck me” you mumble

[foilfreak]

Beauty and Her Beast: Chapter 3

Warning: This fic is rated NSFW and contains graphic depictions of things some people may find disturbing or alarming, including, but not limited to: violence, gore, unhealthy family relationships, Oedipus complexes, gratuitous amount of pornographic literature, ableist language, physical, mental, and emotional abuse, etc. If you are someone who does not enjoy fiction with these elements in them, then I suggest you refrain from reading this, because this fic will have all that, and probably a lot more. So, this is your first and final warning to turn around and go somewhere else if stuff like this just isn't your vibe, because from this point forward, your emotional wellbeing is in your own hands, and I will not be accepting blame if you disregarded my warnings and ended up reading something you didn't like. Idk why I feel compelled to write one of these despite this being Resident Evil fanfic, but I figured I'd cover my ass just in case.

(Link to ao3 version in comments below)

“Going off the information I have listed here, it appears as though you’ll be receiving subject N-45, today. She’s a healthy 22 year old female. Her short, but muscular body weighs 95lbs with a childish height of 4’10” tall. She possesses primarily Romanian and Filipino ancestry, with some Dutch or Finnish or... whatever, thrown in there as well. And according to the various items we found on her person when she was first brought in, she’s apparently a graduate student at the University of Bucharest, or, at least she was, before she drove her car into a tree while driving up the mountain and was recovered by Heisenberg” Miranda explains robotically, reading aloud from a piece of paper held inside a thick manila envelope. “Of the 4 remaining test subjects, N-45 is easily the most violent and difficult one to work with, having to be either anesthetized or restrained every time I wanted to so much as take her vitals or stabilize her condition. When given smaller doses of sedatives she-”

For the first time in his entire life, Salvatore completely ignores whatever unimportant nonsense Mother Miranda is going on about, continuing to take in and analyze the strikingly unique appearance of the young woman before him.

Upon first inspection, N-45 appeared to resemble that of a normal woman in just about every way possible. Her hair was scruffy and very short, barely long enough to reach her eyes, and a deep black color that looked so soft and luxurious that Salvatore ached to run his fingers through it. Her face was slightly round, giving the young woman a very youthful appearance, with her sharp jawline and prominent cheekbones being some of the only things keeping Salvatore from mistaking her for a child. And lastly, her... figure, if Salvatore had to put such an embarrassing idea into words, was similar to that of Mother Miranda, only shorter, more compact even. It reminded the hooded man of those small packets of candy Duke occasionally gifted him that said “fun sized” on the label, in reference to them being much smaller than the standard sized candy bars and yet somehow being… better, despite technically giving you less candy.

She was already perfect as she was, but it was not just N-45’s beautiful human features that pulled Salvatore in and refused to let him escape the stupefaction he’d been placed under, but also her mutations.

A soft royal blue coated her from head to toe, giving way only to a large patch of solid white located on her chest and stomach. Her skin catches the light in a way that reveals areas of tiny overlapping scales, glimmering like stars in the midnight sky, or freshly polished armor, perhaps, along the bony ridges and tender curves of her figure.

Small white dots distributed like paint splatters across the colored sections of her flesh give a similar visual effect as freckles, starting from her hairline and extending all the way down to the very tips of her toes. These galaxies of white were invisible only on the white patch along the front of her torso, as well as on the lighter blue hue taken on by both the palms and webbings of her hands and feet.

Long Fin-like extensions grew along both her forearms and lower back. The former extended outward and inward like a windshield wiper, likely used to decrease water resistance. The latter, however, perhaps used to increase fine motor maneuverability while swimming at greater speeds or in tighter spaces, grew straight downwards from her lower back in an overlapping fan configuration that marginally covered her rear end, though not by very much. The fins looked like a soft, delicate material that was probably very flexible but very durable, if Salvatore had to guess just from looking.

And to top everything off, N-45 even appeared to even have gills, 2 different sets by the looks of it. The first set of 3 breathing slits was located horizontally along both sides of her neck, while the second set could be found on both sides of her torso, following the downward angle of her ribs but stopping just underneath her soft, plump-looking breasts.

Salvatore feels a sudden wave of heat cascade over his body and he turns his face away in shameful embarrassment as he suddenly realizes that N-45, much like every test subject undergoing cadou treatment, was still very, very nude at the present moment.

