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kylorengarbagedump · 1 month ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 12

Read on AO3. Part 11 here. Part 13 here.

Summary: This party ain't big enough for the two of us.

Words: 7500

Warnings: Reader and Tavington are both cunts

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

HEHEHEHEHEHE OH MAN WHAT'S ABOUT TO HAPPEN :)))))))))))))))

HI welcome back!! I hope you enjoyed this beast of a chapter! Again, something really new for both of us, so we hope you enjoyed! We just HAD to have a party scene, of course - which is part of what started us writing this whole long thing to begin with! Sheeeeesh.

Next chapter may take a couple weeks, as we're out traveling for the rest of the week and we anticipate the next chapter to be, um, long :)

LOVE Y'ALL SO VERY MUCH <3

The gown might as well have been made of morning grass. In color, it shimmered like an emerald field in dew; in touch, it slipped beneath your fingers like fresh blades born into the sun. Sheets of patternless silk met at the front of your bodice in a neat row of buttons, layered over a darker, forest green petticoat that cascaded to the floor. A delicate collar of lace swept like seafoam over your shoulders and bosom, veiling anything other than your throat to the other guests.

It was beautiful.

You hated it.

The dress itself was fine—finer than anything you’d worn, or even seen, to be honest. It was how you felt within it: like a spectacle. Here you were, the Incredible Turncoat Daughter, decorated in frippery to be paraded around the ball on the arms of officers as proof of their victory.

Perhaps they’d collared you, but they wouldn’t leash you. No—you had business to do at this ball. You needed to discern your father’s fate. And you’d be damned if any officer would consider you a victory.

“Oh!” Lottie tapped you on the shoulder, having reappeared from a sea of silk frills and red jackets. She held out one of the hors d'oeuvres. It looked like a slimy black marble perched on a stick. “Try this!” she said. “It’s delightful!”

You raised a brow, plucking it from her fingers and popping it in your mouth. You knew immediately it was the worst thing you’d ever eaten.

“Ugh!” Groaning, you grabbed the napkin she’d gathered as well and spit the half-chewed glob into your covered hand. “Hell, that was horrific.” You dabbed your mouth before crumpling the napkin into a ball. “What was that? It tasted like fish shit.”

Goddard and Lottie’s eyes widened, looking between your disgusting napkin and your disgusted face.

“Oh! Sorry.” You lowered your voice. “It tasted like fish excrement.”

Pulling his lips in over his teeth, Goddard pivoted, walking toward the table filled with pre-poured Madeira. The drawing room was heavy with the din of conversation, but all appeared too enamored with the spread of food and drink to notice your disdain for it. Lottie, face pink, covered her mouth to hide her amusement.

“They’re called olives,” she said, picking up another one from a passing serving tray. “I think they’re delicious.”

You snorted. “I could do without.” There was nowhere around you to dispose of your illicit napkin. “Hell,” you said again, trying to hide it in your fist. “What are you supposed to do with these?”

“Well,” Lottie said, giggling, “I think you typically don’t spit food inside of them.” Her head craned around your shoulder. “Oh!” She tapped your shoulder. “There’s a plant there.” She held out her arm to you. “Come with me.”

You grinned at her, looping your arm in hers. Despite her presentation in a brocade-patterned blueberry dress, Lottie was the only person here capable of making you feel normal. She led you past the plant in the corner, watching for onlookers.

Holding your breath, you dipped low and tossed the napkin behind the pot, exhaling as you came to stand. “Much better,” you said. “No one will notice a thing.”

“Notice what?” said a familiar voice from over your shoulder.

You flinched, hand clutching your chest as you turned and met the blue, simmering eyes of William Tavington. Your heart dropped to the floor.

“Oh, Colonel.” You clung tighter to Lottie’s arm. “Good, ah, good evening.”

“Good evening, Colonel Tavington,” Lottie echoed, side-stepping to try and obscure your vandalism. “Have you tried the olives?”

His gaze remained on yours. “If this behavior is in any way indicative of your proficiency with subtlety,” he said, “perhaps it’s your good fortune that you’re so loyal to the Crown.”

Lottie stiffened. “Oh, Colonel, I’m not sure what you think you saw—”

“Miss Goddard,” Tavington said, still not breaking focus from your face. “I believe your brother was asking for you.”

“He was?” She looked at you apologetically, patting your arm as she pulled away. “I’ll—please excuse me, I’ll be right back,” she said, before trotting off and leaving you alone, in the corner, your only company a wadded up napkin and the single person in the room you did not want to be left alone with.

It was only in this moment you could fully, unwillingly begin to take him in. Colonel William Tavington was adorned in full dress, his collar laid with gilded thread, the ties and sleeves on his blouse embroidered with scalloped lace trim. Even his waistcoat hadn’t been spared—it was similarly embellished with glittering thread underneath the line of bronze buttons. Your eyes fell lower, noting the black wash of his trousers. His boots were shined to mirror-finish.

Realizing you’d been staring, you snapped your attention forward only to then take notice of his hair, the apple scent of it, how sleekly it laid to his head; the strong curve of his jaw, the little bow above his upper lip you wanted to pinch between your teeth.

He was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Bastard.

“Have I not proven myself beyond your doubts, Colonel?” you asked, hoping that you could invite the both of you to ignore how you’d just observed him like a dog might observe raw meat. “At least enough to avoid incurring slights regarding my loyalty?”

His eyes flicked briefly to your throat. “I’m afraid duty to the King requires more devotion than a few months of trodding around a hospital tent filling jars with plant paste.”

You frowned. “Your general seems to disagree.”

Tavington’s brow lowered. “Lord Cornwallis’ decisions do not reflect my own, nor do his beliefs reflect mine.”

“What’s that?” You gave him a faux-gasp. “That isn’t… You couldn’t be calling His Lordship’s judgement into question, could you?”

“I made no statement about his judgement.” Tavington stepped closer, crowding you with his singular presence. “But it’s my belief that someone with a history such as yours is in need of supervision at a gathering such as this.”

“Supervision?” You huffed, stepping away, since his proximity was directly and inversely related to your ability to form coherent sentences. “I know you may have trouble recalling, with all the secrets you seem so concerned about swelling your large head, Colonel, but I’m no longer a child.”

You thought you caught it, as quick as a blink—a smirk flashed on his lips.

“No,” he said. “You are an opportunist. Far more deserving of a chaperone.”

He advanced again. You skittered backwards. Jaw set, he grabbed for you, and you jerked your arms from his reach. You’d force him to make a scene before you let him chaperone you.

When he didn’t pursue you a third time, you thrust your chin into the air and escaped from the drawing room into the foyer, exhaling as the anchor of the crowd fell from your chest.

Though, said foyer was really more of a grand foyer. Two staircases curled from the second floor and spilled into the room, opening to towering ceilings bordered with detailed crown molding and colorful tile laid into the hardwood at the entrance. In fact, Middleton Place itself was grander than anything you’d ever beheld; it was a massive plantation, gardens sprawling for miles outside. It seemed the inside had once been cluttered with ostentatious superfluity, but parts were missing—white shadows and empty corners felt more conspicuous to you than the pieces of luxurious furniture that remained.

It was for this reason you needed to attach yourself to someone, anyone so you didn’t look or feel so sorely out of place. That, and to potentially dissuade Tavington from attempting to chaperone your efforts to find out what had happened to your father after Camden.

Of the few passing through the foyer, you spotted an older, bewigged man nursing a baluster of wine by himself. He was admiring the marble bust of a stranger, and had enough ornamentation on his uniform that he must know something. Sucking in a breath, you cast a glance behind you—no Tavington—and wiggled your shoulders before making your way over to his side.

“Good evening,” you said, poking your head into his space. He startled, but upon seeing you, relaxed. “I hope you don’t mind if I intrude.”

The man—a captain, you could see—laughed, waving you off. “Oh, it’s no trouble, my dear.” His eyes, bloodshot and milky blue, soaked themselves in the hidden view of your decolletage. “I’m simply admiring the work of whichever artist carved this fine gentleman here.” He leaned forward, squinting. “Mr… ah, I don’t know.” Laughing, he patted the bust on its cold head. “Whoever he is, he’s the only one left, poor fool.”

You laughed, even though you didn’t find him funny. “Oh, who knows,” you said, resting your hand on the captain’s shoulder. The inscription on the statue clearly said Henry Middleton. “What do you mean, the only one left?”

“Oh,” the captain said, “all the other statues are out in the rubble pile!” He laughed again. “The boys had a bit too much fun when they took Charleston.” His arm wound around yours, and he pulled you close. “Captain John Pettis, my dear.” Pettis leaned toward you, his odor too heavy with wine for the youth of the evening. “Who, may I ask, are you?”

Despite the rising hair on your nape, you introduced yourself. “It’s my pleasure,” you said. “Are you enjoying the ball, Captain?”

He huffed, going to wave the question away before his attention lingered on your figure again. “I certainly am now,” he laughed. “Just in bloody time, too.”

“Oh?” You cleared your throat. “Aren’t you pleased about Camden?”

“Well, of course—”

“Were you there, Captain?”

Pettis frowned. “Of course I was, dear,” he said.

“Oh, wonderful,” you said. “It must have been harrowing.”

“I wouldn’t say—”

“I’d love to know everything about it,” you said, inching closer to him.

“Well…” Pettis chuckled. His hand crept to your lower back, and you winced. “I’d love to discuss something more stimulating.”

“Oh.” You gave a tight smile, trying to ignore the feeling of insects creeping over your skin where his hand rested. “No, thank you, Captain.” When his eyebrow quirked, you rubbed his forearm. “It’s just—well, you must have been so brave, you know, and I admit I find myself curious about your accomplishments there.”

“Adventurous thing, aren’t you?” He grinned, his grip sliding to your side and pulling you against him. “That can all come later, my dear,” he said. “No need to disrupt your constitution with my tales of, ah, violence, you know, it’s all quite bloody.”

“I’m sure that I can—”

“No, no.” Pettis’ hand stroked your side in a way that made you wish, to your surprise and horror, that Tavington was nearby. “In fact, we can find a much quieter place to discuss this, if you wish?”

Your teeth set. You’d misplayed him—been far too forward and had given him the wrong idea. If only you’d had any experience with intimacy.

“That’s quite all right,” you replied, trying to step away. “We can—”

He held you tighter, tugged you back along his side. “No need to be shy, now,” he whispered, his breath husky and rank. “I know exactly what you’re trying to say.”

Heart skipping, you glanced around the room. No Tavington. No Goddard. No Lottie. No anybody you recognized. Pettis took a step, leading you away from the statue, and you resented even more the stupid dress and the stupid ball that was preventing you from smashing your skull into his nose. You swallowed, giving Pettis the weakest smile you could offer, and spotted a gaggle of women just a few yards away surrounding a man who appeared to be politely entertaining each of them. As you passed, you caught sight of his face.

Patrick bloody Ferguson.

Ferguson’s eyes met yours. His brow raised, and he turned to the crowd of his admirers. He appeared to say something before parting a way through and striding over to you and Pettis.

God, no. You did not need him making the situation even worse. Fussing, you tried to loosen Pettis’ grip on you, but he held fast, chuckling to himself, mumbling something about save that for when we’re alone. Before you could protest, Ferguson stepped in front of you both.

“Captain!” Ferguson said, a bright, friendly smile on his awful face. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it this evening.”

Pettis laughed, his face reddening. “Oh, Major Ferguson,” he said. “Good evening, sir.” Looking to you, and then back to Ferguson, he continued, “Not a chance I’d miss an event like this.”

“After how flustered you seemed at Camden, I was sure you’d had enough of the war business!” Ferguson said this good-naturedly, like he was actually concerned for the man in front of him. You couldn’t tell if he was performing. “First battle after your commission is always tough.”

You almost laughed. Pettis has just purchased his captain’s rank? You’d probably seen buckets more blood than he had.

“Yes, well…” Pettis’ face had turned redder than his coat. His hand left you, and he stepped aside. The relief from his presence left in a poorly-hidden sigh. “Yes. Well. I believe I’m going to go seek another glass of Madeira.”

“So soon?” Ferguson said. “Captain, please!”

Pettis raised his hand to quiet him. “Yes, yes, I think I shall.” He bowed in your direction, then Ferguson’s. “Lovely speaking with you both,” he said, before slinking toward the drawing room.

You watched him go, restraining your desire to make a face behind his back. Exhaling, you turned to Ferguson and realized that your desire to make a face needed even greater restraint than it had just a second earlier.

“Major,” you said, summoning every ounce of politeness that hadn’t been expended on Pettis. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say so,” he said, a sly grin on his face. “Especially after my utterly monstrous treatment of you in the hospital tent.”

All blood fell from your face. “Oh.” Your smile became a grimace. “I’m afraid I, ah, don’t understand what you’re referring to, sir.”

He laughed. “I’m not sore about it,” he replied. “Once I learned that you were Grace’s sister, it made tremendous sense.”

Your grimace pulled the tendons in your neck. Here he was, standing right in front of you, believing he had the right to just discuss Grace to your face? As if he knew you? As if he knew her? Just because he’d visited her, exchanged letters with her perhaps, did not give him the insight he seemed so comfortable claiming in this moment.

“Did it, now?” You shifted your weight, cocked your head. “Pray, tell.”

“I’ve simply noticed you have a lot in common,” he replied earnestly. “I mean it as a compliment.”

