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pasukiyo · 1 year ago

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HANDLE IT

mike schmidt x f!teacher!reader word count; 2,417 warnings; once again, no plot, just porn <3 summary; mike has a look. that's never a good sign.

“Follow Mrs Davis and her class for lunch!”

Mike watched from his seat behind the teacher’s desk as his girlfriend saw her class out the door, hand on the handle and pulling it closed behind them, making sure to twist the lock while she did. The corners of his mouth twitched as she sighed and fell back against the door, blowing a strand of loose hair out of her face.

“Long day?” Mike asked and she narrowed her eyes over at him, her lips quirked in a tired grin. “Don’t even get me started,” she grumbled as she pushed herself off of the door, heels clicking against the tile as she made her way back to her desk.

“Abby hasn’t been a problem, I hope?” Mike cocked an eyebrow to his hairline as she leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek, settling herself down in her chair. She rolled her eyes at this, “you always make it seem like she should be causing trouble,” she tittered. “No, Abby’s always great.”

She watched as Mike reached for the floor beside him, a plastic takeout bag in his hand and she grinned, wiggling in her seat as he began to unravel the knot in the handles. “Sooo… what did you bring me?” She asked, letting the smell of what she swore was tomato sauce waft through her nostrils.

“New Italian place opened in the mall. Figured we could try it out,” he replied as he handed her one of the takeout boxes in which she ripped the lid off of, grinning over at Mike. “Spaghetti with meatballs. You know me so well.”

She leaned forward as he handed her the plastic fork to press a kiss against his lips and Mike smiled, practically chasing after her mouth again when she pulled away. He watched as she spun the spaghetti around her fork, as she took a bite and moaned at the taste.

Suddenly, Mike’s jeans felt very tight.

“What is this place called? It’s amazing,” she moaned, chewing behind her fingers as she turned to glance over at Mike. “Ten out of ten. This might even be better than your spaghetti and meatballs.”

Mike, although distracted by something else entirely, furrowed his brows at this, tossing his hands up. “Hey,” he said. “Thought you loved my spaghetti and meatballs.”

She shrugged, “they’re alright.” Mike playfully shoved her shoulder and she tried to bite back a chuckle, glancing back over to him. “Hey, I don’t see you eating spaghetti and meatballs, why don’t you try and find out?” She laughed, taking a bite from a meatball as Mike pressed his lips together, curved into a grin as he shook his head. “Nah, I’m not that hungry right now.”

She raised a brow and tilted her head to eye the other takeout box in the plastic bag. “Mike, you haven’t even touched your food,” she tittered, eyeing him incredulously. She narrowed her lids, “you have a look.”

The corner of Mike’s mouth twitched— she was catching on. “I don’t have a look.”

Her face fell and she dropped her fork in the to-go box, eyebrow cocked. “Yes, you do.”

Mike leaned back in his seat and locked his fingers together on his lap, shrugging as he turned his head to face her. “Enlighten me, what look do you think I have?”

For a fleeting moment, her gaze lowered to the very evident tent in his jeans, her thighs subconsciously clenching together at the sight, cheeks growing warm when he chuckled. She looked away, soothing her palms up and down the length of her skirt and Mike watched, teeth sunken into the inside of his cheek. A scenario played in the forefront of his mind, fantasizing about ripping the skirt clean off her legs and taking her right there on top of her desk had him balling a fist, squeezing his thumb so tight, it almost felt like it’d pop.

“Mike…”

“What?” He murmured, leaning in closer, brushing away the hair curtaining away the side of her face back behind her ear. She melted like wax at his touch, as if her fingertips were flames. Her skin burned so hot now, she feared she actually would melt into a pool of magma on the floor below.

“Here?” She whispered as he rolled his chair closer, his breath a phantom looming over her flesh, sending shivers slithering down the coil of her spine. Mike peered up into the sides of her irises, “why not?”

His lips pressed against the delicate skin just below her ear and she trembled, panicking eyes darting to the door she had thankfully locked. “I’ll give you a million reasons why not,” she murmured as his kisses trailed down to the curve of her shoulder, the scruff on his chin and just above his lips deliciously burning her skin.

“I can be sneaky,” he whispered against the valley between her neck and shoulder, his lips a crescent against her skin when he playfully nipped her flesh between his teeth there. She jolted and hissed, clenching her thighs together once more as the familiar slick of warmth burned the pit of her belly. “If somebody walks in, we’re both dead,” she murmured as his palm gripped and soothed down the length of her thigh, kneading at her knee, teasing her, taunting her.

“Relax, babe,” he breathed a chuckle against the crook of her neck. “I just want a taste, that’s all. Wouldn’t want you to get all fucked out before the day is over.”

His low, raspy words had her reeling, her head in a frenzy and teetering on the edge of a mindset she knew she was at risk of falling down into. “Screw you, Mike,” she muttered through gritted teeth as he grinned, placing one last kiss against the breadth of her shoulder before sinking down to his knees on the floor, hanging his head so that he could fit beneath the desk.

Her heart drummed against her chest as he slithered his way between her legs, hands on her knees as slowly he parted them, as if he were unwrapping a present on Christmas Day. Through heavy eyelids, she peered down at him just as a silent curse fell from his mouth, teeth burrowed into the plush of his bottom lip as the pads of his thumbs rubbed circles into the inside of her knees.

“You’re soaked clean through your panties,” he chuckled and she burned brighter, sweat already beginning to bead at her hairline and her chest heaving to the unsteady beat of her heart. His name fell from her lips in a whispered sigh as he reached forward with his right thumb, pressing the fat of it straight onto her clothed clit, her back arching up off of her chair as he traced an agonizingly slow and painful circle against it, sighing at the way her slick showed through the thin fabric of her underwear.

“Fffuck,” he grumbled beneath his breath, hiking the skirt that hugged her curves until they pooled at her hips, pushing her knees further apart until he had full access to everything. His gaze was like a laser, burning through the damp fabric of her panties straight through to her pussy. He eyed her like he was starved, like he’d go hungry if he didn't get himself a taste.

Mike hooked his middle and forefinger around the hem of her underwear and tugged, although with some resistance with how wet she was. She gasped when the fabric unstuck itself from her arousal, Mike’s lips falling agape as he tugged her panties all the way down her legs until they hooked around one single ankle. He pressed himself closer, wrapping his arms around her hips and with his palms to her ass, drawing her in even closer until she sat on the edge of her seat.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he marveled at the sight before him, admiring every single inch of her as if she were an artifact. She shuddered beneath his stare. “Mike,” she mewled through a shaky breath, “please.”

With those deep, rich chocolate brown eyes, he glimpsed up at her and she gazed back, wondering when his pupils ended and his irises started. His eyes glimmered with longing, with desire, with lust. She thought she’d come from just his stare alone.

“Have to stay quiet, hm?” He nodded up at her, maintaining eye contact as he pressed a kiss just above her clit, feeling it throb against his chin as she writhed, trying to suppress her mewl. She nodded, pressing her lips together as she briefly glanced up at the door then to the windows— she was so grateful she’d drawn the blinds earlier.

Their gazes never leaving one another, Mike carefully leaned down to press a tender kiss on top of her aching bud, her toes curling in, back arching off the back of her chair. One of her hands flung to the mess of dark tendrils atop his head, the other gripping the armrest of her desk chair. Mike pulled away again, the makings of a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Think you can handle it?” He asked and she whimpered, nodding, every ounce of dignity in her body long gone, thrown somewhere far away from right there.

“Just… please, Mike,” she whined, trying to keep her voice on the low as she gripped the roots of his hair tighter, inviting him back into her warmth, his arousal like a gloss on his lips. The crescent shape of his lips fell back against her clit as he pressed another kiss to it, electricity flowing through her body and making her jolt once more.

Mike eyed her through hooded lids as he licked a stripe all the way from her entrance back up the underside of her clit, relishing in the way she’d tremble and press her lips together in a desperate attempt to silence her whimpers. The delectable taste of her arousal coated his tongue and simmered on his taste buds as if she were his ambrosia, and he hummed as he licked another line up her slit.

“Taste so damn good,” he practically growled against her cunt as he plunged his face back in, his lips around her clit and tongue swirling against the sensitive nub. Tears were streaming down the sides of her face now as she threw her head back, using every last ounce of strength inside her body to will her moans to stay at a minimum. All she could do was pray that nobody would come knocking on her classroom door now.

A string of curses, his name among the mix, tumbled from her lips as he sucked her clit, every swirl of his tongue coaxing her closer and closer to the edge. She was balancing on a tightrope now, teetering on bliss as his tongue trailed down to her entrance, slow but firm as it pushed its way in. Her fingers tightened in the mess of hair on his head, pulling harder, making him surge into her.

She could feel every inch of his tongue inside of her and he was so close, the bridge of his nose pressed deliciously down on her clit, sending her down into a spiral of pleasure. She squeezed her eyelids together so tight, she was seeing stars, a shimmering backdrop of glitter as he swirled his muscle inside of her, humming into her at her taste.

“Sh… shi… shit, Mike!” She gasped as he nodded his head, tongue swirling inside of her, the bridge of his nose rubbing up and down against her clit. Her eyes were rolling into the back of her hand, every move his tongue made and every bit of pressure his nose applied to her clit added more rubber bands to the ball pressing down against the pit of her belly, dangerously close to erupting. “I’m… I’m gonna come if you don’t… if you don’t stop.”

Mike blinked up at her and pulled away for breath, every inch of his face from the bridge of his nose down slick and shiny with her arousal. She felt herself clench at the mere sight as his chest heaved, chasing air back into his lungs, a smug smirk on his face. “I’m betting on it, babe,” he chuckled before diving back in, her pussy empty one moment and nearly full of his tongue the next.

His eagerness almost had her screaming, her nails scraping so hard against his scalp, somewhere in the back of her mind, she feared she’d draw blood. Mike hummed against her— he didn’t seem to mind so much.

Oh, how could he when he could sense she was so close? He could practically smell her orgasm, using every ounce of skill in his body to push her even closer to the edge, to knock her unsteady on top of that tightrope until it snapped below her altogether.

With her hand not tangled in his hair, she sank her teeth into the side of her hand to muffle the scream that ripped through her body, squeezing her eyelids shut even tighter as her body spasms, bones rattling in her release’s wake. Her orgasm thundered and cracked through her body like an earthquake, the sheer power of her release like a tempest. Her thighs squeezed around Mike’s head and he palmed at the sides of them as he swirled his tongue inside of her again and again, making sure not a drop of her went to waste.

He was practically drinking her, slurping every last drop until there was none left to be had. And only when that moment came did he pull away, breathless as he sat back on his heels below her desk, swiping at the slick dripping down his face with the back of his hand.

Mike gazed up at her curiously, her head still thrown back over the back of the chair, chest heaving up and down as she struggled to catch her breath. He chuckled as he pushed himself out from underneath her desk and up so that he could stand beside her, a palm cupping her cheek, the other aiding her head to sit normally on her shoulders. The pad of his thumb soothed over against her cheek, coaxing her out of her bleary state, her vision slowly beginning to clear again.

Mike tried to bite back his smile, “doing alright there?”

She huffed as her cheeks burned, “shut up, Mike.”

a/n; i ended up writing up this one in like 45 minutes while sitting in the bathtub LMAO y'all went absolutely crazy with the last mike fic, you literally broke my tumblr notifications 😭 glad to see so many others horny for josh in this movie too

TAGLIST !!

@bxbyyyjocelyn

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt fnaf #fnaf movie #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #josh hutcherson #michael afton #michael afton x reader #mike schmidt imagine

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leth-writes · 3 months ago

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yandere Tim Drake x meta reader part two

summary: we find out more about what life is like now for the reader.

Warnings: The usual for my blog!

Tim had luminous green eyes. They were the most sickly green, almost glowing, you’d ever seen, pale and round and sunken into his skin like you could see the skull beneath his skin. It was like he was secretly a corspe walking around, without a soul. Sometimes you did think he didn’t have a soul.

Tim had basically changed your life completely in the span of a week. He was still the only one in the general population who could really see you, but he introduced you to his family, the Waynes, who were all able to see you as well, though none as clearly as Tim could. It was like there was something in the water that transformed their reasoning and observational abilities; you couldn’t even sneak down to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat without Alfred, the tall, lean family butler, greeting you. Though, most didn’t look you in the eyes. You thought it was because they had noticed how uncomfortable you got at direct eye contact, though Tim continued to stare into your eyes like he was trying to yank your soul out through your face. It was stressful, but you didn’t have any choice; you owed him. He’d got his dad to practically adopt you, letting you stay in the manor and giving you a whole host of things you hadn’t seen since you were a child, including the softest blanket you’d ever felt, and Bruce had gotten you a private tutor named Jonn, who was also able to see you. Jonn’s presence was a soothing balm on your frayed nerves, though you were loathe to admit that Tim was the cause of your anxiety. There was just something about him, afterall.

You had a new family, and things you could leave in your room without worrying they’d get stolen, and cute clothes, and a tutor… it was a better life than you’d ever had before. Yet, you felt guilty. Weren’t you taking too much? So, you approached Jonn one day, asking him to create a bracelet that would limit your abilities and let you be seen. It was the only way to be able to get a normal life and pay back your generous benefactors, though they insisted they didn’t need the gesture of kindness.

Jonn had complied; afterall, it wasn’t too hard to create one off of pre-existing schematics that were commonly used for cases similar to yours. He had gifted it to you in front of the entire family, who clapped and congratulated you. All except Tim, who leant in the corner with his arms crossed, looking out the window with those distant green eyes.

It had only been a week since you got the bracelet when it first went missing. You searched everywhere, high and low, including getting the others in on the search, to no avail. You had only the family bedrooms left to search, though you’d have to be quick. In and out, quick as you could manage, you searched Jason, Dick, and Damian’s rooms. Then you crossed over and searched Bruce and Cass’s rooms. Finally, you knocked on Tim’s door. It was just a formality at this point, you couldn’t imagine him misplacing it. Faced with no response, you opened the door. And spotted the box.

You’d never seen this box before. It was plain, nondescript. A faded grey, it looked slightly aged and well-loved. Pulling off the lid, you found photos. dozens and dozens of photos. Most were of you, though a few were of Tim’s other family members. Dick, Jason, even Bruce all made appearances, clearly going back years before you’d ever met. Hell, some seemed to be from before Jason had even joined the family, and well before Tim had met the Waynes or lost his parents. How did he get these? There were pictures of you sleeping, walking, breaking into buildings and the school library, even changing… most were from before you’d ever met Tim. Underneath it all was your bracelet, pulled apart into small wires and bits.

“Oh, you’ve found the box,” Bruce’s voice rang out from behind you. You whirled around, watching as he shut and locked Tim’s door, staring at you with a clear, blank expression you’d never seen on his normally joyful face. “It’s Tim’s?” You replied, voice trembling.

He sighed, leaning against the door and crossing his arms. “Yes, it belongs to Tim. I know it seems creepy, but you have to understand… Tim isn’t like us. He doesn’t experience emotion in the same way we do, he never learned the normal boundaries of relationships, growing up the way he did. He uses his camera as a way to capture us, to keep us with him, it’s his way of keeping us safe when he can’t act.”

“They’re from before he met me.” You said, voice hard and cold.

“Yes. Tim tends to stake out anyone he finds particularly interesting. That’s why most of the photos are so old. Think of it as his way of doing research. He feels the need to build our family by snatching up people he thinks of as his, moving around the pieces of our lives until we can be safetly integrated. It’s not so bad, you get used to it.” He continued.

“My parents…” You began, almost too afraid to ask.

“Yes. He planted the idea of a surprise move, a new start. They were being haunted by the ghost of a child they’d never known, and Tim needed a way to get you into position. He’s got a very strategic mind.” Bruce supplied, once again adopting that soft smile you’d grown used to. “Don’t worry, he only does it because he cares. You should see what he does to his enemies…”.

Tim Drake saw you in a way no one else had before.

#lethwrites #yandere batfam #yandere batman #yandere tim drake #yandere tim drake x reader

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gluion · 25 days ago

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[teaser] missing home — kim gyuvin

kim gyuvin x reader

PART OF THE BOOK OF US SERIES wc — 0.8k, full fic expected to be 15-20k (target publishing date around mid-late november) genre & warnings — strangers to lovers to exes to lovers, fluff, angst, crack, small town au, high school then college au, eumppappa is major character, familial issues, pov switching, gyuvin just wants to learn how to plays drums & reader just wants to stay at the animal shelter, minor character death playlist/inspired by — “i smile” by day6 notes — i needed people to be excited with me okay </3

want to be part of the series taglist? fill out the form! masterlist

synopsis — when kim gyuvin is forced to volunteer at an animal shelter, the last thing he expects is to be compared to a rescued dog. (and to fall in love with you.)

the last thing gyuvin expects to receive from his mom is a volunteer recruitment flyer, especially one from an animal shelter. he doesn’t know why she has one. the household never had animals, limiting his interactions to ones with his cousin’s pet every visit. yet, in his hands is a piece of paper with the words, volunteers needed, written in bold and uppercase.