“I can’t make any promises regarding her disposition, but physically speaking, she’s ready to be released to you whenever you’d like. I’ll have some of the villagers transport and release her into the reservoir later this week” Mother Miranda says, pressing a button to close the pod now that Salvatore was no longer staring at her.

“W-wait just a m-moment” Salvatore calls out, prompting Mother Miranda to halt the closing of the pod.

“Yes? What is it?” The woman asks curtly, clearly not wanting to stand here and watch Salvatore any longer than she has to.

Wringing his hands together nervously, Salvatore meekly asks, “C-could… could y-you wake h-her up… s-so that I can s-speak with her… j-just for a m-moment?”

Mother Miranda remains silent for a moment, blank face staring directly at Salvatore as she contemplates what to do.

“No, Moreau,” she says finally. “I’ve had a very busy day today and I'm quite tired. N-45 is a menace that I struggle to deal with even on my best days. The last thing I need is something going wrong and her getting out and causing all sorts of chaos.”

Salvatore’s shoulders slump in disappointment, but he makes no further attempts to argue.

Mother Miranda rolls her eyes at the incredibly childish display, walking over to place a gentle hand on Salvatore’s head. “Would it make you feel better if I agreed to have N-45 be the first of the subjects to be dropped off? It’ll be more difficult than my original plan, but I suppose it was a bit unfair that you were the only one who didn’t get to “pick” their gift.”

“Yes, M-Mother Miranda… I-I’d like th-that very… very m-much” Salvatore says, leaning into the touch as Mother Miranda begins guiding him back toward the hallway leading to the exit door.

It wasn’t until after Miranda had exited the lab and begun walking down the long hallway toward the exit that Salvatore dared cast another glance back at the pod that contained N-45, wistfully thinking of how amazing her hand had felt in his, and how much he wanted to speak to her.

Just as the disfigured man was about to turn back and follow Miranda out of the laboratory, a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, prompting Salvatore to tense and snap toward the 4 pods, frantically trying to figure out what it was he saw. A few seconds of stillness pass before Salvatore sees movement again, not freely moving about the room like he originally expected, but from within one of the 4 pods, his pod to be exact.

His curiosity momentarily outweighing his nerves, Salvatore slowly approaches the metal capsule, trying to get a look through the small pane of glass that allows visual access into the holding pod.

Another flash of movement has Salvatore flinching, jumping back as though he’d been advanced upon. After several seconds of stillness, however, the hooded man regains his confidence and once again inches his way toward the capsule, moving his head up and down to try and get one more glimpse at N-45 before he has to leave. One last look before she lays eyes upon his vile and disgusting body for the first time, screaming and calling him a monster as she runs away, leaving him alone and without anyone to call his own. Just like always.

“ Hello ?”

Salvatore froze dead in his tracks, his heart pounding and his lungs refusing to take in air, as a soft, muffled, questioning voice reaches the deformed man’s ears, followed by two golden orbs with narrow black slits running vertically through the center, that slowly peek into view from the bottom of the glass window. Salvatore’s eyes widen in shock as he quickly realizes that the orbs of gold are not, in fact, just spheres of color, but rather a pair of eyes, staring intently at him from inside the pod.

“Uuuuuh… u-u-uuum… I-i… I w-was just…” the disfigured man stuttered as he struggled to move his body, seemingly paralyzed by the bewitching gaze currently locked onto him, looking at him with an intensity that makes Salvatore wonder if this is what it feels like to be a cell put under a microscope.

It isn’t until Salvatore notices the golden orbs moving and shifting from one corner of the window pane to the other that the hooded man realizes, to his immediate horror, that he might not be the only one trying to get a better look at the figure located on the other side of the pod door. Panic and fear immediately fill Salvatore from deep within, growing strong enough to allow him to finally overcome his temporary paralysis and skitter away from view. Pulling his hood even further over his petrifyingly grotesque face in shame of himself, Salvatore flees the laboratory as quickly as his hobbled limp would allow.

His heart pounds to the beat of the soft, but desperate pleas of protest coming from N-45’s pod in response to Salvatore’s rapidly retreating form, yet the hooded man cannot bring himself to believe what he hears as true. Perhaps believing that the siren-like voice he hears echoing off the metal laboratory walls to be nothing more than a trick of his sick and lonely mind, Salvatore does not stop, nor does he turn back around until he’s met up with Mother Miranda at the exit to the surface, lungs burning and legs aching from running for so far and long.

