#horse human body horror

[demon-princess13]

also, this cursed image has lived in my phone for too long with nowhere to post it

so you get it now

[elodieunderglass]

History of Black jockeys in the USA: tumblr starter pack

The gif above was created by animating the motion study of “Annie G,” plate 627 of Eadweard Muybridge’s 1887 work, “Animal Locomotion”. The horse is a mare named “Annie G.” The jockey, unknown, is a Black man. It is one of the earliest motion studies on record, and captures some of the first humans and first animals to be recorded this way. (The earlier 1878 Muybridge study of the mare Sallie Gardener is more famous but you can’t really see the jockey.)

The Black jockey is referenced (fictionally) as an ancestor n Jordan Peele’s film Nope (2022) which also looks at the relationship between Black men, horses, and the consumption for entertainment of both of their bodies.

Fold into that what we are learning about today’s acceptance of the jockey-as-consumable, of their body as an accessory, of their wellbeing as mostly irrelevant; but then remember that once upon a time, people cared a lot more about horse racing. This is a big, tricky topic in American horse racing. There was a time in American history when Black jockeys were enslaved and forced into a job that we know is dangerous and consuming. Later there was a time in American history when Black jockeys were incredibly influential and important, competing equally alongside white jockeys, and they were deliberately pushed out of a sport they had mastered.

“The Undefeated Asteroid,” Edward Troye, 1864. Enslaved horse trainer Ansel Williamson, right, holding saddle. Ed Brown, jockey on left adjusting his spurs, was the young enslaved jockey. The groom is unidentified.

Press Keep Reading for an essay/signposts to resources. It’s intended as a jumping-off point for curious people and historians to learn more. TW for racial discrimination and discussion of weight.

As we know by now, jockeys are considered consumable/disposable by their sport; they are athletes whose names are less memorable than their mounts and their working conditions are tough. The sacrifices that jockeys make today to remain strong and light are hard enough when the jockey is willing. They have hard weight limits on their profession. And one of the very dark horrors of this was that young enslaved Black men of small stature and riding ability were singled out and used as jockeys. Their sacrifices would not have been willing. While this essay is about the Black athletes who willingly entered the sport post-abolition, I think it’s important to be up-front about the history of enslaved jockeys in America. Jockeys like Ed Brown (above) were forced into the job very, very young.

Horse racing is a bonkers calling, but it’s also one that people willingly follow. Post-abolition, there were many Black American jockeys who were incredible athletes, their records and statistics still impressive today. In a surge of excellence around the 1890s, Black jockeys rose to remarkable influence and power in America, becoming household names above even the horses, travelling the world, greeted with admiration, true celebrities with their faces on merchandise. At the very first Kentucky Derby, raced in 1875, 13 of the 15 jockeys were Black men.

Between 1890 and 1899, African American jockeys won the Kentucky Derby six times. By the early 1900s, they were history. The key push to exclude Black jockeys came when White jockeys began violently attacking their African American counterparts by boxing them out during races, running them into the rail, and hitting them with riding crops. These attacks prevented Black jockeys from finishing in the money, and endangered fragile and valuable racehorses. Soon after the attacks began, African American jockeys found they could not get rides. Anxiety over job insecurity appears to have played an important role in White jockeys’ actions: there were only a limited number of riding slots. White jockeys would have benefitted in any circumstances from the exclusion of Black jockeys, but in the late 1890s the US was in a depression, and unease about finding rides was especially high. Combined with a growing anti-gambling crusade that reduced attendance at racetracks and eliminated some tracks entirely, jockeys found demand for their services contracting.(National Bureau of Economic Research)

Professor Pellom McDaniels, describing the impact of this on legendary Black American jockey Isaac Burns Murphy:

MCDANIELS: If black people are supposed to be inherently inferior, to have someone who demonstrates success in material terms unravels this idea and therefore those whites during this time period who believe themselves to be inherently superior, something's broken in their psyches. And Murphy represents that kind of attack on white supremacy.

Isaac Burns Murphy, one of the best American jockeys of history, had an unprecedented rate of wins (something like 44% which is almost impossible.) he was born into slavery, but his mother managed to escape with him as a toddler to a Union Army camp. He was inducted into the Jockey’s Hall of Fame in 1955 and Eddie Arcaro was quoted, “there is no chance that his record of winning will ever be surpassed.” (How could it?!)

Today, the American Racing Museum honours many Black jockeys of history in their Hall of Fame, telling some truly incredible stories that are worth browsing.

Like James Winkfield. Born in America 1882, died France 1974. won the Kentucky Derby twice. Left America due to this rising backlash against the growing prominence of Black jockeys, the KKK in particular explicitly objecting to his celebrity and earnings by sending him death threats. Winkfield therefore rode and trained in Europe, settled in Russia, FLED THE 1919 REVOLUTION WITH 200 HORSES?, married an exiled Russian aristocrat (????) and, lest he know peace for five minutes, defended his horses from the European Nazi invasion with a pitchfork(!!!!). Fleeing WW2 to America, where the new racial segregation was now being widely embraced, Winkfield found hotels that had once welcomed the celebrity athlete suddenly turning him away (never forget that segregation was artificial and deliberate.) I am still stuck on him sneaking 200 thoroughbreds out of Russia. Here’s his Britannica article and Hall of Fame bio.

The campaign of racism and terror was successful at driving Black athletes from the profession, and Winkfield was the last Black jockey to win the Kentucky Derby. Jim Crow swept through the USA, and white people in the South comforted themselves with “lawn jockeys,” racist caricature lawn ornaments of Black men in jockey silks.

It wasn’t until the 1970s that Black jockeys began winning high-stakes races in the USA again.

Hopefully this has spurred (ha!) your interest. Here are some links if you find yourself interested in more!

American racing museum: Jockey hall of fame

Kentucky Derby Museum’s Black Heritage in Racing collection

How and Why Black Riders Were Driven from American Racetracks (summary paper, National Bureau of Economic Research)

There is no competition: the legacy of black jockeys (1975 entry in Sepia magazine preserved here. Note that James Winkfield’s picture incorrectly identified as Isaac B Murphy.)

This 1975 photo is from the article above and describes Cheryl Smith, “first Black American female jockey to hold a license.” I haven’t been able to find out much about her, but I’m not a historian - let me know if she takes your interest as a topic!

It looks like there are some big interesting books on the subject, though I haven’t read them myself. If you’re interested in doing a research project, here they are!

The Great Black Jockeys: The Lives and Times of the Men who Dominated America's First National Sport, by Ed Hotaling, 1999

Isaac Murphy: The Rise and Fall of a Black Jockey, by Katharine C Mooney, 2003

The First Kentucky Derby: Thirteen Black Jockeys, One Shady Owner, and the Little Red Horse That Wasn't Supposed to Win, by Mark Schrager, 2023.

[gremlingottoosilly]

Horsin' around (Centaurus!Konig x fem!Reader)

Konig is exiled from his people. You are exiled from yours. Together, you make about 6 legs and a perfect pair. Tags and CW: Size kink (duh), Centaurus!Konig(horse cocks), Konig is awkward, slight dub-con, power imbalance, belly bulge, praise kink, monster fucking. Thanks @kneelingshadowsalome for the prompt! AO3| Word count: 3016

Centaurus are not wild animals. You keep repeating it to yourself as you come deeper and deeper into the forest. You keep mumbling it to yourself as you feel the eyes watching you. judging you. Centaurus are not wild animals even if sometimes they behave like one. Not like you’re any different, any better – you’re a human, invading the sacred forests. You’re a human who is dumb enough to go foraging into the depths of their territory. Centaurus are not wild animals, but you don’t feel that repeating the same sentence over and over makes it sound any more convincing. You feel the danger in the air – with each step you take, with each fallen tree you’re stepping over. With every attempt to simply run ending up not working, you know you got lost. Long abandoned the basket you came with – you don’t recognize a single berry that grows here, not a mushroom or even some edible plant pieces to be found. This place is devoid of animals, of flowers – like something just snatched it all away. Ate it all, maybe. You don’t want to think what kind of creature could cause a migration like this. You don’t need to think though. Because the creature finds you first. 

You yelp in a mix of surprise and horror when the arrow flies right in front of you, the skill of the archer is high enough to make the arrow cut down a few bits of hair in front of your eyes. If you were a mere millimeter closer, you’d be dead. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. This much is obvious. You freeze in place, not daring to move an inch when you hear it. Loud, not even bothering to conceal the sound of it – the creature was confident enough that the prey wouldn’t run. Not the creature, you correct yourself immediately. Centaurs are not animals, they are closer to humans than a lot of other monster types – with their strength and warrior culture, you’d say that they are even more humans than citizens of the village who forced you out. 

The centaur doesn’t even bother to hide himself from you, concealing the sounds of heavy hooves on the ground or evading the branches that crunched against his body. This is exactly what made you surprised when you understood that instead of a rough, but mostly handsome face that most centaurus tend to have, you’re met with a black hood which only spared two holes for the icy-blue eyes staring back at you. 

Is he a grim reaper? An executioner for other centaurus? Would that mean you don’t have to worry unless your lower part resembles a horse? 

You take a quick look at your bottom half. Not a horse. 

Centaur reapers the gesture, looking at his bottom half too. Definitely a horse. 

You decide to speak first, hoping to find words that would work just fine to be your last. 

— I am really sorry for intru…

— This is not the sacrifice season yet. 

Ah, well. 

The people from your village believe the centaurs to be sacred – despite them being monsters they knew a lot about, they were still given sacrifices. Food, some farm animals, especially fatty pieces of meat, and fancy jewels along with some weapons. Centaurus kept the worst predators at bay, herding the wolves to be their pets and sometimes driving deer and rabbits away to the village. They kept you protected from werewolves and orcs – with a meager payment of never touching the sacred grounds. 

You just stepped into the deepest, most protected part of the forest. You wonder if you would deserve a peaceful death. 

— It’s not. I…I made a mistake. 

No, you wanted to be here. When the village decided to drive you out, you thought that foraging in the part of the forest, untouched by humans, would be the most profitable thing. Centaurus won’t take berries anyway, right? But they might just take your life. 

— A mistake? 

He tilts his hooded head to the side. It’s such a boyish expression, that you almost let go of a nervous giggle. Perhaps, you were going crazy…but the centaur seemed a bit nervous. As seasoned as he looked – with battle scars covering his body and a bit of silver mixed with his ginger fur on the horse part – he seemed almost awkward standing here. Tapping one of his hooved legs like a nervous child. Squeezing the bow in his hands with vigor that made you scared he will just snap it in half. 

— I just wanted to take some food. 

— Is there a hunger? 

— No. 

— Humans aren’t allowed in these parts. Why would you go if not out of despair? 

You gulp. 

— I…am not allowed back. 

— Why? 

Because you’re a forest witch who will doom them all, according to the village of a horse people worshippers. Because you’re a monster in disguise who keeps straling babies, according to the village that uses the best pieces of food to feed the horse people who can take of themselves just fine, instead of feeding it to the orphaned children. Because you’re a whore who refuses to accept the new type of sacrifices – the virgins of the village as a breeding material for the Centaurus, according to the village filled with people who would gladly push a poor virgin out in the forest once she turned of age, so she could be mauled by horse people. 

— We had…mutual disagreement. 

You stare at the mighty body of the centaur. You fight the urge to get your hands down his torso, play with its short hairs, and…you were always a bit of a horse girl. Wondering if he is strong enough to lift you up and get you somewhere safe, somewhere far far away from here. 