“mom, i don’t understand why you’re asking me to volunteer.” gyuvin complains as he leans on the wooden dining table. his fingers trace against the grooves as he watches his mom in the kitchen.

the smell of freshly cut cabbage and kimchi paste lingers in the air. despite the noisy fan, a familiar trot record plays from the living room. as his mom sways to the melody, she coats each leaf with a spicy paste. during these moments, she never pays attention to what gyuvin has to say. the kitchen feels like her own bubble, where she’s able to enjoy the feel of a wooden spatula in her hand and taste every dish.

“mom.”

“what?” she doesn’t spare him a glance.

gyuvin sighs before looking at the flyer once more. “why are you making me volunteer?”

“it’s good, honest work. plus, it deals with animals. don’t you like playing with your cousin’s cat?” she sets the cabbage away in a container.

“i do, but i don’t understand why that means i should volunteer at an animal shelter.”

she looks at him before saying, “because i’d rather you to do something useful with your time than waste the weekends.”

he frowns at her accusations. “but mom, i study! and if i’m not studying, i’m resting.”

she scoffs at his words. “don’t be silly. on the weekends, you’re making all that noise in your room! i can’t rest.”

gyuvin hates whenever she said that. after all, where could he learn how to play the drums if not at the comfort of his room? although he might not have a real drum kit, resorting to cardboard boxes and metal lids, he truly believed he was getting the hang of playing drums. (even if it may not sound as great as a legitimate drum kit.)

“anyway, it’s final. you’re going to that animal shelter. today.”

“today?!” he springs up from the seat.

she hums before shutting the container close. “yes. i can’t stand all that metal clashing anymore. you’re making it hard to listen to the vinyl player.”

“but—”

“i mean it.” with a final, stern look from her, gyuvin finds himself defeated. if he argues any more, he’d only face even worse consequences.

gyuvin leaves with the crumpled flyer in his hand.

the animal shelter has become a staple in the small, quiet town by the bay. life seems to thrive, where barks overpower the waves that crash against rocks.

although gyuvin has never thought about adopting a pet, he thinks of himself as a frequent visitor to the shelter. given that it’s on the route going to school, it’s hard to miss the windows that display all the pets who chew on toys and bathe in the sunlight. he always waves at them before going on with his day with a smile.

yet, he stands in front of the building with sunken shoulders.

with a sigh, he swings the door open. there’s a series of barks that boom at his appearance, where cages rattle against walls. in the short silence, he hears a soft melody playing from the back. he walks on animal fur until he reaches the front desk. while there isn’t a bell for him to ring, he hopes the howls are enough to signal his presence, hoping for someone to come.

but what gyuvin doesn’t expect is for a dog to come running his way. they leap onto him, causing him to wrap his arms around the pet. as the canine wiggles in his arms, his heart races over fear.

maybe gyuvin isn’t the best with pets. after all, he only watched his cousin whenever she’d bathe her cat. gyuvin thinks these creatures are fragile, that even a meter drop could result in broken legs. “yah! yah! don’t fall!” he says as the canine continues to thrash around.

“eumppappa!”

and somehow, his heart drops as the dog leaps off. he shuts his eyes close, scared to hear their whimpering, only to the pitter-patter of paws against the floor. he watches the dog walk to the back of the building with their tail wagging.

“come here, you silly girl!” you come out with the same grey dog in your arms.

what gyuvin expects to be asked is about his visit to the shelter. he’s ready to pull out the flyer, his hand fishing for the crumpled paper in his pocket, only to hear a giggle escape you.

“wait a minute.” you glance between him and the dog in your arms, only for another laugh to leave you. “you look like eumppappa!”

gyuvin frowns. “i’m sorry?”

“look!” you raise the dog close to his face, allowing yourself to see a side-by-side comparison of him and the canine. “you look just like her!”

somehow, his mom giving him a flyer from the animal shelter isn’t the weirdest event to come out from today; the last thing he expected is to be compared to a rescue dog—especially from an animal caretaker.

networks taglist: @kflixnet @k-labels @blankjournal @zumblrnet @kstrucknet

series taglist: @slytherinshua @headhooner @dwcljh @acaciacore @m0rkfangirl

@zzurao @sseastar-main @blooqz @taylorluvation

zb1 permanent taglist: @deinsleeps @sofix-hc7

#works of moni #kflixnet #bjnet #k-labels #kstrucknet #zerobaseone #zb1 #zb1 x reader #zb1 imagines #zb1 fluff #kim gyuvin #kim gyuvin x reader #kim gyuvin imagines #gyuvin x reader #kim gyuvin fluff #zb1 angst #kim gyuvin angst #zb1 crack #kim gyuvin crack

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maimingaffairs · 11 months ago

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Grieving for the Living (Aleksander Morozova x fem!reader) Part 5

The entirety of a capricious and treacherous marriage between the Darkling and the Lantsov princess.

read previous parts here!! part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

hi just popping in to say i love u guys always and longer. thank u for 400 followers, i could just kiss all of you!

word count: 8.5k

warnings: everything is cannon typical. unhealthy relationship dynamics are ahead, too.

taglist: @il0vebeingdelulu @mellowarcadefun @budugu @eir964 @arwensloanebarnes @marytvirgin @chaoticcoffeequeen @claire-loves-music

“I had a dress made for you.”

This was the first time your mother had directly spoken to you since you left Os Alta. She stood in the doorway of your room holding a large white box and she smiled at you.

It wasn’t a pleasant smile by any means. It was one of ambivalence and nervousness. You had half a mind to hiss at her like a cat to see her go running down the hall, but you didn’t.

Instead, you mirrored her smile and you set your book down upon your lap. You sat in the far corner of your room on an overly cushioned chair, legs crossed stiffly in front of you.

“I didn’t expect that. I just planned on wearing one of my old ones to the party.” You hummed and folded your arms over your chest.

Your mother, as vain as ever, had insisted on an engagement party for Nikolai and Alina, even whilst you were in hiding. You thought it to be in poor taste that a social outing was all she could think of in a time like this, but you truthfully didn’t expect much else of her, either.

“Yes, well, we have to look our best, don’t we? It’s really a lovely dress. It’s lilac, with lots of pearls. You love pearls.” Your mother said with a proud smile.

You eyed her and sent her back a half smile of your own. In the months she’d spent without Genya Safin tailoring her, it seemed she had aged years and years. Her skin was thin and wrinkled like old parchment and there were little spots on the backs of her hands. Her eyes seemed to have sunken in a bit, as well, and her hair was greying rapidly, losing the blonde that Genya had so often given her.

“You’re right. I do love pearls.” You replied emptily and slowly rose from the chair.

You strode towards your mother and you noticed that when you were within a few feet of her, she took a couple steps back as if you were going to attack her. You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

You reached out and lifted the lid from the box on your bed and you dropped it aside so that you could pull out the dress. It was a big, heavy piece of clothing, and just when you thought you’d gotten it all out of the box, it kept coming. Finally once you’d pulled the entire gown out of the box, you pushed the box aside and it clattered on your floor. You laid the dress out on your bed and examined it.

It really was a lovely dress. It was nearly as big as your wedding gown, which had been ridiculously large. The skirt was a lovely shade of lilac with swirls and designs embroidered into the shimmering fabric, embellished with little pearls. The bodice must have been what weighed the dress down so drastically, because it was an intricate piece of work. Pearls and other beads were sewn into the fabric so densely that you could hardly see the purple fabric underneath it, and the sleeves were two dainty little cuffs that would surely rest just off of your shoulders.

You turned to look at your mother and you blinked a few times.

“You had this made for me?” You asked incredulously, gaping over at her, “I’m shocked you would give me the time of day.”

Your mother looked a bit guilty and then she shrugged, “Well, it was not my idea, to be honest. It was Nikolai’s. But I was the one that told them which color to use. And to use pearls! Because you love them.”

You gave her a weak smile and then you turned towards her completely. Perhaps this was an olive branch. The beginnings of a bridge that would bring you back into your family’s good graces.

“Thank you, Mother. Why don’t we go have some tea? Or take a small walk? We still have almost an hour before we have to get ready for the party, and I-“

Your mother’s face became pinched, as if she’d eaten a sour fruit and she held her hand up to silence you.

“I’m afraid I must decline, and it’s for the best. I’m sure I’ll see you at the party and have my fill of you for the day there.” She said primly and then nodded to the dress, “Anyway, thank Nikolai for that.” She said airily before she gave you a nod and quickly scurried out of your bedroom.

You pursed your lips at the interaction and you moved to close the door behind her. Once it was closed, you turned back to look at the dress on your bed. You stared down at it with an apoplectic sneer and you let out a little scoff.

You had half a mind to wear one of your black dresses, just to see what she’d do about it. She’d probably faint and claim that your mind had been completely possessed by the Darkling. You snorted humorlessly and then shook the idea from your head- no matter how appealing.

A knock sounded at your door and you almost groaned, the desire to be alone consuming you rapidly. You shuffled over to the door listlessly and opened it up to see Nikolai standing in your doorway with a big grin on his lips. He shouldered past you and walked into your bedroom and he let out a low whistle.

“I see Mother has brought your dress to you. Isn’t it nice?” He asked and looked down at it, examining the gown with an approving nod.

“It’s pretty. I didn’t expect it.” You answered and watched your brother while he studied the dress.

“Well, I had her have her seamstress throw something nice together for you. Honestly, with any luck, you’ll completely upstage her. I’d like to see that.” He said and turned towards you, the same grin still on his lips.

You stared back at him and then shrugged, “She might behead me if I did that.”

Nikolai waved his hand dismissively and then he clicked his tongue.

“Try as she might, I do believe you’ve always upstaged her. Even when you were much younger.” He replied and sat down on the edge of your bed.

“Don’t tell her that.” You mumbled and sat down on the edge of the bed right next to Nikolai.

Nikolai reached over and gently patted your shoulder and he let out a long sigh.

“Listen, I know you’ve not been very happy these last few weeks. I won’t pretend to know exactly why but I have theorized a bit,” he began and then he folded his hands in his lap, “I worry about you often. I know things have been difficult for you, but I’m here for you. And you know, if there’s anything I can do for you, I’m always willing to do it. You’re my little sister, you’ve been my best friend since you could walk. I’ll protect you at any cost.” Nikolai finished and then he turned to look at you with a small smile.

You looked up at him and you let out a little sigh, giving him a slight nod.

“Yeah. I know. And I appreciate it. I appreciate you. Everything is just so… loud, right now. Can’t have a moment of peace, not even when it’s silent.” You murmured, sounding distant in your own ears.

“Peace isn’t really obtainable. At least, in my experience. But finding comfort in the midst of unrest may be the closest thing to it.”

You wondered what your brother meant by that. Nikolai spoke two languages; one being charming sarcasm, and the other being riddles. It was always one or the other. This seemed to be another one of his metaphor ridden riddles.

“Nothing in life is really easy. Happiness doesn’t come easily and neither does comfort. You’re going to lose things, you’re going to get hurt, you’re going to have to make hard decisions and even harder sacrifices, but no matter how hard it gets, you must keep writing your story. You might be miserable doing it and you might feel like you’re fighting a losing war, but whatever. Life goes on.” He finished and then he gave you another smile. A soft, genuine smile.

You returned his smile, even if you didn’t really mean it.

“Life goes on.” You repeated and he beamed, patting your knee a couple of times.

“Indeed it does, little sister.” He said and rose from the edge of your bed.

“Why don’t you start getting ready for the party?” He suggested and then strode towards your door. He stopped in the doorway though and looked over his shoulder at you.

“I mean it, y/n. Life goes on.”

As he left your room, you felt a frown cover your face.

You weren’t so sure he was right.

When you strode into the party, you were already nearly an hour late. Your dress was heavy and it took you and one of your mother’s servants nearly twenty minutes to get it on. Every moment you were late after that was your own fault. You didn’t relish the idea of a party and you didn’t want to be seen by people.

But of course, eyes would wander and they did.

When you walked into the large room, chatter seemed to quiet. Not entirely, but enough to make an indication that something was happening, causing heads to turn towards you.

You squared your shoulders and walked straight into the crowded room, not sparing any of the staring guests a second- or first- glance. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of your curiosity.

The very small train of your gown dragged rhythmically behind you as you walked through the crowd and shoulders past a few bystanders who didn’t have the mind to move out of the way for you. You set your sights on Nikolai who stood with Vasily and your mother and you walked towards them. You pressed your lips together and did your best to make your expression as stoic and impassive as possible.

Nikolai was the first to look up at you, and a warm smile covered his face. Vasily looked up at you next and then finally, so did your mother. She regarded you the same way you would regard a particularly sour piece of fruit- with a pinched expression and a particular distaste.

As you approached them, your eyes traveled over your mother. She looked… aged. Life without a Tailor hadn’t been treating her well. You’d remembered her being so beautiful when you were a child. None of that beauty remained. You wondered if it was simply age that had made her seem so displeasing to look at or if it was the way she had been acting towards you. Whatever it was, it hardly bothered you.

“There she is! I was wondering when you’d come down!” Nikolai beamed and he plucked a glass of champagne off of a tray carried by a passing waiter and he passed the dainty cup to you.

You took the glass from his hands gratefully and you took a small sip before you cleared your throat and glanced at your mother through your periphery. She was still staring you down.

“I was under the impression this was to be a small affair.” You remarked airily.

Nikolai seemed to think the same thing as you because he nodded and looked around the room with a small bit of disdain on his face.

“Yes, my thoughts exactly. How many guests did you invite?” He asked, his fingers tapping at his palms.

Your mother gave a passive, smug smile and she shrugged, “Vasily got a little overzealous with the invites,” she started and then glanced at your eldest brother, “Now, I don’t entirely agree with your Caryeva set, but I admit, that sort lends a certain air of festivity.” She praised idly, giving Vasily an approving smile.

You scoffed, and you swore you heard Nikolai do the same, but much quieter.

There was a moment of silence amongst the four of you, and you looked around at each member of your family. Your mother looked at ease, Vasily seemed a bit drunk, and Nikolai’s brow creased with worry. You frowned.

“Nik, what’s the matter?” you asked, taking a step closer to him.

“He’s revealed our location to the gamblers and freeloaders he calls friends.” He snapped and then looked at Vasily with an incredulous annoyance.

Vasily looked at Nikolai through his drunkenly heavy eyes and he sneered a bit.

“That’s rich coming from a pirate.” He remarked, his words slurring ever so slightly, “you make yourself ridicul-“

“The Darkling lives!” Nikolai shot back, cutting Vasily off.

Your mother placed a dramatic hand over her chest and then she eyed you suspiciously. You rolled your eyes.

“We are at great risk if our location is compromised! You’d sacrifice us all for your pride and stupidity.” Nikolai continued, his eyes meeting yours.

“You overreach, you little bastard.” Vasily slurred back, and he clapped a clumsy hand on Nikolai’s shoulder before he turned to face the majority of the crowd, “A toast!” He announced, cockily, before marching off to the front of the room.

Your mother placed her hand on Nikolai’s arm and gave him a small, apologetic smile before she caught your eye. When your gaze met hers, her smile melted away and all that was left on her face was a resonant disgust.

You brushed off her glare. You were done feeling sorry for yourself over things you couldn’t possibly control, your mother’s disdain being one of those things. What were you trying to prove anymore? And to whom were you trying to prove anything to? If your mother wanted to scorn you, then you could scorn her right back. You smoothed down your dress and gave her a saccharine smile.

“Mother, isn’t it too bad that Genya Safin isn’t here? You are in dire need of refreshment.” You cooed. Her brows furrowed together, but you would never know what she would have said, because Vasily boisterously began his toast.

“I’d like to share some words about my brother,” he began and motioned towards the three of you, “Nikolai!” He crooned and then took a sip of his wine, “Yes, yes, we all know he’s pretentious… condescending… a man of the people. But!” Vasily remarked and you glanced at Nikolai who rolled his eyes warily.

He glanced at the table of drinks in the corner and then back at you, giving you a small nod towards the table, mouthing ‘let’s go’. You took a few steps towards him while Vasily droned on.

“He has some hidden qualities, too. His intended should-“

Just as you took your final step towards Nikolai, the sound of shattering glass turned your attention up to the ceiling. The entire domed skylight had collapsed, and thick, smoky tendrils of shadow invaded the room at a rapid pace. As soon as they crashed into the ground, they shifted into humanoid forms. They had no eyes, but mouths with rows of serrated, crooked teeth, and they rushed forth and began to attack everyone in their path.

Glass fell from the crumbling remains of the skylight above your head and bits of it rained down into your hair. You shook your head rapidly and looked at Nikolai, bewildered. Nikolai looked back at you and he grabbed your arm and pulled you behind him, along with your mother. Gunfire and screams were the only things you could hear besides the occasional snarl from the shadow creatures. Guards were attempting to shoot at the creatures, but the bullets went right through them. The creatures knocked over tables and sent partygoers flying through the air as they moved around the room. Across the room, you saw Vasily dive behind an overturned table and you grasped onto Nikolai’s shoulder.