“Oh, there you are, Moreau,” Mother Miranda says suddenly, stopping just before they are about to exit the laboratory. “I’m glad you chose this time to finally catch up, because I just realized a second ago that I’d forgotten to give you N-45’s previous name. You can name her something else if you’d prefer, of course, but I offered the information to your siblings so I suppose I should offer it to you as well. Would you still like to know N-45’s name, or would you rather abandon her given name for one of your own choosing?”

After a few seconds of silent contemplation, Salvatore lifts his head, “I… I-i would like to k-know… her n-name… please...” the mutant man says softly.

Mother Miranda briefly raises a questioning eyebrow at Salvatore’s nervous body language, but ultimately rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders, all but tossing the Manila envelope containing N-45’s information at the hooded man before disappearing out the large metal door.

“If you’re going to read that now, feel free, but return to the meeting room once you're done. And be sure to lock the door to my laboratory behind you” Miranda commands, her voice having grown echoey due to how far away she now was.

“Yes, M-Mother” Salvatore calls after her as he scrambles to catch the thrown file and prevent any loose papers from falling out. Once he’s got a solid handle on the thick envelope, he opens it, casting a quick glance back in the direction of the pod room, where Nadine and the other 3 gifts were being held for the time being.

Returning to the file, Salvatore frantically flips through every page, trying to find the one that held N-45’s personal background information.

After several minutes of desperate flipping back and forth, Salvatore finally focuses on one particular piece of paper that looked to have been in the file for the longest. Pulling out the particular page he’d found, the disfigured man drops the rest of the folder onto the ground and begins rapidly skimming through the information printed on the page, his hungry eyes refusing to stop until they finally zeroed in on the information he’d been looking for.

Project: E.V.A. Resurrection

Subject: N-45

Parasite Administered: Cadou (Series- N; Strain- 45)

Family Name: Bogdan

Given Name: Nadine

“N… Nadine” Salvatore said slowly, feeling slightly lightheaded and out of breath as each individual letter of the young woman’s name rolled off his tongue like Camembert cheese; smooth, creamy, decedent, and likely to keep him up all night with an upset stomach and a racing heartbeat.

Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine. Nadine.

The name quickly became a broken loop played over and over and over again inside Salvatore’s head, his mind unable, or rather unwilling, to think of anything else as he read, reread, and then re-reread Nadine’s name at least 100 times, before finally setting the piece of paper down.

“Nadine...” Salvatore breathes the name once again, his voice carrying a wistful tone. “E-even your n-name is wonderful...”

An already beautiful woman, made even more perfect through the power of science and Mother Miranda’s grace, only for all that potential to end up wasted in the hands of a desperately lonely and horrifically mangled fish mutant, who was more likely to accidentally dissolve her in stomach acid than woo her like some kind of aquatic Prince Charming.

“Y-ya right... e-e-even with a-another mutant… I’m s-still so disgusting a-an… and horrifying in comparison… n-not even my o-own kind can b-bring thems-themselves to love me f-for who I a-am… not th-that there’s much of m-me that’s worth l-loving to begin w-with” Moreau laments to himself, wondering if it was even worth holding out hope that things with Nadine could go his way. As if one look at his monstrous form wouldn’t be enough to ruin everything Salvatore already has an agonizingly low chance of ever having with that magnificent specimen of a woman.

Even with Nadine’s own external mutations making it clear that she was no longer fully human, her form had still retained such a beautifully strong, yet womanly shape to it, and her face still looked so young and innocent despite everything that she’s been through. Someone as beautiful as her was far too good and pure to be tainted by his filthy hands.

‘Maybe I should just kill her when the villagers arrive with her at the gate? At least then... I could say I put her out of her misery before she had to experience it for herself…’ Salvatore sulks mentally.

However, despite the self degrading thoughts running through his mind, the memory of the curious look Nadine’s shockingly bright and mesmerizing golden eyes held when trying to look at Salvatore through the pod window made the hooded man shiver, having never been looked upon in such an innocently curious manner before. Most people who got that close to Salvatore didn’t even need to see his face in order to start screaming and running away in terror. However, if the deformed man allowed himself a brief moment to believe that it was indeed her who’d been calling him to come back and show himself, then from the tone and rushed quality of her voice, it would seem as though Nadine was unsatisfied with the fact that she hadn’t seen all of Salvatore’s face and body, not terrified.

How strange...

