#i love them so much i need to get my grubby little hands on the book again

[c0rpseparts]

my lenore hyperfixation is coming back real strong

[unsat-and-strange]

i finished the princess bride. its time to write. its yaoi time.

[delicious-in-imagines]

Nsfw headcannons for Laios, Mithrun and Kabru??? 👀👀

I love them very much 😁 (I'm soooo normal for them, so so so normal)

*rubs my grubby lil hands together* :)))

NSFW below the cut, as per usual! Spoilers for Mithrun!

Requests are still OPEN!

Laios Touden

You have the full authority to bully this man - I promise you that he enjoys it. He wants to be so good for you, sitting on his legs as he looks up at you, awaiting each and every instruction. For him, it's all about fulfilling your desires and wishes, anything you ask of him, you don't need to repeat yourself.

Grope and grasp at his body, that little bit of extra padding that he has, and feel free to add some stinging remarks to the fondling. His chest is especially sensitive, Laios letting out the cutest little gasps as you take a handful each and squeeze. That adorable blush of his will paint across his skin and up his neck, even to the tips of his ears as you coo and sneer at him in equal measure.

He loves to have you on top of him, riding him into the earth as he holds at your waist like a lifeline. He'll babble out whatever he's thinking, usually interrupting himself while he's gasping about how beautiful/handsome you are on top of him, how thankful he is to have you in his life.

We all saw the way he ties ropes, but this man is no rigger - he's a bunny through and through. He'll teach you each and every knot that he knows, showing where to place them on his body while he can barely contain his excitement as each line grows taut. Eventually, he's wrapped up for you like a pretty little package, blushing and already fixing to burst at the seams.

He's usually starving after sex, so grabbing a bite is definitely part of his aftercare. He'll offer you up some food as well, lingering by your side and enjoying the warmth of your bodies, and the feeling of your fingers carding through his hair. He's always got this dopey smile on his face after the deed, something that lingers even while he conks out afterwards.

Kabru of Utaya

Kabru is a 'try anything once' sort of guy, so if you come up to him asking to try something new in the bedroom, he's not going to shoot you down. There are some things that he might need some coaxing on, especially if it involves inflicting pain on you - though he is conscious of the fact that he won't know his limits until he pushes against them, at least a little.

He loves to have his hands bound under him, the slight burn in his shoulders and the grating from trying to 'struggle' his way out of his bindings. It leaves him at your mercy, looking up at you with those bright blue eyes as you take your fill of him, knowing that he's 'powerless' to stop your roaming hands and teasing mouth.

The trust between you is a turn on to him all on its own. Knowing that at any given point, he could say the word and you would stop without any hesitation is part of the thrill. It's the safety within those walls that gives you both the freedom to explore your desires - and knowing you're enjoying yourself is intoxicating in its own right.

When he's alone, or sometimes if you're interested, he'll engage in orgasm denial, squeezing the base of his length, or using a snug ring to stop his pleasure in its tracks. You can keep this up until he's weeping from both his eyes and his arousal, paired with the previously mentioned bindings, he'll be begging for release which only you can provide - if you're feeling merciful.

A bath after your activities is a must, not only to wipe away any sweat and fluids, but also to just enjoy some casual nudity and each other's presence. He'll pay extra attention to any marks that he's made, rubbing gently against them while you talk about what went well, things to try next time, etc., ...

Mithrun of the House of Kerensil

The easiest way to work Mithrun up intentionally is to clamber into his lap, draping your arms around his neck and drawing him close. After a display like that, you're not getting away from him. If you try to pull away he'll settle his hands on your hips and grip you closer. It's only after some heated frottage or Mithrun sparing a moment to teleport whatever offending articles of clothing away to get to both your arousals that he'll finally let you go.

Any undue attention towards you from anyone is another quick way to get him riled up. He'll grab your wrist to tug you away, sometimes sending the offender outside of the walls, before pinning you to a nearby wall with barely any semblance of privacy to have his wicked way with you. He'll press teeth and open-mouthed kisses to the length of your neck, his actions speaking where his lips would not.

An easy way to turn the tables on him is to speak so sweetly to him, calling him handsome, cooing at him and complimenting him. It knocks him off balance, and it's the perfect chance to get him on bottom. Lavishing his body in reverent touches and kisses, he turns into a mess, and will often bring a hand up to try and hide his face.

The two of you have a fair collection of toys - though usually it's to use on him. Part of his newfound desires is the exploration and deepening of those, and the more that you can potentially overwhelm him during those intimate moments, the better. Little enchanted trinkets that with a tiny bit of mana can vibrate, or some select pieces that Fleki or Lycion suggested to the pair of you embarrassingly enough, the potential is endless.

All of the aftercare will fall to you. Making sure that he eats something light and rehydrates, knowing that you'll both probably need to rest pretty soon after. On some rare occasions though, he'll still your hand and check you over, rubbing and pressing kisses to some of the harsh marks that he's left behind - his favorite reminders that you choose to stay with him, that he's your first pick, even if you could have anyone else.

[buckgasms]

Now I know Bucky isn't a mafia boss or anything in the Princess universe BUT I feel like he would have enemies and people would definitely think his Princess was a good target.

So imagine with me that you are out shopping and you are suddenly surrounded by burly men in suits who guide you to an unfamiliar car. Your shopping bags are left on the curb as the tyres screech as they peel away.

Maybe for a moment you think, is this an elaborate prank that Daddy has set up? But as you begin to speak a hand clamps around your mouth, pressing a damp rag to your face and everything turns black.

🖤

You wake up, groaning as you feel your hands tied to a chair and you still aren't quite sure if this is one of Daddy's games, because you've definitely been put in this position before.

"Ah you're awake, quite the snorer you know..."

A slippery voice speaks in the darkness of the room. It looks like a cheap hotel suite. Big but grubby, the sheets on the bed look like they be greasy to the touch and the walls are a sad beige. No. Daddy wouldn't bring you here. You should feel scared, but the fact this man is hiding from you makes you a little bolder.

"Bucky's gonna kill you..." You say, keeping your voice as steady as you can. "And I don't snore..."

The man chuckles and appears into your view. He looks vaguely familiar, maybe someone Bucky has identified to you at a party of some kind. A shady character, dirty dealings and always trying to encroach on Bucky's businesses.

"Now... Are you going to be good for me?"

You balk at his words and grimace. He pulls out a long knife and you shiver. You knew Daddy would be on the way, but how long did you have to endure would be unknown.

"You are going to tell me everything I want to know or I'm going to ruin that very pretty face of yours..."

🖤

When Bucky's security team kicked down the door of the hotel room they were almost surprised to find you unscathed, your captor laying on the bed with a pen and paper in his hand, both of you looking quite relaxed.

Well until they grabbed him and dragged him out of the room.

Bucky came storming in, eyes wild in panic until he saw you smiling at him. He dropped down, hands going to the binds around your ankles and wrists.

"Are you ok Princess? Are you hurt baby?"

You smile, tears of relief welling in your eyes and you wrap your arms around him. "M'fine Daddy, he didn't hurt me too bad..."

He pulled back, holding your face in his hands before kissing you desperately, lips, cheeks, nose, forehead.

"Did you do what I told ya?" He says, panic lacing his voice and he checks your skin for damage, stroking at the red marks appearing on your wrists. He looks a you again, searching.

You giggle and nod. "Yeah, I told him everything I knew. Everything I could think of..."

Bucky grins and drags you in for another kiss. "Good girl, so proud of you Princess..."

🖤

"If you ever get taken baby I need you to do something for me..."

You lay in Daddy's arms, stroking his chin as his hand wraps around your wrist. You roll your eyes and giggle, but he pulls you to focus.

"It's important Babygirl, I want you to pay attention." He couples that with rolling you on top of him, your naked body pressing into his. You were very much aware of everything that was happening now.

"If anyone takes you and they wanna know my secrets..."

"Daddy don't worry I'll keep my mouth closed" you say, making a zip motion across your lips, throwing away the key, he grabs your hand and shakes his head.

"No princess. I want you to tell them everything you can think of. Nothing I do is worth hurting you for. Tell them whatever you can baby. I want you to promise me that.."

Your eyes widen a little, thinking about the gravity of what he's saying. His business, his empire, that he built from nothing. He'd risk it all to keep you from harm.

"Ok Daddy, I promise..." You lean down and kiss him as he rolls back over, squashing you, sending you into a fit of giggles and showing you again how much he loves you.

🖤

His fingers run through your hair as you cup his face in your soft hands. Despite the way it went, you were still pretty scared and being back in his arms was a great relief.

Sensing your adrenaline bubbling he picks you up and carries you out of the room. You bury your face into his neck and breathe deeply, trying to relax in his arms. Finally he climbs into the car and settles you on his lap.

"I'm so sorry this happened baby, never wanted you to get caught up in stuff like this. That son of a bitch is gonna pay, I swear to god..."

He watches you, as you fiddle with his shirt buttons, a look of concern on your face. He tilts your chin until you meet his gaze, thumb stroking gently at your cheek.

"Are you ok Princess?"

"Yes I think so... it's just....Daddy..... Do I snore?"

[dragonmuse]

How to be a Dirtbag Fic Writer

I got to do some talking about writing today and I couldn’t stop thinking about it so here are my full thoughts on the matter of being a dirtbag fic writer.

Being the disorganized thoughts of someone two and a half decades into the beautiful mess that is writing fanfic (and a few non-fanfic things too).

What is a dirtbag fic writer? 

 I am talking about someone who is not cleaning up anything. We show up filthy, fresh out of rooting around in the garden of our imaginations. We probably smell a little from work. We will hand you our hard grown fruits, but we have not washed them and we carried them in the bottom upturned parts of our t-shirts. The fruit is a little bruised. It’s not cut up or put in a bowl yet. But we got it in the house! It’s here. Someone can eat it.  

Why dirtbag it? Because the fruit gets in the house. If you’re hemming and hawing, if the idea you want to do seems to be big or you want it perfect and shiny. If you’re imagining a ten thousand step process, so you’re not taking the first step? Dirtbag it. 

How do I dirtbag? 

That’s the best part. You just write. Sit down. One word after the other. No outline, no plan, no destination. No thought of editing. Just word vomit. Every word is a good word. It’a word that wasn’t there before. Grammar sucks? Who cares. Can’t think of the perfect word? Fuck it, put in the simplest version of what you mean. 

Write the idea that you love. The one thing you want to say. Has it been done 3000000 times? WHO CARES human history is long, every idea has been done, probably more than twice. YOU have never written it before. It’s your grubby potato that you clawed out of the ground and guess what someone can still make it into delicious french fries. 

Now here’s the critical part. Write as much as you can squeeze out of your brain. One word in front of the other. 

And then I challenge you this: at most, read it over once and then put it into the world. Just as it is. AND THIS IS IMPORTANT: DO IT WITHOUT APOLOGY OR CAVEAT.  I challenge you, beautiful dirtbag to not pre-emptively apologize. Do not make your work lesser. THAT IS YOUR POTATO! It has eyes and roots and dirt clinging to it because that is what happens.  We are dirtbagging it today. Hell really confused people at do #dirtbagwriter on it.  

Dirtbag writes id, base, lizard brain. Dig in the fertile garden of your imagination. What is the story you tell yourself before you fall asleep? What’s your anxiety this week? Your fantasy? What is going well? What do you wish things looked like? Who is the feral imaginary character you’ve been crafting to take your frustrations and joys out on? 

But, VEE, I wish to have an editor and an outline, use a cool software like scrivener instead of retching up onto a google doc and making it look NICE and PRETTY!

COOL! DO THAT THEN! IF YOU’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT! You should have a process! That’s cool and healthy and necessary for sustainable writing. But if you’re not writing because all of that seems too much? THEN DON’T. 

Did you know fic is free? That we do this from love? From sheer desire? For the love of the game? If you have a process, and the words are flowing, amazing, I love that for you, you don’t need this essay.  If you don’t, let us continue. 

What does dirtbag writing look like? 

It’s messy. It’s a little raw and tatty around the edges sometimes. It’s weird.  It’s someone else’s first draft. Maybe it winds up being your first draft, Idek, that’s your business. 

It’s jokes that make YOU laugh. It’s drama that would make YOU cry if you read it. You are your first commenter. You are your first audience (and possibly continuing pleasure! If you don’t go back and reread your own work sometimes, you might be missing out on one of your favorite authors cause you wrote it for you! Wait until you’re not so close to it. Years sometimes. Then hey, maybe some of this is pretty dang good actually.) 

It has mistakes. 

Dirtbags make mistakes, but dirtbags have published pieces. They have things other people can read out there. 

What if I don’t get good feedback? 

Look, the most likely outcome of any new, untried fic writer (and even established writers trying something new-ish)  is that you get no feedback. That’s real. Silence. It’s eerie, it’s terrible, it sucks. I don’t want to pretend it doesn’t. But nothing is not negative. It’s a big fic-y ocean out there and we are all wee itty-bitty-sometimes-with-titty fishes.  

You should still do it all over again. And again. And again. You get better at writing by writing. You just do. Nothing else replaces it. If your well is dry? Fill it with new things. Go do something new, read a new kind of book, watch a new film,  (libraries have so much good shit, you don’t even have to spend money for so many things if you have a library card), just go for a walk in a new direction. Stimulate yourself. Got a cup of something hot and eavesdrop on conversations. Refill yourself with newness. 

And hey, speaking of, do you leave comments? Because you get what you give. You can build relationships with people by commenting and that builds community and community means places to get feedback in the end. Comments are gold. They are all we are paid in. Tip your writers with ‘extra kudos’ or ‘this made me laugh’. And hey, when you go back for a re-read so you can tell them your favorite part? Ask yourself how they made that favorite part? What do you like about it?  Tone? Metaphor? The structure? Reading teaches us how to write too! 

BUT, okay. Sometimes. Sometimes there is actual bad feedback and people suck. 