Centaur has this weird, almost boyish tone. Deep and yet, sounds just a bit deranged. Unhinged. Like he is going to maul you any second – and judging by the bow and arrow still in his hands, he might not be wrong. You lick your lips. He stares at them – or at least you think he is. Hood only reveals his eyes and you can already get lost in them. Cold, like the northern sea, Like the snow outside. You thought all mythical creatures were supposed to be warm-blooded. 

— You’re exiled then. 

He isn’t asking. Centaurus are omnipotent and wise, they should know about human affairs more than humans themselves. You made them into sort of gods – you shouldn’t be surprised that this guy knows way more than he should. Somehow, you still feel safer around him than other humans – and maybe, it’s more of a you problem. Maybe, you ended up eating some of the weird berries and it’s just your hallucinations before you die. 

— I am. 

He takes a step back. He is big – all of them are, you suppose, but, somehow, he is bigger than he should be. Giant, muscular torso on top of an already muscular and big horse part – he can pick you up, throw you, and break you with one finger, probably. No, definitely. You don’t want to give him a reason to, so you just stay in place. Hoping he wouldn’t deem your trespassing as a matter worthy of a torturous death. 

— My name is König, human. Repeat, ja? 

The name feels weird on your tongue. Rude, sharp. You don’t want to call him wrong and receive his wrath, so you try your best to repeat this. 

— Ko-nig. Ja? 

You tilt your head to the side, a curious little bird. Centaur – König, König, König – squints his eyes like he is smiling. You made the god smile. The horse god. The horseman. Just…man. If you don’t look down, where you already see something giant and heavy standing between his horse legs, you could forget that he isn’t a man at all. 

Suddenly, you feel light. Suddenly, you feel your legs dangling in the air as you were picked up and bumped into the broad chest. Suddenly, you feel hands everywhere. On your ass, under it, touching your chest, your stomach, trying to get to the best position so you would stop moving constantly and trying to get out. You don’t want to fight him because you’re already in the air and falling right now could result in a broken neck – but you don’t want to be suspended in the air either. You whimper, pathetic sound escaping your lips as you feel calloused hands pressing on your mound. Traveling down your stomach and touching, squeezing, petting your delicate parts. 

You spend so much time without a gentle hand or a soft touch, you can feel yourself dripping on the fingers of a centaur. Embarrassing, yes – but you know that if he were to proceed, you wouldn’t really resist. 

And oh, he proceeds. 

— They finally send us proper sacrifices. 

He mumbles it into your hair, taking in your smell. You’re nice for a human – not scared of him too much, not trying to ran away or fight. Humans are usually just annoying insects under his hooves, but König can feel your face growing on him. Your body, too. Too weird for other Centaurus, never being able to find a proper mate who could take his lack of social awareness, he found himself mounting a human. His tribe would call him pathetic. His tribe would laugh. 

Then again, he is the first to get such a delicate little gift. Who is laughing now? 

You aren’t crying in his hands, and he is a bit surprised. You smell like a proper mate, like a good bitch in heat just for him – yet, you’re not falling on your knees to present your dripping cunt. You’re just trying to whimper to ask him to be gentler, and he is happy to oblige. Calm enough to listen to you. Ripping your pants apart because this is such a useless piece of clothing – concealing your rich smell from him. 

König doesn’t waste any time when he dips his finger across your swollen folds. Playing with the slick running down his wrist, smiling as you are closing your eyes and pressing your head in his chest. He is strong enough to keep you suspended in the air without a care in the world. Weak human, he would have to spend so much time preparing you for him – taking his cock would be a task no sacrifice ever competed before. 

König stares at your dripping pussy that is already clenching around nothing just because his fingers are pressing on the hood of your little clit, and he knows you’d be the perfect wife for him. Taking him properly as his mate, moaning as his cum fills you up. he can’t wait – knows that he should, preparing you properly. His hooves are beating the ground in impatience as his fingers slide in and out of your pussy. You spread your legs, moaning louder. Such a filthy whore for him. 

— Relax, human. Be a good mate. 

— This isn’t what I wa…

— Quiet. Such a good…good girl, Schatz. Will bring me strong children. 

— We can’t have sex. It’s im…impossible.

You whimper, trying to squeeze your legs, to shut his hand. You only moan louder, knowing that you would accept everything he gives you, and ask for more. 

You don’t want to imagine his cock entering you over and over, forcing its way past your walls and making you round and soft with his children. It’s a foreign concept – centaurus shouldn’t mate with humans, it should be physically impossible. Yet, you almost want to try. A breeding mare, made for one and only. 

König gets you on…something. It isn’t exactly a natural thing – a pile of stones and trees, perfect height for you to lay your back on, with some soft leaves and animal skins to rest comfortably. His hands support you on the perfect height and you immediately know what he construction is. A mating stand. Probably for other centaurus – but you feel almost fine laying on it too. Almost normal. Your muscles sting as you try to rest your legs and then spread them wide enough for König to stay between them. He is a big guy, after all. He turns you around, on your tummy. Ass in the air, you don’t like not seeing him. The heavy musk fills your nostrils, making you suddenly aware of what is about to happen – you’re wet, spread enough on his fingers, calloused fingertips scrubbing your gummy walls from the inside. He is fingering you with ease, but it doesn’t feel like a man with experience – he is touching and probing like he doesn’t know what he is doing and, honestly, you kinda like it. He is exploring your body with his and you moan, not caring that you sound like a whore. Humans have already abandoned you as part of society – you might as well just take it. — I will prepare you. 

— It won’t fit… — It will, Schatzen. You’ll get used to it. — What if I break? 

— I will be careful. Trust me, ja?

Even his fingers are a bit much when he enters your body with a third digit. One, two, three – you are about to burst when he is massaging your G-spot, when he is smiling in your hair and gets you so aroused just on it alone. You’re about to cum when he slowly extracts his fingers, deeming your sloppy cunt as explored enough. Your walls are clenching around nothing, a beautiful display of desire – maybe, it was the right call that humanity abandoned you. König looks at the perfect centraius whore on display and he can’t wait to claim you. To make you his. 

He is exiled from other centaurus. 

You are exiled from humans. 

What a beautiful fucking pair. 

He enters your body slowly deliberately. Regrets it immediately – you are wonderful. Too perfect to be this slow, being soft with you is torture. Your walls accept him with a stretch, like a warm glove around his cock. Slowly shifting, softening, straddling his cock with each inch he buries in the depth of your warm, weeping cunt. He can’t touch you, as unfortunate as this is – dumb horse body is making it impossible, even looking at you is hard enough on his neck. He wants to mount you properly, but you’re simply too fucking small. Wants to touch your hair, to whisper some encouragement that human women would probably love to hear – but he can only breath heavily and enter you, one painful centimeter after the other. 

— T…too much, too much, please, I can’t, it’s… You whimper, you cry, it breaks his damned heart because you don’t deserve this. You need to be treated with care, with softness and yet, he can’t give you that. He wants so much to just put you in his arms and hug you, but that would be impossible. König will give you all the coddling in the world after you’re done. After he is sure that you received all the possible breeding and seed he could gave you. 

— Quiet, human. It would be nice soon. 

— It’s not…

— Touch yourself, please, bitte. I can’t…can’t touch you. But you will feel better. 

Your hand goes between your legs, playing with yourself. Spreading your folds around his cock even more, fingers sliding past your clit. Touching the little button and hoping it would be enough to make you aroused – and it is. Your cunt is a mess of your own juices mixed with König’s pre cum, and you already know that you won’t be walking the next couple days. 

König bottoms with a deep sigh, and you feel him in your stomach. Bulging with his giant cockhead, making the outline of his cock visible – you touch it with shock, not understanding how your organs are even in place. 

He starts moving and you finally feel it – the burning pleasure setting fire in the pit of your stomach. the excess liquid pouring from your damp cunt, moans spreading from your lips. You never felt this way with a human before – then again, no human cock would ever be able to compete with König. He can reach the parts of your body that you never knew existed, and the mix of pheromones and musk is making you dizzy. Light-headed. You don’t even need to touch yourself more to feel the height of your orgasm, building in as rapidly as König’s thrusts. 

In, forcing its way to hit your cervix gently, massaging the sore spots of your tight pussy. 

Out, grazing over your inner walls, touching all the buttons. 

In again, filling you up with his pre-cum. Moaning loud enough for the whole forest to hear. 

Out, dragging you back with him, as you’re still impaled on his cock. 

— S…so perfect for me. Scheisse, so pretty… He can’t touch you and it breaks his heart. König goes to praise you instead – words feel awkward on his tongue, but he knows you need to heart it. He wants you to hear it, wants you to fee wanted, entitled. Soft. He smiles when you whimper and moan, milking him for his orgasm. Your cunt is made for him and he wants to spend every waking moment buried inside of it. Gods, you are a perfect sacrifice. 

He is coming embarrassingly fast, pumping his giant cock even deeper into your pussy. Filling you up with hot cum that can’t even stay inside of your cunt. Leaking everywhere, you two are making a mess – you breath heavily, not understanding what is right and wrong anymore. Only knowing, remembering the shape of his cock. Pushing in and out, forcing its way in. God, you feel full. And ridiculous. And so, so perfect with his cock slowly starting to pump you again. And again. Konig came embarrassingly fast, but only because this is just the first orgasm in a row. Forcing its way inside, you are overstimulated already – but you will take him, of course, obviously. You have to.

König is going to enjoy breeding a new clan out of you. 

[after-witch]

Horrorfest: I Know What You Did Last Halloween [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Title: I Know What You Did Last Halloween [Yandere Hawks x Reader]

Synopsis: You watch a movie with your captor.

For Horrorfest request:

watching a horror movie with hawks/Keigo and him getting bored and trying to make very much unwanted advances towards reader and reader is more scared/anxious of that than the movie.

Word count: 800ish

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, sexual assault

The scantily clad college student on the TV screen has just watched one of her friends get butchered, and now she’s running down a seemingly endless corridor, cold sweat artfully placed on her forehead by a special effects team, hoping to escape the killer before her own guts get speared on his knife. She picks a door at random, shuts it as quietly as she can, then crouches down beside it to await her fate.

You are doing nothing so exciting.

You are simply sitting in a living room, underneath a warm blanket, a bowl of popcorn resting in between you and the pro-hero that kidnapped you.

Reflexively, now and then, your hand grabs a fistful of popcorn and shoves it into your mouth without a hint of daintiness.

Not because you’re particularly hungry, or because the movie is so engrossing you can’t be bothered to eat popcorn like a human being instead of a horse, but because the more you stuff your face, the more you can avoid talking to Hawks. Or Keigo, as he says to call him, which you sometimes do in order to avoid his bad moods.

He’s not in a bad mood now.

No–in fact–

The scantily clad college student turned sole survivor of a midnight massacre holds her manicured hand over her mouth to silence her breathing, limbs shaking as she hears the killer’s knife dragging against the hallway. “Come out, come out”--

Keigo is in a good mood. A pleasant mood. A mood that has him snuggling closer to you on the couch, hand reaching for the popcorn or–no, not for the popcorn. Hand reaching across the bowl and for your fingers, which you yank away, shoving them inside the bowl and grabbing another fistful of buttery pieces.

It’s a pathetic tactic. But one that works. Sort of. Maybe. For another minute. Because you hear Keigo sigh, feel him shift closer on the sofa, and then–

“Babe,” he says, drawing out the word. “I thought we talked about this.”