How very strange indeed…

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 9, Cassian POV)

Notes: I had a lovely anon this morning ask for a POV from Cassian’s POV in E&L when he rubbed salve onto Nesta’s back. So, here you go, folks. As usual, apologies for any typos etc etc.

And for those needing a reminder of what happened in chapter 9, you can read it here.

Waiting outside of Nesta’s bedroom door was torture. Not just because Cassian would soon be touching Nesta’s bare skin, but because he knew she was trying to relinquish control by making him wait. And Cassian had been waiting for a long time now. Much longer than was necessary for Nesta to remove her nightgown and wrap herself in a towel.

Cassian bit back the snarl that wanted to emit itself from his throat, because rising to the deliberate wait would give Nesta too much satisfaction. And this was the game they played; continually trying to get one up on the other, riling and prodding and poking until they hissed and snarled and flames sparked between them.

So, Cassian waited patiently. He scented the chamomile salve wafting under the door and—Nesta. More intense than before. Jasmine and vanilla and her. Intoxicating and fiery and steely at the same time, as if she were forged from something entirely different from anyone else in the world.

It was addictive and exhilarating. It woke Cassian up, as if he had only been slumbering before. Nearly five hundred and fifty years of floating through life until Nesta Archeron came along and disrupted the course of things, like a knife thrust through the heart.

Footsteps sounded across the carpet and Cassian straightened, before he decided that a relaxed posture against the doorframe would irritate her more. He only just had time to arrange his expression into one of bored disinterest before the door opened.

Cassian cocked a lazy eyebrow as if to ask what took so long, but Nesta only turned immediately on her heel. He trailed after her into the cold room, trying not to stare at the creamy expanse of her back that peaked beneath her loose golden brown hair—the wings of her shoulder blades and the three freckles which dotted down the far too prominent nodules of her spine where they met her neck.

When Nesta turned back to face him, her pewter eyes were brimming with challenge, daring Cassian to comment on her lack of clothing. But he only twirled a finger—a silent order.

For a moment, Cassian thought she’d deny him, but then she obeyed—for once.

“All over?” he asked, making his voice deliberately practical rather than playful.

Slowly, Nesta dipped her chin. A long pause followed, as if she had forgotten that she had to relinquish the towel. But Cassian did not taunt her. Remained silent and patient, until she seemed to realise it for herself.

When she pulled the towel around to her front, that scent intensified. And when Nesta pulled her hair around her shoulder to expose her neck, Cassian’s nostrils flared.

Fucking hell, sometimes Cassian wondered how he controlled himself around her. Even his blood thrummed beneath his skin, pushing towards her, to the name that beat and chanted on the wind and in the back of his mind, always: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

His eyes snagged on that column of skin, and the temptation to bow his head and sink his teeth into her flesh was suddenly so overwhelming that Cassian almost took a step backwards.

But then a glimmer of apprehension fluttered down the bond and that urge vanished, as if it had never existed at all.

“Let me,” Cassian murmured, stepping towards Nesta so he could help to move the remaining tendrils of hair that tumbled down her back over her shoulder.

He ignored the electric sparks that shot through him as he swept his calloused fingers over her bare skin. And when that unblemished skin pebbled under his touch, Cassian realised just how freezing the room was—he wouldn’t have been surprised if his breath misted in front of him.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “I'll be quick, I know it's cold.”

“Just get it over with,” Nesta replied. Beneath his hands, her body was ramrod straight—so preternaturally still it was unnatural even to Fae.

So, Cassian tried his best to set Nesta at ease as he rubbed the salve between his palms, warming it before he dared touch it to her skin. “This stuff is good,” he said conversationally. “I use it a lot. I know humans usually have the worst muscle pain on their second and third day, but Fae bodies recover more quickly. You’ll be sore tomorrow, but it shouldn't last much longer than that.”

Beneath his hands, he felt every inch of her skeleton. Nesta’s body was so thin it felt as if her skin was like paper—as if the bone might pierce through if his touch was too firm.

The knowledge made his stomach clench so fiercely he wanted to smash his fist into the wall. He had let this happen. He had let—

“Good,” Nesta clipped in response, but the sound was coarse, pushed through gritted teeth as his hands skated over what he had guessed earlier to be a sore spot between her shoulder blades.