You know the best part about being a dirtbag? Unrepentant block, delete, goodbye. You don’t own anyone with a shitty opinion any of your precious time on this earth. You did it for free, you gave them your dirty, but still delicious fruit and they went ‘ew, this is a dirty strawberry, how could you not make a clean tomato?”  Because you didn’t plant fucking tomatoes, did you? Don’t fight, don’t engage. Block. Delete. Goodbye. 

If someone in person, looked you in the eye when you brought them a plate of food to share at a party and they said “Why didn’t you bring me MY favorite? This isn’t cooked well at all.” You would probably write up a Reddit AiTA question about it just to hear five thousand people say they were an asshole.   Fic is no different 

And hey, when you dirtbag it? You know you did. It’s not your most cleaned up perfect version. So who cares what they think? You might make it more shiny and polished next time! You might NOT. 

Ok, but what if I don’t finish it? 

Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if it’s bad? 

Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if it doesn’t make sense? 

That’s ART, baby. Fuck it, post it anyway. 

What if what I want to write doesn’t work with current fandom norms? 

Then someone out there probably needs it!  And what the hell is this? The western canon? FUCK IT POST IT ANYWAY* 

*Basic human decency is not a ‘fandom norm’. Don’t be racist, sexist, ableist, fat shaming, classist or shitty about anyone's identity on main, okay? Dirtbag writers are KIND first and foremost. Someone saying you are stepping into shit about their identity is not the same as unsolicited crappy feedback about pairings. In the immortal words of Kurt Vonnegut: "God damn it, you've got to be kind.”

You’re being very flippant about something that’s scary. 

I know. I know I am. I know it can be scary. But no risk, no reward and hell, you aren’t using your goddamn legal name on the internet are you? (please for the love of fuck do not be using your legal name to write fic) You’ve got on a mask. You’re a superhero. With dirt on your cape. 

That niche thing that you think no one cares about? Guaranteed you will find someone else in the world who wants it. Maybe they won’t find it right away. Maybe they will be too shy to comment or even hit a button. But your dirty potato will stick with them. They will make french fries in their head.

You have an audience. But they can’t find you if you have nothing out there. 

Go forth. Make. 

You have some errors in this essay. 

PROBABLY CAUSE I DIRTBAGGED IT.  But I picked this strawberry for you out of my brain, so I hope you run it under some cold water and find the good bits and have a nice snack. Or throw it away. Or use it to plant more strawberries (I know that’s not how strawberries work, metaphors break when stretched).  

#dirtbagwriter 

Go forth and MAKE

[ginnyw-potter-archive]

Mum's Fury

Ginnyiversary bingo entry: I16 — Why had no-one ever mentioned Mum's twin? Read on AO3

Mr and Mrs Weasley’s anniversary celebration was a grand endeavour. They had all divided the tasks to do around the house to have it ready for the surprise party. They had precisely two hours to tidy the house, prepare food, and put up decorations without Mr and Mrs Weasley knowing.

With an hour to go they suddenly realised that no one had been tasked with picking up the gift. Ginny had placed the order but someone else was meant to pick it up. In the kitchen beside Harry she helplessly looked at him. She could not apparate while pregnant and they hadn’t announced that news yet.

“Percy?” he suggested, looking over at all the pots.

“No… he’s degnoming and then he needs to help Bill…” She locked eyes with him. “Can you just quickly go?” She wiped the sweat off her brow. “Please?”

Harry could never say no to those big brown eyes under any circumstance.

“I’ll get cleaned up and change when you’re back.” She used her wand to adjust the heat on the pots.

“Alright,” he agreed. He kissed her softly. “Ask help if needed.”

She nodded and pushed him. “Go.”

Harry thought it was impressive that he had returned in less than twenty minutes. He had reluctantly given the man an autograph just so he could make a quick escape. It only worked somewhat.

When he returned, he saw Bill, Charlie, and Percy standing outside near the kitchen window, giggling amongst themselves.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

Bill snorted and looked at Harry. “We were just wondering… why had no-one ever mentioned Mum’s twin?”

Harry was about to ask for clarification when Ginny’s voice soared—or rather rolled—out of the open window with a thunderous volume as she yelled at Ron for stealing food while it wasn’t ready yet.

Ron ran outside, pursued by a furious Ginny, who halted in the doorway wearing an apron. Her face was red and she was waving a spatula at her brother.

“Right,” Harry said.

Ginny’s scorching gaze landed on them. “If you have time to stand around you have time for more chores and I’ve got a few!” she shouted in a tone that could rival Mrs Weasley’s.

The Weasley men scattered immediately and vanished to return to their assigned tasks, leaving Harry standing on his own.

He walked up to her. “Got the gift, with some difficulty.” He kissed the top of her head.

She walked back to the stove and he followed her, setting the gift out of the way.

“Go get ready, I’ve got it.”

“Sure?” she asked. “The dish in the oven needs another 10 minutes but maybe check before then. Everything on the table has a cooling charm on it and everything on the counter a heating charm.”

“Lovely. Leaves me with nothing much to do.” He kissed her temple again in the hopes her face would relax a little.

“And don’t let my brothers near—”

“The food… Don’t worry, I’m a duelling champion,” he teased. He turned the heat on the sauce down.

She smiled a little. “Thank you, babe.” She glanced towards the window. “What were those idiots laughing about?”

He hesitated for a moment. “Well… you’re in the Burrow yelling at everyone to stop getting their grubby hands on the food. Reminded them of someone.”

She gasped, her eyes wide. “No!”

“On the bright side, you’re now as scary as your mum,” he teased with a chuckle.

“It’s already happening, isn’t it?” She turned to him and cocked her head. “I’m already turning into my mother.”

He leaned on the counter with his elbow. “I prefer to think you’re becoming a mother.” He grinned at her.

She shook her head smiling and wagged the spatula at him. “As per usual, you are completely unhelpful on the topic.”

Harry kissed her. “Get changed, and I’ll yell at your brothers and all will be done with ten minutes to spare.” He pushed her towards the stairs.

Ginny disappeared upstairs with her change of clothes and he turned back to the stove. His back stiffened when he heard the creak of the floor.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Ronald,” Harry said. He turned around to find Ron standing a meter away from the table, looking dejected. “Or I’ll report you to my wife.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “No, please don’t!”  

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

Did my part to vote the fuckers out!! Fingers crossed, and I would love some Geraskier or OFMD, whichever you want. Thank you for doing this!

HURRAH, good job 🎉 lets get those bastards GONE

I've gone for a character/thematic mash-up for this one. Let's see if it works. Added this one under a cut because it's a little longer!

------

Jaskier stared at the book in his hand. The pages danced in the fast, salt-spray wind coming from the ocean as his ship ploughed through the rough seas. Droplets landed on the fine paper, smudging the inky name scrawled in a child’s hand.

Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.

He’d been so proud of it, back then.

With a sigh, he let the book drop into the turbulent waters below. He did not stop to watch it sink.

“Any progress?” he dropped down onto the lower deck, his pristine shoes clicking against the polished wood.

Priscilla, his first mate and dearest friend, gave him one of her Looks. “Slow,” she said. “But we are gaining on them. In fact—” she handed him the spyglass she had been looking through. “They look as if they’ve stopped. Thoughts?”

Jaskier took the glass and held it to his eye. The ship they’d been following - slightly smaller than The Lark with grubby-looking sails - had indeed appeared to have stopped and let down anchor.

“Perhaps they want to parlay,” Jaskier said, folding the spyglass with a decisive click.

“Perhaps.”

He strode up to the bow to get a better look. As he watched, the Lark finally catching up, he noticed a dark shape being run up the flagpole.

The flag was black, jet black. In the centre was a white wolf’s head, jaws open in a snarl.

Ah. Shit.

—

“And you are, what?” the short-haired man glared down at him. “A merchant? A jumped up little prince?”

Jaskier struggled against the ropes binding his wrists.

“Actually,” he spat, with as much venom as he could muster. “I am a pirate. Maybe you’ve heard of me: I am the Bard.”

The man burst out laughing. “And I’m a fucking siren,” he said. “Come on. Captain wants a word.”

He hauled Jaskier to his feet and shoved him forwards. 

“Wait—”

“What is it, little prince?”

“I will speak to your captain. But if you harm my crew—”

“You’ll what, sing us to death? Kick me to bits with your pointy little shoes?”

“Don’t fucking tempt me.”

The man laughed again, then pushed Jaskier towards the cabin nestled at the front of the ship.

“See if you can impress the Wolf with that clever tongue of yours, Bard,” he snorted. “You’ll need it.”

With a final shove, Jaskier fell through the open door. It slammed behind him.

“Perhaps we can make a bargain.”

He spoke before the captain - before the Wolf - could, hoping to distract him, hoping to gain the upper hand. Yes, he was bound, but that didn’t mean he was defeated. Not yet.

“A bargain?”

The voice from the shadows at the far side of the cabin was low and dark.

“Yes,” Jaskier said. “We are alike, you and I. Both pirates, both doing what we must to—”

The man snorted. “You are no pirate.”

“I think you’ll find—”

The man stepped into the light, and Jaskier’s words died in his throat. He was sure he’d been about to make a witty retort, but it had sunk and vanished.

The Wolf was the most singularly striking man he had ever seen. Long, white hair framed a chiselled face, a strong jaw, a firm brow. There was a scar across his eye, a wound long-since healed. And what eyes. In this light, Jaskier could almost swear they were yellow.

He remembered the other pirate’s words: see if you can impress the Wolf with that clever tongue.

Something hot and tight squeezed in Jaskier’s stomach. He took a step forward.

“Surely…” he took another step. All that lay between them was the captain’s table, strewn with papers. “...there must be something you want from me.”

[farity]

Sorrow, part 11

The moment Aemond saw Ser Criston's face, he felt fear invading every part of him.

"Where is my wife?"

"My prince, I walked inside-"

"WHERE IS MY WIFE!" Aemond shouted, standing up, fists on the desk.

Criston, eyes defeated, simply said. "Rhaenyra has princess Elyse."

* * * * *

It was dark in her cell. Nothing as horrible as the dungeons her late husband had thrown her in occasionally, but still, a cell was a cell, even without rats.

She saw someone approaching and curled herself against the corner.

"He took my son, and now he's taken my husband," came Rhaenyra's soft voice. "It is too much to bear," she added, voice breaking. "That family has taken everything from me." She stared at Elyse for a few moments, than turned back and left.

Elyse could not imagine, of course, the losses that Rhaenyra had endured. She was supposed to be queen, until she wasn't, and she had lost her father, her baby, her son, and her husband in quick succession.

It was enough to drive anyone to madness.

She just hoped that she could reunite with Aemond before Rhaenyra gave in to her rage.

A servant came in, sliding a tray under the bars, and as much as Elyse wondered if it was poisoned, she was so hungry that she dove in. It was dry bread, ale, and some kind of slop, but she'd eaten worse, and less, in her old life, so she ate everything, figuring she would be needing her strength from then on.

* * * * *

"Aemond, you cannot go to Dragonstone, it is precisely what she wants." Alicent placed her hand on her son's arm, and found him pulling away from her touch.

"I understand not caring for your spouse is what we do in this family, but once again, I take a different road, mother." He was donning armor, letting his personal servant adjust the ties and clasps. "I will kill that bitch once and for all."

Alicent looked down It was never supposed to happen this way. Aegon was destined to be king and it was supposed to be a golden, glorious reign. Now he was bed-ridden, his mind dulled and his legs destroyed, his beautiful face half burned. Helaena didn't seem to care much, always having been in a world of her own, but she did love her children and that meant a lot to Alicent.

Aemond, who had been an outcast for so long within his own family, and was now cursed as a kinslayer, wore Aegon's crown and his impetuousness had now landed him a wife.

Alicent had spoken to her maester before this all happened. She would have him examine Elyse, find out if the young woman was telling the truth about being unable to bear children.

* * * * *

It was difficult to sleep with only your arm for a pillow. Not that she hadn't done it before, but between the cold that seeped in, the worry about what would happen to her and Aemond, and every little noise making her jump, Elyse couldn't get more than a few minutes' rest at a time.

Rhaenyra had not come back in a long time. Neither had anyone else, and she was hungry again. She'd found a bucket in the corner to relieve herself in but felt grubby and sticky and if she got out of this place she would spent a long time in the nearest body of water, washing off the filth that surrounded her.

Had it all been a dream? Her time with Aemond? The soft words, the loving touches, would she ever feel them again, or was she destined to die, forgotten to all, in this hell hole? Would she ever feel his arms around her, his lips on hers, the weight of him pressing her into their bed? She could almost feel his hair on his fingertips if she closed her eyes. She would not forget. She would endure, and she would find her way back to him.

* * * * *

Vhagar raged, her anger echoing that of her rider's. Aemond guided the great dragon over the home of his half-sister, heard the answering roar of Syrax. He could not risk an attack without knowing where Elyse was, and so he landed by the great doors of Dragonstone and made his way inside.

There were no guards, no one between him and the figure that sat on the throne, the crown of Jaeherys atop her head.

"I have been waiting for you, brother."

"Where is my wife?"

"It is time for you to answer for your many sins."

Aemond gritted his teeth at her tone. "There shall be plenty of time for that in the seven hells that await me, sister. Now, I want my wife brought to me."

Rhaenyra stood, took the few steps down from the dais until she was but a few feet from him. "You took my son from me, my sweet boy," she said quietly, "and now you have taken my husband."

"And his whore," Aemond snarled. "I thought you'd be grateful for that."

"I loved him!"

"Clearly, it wasn't mutual."

Rhaenyra turned to the side. "Guard!"

As Aemond watched, a guard walked in from a side door, holding Elyse's arm. She looked terrified, pale, but when she looked at him she managed a small smile.

"Wife," he said, "I am here to take you home."

"I am delighted to hear that, husband."

