#in my mind envy is all sharp angles

[preshtagonist]

still trying to understand this lizard’s hair... i tried using the yume 100 collab as reference which helped for the eyes but. not what i actually wasnt understanding

also lil distinction i wrote down for myself bc i noticed smth while drawing

[fourthwifematerial]

garden of forking paths | 四 | part i. guilty

yandere lord tengen x fourth wife, eiji. word count: 7,077. explicit content. 18+ MDNI >>

man proposes, heaven disposes.

please be mindful of the ample warnings as we're all responsible for curating our own fandom experience✌️ this chapter contains ultimatums & coercion of an intimate nature, deception, forced marriage, dubious consent on all fronts, foreplay, degradation, consummation & deflowering, forced orgasms, self harm (not in the way you might be thinking) & scarification, nonsexual voyeurism, an off screen rape & accompanying aftermath, murder, threats of suicide, and a very apologetic author for taking on another behemoth when she still has works in progress

She’s never worn a piece so fine as her sister’s wedding kimono. 

Bathed in white, the shiromuku settles heavily on her body and soul… A chilling wave passes through her as she stares herself down in the mirror. Crown to cunt, settling deep in her gut. Her nerves are at a fever pitch, threatening to boil over and lash out at any moment.

She hardly recognizes the woman staring back at her. Hardly an easy feat for one such as Eiji. The heavens saw fit to bring flesh to her reflection, one she was forced to protect their whole lives.

On their worst days, Emiko was more her charge than blood. A painful reality for the younger of the two. Years spent in her shadow, ready to strike those that would see her harmed. For flowers so lovely as the twins, it was ugly work in the Red Light District.

No. Her looks were always a matter of contempt rather than ignorance. The bride is abundantly aware of what she looks like.

The palette, however, is new.

A traditional visage for a traditional bride. Something the girls at the brothels were never granted beyond the realm of a marriage born from ashinuke or a buyout.

She couldn’t give into the temptation to touch. She wouldn’t risk damaging the canvas, eyes and lips painted as they were.

There was little need for it before all this. It wasn’t something she ever envied or missed. The closest she came to seeing herself with a full face was her sister. 

Still. Not a trace of either sibling in the looking glass.

Eiji has never looked so beautiful. Nor as frightened.

Even through the beads of sweat lining her temples, she was grateful for the katsura wig concealing her sparse hairs. Remnants of her days in the Sisterhood, her cut had yet to grow past her ears. Her keeper was generous enough to postpone the marriage until after their wounds had healed.

It wouldn’t do for the ruse to end on such a glaring oversight. 

The pins adorning the piece look costly. Too extravagant for one as modest as Sister Eiji. Hazarding a guess, it looked to be worth more than a month’s wages at the brothel.

Cocking her head to the side, her eyes catch on the embroidered flowers that rest upon the uchikake. The sharp angles and thorns give birth to a dangerous suggestion.

“Not enough…”

She gives voice to the intrusive thought before thinking better of it. Seppuku is on the girl’s mind, though she’s not fool enough to follow through. Would that she could and spare herself the devastation of this whole affair.

A delicate touch presses on her shoulder. It’s soft, but there’s an edge… as if the owner doesn’t have the strength for a proper scolding.

“Remember what this is for,” breathes a hushed voice of admonishment. “If I’m to marry him, I’ll never forgive you.”

Standing vigil is her better half. Wrapped in more fabrics than she’s accustomed; her kimono a muted black, with what little she has left of her once prized locs concealed under a zukin. The wimple is an unassuming periwinkle. Nearly so blue as the virgin snow.

While Eiji might dance with the idea, Emiko has every intention of bedding it. Neither sister needs the reminder… 

Even once more and I’ll die. By my own hand if need be.

The threat lingers unspoken between them. Emiko draws back her hand, holding the wataboshi with a white knuckled grip to match. Placing the bridal hood upon her sister’s head, she collects herself with a sniff. 