“You need to start eating right, too,” Cassian dared to say, as his hands traversed down her lower back. He wasn’t sure where the confidence came to comment on her weight, not after she had spat at him when he had pleaded for her to eat at breakfast the other day. “And lots to gain back the weight. I can tell—”

Hot, sharp anger stabbed through him so fiercely that suddenly Cassian couldn’t breathe. Because across the lower curve of Nesta’s back was four silvery scars—claw marks made by ragged nails that raked their way underneath the nightgown pooled at her hips.

The air between them shuddered.

Free of siphons, Cassian’s Killing Power was untamed and unchecked. And that trembling… that was what happened when Cassian was furious enough for his magic to tumble out of him before he could stifle it.

He could not remember the last time it had happened. Not for four hundred years, at least.

“How old is that scar?”

His words were low and fucking dangerous, he knew that. His hands had stilled on her skin, but as he spoke, his left hand moved on instinct rather than logic.

Nesta stilled when he brushed his fingers over what must have been deep gauges. Gently, he traced the path of each cruel line—

“What scar?”

Cassian paused at the thick quality to Nesta’s voice, as if she had wrangled the words out of her throat lest they become lodged there.

That fury spiked again and the windows rattled. “Nesta, is that scar new or is it from that human?”

The way he spoke was too forceful and too commanding. He knew that before the mist started to spark from her fingertips. Before his magic began to roar in his veins at the sight of her power.

The way in which Nesta whirled on the spot was so fast that Cassian thought he’d blinked and missed it. “You said you would do this quickly.”

Despite the hiss, Nesta could not conceal the vulnerability that flickered in her eyes. It was that rare glimpse into that normally closed off tunnel that allowed Cassian’s roiling anger to still for long enough for rationality to kick in.

Slowly, Cassian loosed a long breath and dragged the back of his hand over his forehead in an attempt to smooth away his twisted expression. “I’m sorry Nesta, ok? Just… let me do this. Turn around.”

Those mercury eyes stared him down but Cassian did not balk. Instead, he scoured that beautiful, steely face. Never had Cassian witnessed Nesta smile, but even without it she was perfection. The Cauldron could not have Made someone more stunning and deadly. Even as a human, Nesta had been more breathtaking than any Fae Cassian had ever set his eyes on—would ever set his eyes on.

Nesta must have found something in Cassian’s expression, because slowly—with a final, deathly glare—she turned her back to him.

It was a sign of trust and one Cassian did not take lightly.

Scooping up some more salve, Cassian silently continued his task, gliding his hands over those taut, sore muscles. When he reached those scars again, his hands ghosted over them in a way that was too tender. The skin was ridged and Cassian dared to run a a calloused thumb over the raised bumps.

To his surprise, Nesta did not bat him away or set him alight.

“I’ll kill him for you, if that’s what you want,” he murmured darkly.

That haughty chin tilted upwards. “Why should I let you? It would take the joy out of knowing I can do it myself whenever the mood strikes.”

A low laugh skittered out of him. “Whilst that is a good point, the offer still stands. Or perhaps I can come with you, when you do decide to pay him a visit."

Screwing the lid back on the salve, Cassian placed it on the dresser, averting his eyes as Nesta quickly pulled her nightgown back up. Her skin was covered in goosebumps from being exposed to the cold air, and Cassian glanced towards the open, unlit hearth stacked neatly with pine logs. “I’ll get a log burner installed for your room this week.”

Nesta’s head snapped to look at him. She had been staring longingly at the heaps of blanket on her bed.

It was obvious she was desperate for him to leave.

“I —“ she started, but then she broke off. For a moment, silence fell, and Cassian knew she did not know how to concede—to say thank you.

So, he shot her a crooked grin and said, “I’ll see you bright and early for round two. Don’t be late.”

Tags: @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable​ @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta​ @inyourmindeye​ @amelie775  @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo​ @pizzaneverdisappoints​ @wishfulimaginings​ @trash-for-nessian​ @my-fan-side​ @sophilightwood​ @hatemecozuaintme​ 

[cosmic-conundrums]

Someone is singing on the Castleway. Now, this would typically be considered a fairly ordinary occurrence, if not for the fact that the singing is rarely being done by the corpses.

Passing through all four central kingdoms as it does, the Castleway is used for a multitude of purposes, not least among them the punishment of traitors and criminals. The lesser ones, generally. Those of import are most often dealt with personally by those they have wronged, and often with a certain flair and originality befitting their crimes. But for most, the Castleway is where they face their retribution, though it is sometimes considered more than they deserve.

