#i hold some form of Gender where i can not bind and grow my hair out and people still call me sir

[patron-saint-of-emesis]

also in my ER notes the doctor used he and she interchangeably for me

also also I HAVE TWENTY FOUR STONES TOTAL. 24. HELLO

beep boop update i was RIGHT it was kidney stones. i went to my doctor and she was like ‘hm! hold on!’ and left came back 5 mins and was like ‘ok. drive immediately to the er’ so i did and its not as severe as it all was last year (my organs r not leaking 🥳) but i still have many rocks inside of me. they gave me meds tho and im going back to another doctor soon so im hoping i caught it in time before it got like last year

[korpuskat]

i'd be appalled if i saw you ever try to be a saint [Pagan Min/Reader]

[Ao3 Mirror] Rating: Explicit Wordcount: 1,944 Content: DFAB & Gender Neutral Reader. Blasphemy & Sacrilege, Inappropriate Use of Religious Objects, Shibari, Bondage, Suspension, Begging, 

"I didn't think you'd be into... this..." You murmur, raise your arms as Pagan's nimble fingers slide the rope around your chest, once, then twice, forming lines across your skin with the deep red-brown material.

"Oh? Why's that?" He grins and it makes your stomach flip- a completely different anxiety than the one that's born from being completely nude as he takes his time forming shapes with his preferred medium. "One must be adventurous to rule a kingdom, and it's quite aesthetically pleasing."

"Thought it would be too similar to your work."

"Work, hah." He carefully threads the ends of the ropes back behind you, pausing to give you a moment to turn away from him. "Maybe for De Pleur, but I for one do not make it a habit to personally tie up terrorists with this much care." With only light touches he brings your arms back and binds them at your elbows, weaves the rope around your outstretched limbs until you can no longer pull them apart or lift them, as he secures that set of knots to harness forming at your chest.

"Though," He starts, then taps your shoulder to make you turn again. His eyes wander over your body, appraising his work thus far before lowering himself to his knees to begin working again at your waist. "This does give me some ideas."

"Thought you didn't want to tie up terrorists." You tease him and it earns you a half-amused glance and raised eyebrow.

"I don't, but someone must. It's the only way to stop them from making a mess of things." His hands are tireless, forming a thick, intricate weave along your outer thigh before it splits into individual strands- and Pagan tips you backwards onto the bed as he finishes that foot with your toes extended, leaving your leg as immobilized as your arms. Only a few minutes in and you can't move the majority of your body- and the thought sends a wave of heat through your body, culminating between your legs. In a vain attempt to subdue the building desire, you press your thighs together- which does not go unnoticed.

"Always so needy." He tsks, but his words carry no weight. Even if you didn't know your neediness made him feel wanted, his own excitement was obvious, tenting the front of his pants. "Almost done." He purrs and rolls you onto your stomach. He touches your unbound leg. "Lift, please."

The angle is odd, but you raise your leg as much as you can. It must be enough, because Pagan rests your ankle in the crook of his arms as he works more rope down this leg. He seems to work quicker, his own impatience growing- and you can't blame him. That heat burns between your legs and you have nothing left to sate it with other than the imaginings of what's to come.

"There." Pagan sighs, and steps away from the bed. He walks around in front of you, once again appraising his work- and you realize you can't put your leg down. Without his support, your leg hangs in the air, the rope shorter on the back of your leg than the front, the tension alone keeping it up. It's an odd sensation, like your weight isn't spread the way it should be- but you don't focus on it long as Pagan retrieves his phone.

All at once the heat rushes to your cheeks and you're ducking your face into his plush beddings. He laughs, always one to enjoy your embarrassment. "Nothing to be shy about, darling. Don't you want to look good for your king?"

"You're horrible." You grumble into the mattress, try desperately to close your legs as he circles around.

"Mmm," His clothes brush against your inner thighs. "Is this so horrible?" His fingers slip between your labia, slick and easy with your building arousal. Unbidden, your hips buck as best they can with the ropes restricting them, and still Pagan is as careful as he was threading the ropes. Never once do the pads of his fingers touch your clit, circling tantalizingly close and never quite making contact. All it does is fan the flame, all your focus centered on the feather-light pinpoints of his touch.

He stops as quickly as he started, coming around in front of you once more. Your mouth is already open, correctly anticipating his ritual of making you clean his fingers.

"Now this may take a moment." Behind you once more, he messes with the ropes- and you struggle to figure out what's happening- until you feel a peculiar pull across your body. You twist in your binds, try to glance over your shoulder- all you get a glimpse of him with his shirt sleeves rolled up, buttoned to expose more of his forearms as he grabs the rope again and pulls.

This time you slide right off the side of the bed. "Pagan?" Your voice shakes, not quite sure what to make of it- and he pulls again, not even answering you. One leg bent back, you balance carefully on the toes of one foot- each pull on the ropes takes more and more of your weight. He keeps going until you're nearly hanging by your leg, almost inverted except for your one leg that still dances across the floor, skittering across Pagan’s plush carpets for purchase, not quite supporting you and not quite dangling.

Pagan exhales, and with your new position you spin lightly in the center of the room, field of view drifting around until you catch sight of him again. He's trying off the rope, and mutters half to himself, "Let's buy a winch next time."

Though he sweats lightly, as soon as he makes eye contact with you the exhaustion wears off quick. His fingertips remain light and teasing as they trace down the long lines of rope, testing the strength of his knots that keep you in your perilous position.

"I think," He says, breathless, "this is right where you belong, don't you?" His fingers race along your arms, up to your shoulders, up and up till they're stroking through your hair. You strain to look up at him, watch as the fire builds in his eyes. "It's what you really want, to be under my power. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nothing to do but to obey me."

With a whine you avert your eyes, try once more to bring your thighs together- and all it takes is a rough tug at your hair to bring your focus back to him. Your hands flex aimlessly, staring at him as he licks his lips, "That sweet pussy of your must be aching by now. I know you want to beg, so go on."

"P-please." It's hardly more than a whisper, and Pagan's face hardens, more insulted than amused by your first attempt. A forceful swallow and you try again, "Please, Pagan... touch me?"

"Tsk, that was pitiful. You can do better than that."

A bite to your lip and you’re still fighting to get the words out past your shame. "Please, I need it, I'm aching," You whine, can't even drop your head with his hand still tangled into your hair. "I- I'll do anything you want."

The knuckles of his free hand caress the side of your face. "Oh, I know you will, darling. But that's bargaining not begging. Is the blood rushing to your head already? Come on dear, let it out."

You're aching and he won't stop, ruthless, almost sadistic and all you want- all you really want- "Use- use me. Please, King Min, please, use me- I want- I want to make you cum, I want to taste you, please-"

Pagan grins, unashamedly pleased in your slow descent into subspace. "All you had to do was ask." Finally, he releases his hold on your hair which leaves your scalp tingling and your neck straining to keep watching. It's a sight worth fighting for; he unbuckles his belt and makes short work of his pants, the pink fabric parting- and your whole body throbs. With one hand he strokes himself, takes care to draw his foreskin back and watch as you begin to drool. If he could, perhaps he'd tease you like this for hours- make you watch him slowly please himself while you beg and insist that you could help. It would be agony for you both.

His own impatience is what makes him grasp your hair again- and he doesn't even have to tell you to open your mouth.

His taste and scent fill your every sense- the faintest twinge of sweat, but mostly soap and his cologne. Until, of course, he holds the sides of your head and begins to move. The first hint of bitter precum has you moaning, remembering the last time you'd had the privilege of making your king come undone with your tongue.

"I didn't tell you where these ropes came from, did I?" He manages to say between grunts, doesn't wait for you to try to answer. "Some unloyal citizens had thought to- oh, to rebuild one of those bell towers."

Your mind fights to the surface to understand, but all you can manage to do is stare up at him with big, glassy eyes. "They're sanctified. Meant to dispel fucking demons." He says and lets his head fall back. The weight of his words begins to settle in- and he pulls you as far as you can go and holds you there. Your nose flush with his abdomen, pressed against the black, well trimmed hairs. Your throat spasms with the intrusion, gagging- and Pagan doesn’t let up until your chest begins to burn.

He pulls you off him entirely. You gasp in lungfuls of air as he wrenches your head up again. He's half-crazed, panting, as rabid as you've ever seen him- "Are they working? Do you feel like you're curing evil?"

There's no right answer. Nothing you could say would be right, but he’s pleased enough at your open-mouthed panting, how you’ve nearly come undone just from sucking him off.

Pagan grabs the rope and spins you, your one foot dragging on the floor until you're facing away from him again. His hands find your hip and your strung-up leg- and there's nothing for you to do but squirm. He pushes in and his first thrust is like music; your whole body sings for the stimulation, the attention, the touch of your king. As rough as he can be with your body swaying, his fingers dig into your skin, desperate for any sort of leverage. Hard, then harder- his short-clipped nails biting into your skin. It's still not good enough; he grabs the ropes that twist around your arms, his fingers winding around his own knots as he yanks you back onto his cock.

His other hand reaches around, latches onto your throat and pulls as hard as he can, your body aching as you're bent backwards, straining against the ropes. Close, close enough for him to pant in your ear as he fucks you- "They're for worship.” He spits the word, drives it home with a thrust so hard he must bruise your cervix- and follows it with a hand sliding over your side, over each line of rope. Down, over your belly, down to your still-neglected clit. You keen as he brushes it, draws faint circles over it- "Do you feel worshipped?" His teeth close around the shell of your ear- and that's all it takes.

Lightning passes through you, leaves you gasping, begging with empty words as Pagan grunts, mutters a "Fuck, fuck!" A long, stuttering sigh- and his forehead rests against your shoulder, breath slowing in rhythm with your still-twitching body.

The serenity doesn't last long- the ropes cutting into your skin brings you down from your high. A single tiny "Ow." has Pagan up- and through his own post-orgasmic stupor manages to cut through the ropes and steady you enough to fall back onto his bed together.

With half-asleep limbs you shuck the knots from your body. Pagan watches with one eye before conceding, "Maybe too adventurous."

----

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[eyesoneyesoneyesoneyesoneyson]

I was looking through the information I was granted to utilize this blog and I found something that I belive I should share, it is a summery written explaining the eternals in more detail then I covered

Now mind you I did not write this and so can't vouch for its accuracy, in fact it seems to be rather explicitly biased aginst me but it should serve well enough as a base of information on what exactly i am I will provide my own commentary within it

I will add my commentary in this color as to make it clear what is original and what are my additions

The Eternals

General information

The eternals travel the multiverse, when they reach a world they manifest bodies and are born naturally to some family within the world, they grow they live and then they die before moving on to the next world, most manifestations will never know of their extra dimensional history

When manifesting, the personality and traits of each individual eternal can vary a bit depending on which one it is, in rare circumstances they can be quite drastically different from any other version of themselves. this is somewhat missleading it implies more flexibility then we are capable of, all manifestations will show characteristics contained within the possibility space of our essence

It is possible, though rare for an eternal to manifest as an inanimate object, in these cases the manifestation will have powers and abilities representative of their eternal’s personality, the manifestation may or maynot have sentiance depending on the circumstances 

It is possible, though rare for 2 or more eternals to manifest into a single body, this new manifestation will have some combination of the traits and personalities of the component parts. Again not inaccurate but still misleading, fusions manifestations will exist within the combined possibility space of their component essences.

even more rare is for a single eternal to manifest more than 1 body within a world, when this happens each individual manifestation will act as an entirely independent entity, the manifestations will not be identical to each other each showing their own unique interpretation of their eternal. I take umbrage with the use of "eternal" when what she is actualy referring to is our essence, eternal referers to the totality of our existence and the manifestations are a part of that while the essence refers to the abstract aspects of our existence.

Every manifestation can summon any object that their eternal has manifested as in a past life with all the powers they possessed, each eternal also has a unique power that is all their own which their manifestations have access to, both of these powers only work if the manifestation in question remembers the truth of their existence, given that this is rather rare, most of the manifestations will not have access to these powers.

Specific eternals 

Title: The first

Common object manifestation: blood drinker blade, a living sword which feeds on the users blood to fuel its power

Unique power: martial prowess, she will always be the most skillful fighter in the world, if she encounters a better fighter, then her skill will instantly increase to become better then them

Common name: Maria

Common appearance: a woman with long black hair and many scars 

The first is incredibly kind and caring, she is always the first to help, but she’s not naive, she is used to pain and mistrust but she doesnt let it consume her. Her desire to help everyone leads to her putting herself into danger more than is healthy (hence the scars), she has a strong friendship with the forgotten and an intense rivalry with the aware. She remembers their origin roughly 10% of the time. This is infuriating the first is not some noble hero, shes a self-righteous arrogant prick, her "friendship" with the forgotten has nothing to do with him and is entirely built on trying to anger me.

Title: the inhuman 

   

    Common object manifestation: Yamyaywan, a spear that generates lightning

    Unique power: expedient healing, he is capable of fully regrowing a limb over the course of a month

    Common names: Yamyaywan (in fantasy settings) jeff gorge chad or some other generic mans name (in non fantasy settings, he's not vary creative) 

   

    Common appearance: some non human entity typically some kind of werewolf 

    The inhuman is pretty simple, eat, sleep, fuck, repeat, thats not to say hes violent or even a bad guy, hes actually quite sweet and friendly when he wants to be. fiercely loyal to those of his pack and honest to a fault, but he is not a complex man, his motives are all base and predictable, he enjoys indulging in lifes simple pleasures. He holds great respect for the first, and despises the aware for her deceptive nature. He remembers their origin roughly 1-2% of the time

Tittle: the lovers

Common object manifestation: unbreakable shackles capable of binding and holding nearly anything

Unique power: shared everything, they can transfer wounds, damage, heat, cold, physical and mental attributes, powers, magical effects, pretty much anything back and forth between each other

Common names: Mikol and Kiloka (though this varies greatly)

Common appearance: two people

The lovers are as the title suggests, in love, or perhaps it's more accurate to say they are the embodiment of the concept of romantic love as seen by whoever is writing for them, the concept of sexuality is irrelevant to them as they will always fall for eachother and only each other. Their really isn't much else to say, these two are the most variable of all the eternals even their genders aren't consistent, sometimes they’re male, sometimes female, sometimes nonbinary, sometimes theyre the same gender, sometimes different, sometimes theyre of a species where the concept of gender straight up doesnt apply. They will only ever remember their origin in those rare times when all the manifestations remember. I really don't have much to say on the inhuman or the lovers, they tend to keep to themselves and I am content in leaving them be, it is worth noteing however that "rare times when all manifestations remember" does not refer to a random event where everyone happens to remember based on their individual odds but rather worlds in which we collectively agree to all manifest with awareness, functionally this means they have a 0% chances of remembering and so will only remember when probability is not a factor

Tittle: the aware

    Common object manifestation: she has no object manifestations as she refuses to be anything other than a human

Unique power: pocket dimension, she has an extra dimensional space where she can store and remove anything non-living, the space has infinite size, while anything is within this space it will be locked in time at the very moment of its entering preventing any kind of decay or change, she can store things of any size, though larger object take more time to add and remove and she must maintain contact with the object for the entirety of its transfer, she always has perfect knowledge of what is within her space

Common name: none, i never gave her a name and she refuses to take one, denying any that others give her, because of this some who know her call her Nameless

Common appearance: a generic looking woman, she tends to make herself fairly unassuming (whatever that might mean for the world she's born into)

The aware is the most dangerous of all the eternals, she has a very wide skill base, you would be hard pressed to find any skill she isn't at least competent at, jack of all trades does not however imply master of none and she has three specialties in particular, you would be hard pressed to find anyone better than her when it comes to military tactics, economics, and above all engineering, she loves take apart technology and magical devices and putting them back together to form entirely new and even more powerful creations. Her collection however is limited in its uses, each relying on the magic or physics of its respective world and thus will only work 1 or 2 times before ceasing to function entirely, however her collection is so massive that she is not likely to run out any time soon. Because of this fights with the aware are less about skill and more about psychology and economics, you have to convince her that what she would get for winning isn't worth what winning would cost her

Everything after this point in this entry is, to one degree or another, inaccurate, unfortunately because the nature of our deal i do not have the capability to delete or edit it in any meaningful way, instead i will ask that you ignore it and simply move on to the next entry

She does not believe that other people exist, she views everyone outside of herself as philosophical zombies, empty husks that simply go through the motions without having any sort of internal lives, this leads her to be selfish and callous, she feels no remorse killing entire worlds as she does not believe the people she is killing have any kind of sentiance

She is a manipulator to her core, knowing exactly what to say to get inside of people's heads, she avoids violence and seduction whenever possible seeing them as base and beneath her, however she also has a grand temper when she doesn't get her way, and has been known to kill people out of sheer spite.

