#i looked through so many write ups about these fish and like none of them mentioned the live broadcast aspect

[sparrowlucero]

So what do we think Beebe's fish were then? I heard tell that the sailfin might have been a squid and that the angelfish was probably a comb jelly, but what about the giant dragonfish or the rainbow gar?

For those not in the know, in the 1930s, biologist William Beebe (who you (read: I) might know as the guy who predicted microraptor) and engineer Otis Barton (hollywood actor?? and designer of fucked up submarines and "jungle spaceships", ok otis) got into a fucked up submarine and went to the bottom of the ocean off the coast of bermuda (in what, iirc, was the first study of deep sea fish in their natural habitat), where he described several fish unknown to science. None of these fish have been identified since. (Side Note: to continue off of "audubon was unfamiliar with the bald eagle" in my last post, this one also has a theory I find a bit silly in "perhaps they just hallucinated fake fish from oxygen deprivation" despite both witnessing the same fish and a lot of his scary book about the dive that you can read here including many lucid observations of known species. It wasn't like he got down there and only saw weird fish and nothing else) The fish in order: Three-starred anglerfish, Abyssal Rainbow Gar, Pallid sailfin, Five-lined Constellation Fish

and yeah I do see why people think these might have been invertebrates mistakenly identified as fish. In his book, Beebe holds off on describing unfamiliar fish if he didn't see them well, but, you know, those little gars really do look like squid. I personally think the most likely one to be a real fish is the angler, since he saw it closely and was able to note several physiological differences in jaw structure that distinguished it from other angler fish.

The most notable one is the "Untouchable Bathysphere Fish", a giant 6 foot long dragonfish (largest known dragonfish is about 2 feet long):

Several minutes later, at 2100 feet, I had the most exciting experience of the whole dive. Two fish went very slowly by, not more than six or eight feet away, each of which was at least six feet in length. They were of the general shape of large barracudas, but with shorter jaws which were kept wide open all the time I watched them. A single line of strong lights, pale bluish, was strung down the body. The usual second line was quite absent. The eyes were very large, even for the great length of the fish. The undershot jaw was armed with numerous fangs which were illumined either by mucus or indirect internal lights. Vertical fins well back were one of the characters which placed it among the sea-dragons, Melanostomiatids, and were clearly seen when the fish passed through the beam. There were two long tentacles, hanging down from the body, each tipped with a pair of separate, luminous bodies, the upper reddish, the lower one blue. These twitched and jerked along beneath the fish, one undoubtedly arising from the chin, and the other far back near the tail. I could see neither the stem of the tentacles nor any paired fins, although both were certainly present. This is the fish I subsequently named Bathysphera intacta, the Untouchable Bathysphere Fish.

I believe this solely because it's really cool Though I want posit a theory I've never heard before: it's almost never remarked upon that he discovered these weird fish over a live (now lost media that no one is searching for, get on that) NBC radio broadcast. Maybe he just made up some cool sea monsters with a big climactic sea serpent for said broadcast, both because I would totally do that if it were me and also so he had a good excuse to sign off and get the fuck out of this situation:

[diremoone]

quiet kisses | r. sukuna

prompt 2��— “I’ll kiss you anywhere but under the mistletoe.”

requested by @yuujispinkhair :: Heyyy babe, your Christmas prompt post is so cute 💗💗 If you feel inspired, can you please write a little something for Sukuna + prompt 2 or prompt 7 (whichever you prefer)? 💗💗

a/n: AHHHH thank you so much for sending this in Winter! 🤩 I can’t tell you how much I nearly exploded seeing your request in my inbox! I went with prompt 2 because that’s the one my brain started working for the fastest. I hope you like it and I did your request justice :3

w — alcohol mention, fluff, everyone is 20+ in this fic, modern AU, mentions of prompt 7 heehee, softie! sukuna, sukuna cooks at the end lmao but it’s not related to the chef! sukuna fic

[ Christmas Prompt List ]

[ Christmas Event Masterlist ]

Nobara putting on this Christmas party was anything but unexpected. She was a party girl at heart, but nothing like what you’d see at a frat house or a club. No, she was the party master (or so she likes to call herself). And you kinda had to agree. Her parties weren’t over the top, but they definitely were anything but boring.

This time was no different: catering, along pizza and wine delivery, along with some of the more higher-rated Christmas movies playing on the TV with English Christmas music playing on the background, just loud enough that it wasn’t obnoxious.

You knew your boyfriend had to agree, even if he hated attending social events and parties.

What an introvert, you muse to yourself. You wonder how many people realize that as much as Sukuna seems like it, he doesn’t actually like parties. Nor anyone but himself and you at said parties.

You and Sukuna are off to the side against the bar that separates the kitchen and living area, deep in your own little world of each other. You’re leaning on him, his big arm wrapped around your shoulders comfortably.

You nudge him. “This isn’t so bad. See!”

Sukuna scoffs. “That’s what you said when you forced me into that Santa costume last year.”

“But you had some fun, didn’t you?”

“In the suit? No. Terrorizing children in it? Absolutely.”

You slap his chest. He catches your hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. You grumble. “You idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he remarks with a grin.

Suddenly, like magic, the party suddenly gets loud. Jingle Bells comes on the playlist set up, and everyone has begun to sing as loud as they possibly can. Sukuna grumbles and plugs one ear with a finger, rolling his eyes. He keeps on ear open, and you know it’s just to listen to you as you attempt to sing your way through the giggles.

When the song ends, everyone cheers. Sukuna unplugs his one ear and sighs, taking another sip of the hot chocolate you’ve made for him. They all quiet down, giggling and giddy from the sudden excitement of the old but catchy tune.

But why is everyone now looking at his and your direction?

And then everyone starts chanting: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You and Sukuna look up at the same time, seeing a mistletoe being hung over your heads by a fishing rod, but none other than the Party Master herself. Nobara grins sadistically with an evil glint in her eye.

Sukuna cusses and downs the rest of his drink before saying, “I think that’s our cue to leave. Nice party, Kugisaki.”

You attempt to down the rest of yours before he grabs your hand with his bigger one and leads you out the front door, almost stumbling over your own two feet.

Behind you, everyone complains about Sukuna being a “party pooper” and leaving. Before you two leave, he turns back to them and gives them the finger.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if we weren’t the only couple here. Maybe Geto and Gojo should finally shack up,” Sukuna says with an evil grin. The two men next to each other go redder than tomatoes in record time. Sukuna isn’t done though, looking at his little brother. “And maybe you and Fushiguro should finally get a room, too, baby brother.”

The chaos from your boyfriend’s words gives you the chance to leave without trouble, the two unspoken couples now being the main attention of Kugisaki’s evil fishing rod-mistletoe.

Maybe they’ll be together come New Years, you think happily.

Sukuna drives you both home. One hand on the wheel, the other intertwined sweetly with yours. But by the time you get home, you’re halfway asleep in the car, hot cocoa being the perpetrator of your tiredness. You attempt to blink and wake up, but Sukuna’s gruff, “Stay put.” halts you as he turns the car off, keeping his keys in one hand.

You have no idea what he’s doing until he opens your door and slides his arms under your back and legs. You squeal and giggle as he effortlessly picks you up from your seat.

“Goddamn, you got the giggles tonight,” he mutters.

Like he’s done it a thousand times (he’s at least done it a couple dozen), Sukuna unlocks the front door with you in his arms with pure ease. He carries you over the threshold like a husband would his bride and doesn’t set you down. He hoists you up, readjusting your position closer to his chest. And then you see the cunning look in his eyes.

“Sukuna, what are you— mmph!”

He dips his head and captures your lips with his. He’s warm, so warm and comforting. You feel so safe and loved in his hold and damn do you love him. Your arms naturally tighten their hold around his neck as you two kiss in your home.

When Sukuna pulls away, he chuckles. You’re slightly breathless from the sudden kiss, but grinning nonetheless.

“You couldn’t do that at the party?” you inquire curiously.

“I’ll kiss you anywhere but under the mistletoe,” he replies honestly. “Especially at a party in front of people. Not my thing to make such an intimate spectacle of ourselves.”

Your heart flutters and overflows with love at his desire to keep his affection solely for your eyes to see. Sukuna has never been one to kiss or do intimate things in public beyond hand holding or wrapping his arm around your shoulders. For him, he considers that to be sacred; any acts of love he prefers to be behind closed doors, kept between the two of you and not in front of people to be fawned over or talked about.

“You really are the sweetest man I’ve ever met,” you say. “I’m so lucky. I really got the best man ever, didn’t I? Thanks, Universe.”

Your boyfriend’s cheeks tint red. A rare sight.

“Fuck. No, I’m the lucky one.” Sukuna gives you a fat smooch on the lips, the adds, “But I don’t have the universe to thank. I got you all by myself.”

You toss your head back and laugh at his indirect proclamation of arrogance. Or maybe it was just unshakable confidence, who knows?

Sukuna sets you down on the couch and asks, “What do you want for dinner?”

You think for a moment before replying, “Didn’t you say wanted to make some penne vodka the other day? That sounds good.”

“Penne alla vodka,” he corrects you with a stern eye.

You toss your hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry.”

But as Sukuna gets to work on the dish, you can’t help but stare at him as he works. He could be a master chef like Gordon Ramsey, if not better. But you’re kinda glad he’s not, not if you get to see him in your kitchen every night.

Yeah, you’d trade any party and PDA for his quiet kisses and love at home any day.

taglist:

@vagabond-umlaut | @poe-daydreams | @heresan @thedovahqueen | @lotus-n-l0ve | @chiyoso | @miraclecherryblossomsblog | @unbreakableblueheaven | @marscatbutler | @vanillabloo | @wo-ming-bai | @visionsofmagic | @tohsri | @lilacliliess | @bub-ss | @missmuffinr

[optimist-pine]

Returns

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: None

Summary: Daryl finds something in his pack that doesn't belong to him... (ps. it's yours)

Era: Season 2, the farm

A/n: This is a silly little thank you for everyone who's been supporting my writing! If you've liked/commented/reblogged any of my works recently, this is for you. :)

Daryl digs around in his backpack, shoving aside arrow bits and extra clothes in the search for a clean(ish) rag he knows is buried in here somewhere. Ah, there, the glimpse of a red hue must be what he's looking for. He tugs it free, but as he brings it into the daylight it comes to his attention that this piece of cloth doesn't belong to him.

He drops it immediately, head swiveling to make sure nobody saw. But no, he's tucked far away from the rest of the group, not a soul in sight. He gingerly picks up the garment before realizing how ridiculous he's being and shoves it in his pocket. He'll slip into your tent, return it, and get the hell out of there and get on with the rest of his day.

Everyone's either dispersed to other parts of the farm or busy enough completing whatever chores they've taken on to notice him. Even if he didn't already know which tent was yours, it'd be obvious from the plethora of herbs and flowers hanging to dry by the entrance, and the dog-eared foraging guidebook waiting on a lawn chair for your return.

He peers through the screen window to assure himself that you're not around before unzipping the door and stepping inside. A moment too late, he realizes the amount of dirt he's just tracked into your otherwise pristine living space, and curses. Nothing to do about it now he supposes. He squats down, opening your pack and pulling the wayward item out of his pocket.

"Daryl? What're you doing in my-" Your voice makes him jump before your words falter.

His head snaps to you; you're bent down a bit, hands on your hips with sweat dripping down your temple. Your mouth is stuck in a cute little "o" of pure confusion. He's frozen, hand halfway between him and your belongings, lungs stuck mid-breath. He really should say something in his own defense.

"Is that my underwear?" You ask a little more quietly.

"I - uh..." He gapes. He's invading your privacy in so many ways, you're going to think he's a total ass if not a complete creep. And he actually doesn't mind you too much so he doesn't want you to think of him in that way. Not that you think of him at all. But now when you do you're going to hate his guts. "They - uh..." He tries.

"Ohh. I get it." You say, nodding, like this all makes total sense. "I've got something of yours I've been meaning to return, just wasn't sure how to make it not-awkward..." You kneel down beside him, fishing around in a side compartment on your bag. "Buuuut no matter. I believe these belong to you." You hold out a pair of faded boxers that've been rolled up neatly.

"Hey, Rick wants to know if-" Glenn appears in the tent opening and Daryl can practically see the gears struggling to turn in his head as he takes in the two of you so close together, each obviously holding the other's intimates. "Y'know what? Nevermind. Just go talk to Rick when you're done or whatever, okay?" He sighs, walking away.

Daryl wastes no time grabbing his boxers, shoving them in his pocket. You do the same but with more grace, standing to brush off your pants.