“We” didn’t talk about it, you think. He talked about it. Told you to stop being so skittish, to start acting like a proper partner, to let him touch you and kiss you without making him feel like an asshole.

But you kidnapped me, is what you should’ve said.

“Okay,” is what you did say. And he’d grinned and told you to pick out your favorite movie and you put on a slasher you used to watch all the time in college. It made you feel scared, it made you feel giddy, it was like a creepy comfort movie.

The killer stops at just the right door and the final girl, the only one out of her friends not to end up on the wrong side of a blade, looks like she’s going to be down for the count. She’ll get grabbed and gutted like the rest of them. Only when the killer opens the door, a note of triumph in his voice–only to find himself getting smacked in the face with a desperately swung desk chair. 

Keigo’s hand is not over the popcorn bowl now. Now, it is sliding underneath the blanket, where you can’t easily bat it away. Not without making him annoyed, not without the excuse of popcorn. 

There are no excuses to make when his hand finds your thigh, gives it a squeeze. It should feel warm underneath the blanket, but it’s like an icy chill descends over your skin. Goosebumps that he coos over, takes for sensitivity and not horror, spread across your legs. 

On screen, the final girl is battling for her life. She’s winning. She will win. You know this, have seen it a thousand times. 

In the living room, with Keigo’s hands creeping up your thigh and his body getting closer, setting the popcorn to the side so it doesn’t spill, you’re wishing you could do the same. 

But she–she is allowed to fight and scream and claw and give the killer a taste of his own medicine before emerging triumphant and alone. She has that freedom, despite her dead friends, despite the trauma she would no doubt endure if the film extended past the credits.

You?

You’re sitting on the couch, no popcorn between you now, as Keigo begins to press kisses to the side of your neck. Your jaw. Your mouth. 

You–

You’re stuck in your horror movie, and the killer’s call is most definitely coming from inside the house. 

[kastalani123]

Mmmmmmmm, but what if Estelle grows up without knowing about the Greek myths being real?

What if Sally and Paul look at Percy, who's hesitant to hold his baby sister for fear of drowning her with blood-drenched hands, who eventually holds her like she's made of glass because the Destroyer is afraid of breaking her, who shoves his face into his pillow to keep his nightmares from waking her up–

What if Sally and Paul look at Percy, seventeen years old with the world resting on his shoulders since he was twelve, and ask, "Do you want her to know?"

And he wonders. He thought it'd be a given, that she'd grow up surrounded by monsters and magic, that he'd make fish made of water swim around her to make her laugh, that there would be no secrets as to his life's horror.

But he wonders. He thinks that, maybe, she won't have to grow up afraid of her own shadow. She's mortal, after all. There is no ichor in her veins. There is no guarantee she will be Clear Sighted.

There is no reason she can't live a normal life.

There is no reason she has to be woven into the Fates' tapestry beyond the barest of mentions.

He wonders, and he decides no. No, this one person, this little bundle of giggles, this reason that motivates him to learn healthy coping mechanisms, this little sister of his — she will not be forced to grow up so fast. She will not hesitate making plans for her future in fear of never making it that far. She will not suffer scars from things other than risky bike tricks and tumbling down a hill.

This one person that he can protect, for once in his life. This one person that he will protect, from both of his worlds.

Oh, it's not that she doesn't know anything. He makes sure she knows as many myths as possible, as many ways to protect herself as she can learn, as many people and places that can help her if she ever needs it. She grows up with bedtime stories about winged horses and giant dogs and a number of human-animal hybrids. She dreams of a brother with a scarred lip and a girl who loves too much and a sister who usually thinks of her sibling before herself and a boy who can tame dragons, and sometimes it's like her dreams are real, like she actually knows the characters from her brother's stories. She learns to recognize unfairness and abuse, to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves, to make things right even if she has to force unwilling hands to do what she wants with trickery.

She knows so much.

But she never climbs a wall flowing with lava. But she never picks up a sword and dons a set of armor. But she never learns her loved ones' scars don't come from unfortunate accidents. But she never flies through the sky on helpful wings. But she never dives into the depths of the ocean in a bubble of air. But she never gets lost in a house that's always changing its layout to suit its occupants' needs. But she never watches her home in ruin. But she never runs from an inferno consuming the world around her. But she never cradles a friend's body as the life drains from their eyes.

But she never stops being an ordinary mortal.

[llamagoddessofficial]

knightmare.......... (⸝⸝๑ ̫ ๑⸝⸝⸝)

The air was hot, and heavy. It always was, in the Summer Court, where the inescapable sun remained high in the sky for eternity. In this particular moment, however... the heaviness in the atmosphere was not caused entirely by heat.

The new knight, the stranger, had won yet another joust. Not only that, he had won a golden rose; the coveted prize for unseating five knights in a row. His opponent was still limping back to the competitor’s tent, their wings low in shame - and the stranger remained tall on his steed, alone in the centre of the ring. The raised stands surrounding the jousting arena had fallen deafeningly silent... he looked like a demon, horned helmet branching behind him, black ichor still leaking from between the heavy segments of his midnight armour.

The knight he had unhorsed was one of Dream’s favoured guards. Nobody knew what to do. Cheer? Boo? He held the rose he had just been presented with as if someone had handed him a dead bird; he seemed to observe it with a peculiar and detached sort of disinterest. 

Amongst the dozens of rainbow-clad fae surrounding him, he appeared a single black spider in field of butterflies.

The fae who had presented him the rose hurried out of view, ducking back under the fabric of the stands. The stranger’s horse had attempted to bite her, and she had only just moved away in time. You would’ve run, too, if you were her.

“... Your prize, visitor.” Dream, naturally seated under the shade at the head of the tourney, spoke with his classic eloquence. And you couldn’t deny you admired his ability to speak so loudly, and with such friendliness, as if nothing was wrong. But you knew him well enough to know that his teeth were gritted. He looked down at the knight with an unreadable expression, golden circlet winking in the light. “Well earned.”

You didn’t have the luxury of sitting further back, in the top of the stands, sheltered from sunlight. You were sat on one of the far wings - to the very front, with the rest of the common fae. 

... You used to be at the back. But you couldn’t think about that anymore. Ever since you had lost your humanity and grown wings, Dream’s eyelights had wandered to newer, more interesting people. You were relegated to the long and ever-growing list of Dream’s “old favourites”, the fae who had committed the ultimate sin of becoming boring. 

You weren’t even one of the preferred old favourites. You would be surprised if Dream even recalled your name. You sat at the front now, far from him.

... So when the knight ignored Dream, and turned his great horse in your direction, even though the stands provided a moderate height advantage you felt fear seize every muscle.

You had suspected, from the dramatic moment this terrifying stranger arrived, that he had been stealing glances at you. Little tilts of his helmet - flashes of an eye underneath the metal. You had done your best to talk yourself out of it, why would he care about you? He was clearly here to mock the King. You were seeing things, or he was looking past you to other, more beautiful fae.

The horse was more beast than steed. It was frothing and biting at its bit, muscles straining beneath its armour, midnight hide rippling with barely restrained energy; it stood at least three hands above every other horse at the tournament, wild eyes blank like parchment. How the knight stayed so easily seated upon the monster was a mystery - but a loud testament to his own strength. Anyone who could tame and ride such a thing must be worth his salt. 

You watched, in horror, as the beast drew closer. Each hoofbeat struck like thunder into the sand; you couldn’t help but feel a childish fear that the approaching steed might lunge forward and eat you. The fae around you were murmuring, wings were fluttering, seats creaked as tens of bodies attempted to lean away without committing the impropriety of leaving their place.

The horse pulled up alongside the stand. Its wild eyes, that had so hungrily observed the competition (and even the rose-bearer), didn’t so much as glance at you. It was like you weren’t even there.

The knight’s gauntlet-clad hand extended. The golden rose, tilted toward you. It all but glowed in the sun reflecting off its crafted petals; water-like ripples of light cast from it across his fine dark armour. Within his midnight hand, it only seemed to shine brighter. 

You looked down at him. From the gap in his helmet, could see a single eye staring back at you, the brightest azure you had ever seen. He spoke - his voice was far softer now. Not at all like the proud, booming tones of when he had declared himself a contender for the joust. 

“might this simple knight be so bold...” he murmured, “as to ask for your favour?”

It took a moment for you to speak. Your own voice was choked, barely audible to anyone but him. 

“Y-you wish to exchange your golden rose... for my favour in the rest of the joust?”

You could hear his smile through the metal. “indeed.”

Your brow furrowed. “That hardly seems like a fair exchange for you, lord.”

“any fool with coin could have a hundred golden roses.” His eye sharpened. “but the favour of the fairest creature in attendance? alas, there is only one of those. a metal trinket, in exchange for something truly priceless.”

The heat in your cheeks was undeniable. He extended his hand a fraction further; you sat forward in your seat and extended yours in turn. As he placed the delicate rose into your awaiting palm, you felt the cold metal of his claws trace gently over the back of your knuckles.

He settled back into his saddle, retaking his reigns.

“... I-I...” You swallowed, gently nodding your head to him, slightly raising your voice. “Good fortune to you, Lord.”

The knight lifted the reins. The horse shook, making a sound like a great bonfire, hooves beginning to paw at the ground once again. 

... He bowed his helmeted head. The horse turned, tail whipping, and moved back toward the centre of the joust range.

You froze in your seat, hands clasped around the rose. Everyone noticed that. Whispers immediately began to ripple across the crowd; you quickly darted your eyes away from the head of the seating, where Dream sat, hair prickling as you desperately avoided the overpowering urge to look to the Summer King for his reaction.

The mysterious knight had not called Dream “King”. Not once. And despite having every opportunity, for the duration of the tourney he had not bowed to him.

... But before the entire court, he had just bowed to you.

[endursent]

Hi Ma’am! I’ve recently come across your “my partner turned into a cat” series and it’s wonderful. I was wondering if I could request something similar where reader turns into their partner’s favourite animal? Preferably with Kaveh, Neuvi, and Dottore (if you write for him). If not, that’s all good. Have a nice day!

【 content; established relationship , humour , gn!reader , temporarily turned animal (reader) 】

【 characters; il dottore, kaveh , neuvillette 】

【 note; i haven't actually written for dottore before strangely enough considering how much i love him, so it might take a while for me to get his personality and mannerisms down... thank you for the ask! 】

【 word count; 1.454 | masterlist 】

Il Dottore;

Never had you considered what his “favourite animal” is, mostly because you’re convinced Dottore doesn’t have a “favourite” anything—his interests are too unpredictable and subject to change at any moment. 

  Though you should have seen it coming that one day, his experimentation would strike you—thankfully you’re not dead, you’re luckier than some assistants that have been zapped a time or two and carried out in body bags. However…

  Why are you a fat little platypus, and why does he seem so excited about it?

  You look absolutely ridiculous, you imagine—and feel, having four legs and a beak is peak body horror that is unfortunately eating at your brain right now. And yet, Dottore picks you up like one would a cat and dangles you in front of him with both an excited and thoughtful expression. “How unexpected—and interesting. I made little change to the formula…” he plops you down on the table next to the damned formula he had been adjusting… never will you inhale “experiment fumes” again. Not that you’re supposed to be doing so in any case.

  “A fascinating specimen indeed,” he pokes around your fur and you shake yourself, but he is relentless with his prodding! “One of the few mammals capable of electroreception! I wonder if you've maintained those sensory capabilities... This requires immediate testing."