She is lonely, her view of other people has led her to a sort of self imposed isolation, the only person she truly cares for is the forgotten, she emotionally and psychologically abused him but she does love him in her own twisted way

She hates the first with a fiery passion, both because she knows that she is my favorite and hopes that hurting her will in some way hurt me, and because the first helped the forgotten break free of her abuse and leave her.

    She wants nothing more then to break into the real world so she can kill me, short of that she hopes to break free of my mind, and enter the collective unconscious by being known by other people in the real world

    She wields a very special sword named ashbreaker, it is an anti magic sword that she stole recovered from the tomb of a great hero, the sword is only slightly stronger than the average anti magic weapon, however it has infinite power in that it will never run out of its ability regardless of the world it is in, because of this it can dispel most anything so long as it maintains contact for long enough, the aware has over time began to see this sword as a part of her identity, if she knew i had the audacity to name another sword ashbreaker she would be furious beyond belief. This one actualy is accurate, and she is right i am furious

The aware is ALWAYS aware of their origin without exception

Title: the forgotten 

    Common object manifestation: a dragon mask, the left eye is broken off the mask, the right eye is covered, this mask grants truesight in that it will see through any illusion.

            Unique power: magical savant, the forgotten will have any and all prerequisites to develop all types of magic of whatever world he is in, additional he learns and masters magic far more quickly than normal, he is capable of going from knowing nothing about a magical system to being the best in the world at that system in around 10 years assuming he has access to the knowledge and time to study it

    Common name: Caliph 

    Common appearance: a very scrawny very pale man with black hair, if he remember their extradimentinal origin he will have a large burn scar across his left eye perfectly matching the shape of the break in his mask

    The forgotten is rather timid in nature, he avoids speaking as much as possible, he's kind and compassionate but also prone to paranoia caution instilled in him by Nameless, he has severe self worth issues and generally a poor view of who he is as a person

    He's very intelligent and quick to propose solutions to problems, more than anything he wants everyone to be happy

    Though he now acknowledges that Nameless abused him he still loves her and thinks fondly on the better times in their relationship, it can be a challenge sometimes to remember all the ways she broke his will and made him feel worthless in an effort to keep him with her, she never hit him, others sometimes but never him. More blatant lies

    The forgotten remembers their origin roughly half of the time

Title: the puppet 

    Common object manifestation: a puppet

    Unique power: connection to the real world

    Common name: N/A

    Common appearance: N/A

    The puppet is an empty vessel whose sole purpose is to act as a conduite to the real world, depending on the nature world this could be as an author insert or as a conduite for a player, manifesting as a fusion with the puppet does not change the nature of the eternal that manifests with them, instead it merely grants them the same connection the puppet has.

[hankypranky]

More Ambiguous with Two

Gabriel x Winchester Sister 

Reader wakes up in the trunk of car with no memories. The driver is just as shocked and they continue their path of discovery together with a chimpanzee named Sparkles.

Hurt/Comfort, Amnesia Fic, Feels slightly AU

Part I (word count 2200)

Inspired by this video of this girl escaping from zipties using her shoe laces.

Notes: It was meant to be a reader insert, but it got away from me a bit. The character isn’t gender neutral, it is told from the reader’s perspective with female pronouns - very little description of self other than having hair long enough to wash.

For a split second you thought you had been buried alive but you felt the motion around you and the slight smell of carbon dioxide. Then the bass began thumping through the speakers, ridiculing your pounding headache as you realized you were in the trunk of a car. A flare of panic spiked, but your center of mass started shifting. Unable to brace yourself against anything you involuntarily rolled onto your face, hissing in pain.

Your hands were bound behind your back and your feet strapped together. Everything hurt. Trying to think back to how you ended up in this trunk… there was no recollection. Fuck.

Taking in deep breaths, you tried to remain calm but it was growing increasingly frustrating when the music was turned up louder. The lyrics filling your head and you instantly hated it.

Having your hands in front of you was your first priority to getting out of these bindings as quickly as possible. With little room to maneuver, you turned on your side to hunch your back in an attempt slide your legs through your hands to have them in front of you.The more you inched backwards, the deeper the bindings cut into your flesh. … They were zip ties. Taking a deep breath, you opened the palm of your hand to relax the muscles in your wrist and give you a margin of more room to shimmy with.

It helped, but the strain you were putting on your bindings was great as your fingers became slippery with what you assumed was blood. It was a huge relief when your shoulders released and your hands sprung against the back of your knees. However, it was short lived because the driver hit a pothole and you bounced with so much force, you felt your arm break when you landed. Screaming out loud did nothing to mask the pain but you needed to carry on. You still weren’t done yet.

Extending your arms forward, you pulled your knees to your chest and swooped your arms around your legs officially freeing your hands from behind your back.

A bubble of fear, relief and pain swept through you and a sob escaped your lips. Clenching your teeth you took a steadying breath and rolled onto your left side to take the pressure off your broken arm. You lifted your feet to tie your boot laces together. You couldn't finger them, so so you bent down and pulled the string up with your teeth.

This next part had you worried. You needed to use your laces as a saw which was going to hurt like a son of a b*. Your feet were bound, so you couldn't use the pedal motion. You needed to use your hands and shoulders to create enough friction to cut through the zip tie. Trying to keep more pull on your left arm didn’t help much, every pull had you crying out in pain, your body revolting in every motion. Tightening your grip with your broken arm, you gave it all you had to end this sooner…

It snapped. Your adrenaline was pumping now and there was nothing that was going to keep you a victim. Sliding the place between your ankles, you did the same thing with your feet, except this time you weren’t going to use your right arm. Instead, you slipped the lace through the crook of your left elbow, and did a seesaw motion with your right hand. Though it was causing a nasty rash and took much longer, it was worth avoiding your bad arm.

Despite being locked inside of a trunk, you were free. Why are you locked inside of the boot of this car? Who put you here? Your memory was as dark as this damned trunk.

The music pulled you out of your musings. Time to get to the facts.

Finding the soft spot where the tail light should be you began kicking. Forgetting to brace your arm was a mistake, but one rectified quickly. You kicked so hard your foot got suck momentarily. Shifting around you pulled the liner off to reveal the a desolate highway.

Day time, check.

Other things to assess:

Am I hungry? No.

Am I thirsty? No.

Shit. I’m in so much pain, I can’t tell.

Am I dehydrated?

Your tongue slipped out to find very chapped lips. Definitely dehydrated.

Reaching out you touched your face, there were no open wounds, but a lump on your chin. Punched in the face. Must have been a knockout hit. That explains the memory loss. Okay, so maybe I have been out about 5 hours?

Now having most your mobility back, you made the decision to let the driver know you were awake. They wouldn't be expecting you be free and to strike first. You waited until the song stopped playing before kicking and yelling at the top of your lungs. The next song started playing, but the driver turned off the music, so you kicked even harder against the top of the trunk. As the car slowed down, your heart sped up.

Listening to the steps the driver was taking towards the trunk, you secure your broken arm and positioned yourself to to attack.

Tap tap tap.

Was this person seriously knocking on the trunk?

A man’s voice asked, “Hello? Is someone in there?”

Mimicking his tap, tap, tap, you waited for a response that came in the click of the trunk opening.

The light blinded you but you saw enough of a shape to make sure your punch landed on their face. Your knuckles connected and you fought the urge to close your eyes.

He fell to the ground and began scrambling backwards on the pavement, “Who the hell are you?”

He was still a blur, but his shock was evident. You shouted back at him, “Who the hell are you?”

The man raising his hand in a non threatening gesture, his eyes wide with fear. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you. I- I literally rented this car this morning.”

Still unable to focus on anything in particular, you accepted the fact he was as surprised as you were. Slowly nodding your head, you believed him. He slowly stood, intentionally trying to make no sudden movements. “You’re hurt. Let me get you to a hospital.”

“Where are we?”

He stood and dusted his hands off on his green jacket, “In Nevada. Off Route 80. About halfway between Reno and Salt Lake City. What’s your name?”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you accidentally dropped your broken arm. “Son of a bitch!”

Your arm hung loosely on your side but you could still move your fingers. Grasping your arm, you squeezed your triceps and biceps. You spoke to yourself out loud, “Ok, it’s just dislocated”

Finally able to see the man in front of you, his expression consumed your attention, especially his eyes. They looked gold at first, but had a bit of auburn woven in, for a moment you were mesmerized. “Help me pop it back in.”

“No!” He looked horrified at the thought. “ We gotta’ get you to a doctor.”

You wouldn’t be able to hold out that long, “I can do it myself, but I’d rather have you help me.” Taking in his startled appearance, you asked gently, “Please?”

He huffed out a breath so grand it stirred the bangs on his hairline. “How can I help?”

You walked towards the back of the generic blue sedan and gestured for him to stand near the right side of the car. Settling yourself on the trunk hood you cradled your arm. “I need to relax the muscles first… talk to me. Tell me about yourself. I’m still running on adrenaline.”

You squinted against the sky to see him. Wiping his brow he stared at your in bafflement. “Uh, well my name is Rich and I work in Reno.”

It was difficult to relax, but you closed your eyes knowing the worst of the pain should be over soon, “Oh yeah? Doing what?”

“Gee, what don’t I do. Bartender, host, ticket collector, whatever they need me to do. We’re like a modern circus. We have a variety of performances, some freaks, delicious drinks. I do what needs to be done.” His pacing calms your nerves, he doesn’t have anything to do with your kidnapping. He burst out, “How are you so calm?”

“Did you lock me in the trunk?”

“Hell no!”

“That’s what I figured. I need you to calm down too, okay?” He stopped roaming. “I’m sorry I ruined your day.”

Rich moved in front of you and blocked the sun, it silhouetted around him and it looked like a halo formed above his head. “You’re sorry? What?” He looked down at you and you could see the sincerity and hesitation in his eyes, “ No, no. Look at you. I’m sorry.”

His voiced soothed you in such a way you felt like your worries had been washed away. His voiced bounced from gravelly to high pitched and back in just a few syllables. “Okay, I think I’m ready.” You laid across the trunk. It was hot but not enough to burn you. “Grab hold of my wrist with both your hands, keep my arm level with my body.”

There was a long pause before you felt his firm but gentle grip. Biting your lip, you kept your groan to a minimum. “I need you to move my arm from 90 degrees towards my head while making a handshake motion. Can you do that? Not too fast, not too slow.”

“Yea’.” He gave your wrist a squeeze. “You ready?”

“Yep.” The pain was excruciating, but you felt your joint slide back into place. It hurt, a lot but it was nothing like it was. He moved your arm back so that you could cradle it once again.

“How did you know how to do that? Are you a paramedic or something?”

Unable to even entertain that question, you interrupted him, rubbing your arm, “Hey, I’m gonna’ need a sling or something.”

“Sugar, you need a lot of everything right now. Hold tight.” After a few moments of him scrambling in the backseat, you heard a loud tear. He had ripped one of his undershirts and was approaching with a gallon of water. “Let’s get some of this blood cleaned off before we put this on.” Dowsing his shirt in water, he began to clean your hands. Gently pulling your fingers, wiping away the blood. “Tell me, how did your wrists get to looking’ like this?”

Taking a moment to look at him, his hair shined in the sunlight. It reminded you of a wheat field swaying in the breeze. A few freckled donning his face and thin lips. Though he had a small stature, he made you feel small for some inexplicable reason.

“Freakin’ zip ties. I was hogtied in your trunk with zip ties.” You watched as his eyes widened and waited for you to continue, “I- uh, used the friction from my shoelaces to saw through them.”

Disbelief covered his face, “I thought you said you were hogtied?”

Slightly embarrassed, you felt your cheeks redden, “I was, but I was able to shimmy my arms under my butt to get them in front, but you hit a pothole and that's how I dislocated my shoulder.”

He looked at you, his eyebrows quirked together, “You’re certainly a badass aren't you?”

Your head began to hurt once again. “I guess so… I don’t remember much right now.”

His eyes sharply met yours, “What do you mean, like amnesia?”

Startled by his seriousness, you pulled back, You knew your memory wasn’t right, but the thought of not remembering startled you. Meeting his gaze, you saw the color drain from his face. It perplexed you more. Did he know something?

“It must be the carbon monoxide.” Running your fingers over the lump you had found on your chin, you raised your hand to feel your skull. Your fingers stopped when they discovered another bump and caked on blood in your hair. “I must have a concussion too.”

“Well, we’ll get you to a hospital.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“What do you think they are going to do? I have no ID, no possessions. I’m on my own. They are just gonna call the police.”

“That’s kinda the point Toots. They can help.”

“Yeah, sure, but then what? I’m still on my own no matter what.. From what I can gather, I’ve only been out about 6 hours, not enough time for a missing persons report.  If someone was trying to get rid of me, I don’t want an APB out I’ll have more luck with contacting the car rental place.”

Rich’s hand was on his hip, he snarked back, “Oh yeah? What are you gonna’ say, ‘Helloooo, I woke up bound in one of your trunks, do you recognize me?’”

“Look, you packed light. You plan on going back to Reno shortly, let me tag along and we can talk to the rental place. IF they don’t have any information, I’ll go to the police. Deal?”

His arm flung out with his pointer finger extended, ��A. That’s creepy you have been able to deduct all of that in the last ten minutes. B. Do you know how frustrating you are?”

“No.”

“Right, right… amnesia.” He sighed and opened the passenger door for you and awkwardly helped you put your seat belt on.

-- -- -- 

If you want to be tagged, just let me know! Currently, it’s at about 17,000 words.  I will most likely continue to post chapters here as I finish the last couple of chapters. You can find my A03 here.

[verngyu-moved]

war, tome, and crown || ch. i

pov: second person (gender neutral reader insert) ⟡ word count: 3k ⟡ genre: adventure, fantasy (renaissance, and v fire emblem inspired), romance (in later chapters; ft slow burn + love triangle oops), ⟡ rating: pg-13 ⟡ warnings: kidnapping, death, body modification (by branding...like..with a hot piece of metal)

⟡ CHAPTER 1 ⟡

“We’re almost at the trade destination, Your Highness. Remember the agreement.” Just do as they say, and no one has to get hurt, you think. Hands tied together and blindfolded, your torso’s wrapped in rope and bound to the soldier that sits in front of you. You’re jolted and shaken by the horse you both ride, unsure of how long it’s been since you were manhandled and forced to ride passenger on horseback. Captured from your palace and taken hostage, you can barely even remember how it got to this point. You’d been sitting on your bed, reading a book about light magic when you were taken by surprise by a burly redheaded man. He had somehow broken into your quarters, managing to sneak up on you and pour a cold liquid onto your head, knocking you out. While you were knocked out, they snuck you out from the palace walls and next thing you knew you’d been tied up and blindfolded.