“What is this?” You asked, in a panic. You feared you already knew the answer.

“They must be the nichevo'ya David spoke of. Which means the Darkling must be close by.” Nikolai said sharply, keeping his hand on your arm protectively. You felt faint and you grasped his shoulder tightly to keep from stumbling.

“Nikolai-“

“We have to get out of here. Most importantly- we have to get you and Alina out of here.” He stated and you looked to the opposite side of the room. Alina and a few of her Grisha all stood behind a table that rested on its side, and all of them were doing what they could to fend off the nichevo'ya.

Gunfire still rang out around you and Nikolai spun around to look at you, his face pale.

“Run. Go. Right now. Get out of here. Grab a horse if you must but get out of here. I will find you, I swear it, but get out now. Before the Darkling comes.” Nikolai ordered and you gave him a clumsy nod before you grabbed the skirts of your gown and darted out from behind your brother. You ran along the wall, away from the creatures and the crowd and you had nearly made it to the door when a nichevo'ya materialized in front of you.

Your eyes widened and before you could scream, the creature lunged at you. You held your arms up defensively and waited for a blow that never came. You wondered if you had died for a split second, but you still heard screams around you. You slowly lowered your arms to see the creature standing in front of you, unmoving. If it had eyes, they would have been fixed on you as you stood before it. You took one step away from it, to gauge whether or not it would stop you, and when it didn’t, you turned on your heel and ran straight out into the hall. You dashed down corridors and around corners before you came to the front doors. You pushed them open ferociously and you barreled out the door, only to come to a skidding halt.

The grounds were surrounded by Grisha in their brightly colored keftas. You looked at them cautiously, only to realize that you didn’t recognize a single one of them.

Confused, you watched them all take slow steps closer and closer. They all looked fierce and determined as they moved in on the building you stood in front of, and it took you longer than you cared to admit to realize that these were Aleksander’s Grisha.

Before you could even turn to run back inside, they parted down the middle and through the crowd strode the man who had played on your mind every single day for the past months on end.

You stood, frozen in place. You wanted to run, but where could you run to? If you ran inside, you risked death by nichevo'ya, but if you ran anywhere out here, one of the surrounding Grisha would easily stop you. You were trapped.

He walked towards you with determination and as he got closer you could make out his facial features. His hair was the same; dark and gracefully pushed away from his face. His eyes were the same, too, so dark that they could pass for black. But there was something different about his face now. On the flawless pale skin of his lovely face sat three, thin, ink black scars that ran down his face at an angle.

From the volcra, you realized, and took a step back as he approached you.

You tried to stand tall and strong against him, but the second he came within three feet of you, you scurried backwards and held your hand out to stop him.

“Don’t come any closer.” You forced out, not pleased with how shaky your voice had become.

He didn’t listen.

He stepped closer and grabbed your wrist, moving your hand back down to your side. A beautiful, longing smile grew upon his face, as if he had just returned home from the longest of wars and he dropped your wrist, instead taking your chin in his hand.

“My beautiful wife.” He breathed, staring down at you. You pulled away from him and you shook your head.

“No. I am no longer your wife.” You spat, backing up against the closed doors behind you.

For every step you took away from Aleksander, he took one towards you, until you were trapped between him and the door.

“How curious, then, that you still wear your ring.” He murmured and looked down at your hand.

You swallowed hard and looked up at him, fear seizing you with a thousand hands.

“Don’t look at me like that. I am not here to hurt you, my love. I’m here to collect what’s been taken from me.” He cooed and reached out to brush his fingertips across your jaw.

His touch was so gentle; so loving, and you nearly found yourself instinctively leaning into it. It took all of your willpower to keep your head straight.

“And what might that be?” You demanded, clasping your hands behind your back.

He gave you another smile, but this smile was akin to one that you’d give a child after they said something completely outlandish and silly.

“You, of course. And the Sun Summoner.” He answered, moving his hand away from your face, reluctantly.

You snorted and stared up into his eyes challengingly, “I’m not an object to be collected.” You retorted and grasped the door handles behind your back. Perhaps if you could get back inside, you could find another way out. Another way away from him.

As if he expected this from you, he reached out and grabbed onto your wrists and pulled them in front of you, holding them in a tight grip.

“No, of course not. But I have so missed you, and despite what you may say, I think you’ve missed me as well, little Princess.” He murmured and then leaned down to kiss your forehead, keeping your wrists in his grip.

“I will not go. I will never follow you again.” You stated, shaking your head a few times.

His hands were freezing cold against your skin and the even colder metal of his own wedding ring made you want to shiver.

“I was afraid you’d say something like that.” He sighed, shaking his head as if he were dealing with a petulant child.

He turned around and nodded to one of the Grisha behind him, and a man quickly made his way up to the two of you. He wore a bright red kefta and a stony expression. Aleksander looked at you with regret in his dark eyes and then he shook his head once.

“Let me go, at once.” You whispered and tried to pull away from him.

“You can come with me willingly or my Heartrender can put you to sleep and make you come with me. I would prefer willingly, my love.” He said softly, brushing his thumbs back and forth across your wrists as he held them.

You shook your head.

“I already told you I won’t be coming with you.” You said sternly, staring back into his eyes challengingly.

He let out a sigh and leaned forward to kiss your cheek once before he dropped your wrists and nodded at his Heartrender.

“Then I suppose you’ll make me do this the hard way. I’ll see you when you wake, my dear.” He said, as if it pained him so.

You moved to grab the door again, but before you could, the Heartrender at your husband’s side raised his hands and suddenly you could only see black.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. You had been slipping in and out of consciousness, though. Unless you had been dreaming. Sometimes you’d see people over you, other times you’d hear muffled conversations, but nothing was clear.

When you were finally awoken, it was slow. You felt your body waking up first, and your muscles felt stiff and unused. You became vaguely aware of the feeling of fingertips, brushing comfortingly across your face, over your cheekbones, across your jaw, along the bridge of your nose. The action was calming, and you felt blissful, as if you were waking from a peaceful nap.

Only when you opened your eyes, did reality strike you, hard and fast. There was hardly any light in the room you were in. It was dark and it was a bit cold, but you noticed there was a blanket covering you to your shoulders. You laid upon a bed that felt like it had hardly been slept in, and you flickered your gaze over to the side. There Aleksander sat, on the edge of the bed. His calloused fingers were still moving affectionately over your face and a small smile formed on his scarred face. You stared up at him, unable to find words to express your newfound disgust.

“There she is. There’s my lovely girl.” He purred and he brushed his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling his hand away from your face with a reluctance that you had never seen him use, “I’ve so missed your voice, little love.”

You stared up at him, silent. There was the faint sound of conversation out in the hallway and there were hurried footsteps, and it was the only noise that floated around the two of you for a long time. Your eyes traveled his face. His once perfect skin was now marred with three, black scars. If it wasn’t for the skin that was raised around them, you would’ve thought them to be drawn on. His hair was swept back as always, and he, of course, was dressed in all black. You examined his scars once more and told yourself you were glad he had to suffer, but you were ashamed to feel little aches of sympathy in your chest at the sight of where he had been wounded.

“Feeling shy, I see.” He commented and then reached down to brush a bit of hair away from your forehead.

“Not shy,” You found your voice, staring up at him, “I have nothing to say to you.”

He clicked his tongue with a sharp tsk, “I saved you from certain death and persecution and you’re angry with me? Oh, my love, see sense.” He breathed.

You slowly sat up, your joints popping and cracking as if you hadn’t moved in years. As much as you hated it, he was still absolutely breathtaking. You’d secretly hoped that the volcra would’ve mauled him beyond repair, but you had no such luck. He still stared at you with those beautiful, dark eyes, and you shifted uncomfortably.

“I do see sense, and that’s why I have nothing to say to you.” You whispered, shaking your head.

“Perhaps you’re just a bit embarrassed.”

You scoffed.

“Embarrassed by what, Aleksander?”

He smiled. He seemed to relish his name leaving your mouth and you made a mental note not to use it further to deprive him of such satisfaction.

“Embarrassed that I was right and you were wrong. What did I tell you, little love? I warned you that you would return home to hatred. Did I not?” He asked and gazed over at you, his hands resting on his thighs.

You looked down at his hands. There was a large, black crater of a scar on the back of his hand and you wondered what had happened there. The veins around this scar were all black, looking poisonous under the skin. You fought back a chill.

You never answered him, but he let out a soft sigh and he reached out to gently take your chin in his hand. You pulled away and turned your head away from him entirely.

“Poor girl. You’ve finally had your first taste of persecution. Tell me, how does it feel?” He asked and reached out to grab your chin again. He turned your head towards him carefully and he stared into your eyes, “How lonely has it been? To lose everyone you thought loved you because of their fear? Their judgment?“ he asked.

You dared to look him in the eyes finally and you wished you hadn’t. Despite his words, his eyes were uncharacteristically soft. He looked at you as if you were something he cherished, something he loved endlessly. You wondered if he was capable of faking that. There was a desperate trace of longing in his gaze and you watched his lips twitch downwards just slightly, a change so subtle that if you were anyone else, you may have missed it.

“It doesn’t matter.” You finally answered, dropping your gaze away from his.

He let out a sigh and let go of your chin before he reached out and grasped your hands. His skin was just as cold as you had remembered it to be, if not colder now. You wondered if he felt the icy chill that was his skin.

“If you had just stayed by my side, you would’ve never felt lonely. I wouldn’t have let you. Not a single day would have gone by where you felt anything less than loved. Adored. Worshiped, even.” He whispered, looking down at your joined hands. Of course you knew that.

You looked down at your hands, too.

There was such a stark contrast when you looked down. His hands were scarred and they were strong, with traces of black swimming in the veins just beneath his fair skin. He wore his wedding ring on his finger still, but on the correct finger, whereas you wore yours on your middle finger where it was ill fitting. Your hands were smaller than his, and your skin was unmarked by scars; smooth. You had the hands of someone whose life had been easy. He dropped your hands and he plucked your ring right off of your middle finger before sliding it onto the correct finger, and although you felt you should have, you didn’t stop him and made no move to correct it once he let go.

You kept your eyes on your hands and he slowly stood up from the bed and let out a small sigh.

“You can live in denial, but not forever. You’ll find it’ll be far easier if you let me in rather than fight me.” He leaned down and placed a kiss on top of your head, “For what it’s worth, I’ve missed you, in every way a person can be missed. I’ve missed your presence in the mornings, I’ve missed your smile, your laugh, even your attitude I’ve found myself missing. I know that deep down, you’ve missed me too. Otherwise you would have rid yourself of that ring long ago.” He observed and then he placed his hand on top of your head, smoothing your hair back.

“You don’t hate me, you’ve just had your mind filled with the lies of martyrs. You weren’t meant to be a martyr, y/n. You weren’t meant to sacrifice your happiness just because it was the ‘righteous’ thing to do. You were meant to be a queen. Deny that as you may, but I know it to be true, and perhaps somewhere in that pretty little head of yours, you do too.”

He knelt down at the side of the bed and looked up at you with a soft, understanding smile. He seemed so pleased to be looking at you.

“I do love you. I will never turn you away. When you’re ready to accept that, I will be here with open arms.” He murmured and placed his hands on his knees as he looked up at you.

You stared down at him and you shook your head slowly.

“And what if I never do?”

He smiled, but didn’t say anything. He rose up from his knees and he wandered across the room towards the door. He opened it up and paused before walking out into the hall.

“I’m a patient man. The word ‘never’ is so wasted on such a mortal girl. You’ll change your mind, and when you do, I’ll be there.” He said softly before exiting the room, leaving you alone in the dark, his words sending a chill through you that you couldn’t get rid of, no matter how far under the blankets you slid.

You had been given free rein of the strange little sanctuary that the Grisha siding with Aleksander had thrown together. It wasn’t very interesting, by any means, and your days passed slowly. Very, very slowly.

You had yet to see anyone that you knew, though. You recognized a few faces from the Little Palace, but beyond that, it seemed like everyone you knew had either died or taken to the other side. With no David or Genya, or even Ivan around to entertain you, you’d taken to making the acquaintance of an Alkemi boy named Vladim.

Vladim couldn’t have been very old, perhaps nineteen at the most. He was always tirelessly working on little things in his makeshift laboratory, but when you asked about them, he always answered you the same.

“I don’t think you’d have much understanding of the subject matter, and alas, I don’t think the Darkling would be very pleased if I discussed it with you.” He would say, almost word for word, every time.

He wasn’t overly friendly, but you could tell that he appreciated the company in one way or another.

You had done your best to avoid Aleksander during the day, and you were usually quite successful in that endeavor, but you couldn’t avoid him at night. He didn’t give you your own room, he simply told you that you’d share his and left it at that. Arguing with him would’ve been futile. His skirmish with the Fold and with his newfound shadow warriors left him with a certain roughness that you’d never known him to have before. There was a certain ruggedness to him now, a certain edge that made the hair at the back of your neck stand up. He had always been hungry for power, but now he was ruthless. He had always commanded respect, but now he forced it. He seemed to be slipping into madness, slowly. He used to be a sharp, shining sword, cutting fast and without much pain. Now he was like a worn, serrated knife. It worried you, but you tried to push that down as far as you could. You shouldn’t worry about him. Let him destroy himself, it wasn’t your problem.

So why did it feel like it was your problem?

You tried to remind yourself daily that his destruction wasn’t your responsibility and that he was bringing it upon himself, but it became increasingly harder and harder to remember that.

Every night ended the same, though.

You’d lay in his bed, as far onto your side as you could possibly get, and you’d always pretend to be asleep when he finally came in. He’d shuffle around the room silently for a while, getting himself ready for bed, and then he’d lay down on his side of the bed. Like clockwork, ten minutes later, he would move towards you as if he were being pulled by strings like a puppet and he’d wrap you in his arms. He would whisper promises to keep you safe in your ear and he would run his fingers through your hair. Murmurs of proclamations of love would also be uttered into your ear, and he would whisper your name as if it were scripture.

You wondered if he knew that you weren’t really asleep, which led you to wonder if he even cared.

He would oftentimes press his lips to your temple and stay there for a long time before pulling away. Some nights you would really end up falling asleep in his arms, and other nights you would stay awake and he would eventually let you go and he’d tuck the blankets around your body, just as you liked them. It took you by surprise the first time he did that, because you didn’t expect him to remember such small details.

Tonight was seemingly not much different than the other nights. His arms were circled around your waist and he had his chin resting on top of your head. He had fallen completely silent and had been for quite a while now, his tender whispers ceasing quite some time ago. You knew better than to believe he had fallen asleep, though. You could see it in his face daily- he didn’t get much sleep. Not anymore. You frowned slightly at the thought and you nearly shook your head, catching yourself at the last second.

“I’m not a fool enough to believe that you are asleep right now, my love.” His voice was low and you felt his arms tighten around you ever so slightly.

You didn’t say anything, but you opened your eyes and pursed your lips, biting anxiously at the inside of your cheek.

“I know perhaps you take me for a fool, though. Maybe you’re right to. I’ve been foolish with you. Lied to you. Treated you like you were a pawn. If I’m being honest with myself and you, though, I should admit that earning your love was my greatest achievement. I don’t think I’ve lost it, not fully, at least, but perhaps my greatest loss has been making you question that love that you had so graciously given me.” He spoke, his voice taking on a strange and sentimental tone. He seemed to think for a moment before he tapped your waist with his thumb, “Have I?”

You blinked a few times, not bothering to look up at his face. You doubted you would’ve seen it, anyway. The room was pitch black.

“Have you, what?” You finally replied, hands balling into fists as you pressed your nails into your palms.

“Lost your love?”

Your brows knitted together and you frowned, “Yes,” you answered immediately, but you were immediately struck with the pain of guilt in your chest and you suddenly shook your head, “I mean, no. No, I don’t think so.” You choked out, “I don’t think you could. Not entirely, and I hate you for that.”

The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them, though you weren’t sure what you regretted more; admitting that you still loved him or admitting that you held contempt towards him for the way you felt. The admission left a sour taste in your mouth, yet you felt as if a hundred weights had been lifted off of your chest. The relief juxtaposed with the sour taste of shame on your tongue was jarring and you pressed your lips together as tightly as you could, as if to create some kind of seal that would prevent you from speaking further.

He seemed to mull this answer over for a while, staying silent for more than just a few moments. You could picture his eyes, even though you weren’t actively looking into them. When he was lost in thought, they seemed even deeper than they already were, and oftentimes you felt that was an impossible feat.

Finally, he spoke.

“I can understand your hatred for the inner conflict you must be faced with. I haven’t exactly made this easy for you.” He replied, his voice calm and completely even, “If I could stop this all right now, I would. But I can’t, y/n. No one is going to look out for the Grisha except for me. Not even Alina Starkov.”

“You don’t know that if you never give her the opportunity to try, Aleksander.” You insisted, voice barely above a whisper.