“And are these compliments you pay to all of your lady suitors?” you said, gesturing to the crowd of women he’d abandoned, all of whom appeared concerned with your current monopolization of his attention.

Ferguson nodded in acknowledgement, lowering his volume a notch. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”

He stepped toward the entry heading outdoors, gesturing for you to follow him. You did, watching him with suspicion, edging closer to him as you stepped onto the grounds.

The air was thick with the demise of summer, cascading in a gentle breeze down the sprawling garden terrace toward the river. A string melody sailed across the evening’s current, pebbled through by the din of conversations and laughter. There wasn’t a sight you could behold that was not laden with finery, from manicured shrubs, to flowing silks and tailored coats, to the enormous frigate anchored in the water.

All to celebrate what may well have been the end of your father. To rejoice in the death throes of South Carolina’s liberty, to laugh as she was left to squirm and choke beneath a thousand shiny British boots.

You felt ill.

Ferguson led you to an unoccupied alcove on the parterre, fragrant with blooming roses, and leaned toward you. “I intended to invite Grace as my guest, but the distance between here and Catawba prohibited a timely correspondence,” he said. “And I sense she would have been reluctant to leave your home unless she had been aware you’d be present.” He sighed. “As she cannot be here, she cannot be the focus of my affections.”

“How fortunate that you have so much affection to go around, then, Major,” you clipped back. “Seeing as how you dole it out like candy to any woman begging for a taste.”

“I understand how it appeared,” he said with a wince. “But had you been party to the conversation, you would not have failed to distinguish courtesy from candy.” When this did nothing to wipe the burgeoning scowl from your face, he continued. “Be assured that my true affections are kept private, and reserved for those deserving.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, taking a rose stem between your fingers to brush its petals with your thumb.

“You’ll find my sister is the most deserving of everything good the world could potentially offer.” Your thumb dug into the pillowy bloom, crushed down until its perfume bled into your palm. “And I’ll not see her fall second choice to anyone, or anything.”

You pinned him with your stare. His own expression softened.

“That is very clear, miss.” He glanced out across the river before looking at you again. “I see why she speaks so highly of you.”

“Does she?” The admission found your irritation with him and soothed it like a poultice. You noticed your shoulders rolling forward, your hackles dropping. You released the impaled flower. “Well. I hope she does,” you said, “since I practically raised her.”

Ferguson nodded. “She has said as much. I’m aware that growing up without your mother was not easy.” He smiled gently. “It was my hope to meet the woman who surely imparted such strong character upon her.”

You sighed, averting your gaze. How was it possible that he seemed so perfectly kind, so perfectly thoughtful and considerate and clever while being the second worst person you’d ever met? There had to be some reason behind her infatuation—yes, Ferguson had aroused Loyalist sympathies from her, but Grace wasn’t stupid. Before finding a way to destroy this man forever, you needed to understand her logic. Perhaps, you hoped, you were ignorant, and she was doing her work to spy for the Continentals as well by charming one of its lead majors—

No. Grace would never tolerate performing that level of dishonesty. Or deception.

It was only then you realized just how badly you missed her.

“If you’re so familiar, then,” you said, “how is she?”

Ferguson gave you a warm, frustratingly perceptive smile. “She’s very well. A bit lonely, perhaps, but—”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, at least a fortni—”

“Do you write her?” You stepped closer. “Did you get her permission to do so?”

Ferguson was unfazed. He held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “Your sister is very well,” he said, “though she misses you terribly. She told me so when I last saw her at the beginning of August. And I did ask to write her.” Pausing, he studied your face, then decided to continue. “Though she did mention that I may want to ask your permission, first.” His grin grew wider. “And I fully intend to refrain from any monstrous behavior, if granted such.”

You pursed your lips. “Oh.”

Here you were, being an obstinate ass when a high-ranking British officer had just revealed a desire to ingratiate himself to you. A serving tray passed you filled with oysters, and you grabbed one, considering it as you gathered the courage to give the one thing to this man you could barely stomach:

An apology.

“You must forgive my rancor, Major Ferguson,” you said with a sigh. “I’m afraid that despite my satisfaction with our victory at Camden, I still worry quite deeply for my family.”

You attempted to sip from the belly of the shell. The sound echoed to the bank of the Ashley below.

Ferguson’s lip quirked in a disturbingly good-natured way, and he rocked on his heels.

“Your love is a fearsome thing to behold, I must admit.” He chuckled, then softened again in sincerity. “But I couldn’t possibly fault you for that. There is nothing to forgive.”

“Well,” you said, straightening your shoulders. “Thank you.”

Unsure what else to say, you sipped at your oyster again. Ferguson’s gaze dropped, his brow creasing in sudden thought. After a moment, he muttered your last name under his breath. You looked at him in surprise.

“Lord Cornwallis made mention of a certain Tory woman who would be here tonight,” he began. “He said her father is a captain with the Continentals.” He paused, peering at you curiously. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

You stiffened. There wasn’t much point in trying to deny it. Even though the idea of your name being passed around among the upper echelons of the British army brought you no small measure of discomfort. Particularly whilst you were already feeling like a doll dressed up for their entertainment.

“Yes,” you said, eyeing Ferguson again with distrust. “It is.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding as if he genuinely was. “I can’t imagine the distress that must cause you.”

A chime of opportunity struck in the back of your mind. Ferguson wanted—needed—to get on your good side. If he knew anything about the aftermath of Camden, he would surely share it. And, unlike Tavington, he had no reason to distrust your motives for asking.

“It has been very taxing,” you admitted, drawing a breath. You glanced around, then leaned just a little closer to Ferguson. “I have reason to believe my father may have been involved at Camden,” you whispered. “I hesitate to ask the general, lest my allegiance is called into question, but...”

Ferguson’s face drew into a grave, sympathetic frown.

“You’ve no idea what’s become of him,” he finished for you.

Dropping your gaze, you nodded.

“It’s only right that you should know.” Ferguson’s eyes flicked toward the entryway to the home before returning to you. “I hate to say it, but it was wise of you not to ask the general.”

When curiosity crossed your face, he continued.

“His Lordship has been a bit, ah, on edge,” he explained. “I’m sorry to say I have no knowledge of your father’s fate myself. I’d surely tell you if I did.”

You sighed. Ferguson’s head cocked in very irritating concern that appeared genuine, which made it even more irritating.

“Although…” he mused, rubbing a finger over his chin. You thought you saw a new twinkle appear in the deep blue of his eyes. “That sort of information would be in the report.”

You hummed. “Report?”

He flashed you a grin, grabbing an oyster for himself as the server walked past the tray in the other direction. “Colonel Tavington would have written it up for him,” he said, and slurped the entire oyster in one bite. “It would list all the officers captured or killed.”

Knowing Tavington, the report was certainly finished—but it would be accessing it that was the problem. “I see.” You attempted to imitate his oyster consumption and instead inhaled the juice straight into your lungs. “Agh—dammit—”

“Are you all right?” Ferguson asked, stepping forward to assist you as you choked.

Grimacing, you batted him away, thudding your chest with your fist to knock the rest of the juice free. “Ah-ahem.”

Before Ferguson could reply, he glanced at the entry doors, brows rising in recognition. “Talk of the devil,” he murmured, tilting his head in that direction.

You turned, watching as Cornwallis descended to the parterre, whispering furiously to one of his generals. It was a man you didn’t recognize—some pinched-face, badly-bewigged sycophant like most others, you assumed—and Cornwallis himself seemed draped in a bizarre, silky imitation of a royal officer’s coat. Behind them, Tavington descended as well, adjusting his lace cuffs, the muscle in his jaw tighter than you’d ever seen it.

His eyes found you across the terrace, narrowed at the sight of your company. To your simultaneous relief and disappointment, he split away, marching in the direction opposite of you.

Ferguson grinned. “My Lord General!” he called, waving Cornwallis over. As the general started toward you, you turned to your side and scraped the oyster belly clean with your teeth before shoving the shell in Ferguson’s hands. “Oh—”

“Such a gentleman you are,” you murmured, and greeted Cornwallis with a curtsy. “Good evening my Lord!”

Whatever Cornwallis’ annoyance had been, upon hearing your greeting, it parted like clouds to sunshine.

“Ah, there she is!” he said, meeting the two of you. You offered a hand to him, curtsied as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. He gestured to the man beside him. “May I introduce General Charles O’Hara, my second in command.”

“A pleasure, General.” You gave a curtsy towards O’Hara, who bowed in response.

“I see you’ve made amends with Major Ferguson, hm?” Cornwallis said.

You nodded. “Absolutely,” you said, taking care to omit the not, “my Lord. I’m so glad to have realized it was a misunderstanding.” You looked to Ferguson. “Major Ferguson here was kind enough to explain it all to me.”

“Excellent,” said Cornwallis, nodding toward Ferguson. “And you, Major? I trust you’ve had a fine evening thus far?”

“Oh, more than fine, sir,” Ferguson said. “How could I not, given what victories we had at both Camden and Fishing Creek?”

“Yes,” Cornwallis said, his gaze drifting to the ship on the Ashley River. “Though it’d be far easier to celebrate if certain… oversights hadn’t left us exposed.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “Was there something unsatisfactory in the report?”

Cornwallis huffed, waving the suggestion away. “Oh, nevermind the report.”

“Was there something else, then, my Lord?” Ferguson asked. “Or was it not completed?”

“No, no,” Cornwallis sighed, still staring across the banks. “I haven’t even made the time to read it.”

O’Hara cleared his throat. “We’re awaiting the shipment of His Lordship’s items to come ashore.”

“Ah,” Ferguson said, “I see.” With a casual shrug, he added, “Well, my hope is you’ll be satisfied when you do read it.”

Cornwallis broke his focus from the ship with a laugh. “Colonel Tavington is nothing if not thorough,” he admitted. “From what I saw left on my desk, I doubt there's a single detail omitted.”

Ferguson’s eyes met yours. He winked. “Of course, my Lord.”

“But enough talk of war!” Cornwallis looked at you, holding out his arm. “Come take a turn about the party, my dear. I wish to hear from you this evening.”

You stared at his arm, glanced around the parterre at the dozens of Loyalists and officers alike who were peering at you between breaks in conversation. First at the side of Major Patrick Ferguson, now the escortee of Lord Cornwallis himself. Perhaps Tavington’s assessment of your subtlety had been more accurate than you wanted to admit.

“Of course, my Lord,” you said, curling your arm around his. As he led you from O’Hara and Ferguson, you met the Major’s eyes over your shoulder. “Oh, Major, I almost forgot. Regarding your inquiry of permission…”

“Yes?” Ferguson asked.

“The answer,” you replied, “is no.” You smiled and turned back to Cornwallis.

He chuckled, leading you along the parterre. “I must implore you not to break too many of my officers’ hearts this evening, my dear.”

Laughing, you shook your head. “Somehow I doubt that Major Ferguson will be suffering from a dearth of feminine attention, my Lord.”

“Perhaps not,” said Cornwallis with a wry grin. He drew a breath and gazed out over the party. “The men have sorely needed this diversion, you know. Our regulars in particular.” He let out a long exhale. “Business has been uglier here than it was in New York.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, my Lord,” you said. “Though I hope your experience has not tarnished your opinion of our fine colony.”

“My dear,” he said, patting your hand, “your loyalty is a balm to the gravest of injuries laid against us by this land.”

You forced a smile, surveying the party. Again, you thought of the squalor of the Continental camp. Some injury the British suffer here, indeed.

“I am glad,” you forced yourself to say with a smile.

Thankfully, Cornwallis seemed distracted by his surveillance of the party. Given his attire, his distraction, you knew there was something regarding these oversights you might be able to glean from him. Even the intention of a planned response would be good information to gather.

Invoking a face rapt with concern, you covered his knuckles with your palm.

“My Lord,” you said, “you seem troubled. May I inquire as to why that might be?”

Cornwallis blinked free from his rumination, sighed. “Oh, yes. A war casualty.”

“A war casualty?” You frowned. That had not been what you expected to hear. “Please accept my sympathies.”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “It’s quite all right.”

“May I ask who you lost?”

His face grew grim. “My wardrobe.”

“I—” You couldn’t stop your mouth from parting. “Your wardrobe, my Lord?”

“Yes,” he replied, “containing items embroidered by my late wife, God rest her soul. Terrible.”

Your desire to walk him toward the river and shove him in was mounting by the second. Here he was, comparing a wardrobe to a war casualty when you couldn’t even be assured of your own father’s bloody safety. Tightening your jaw, you drew in a long breath and squeezed his hand. At the very least, you needed to get as much as you could before you lost your wit entirely.

“How awful,” you said. “May I ask what happened?”

Another sigh, this time longer, more irritated. His gaze wandered toward the ship on the Ashley, then cast out over the crowd.

“You may,” he said. “In fact, I believe there’s someone who can answer your question as we approach.”

You followed his focus, finding it landed squarely on Colonel Tavington, who was now only feet away. You bit your tongue. There went your information. Good, sweet, divine and sacred God, why had he chosen to haunt you?

“Colonel Tavington!” called Cornwallis.

Tavington spun on his heel, his eyes finding you first, following the way your arm hooked around Cornwallis, the way your hand rested on his. Hot, blue flame sparked in his gaze, only to gutter when Cornwallis ushered him closer. Imperceptible to his general, but unmistakable to you: his lip twitched.