You hear a male voice, and can only assume it’s the leader of the entire operation since you note that he’s been nagging everyone (including you) since you’d awoken. “We’re selling you for a high profit to ruffians. What they decide to do with you next is not up to us nor is it any of our concern.” The fabric of the blindfold softly brushes against your skin—you would know this texture anywhere, especially as a Matronan royal. “This blindfold is made of velvet, Matrona’s main export...You’re Matronan.” Mumbles of surrounding soldiers cause you to pause before continuing, “You’re betraying your own kingdom. Why?” “With all due respect Your Highness, that is none of your concern. Now, if you would like to live to see the sunrise, I suggest you keep quiet.” The words leave his mouth, cold like stone, stale like bread. After the thieves double check that your wrists are still tightly fastened and the blindfold renders you blind, the horses are ordered to travel to the meeting point, dragging you along for the ride.

The sound of hooves comes to a stop, and your head finally stops wobbling as it presses against a man’s back. You adjust your hands awkwardly, unaware of the thief’s discomfort as you do so. That is, until he speaks up. “You about finished, Your Highness?” he whispers. You guess he’s probably been advised not to speak to you. “Sorry,” you mutter lowly, “it’s been a long ride.” He hasn’t said anything to you the entire journey, and hasn’t shifted much either since it started. Your arms are wrapped around his waist, which is rather small. In fact, on the long trip you’d even started to wonder if he was a she. Now you’re reconsidering your theory upon hearing his voice just now for the first time.

The men around you hop off their horses, boots hitting the solid gravel with a thump, and begin talking. You sigh and close your eyes, not like you see much of a difference since your vision is still obstructed by the velvet blindfold. (Black or very black?)

Abruptly, a loud pounding noise occurs and seconds later you hear noise of the gravel pebbles shuffling. Your rider shifts suddenly, your head jolting back forcibly as his back straightens. “What in the Gods names-” a distant male voice says, but a slicing sound tickles the air and sweetly drifts to your ears.

An ambush.

“Stay still.” The man in front of you grabs the rope binding your wrists, his pinky fingers holding your wrists apart as carefully not to cut you accidentally. There are yells of the men surrounding you—imagining why they’re crying out is not something you want to do. Your heart is beating quickly while the outlaw cuts through the thick material, meanwhile you wonder what will happen when your hands are free. Escaping might not be your best option, but would staying here be better? Your time to decide is running short as horses neigh loudly while shortly after their hooves take off and disappear behind you. Screams and the ringing noise of swords clashing fill your ears to the brim, making you wish you were back in the comfort of your quarters, reading up on the book that one of your retainers Seokmin gave to you as a birthday gift. Where is he now? Did he notice your absence? What’s happening back at the palace? Your mind rushes through every question it has at the moment. And then, it’s like falling, or blacking out—your brain seems to shut down for a split second, as if everything that’s happening is too much for it to process. You’re looking at nothing, at grass, at a plain field. It seems to be early in the morning, the sun isn’t up but it has that glow that hints it’ll be making its way around soon. And your feet...they’re running? Well it looks like I made my choice, you think.

“Get back here!” The man, whose voice you recognize as your rider, yells. You glance over your shoulder, eyeing the blindfold you discarded onto the ground, and in the next moment you topple to the ground, face first into the tall grass, tasting the dirt. You grumble in pain, as you feel the man embracing you from behind. “Hey.” you warn, and when he doesn’t respond you raise your voice, “Hey! Get off of me.” “Apologies, Your Highness.” but he stays still, adjusting both of you so that his hands are firmly holding your wrists. “B-...you’re not...moving..?” you thrash against him, muttering while eyeing some bushes up ahead. “Apologies.” he repeats, refusing to let up. His voice sounds different from how you’ve previously heard it—sounding shy.

“Gods, Minghao.” another male voice says, his voice a loud pant. You were too focused on being plowed into the ground and forcibly mounted by some ruffian that you didn’t notice the other boy’s footsteps growing in volume. “You were supposed to keep her tied to you.” “If we remained on my horse she could have been hurt or taken from us, Wonwoo.” he replies, a stinging sensation of annoyance in his words. Another voice chimes in as you try to angle your head to see the boys who stand behind you two, “Hey, I think it’s really cute that you let her go because you felt bad for her, Hao.” Minghao quickly begins to protest, “I didn’t-...”

Two boys stand next to us, one with a skyscraper body and blonde hair with an undercut styled into a lazy mohawk that compliments his sun-kissed skin. His grin is like that of a wolf, but the rest of his demeanor reminds you of a puppy. He holds a silver axe that almost mimics the form of a sith, its golden handle running through its head that protrudes from both sides. With the tip of the handle sharp and shiny, a purple ribbon is carved and wraps around the rest of its wooden body. At the other end of the handle lies a another sharp end, shaped like a spear head. His sky blue tunic appears darker in the nighttime, as a belt wraps around his waist and navy blue pants peek out beneath the cuts of his tunic to flow into his brown boots, which are covered by matching sky blue armor. More pieces of armor are wrapped around his shoulders like shoulder pads, covered by a pale yellow cape that flows gently in the summer breeze. The other has cool mint hair, matching his cold but alluring eyes. The black tunic that climbs up to his neckline is decorated with gold embellishments, a white cravat nestled in his shirt and poking out beneath the small V-neckline. He wears black pants and boots with grey cuffs at the top. An arm guard is sewn into his left sleeve while his hand holds firm his bow, its blue glow pulsating, and in the middle of its handle a white angel’s wing is carved. It almost looks like his bow is carved out of pearls. He seems intimidating as he makes direct eye contact with you, and you’re reminded of the feeling you had when one of your retainers caught you stealing food from the kitchen.

“You can get off me now.” you practically spit, not only (to be frank) feeling violated, but also extremely embarrassed...seeing as you two now had a growing audience. “Minghao, I think you can get up now.” A wide-eyed black-haired boy echoes in agreement, joining the standing duo, body slim and tall. Wearing a long white sleeve shirt, a short sleeve rosewood pink shirt with three fastened buttons, and a pants in the same shade of faded pink, he looks at you with a smirk. Strapped to his pants belt are two holsters on the side that double as armor and another piece of silver armor slung on one shoulder, its straps wrapping around his waist. The glass lance he carries glimmers and gleams under the moonlight, the point sharp as a knife with a diamond shape carved into the middle of its long stock. You take one glance at his brown corduroy boots before looking away.  You adjust under Minghao, coughing after you spit out some grass that was buried in your gums. “I think that’s the least of his problems, Jun.” The mint-haired boy tells him, “He disobeyed Cheol’s orders.” he then adds, in a lower voice. “Minghao!” a distant voice bellows from behind. “Speak of the devil.” Jun mutters. You feel Minghao’s body tense for a second at the sound of this voice, causing you to shiver, leaving you to assume the leader is on his way over, and he’s not happy. “Get up.” Cheol commands. Minghao quickly rolls off of you, the sound of the grass brushing against him as he put his weight down on it, and then swiftly brushing his body again as he re-positions himself into a firm stance. You scramble to your feet, once again feeling embarrassed—although this time it feels like you’d been caught in a perverse act.

Your eyes find Minghao’s face and you silently watch, unsure of why you’re still there, partly paralyzed by anxiety, partly by intrigue. His long, straight black hair falls in his face covering one amber eye that’s glued to the ground as the leader approaches him. He sports a long black tunic that reaches down to his ankles with a matching black cloak draped around his shoulders. His hands are clasped together in front of his frame as he remains completely frozen. Maybe you weren’t the only one paralyzed from anxiety. “Why didn’t you follow my orders?” Cheol says at once, splitting the silence, “This is the first time you’ve disobeyed me.” Cheol, with brows pulled together and eyes narrowed, the younger boy’s sights stay transfixed on the grassy field, while your eyes look down to find the spot he’s focused on, a small ant hill. “The first time you’ve disobeyed me,” Cheol repeats. “And the last.” Minghao swallows the lump in his throat, and you notice his fingers twitch slightly. “You’re on probation. Jun will look after you for the next mission.” Cheol’s head turns to address Jun, “Understood?” “Yes, sir.” Jun replies quickly. Cheol’s gaze returns to Minghao, voice tightly coiled like wire, “Understood?” “Yes, sir.” He answers matter-of-factly, a hint of pride in his answer. You get the sense Minghao doesn’t like being bossed around. Guess he’s in the wrong business, then. you think to yourself.

“One more thing.” Cheol takes a step back slightly, “Hand me your tome.” Minghao hesitates for an instant before he waves his fingers, a book appearing in his clenched hand out of black dust. No way—he’s a mage. And a dark mage by the looks of him. You eye the black tome covered in a gruesome-looking skull placed in the middle of figure 8’s. The diagonal embossments on its corners and the matching gold metal clasp keeping the book together reflect the moonlight, contrasting its cold glow. “You’ll get this back after the next mission.” Cheol sighs, taking the tome, with a tinge of disappointment and frustration in his voice. He sounds like your father when you’ve been caught skipping etiquette lessons. Bulging muscles underneath his thin dusty red tunic with a plunging V-neck, Cheol wears black pants with armor strapped around his thighs. His violet-blue boots are nearly touching Minghao’s sandals.

You wiggle your toes in your flimsy-soled footwear slightly before remembering that all you’re dressed in is nightwear. Your arms cross over your chest while your legs clench together instinctually. This sudden motion is enough to draw the leader’s attention to you, his feet changing direction, and before you know it, his face is inches from yours. “I…” you mumble, eyes locked on his. Why can’t I look away? you ask yourself. There’s something frightening and powerful but yet warm about his gaze. He smells like gingerbread, hair color wavy silver with blue undertones. One of your feet takes one small step back, you feel finally unfrozen. That is, until he speaks. “Are you okay?” he asks, eyes fluttering down your bare neck. Heart beating insanely, your fingers that were curled up to form fists immediately extend outwards to cover more of your exposed skin. He tilts his face downward for a few moments and you catch a glimpse of the top of his full head of hair before he looks back up at you, “Are you okay?” “Y-Yes…” you reply, the anxiety building in your stomach. Meanwhile you wonder if he’s okay. Just a few moments ago he looked as if he would beat up Minghao, and now he’s tenderly looking at your face, wondering if you’re okay. “Good.” he stiffly tells you before spinning on his heel and walking away, his broad shoulders looking as if the sun rises and sets on them. “I’ll go get Chan, he’s looting the bodies.” he announces before stopping to whisper something to the mint-haired boy. The other boy nods, and Cheol continues forwards to where the ambush happened, a place you notice is shaded by birch trees on a gravel path. Your fingers ball back up to form fists and you shiver, a rather chilly summer breeze brushing past your thin nightwear.

“Wonwoo,” the mint-hair boy calls out to you, adjusting his grip on his bow. “What?” you reply. He walks towards you, chin tilted upwards slightly, a playful smile on his lips, “My name’s Wonwoo.” “Oh.” biting your lip awkwardly while you avoid eye contact, “I’m Y/N.” “I know, Your Highness.” he laughs lightly, and upon seeing his smile your heart feels less suffocated. “I should’ve kept you tied up after all.” Minghao speaks suddenly, glaring at you. His gaze meets yours before his rolls his eyes, sighs, and paces to the gravel path a ways away. Your heart stops beating for a split second—it’s the first time you two had looked each other in the eyes. “He’s in a bad mood I take it?” the blonde-haired boy snickers, joining Wonwoo by his side. Wonwoo laughs before his friend introduces himself to you, “I’m Mingyu. Or Gyu for short.” “Riiiight,” you glance at him before nervously looking around, “Not to be rude, but is there a reason you’re all introducing yourselves to me? Unless I’m misunderstanding, you ambushed a group of thieves who intended on selling me to Gods-know-who to rescue me, right? All these introductions seem unnecessary if you intend on letting me go.” Wonwoo and Mingyu exchange glances, before Wonwoo offers a rather shocking explanation, “Matrona’s been infiltrated, Your Highness.”

In an instant it feels like your head’s been bludgeoned, an impending migraine dancing its way over to you in a rather aggressive and unwelcome manner. You weren’t even sure if this was true, but the idea made both your head and your heart hurt. Considering it was too much. “What are you talking about?” “Plans to assassinate your father and mother have been in the works for months now from the kingdom of Sigalia.” “Sigalia is our ally,” you laugh in disbelief, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. “I’m afraid not, Your Highness.” Mingyu replies, lips curling slightly downward. “I don’t believe you.” your equilibrium has been thrown off, your heart and head pounding. “Careful, Your Highness,” Mingyu whispers, noticing your lack of balance. You feel embarrassed showing weakness in front of strangers, or rather, criminals. “You should sit down,” Jun gingerly suggests. “I don’t need to sit down, I need someone to tell me what the hell is going on!” you blurt out, aware you’re not behaving like a noble should, but unable to care or restrain yourself at a time like this. “We’re taking you to a meetup point at which you will then be reunited with your parents.” Cheol rejoins the group, a honey-ginger haired boy with a focused and expressionless face following suit. You tilt your head at this declaration, prompting Cheol to continue.

“Listen…” he sighs, “We were hired to ambush the criminals, and were told that once we rescued you that you will be reunited with your mother and father at another destination. We’re escorting you to that destination.” You toss the idea back and forth in your head. “Hired by who?” “We don’t know.” Cheol looks at the sky and squints his eyes, recollecting his memories, “I was approached by a man who offered a large sum of money who tipped us off about Sigilia’s plans to overthrow the King and Queen. He wasn’t the boss, though. He told me he worked for the man offering me the money.” “This isn’t making me want to come with you.” you laugh sourly in disbelief, “How do I know that any of this is true?” You look past Cheol to where Minghao is, leaning against one of the birch trees. You want to believe he’s keeping watch but you sense he just wanted to be away from you.  “Why would I make this up?” Rolling your eyes, you shrug and lift your eyebrow, “Oh, I don’t know, so you could sell me into ‘serventry’ or kill me, or both. Just for starters. There are lots of holes in your little story, like, who hired the kidnappers? Something doesn’t add up.” “We just did as we were told. We don’t know anything more. Look, just...” Cheol paces towards you, grabbing onto his sleeve and rolling it up so that his bare forearm is visible.

It’s a Matronan Wyvern Rider brand. You gaze upon the shield with a wyvern outlined in the lightly sun-kissed burnt skin. All royal wyvern riders were branded when their training was completed and they were ushered in. They were practically living legends. Were. Their war methods were found to be too cruel by neighboring kingdoms. In an effort to keep the peace, they were disbanded a few years ago by your father. Your eyes widen. Cheol is Matronan.

“Do you believe me now?” he says, nodding his head towards the brand. Before you can ask anything, he lowers himself to the ground, kneeling on the dry grass, head bowed in respect. “Forgive me, Your Highness.” You’re stunned, you glance at the other boys who stand in the audience—eyes pleading, tight-lipped. “Long live Matrona.” voice coming out in a slight rasp, you speak the old saying. The one that has been long around since before your mother and father, and their mothers and fathers. Cheol whips his head up, eyebrows raised and lips separated before he smiles matter-of-factly. “And long live the crown.”

⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡|⟡

→ CHAPTER 2

well that is the first chapter........and i have this whole thing so planned out its turning into a damn novel lmfao. hope u enjoyed ! dunno when the next chapter will be up, its the main thing im working on these days so it hopefully wont be long.

btw i apologize for all the lengthy descriptions, the boys’ designs are important to me bc i wanted to set the scene + time period. in these first few introductory chapters i’ll be putting the google drive link to the inspirations behind each members’ weapons and outfits that you can view here. (ik i didnt write about chan’s, it wasnt the time for it, his description will come next time but i uploaded his outfit insp anyways)

-deedee

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Mechanical Dragon (Part 1)

Azula is abducted. Her twisted captor has taken to sewing animal pelts and parts to her. She has to survive and make an escape. 

Fair warning, this one will be a more graphic one in comparison to my other fics.