  He doesn’t leave you alone for a single second that you’re like this, always either checking something—one time you were freaking out about the fact that you had no idea how to eat or drink like this… and Dottore took out a notebook and tried to get you to bite his fingers to “test the venom”... you bite a bit harder than he likely bargained for. 

  Dottore does try to “help” in his own way, while he brainstorms how to turn you back, he creates a “suitable habitat” with burrowing zones and a “pool”. He means well, but he’s also using it to observe you like a specimen so you kick up dirt and splash water on the floor and tables in spite.

  Out of anyone, Dottore is the fastest to get you back to normal… or he could, if he wanted to. But he kind of likes seeing you waddle around trying to walk with webbed feet and seeing you knock your tail into things and make weird noises. He has plenty of experience pressing your buttons and what makes you tick as a human, why not enjoy a new side of you?

Kaveh;

He’s more traumatised than you are when one moment you’re standing next to him—and the next there’s a random ass deer there. He looks around and searches for you frantically, thinking you might have fallen into a creek or rolled downhill… very unaware of that same deer following him around and trying to get his attention. 

  He does love deer, he thinks you’re unimaginably cute but also kind of silly in the way horses are silly but not huge and terrifying. 

  Kaveh almost needs you to headbutt him for him to realise that you are, in fact, in front of him and not soaking around in a nearby river hanging out with the frogs. Thankfully, he’s smart enough to put two and two together after he snaps out of it—but now he’s just confused.

  How? You had just been right there! There wasn’t even a rustle of leaves or anything!

  In any case, he needs to get you back to the city… you walk like a human in a deer suit, unused to the long four legs and strange join positions—and as soon as you enter his and Alhaitham’s home (after getting your antlers caught in the door like an idiot if you have those) you suddenly stop. 

  “What is it?” Kaveh peeps from behind you, confused as to why your ass is just standing in the doorway.

  The house has hardwood floors.

  He doesn’t realise this, of course, and gives your behind a firm push—only for you to slip and slide and nearly tumble inside like a freshly born animal. Kaveh rushes in behind you, apologising for nearly knocking you over and trying to make sure you don’t fall against anything and break things… Alhaitham would never let him live it down if he saw this.

  It’s not exactly easy to… navigate this, you’re not a small animal nor are you yourself particularly knowledgeable about your new proportions. 

  He can barely stop himself from continuously stroking your fur and feeding you crunchy things to be able to watch you munch on them. It does kind of kill the fascination he had with deer, as he’s never really interacted with them so closely until you happened to become one.

  You follow him around like a lost puppy, even as he had a very important client meeting—you didn’t let him get away… and thus, Kaveh had to improvise a bit. 

  The client, an older woman, squints at you standing slightly behind Kaveh and trying to munch on the blueprints in his hands (you haven’t had food for two hours, which is disastrous with this huge stomach you have now). 

  Kaveh clears his throat, pushing your snout away. “Yes, we can change the—no, you see, this is… yes, it’s okay, this is just… a friend.”

  He has no idea how to explain this so he just chooses not to. “Anyway… about that garden idea, if we put a patio by this side—”

Neuvillette;

You can’t believe he’s keeping you in a bowl. 

  Somehow, and for some reason, when you had accompanied Neuvillette for an evening walk along the seaside just outside of Fontaine’s walls—you had stubbed your toe on a shell that stuck out of the ground, and with a sudden zap… you had turned into a blob.

  Neuvillette looks up from his desk as he hears your soft body pound against the bowl next to him—and toss up some water that almost splashes onto the documents splayed out before him—and frowns slightly. “I know it’s not very spacious… I apologise, my love. But I don’t have anything larger at this moment, hopefully the pet store will find a more adequately sized fish tank soon.”

  He doesn’t understand how you had suddenly turned into a jellyfish, you had been behind him for a brief moment before he heard your curse (likely because you stubbed your toe) and then a poof… when Neuvillette had turned around, you were like a deflated balloon on dry land. 

  Thankfully he had created a pocket of water for you from the saltwater nearby to float in as he brought you back to the city, but the situation puzzled him greatly—how could you become such a creature? He wasn’t entirely sure you were fully conscious in that body, but judging by your frustrated movements in the small bowl, he suspected you at least had partial awareness. 

  Neuvillette doesn’t want to leave you alone while you’re like this, he’s both worried you might suddenly transform back, without any clothes—which would be terribly awkward to try and depart his office in that state—or possible hurt yourself if you broke the bowl with the transformation and cut yourself.

  Thus, thankfully after you’re given a larger tank in his office (and at home, he’s not leaving you at his office overnight alone!) there is a smaller one placed in the Opera Epiclese, next to his chair. 

  During a court proceeding, Neuvillette had to present the evidence in a firmer manner than usual, as the representative to the one being judged was being rather contrarian—which was far from productive and consumed far more time than it needed to. 

  Every time he successfully made an argument that couldn’t be refuted or argued with, you released a faint bioluminescent glow—as if applauding his expert navigations of the evidence and arguments. No one seems to notice (it’s difficult enough to see Neuvillette so high up above the stage) but he still feels a bit sheepish when you do it—you’re likely not doing it on purpose, he doubts you would know how.

  Neuvillette is very careful with the temperature and the salinity levels of the water you inhabit for the time being, he creates a careful schedule to check it every few hours as well as adjusting it depending on day and night. He’s very determined to ensure you’re as comfortable as you can be, whether you realise you’re a weird blob with tentacles or not. 

  And he hopes he can figure out how to change you back soon… as cute as it is to watch you twirl around and show off when he stands before your tank, he would rather you show off your moves as yourself—where he can properly talk to and touch you. 

[just-some-user-hunny]

Vampire hunter D

‧ ₊ ⊹˚✧ ‧˚₊ . 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒊𝒎 𝒂 𝒅𝒉𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆. 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 ✧ vampire hunter D x reader

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚D is a lonesome creature. His existence a barren sand-timer. Nothing lost and nothing gained. He's not keen to capture the eyes of humans- his years of existence proving to him over and over again that attachments are sentimental and brief. It's not worth the ache. However he finds himself contemplating whenever his eyes find your figure.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚He's very quiet and contemplative. He seems to be in his head a lot, often caught in a spiral of overthinking. His company is often silent- always playing the part of the listener, and not the talker. It's a role he's always found himself slipping into with ease- and with you, it's more than natural. Hes guilty of admitting he likes the sound of your voice. He'd listen to it for eternity if he could. You never know though, often missing the softness in his eyes and how gently he treats you.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚D is a rather nonchalant and solemn individual. He keeps his head lowered and eyes ahead focused on his job, and has very strong opinions and ethics around vampires and humans (including himself). His loathe and distrust for the immortal creatures always keep him on edge- and trapped within himself when it comes to you. He couldn't turn you. That would be out of the question- he'd have you for eternity, yes, but at such a cost? There is no way he'd allow that. He'd never want you to bear the suffering of becoming a no-life creature. Always cold...always hungry. The least he can do is ensure you live a long happy life where you are loved and safe- even if it means the cost of becoming alone again, it's something he'd risk.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚Very very lonely. Keeps the world at an arms length, he seldom sticks around because he's not keen on making attachments to people. He keeps himself lonely to save himself from the inevitable pain of being left behind. So when he comes across something precious like you who manages to stir these troublesome emotions within him, it's an internal battle for him. The parasite is always the one to air out his dirty laundry- you can't stand being in love with her, can't you D? Oh this is tearing you up inside huh pretty boy? Can't look away, but can't bear to watch either. Tut tut.

.‧ ₊ ⊹˚Pushes and overworks himself a lot. (His odd parasite thingy is always scolding him to take care of his body better). You'll probably find yourself reminding him to take a break and rest now and then, just to save him from overexerting himself again and collapsing. The first time you saw him smile was when you stood upon your toes to shield him beneath your parasol during a walk together. It was faint- subtle and gentle, but it was there. He's secretly very thankful that you are so caring towards him. He doesn't feel so deserving.

. ‧ ₊ ⊹˚ He's very respectful and gentle with you. It's rather unbelievable to see such a mysterious and ethereal creature that seemed to teeter upon the blade's edge of beauty and horror be so careful with you. Opening doors, shielding you from the rain with his cape, holding your things for you if you were to ever ask, walking you home to ensure your safety- even carry you upon his back or lifting you upon his horse if you are ever injured are all friendly and helpful things he'd probably not bother to follow through with anyone else. He's not cruel or unkind- just distant. So him allowing himself to do such intimate things in his eyes is a big deal. His voice is so so soft and solemn when he speaks to you- sharing whispered secrets and oaths late at night amongst the crackle of fire and chirping of crickets. Things he's never uttered before, not that you know of course.

.‧ ₊ ⊹˚He's a gentle creature to you. Soft gazes that linger too long for his own comfort, and yet he cannot bear to look away. You're haunting him, day and night. Often every waking moment is occupied with your existence, the constant leering and scolding of the parasite hissing and whispering into his ear. Worming into his consciousness, seeing everything.

‧ ₊ ⊹˚You best believe him and the parasite are always bickering. Poor D is often the ongoing victim of teasing and berating. Hissing and muttering under his breath, casting his gaze away from yours.

."Here you go again D, wanting something you can't have- mpfth!"

. He'll clench his fist tight, till his knuckles ached and turned bone white. Troubled... And irked.

. "You are to be kept out of this". He'll warn, his tone soft yet final. Unwavering as the parasite utters a muffled croaky crackle. Oh he does enjoy getting under his skin like this- and it seems he's found a sensitive spot. You.

.‧ ₊ ⊹˚He's unfamiliar with the attachment taking him this strongly. So... Latching. Surely he's come and gone from the delicate mortal loves that he's come across throughout his existence, and although their faded memories still linger like mist- he can't seem to unlatch himself off you. He needs you he can't have you.

Whenever he looks at you, his eyes are always full of melancholy. Like you have already left his life, his heart guarding itself from the inevitable occurrence of your loss. He's trying to confront these feelings early on to numb the pain later on. Please don't bring up the times where he has ever so softly stroked your face whilst you were supposedly fast asleep, or how you do notice his constant stares. He hides his embarrassment well but please spare him. Let him have this little thing for himself whilst he can.

‧ ₊ ⊹˚Overall, you'll have a very broody yet gentle dhampir looking after you for a while yet. He cares for you deeply, so deeply you may not even be able to fathom it with your mortal soul- regardless of his cool sullen gazes and soft slow actions, but you are precious to him. Enjoy your mysterious bodyguard for life!

[bluebutterflytattooed]

Loser Lesbian Ellie Williams x Mean Girl Reader

CHAPTER TWO

You sprawl across your bed, your fingers idly stroking Cherry’s, your cat’s, soft fur as you scrolls through your phone. Your room is bathed in warm, golden light from the fairy lights strung across your light blue walls, and the scent of your cherry-vanilla perfume lingers in the air. Your laptop is open beside you, an unfinished essay on poetry formatting glowing on the screen, but you aren’t working on it. Not when you have something far more distracting in your hands.

Ellie Williams’ Instagram profile.

You keep telling yourself it’s just curiosity. A way to kill time. Another way to find things to tease the girl about. But the longer you scroll, the harder it is to convince yourself of that.

Something about this cyber-stalking brings the twist back in your gut, as you learn more things about Ellie that makes her more and more human to you.