“No, but I do. I do know that. She’s too young. She knows nothing of the power she wields and she knows not how to use it, she couldn’t even begin to grasp the importance of power. It’s simply a new toy to her. Something to play with until she tires of the novelty,” his hand traveled along your back as he held you and you felt him take a silent inhale, “I find myself wishing so often that it was you.” He murmured, lips finding your ear.

You didn’t understand what he meant, so you furrowed your brow together and you shook your head.

“What do you mean?”

His lips hovered over your ear and you felt the tip of his nose in your hair, sending unwanted shivers down your arms and over the back of your neck.

“I would give anything, anything, if it meant you could’ve been my Sun Summoner.” He whispered, his arms tightening around you frantically, as if he were afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t keep you close. And perhaps you might.

You weren’t sure what to say. You weren’t even sure how to feel. You had always compared yourself to Alina in one way or another during her time at the Little Palace, though you’d never wished her gift upon yourself. You had never even thought to. His words made you feel cold in the very pit of your stomach and you bit down on the inside of your cheek sharply. Alina and Aleksander would go on to make history. They would make legends. The Sun Summoner and the Shadow Summoner. The Sun Saint and the Darkling. In a hundred years, people would pray to beautiful statues of Sankta Alina, Aleksander would be written into Grisha history and Ravkan legend. But in a hundred years for you? You’d be a name on the Lantsov family tree. Always royal, never reigning. Perhaps someone distantly related to you a hundred years from now would make a pitied remark about how Queen Tatiana and King Pyotr the Third married their poor daughter off to some wicked man, but no one could ever confirm it. It was simply oral history. You would be lost to time, whereas time would be lost on them. They’d be living their second lifetime and you would be nothing but bone buried deep in the dirt. You squeezed your eyes shut at the thought and instead of speaking, you shook your head.

You felt his hand slide up your back and over the back of your neck until it was nestled in the hair at the back of your head, holding you securely against his chest.

“Not because I wish you were Alina, no. I could never wish for such a thing. I wish it was you that could stand by my side, that it was you that would be my equipollent partner. I wish I didn’t wake at night in a cold sweat at the thought of you being so… mortal. I couldn’t care less if you had the power of the sun at your disposal, I could only care that you lived a hundred years at my side.” He said quietly, his voice quivering at the end of his sentence.

Of course Aleksander had proclaimed his love for you many times before, but he had never done so in such a manner. You had never even seen him cry, never heard his voice falter.

A shaky breath from his lips drew your eyes upwards. You very slowly pulled your head away from his and you looked up at his face. Though the room was dark and only lit up by the faintest of moonbeams filtering through a crack in the curtains, his eyes were still visible, darker than the dark around you, yet still shining as if they had thousands of stars in them. They sparkled with the threat of unshed tears and before you could stop yourself, you were lifting your hand towards his face. The moment your hand made gentle contact with his cheek, a single tear spilled out over his bottom lash line and rolled down his cheek gracefully. You’d never seen a tear fall gracefully before. He brought his own, scarred hand up and laid it on top of yours, holding your warm palm to his cheek. You could feel the raised skin of his scar on your hand and it was such an odd contrast to the smooth skin surrounding the scars.

His eyes slowly closed, but he didn’t let your hand move from his face. His breathing was erratic as if he were trying to hold back cries and he moved as close as he could to you without ending up on top of you.

“Your brother… Alina Starkov… Your mother… Father… none of them can offer you happiness. I can, darling. I can.” He whispered, his voice trembling, and for a moment, he wasn’t the Darkling. He was just a boy named Aleksander who had slowly lost everyone he could have ever cared for.

“But at what cost, Aleksander?” You asked softly, using all of your strength to enforce an armor around your heart. But you had deployed cracked armor.

“I don’t care what the cost is. I’d let a thousand men burn, I’d let armies fall, I’d ruin kingdoms and countries alike, I would kill countless if it meant that you would just stay. With me.” He breathed, another small tear escaping from the corner of his eye.

The sight was a powerful blow to your futile attempt at an armor.

No. He’s killed so many people for the selfish drive for power, and he hides it underneath the guise of what’s best for Grisha. You couldn’t stay.

“I don’t wish to see anyone burn. I don’t want armies to fall and counties to fall to ruin, I don’t want you to dedicate death to keeping me by your side, Aleksander. You made your choice and you chose power. I made mine and I chose the right thing. I can’t stay.” You weren’t sure who you were trying to convince, though. You or him?

His palm pressed against the back of your hand and he held it tightly against his face.

“You are the only light I’ve ever known, the only salvation I’ve ever been given. I’ve watched lives come and I’ve watched them pass, and I find no grief in it. I’ve spent my fair share of time grieving for those I’ve dared to care for and I’ve condemned it, I’ve sworn to not allow myself the luxury of grief again. So tell me why I’ve spent each day that I’ve loved you grieving for someone who has yet to draw their last breath? I grieve the loss of you that has yet to come. I will choose power day in and day out because I will never stop searching for a way, for a power, that can keep me from losing you.” His voice was weak, but it was determined and it was sincere.

Your mouth fell open just slightly as you listened to him and you very slowly brushed your thumb against the skin underneath his eye.

His eyes slowly flickered open and he stared down at you, his lips set into a frown. The unshed tears in his eyes and the look of terror and sorrow on his face made him seem much more human than you had ever seen him, likely ever.

Right now, he was just a man. A man gifted with too much power and bothered- no, burdened- with the threat of everlasting life. He wasn’t the Darkling and he wasn’t a Shadow Summoner. He was Aleksander, and he was trembling underneath your hand.

“To say that I love you would be so weak and listless, but to find stronger words, I’d have to start making them up. So, at the risk of sounding weak and listless, I love you. To the end of it all, whatever lies beyond that, even.“ he swallowed hard after speaking and you found your own eyes filling with tears. He wasn’t just saying he loved you, he was silently begging you to love him in return.

His actions and his quest for power wasn’t preferable, and you weren’t even sure if it was forgivable. Maybe it wasn’t, you weren’t sure. Could you find it within your heart to forgive him if he had begged you to? You weren’t sure of that, either. You found it strange how many months ago, it was you that was begging him for love, but now he was the one staring into your eyes, pleading without words.

It would hurt a lot to choose him again, because eventually you knew that for whatever high you would be on now, it would be a devastating low one day.

But it would hurt just the same to tear yourself out of your husband’s arms once again, this time after hearing him confess all that he had tonight. How could it be possible to love someone yet despise them all the same? He was always able to make you give in, and you resented him for that, but he also was the only one that understood you now. He understood what a fall from grace felt like, what it was like to have an entire nation turn their backs on you, how it felt to lose the faith of everyone you cared about.

His eyes and his beauty and his soft words always had you making mistakes before now, and you realized that the only way to not make these mistakes was to be far away from him. But you weren’t far away from him right now and you knew that you were bound to make a mistake again, in fact, you were hurtling towards that mistake right now.

A single word rolled off of his lips:

“Stay.”

The answer that begged to leave your mouth was antithetical to the decision you had made to run away from him in the first place and you felt guilty. Guilty for wanting him, guilty for not wanting him. To give him the affirmation he and you both wanted was to betray your country and your family. But they’d already betrayed you. You could almost hear Nikolai telling you that two wrongs didn’t make a right and that you were stronger than this.

But you didn’t think you were. You couldn’t be.

His fingers slid in between yours as he held your hand to his face and his eyes locked onto yours, daring you to give him the one answer he’d been searching for.

So you let it roll off your lips, no louder than an exhale:

“Okay.”

#grishaverse #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone #aleksander morozova imagine #aleksander morozova #aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling imagine #the darkling x you #the darkling imagine #the darkling #the darkling x reader #general kirigan imagine #general kirigan x reader #general kirigan #ben barnes x reader #ben barnes imagine

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theramseyloft · 6 months ago

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Hello, I'm developing an enrichment guide for small animals in my shelter and your blog was very helpful with grimace scales, I was wondering if you had found any more for animals like reptiles, birds, and hedgehogs?

I'm afraid not, but I can go through the rescue folder to show some expressions of discomfort and unwellness.

We'll use Ankhou (May he rest in peace) as our baseline for a comfortable, healthy pigeon.

Like most birds, pigeon eyes are nearly frozen in their sockets.

They have neither whiskers, lips, nor external ears to grimace with.

So their expressions are mostly in the position of their heads, necks, and tails, and which groupings of feathers are raised or flattened.

This is an expression of supreme comfort.

Just a little squinty. Forehead and neck feathers fluffed up.

Everything else smooth and relaxed.

This was Passenger's arrival photo. (Some of you may have remembered her having been in the news.)

Note the curve of her neck, the low dip of her tail, sunken eyes and thin, drawn beak.

The half lidded eyes are an extreme expression of pained exhaustion.

Pigeons, even when hurt, are hypervigilant, and will be wide eyed more often than not.

She is extremely dehydrated and malnourished in this photo, barely able to stand.

Look at the difference, post recovery.

Especially at her stance (keenly alert), eyes (bright and clear), and beak (much more fleshed out).

In her case, the sunken eyes and thin beak in particular warned that she was extremely dehydrated.

Archie, on arrival, is scared and in pain, having suffered a broken wing from a vehicle strike.

Note the ruffled throat and tightly tucked head.

Same young bird, having healed.

Bridget, on arrival, had a broken wing and leg on the same side. (Also a vehicle strike.)

A little older than Archie, keenly interested in the food in front of her, and absolutely ravenous, but you still see the neck folded and head tucked.

This was when she first started putting weight on her healing foot.

She's terrified of me: note the huge pupils and ruffling of her shield feathers.

She's threatening to box me with her broken wing.

Note the almost angular ruffling of her neck feathers and how far between her shoulders her little head is tucked.

That defensive posture hurts.

Here she is, still terrified of me, but now fully healed.

Look how her head is positioned.

Yes, this is still Bridget.

She does have a neck! XD

In the loft, she's curious. Still scared of me, but I am more familiar than the flock of strange pigeons.

She's trying to figure out what perch to aim for.

Pete suffered a cat bite to the wrist of the wing facing the camera and an injury to his eyelid.

It's in a bad spot, right between the joints, and the inflammation response is so intensely painful that she can't flex her little wing.

Notice the tightly tucked head, ruffled throat, and over all hunched appearance.

Here, she is no longer in any pain; just scared.

Being in the pigeon hospital is terrifying for ferals.

It's bad enough being confined to a tiny cage, but vaccines, worming, weekly louse dips, and in this case daily antibiotics are an absolute hell of an introduction to living in human care!

Pete just has a very long skinny neck and tiny head with a fine featured face.

But, fully healed, despite the god awful molt, you can see the difference in her posture and even the wideness of her eyes.

Pierce was an extremely lucky hawk strike survivor.

It's a minor miracle that no vital organs were damaged!

But there is the extreme pain hunch in a bird whose injuries are fresh.

Note the set of the head between the shoulders, forward lean, and ruffling at the throat with feathers flattened very tightly otherwise.

This is the same bird, after all three talon holes healed.

Licorice was an interesting case!

Tied by zip tie and string to a steak in the ground for dog bait and suffering a teratoma in her breast muscle.

This is defensive posture.

She is not injured or in any pain, but she is scared, and looking for an opportunity to escape the carrier.

The teratoma (A bizarre tumor made of, in her case, random feather material in a keratin capsule) has no nerves, and her skin formed a neat little pocket around it.

Here she is after the teratoma was removed.

Not by any stretch thrilled to have me so close for pictures, but bright eyes and alert, confident I am not going to attack her.

Orion was a sad malnourished mess.

Note the lack of tail feathers, the baldness of his face, skinny toes, and shrunken beak.

Once again, head sunk down between his hunched shoulders, neck folded under it in a tight S curve that pushes the throat feathers out.

Very slight squint to eyes that would be wide with alarm were he not just exhausted from his state of starvation.

Poor little vulture child!

He's very excited for food in this photo, but since you can see his skin so well, look how much less pinched it is around the base of his beak now that he is no longer suffering severe dehydration.

Coal had the very good fortune to come in healthy and old enough to self feed.

He was just separated from his flock weeks before he'd have been able to fly.

He isn't in pain or ill.

Being dipped and wormed sucked!

So coal is NOT happy to see me a week after that last photo!

But note that his shoulders are not hunched.

While his neck is folded and his head is low, it isn't sunk down in between his shoulders.

The nape of his neck is fluffed up.

This is defensive threat posture.

He's scared, but warning me that he'll box and bite me if I get any closer.

Coal has been here a few weeks at this point.

He's not happy to see me. Dips and meds still suck.

But they don't hurt, and I get them done with pretty quick.

So he's nervous on this photo.

He's not looking forward to what ever I am about to have to do, but it's sunk in that he's not going to die or be injured.

Bug free and ready for adoption, Coal was not happy about having his pigeon business interrupted for a photo, but he's only mildly annoyed, not nervous or overtly afraid.

Now, let's look at the second most commonly rescued breed: Racing homers.

This is Grayson: Who was found crashed out hungry in 2016.

This bird failed a race.

Because they were bred to be wartime messengers, and their messages were of absolutely vital importance, the impulse to stop mid return flight to forage has been bred out of Racing Homers.

When released away from their loft, they only stop when they get home, or if it's gotten too dark to fly.

Once the food in their crop runs out (usually something extremely fatty like peanuts, for the highest possible density of fuel), their body starts digesting their muscle.

The flight muscles of a pigeon are roughly 1/4 of their overall weight.

Once they lose enough of that, they can't get off the ground anymore.

It takes about three days of non stop flight for this to happen, and a good two to four solid weeks of rebuilding condition before they can physically fly again.

Note Greyson's hunch and drooping tail, but the keen alertness in his eyes compared to the ferals.

He is not injured or sick.

He is suffering exclusively from the rapid muscle atrophy unique to racing homers who have failed a race or training toss.

This is the same bird, post recovery.

Just doesn't like being asked to pose.

Meat much more evenly surrounds his keel, and his wings no longer look to be too big for him.

Look at the way his cere has filled out compared to the previous photo.

Mark most likely got lost on a training flight.

You can tell by his poorly developed cere that this is a very young bird; not quite sexually mature.

Note the weird, flat angle of the chest and downward tilt of the head.

He trapped into a chicken coop in desperation to escape a bad storm, and unfortunately picked up worms from the chickens, and giardia likely from dirty puddle water.

This photo was taken just a little before he became severely symptomatic, while he was still able to hide being sick.

He almost died from the giardia.

He was so exhausted and dehydrated from constant diarrhea by which his body tried to expel the protozoan parasite that he didn't have energy to eat and had to be force fed several small meals a day for a few weeks until he had the strength to feed himself.

Here he is the last week of quarantine, anxious about being handled for his update photo, but no longer sick.

And here he is fully recovered and showing off his very full crop, but having the worst molt!

I hope this meander through a small percentage of my rescue folder has been enough to help you see the pattern.

It's more in the overall posture than the facial expression, as pigeons largely lack the facial muscles and features that give mammals such expressive faces.

Look for a head sunken between hunched shoulders and a drooping tail.

The more hunchy the bird, the tighter tucked head, and the further the tail droops, the more severe the discomfort.

A dramatically bobbing tail signifies a struggle breathing, the causes of which can range from anxiety to pain to physical obstruction of the air ways.

Partly lidded, sunken eyes and a shrunken beak along with a slight wobble or tremor should signify an emergency; severe dehydration.

The extremely drab, brown tinged feathers that Orion displays are a symptom of nestling malnutrition.

Most likely, his mother was malnourished when she laid the egg, and his parents could not find enough food to support the rapid growth of a baby pigeon.

Ankhou came in years later from the same area; the parking lot of a strip mall where feral pigeons are trapped and eradicated.

He's four or five weeks old in this photo, by the length of his flights, which were the only feathers he had, because his body did not get enough to grow both bones and feathers.

It took him six months to feather out fully.

And almost a year to molt into his full adult plumage.

Well, that went a little off topic. >.<

But I hope it helped.

#birds #pigeon #grimace scale

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thetomorrowshow · 26 days ago

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Whumptober 27 - Voiceless

title: we cannot push ourselves away from this quiet

fandom: hermitcraft smp

cw: muzzles

another part in my sleep cycle series, comprising of days 8, 23, and 26 :)

They found Mumbo in the basement.

Grian hadn’t been allowed to come along, as much as he’d fought for it. Four Hermits had gone missing out of nowhere—throwing Grian into a mess like that would have been just asking for trouble.

They hadn’t even been looking for Mumbo. As far as anyone knew, Mumbo was just off taking a break from the season. They’d been looking for the other four, only missing for a week—Doc, Ren, Impulse, Tango. Apparently, when they found them, Doc had gone on and on about the basement and how someone needed help down there, and when Gem and False had gone down to check it out, they’d found Mumbo.

He wasn’t too badly hurt, luckily—malnourished as all get out, with a couple of scrapes and bruises, but he was in better shape than Impulse and Doc, which, considering he was there for so much longer, was pretty good.

Now he’s back, and Grian couldn’t be more excited.

He hasn’t gotten to see Mumbo, yet—he came down with a cold the day the rescue happened, so had been banned from the medical building they’d set up—but he can’t wait.