You let out a small chuckle, biting down a bit on your lip. "It was so hectic when we left the CDC; must've grabbed each other's stuff then." You step outside and he follows. "Thanks for returning them." You say, stooping to re-zip the tent.

The CDC is such a blur that it takes effort to remember. There weren't enough rooms for everyone and so you'd asked to bunk with him. Even though he was sufficiently intoxicated that night, he'd been lucid enough to appreciate not being alone, your steady breaths in the unsettling darkness had quieted his nerves.

He can't seem to make his eyes stay on you for long, though that doesn't stop your gaze from lingering - he can practically feel every place your eyes land as you study him. "S'no problem." He shrugs.

"Well, I guess I'd better go see what Rick wants..." you sigh, making no noticeable effort to go anywhere.

You're leaving a space for him to say something but he doesn't really have anything to add to that. "Yeah." He replies dumbly.

A soft smile grows upon your lips. "Don't be a stranger, okay? Some of us actually enjoy your company." You nudge his shoulder good-naturedly as you walk away.

He mulls over your words, trying dissect what that last little bit means. You were just being kind, right? He's pretty sure people have barely put up with his company, let alone enjoyed it. Realizing you've already been gone for multiple minutes he pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind and trudges off, noting that there's at least a few hours of good daylight left to make use of. But those thoughts are still there, nagging, toying with him.

---

A couple of days later, when Daryl returns to his camp after a successful enough trip into the woods, there sits your well-loved guidebook. It's laying on the ground where you must've set it when you stopped by earlier and forgotten it when the two of you headed out. He picks it up, flipping through the bent pages and your frequent notes when he passes one that makes him stop and turn back. Next to chanterelle mushrooms you've scribbled 'Daryl - pair w/ venison' . He hadn't caught game that big since back at the quarry, and even then the geeks got to it first. A small swell of pride rises within him at the thought of you planning ahead in this way, of you counting on him to provide.

The feeling follows him as he settles down for the night. Pulling out a flashlight he figures he might as well see if there's anything he can learn from your book... Or maybe that's just an excuse to search for more of your annotations. He'll have another return to make in the morning, but he can't quite bring himself to mind all that much.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

The lovely @piranhaincaps shared the above with me, and I... Hng. Nikprice, Nikprice, Nikprice.

It's a quiet summer evening and Nik stumbles across his captain reading about princes and scarlet sails.

cw: none.

Nik finished stacking the dishwasher and stretched his back, hands pressed to the base. The captain's cooking had improved significantly since they had settled in Meols, but he still used every bowl, pan and utensil their small kitchen could stock and the clean up operation was always significant.

The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight o'clock and Nik considered the open backdoor. John had left to water the plants about an hour ago, which meant he had been distracted by something. Nik grabbed his bottle of beer and headed out to make sure he wasn't about to embark on yet another building project.

The summer air was still warm, even though the sun was disappearing on the horizon. Being so close to the Irish sea meant there was always a fresher tang beneath the heat, and Nik drew in a deep breath as he studied their small garden.

John hated neatly trimmed grass, which had surprised Nik given his military background. No, he liked wild flowers that attracted the bees and butterflies, and growing vegetables they could cook. Their garden had ended up a colourful mishmash of organised chaos, both beautiful and utilitarian. Like John. Nik loved it.

But there was no captain toiling amongst the blooms. Instead, he sat on the patio beneath the awning, bare but for his khaki cargo shorts. A cold beer sat on the table next to him, the pint glass glistening with condensation where the summer heat clung to it, and he held a cigar between two fingers, the smoke drifting lazily into the warm ombre of the sky.

John was just as handsome as the day they had met. He had been a sergeant back then, fewer lines, less grey, but the same serious, bright blue eyes he had now as he read the novel propped on one thigh. As they had aged together, those blue eyes had filled with shadows but Nik had fought to make sure they had also filled with laughter in equal measure. His captain deserved that.

Nik wandered over and deposited himself in the second chair, grinning at the title of the novel. "Scarlet Sails. A romance, John," Nik teased.

A Russian classic, and written in its mother tongue. John had started learning Russian when Nik had started courting him, and now that he had retired he was chewing through Russian literature with a voracious appetite. They were a little more highbrow than the Dan Brown and Tom Clancy novels otherwise cluttering their overburdened bookshelves.

"This one better have a happy ending, Nik. The last one ripped my heart out my arsehole," John murmured, pausing to take a drag from his cigar. Nik watched the smoke leave his nose and was reminded of an aging dragon in repose.

"You forget, so many of these tales were written by men surrounded by anger and austerity. It is difficult to write about hope and happiness when you cannot conceive of these things." Nik's bare toes curled against the warm paving beneath them.

John looked up and fixed Nik with narrow eyes. "Is this a bloody tragedy too? You told me it was a fairytale."

"No tragedy, happy ending, I promise. Grin took his characters far away so he did not have to write something... ideologically driven by the realities of the USSR. It is an ending more suited to your tastes."

"Hmm," John grabbed his bookmark - a folded leaflet advertising a nearby fishing hotspot - and let the novel close. "How did you survive in that environment and still," John waved his cigar in a vague circle, "become you."

"Become me?"

Nik liked this game. John found words of an emotional nature challenging, and he flushed red, became flustered, when Nik pressed him. It was like stroking the soft centre of a noble turtle. "Like, you... uh, kind, and... funny."

"Spasibo," Nik replied, with a grin.

"Pozhaluysta." John obscured his flush with a sip from his pint.

"My father travelled around the satellite states a lot. The closer you were to the West, the easier it was to get hold of the music, the stories, the... hope."

"West isn't exactly a bastion of hope itself, mate."

"Da," Nik conceded, "but to a young man full of energy and dreams, the West was like a fairytale in comparison to the Soviet Union, a world so grey that Alexander Grin had to make up a whole new one, without even Russian names, to conceive of happiness and love that was not doomed to tragedy in the end."

John hummed and Nik let the comfortable silence settle as he mulled over Nik's words. A gentle hand found his on the table, battle roughened fingers impossibly tender as they stroked across the back and into his palm. "You're happy here, right?" John asked as they watched a bee hover over a cluster of wild flowers.

"Da, captain," Nik said softly. "I expected a Tolstoy ending, but... this, this is a Grin."

John smiled, his eyes crinkling, his whiskers twitching around his mouth in that mischievous way that Nik adored, and he lifted Nik's knuckles to his lips. Nik 's heart swelled in his chest and he fought the urge to scoop his love from the chair and carry him inside to show him just how happy he was. John rubbed his cheek against Nik's fingers after the kiss, blue eyes lidded, like a large cat scenting his territory, before returning their clasped hands to the table.

Later, when the night was cooler and John had finished his beer, Nik would guide him to their bed and they would make love. Nik would kiss and taste the summer heat on his skin and listen to his voice crack around his name, entreaties sweeter than the words of Tsvetaeva. But, for now, Nik was content to bask in the gentle quiet of their own happy ending.

[haoboutyou]

foolish one (stop checking your mailbox) | joshua hong

fluff, slightly suggestive | 1154 words | some cursing

a/n: wifey @bluehoodiewoozi: "if you write me an encouraging boyfriend shua x burnt out uni student y/n fic, i'll be the happiest woman on earth" except I wrote none of that :D

The university has dedicated study rooms all around campus, providing a conducive space for students to catch up on their coursework, computer work, or reading. It’s a great place to comfortably work on thesis papers without the stuffy silence of the library, or the rowdiness of the campus courtyard. It is not, unfortunately, a good place to audibly express disappointment every 10 minutes.

Joshua can’t take it anymore. How many times does he have to watch you check your phone whenever a notification pops up, how many times does that hopeful look on your face morph into disappointment when it was just another push-ad from a shopping app? 

He’s just about had it when you let out an audible sigh for the nth time, once again disrupting your supposedly productive study session. And so he bites the bullet, hoping that whatever it is that is distracting you from completing that dreaded thesis is worth all the sighing for.

“What are you waiting for?”

“Huh?” You look up from the laptop, annoyed that he distracted you just as you were about to concentrate.

Right on cue your phone lights up. He snatches the phone faster than you could reach for– it prompts a disgruntled “Shua no!” out of you. Joshua gives the notification a once over before he places the phone screen-up, crossing his arms. 

“You can’t possibly be waiting for–” He squints at the screen, reading out the pop-up banner. “ ‘60% off your next coffee’– Oh… That’s a really good deal.” He looks back up at you, watching as you sink back into your seat at the announcement. “Anyways, you’re clearly not waiting for the coffee. Spill.”

A minute of silence passes as Joshua watches you gape like a fish, mouth opening and closing but unable to find the right words to convey your current dilemma.

“...It’s Lucas–“ 

“You’re still talking to him?!” His disrupted yell earns him multiple death stares from others in the study room. 

You wince at his outburst, but you know it comes from a good place. Lucas, despite being known as the worst frat boy to come out of this university, is also the smoothest talker; somehow, he manages to get every girl on campus swooning at his feet. Joshua personally thinks he’s just a load of bullshit, that you could do better than that walking STD stick. Still,  he sighs when he sees your downcast look, staring blankly ahead at your dimmed laptop screen. 

“Y/n, he’s a player. You got a taste of his dick once and it was good, sure, but you didn’t mean anything to him. I’m serious!”

You hate the connotation that came with his words– it felt like he was calling you a whore. Your brows furrow deeper. You know he didn’t mean to, but it still sounds like that, and it still hurts. 

He realises his mistake almost immediately because as soon as those words come out, he backpedals on them so fast.

“No wait, I– I didn’t mean–” He’s instantly shut down by you, cutting through him like a knife.

You avoid looking straight into Joshua’s eyes, fighting the magnetic pull towards his chocolate eyes. Your next words are soft enough that he has to strain his ears to pick them up. “He isn’t like that though. He said what we had was different! He said I was special, that–“

“That no other girl could compare to you? Y/n, he says that to everyone!” Joshua’s exasperated. His heart breaks a little when he spots how glassy your eyes have become, but he presses on, wanting to tell you the hard truth. “Do you know what he does back at the frat house? He marches around, boasting about how many he’s slept with and what they’re like in bed. He shares those stories like some kind of sick trophy. He’s a disgusting, sorry excuse of a man!” 

Joshua leans forward across the table, engulfing your small hands with his. He rubs the back of your hands with his thumbs, trying to comfort you when notices silent tears running down your face.

“No…” You hiccup, trying to get your words across your sniffles. “I swear, I can change him!” Even you know how ridiculous you sound; there's no changing a fratboy so set in his ways like Lucas. You slump over your laptop, begrudgingly wallowing over your words. You sigh. It’s impossible. You’re just a hopeless romantic chasing after the affections of a man who gave you an ounce of attention.

“I really thought he was gonna be the one, Shua.”

 “There, there. You could do so much better and you know it. Don’t be so foolish!”

“Like who?!” You can’t help but snap at him. You’re desperate, of course; trying to shield your already humiliated and broken heart from his harsh (albeit truthful) words.

His voice drops to a whisper. 

“Like me?”

His grip on you hardens. There’s determination and endearment directed straight at you, that you’ve never noticed before, pouring through his eyes. He gulps; his biggest secret is out. The long-time crush he’s been harbouring on you is now public– to you, at least.

“I can treat you better.” He reaches out to wipe a tear from your cheek, gently caressing your cheek with his thumb. 

You sigh. You’re doing a lot of that today; it's becoming a bit pathetic. “Shua, I'm not in the mood for you joking–”

“I’m not! Hell, I’m already letting you wear my jacket!” He tries to be serious, gesturing to the oversized jacket he lent you earlier, that envelops you around your shoulders. 

He heaves a sigh of relief when you let out a chuckle. His large hands find yours again. You feel yourself calming down, but your cheeks still heat up from his sudden proximity. 

You cock your head to the side. “Why didn’t you say anything before? I mean–” You gesture to the space between you. “Before all this?”

“Because you looked so happy, and I was afraid of ruining it all.” A shy smile graces his face. “Let me make up for it, please?”

You hold your stare, making him wait in anticipation. Finally, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you reply. 

“Buy me lunch, and I’ll think about it.”

“Lunch? Yeah, I can do that.” He can’t help but full-on grin at you. Standing up to gather his things, he extends a hand to pull you up. Ever the gentleman, you think. 

“Lucas was pretty good in bed though. Think you can one-up that?” You joke.

Joshua pulls you into his chest, one arm wrapping around you while the other picks up your bag. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll show you an even better time later.” 

“Later…?” Your voice trails as you let him whisk you away for lunch. He wiggles his brows at you, mischievous demeanour unveiling. 

And so, your thesis remains incomplete yet another day.