“My Lord,” said Tavington, stepping toward you both. His expression was one of utter restraint. “How may I assist you?”

“The young miss here inquired as to the condition of my personal effects.” Cornwallis gestured toward you like he was presenting a well-groomed cat.

“Ah,” Tavington replied. A poor imitation of a smile stretched tight over his teeth. “Certainly the details—”

Cornwallis stiffened. “Colonel,” he replied, “imagine hearing that a general’s property had been ransacked. If you had recently disavowed your father’s own teachings, would you not want reassurance that your loyalties were not misplaced?”

Tavington’s lips trembled, like he was chewing back a hundred words that were fighting to leave. “If I had—” He exhaled, glancing at his boots and rolling his shoulders before looking back at you. “Unfortunately, our supply lines were left vulnerable, which resulted in His Lordship’s possessions being misplaced.”

“And why were they left vulnerable, Colonel?”

“An egregious oversight, my Lord,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “which is being quickly rectified.”

You couldn’t decide how to respond. Should you laugh at him? Show pity? Strangely, you wanted to do both. His response—the cloistered rage, the tenuous grip he’d briefly displayed—had made you curious. You hated that.

You settled on saying, “I see.”

“So,” Tavington continued, folding his arms behind his back, “yourself and His Lordship may rest assured that it will not happen again.” He turned to Cornwallis. “On my word, you soon shall be on your way north, sir.”

“Let us hope.” Cornwallis relaxed at your side, appearing satisfied by Tavington’s self-flagellation. “This is dour business—I did say I had enough discussion of war, didn’t I?” Sighing, he nodded to Tavington, adding, “I look forward to it,” before looking to you. “Have you been to the northern colonies, my dear?”

“Yes,” you replied, surprised to feel as if a yoke had lifted from your shoulders with the change of subject. Clearing the tension from your throat, you continued. “To Pennsylvania, when I was a girl.”

“Ah, Pennsylvania,” Cornwallis sighed, as if missing a loved one. “Fine country there, isn’t it? And promising claims to be found in the Ohio, or so I hear.”

Tavington plucked a glass of Madeira from a passing tray and gave a tight, placating smile. “Indeed, my Lord.”

Your own matched it, along with a nod. “Very much so,” you replied, even though you had no idea what the Ohio was.

“By what circumstances did you find yourself in Pennsylvania?” Cornwallis asked.

“A visit to my grandmother in Philadelphia,” you replied. “Although, I suspect it was my father’s secret mission to allow me a glimpse of the College just once while we were there.”

“Most curious,” Cornwallis chuckled. “Why ever would he do such a thing?”

“Well, I used to beg him to send me to the Medical College one day.” An involuntary, sheepish grin spread across your face as fondness crowded your chest. “He knew, of course, that I could never attend. But he didn’t have the heart to dash my hopes.”

“A benevolent man indeed.” Cornwallis chortled again, clearly finding something very amusing in all of this. “Though, if women could become physicians, I fear we would all be far worse off as a society.”

You laughed. A short, sharp sound that you snapped to death between your teeth just as quickly as it had bolted free. Tavington glanced at you, bringing his baluster to his lips.

“Is that so, my Lord?” you said with a concerted attempt at levity, though your cheeks grew hot.

“Of course,” Cornwallis said, waving his hand as if to collect his thoughts from the air. “Such studies do not lend themselves to the… the finer manners of women. They’ve not the disposition for it, you know, it’s far from delicate business.”

“An interesting perspective,” you said through a smile that ached in its artifice. “I wonder, is stitching a fine silk so dissimilar to mending torn flesh?” Again, Tavington eyed you, brows rising fractionally. You needed to shut up, but there was a fire beneath your tongue, and you couldn’t stop the words from boiling over. “Is soothing a crying babe so unlike tending an ailing man?”

Cornwallis’ forehead crinkled, his face frozen for a beat in what may have been surprise, amusement, or both. He turned to Tavington.

“Quite the progressive, is she not?” He glanced between you and Tavington as if you were a bizarre art piece they might be discussing. “Fascinating how freely these colonial women speak their minds.”

You smiled blithely, your questions still unanswered. Tavington took a long pull of his drink.

“My dear,” Cornwallis said, adopting an air of one explaining the world to a child. “There are fundamental differences in the constitutions of men and women, as we all know. Should I have it my way, no woman would ever suffer her sensibilities tarnished by exposure to such grotesque things as blood or battle.”

He gave you a fondly chiding smile.

“My sensibilities,” you said, feeling a cord draw tight through your skull, “remained quite unsullied while I performed an independent transfemoral amputation.”

Tavington choked. Cornwallis’ eyebrows climbed. Then a laugh barreled free.

“I have no doubt that your administrative assistance has been much appreciated by our esteemed surgeon,” he said, composing himself. “But surely you are aware that such duties are not comparable to performing independent surgery.”

The cord snapped.

“I did perform independent surgery.”

Silence fell as both men stared at you. A gentle change in tempo from the distant strings. Tavington’s fingers tightened around the neck of his glass, his mouth parting as if he were salivating. Or on the brink of realization.

Cornwallis cocked his head, patronized you with a laugh.

“I’ve no doubt that such an exaggeration is born from the same flights of nerves that bade you reprehend poor Major Ferguson,” he said. “The man was left to defend himself most assiduously, you know.” Again, he smiled at you, shook his head in gentle admonishment. He sighed. “I dare say it only strengthens my opinion on the matter.”

Heat flared up your neck. Your spine stiffened, nails bit your palms, every part of you coiling with the urge to spring. Unleashing your arm from Cornwallis, you spun on him, loading retribution on your tongue like a musket ball. A flint, a spark, borne from the fire in your throat, and you could taste them, like lead, the words—did your wife seek death to escape your opinions—

A hand pressed to the small of your back. The scent of apples flooded your nose. The lead fell from your mouth.

“My Lord,” came the voice from beside you—the voice belonging to William Tavington, whose palm provided firm pressure as he guided you from the conversation. “I do believe Mr. Simms and his wife were wishing to speak with you.”

Cornwallis grinned, completely unaware. “Ah, the ingenuous Mr. Simms. I had been hoping he’d be here. Thank you, Colonel,” he said, and bowed toward you. “A fine discussion we had, my dear. And a good evening to you both.”

Your sight swiveled like the hands of a clock, new images passing second by second—the party, the drinks, the laughter, the twilight sky striped with stars. Music swam through the muddied mess of your mind. Your heart beat in your ears, in your thighs. Every inch of your awareness clung to the sensation of Tavington’s hand at your back, his fingers brushing your side. One step, another, and your eyes finally focused on him.

Like finding the surface of the ocean, you broke through, sucked in air, and flung his hand from your torso.

“Ugh!” You hissed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Tavington sneered. “I could ask the very same.”

“I was—” Folding your arms over your chest, you realized that Tavington had just rescued you from saying something incredibly stupid. What a bastard. “I don’t need your help!”

“My help?” His lip curled, and he leaned closer, his breath warm on your face. “Are you so self-absorbed to believe that you were about to gift me a favor with that incorrigible mouth of yours?”

You snorted. “Of course, I’m incorrigible,” you replied, “all for wanting credit for something I did. Excuse me for seeking the appropriate recompense.”

“Recompense?” He huffed. “How, precisely, were you harmed?”

“Dr. Moore wasn’t even there!” you said. “But he—”

Tavington growled. “Did you ever consider that denying you credit protected you?” he asked. “I suppose you wish to be flogged?”

“Should I get on my knees?” you asked. “Espouse my gratitude for—for being—” A snarl tore its way from your throat. “I am not a child, and I refuse to be spoken to like I possess the intellect of one.”

You made to leave, and he snatched your arm, pulling you to his side.

“You are ungrateful,” he said, “and your petulance damns you to indignity far sooner than your sex.”

“You—” Heat, more heat, something like rage and hunger and altogether different rushed you, inspired sweat at your nape. You hated this party, hated the redcoats, hated Cornwallis, hated him. First your agency, now this damnable man would see you denied your dignity. “You don’t believe me either, do you?”

Tavington frowned, his tongue rolling in his mouth. His eyes pierced yours. “You would not waste your spite on a lie.”

Pausing, you searched his face. Your pulse fluttered in your throat, your wrists, your hands.

Before you could say a word, he continued, “But to expect a shift in perspective simply because you demand it—”

You laughed, pushing him away. “Pray, how should I expect it then, Colonel? Asking politely? That worked out quite well for the colonies, didn’t it?” His jaw stiffened. You were far too close to revealing your hand. “I don’t know why I’m even discussing this with you,” you said, and threw him off, rustling your dress. “I don’t need you, and I don’t need your help, so please spare me from it.”

With that, you turned away from him and marched into the crowd.

Eyes followed you as you snaked between groups, the sound of humming strings swallowing the pounding between your ears. If there was anyone more wholly unsuited for the role of spy, it was you. The entire party had seen you speaking with two officers of high regard, and for your grand finale, you’d just made a public rebuke of a third. Your father clearly hadn’t been thinking straight when he’d asked his loudest and most incorrigible child to gather information.

Your stomach rolled with nausea. You still had no knowledge of his status—and now, given your behavior, you could hardly expect to learn it at all. There would be someone bound to notice you sneaking off, someone bound to talk about the woman who’d seemed to make herself cozy with all sorts of titled men.

As you climbed the terrace toward the entrance, you spotted Tavington making his way toward two women. Upon his arrival, he presented them with a deep bow, his face free of irritation as he engaged them in conversation. His shoulders relaxed, his mouth drew in a wide smile. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him smile. For reasons you couldn’t understand, the sight of it made you want to flip a table, or maybe take a tray of drinks and spill them all down each of their frilly, ugly dresses.

He laughed at something, probably something that wasn’t even that funny, and his eyes landed on you. He smirked.

Just as a scream crested in your throat, the frigate waiting on the Ashley exploded into flames.

Every head snapped toward the river in a wave of horrified sound. Fire surged from the deck, climbed the masts, sprayed embers into the water. The party was motionless, captivated as light consumed the ship.

Motionless, of course, except for you. With all eyes on the river, you crept backwards until you reached the main house. As guests were scrambling out, you fled inside.

You flattened your frame flush with the wall along the stairs, watching as people stretched their necks, pushed others to the side, chattered like chipmunks. The chaos swelled. In the squeeze of the crowd, you heard Lottie calling your name, and you winced. As much as you wanted to reassure her, you couldn’t right now. You had to get upstairs.

Crouching low, you hiked your skirts above your ankles and snuck to the front of the staircase. The cacophony echoed as the news spread, and you held your breath, scampering up the steps and to the second floor.

Thankfully, Middleton Place was well-lit. Sconces held patient flames even in its halls, but you knew many officers had been staying the evening since Camden. Providing guidance to their drunken stumbling made sense. From what you’d understood, Cornwallis’ office was one of these rooms, and you would find it. The report would still be on his desk, and inside it, God willing, you’d fail to find your father’s name.

Your heels clacked on the hardwood. Bearing your weight on your toes, you took calculated strides, cracking open doors and peering inside as you passed through the halls. Empty, empty, empty but for furniture or decoration. You turned around a corner—the room at the end of this hall seemed most promising: under the door, a slit of flickering light, like a hearth or candle had been left to burn. Heart in your throat, you shuffled over to it, spinning the knob like it was made of crystal.

The door drifted open, revealed to you a room with grand ceilings, wide windows, and a fireplace still alive. A desk stood opposite from you, cluttered with ink wells, discarded pens, and parchment. Piles and piles of parchment.

Breath caught in your chest. Perhaps you weren’t so bad at this after all.

Slipping inside, you shut the door behind you and raced to the desk. There was no telling which of these was Tavington’s report, but you had at least a little time until you needed to be back downstairs. You picked up the first stack of papers, scanned the page. Not it. Second stack; not it, either. Third stack; the fire crackled on.

You weren’t sure which stack you were on when the door opened. Nor what you were reading when Tavington stepped through and closed it behind him. You were sure, though, that whatever papers you held floated to the floor. For once, you had nothing to say.

His eyes flashed in the shadow of the flames.

“What,” he drawled, “are you doing?”

#william tavington #colonel william tavington #colonel tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEEHEHHEHEHE

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vladdyissues · 7 months ago

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Being in the Danny Phantom fandom has enriched my life in many ways. Artistically, through learning new drawing styles and writing tones and genres—but also scientifically. Specifically, it introduced me to the works of Carl Sagan.

How? Well, I needed something for Vlad and Danny to be watching in chapter 12 of Familiar. I randomly chose Cosmos, the series written and hosted by Carl Sagan. Like any obsessive good author, I ended up watching the episode that featured in the story. This is neat stuff, I thought. I'll have to come back and watch the whole series later.

Well, I did. And I found a copy of Sagan's Billions and Billions: Thoughts on Life and Death at the Brink of the Millennium at my local library. It's been a long time since I read nonfiction for the sake of learning, but I fell back into the groove easily (which reopened the door to—and rekindled an interest in—science and continuing my informal education). In short, I ended up loving Carl.

I'm close to the end of Billions of Billions, which has occupied a semi-permanent spot on my bedside table for several weeks. Last night, as I went to turn off my lamp, I reached over the back cover of the book, upon which Carl's kind, smiling photograph looked wistfully to the upper corner.