The guard stopped far enough from Aemond that he clenched his fists at his side, wanting nothing more than to grab Elyse.

"It is due to my mercy that your wife lives, Aemond, mercy you do not deserve for you had none for mine. But my mercy is not limitless, and-"

"Your wretch of a son should have been punished for what he did to me," Aemond snapped, "but you were too busy pretending your bastards were true, pretending calling them as they were was worse than Luke taking my eye. This is all our father's fault."

"Father's biggest mistake was marrying Alicent," Rhaenyra countered. "He had an heir, there was no need for more children. But now I present you with a choice, brother."

Aemond said nothing, his eye darting between his sister and his wife. Elyse looked at him, her hands clasped together as the guard continued to hold her arm.

"Bend the knee. Pledge your loyalty and your dragon to me, and I will give you your wife back."

"No, Aemond."

He turned to Elyse, who was shaking her head.

"Do not do it."

"Be quiet," Rhaenyra spat, "or I shall cut your pretty head from your body!"

Aemond lunged at his sister, and froze when he saw the guard put a blade to Elyse's throat. He would tear Rhaenyra to pieces with his bare hands if she dared harm his wife. It was time to end this charade, he thought.

"Wait," he said, and took a step back.

A moment later, the guard made a gurgling sound and Elyse screamed.

Rhaenyra turned, and saw Ser Criston Cole step around the dying guard, pulling his blade out of the back of the man's neck. "You're safe, princess," he said, and Elyse ran to Aemond.

"Guards!"

"Don't bother, princess," Ser Criston said to Rhaenyra, "they're all dead. You really should hire a better quality of soldier."

* * * * *

While Cole and his men secured Dragonstone, Aemond kept his arms around Elyse, kissing her hair while she simply pressed herself against him.

"Were you harmed?"

"No," she replied, "other than keeping me from you, no." She pulled back, her fingers ghosting along the planes of his face. "I'm sorry I smell," she smiled weakly.

Aemond shook his head. "I have you back," he pressed his lips to hers. "I will make her pay for daring to lay a hand on you."

"Can we go home?" she asked, and as much as Aemond wanted to do just that, he had unfinished business with Rhaenyra.

He brushed his lips against hers again. "Soon, wife. Stay with Ser Criston." He felt the momentary panic as she gripped him tightly, but then she stepped back, and let him go.

"Ser Criston," he said as he walked to where his sister sat on the steps of the dais, his men on each side of her. "With your life."

"My prince," Cole said simply, and nodded.

Aemond walked toward Rhaenyra, taking his time.

"It is time for you to answer for your many sins."

* * * * * *

[scary-lasagna]

Hello!:D i was wondering if you could do Jeff and Ben with a child reader?:0 platonic obvi!^^ but there really mean and stuff but its bc of trauma?:D if not ignore this<3

oh dear, i'm sorry I didn't catch the mean part! I'll be writing a second one with your spare ask don't worry!! :]

Platonic!Jeff & Ben

Ben is like stupidly amazing with kids.

Sally loves him, she thinks he's the coolest in the manor and lets her say bad words sometimes, and even has a tea party once in a while.

Jeff isn't the greatest, and usually has a knack for making small children cry.

So when an orphaned child wanders up to the manor, and they're scheduled to babysit until Slender gets home, they agree to watch you until sunset.

Jeff has absolutely no clue what to do with you, and doesn't even think to offer you a snack or something to drink.

Ben is already returning from the kitchen with little packets of crackers and one of Sally's juice boxes.

Jeff will pick you up and plop you down at the table, sitting next to you and try to make an attempt at conversation.

But again, he's terrible with children, and tries asking you if you've seen the new GTA 6 trailer.

You look at him weird before continue munching on your crackers. You even go as far as scooting away from him a little bit.

Jeff is embarrassed by a 5 year old, but pretends he's not bothered by it. Ben sees right through his facade, and snickers to himself behind a well placed cough..

Ben knows how make you feel more comfortable, asking questions about you, because what else would a 5 year old have to talk about?

Their whole world consists of things that they do, not whatever sport was on TV last night or a new game that's being released, you were too young for that talk. The most interesting person they know is themself.

But no matter how many questions Ben tries to ask, you don't give them a glimpse of information about how you got here.

"So, where were you before you found us?"

"Literally, I don't even know, stop asking me. But today I found a frog and I put him in my pocket, and then I started to play the drums and Roblox at the same time but the frog didn't like it and-"

They agree to take you to the game room so you can mess around with whatever you can get your grubby hands on, whether it be the foosball table, the N64 scattered on the ground, the 30,000 dollar pool table-

THE THIEIRTY THOUSNAND DOALRA-

Jeff is faster than Ben, and swoops you up with a 'nOOoonononono', and you think it's the funniest thing that he's holding you upside down, because you laugh so hard you run out of breath.

And while Ben re-organizes the pool balls back into their neat little triangle, Jeff has fun just swinging you about, finding it amusing how easy children are entertained.

One way up, one way back down, swing you around in a circle like a football, dangle you by an ankle and toss you up to catch you. Like a little rhythm game.

He remembers back to his own childhood, the moments where his parents actually liked being parents, and his father tossing hm repeatedly on the couch, which of course is passed down to you.

"Again!"

"AGAAINN??? UGGHH!"

And you think it's hilarious how he's so annoyed, yet does it anyway. And secretly, he loves it.

And Ben loves watching him love it, like he gets to see a glimpse into Jeff's past that he never wants to talk about.

But eventually, as all children do, you grow tired, and instead of running back toward Jeff, you stay on the couch and curl up to watch whatever is flickering on the TV.

Ben will return with popcorn, and Jeff is sitting on the ground in front of you, showing you how to play this old vintage game called "The Mario Bros." that's only 8 pixels deep in graphics quality.

Ben holds a somewhat bittersweet smile, as he walks over and delivers the popcorn. After some thought he joins in as Player 2, and let's you get the sleep you so much needed.

[vestaclinicpod]

Audio Drama Sunday - 7th April ✨

Happy #AudioDramaSunday! I’ve had such a long week - here’s what made it better!🌈

👻 @tellnotalespod (S2E7) I loved the April Fool’s episode, it really brightened up my day. And the main ep was lovely too. I do so love a parakeet and the idea that some kids can actually see ghosts 🥺 but what the hell was Frank doing at the end there? Please can this be the thing that pushes Leo back into Julia’s (arms) and Riley’s circle of friendship????? Please! 

🌲 @hellofromthehallowoods (146) Danielle!!!!! I am rubbing my grubby little hands together waiting for more information on how Clem and Danielle came to be Like That. The fun thing about this ?time skip is that it makes me want to be omnipresent in the narrative too. I need to know what’s happening to everyone everywhere!! 

🎙️WTNV (245) Maybe I have father-related trauma, but I am HUNGRY for the Grandad Gershwin lore.

🏛 @the-mistholme-museum (FRANTIC) ohh I was wondering when the Queen was going to make an appearance (Hero is too good not to be featured LBR) but now it’s happened I’m scared!! I think the next episode is the finale and I have no idea what kind of ending is going to emerge! 

🔎 @224bbaker Fawx and Stallion released the second part of their Q+A which was so much fun to listen to. We love self-indulgent show runners, particularly when we all want the same things (AKA lava-filled cage matches). Please be really cool and intelligent like me and support the S2 crowdfund! I need the case of the Birthday Boy or I’ll perish. 

🍾 @ameliapodcast (30) This was such a cute episode!! Not going to lie, if the first human voice I heard was Amelia’s, I wouldn’t be mad! Not sure that they’re going to get them back as a client though . . . 

🍎 @notquitedeadpod (XXX-XXXII) help, oh my god, listening to Alfie talk to Cas is actually destroying me emotionally 😭 I hate how evasive (and manipulative??) Neige is being. I KNOW there’s something huge that hasn’t yet been revealed and I’m not ready to find out what that is!

Hope everyone has had a good week! I'm so excited for more Camlann next week and I think The Silt Verses is returning too!! 

[rhaegang]

Transmasc Ollie in his period x hungry Vampire Felix(?)

I feel like this might exist? But also.

[Will be using a variety of terms for anatomy that may or may not be gender affirming for all readers, depending on the individual. But Oliver is not misgendered.]

Felix is a grubby little slob of a man princess, and that would be true even if he were a vampire man princess. You know he is a messy eater. As a human, he eats with his hands and gestures with his food, right?

Oliver, on the other hand, is tidy. Fastidious. And very sensitive to things he finds embarrassing or potentially humiliating.

A transmasc Oliver would likely consider menstruation one of those things. What a complete nightmare, this uncontrollable thing his body does, this thing that reminds him of his own wrongness. And on top of that, it’s messy. It smells. It’s uncomfortable and it stains his clothes. Absolutely AWFUL, every single time.

Until Felix changes his perspective on things.

If it’s Felix, Oliver doesn’t care if it’s messy. He loves Felix even when he’s a slob. And if it’s Felix, Oliver forgets his own wrongness, because Felix never seems to notice or acknowledge it as an issue.

Does Felix have any notable skill with using his mouth on a pussy? No, not really. He’s never bothered to learn. But Oliver’s special to him — if we’re thinking it’s an Oxford setting, they’re best friends. If it’s more AU, then you know, maybe Oliver’s his familiar. He’s special.

And Felix doesn’t find anything off putting about the smell. On the contrary, it’s distracting. Attractive. Appetizing.

Oliver starts to notice how much closer Felix hovers when it’s that time each month. How he tends to linger, how he inhales more sharply despite not needing to breathe.

Oliver isn’t stupid—he knows why it keeps happening. But he’s not able to come right out and acknowledge that it IS happening.

What Oliver, our beloved little freak, is able to do is this:

The next time he gets out of the bath, he skips any absorbent products. He free bleeds into his boxers (while he does his revising that afternoon, or while he’s doing his duties as familiar), and leaves those trunks conspicuously atop the laundry hamper.

And then, you can guess can’t you? He hides. He waits. He watches.

He holds his breath, grips his own knees hard, when he sees Felix pick up his shorts and stuff the wet fabric right into his mouth like the unselfconsciously messy creature he is.

He grabs his cunt and rocks against his hand, because damn, it’s disgusting, but Felix is so beautiful when he’s at his most unconcerned with the mess he’s making.

His fingers, they’re nowhere near as long and rough as Felix’s, with their big knuckles and their calluses from guitar strings, but he crams them in his hole regardless. His dick is chafing against his palm, hood dragged down and exposing the too-sensitive head. It’s too much all of the sudden, and Oliver moans.

Vampires move fast, and Oliver’s looking up into Felix’s face before his next breath.

Are words needed? What words would suffice? “Sorry I left my bloody shorts out like cheese on a mousetrap. You just keep looking at me like you want to put me in your mouth yet you never do, so desperate measures, yeah?”

No—Oliver doesn’t really have to say anything of the sort.

Because Felix is hauling him up from where he was crouching (in the closet or the antique wardrobe in the castle, or the dressing room, whatever suits the scene you’re seeing). And then Felix is grabbing his wrist, and pulling his hand away from his hole, which means the cool air kisses Oliver’s dick at about the same time Felix smears Oliver’s bloodied fingers across his own lips before he leans down to lick the mess off his face for him.

“I’d thought you’d rather me ignore it, considering, and so here I was trying to be polite.” And Felix licks his own lips as he draws back, just a few inches. “But I suppose this means you don’t mind, do you?”

Oliver shakes his head. His inner thighs are an absolute mess—he doesn’t think it’s all blood anymore.

“Good. Because I haven’t had any breakfast yet.”

Now here’s the part where Oliver being special really becomes obvious, because Felix doesn’t go to his knees for just anyone. But he drops like a stone, and he still has to lift Oliver up with both hands on his ass, until Oliver’s trembling on his tiptoes, his hips canted up toward Felix’s mouth.

Messy. Wet. Loud. Felix eats him like he’s a melon that’s just this side of too ripe — he splits Oliver open, slurps the flood of liquid that gushes from inside, then sets his jaw and tongue and teeth to work on the rest.

Oliver has watched Felix eat enough to know how he gets. Still, he’s surprised by how deep inside him Felix’s tongue reaches. He’s unprepared to have Felix’s fangs nipping at his foreskin, tugging it until it’s stretched taut. He’s sure, in fact, that he’s just died.

Because his idea of Heaven is this moment, where Felix releases his sensitive skin only to shove it back with his bloodied lips until he can get the full length of Oliver’s dick between them and suck hard, like he could drink Oliver’s body down the same way he’s just drunk his blood.

Maybe some day, Oliver’s body won’t bleed this way anymore. Maybe some day, he’ll even forget what it was like. But until that day, Felix is more than happy to make the whole experience significantly more positive for him.

And it works like a charm, every time.

[periwinklemoonlight]

hot to go! ⋆ a jrwi suckening fic ⋆ 11.1k words

summary: shilo helps emizel get ready for his date with theo — many, many hijinks ensue.

if you prefer, you can read it on ao3!

⋆⋆⋆

Shilo sits content at the edge of his hotel bed, hands folded daintily in his lap and humming a simple melody. His eyes lazily drift around the room’s decor, taking in the curves and contours of each unfamiliar object and wondering how it might feel to sketch it, to commit it to memory in the ivory pages of the book that sits neatly on the edge of his nightstand. A soft blanket crinkles around his legs and bunches up where Grefgor sits cross-legged behind him, gently sliding a plastic hairbrush through Shilo’s tangled locks. Curtains sway back and forth ahead of him, letting the slightest hint of a cool breeze into the room and wash across his face. The digital clock across the room glows a vivid red, reading seven twenty-three p.m. and signaling the start of a whole new night ahead of them.

“That’s a pretty tune, my prince,” Grefgor comments absent-mindedly. “Does it have a name?”

Shilo snaps out of his sleepy trance, consciously re-straightening his posture. “Oh, no, I made it up just now.” 