[mah-t-wordblog]

can you make a modern au fic lee muichrio ler gyokko???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? thanks

Hehe there it is!!!! 💛💛 hope u like

The Oni of the Vase

Lee: Muichiro Tokito

Ler: Gyokko

(Kimetsu academy universe)

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

Ships: NONE

Warnings: This is a tickle fic, if you don’t like it, just scroll down

This fanfic is originally in Portuguese, my English is translated using an automatic translator, if there are any big errors you can tell me so I can fix them

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

Muichiro was walking normally through the halls of Kimetsu academy, he was heading towards the cafeteria to find Yuichiro

As he passed by the laboratory, he heard something approaching from behind, as his instincts are very fast and sharp, he soon turned to see what it was

But he saw nothing, just a vase of plant

He thought it was normal and kept walking, until he heard the same noise, when he turned around, he was sure that the pot had moved

Muichiro sighed

"Let's go, you must be one of those demons that the school talks so much about, huh? You can show up, I'm not afraid of you”

The vase moved again

“Let's go, I already kicked the other one” Muichiro had already met another demon at school, and kicked it so hard that he made a giant lump on the creature's head

The vase moved, but this time something unexpected happened, a very ugly creature came out of it

It had eyes instead of mouths and mouths instead of eyes, it looked like a snake mixed with a fish, full of scales and it smelled like fish

“Hyu! Hyu! Hello, young man! I see you were looking at my art” the creature said

“No, I was n-“

“My name is Gyokko” the oni interrupted him “and I make these wonderful, incredible and beautiful vases, what do you think?”

Muichiro looked at the ceramic piece and shrugged “cool”

He prepared to continue on his way, but Gyokko teleported close to him and held him

“Look closely! You didn't even look!”

Muichiro looked at the vase again “it’s a little crooked”

Gyokko gasped “WHAT?”

“Here” Muichiro pointed to one side of the vase “it’s crooked. I didn’t like it”

“Argh! You idiot! I’m going to- I” Gyokko growled

“What are you going to do, ugly demon?” The boy faced him

“Do what I do to those who ignore or speak ill of my art, hyu! Hyu!”

Gyokko quickly grabbed both of Muichiro’s arms, the boy got scared and started to struggle

“Let go of me you piece of shit!” The boy cursed

“Ah! What a dirty mouth, hyu! Hyu! You won’t curse me anymore when I do this”

About ten more hands appeared from the creature’s body, which stretched out and began to squeeze Muichiro’s body

The boy started to laugh, he couldn’t hold back, there were hands on his sides, ribs, armpits, everywhere, under and over his clothes

“Never ignore me again! Never! You will suffer my horrible tickle torture forever! Hyu! Hyu!”

“NOHOHOHOHO” Muichiro tried to kick him, but his elastic body dodged him “HEHEHEHEHELP HEHEHEHEHEHELP”

The boy was almost crying and couldn’t take it anymore, this was too much for him

“Nobody is going to help-”

“Hey, you stinker!”

Gyokko felt a rock or something hard hit his head

“Ouch!”

“Let go of my brother!” Yuuichiro jumped close to the two and kicked the creature, which made him let go of Muichiro and complain in pain

“Come back here you pests!”

Yuichiro ran with Muichiro until they lost the oni

“Ah, what was that, Muichiro?”

“I don’t know! He was so ugly”

The two looked at each other and started laughing

“Let’s tell the principal about this” Muichiro said, as the two started walking again

“Yeah, before any more students die from so many tickles, if I hadn’t arrived you would be dead”

The older one nudged his brother

“Hey stop!” Muichiro laughed

Gyokko hid in his vase again, waiting for someone to pass by

And if his next victim didn’t pay attention to his art, poor guy, he had no idea what was coming

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

Hehe I liked writing that one 💛💛

[cooliofango]

Sugar

Pairing: Nikolai x F!Reader

Word Count: 746

Synopsis: Lingering gazes and teasing kisses lead to a very happy Nik 🫶

A/N: Was nervous writing this cause I wanted it to be well written as my first contribution to the COD writing community— but I hope you like it!! It’s based off of THIS TIKTOK!! Credit goes to them for inspiration! Ignore my clunky layout..

Tw: None! It’s all fluffy content 🫶

Fingers silently tapped along the side of the can of Red Bull in her hand, eyes fixated on the Russian who spoke on and on about… what was it again?

It started as his recent upgrades to his helicopter that he cared for like it was his masterpiece. Then again, it has helped the team out of so many bad situations on countless occasions, as well as made travel a lot easier. The copter even brought some amusing memories— one incident in particular being one that won’t be let go for a while. It made her smile a little to herself even to this day. She supposed that he had every right to go on and on about such a useful vehicle.

The conversation seemed to drift into more of his travels while flying it than the vehicle itself. That seemed to be the case, anyways, with how he spoke of the common cuisine throughout the countries he’s flown through that he wanted to try.

In all honesty, she hadn’t been listening for the majority of the time he spoke, only catching utterances of how he fitted the copter with new blades to make the flight smoother and how he’s never tried a churro before. Her gaze had been glued to him the entire time, mind stuck on admiring the man before her as they enjoyed their lunch break together. It was hard not to. Seeing him so relaxed in her presence eased her heart and the sound of his voice, thick with his Russian accent, was like music to her ears. The Lieutenant could listen to him talk all day if she could. To add that he was quite handsome, too, only made her infatuation stronger.

“Do you know what I’ve always wanted to try?” The sudden question pulled the woman from her thoughts. Her lashes fluttered as she sat up in place, just noticing his expectant gaze lingering on her face. For a moment, a wave of embarrassment washed over her, not knowing whether or not he had noticed her almost lovesick gaze just mere moments ago. If he did, he made no comment or any physical gesture showing that he did. He only kept his intense gaze on her, shifting slightly in place as if anxious to continue his rambling.

“Kissing me.”

“No, fish and chips. Is it really as good as they--...kissing you?”

“What..? Kissing me?” It took everything in her to not laugh at his bewildered look that melted into one of pure confusion. Instead, a look of slight surprise was present on her face, a brow raised in question. Teeth bit at the inside of her lip, watching the gears in his mind turn oh so slowly to try and process the whether or not she actually said that.

He turned his head to face the wall in front of him and across the room. Not understanding his muttered Russian speech, she smiled to herself before downing the rest of the Red Bull in her hand and began to stand. The crinkle of the aluminum in her hand did nothing to catch his attention, nor did her presence standing over his shoulder.

A smirk tugged to her lips, leaning over his shoulder to level her head with the side of his. A free hand rested on his shoulder for balance and her lips pressed firmly against his cheek. The feeling of his facial hair itched lightly against the softness of her lips and for the short moment they remained against his skin, she could swear she felt the surface of his cheek warm against them. The Lieutenant smiled softly at him, stopping by his ear before pulling away completely. “See you later, Sugar.”

The sound of his breath getting caught in his throat pulled a chuckle from her, removing her hand from his shoulder and making her way to the exit. She dropped the empty and crushed can away, the aluminum can clattering against the sides of the trashcan until it reached the bottom.

A silence lingered in the hallway as she began to retreat to the training grounds where she would be supervising drills for a bunch of recruits, but only for a moment as the sound of heavy, rushing footsteps quickly closing the gap between her and the source filled her senses. A smile tugged to her lips, turning around in time to see the pilot red faced but with the dopiest grin pulled onto his face.

Tags 🏷️

@ohworm-writes @ghostlywhiskey @bookobsessedram

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi Raven!

I’ve read your recent writings for the Fellow blog event (the one where Fellow meets Jamil and the one where Fellow is informed of who exactly was in the NRC Playful Land group) and that’s got me curious.

I know this is mostly speculation, but who do you imagine Fellow’s ex-employer to be such that he would be so casual about the identities of his marks? People like Jack, Ace, and Trey are ordinary and come from ordinary families. I would understand for the likes of Vil and if you stretch it, Cater, who while rich and/or influential (or are the children of such people) can still be considered ‘regular’ rich kids. My point is that sadly I feel it wouldn’t be hard for their kidnapping to be labelled as a tragic disappearance and swept under the rug.

But then concerning others such as Kalim, Leona, the Tweels, Ortho, and such, it would spell much trouble for the kidnappers? As Jamil put it to Fellow, them disappearing isn’t a matter that can simply be hand waved away. I have no doubt that Fellow’s ex-employers aren’t small time crooks and actually have power, but surely that power has its limits in the face of what they would have to deal with. They wouldn’t be incurring the wrath of one force, it would be many. Many forces, I might add, with the power and resources to track them down even through unofficial means. As a side note, Book 6 showed us how Idia was willing to destroy the world for Ortho.

Then again, it could just be Fellow’s hubris getting the better of him such that he has vastly overestimated the capabilities of his ex-employers? He seems to me like someone on the lower rungs (sorry Fellow) of the Playful Land criminal endeavor and wouldn’t be privy to the details or who exactly is involved. I dunno, maybe I’m thinking too much into this. But it would be nice to hear your thoughts on the matter!

[Referencing this post and this post!]

Yes, Fellow is very small fish to fry compared to his employers. We learn in his Playful Dress vignettes that Fellow only took up the Playful Land gig because he happened to find a job posting for it that pays well. It's not likely that he has a lot of say in what goes on if they were looking to hire just about anyone willing to do the dirty work, despite claiming to be the park manager.

While he doesn't seem to know the exact details of who the more influential boys of the group are, he at least knows about their affiliation with THE prestigious Night Raven College (which is partly why he targets them in the first place). However, Fellow does still demonstrate complete assurance that they can get away with their entire operation. I think this is the result of two factors. One is, as you may have suggested, Fellow not knowing much about the inner workings of the organization (and thus having no knowledge of its limits). The other is far scarier (and seems to be more likely to me due to the evidence we have on hand), which hints at a criminal underbelly in Twisted Wonderland that holds even more money and influence than even the Asim family has. The latter is implied, as Fellow brags quite often about his benefactors and even discusses the construction of the park as being the result of many powerful mages. Cater also mentions early in the event that Playful Land has been trending on socials lately, but this also implies that NONE of the people that went missing after going to the park made headlines or drew suspicion to Playful Land. This means that not only do the people behind the park have money, but somehow also the far-reaching power to control literally every bit of information on the web about them. Let's not forget too that they SOMEHOW have the technological capabilities to jam and limit Ortho's capabilities, even though this guy was made by a genius inventor.

Now look, I'm not saying that frightening organizations like this don't exist in real life. To deny that is to be ignorant. What I am saying is that for game like Twst (where several of the main characters are from very crazy wealthy families), it's asking us to do a LOT of suspension of disbelief in order to sell the story. This is just the beginning of my list of gripes with the logic of Playful Land. If you want to read more of my thoughts on the subject, you can check out this post!

[absolutewhore101]

Better Man - Chapter 5

A/N: here's chapter 5! taglist is being updated with every post, so lmk if you want to be added/removed. i'm looking to do updates every monday, so stay tuned :)

Pairing: Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: Listen to 'Better Man' by Taylor Swift; Stage 3 - bargaining (kind of)

Warnings: swearing, Joel

Word Count: 1.4K

Chapter 4 / Chapter 6

This is a journal entry.

MINORS DNI

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

The stairs leading up to your bedroom had never felt so tiresome, but you were dragging yourself up by the time you reached the top. 

That fight never should have happened. Carly never should’ve happened. Joel never should have happened. All you needed was the reassurance that you did the right thing, but who could you even go to?

You were sure that the people you’d come to call friends almost certainly knew about Joel, and none of them had told you. 

You couldn’t talk to Tommy, that much was obvious. You thought about talking to Ellie, but even if she did know, this wasn’t her problem. 

Was it only you? Were you truly the last person to know?

You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the wall in front of you. Your thoughts were running a mile a minute, all of them focused on Joel. 

How could he have done this? There was nothing you could’ve done to stop him once he started, but wasn’t there something you could’ve done to prevent it?

Why weren’t you enough?

A tear dropped off the bottom of your chin, landing delicately on your hand. 

You reached into your nightstand, pulling out the notebook you’d had for a few months. That journal was the only thing you felt truly comfortable sharing everything with after you found out about Joel. 

You fished around for a pen, but came up empty. Walking past Ellie’s room, you peeked in, finding her gone. 

You shook your head, assuming she had never come home in the first place, as you made your way downstairs.

Walking into the kitchen felt more painful than it should’ve - Joel’s coffee mug was on the counter, rings stained around the inside of it. The book he’d been reading left on the table, bookmarked to the page he'd left off on. 

You walked past all of it and went to the junk drawer, grabbing a pen and heading into the living room. 