The road itself is a patchwork of hard-packed dirt, cobbled stone, and tough wooden slats, depending on where you stand. As borders and rulers have changed, so too has the Castleway, going through countless damages and repairs until it is unrecognizable from the wide earthy trail it was in the early days. It is still wide, of course, wide enough to fit three full-size wagons side by side. And it is busy. The people flow like fish through a river, on carts and horses, in groups and as one; shouting, talking, laughing. Trading amongst themselves, breaking off old relationships and forging new ones, gathering fame and fortune and everything in between, all in the course of one journey. One can learn more about the world from following the Castleway than from any storyteller or newscarrier in the realm, it is said.

None of this is entirely relevant to this particular tale, however, or at least not quite so relevant as the stakes.

The stakes, referred to as ‘the Judge’s fingers’ by the general populace, line the Castleway on the left side. Heavy wooden stakes, as big around as trees, taller than even the most towering of persons, driven into the ground, each through a small wooden platform. They are spaced out irregularly along the path, so it is nigh impossible to guess how close one’s proximity will be to the next (nigh impossible only when considering the factor of luck. Remove that and it is simply impossible to guess).

These Judge’s fingers are where the aforementioned traitors and criminals face their retribution. To be sentenced to the Castleway is to be sentenced to either a slow, excruciating demise or a merciful release, on the whims of the Judge Eternal and Final. It is to be cruelly and brutally abandoned, to have the strings cut on your control over your fate. It is to be tied to a stake by the side of the road, and left there; handed over to the gods and the elements. Most die after only a couple of days. Brought down by starvation, storms, fires, the savagery of beasts or humanity. There are endless forms of death waiting on the Castleway. It is simply a matter of which one gets to you first.

There are not always occupants of the fingers, but it is often safe to assume that there will be one or two watching you as you pass by, eyes bright with anger or dark with despair. Some will shout, some will beg, some will cry. Some will say nothing. Most are already too dead to make a sound. This one, however, is singing.

It’s an unfamiliar song, the tune high and haunting, the voice sweet and rough, like crystallized honey. And it is ruining Ridley’s day.

It is incredibly bothersome to have your entire life’s purpose usurped by a corpse that refuses to die or shut its mouth. Alright, Ridley supposes, that’s a bit dramatic. But drama, as well, is a piece of what he was born to do, and at this particular moment he is having a disastrous time attempting to do it. The song on the breeze has a nasty habit of throwing him off his own melody, and every attempt to drown it out is met with new fervor from the singer. It’s frustrating as all hell, and Ridley has yet to see the face of his foe, which only stokes his ire further. He keeps his eyes on the fingers, scanning the expressions of those both alive and dead, watching their lips to see if they move. He wants to look upon the one who is ruining his day… and perhaps punch them. He hasn’t quite decided yet.

He’s nearly given up on trying to locate the singer and decided to push on and ignore the irksome voice, when he sees them. He can’t quite see the figure’s mouth moving from his vantage point a ways down the road from them, but he knows it’s them upon first sight. It can be no one else.

The figure stands tall and proud, despite being tied to a stake and the fact that they appear to be no more than five and a half feet of height. Unlike the others, they hold their head high, not a hint of defeat shown. As he gets closer, it becomes clear to Ridley that the figure is smiling as they sing, a soft, smirking grin, as if they know something everyone else does not.

Up close, Ridley can make out the words on the sign nailed into the post above the singer’s head. The letters are a slash of sanguine paint on dark wood, but they are easy enough to interpret: This man is sentenced to the Judge for heresy and refusal to submit to arrest.

The heretic himself is slight of build, with the type of lean muscle that comes from working with a weapon. His features are sharp yet fine, as though delicately cut from a rough stone; pointed chin, high cheekbones, distinctly sloped nose. There is a pale smattering of freckles across said nose and cheekbones, standing out prominently in the brilliant sunlight. His eyes glitter silver with humor and defiance, the expression turning their swampy grey color to radiance. His lashes are unusually long and dark, giving those eyes a captivation that is difficult to look away from. His hair, an auburn reminiscent of leaves in the falling season, falls just to his shoulder in the slightest of waves. He is dressed in the simple white shirt and leather breeches granted to prisoners, but he manages to make them look like the garb of a prince.