Ellie doesn’t post much—barely over a dozen photos in total. The girl is practically a ghost on social media, as shy online as she is in real life. But the few pictures she has are painfully wholesome. A blurry shot of her horse, Parsnip, mid-gallop. A candid of her dad, Joel, laughing at something off-camera. A couple of grainy sunset shots taken from what must be their farm. And, of course, Ellie herself.

You pause at one picture in particular. It’s a mirror selfie, probably taken in her bedroom. Ellie’s wearing some oversized band tee and sweatpants, her hair tousled like she just rolled out of bed. Her lip piercing catches the light. She’s not even smiling—just staring at the camera with that usual indifferent expression. And yet…

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at the screen. Objectively speaking, Ellie is not unattractive. If anything, she has a kind of effortless, accidental hotness. The kind that doesn’t try. The kind that’s irritatingly natural.

Not that you care at all. Obviously. You’re just bored.

Cherry shifts on the bed, purring, but you barely notice the movements of your treasured pet as your manicured thumb hovers over the screen. Your mind is, as usual, coming up with half-formed insults and demeaning words towards Ellie Williams. This is dumb. Her posts are dumb. Who even takes this many pictures of their farm animals? What is she, a Disney princess? Fucking Cinderella? So stupid.

Through your irritation, you lose track of what you’re doing and the control you have over your actions.

Which is what causes what happens next.

A tiny, horrifying heart icon pops up at the bottom of the screen.

You freeze, your eyes widening in horror.

Oh. No.

You just liked Ellie’s post.

Your body goes rigid, your heart lurching into your throat as you sit up as straight as a rod. For a moment, you just stare at the screen, as if willing it to undo itself. As if sheer force of will can reverse your terrible mistake.

It can’t. Nothing can

You scramble to unlike it, your hands shaking slightly. But it’s too late. The damage is done. Ellie will have seen the notification. Or, worse, she’ll see it before you have the chance to erase the evidence.

You’ve never made a mistake like this. Years of stalking people on Instagram, and you’ve never had a slip-up this horrible and detrimental. The worst part of this is that Ellie will know you were thinking about her. Worse, you were looking at her. Almost admiring that picture.

You groan in defeat, throwing your phone onto the bed as if it’s personally betrayed you. Cherry meows in protest, shifting away from your sudden movement. She leaps off the bed and makes her way to the pink cat tree in the corner of your room, meowing the whole way there.

“Shut up,” You mutter, burying your face in your silk pillow and most likely disturbing your perfectly curled hair. “This is a disaster.”

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter over and over again. That Ellie probably won’t care. But deep, deep down, you know the truth.

Ellie Williams is going to see that you liked her post. Her selfie, to make matters worse.

And there is absolutely no way to explain that to her.

——————————————————————————————————————

Ellie is in the middle of strumming a lazy tune on her guitar when her phone buzzes beside her. She almost ignores it, too lost in the familiar rhythm of her fingers against the strings, but something tells her to check. With a sigh, she sets the guitar down and picks up her phone.

And then she sees it.

You liked her post.

Her breath catches. For a second, she just stares at the screen, blinking, like maybe she read it wrong. But no. The notification is still there, real and impossible to ignore.

YOU LIKED HER POST!

The girl who spends half her time making Ellie’s life miserable. The girl who acts like she’s too cool to even breathe the same air as her. The girl who—

Ellie drops her guitar.

It clatters against the floor, the sound jarring, but she barely notices. Her brain is stuck on one thing and one thing only: you liked her post.

It wasn’t a new post, either. It was an old one. Which means you had to have been scrolling. Looking.

Ellie doesn’t know what to do with that information.

Her first instinct is to screenshot it, just in case you unlike it and try to pretend it never happened. Her second instinct is to text Dina, but she already knows what she’d say—Dude, she’s obsessed with you.

This is something that Dina has been telling her for years, fueling the stupid crush Ellie had on you when she was an awkward teenager in middle school. Her hopes and dreams of that ever happening have been crushed.

Ellie bites her lip, staring at the screen a second longer before locking her phone and tossing it onto her bed. She can’t think about this right now.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, she’s bringing it up.

—————————————————————————-

hi cuties! here’s chapter two💗

thank you guys for the cute comments last chapter!

a few things

i made a collage thing for the series! (the filming picture will come into play next chapter)

last chapter, i forgot to mention that ellie has a lip piercing 😼

i need a name for the series, if you have suggestions please let me know!

bye!! lots of love 💗

[gurggggleburgle]

A fic idea from my brain from joy sparked from @meltedmush

really fucked up in a fun way if the whole nature of the Skinhe's was a that because the system really only cares about the protagonist and good story that actually the natural state of this world is a Binghe Kronenburg nightmare. The natural state of everything is Bingflesh. The horses, grass, buildings, other humans, soup, the water anything of real substance is Luo Binghe.

It's just you don't ever see this because the system has a filter in place that hides that part of the Lynch nightmare. But the system has started to glitch and now patches of reality are coming apart and melt in a flesh nightmare where everything is just turning into Binghe creatures including actual Luo Binghe who's a bunch of little skinhes stacked on top of each other. The only person immune to the spreading Luo Binghe virus seems to be Shen Qingqiu but even then he's got to hurry up and fix whatever the hell is going on around here before all the flesh melts into one and he just becomes another Bingcreature.

The idea of Shen Qingqiu fighting through a mass of writhing bingflesh and sinew trying to dig to the real Binghe at the heart of the tumorous screaming mass of every thought Luo Binghe has ever had coupled with a whaling narration of PIDW as his skin is bursting with little tumorous binghe faces. Saving the day by diving into the body horror and telling Luo Binghe he can say anything to him. That he doesn't need to hold shit in. This is like another case where men would rather turn into a flesh nightmare then go to therapy and Shen Qingqiu just ain't having it yall

[blue-sadie]

Chained

Jake Sully x Human Reader x Tonowari

Summary: you are theirs so they get to decide when you've had enough.

Warning: restraints, forced orgasms, fisting, jerking off, double penetration, squirting, fainting

Yn/3rd person pov

My body shook and shivered with pleasure as they ripped yet another orgasm from me my arms and legs struggling against the restraints.

"That's is, that's it" jake growled as he thrusted his fist in and out at a rapid pace while tonowari sat at the end of the bed stroking his cock as he watched us.

"N-no can't" I struggled trying to pill away from him but I couldn't jake laughed at my attempt using his free hand to wrap around my body locking me in place.

"Nah uh ah" he chuckled curling his fingers sending me over the edge for a 5th time but this time after I calmed down he finally pulled out.

I sighed in relief that I could finally rest but I was so wrong "get ready for me baby" he muttered as he slipped off his loincloth letting his cock spring loose.

I cried trying to get away "no please jake" I cried my voice starting to become horse he shook his head as he entered my back arching at the stretch.

"Your ours today baby so we decide when its enough" he groaned as he started thrusting roughly.

Tonowari growled out as he cam he sat watching us before finally coming to join us "aww look who decided to join the party" jake laughed.

Tonowari rolled his eyes as they moved me over so I was sandwiched between them "please" I begged I didn't know what for, for them to stop or carry on.

My vision was starting to weaken as they both thrusted in my moans becoming so loud they had to cover my mouth.

"We got you baby we got you" jake huffed as he started rubbing my clit and tonowaris lips were attached to my neck.

My breathing started becoming more shallow and with each second I feel myself becoming more tired.

"Fuck your clenching" tonowari yelled out as him and jake cam inside me and I screamed out myself.

I watched in horror as I squirted my juices spraying onto jake as he bit his lip "fuck baby" he groaned and as they started to praise me their voices started lowering down till they were just a whisper.

My vision turning completely black as I feel limp against him, tonowari started freaking out but all jake did was put a hand on his chest and said in the most calming tone.

"She can handle it"

Tag.List

@greekgods15

@sweetirilly

[elodieunderglass]

you may have answered this already and i just missed it, but i was curious when/why killie retired from being a jockey! was there a particular injury that did it for him?

alsooo. wanted to ask if you would like fanart of killie, because every time i see him on my dash i get more tempted to draw him :3c

Jockey OC Killie will eventually have to retire from riding horsies in a big circle, not so much because of what Killie would consider a career-ending injury, but because of his boyfriend putting his foot down completely after a completely minor injury that a jockey would take in his stride (ha) concussion scare. He would still do some of his risky related hobbies like casual point-to-point or team relay chasing, because Killie would not cope well with Horselessness, or a life that involves Not Going Fast. But Derek would get very freaked out by the reality of a profession that considers his boyfriend’s body to be so disposable, and has enough force of character to make it a Thing, like, “we are DONE with this being your day job.”

A large difficulty is that horse racing is a fairly problematic sport, with outbreaks of corruption, abuse, crime, cruelty, gambling, addiction, and violence. This is beautiful to me because of 🤌 the drama, but I also acknowledge The Horrors. So I feel there’d have to be some kind of theme/arc around Killie’s retirement that I haven’t really thought about yet; something that holds up a mirror or a light. Horse racing is one of the oldest continuous sports of humanity, as old as our relationship with horses; is it going to collapse in our generation because of unbridled (ha) greed?

I would be so so grateful and amazed if you wanted to draw the wet ginger stray cat in any capacity, oh my goodness, I will reblog it and enshrine it in my house

[pursued-by-the-squid]

i. exorcizing demons

pairing: eventual gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 3.7k

ao3 | masterlist

December 26, 2021

Would you help that man? A shitfaced man abandoned to the sidewalk, the trash of the world in the eyes of people like Oh Il-nam. Do you still trust in humanity? In the people stepping over the bodies in the street, in the kind souls who go running for help. Do you still have hope? After everything he’s seen, everything he’s done.

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut.

Do you still have hope?

His jaw clenches against the cold and the memories and the bitter taste of the truth. Hope is… hard to come by these days.

But do you still have it?

He pushes the hair out of his eyes as the wind comes down over his head. A bit of snow goes sprinkling over his face and hand, some of it even catches in his eyelashes. He remembers the first time Ga-yeong saw snow and her chubby little face split wide open with a grin, how her eyes sparkled with the reflection of the city lights, how he’d looked at her in that moment and knew straight away that he would do anything for her. Anything in the world.

Then he remembers Sae-byok’s body, Sang-woo’s face. Ali’s voice.

Look at that. The quiet woop of the police siren. The panicked gestures of a good Samaritan. There’s someone who cares.

Hope.

Hope is…

Mrrow!

Gi-hun’s feet come to a stop, crunching softly on freshly fallen snow. He remembers the sting of ddakji and the elation of 100 thousand won in his pocket. He remembers the little striped thing hunting for scraps in the dumpster outside his house. In fact, when he turns toward the sound, curious, chasing a memory that feels too foreign to be his anymore, he almost swears he’s watching himself.

The shape of a person on their knees cuts through the snow, hand outstretched to scratch at the underside of a calico kitten’s chin, their head tilted in just the right way so their face is shadowed. The kitten meows again, playfully butting its head into the open palm of the hand still trying to feed it.

He smiles. For the first time in a year, Gi-hun finds it in himself to smile.

Do you still have hope?

“Hey there, little one.” The voice coming out of the shadows is accented and soft, trembling. A foreigner, he thinks, though he has no way of knowing from exactly where. It intrigues him, though. Maybe it reminds him of Ali. “You have to stay warm tonight, okay? It’s cold out here.”

The head tips back, out of the shadows and into a sliver of light from the nearby streetlamp, and suddenly the unknown they becomes a vaguely familiar you. No longer a stranger, but a person just like him. A bit of hair that peeks out from beneath a beanie, glassy eyes that look a bit like stars when the light hits them just right. A mouth that trembles as much as your voice does. He realizes with a start that you’re crying.