You sat down on the couch, pulling your feet up underneath you, and started writing. 

I know…

You paused. 

What did you know?

I know that I’m probably better off on my own. Better off than loving a man who didn’t know what he had when he had it.

You wiped your face, willing your bottom lip to stop trembling. 

You flipped back through the pages you’d already written in, rereading the words you’d spilled when you started to suspect Joel was cheating on you. 

It was easy to see the permanent damage that he’d done to you. You weren’t sure you’d ever find love in the world after it ended, and you were certain you’d never find it again. 

And then you flipped back even further, back to the hearts and doodles and the love you’d needed so badly to get out. 

Why couldn’t you just forget when it was magic? When everything was okay?

There were so many thoughts swirling around in your mind, but you couldn’t bring yourself to put them on paper. Instead, you placed your journal on the coffee table and went back upstairs, heading straight to the bathroom. 

You splashed some water on your face, hoping to rid yourself of the redness that occupied your cheeks.

“You know you had to do it.” You muttered. 

God, why did it have to be like this? You used to be curled up in bed with Joel by this point, whispering sweet words to each other until you fell asleep. 

Now, it was the middle of the night, and you were trying to convince yourself that the bravest thing you’ve ever done in this fucked up world was run. 

From Joel and everything he signified now. From Tommy and the sympathy that could only go so far. From all of Jackson, and the inevitable stares that you were expecting. 

You walked back into your bedroom, pulling back the covers and laying down. 

“I just miss you.” You whispered into the dark. “But I just wish you were a better man.”

—---------

When you woke up, you found yourself reaching for his side of the bed, only to find it empty. 

The events of last night came rushing back to you, and you couldn’t stop the tears that welled in your eyes. 

You got out of bed, trudging down the hallway and back downstairs. You didn’t have the appetite for breakfast, but you suddenly found the inspiration to write. 

Your journal felt heavier than it ever had before, and you knew it was the weight of the words you’d written last night. You couldn’t help but wonder how much heavier it’d feel in a few days, and if it would ever feel so light again. 

I know that I’m probably better off all alone. I don’t need a man who can change his mind at any given minute. 

And suddenly, the sadness you had felt just last night had morphed into anger. 

And it was always on his terms! I waited on every word that came out of his mouth, hoping they’d turn sweet again… like they were in the beginning. 

The jealousy that he had for you that you were never able to place popped into your mind. 

He’d always been jealous of the love you were able to so freely give - he’d said so himself one night. He didn’t understand how you could love him so unconditionally, could love the world so openly. 

Was that when he started talking down to you? When he realized that he’d never be good enough for you? 

He talked to you like he knew you’d always be around, and maybe you would’ve. Maybe you would’ve stayed with him if he talked to you like that - pushing your love away like it was some kind of loaded gun. 

But you couldn’t be the third person in your relationship. You should’ve been the first, and Joel just didn’t seem to get that. 

And he never thought you’d run. 

You looked out the window, seeing a crowd of people gathering in the middle of town. You stood up, trying to get a better view of what was happening. 

All of a sudden, laughter sounded, loud enough that you could hear it inside your house. 

Curiosity got the best of you, so you opened your door, walking out onto your porch. 

You could finally see what everyone was crowded around - Joel. 

“I’m shocked you survived!” Someone yelled. 

“Yeah, looks like it did a number on you!”

You furrowed your brows, trying to figure out what they were talking about. Had he gone on a run this morning? Had an infected gotten too close?

Tommy walked around the crowd, eyes locked on you. You wanted to turn around and go back inside, locking the door behind you, but something kept you rooted in your spot. 

“What’s going on?” You asked him once he was close enough to hear you. 

Tommy shook his head, gesturing you to go back inside. 

You were ready to protest, to tell him he had no right to step foot in your house, but he spoke before you could.

“Please. They don’t need to see this.”

You followed him inside, shutting the door behind you as Tommy turned to face you. 

“What were they talking about?” You said, anxiety creeping into you. 

Tommy hesitated before he answered. 

“You.”

“Me?” You asked.

He nodded. “You, Joel… last night. Word got around pretty fast that he’d moved in with Carly and people came knocking.”

You felt nauseous. The town you lived in, the people you once called friends, were celebrating that Joel was finally free of you. And he was loving it. 

Your knees buckled, but Tommy caught you before you could hit the floor, helping you walk over to the couch. 

“This can’t be real.” You muttered, looking up at him. 

His lips drew into a thin line. “I’m afraid it is.”

Your eyes closed, head tipping back to rest against the back of the couch. 

If Joel was a better man, this wouldn’t be happening. 

If Joel was a better man, you’d still be in love. 

“Tommy?” You said.

“Yeah.” He responded. 

“I know why I had to say goodbye to Joel like the back of my hand, but why couldn’t he just be a better man?”

Tommy’s jaw clenched, head swimming as he thought about what Joel had put you through, and how he hadn’t done anything to stop it. 

“I don’t know.” 

That was the last thing he said before he walked out of your house, gently closing the door behind him. 

You weren’t sure how long you sat there on the couch, tears falling down your cheeks, before you picked your journal back up. 

He would’ve been the one if he was a better man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tell me your thoughts! Thank you for reading :)

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[sednonamoris]

good, honest thieves

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A fight with Micah leads to a lecture from Dutch. Loyalty is exactly what you've been raised on, but to what? To whom? The answer seems to be John every time.

Warnings: Knife violence, canon-typical violence, fish guts, strong language, Micah Bell's whole existence, sexist language/insults, Dutch being our fav little manipulator, blink-and-you'll-miss-it mild angst

Word count: 1,465

A/N: I've been waiting to write this altercation since I first started ghost story, so I hope you all enjoy it for this nice, short chapter 💕

Series masterlist • AO3

— 

You miss out on a hell of a firefight. A lot of law dead. A lot of townsfolk dead. A run-in with Mr. Leviticus Cornwall himself.

You’re surprised that he deigned to show his face in the mud and the muck of Valentine, but if there’s one thing rich folk are good for it’s greed. From the sound of it, he’s none too pleased to have been robbed. 

From the sound of it, it’s a lucky thing John and Arthur and Dutch and Strauss ain’t dead after all that. 

The gang was quick to make a hasty retreat.

Now you’re camped outside a little town called Rhodes, farther south than you’ve settled in years. Arthur teases that you and Javier must be happy to be in warmer climes, but personally? You hate it. New Austin is dry heat and desert for miles. The air there bites, sharp and clean. Here it’s thick as molasses and wet with humidity. Sweat and condensation cling to everything. The very ground beneath you is mucky and muddy and lush with overgrowth, like the vegetation can’t stand it here, either. It claws and climbs its way out and onto everything. You’ve never seen undergrowth like this, swallowing trees and homesteads whole without discrimination. 

Out of everyone, you figured Dutch would hate it most - you can’t count how many times he’s told stories about the Southern scum that put his daddy in the ground. But he seems in his element out here. The town is divided into factions he and Hosea have wasted no time playing against one another, and rumors of confederate gold have lit his eyes with that same gleam you saw before Blackwater. You know you won’t leave until he has it - he’s even got Bill and Arthur playing deputy while working leads. 

Today they’re off with the sheriff chasing ‘shine in the hills, so camp is mostly quiet. Or it would be, if Micah wasn’t hanging around.

“Ghost,” he calls out, uncomfortably familiar. He approaches Pearson’s chuckwagon with open arms that are greeted only with a flat stare when you look up from the fish you’re gutting. You promised Pearson you’d take care of them while he does the shopping.

“Micah.” His name grits past the teeth you’re doing your utmost not to bare in warning; already he’s closer than you’d like. 

“Haven’t seen much of you since I got back from Strawberry,” he says.

“I keep busy.”

“Not too busy for Marston.” He rocks back on his heels and raises his brows like he’s caught you out. Something about the way he says John’s name makes your hackles raise.

“Me an’ him are friends,” you chop off a trout head aggressively while making even more aggressive eye contact. “You and me, on the other hand, ain’t.” 

“Aw, don’t be like that,” he wheedles. “I’m a real friendly fella. We oughta go drinking sometime and I’ll show you.”

It takes everything in you not to cringe at the thought. It’s one thing to work a job with him, when you have to, but spending quality time with Micah? It sounds like just about the worst thing you can think of. He has this slimy quality about him, and the way he talks about some of the others is enough to solidify your poor opinion.

Dutch can make nice with him all he likes. You won’t. 

“We all heard what happened when you went drinking in Strawberry,” is what you say aloud. “Rhodes might not survive.”

He laughs through the fact that the joke was meant to be at his expense and leans closer. “You’re funny, Ghost. Real funny. I can see why John likes you so much. It’s too bad he’s so… Well, you know.”

“He’s so what?” If looks could kill, Micah would be stone dead. 

“Useless,” he shrugs. “I mean, first he gets hisself half eaten, then he’s fleeced rustlin’ sheep— almost got his brains blown out in Valentine. Not to mention he let Morgan steal a two dollar whore right out from between his—”

 All of the sudden you can’t hear past the ringing in your ears or see past the blood red of your vision. He’s snickering, leaning closer still, leering, and faster even than you can register you’ve grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face against the fish guts and the wooden table before you.

He cries out, somewhere between alarmed and disgusted and enraged. 

Your filleting knife rests against his pulse point.

“Say it again,” you snarl.

Stark, killing hate reflects back on your knife blade with the whites of his eyes. “Goddamn you!” 

“Not so funny now, huh?” He struggles in your grip. “Say it again.” 

He opens his mouth and bares his teeth, likely to spit more profanities, when approaching footsteps stop you both in your tracks. You glare up at the intrusion to find Ms. Grimshaw. Her face is even more severe than usual. 

“What exactly is going on in my camp?” she demands, hands on her hips. 

“Micah was just apologizing,” you say. Your smile is a feral show of teeth. 

He squirms in your grip, claws at your hands. “Get this goddamn lunatic off me!” 

She purses her lips, unimpressed. “Ghost, unhand Mr. Bell.”

You let him go reluctantly, pressing the knife to his skin just a little harder before shoving him back. He staggers away and you wipe your hands down your pants and grimace. 

Micah’s hands fly to his throat, like he’s checking it’s all still intact. His cheek shines slimy red with fish blood. 

“You’re crazy!��� he accuses. 

“Ghost is plenty of things,” Ms. Grimshaw says before you can cut in, “but crazy ain’t one of ‘em. I suggest you learn from this particular mistake, Mr. Bell. Now go on, the both of you. Get! Before you make another mess for me to clean up.”

You murmur a chastised yes, ma’am under your breath.

Micah stalks away, glaring over his shoulder without another word. 

All that’s left is the thunk, thunk, thunk, of your knife against the wooden table. You let yourself imagine each unfortunate fish is Micah, instead. 

— 

Dutch finds you later. You’re sat on a log overlooking the lake, glaring out across the water like it’s somehow responsible for everything that’s happened up until now. He sits beside you and lights a cigar. 

“Ms. Grimshaw tells me someone tried to kill Micah today.”

His tone is neutral, but a quick glance out of the corner of your eye reveals a tightness in his posture that’s never a good sign. He lets out a puff of smoke and watches it fade into the horizon with squinted eyes.

“She tell you he had it coming?”

“Now, Ghost—” he starts to chastise, but you cut him off.

“I never pretended to see what you do in him.” His eyes widen and flash with wounded pride, but your face is set in defiance. “Maybe we’re all nasty killers and degenerates, but he’s worse. I ain’t gonna stand by while he runs his mouth about any one of us.”

His face is all severity and rough-cut gemstone. “Any one of us, or just John?” 

Outrage flares your nostrils and twists your mouth into something ugly. “That ain’t fair! And it certainly ain’t the point.”

“Isn’t it?” His hand on your shoulder, so often a comfort through the years, rests heavy and threatening. Your pulse jumps. Your mouth feels dry. “We don’t have the luxury of doubt - not between any of us. Haven’t I taught you loyalty? Don’t I deserve your trust?”

That’s all it takes for you to deflate. “You have it. You’ve always done right by us, but—”

“There is no but,” he says. “Faith, Ghost! Faith.”

“Faith, then. Fine. Faith.”

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but his eyes soften all at once into that familiar, sparkling brown. “I knew I could depend on you.”

“Sure. Always.”

He leaves with one last squeeze of your shoulder and orders to look into the Braithwaite family - something to do with prize horses. After all, who better than the infamous Ghost Rider? The Van der Linde Ghost? 

—

You stay on that log for a long time. Thinking. Smoking. Stewing in the not-quite-anger left in Dutch’s wake. 