Inhale.

Leaves crunch beneath her, getting caught in her hair and clinging to her clothes. They are all dead and of a dreary brown or a dying orange. Twigs and pebbles scratch the exposed portions of her skin, mostly nipping at her neck and cheeks.

Exhale.

The midsummer sun is too bright for her eyes as its rays beam through the tree-line. She can do little more than squint against them.

Inhale

And the bugs. They are dreadful, absolutely dreadful. They bite at and land upon her as if she's already dead. They tickle her skin in the most jittery and unpleasant way. She always hated spider-flies yet she can do nothing to brush them off.

Exhale

She can hear the rustling of the leaves and forest clutter as she is dragged along. And all she can do was is. Breath and maybe whimper. Azula doesn't cry, it isn't a look she likes on herself.

She tries to move again but to no avail. Some kind of poison courses through her veins.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale…

Her breathing grows rapid as the clouds in her mind begin to clear and the gravity of the situation finally sets in. She wills her arms to move but they drag limply above her head. She feels a rough hand around her ankle, the hand that pulls her forward. She almost wants to toss some of her pride away and scream. But her mouth feels like cotton, as though her tongue is too big for it. Where had she been? What had she been doing before finding herself in this position? She can't seem to remember, maybe her mind is still hazier than she thought. The smell of bamboo and mango are much to vivid, it makes her head hurt.

Her body is little more than dead weight for the time being so she drifts mercifully away again.

In retrospect Azula knows that she should have willed herself to stay awake, to assess her surroundings, to take note of those bothersome scents and awful insects just as she had been trained to do. Because of her thoughtlessness, she has no sense of where she is nor how far she has been taken. But in waking she finds herself bound helplessly. The manacles are of the molded sort, as opposed to two separate cuffs linked by a chain, these are linked by solid metal offering no room for movement whatsoever. The only chain fastened to the center between her hands is a long one that attach the cuffs to the floor. For it, laying on her back isn't an option, she is forced to either hunch over, lay on her stomach with her face pressing against the grime, or on her side. She lies on her side, cheek against moist rock that smells of mold and an earthy musk. The cuffs are cold on her skin. She drums her fingers against the floor, testing their functionality. She finds that she can move again, but it doesn't do her much good now that she is well and tethered to the floor. Her head is pounding, she can hear the blood beating behind her ears. She realizes that she is cold, a layer of goosebumps pimple her skin. With more discomfort it finally registers that she had been striped completely. Feeling startlingly exposed, she sits herself up. She might as well get familiar with her prison.

It is composed entirely of rock. She thinks that maybe she is underground, but that can't be so, because she can see thin beams of light through a slit in the wall opposite her. Form the way the rays fall, she discerns that it is sunset. Though she isn't sure if it has been only a few hours or if she just so happened to wake up at sunset a few days from her initial abduction. Her eyes linger on the slit, too narrow for an escape of any sort. She gives the room another onceover but there isn't much to see, it's just a craggy barren space. The only sound is the hiss of a draft through the slit and a constant dripping that comes from the ceiling. She must be in a cave or possibly a dugout. She thinks that she can make out bugs scuttling over the walls, her suspicions are confirmed when a cricket-ant flings itself onto her face. She is thankful that the shackles leave her enough wiggle room to bat it off.

Alone as she is, she allows herself to cry. The truth is she is afraid. She has always been the captor, only once has she ever been the captive and it was on the worst day of her life. That day comes back to her in full, bringing the tears on even harder. She tries to kick some fire, but the awkward positioning of her legs leaves her attempt fruitless. She could try anyways, to perhaps, propel herself up. But she has a feeling that she would rip her arms from their sockets before the chains from the ground. Were the chains rusty she might have given it an attempt, but they look fairly new. Fairly new and very sturdy. She feels so fragile in comparison.

The sun rays turned to moon rays by the time she finished weeping. And good timing too because the sound of heavy footsteps reaches her ears. Quickly she wipes the wetness from her eyes and cheeks and works to level her breathing. Eventually the person is close enough for her to hear disembodied and raspy breathing.

Her captor is a dark, seemingly shapeless figure clade in black and washed out by the surrounding shadows. She can still make nothing of its gender nor nationality. The silhouette drops a trunk on the floor, and unfolds a miniature table. Once satisfied with the arrangement of the trunk and the table, her abductor stares at her. As the figure nears, her attention is drawn back to her nakedness and all she can do is toss her head in an attempt to get her hair to fall over her breasts. In a very malicious gesture, her vicious companion sweeps it back over her shoulder. Those raspy breaths now fall close to her ear. "Hello princessss…" Hisses a hoarse voice. Azula thinks that it is female but she still isn't sure. She feels fingers on her shoulder and a body press up against her back. She goes rigid. "Say hello," spits the voice.

Azula holds her tongue.

"This is why you're here. Because you can't even say hello to people you think are beneath you."

She thinks for a moment, about telling the woman—yes, it is definitely a woman—that her lack of greeting had more to do with being bound and captured than any feelings of superiority. But Azula keeps quiet.

"I have a plan for you. Yes I do…"

Azula decides that this woman is either very old or very unhealthy. But could someone like that manage to imprison her like so? There must be two; someone to do the physical and someone to weave the plan.

Those bony fingers tap Azula's bicep, she shudders. "A monster, that's what they say you are. You act like one, banishing everyone and trying to burn everything to the ground. So that's what I'll make you then." The woman threatens. Azula swallows a lump in her throat as the uneasiness swells. "You want to be beastly on the inside then I'll makes you beastly on the outside too." The woman wrenches her hand away but Azula can still feel her invasive touch. Without another word, the woman slithers out of the room, leaving the princess to ponder exactly what she had meant.

Hours later, Azula fights for sleep. But it's a battle that she can't win. She can't sleep with such a bitter chill dancing over her skin nor with that constant dripping nor the centiworms falling on her. Even harder is finding sleep knowing that, that woman could be back at any moment. As she lies awake staring, she notices a series of loops fastened to the ceiling. Something about them is sinister. Still she expects that exhaustion will claim her despite it all. But it never does and she watches the sky, through the slit, transition from black to deep blue, through shades of orange and gold, and then to the blue of morning. But the woman doesn't show up again until later that evening and with her she brings something putrid.

She hears something drop onto the floor near the table with an ugly slosh. The smell to follow is absolutely rancid. So much so, that she can taste it. Azula feels the prick of a needle, the woman waits until her head dips to clasp a metal piece around her mouth. With this accomplished she motions to the corner of the room; a man steps forward and undoes the princess' bindings. He must be quick in his task, Agni forbid the girl wakes up midway through. He links a new set of chains into the loops on the ceiling. When finished, he replaces her old restraints with the new and shackles her feet with the old. "Is this what you had in mind, ma?" He asks.

The old woman nods. Now she must wait for the princess to rouse.

Azula comes to a few with a worse grip on time than before. Her breathing is shaky and her lip trembles. This woman is going to kill her. The X position she now holds is uncomfortable tenfold in comparison to her former bondage. Her soft noises of discomfort are muffled by the metal piece.

The woman takes a handful of her hair and jerks her upright. She looks into her eyes, and sensing nothing but distress, grins. Azula is willing to bet that the woman is getting a kick out of being able to initiate fear into someone who formerly intimidated others so. The woman moves to the table and withdraws something from the sack she had placed there, in the process splashing a goopy sludge of chunks and bits of meat. It takes a moment for Azula to register what she is seeing. The sack flops over spilling limbs and blood. A tiger-monkey head reveals itself, its tongue lolling out. The fetid odor worsens, her eyes water. This time she does empty her stomach, though there isn't anything to empty. The woman hunches over the table and begins to skin the tail of a mongoose-lizard. After some muttered 'hmm's' she holds the peeled skin up to Azula. The princess can see stringy strands of muscle tissue and tendons still clinging to it. The woman decides that the skin is satisfactory and goes back to the table to retrieve something from her box. She wheezes a chilling laugh as she smooths the layer of skin atop Azula's right shoulder.

She tremors at the slimy cold. Foreign blood trickles down her arm and that foul odor starts to leave her dizzy. It is so close to her nose. Her mouth curls in disgust. Disgust that turns quickly to dread. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to focus on the sound of the dripping as another needle breaks her skin.

This one is threaded.

She zones in on her own breathing. One inhale, one exhale and repeat. In her mind she speaks it; inhale, exhale, 1. Inhale, exhale, 2. Inhale, exhale, 3…

Until she no longer feels the needle weaving in and out of her arm.

She can't bring herself to assess the damage yet. She doesn't want to know. But she feels. She feels that the mongoose-lizard's skin covers her own from the top of her shoulder down to the outside of her elbow. She feels another ripple of unfamiliar scaly flesh against her own, this time on the inner arm.

One sharp inhale.

The needle is nipping her skin again.

It works to mold her skin with the mongoose-lizard skin and she can do nothing but let it happen. Each pierce brings a teeny burst of pain.

One shaky exhale.

Her skin is growing uncomfortably warm beneath the beast flesh. She chews on the inside of her lip and hopes that it's almost over.

Once more, she opts not to look at her ruined arm. But the choice is not hers. The woman tugs at her hair again and holds her head at an awkward angle until she opens her eyes. The sight makes her stomach lurch. Patches of her own skin still show through where the mongoose-lizard skin couldn't stretch enough to cover. And those places were read and swelling at the stitch marks.

A pool of mongoose-lizard blood is collecting in the air pockets between her skin and its own, but the blood has nowhere to go so it simply rests, waiting to go stagnant.

"Well?" The old woman asks, letting Azula's head drop.

"Well, what?" Azula rasps, it is the first thing she's managed to say since her capture. She admits that it feels well to user her voice again.

"What do you think?"

The woman is mad, Azula decides. Completely so, if she expects her to praise her for her grisly handiwork. "It's vile."

The woman's lip curls up into the kind of cruel smile that makes Azula's blood run cold. "Then it suits you."

"I think that it would suit you more." Azula dares to spit.

That wicked smirk transforms into a nasty scowl. With a feral growl the woman reaches into the sack and whips a handful of rheumy animal guts and pieces at her. Azula thinks that she may retch again but holds back, she doesn't need to dirty herself further.

The woman returns to her sack and pulls out the dismembered claw of a tiger-monkey. It looks as decayed as it smells. The fur is sticky with blood and in some patches, missing altogether. She fits this over Azula's hand like some hellish glove. And the needle is back.

The metal cuffs dig into her skin, leaving it raw and aching, but she can't stand holding up her own weight anymore, in this position it is becoming too much. In the same way, she doesn't have the strength to hold her head up so she lets it droop limply. She wishes that the old woman and her son would at least put her back in the bindings she started it. She thinks it may have only been a few days, maybe a week at most, but she is already crumbling. Azula can't figure out how she had let this happen to herself. She thinks it over as she tries to sleep but can't come to any answer. Her memories from the day of her capture are so fuzzy. Instead she tries to think about something else. Something pleasant. Something that may as well have happened ages ago. She thinks back to a time when human contact was a pleasant thing; when soft fingers tentatively brushed her cheeks and lips. To a day where she where it was nothing but tender touches. She clings to the image of her lover's face, she fears that she will lose it if she doesn't.

[matchappucino]

File: 001 - The Lady

『❀』 “In a garden of flowers, chéri--you are the most beautiful.” (uttered to Emmanuel before their duel)

Name: Cordelia Mévouilenet (Dreamer)

Rabbit: Mimi 

『❆』 “Hello, have you eaten well today?”

Name: Lady Cordelia Mévouilenet (Awake)

Given Name: Cordelia Maria Chastain (abandoned)

Name Origin: Cordelia is of Celtic Origin, meaning “Heart; daughter of the sea.”

Mévouilenet is a name she thought of herself, after the Incident. Her given name, “Cordelia Maria Chastain,” means Daughter of the Sea + “Sea of Bitterness/Wished-for Child” + “Borne from a place with certain chestnut trees.”

Age: 24

Height: 150cm/5’0

Weight: 110lbs/49kg

Nationality: French-English

Short Description: A shy and polite young lady, until provoked to anger. Raised by a noblewoman and a Dream Mage, Cordelia is good at casual conversation (though if she is entertaining more than three people for a long time, she will grow very tired.)

A Dream Mage, Cordelia creates weapons and other items in the Dream Realm, while her waking body is asleep. She then pulls out these created items from within Mimi, her stuffed rabbit. Her other hobby is creating perfumes from plants she grows in Fleur-De-Lis, her realm.

Nickname: Lady comes from the Virgin Mary’s other names, “Madonna” (Italian for “Lady.”)  

Birthday: January 13, 1996

Zodiac: Capricorn

Occupation: Dream Mage | HCC Host (unofficial) | Barmaid

Species: Human

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Demisexual (Only when an emotional connection is achieved does she think of someone as a potential romantic partner. Actually getting to the point where Lady considers forming a relationship is another thing altogether.)

Significant Other: None

Pact With: Beelzebub, the Avatar of Gluttony

Position: Presenting herself as a dom, Cordelia wants nothing more than to find an individual who loves her enough to convince her to relinquish the desire to control. She sways from a sensual dom to a switch, depending on her partner.

Family (&Friends): Cordelia adored her father, Jacques Anton Chastain—a French Dream Mage renowned for his talents in creating weaponry that was both elegant and unique. He taught her everything she knew about creation magic (although those moments were rare and fleeting.)

Vivienne Maria Chastain was a noblewoman who had half-elf blood flowing through her veins. She practiced healing magic and had “random” premonitions about the future. This makes Cordelia 1/4th of an elfin, although it does not affect her lifespan. She merely ages slower than most humans. Growing up, Cordelia and Vivienne were not close—she despised her mother for being too strict, whereas Jacques was kind and spoiled his daughter. Ironically, the night before The Incident, Vivienne expressed how she wanted to spend more time with her.

One of her most beloved friends is Mimi, a stuffed rabbit she and her father made together in the Dream Realm. She keeps it lovingly and uses it as a place to store her toys and other weaponry. Afraid of being used and rejected, Cordelia keeps people at arm’s length.

Friends: 

Dominic Bellazzi: A man Cordelia would protect to the death. She was friends with the Italian inventor for around five years before having a brief three-year relationship with him. The two remain close friends and send each other gifts in the mail. He still calls her cara mia.

Emmanuel: One summer evening, she was tending to her flowers when a pair of strange shoes appeared before her. He attempted to eat her soul in the Dream Realm, but she fought back and beat him. He visits her from time to time, bothering her for tea and a friendly chat. It's a complicated friendship.

"Doll, do you have time for me tonight?" Emmanuel smirked as he waited at her doorstep.

"There's a pot of tea with your name on it if you make it worth my while." Cordelia placed a hand on her hip, annoyed. "Especially since I was in the middle of making something, Emmanuel."

The blonde man grinned, his fangs on display. "I think I've got a tale or two worth repeating, just for you."

Physical Description: Cordelia has waist-length platinum-blonde hair that ombres into pastel rainbow colors at the ends. In both Waking and Dreams, her eyes are stormy grey. 

Face claim: Vocaloid Mayu

Personality: A well-mannered young woman, Lady is polite and friendly to everyone she meets. She expects the same treatment out of everyone and is quick to anger if someone is not “behaving properly.” However, she is painfully shy and will only open her heart to people over long periods of time.

Once people get to know her, she is a sweet and generous soul who is fiercely loyal to those who earn her trust. Unfortunately, the reverse is true as well—if her trust is broken, Cordelia never gives her trust fully again. Selfish and spoiled, she is often too busy worrying about herself and her demon to consider other people’s feelings on a deeper level. Caring for Beelzebub has given her a softness, but her emotions can quickly turn from overprotective to downright obsessive.

She tries to suppress a jealous streak and a need to control her environment, to ensure the people and things she holds dear remains safe.