“I wasn’t aware you were so musically inclined. I should be lucky to guard such a talented prince.” There’s something lightheartedly facetious, yet sincerely good natured to his tone. Strangely, Shilo notes somewhere in the back of his mind, it's almost a shock to be reminded of Grefgor's profession. He's never been allowed to befriend any of his guards the way he has with him these past few weeks, much less consider them a friend first and foremost. It's a welcome change, he thinks, and one he is happy to indulge in — even if it means being the subject of their banter sometimes.

Shilo smiles, feeling slightly embarrassed. “No, no. I think I much prefer the visual arts, you know? Painting, drawing, that sort of thing.” He glances at the small leather bound book on the nightstand. His gaze then drifts to the little brush, bristles stained with a dark kohl powder, next to it. 

“Oh!” He continues, “And-”

“MAKEUP!” A boisterous voice finishes his sentence for him as it nearly knocks down the door and Shilo off the bed in one fell swoop. Grefgor catches Shilo by the arm, stopping him before he slips onto the floor. After a moment of steadying themselves, the pair glance up to see a jittery-looking Emizel standing in the doorway.

“Shit, that was kinda loud. Sorry man.” Emizel runs his hand through his hair sheepishly. “But, like, it’s also kinda an emergency.”

Shilo shakes his head, mindlessly messing up the hair Grefgor had spent the past twenty minutes smoothing to perfection. “A… makeup emergency?”

Shilo looks his brother up and down. He’s completely barefaced, save for a few small red spots on his chin and forehead. Perhaps there are some things even vampirism can’t cure. Beyond his face, his entire outfit is a mess. Every article of clothing seems to be mismatched, including his shoes. Socks and sandals paired with — judging by how it appears at least three sizes too big — what can only be one of Arthur’s black loafers is a choice, to be sure. Not a good one, but a choice. 

“Yes? No? I don’t fucking-? Sorta. Arthur told me you know makeup. I need help with that. Makeup.”

“He wears it himself, does he not?”

“Yeah, but Broody McAsshole said he was too busy brooding to help me because he’s an asshole. So I’m here now. Can you help me out, dude?”

Shilo still looks baffled. “I mean, sure, but… what exactly is your problem?” Emizel stares at him for a second, then blinks.

“Oh, shit, yeah. Okay. Forgot about that part. Fuck.” 

Grefgor scoots beside Shilo and pats the bed next to him. “Come sit, my prince. I am also more than willing to assist you with whatever you need.” Emizel obliges, wiping his grubby face with grubbier hands. 

“Thanks, man. See, that's why I fuckin’ love you, Grefgor, dude. You’re always keeping it real as fuck. Like you’re always on some real shit.” Grefgor just smiles in the way Shilo has learned means he barely understood what was just said to him. 

Emizel pauses, as if to take a breath, before speaking. “I asked Theo out, and he, wow, he said yes. So we’re going on a date.”

Shilo clasps his hands under his chin delicately. “A date! Emizel, that is very exciting!”

“Indeed, my prince!” Grefgor agrees, nodding.

“Yeah, but like, here’s the problem. Now I've gotta figure out what to wear. Like usually I don’t give a shit about that kinda thing but now I’m like, oh fuck, this is actually a thing now, and I can’t just look like ass if we’re actually gonna be going out, out, you know?” Emizel moves his hands rapidly as he speaks, less gesturing than just moving for the sake of movement, cracking his knuckles a dozen times over and twisting his wrists so fast it makes Shilo’s head spin. 

“So you’d like me to help you look presentable for your date with Theo?” He asks, leaning in closer to speak to his brother and resting his chin on Grefgor’s shoulder to look over at him. His eyes are wide with wonder when he asks again: “Emizel, you are asking me to make you over?”

Emizel nods, then throws his hands over his face again when Shilo beams in response. 

“But none of that fancy shit, okay? This is a first date, it’s nothing crazy. Casual, even. Yeah. Super casual and like… chill.” Emizel’s words do nothing to dispel the twinkle in Shilo’s eye. 

“Oh, I can do casual! Yes! Now this is really exciting!” Shilo rises abruptly, dusting himself off before taking another look at his brother.

Incomprehensible is possibly the best and only word to describe his current outfit. Shilo can make out at least four different tops on his torso, the most visible of which displaying an oddly shaped yellow character. Emizel’s pants are in a similar state, each pair of shorts somehow baggier than the last and none of which secured by a belt. What concerns Shilo the most, though, is that the emerald cape flopping around his brother’s shoulders most definitely belongs to him, and that it was absolutely hanging in his closet before he went to sleep yesterday.

“Okay, so, whatever you’ve got going on right now, we are not doing that.” He pauses, furrowing his brow. “What even. What do you have going on right now. What was the thought process behind this.” 

Emizel just shrugs. “Was tryin’ stuff on. Thought I could save some time if I just didn’t take the last thing off when I put on a new one.”

“A… valid strategy, my prince,” Grefgor comments hesitantly. A brief concerned glance to Shilo confirms his true thoughts. 

“Grefgor do not enable him. Emizel, I am sure you could spare the five seconds it takes to remove your clothing from now on. We have plenty of time, don’t we?”

“Oh, nah, not really.” Emizel leans back with his elbows above his head until he lands on the cushiony bed with a soft thump. He glances up at the clock, which now reads seven thirty p.m. “The date’s in like, three hours? Eh, maybe closer to two now?”

“What.”

⋆⋆⋆

“Arthur!?” Shilo calls out loudly, practically slamming his door open. The sudden noise doesn’t seem to faze the older vampire, though his hair gets swept back from the force of the swing. Arthur stands in the hotel hallway just beyond the door, arms crossed impatiently and suspiciously missing a shoe. 

“Have you boys figured it out yet? I’d quite like my other shoe back now, thank you.” Emizel wobbly slips off the loafer and tosses it at Arthur, who catches it with ease and slides it back on in one swift motion. Void mrrps from around his shoulders. 

“Good. I assume you’re all sorted out, then?” 

“Arthur,” Shilo begins, stepping closer and voice a half-whisper. “Arthur, it is worse than I could have ever imagined.”

“We require your credited card immediately, my boy.” Grefgor continues from behind the prince. Arthur’s gaze briefly drifts behind the pair and over to Emizel, who is staring at a wall and mindlessly picking at his face. He sighs.

“What a pain.”

“Arthur, you must take us to the- the… the m…”

“The mall, my prince.”

“The mal! And direct us to the makeup store immediately!” At that, Arthur gets a faraway glint in his eyes.

“Vampire Sephora,” he says to no one in particular. “I'm familiar.”

Shilo blinks. 

“Alright. Well, there is no time to waste! Let’s go!” The young vampire announces as he strides down the hallway, heels clicking with every rushed step and an entourage of vampires at various energy levels following close behind. 

⋆⋆⋆

“Really, you two, we don’t have the time to be arguing about this right now,” Shilo remarks from the back seat of a Toyota Corolla that belonged to a really very nice librarian about five minutes prior. 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, man!” Emizel says, throwing his hands up for emphasis. “I’m the only one in this car who even has a licence!” 

“I assure you, boy, I have driven countless times in my life. It would be much wiser to just let the more experienced driver take the wheel.”

“Horses and buggies don’t fucking count, asshole!” Arthur opens his mouth to speak. “And neither does your goddamn pennyfarting or whatever it’s called!” Emizel adds for good measure. 

“Emizel,” Arthur begins, pointedly choosing to ignore the previous comments, “The last time you operated a vehicle, you nearly hit over a dozen pedestrians. You ended up actually hitting even more. I am the only one here that can take us to our destination both quickly and safely.”

“Yeah, whatever dude,” Emizel shrugs, pushing Arthur out of the way and himself into the driver’s seat. “Come back when you get one of these bad boys, then we’ll talk.” He reaches into his fur lined jacket and pulls out a small, chipped plastic Learner’s Permit with an expiry date reading four months ago. Arthur eyes it for a moment, then sighs as he slots himself into the passenger seat. 

“Just try not to kill anyone,” he says, pinching his temple. 

“No promises!” Emizel grins as he swerves out of the hotel parking lot and immediately begins barreling down the road, nearly launching Shilo out of the car window as he grips onto Grefgor for dear unlife. 

“Besides,” Emizel says after a moment, tone much more casual —  possibly too casual for someone who just ran three red lights, “I thought you didn’t wanna come help me out, Brood. You told me to fuck off when I asked the first time.” Arthur sighs again.

“I did not say that,” he refutes. “And I am still not participating in the makeover. I’m just here to supervise, make sure that none of you boys get into trouble. Has it occurred to you that maybe I might have been more open to the idea initially if you weren’t actively withholding one of my shoes when you asked?”

“Nah. Honestly, I was thinking of it as a little extra motivation.” Emizel begins adjusting the car radio, switching it on to a local pop station as he cruises into oncoming traffic. 

An upbeat song suddenly begins blaring through the vehicle:

I could be the one, or your new addiction… 

“Oh hell yeah!” Emizel cheers. He looks over his shoulder at Shilo and Grefgor, who stare back in confusion. He smiles a toothy grin. 

“You guys like dances, right? You're gonna love this. When I say so, you two copy me, okay?” Shilo furrows his brow, but nods. 

“Eyes on the road, Emizel!” Arthur chastises with a rap on the shoulder. Emizel does as told, but it isn't long until the pre-chorus ends and he swivels once more. 

“Now!” He exclaims and begins waving his arms in the air to match the song, hitting Arthur twice in the process. Shilo and Grefgor try their best to keep up with his rapid movements, a tangle of limbs in the back seat.

“Emizel, what are we doing?” Shilo asks as he flails. One of his hands lands squarely on the top of Grefgor’s head, who momentarily squeezes his eyes shut on impact. A dozen unintelligible apologies waffle out of Shilo as he reels the offending hand back. 

“You’re fuckin’ hot to go dude, that's what!” Emizel replies. “You got it down now?” Before either of them can answer, Arthur lunges past Emizel’s roving arms.

“The wheel! The steering wheel, Emizel!” He coughs out, frantically straightening it. Void hops from his shoulders into Shilo’s lap, startled by her owner’s sudden movement. Shilo yelps at her as the car veers over into the correct lane. 

“It’s literally fine man! It straightens itself! I usually don’t even bother with it anyways!” He returns his attention to Grefgor and Shilo. “So you guys think you got it or what? The chorus is coming up again!” 

“Y-yes my prince?” Grefgor replies, though it sounds more like a question than an answer. Shilo makes a non-committal noise, adjusting to the sudden cat in his lap. 

“And again!” Emizel announces with glee, completely disregarding Arthur in front of him. He starts the dance again, and this time Shilo finds himself able to mostly keep up with the moves, only briefly brushing Grefgor in the process. By the time the chorus comes around again, a smile escapes Shilo’s lips when all three of them are doing it together. 

“Easy, right?” his brother asks. “Theo taught me last week!”

“Yes, now that I have learned it! Oh, Emizel, you should teach Arthur now!”

“He will be doing no such thing! When does this song end?” Arthur grumbles.

“Ignore him, Shilo. I knew he’d be a hater, that’s why I only taught you guys.” Emizel sings along with the end of the song, finally turning back around once it starts to fade out. 

“See, Arthur? It was fine!” He teases, putting his hands back on the wheel. Arthur straightens himself up and decidedly switches off the radio. 

“It-” he coughs again, “-absolutely was not. No more music for the rest of the ride.” Void hops back onto his shoulders with a soft mrrp. Emizel blows a raspberry.

“Can’t do anything around here these days.” He complies despite his protests, though Shilo can’t tell if it’s of his own volition or the death glare his brother receives from Arthur each time he eyes the radio dial. 

When Emizel stops swerving and the mall is finally in sight, Shilo dares to peer forward from the back seat and check the time. Seven fifty-two p.m. Huh. Well, for all his road safety faults, at least Emizel is fast.

⋆⋆⋆

Shilo, after taking several very necessary moments to instruct Emizel to please remove three of his five layers and another few to marvel at the revolving glass door, steps inside the vast mall with the others in tow. His hastily-tied heels click against the tiled floor, followed close behind by the softer taps of leather boots and loafers, and finally topped off by a single socked sandal. 

“You don’t think someone’s gonna ask me why I only have one shoe on?” Emizel ponders, catching up to walk alongside his brother. 

“Better they ask about that than the blood stains all over your hoodie,” Arthur answers stiffly, clearly itching to add an additional comment about the shoes.

“It’s not my fault I got hungry, man. Concentrating on driving takes a lot out of me.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“Arthur, you said you are familiar with the vampire Sephora?” Shilo asks, glancing around the bustling mall and trying his best not to get lost in the throngs of passing shoppers —  both vampire and human alike from the looks of it. “She must be quite the businesswoman to sell cosmetics to all of these people by herself.”

“Something like that, yes,” Arthur says vaguely, taking the front of the group and gesturing for the others to follow. He weaves them through crowded eateries and past a funny looking moving staircase to the fabled store, hesitating at the entrance.

“What’s up Arthur, man?” Emizel asks with a gentle elbow. Arthur pauses for another moment before shaking his head and entering the store with the others.

“Nothing, boy. What are we looking for?” Emizel turns to his twin, who is presently gawking at the sheer amount of products lining the walls.

“Shilo, what are we looking for?” Shilo places a hand under his chin to think and leans against the nearest wall, which happens to be Grefgor. 

“Well, how would you like to look, Emizel?”

“Fucking dope, preferably. But, uh, covering up my acne would be nice. And I like that spooky eyeliner-eyeshadow thing you do sometimes, too. Is that good?” Shilo nods slowly in understanding, then gestures for Grefgor to lean down. The prince promptly cups his mouth with his hands and whispers into his guard’s ear.