He wants to throw a party—he doesn’t, but he wants to. Xisuma had laid a strict no-overexcitement-for-the-kidnapped rule, no matter the circumstances. So Grian does not trap Mumbo’s base with a glitter bomb or prepare any special gifts. He just stops by for a visit.

Mumbo’s got his back turned toward Grian when he arrives, digging through a shulker box and tossing various pieces of junk on the ground. For a moment, Grian’s about to sneak up on him and tap him on the shoulder, but he decides that would be a pretty poor idea, as far as his ideas went.

No-overexcitement-for-the-kidnapped, and all that.

“Hey, Mumbo,” he says loudly, approaching slowly.

Mumbo’s surprised jump is not subtle, and he spins around, letting the lid of the shulker box drop with a resounding crack. He also jumps at that, shoulders shooting up practically to his ears.

“Hey,” Grian says again, and geez, Pearl was not kidding about the malnourishment.

Mumbo’s always been thin, but not like this. His cheeks are sunken, his jawline harsher and clavicle clearly sticking out. His suit coat is missing, but even his white button-up hangs loose on him, and his slacks are actually held up by his suspenders instead of simply held in place.

He hasn’t shaved, either. Clearly, he has shaved since returning (three days ago, mostly spent in Scar’s bed shop-turned-hospital), but it’s been long enough that the stubble on his cheeks and chin is visible. That, combined with the oily shadows under his eyes and the bone-thin frame and his too-long hair, clutches at Grian’s heart with an iron fist.

But he puts on a smile. “I missed you,” he says. “Settling in all right? Do you need anything?”

Mumbo’s eyes dart around. He shrugs, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. Then, belatedly, he twitches, opens his mouth.

“Er, no. Thanks.”

It’s all he says. Those three syllables are uttered so lowly as to be near-whispered, and after a half-attempt at a smile that fails miserably, Mumbo turns back to his shulker box.

The grip on Grian’s heart squeezes tighter.

“Okay,” he says, toning his own voice down. “Is it okay if I just hang out with you? We don’t have to talk, just . . . parallel working.”

He might be mistaken, but he thinks he sees Mumbo’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch.

Mumbo nods, back still toward Grian. So Grian plops down a shulker box of his own and starts organizing, occasionally offering little comments or detouring to tell Mumbo a story about something that happened while he was gone.

Mumbo never says anything back, but he relaxes more and more. When Grian leaves a couple of hours later, the smile on Mumbo’s face is small, cautious—but genuine.

Grian doesn’t know what happened to him, or why he doesn’t want to talk.

That’s okay. He’s here for him, no matter what.

“He didn’t choose you,” Milo murmurs, gently running his hands through Mumbo’s hair. “We gave him a choice. He didn’t choose you.”

As much as Mumbo wants to pull away from the touch, he doesn’t.

Mumbo used to talk to himself. He would explain various redstone concepts, design new machines, picture his builds in his mind’s eye as he detailed everything aloud.

It was mere days before his guards tired of his noise.

He’s been muzzled ever since.

At first, the muzzle had been on conditionally. If he agreed to work for them, they would take off the muzzle. They would give him something solid to eat. They would let him work unbound, with a bed and a bath and everything he might need.

Those aren’t on the table anymore, he thinks. They don’t even demand his skills anymore, they just leave him in this dark room and sometimes feed him disgusting blends of food.

There are tears in his eyes. He’s been here by himself for so long, his only visitors his tormentors. Unable to speak, unable to open his mouth.

Milo had come in hours ago, had told him that they had one of his friends. He said that the friend would be given a choice: to free Mumbo of the muzzle, or free someone else of their muzzle. Inconsequential decisions. Zero repercussions for choosing one of them, no other stipulations.

Why wouldn’t he choose him? It’s been so long, so long, he’s going to die if he has to spend another moment without being able to move his mouth, with the leather strap that seems to have melded into his skin, tight and heavy and world-ending.

He can’t talk. He can’t talk, and it’s been so long that he doesn’t know if he ever will talk again.

“I know. It’s hard. He cares more about a stranger than he does you. I am here.”

He’s being stockholm syndrome’d. Mumbo knows it.

Knowing that doesn’t make the tears fall any slower. Knowing that doesn’t mean he drags himself away from Milo’s hold.

Mumbo circles down, down to where Grian is polishing Grumbot, and lands on the rocky ground, stumbling a bit. He waves hesitantly, and Grian hops down from Grumbot’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Grian greets, offering a smile. Mumbo smiles back, then starts setting down shulker boxes.

“A swan, today?”

Mumbo bites his lip, then nods. “Y-yeah,” he manages, the word oddly loud. He cringes, cheeks burning red.

After waiting for a nod, Grian wraps Mumbo in a soft hug, gently squeezing. “That’s all right,” he says into Mumbo’s chest. “It’s okay to be a swan.”

Mumbo eases into the hug, squeezing Grian back.

Despite Mumbo’s swan days (days where talking is uncomfortable for him) being almost more common than his talking days, he’s always willing to accept physical affection. Grian makes sure to hug him as much as possible, remind him that it’s okay to struggle.

Mumbo’s never told him why he struggles to speak, and Grian’s never asked. It feels too personal, too demanding.

What Mumbo has told them, though, is how long he was in captivity.

Two months.

Two months, compared to the week of everyone else, so doesn’t he have ample reason to not talk sometimes? After all, Doc still refuses to be by himself, Ren spooks when anyone touches him, and Tango spent the first week avoiding everyone only to now be inseparable from Impulse, and they were only gone for a week.

Trauma is trauma, and it isn’t Grian’s place to judge how it affects his friends. He’ll be there for Mumbo whether it’s a swan day or not, and he won’t press for answers.

Interestingly, Mumbo doesn’t even send messages when it’s a swan day. They’d tried that, once, but he had only managed to message a couple of words before shaking his head.

Maybe he doesn’t really think in words on swan days. Maybe it’s just exhausting to form them.

Grian doesn’t ask, and it really doesn’t matter. Today, he hugs Mumbo, then chatters on while he cleans and Mumbo sketches out some redstone plots.

It’s only been a month since they brought him home, and already his suit fits better. He’s shaving regularly again, his eyes are brighter, the shadows under them not near so heavy.

Today, Grian smiles, and Mumbo smiles back.

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octoberautumnbox · 6 months ago

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hello kuya box, just wanted to pop in and ask how you're doing :) I've been (im)patiently waiting for yuri comeback news so I can finally get into her more :<)

Fluffy question for you:

Imagine you and Yuri are in school together. You're both in the same friend group and you've had a secret crush on her for years now. While you're hanging out with your friends, you suddenly find yourself alone with her. Despite your anxiety, the moment just feels right - how would you confess to her?

have a yuri :)

hi 0cta9on! everyone and their moms on the edge of their seats for that cb i get it GJKSHFJKDHSGKJSFHJK but we gotta let her cook!! :DDDD