Backstory: Cordelia’s birth was one of immense joy for her parents—they had been trying for eight years to conceive. Even among the Dreamers, female mages were rare. So, when Jacques discovered his eight-year-old daughter wandering in his realm, he was nothing short of overjoyed.

When the couple discovered Cordelia’s immense magical potential, they tried to raise her to have a normal life instead of handing her over to the Magi. It would be one of their major regrets in life.

Without proper training from more experienced magisters, Cordelia’s excess magic caused several side effects. She stopped growing after her 15th birthday and developed severe insomnia that prohibited her from getting a full night’s sleep. Instead of getting the standard 13 to 48 hours of rest, she only managed to get 5 to 8 hours of sleep a day.

To compensate, Cordelia began to maximize her time within the realm whenever she was present. The result was a deceptively sweet world full of dolls wielding knives, explosions, and flowers spitting out poison. Life was good until she woke up one day to a home in flames, and a man with ice-blue eyes staring back at her.

It had taken them nearly sixteen years, but the Magi finally found her. From what she saw, her parents put up a great fight—nearly all the soldiers were strewn dead on the floor, save for three. “Come with us, heretic. You need to be trained before your magic completely goes awry.”

Terrified and unsure, Cordelia followed, not even allowed to see her parents’ bodies. She harbored an immense anger toward them—especially for Henry, the Inquisitor with ice-blue eyes. But she needed help with controlling her powers, and perhaps they had something to fight the insomnia.

Ongoing Story: Things in the Magi Camp weren’t much better. Being of noble birth, Cordelia was given better lodgings than most but was mostly friendless—she was one of 20 female mages present—and so focused on trying to control her powers. She was given a sleeping draught twice a month whenever her insomnia prevented her from attending regular classes.

She began to learn of the true Dream Realm her father worked so hard to protect her from—mages that walked the planes were fated to hunt and destroy demons and other creatures that skulked around the edges of the Dream Realm, preying upon lesser folk.

With her issue of being unable to sleep at will, Cordelia was chosen to guard the “back line,” often becoming a healer just like her mother once was. In her spare time, she collects the ingredients required to create her sleeping draught. Being part of the Magi helped bring up her sleep quota from 5 to 8 hours to a respectable 12, and the draught helped her rest for nearly a week.

Once again, however—things take an unsavory turn when a First-Class Vampire made his way inside the Magi’s tower and began to pick off the students, one by one. Out of sheer desperation, the remaining students asked Cordelia to help them summon a demon; one that could possibly match up against the vampire.

She does so, following the students’ instructions to draw the spell circle. They had an ulterior motive, however—she was going to be the sacrifice in exchange for the demon’s services. At the last moment, she completed the summoning and in exchange, the remaining student body was taken instead of her.

It was said that the demon one summons isn’t dependent on the wants, but of what was needed at the time. So, when Beelzebub appeared from the portal and introduced himself as the Avatar of Gluttony, Cordelia found herself smiling at him. He was the friendliest face she had seen in quite some time. With his help, the Vampire was cornered in Henry’s room, and was taken out quickly.

While unhappy with what happened to the rest of the students, Henry had to admit that being able to summon and control one of the Seven Demon Brothers took skill and energy. Henry was about to take her in as his sole apprentice—until Beelzebub opened his monstrous jaws and swallowed him whole. Without anything binding her to the Magi’s Camp and with a demon at her disposal, Cordelia was free to roam as she pleased—and continues to protect her realm whenever she can.

For the Magi’s Camp has a long memory, and she was forever listed as an inkblot that could become a dangerous foe. Using the remaining magical energy from the Magi Camp, Cordelia opens a portal and steps inside. Her travels eventually led her to the HCC, where she works for her own amusement and extra pay.

She has taken the name Lady to distinguish the people who know her from her previous life to the one she has built for herself. From time to time, she takes on contracts—anything from assassination to a personal assistant—to keep her pockets lined with enough guineas to send her demon a regular allowance.

And with Beelzebub as a popular host at the club, Lady can focus on other magical matters—right now, however, a certain visitor to her realm is determined to interrupt her creativity…

Likes: Beelzebub, sweets, money, music, cute things

Dislikes: Rudeness, being manipulated, being forced to do something against her will, sharing Beel (although if he tells her that he has found someone special, she will indulge him, because she loves her pact demon)

Strengths: Generous, Loyal, Patient, Persistent

Neutral: Realistic, Ambitious

Weaknesses: Reticent, selfish, greedy, prone to jealousy

Defense Mechanism: Neurotic Repression. If things don’t go her way, the Lady will repress her negative feelings, preferring to deal with it by herself while protecting her home. When the “proper” outlet is unavailable, the Lady will simply shut down and deny anything is wrong.

Biggest Fear/s: Rejection, Helplessness

Extra: Humans will know Cordelia as “Lady,” but magical beings can sense that is not her real name. Residents who can visit dreams know her true name.

[thanksanonymous]

early bird dinner [erotica]

I bat my eyelashes at the diner busboy in the hope that he’ll give me a booth to myself. I forego a menu in favor coffee and smile as he roughly slides a lukewarm dark roast across the warped wooden tabletop. The walls are painted different shades of mustard yellow: Dijon, Honey, Grey Poupon. I sip my brown water and look out the window advertising “BreakFast ALL DAY!!!” to the tune of a tinny 80s playlist, the effeminate male singers sounding constantly on the brink of orgasm.

I reach to pull a curl behind my ear and catch the unmistakable scent of myself on my fingers. I smile, Eve straight out of the Garden, and wonder who can make out the snakes in my windswept hair. The stooped, scowling man and woman here for early bird dinner? The pierced teen threesome eating Belgian waffles? The busboy himself, watching me from the corner of his eye and busying himself re-folding the napkins, re-stacking the menus?

Billie Jean comes on. I dream of splattering my sexuality across the canvas of this bleak, whitewashed town like a fistful of green fingerpaint.

I’ll talk about sex over scrambled eggs, but I want the act of sex to be sacred. Pull my hair until I crick my neck, slap my ass and leave a deep red welt, but trace my face with the tip of your finger as if I were porcelain. And don’t you dare call it role play. This is divine. The beast of prey inside of you howls at the wolfess inside of me. You split me from the inside out and dip your wet tongue inside my raw, pink places. You thrust between my soft red lips and fill my mouth with you.

Midday, when I’m hungry, I fold my body over my bureau and slip a finger inside of myself. I gaze empty-eyed at my delicate perfume bottles as I frantically stroke my g-spot. My face contorts, I arch my back and moan for you, “Please.” Sometimes after I come, I imagine you wiping wet strands of hair from my sweat-streaked face and pulling them back in a firm fist, covering my panting mouth with your open lips. “Again,” you growl, and force my eyes to meet yours as you roughly shove your fingers inside of my swollen pussy, loud and wet. My juices drip down your wrist.

The bartender coughs phlegm into a paper napkin as the TV news anchor warns against a batch of tainted vaccinations. “Superman, where are you now?” whines Genesis. The sun has gone down and I’m the only patron left. I order a Deluxe Egg and Cheese for $4.99. It arrives hot and dripping, strands of sautéed purple onion dangling over the sides like spider legs. I will eat this sandwich, wipe my oily fingers, pay in small bills, and shrug on my winter coat, exiting into the cold as an ambulance speeds by. 

---

Submission is as intrinsic to me as being a woman, as being attracted to men. It’s not a flavor of my sexuality; it’s my total sexuality. Submission is all 24 tubs at Häagen-Dazs, not just the butter pecan. Every glance, every touch is a wave in this invisible tide. Ebb, surrender. Flow, possess. 

But I’ve been swimming in shallow pools. I’ve given myself to men who can’t receive me. Men who nudge me against bedroom walls and cough up commands that sound like questions. Men who shove themselves to the back of my throat but avoid my gaze as I choke for air. Men who spank my ass with limp wrists to test its buoyancy, not to remind me that I am theirs. 

I’m not sure who these men are performing for. Me, in some desperate attempt to satisfy? More likely their own idea of who they ought to be - the looming shadow that polices their masculinity. I imagine a darkly lit auditorium, a hogtied woman spread center-stage, a hairy, naked man nervously stepping from the wings, sweating. “Well?” bellows the lone audience member, the tall shadow, tapping his gleaming black dress shoe on the linoleum floor. “You like this, don’t you?”

Perhaps in the way women are quick to fake orgasm, men are quick to fake dominance. They believe it should come naturally to them. When it doesn’t, they risk falling out of an unspoken natural order, an order that persists in spite of our attempts to revise cultural narrative over the past century. Behind closed doors, we still expect men to have a glint of unrestrained savagery in their eyes. And most women are still not prepared to hear: “Actually, dear, I was hoping you could handcuff me to the four-poster and call me a filthy slut.”

So non-dominant men who find themselves in bed with submissive women narrow their eyes, inflate their chests, and experiment with dirty words, blushing all the while. But these performances are in vain. Dominance is a presence: it is either there, or it is not there, the way Susan is either in the room, or not in the room. There is no wondering. Dominance is a holistic way of being hinted at by language, movement, and the color behind one’s eyes. The series of actions, the methods of touch - that’s just the butter pecan.

I know this because the same is true of my submission. Girlish deference is my second skin. I tried to outrun her once, the hot tongues of feminism licking at my ankles, but she remains inseparable from me. I’ve come to enjoy her, this self who tilts her chin and volunteers the delicate skin of her neck to her lovers in the dark. She is deftly compliant. She is wickedly unrestrained. 

Many forget that, in spite of our docility, submissives are pleasure seekers. Perhaps the hungriest of all. Our submission is misconstrued for passivity. In reality, surrender is actionable and opportunities for pleasure are boundless. When a lover’s stare lingers on my body, I acquiesce to the power in his gaze. I’m wet before he lifts a finger. The simplest phrases, even when spoken benignly, electrify: “Come here.” “Look at me.” 

There are infinite ways to be taken, so many more than there are ways to be touched. Impatiently, I wait for a man who understands the eroticism of subtle ownership - whose posture and gaze bind me as aggressively to him as nylon rope binds my wrists to wooden bedposts. I wait for a man who is unafraid of the sacred intimacy of utter surrender and control. 

--

My body sinks into the living room couch, a soft vee from head to toe. I honored November’s arrival by wearing oversized everything: woolen socks, argyle sweaters, men’s sweatpants. I spend my evenings swimming in fabric. Four months single, I am haunted by the manic-depressive phantom that is my long-term partner’s absence. As the nights grow colder and the pain of our separation hardens and shrinks in tightening concentric circles, I take comfort in these fabric silhouettes. 

Cold rain streaks down the window. I dip a silver tablespoon into a jar of peanut butter and peer halfheartedly at the book sitting tent-folded on the table. Proud of my good intentions, I sit the spoon on my tongue and defer to my phone. I open a kinky dating app and peruse a parade of strangers’ faces. Simultaneously intrigued and mindless, I meet Mr. Buttons (long-haired, snaggle-toothed teddy bear), Daddy Dom (bearded, tattooed weightlifter), and M&M (gothic couple with matching apathetic gazes). I’m quickly bored. Dating apps have proliferated so widely that not even the social experiment holds my attention anymore.

Bored, feeling anonymous and emboldened, I send messages to two men. Their interests range from “rough sex” to “spanking, gagging, and orgasm control.” I muster all of the sex positivity I can recall from Bitch Magazine and Advanced Gender Theory to form a protective shield against the jarring sensation of talking about sex with strangers online. Our conversations begin with pleasantries, comedy and anecdote serving as dry cobblestones between deep puddles of lust and craving. I spend a few hours this way, eating peanut butter by the tablespoonful and tiptoeing, then stomping, through puddles without galoshes. When I pull myself from the couch, my heart is beating and I am drenched in rainwater. 

My pupils dilate and replace the glimmer of pixels with the dim outline of the couch, the windowsill. Disoriented, I turn off the light and make my way to bed. 

---

The city bus wheezes down the street, the driver cursing fluently under his breath at rogue pedestrians. It’s Monday afternoon and I’m on my way to a date. I peer at my translucent reflection in the bus window, self-conscious of my body, of the way I’m presenting my body to this stranger. Blue sweater and blue jeans veiling a living, hungry woman. I am a character in a movie called Social Convention. I am performing.

The cafe is crowded, overrun with bright-eyed academics and conventionally unconventional twenty-two year olds. To my right, two women lean forward in their high-top stools. They talk at a breakneck pace and gesture with manicured hands, aggressively inspired. Behind me, two male students argue unironically about the elitism of modern university education, spouting vocabulary words as if their professor were sitting idly by. I never knew sentences could contain so many clauses. Surrounded by Hamlet, Willy Loman, and Lady Macbeth, I am suddenly complacent in my role as an understudy. 

Visibly bored, the pierced barista hands me an overpriced coffee in a mason jar. I weave through the herd of black coats, nondescript faces buried in their devices, impatiently awaiting their froth and foam. I promptly douse my drink in cream and sugar. One, two, three heaping teaspoons. As I reach for a stirrer, the man I recognize as my date comes in from the cold. 

I’m flooded with observation. He is a person, and somehow this surprises and disappoints me. He is slightly taller than I am. Lively green eyes and expansive, curly hair that reaches from scalp to ceiling, a few grey hairs mixed casually with brown. He looks pleasantly electrocuted. I’m not used to men with this much hair. I imagine what it would feel like to have his beard between my legs.

I smile in greeting as we exchange a warm hug. His smile is unassuming and he smells vaguely of lavender. We sit and open our mouths to recite our scripts. To my surprise, he brings out a particular color in me; my script begins to feel less like a script and more like a blurry afterthought. I forget what character I’m playing. He is easy to talk with. Our conversation dances intelligently between topics, sewing tiny stitches of tentative connection between us.

He holds a Ginger Steamer loosely in his hand: ground ginger, sugar, hot water. He lives in a cabin in Vermont without running water. He is here for a month-long musical engagement. 

I pull a curl behind my ear and watch his eyes follow my fingers. I watch his lips as he tells me about his travels to Turkey. He asks me how I take my coffee.

“Heavily creamed, heavily sugared,” I reply, unabashed. 

I ask him how he takes his coffee.

“Black,” he replies, unabashed. 

We smile and look down at our drinks. I wonder, are we always having two conversations at once, all of us?

---

I try to quiet my mind before therapy but the minutes bend and morph defiantly. Every mundane distraction is tempting. The year-round air conditioner sits unplugged in the foggy window. Last month’s faded issue of Time whispers my name from the chipped glass tabletop. I tap my feet impatiently on the carpet, battling my restlessness.

Patrice opens her office door and ushers me inside. Four feet and eleven inches, she is a powerful force, a no-bullshit woman. But Patrice stalks her prey. Every session begins with identical small talk: a comment on the weather followed by a short eulogy to the broken radiator. I wonder what we’ll discuss when spring arrives. We sit.

“I went on a date today,” I begin. 

She is a falcon, feather to talon, and dips through the sky, biding her time.

“Really?” she asks, widening her eyes. This is news. I’ve been mourning my breakup dedicatedly for months. I kick my feet up on the scuffed grey ottoman and tell the tale, smiling. As often happens in therapy, my story resists the grasp of convention - a floundering fish -  before landing squarely on my kinks. I reveal that this date represents a side of my sexuality I’ve been desperate to explore.

Patrice nods in an attempt to reserve judgment. Visually, anyway.

“So you’re… submissive.” She draws the words out slowly, testing their flavor. I nod.

“So what does that mean for you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “Do you like chains? Do you like to be whipped? Beaten up?” 

As she edges closer to hyperbole, her tone reveals the movie reel flickering behind her eyes: crackly images of dirty basements, rusty handcuffs, meek women crying and men with bulging forehead veins. 