I wish I had known him, I thought.

Carl died of complications of MDS in December 1996.

That night, as usual, I had dreams. As one segued into another, I found myself wandering around a classroom laboratory with several other students, where apparently we were gathering for an after-school club of sorts. (I think it was some kind of week-long extracurricular event.) As I was trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing, I heard a voice say, "There you are."

I turned and saw Carl Sagan—my professor. He was smiling.

"We've missed you. It's been a week."

I can't imagine, even in dreams, skipping a class taught by the Carl Sagan. Before I could stammer out an excuse, he waved his hand.

"Don't worry about it. At least you made it to the last meeting. Come on, it's just starting."

I don't know what happened after that. Everything was put on fast forward and 1x speed only returned as the meeting adjourned and students began to disperse. I felt as if I'd missed out on everything—a recurring theme in most of my dreams, especially academic-based ones.

And then Carl, still smiling, approached me. The next thing I knew, he was hugging me tightly. Stunned (and elated, I can't lie), I hugged him back. He had mass and warmth. I felt the bones of his back and scapulae beneath the thick velveteen layers of his brown corduroy jacket. His chin pressed my shoulder.

"I love you," he said, and I could hear his patient smile.

I think I responded. I don't know. I was overwhelmed. We parted, he turned, and disappeared. No goodbye or farewell, no instruction on what to do next. Just the words I love you glowing inside me like a new star.

Would he have said something like that in reality? I don't know. All I know is that this was my dream and he did.

Then this particular dream episode ended and I reluctantly moved on to the next one.

I don't put stock in the supernatural these days, but it was nice to have my wish of "meeting" Carl Sagan granted in this small, abstract way.

#danny phantom #carl sagan #dreams #personal #fic: familiar #who knew getting into the phandom would result in all this #i mean. putting aside the info and just looking at the friends i've made...#i'm just really glad to be here guys #🌠

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just-horrible-things · 4 months ago

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The Husk

The Husk is unassuming. At a distance it could be mistaken for any of the down-and-out types that sit on street corners. It is disheveled, stubbled, hollow-cheeked. It sits quietly with its bound hands in its lap. Kaph expected more resistance, but he supposes that defiance and compliance must be much the same to it.

It lifts its head when the door opens. Its eyes are black voids, empty holes into nothingness. It’s hard not to recoil, but it doesn’t react to Kaph’s disgust. Up close, the grayish cast to its skin is obvious. There’s no warmth to it, no shine of life. Like coloured wax.

“Up,” Kaph orders. “With me.”

To his relief, it moves readily to obey without needing to be dragged. The thought of having to touch it makes Kaph’s skin crawl.

The guards watch it follow Kaph from the cell all the way out of the building and into the crawler. It rides in silence, without question or protest, but the hairs on the back of Kaph’s neck won’t lay down, not even after hours of travel. It’s impossible to tell where its empty eyes are looking. Maybe nowhere. Maybe everywhere.

As they draw near to the shore, the tang of the Sea creeps into the air. Haze turns the evening sky mauve and shrouds the distant hills. As it thickens, Kaph closes the shutters. The gloom makes the Husk seem more human, but only sets Kaph more on edge. The door is right there, but he feels trapped in the cramped, darkened compartment with it.

As if sensing his discomfort, it slides itself to the far edge of the seat. It can only move a few centimetres before it’s pressed against the compartment wall, but the gesture still shocks Kaph.

It’s the first thing it’s done of its own initiative.

It holds his gaze for a second – or, he thinks it does. Its face is oriented towards him for a second. Then it turns away.

Kaph tries to watch the dimming slits of light through the shutters, but really he watches his new charge.

When the crawler stops, Kaph pulls his scarf over his nose and mouth and ties it tightly. He almost asks the Husk if it wants to do the same – before remembering that it doesn’t need to. That’s the whole point.

“With me,” he repeats.

Haze spills into the compartment as he opens the door, thick and cloying. Even through two layers of fabric, Kaph tastes it on the air, sharp and acrid. The eddies form little spirals along the edges of the door, there one second and gone the next.

The whole world is dense purple fog, sky almost indistinguishable from ground. It’s as thick as Kaph’s ever seen it and it sends chills across his skin. Visibility is scarcely more than an arm’s length. He’s forced to take hold of the Husk by the sleeve, or risk losing it forever in the fog. As soon as they step away from the crawler, it’s gone, only the rattle of its many legs lingering on the air.

The sun is low, almost below the horizon, and its light cuts great bands of light and dark through the fog. Kaph is glad that it’s a clear sky above the Haze. Without the sunlight to outline it with shimmering rays of light, he wouldn’t even be able to see the great squat bulk of Foreshore. As it is, he’s able to start picking his way in the right direction.

“Ho, watchers,” he calls. “Coming your way.” “I hear you. Come on in.” The Haze muffles the voice too much to be sure who’s speaking, but it’s enough confirmation that he’s going the right way – and that he isn’t going to be shot the moment they spot his outline in the fog.

Even the ground under his feet is hard to make out. He’s stumbled well off the road, and trying to find it again would be a fool’s endeavour. The rocks underfoot are difficult footing, forcing a miserable pace.

“Who goes there?” Kaph thinks he hears an undertone of humour. Is that Teth? It could be Teth. “Vanguard Kaph and the new Husk. Retrieval successful, without a hitch.”

The Husk is clumsy, or else sees less well than Kaph, and keeps stumbling. Once it bumps bodily against Kaph, and nearly falls when he reflexively shoves it away from him. The cold, clammy imprint of it lingers on his skin everywhere they touched.

“Sorry,” it mutters, the first word he’s heard it say. Its voice is coarse and rasping.

Kaph hesitates, then keeps moving. There’s time to interrogate why it feels the need to apologise later.

Darkness occupies more and more of the world ahead as he comes up on the wall of Foreshore. The formless shadow only resolves into dark stone once he’s close enough to touch it. And he does reach out to touch, anchoring himself against the solidity of the building, and keeps a hand against it as much as he can as he presses on, following the wall.

The watchers’ voices came from above and to the right, so the gatehouse must be to the right also. He knows when he’s found it first by the way it juts out from the main wall, second by the lights – dyed lurid purple by the Haze – that come into view as he rounds the corner. Third by the rocks underfoot giving way to smooth ground.

Teth greets him at the gate with a grin, and a look of fascinated disgust for the Husk. They slip through the inner door swiftly, trying to let as little Haze in with them as possible.

The rest of the process of checking the Husk in goes as smoothly as anyone could hope for. It shows no hint of anything as human as shame at being stripped, and searched, and imaged. It follows instructions. It makes no protest.

Only that non-gaze seems to follow Kaph around the room, and his nerves won’t settle.

Finally he’s cleared to take it up to the room that was Zayn’s, adjacent to Kaph’s. All of Zayn’s personal effects have been removed, and some of the furnishings. What use does a Husk have for wall hangings, or a desk?

The dresser remains. Kaph was given the two identical copies of the uniform they dressed the Husk in, and he drops them into an otherwise-empty drawer.

“This is yours,” he says, gesturing curtly around the room. “You’re not to leave without me, but you can do what you want in here so long as you don’t damage anything.”

The Husk looks around. Kaph can’t follow its gaze, but there’s only so much to look at. The bed, neatly made, the dresser, the narrow water-closet and the even narrower window behind its shutters.

“For me?” it asks. “All of this?” “Clothes,” Kaph points where he just put them. “Wear them. When they’re dirty, change and the dirty ones will be washed. Toilet and water.” He points. “Bed. Sleep in it. Or, rest, whatever it is you do. Window. Keep the shutters shut when the Haze is thick.” “This is… generous.” Its expression shifts – trying to mime gratitude maybe? Everything about it is off, and Kaph feels his lip twitch with disgust. “Thank you so much.”

“You don’t have to do that.” It comes out terser than Kaph intends. “Do what?” A frustrated gesture. “Pantomime… emotion. Manners. I know what you are and I'm not gonna, what, kill you for not faking being human.”

The distorted leer drops from its features, slipping instantly back into dull neutrality. “Okay,” it says. Flat indifference fits its croak of a voice better than forced, feigned sincerity.

It walks over to the bed, and trails its fingers across the sheets. Kaph hopes suddenly that the laundry keep the sheets for the Husks separate from the rest. Surely they do.

It hasn't asked why it's here. Maybe it doesn't care.

“It's late,” he tells it. He's not sure why. “I'm going to go debrief and get some sleep. We'll get you settled in in the morning.”

It doesn't respond. He supposes he just told it it doesn't have to. Maybe that was a mistake.

It just stands there, empty eyes following him as he backs out of the room. He can still feel it watching him even though the heavy closed door.

He double-checks both locks before he’s willing to turn his back on it to walk away.

#my writing #???

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spacedlexi · 5 months ago

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sorry for randomly dumping my headcanon here but I feel like I’m going insane and need at least one other person to hear this opinion without getting jumped (transphobia sucks) and this is related to the trans headcanon post so anon ask it is

like a week ago when I was really tired I thought about how there isn’t a lot of representation for queer POC, especially when it comes to trans people. so being Black and transmasc myself a lightbulb practically lit over my head at the chance to headcanon a well-loved Black character (Louis) as trans (and transmasc at that! always felt somewhat excluded due to most people subconsciously only viewing young, white, and/or skinny characters as transmasc) and I wrote down:

“Trans Louis… his deadname was Louise and his parents were rich enough for him to buy testosterone without anyone noticing and they chalked the changes up to puberty. Either he gradually brought more and more masculine clothes and his parents didn’t care or again he brought them without anyone noticing and brought them to Ericson’s/wore them when his parents wouldn’t notice”.

that was written somewhat un-seriously because I was tired but now my brain has latched onto transmasc Kouis and I feel like I need at least one other person to see my vision or I’ll go insane.

ALSO YOU’RE SO RIGHT ABOUT VI’S WEAPON BEING A BUTCHER’S KNIFE. didn’t get it at first but when it clicked I stared at the corner of the room like a sitcom character staring at the camera when a laugh track plays after they deliver a classic zinger.

awe 🥺 come into my open arms you are safe here. i did really like way back when the transmasc louis transfem vi headcanons were a little popular. even if i didnt necessarily share them myself (but thats mostly just bc i dont headcanon a lot. i did draw them with the trans flag tho). it was cute :') and im glad it makes you so happy!! i see your Vision anon i Get It. if he could do what he did to his parents i think he could secretly buy a whole new wardrobe if he wanted dfgsdfg

and yeah butchers knife violet just reinforcing her masc lesbian vibes for me when i Realized. like oh its intentional isnt it. theres no way that girl is fem shes just a secret softie. how am i Not supposed to think shes got some gender thing going on with those layered baggy shirts and vest that hide her frame 🤨 ??

#i'll never forget my anim prof calling her a 'he'. even he knew #fic writers who make her masc i owe u my life. you understood the assignment #vi. is not. COQUETTE !!! (i scream and everything around me flies back 50 ft)#replies with lexi #incognito #twdg

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redlightspellsdaanger · 2 years ago

Text

*new* Intimate Conversations (update)

Title: Intimate Conversations

Pairing: Sebastian Vettel x female character x Jenson Button

Rating: +18

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings/notes: Established relationship. Threesome. M/F/M

Summary: Threesomes mess up your relationship, they said.

A/N: Small update, before the whole final chapter is posted to AO3.

Link to the full fic on AO3 here

“You guys owe me. Just saying.”

The two men were standing at the guest room’s doorway and appeared to be chit chatting when Stella emerged from the ensuite bathroom. The room was bathed in a warm light that emanated from the lamps on the wall and created an intimate glow; she sat on the king sized bed with her legs crossed and stared at the pair with her head cocked.

The physical contrasts they posed were riveting and they oozed confidence in different ways. Jenson’s body was conventionally more attractive, one could say. Tall and tan, his torso hard and fuller, he was all toned muscle and chiselled face. His tattoos only added to an already appealing package. Sebastian, who had lost his clothes in the meanwhile, was slender yet softer, had sharper tan lines and his weak posture was accentuated by standing near Jenson. With enviable thick thighs, strong back muscles and pert, round buttocks, he was somehow perfectly average and perfectly unique. The combination never failed to seduce her, the itch to strip him out of all layers and the excitement of discovering him always there. She loved his body and that it was hers.

Leaning back on her elbows functioned like a trigger. The two rushed to her and nearly bumped into each other while picking which side of her to direct to.

The trio sprawled together with Stella in the middle and they moved towards her face at the same time, Sebastian softly kissing the sensitive area below her ear while Jenson nuzzled the other side of her neck. Stella threw an arm around their necks, closing her eyes with what she imagined was possibly the smuggest grin in the world. She shared a kiss with her boyfriend before drawing back and turning to their host to do the same. Switching between the two, it was incredibly entertaining to see how excited they seemed whenever their turn arrived, each kiss growing a little more intense than the previous one.

"What do you want us to do?" Sebastian whispered. He must have sensed she was buzzing for more.

Lying down on the mattress, both drivers immediately followed as if pulled by an invisible string, stretching alongside her.

“I may have a suggestion or two, I suppose," Jenson pecked her shoulder. "I'd love to taste you… if you’re okay with it, of course.”