They meet each other’s gazes in the mirror, color on their lids nearly matching at this point. While one wore rouge, the other bore far less intent. Her eyes are red rimmed from endless days and nights spent sobbing. The anger and resentment, the fear, the loathing—it’ll end her life before the blade has a chance to. 

Placing the bridal hood upon her sister’s head, Emiko nods in approval.

“You’re ready.” Her voice is broken, still shot from the fight. 

Drying the twin tracks running down her cheeks, she lets her go.

No processional. No one to give her away. No tears in tribute.

She doesn’t even see their betrothed until the purification rites. 

For as taboo as it sounds, she doesn’t consider Lord Uzui to be her husband. All the same, she’ll take her sister’s place as his lady wife. She has no choice, not if she wants to keep her alive and unmolested.

It’s all she can do to keep her sister in her prayers as she draws water into the chouyuza’s ladle, washing their sins clean. Twice, in as many hishaku, before rinsing her mouth with a third.

Uzui works himself over in silent tandem. Much as she’s loath to admit it, his refined montsuki haori and golden hakama make the man striking… gorgeous, even. His starlight hair was worn up when last she saw him. And now it rests, barely grazing his broad shoulders. 

This is the closest she’s been to someone of the opposite sex who wasn’t a client. He hardly made a favorable impression to start. She didn’t know him well enough now to gauge his intent. Whether she’s walking into a den of wolves or a field of rabbits strikes her as a mystery she wouldn’t solve until he was already inside her, she’s sure of it.

Their union is a somber affair before the Shinto priest. Intimate. Tense. Almost severe.

The priest gives the blessings. 

With the marriage announcement, Uzui bows where they stand. She realizes too late that she missed the prayers in favor of the mounting anxieties taking root. Nudging her out of her daze, she follows suit. Muscle memory and a lifetime of obedience takes her hand and guides the path before her. 

The saké teases her lips and she finds herself tempted to drink before long. It’s not until passing off the small and medium cup that they are permitted to imbibe. She focuses on her throat, still burning from the alcohol as they move on to the rings. It keeps her present of mind enough to fulfill the task she’s been charged with.

A ring is slid on her finger. His handling isn’t rough with her but he’s hardly gentle. When she does the same, she notes the calluses on his battle-worn hands—a testament to his years spent honing his skills in combat.

The warmth throws her. She stills beneath his touch… Even worse when he’s cast his garnet gaze on her like that. With that smile on his lips, he almost looks fond. He turns her hand over and gives her wrist a small caress, far more tender than he’d been with the rings.

She has the grace to blush. The watashobi only allows her so much coverage from his prying eyes, so she takes advantage where she can. His vows barely register. When it’s her turn, her voice is a hollow echo of the priest’s dictation.

“I will marry this man,” he says.

“I will marry this man.”

“No matter what may come, I will love him, console him, help him. Until death.” 

“No matter… No matter what may come, I will love him. Console him. Help him… Until death.”

“These things, I swear.”

“These things… I swear.”

The shrine maiden presents twin Sakaki branches to the couple. In turn, they place the branches upon the altar. Together they bow twice and clap in quick succession. 

With the stinging of her palms and roar of her ears, it’s over.

It’s finally over.

In every other respect, this is only the beginning.

There was before Tengen… and after.

In another life, she might have been simple… a simple girl of simple means, grown into a simple woman.

What bliss.

No simple girl would ever endure the hand fate had dealt her. They’d never even know it’s touch, let alone see the blow coming.

Back when Eiji had a purpose, she was a nun.

Her mandate was as simple as things went for her. Find your sister, they told her. Find her, mind her. The task proved easier said than done for an Oiran in the brothels of Yoshiwara.

No. If she was anything like the girls to grow up not knowing any better, she’d have thought it a heavenly night. 