“Grefgor, I believe we are in deep trouble. I had no idea there were so many makeup products. Frankly? It is overwhelming. I don’t know what half of these things on the shelves are and I am very quickly realizing I may not be as well versed in the cosmetic world as I once thought but also that it is far too late now to admit this to Emizel and also that he and Arthur are staring at us very suspiciously.” Grefgor nods severely, opening his mouth to reply far too loudly and stopping when Shilo hurriedly presses a finger to his lips. 

“I know exactly what we need,” he announces, whipping himself back around with his hand still on Grefgor’s mouth. 

“What was that just now?” Emizel asks.

“I was just consulting Grefgor for his opinion,” Shilo says matter-of-factly. “He is also quite knowledgeable in the makeup department, you know.” A single drop of sweat drips down Grefgor’s forehead.

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t think you let him even get a word in.”

“Of course. That is the proper etiquette for consulting guards at Umbra Castle, Emizel.” Emizel seems to consider this, then shrugs. 

“Europeans, am I right?” He elbows Arthur again with a grin and continues forward, ignoring the unamused and slightly concerned expression he receives. 

After a moment, Shilo leans back over to Grefgor.

“You do not actually have any advice for us, right Grefgor?” He asks, voice soft.

“No, my prince. I only know as much as you have taught me. Apologies.” 

Shilo sighs. “That is alright.” 

He wanders around a few aisles, inspecting the various products and displays and trying to soak in as much knowledge as possible while appearing to be deeply considering the ramifications of choosing shade 001 over 000. Grefgor peers over his shoulder, mimicking his thoughtful pose. 

“What have you gathered from here, my prince?” He asks, watching as Shilo turns two tubes of pale concealer around in his hands.

“Many things, Grefgor. And also nothing at all. There is so much in this world I do not understand, even in my immortal unlife I fear I may never have the time to learn it all.” He lifts the grayer shade higher. “This is definitely Emizel’s shade, though.”

“Great call, my prince. Speaking of, we appear to have lost him.” Shilo blinks as he slips the tube into Grefgor’s hand.

“Lost him? What do you mean lost him?” he asks, swiveling his head left and right as Grefgor expertly removes the barcode from the product with suspiciously well practised hands. Emizel is nowhere to be found, evidently having slipped off somewhere while Shilo was trying very hard to look like he understood what he was perusing. 

“Arthur?” Shilo calls, noticing the other man had also vanished. At the sound, Void’s head pops up from behind a distant shelf, locking eyes with Shilo and letting out a small meow. Shilo dashes towards her, nearly tripping on the wrinkled cape hastily pinned to his shirt. He sees Arthur first, arms folded and doing his best to give as little input as possible as Emizel shoves various products in his face. 

“Shilo! There you are, man!” Emizel says as he pushes past Arthur. “You really gotta stop running off like that. I know you said you had a plan, but I saw some cool looking sparkly shit and then some other colourful stuff and- You know what? Here. You can tell me if they suck shit. Or something. This guy still insists on being useless.” He presses a handful of items into Shilo’s hands. 

“I’m here for supervision purposes only,” Arthur insists, though his glasses only barely hide the way he eyes the smokey palette to his left. Shilo examines the products, setting a few down onto a ledge and holding up a dark eyeshadow palette. He squints his eyes theatrically and nods firmly. 

“Yes… A splendiferous choice, Emizel. The pigments, they are… strong! And vigorous! It is good. Yes.” He places the palette back down and picks up a small bottle of liquid eyeliner, taking a moment before shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Emizel, I’m afraid this product very clearly has an ancient curse placed upon it. You must remove it immediately unless you would like us all to be blown to smithereens.” Emizel’s eyes widen as he snatches back the bottle, haphazardly tossing it into the aisle behind him. Shilo glimpses at Grefgor nervously as he picks up the next item.

“Excellent observation, my prince. Yes, that item would have instantly vaporized us upon its opening.” Grefgor offers. “You have a trained cosmetic eye, indeed.” Shilo exhales slightly, relaxing his shoulders and turning back to see the product he picked up — a dark red lip gloss very obnoxiously and lasciviously labelled ‘VAMPIRE SEX BLAST’. He deflates with a cartoonish frown, pointed ears flopping down.

“Emizel we are not getting Vampire Sex Blast.” 

Emizel crosses his arms. “Give me one good reason why not.”

“Wh- It is called Vampire Sex Blast!” Shilo exclaims. 

“Yeah, and that fuckin’ rips!” Before Shilo can offer a really very reasonable counter argument, a concerned-looking woman with a ponytail slicked back into an afro puff and dressed in all black appears ominously at the end of the aisle.

She looks pointedly at the products strewn across the floor before glancing at the bickering brothers with an unamused expression. Shilo, oblivious to her discontentment, tosses Vampire Sex Blast away excitedly, lighting up as he notices the capital letters printed across the right side of her shirt.

“Ah, so you are the vampire Sephora!” He beams, clasping his hands together. “It is very nice to meet you! I am Prince Shilo Bathroy of the Ventrue clan. I have heard about your business ventures!” The woman furrows her brow slightly, looking as if she’s about to say something when Arthur steps up beside Shilo and places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sorry about the disturbance, miss. Don’t mind him,” he says as flatly as he can, trying to swiftly brush past Shilo’s introduction. “We were just having a bit of a heated discussion. My boys can be very… particular about this sort of thing. I’m sure you understand.” 

“No worries, sir.” Her tone strongly indicates that there is, in fact, a worry, but she momentarily flashes him a fanged smile. “Well, if you or your sons are looking for anything specific, I would be happy to help you out.” She looks back between Shilo and Emizel, seemingly ignorant of the way Arthur sputters incredulously at her words. 

“So you are… not the vampire Sephora?” Shilo asks. 

Arthur sighs and leans down next to him. “Shilo,” he says, in a rather fatherly manner considering his disbelief just seconds ago, “I fear I may have misled you. There is no vampire named Sephora. This is just a Sephora for vampires.”

Shilo’s voice is small. “...What?”

“I’m sorry, prince. I should not have let this go so far. It is true that when I was last he-”

“Actually, sir…” She pauses, staring down Shilo with squinted eyes before seemingly deciding on something and mumbling, “Hmm. She may approve. Miss Sephora is in today, if the little prince wanted to speak to her. Follow me.” She turns and, despite her invitation to follow, faces the shelf next to her and picks up a rogue brush, instantly distracted with picking at the bristles. 

“She’s what,” Arthur says dully, what was left of the light in his eyes suddenly vanishing as his glasses slide all the way down his nose with shock. That light immediately transfers to Shilo tenfold as his eyes widen gleefully.

“Oh! I would love that! Yes! Thank you, Aaaa…” Shilo cranes his head around to read her name tag, “Sha- Shakira!”

“Wrong,” she replies, but makes no move to correct him. “Now, come on.” She slips the brush into her pocket and disappears around the corner, singing an unrecognisable tune, the puff on the top of her head peeking over the aisles as she walks. The group does as told, except Arthur, who is still frozen in place with an appalled expression. Emizel snaps him back to reality with a sharp elbow, and he finally follows suit, pushing his glasses up again and hardening his expression once more. 

“What is up with you, man?” Emizel pesters with a grin, clearly amused by Arthur’s bizarre behaviour. They follow the mysterious employee to the back of the store, passing by other intrigued workers with waves of varying degrees of politeness. Finally, they reach another woman, her back turned to them and looking over the contents of a cardboard box. Her hair is impossibly long and shiny, thin braids cascading down her back and flowing like a waterfall as she moves. 

“Miss Sephora? This little prince  —  he said his name was Sheila  —  would like to speak with you.” When she turns, Shilo instantly feels like he recognizes her. It’s almost impossible to pin her as anything other than Toreador, for a start, considering her face of full glam makeup and the numerous pieces of jewelry dangling from her ears, neck, and wrists. She blinks her long false eyelashes at Shilo, studying him curiously. 

“Hello!” He greets her with a wave. “My name is Prince Shilo Bathroy of the Ventrue clan. It is very wonderful to meet you!”

“Bathroy?” She repeats, her gaze intensified by the bold makeup around her eyes. A subtle tinge of a Southern accent paints her voice. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that name. You’re a long way from home, aren't you?”

“Ah. Yes, I am. You… are the vampire Sephora, yes? My friend Arthur here has told me about your business enterprise.” Sephora gazes up at Arthur, who looks like he’s about to hurl. 

“Is that so?” She asks, making eye contact with him. He doesn’t react. “Well, yes, I am. I’m surprised you don’t recognize me, Prince Shilo. I was sure your mother would’ve at least kept me in the history books.”

“You knew my mother?” 

Sephora smiles. “Sure did. I lived in that big castle of yours, too, once upon a time. Back when I was Primogen. A long, long time ago now.” Even Arthur seems shocked at the revelation. The peculiar employee, meanwhile, is typing up a storm on her phone. 

“How long ago?” Emizel pipes up. “Like, did you know any, uh, vampire dinosaurs or some shit?” Sephora looks at him disparagingly. 

“Yes.”

Brushing past that, Shilo looks at her intently. “So you were a Primogen! Tell me, why did you leave? I am very interested.” Sephora spreads her arms out, gesturing around her. 

“To start my business, of course! And it was the best damn decision I ever made, I’ll tell you that. I haven't kept up with vampire news for decades! But enough about me, prince. What brings you here?”

“Ah!” Shilo claps. “I am here to help my brother shop for his date. He has given me permission to make him over, which-”, he looks over to Emizel, “-I am very excited about!”

“There’s… two of you?” Sephora asks, grimacing as she watches Emizel pick his nose. 

“Yes! Here, this is my brother Emizel, and my friends Arthur and Grefgor!” A meow. “And Void!” Sephora tilts her head in consideration, gaze lingering on Arthur for an uncomfortable second. Grefgor straightens himself, pushing his shoulders back before speaking. 

“We have come to request your assistance with this task, my, uh, ex-Primogen…?”

“‘Manager’ is fine.”

“-My girlboss.” Grefgor leans over to Shilo. “I learned that one from the tiny lightbox!”

“Advice, hm? Well, for starters, yo-” A loud ringtone cuts her off: -is you say daaaaddy’s hooooome…

The group glances over to the source of the sound — reactions ranging from deeply uncomfortable to downright thrilled — while the employee looks up from her phone nonchalantly. “Sorry guys. My shift was supposed to end an hour ago but apparently my ride got bit by some dipshit outside the mall. This is really entertaining, though. Keep going.” Now distracted by her phone call, the employee, just as ominously as she appeared, walks backwards out of the store. Four pairs of eyes, some more feline than others, side eye Emizel.

Simultaneously, they recall the mess of watching him fumble sneaking into that poor person’s car, first attempting to get in through the trunk and resorting to nose-diving through the passenger side window when that didn't work. It was still an impressive feat, all things considered, especially since the car was still moving when he did it. Less impressively, though, was him then biting their wrist while it was steering the vehicle and promptly crashing the both of them into a tree. 

‘Nerves’, he chalked it up to. ‘Stupidity’ was Arthur’s working theory.

Emizel smiles obtusely. “Tasted like Subway.”

“Well,” Sephora says, making her way in front of the group and beginning to lead them out of the back of the store as well. “I suppose I can spare a free consultation for the prince. If you’d send my regards to your mother, of course.”

Shilo inhales. “Of course.”

When Sephora steps into the main area of the store, her Presence is palpable. Every head, employee and customer, vampire and human alike, whirls to look at her, dropping whatever they're doing before Sephora waves a casual hand to dismiss their leering gazes. 

“So, what made you settle in L.A.?” Shilo asks as he follows her, clearly affected by the sudden eyes on the group.

“Oh, I don’t live here, Prince. I’m just visiting this little branch while I’m in town. See, my sister told me she was going to the Elysium at that old club downtown and I thought, well, I could drop by and say hello, but I ended up missing the party by a whole night. A real shame too, I heard it was fire.” The group collectively grits their teeth behind her. 

They stop at an aisle mirror, close to where they had previously tossed products around. Shilo excitedly places his brother in front of it, taking him by the shoulders and adjusting him so he stands in the center. He watches as Sephora takes a good long look at his brother, then walks into the nearby aisle. She chats leisurely with Shilo as she picks up various items from the counter and hands them back to him with a nod. She disappears into another adjacent aisle and returns with a few new ones, including a fancy-looking powder and small eyeliner pencil.

“Now, remember, these are all just suggestions,” She says. She makes an odd face until her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, as if with epiphany. “But remember… for some people… it might be more practical to look… within, for beauty.”

“Yeah man, I’m always saying that,” Emizel agrees, idly scratching his ass. Sephora squints at him.

“One more recommendation, if I may,” She says, reaching over to another aisle and placing a stick of deodorant in Emizel’s hand. 

“Oh, you guys sell snacks here too? Thanks,” He promptly takes a bite. 

Sephora's eye twitches. She peers at Arthur out of the corner of her eye. “You're paying for that.” 

Arthur gulps.”Gawrsh!”

As the group files out, thanking Sephora for her help, she sets a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Slowly, he cranes his head over to make hesitant eye contact. She gives him an unreadable smile. He trembles.

“Nice to see you in my store again, Arthur Bennett. Takes a lot of guts to come back after what happened last time.”

The walk to the next store is mostly silent, at least on Arthur's part. 

⋆⋆⋆

“Alright,” Shilo begins, scanning the shelves of the Hot Topic. “What sort of occasion is this date of yours, Emizel?”

“I told you, man. It’s just, like, casual. Super casual. Honestly I could show up with what I’m wearing right now, it’s so casual. Or nothing at all, even. I could be butt ass naked and it would be so chill. Fuckin’… yeah.” Emizel looks more and more nervous with every word that rambles out of his mouth. 

“Some clothes would be wise,” Arthur mutters, fiddling with a hanging necklace. A quick glance in his direction reveals Void peeking her head and paws curiously out of the Sephora bag around his wrist, evidently having abandoned Arthur’s shoulders in favour of being escorted like a chihuahua. Almost identically to her owner, she paws at a chain necklace, curiously watching the metal glitter in the fluorescent lights of the store. 