—

That night around the fire you and John gravitate to one another like always. He brings you a plate of fish and sits beside you; a little too close for friends, a little too friendly to be anything but.

Somehow it aches more than usual.

He chatters on about his day, but all you can hear is the sneer of Micah’s voice, and all you can feel is the burn of Dutch’s knowing stare. The sweat on your brow has little to do with Lemoyne’s oppressive heat anymore.

[salixsociety]

Salmon Song

On fishing, undeath, and gratitude.

Since our wedding recently, my spouse and I have been house-sitting for an old acquaintance of theirs. Not counting the dachshund befittingly named Chili Dog, the most beautiful thing about this house is the creek flowing through the backyard, which I sit next to as I write.

Being a branch of a bigger river on Alaska's Kenai Peninsula, countless salmon make their way upstream every year, to spawn and to die. Some, only a year old, some almost ten. They are king salmon, in these waters. Easy to recognize: they lack the characteristic hump of a sockeye, and their bright red back is spangled with small black dots. Every time one swims past I am unable to look away, too mystified to even take a picture. Right there, in front of me, barely concealed by the monkshood, geranium and fireweed, is a fish willing to sacrifice anything to swim into death. To twist and turn to make their way through shallow waters. To agonizingly fight for seconds, sometimes minutes without air, to climb rocky rapids. To rot, to be the living dead, on their way to spawn children that may never reach the sea.

Alaskan summers pass by in a flash, but in exchange for eight to nine months of harsh winter, summer appeases us with many gifts. Fish being one of them. Last week my Dove, their brothers, mother, my sister and I went dipnetting. Being short many pairs of waders, it was mostly me and my spouse doing the fishing. We do it in the tidal delta of one of the biggest rivers around, where the fish enter the river from the inlet. It is important that you go as the tide is changing, to fish in accordance with the pattern of the salmon. When the tide is going out, you catch the fish that are falling back with the stream, having been exhausted by their fight up and taking a moment to rest, and the fish that are actively swimming to the ocean. Then, when the tide is at its lowest, for a while it won't change. We call this slack tide, and the odds of catching salmon are near zero. You may, as we did, accidentally catch a flounder or a sole in your net instead. Then, when the tide finally comes in again, just as you think you ought to call it a day... they come again. One after the other, in such rapid succession that you can barely finish killing and storing the first before another one is thrown on land. In the end, we caught twenty-four sockeye, and one big sole.

We decided to keep a large sole out of curiosity, mostly. They are legal, and large for a river flatfish. Though not as famous as salmon, soles and flounder are fascinating creatures, like any in midgard. Their eyes are both on one side of their body; which side depends on the species of flatfish. They aren't born this way, in most cases. Many flatfish are born symmetrical, and only start experiencing an 'eye migration' in adolescence, when they move to the seafloor. Some, like the sole we caught, are masters at the art of camouflage: their bodies are the color of the marine floor they lay on, and their skins are textured like sandpaper, to catch bits of sand and blend in even better. Some, though to my knowledge none in Alaska, can even change the color of their skin to match their environment. Not all flatfish are bottomfeeders, but soles are, eating mostly invertebrates. They are a healthy fish to eat, in some cultures even a delicacy! But not the preferred fish in Alaska, as their meat is not fatty, and even a big sole doesn't yield much meat.

When I first moved to Alaska and started learning how to fish, the prospect of killing the fish I caught made me nervous. I didn't know if I could do it, and I didn't want to let my spouse down, nor did I want to condemn a fish to suffering. I don't like to fish for sport, I think it cruel, so letting a good fish go was never an option. I pushed through, and tried, only to discover that my arthritis ridden fingers are not strong enough to pull out a fish's gills effectively - even the little grayling I had caught. Ironic. Since then I have delegated the killing part to my spouse, but I was relieved. I can do it. And somehow, it doesn't hurt.

Having gotten much closer to my goal of living off the land now, I have learned a lot about killing, and made my peace with it. Mostly I have learned that taking a life is not inherently immoral. Just as I do not hate a moose for trying to trample me in self defense, and I would not hate a bear for eating me, this salmon, not yet in its spawning colors, does not hate me for my need for sustenance. Just as I do not hate the eagle that swooped onto and killed the little gosling with a skin disease that I had been diligently nursing, she did not hate it, as she would not have hated me when I would inevitably kill her out of mercy, and eat her out of respect. My respect for life is in my willingness to take it, because such is my place in nature. I contribute much more to my environment, and spare many more lives, when I kill twenty-four salmon with my own hands, process them with my own knives, store them in my own freezer. When I kill out of mercy, or out of need for sustenance; when I kill with respect, I am one step closer to living off the land, and one step closer to protecting balance in my environment. One step closer to true, complete, utter connection.

The salmon has long been known to be a fish harboring much magic. A favorite example is of course the fact that Loki transformed into a salmon to escape the wrath of the gods, only able to be caught with a magical net. It is said that the narrow back of a salmon, likely especially on a sockeye or 'humpy', was because of Thor's strong grip on the fish when he was finally caught. There are of course also the necessary saint stories, especially in Scotland, where the fish is regarded as very faery. Associated with wells of wisdom, the ability to tell the future, and even astoundingly old age, such as in the tale of Culhwch and Olwen. Salmon was also renowned for its strength, Irish heroes sometimes being described as 'leaping like a salmon', and in other Celtic myth we see salmon somehow managing to give people rides on their backs. The word 'salmon' reportedly even comes from Latin 'salire': to leap. Most amazingly to me, however, is their process of natural undeath, as my Dove so aptly put it. The way salmon cease to eat and start to rot even on their way to their spawning grounds inspired much awe and lore in ancient societies. These fish, in Alaska affectionately called 'zombie fish', are no longer edible, but they give us many stories instead. Most importantly to me, their living death was often interpreted as the salmon swimming, on their own, into the underworld, before our very eyes.

One book that has been on my TBR since it was referenced by Robin Wall Kimmerer in Gathering Moss, is Totem Salmon by Freeman House. In it, House talks about mentally dissecting the sound of a stream. Doing so has inspired me greatly, partially also to write this blog. There truly is a symphony of sounds concealed in the babbling of a creek. I hear the water rushing over the rocks that form the beaches and rapids. I hear it slosh as it hits the log in the westward bend. I hear it plop periodically as it moves around one particularly large boulder and every now and again, the striking and emotive arpeggios that are the splashing of salmon fins as they make their way up.

When I started writing this story, a beautiful king salmon appeared before the spot I'm sitting at, fighting its way upstream. Many times as I progressed through my story did it fall back with the flow of the water before my eyes, only to reappear. Easily recognizable, with its already rotting tail and dorsal fin. Shortly before I started this conclusion, I heard and saw it climbing up the shallow narrows and disappear around the bend.

May you swim safely there, and safely back. Rest in peace.

[fkmarrycill]

One Shot: The Promise of Spring

1505 words

Tommy Shelby x Lizzie Shelby

No smut; all ages

AU-ish, with creative liberties taken, but there are 🚨spoilers🚨

File this under better late than never ☺️. It's my contribution for @runnning-outof-time ’s 4K follower celebration. Congrats again! Thank you for sharing your creativity with us. ❤️

The idea of putting the characters in situations that deviate from the norm sounded like fun. What I came up with is probably not fluff for the average character, but it's certainly a departure for Tommy, and it does leave him more vulnerable than usual. Lizzie seemed like the perfect love interest for the idea I had in mind.

I'd like to return to this and write another part in the future, but I can't promise when. ☺️

Thank you for reading. ❤️

Tommy strode across the lawn briskly, gloved hands balled in fists, toward the woods of his estate. He couldn't sleep, and he couldn't sit in his office for another minute.

It was just after dawn. The cold air of late winter sliced at his cheeks. He'd hoped the fresh air would wake him up and bring him to his senses.

He needed to be alone, and that time of day gave him quiet, if not also peace. There was no nagging from Lizzie, even though he knew that it came from a place of love and justified concern. No squeals for playtime from the children. Getting lost in their joy right now would only make him lose focus. No muddled big brother advice from Arthur, or sisterly tough love from Ada. And Polly… just like John, he'd never speak to her again, and not because of an argument. None of them, dead or alive, could help him or console him. He needed time, and quiet, to think of his next move.

It was always the same when it felt like the walls were closing in, like the next invisible threat was coming for his throne. There was something about being in nature that enabled him to do his best thinking. In these moments, he felt closest to his ancestors. They knew there was freedom in movement, wisdom in the wind, power to be gleaned from the majesty of the earth and the trees. Like them, it was the wellspring from which he replenished his inner strength. If it wasn't so cold, he probably would've slept outside that night, like he'd done so often when he was younger.

He approached his favorite spot, a clearing near the ribbon of creek that meandered through his property. He contemplated the creek, noticing that it wasn't completely frozen over, like it was the last time he'd gone out that far, for a similar reason. The last time, he'd gotten the answers he needed. This time? He was not so certain that he would find them.

He fished his cigarettes and lighter out of his coat pocket. “What the fuck am I going to do…” He muttered out loud after the first pull of nicotine. Like the tendrils of smoke wafting from the cigarette, his words hung in the air briefly before fading away, without a good answer.

He scanned the field and woods beyond, and then he looked to the sky, watching the occasional bird swoop and soar, then alight in a tree. He continued to smoke and think. He closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and listened to the rustling of the wind.

He was tired of living two lives, as a rising MP, in addition to still being a kingpin, albeit one relegated to the shadows more and more every day. Tired of always having to be on guard. Tired of keeping so many secrets from Lizzie out of what he considered to be protection. He opened his eyes. No ideas were forthcoming. Not yet. As his problems got bigger, the solutions were harder to come by.

He decided to go back to his office and tend to the day’s phone calls and mail, to clear his desk of mundane tasks so there were fewer things to think about.

He dropped his cigarette and stamped it out. While watching the embers die on the ground, he saw a familiar flash of yellow and walked over to it.

Daffodils. Just three flowers so far, but more would come as the weather warmed. They were Lizzie's favorite, and he'd had them planted throughout the property. He remembered how excited she was, during their first spring at the estate, to see a large patch of them on the lawn outside their bedroom window, a sea of flowers in one of the happiest colors. He was pleased to give her a bit of joy after all the pain he had caused, all the pain he was still causing.

Lizzie… Blessed, loyal Lizzie. She deserved better, he thought.

He knew what he needed to do.

***

He stood in the dining room doorway, watching her. He'd removed his outerwear earlier and warmed himself by the fireplace in his office, gathering his thoughts before seeking her out.

Lizzie was reading the newspaper and picking at her soft-boiled egg, toast, and tea. She was alone in the large room, and her expression was weary. The look was far too familiar these days. He couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled with the same happiness as when their world was simpler, like when he'd bought her a typewriter to practice on a few years before. No, he'd never wish for simpler times when his family was so much better taken care of now. He knew wishes would be pointless, anyway–a naive and misplaced use of energy. But he hated the way she'd given so much of herself–to him, and to the business, as it grew–while only getting the occasional fragment of joy. Normally this feeling was locked away in the depths of his heart, but it surfaced today, and he needed to address it. For both of them.

“Oi, Lizzie.” He cursed himself silently when she startled at the sound of his voice. He crossed the room quickly and stood by her side.

He tried again, softer this time. “Lizzie. Hey. We need to get away this weekend.” He gently rested a hand on her cashmere-covered shoulder.

She didn't bother to look up at him. She just dropped her heavy silver cutlery on the Wedgewood plate and sighed. “What is it this time, Tommy? A mass execution here, led by Arthur? Or did your spirits tell you bloody Nosferatu is coming for the children?” With that, she looked at Tommy, rolled her eyes, and waited for his next order, an exhausted soldier in a never-ending battle.

“No.” He sat down next to her. “You and me. We need to get away. Us. We need… We need something different. For a few days, eh? Away from this,” he said, gesturing to the grandeur of the room. “It won't change this,” he said, gesturing again, “this new, fucking world, with all its fucking problems, but… You need a break. I… I need a fucking break. I can't sleep. Can't think. Can't fucking think right now, Lizzie. And this?” He looked around, settling on the large family portrait on the wall. “This world of ours, that's supposed to be so much fucking better than Small Heath? This isn't safe when I can't think.”

His stare never wavered from her eyes, but his chest rose and fell rapidly with his ragged breath. He closed his eyes to compose himself, then took Lizzie's hands into his.

He swallowed hard before continuing. “What I need most is you. Love, honor, and cherish, eh? That's what the vows were, what I promised, for you, in front of everyone. I know you don't feel very cherished by me. But that… It changes now. It changes now, Lizzie. You are too fucking important to me.”