"Hmm, now that sounds like a brilliant suggestion, if you ask me." Taking Sebastian’s chin in her hand, she pulled him closer. “Seb doesn’t mind that you eat me out, does he?” She reached for his mouth and he was quick to close the distance. Bending over her, a little moan escaped her lips.

When he pulled back, he wiped at the side of his nose and sniffed. "Well, I think we are maybe past the point of minding that, no?" He stared at Jenson then, with a challenging eyebrow raise. “But I don’t know if I trust him to do it right."

Jenson’s serene expression, which was not nearly as innocent as he probably thought it was, transformed into one of mock offense and he took a hand to his heart, with a gasp.

Stella sat up and pushed Jenson onto his back. She swung one leg across his chest and looked down at him, one knee on each side of him. His pupils dilated shamelessly and he had such a naughty face. "Let's give him a chance," she winked at Sebastian.

"I'll take good care of her, I promise," Jenson said, resting his warm hands on her thighs. “Gosh, you’re just lovely.”

They shifted around to allow him to sit on the floor with his head on the edge of the mattress; she resumed her kneeling position, inching towards his face.

He hugged her thighs and she looked at Sebastian, who was lying on his side with a pout on his lips, gaze trained on them. The foot dangling from the bed swung nervously. Catching his eye, she wiggled her eyebrows at him and his face relaxed into a chuckle, his shoulders easing.

Jenson started by pressing a few small kisses on her and Stella sighed. "Oh,” she breathed out, her eyelids heavier as Jenson's tongue parted her and pushed.

Sebastian was craning his neck to try to watch, a small crease on his forehead, as if he was inspecting the floor of a car. The urge to laugh was strong.

“Come here, love. You’re so far away."

He opted for standing behind her and over Jenson, and his hands slid around her chest to cup her breasts. Squeezing gently, he thumbed her nipples and she covered his hands with hers. "Does he need help?" He asked in her ear, pushing her hair aside, over one shoulder, and out of his way.

The whole evening so far had been an endless source of stimulation and it didn’t take much for her body to react and be sent floating into a erotic trance, as Jenson's head bobbed under her. Sebastian let out a couple of impatient noises as he laid kiss after kiss on her skin while caressing her everywhere he could reach, and she suspected that he was fighting with himself not to hand out instructions to Jenson on how to bring her closer to the edge. Stella didn't mind; she was enjoying the dual attention and the simmering, electrical sensation gradually building, the strain on her thighs adding to it. After the first round, which had been a little on the rough side for her, this felt like being positively pampered.

Jenson lifted her slightly and she could see his face all wet, the white hairs of his beard glistening. “Wanna split duties, Seb? What do you say?”

Sebastian sprung from behind her. She felt a little dazed as she let Jenson off and Sebastian rolled onto his back, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. Unlike Jenson, he simply lay on the bed and coaxed Stella to crawl over him, guiding her with his hands on the back of her thighs.

They paused for a moment. He had yet to touch her and already she felt the thrill between her legs, just with the wicked glint in his eyes as he stared up at her.

Sizzling, she could only say, “Bring it.”

He always took his time to pleasure her, it was one of the best things about having sex with him. And as such, she had not been ready for what followed. He aimed straight at one of her weakest spots and her throat produced a high pitched sound that she could barely recognise as hers.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck…Seb…”

Tonguing her with mind blowing precision, he maintained the perfect pressure without letting off, until her knees turned wobbly and her thighs were trembling. She couldn’t take it anymore. Bending forward to support her weight with one hand on the mattress, she arched her back with a long, drawn out moan. Gripping at his hair between her thighs, she hung on for dear life while he lapped at her, his fingers digging in her buttocks.

The little wet noises didn’t allow her to form coherent thoughts anymore. She was falling apart at the seams.

The colossal wave building in her core was on the very verge of crashing.

“Please…please…”

Flushed and sweating, a throbbing mess, Stella grinded into his face while he sucked around her clit ruthlessly.

“Oh, my god…” she gasped. “Oh, my god, ohmygodohmygod…”

He held her by the waist afterwards, stroking her sides softly; her knees thanked her when Jenson helped manoeuvering her onto the silky sheets. Sebastian sat up with his wavy locks all over the place. Wiping at his chin and nose with his hand, he licked his own lips, all pink and puffy. His eyes were brilliant, huge dark pools. Boneless, she basked in his touch on her hair, on the side of her face, on her stomach.

"That was quicker than I thought it would be," he teased. “We were never teammates,” he addressed Jenson now. “And this is not quite the same thing. But-”

Jenson was breathless, himself. “I agree! Good team work!”

Sebastian got up from the bed to pour a glass of water from the jug on the tray on top of the chest of drawers. He gave it to Stella, who accepted it gratefully, and then went back to pour himself another after Jenson declined.

"Bit of a personal question here but I was just wondering,” Jenson was lounging by her side, watching her curiously. “You're bi, Stella, aren't you? If you want to share, that is."

“Hmm, I am." The pleasant post orgasm lethargy was taking over but she wasn’t wasting any opportunities. "And so are you.”

He stuttered but then laughed, as if caught unawares. “Am I? Maybe sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Sebastian mocked. “That’s not how it works.”

“He can’t help it, Seb, he’s English… I know what he’s gonna say. Depends on the guy, right?” Jenson’s coy smile was nothing but pure provocation. “Is DC attractive?”

“Oh, we’re doing this, then?” He laughed again and scratched at his beard but then turned his nose. "DC? Maybe for someone else."

"How about Mark? Webber."

Glancing at Sebastian with an inquisitive expression now, it was as if the idea had never occurred to him. "He's a bit of a hunk, isn't he?"

"And straighter than an iron rod," Sebastian snorted.

"And taller than me, mustn't forget. Intimidating."

"What about Seb?"

The air filled with tension, until Sebastian himself spoke with a tight lipped smile gracing his features. “That’s not very fair. I'm right here, he is trapped no matter which way he replies.”

“Thanks, mate," their host fidgeted, pretending to show relief. "She put me on the spot!”

“Or, you can just be honest. Your secrets are safe with us.”

The two men were watching each other across the room now, in a more guarded manner.

“He’s an attractive kid,” Jenson jutted his chin at Sebastian, an easy smile pulling at the corner of his lip.

She giggled. “Not a kid anymore!”

“Oh, yeah, you can definitely see that… Just me being older.”

"I hope it wasn’t the hair giving that away." And Sebastian jokingly fluffed his locks up with one hand, despite the pink blush on his cheeks.

Jenson did not reply. He looked between the two of them and licked his lips. "Will you kiss for me?" He proposed quietly.

Stella sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “You enjoy that?”

"You're so hot together."

Legs still a little shaky, Stella padded over to where Sebastian stood, leaning against the chest of drawers with a glass of water in his hand, his feet crossed at the ankles.

“Fine. I guess it’s the polite thing to do,” Sebastian put it down.

Stella stood on her toes and placed her hands on his shoulders. Noses together, he let her part his mouth with hers. He suddenly grinned against her lips and it made her giggle. He stroked her hair and pulled back, biting his bottom lip and they shared a heated look.

She stuck out her tongue and he sucked on the tip. She did the same to him; swirled it around his, slowly, sensually. Cupping his face, she kissed his chin, bit at it softly and sucked, and Sebastian tipped his head back, closing his eyes. Moving down, her tongue ran down his neck, over the rough texture of the short beard hairs, flattened over his pulse point. He swallowed and she closed her lips over the Adam's apple. He groaned.

“So fucking stunning, you two,” Jenson whispered from the bed.

Their bodies were flush against each other’s, her breasts pressed to his chest. He looped an arm around her shoulders and, pivoting on the floor, switched their positions, backing her against the wall.

He joined their mouths again passionately and their tongues instinctively slid against each other. She grabbed his head with both hands and wound her fingers in his blond hair.

"Come here," he whispered.

Grabbing her hand and walking backwards, pulling her along to the bed with him, Sebastian sat down and invited her to climb on his lap. She wrapped her legs around him, crossing her feet behind his back and buried her face on the side of his neck, while he nuzzled below her ear. Flipping her over, he laid her down on her back, her hair and arms spread on the mattress.

Jenson was breathing heavy right next to them and when she glanced over, he had his hand on his cock, squeezing and releasing slowly. Sebastian, too, was visibly growing harder, as he prepared to crawl over her; but he was interrupted by Jenson.

“Looks like you could use a hand to take care of that, Seb.”

#sebastian vettel imagine #sebastian vettel fanfiction #sebastianvettel #sebastian vettel smut #f1 smut #jenson button #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #intimate conversations

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spaceorphan18 · 2 years ago

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Five Times Kurt Talks About Sex and One Time He Doesn't (Part Six -- FINAL)

A/N: So, this was inspired the other day by a Nonny who was asking about how Kurt interacts with others on the topic of sex and this little idea popped in my head.

It’s a little mini-series, and I’ll post one part a day, then I’ll get it up on Ao3 after it’s complete.

It’s set in a post-canon-ish world when they’re all living in New York. The whole thing takes place over the course of a day.

YES I'M POSTING TWICE IN ONE DAY - GO BACK AND CHECK OUT PART FIVE IF YOU MISSED IT!!

****

Non-Conversation One: Blaine

Kurt sits on the edge of the bed swaying back and forth, attempting to keep his balance, as he holds a glass of water. He’s supposed to be drinking the glass of water, but his stomach feels a little full, and not like it wants anything additional in it. Still, he tries to sip anyway as he watches his husband -- his beautiful, sexy husband - come into the bedroom.

“Santana went out like a light,” Blaine says. He undoes his watch and puts it on the dresser. “She’s on the couch and snoring. I think she’ll be fine for the night. Just how much did you guys drink?”

Kurt hums happily. “Ten shots.”

“Jesus, Kurt, how are you still functioning?”

“She had ten, I had nine, I won.” He snorts into his water, attempting another sip.

“You both are ridiculous,” Blaine says, coming up to him. “Drink the water - I don’t want you vomiting on me in the middle of the night.”

Kurt pulls at Blaine’s hand, catching him off guard, and draws him in for a kiss. It’s sloppy and Kurt, admittedly, is probably using too much tongue, but he really doesn’t care. He wants his husband.

“You taste like raspberries…” Kurt coos as Blaine pulls away.

“You taste like vodka,” Blaine laughs.

“I want vanilla ice cream,” Kurt’s eyes are wide with desire.

Blaine gives him an odd look, though, not getting it. “How about we try the water first, and save the ice cream for when you’re sober.”

“Noooo,” Kurt cries. He reaches out to grope at Blaine’s dick through his pants. “Ice cream,” he says quietly. His own dick twitches with interest but with that much alcohol in his system, he doubts he’s going to get anywhere. Stupid Santana. Stupid shots. He could have ended his night by fucking his husband. And now he’ll have to settle for falling asleep.

His bed does seem nice.

Blaine laughs it off, and kisses his forehead. “Maybe if you drink the water and make it through the night, you can have ice cream in the morning.”

Kurt lets out a quiet, delighted ‘yay’ as he takes another sip.

“We can take a trip up to the grocery store tomorrow,” Blaine says. Kurt eyes him suspiciously - but there’s a twinkle in Blaine’s eyes that tells him Blaine’s being obtuse on purpose. “You guys finished all my Cheetos.”

“No Cheetos!” Kurt vehemently protests. “No, no, no!”

Blaine’s eyes grow wide. “Well we’re definitely going to come back around to that tomorrow.”

“I’m not ever going to have Cheetos again!” His brain is indignant about it - but at the moment, he can’t figure out why.

Blaine just smiles sweetly as he takes a step back to change. He’s out of his shirt first, revealing a layer of glistening sweat on his skin. Blaine always works so hard during his performances -- leaving his muscles firm and toned. He then undoes his belt buckle and the pants go. Followed by the underpants. He’s not making a show of it, even if he is aware of Kurt’s eyes on him. Not helping it, Kurt bites his bottom lip as he watches… Even flaccid, Blaine’s dick is the best dick of all the dicks. He laughs at the thought, wishing his brain wasn’t so fuzzy so that he could play with that dick.

In the mirror, Kurt can see Blaine’s ass - so round and scrumptious. See, Santana! He calls out in his head. The mirror was a good call! He could bite that ass if he wanted to. Blaine would let him. He has bitten it before.

“No!” Blaine playfully scolds.

“But…”

“Kurt, no. You need to sleep first.”

Kurt scrunches his nose, letting out a protesting little grunt, as he attempts more water.

Blaine puts on a clean pair of boxers, then heads back towards the bed. “Okay, let’s get you ready for bed. Sleep first. Then I’ll wake you up with whatever you want.”

Kurt grows excited. “Even vanilla and caramel?”

Blaine gives him a strange look, not quite following. “Even vanilla and caramel,” he gives anyway.

“Okay!”

Blaine takes the glass and puts it on the nightstand. Then gets him to stand, helping him out of his own pants, followed by the sweater (which takes longer than normal because it has a bunch of buckles on it). Blaine’s hands are warm and soft and he doesn’t seem to mind when Kurt falls against him as they get him out of his clothes.

The duvet is pulled back, and Blaine helps Kurt onto the bed. “You are really, really pretty,” Kurt says, not able to help gazing into those honeyed eyes.

“You are really; really drunk,” Blaine says amused in response.

Kurt pulls him down into another kiss - this time a little smoother. Blaine indulges, allowing for a little, light making out. Kurt closes his eyes and relaxes into the bed, feeling warm and buzzed and loved and cared for. He feels so good that he doesn’t quite mind when Blaine pulls away.