“Yes…” Shilo agrees distractedly, disappearing into a clothing rack almost immediately after and emerging with a black frilly dress shirt — remarkably similar to the one he currently wears — in his hands. “Something like this, then?”

“No way, dude,” Emizel shakes his head. “I said casual! Plus, that literally looks exactly like what you’re wearing right now.” 

Shilo furrows his brow, gesturing to his chest. His fingers brush against the twin columns of ruffles that cascade down the silky fabric. “Yes? This is my casual shirt.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I'm not! I even forwent a waistcoat, I was in such a hurry to get us out the door!” He suddenly looks embarrassed, a tinge of pink painting his cheeks. “Oh, no. This was not the proper attire to meet someone as distinguished as the vampire Sephora. And certainly not befitting of a prince! Grefgor, Grefgor, do you think she believes me to be lowly?”

Grefgor’s expression is a mix of solemn and stony as he makes contact with Shilo’s large, pleading eyes staring up at him. “Never, my prince.”

Despite looking reassured, Shilo still collapses against his guard, sticking his pointed nose against his chestplate like an awkward woodpecker as Grefgor pats his back sympathetically. 

“Look,” Emizel says, “How about we all just pick out some shit ourselves and I’ll try it on? That way everyone gets their input.” Murmurs of agreement, some more muffled than others, ring out through the group, and they get to work, keeping a watchful eye of the clock that now reads eight forty-one. 

When everyone is done, Shilo tosses a barrage of clothes into Emizel’s arms and marches him into the dressing room, shutting the door a little too loudly behind him. Various struggled noises surge out of the room soon after, including several deafening crashes, a slide whistle, a squeaky ball bouncing, and a particularly painful fall — judging by the resounding FUCK! afterwards, at least.

Finally, looking a little worse for wear, Emizel emerges from the dressing room. He’s dressed in all black and wearing possibly more layers than he began with, somehow. He sports a long trench coat overtop of a black button-up and vest, long straight-legged dress pants and leather ankle boots, accessorised with three necklaces of various lengths, black leather fingerless gloves, and a chain that hangs at his waist.

“I don’t know about this, Arthur, man,” he says, doing a spin upon the request of a quizzical-looking Shilo. “I look like I have a bomb.”

Arthur pushes his glasses up his nose, then, with a long, drawn out sigh, makes a dismissive gesture for Emizel to return to the dressing room and hangs his head. Void meows sympathetically. 

When he comes out this time, he’s wearing a shirt printed to look like a naked chest, one that very much does not match his own body type, paired with cargo jorts, knee high socks with the same square yellow character as the hoodie he discarded, blindingly red oversized crocs, and a hat with a cup holder and straw on either side. The cap is proudly embroidered with the words ‘I EAT DRYWALL’ and topped off by a single spinning propeller. Underneath it all is a black bodysuit made of thick fabric, a pattern resembling the skeletal system just visible on his limbs and his… unzipped fly. Shilo screams instantly upon seeing him, hurling his cape at his horrifically dressed brother with enough adrenaline-enhanced strength to knock him backwards into the dressing room again and out of his sight. 

“My prince! Are you alright?” Grefgor asks, looking unsure even to himself which prince he’s referring to. 

“I’m chilling,” Emizel replies from under a pile of clothes, his tone the verbal equivalent of a thumbs up. Shilo, meanwhile, has both hands on the sides of his head.

“Emizel, I don’t even want to know where you got that from, but you are absolutely not going on a date wearing some poor human’s skin! That is horrific!” Laughter bubbles out from the dressing room, much to Shilo’s dismay. “And you are laughing about it!?”

“No, Shilo, man! Here! Look!” Emizel calls between laughs, tossing the skin-shirt over the room door. Shilo screams again as it flies his way, ducking under the arm that Grefgor lifts to perfectly catch it midair. 

“Grefgor I do not want to even look at it,” Shilo mumbles, gaze locked on the floor. Grefgor pinches the material, moving it around with his gloved fingertips briefly. 

“It appears to… actually just be fabric, my prince,” He concludes. Shilo stands back up.

“Oh shit, for real?” Reluctantly, he also outstretches a hand to feel the fabric. It is, indeed, fabric. “Okay, well, it is still terrible and horrible and I would like it out of my sight immediately. Perhaps just remove it from this world entirely.”

“Right away, my prince,” Grefgor nods, pulling out a match from somewhere in his armour and promptly marching out of the Hot Topic, returning a minute later with an uncharacteristically harrowed look in his eyes. 

“Grefgor did what had to be done, my prince.”

“Thank you, Grefgor,” Shilo says solemnly. “Emizel, please change now before I am compelled to set the rest of that outfit on fire with you in it.” Emizel blows a raspberry.

The next time he emerges, Emizel wears a costume that upon first glance, seems fairly similar to Grefgor’s usual metal-clad attire. With further inspection though, it becomes glaringly obvious that all his ‘armour’ is soft and squishy, and that there are obnoxious Party City tags hanging off of his elbow. Every head turns to Grefgor.

“Grefgor, why is this costume from the City of Parties?”

“I made a quick pit stop after I was finished disposing of the offending shirt, my prince.”

“But you were only gone for like a minute?”

Grefgor sniffs. “Yes.”

Emizel waves his arms around stiffly, seemingly unable to bend his elbows — or put his arms down. “I think you got this in the kid’s sizes, man. I feel like a penguin.”

Grefgor tries very hard not to smile. “No, my prince, this is exactly how it should be worn. You may feel like a penguin, but you are indeed now a strong and glorious bird, ready to defend your beloved from all harm that may come his way on your excursion.”

Arthur sighs and shakes his head. “Don’t lie to the boy. Everyone knows that penguins are not birds.” The face Shilo makes is indescribable.

“So is this what I’m going with? I’m not hearing any objections,” Emizel asks nervously.

“No! No. No. You have yet to try on my pick. Then we will decide,” Shilo says, holding up a finger. He pushes his barely mobile brother back into the dressing room, practically sliding him across the floor. He lands with another loud crash. 

“Um. Shilo?” He asks, voice muffled. “Can you help me out here? I’m… kinda stuck.” Shilo turns back around, opening the dressing room door to find his brother collapsed face-down on the floor, wrapped up in the tiny knight costume with his limbs restrained at his sides like a worm. 

Shilo begins to help his brother up, his laugh quickly turning into a yelp as Emizel springs up from his worm facade and the door slams behind them. Arthur, Grefgor, and Void share a look as an onslaught of sounds blast out from the room: more crashes, a spring being launched into the air, a cuckoo clock chiming, and a Wilhelm scream. 

“My? My princes? Are you alright in there?”

A flurry of dust bursts out from behind the twins when the door opens. 

Shilo’s eyes are wide and haunted when he emerges, completely unmoving save for his twitching left eye and hands which are quickly being balled into shaky fists. His outfit is… suspiciously familiar. Emizel, in contrast, looks pretentious, faux adjusting the emerald cape now pinned to his ruffled white shirt — the very same one Shilo was wearing moments before.

“I always wondered whether this getup would fit me,” Emizel thinks out loud, comically calm for the manoeuvre he just pulled. 

“Emizel. Why did you have. Two of them?” Shilo rumbles through gritted teeth. The prince can barely contain his rage, wearing the very same shirt he instructed Grefgor to destroy just minutes ago. Emizel blows air at the top of Shilo’s head, now able to reach it with the poorly tied heels on his feet. The propeller on his hat spins stupidly.

“I figured something like that would happen,” He grins with all his teeth. 

Grefgor is blinking rapidly, pivoting his head back and forth between the two. “My pr. My. My prince. My princes.” He reaches out a hand to tap Arthur on the shoulder and flinches when he lands on thin air. He looks over his shoulder to find Arthur and Void talking down an extremely concerned looking employee, the latter of which continuously glancing over to the three of them at the dressing room. When Grefgor turns back around, Emizel is smiling at him dopily while Shilo death glares at nothing in particular, propeller still spinning. An involuntary snort escapes his nose at the tableau before him. 

Grefgor’s smile drops when he notices a crazed look in Shilo’s eyes finally surface, instantly springing into action to restrain his prince from mauling his brother and all adjacent employees. “My apologies, my prince. I am so sorry, my prince. I believe I have a cold. Please forgive me, my prince, it was just a sneeze. Please stop thrashing, my prince. My prince.”

Grefgor holds him under his arm like a football, restricting him from moving away but allowing his limbs plenty of flailing room as he dangles in place. Emizel’s eyes are wide, eyebrows raised and mouth pulled into a long, thin line as he watches his brother swipe at him.

“Oh shit, is he fucking frenzying?”

Grefgor tightens his grip ever so slightly, hoisting Shilo upwards. “It. It would appear that way, my prince.”

Arthur finishes talking to the employee and turns back around to see the polite little prince hissing and snarling like a wild animal, swiping and baring his fangs at his brother — inexplicably wearing his clothes — as Grefgor awkwardly presses him against his side with one hand and scratches his head with the other. Arthur blinks. He turns himself around a hundred and eighty degrees and begins heading towards the exit. 

“My- My boy!” Grefgor calls after him. Arthur stops in his tracks, sighs dramatically, and turns back around again. He reaches into his coat pocket as he approaches, pulling out his flask. 

“Oh, no alcohol in the store, please, sir-,” an employee attempts as he strides right past them. Arthur stops when he reaches his boys, closing his eyes and shaking his head for a moment. Void meows in agreement from the Sephora bag. 

“Shilo,” he says simply, approaching the boy. He leans down, unscrewing the cap of his flask before carefully pouring its contents into his mouth. Blood drips down his chin and stains his already terrible shirt further. After a few seconds, Shilo blinks and stops flailing, now hanging limply in Grefgor’s arm. Gently, he rotates his prince upright and stands him back up. 

Shilo inhales sharply, instinctively going to readjust his clothing and finding nothing of value when he does. He wipes the blood from his chin with his shoulder and exhales. 

“I think- I think we are done here.” He looks humiliated, his cheeks so bright pink the others look monochrome in comparison. The corners of his eyes glisten red with the threat of tears. 

“Aw, Shilo, hey, I’m sorry man,” Emizel puts a hand on his shoulder, still bloody. “I didn’t think you’d freak out like that. But, uh, don’t go yet, okay? I still gotta try on your outfit, don’t I? The. Shit. The one you picked out for me, not the-” He’s cut off by the sound of shaky laughter next to him as Shilo shrugs off his hand. 

“You’re right, you’re right. This shirt is absolutely getting destroyed, though.” 

The next time Emizel exits the dressing room, he’s preceded by Shilo, who, now back to his regular outfit, excitedly spreads his arms out to present his brother. He sports a long, white collared shirt with a grayish-blue tie tied loosely around his neck, an open vest just barely visible underneath his oversized leather Demons jacket, a studded belt weaved in between the loops of dark baggy jeans, and clean black sneakers. Even Emizel seems stunned by how good it looks. 

“So? What do you all think? I tried to take your ‘casual’ advice to heart, as much as it hurt me to do, but I thought it would be best if I were to try to match your style a little more.”

“Yeah dude, I mean, fuck. This is actually pretty nice. I fuck with this.” Shilo does a great rendition of Grefgor’s patented confused smile.

“Well, if my princes approve, then so do I,” Grefgor declares, giving Shilo a warm look. 

“It’s suitable,” Arthur approves. “Although, I still believe you should try wearing pants that fit you one of these days.” 

“I’m only going to wear pants that go up to my ankles from now on because you said that. I’m gonna fucking waddle around forever now ‘cause you said that to me.”

“Then you really would be a penguin, my prince!”

With a grin, Emizel goes back to the dressing room and changes into his original terrible look (plus some new yellow socks), then stuffs the chosen outfit into a tote bag from a nearby display. He loops the bag  — reading VAMPIRE BABE in sparkling gothic font — around his shoulder. The group begins to leave the store when a loud beeping suddenly assaults their ears. An employee rushes towards them.

“Excuse me, sir, I think you forgot to pay for an item you have there.” 

Shilo looks bewildered at the employee, but a staunch bout of eye contact accompanies his next words. “What? Oh, we will not be doing that. Thank you for the suggestion, though.”

The employee blinks, and their eyes glaze over. ‘Huh. Alright then. Have a nice day, sir.”

“I will!” He replies cheerfully. The beeping still blares obnoxiously as the vampires conspicuously exit the store premises, leaving behind a handful of scrambling employees. As soon as they’re out of sight, Shilo grabs the Sephora bag from Arthur, prompting Void to leap out and slink up her owner’s arm until she rests back on his shoulders. 

“I suspect we do not have the time to return to the hotel before the date, now,” Shilo figures. “Arthur, is there a bathroom in this mal?” Arthur glances around for a few seconds, then spots a bathroom sign up ahead. He points it out, and in an instant, Shilo has his brother’s wrist in hand and is sprinting as fast as his little legs can take him. 

⋆⋆⋆

Shilo pulls his brother through the bathroom door, yanking him forward with a stumble as he barely finds his own footing and settles against the sink counter. 

“Hey! Careful!” Emizel yelps, his wrist constrained by a surprisingly tight grip. He narrowly avoids slipping with his socked foot and falling directly on his ass only by virtue of spinning and falling onto Shilo instead. Shilo lets out a noise of surprise and pushes him backwards, giving Emizel a moment to stabilise. He tosses his Hot Topic tote bag on the floor. 

“Jesus. They should really tell you when the floor is wet in here,” Emizel scoffs as he kicks away the plastic yellow sign blocking his way to the sink. 

Shilo brushes himself off as best as he can, readjusting his cape and pushing back the loose locks of hair from his forehead. Emizel takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror, also sweeping his bangs back in a futile attempt to mimic his brother’s neatness and ending up looking far worse than he did a second ago. He makes a sour face and huffs in frustration. He glances over to his reflection’s left, where Shilo should be, and is shocked to see nothing but the bathroom stalls reflected back at him. 