also i keep getting requests and ideas for this general plot LMAO i'll get to that draft eventually! in the meantime please enjoy this short thingy ehe

~~~

It's been about forty minutes now, and nearly everyone is rolling around in the grass of the Sunken Garden. The admin should be kicking people out right now, but for some reason, nobody hears your friends' racket, allowing you free reign for as long as nobody comes near enough. It's strange that you have the free real estate all to yourself, but you're not one to complain. Finals were tough on everybody, and by the looks of it, you and your friends most of all.

Hanbin and Jeongin are locked in a verbal argument, threatening to turn physical soon. Somi yaps on with Chaeryeong off to the side, spilling their drinks on the soil and forming puddles of intoxicating mud in the ground. And finally, Ryujin lies face down in the grass, true to character, and the sheer fact that it's Ryujin silences any alarms that she might be in danger that would have otherwise started blaring in your head.

All that's left is you and Yuri, sitting on a nearby tree root, watching the scenes unfold by the light of a streetlamp infested with moths. She eyes each one lazily, from the fight, to the gossip, to Ryujin who is most probably not dead, as she sips beer from her bottle and punctuates the swig with a relief-filled "ahhh."

Her beauty is mesmerizing, from her half-lidded eyes, to the way her hair perfectly frames her face, to how her lips curl with each sip she takes of her drink. It's nothing like anyone has ever seen before, or, at least not the way you've seen her. It doesn't help that the moon, full as can be, shines its borrowed light as if only on her, like a spotlight to the main character of a soap opera.

It must be the alcohol; it must be. There's not a single reason in the world that you feel the way you feel right now. Never mind that it's bad tonight, never mind that she's so pretty, never mind that this is the first chance you've ever had alone with her, never mind that it might also be the last...

Your heart pounds nearly as hard as your head throbs in search of water. Everything is wrong, and there's only one way to make it right. Lie to yourself, "it's only the alcohol, it's only the alcohol..." Kick yourself mentally: you know it's not.

"Yuri," you say tentatively. Part of you wishes she'd heard and would turn your way, the rest of you prays she didn't.

"Yeah?" Look over to her, find her gaze still glued to the various comical sights in front of the both of you. She smiles at her friends' antics, and she smiles to you. Your eyes make contact, and you swear you've never felt more honest — honest and vulnerable.

"It's only the alcohol, it's only the alcohol..." It repeats like a broken record in your head. You try your damnedest to convince yourself it's only the alcohol, that she's just that pretty tonight, that she's just that pretty every night the past ten years you've known her. This isn't anything special. This is just plain old Yuri. Nothing more, nothing less.

Just Yuri.

"N-nothing. Nice night out, huh?" You realize you're staring, and you avoid her eyes. Take a panicked sip of your own beer, but, fuck, did you make it look not-panicked?

"Yeah, it is. Really is." Yuri places her head on your shoulder and sighs all the air out her lungs. Her eyes flutter shut as she fills her lungs again with a crisp night breeze. By accident, you swear by accident, the fragrance of her hair enters your nostrils, and you take in the comfort of her being plainly close to you.

And just like that, you fail again. Your feelings stay tightly locked in a box, buried deep in the recesses of your heart. Who knows when they'll surface, or if they ever will.

Fuck it. This is enough. More than, even. This is Yuri.

Just Yuri. Nothing more. Nothing less.

#jo yuri #jo yuri fluff #kpop fluff #girl group fluff #izone fluff #ask box #drabble box

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aso-bi · 11 months ago

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DIY LoZ Sheikah Slate

Thought it's about time I shared the birthday gift I made for my bestie @tsukinoshinjiu! It's a custom Sheikah Slate! So I'm gonna share how I made it... (finished images at the bottom!)

First I started by looking at in-game references for it and getting a general feel of what it looks like, what pieces I'd need, and what the general shape would be like. I wanted it to be a special box of sorts, so they could hide little treasures or letters...

After getting the general feel of the colors and shapes I'd need as well as what would be sunken and what would pop out, I looked for some measurements I could base myself off of. Luckily I found a Reddit post of someone who'd already done the hard work for me.

I tweaked the sizes slightly (namely putting them in a measurement system I could actually understand) then opened up SketchUp to model it out and simulate my rough idea.

I really wanted to stay true to the rounded corners, so I went for a layered technique, using 3 mm wooden slates.

So I created a "base" piece, a "body" piece, and a "lid" piece. In the end, it ended up being 5 body pieces, 1 base, and 1 lid. (And no, I didn't have access to 6 mm wood, otherwise, I'd simply done 2 6mm pieces for the body instead) In total, the depth was roughly 2.2 cm

Once that was ready, I laid out a simple graphic for my cutter. In it you can see the measurements:

Height: 25,33 cm (~10 in.)

Width: 15,33 cm (6 in.)

Depth: 2.2 cm (0.8 in.)

(yes I named it 6mm, I mistyped dw about it) Once that was done, I looked at the front again and opened up Illustrator to make the vector path for the cutter. I had barely used Illustrator before so I had to learn while I was doing it *sweats* but I got it done, and here's what it looks like. I saved it as .eps (vector) so the cutter could read it.

Once that was done, all that was left was to wait for the cutter to be done with my pieces....

Then I immediately started painting and organizing! Decided to start with something small, so I chose the little triangles, I took them apart and painted each piece individually, then with some scotch tape I held them together and put them aside. Next I painted the main piece as well as the lid, body, and base. I glued the layers first then painted them, same with the rest. The handle was especially fun to do and I think it turned out especially pretty. Always working my way up to the smaller colors. Once all those pieces were painted I glued them in place.

The little lines really tested my pulse *sweats again* I don't think they're perfect, but I tried my best (the circle around the eye is especially scuffed)

Not pictured (because I forgor) I made little stops on the bottom of the lid so it could stay in place and be used as a box. I used some thick 2mm hard grey board to make 4 little rounded stops and glued them to the bottom of the lid. When I was done, I sprayed the entire thing in a shiny finisher!

The inside had a special engraving since I'd originally wanted to throw in the Korok Bookmark I'd made for them in there as a surprise, but since this gift had lagged behind for a while, the bookmark was sent ahead of time along with the other goodies I'd prepared for their bday.

Once it was all ready I threw in some other goodies inside and packaged it for the mail! They got it last week and the reaction was...

In the end, the slate arrived a little later than I had wanted, but it got there in one place and the unboxing video I got from them was priceless hehehe.

So yea, that was my adventure making a custom Sheikah Slate as a bday gift! If I eventually remake it, I'll try to make it look even closer to the original.

And if anyone would like to try their hand at making it, go ahead! If there's interest for the files I'll find a way to make them available as well.

Bye bye!

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cetaitlaverite · 5 months ago

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Why All This Music?

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

sorry about all this </3 masterlist is linked here

33. Different

It was Jack who gave Freddie Rosie’s footlocker. With sunken eyes and a pale pallor to his skin, a deep frown on his face, he took Freddie to Rosie’s old bunk, empty of the men who had once filled it. The last time it had been this empty Freddie had been sleeping in it, in the bed beside Rosie’s to keep home company after his Riveters had gone home. She had been so horrible to him then, had taken for granted the time she had with him when she’d demoted them to friends. They could have had so much more time together if she hadn’t been so stupid and spiteful.

Jack crouched down in front of Rosie’s footlocker, unlocking it with a spare key. He pressed the key into Freddie’s hand as he rose back to his full height, resting a hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes as he asked, “Do you want me to stay or leave you alone?”

Freddie swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the footlocker. She couldn’t say anything, had found she couldn’t really manage to force any words out ever since she’d woken up in the infirmary right after Rosie had gone down three days ago. Maybe she’d screamed all the words out of her, or maybe she’d just ruined her voice with all of the wailing. Either way, words eluded her now, so she rested a hand on top of Jack’s on her shoulder and he seemed to understand that that meant she wanted him to stay.

She’d spent the last three days crying with little reprieve but still her bottom lip wobbled as she lifted the lid of Rosie’s footlocker. Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of it, her hands shook as they reached in and pulled out the A-2 jacket he always wore, the one he always let her wear when they made love in his plane.

A few hopeless, wretched little sobs tore their way out of her throat as she pressed the jacket to her chest. Her head fell forward and she pressed her nose to it, drinking in the leftover smell of him. Her eyes squeezed tight shut as the first few tears slipped out.

Jack squeezed her shoulder and sat quietly beside her until she was ready to move on.

There were quite a few books - most of them fiction, many of which she’d seen Rosie reading at one time or another, but also an English translation of the Torah - along with the record Freddie had gotten for him at Christmas. There was a pile of the letters he’d received from home, all kept safe in their envelopes, and a pile of socks and underwear. Beside both piles were his civilian clothes, folded neatly. Freddie decided she would be keeping his brown sweater vest, which she’d always loved. And beneath the clothes was the ring Rosie had worn when they’d pretended to be married while they’d stayed in that hotel in London that one time and, beside it, a little velvet box.

Freddie knew, of course, what was in the box before she ever opened it. Jack knew as well as he watched her stare down at it, cupped in her hands like a pearl in a shell.

The engagement ring inside was beautiful. Classic, elegant, understated. Stunning. Three diamonds in a row, the largest in the middle, attached to a simple gold band. All Freddie could do was stare down at it and think of the life which had been stolen from her.

The corners of her mouth kept twitching down into a cartoonish frown, no matter how hard she fought against them. Freddie turned to Jack, showing him the ring.

Jack nodded, his eyes sad, his lips pursed tightly together. “It’s beautiful,” he offered with a slight nod. He swallowed hard and looked away.

Freddie nodded back. It was beautiful. It was exactly the kind of ring she wanted. Rosie hadn’t even had to ask to know that.

Shutting the ring box softly and replacing it in the footlocker, Freddie considered her bare ring finger as she withdrew her hand. Twice now she’d been on the brink of an engagement before the man she loved had been shot out of the sky. This time, she’d been so close that Rosie had a ring. And still she was denied her happiness. Still she was left alone, the ring finger on her left hand bare and empty, never to house the ring which would tie her to her love for eternity.

Wordlessly, Freddie carefully put everything back into the footlocker. She couldn’t deal with all of this now. At some point she’d have to decide where all of Rosie’s belongings went, she knew, but it couldn’t be now.

Jack watched solemnly, silently, as Freddie softly closed the lid of the footlocker and locked it, tucking the key into her jacket pocket. And he watched sadly as she sat on the edge of Rosie’s bed, took her shoes off, and promptly crawled beneath the blanket and settled down against the pillow.

Staring at the blank wall in front of her, Freddie listened to Jack’s footsteps as he left Rosie’s hut and left her be. And, a while later, she listened to two sets of distinctly feminine footsteps and one set of paws enter the hut, pause in the doorway, and then slowly approach Rosie’s bed at the end of the row.

“Fred,” Millie whispered, laying a tentative hand on her shoulder.

Freddie didn’t move or make any noise to indicate she’d heard her. She just continued staring at the blank white wall in front of her, breathing in Rosie’s smell, his blanket clutched tightly in her hands, pulled up beneath her chin.

“Fred, why don’t you come and have some dinner, hm?” Jem asked softly, rounding the bed to come and crouch in front of Freddie.

Freddie didn’t say anything, even as Meatball came to sit beside Jem and peered at her with those big eyes of his.

“We can take it back to eat here if you want,” Millie offered, coming to sit on the bed beside Freddie.

The fierce ache of tears was back in Freddie’s throat. Was this how the rest of her life would be? Waiting around for people who loved her to force her to eat and otherwise wandering the world a shell of herself?

Eventually, Jem left to go and get dinner for all three of them and brought it back to Rosie’s hut. She and Millie sat on the floor at Freddie’s side, eating and trying to encourage her to as well. But all Freddie could find it within herself to do was lie there, staring at the wall.

Freddie’s parents showed up at Thorpe Abbotts two days later. They were escorted by Jack and Croz to collect her from Rosie’s bed. In the previous two days she had left Rosie’s bed only to use the toilet. She had taken only a few sips of water in that time, and only when Millie had gotten so desperate she’d started crying. She had spoken no words and eaten no food.

Millie and Jem were with her now, with Meatball on his lead. Probably, they had been informed that Freddie was going home.

It didn’t take long for Freddie to understand what was happening. Her mother was carrying a big bag which Freddie assumed was filled with the belongings she had already collected from her hut, and Jack and Croz were lingering by the door. Everyone must have expected her to put up a fight but as soon as she understood she pushed herself upright and dragged her heavy body out of bed. She knelt before Rosie’s footlocker, unlocked it, and started to rifle through his things.

She took her uniform jacket off and exchanged it for Rosie’s A-2 jacket. Wordlessly, her father picked up her discarded jacket off the floor and folded it neatly in half before draping it over his forearm. Next, Freddie withdrew Rosie’s brown sweater vest and passed it to her mother, who took it and placed it gently in the bag full of Freddie’s things.

The books could go back to his family, along with the rest of his clothes. The record she handed to Croz.

Freddie took out the engagement ring box and sat back on her heels, staring at it as though she’d never seen it before. But, after a moment, she opened it and lifted it to show everyone.

Jack had already seen it and Freddie got the impression Croz had, too. It was likely Rosie had told him he was preparing to propose - maybe he’d even helped pick out the beautiful ring. He’d done all of that once before, after all, and knew a thing or two about wedding rings. But Jem gasped and Millie let out a strangled sob as soon as they saw it. Millie clapped a hand over her mouth as soon as the sound emerged, as though to shove it right back in.

Alma fell to the floor behind Freddie and wrapped her up in her arms, holding her tight as Freddie started to cry.

She didn’t take the ring with her. She left it tucked into the corner of Rosie’s footlocker along with his fake wedding ring, because it wasn’t hers, not really. He’d never given it to her. So maybe whoever decided what to do with the rest would send it home to his family - Freddie didn’t really care. But she knew she’d never be able to lay her eyes on that ring again without remembering the pain of these terrible, terrible days, so it was better off with someone else.

In the back of the car on the long drive home, Freddie stared out the window. Fields passed and a few churches. Maybe people were getting married in there. The sky was grey, the world was bleak. The sun was stuck behind countless clouds. Valentine’s Day was next week and Freddie wouldn’t be getting her proposal.

It was dark and raining by the time they pulled up outside the house. At some point during the journey Freddie had dozed off but she was wide awake as she pulled her bag with her out of the car and inside.

Earnie and Bruno couldn’t understand why she wasn’t as excited to see them as she usually was. The biggest smile she could muster for them was a tiny twitch of one corner of her lips as she crouched to stroke them and kissed their heads.

Felix picked up her bag and took it upstairs for her while Alma headed to the kitchen to make tea. When she returned, Freddie’s mug in hand, she waited for Freddie to stand up then stroked some of her greasy hair back from her face. “Let’s get you in the bath, shall we?”

And, just like when Freddie was little, her mother ran a bath for her and helped her out of her clothes, then held her hand as she climbed in. Alma washed her hair for her, then carefully washed her face. Reluctantly, and only because she was already here, Freddie picked up a fresh sponge and washed her body.

When she was finished and the sponge was back on the bathroom shelf, Alma sighed and rested her elbows on the edge of the bath. “My beautiful girl,” she said softly, tucking a wet lock of Freddie’s hair behind her ear. She caressed her cheek. Her eyes were sad. “You’ve had such a difficult life.”

Freddie’s bottom lip trembled. She had to look away.

“Wils,” Alma said, smoothing her wet hair down her back, “I know it’s terrible right now. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling but I know it must be the absolute worst thing in the world. But I also know you won’t always feel like this. I need you to keep going, okay?”

Freddie ran a finger through the bubbles in the bath, making patterns in the water.

“I know it’s not what you expected -”

“It’s exactly what I expected,” Freddie mumbled, her voice hoarse. Five days of no use and it almost hurt to talk. Maybe it should. Every word she spoke was a word Rosie would never hear, and Freddie didn’t want there to exist a single part of her which Rosie didn’t know. He’d never know anything of the words she spoke now, the days she experienced, the feelings she felt. She could share nothing more of her life with him. So maybe there should be nothing at all; no words, no experiences, no feelings. No nothing. Maybe there should just be a blank white wall ahead of her and a pillow which smelled like him beneath her head.

Alma nodded in acceptance of her words, swallowing hard. The hand which wasn’t in Freddie’s hair was clenching and unclenching the hem of her skirt in her lap as she fought for something to say to make everything better, but she’d done this once before and she knew nothing would.

“It’ll be okay, Wils,” Alma said when she found her voice again. “It’ll be okay.” She shrugged one shoulder sadly. “But it’ll be different.”

“It’ll be cold and sad and lonely,” Freddie said quietly. She drew a rose as best as she could in the soapy water and stared at it as it faded away.

Alma just carried on stroking her hair. “There will always be moments of brightness. Of joy. You have Millie and Jem and all the other girls and they love you so much. And you have the dogs, and your father and I. You have your music.” Freddie made to cut her off but Alma spoke over her. “You know that the absolute last thing Rosie would want is to silence your music. He loved listening to you play. Your father and I have always known your talent but no one adored your music like Rosie did.”

“The only music I’ll be able to play will be sad,” Freddie mumbled.

“Then play sad music,” Alma said. “Just don’t stop playing, Wils. Don’t.”

Freddie had no more to say so Alma stopped there. She stood and retrieved a fresh towel from where she’d left it to warm up on the radiator, then wrapped it around Freddie as she stood up and climbed out of the bath.

Freddie’s pyjamas were freshly washed and warm, her sheets freshly changed and pulled back for her. She ate a sandwich and brushed her teeth before climbing into bed and lay there, wide awake, all night, thinking of how Rosie had read her to sleep right here just over a month ago. He’d been reading her romantic poetry, one of the books he’d gotten her for Christmas, and he’d paused to smile every time there was a line which reminded him of her. He’d paused often - so much so that Freddie could remember his interjections better than she could remember the poetry - but she would give anything, anything, to have him back for even just a second so she could catch a glimpse of his smile and listen to his laugh one more time.

Rosie was in her dream, when she finally drifted off. He was lying in the infirmary at Thorpe Abbotts, with his broken arm and broken nose, the way he had been after he’d gone down over France. And Freddie sat at his bedside, reading to him just as she had then, reciting words of other lovers whose lives had ended in tragedy.

There was a man in the bed next to his, with bright blond hair and a smile which crooked up higher on one side of his face. It was a face Freddie hadn't seen in a while, a face which somehow didn't belong next to Rosie's. But the two of them sat side by side all the same. And they listened to her quietly, watching her weep, neither trying to reach her, both knowing they couldn't.

Freddie woke up in tears, before she’d ever gotten to tell either of them she loved them, and when she fell asleep again it was to dreams of fire and screaming and pain, a plane falling out of the sky and a man who should have lived a thousand years trapped, helpless, inside.

#watm #my writing #masters of the air #masters of the air x oc #masters of the air fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #hbo war #hbo war x oc #rosie rosenthal #robert rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal fanfic #rosie rosenthal fanfiction

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 2 years ago

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Tagged by: @inafieldofdaisies this weekend and today and @cassietrn (Thank you both so much!!)

Tagging: @clicheantagonist @adelaidedrubman @direwombat @ivymarquis @strangefable @vampireninjabunnies-blog @wrathfulrook @trench-rot @josephslittledeputy @shallow-gravy @derelictheretic @strafethesesinners @henbased @florbelles @harmonyowl @josephseedismyfather @schoute @poetikat @confidentandgood @thesingularityseries @jacobsneed @megraen @detectivelokis @locustandwildhoney @voidika @v0idbuggy @aceghosts @nightbloodbix @corvosattano @stacispratt @fourlittleseedlings @marivenah @inquisitors-grave @purplehairsecretlair @nightwingshero @jacobseed @madparadoxum @shegetsburned @locustandwildhoney @turbo-virgins @kyber-infinitygems (no pressure of course) and anyone else who I might have missed or who has something to share please consider this an open tag, I'd love to see what you're working on :)

Chapter 29 is being edited, so have a snippet of chapter 30 (which I only just started working on last night so it’s VERY rough)

Welcome to Kit’s third trial told from Jacob’s POV

(cw: violence, blood)