He continues to sing as Ridley watches, despite how he must have noticed the other standing there. He doesn't give any indication, however. Ridley folds his arms and glares, a challenge waiting to be met. The singer's eyes flick to him briefly, and he lifts an eyebrow in… invitation, it almost seems like. Well, Ridley’s not about to let that opportunity go.

With a flourish, the bard twirls around and deposits himself on the wooden platform at the base of the stake. He makes himself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other with pointed elegance. He flicks his eyes up to the heretic and attempts a scowl, and is met with absolutely nothing in return. So it’s going to be like that, is it? I see. Well, two can play at that game.

Two, as it turns out, cannot play at that game. The heretic continues to sing, and the song continues to distract Ridley in all his attempts to drown it out. To be honest, the bard isn’t exactly sure what he had intended to do here. He has a habit of making decisions like this, taking action without even considering what action to take.

The song never seems to end, the verses carrying on and on until Ridley nearly becomes convinced that it’s the only song he will ever hear again. No matter how intently he listens, he cannot for the life of him figure out the language. The words flow like a river, the vowels rolling like waves and the consonants crashing on the shore. It fits beautifully with the singer’s voice, Ridley has to admit, the slightly rough tone adding an unexpectedly welcome contrast to the smooth melody. The tune is just begging for a harmony.

Damn my nature, Ridley thinks as he begins to hum, testing the notes until he finds the ones that fit, turning the heretic’s song into a duet. He can’t follow along with the words, but the rest of it is easy enough to pick up. He sings loudly, lifting his voice up to carry along the Castleway. He’s always had a powerful voice, it’s one of the qualities that determined his prowess as a bard from a young age. There had been people listening to the heretic’s song from the start, but once Ridley joins in, more and more heads turn as they pass on the road, and some even stop to listen. Mostly families, dragged over to the side of the road by young children captivated by the music. Some merchants stop by, nodding gently along to the tune before moving along on their path. A group of soldiers for hire scowl at them as they pass, and Ridley scowls back. He’s never much liked soldiers. There’s another bard that stops as well, and performs an elegant dance for the heretic, bowing at the end before skipping away, humming the tune as she does so. And there’s an oddly pale figure, with strange colorless eyes and silvery hair despite its apparent youth, who stays longer than the rest, standing before the platform with its head cocked to one side, a mysterious glimmer in its eyes. The heretic ignores it, but Ridley stares right back at the figure, taking in its expensive clothing and well-groomed facade. It met his eyes with a cool, amused gaze, as unbreakable as stone. Now, Ridley may have a strong voice and a stronger will, but he folds under that gaze. He lowers his eyes as the figure smirks and walks away, strolling as though it has all the time in the world.

Not long after that, the song ends. The heretic’s voice trails off into the wind, and he closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the rough wood of the stake he is tied to. He appears… peaceful, content. It’s not an expression one would expect to see on the face of someone condemned to death, but then again it has already become clear that this someone is not much like the others.

“Thank you,” the singer says as Ridley is preparing to rise to his feet and leave, feeling silly and a bit embarrassed over what he has just done. Ridley startles. “For what?”

The heretic opens his eyes and smiles. “You made it beautiful.”

He’s talking about the song, Ridley realizes. “It was beautiful before,” he says in response. “Without me.”

“Not nearly as much,” the heretic points out. Ridley finds himself blushing faintly, proud of himself. “Well, you know, it comes with being the most famous bard and storyteller on this side of the four kingdoms.”

“Famous?” the heretic quirks an eyebrow. “Are you really?”

Ridley shrugs. “Probably. More famous than you, I’d bet.”

“Well, that would be because I am infamous, my small singing friend.”

Ridley has to bite down on his lip until he draws blood to keep himself from bursting out indignantly at being referred to as small. “I suppose that makes sense, you being a heretic and all.”

The heretic cocks his head, the light catching on a set of tiny ragged scars just around the edges of his mouth, mostly faded. “Is that what they call me? Heretic?”

“It’s not a very pretty name,” Ridley agrees. The heretic grins, the pale scars stretching. “I prefer Faraday,” he says.

“Now that is a pretty name,” Ridley bends over and plucks a pristine white daisy from the patch growing around his feet. “Faraday. Day. Daisy. Faradaisy. Can I call you Daisy?”

Without waiting for an answer, the bard plucks a few more of the flowers and begins weaving them into a crown. “So, Daisy, if you are not a heretic, what then are you?”

Faraday hmms in thought, tilting his head back against the wooden stake once again. “I am someone who believes,” he says, softly yet firmly.