“Shi-?” He starts, cutting himself off as he whips his head around to where Shilo should be standing, and is very much standing, looking at him with slight confusion as he pulls out the various products from his little striped bag and sets them on the counter in front of him. 

“Yes, Emizel?” Shilo asks, picking up a tube of grayish concealer and a large brush from the menagerie and rolling them over in his fingers unconsciously. “Really, I think it would be best if you were to wash your face first.” 

“Ah. Yeah. Alright.” Emizel agrees, shucking off his oversized Demons jacket on the counter next to him. He turns on the cold water and begins splashing his face.

“You didn’t tell me you didn’t, uh, have a reflection,” He notes mid splash, words slightly garbled through the water. Shilo looks surprised at this.

“Hm. I guess I didn’t. I assumed, since, you know, it is such a common trait among vampires, it was not worth the mention,” He reasons. Emizel shrugs as he shuts the tap off.

“Maybe. But I haven’t met a lot of vampires,” He says, wiping the excess water with his forearm and shaking his hair around like a dog to dry off. Unsurprisingly, his hair looks better like this. Shilo flinches at the droplets that fly his way and flicks off the one that lands on his cheek. “Sorry.”

Shilo hums. “Don’t worry about it. There are more pressing issues at hand.” He starts to twist open the concealer, then pauses with a frown. “Such as how there is nowhere for you to sit.” 

“Sure there is,” Emizel replies, hoisting himself up with his arms and hopping up onto the counter with his back to the mirror. Shilo gasps.

“Emizel!” He exclaims. “It’s all wet!” 

“I’m gonna be changing anyways, it’s fine.” He drags out the last word. 

Shilo purses his lips. “Well, you are lucky I wore my heels today,” he says, moving to be in front of his brother and punctuating his steps with a particularly loud click as if to emphasize his point. Emizel grins, looking down at him only slightly.

“You wear your heels every day, man. I don’t think you even can wear anything else at this point. You probably got, like, Barbie doll feet by now.” Shilo looks at him curiously.

“Who is this ‘Barbie doll’?” He asks, finally twisting open the tube and beginning to pat little gray dots onto Emizel’s face. Emizel instinctively shuts his eyes tight as the applicator comes close, earning a disapproving tut tut from his brother.

“I’ve got a lot of movies I need to show you after this,” Emizel responds. Rather mysteriously, Shilo thinks. Regardless, he is quick to get to work covering up discolourations and blemishes, laughing as he shoos away Emizel’s hands when he reacts to the brush on his skin.

“Emizel, I can’t work when you are grabbing at me!” Shilo giggles, gently smacking at the hand attempting to restrain his wrist. Emizel pulls back, embarrassed.

“Sorry, man! Instinct, or something. I don’t know.” 

“What, you think I am… attacking you?” Shilo asks, barely holding back another laugh. 

Emizel furrows his brows. “No! Shut up, dude! Shut up!” 

Shilo pushes onwards, eventually calming down from his giggle fit as Emizel warms up to the strange and unfamiliar sensations attacking him from all fronts. He pauses once he’s done with each product, giving Emizel the chance to peer at his reflection in the mirror behind him as Shilo fetches the next items. The process is more intuitive than Shilo had anticipated; he is eternally relieved for that. Emizel also appears to be fascinated with each step, taking in every change of his reflection. Shilo, oddly, feels a small pang of jealousy each time his brother turns to examine his appearance. 

When it reaches the time for eyeshadow, Shilo lets his brother pick out the palette. He chooses just black, at first, but is more than happy to let Shilo try his suggestion of layering a bold currant colour on beforehand. Emizel flinches again as the small brush comes close, smartly choosing to adhere to Shilo’s second suggestion of perhaps closing his eyes for this step, even if it means he can’t see how he looks. He nearly reacts a third time when he hears, just outside of the bathroom, a familiar British voice not-so-quietly request someone to use the ladies’ room for the time being.

A funny feeling of bewilderment strikes Shilo as he works away, pausing for a second with the thought that settles in his head. Emizel sneaks open an eye.

“Something wrong?” He asks, an unreadable expression falling over Shilo’s face. Shilo shakes his head, gesturing for Emizel to close his eye again.

“No, no! It is just funny how much easier this is when I can see what I am doing. No wonder Grefgor learned so quickly. It must have been like walking in the park.” Emizel hums in response, then actually processes what he just heard. 

“Wait, you’re telling me you’ve just been doing this shit blind for years?”

Shilo looks sheepish. “...Yes?”

Emizel’s mouth hangs slightly open, his mind mulling over all the stupidly complicated looks he’d seen his brother wear in just the short time he’s known him, and then his own pitiful attempt at doing guyliner a few years back: leaning over a dingy bathroom sink with his face so close to the mirror his nose practically pressed up against the glass and promptly poking himself in the eye with his black Crayola pencil at least a dozen times. “No, no, nothing. Fuckin’ wizard. Nothing. Whatever.” 

Shilo snorts, somehow still daintily. “I could teach you too, if that would be something you’d like to do. Grefgor could help as well.” A pause. “Maybe when we are in less of a time crunch, though.”

Something pulls at Emizel’s chest at the thought. “That could be fun, yeah.” 

Is this brotherhood? 

Emizel feels four fingers lightly smack his cheek twice, signalling he can open his eyes. Before he turns around to check his work, he sees Shilo smile — a little toothily, he notes. The tiniest hint of his fangs poke out from under his lip. It makes him look younger, somehow, likening his excited grin to a little kid playing dress up for the first time. Which, if Emizel thinks about it, is exactly what he is. He resists the urge to ruffle his hair.

Maybe it is.

“Now, all we have left is the eyeliner. Your eyeshadow is already pretty dark, but it’ll help accentuate it a little more. Make it look complete,” Shilo says as Emizel peers at his reflection. “Actually… you seem to be pretty sensitive with things near your eyes. Would you like to do this part yourself, Emizel?”

Emizel makes a face, suddenly blasted back to that lame memory. “No, no, no, that’s not a good idea. I’ll keep my eyes so open, don’t even worry about it.” 

“Are you sure?” Shilo asks, almost sing-songy and absolutely trying to goad his brother into trying it out. Emizel sees right through his fiendish tricks.

“Okay, maybe I'll do it for like, a second. But if I mess it up and we don’t have time to fi-”

“If you mess up, it will be hidden by your eyeshadow,” Shilo interjects sweetly. “Speaking of time, while you do that, I will take all these pesky tags off the clothes in our other bag. That way, they will be all ready for you when you’re done.”

“You just think of everything, don’t you?”

“Of course! In fact, I had Grefgor snag me these from the vampire Sephora!” Shilo clicks a pair of mini nail scissors together. “The store, not the, ah, person.”

When he reaches for the eyeliner, Shilo suddenly notices an unfortunately familiar small, wine coloured tube of lip gloss among the other products, evidently having been snuck into the bag upon purchase. 

“Emizel!” He chastises with no real malice. “Did you sneak V… Vampire Sex Blast in here?” His hesitation before saying the product name is palpable. Emizerl instantly bursts out laughing.

“What?! No!? Oh my god, dude!” He snickers. “Is it actually there?” Shilo picks it up hesitantly, slowly lifting it from the counter to show his brother, who laughs even harder upon recognition, throwing his head back and smacking it against the bathroom mirror. He reels forward, still laughing, as Shilo also fights back a smile.

“If you wanted it so bad, Emizel, you could have just said!”

“It wasn’t me, man! I’m telling you!” 

Shilo hands him the eyeliner, a thin black pencil with a rounded tip, and gets to work with his scissors, dutifully snipping off tags. Emizel braces himself for his ultimate test, silently pumping himself up as he leans in way too close to the mirror again. He tries to readjust his wrist on the counter, then slips on the excess water from his prior splashing. He brushes the water off and tries again. 

With an unsteady hand, he wets the tip of the pencil and presses it to the edge of his eyelid, drawing an equally wiggly line around his eye. He curses, trying to wipe off the product and only succeeding in smudging it further. Emizel almost goes for a paper towel, but stops when he notices that the smudging actually has improved the look. Cautiously, he replicates it as best as he can on the other eye, sweating up a storm with his attempt at precision. Shilo, meanwhile, hums a simple tune and bounces jovially as he snips and tosses tags into the trash bin. With a little more working up, Emizel goes for his waterlines next, mentally punching himself every time he feels the inclination to cringe.

By the time he’s finished, Shilo has too, and he quickly ushers his brother into a bathroom stall, tote bag of clothes in hand. Another round of raucous tripping and cursing later, Emizel emerges one last time, finally ready — minus his jacket, which Shilo playfully drapes across his shoulders. He steps back, letting Emizel approach the mirror once more to inspect his appearance. 

Stepping on the nominally drier floor, Emizel almost doesn’t recognize himself. He looks clean, almost put-together, and completely different from how he did at the start of the night. Taking it all in, he thinks the makeup is mostly responsible for this; The intense, smokey colour around his eyes isn’t something he’s used to seeing on himself — rather, it’s much more emblematic of Shilo’s appearance. Emizel adjusts one of his lip piercings in the mirror. If it weren’t for those, and perhaps the shaggy mess of hair on his head, he thinks maybe he could pass as him. 

Enthralled by his new look, and definitely assisted by his brother’s absence of a reflection, Emizel doesn’t notice the hand threatening to ruffle his hair until it’s far, far too late for him to plan and execute a counterattack. He yells cartoonishly as Shilo shakes him around in excitement.

“Hey!” He exclaims, wrestling Shilo’s hand off his head. Shilo just laughs, stepping backwards again.

“Just helping you complete your ‘casual’ look! You talk all this talk of being informal, yet I have yet to see you loosen up about this date!” Emizel smiles, consciously relaxing his shoulders. He slips his jacket on properly, making sure to adjust it first to make his brother proud, and takes a step back himself. 

“Yeah, man. You’re right. You’re right. Fuck.” Emizel wastes no time wrapping his twin brother in a tight hug, effectively surprising him back. “Thank you, Shilo. You’re a good brother.”

He can practically feel the light radiating from Shilo’s smile as he hugs him back. After one last squeeze, Emizel draws away with a matching one. 

“You can thank me again when you get back. Now, go have fun! Quickly! We must be nearly out of time!” Shilo pushes his brother towards the door with mirth. 

“Shit!” Emizel exclaims, hopping into a sprint as he dashes out, passing by a blasé Arthur and Void, an eagerly waving Grefgor, and one very long line to the men’s bathroom. 

⋆⋆⋆

Emizel kicks up dust as he halts his sprint as quickly as he started it, recognizing the surrounding streets and tall buildings that populate every corner he sweeps past. He has no idea what time it is; he left his flip phone in his other pants, tossed haphazardly into the bedazzled tote bag on the bathroom floor. 

It doesn’t seem to matter, though. When he rounds another corner, just a block away from his precious shitty alley, he doesn’t see any sign of Theo anywhere. Great! He’s not late. Walking at a brisk pace now, Emizel can feel his nerves start to bubble back up through his body, giving him shivers despite his hellishly warm jacket. He takes his hands out of his pockets to shake them around, echoing his brother’s words in his mind: Loosen up!

Man. How is Shilo the one telling him to loosen up? Why is he so nervous, anyways? It’s casual. It doesn’t mean anything! Well. Maybe there’s his problem. Maybe he wants it to mean something. 

A familiar street light bathes him in vivid red light as he finally approaches the alley. Emizel had never thought about it before, but in retrospect, it did make sense why a city run by vampires would want to install bat-friendly lighting on its streets. He’d never stopped to think about the bats the hundreds of times he hung out here with Theo, though. Rather, in his selfish mind, the crimson wash had only been there to make their little hideaway just that much more magical. 

Emizel feels that magic start to thrum though his chest again when he sees a silhouette, running just as he had been mere minutes ago, come into view at the end of the street. Fully immersed in the vibrant red that Emizel had come to associate with him and panting heavily, Theo sprints towards him with a loose wave, gesturing wildly above his head. Once his best friend’s face surfaces from the ocean of scarlet surrounding it, Emizel feels all of his nerves suddenly melt away.

“Theo!” He calls out, picking up his own pace to meet him halfway and spare him the extra breath. 

“Emizel!” Theo calls back breathlessly, squeezing his eyes shut as he meets him in a hug and nearly spins him around while he’s at it. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late dude, you must’ve been waiting out here for hou…” Theo trails off as he pulls back, suddenly speechless as he takes in Emizel’s face up close. Emizel is at a loss for words, too — too stunned to even process what was said to him when he sees Theo. 

Through the red hue cast over him, Emizel can make out the smallest hint of a darker colour in the outer corners of Theo’s eyes, intensifying his already warm gaze and making it so damn hard for Emizel to tear his away from him. His hair is freshly dyed and near blinding, bangs no longer neat — if they ever were — but still falling over his forehead and framing his face wonderfully. His numerous facial piercings glitter and gleam in the light. Emizel’s mouth falls slightly open as he lingers a little too long at the ones near Theo’s lips. 

“Dude. You look so fucking hot,” Theo says, his breath suddenly escaping him again. Emizel blinks at him dumbly. What had he been worried about, exactly?

“You do too. Fuck. I could kiss you right now,” Emizel replies, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. Shit! Theo’s eyes widen slightly — almost scared — before a big smile breaks out from his lips. 

“I guess we both had a bit of a makeover today, huh?” He asks, pulling back slightly to give Emizel a gentle elbow. Emizel grins back at him, sharp teeth on full display.

“I’ve got some crazy shit to tell you about tonight, man,” He admits. Theo draws back from their embrace fully, situating himself comfortably at Emizel’s side. 

“You can tell me all about it on the walk there, then,” He says, his voice soft and gaze pointedly drifting down at Emizel’s hand as he laces their fingers together. 