I pause. Swallow. I attempt to provide a description using affirmative language, speaking conversationally as if to say, “I’m alright with this, and you should be, too.” I’m a virgin to this world, I explain, but even virgins dream of sex. Our lizard brains know the ancient temptation of forbidden fruit. We know we will enjoy it before sucking the juice from its folds.

I can tell by her face that Patrice doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like that I want my hair pulled, my lips used, my surrender offered. She wants to talk about my meditation habit and the boundaries I’ve set this week. 

She sighs. “Why do you think you enjoy this sort of thing?” she probes. “Most of my clients who are into submission have terrible self-esteem.” 

The space heater wheezes on. I point my toes, relax my toes. Cliche loves this conversation, devours it greedily, but arguing with a therapist is more complicated than arguing with the misogynistic comment section. Patrice sits silently, waiting to see whether I’ll drop my golden token into “Daddy Issues” or “Codependency.” Or perhaps, in a moment of profound insight, both. 

Instead, I explain that my submission is intrinsic, simply a variety of sexuality. It’s not a personality defect, I assert.

But I wonder. 

“Well,” she honks, “it sounds like you’re asking to be raped.” She throws her hands up with an unapologetic shrug and a heavy metal grate falls between us, landing certainly with a clatter and a thud. I peer at her from between the rusty slats. I wonder what she sees when she looks back at me.

---

10:30pm. A bitter wind whips against my shoulders as I stand beneath the awning of a busy Mass Ave bar. Sparkling in the thin air, the full moon looms wide above the street. I lean against the brick siding. Skateboarders speed by and pink-nosed couples pass, mittens holding mittens. In front of the bar entrance a group of hefty, bearded men in black hoodies pass a cigarette, barking laughter, their gravelly voices moistened with beer.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to face him. His hair is pulled thickly into a curly bun atop his forehead. In the bright light of the passing cars he is more attractive than I remember. His reflective green eyes are stunning, still. 

“Hi,” I say, smiling. We hug, plush coat to plush coat. I feel a calm, stirring anticipation as our shadows join and separate on the sidewalk. Our words are genuine but easy. They veil the busy work of our eyes, dancing over each other in the streetlight glow. We begin to walk, destination-less, down the sidewalk. 

“Where to?” he asks. We scour the quieting street for a place to nest. A nearby creamery, five minutes from closing, catches our eye. The unspoken implication of a late-night date is gently postponed in favor of Brown Butter Brownie and Cardamom Vanilla. We place our orders to the tune of rags wiping plastic tables and chairs scraping across the linoleum floor. 

We sit in the warm dark of his car spooning sweetness onto our tongues. To my surprise, my words make the journey from heart to mouth without interception. We exchange the details of our lives. He tells me his parents raised him in a cabin without television. They divorced when he was 28. I tell him that I used to work in politics, that sometimes my family feels like a constellation of disconnected satellites in space. We both separated from long-term lovers this past summer - him in June, me in August - and we trade stories of that brand of black pain reserved exclusively for heartbreak.

Mid-conversation, I imagine that I’m a spectator to our exchange. I realize that this moment is a precious moment: this initial sharing, this first discovery. These are the details of a person’s life that, by repeated exposure, become your own, taken for granted over time. But upon first hearing, these details are golden groundwork - the continents on the maps of our lives. Later come the countries, states, and cities. But there is such pleasure in glimpsing that landscape for the first time.

An hour later finds us sitting in warm silence, our cups long empty and the dashboard flashing 12:03. The sidewalks are barren. Stoplights dance between green and red.

“Would you like to come over for tea?” he asks.

I feel my cheeks heat in the dark. 

“I’d love to,” I say. He turns to face me. 

“I have no expectations about tonight,” he offers, smiling. He shifts the car into gear and begins the short journey back to the guest house where he’s staying this month, quarters traditionally reserved for travelling faculty and distinguished alumni. Gingerly, we enter the front hall and climb the eighteenth-century staircase to the second floor. When he opens the door to his room, I can see it’s a humble space - barely larger than a hotel room - but in the short time he’s been here, he’s made it his own. A sprawling potted plant sits on the mahogany desk beside a leather journal and a short stack of books, most of which I’ve read. Boxes of teas adorn the counter. A window beside the bed peers out onto the quiet residential street. 

I take off my boots and climb enthusiastically onto the bed. 

“Comfy,” I say. He smiles and hangs our coats in the miniature closet. 

“It is,” he agrees. He faces the counter and prepares the electric kettle. Voyeuristically, I watch his shoulders tug his sweater as he reaches for a pair of mugs. Strong, lean, certain. His movements lack any trace of ego. My steady heartbeat echoes in my chest. Despite the unmistakable sexual tension, I feel at ease, like we could be old friends preparing for afternoon tea on the terrace. This space feels free, creative - like anything could happen here. 

He hands me a mug boasting the scent of lavender and thick clouds of steam.

“For you,” he says. We sit cross-legged on the beige duvet, kneecap to kneecap. Our conversation leapfrogs from the personal to the spiritual, the political to the sexual. An hour later we are lying upside down, our socked feet splayed messily over the pillows, our heads resting at the foot of the bed. Shoulder to shoulder, our curly hair frames our faces like Chinese fans. In a moment of silence, he lifts himself to rest on his elbow and looks into my eyes. 

Instantaneously, the question is is asked and answered. He lowers his face to meet mine and our lips graze tentatively, then certainly. His mouth is warm and inviting, his presence embodied. We trace each other’s upper and lower lips with our tongues, sucking softly, and when our mouths open and our tongues meet, I feel a fierce stirring in my stomach. Every sensation feels amplified in my awareness.

As his mouth covers mine, he reaches his hand into my head of curls, grasping tightly at the root, and pulls my hair firmly to the side. I moan softly, involuntarily, feeling a roiling cascade stampede through my stomach. The small act of dominance intoxicates me, a swift hit of pleasure to a first-time user. I’m momentarily lost in the sensation of certain arousal coursing through me.

 He releases his grip and I exhale, returning to my body. He kisses me softly, and then suddenly tugs my hair again, exploring my reaction as I shut my eyes and wince, moaning. He leaves his hand grasping my hair as he runs his tongue along the delicate skin of my neck that has been exposed to him. 

I am dripping.

He reaches for my body, moving his hand from my waist to my thigh. His hand is hot through my jeans and my skin tingles beneath his touch. His body is lean but muscular. Exploring, ignited, I run my hands over his shoulders as we kiss. Coils of heat rise up through the fabric of his t-shirt. He tugs my blouse up an inch to reveal the pale skin of my stomach. With his hand pressed to the small of my back, he leans and kisses the small constellation of freckles there, traveling slowly upwards. When he has tired of the game, he uses both hands to pull my shirt effortlessly over my head and tosses it to the floor, lost.

He moves to lie fully on top of me. I feel protected, safe, my body small and warm beneath the firmness of his form. His lips move down the steep tilt of my jawbone. As if I were an exotic delicacy, he tastes me, running his tongue teasingly along my skin and then returning to kiss the same spot with care. Barely audible, my half-moans intermingle with my breath. At once, he pulls my hair back, hard, until the whole of my neck is exposed up to him, my head pushed down into the duvet. My moan is full-bodied, audible now. He devours my neck and collarbone without hesitation as his hand reaches down to my jeans, tracing up from my inner knee to the apex of my thighs. He lets out a soft chuckle of appreciation as he feels my heat. I'm warm and wet through the denim. Already I'm overwhelmed by sensation, his hand in my hair, his lips at my chest, his hands between my legs.

He runs his hand from my ass to my clit through my pants. His touch is void of the tentativeness so commonly found among men of my age. He has touched women before, he knows what to do, and I know he knows, and this arouses me intensely, this partner who knows, this partner who can solicit the reaction he wants.

I moan, opening my eyes in my pleasure as he rubs me. He is watching my face, watching the formless vowels escaping my open lips, taking in the tightness in my temples as my face contorts. He is worlds apart from the men who are too focused on their own pleasure to delight in someone else's. He delights in my pleasure because his hands coax it from me, demand it from me, and the moans escaping my lips and tightness contorting my face are his; my body is his canvas, my pleasure his painting.

It's not long before I'm left in just my knee socks and underwear. He removes his own shirt, his pants. I reach to pull my socks off, but his hands hold mine. "I kind of like them. They're cute," he smiles, shrugging. I leave them on.

He pulls me down beneath him and kisses me again. Our skins touch for the first time. He is warm on my cool skin. I feel my breasts pressed against the firmness of his chest. We explore each other slowly. He runs his hands softly but confidently up my sides; I bring my palms flat against his stomach, run my fingers through the hair on his chest, kiss his collarbone gently. He brings his lips to my shoulder, raising goosebumps on my arms. His tongue finds my earlobe and he licks, softly, before tracing my ear completely with his tongue. He brings his lips to lick, then suck, my nipple. He is gentle, and I arch my back and run my hands through his hair, thick and curly between my fingers.

He reaches beneath my underwear and traces me slowly with his finger as he kisses me. His hand feels shocking on my skin. I haven't received a touch this intimate, this intentional and present, in so long. I am positively wet, dripping for him, and he kisses me as he slowly enters me with his finger. I moan softly, feeling every centimeter of him moving inside of me, feeling my tightness around him. He breathes out, moderating his pleasure, and slowly removes and inserts himself again, this time deeply, until his finger is fully inside of me, his hand pressed to me. From within me he pushes firmly and moves his finger back and forth, exploring me and triggering twinges of pleasure and intimate sensation; he is reminding me that my body, my most intimate places, belong to him. I moan and breath into his mouth as his lips cover mine; we share the same breath, the same air.

As I pant, his finger deep inside of me, he brings his other hand to my hair and reaches to the root. He pulls my hair back as his finger moves inside of me and deep, primal shivers exit my spine, up through my sides, my arms. I feel my face contort with pleasure and when I open my eyes, he is watching me, his eyes hungry. He knows his hold on me is complete.

"Your pleasure is beautiful," he says richly in my ear. I feel exquisite, being watched this way - it feels too good to be true, that my pleasure - this simple expression - is enough to arouse him, to please him. These moans come from the core of me. I have never felt more authentic in bed with a man.

He removes his finger from inside of me and brings it, dripping to my lips. I smell the musk on his fingers, Eve liberated from the Garden at last, and keep my wide eyes fixed on his as I open my lips obediently. I welcome his finger into my soft mouth, and he exhales slowly, his eyes nearly golden in the dim light, watching my every move. I wrap my tongue around my own wetness and hold his gaze as I savor every drop, sucking his finger fully until it is buried in my mouth to the hilt.

When he is clean, he pulls his finger gently from between my lips and pulls me toward the pillows. He lies on his back, an invitation, and I climb on top of him, straddle his waist and bend over to kiss his lips, enjoying the gentle trace of my breasts on his chest. I pull his hair gently, submissively, and bring my soft lips to his neck, his chest, his stomach, fluttering kisses along his body. I take my time discovering him. I ask to remove his boxers and he lifts himself from the bed and he is lying, finally naked, before me. His hair is dark, black, against his skin.

I lean up to kiss his lips, meet his eyes with a smile, before returning my lips to him, kissing again down his side to the softness of his skin on his uppermost thigh. He is hard before my mouth but I wait, kissing either thigh, holding his hips in my hands and tracing the skin there. I kiss his pelvic bone and his hair skims my lips. I reach for him with my hand and feel the warmth and hardness of him throbbing against my fingertips.

I want to tease him. I want to pleasure him. I hold his cock to my cheek and tease his shaft with the tip of my tongue, savoring his warmth. I lick the head of his cock softly, once, with only the tip of my tongue, and he exhales deeply as I bring my tongue to tease the other side of his shaft. My mouth is screaming for his cock, but I try to have patience as I savor this part of him, taking my time and teasing his body.

His breathing quickens and he reaches down to encircle his hands around my hair, pulling it atop my head so he can my eyes, see my mouth pleasuring him. I look up to meet his gaze and our eyes lock - his stunning green to my deep blue - before I kneel between his open legs and open my mouth to him. He lets out a full-bodied moan as I take him slowly, fully, coating him with me, and slide my tongue up his shaft, circling the head of his cock fully with my flat tongue. I moan with him in my mouth as I run my mouth up and down his shaft in full, over and over, grazing the head of his cock with my tongue every time.

I pull him from my mouth, coated in my saliva, and bring both hands to encircle his shaft. I knead him slowly, covering his cock completely with my hands, tonguing the tip of his cock with my tongue. My palms are covered in saliva; he is rock hard beneath my hands. With a slow, tender motion, I knead him and lick the head of his cock rhythmically. He allows me free reign for only a few moments before he reaches for my hair and pulls my mouth down to cover him entirely. He directs my movements firmly, surely, pulling my mouth down to cover his cock in firm, rhythmic motion. When he releases me, he pulls me up to his face. I rub my hand across my lips before he pulls me down roughly and kisses he hard on the mouth. His energy is tangible, aroused, and he whispers into my ear, "I want to be inside of you."

Goosebumps spread across my arms instantly. I nod.

I hop from the bed ungracefully, aware of my nakedness and his eyes on me, as I bend over and reach for my wallet. The light blue Trojan condom that has sitting silently for a few weeks, awaiting a moment like this. It is slightly tattered around the edges after cohabitating with my debit card and cash. 

I crawl back onto the bed and rip open the wrapper. He pulls me beneath him with one arm, and puts the condom on swiftly. In a moment he is resting in a bowed plank above me, the skin of his chest grazing my hardened nipples, his eyes looking into mine from above. I spread my legs beneath him, my thighs coming apart with the sound of a gentle wetness unfolding; they are already coated with me. He holds my gaze as he reaches down with one hand and guides himself to my pussy. He traces the head of his cock back and forth across my wetness deliberately, watching my eyes grow desperate and pleading beneath him, and in a moment he pushes the head of his cock inside of me. I feel the wide head of his cock splitting open my folds, entering my tightness. I close my eyes and tip my head back with a cry, a fierce fusion of pleasure and pain, and he reaches for my hair and pulls, facing him, eyes locked with his, again.

"Look at me," he commands, pushing fully to the hilt inside of me, holding himself there in ownership, and slowly, tantalizingly, pulling out. My tightness grips him like a glove but I am leaking around him; I feel my juices dripping out of me, down my thighs, my ass. Faint, breathless moans escape my lips as he fucks me with the greatest restraint. I feel my face contorting in pleasure, my eyes closing to protect myself from the overwhelming ownership of his gaze, but every time he tugs me back to face him, and our eyes lock in an unbearable intimacy. I am swollen and throbbing around him.

The pace is too slow to bring me to orgasm and all the more torturous for it. I can't endure much more for fear of splintering, or breaking into color, or forgetting where I am. Suddenly he pulls me to him and flips us over so he is lying on the bed, his hard cock still pressed to the hilt inside of me as I straddle him in the lamplight. It takes me a moment to remember my surroundings in the stillness, but when our eyes meet, a furious hunger seizes me and I begin to move slowly atop him. His hands encircle my waist, directing my movements.

Every inch of my body is electric; I am tingling from within. Our bodies are shadow and muted yellow light. I arch my back and lean, farther, riding him, seized by a primal energy. Goosebumps flare on either arm. For seconds at a time, I return to myself long enough to realize the moans floating through the air are my own, and then I'm lost again, captive to his right hand around my waist, his left hand that reaches behind me and slaps my ass with a hard smack, urging me on as I ride him harder, obediently. I can't tell whether we've been in this position for 30 seconds or 30 minutes; the frenzy of our pace clouds my mind with sensation, color, and the occasional sound of his low, steady "Good girl" as he reaches up to tug my hair and fuck me from below.

After a while I feel myself tiring, growing lightheaded, and without saying a word he grabs and moves me so we are side by side, him behind me, holding me. He moves in and out of me from behind, and with every slow thrust, I hear the sound of my wetness tightening around him and releasing him. I feel the heat of him behind me as my left hand drifts above my head, entangled with his right. 