He looked away, cleared his throat, and trained his eyes on her again. Her expression had softened the tiniest bit. It would be imperceptible to anyone else, but he knew. This is what she'd wanted to hear for so long now.

“I know, Tommy,” she murmured. She squeezed his hand. “I know. I've always known, but I've wanted to hear it from you. But not just hear it,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “I've needed to feel it, too. I haven't felt it in a long, long time from you,” she said, as her tears started to fall.

“Oi.” This time, he said it softly, before cradling her face with his hands and wiping away her tears. “Lizzie. I know. And like I said, that changes now. After breakfast, I want you to find a place. Find somewhere, away from here, that we can go and have a weekend. Alone. This will be the first, but it won't be the last. I promise you that. I'll put Ada in charge, have her spend the weekend here. The children will be in good hands. And we'll have some time alone. And you can ask me any questions you have. About anything. And I will tell you everything. I can't… I won't shut you out anymore. I do love you, Lizzie, even when it feels like my body is here and my mind is everywhere else but with you.”

They kissed, and Tommy relaxed. He'd never remove all the weight of his duties off his shoulders, but he was confident that he could do better for Lizzie. And maybe, after the weekend, he'd have a better sense of what to do with all the other problems piling up.

Lizzie held his face with one hand, tracing his cheek with her thumb. “All right, Tommy." She smiled the smallest of smiles. She was still wary of his promise, but she was more hopeful than she'd been in a long time. "I’ll look into it. Is there anywhere you had in mind?”

“No. Just… Anywhere but Margate. And before you ask, I will tell you why.”

[raindropren]

I have not posted for awhile(The way I look at tumblr means I have to sign in everytime and I couldn't find my password for abit, oops) but here's a couple of C!Pearlo headcanons I've either made, in the last week, or not in the last week... at all.

DemiRomantic!! Might be slight projection but with the way I've set up the world and timeline, her being demiromantic is in my mind a surprising amount.

She and Sausage meet for eachothers birthdays! Sometimes Gem comes but normally it's just them :3

Speaking of those two, My personal headcanon is that they met when they were like, preteens? before highschool and such. and before they had really met anyone else in canon.

My Pearl has her being born in the Worlds Australia but living most of her childhood in England, then going back to live in Australia in Highschool! Her family would visit Australia alot even when they lived in England. (my mcyt au's Earth is very complicated cause I couldn't have pearl just, not be Australian, it's brought up alot, I can't ignore it, but that'd mean Earth and it's continents exists so, IT'S BECOME MORE COMPLEX THEN I WANTED OKAY. LOL)

Empires is a exchange program first. the whole thing is like, kinda an investment? for the future??? but the Kingdoms are still certain empires members birthright, so some were stolen from them and the program was the only way to get it back(Gem, Fwhip, Scott), and some were just happenstance(Shubble, Joey, Lizzie, Sausage), and some were random,(Jimmy, Katherine, Pixl) but Glided Helianthia was already a "Fight to be ruler" type of kingdom. So Pearl's highschool experience was ALOT of fighting and learning/training to fight(Along with normal highschool stuff of course) and she had farming courses and stuff, but the fighting bit is what drew her into going. THEY HAD DORMS AND HER AND SHUBBLE WERE DORMMATES And everything I have about it was inspired by EmpiresSMP Highschool au chatfics :') None of it is canon but it helps me with thinking about characters in a "They actually were kids at some point" way instead of only thinking about them as the characters they are now! Helps with the timeline too.

Did any of the last one make sense. no. not at all, shhh.

Keeps Journals, Alot of them, She has a Journal for each server and many of them are not fully filled out because despite having the Journals, She hardly writes in them enough to fill them out. She's scared of running out of pages and having to get a new one, only to have her time on the server end and be left with a mostly blank book she will never write in again. obviously the Life Games(Series) don't have her writing a journal WHILE it happens, but She does after it. other then double life, she did not even think about writing that one down. Reliving those memories, for a journal. no.

Doodles on scrap paper, I think she likes drawings bugs and fish :]

Has a big cardboard box that has every piece of bought or homemade jewelry anyones given her, mostly her friends but also a (un)surprising amount of offering. They are all organized into what type and material the jewelry is/is made out of. Many of them are from Grian, back when they were children. and a ton are from Gem and Sausage. lots of kandi bracelets with weird sayings or words, lots of names, hers and her friends. Moons and Sunflowers are very common in the fancier jewelry, as well as wolfs and wolf symbolism. Her most recent is a Kandi bracelet from Gem, it says "Pickles" teehe. She loves it.

Always has a secret bedroom in her home of the season, normally very underground and through a surprising amount of traps. She keeps extremely important things in there, normally keepsakes. but also her bed for when she doesn't want to be bothered, whether cause she's overwhelmed or just sorta sick. :p

I'll leave it at 10! Hehe. if there's any spelling mistakes, no there isn't shhh

I love making worldbuilding to go with headcanons. my au is fun to me and that's all that matters(no it isn't, alot else matters but it's silly so,, ya.) I hope my fellow pearlo fans liked hearing my headcanons(and au stuff), i like writing bout it :3

btw If u wanna know anything about my au, please ask i will answer, I am indeed obsessed.

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 17: Corrosion

I'M SORRY THIS TOOK LIKE 5 MONTHS!!! Tbh this was probably the hardest chapter I've had to write thus far and it was just not working with me. But honestly combined with the new Warwick trailer, and the amount of people flooding into my account and mass-reading my stuff lately??? Thank you so much for the motivation y'all, it really means a lot <3

So without further ago, have this 3k word chapter!

Masterlist

It had taken nearly an hour just to settle the crowds once the officers had left. An entire mob of people, suddenly panicked and in need of a level head to tell them what to do and how to feel. So, by the time Benzo was actually able to walk into the backroom of the arena, the anger that coursed through his veins had (somewhat) been able to cool down, no longer quite boiling over. Now replaced by anxiety that fought with his typically cool-headed mind that was trying to remind him to be rational. The pain in his side wasn’t helping none, of course. His lungs were already shite, but that Enforcer slamming the butt of his gun into his ribs hurt like a bitch… He took a deep, calming breath, ignoring the burning protest of his lungs.

Emotions are never good for business.

“They’ve gone too far this time.” Silco spat, slamming the door as he entered the room behind Benzo. “I mean, storming in here like they own the place, waving their guns around? That’s a new low, even for them.”

“And Min?” Benzo asked, sliding a hand through his thin brown hair, urging his breathing to remain even. Silco nodded, waving his hand as if she were an additional afterthought. Benzo thought about Min getting arrested, the way they threw her to the ground like she was nothing, and suddenly he felt the need to slap Silco upside the head. Bigger fish, he reminded himself. “They’ve never made this much of a show for an arrest before. Grayson knows we’re important down here, and now she’s aiming to take us out of commission.”

“Min’s been arrested just as many times as the rest of us.” Silco argued. “She's strong, she can handle it. Standard protocol; get some bail money together, we run down to the station at first light-” “Are you seriously that petty?” Benzo stepped forward, facing Silco face-on. His tone was careful but carried a weight to it. “This was a godsdamn army, for what? Arresting one lass? This goes beyond your  fucking ‘protocol’!” 

Silco stepped up, meeting Benzo eye-to-eye. Benzo could see the anger in his eyes, flames of passion, he knew the look well amongst his fellow Zaunite revolutionaries. He only wished that he could believe that any of those flames burned for their missing sister-in-arms, but that would be expecting him to put his own anger aside for the good of the cause, for the good of others. And Benzo knew that wasn’t about to happen. 

Taking a deep, attempting-to-be-calming breath, Benzo disengages from Silco’s fury, centring back his focus to address both of them. Noting Vander was still silent, glaring the same hole into the ground.

For fuck’s sake, he thought to himself. 

“You two are the fucking leaders here, aye?” Benzo barked. “So where’s yer fucking plan of attack? What do we do? We’re gonna break her out, right?”

Silco’s the one to speak up, of course, shaking his head aggressively. “Are you kidding me? If we’re caught anywhere near top-side, we’re landing ourselves in a cell right next to her. We’re too conspicuous, too high-profile, and Grayson obviously has her eye on us.” Benzo made a move to fight against Silco, but Vander finally chooses to speak up.

“He’s right. We go running in after her, even all the cogs in the world won’t be able to pay her way out. Odds are, we get clinked too. Then what good are we?”

“Oh give your head a shake!” Benzo exclaims. “We could fucking try!”

Vander’s jaw tenses. “This isn’t a ‘run in half-cocked’ sort of deal.”  Bento scoffs, eyes practically rolling out of his head.

“So…what? We can do…nothing, then? Is that right?”

Vander takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as if he’s focussing on his breath. “Nope. But I think I know who can.”

***

It’s rather unfortunate that, out of all the things you could have inherited from your mother, the recurring habit of getting arrested was one of the more notable.

Also unfortunate that cops are capable of learning.

“Minerva!” Grayson’s voice, practically spitting out your name, had caught you off guard. Your eyes glazed over, looking off to the side. From your spot, seated on the ground with your captured hands sticking out awkwardly in front of you, most of her face hidden by shadows. All the light filtered in through the barred window on the door to your cell, a torch light. The cell was completely lightless, almost a pit of darkness. Dank, dark, and too quiet to be peaceful. But what you could make out from her appearance, you could see wrinkles formed between her eyebrows and a deep sneer. 

“Sorry Commander, I must have dozed off there for a moment.” You finally responded. “Welcome to my humble abode! I’d offer you a drink, but I’m a little…tied up, at the moment.” You lifted your hands, ignoring the cramped feelings in your muscles and joints. The thick metal that encased your hands wore you down, like holding a weight you had no consent in holding, and no ability to put down. 

She didn’t respond to your jest, simply continuing to stare down at you, face like stone but the underlying disgust ever-present. Tough crowd.

“The counsel has been sent the details of your case and are currently discussing further actions.” She explains. “But it’s customary that someone speak with you directly before any major decisions are made.”

“Gonna be a short conversation,” you note, “y’know, on account of the fact that I’ve done nothing wrong. But I suppose everytime something bad happens, us ‘fissure folk’ are to blame, huh?”

She moves on, as if she doesn’t even hear you. “Your nose looks like it hurts.” She notes. Her shoulders are less square than you’ve seen them before, she’s more comfortable here than when you’ve seen her in the Underground. Although you’ve seen her without her helmet before, notably at the apartment when she first introduced herself, seeing her whole face here felt…oddly personal. 

You twitch your nose, feeling the dull pain spike between your eyes. “Pretty, ain’t it?”

“Wanna tell me about the girl who did it? Looked to be a girl by the name of…” she looks down at a file you hadn’t realized she was holding. “Sevika, right?”

Your eyes glance down at the file. Just how many names did they have? “I don’t know, it’s all a little…fuzzy to me. Pretty sure it could have been one of your guys, you know, when they forced me onto the ground and locked up my hands without probable cause.” 

She looks back down at you, eyes cold and unamused. “Are we really going to do this?”

“Do what?” She closes the file and reaches into her pocket. Pulling something out, she shows it off to you with an extended arm. 

“Look familiar?” It’s hard to make out what she’s showing you at first, but slowly you work out the details. A piece of fabric, red cotton. It was wrinkled and stained beyond saving, but there was a darker, fresher stain around most of it that hadn’t been there last you had it. Of course it was familiar, you’d been wearing it-or ones like it-most of your time in the lanes. The bandana that used to be a staple of your wardrobe, now bloody and in the hands of the Chief of Enforcers. 

Your mind flashes to the job just a couple weeks ago, when you’d left the fabric tied around the thigh of that Enforcer you’d attacked. You can feel your heartbeat raise ever so slightly. There’s no way they could have actually linked you to the crime with just your bandana.

“Nope.”

“Really? Cause in all of your mugshots, you’re wearing one just like it in your hair.” She pockets the fabric again. “I notice you’re not wearing one now. Lose it recently?”

You shrug, tilting your head back. “Is changing hairstyles a crime now? I’ll have to let my salon know.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts from three nights ago?”

“You’ll have to ask your mother, I believe I was at her house.”

She rolls her eyes and takes a long, deep sigh. “Minerva,” her tone is calm, but irritable. Like she was scolding a small child. 

You mimic her, rolling your eyes as well, but significantly more dramatic. “Grayson.”

“I am aware that you and your…compatriots may be used to certain lax standards. But I can assure you that physically assaulting one of my officers is not something I intend to easily brush under the rug.” Your hands attempt to fidget within their constraints, your bones buzzing with the need to move them. “I know the man you hurt, he's a good officer. He has a family, a wife and child. Are you really going to allow your anger to blind you so much that you’re willing to take away a child’s father?”