Do you still have hope?

He remembers the man on the street, perhaps only moments away from freezing to death but saved, ultimately, because someone had the courage to do what was right. He remembers Ga-yeong and all the ways he’s let her down since the moment she was born. He remembers Ali and Sang-woo and Sae-byok, and the little striped cat outside his mother’s house.

He lifts his chin in your direction. “Are you alright?”

October 2022

He had asked for one very simple thing – think of it as a dream. Let the past settle into your bones, let the horrors fade away with the morning sun, and carry on living. You were the winning horse, Seong Gi-hun. You could have galloped far away from here. Instead, he’s chosen to stay and fight. In-ho wants to understand why.

He knows why. He knows that 456 is a broken man, a selfish cheapskate who got pushed too far. He knows that 456 is as stubborn as he is troublesome. He knows everything he needs to know about him, but what In-ho doesn’t have is understanding. Gi-hun had been so desperate to leave the Games, and yet they’ve now become the only thing he lives for.

If they have anything in common – and that’s a remarkably strong assumption to make – he thinks it might be this.

The flash of light on his cufflinks catches in his reflection as In-ho takes a long sip of whiskey. He takes an equally long breath, his chest tight with irritation and exhaustion, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself desperate for a cigarette. The inclination feels foreign to him now, even though he can still remember the itch in his lungs, the addictive sting of nicotine that now pulls at him for some inexplicable reason. He hasn’t smoked in years, not since…

Casting his drink aside, In-ho storms out of the bathroom and into his office. He pulls up every file he has available – the covert photos of Gi-hun’s hired loan sharks, the businesses he frequents, the people seen coming and going from that shithole he’s boarded himself inside. 45.6 billion won and this is what he chooses to do with it? It would be laughable if it weren’t also impacting the Games. He’s had to reroute several recruiters just to escape all those prying eyes and his player count is down because of it.

Bastard.

He doesn’t feel particularly inclined to killing Seong Gi-hun, not this close to the next Games. The VIPs are restless and demanding, the player count is worryingly low, and there are still loose threads left hanging after Oh Il-nam’s death. Piling on a perfect execution in addition to the rest of his obligations simply isn’t feasible, and he suspects that contacting 456 and threatening him will only double his efforts. It’s not worth the risk.

In-ho scans through every file, note, and photograph until his head throbs and his eyes are tired. He needs a different approach, something 456 won’t be expecting. His daughter is in America, too far away and too young to trifle with. His parents are dead. He doesn’t keep in contact with any of his friends from before the Games. There is, disappointingly, no exposed nerve-ending for him to tug at.

At least, there isn’t until there’s you.

The pictures had been written off as unimportant, an acquaintance made in passing but unconnected to any of Gi-hun’s schemes. After a year of constantly keeping 456 in his periphery, however, In-ho has developed something of a sixth sense when it comes to his weaknesses. The softening of the eyes, the lingering gaze, and it seems to have started the night that Oh Il-nam died.

The shots from the CCTV are timestamped to shortly after midnight. You’re petting a street cat, crying. 456 stops. He talks to you. He leaves. The exchange ends there, but you don’t. You crop up again on December 27th. 456 meets you on a college campus, his hair obnoxiously red and his beard gone. He offers you a small shoulder bag. And again, several weeks later. The red hair is gone by that point, and In-ho recognizes the timestamp with a jolt. Just days after refusing to board the plane to America. Another meeting, this one much more discreet, several months after that.

Now that he knows what to look for, In-ho finds traces of you everywhere he looks. What had once been presumed carelessness or laziness on the part of the hired loan sharks is revealed to be an obligation to keep watch over your apartment. The rare diversions from 456’s usual schedule that he had thought to be signs of a clandestine meeting are suddenly understood to be arrangements with you, located as far away from Gi-hun’s central hub and In-ho’s prying eyes as is possible and perfectly timed with the large withdrawals from Gi-hun’s bank account.

He’s been so incredibly careful, but not even 45.6 billion won can hide the truth – you are the very weakness he’s been searching for. How intriguing.

“You smell like cigarettes.”

It’s a little mean of you, perhaps, to poke at him like this after everything he’s done, but you hate feeling like a greedy stranger taking advantage of his kindness. Just once, you want to pretend that this arrangement is somewhat normal, that you have friends, that you sit down and have dinner with people. That you’re not absolutely insane for agreeing to all of this in the first place. So you poke, hoping that one day he’ll crack and give you something you can craft a friendship out of.

Gi-hun glances up at you from beneath his lashes. He has that look, the one that begs you not to push him farther than he can stand, but it’s more resigned than usual. He says nothing.

“It wouldn’t kill you to have a conversation with me, you know.”

“No,” he agrees after a moment, his head inclined to one side, “but it might kill you.”

Not for the first time, you wonder if you’ve gotten yourself tangled up in some kind of drug or human trafficking ring. Who else would have the ability to pay off your debts while also acting the way he does? But Gi-hun’s never really struck you as the type, despite all the mystery. It isn’t anger or hatred or anything evil that you see in his eyes. It’s sorrow.

The money is pushed across the table in its usual manner – a dark and unassuming little shoulder bag. “Classes are finishing soon, aren’t they.” It isn’t a question, exactly, but at least it’s something.

“Soon enough, yeah. Finals are coming up.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Will you be going back when you’ve finished? Back home?”

Even just thinking about it has your gut twisting in on itself. You have so many conflicting feelings about staying and even more about leaving. Staying wouldn’t even be an option if it weren’t for Gi-hun, yet now that the opportunity has presented itself… is it selfish of you to want to stay?

“Honestly, I… I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I could…” The shadows that so often linger on his face lift for a few seconds, revealing something softer and lighter than you’ve ever seen from him. You might almost call it hope. “Whatever you decide, [___], I can still help you. I would like to help you.”

His words ring in your ear all the way home. He’s already helped you so much. He’s given you millions of won by now and he still wants to give you more? Gi-hun doesn’t even know you, doesn’t even want to know you, and yet he seems content enough to throw his money at you. You don’t even know where he gets it from. You don’t even know why he picked you out of the entire population of Seoul. What makes you any better, any different from the rest of the students struggling to make ends meet? What makes you worthy of his aid?

You lie in bed the entire night, staring at the ceiling and wondering to the point of hysteria. I would like to help you, he’d said and a part of you had desperately wanted to leap at the opportunity. You could move to a nicer neighborhood. You could buy some new shoes, ones better suited for the coming winter weather. And then your mind starts to wander even further. Charming knick-knacks you’ve seen in passing, that new album from your favorite K-group, a new potted plant to replace the one you accidentally killed – things you don’t truly need, but want all the same. Non-necessities.

You’re selfish, you ultimately decide. Greedy. How in the world do you manage the audacity to even consider spending Gi-hun’s money on anything other than school fees? Saving a few hundred won to splurge on decent meals and new highlighters is one thing, but choosing to remain in Korea because staying means receiving money without labor is another.

The following day passes in a blur. Lectures go right over your head. Your food tastes bland and unappealing. The bundle of cash tucked into your backpack burns a hole through your spine. Ought to be ashamed of yourself. You watch the numbers in your savings account steadily tick up, but instead of lifting a bit of weight off your shoulders, all it does is settle in your stomach like a rock.

A shadow passes over you at the bus stop, another rider settling onto the bench. Their briefcase is placed in the space between you, followed by a gentle click. You turn your head so you’re gazing out at the street and sigh. You have several assignments to work on tonight, a mostly bare cupboard, and no motivation to take care of either problem. Defeat begins to creep into your bones. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off. Order takeout and watch something mindless to distract yourself. There’s a decent ramyeon place just down the–

“Excuse me.”

You start, blinking back into the present with a frown. The shadow sitting beside you is smiling. She looks like a businesswoman, very pristine in her charcoal gray blazer, pencil skirt, and pitch-black heels.

“Would you like to play a game?”

If that’s a pick-up line, it’s the weirdest one you’ve ever heard.

“I’m… sorry?”

The woman gestures to her briefcase, now propped open and twisted around so it’s facing you. There are two folded squares on one side, one red and one blue, and an obscene stack of bundled won on the other. Your mouth drops open. That’s… that’s…

“Ddakji. Do you play?”

“I…” You can’t look away from the money, all that money. What is she doing carrying that much money around, and especially as a woman? That’s hardly safe, let alone smart. “I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, “I don’t understand.”

The woman picks up the two squares before snapping the briefcase shut. The sound is enough to jolt you out of your trance. She holds the squares before you, one in each hand, and she explains the game, slow and steady like a teacher guiding a particularly slow student. You make a considerable effort not to be offended.

“Flip my square over and I’ll give you 100 thousand won. If I flip your square over, you give me 100 thousand won.”

“… Why?”

The woman shrugs lightly, unbothered by the query and, apparently, equally unbothered to properly reply. “If you’re not interested in playing–”

The speed with which you reach out to stop her genuinely surprises you. “No. No, I didn’t say that.”

100 thousand won isn’t exactly petty cash. If you win even a single round, you could buy yourself dinner without dipping into Gi-hun’s money, and after spending the past 24 hours agonizing over your own selfishness and greed, the thought of leaving his money untouched is a balm on your wounded soul.

“Excellent,” she says, her smile cracking even farther across her face. You pretend not to notice the unnerving emptiness in her eyes. “Which color would you like?”

If you’re ever in trouble, call me. I will help you.

You’ve never taken him up on the offer, never needed to before. It’s not so much that you’re in trouble as it is that you’re deeply unsettled. Your encounter with the strange businesswoman had left you with 300 thousand won, a sore cheek, the promise of more money, and a very curious business card. It’s almost too good to be true. It’s almost too similar to the proposition you were given nearly a year ago by a much kinder man, with dark, sad eyes and an affinity for street cats.

“Yes?”

It had taken him nearly six rings to answer. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe you’re annoying him.

Your throat closes up and you’re suddenly choking around your words. “N-Nothing. No, sorry. I’m sorry. Never mind–”

“[___],” he implores, his voice more stern than it was a second ago. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, exactly. I just…” You’re shaking your head, peering down at the business card in your hands, pressing the pointed corners into the whorls of your fingerprints and wishing that life was so much simpler than it’s turned out to be. “Something happened today and I don’t…”

You don’t what? You don’t know what to do? You don’t know if you should tell him about the 300 thousand won, or you don’t know if you want to try for more? Or maybe you don’t know if you can trust him anymore.

“Where are you?” he mutters, and his voice is like gravel. “Are you hurt?”

“No! No, I’m fine, it’s not that. It’s… I met this woman and she gave me a card, and I don’t… I’m…” It doesn’t hit you until you feel the tears leaking from the corner of your eyes that you’re crying. “I’m scared.”

Somewhere on the other end of the line, you hear the clattering of objects and the huff of Gi-hun’s breath. “Stay where you are, I’ll come get you.”

Panic sparks at the base of your neck, hot and electric, and you’re shaking your head again, eyes wide and terrified. “No, don’t. It’s okay, I’m okay.”

But he doesn’t listen. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised. “Stay on the phone until I get there. Tell me what happened.”

“It’s nothing,” you protest.

“Tell me.”

Your eyes dart around your surroundings. The bus has already deposited you at your home stop. It’s late, the sun is starting to set and your stomach is gurgling angrily, and you want nothing more than to barricade yourself inside your apartment and block out the rest of the world, to pretend that everything is normal and fine.