⋆⋆⋆

Shilo hands Arthur the Sephora bag, watching the older vampire curiously as he seems to scan its contents before taking it back. As he turns around to leave the mall, Shilo sees out of the corner of his eye Arthur reach into the bag and stash an all-too-familiar wine coloured lip gloss into his pocket and smile before letting Void hop on board. She shuts her eyes with a contented purr. 

Well, he thinks as he leans into Grefgor’s shoulder. It seems everyone got what they wanted tonight. 

[shrekgogurt]

Well folks. I’m on my substitute teaching grind again this week! Scheduled each day up in hopes of getting some good writing done. I did on Monday! And then proceeded to finally start reading @ninemagicks Game/Set/Match yesterday and did that every bell so uhhhhhh. Today………..well ummmmm…..yeah today I worked on chapter graphics because I’m in big procrastination mode. I want to keep riding this wave of engagement (that sounds corporate gross) but I’m also very much in my head about delivering. I should probably channel this energy into writing the chapter since such pressure is Baz’s literal arc but uhhhhhhhh why do that when I could Simon avoid. I love being mentally well!

One might say I need to find my own bravado. (more under the cut)

lol the chapter title for 13 is bravado by lorde

ok anyway

“Work In Progress Wednesday” right? That means I can talk about the progress of every part of the process? Huh? Yeah? Are you gonna stop me? TRY! TRY TO STOP ME!

Aggression aside, let’s get into it.

As previously stated on Sunday, we find ourselves at intermission. But that’s just the theatrical way of slicing up the story. The fun thing about 24 chapters (I got rid of my originally planned intermission chapter because I didn’t want to write it anymore) is that math really loves the number 24. It’s scrumptious. Yummily divisible. Ergo, IKABIKAM also has/is/will be deliciously divided. Afterall, I do keep saying I’m cooking on it.

Now, to put @alexalexinii on blast (sorry for perceiving you), they wrote in the tags of a Chapter 12 reblog: #made me realise that this fic had proper arcs? And I grinned. I cackled. I rubbed my grubby little hands together at the top of my tower as I’ve been doing this whole time because oh ARCS???????? YOU WANT ARCS???????????? I’VE GOT ARCS LYING IN WAIT LIKE YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE. (I love overselling myself.)

Allow me to let you in on some of the building blocks thus far.

Chapters 1, 2, 3: a complicated reunion which is shaky but ultimately sets up

Chapters 4, 5, 6: developing the friendship which is a crucial foundation for

Chapters 7, 8, 9: the gay (Baz’s increasingly more external “hi i’m gay”, Simon’s internal “oh wait me too”) which then explodes into

Chapters 10, 11, 12: all that political parent stuff that’s been hinted at in passing which is BIG relevant and incredibly intertwined in this tangled up mess that leads into the work of….

You get it. They’re mini trilogies. Don’t ask me about dividing the chapters into groups of four because I didn’t have that in mind while writing. I like threes better. Always have. Absolute banger of a prime number.

If you for some reason want to read more about the structure, I write a little more about it in this wipsday from when I was procrastinating 9.

Now, @cutestkilla keeps telling me I’m at the downward slope now but honestly delivering on what I’ve set up scares the shit out of me WAY more than the grunt work. I’m uhhhhh yeah. This is why I’m chronically unable to finish projects but by GOD I will finish this one. I swear by it.

So here are three sentences. You get to guess from who and when.

Loving him comes as naturally as breathing. It’s intuitive when I’m not thinking. Or rather, when I’m not panicking.

If you want to follow along with all the songs I’m hyperfixating on as inspiration I’ve been sharing them over on the “shrogurt” instagram. There’s nothing I love more than talking way too much about this damn fic. Thanks for reading!

And thank you for the tags today: @nausikaaa @facewithoutheart @hushed-chorus @artsyunderstudy @prettygoododds @emeryhall

Now tagging: @brilla-brilla-estrellita @captain-aralias @dani-vc @ebbpettier @excalisbury @facewithoutheart @fatalfangirl @hagnoart @iamamythologicalcreature @ileadacharmedlife @imagineacoolusername @ivelovedhimthroughworse @j-nipper-95 @larkral @letraspal @martsonmars @messofthejess @moodandmist @mooncello @nightimedreamersworld @onepintobean @palimpsessed @raenestee @rimeswithpurple @theearlgreymage @theimpossibledemon @thewholelemon @valeffelees @whogaveyoupermission @youarenevertooold @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

[fixfoxnox]

I FINALLY GOT MY GRUBBY LITTLE HANDS ON SOAP'S JOURNAL!!!

Oh boy oh boy oh boy, guys there is so much in this bad boy that NO ONE has mentioned!! The SoapRoach content in here is off the walls!! Why is all I ever see the like 2 moments Soap mentioned Ghost??? There so much Roach and Price and Gaz content here, so here are some random bits from Soap's journal:

MW:

Embarrassed that Price helped him up and caught him from the plane during Crew Expendable mission

Mentions needing to buy Price "a bottle" as a gift afterward

Upset he missed the first shot on the helicopter during Hunted, says it was "inexcusable, especially considering SAM'S shoot themselves"

Put into the infirmary by a dog bite, too embarrassed to tell Gaz or Price (only Nikolai knows)

Call's Price's mustache both a "dick-tickler" and "Price's precious whiskers"

Blames himself for Gaz, Griggs, and Price's deaths (he believes Price died on the high way) and tries to come up with other ways they could have moved through that would have let the men live

Get's stuck/angry over the image of Zhakaev's blood mixing with Gaz's on the bridge

Nik brought women to see him while he was recovering in Russia

Begins mentioning his struggles with pain killers like morphine and alcohol

He becomes almost obsessive with cleaning and caring for Price's pistol as a way to distract himself from becoming addicted

Tries horse racing and betting to cope, but eventually turns to smoking

MW2:

Soap is the one who sought out the formation of TF141, Shepherd merely backed the idea

Describes Roach as "Raw, skilled, loyal to a fault" (implied he and Ghost are absolutes for the team)

On the other end, Ghost gets a simple "what the hell kind of name is Ghost" and no other information akdndjdhjdhd

Roach has the highest score on the rifle test, a whole 18 points over Ghost

Ghost beats Roach on PFT, but only by 3 points

"Have been looking forward to breaking Roach in" during Kazakhstan

"Feel even more comfortable with him than Price must have with me" omg

Roach has a journal that Soap spots him writing in, he wonders what he's writing

Adds to the end wondering if Roach is "wondering what villa claras taste like" which is clearly a reference to Soap's own admiration of Price and wondering if Roach feels the same as that, but boy oh boy Soap was that a gay way to put it ajdjfjdbhd

Makarov weighs 184 pounds and is 5'11 I'm wheezing what a little wet rat of a man I love him

Mentions the death of Meat, so far one of the only deaths he hasn't blamed himself for

Mentions needing to trust Roach and his instinct more, essentially tells himself to cool it with the constant reminders and stuff

Plans to put Roach on circuits and crossfit because he wasn't fast enough lmao

Says he would have crashed the plane before leaving Roach on the rooftops in Brazil 🥺

Blames himself for Roach almost not making the jump to the plane

Says that Ghost "knows something about interrogation"

Mentions that the team didn't bat an eye to him torturing Rojas for information, Soap draws a comparison between himself torturing Rojas to Price torturing Al Asad.

He specifically has Roach handle the C4 after seeing how well he did with it during Kazakhstan

"Ghost hacked at a snails pace" LMAO REAL

"Funny thing watching Roach get taken down by Price" listen sir, give your boyfriend a break please

Very excited and cathartic for him to give Price his pistol back

Says that Price returning and taking over command was the "best demotion imaginable" 🥺

Was just happy following Price and Roach because he "got to listen to the two of them working together like we once did"

Says it was nice to see Price taking Roach under his wing

"For all that coaching, Roach did a shit job with the bodies" listen here sir...thats not a mechanic in the game give the boy a break akdndjjdhd

Knew that Price was up to some bullshit as soon as his comms went off

Kill shepherd: "For Ghost. Roach" 😭 throwing myself from a cliff

"Loyalty doesn't operate on a sliding scale. It's a safety. On or off."

MW3:

Nikolai and Yuri go way back, potentially from Nik's time as an ultranationalist?

Nik rescuing Soap again and Soap saying he owes him a pallet of Imperia for it akdjjdjd

"Knife would healing too slowly for tastes" baby....

Nikolai providing him with antibiotics and pain medication 😬 Soap describes them as "providing inspiration" which does not sound good

Mentions how the ultranationalists have become more violent then they were under Zhakaev

Soap lost friends during the terrorist attack in London

Final thoughts:

Omg my husband

He struggles a lot a lot with guilt from very early on

Put a shit ton of pressure on himself and blames himself for anything that goes wrong. Especially blames himself for the deaths of other characters.

Seems to have had a struggle/struggles with coping with that guilt. It appears to have manifested a bit in struggles with pain killers and alcohol that he manages through almost compulsively taking care of Price's pistol.

Attempts to cope through horse racing (and gambling?) But what ends up working is smoking.

Definitely had a lot of care for his team, particularly Roach seemed to get a lot of his attention.

Much closer to Nikolai then I think people realize. Nik saves his life numerous times and the two work together even with Price not around. Definitely helps to fill in some gaps on why Nik sticks around at the end of mw2

Looks up to Price so very much. Like stars in his eyes this man can do no wrong type of thing.

[hollyhomburg]

there’s no way we could get a little early spoiler is there👉👈🥺

yes you can! although this part is like- in high danger of being edited out <3 like 8/10 i edit it 2/10 i keep it! it's not that its not well written or workable but there are other sections during this scene that do very similar things to this one. It's not really needed.

Chapter 59 snippet?

“Do you want to like- take a shower or something? Wash the sad off?” you shake your head stubbornly, pressing your cheek further into Namjoon’s shoulder.

“I don’t know if that would help,”

Jungkook pouts, trying not to be hurt that his suggestion is shut down. Your eyelashes flutter. Confessing.

“I don’t- I don’t like feel clean- like ever.” Your pack wait for you to explain it further, to go into it. And it takes you a breath. You really don’t like talking about it- the grubbiness that’s always lurking just below your skin. That can’t be scrubbed or carved or burned or starved out.

"I can shave and scrub and wash my body 100 times and it never takes away what he did from me." your breath hitches, and you look down at the bandaids, dotting your arms like a constellation. but you know what they hide. "Sometimes- it’s so frustrating not having evidence. Not having a wound that I can nurse and heal and It just- feels better.”

You press your hands flat to your stomach, and you take their silence as something else, some sign of disgust or otherwise. panic bubbles up and you make excuses because that's all you can do. “It’s fucked up, I know it’s fucked up. You don’t have to say it. Fuck I shouldn’t have said anything- I’m sorry-”

Jimin pulls you snug against him, your hip against his hip, and you realize Jin’s struggling to keep himself from shaking. Your thoughts and words ramble over each other when you’re like this. Anxieties unbound like a wild dog

“don’t apologize. I-“ Jungkook ducks away, hands tight on the blanket. A confession for a confession seems right. Even if the others will be mad. The words come in a rush once jungkook’s made the decision to spill them.

“Sometimes, when it feels like I haven’t had a seizure and my body needs to have one, I go to McDonald’s after work and pig out on fries so I can trigger one. Because that feels safer, having control over when I’m gonna get hurt feels safer.”

Namjoon goes deathly still. And Jungkook goes cagey, shoulders pinned to his ears. the whole pack glance from him to Namjoon. you wonder if this is what they feel like- watching you and Hobi.

“Jungkook-“ Namjoon’s tone is that of a scolding alpha, but your scent eases. you pull yourself over to jungkook, getting your hand on his, holding it tight.

“no- I get it, I get it so much. i know exactly what you mean”

Control, and a lack of it. It’s so scary how it can make you act. Control is sometimes more necessary than food or happiness or love.

(ah, i'm liking this alot better, maybe 4/10 now?)

[eldritch-spouse]

"Oh, a fellow historian! I'm not versed in the same topics as you but empathize so much with misinformation. One of the latest subjects I'm currently researching into has few first hand accounts and most are a minefield of fallacies, just a whole lot of he said she said." *sigh* "I guess that's just the woes of us who study the past have to deal huh. Can you recommend any good books on your area of expertise? I know of the Saidar History volumes, but I'm not too sure about any other books on the history of Perdition. If not, I'd love to listen what else you know on the matter."

(No joke Pinnie, I did study to enter the field. The amount of time I spent just reading and trying to find adequate sources is maddening. I once spent 5 fucking hours combing through an archive and only finding 4 god damn primary sources that looked remotely credible on what I was researching. (◕‿◕) In short, I know Hudd's fucking pain.)

[Research in general is either very fun or the most stressful, rage-building experience of your life. In my opinion.]

(The demonoid relaxes, sagging a little actually. No matter what pose he adopts, you find it very hard to map the contours of his face.)

" Yes, we're tortured souls and our services aren't even treated with the respect they deserve. The gall of some people, to imply the past is unimportant. The past is us, it shapes us! Without a past, there would simply not be anything! "

(He then snorts at you, waving a pallid hand in mirth as he snickers.)

" Hah, bullshit! Excuse the French. Never in a million years would a simple human get their grubby little hands in a Book of Siadar. And even if you did, how do you plan to translate it, hm? Did you decipher their alphabets? Their multiple dialects?! Don't play me for a fool. We can only speculate thus far. "

(Nevertheless, he pats the huge book beside him. It's absolutely massive. Like a complete beast of a book, definitely not made for a demon his size.)

" Well, I spoke about them earlier, but I'd really recommend reading about the Fragmentation Wars, since it details the formation of each Ring and which roles they played. Of course, to understand that, you need to know who the originals and the Betrayer are- But, you know, they can be read as their own standalone thing. "