Jacob stood out on the balcony of his office, looking down on the ants that scurried below as the last few preparations were made. Standing behind him, Staci stood shrunken amongst several handpicked members of Chosen. Pale, sunken eyes were trained on her cage, watching her reaction to the events unfolding around her. While the others still sat in their cages, blind to the Peggies’ movements around them, Kit stood at the bars focused on her captors actions as they barred the gates and started moving weapons out into plain sight of the “recruits”. This wasn’t the usual protocol and it was clear she was on high alert, combat readiness taking over. He’d warned her this day was coming, that he’d give her the time to get back up to strength and then she’d have to fight. Fight for her life once again.

With all the personnel back in the safety of the Veterans Center, he pulled the small, wooden music box from the back pocket of his jeans. Giving Kit one last fleeting look, he opened the lid and the opening chords began to play to “Only You”.

Like a dog whistle being blown at a frequency only they could hear, the recruits began to react, climbing the bars of their cages like it was feeding time, a frenzy taking over them, except Kit. There was always a certain calm about her, and while the others became lesser beings – bottom dwellers – she became more.

It was remarkable, something he’d never seen before in all of his testing with the Bliss and the conditioning. He’d run trials on nearly every species of animal available to him in Hope County, tested it on dozens of people before the Reaping had ever even been called down, and never once had any of the others remained controlled like her.

The anger, the violence, that was what he expected, a fugue state of uncontrolled and unbridled rage fueling an individual. But not with Kit, no Kit became more of what she already was, as if her father’s training had already distilled her down to the perfect soldier that he’d been looking for for all this time.

The empty shell she said she was.

Bottomless red.

The weapons were carted out by armed guards, and the cage doors opened one by one. The recruits had enough sense to stand there, waiting until the guards had moved out of the way – they weren’t the intended target – before running out into the maze of cages. A wave of bodies swarmed to get their hands on whatever they could grab as weapons. As they worked themselves up, tearing at each other for the best of what was available, Kit ran to the crates left over to the side where the others hadn’t been looking.

He knew she’d be smart enough not to run into the hordes, not yet anyway. She’d been watching the guards, taking note of where they’d left the weapons caches while the others shook at their bars like wild baboons. She had a tactical mind, easily adaptable to most situations, able to come up with a plan B and C in a moment’s notice.

Good.

Slipping a combat knife down the side of her boot, she grabbed a handgun, checking the magazine before sticking it down the waistband at the back of her jeans. Peaking over her shoulder, she watched as the others started to attack one another, clearing the number of threats for her. She grabbed the assault rifle from on top of the crates and swung the strap over her shoulder.

She had her favored tools that she used on every job, even under the effects of the conditioning that part of her hadn’t changed. A real soldier had to put trust in their weapons, it meant life or death on the battlefield.

Jacob gave two short waves of his pointer and middle fingers and his men moved to the wooden railing, shoving Staci forward with them, joining the Herald as they watched the trials happen in their own backyard.

Turning his head enough to see Staci’s reaction, a small smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as Staci’s eyes grew wide watching the mass of people begin to run at her, flailing wildly, not even bothering to aim as they hip fired and sprayed bullets in her direction.

Staci grabbed at the railing, sweat forming on his brow. “They’re gonna - they’re gonna kill her,” he exclaimed.

Jacob shook his head, stoic, he showed no signs of fear even as the Deputy took on fifty people alone. “No, they won’t.”

Dark eyes flared up at Jacob, manic with fear. “There’s too many of them.”

Grabbing the back of Staci’s head, his fingers clinging to the shaggy brown hair of the younger man, Jacob forced him to witness the bloodshed down below. “Just watch,” he growled.

Bullets sprayed, ricocheting off metal. Nothing but shouting and screaming echoed out across the grounds, like demons from Hell had found their way up to the Earth. Blood splattered across supply crates and on the barriers that closed off the rest of the courtyard from the current festivities. Recruits ripped and tore at each other, using the barbed wire that encircled the walls around the cages as weapons all the same. The dirt on the ground was stained crimson as knives were pulled from chests and guts, and throats slit painting passersby in red.

So much red.

As the feral things clawed through the meat that scattered the ground, Kit appeared in the milieu. The cold, unfeeling machine made for only one thing. Dispatching their numbers swiftly and easily, she was brutal in her executions. Quick shots to the head, not wasting time on grotesque scenes of violent debauchery like the others. She enjoyed the death, there was no denying that, but she saw no sense in making a show of it. They were nothing more than cannon fodder to her, pests that needed to be wiped out of existence. Bodies dropped like flies, her boots stomping over the half dead to cleave her way through the others that still stood in her way.

Excellent.

Jacob gripped tighter at the hair on the back of Staci’s head pulling a hiss from the younger man, his eyes welling with tears of pain.

Blood spilled seeped into the ground, fertilizing it for war. Her territory marked, she was covered in the remnants of the lives she’d stolen. The moaning of the nearly dead like a Gregorian choir singing of her arrival.

"But - but all the recruits?"

Staci tried to turn his head to look at Jacob, but the grip he still held on him made it impossible to move. Not that seeing his face would do much, he wore the same emotionless stare he always did.

"Don't need them if we have her."

"But I - I thought they were supposed to be getting saved? Proving their strength?"

"They are, Peaches. Compared to her they don’t stand a chance."

Leaping over crates, taking cover from the last few prisoners left with guns, she dove out from behind the cement barricade and fired her rifle, getting quick, clean head shots as she made her way through the end of the maze of cages.

Arriving in the courtyard out front where the trucks usually stopped to make their deliveries, Kit stopped dead in her tracks, staring up at a man crucified upon a post with a potato sack over his head. Muffled wails carried across the wind from his gagged mouth. Taped to the bag, hanging where his own face should be, was a wanted sign for Eli.

For a split second Jacob stopped breathing, waiting to see what she’d do. This was what it all came down to, where how far the conditioning sunk in would be proven. A step away from her loyalties being tested.

Slipping the strap of her rifle from her shoulder, she tossed the weapon to the ground. She pulled the handgun from the back of her jeans, taking a breath to line up her shot, and letting off two shots right between the eyes in rapid succession.

Perfect.

#wip wednesday #cw violence #far cry 5 #american beasts #chapter 30 #jacob seed #staci pratt #oc: kit cross

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highfunctioningflailgirl · 7 months ago

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Damage Control - 2x14 Born Under A Bad Sign

Both boys on the floor, one confused and with a fresh burn, the other bleeding and exhausted, it’s triage and clean-up time in the Singer household, and Bobby congratulates himself for re-stocking his first-aid-kit only a few days ago.

Sam is rubbing his jaw, staring back and forth between Bobby, the burn mark on his forearm and his semi-conscious brother. “Bobby! What the hell happened?!”

Climbing over Sam’s long legs, Bobby grabs Dean by the jacket collar and pulls him into a sitting position. Half-lidded green eyes sluggishly blink at him. Punching his wayward brother must’ve drained the boy’s last bit of energy. With concern, Bobby sees fresh blood darkening Dean’s jacket.

“I’ll explain later. We need to take care of your brother first. Idjit’s been walking around with a gunshot wound.”

“What?” Sam pushes himself up and scrabbles over to Dean. “Who shot him?”

Patting Dean’s cheek to keep him awake, Bobby shrugs. “You did.”

“What?!”

The kid’s puppy eyes go round in shock. Sadly, Bobby can’t spare him from the truth. Better rip the band-aid off and get it over with.

“Beat him up pretty badly, too. Possessed or not, you deserved that punch in the face.”

“I beat him- … WHAT?!”

It’s clearly too much to process for the youngest Winchester right now, and no wonder. It’ll sink in, and they’ll fill him in on the details later, with a bandage on his burn mark and with a stiff drink in his hand that Bobby has a feeling he’ll need himself. For the time being, Dean’s his more immediate worry.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Bobby clarifies quickly. “You had a demon in you. Now help me get your brother on the couch!”

They haul a weakly protesting Dean across the study and onto the worn-out leather sofa. When Bobby props his feet up, Dean rallies and tries to sit.

“Lay off me,” he mumbles. “I’m f—“

“Say ‘I’m fine’ one more time and I’ll clock you myself,” Bobby warns Dean and pushes him back down. “You stay put until I’ve properly fixed that shoulder of yours! And that’s not a discussion!”

For once, the stubborn idjit complies - or he’s too exhausted to put up much of a fight. No surprise there, considering what the boy’s been through. In any case, his muscles soften under Bobby’s grip, and the little noise of pain he can’t quite bite back signals that surrender may in fact be a good idea. His indignant scowl is watery with pain.

Hovering, Sam is still staring with wide eyes that blow even wider when Bobby tears Dean’s shirt open to reveal saturated bandages and a blood-smeared chest underneath.

“Bobby!” Sam gasps. “What the fuck-”

“Get the med kit,” Bobby instructs him. He accompanies the gruff order with a reassuring nod. “Don’t worry. I’ve got ‘im.”

Both boys know their way around Bobby’s house, and even worried and confused as Sam is, he returns quickly, already flipping open the big, battered metal box with the red cross painted on it. All too familiar with its contents, he sets it down on the floor and automatically pulls out gauze and disinfectant, handing them to Bobby with shaking hands.

Bobby has peeled the old bandages away from Dean’s wound and deftly goes to cleaning it, trying to ignore Dean’s sharp hisses of pain. He needs to see what they’re dealing with, and he needs to stop the bleeding. What he finds is a bloody hole in the meaty part of Dean’s left shoulder that should’ve been closed with stitches hours ago, and Sam pressing his thumb into it certainly didn’t help matters. The wound is bleeding freely, its edges looking raised and angry.

“Oh shit, Dean…!” Sam has sunken to his knees behind Dean’s head, staying out of the way but as close as possible. Both of his hands are on the armrest of the couch, on either side of Dean’s face, twitching to touch him, but not daring to. “I don’t know how I could let this-... I’m so sorry…!”

Dean grunts as Bobby packs the wound with more gauze. “Wasn’t… ah… wasn’t your fault, Sammy,” he grits through clenched teeth, still bloody from his split lip. “Good thing, too, that … you’re a lousy shot.”

His chuckle sounds hoarse and shaky, and, Dean’s slick and too-cold skin under his palms, Bobby feels a bitter-sweet stab in his heart. Dean’s such a hard-ass most of the time. And he can hold a grudge like no one. But when it comes to Sam, his capacity for forgiveness is immeasurable. Even injured like this, at the hands of his own brother who almost killed him, Dean has already moved past all that and is trying to cheer Sam up.

“Jesus, Dean!” Incredulous, Sam shakes his shaggy head. “I can’t believe that I did this! I can’t remember a single…”

And then Bobby, keeping pressure on the wound, sees the change in Sam’s face. Confusion morphs into realization, then into wide-eyed shock. Sam remembers. His mouth falls open. Devastation creeps wetly into his hazel eyes. “Oh my God,” he whispers breathlessly. “I shot you! I… I tried to kill you!”

“Not you,” Dean rasps, briefly shutting his eyes against the pain. “Meg did. At least I hope - ah, shit - I hope it was mainly her idea…”

Another attempt at a joke that falls flat. Sam’s face has gone pale, and Bobby sincerely hopes he won’t have another fainter on his hands any moment now.

“He’s right, kid,” he tells Sam with all the conviction he can muster. “That darn demon was behind the wheel. What Meg did was out of your control. Nothin’ you could’ve done to stop her. Hell, maybe it was you who made her miss Dean’s important parts and had her hit his shoulder instead!”

It’s not even a lie. Contrary to Dean’s remark, Sam is a great shot. They both are. John Winchester trained them to be. If Meg had been in full control of Sam’s skillset, that bullet would have hit Dean’s heart, and not his shoulder. And Sam’s strong. The fact that he remembers at least some of what happened is proof that Meg’s hold on him had an Achilles’ heel. And that Achilles’ heel may have been his brother.

“Still,” Sam says, guilt oozing from his every pore. “I can’t believe I almost-” He swallows. “And Jo. She was there, too.” He frowns, trying to piece fractured memories together. “God, I didn’t hurt her, did I?”

“She’s fine,” Dean hurries to say, and now it’s Bobby’s turn to frown. Dean told him the gist of what happened, but he’s still missing details, and Ellen’s daughter seems to be a crucial one.

Bobby cautiously lifts the wad of gauze to check on Dean’s wound. It’s still oozing, but the bleeding has slowed down, at least enough to put in stitches.

“Sam,” he says firmly. “Needle and thread! And grab that bottle of Jack from the desk, will ya?”

Sam snaps out of his guilt-induced daze and rummages through the med kit to retrieve what Bobby needs. The kid’s hands are too shaky to thread the needle, so Bobby has to do it himself. The crap these two boys have been through just keeps piling up, and not for the first time Bobby feels powerless. He can’t protect them. All he can do is patch them up whenever they wind up on his doorstep, bleeding.

“Here, Dean.” Sam presses the bottle of Jack into Dean’s good hand, and his brother gratefully takes several swigs.

Bobby is glad to see that Dean is holding up remarkably well in spite of the pain and the blood loss. He’s a tough kid; always has been. And from experience Bobby knows that, if Sam is witness to whatever ordeal his older brother is going through, Dean will put on an extra brace face. John would’ve prided himself on Dean’s bravery, but Bobby isn’t so sure. Sometimes, he thinks he can hear Dean’s twenty-seven-year-old bones creak underneath all that bravado he’s flashing around.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says and takes the bottle from Dean. “Gotta leave some for your brother.” He puts the whiskey away and takes up the needle and thread instead. “You ready?”

Dean’s thick lashes are clumpy with unshed tears, and the blood from his nose is smeared across half of his face by now. The kid looks like he was dipped in war paint. But of course he nods, Winchester steel back in his eyes. “Go ahead.”

Without anyone saying so, Sam slings one arm across Dean’s good shoulder and chest to help him keep still. It’s Sam’s injured arm, but, woven out of the same fabric as Dean, he barely flinches when his burnt skin rubs against the sturdy cotton of Dean’s shirt. Dean doesn’t protest. It’s unusual, but Bobby takes it for what it is: a moment of badly needed reconnection.

Bobby sighs and digs in.

XXX

Twenty minutes later, his shoulder freshly bandaged and prescription painkillers down his hatch, Dean is already shrugging back into a clean shirt and jacket that Sam’s retrieved for him from the Impala’s trunk.

“You sure I can’t talk you into a sling? That arm needs restin’.”

Once more, Bobby proffers the hospital issue sling he’d kept from the last time Dean had dislocated his shoulder. Sometimes he wonders at which point exactly he turned from ‘uncle Bobby’ into ‘nurse Singer’.

“Nah, I’m fine.”

Of course he is.

At least Dean’s sitting down again and accepting the ice bag Bobby hands him. He’s grown an impressive shiner and sighs audibly when the cold touches his swollen face. Next to him, slumped into Bobby’s creaky old desk chair, Sam is gingerly settling his own cold pack on the burn on his arm.

While Bobby had patched Dean up, Sam had stayed glued to Dean’s side, nervous but fortifying, holding Dean down as much as … well, just holding him through the pain. (Which, of course, none of them would ever admit to.) Dean’s wound had been a mess, requiring deep stitches. That Jo girl was either a butcher or Dean, as usual, had refused proper care in favor of getting to Sam. Of saving Sam.

Bobby sighs.

When would Dean ever learn to save himself first?

Now that the drama’s over and nobody’s bleeding anymore, both boys seem to have agreed on sitting in awkward, loaded silence. Sam’s cracking the occasional nervous joke, and Dean’s pretending that everything’s fine between them when it clearly isn’t. They’re both still licking wounds, and not just physical ones.

“You sure you want to get back on the road like this?” Bobby asks, his concern not dulled enough by a glass of whiskey. “You could stay the night. Get some rest before you head back out.”

“No, we gotta get going.” Dean lifts the ice off his cheekbone and shifts his jaw, testing it.

“We’re good, Bobby,” Sam chimes in, not looking the part.

Bobby considers arguing with them, but he doesn’t. They’re Winchesters. He may as well try to argue with a block of cement. At least he hopes that, when they’re on the road, stuck in that old car for hours on end, they’ll talk to each other. Clear the air for good. Figure out how to deal with whatever they’re hiding from him, judging by those ominous looks they keep exchanging now and then.

“You two boys are driving me insane,” he grumbles plaintively. “You know that, right?”

They both look at him, battered and bruised, Sam with those darn puppy dog eyes and Dean with a gaze too old for his age. None of them know what to say.

“Aw shucks, forget it.” Bobby waves them off, whiskey sloshing in the glass he’s still holding. “Just stay there for a couple more minutes! I gotta go get something before you leave.”

He puts his glass down and trudges upstairs, to a cabinet in his bedroom. From a locked box inside it, he retrieves two silver amulets, each engraved with a pentagram in a flaming circle. He may not be able to keep the boys here, or to protect them from most of the dangers they’re facing. But at least he can protect them from getting possessed again.

The amulets cradled in his fist, he trudges back downstairs, steeling himself for once more saying goodbye to his boys, not knowing if he’ll ever see them in one piece again.

The Damage Control Series - Masterlist

Read the whole series on AO3 here:

#spn #supernatural #fanfic #fan fiction #dean winchester #sam winchester #bobby singer #the damage control series #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #jim beaver #hurt/comfort #blood cw #injury cw #2x14 born under a bad sign #hurt dean winchester #hurt sam winchester #dean winchester whump

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corruptedroses · 1 year ago

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— Peg me, Darling

ask box open | commissions open | hit the tip jar | Patreon | masterlist

Fandom — Honkai Star Rail Pairing — Sampo Koski/AFAB! reader (no pronouns used) Summary — Sampo was always full of surprises, but sometimes, you surprise him Content Warnings — top reader, pegging, use of sex toys (anal plug, lube, strap on, vibrators), overstimulation (male receiving), anal (male receiving), handjobs, cum as lube (in handjob), use of nicknames (darling (both himself and you), princess (you)), bratting (Sampo), suggestive ending Word Count — 1.7k Author's Note — thank you so much everyone for the recent influx of followers/support on my works. This is mostly self-indulgent but I wanted to take the time to thank everyone for joining me on my horny rambles. This will be posted on ao3 as well

Sampo Koski was always full of surprises, one just so happened to be wanting to be willingly pegged.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his confident smirk lighting up the room, you couldn’t help but fumble a bit with the latches around your waist. He was just about to get his ass railed and yet he was sitting there, being a cocky shitlord as he watched you put on the straps, watched as you fit the harness to your waist and the silicon dick bobbed a few times from each movement.

You were going to enjoy wiping that smirk off his face.

“You said you prepped beforehand?” His text messages had ingrained themselves into your mind at this point, sunken into the crevices of each grove of your muscle, but yet it stuck to the front, repeating over and over. This man had not only agreed to let you fuck him but had even prepared everything in advance to make things easier. He bought the toys and the strap, he prepped the lube that sat on the bedside table of his shitty little apartment, the lid already popped open as lube dripped from the squeeze bottle and onto the scratched wood.

Yet he didn’t move from that bloody bed, instead crossing one leg over another, his cock angry and red as it pressed up and against his chiselled stomach. “Sure did, couldn’t let my darling be bored by prepping me. You want the fun part.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at the way his hands danced through the air as he spoke, making it seem like he was the main attraction — which, to be fair, he was — of a circus, but yet as you finally closed the distance, leaning towards the lube on the table, you held the bottle in your hand, feeling the weight of it in your palm. “Something on your mind?”

“Just thinking about how we’re going to do this.” Your hair was pushed away from your face as Sampo raised his head to meet your eye, watching as those emerald greens danced around in their silly mirth like they usually did. He was such a fool, but also yet such an angel. “Is there anything you want to do?”

“As long as I get to make you happy, I don’t mind.” You were meant to be the one in control but yet he seized it so casually, feeling the way his lips brushed against your stomach as he leaned forward, humming softly against your skin. “But I do want to control the vibrating bit in your cunt.”

You fucking knew that part wasn’t just some weird insertion. “Sampo.”

“Couldn’t leave you out of all the fun.” Watching the way he leaned back onto his bed, his shoulder blades hit the surprisingly made sheets, his years of running from the Silvermane guard had defiantly paid off in terms of flexibility as he so easily pulled his legs over his head and caused the chain between the purple nipple clamps to jingle with movement.

“Is…” That was a plug, one that stood out against the pale skin of his ass and covered his puckered hole. Purple, shiny, you swore the thing had glitter as you stared at it. Is this what he had meant about preparing? Your snickers turned to giggles quickly, unable to contain yourself as you looked up at him, “had to match it to your hair?”

“You said purple looks nice on me.” Well, it most certainly does, but yet there was something about him paying attention to it for his outfit compared to shoving it up his asshole. As he began to blabber on about purple, your fingers came to the flared head of the plug, letting him be mid-sentence before you slowly pulled it out, listening to the way he shuddered and groaned doing so. “Hey, that was a surprise attack!” You should probably get him a gag for that pretty mouth of his too, make sure he couldn’t talk while you fucked him, but you wanted to hear those sweet moans.