“I’m going to finish up in the bathroom - are you going to be alright?”

“MMmm-hmmm,” Kurt murmurs.

Blaine pulls the covers over him, then kisses his nose and his cheek and his forehead. “I’ll be back in a little bit, then we can snuggle, okay?”

Kurt’s eyes remain firmly shut, but he grins as he thinks about Blaine getting into the bed next to him, moving in close so his arms will be firmly around him, and he’ll feel Blaine’s dick snug against his ass. That’s just as good as sex anyway…

“Love you,” Kurt says softly.

Blaine gently kisses his lips. “Love you, too.”

Sleep is taking him quickly, but there’s one last lingering thing…

“Hey, Blaine?”

“Yeah?”

“I have a message for you?”

“What’s that?”

“Tomorrow - after ice cream and Cheetos you need to call Tina and let her know how to properly suck a penis.”

Kurt drifts off to sleep before Blaine is able to respond.

#s.o. writes things #five times #kurt hummel #klaine #klaine fic #kurt hummel fic #yay i'm done!#i hope you guys liked this little adventure!#:)#i have no idea why kurt is drinking in every single one - but it became a thing

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ctl-yuejie · 1 year ago

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3 Will Be Free Rewatch - Epsiode 1

while I adored 3 Will Be Free when it came out, I believe I didn't pay proper attention to it (besides hardly anyone watching it on here) and now that I am also more familiar with jojo, I am looking forward to this rewatch

GMMTV really holds the title for great bar names (only beaten by TheLastGoodBar) Greatest MotherF*cker

I wonder how deliberate Joss' casting was since he not only was still young when this was filmed but he also feels very young. On one side GMMTV hasn't casted main characters over 30 for most of their series (which is now changing since so many of their ogs are around 30 now). I suppose he was mainly casted because of his physique fitting most closely to the other gogo boys but I cannot deny that I enjoy the extra layer of him looking visibly younger than the other two and his customers. They do mention that he is new to the job, so it could very well be that they are leaning into it.

- the card coming up with the '3 months later' and the three gun shots is a thing i can very much live with -

While I knew that the central set-up focuses on why Miw and Neo need money I forgot how central it is to most of the dialogue in the first episode. Not only the need for money in general but if and to what degree it is separated from happiness. Shin's dad wants affection as well and seems to try to include his new wife on an emotional level into the family beyond just wanting her status acknowledged. At the same, time, as soon as she crosses him he speaks of her like property.

With Miw it is interesting because we are shown that her mother needs more money. Still, she draws a hard line between hosting and prostitution which holds exactly as long as it needs for Shin and his friends to turn up. She does mention however that she cannot do it with random customers because she's not attracted to them. First sign that Shin might not just be a job for the money.

Equally curious whether Neo actually entertains Vanika honestly to some degree, since he could technically get more money out of her. Possibly his hard line of not wanting to become too dependant on her money.

The whole Neo Miw dynamic with them slut shaming each other and having differing opinions on what is the shameful way to earn money. No wonder they will fuck about it. 25.000 bhat is a hefty sum (even here where prices are higher than in thailand for sex)

I remember feeling unsure about Tay's acting during my first watch - even though he did improve since - but I very much enjoy his performance this time around (some of it is not that well-rounded, especially when he's in the same scene as Ssing. That man will put everything into the smallest amount of screen time). He is in the closet but doesn't seem too anxious about his friends setting him up to sleep with a woman. I think I will ponder this during future episodes. Why did he chose Miw though. As a reluctant hostess she might not be any good. It is possible he picked her assuming she would turn him down. But then, what is your plan b little gay boy? Shin also doesn't feel self-concious about being a virgin, his nervousness at Miw approaching him was very nicely done. Did they actually end up sleeping together? Do we know?

Max, my love, a short king! Gunsmile, it has been a long time. Jennie really should get bigger roles. I love her and the to men in this show, I only wish she'd gotten more scenes with Max since the diner scene is pretty iconic. And I can appreciate that Max's character is a gangster on the verge of turning into a wife guy. And how fucking scary his run after Joss is. Short kings, I tell you.

iconic scenes

the mustard on that fucking guy in the diner

all of the outfits (+ the stupid lollipop)

the move where Miew removes Shin's glasses and then playfully pulls them against her lips, very hot and novel move. will have to try it

the surprising softness of the scenes between Shin and Miw (even Miw seems surprised by their familiarity)

Joss voice breaking when he panics

Shin being so naive and polite asking for his wallet in the gogobar and sulking at the booth instead of getting out of that place

Neo covering Shin's mouth with his hand to keep him quiet. So hot.

random observations

there was a threesome teased with Kitty...Jojo...I think you have to deliver at some point...

the sound mixing etc isn't great, but better than some more recent shows - even with birds in the background

favourite bit: the connection Shin and Miw form even though they shouldn't feel this familiar and comfortable with each other

#3 will be free #yes i am doing a very slow rewatch instead of watching anything new

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icequeenlila · 1 year ago

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See right through Me

Caption

Since Kiri can remember, she's been able to see ghosts. When one day, she is the only one who's able to see her brother sitting on the kitchen counter, staring at her with lost eyes, she realizes that something must've gone horribly wrong.

Or: Lo'ak is a ghost, because he's been murdered, and Kiri is the only one who can see him. Spider get's framed. Lo'ak doesn't know he is dead. (Look at the tags.)

Chapter 1- Wrong Layer

(short passage)

“Who’s this?”

Lo’ak was right next to her before she could even finish the sentence.

Kiri had one short moment of confusion, in which she couldn’t react fast enough to block her current drawing from her brother’s view.

“Uuuuhh, it’s Tsireya.” Lo’ak’s voice sounded sly next to her and when she looked up at him, she found a big grin plastered all across his face. “You’ve caught her pretty well. I’m sure she’ll like – “

“You skxawng!” Kiri swatted at him, the slapping sound echoing through her room.

“Ouw!”, Lo’ak yelled, but it was no real scream of pain. No, that little fucker was laughing. “I just complimented you!”

“You weren’t supposed to see this!”, Kiri yelled back at him, swatting again, but Lo’ak jumped out of her reach, giggling like mad all the while.

“Why not?”, he laughed from his new spot, near to Kiri’s book shelf. “It’s not like I don’t already know that you like her.”

“I. Do. Not!” Kiri pressed the words through gritted teeth as she rose from her desk chair, following her brother through the room. “She’s just a good friend!”

“You mean a pretty friend.”

“Lo’ak!”

This time she actually threw her good pencil after him. It hit him against the throat.

Lo’ak reached up to where it had grazed his skin, pressing his hand to it like he was bleeding there.

“I’m hit!”, he yelled. “Oh no, I see the light! Sister, I must leave but I forgive you!”

“Skxawng!”

Lo’ak was cackling now, jumping out of her reach again and again, letting himself be chased through Kiri’s room. She threw cushions after him, a book from her unread pile, and she tried to get ahold of the hem of his shirt, but that annoying idiot just slipped from her grasp time and time again.

Even when Kiri was sure she could feel the fabric of his shirt beneath her fingertips, she only grabbed down on thin air.

They kept up this game for a while. Kiri shouting and Lo’ak laughing, until her anger subsided, fading away and making room for some sort of sour amusement. After several minutes of chasing her brother around her own room, Kiri couldn’t help but join in on his laughter.

At first, she tried to fight it. Of course, she did. She was still mad. But after a while she couldn’t hold on to that anger, couldn’t help laughing at the stupid puns Lo’ak threw at her, at the faces he made whenever a cushion flew past him.

Like mentioned before, her brother was the most annoying creature on the whole planet, but Kiri could never stay mad at him for long. Not seriously.

“Please! Please, dear sister, have mercy!”, Lo’ak finally cried in an over exaggerated way. “I’m sorry I looked. I promise not to tell anyone. Please, stop attacking me!”

Kiri had been about to throw her last cushion, the one that looked like an avocado. And she actually halted in her movement, seizing her brother with sharp eyes.

“I offer an exchange”, Kiri said, the cushion still ready to be thrown directly into his face. “A secret for a secret.”

“It wasn’t really a secret to begin with”, Lo’ak tried to argue.

“My embarrassing drawing for an embarrassing story of yours or this thing will find its rightful place in your penis face.”

Lo’ak raised an eyebrow at her last words. “Wow, haven’t heard that one in a while.”

Kiri drew back her arm, ready to throw the avocado at him.

“Okay, okay”, Lo’ak agreed, raising his hands in defeat. “Just let me think of something.”

“I’m waiting.” Kiri lowered the cushion, but not by far.

“Okay”, Lo’ak mused. “How about your crush for my crush?”

“Lame.” Kiri rolled her eyes. “Old news. I want something else.”

“Well, I have nothing else at the time!”

“Then your fate is sealed”, she said with a grin, readying herself to attack her brother once more.

Lo’ak was holding his hands in front of him as a shield, a wide grin on his face, ready to catch the blow.

But then …

“Kiri!”

They looked at each other, eyes wide.

Dad.

Kiri dropped the avocado, an annoyed grunt rumbling up her throat.

“Now, I’m even gonna get in trouble because of you”, she grumbled, walking towards her bedroom door.

“That’s kinda my job”, Lo’ak replied with a gleeful grin on his skxawng face.

One hand on the doorknob and one hand hovering in the air, Kiri pulled open the door while flipping her brother off. Lo’ak just continued to grin at her.

“What is it, dad?!”, Kiri yelled down the empty hallway.

It was dark, the only light coming from the kitchen that was at the end of the corridor.

Their whole house had only a ground floor, so their dad didn’t have to bother with stairs.

“Get to the kitchen please, baby girl!”

Baby girl. As long as her dad was calling her that, Kiri wasn’t in trouble.

“Coming!”, she called back while turning for her brother.

She opened the door all the way, making a grand gesture towards the hallway, signaling Lo’ak to get out.

He blinked at her in that confused way again. Like, he was seriously not getting what Kiri wanted from him. Lo’ak just stood there, in the center of her room, arms hanging limply at his sides, shoulders sacked, looking at her with … glassy eyes.

Not glassy as in he had tears in his eyes, more like …

Kiri felt dizzy for a split second, confused by the sudden change in her brother’s mood and behavior. It just felt completely unreasonable.

Lo’ak’s eyes looked almost transparent as he silently stared at her. He looked utterly lost and horribly out of place.

Lost.

The word echoed through her mind.Lo’ak looked lost. Kiri felt her skin tighten with goosebumps at the thought, the temperature around her seeming to drop by a few degrees.

Lo’ak looked like he didn’t belong here. Like, he’d been ripped out of one picture and wrongly put onto another.

But of course, that thought was utter nonsense. Kiri didn’t understand why she was thinking such things in the first place.

“Kiri!”

Her dad’s voice finally ripped her out of it.

“Coming!”, she called over her shoulder, feeling herself return back to reality.

Just the usual weird thoughts, she told herself. It happened to her quite often. Nothing out of the usual.

“Will you move?” She pointedly glared at Lo’ak, gesturing for him to get out once more.

And this time, Lo’ak understood. His shoulders pulling up again, and that weird glassiness fading from his eyes, until he looked like himself again.

“Chill”, he said, finally moving. He playfully bumped his shoulder into Kiri as he brushed past her. “You just want me to get yelled at by dad.”

“Exactly”, Kiri said, a mocking smile on her lips.

Link to the fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49592092/chapters/125164009

It's gonna get more dark as the story continues✨

#atwow #avatar the way of water #avatar way of water #ao3 #ao3fic #loak sully #kiri avatar #kiri sully #human au #ghost au #murder mystery #Ghost Lo'ak #locorro #lo'ak x spider #lo'ak/spider

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scasuallypursuits · 9 months ago

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#12: Done with all commissions.

I'm finally done with all. I'll discuss the process during it (As far as I can remember at least) and what I'll be doing next this week.

Look I even made a small gif at the end. It looks incredibly cute and the commissioner loved it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The commission started after I made his santa gift. He asked if I was taking commission and I said yes, I was. It was my first time doing commission and, thank to gods, was so incredibly patient and understanding for me. Asking what kind of commissions I was most comfortable taking. Didn't even knew what kind of commission he wanted, he just wanted a one.

My commission process started with sending 4 simple thumbnails to the client with their idea and 50% of the agreed price for insurance. I suggested, "why not about them showing affection to each other in their own way."

Based on that description, I made these thumbnails.

The idea I had going to this was something quite casual. They both like each other but the other doesn't know it so I imagined that they like hanging out a lot, no matter the activities as long the other one one there. But no touching since they don't want the other person to think that they are annoying. A, C, D explores the idea of them just hanging out, just with A being more about showing them off to the viewer. I wanted a bit more variation so I made B where they are more comfortable in showing they're affections with each other.

The client loved them.

They like it so much that they decided to commission me for both A and D.

Which I eventually translated to sketch ,line and finally color.

Each step of the way I showed these stages for approval if the current design looks okay. At this point I ask for the remaining 50% percent before I start rendering. They paid I got to work to make these.

During the rendering phase, I experimented a bit.

Doing color streaks. I like it a lot as it gives a lot of color punch to the picture. I came to it thinking, as long you can tell what is the supposed color is, you can add random streaks of color as stylization. The colors used are other colors in the pic as well so that it can feel more "together". And in the end, it looks amazing.