You lean forward, the chains rattling with your movements. “Several of the people your officers pointed a gun at tonight have families too. Those ‘good officers’ you have, they attack and aim firearms at women and children on a daily basis.” Gone was your mocking tone, your light-hearted facade. “You attack our people in our streets, in our businesses, in our homes. But hey, it’s different right? We’re all just fissure-folk trash to you.”

“And that justifies you nearly killing one of my men?” 

You kill hundreds of ours.

Your jaw tightens, biting your tongue. She’s not going to goat you into a confession that easily.

“I didn’t touch ‘your man’.” You finally respond, sitting back against the wall. “And if all you brought me in for was some half-baked story built around a piece of red cloth…well, it’s good to see you’re just as incompetent as your predecessor.”

The room falls silent, both of you glaring daggers at each other. You swear the room grows colder, the cold stone walls looming over you more and more with every passing, silent moment. You tried so hard to focus on the woman in front of you. Maybe if you were more aware, better able to scan her and read her body language, you could find something on her. Find something that you could use against her. But all you could focus on was your bones burning with the urge to use your powers, fanned on by the anger that’s coursing through you. You needed to get out of these damn constraints!

The door to your cell opened again, and another officer poked his head in. This one was much younger, and clearly very nervous. Twitchy eyes looked over from you, to his superior, just as Grayson’s head snapped back to glare at him.

“I gave orders that we weren’t to be disturbed.” Grayson snarled, and you could see the officer practically jump out of his skin in fear.

“Um…I’m sorry Ma’am. But uhh, you see…there’s someone demanding your presence outside.”

“What?” She dug into her pocket, fishing out a silver pocket watch. “It’s not even dawn yet. The doors to the station don’t open for another hour.” 

“There were, um,” his eyes dart over to yours, and the obvious anxiety in his gaze makes you smirk. “Very insistent.”

They? God, please tell me the guys didn’t decide to come…

Grayson lets out a long, heavy sigh of frustration. Stuffing the pocket watch angrily back into her jacket and snapping her folder shut, she begins to storm off out of the room. Just as she grabs onto the heavy metal door, however, her head whips back to stare directly at you. Her eyes, furious.

“We’re not done here, you understand.” It wasn’t a question. 

Lifting your shackled hands to your forehead, you give a mocking-serious face and a curt nod. “Aye aye, cap’n.” 

The door slams behind her, and immediately your mind begins to spiral. The guys can’t have come here, they wouldn’t. Sure, it was basic protocol that all of them would immediately jump to bust the others out of prison whenever one of you got pinched, but this wasn’t your typical riot-crashing or pickpocketing charge. Closing your eyes, you try not to linger on the blurry images of the raid. The white hot shock of fear upon seeing a gun pointed at Narco, Skye, and little baby Vi. The way the frequency of the Enforcer’s guns seemed to scream at you in such large quantities. The fear, all but palpable within the arena as people either were pulled into the fight or ran for their lives. The thought of Benzo being clubbed down, Silco with a knife against his throat and hands raised in surrender, the rage in Vander’s face as they placed you in cuffs. 

This wasn’t like any other run-in with the cops that you’d experienced. This was a whole other level, and you knew that if the guys tried to fight you out or pay anyone off; they’d wind up in cells just like yours. 

You tried not to let your mind linger on that image for too long, either. 

Your throat started to burn with the tears you wouldn’t let yourself shed, your thoughts spinning in and out of control, and you pulled your legs up to your chest, resting your head on your knees. Trying ever so hard to calm your breathing. Please let it not be them out there…

Loud shouting filtered in through the cracks below your cell’s door. You couldn’t make it out, even if you tried, or even how many voices there were, but you could tell it was definitely heated. Were those the guys, fighting tooth-and-nail for your release, only to get shackles placed on them as well? Forced to the ground, kicking and screaming, and arrested in front of a huge crowd with your rage-filled family, forced to watch?

You could only anxiously listen in, your ears straining to hear the muffled sounds as you sat, uselessly, in your stupid little cell. This continues on for what felt like an eternity, but most likely what would have been only half an hour. Until, finally, the door to your cell swings open. On the other side, a very pissed-off Grayson. The flames of her rage practically emanated across the room, getting warmer and warmer as she stormed over to you, keys in hand.

“You got lucky again, Minerva.” She grunts out as she leans down, grabbing your shackles with probably more force than necessary. As she begins to unlock your restraints, your hands slowly begin to regain movement ability, you can feel the energy of your magic slowly flood back into your fingertips. The vibrations of all the metal around you, singing to you like a beautiful orchestra. You could only shut your eyes, the flood of emotions that came with your powers almost overwhelming to your already anxious body. You didn’t even realize that Grayson was still speaking. “-won’t be the last time you’ll be in one of my cells, I can promise you that.”

“What’s going on?” You couldn’t help but ask. You know you sounded pathetic, but this was honestly not how you pictured this going down.

Grayson laughed, but it sounded more like a scoff. “All you Underground folk, all you do is play dirty. Lying and cheating, it comes to you like breathing.”

That didn’t answer your question, but as Grayson slapped a normal pair of handcuffs on you, using them to force you up to your feet, you felt it was better not to ask followup questions. She dragged you by your arm out of your cell and into the all-too familiar main chamber of the Enforcer’s main station. On the other end, however, much to your surprised wasn’t the boys. Rather, two female figures. 

“Minerva!” Not even your mother’s cry was enough to shake you fully out of your shock as she surged forward, throwing her arms around you in a tight embrace. Out of habit, you tried to return your embrace, only to quickly remember your shackles. 

“Mom, what are you doing here?” You asked, quickly pulling away to look down at her with furrowed brows. “You shouldn’t-”

“The boys phoned me!” Her salt-and-pepper hair wasn’t in its usual braid, still down in flowing waves, showing that she had come straight here from bed. Her thick winter coat had been thrown on overtop of her wool nightgown, and her boots were unlaced. 

“They phoned both of us.” The second figure spoke up, Niya’s tone was stern, moreso than you think you’d ever heard from her. Her citrus-coloured hair was messier than how it had been at the arena, and there was a new cut along her lip that she must have gotten during the raid. She looked tired, but more than that, she looked mad. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…” You looked back down at your mom. “But, why-”

“Your mother and Ms. Niya have negotiated for your release.” Grayson’s words were heavy, and she wasn’t doing a very good job at hiding her snarling face. With begrudging movements, she reached down, unlocking your handcuffs. “You’re free to go.”

Before you really even have a moment to wrap your head around what’s happening, your mother is pulling you away from the captain, all but dragging you towards the door. “Come on,” she whispers to you, “we need to get out of here.” But your eyes are still stuck on Grayson’s, the rage flowing off of her body in waves. 

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon, Minerva.” She spits.

With all the confusion swimming around in your mind, you try to think of something to say; one last quip to gain the extra hand. You’ve held your ground for so long here, and yet, the only thing you can really think to say is, “looking forward to it.”

[ohai-there]

Introduction post!

Hi! I'm mooz (I can also go by ohai or fish)

18+ ONLY Current fandoms: Naruto, Mononoke, Genshin Impact Multishipper - Kakashi and Tobirama focused. When it comes to fiction, morals are loose so if you see something you don't like just look away!

Tumblr is my main social media and I usually write or draw. Youtube vids are very rare from me due to how much more trouble they are to make lol.

Feel free to send me asks about anything and everything~ I have many thoughts and opinions and I'm always willing to yap on about them.

You can get the full mooz experience on my blog - browse through my tags as you please. #writing is for my writing stuff, #my art is self explanatory, #yapping is general talking - these are my most used tags.

My Ao3 is OHai_Here - I typically handle mature topics and my favourite theme I usually write about is grief. I typically answer comments when the next chapter is released for ongoing fics, so it can be a good signifier of when I update!

Significant Fanfics on Ao3

and so the moon wept [Ongoing]

📖: Naruto 💕: Kakashi/Obito, Kakashi & Sakumo, Kakashi & Team Minato, Kakashi & Team 7 🚫: Mature ❗: Time travel/Dimension travel & Canon divergence fic about Kakashi flip flopping between two timelines. Mature rating is due to canon-typical violence, but this fic may be a bit more visceral and gut-wrenching than expected - I explore a lot of mature themes and topics in this. Very much character-driven and most likely will be my magnum opus for a long time. #️⃣: ASTMW

these open wounds just need some salt [Complete]

📖: Naruto 💕: Kakashi/Obito, Kakashi & Tobirama 🚫: Teen + ❗: Time travel & Reincarnation fic about Kakashi being reborn as Itama ft. Obito. Focused during the Founders Era of Konoha. Lots of headcanon based around oh-no-its-bird's Founders Era hcs. Mentions of child abuse! #️⃣: salted wounds

Bakeneko [Complete]

📖: Naruto 💕: Tobirama/Izuna 🚫: N/A ❗: one shot trade with doveywovy, theme was tobiizu + ghosts. Tobirama can see ghosts and Izuna is dead and lingering. Need I say more? #️⃣: bakeneko

If Only We Were Leaf-born [Complete]

📖: Naruto 💕: Kakashi & Sakumo, Kakashi & Rin 🚫: Teen + ❗: Alternate Universe - Sakumo and Kakashi are born to Kumogakure instead of Konoha and are all the more wilder for it. This was written in my 2020 Naruto phase and has the beginnings of the characterisations for Kakashi and Sakumo here. Warnings for casual cannibalism.

How To Finish Your Bucket List Before You Die- A Guide From Kaeya Alberich [Complete]

📖: Genshin Impact 💕: Kaeya & Diluc, Kaeya & Klee 🚫: Mature ❗: a fic about grief. The very first fic which I explored it in depth and holds a dear place in my heart for it.

Beyond Mortality [Hiatus]

📖: Genshin Impact & Bleach 💕: Minor Baizhu/Gui - no significant pairings 🚫: General Audiences ❗: Dimension travel - Baizhu is thrown into the Bleach universe and is brought into the story to heal Ukitake. Brings in a lot of game mechanics and is almost entirely self-indulgent fun. Unfortunately on hiatus until either my Genshin or my Bleach phase rolls around once more (my fixations typically have a few years before the cycle repeats)

Shiny Things: sometimes diamond, sometimes tin [Ongoing]

📖: Naruto, Genshin Impact, FMA 💕: Gen 🚫: NA ❗: A collection of short Naruto crossovers - some chapter may receive continuations but none will be full-fics. #️⃣: shiny things

The rest of my fics are either on long-term hiatus or discontinued. They may be picked up if my phase for that fandom rolls around once more, however currently there are no plans to progress them.

[mslanna]

All Is Fair In - Well, War

Chapter 8 of Be My Guest now up on AO3

In which I went overboard with poetry (apologies), Haarlep learns that hugs are necessary for human health, and Raphael learns nothing at all

An uneven rhythm settles over the House of Hope. The war has begun in earnest and Raphael's forces move to corner Zariel in her flying fortress. With the number of fiends coming and going undisturbed time with Raphael or Haarlep is rare. And since devils have no need for sleep, the bustling is all around the clock. Tav's mind starts to simmer in anxiety and hyper-vigilance.

"Most of them don't care if I'm around," they complain to Haarlep. "They strut through this place all wings and armoured boots. I may need a sphere of invulnerability. Or my own wings, preferably armoured."

"That opposes the whole point of wings, but do go on." Haarlep lounges on their side, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the silken sheets.

"They make excellent cocoons," Tav insists. "Throw some armour on and they are good protection. Here, a little like that." Tav scoots closer and pulls one of Haarlep's wings over them like a fleshy tent.

"Ah, we don't do that." The incubus retracts their wing and folds it out of reach.

"You don't?"

"No. Whatever gave you that idea."

"Raphael?" Tav ventures.

"What?" The incubus sits up. "As if he wrapped a wing around you to keep you out of reach from one his underlings?"

When Tav turns red instead of answering, Haarlep claps their hand in delight and croons:. "Oooh, he is smitten!"

"Well, if he is, he has a strange way of showing it," Tav grumbles.

"My dear, you may have a rather distorted idea about how devils go about something that may resemble affection. We are creatures of pain and suffering. We strive only to better our own positions. Everything that falls outside of those parameters is affection."

For a moment Tav imitates a surprised fish. In the end they close their mouth and look down at their hands. "Translation to other species is lousy, just saying. And you are not helping."

"Or course not. We are all grown adults here. Not to mention the show is absolutely entertaining and has so many benefits."

"Well, at least one person in this house benefits from it," Tav huffs.