“Is that not what we all are, at heart?” Ridley points out. He isn’t looking, but he can hear the heretic’s laughter. “I suppose you would call me a prophet, then,” Faraday confesses.

A prophet. Interesting. “I find that prophets and heretics are often the same, depending on who you ask.”

That laugh again, a shockingly harsh sound. “You speak true. Unusual for a storyteller, in my experience.”

“Many stories are true,” Ridley bites back, defensive.

“Many are not,” Faraday returns. Ridley huffs, defeated. He turns back to his daisy crown, but the silence quickly begins to bother him.

“You know, you’re in surprisingly good spirits for someone sentenced to death,” he says, forcing himself to remember the situation the other is in. Don’t get attached, Riddles. But if Faraday hears the bitterness in his tone, he doesn’t show it.

“Oh, I’m not going to die,” the prophet replies, confident as a king. Ridley whirls around to frown at him, doubtful. Faraday smiles brightly, tilting his head away from Ridley so the hair falls back from his throat, revealing another scar, this one thick and fairly recent, judging by the clear visibility of the stitches holding the flesh together.

“I have been sentenced to death too many times to count,” he explains softly, his rough honeyed voice falling uncharacteristically flat. “And not once has it killed me. Why should this be any different?”

“Gods,” Ridley chokes out, openly staring. He’s never seen a scar like that. He’s never seen a wound like that. He hadn’t thought anyone could survive something like that, let alone come out of it walking and talking and singing, for Executioner’s sake. “What did you do?”

“To make the world want my head on a platter?” Faraday sighs. “Well, that’s quite simple. I killed their gods.”

I killed their gods. I killed their gods. I killed their gods.

“Well,” Ridley says simply, sounding a few shades more hysterical than he had intended, “that would do it.”

Faraday nods, a slight acknowledging dip of the head, and turns his face to the horizon, his eyes sparkling in the light of the setting sun. “They are dead,” he says again, more to himself than to anyone else. “Whether they fell by my hand or another’s, I cannot say. But I know. I have stood upon their graves. I know.”

Ridley studies him, attempting to work through the puzzle that is Faraday the condemned. The prophet is sincere, that fact is as clear as day. Insane, but sincere. I am someone who believes, he had said. Someone who believes… Someone who believes.

It would be better if I left him here to die, Ridley thinks to himself. It would be the best thing to do. To most, it would be the only thing to do. But Ridley is someone who believes as well. Believes in hearing the full tale, in seeing it through to the end no matter how many tavern patrons or bored lords are screaming at him to quit the racket. There’s a song here. I can feel it.

Faraday startles when Ridley begins sawing at his bonds with his small dagger. “What are you doing?”

“You have a story,” Ridley babbles, justifying his actions to himself as much as to Faraday. “There’s something- I think there’s a story here. Something good. Something to make a legacy out of. I’m not- It can’t end here. I don’t think it’s supposed to.”

Faraday watches him, a slow, genuinely delighted smile crossing his scarred lips. “I never thought anyone would tell my story,” he says, and the soft surprise in his voice awakens a twinge of pity in Ridley. “I don’t see why not, it’s bound to be an adventure. I’ve always wanted to go on an adventure, you know?”

The ropes fall away in a slithery heap, landing in a puddle at Faraday’s feet. The prophet steps away from the stake, stretching his arms wide and throwing his coppery head back so the light shines full in his face. Now that his hands are free, the thick bands of scar tissue around each wrist are clearly visible, indicating countless bindings and chainings. He looks like a saint, standing there scarred, dressed in the simplest of clothing, long hair lifting in the wind. He looks like a king. He looks like a mistake waiting to be made.

When he has finished soaking up the last of the sunlight, Faraday bends to collect the crown of daisies Ridley had made. He places it on his head as reverently as he would a crown. “It suits you,” Ridley tells him. Faraday smiles, but it quickly falls as he glimpses the sign hung over his stake.

“They called me a man,” he mutters. “I do not like being called a man.”

“I understand that,” Ridley sighs. “I’m not always a man either.”

Faraday lingers on the sign a moment more, before turning on a heel, as fluid as a dancer, and strides off down the Castleway. He picks up his earlier song again, belting it loud to the heavens and the core of the earth. Ridley shakes his head as he follows, wondering what in the name of the Judge, Jury, and Executioner he has just gotten himself into.

At least it will be an adventure.