Made a quick background so it isn't so boring. Look at the difference below on with and with BG here. And during this, also tested the workflow of just doing 2 layers of line and color only. It feels better and I think Imma experiment this more in the future.

I even made the short gif you see at the top as gratitude for being patient me. The whole commission took me like 2 months to complete. Mostly due to work taking most of my time but I was able to power through and it's over now so I can now actually focus more on art now.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What's next?

Probably finish that zelink wip that I did. some stuff already. Even applying some stuff I experimented during the commission like drawing a sketch first, make new layer for all the color first then the clean lines in another laye. So mainly 3 layers during the work. It actually allows me to work faster and it matched my tempo.

Here ye wip of it. With this new technique, perhaps I could get this wip done next week. Or atleast this frame ready.

#sleepy_blogging #art blog #commission #art commission #sleepy_blogging_known

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elshells · 2 years ago

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Homebody

This was my home, Even as the walls fell down Under the weight of the hoard of the gold that we cannot afford, And we began to suffocate in each other's air.

But that's all I have ever known. This is my home. Even as everything I've ever known slips through my fingers, And I'm left alone in a tiny room that crumbles in on itself, Until I myself am dragged away, Kicking and screaming, As strangers invade to rob me of my stability.

My new home is a hive, a twisted maze. I'm always wandering, always lost. But every time I cry out for help, Someone shoves my head down And buries my face in the dirt. Silenced while anxiety's screams ring in my ears. She won't shut up. She will never shut up. Nostalgia and melancholy can't hear me now.

But we were still lucky When plague swept overhead, Like clouds of circling vultures. Had we lingered on our weathered doorstep, It would have choked us, Pressing our bodies into the rubble Until our bones ground down into the fine powder on our tongues. Until our blood and saliva seeped into the earth Like a nourishing broth. Until our eyes popped, Like the wine grapes in the backyard When the sun denies them of shade. Until we lost all of our senses Before they expired on their own.

I promise I'm thankful for the roof that shields our heads. But the betrayal leaves me bitter, like the flavor coating my mouth. The carpet matches the walls, the same shade of brown, And I sleep on a mattress in a cardboard box. It's comfortable in the way that you lose the feeling in your fingers When the cold settles in. It's comfortable in the way that it hurts so much That you forget how to feel pain.

But now the dogs are fighting, Eyes and teeth flashing, Lunging for each other's throats. It's my fault. I haven't taught them any better. I can't control them, Because I'm too busy controlling myself. The day I snap is the day they put me down.

But that never happened, Because I crafted myself a mask to wear. I draw a smile on my face and paint over my scars. They burn and flare, so I layer on more paint. I darken my eyelids so they grow heavier and heavier, And it becomes harder to see, Leaving me stumbling blind, bruised, and stupid. And when I finally remove the mask, When I can finally see again, I'm no longer lost in the hive.

Is this stability? I think so. I think I've learned how to live again. I think I'm happy, And when I not, My cardboard box is my escape. This could be my home, Except this will never be the home I see in my dreams.

When I close my eyes, I return to my ruined temple. The one place where I can never return. Asleep, I never know the difference. Awake, I realize something's not right. When will I learn that none of it is true? Years later, I still don't know what's real. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, Or maybe I never made it home.

The fear chases me down. My wings grow faster than my heart So it doesn't swallow me whole. I can't make a safe landing, Because the world is never stable. I can't keep flying, Because my mind never settles.

There is nothing I can call my own. Nothing lasts forever. I sometimes forget that, but I always remember, And when I do, I panic, Because I'm still not home. I can't go home. But I want to, I need to.

So, tell me. If I'm not supposed to dwell on the past, Where do I go from here?

#ella's writing #poetry #original poem #prose poem #tw body horror #tw anxiety #tw depressing thoughts

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comicaurora · 2 years ago

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how do you like,,color schemes, or like color pallets? i have ideas for colors but when i put them down it all looks muddled or disjointed or just weird, even when i plan it out, so do you have any advice?

(ik you get a lot of asks so no pressure to answer 😭 also thank you for the advice on dynampic panels! it was rlly helpful and im getting the book you and the commenter reccomended soon.)

That's a tough one. I know a lot of artists really play around with color schemes and color theory, but I never went in for that stuff. All my color palettes were generated initially by drawing the character, coloring them in different ways until I found one I liked (lots of playing with HSB sliders) then saving those colors to the palette for future consistent use.

I think this is a fine way to handle things - some of the pallets have even shifted a little over time as I swap out individual colors for ones I like more. For instance, my pallet for Falst still has a dark brown saved in it from when my design for him had darker hair, before I decided I liked the aesthetic of the lighter, more golden hair.

There's no right or wrong answer here (except the cursed paletteswap) and a lot of alt color schemes would look good, but the trick here is that as far as I'm concerned this matters a whole lot less than your shading and lighting.

If the colors look disjointed and weird, it's entirely possible that this is because the figures aren't matching their environment. If we were doing physical art, this would be a huge pain in the ass to fix. Fortunately, because I do digital art, I don't need to worry about all the complexities of paint mixing and underpainting and all that jazz - I can just use layer combine modes.

Suppose we want to put a character into this lovely unity asset.

If we just slap our figure on top, this isn't going to look good.

He looks like a desktop icon. We can do better. The light source in this shot is high and centralized in the frame, and it appears to be a dusty blue-white. The shadows it's casting are quite dark and stark. For now let's not worry about the color of the shadow layer - let's just draw in how we would shade this figure given this directional light. I'll use a nice light purple to start with, but we can play with this later. Benefits of digital art! Other benefit: when set on a Multiply layer, a light purple shadow immediately makes our figure look like this.

That already looks a lot better! But part of what's making this figure stand out against the environment is that the darkest points on his design are a lot darker than the background he's standing in front of, and at the same time the shadows on him are much lighter than all the shaded areas we see in the background. This is also one of the telltale visual indicators of bad VFX compositing - the light levels and black levels need to match between the different parts of the image. (there's a late episode of columbo where they use this to catch the killer!)

So, for the easiest first step, let's see what happens if we shade the figure with a dark green colorpicked from the image instead.

Immediate improvement! We've got the shadows lined up and the figure looks like he belongs in the environment. And while we could leave it as-is, I find it also helps to address the highlights as well, especially in dark environments. So I take a mid-tone gray from the light part of the image, I select the negative space of our shading layer, I fill that space on a new layer set to the Add (Glow) combine mode, I use a soft eraser to mellow out the really harsh glow that's farthest from the edges of the figure, and I blend the whole thing by 200 pixels.

We could keep playing with this, but at this point we have a character who, regardless of underlying palette, looks like he fits in with his environment. Heck, we can even hit him with our cursed paletteswap and he still looks like he fits in the space.

It'll work even if he's a uniform neutral gray.

So while precisely playing with color palettes is very important for certain styles of art, one huge benefit of digital art is you can just use your own freeform aesthetic sense to lock in a very basic starting palette that defines how your characters look under theoretically perfectly neutral conditions, and then you can do all the other hard work of coloring them and matching them to the space by way of shading and highlighting without ever worrying about the underlying base colors. And if you decide some part of the figure is too saturated or dim or weird or whatever, you can play with that one part until it looks good and then just update your palette with the new shade.

#asks #art stuff

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weeb-verine · 3 years ago

Text

Hush

Pairing: Percy de Rolo/Reader (gender unspecified) Rating: M Warnings: Sexual themes but nothing explicit. Percy is a horndog. A/N: I am.... not sorry for what you're about to read. Sin bin for me.

“Silence,” The word is hissed against your ear as Percy clamps a hand over your mouth from his position pressed against your back, the soft kidskin caressing your lips much like a lover might one day. The warmth of his body radiates in a way you’d never expect, through so many layers, and his belt buckle digging into the small of your back from where he’d dragged you into the closet at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Whatever argument you had been just about to have with him? Gone. Maybe it had been something about- Oh fuck he just swallowed and you felt him lick his lips. This is it, you’re going to die from some weird form of shock or sheer embarrassment in a closet with one Percival de Rolo because he just… went and did whatever it is he’s still doing.

The tip of his tongue barely brushing your ear as he speaks up in that same no-nonsense manner, still tight against you and quietly deadly, “We need to stay quiet, dear. Remember, we’re not supposed to be here.”

You’d turn and talk to him but the hand over your mouth slides to your chin, holding it in place too. That-That’s fine. You can still speak, even if it means you’re going to have to do it against his gloved hand. Totally normal! This line of reasoning will fail any inspection later but, well, you are hardly thinking about that right now.

“So you pin me to you in a closet?” you hiss and that bastard you can feel his chest as he laughs against your back, so pressed against you is he. When you go to elbow him, his second hand grabs your elbow and spins you again. (What was this man made of?)

Now, your front is pressed against a wall instead of a door, at least. When he presses close again though, this time his whole body pressing a warm line against you. Some part of you wants to buck back against him but when his hand around your jaw slides to your waist and holds you close? Well, that’s a new development. A very welcome new development.

“Well,” he purrs against your ear, well aware that you aren't pushing him away at all “How else was I supposed to get you all alone and to myself?”

“I don’t know,” you squeak as he lazily grinds against you and you fight down every urge to moan or make any sound. You succeed in that endeavor but wholly fail not to push back against him in an effort for some friction, “Try asking? I’ve heard it works wonders, you know.”

“Mmmmm, I think not,” he hums as his hand on your waist draws suggestive circles on your hip, “Much better this way, you see. Let’s me plan for the future.”

“The future-” you cut off with a quiet stuttered moan as he nips at your neck, nothing more than a little sting that shocks you.

“Quiet~” he singsongs in your ear, “or did you forget just who’s pinning you to a wall right now? If you can’t follow such simple instructions, I can go find other forms of entertainment.”

Needless to say, you certainly could follow directions quite well. In fact, you followed direction so well, it could be noted you even got a special reward. It was such a shame that the guards heard Percy then, wasn’t it? Such a shame indeed.

#percy de rolo x reader #percival de rolo #percy de rolo #cr x reader #vm x reader #percival fredrickstein von musel de rolo iii #cr1 #reader insert #x reader #haha suffer you all in the gc w bollur #you wanna know what happens #request it

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magniloquent-raven · 3 years ago

Text

(pt1 here)

billy grew up afraid of finding his soulmate.

when he was eight his father caught him trying to wash nail polish off with soap and a hand towel.

he’d heard girls at school saying it was what you did when your soulmate was a boy. you were supposed to paint yourself up all pretty and find the person who matched. and it was easy enough to sneak into the vanity and steal a bottle of his mother’s nail polish. but once the paint dried he realized it would be impossible to hide from his father, and he panicked.

his mother showed him the bottle of nail polish remover after neil left. dabbed some on a cotton ball to rub at the thick layer of paint. she was silent, kneeling on the floor in front of him cradling his sprained wrist while he sat on the edge of the tub and cried.

they both had questions, but neither of them got answers.

it took billy months to work up the courage to try again.

he wasn’t sure why he was bothering, at first. he knew he couldn’t look for his soulmate the traditional way. and he was constantly terrified that his father would find the supplies he’d started hoarding. it seemed like more risk than reward, and yet. he couldn’t stop himself.

every time he was allowed to wander off in a store alone he’d slip something into his pocket. a tube of lip gloss. a compact full of shiny powders. he wasn’t even sure what some of it was, he just liked the colours. liked the pictures they hung alongside the displays. he wanted to look like that. beautiful.

and in his heart of hearts, he wanted the boy who was out there waiting for him to know he existed. whether they’d be able to find each other or not.

he’s more careful with this than he was with the nail polish. his father works saturday nights, and his mother always visits their neighbour while he’s at work. despite having the house to himself he locks his bedroom door.

the first thing he tries is the watermelon lip gloss. it’s sticky, and the wand doesn’t fit in his hand comfortably, but once he’s smeared it on he feels...good. he likes the way it catches the light. likes the way it smells. he looks at himself in the mirror and likes seeing something different.

the high doesn’t last long, it inevitably gives way to paranoia, anxiety that has him glancing at the locked door every thirty seconds, heart pounding, wondering if just maybe his father will get home from work early, and he jumps at every sound, hearing boots thudding on the porch and car doors slamming and anything that could be neil coming through the door.

cleaning himself up is hard. panic makes his hands shake, his eyes well up. he drops everything on the floor when he tries to tuck the bag away. and he has to spend twenty minutes with his back to his bedroom door getting his breathing under control when he’s finished.

but he does it again the following saturday. and the one after that.

for five months he does this. locks himself away with his stolen treasures and lets himself live a little. it gets easier as time goes on. and his mind wanders sometimes. to a future where he gets to share this with someone. the boy out there who’s supposed to love him one day.

it’s a small bubble of a dream. one he doesn’t spend too much time dwelling on. not when there’s neil’s voice in his head, telling him that no one could love a fucking freak, ‘cause fags don’t get real soulmates anyways.

he wants and he wishes, but the more he thinks about it the more he doubts. he’s never gotten a mark from his soulmate, and even if he did some day, what if his father’s right, and his “soulmate” doesn’t want him or makes him miserable or...worse.

so he does his makeup for himself.

until, like all good things in his life, his father ruins it.

he never found out what set neil off initially, something going wrong at work maybe, or the martial strife of the week getting to him. whatever it was that started it, neil eventually decided billy should bear the brunt of the fallout.