"I am torn, my dear, I truly am. As much as I love to see our poor master suffer like that, I also hate to see you this dejected." Haarlep puts a finger under Tav's chin and raises their head. "Maybe I can find a truly delicious way to give you want without involving him."

Tav snorts. "You can always start with a hug."

"Oh, but for certain." Haarlep opens their arms. "I am all yours."

Tav climbs into the embrace, rests their face against the incubus' shoulder and for a moment, all is well. But soon sneaky fingers slither over Tav's shoulders, writing fiery lines over their clothes.

"No, none of that," Tav mumbles. They squirm but Haarlep takes their job of holding them very seriously.

"But why not," they whisper into Tav's ear. "That is where all the fun is."

"I'm not here for fun, Haarps." Tav manages to push a way a little. "At least not that kind of fun."

"What is in it for you then?" The incubus tilts their head. "And for me?"

"Well. Humans need contact; we're very social. We become unhappy and languish when we are isolated. And I am rather isolated here as you might have noticed." Tav leans back against the incubus. "Hugs are healthy."

"Is that so." Haarlep adjusts a careful grip around the human in their arms. "And what do I get?"

"Another thing to rub Raphael's nose in should he ever notice," Tav mumbles. "Plus, excellent new data on how to seduce a human extended edition - hugs can last for days."

"Never lost for words," Haarlep chuckles. "I see why he likes you. Now you just have to speak the same language."

Tav doesn't point out that learning infernal is very difficult when all you have is books and random fiends that don't slow down and also use vocabulary not listed in the beginner editions.

"That's why you're doing the song and dance thing with me, too, isn't?" They ask instead. "Because Raphael likes those and I am sharing them with you."

"Of course," the incubus agrees readily. "He has a love for words and musics, he has. Raphael frequents the opera houses of many planes, a true patron of the arts."

"And I am sharing this with you."

"Delicious and true." Haarlep tightens their hold. "But nobody forces Raphael to stay away. You are a guest in his very own house, ready to give him anything he asks for."

"He doesn't strike me as the asking type," Tav grumbles.

"He is certainly not. Which makes this all so very delicious." A wing closes around Tav. "Such a naughty little mousling. And since you are hells bent on being bad, so shall I. How is your health?"

"Much improved," Tav mumbles. It's not even a lie. They feel safe and for once, actually welcome and wanted in this house. "Give me five minutes and I should be ready for rehearsal."

# # #

Five minutes stretch out until Haarlep shakes Tav awake because their services are required. The paladin stumbles out of the boudoir, rubbing their eyes. They are just getting their bearings back when Raphael crosses their path.

"On time, I see." He gestures towards the balcony overseeing the Feast Hall.

Tav smiles despite the small desperation forming in their stomach. They slept longer than they thought and now it was too late to get some dinner into their belly before the wine-doused bickering session with Raphael. But the hells will fall before they let this part of their day slip.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Tav leads the way and slips into their comfortable chair. They pour the prepared wine, a blanc de noire that smells like soaked cherries and gooseberries. It will be difficult not to indulge. Raphael is getting their taste in wines down pat.

They watch the devil over the rim of their glass. The straight line of his thin lips curving gently upwards when Raphael catches them stare. Tav returns the smile, unable to rip their eyes away. The candlelight softens the harsh planes of Raphael's face. The hint of a five-o'clock shadow hugs his jaw. Tav wonders how it would feel to put the tip of their index finger into the shallow dent in the devil's chin.

"Anything in particular you want to discus ere we begin?" The words run smoothly from his lips.

There are many things Tav has on their mind but none seem wise to disclose. So they shake their head and reach for one of the books. "I am sure your questionable choices in literature will be enough to fill the evening."

"My choices are questionable?" Raphael stretches his legs and leans back. "I cannot remember losing a single argument against your rather poor interpretations."

"Because your memory sucks," Tav murmurs under their breath.

"I heard that but I will choose to ignore it."

Tav looks up. "No stomach for a fight this early?"

"I prefer your ramblings slightly intoxicated," Raphael agrees. "They are much more unhinged and entertaining that way. Not to mention, easier to lay waste."

"Doesn't make your old-fart traditionalist approach any more palatable."

"I pick my battles," the smile is deceptively gently. "And I pick the ones I will win."

Tav takes a provocative sip of their wine. If Raphael wants unhinged and intoxicated, he can get it. He can get a lot actually, too bad he doesn't want any. They grab the closest book and open a random page.

Time and wine do their job and flush Tav's face and belly with cosy warmth. Raphael watches as those eyes soften and let go of whatever fight it is Tav continuously carries with them. Less conscious of the world and themself, Tav's motions are far flung and slightly clunky. As if the tight control over their limbs left them unsure of what to do without it.

Now and then Tav bounces some body part against the table top or leg and frowns as if the piece of furniture hadn't been there the whole time. And while their words are less polished and the sentences janky, it is easier to see the vast mind behind them, working overdrive to connect to the world on the other side of Tav's head.

If Tav knows, they don't show. The change is slow like a sunrise: the single shades easy to miss, but unmistakable in its entirety. As Tav takes another sip of the carefully chosen wine, Raphael picks his next fight.

"It is cowardice in the end. The narrator doesn't take responsibility for their meandering and self-inflicted misery."

"Still caution," Tav counters and prods the open page with a finger. "They value their friendship and are not willing to give it up, not even for their own happiness."

"And where exactly-"

"Here: O ay, my friend, I watch you still, afar to silence sworn. I wish to say, I stopped myself, but I am much too torn to leave or speak or even seek a glance falling my way and yet I'm bound and cannot run and cannot even stay-" Tav recites.

"Self-made torment," Raphael repeats. "People are excellent at creating unnecessary hells for themselves. Why swear yourself to silence when words can easily resolve the problem?"

"Because friendship." Tav shakes their head. "Worst thing to lose. All the trust and care and commitment. Poof, gone."

"So the narrator is justified in pushing their decision onto the object of their affection?" The devil raises an inquiring brow.

"Did you even read the sonnet?" Tav huffs. "Says here

Please stay a while, my favourite smile, now I have come so far just take my hand in foreign land and tell me who we are.

The narrator made their choice. They're all-in deep in love. They leave it to their friend to set the frame of their interactions. Friendship or love. Both are options."

"It is still cowardice."

"Maybe, but to lose what you have for something that can never be hurts. And it is avoidable."

"Self-styled martyrdom. Withholding information on the grounds the other will know if they care and look close enough."

"Do you really think you can be around somebody so desperately in love and not notice?" Tav snorts.

"You forget yourself." The words cut cold thought the warmth cocooning Tav.

"Maybe I do." Tav drains their glass desperate to change the subject. "Do you ever write poetry yourself?"

"Why do you ask?" The words are warmer than the last but wary.

"Because as critics we have it easy, don’t we? There is no danger in taking apart and judging what others have created. But the writers, the poets, they put parts of themselves out in every piece."

"You want to dissect a part of me? Bold."

"That is not-", Tav stops. In a way, that is exactly what they ask. "Point taken."

"So let me ask you," the devil's voice drops, betraying his curiosity, "do you ever write poetry?"

Tav hopes their flaming blush isn't that visible in the dim light. "Everybody does, don't they? I sure did when I was a teenager." The grimace when Tav remembers those attempts is painful.

"And now?" The words are velvet and whisky. He is tempting them.

"Wanna have yourself enshrined in words?" Tav teases.

"No need for something so fancy, which also, I already have."

Spite flickers in Tav. Unwise and born from wine and embarrassment that makes it even less smart. But they already offended their devil. And tomorrow was the final assault on Zariel's flying fortress. They might not see him again. They might find themself waking up in the clutches of Mephistopheles. Was are a few reckless words in comparison?

"There once was a cambion in hell who thought that he was truly swell but if you get close a shortcoming shows as his incubus will surely tell."

Tav leans back and stares a challenge at the devil on the other side of the table.

But Raphael doesn't take offence. He leans back, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Low hanging Fruit. The best you can do?" He doesn't wait for Tav's answer.

"There is a loudmouth from Baldur's Gate who was way too eager and could not wait their turn for a deal their soul now a steal and them bound to a devil they hate."

"Oh, now it's on," Tav huffs. "I was never and in no way eager to deal with any devil."

Raphael raises his glass and sips expectantly. "A notion obviously too complex to fit the chosen form."

For a moment Tav grinds their teeth. But the self-satisfied smile on Raphael’s face eggs them on.

"There is a paladin, oath-bound and pure who had to deal with devils for sure but back-doors rule they are no fool it is the devils that are caught by their allure."

Tav takes a triumphant sip from their own wine. It glows warm in their belly, suffusing their whole body and the surrounding air with a gentle glow.

While they still imagine how Raphael will take their bait and what confession the next limerick may extract from him, the door is opened carefully.

A devil pokes their head in, eyes wide with fear at disturbing the Master of the House even on his own orders. "The last scouts have returned. We are ready."

A vicious smile spreads over Raphael's face, supplanting the indulgent ease. "As you were." He waves the devil away and stands.

"Alas, as much as I enjoyed our little skirmish, my war cannot wait." His hand makes an unresolved gesture in Tav's direction. "And let me know how it goes for your allure to other devils."

His eyes rake over Tav, stripping them for goods worthy of a deal. What the devil sees, seems to satisfy him and he leaves the human shivering in their chair.

Tav stares at the closed door for along time. What in the nine hells was that? And what had been in the wine to loosen their tongue into such a reckless foray? With nobody to see, Tav's face starts to burn. They reach for the almost empty bottle. Something to drown their thoughts with. They head to bed, intending to sleep of the worst of the embarrassment and intoxication.

# # #

Tav wakes and squirms under the blanket, wondering what pulled them from sleep, when they notice the feeling of a ghostly hand that wanders restlessly over their clit. They inhale sharply.

So much for the devil's promises. Worth nothing. The other ghost hand clasps around their shin and Tav can only imagine where Haarlep's leg goes with the insistent friction inside them raking over their every nerve.

Getting up takes concentration. But the more awake they are, the easier the feelings are to push aside. Tav stumbles queasily into the corridor and makes their way haltingly to the boudoir. They will find out who is allowed to break contract like this and then Tav will confront their sleazy devil with his own lies. What good that will do is uncertain. But with the tension rising in their body, so does Tav's determination not to let this slide.

The house is silent. The quiet before the storm. Tav wonders how long they slept. A last meeting and then battle. Was everybody gone already? Tav doesn't meet a soul on their way to the boudoir, even the voyeur debtor is nowhere to be seen. Tav spies a red figure on the bed with Haarlep, wings spread and working. But the fence breaks up all details.

Despite the fiend on the boudoir being obviously deeply engaged, Tav walks slow and quietly. The gurgle of water from the fountains covers their hitching breath. When a moan slips from their lips at an especially spot-on thrust, Tav stops. They shake, but only partly from the fear of being detected and caught.

The fiend has not noticed their presence though, and moves over Haarlep with viscous need. Tav slinks up to the curtain bound back against the wall to peer at the bed. For a moment, their heart freezes. Haarlep writhes on it in Tav's shape with their back arched. Ecstasy is written over their body in sweat and gasping moans. Their hands reach for the fiend working himself hard, one of Haarlep's legs propped up against his chest.

He leans down to capture Haarlep's borrowed mouth with an angry kiss and Tav finally can make out his face.

Raphael.

Tav jerks back behind the curtain. Trapped in place they cannot make their trembling legs move and slowly, their knees give in. With the pressure building inside them, Tav risks a quick scrabble out of sight and curls up behind one of the opulent beds around the pool. They hug themself tightly as Haarlep comes after taking the devil's ferocious climax.

As soon as the waves of second-hand release start to abate, Tav forces themself up into a shuffling run back to their room. Once out of the boudoir they drop all secrecy and sprint as fast as their trembling body allows.

Locking the door won't hold stop Master of the House, but it gives Tav enough security to curl up on their bed and cry unashamed. A tangle of emotions rolls over them suffused with shame of all flavours. Shame at what they witnessed, shame about the relief that is is Raphael himself, shame at the anger that it is Haarlep, shame at the angry knot in their stomach and the yearning wetness between their legs.

A halting hand moves down and shaking fingers slip into hot and empty folds. Tav tries to relieve their unsatisfied body with their own means but the image of Raphael fucking Haarlep in their shape, the utter greed of it, makes fingers a useless substitute. Tav howls their frustration into their pillow and pulls the blanket over their head.

It settles with unusual weight and the ghost of something hard slips up between their thighs. Tav groans, angry and grateful. The devil cannot get enough and this time, this time Tav will make sure they find their own release. Their fingers burrow back between their legs and Tav raises their hips unconsciously when the after-image of a ridged cock presses down.