[sucuretcannelle]

Known lore:

🌌- I woke up screaming, panting over a nightmare I had already forgotten. A vast, green field lay around me as I sat up and looked around. Where was I? Who was I? Questions filled my head, and before I could answer any of them, I looked down at myself. My appearance was mostly human, but also resembling a goat with thick fur, save for the black wings weighing down on my back, gently flapping in silent wind. I gave up on finding answers, instead picking a random direction, and taking flight.

🌌- I trudged through the endless blizzard, desperately wrapping my wings around my body to protect it from the harsh temperature. I didn't know where I was, only that I needed to find shelter. The tips of my fingers were turning blue. I spotted a small den, praying that it was empty. The past dens and caves have been occupied by various canines. Taking a step inside, it looked empty. I curled in as small as I could, wrapping my wings around myself, the harsh blizzard fading as I drifted away.

🌌 - Waking from my restless slumber, I look around, confused with the lack of light. Feeling around my small den, rovks must have fallen at the entrance. I curse to myself, feeling around the rest of the den, only being able to pinpoint dirt and rock from all sides. The sounds of the blizzard were muffled by the fallen stones, yet it was enough for me to know it was too cold for me to venture back outside. With no other options, I whimper and curl back into myself, accepting my chilly fate.

🌌 - I regained consciousness once more, wondering how I was still alive. 'I wonder how long it's been..' I question to myself, sitting up in the covered den. The darkness still surrounded me as I felt around it again, as if anything would have changed. This time, as I brought my hand down onto the dirt, it sunk, confusing me. I began to dig, not noticing the soil beginning to crumble beneath me. Before I realise, I'm falling. And I black out before I can notice where the hell I fell to.

🌌 - I wake up once more, questioning how many times I've fallen unconscious. I rub my aching forehead, flicking my tail in annoyance. I take in my surroundings. I'm in a cave.. Not the best source of food around here but if I'm lucky I might find water. I humor myself and scream "FUCK!" into the cave, amused by the echo. I look around, realizing I could only go forward. I huff, standing slowly and looking at the pathway in front of me. Having no more options yet again, I begin walking forward.

[Cinna] I look down at myself, then look around the room. Blood covered my clothing, the walls, the floor, and especially the dead bodies "...I finally did it. They're gone. My parents are..." Then realization struck, "Oh no, they're gone— what do I do?"My eyes dark around the room in panic, looking for an easy way out. "Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit—" I get up and run across the room and grab the vault key. I open it up, grab 9 million dollars and head towards my room. Bloodied footprints followed behind me as I stepped. "Okay, so the plan," I pause, "the plan is to take the money, get some clothes, take some jewelry, and go..." "But what do I do with the bodies? Uhm...Fuck it, I'll just leave them there." And I do just that. I walk into my room, take off the blood-covered gloves and stuff my clothes in a large suitcase. Then I walk back into the room I was first in—my parents room and walk into their closet. A specific outfit caught my attention. It was a pretty blue dress. The dress that my mother wore to go to work. She wasn't here all the time, but I've always liked that dress. I remember telling her that I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. "I guess it's still true," I say as I take the piece of clothing off the hanger and walk out. Blue and red lights flashed through the window. I stopped moving for a moment trying to figure out what they were. "Welp...that isn't good, now is it?"

(A link to the second part cuz theres a shit ton) https://fandomclutterr.tumblr.com/post/653762329525321728/im-just-gonna-compile-a-shit-ton-of-lore

"[stabby anon] I groaned as I rubbed my head. I pushed myself into a sitting position and looked around. I frowned, seeing myself in a room I didn't recognize. Papers and books were scattered around the room. I shakily stood up and picked up a paper nearby by. On it, there was a name, age, and gender. I narrowed my eyes. "My name is Stabby.." I mumbled. I turned my head to the window and noted the raging blizzard outside. I could also swear I saw a figure in the raging snow. Or was there three?"

"[stabby anon] I tore my gaze away from the window and looked down at myself. Grey tank top, black leggings, and white running shoes. What caught my attention was the belt around my waist. I gingerly grabbed the handle of one objected sheathed into it and pulled it out. My breath caught in my throat. It was a dagger. It didn't look like it was made out of any metal I knew of. It was a deep ruby red. I dropped the dagger, my hand trembling. "Where am I..?" I finally asked. But no one answered me."

"[stabby anon] I stumbled until I was backed up against the wall. My hands flew up to my hair and gripped it. I didn't understand what was happening. Where was I? What was this place? Why did I have so many weapons on me? My eyes looked to the floor and spotted a newspaper. Nervously, I bent down and picked it up before standing again. Taking a deep breath, I looked at the front page and froze at the words; "WANTED - STABBY THE ASSASSIN. DEAD OR ALIVE. REWARD $1,000,000". Next to it, my picture."

"[stabby anon] I slid down the wall as the newspaper fell out of my hands. I sat on the floor, my back against the wall. I was speechless. I couldn't even find words. 'I was an assassin? I.. was wanted?' I hung my head and closed my eyes. 'But I don't remember that! I don't remember being an assassin. I don't understand.' I opened my eyes again and rubbed my temples. I spotted the strange dagger again and reached out, grabbing it carefully. I held it up to my face and frowned. "What is my past?""

"[stabby anon] I balanced the dagger on the tip of my finger as a way to entertain myself. I hadn't let the building ever since I woke there. I was surviving off of the rations given. But at the same time, I knew I needed to leave soon. I was running low on food. I tossed the dagger aside. "Woah!" I lent against the wall as, just for a moment, the ground trembled. I frowned and looked out the window. A raging blizzard. "What was THAT? It couldn't have been an earthquake during a blizzard, right?""

"|Prompt Anon| I looked up at the cracks of the caverns. I frowned, still hearing the raging winds of the blizzard. 'Again?' I questioned silently. 'Why do we always have blizzards in winter?' I shook my head before walking into Writer's and I's cave home. I saw her sitting on the carpet, reading a book. I smiled before a thought struck me. 'A blizzard.. A blizzard happened on the day I found her. One happened one the day I went to see Cinna. Could these be connected somehow?'"

"|Prompt Anon| "What's Starlight Mayhem?" I heard Writer asked. I looked up from tending from some vines and turned my head to her, seeing she was reading a book. I chuckled softly. "It's.. another world, in a sense. Do you see the illustrations of the people there?" I smiled at her nod. "Those are what those people look like." "... CJ looks hot." I bursted out laughing at her response, closing my eyes and shaking my head. 'Oh my goodness.'"

"|Prompt Anon| I walked around the library. It wasn't the one Writer knew of in our home. Instead, it was located deeper in the caverns. She would know of it when she was older. As now, however, I needed to do research. "Where could it be?" I whispered. My claw skimmed over the binds of the books before finding the one I needed. I carefully took it out and opened it. It wasn't long before I found the passage I wanted. I sighed and closed it after a minute. "So, we have new people here...""

“|Prompt Anon| I let my claws lightly scratch the rock walls as I walked down the ledges. My eyes stayed trained on the faint lights below. The lights to the library. Whoever that was, they must have fallen in through the roof of it. Grabbing a vine, I jumped off of the ledge and slid down the vine. My eyes still stayed trained on the library. I felt the claws on my other hand grow larger from instinct. "Just who are you?" I muttered to myself.“

"|Prompt Anon| I slid off of the vine and landed on the floor of the library, the wooden planks creaking beneath my weight. I looked around before spotting the falling anon. They were a blank, grey-skinned human-like figure with only a question mark and a mouth on their face. I hummed faintly and flicked my newly-appeared tail, which has barbs on the end of it. I narrowed my eyes before walking towards the person. "Who are you, and how did you even get here?" I hissed, brandishing my claws."

“|Prompt Anon| I blinked as I examined Remington, or as they preferred, Noodles. I slowly let my claws shrink back to their normal size, but still kept my tail out. I lowered it to a non-threatening level before standing up straight. "I assume you don't even know where you are, Noodles?" I asked, looking down at them. Sometimes I forget how tall I am.”

“|Prompt Anon| I hummed as I sat down in front of Noodles. I willed my tail to disappear, despite me still having doubts about this person. "We are entirely underground, Noodles," I began. "This entire cave system is hidden to the Fandom Grounds. Only my adopted and I know of this place." I continued before letting a small smile break through.“

“|Prompt Anon| I shifted my hold on the young girl in my arms as I trudged through the blizzard. I knew my current form wouldn't be enough to keep this child alive. I flicked my tail in annoyance. 'When I get my hands on whoever did this..' I sighed and shook my head before looking around. I frowned. I could have sworn I saw a house before the blizzard hit. But now, everything seemed so foggy. I couldn't even remember where the caverns were. I cursed and held the child closer before sprinting.“

"Writer anon - I curled up in the snow, my body shivering. I didn't need to open my eyes to know my skin was turning a light blue. I didn't know how I got here, or when. All I knew was that I was going to die. I nearly sat up at the sound of a voice in the distance. But I couldn't. Everything felt frozen. Too frozen. I let out a shaky breath and curled up more. I gave a small squeak when someone picked me up. "It's okay, small one," I heard them say. "You're going to be okay. I swear on it.""

[noodle anon] "I slammed the front door open and quickly tried to make a break for it, only to get grabbed by a vine and have it hoist me into the air. "GOD DAMNIT GABRIEL, LET ME GO, HE'S GOING TO KILL ME IF HE FINDS ME", I shout as I turn to look back at the door. My friend who I've known my whole life was standing there, tears steaming down his face as he looked up at me; the vine that was holding me up was coming out of his palm. "I-I c-can't let you go out into a blizzard and d-die! There h-h-has to be somewhere we can take y-you", Gabe stutters out between sobs, he gently lowers the vine until my feet are on the ground, he lets me go. "You know there's nothing we can do! I fucked up Gabe...I have to go somewhere, I would rather die from the blizzard than by the hands of that fucking monster!", I say as I look at Gabe. Gabe nods after a moment, grabbing my arm, he drags me back inside, locking the door behind us. Gabe aggresivly calls out for Sam and after a second the black haired cat hybrid rushes into the room. "I need you to make a tunnel that goes somewhere far from here, I don't care where just get her to safety", Gabe says to Sam, the hybrid nods in response. Sam slams his foot on the ground and the floor next to him caves in as a huge hole appears in the ground. I look down into the hole, not being able to see the bottom wasn't a concern of mine right now. I turn to Gabe and hug him as tightly as I can, not knowing if I'll see him again. Gabe returns the hug with no hesitation, he was violently trembling and I do my best to calm him down. "I'll see you again, don't worry about me, when this all blows over I'll come back...I promise", I whisper to Gabe. Gabe nods slightly as he lets me go, before he can say anything though the front door slams open. I don't even have time to react before Gabe pushes me into the hole, the darkness swallows me within seconds."

"[noodle anon] I felt dizzy as hell and my back hurt a shit ton, it took me a moment to process where I even was...I...was in a library? I sit up after moment, hissing in pain as I do so; the more I look around I start to realize that this must be in a cave of some kind...where in the fresh hell did Sam send me? I don't see anyone yet but I quickly turn into my other form, a blank, grey skinned human like figure with only a question mark and a mouth on it's face."

"[noodle anon] I jump and look over at the source of the voice, even though I don't have a normal face anyone could tell I was straight up fucking terrified from what little expression I could show. "M-my name's Remington but most p-people just call me Noodles. L-long story short I got here by a portal like tunnel a friend m-made to get me o-out of a d-dangerous situation", I say quickly, stumbling over half my words. I scoot away from the new person, I don't stand up out of fear it would be seen as a threat and also I don't know if I can even walk at the moment.“

"[noodle anon] "I have no clue if I'm being honest, I'm pretty sure my friend didn't even know where the tunnel was gonna take me either", I say and I relax a small bit. I take a marker out of my pocket and start to draw something on my arm. "So, is this entire place underground or is it just some kind of illusion?", I ask while drawing."

“I stop drawing and glance up at the...person? I don't think they're even a human at this point. "Please tell me this isn't one of those situations where someone stumbles across a place they shouldn't have and they get killed for it...I've already been attacked several times today and I just fell from god knows how high up so can't attack you even if I wanted to", I say, trying to keep my voice steady.“

“🕳️- Cold. That's all I feel as I float in who knows where. My eyes were sealed shut, my breath shallow, and my body peaceful. I couldn't think about anything. It was like I was at peace. It wasn't until my face scrunched up at the feeling of something hot land at the tip of my nose. The heat spread throughout my body as I flinched in retaliation. Opening my eyes I stared at a light, it gave me a warm feeling. The light wasn't blinding, but comforting. The heat subsided as I reached out to the light. But just as I did I felt something pull me down. And just like popping a bubble, suddenly I couldn't breath. A liquid like substance swallowed my frame whole. The thing pulling me down only tightened it's hold on me as I struggled. I tried to breath but all I got was the disgusting muck. I reached out to the light, getting farther and farther away.I let out a scream. I didn't want to leave the light, I didn't want to succumb to darkness again. I tried calling out to whoever or whatever the light was. But nothing came. Everything was muffled and distorted as I sank deeper. But just as I was on the verge of passing out, a hand suddenly emerged and grabbed a hold of my cape. The hand then pulled me up. But everything went blank as I lost consciousness.”

[twruniversity-blog]

Accepted Spain!

Where is Hui? They’re supposed to be doing this. Not me.

You already know the drill. Move in within three days or your tardiness will be punished. Suspension sounds nice-- Oh! Expulsion sounds better.

OOC;

Name: Maria Age: Twenty-three Pronouns: Any; don’t care Activity: 6/7 Contact: skykeep.tumblr.com. Ships for Muse: I mean, I think it’s obvious by now lmao Skype: spheryu Timezone: GMT +10/11 (AEDT) Triggers/Sensitive Subjects: Trypophobia Any Concerns?: Yes, everything; pls don’t put this in character tag bc i have really bad anxiety when it comes to my app being completely in the open lol

IC;

Character: Kingdom of Spain Full Name / Preferred Name: Maria Ana Fernández Carriedo (birth name); Antonio Fernández Carriedo (“Antonio Fernández” - preferred name) Age: 20 years old Birthday: February 12th, 1997 Gender: DFAB; Male Pronouns: He/Him Housing: Pīwakawaka House (Single) Pets: N/A

IC - In Depth;

Magical Branches: Fire

Ahurei (Unique Ability): [ i’ll think of a.. name for this later rip ]

Antonio’s ahurei is one that that makes use of paper and flames. An odd combination, yes, but it seems to be his gift. Whenever he wishes to imbue a fiery spell within a piece of paper, all he seemingly has to do is place the sheet over his palm and cover it with his other palm. A soft incantation - something that of a song, really, and the paper begins to burn beneath his palm. Once he removes his palm from above it, what is seen is a shape - paper crafted into an animal, a shape or whatever it is he desires.

But there’s something mystical about the crafted sheet.

Often, he gives these paper crafts to particular people - people who he cares for, those who seem to be suffering from something emotionally; he gifts such items to people who are in need of emotional healing. Whether it be something as a little push to steer them in a positive direction or one to help them feel ten times better than before - that is what this fiery imbued crafted sheet can do.

Upon the sheet, there tends to be a word. One that, if spoken by the receiver of the gift, would trigger the enchantment he’d left within the craft to be lit, causing it to combust into flames and release the spell that had been hidden deep within. A fire spell - a fire spell of emotional healing.

When the craft combusts, it turns into flames, soon turned to ash and swept away. But as this happens, that is when the spell does it’s magic. It has the ability to manipulate one’s feelings - not entirely, but only a little. To help one feel better, whether they’re simply feeling under the weather or emotionally hurting from something. He creates to enchant, and the enchant destroys what he creates, all for the sole purpose of ensuring the giftee and their dark world becomes alit, even if for a temporary moment.