so he went through his things. said billy’d been acting cagey lately, and he was going to find out why.

and then found the makeup bag stuffed into an old sweater in his closet.

it was ugly. the things neil said that day would play on repeat in billy’s head for years afterwards. the scars his belt left on billy’s back were nothing in comparison.

the next saturday came and went. billy spent the evening curled up under a blanket not bothering to wipe away the tears dripping down his face.

by morning he’s resolved to forget the whole thing. to put it behind him. because it was stupid, and risky and childish and maybe his father was right. he’s almost convinced himself. and then he notices ink on his arm, as he reaches up to rub his eyes. messy scrawl, i bet you looked pretty crookedly written up his forearm.

he didn’t think he was able to cry any more, but he manages it.

for the first time his soulmate isn’t just a concept, or a what-if, he’s...a person. he’s a real person out there somewhere. someone who doesn’t even know billy and still wanted to reach out, to offer comfort. it’s more than he’s gotten from anyone else. even his mother. who he knows loves him, and she does her best to protect him, but when she found out about his makeup stash she just looked sad, and she’s said nothing to him about it.

but his soulmate…

can never, ever meet neil.

the thought hits him right in the chest.

whoever he is, he cares, he’s good. and neil breaks good things.

billy falls asleep that night tracing the empty space where his soulmate’s message used to be, wrapped up in worries and dreams, and terrified for someone he’s never met.

the doodles that come and go over the years are terrifying and exhilarating and billy manages to hide every single one from his father. they only ever show up during the day, and they don’t linger. something billy is both grateful for and resentful of.

sometimes he’ll watch other boys’ hands in class. check them for drawings. he thinks he’s being careful, but a girl in his chem class, becca, catches him. she says it’s only because she knew what to look for. they share a cigarette under the bleachers and she tells him about a girl who likes green eyeshadow and writes homework reminders on her wrists using stars instead of bullet points.

it takes billy six months and a couple shots of tequila to tell her about watermelon lip gloss and bet you’re pretty and they both cry when he starts to wonder if his soulmate will be disappointed that he isn’t a girl.

on a rainy april afternoon she asks him to go to a gay bar with her. he tells his father he’s going on a date. she tells her’s that she had to reschedule a tutoring session and it’ll run pretty late.

they wait til it’s dark and get ready in a dingy gas station bathroom. when she’s smearing on her eyeliner she catches sight of his face in the cloudy mirror. he wasn’t going to ask her for anything. he wouldn’t have brought it up. the twinge in his heart and a hollow feeling of longing aren’t anything new, he can deal.

he feels and empty kind of rage every time old, well-meaning relatives give max girly lip gloss kits and eyeshadow pallets and shit normal preteen girls who care about finding their soulmates actually appreciate. she always rolls her eyes and throws them away. susan will fish them out of the trash sometimes, and leave them under the bathroom sink, like if max just sees them there she’ll suddenly give a shit and start using them. like them being there does anything but taunt billy with what he can’t have.

neil watches him like a fucking hawk every time that shit comes into the house. and max doesn’t fucking care. doesn’t notice.

but becca offers.

and.

he’s not about to say no.

he should’ve said no.

it feels good at first, like it used to, it feels like freedom and he likes what he sees when he looks in the mirror, and he kisses a boy for the first time and it isn’t fireworks but it’s something, and he thinks maybe it’s going to be a good night, but then…

neil is waiting on the curb outside becca’s house. they were heading there first, because her parents wouldn’t notice, she said it would be fine, she has makeup remover he can use, he can clean up and head home and everything was supposed to be okay, except. it wasn’t.

it’s the last time he sees becca. neil tells her parents what was actually going on, and she isn’t allowed to visit him in the hospital.

and then six months of rehab, one rushed wedding and a big ugly sold sign later, neil carts them off to hawkins, indi-fucking-ana. as a “family.”

billy was certain this town would be nothing but a prison. it’d be somewhere he’d never find a place to be himself, neil would make sure of that. there wasn’t a single thing to like about this place and its bullshit small town sensibilities. for all the open space it might as well have been stone walls and steel bars.

except.

except...here was a boy with soft eyes and nimble fingers, who gets a little wrinkle between his brows when he concentrates, and is always moving, fidgeting, fiddling with zippers and touching his elbows and looking at him makes billy itch. to touch, to soothe, to take, and…

things get complicated when aimless blue waves scrawl up billy’s arm. when steve follows him out into the parking lot. calls him pretty to his face. and suddenly billy’s eight years old and realizing this shit is real. terrified of what that could mean. spinning fragile dreams like spider’s silk, hard to shake but easy to destroy.

even entertaining the idea of putting on makeup while he’s still in hawkins is stupid and dangerous, but goddamn if he hasn’t risked more for less.

he’s sure he’ll regret it. like he’s regretted every other desperate bid for freedom. but when faced with steve harrington’s smile, he can’t find it in himself to say no.

(edit: pt3 here)

#harringrove ficlet #harringrove #billy hargrove #stranger things #soulmate au #a raven's writing desk #another part is coming #cuuuz #this was getting way too long kdfljgk #i had to split it up cuz the other stuff i wanted to write is. definitely just gonna be a whole nother post to itself lol

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myafterlifeisbetterthenyours · 3 years ago

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basically a Striker x male imp with powerful regeneration powers, the two knew each other before Striker worked as a noble assassin, y/n by having these powers was almost always in extreme danger situations (like fighting a noble without a head and still somehow win), the two constantly bickered and usually ended up with broken bones. Now these days they meet again after years without seeing each other and with repressed feelings they finally have time to talk... after fighting a little more

Striker x Male Imp with a healing factor.

You and Striker first met each other years ago.

The two of you ran into each other during a job. You both had been hired to kill some petty mob boss.

Striker was seconds away from killing the target, when you jumped through the guy's skylight splatting onto the ground.

Jumping up you effortlessly killed the mob boss and all his bodyguards.

Striker confronted you outside the building, surprised at how good you look after falling through a plate glass windows.

He told you that was good work, if sloppy, but that was his kill. And he just couldn't tolerate theives.

He was surprised by just how nonchalant you were, as though he were telling you something you'd heard a hundred times.

You told him a job is a job, and you wouldn't hold it against him if it were the other way around. And much to Strikers surprise, you turned, and began walking away from him.

Striker, froze, processing what was happening, before he raised his rifle and blew your brains out.

Usually didn't like shooting people in the back, especially a fellow assassin like you. But hey, you practically asked him to do it.

He began to leave, only for you to suddenly jump him from behind, scratching up his shoulders and back, almost managing to cut his throat.

He threw you off, before spinning around and fired three more shots into your chest. That seemed to keep you down this time.

Dragging himself away, he looked back to find you weren't there.

He found himself on edge for weeks after that, never sure If you were gonna go coming looking for pay back.

He only calmed down after running into you at a bar.

And much to his surprise you didn't seem to hold any animosity towards him, in fact, you actually offered to buy him a drink.

Not wanting to offend you, he said yes.

He ended up actually enjoying the night, the two of you having a lively conversation over a few drinks

He couldnt help but ask about the whole, "I shot you in the head, why aren't you dead" thing.

So over a few glasses of whiskey, you explained that you had a serious healing factor, so serious, you were borderline immortal.

Needless to say Striker was amazed and honestly found it kinda hard to believe.

Although what happened next put it all into perspective.

A large demon walked up to you, saying a few words he sunk a large blade into your chest.

Before he could draw his pistol you placed your hand on his shoulder.

Taking a large gulp of your drink, you pulled the blade from your chest and plunged it into the demons stomach. And like nothing had happened, you went back to the conversation.

After that Striker finished his drink, thanking you before he got the fuck out of there.

That was not the last time you and Striker crossed paths. The two of you often ending up taking the same job.

You always having an advantage as you could just recklessly run into a fight, absorbing every attack before killing the target, and walking away unscathed. Where as Striker had to more carefully think his strikes through.

And much to your surprise and joy, you found that through the many jobs you and Striker fought over, you developed something of a frienemy complex.

As annoying as you stealing his jobs was, he couldn't deny, he was having the most fun of his life.

Striker was an extraordinary Imp and it was exceedingly rare he found anyone on his level. So getting to test his skills against you was great.

The two of you were constantly fighting.

Most of the fights were picked by you, usually finding something petty to fight over.

You found the fights good fun, since you weren't really in any danger and Striker always gave his all in a fight.

Your fights got more common, Striker randomly attacking you on the street. The two of you fighting for hours, both refusing to submit.

Bloody knuckles, bruised bodies and broken noses, the two of you were relentless.

And oddly enough, between the brutal smackdowns and all night benders, you found you began enjoying each other's company.

It was an odd dynamic.

The way you could go from brutal fighting, to casually enjoying a meal together, back to a brutal melee.

Though despite your questionable relationship, the teo of you ended up seeing less and less of each other.

Striker began taking much higher risk jobs, often taking on nobility, and as such becoming harder to find.

While you on the other hand, with the pile of cash you made through your killing work you decided to take up several hobbies.

Painting, music, craft, but you would quickly grow bored of them, they were all too easy.

So you decided to travel, taking up any job that caught your fancy.

You tried to let Striker know, you know, for old times sake. But just couldn't get in contact wirh him.

A by-product of being known as a royal killer, you suppose.

You travelled for a few years, traveling the seven rings, taking up various jobs and drastically expanding your resume.

Eventually you'd find yourself in the wrath ring, finding work on a very quaint little ranch.

Usually you'd spend a couple months on the job before moving on to the next one. You'd done this for years, never sticking around for more than six months.

But you found yourself sticking around.

Life on the ranch was good. It was lots of hard work, but you were never bored. And the annual blood moon festival was always something to look forward too.

And over time, you found yourself genuinely enjoying your work. finally finding some sort of purpose in your life, finding yourself being treated like a member of the family. Eventually you worked your way up to foreman.

It wasn't long after a tornado tore through the ranch, you and another worker getting caught up in it.

Only managing to survive because of your healing factor.

You limped back to the ranch, you had to at least act like you were injured. The whole family was overjoyed to see you alive.

But it wasn't long after that a familiar face showed up.

Striker. In all his cowboy glory.

Initially you were overjoyed, tackling the Imp to the ground. Striker effortlessly throwing you off, before he recognised you.

He seemed just as happy to see you, the two of two sharing a hug.

You couldn't explain it, but it felt amazing to hug the Imp. The two of you sharing an long moment together. Staring into each other's eyes.

Apparently he was in town and looking for work.

You didn't buy it for a second, of course. Striker was a cold blooded killer, not some field hand.

But when the boss asked, you still backed his story, telling the boss he was the hardest working guy you knew.

Which wasn't Untrue.

So Striker began working under you, which was great, since he had to do everything you told him to.

But eventually you confronted him about it, telling him you knew he wasn't there for a field hand job.

Striker tried to keep the facade going, but he quickly gave in and told you he was there for a target.

You figured as much, striker telling you he actually planned on taking the position of foreman, as his cover and after hearing that you knew you couldn't let this opportunity go to waste.

So you didn't.

For the first few weeks he was there, you made sure he got all the grunt work, the two of you often getting into fights like the old times.

Though you did take emense pleasure in watching Striker struggle to do basic field work.

But if striker was one thing, it was adaptable.

And soon enough he was working as hard as anyone.

The two of you became close again, alot like last time, but there seemed to be something new between the two of you.

Like a longing that had grown between the two of you, after spending years apart.

Your feeling would grow come to a head after a trip into town.

Striker would use his first pay check to buy a bottle of local brew. Which in wrath, was essentially moonshine. You'd find a hill not to far from the ranch, before popping the bottle.

The two of you would go through the bottle fairly quickly, reminiscing about the good old days.

Both of you getting more and more inebriated as you dug deeper and deeper into your past.

Telling him you had tried to sat goodbye, but couldn't find him. Striker would admit that he had missed you desperately. Hed tell you how it was only his work that kept his mind off of you.

You would lean in close, inches from each other, leaning in, you'd share a much over due kiss.

You weren't sure how Striker would react. You half expected him to knock your lights out.

But instead, Striker pulled you deeper into the kiss, his hands beginning to roam your body.

The kiss would only grow in intensity, the two of you shedding layer after layer of clothing.

You would embrace each other in that field.

You couldn't remember who was on top, and who was bottom, but you woke up the next morning feeling very satisfied.

The next morning was... interesting.

Youd woken up in lots of interesting situations. But hungover, buck naked in the middle of a field besides your long time friend, was a first.

The weird part though, was that It wasn't awkward.

You woke up about the same time. The two of you just laying there, Basking in the early morning sun.

You would just curl up together for a while, quietly discussing what should happen next.

You were shocked when Striker said he wanted to be with you.

Not really sure how to answer, you just kissed him. The two of you ending up having some early morning sex.

So after hundreds of fights, years apart and a pretty severe hangover, you and Striker were finally together.

Thanks for the request y'all. Usually I like don't write for Striker as I just felt there was a bit too much content surrounding him. My headcanon is a little more intimate than the prompt suggested, but none the less, this was still fun to write. Thanks for reading I hope you liked it.

#helluva boss x reader #helluva boss #headcanon #x reader #helluva boss headcanon #helluva striker #striker #striker x reader #helluva boss striker #helluva boss striker x reader

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