But everything is not normal. It hasn’t been normal since Gi-hun met you on the street and promised to pay every single one of your expenses. It hasn’t been normal all the times he met you in the quiet, unassuming corners of a public park, or at the bus stop, or just outside class. It hasn’t been normal at all and you’re a fool for wanting to believe otherwise.

“Who are you?”

Gi-hun grunts in confusion. “What?”

“Are you… Is this some kind of gang thing? Or like, a pyramid scheme?”

The phone is quiet for a long time, long enough that you almost think he hasn’t heard you. Or doesn’t care enough to answer. You pull the phone away from your ear just to ensure that he hasn’t dropped the call, but no. He’s still there.

“Gi-hun-ssi?”

A massive gust of wind comes screaming down the street, funneled in by the skyscrapers, and you tell yourself it’s for that reason that a chill runs down your spine. Not the embers burning in his throat when he utters, “Was it him? The man in the suit?”

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth when you reply. “No, it was a woman. She approached me at the bus stop and asked me to play this game with her.”

“The game. Was it ddakji?”

“Yeah, I…” Is the man psychic? “How did you know?”

Gi-hun’s end falls silent again, punctuated only by low, incoherent mutterings, his labored breaths, and the distant revving of an engine. Is he driving? You weren’t even aware he knew how, he only ever meets you on foot. You call his name once, twice, again and again, but he refuses to dignify you with an answer. All the while, your anxiety is mounting.

He knows about the ddakji. How could he know about the ddakji unless he were somehow connected to it? And both he and the strange woman were loaded with cash, inexplicably so. They both cornered you in the street, friendly enough in Gi-hun’s case, but it’s suspicious all the same.

You breathe heavily into the receiver. You’re trying to find the right words to all the right questions, trying to find sense in a nonsensical world, and you’re failing miserably.

“I have to go.”

Gi-hun’s breath audibly catches, then you hear him fumbling for the phone. “No, [___], don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You’re afraid to ask. You don’t want to know, you don’t want to hear an answer that you know you won’t like, but you have to ask. You have to. “Almost where?”

“Stay. Put,” he tells you, and you can picture the look on his face – the gritted teeth and furrowed brows. It’s enough to finally knock some sense into your thick skull.

You drop the call and go to shove your phone in your pocket when you hear the distant sound of a car horn blaring. It’s a few blocks away, but moving quickly, as if it were hurtling down the street abnormally fast. It’s probably nothing. You’re paranoid. You’re hungry and you’re not thinking straight, and it’s been a long day, and you just need a few minutes to relax and compose yourself, and everything is so, so much. You wish it would stop.

Instinct has you darting inside your apartment building, rushing as fast as you can for the elevator. Your fist slams into the button for your level and after a second, you push some of the buttons above your floor as well. Just in case. And then once you’re inside your room, you’ll bolt the door. Just in case. And you’ll draw the shades. Throw away that damn card. You’ll forget all about Gi-hun and the money and the ddakji woman (his cohort? accomplice?), and you’ll go back to your home country when your classes are done, and Korea will be little more than a distant memory. Just in case.

The elevator dings as it pulls up to your floor.

Just in case.

It’s for the best regardless. Normal people, smart people don’t go around accepting money from strangers.

The door slams shut behind you. You triple check the lock. You ignore the incoming texts from Gi-hun asking why you won’t pick up the phone, why you’re running, if you’re okay, and focus instead on darkening the apartment so it looks like no one is home. Just in case.

[lethesomething]

A classification of Candela Obscura series

As a liveplay, the different Candela Obscura series are interesting, because the Vibe changes every time with the different group setup. So if you're not sure where to start, here is my totally unscientific classification:

Series one: The Vassal and the Veil

The introductory one. Look at this new type of game we have! It is turn of the century inspired so there's street urchins and madams and prim ladies and weird professors, the kind of characters you find in a Dickens novel. Also it's narrated by Matt so Much Body Horror ensues. It's spooky and sad and American Gothic but weirdly, probably the lightest series of the four out now.

Series two: Needle and Thread

The PTSD edition. Now that you know the setting, let's dump a bunch of trauma in it! What is the value of a life? Of a soul? What is it that makes us human? How do fight you supernatural phenomena while still haunted by the ghosts of your past self? Your past life? This one has some of the better action sequences of all the Candela series. The vibe is Lovecraft meets Rambo and I will not elaborate on this.

Series three: Tide and Bone

In which Aabria turns the dial to eleven. There's body horror, there's monster fucking, there's that thing Sam does where he fucks you up with his character's backstory. The world is an unjust place even without all the supernatural horrors and capitalism is going to get all of us killed. The vibe here is a little bit more Dark Horse comics, because the characters themselves are Weirder and less grounded than in the other series.

Series four: The Crimson Mirror

In which Liam tries to murder the characters. As a dm, he has been given a Large Set of Knives with which to stab his characters but he's still just constantly swinging at them with a giant mallet also. This one is High Drama with lots of flashbacks and grappling with how to reassemble a life that has been torn to shreds. Heavy Edgar Allen Poe vibes. This one has some of my favourit acting in the series.

[shaunamilfman]

Lucy MacLean x Wastelander R HC's

you start looking at her in a new light after she sets off a grenade that takes out a room full of enemies. you're so impressed with her that she doesn't have the heart to tell you that she just accidentally tripped into a row of shelves and knocked an old grenade on the floor. 

“you want the head?”/ Lucy, love-struck “i mean if you're offering.” a pause, thinking over what you just said and looking disappointed. ”wait– did you say the head?"

most shocked look ever watching you loot bodies. on her high horse talking about “stealing is wrong” till you agree and say you just won’t be able to have dinner that night then. suddenly she’s willing to make exceptions to her morals, go figure.

whenever she starts talking too much, you start describing the most horrific looking monsters you've fought. she's following silently behind you in horror for a good mile before she manages to shake that description off and starts talking just as eagerly again. the silence was nice while it lasted. 

Lucy pretends to not know how to do things so that you’ll teach it to her as an excuse to talk to you but takes it way too far. you’re like, “what do you mean you don’t know how to open a can?” while she looks visibly upset that you don’t wrap your arms around her to show her how like she’s seen in those pre-war movies.

uses your rations to try to tame herself a pet while you're camping for the night. you’re looking everywhere for your last box of sugar bombs only to find a shameless Lucy feeding it to the ugliest animal you’ve ever seen as she tries to entice it to do tricks. She insists that she doesn’t understand why you’re mad about it but you can’t help but notice she never uses her rations for it. you end up getting so mad that you can’t even speak to her, which turns out to be the most effective punishment you ever could have come up with. she’s sitting there and begging you to talk to her because she's going crazy without human interaction (it's been five minutes).

you’re surprised and a little sad to see that Lucy isn’t in the camp when you wake up the next morning but it’s fine. You don’t need her anyway, right? You try not to look relieved when she trudges in halfway through taking the camp down covered in soot and grime and collapses in her cot as she holds up a pristine box of sugar bombs she spent all night searching for.

Lucy sees you smile one (1) time and will not get over it. “you have such a pretty smile, you should really smile more. you know it really lights up your face and…” on and on for like ten minutes. The type to grab for your face to pull the sides of your lips up to make you smile. You’re still visibly frowning, just with your lips pulled up at the sides. Lucy’s so frustrated with you mostly because she realized you’re actually really nice to look at when you aren’t glaring at everything. 

Lucy would call you lover unironically. goes through a million different terms of endearment before finally deciding on that one. it was one of the least embarrassing ones that she suggested so you wearily let it happen. walking for miles with Lucy trying them out initially like "honey. baby. teddy bear. big teddy bear of death? murder bear? no, okay, got it. sweetie. babe…” 

pretending not to know about things Lucy is referencing to see how long it takes for her to realize you’re messing with her. she's talking about her book club and you’re like “book? what's a book?” and she’s spiraling trying to explain the concept of written word to you

no concept of flirting. give her your absolute best lines and she's like “haha… okay?”. got to be as blunt as possible. tell her you want to fuck and she's like “oh yeah, sure.”

[gremlingottoosilly]

The Horror and The Wild [Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] Medieval Fantasy AU (ch.3)

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one.

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| Chapter 3| you're here! AO3 Word count: 3349 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig

The empire has met you with nothing but silence. 

You don’t know what you were expecting – a quiet servant, sheltered just as much as your princess was, you had no idea of what to expect from a place that was supposed to destroy any ounce of drema you still had in your tired, weak body. For all you know, all the people from the empire had beast heads instead of human ones and ran around the cattle like barbarians they are. For all you know, the Empire could have flying carriages and the methods of transporting a message from one person to another immediately – and hoarding that knowledge to themselves, like the egoistic maniacs they are. 

But, the empire is quiet. If anything, it is as normal as your country should be – if only you stepped outside of the castle walls even once to check if that’s true or not. If only you were independent enough to take the Princess by her hand and run away to the wind, searching for adventures. If only you weren’t covered in König’s cloak, sitting heavily on your shaking shoulders, if only your legs weren’t helpless from all the long days of traveling by horse. 

— Not impressed, little princess? The emperor is wild, the emperor is rude, and terrifying. He forced you to sit beside him, pressing you closely against his chest, and you never felt weak in your life. His strong, muscular form is keeping you pinned to him, stopping you from ever attempting to leave. After your last little stunt with jumping from his horse, he held you tighter than ever – by your hand, by your neck, sometimes simply grubbing you by your shoulders and hauling you like a sack of potatoes. He isn’t soft with you, isn't fragile at all – sometimes you wonder if he really thinks that he could treat a princess this way. Makes you think that he already blew off your cover, revealing nothing but endless possibilities of torture. 

— I’m not impressed by architecture that was stolen from other countries, my lord. 

— We didn’t steal anything. They agreed to join the Empire. 

— Like I agreed to marry you, sir? 

— Ja. Something like that. 

He laughs, and you force yourself to look nowhere but forward. He is smiling, and you force yourself to not imagine how his face must look right now – you try to convince yourself that he is ugly, a freaking beast, someone who shall never be called by his name – if he was normal or somewhat handsome, he wouldn’t kidnap you, right? He would just find some other princess and ask for her hand normally. 

 The empire is big, you read about it in books – but the bordering city isn’t as impressive ad you thought it would be. If anything, people here look normal. If anything, the dissonance makes you want to scream. 

König laughs when you frown at his words and pushes you from the horse. This is a small ritual now – constantly having you in his arms, your hands are finding his shoulders in a feeble attempt at steadying yourself. He might be a beast, but you refuse to die a slow and agonizing death from a broken hipbone – you’d much rather find a good knife and…

As a servant, your most important mission is to serve – to help Princess with whatever she may need. And if her illustrious Highness could not make it to the safety of various relatives of the royal family, the only thing you could do for he is to die – so you could proceed to serve her. It would be an honorable death. Much better than screaming in agony under the Emperor. 

Alas, you were here now. The first serious stop on the way to the capital. Your personal road of shame – with your face displayed openly for everyone to see and with your broken, torn dress that was only accented by tear streaks that weren’t drying on your cheeks, you were nothing close to a wife – you were a trophy. Another conquest, another fancy name to the title, and riches that can be extracted from your country. 

Your only mercy is that the Princess isn’t here to witness your shame. Unfortunately, König is. 

— Why are you so nervous, little Princess? You should get used to the sight of your husband’s body. 