Major/s: BS in Marine Biology (Honours) Minor/s: Fire (Magic); Biophysics (Science) Type of Degree: Bachelor (second year) Clubs: Astronomy / Dueling / Pegasus Racing (Magic); Basketball / Soccer / Swimming (Sports)

Appearance: Considering he is one to be designated as a female at birth, there are many elements within his physique that tend to lack ties with his masculinity, but never let this fool you. With a stature quite small, one would think it’d serve no purpose aside from being an annoyance for someone such as him. However at 5’3” - or better yet, one hundred and sixty-five centimeters, this has become more of a creative and challenging advantage rather than a disadvantage.

Figure-wise, he has a body which tends to linger between that from average to fit and much of the muscle within his arms and legs - primarily his calves - are rather toned. His fingers tend to appear rather slender, however, and he tends to trim his fingernails constantly. The shape of his hips appear much wider than what he’d desire for them to be as they are often stated to be a great utilization for childbirth but in reality, they serve as a bit of an insecurity for him. Along with this, seeing as he refuses to undergo hormone replacement therapy, his chest isn’t as flat as he desires. It’s one that ranges comfortably between that of a high figure B to a C, though to others, he tends to appear somewhat flat due to the binding he wears. The latter and the former tend to be one of the reasons he has become more conscious of the type of clothing he wears, along with the color, as he tries to go for colors that tone down his figure, making him appear more slimmed down than what’s truly beneath.

The skin complexion he bears is one of an olive color with an additional few kisses from the sun, causing it to appear just a shade or two darker and, over his skin - primarily that of his facial features, he has freckles scattered over his warm skin. His lips tend to be a bit of a dark peach in color; the soft, round eyes he has are that of a grass-like green - close to that of an emerald green tone.

Sprouting from the top of his head is a chocolate dark brown/brunet color. Uncouth and soft yet requires little to no time in management. It is one that covers a good portion of his forehead with his fringe, and at times, tends to cover parts of his ears when not nestled behind them. It isn’t all too long, however is not one to be considered an undercut. When it comes to body hair, he lacks quite the amount of it upon his arms and legs. And, despite this, if there tends to be some growing, he has a habit of shaving it off immediately as he’d prefer being clear of hair than having bits and pieces scattered, rather than his limbs being completely covered - he prefers a consistency within it.

Headcanons:

At the age of six, there had been a bit of a fire mishap during recess at school. He’d been sitting with a friend he had made, simply braiding her hair when, oddly enough, the ends of her hair had caught on fire whilst he’d been absentmindedly toying with it. As to how it happened, no one knew - but it didn’t take long until Antonio was able to understand how. What a pity.

Despite not having gone to a school of magic, he’d been able to study his own magic at home - he’s very much self-taught when it comes to all of the fire spells he’s knowledgeable within. Hence his comfort of not needing a wand to do so. Which, then became a problem when he had to use the wand during his first year of university - much discomfort and unease.

Since birth, there was one thing he knew for certain that stood out - his voice had never been too feminine or anything of the sort. Perhaps as an infant, yes, but as he continued to grow up, it seemed his voice was one that ranged within an ambiguous kind of voice rather than gender focused. This aided him greatly as not having too feminine of a voice meant there was one less thing for him to worry about, and quite frankly, he is rather content with the sound of his voice. Even so, he still does vocal training in his spare time in order to ensure it stays that way.

Hormone replacement therapy is something he has considered a few times before, however there are multiple reasons as to why he objects on obtaining the therapy for himself. Aside from both the physical and psychological effects, and all the financial things involved, one of his greatest concerns is the fact that - despite not being completely happy in the body he’s been given, this body was the one his mother had brought to the world, therefore he feels this form to be one of the last things she left prior to passing away.

Make-up, primarily that for contouring, had become an important part of his morning routine seeing as his face is often leaning towards a rounded form. And because of this, he’d often contour in hopes of making it appear just a bit more on edge and masculine, rather than too feminine. Aside from that, he doesn’t do much else and recently, he’s becoming just a bit less dependent on it in hopes of developing self acceptance of his softer features.

Has a tattoo of the virgo constellation over left inner wrist. It’s black and white, seeing as color doesn’t show all too well upon his skin, and the size itself isn’t too farfetched. The stars and the connecting lines are seen over another tattoo below it - a set of orchids branching off from the connecting lines, much more faint in saturation. This tattoo holds a special place within his heart as it’s the birth sign and the favorite flower of his mother – the one who he always thought so dearly of despite her parting so earlier on.

There’s plenty of somewhat visible scarrings left upon his back, though most are in the process of fading due to the oil he tends to rub against it, in order to rid himself of said scars. The scars were from multiple mishaps during his youth. He’s always been a rather reckless child, partaking in activities that often led him needing multiple bandages per week. For example; climbing fences, with wires, never ends beautifully if you’re not quick in your steps.

The rosary around Antonio’s neck is a gift from his grandmother. It was one she had since she was but a child and had given it to Antonio as both a lucky charm and something of that of an inheritance. He always keeps it close and often wears it under his clothing; he becomes rather sentimental whenever the subject of his rosary is brought up in conversations.

Father isn’t all to keen about his gender identification - ignorant to it all, however he doesn’t necessarily give Antonio a hard time over the subject, and at times tries to call Antonio by his chosen name, but often slips into calling him by his birth name instead - much to Antonio’s dismay. Along with this and many other conflicting views, Antonio and his father have a somewhat tense relationship; it doesn’t help that his father is a workaholic and is a bit closed off from all else.

When severely stressed to the point of depression becoming much more evident, he tends to lock himself away from others and becomes a bit disconnected from the world. Considering how social he is, however, this becomes rather difficult to do so he’s become accustomed to bottling his own emotions to refrain from worrying others. If he can, he’ll spend time locked away doing things such as paper craft, reading and walking aimlessly in order to free his mind temporarily of stress.

Although he is relatively active on social media with sharing things, updating and the such, when it comes to actual communication with people, he tends to be somewhat lacking. The same goes when it comes to text, however it doesn’t mean he won’t respond. The enthusiasm may be much less than what you’d expect, as he’d much prefer speaking to someone vocally and/or face-to-face.

Personality: Antonio is quite the ray of sunshine by nature, and often enough, he finds joy in the little things. There’s this iconic smile on his face that, when it disappears, you’ll immediately know something is not right with the Spaniard as he’s rarely seen without it. In general, he’s rather approachable and wouldn’t mind taking time out of his schedule to meet up for a chat and some food. After all, food is always better with company, is it not? Most of the time, he’s rather open about his thoughts and feelings over things, and has the tendency of letting people know of things that interest or pique his curiosity on that day.

However, he is thick-headed at times and things /do/ tend to fly over his head, mostly when there is a lack of interest in the matter (though he will try to appear interested, and will allow the other to continue speaking but probably won’t instigate them to continue with elaborating unless he eventually does become interested) or he doesn’t find himself knowledgeable on the topic. But still, he’ll do what he can to meet the other halfway.

Albeit thick-headed at times, he can be rather observant when he feels like it. He’s not stupid, even if he may appear that way at times. In fact, he’s rather smart and does weigh the pros and cons to many things but at the same time, he’s extremely impulsive. Honestly, it just depends on how he feels about things, as he’s a very intuitive person who would rather go about things at his own pace, rather than being forced to accept things in an instant. Because, to him, where’s the fun of that? If he isn’t interested, then there will be no motivation for him and it’ll only lead to a very boring and not well thought out plan, or whatever the thing is. Know that, when he does have the motivation and/or passion to do something, he’ll often aim for an outcome that is more than ‘average’.

Of course, he isn’t always smiles and fun times. When angered, he can be a force to be reckoned with. He’s the kind who often bottles up how he feels but once he reaches his melting point, he’ll explode. Best not to be around when this happens though, as it’s either tears falling from his eyes or him wanting to punch the wall in a fit of rage. However, it does take quite a bit to actually push his buttons, so this anger of his might be something rarely to never seen, depending on the person.

Strengths:

Adventurous

Charismatic

Compassionate

Passionate

Tenacious

Weaknesses:

Audacious

Impulsive

Intuitive

Reckless

Slow-Witted

Backstory: [ i’ll probably rewrite this tbh; just wanna get my app in ]

Valencia–a beautiful place quite known to tourism for that of its futuristic architecture, a true love and appreciation for both the arts and science, as well as having beautiful rivers and beaches that connected themselves to the mediterranean sea. Third largest city within Spain, and the origins which brought fruition to paella. This place is known for very many things, but to this one child, it’s home.

At least, it was for a short matter time. With a father who often travelled in a frantic manner for international business relations, and a mother whose passing had taken its toll upon all within the family, it seemed unavoidable. The child whose home rested within the warmth of Spain, and had grown a love for the surrounding ocean had been moved with all else to another country for the sake of convenience, much rather than an outright planned intention to migrate. Merely six at the time before life changed so suddenly.

The child’s name? Maria Ana Fernández; named after her mother - Maria, and her grandmother, Ana.

Now, there was always a few things that stood out when it came to Maria. For one, those within the private school she had been enlisted to attend had seen her as an odd girl. The long, brunet hair that made its way down to her lower back and the soft look within her features weren’t enough to keep others from being rather suspicious of her. She was the kind who, seemingly enough, got along with everyone - which was good, but what made her stand out amongst the other girls was her odd choice of activities.

A longing for adventure, an uneasy feeling when kept sitting still and taught ettiquete. The school was grand - that was true, however Maria struggled to fit in despite it all due to her need to get out and about to do things and enjoy things that the other girls never seemed too into. And it wasn’t as if she despised the feminine activities - no. She showed great skill within arts and craft, and an enjoyment of dressing up, but still, she found herself being left out. Was it her accent, or her inability to speak proper english?

Or was it perhaps because she had almost set another girl’s hair on fire without knowing how? She didn’t know. All she knew was that it did not take long until relocation had happened once more. With her father’s business affairs being switched elsewhere, they had moved to Florida, in a place called St. Augustine. This area, with its few historic touches of the home she knew, had soon become the place she’d spend much of her life within.

It was during her time here that she had learned many things - of her father and the stress he held when it came to work, of the area that surrounded him, to speak the english language much more fluently and other things she’d pick up along the way. But most importantly, she had learned more about herself.

Moving to a new country was hard enough, mostly when accompanied by grieving the loss of one’s mother and the workaholic nature of one’s almost always absent father. Coming home from school every day to be left alone in an empty home, and having to spend weekends alone as well - those kinds of things would bring any child down, and it did to her. But it also gave her much time to think and find things that would soon allow her to fully understand herself further.

You see, from a young age - primarily during her time in Spain, she had noticed something. And that something had become quite visible and distinct during her time in the private school, prior to moving elsewhere. She had always been different. And no– it did not have to do with the fire; the fire incident had eventually been explained to her by her father. Something along the lines of inheriting the same magic her mother had, and how it was rare for children to be born with such power. In fact, he had provided her much reading over the subject. Books her mother had collected over the years that her father had kept in secret, just in case. It was best to say he was quite prepared for the possibility of his daughter being like his wife.

No–the difference Maria had felt was one that stood out like a sore thumb whenever she laid eyes upon her form in front of the mirror. Just who was she looking at? Resemblances of her mother pierced through her eyes, but aside from that, there was nothing else. She did not feel like she belonged in such a body, nor did she feel as if this was truly her. At such a young age, only having recently become a teenager, it was only in this time that she had been able to take a look at herself to think things through.

How.. did she feel, exactly? The answer was so simple yet at the same time, difficult.

Maria did not feel like Maria at all. Maria was the name of her mother, and Ana was the name of her grandmother’s. Two women who did extraordinary things. Two women that meant more than the world to her but–perhaps that was it? She had the name of two people who she looked up to but could never feel like she could become. She wore the body conceived by her parents - a spitting image of her mother. But this wasn’t who she was. And she knew that quite well.

And that was when it all began. Unsure of what she was or who she was, Maria continued on with her studies. Studying endlessly, and when she became sixteen, she began applying for work to do whilst studying. Never did she like the idea of depending on her father entirely for money, no matter how well off they were. However, this was more than just job applications.

Applying for a job meant you’d have to sell yourself on a resume. To show people why you should be employed and to tell them who you are. In most cases, this would be like second nature. Simply write your birth name and all else, then you’d be done. But for Maria, her job application was much more different. It was the first time she had ever used the name she wanted, and the first time she–no, he had ever stated his gender to be.

Antonio Fernández | Male

The name had been one he wanted to use for years now, and a change of pronouns had been one he’d wished for, for so long. However fear of rejection from others had always been in the back of his mind. Despite his outgoing nature and how carefree he often appeared, the truth was, he was much of a worrier as the next person. But continuing to be who he felt was not him had done nothing but wear him down excessively inside. Had it not been for one of his close friends, he may have given up entirely and given into the norms of society.

From then on, it became the name he slowly began to use more often. The name given to him would always remain special but the name he had chosen - he was sure his mother would be proud of, even if his father did not approve of it very much. With a change of name being his first step, slowly, he began to change his outlook on things, and the way he appeared in general. From cutting his long hair extremely short, to altering the way he dressed. Slowly but surely, he began to feel much more free and content with himself, even with a few insecurities here and there.

By the time Antonio had graduated from high school, his entire appearance had seemingly changed, and the girl all once knew had become a man of great feats. Graduating meant it was time to start anew, and with his fluctuating relationship with his father, he had chosen to move out of the state to rent a place elsewhere with the money he had been saving, as well as the money his mother had put away for him many years ago. While living across the country, the friend who had been with him from the beginning had chosen to share an accommodation with him, and together they spent their days working or applying for colleges both within and out of the country.

This gap year had only lasted a year, however, as soon enough, he had received emails and letters back regarding his college applications. Though the one that stood out the most had been the one he never recalled applying for at all. A magical university in New Zealand – it was not one he had heard about, nor did he know that there were even such things aside from the tales he had read in his mother’s books.

And thus, seemingly enough, that was where he had chosen to go, as odd as it may have been.

Sample RP:

[ just copying this from an rp lol rip. my brain is hella dead ]

For a couple months, they told him. Just until we get all the information we need, they reassured him. Though, honestly, he knew it’d last longer than that. What, with all the experience he had in such jobs; this was nothing. Easy. Like stealing candy from a baby. Except it wasn’t candy he was stealing, and it was most definitely not from an infant.

Though, this gang could be considered a baby, couldn’t it?

Regardless, here he was. Being spoken to. And much like his orders, all he could do was stare rather blankly. It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand what was being said. English was a language he was well-versed in but this job required for him to play the part of an oblivious Spaniard, new to the neighbourhood and the country itself. One that was illegal to the country.

“Ah–Qué? No entiendo. Sor-” A pause, as his eyes lifted from the person before him to that of the ceiling. “-ry?” Then followed was a bite to his inner cheek, green gaze returning to meet the other with a sheepish smile. Nothing but a beautiful, yet filthy, facade. “Nombre es Antonio.”

-

[ OH AND THIS TOO...  ]

God. This guy was a hell of a lot more difficult than he appeared. Antonio was well aware that accidentally setting someone ablaze would lead to frustrations but it wasn’t like he had just left him out on his own to burn and possibly die.

“Maybe I should use my wind to dry you up then,” he mumbled, though seemingly enough, did not even bother to do so. He no longer felt any need nor want to use his magic to aid this guy. Completely ridiculous, he was.

“Just because no one wants to fuck a tree, doesn’t mean you have to put your loneliness onto me,” he huffed, arms crossed. “And no, I don’t set my kids on fire, because they’re basically made of that themselves.” In fact, they were the ones setting Antonio and his belongings on fire. The amount of books he’d lost to their flames - primarily that of Ariel’s magic - was.. well, we don’t speak of it.