Fake dick lubricated, Sampo on his back with his legs curled up towards his face, you practically were all set, your fingers coming to rest against the back of his knee, letting your nails gently scratch at the skin. “What’s the safeword?”

“Gepard.” It was a stupid one considering the name was of the guard that wanted him in custody, but it worked all the same, watching the way his lopsided smile was wiped off his face the moment that the silicon was pressed against his tight ring. Of course, this was the first time he had allowed the lovely you to top him, but that was another story. You could see the way his eyes lit in anticipation but yet his brow furrowed in preparation.

Oh sweet Sampo, he certainly had a hard time making up his mind when his other harder friend was sure enjoying the attention.

“Oh, but first.” Something clicked in Sampo’s hand and the toy nestled in your cunt whirled to life, causing you to jolt as it started slow. “Now you can start.” What a little bitch. Letting your eyes narrow at his, you braced a hand against the back of one of his muscular thighs, the other hand coming to grasp at the cock, feeling it softly vibrate in your hand. Were the vibrations for his pleasure or yours? You frankly couldn’t tell but yet as you pushed the head of the silicon past the ring of muscle, you watched as he did his best to stay perfectly relaxed.

“You’re doing so well…” You muttered, grazing your lips against one of his calves, eyes fixated on your lover’s face, “So pretty.” So perfect. You couldn’t help but admire the way his lips parted as you inched in little by little, watching the way his eyes squeezed shut with each pant. So perfect, so good, such a nice little hole. You could imagine how tight he was, see the way he sucked in the fake dick. You wished you could feel him instead of these damn vibrations. Leaning down to his neck, you licked a soft stripe up the front, your nose brushing against the beginning of his stubble. “Hanging in there, darling?” you asked, using his nickname for you against him.

“Fine, darling, I’m fine.” He always kept his composure, through disguise and action, but yet there was something about the way his smile broke slightly, how his eyebrow twitched. May the Aeons have mercy on him, you were about to make him scream Nihility’s name. “I’m just- oh goodness.” The first crack of his voice as you experimentally rutted against him was enough to make your lip twitched up into a knowing smirk, watching the way his emerald eyes met yours.

Oh, oh, you liked this power over him, you liked watching him squirm as you pulled the strap out to the tip, making him feel so empty before making him so full again. If the sun were to explode, if life ceased to exist, you would etch the look on his face in your mind for the rest of your time on this god-forsaken planet. Sampo, under you, whimpering from you? It was too good to not remember. His fingers flexed into that pillow, still attempting to keep his composure, to keep control on the situation, but yet as you began to pace yourself, hearing the way skin slapped against skin, it melted away.

There were many things that Sampo Koski was prepared for, but none of them included getting to experience his prostate being fucked against by the person above him. Even if he had been caught off guard by the pleasure, even if he was caught off guard by how vulnerable he was, there were still some tricks up his sleeve as the remote in his hand clicked once more. Your body bent forward, your head pressing against his chest as the vibrator in your cunt sped up.

“What’s wrong?” He was able to chuckle finally able to get back his breath, “a bit too buzzy?” A long, drawn-out moan was released from his lips as your hand grasped around his neglected dick, giving a quick pump. He twitched in your hand, hard and heavy, cum slowly dribbling from the head that acted as lube somewhat as you slowly began to pump in time with your thrusts. Each movement moved the vibrator in your cunt, feeling your own juices stain the leather of the straps and down your legs, most likely making a pretty work of the carpet underneath your feet.

You needed to get those whimpers, those whines, those calls of your name every time the tip met that little bundle of nerves inside him. What a treat, to see him squirm and whine and plead for mercy as your hips hit that spot with precision, but you did not dare to let yourself slow, even as you planted firmly in him, feeling the way his thighs jolted with each stroke and fuck. Tears fluttered his lashes from where they escaped the corners of his eyes, nuzzling deep into the pillow under his head.

To cross lands and seas, to cross the stars that made up your galaxy, you would do so to meet him again, to fuck him again, to see the lock on his face again as he finally met his peek. How pretty were those tears that ran down his cheeks as you stroked him through his orgasm, line after line of white dancing across his toned chest and abs as you eased him through it, one pump after another. You kept fucking him, pumping him, until he was empty and then some, just to feel the way his cock twitched with his heartbeat as overstimulation took hold. His breathing was laboured, his back arched as he struggled to capture his breath.

But Sampo Koski wasn’t done just yet. The deal always had to be sealed.

The vibrator shut off as you whined, your own high beginning to ease away from you as you glared at your lover, but yet Sampo’s dexterous form was easy enough to get out of this situation. The buckles were undone to the harness at the speed of light, and your body was picked up and easily thrown onto his chest.

“We’re not done yet, princess.” Sampo Koski always made good use of his tongue. It was going to be a long night.

#x reader smut #smut #hsr smut #hsr x you #hsr sampo #hsr sampo x you #hsr sampo x reader #hsr sampo smut #honkai star rail #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x reader smut #honkai star rail x you smut

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imalittlewoodenboy · 1 year ago

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Do you want to read a fantasy story about trans/queer characters?

Do you want a novelized exploration of what it means to be masculine?

Do you have Jesus related daddy issues?

Do you want a story with a gay trans male lead where:

-None of his problems are trans hate related?

-He (spoiler alert) will not die?

-No one gets raped at any point?

Then boy do I have a story for you. I am looking for beta readers to give feedback on my draft. I have tagged properties that influence, and inspire me, hoping that fans of those might also be interested in this.

The first chapter is below, thank you for your time and attention!

Chapter 1. The Heat

The light was warm as the dry evening air. Fires danced over the fabric that draped over support poles of hearty wood. The woodgrain had stripes of a pinkish color, and tan running through it. Cypress. Sounds of laughter and conversation poured from the mouths around the table as the group dined on dry bread, mild cheese, slightly withered fruit and nuts. The wine was warm, but perfect. The evening itself was agreeable compared to the previous hours, even though the air was oppressively hot on tired, weathered bodies. It seemed not to bother the men. All but one. Tone’s broad shoulders were sunken just a fraction lower than most days. Strands of the darkest brown hair fell over his forehead, tickling the slight bump in bridge of his long nose. The hair clumped together with dust and sweat from a day of travel. Many days actually. His thick black brows furrowed over equally black lashes, and thin lips parted for need of water. It seemed they only had wine.

The festivities and the men paid no heed to their leader’s shoulders nor brows. They asked him eagerly when they would move on to the next city. Asked his plans. Asked the future- believing he could give it to them. “Lord, we must be growing ever closer to the desert city.” Shari said. She was a thickly built warrior with the darkest brown skin that almost appeared purple in some light, and longest hair, intricately tied in box braids. “What do you see for us there?”

“Surely we mustn’t spend much time there. We could arrange our way back to Dalgen.” Taran cut in. He had a serious brow, that hung down over his eyes, and long curly black hair that contrasted against his rich Sienna skin. He was muscular too. He was the only one of his skin in the group. Foreign even in a diverse group, and the only one who seemed unfased by the opposing heat.

“We mustn’t forget how our people suffer, untreated there.” Early spoke next. He was young, with dirty blonde hair, and stubble all over his face. He had pale skin, like Tone, but where Tone had burned in the sun, Early had tanned, only making his teeth whiter, and his eyes more blue. “When will we go back to dalgen to help them?”

Tone’s eyes, tired, amber, and surrounded by fine lines, were no less captivating beneath their heavy lids. They bounced to each and every party member that spoke to him. They couldn’t go back to Dalgen. A dread filled his mind at the mention of it. Even if he told them that, only more questions would come. Though he could not give them the answers they wanted, he could give them attention. That wasn’t nothing. Was it? Would that be enough for them? to have his gaze for a moment? Did he dare divert it long enough to search their table for a jug of water? Jonathan was from Emor. He was fine featured in a way that made him look near a decade younger than his age. His hair was cut to one length, ending midway down his neck. It hung in big loose waves, dark brown, and soft. He watched from afar, watched the men pour Tone over with questions. Tone looked thirsty. Would he speak up for himself, and stop them wanting more from him? Even Jonathan couldn’t take his attention off of Tone. He had something that commanded everyone’s attention. It was refreshing just to look upon him. He was their leader, not by his own choice, but by his very nature. “Why must you beg for the future?” His gentle, calm, stable voice finally broke through the group, and settled the clamor. Everyone seemed to exhale, in relief, or maybe satisfaction, and look to the source. Tone was sitting just a little straighter. “As I’ve told you, I am no god. I don’t know the future, and I should not want to. Knowing the future would be a curse, not a blessing. It won’t bring it faster, nor make you more prepared. The future is ever changing, and we have little power over it. All we can, or might do is in the present.” The group listened with baited breath, all eyes on Tone. No one could look away. He looked to their faces a long, melancholy moment. “For instance, you all know that you will die someday, but knowing when, or how, would only inhibit your life. You would wish you didn’t know.” He looked down at the table.

He’d barely finished speaking, and the clamor resumed. The party looked to each other now, lauding the wisdom of their leader. “I must record that one.” Ayoade mumbled, searching for parchment to write on.

“He speaks the truth, we must focus on what is at hand.” Taran agreed, speaking to Shari.

Early still looked dissatisfied. Many of them were, but Tone had teased at professing. He did it so rarely, everyone had to take it seriously.

This small speech at least gave Tone a moment where no one seemed to be looking at him directly. The pale shoulders sunk again, and he took the moment to rest. He knew all too well that they would be at him again in moments. How this joyous supper with friends felt like a battle for survival. How weary he was. How hot his face felt. It was so warm, even though the sun had set hours ago.

As if Jonathan knew, he slowly approached with a pitcher of cool, sloshing water, and poured it into a clay cup in front of Tone, then slowly knelt beside him. This action required the man next to Tone, Taran, to move down slightly. Everyone wanted to sit near Tone, but Taran was his right hand man. He always was there by his side. He moved out of the way of Jonathan with obvious annoyance for such a slight.

Tone saw the water, and barely seemed to notice Jonathan at first. He was so thirsty. Jonathan even went so far as to hand the cup to Tone the moment he was done pouring. Tone looked in Jonathan’s eyes for just a fleeting glance of true gratitude. It was too short, but no less intoxicating to have his attention. Tone drank deeply. His pale throat bared, and red from the heat. Thin, chapped, pink lips on the beige clay cup. His hand surrounded it remarkably. It was so large. Jonathan’s eyes caught on his pronounced adam’s apple next. It bobbed as Tone swallowed. As he pulled the cup from his lips, a drip formed at the corner of his mouth. Jonathan had a cloth on his belt, and pulled it to Tone’s cheek to get the drip.

Tone felt better, but a drink of water, however wonderful, couldn’t heal a tired body in this hot night air. The cloth could wipe the drip of water, but it would shortly be replaced by sweat. Again, as if Jonathan knew, he took the cloth, and dipped it in the cool water pitcher. “Allow me to try and cool you, my lord.” He offered, and pressed the cool, wet cloth to Tone’s forehead.

It was perfect. Tone relaxed into the touch slightly, and his next blink dared to be a slow one. The cool wetness of the cloth was just what he needed. Jonathan always had just what he needed. A few of the men around him had tuned back in, and were starting to speak to him again. Tone wouldnt have time to relax. The slow blink would be all the reprieve he could get it seemed. He felt the touch. Analyzed it. Remembered it. Just what I need. He actively thought to himself, but what the others needed was their leader. He caught a distasteful glance from Taran, the man that Jonathan had shifted away from Tone.

Jonathan drank in the moment that Tone’s body seemed to unclench. That tiny moment that he leaned toward him before the attention of Taran and the others soured it. The others didn't even see him relax, it was so brief, but Jonathan felt it. He had helped for what it was worth.

When Tone glanced around he saw two others looking too. Anders, and Ferdinand. His mind reluctantly gave up the milisecond of relief, and he leaned away from Jonathan’s touch. A frustration grew in him that he knew was misplaced. How could Jonathan know him so well? How could he see just what he needed, but not see how giving it to him would backfire? Why did he always have to fulfill those needs so instantly, when he couldn’t enjoy the comfort? Jonathan, all that is good, must you know me over supper? Tone thought to himself, wishing he could communicate to Jonathan that he was right- he needed this. We’re unwedded, and you’re far too young. This looks inappropriate, and you know it. They already assume things based on your profession. Must you always give me just what i need right here and now? Could you fit all that in a glance? He tried to without letting the others see. More and more attention turned back to him. “That’s enough, Jonathan.” Was all Tone said, a little sharply as he shifted away from him. “… Thank you.” Jonathan pulled the cloth away as Tone thanked him, then refilled his water, even though it was in short supply. A secretly rebellious statement. A tiny little ‘You deserve comfort’ in response. It didn’t go unnoticed by Tone, as they shared one last minuscule glance. Jonathan left, only seconds after sitting down in the first place, to look after the needs of the other party members. He stood from the pillows on the ground, and his bare legs under his short tunic were between Tone and Taran for a moment before he walked off. The legs between them were what set Taran off. “I don’t see why you waste your time with someone like him.” He said, barely a moment after Jonathan was out of earshot. It was bold, but Tone trusted Taran more than any of the others for his moral drive. “I can understand the appeal… if someone were interested in young men… but… an Emorian..?” he searched for the right words, trying not to sound judgmental, when he clearly didn’t approve. “I understand and agree with your teachings on treating sex workers with kindness, but for others to see you with him like that…” he trailed off a moment. “To let him touch you so… It doesn’t suit your image. It doesn’t inspire devotion. It makes you look like any other man. Sinful.. mortal.”

Jamie added on. “And he’s Emorian. To be so close with a teenager… especially if he comes from the very race that abuses ours…” Tone kept his gaze straight forward. Of course what Taran, and Jamie said was understandable, true even. That didn’t mean Tone liked it. It didn’t make it fair. He got more tense with every word. The logic Taran spoke was justified, but his attitude was not. He spoke of Jonathan’s profession with venom. With distaste. Taran thought Jonathan lesser for his past. Jonathan caught Tone’s eye across the space, serving wine to a group of men.. all of them nearly twice Jonathan’s size, and totally ignoring him. As if he were some sort of slave, or object. Nonetheless, Jonathan was smiling. He was sweet. There was a purity of spirit about him in stark contrast to the way all the men seemed to see him.. as dirty. distasteful. As Taran spoke, more of the men turned their attention in agreement. Anger, and fatigue swirled in Tone’s shoulders as they raised, and he snapped at Taran.

“I’m amazed that men such as yourselves can be so blind.” Tone worked to speak calmly, but heat grew in his words. “We work tirelessly in every town we visit to do what?” He asked rhetorically, looking to all their blank faces. “We help people who’s humanity has been ignored. We feed, we heal, we care for those who have been ignored. How can you work so hard to restore humanity to others, and yet ignore his?” All attention was on Tone again as his voice began to raise. “There is not a man among you who personifies my teachings such as he.” “My lord, we have devoted our lives to spreading your wisdom. He has chosen a sinful occupation. One of greed. Surely he is the shallow one..?” Early put forward, and a few were brave enough to agree. Jonathan had been serving the men, but now that all of their group was focused on Tone’s rare heightened state, Jonathan had caught on that the conversation was about him. He made himself scarce before Tone could spot him, but stayed just past some of the colorful fabric of their tent. No one could get far enough from each other on an expedition like this- when all the walls were fabric. “You’ve misunderstood me then entirely.” Tone snapped, jumping to his feet. His voice had always been powerful, even when it was quiet. It was smooth, deep, and felt like his words were dipped in warm honey. The kind that tastes so good you don’t even mind getting your hands all sticky. But now, it boomed, and excited the listeners. Even though he was mad, it was still beautiful to listen to. “He cares for his fellow human. He doesn’t see it as… demeaning to serve drinks and to cook or clean for us.” His voice boomed. At this point, unseen by all present, Jonathan left earshot. He went to the furthest tent to avoid hearing more. It was almost as if hearing positive words of him from Tone was too much. he felt unworthy of such attention, even if he had wanted it moments ago. It was like looking into the sun. “He just wants to take care. You’re all happy enough to enjoy the fruits of labor that you so despise.” Tone spat, looking to each of them directly. Taran, Shari, Ayoade, Anders, Grace, Early, Qiana, Jamie, Sam, Ferdie. Finally, silence. From all of them. The moment grew long, and Tone realized how it must have looked. Someone dared to question his interest in a prostitute, and he snapped at the whole group. A rather out of character snap as well. They would certainly have their theories now. Was there even anything he could do to stop them…? No action would have stopped the speculation. Especially now. The effort of the day finally caught up, and Tone realized what he should have known hours ago. “I will go on a walk alone.” He stated to dumbfounded, guilty, and resentful faces. Then promptly turned, and walked out of the tent, scattering a group of servants that had dared listen in to his rare, but beautiful raised voice. His sandals drug through the sand as he stormed off. He was an imposing height that, even though he was quite slender, and docile in attitude, could still intimidate when moving as quickly as he did. He disappeared over a sand dune, and no one dared go after him. “It is dangerous for him to get so familiar with whores” Grace said bluntly, brave now that their leader was out of earshot. Tone had never yelled like that at him, but he was of the few that weren’t phased by it. Though Grace was the smallest of their group, he could be the most brave. Or brash. Jury’s out.

Taran nodded “I am devoted to our leader and our cause- you know I would only have brought it up because of outside perspective” He pointed out. “If the crowds start to see him as not following his own ideals… well it puts us all in danger.”

“It doesn’t help our cause, you’re right” Jamie said through squinted eyes. His pale skin had freckled in the sun, and left his face covered in spots. Though many of them had European skin, his seemed the most out of place here under red hair.

“He’s right.” Anders said through the conversation, and people perked up to listen to him. Anders had long dirty blonde hair, and pale skin.“He has taught nothing but humility. We are quick to judge Jonathan’s profession, but slow to realize that few people would choose that profession.” he seemed to think out his words carefully “Perhaps… we don’t like Jonathan because he makes Tone seem too human.” he realized. “He makes him just a man..” he trailed off. Some seemed to take this in. Some heartily disagreed.

“Just a man.” Shari said with a soft laugh. “As if you could really believe that of Tone.”

“Just a man or not, the public thinks him a god. It only helps us to maintain that. If they realize he’s not, they’ll call him a liar.” Taran argued.

“He never said he was.” Ferdie pointed out.

“You think that matters to a mob?” Taran retorted.

The conversation slowly began to pick back up, several debating about Jonathan, never checking to see if he was even still there. The sky was purple and cloudless against indigo dunes, and the horizon stretched out in all directions. Their camp was comprised of 3 tents. One large, colorful, and open, where they had their supper, then one larger tent where all the followers slept together on their individual mats. The remaining tent was for some servants, their faithful pack ferret, and food storage. Tone had retreated far enough to a high dune that overlooked the little valley which their camp was set up. He stood with their tall pack ferret. The very first one they had got when they set out on their journey. He was old and grey now, with white hairs littering his lively face. Tone leaned his head against the big creature. He had carried their bags and tents so dutifully for so long. Tone wondered if it was time for their old friend to retire. His mind went to Jonathan next. He felt a guilt over his treatment. Jonathan had come and given him such refreshment, such reprieve, and Tone didn’t offer anything in return but frustration. He would need to remedy this.

Torches of fire mimicked the many stars in lovely yellows offset by the blue shadows of night. The air was still oppressive, and Tone wondered what options he had for the night. He had to return soon, both in need of rest, and to quell any question that he was off with Jonathan somewhere. They all had seen him all hours of their time together. They knew well that Tone had no time alone, not to mention enough time alone for a prostitute’s services. He slept in full view, with all of them there in the communal tent. Though spacious enough for them to have their own corners, there wasn’t privacy. All could be heard, and most could be seen. When he went back, he would surely face the group, and have to withstand more conversations, and questions. If he didn’t… he’d not be able to lay down. That motivated him to make the trek back to his bedroll. Back down the hill to the welcoming firelight. There was light on the horizon too, he noticed. They’d be in a town again by the next night. Chapter 1.1 Chapter 1.2 Chapter 1.3 Chapter 1.4 Chapter 1.5

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