The steam filling the room wasn’t nearly enough to cover his naked glory or your broken embarrassment. You would wish for the steam to fill the whole place, to cover every last inch of his scarred, somewhat tan skin. You can see the bronze of his sun lines the way he had so much scarring on his chest and stomach that it’s almost fully white. You find yourself wanting to trace the little scarring – you find yourself stopping and nearly hurting yourself over having such silly thoughts on the matter. 

To your surprise – utter, complete shock as you could not believe what you were seeing – he was still wearing a mask. The wet sack on his face was, indeed, uncomfortable – but you couldn’t even concentrate on the sight as you were too charmed while looking at his…

The water was clear, only filled with some transparent aromatic essence that smelled like metal and some healing elixirs, but it wasn’t enough to cover what was happening down his sculpted chest, perfect waist, and large, thick legs. He is built like a tree trunk, larger than any man you knew – which only made you oh so aware that you will not survive the wedding night. There is no way anything that is close to whatever was peeking from his spread legs would fit into you. Not that you know too much about reproduction anyway. 

— It’s… perverted. To see you like this. 

— Ach, meine Liebe. It’s natural for husband and wife.

— We’re not married yet, Your Highness. 

— Might as well be. I’m not letting you go anywhere. 

Despite his antics and confident demeanor, Emperor was…nervous. A little bit, yes, anxiety creeping to his form while he was too distracted by looking at your scared face and trembling hands – he knows that you’re a princess, a being with a fragile mind and weak stature. You can think that he is ugly – that his body, maimed on the battlefield and belonging to the war, not the bedroom, resembles more of a monster than the one of a husband. 

You can faint right now – he can see the trembling of your hands, the way your lips are quivering and shaking. You were crying almost the whole ride, only stopping to eat or argue with him, and while he adores your pouty face and miserable expression, it only made him understand more just how dangerously fragile you are. 

All the battles he fought, and now he is scared of what his bride will think of him. 

— I’d advise against looking at old soldier like this, Liebe. I might get…ideas. 

He laughs, but there is underlying anxiety behind this laugh. You look at him, blink a few times, heat spreading across your cheeks. You used to bathe the princess, so various toiletries and elixirs are nothing new to your sight. Of course, König doesn’t use rose water and fragile colored salts – his bath smells like pinewood, like blood and metal, nothing you were used to. 

You aren’t sure what traditions the empire has, but you never heard that the wife is supposed to bathe her husband – especially if said wife is a princess. Your hands are used to work, you can almost imagine a princess playing in her marble bath as you go around with cleaning cloth and make sure she doesn’t have to even lift a finger – but you suspect that acting like a loyal servant would only break your cover of a spoiled, treasured creature. 

— Ideas? What are those, your royal…

— Call me König. 

— I won’t call the name of the conqueror. 

— But you’re fine with calling me Your Highness. Full of contradiction, princess. 

You call him like that because it helps you to pretend that everything is fine. That princess is here with you, that you are going to bathe her for the evening, then take on her precious jewels to warm them up before they would go on her body – that you could do everything for her, whatever she needs. That your life still has a purpose other than lying and hoping for a quick death. 

But, König is perfect in the bath – you can’t pry your eyes from his muscles. Not a statue worthy, exactly, because they would spend too much marble on a statue of his size – but you beg to allow yourself to trace his scars, blue veins, little tan lines that were going all the way down his…

— I won’t force you to bathe me yet. 

— I appreciate your modesty. May I leave? 

He laughs, turning away from you. Showing you his back – predators would use it as a sign of assigned weakness, but you are mesmerized by even more scars covering him. Just how can a man survive this many stabs in the back? Almost made you want to put a few new ones, just as a little treat. 

König turns away from you and, with a swift motion of his hand, removes the wet hood from his face. You look away immediately, not wanting to look in the face of a monster – putting human features into your nightmares would break you fully. He chuckles softly, tracing his hand to yours – not allowing you to leave, no matter how much you wanted to simply ran away. 

— Wash my hair first, little princess. This is empire tradition, ja? 

— It’s a work for…

You bite your tongue before you can say “servants”. You tried to play the role of a spoiled brat, and not having to work felt nice – but you can only see the long, wavy red hair running from under the hood, free of containment. You want to touch the fiery locks, play with them and put some flowers inside – the urge to care for someone, to do your job as a royal dog, is rooted deeply in your body. 

— A wife must serve her husband, no? Come on, put your royal hands to work. — I believe you have servants for this. 

— I do. And I want you to wash my hair. — It’s really…

— I’d love you to wash some other things, in that case. My hair isn’t the only thing that is long. 

You gulp, trying desperately not to slap him. König is crude, like an old soldier – because he is one, as you are reminded constantly. Not a fragile and attentive prince from your dreams, but a horrible monster who’d love to simply use you like a freaking…a freaking something. His wife, you’d say before, but the princess and royal consort won’t be used like a lowly servant. Nothing in your soul stirs again, washing him whole – and this is why you’re nervous. The desire to serve is going to break your cover. Break you.

God, his hair is beautiful. 

Long and thick, ginger with hints of early silver – you could touch it the whole day, trace every lock, and play with loose strands. Maybe putting them in braids, just about a billion of them – he’d look perfect with touches of gold and bronze, with something to accent the beauty of his hair, something for…

God, you almost started to like him. Or, more naturally, his hair. Same thing – and terrifying at it. 

You gently flush his locks with warm water, feeling the softness under your fingertips. This is a job you’re familiar with – you braid his hair with surprising ease, playing with the softness as much as your heart desires. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend that you’re with your princess, cheering her up with some silly stories and fairytales you both were reading like a holy book. If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend that the world will end when you open it. 

But, the emperor – your emperor, if nothing would happen to prevent it – wants you to look at him. But, he is securing his face with a second, thinner mask that doesn’t intrude into the process of washing his hair. You don’t ever try to peek at his expression, too terrified of him actually having scales and furr – even though you can see his skin fully, and it doesn’t resemble the one of a monster. 

— Don’t close your eyes, little princess. 

— How could you…

— Good soldier always pays attention to his surroundings. Water is a perfect mirror, meine Dummes Mädchen. 

You don’t know what he just called you – and, quite frankly, you couldn’t care less about the opinion of a person who kidnapped you, who endangered your princess and tried to force her into marrying him, an old bastard of an emperor, the worst person imaginable, the…ah, but he does have great hair. And you are just a sheltered lady in waiting, frail maiden with no prospects of romantic love – even as much as stealing a glance at the stable boys when you were of their age would make Princess incredibly jealous. 

Now you have the full attention of the one whose hand in marriage was the most feared and the most desirable – and you don’t know whether you truly want to dismiss it, or to give it a…ah, no, you’re daydreaming again. Perhaps all this work on his hair made you delirious, made you think he may actually be a decent human being. To hell with him and to hell with his gorgeous, fiery hair. 

Hair that you…already made into a thick braid. You were thinking too much, dwelling on the past like an old lady of the castle – and now, the nostalgia for having to braid princesses’s hair is almost unbearable. You took the aromatic oil – even more pine with a rich, expressive scent that made you wince. 

Emperor laughs, a little rumble coming from his chest. He touches his hair, thick fingers going into even thicker locks. You were expecting to be killed for such frivolity – then you remember that, oh god, you are not a servant anymore. Husbands have their ways of disciplining disobedient wives, as you think from rare romantic books you were able to get from the library, and you don’t even want to imagine what those ways could be. 

— You’re good with your hands. I wonder what else you could play with. 

— I can play lyre and piano. 

— Ach, what about flutes? 

The implication makes your cheeks burn. You can’t tug his hair in fear of the punishment, so you simply huff in frustration and start dropping oil beads into his hair. It’s a surprise for such a manly and strong soldier to have scented oil in collection for his bath – if anything, you thought he would be a murderous beast who never takes a bath and prefers to wash his hair in the blood of his enemies. Alas, he smells of pinewood and clean water – you force yourself not to push his hair up to your nose, inhaling his essence. So different from the rose oils and flower extracts you were using for the Princess, but…perhaps you miss your old life too much. 

König stirs nervously in the bath. He knows that having a scented oil for his hair and body isn’t something that he usually does – his manliness is coming up with little cries of frustration every time he smells the essence on his skin. It’s not something a soldier should not – maintaining his hair in empire fashion, long and wavy, is hard enough, taking too much time to prepare in the morning, and comes as a horrible challenge in battles – but he sees the way your face lit up when you took his hair into your hands and, well…god, he is getting sappy over a little princess. It might just be his downfall. 

He is anxious about your opinion of him – not because he thinks you really have a choice in marrying him, but because he doesn’t want you to hate this marriage. He got quite a few concubines who loved his rank and even more enemies who hated his guts yet were still available for pleasure – but you, his dearest bride, shouldn’t hate him. Not too much, at least. 

— What do you think? 

— About what, Your Highness? 

You speak those words so quickly, it’s a surprise for him. Is the king, your father, so strict that his beloved daughter had to always address him by his title? Do you hate König so much that you force that abyss between you and him with ease at the click of your tongue? 

Your hands are good with washing his hair, your manners are excellent for someone who grew up spoiled and pampered – he thought that he’d have to spank the brattiness out of you and buy your affection with expensive gifts, but so far, you were just a sassy mouth and smart tongue. 

You are…weird, for a princess. Really, really weird. 

— About the essential oil. Not so soldier-like, ja? 

There is nervousness in his voice. It’s absurd – he had fought countless of battles, but he is scared of what this spoiled girl can think of him. He is the ruler of the largest empire on the continent – yet he is as scared as a little boy just stepping into knighthood. You’re making him soft, and he almost wants to drown in your touches, eat from your hand and force you on your knees so he can bury his head between your legs and show you what a real treat feels like. 

— I don’t think there is anything wrong with smelling good, Your Highness. Unless you appoint your fighting abilities with smelling like a wet dog. 

— You like it. 

— I am fine with it. As far as I’m aware, I should not touch your naked body before the wedding. 

— You’re lucky I adore your pouty face too much to whip you. 

— I’m glad that I’m lucky then. 

He can’t take it – not with your adorable expression and shaky hands, not with how tender you were with his hair, like he was made of glass. He is the strongest fighter in his country, the one who managed to capture dozens of terrible supernatural beasts – yet he never had anyone touch him so…softly. Your fingers are delicate, your touches are gentle, and he feels almost fragile. None of the rare concubines ever came as sincerely in their desire to please him – even when mixed with hatred. 

He grabs your hand and pushes you to the bath with him – the expensive nightgown he had gifted you when you came to the bordering Empire city is now heavy with water. You whimper immediately, all the sass escaping your body when he first touches your collarbones, your wrists, traces your burning face, and forces you to look at him. König almost rips his mask from his face, only stopping because he wanted to show himself at the wedding – as to not ruin the surprise. 

You try to run from his hold, wet clothes clinging to your body, revealing way more than you wanted to – every curve and trace of your figure is now open for him to devour. His burning desire is evident in the water – so you don’t look in between his legs, deciding to simply turn away even as he pushes you closer to him. Like a little kid, and you feel…

This is so like the old times, with Princess and her little pranks – and you can’t help but sob into his chest, the overwhelming recognition that nothing will ever feel quite the same as before. He soothes you with a hand on your back, making you hide your face in his chest and cry to all your heart’s content – the smell of pine wood filling your nostrils, further speaking on how utterly alone you are. 

You sob in his chest, allowing your emperor to touch you as he pleases. For some reason, you find comfort in this.