The scene was a deep wash of cerulean and coal; falling snow aglow with what moonlight peered behind the kawara roof. A contoured edge ran crisp over the engawa, shadows and flakes stopping in tandem before she could so much as wet her feet.

It was the tenderest mercy she would be afforded in a place such as this.

The languid stream of smoke bled from her lips, too soon to think over another drag as she set her gaze on the abyssal sky.

Her brows furrowed, eyes pleading the heavens for intervention when she couldn’t will the tragic whimpers and panicked groans from breaching the walls.

The only warmth known to her was the burn between her fingers and the fury in her veins, neither poison more bitter than the last. 

If her lungs didn’t fail her, it was bound to be her heart.

After a terribly violent gasp, Eiji tossed the remains of her cigarillo into the mounting snow, the pressing need for quiet far surpassing any desire for escapism. Flush palms ran over the veil concealing her ears. 

Enmeshed in a deathbed of white, the snuffed out embers found themselves buried under the fresh flakes. 

“Stop it.” A whispered bid—painful as it was fruitless. She broke on the words, knowing they’d never reach the bedroom. “Put her out of her misery, damn you.”

If that fucker didn’t come soon, she was going to have to finish the job. Tear the stuck pig limb from limb, out of the frying pan and into the fires of Hell. He would bleed for this.

She wouldn’t betray her vows. She only sought to avenge her sister’s rape. Nothing more, nothing less.

You can’t afford to fall apart. You know she can feel you. You have to be strong for her.

And before she could make good on that promise, there was nothing. Not a breath, not a sound.

The silence was deafening and nearly so oppressive as the screams.

The divine stall, dutifully prostrate before the raging tempest. 

Any relief felt was dead on arrival. She knew better than to get comfortable. Her shoulders were still wound tight as a bow primed for the shot. Tense and waiting. 

Rooms away, Eiji could hear the pleas so viscerally… 

“Eiji—” she cried, her voice a death rattle that cut to the marrow. “Sister… Help me.”

                                 a crash in the distance.

                                 a whisper of fabric on the 

                                 wind. 

                                 the final screams to prelude              

                                 disaster.

The shoji was barely ajar before she’d pushed her way inside. She rushed past the hall of incredulous voyeurs, all with the same questions on their minds and lips.

She didn’t even know where they’d put her tonight. She had to follow the commotion like a dog after a vendor in the streets.

Desperate. Near rabid with its goal to fulfill. Out for blood.

If she centered herself, she could be by her side in an instant.

But her mind was racing. She had no time, no focus. All of her being narrowed on the sole objective of leaving this place for good.

Ashinuke beckoned with an outstretched palm whose finger curled so seductively, there was no need to ask twice.

The door flew open with a shout, “Emiko!”

She surveyed the room. Save the cowering fuck in the corner, it was a barren sight.

Dragging him by the collar of his disheveled robe, she hauled his sweating hull from the ground.

“Tell me where they took her,” she demanded. “I’ll gut you, I swear it.”

He shook beneath her. When the night air kissed the tracks on her cheeks, she didn’t have to look hard. There was a gaping hole in the screen of the shoji, ushering the cold inside.

You cried for me… 

She shook the memory, focusing solely on the path ahead of her. Her entire world fixated on what little she could see from outside the door; a mere pinprick of vision in that busted screen. All she was able to manage were the snapping swords of some third party who’d entered the fray.

The pig squealed, fear coursing through him at the prospect of a fight.

“Useless,” she spat.

Blood came when the words failed him. The blade from her sleeve made fast work of disposing his filth without preamble or mercy.

                                       sank into his ear… 

                                       pull out game for

                                       the gods.

                                       …dragged across 

                                       his throat.

He slumped pitifully at her feet, exsanguinating below her turning frame. She was already following after the chaos—dried her tears and righted the cloth just under her eyes.

The body was still warm as she made for the biting cold.

Eiji sullied the courtyard’s pristine canvas. She ran as fast as her feet could carry her. Didn’t make it very far in the dark; someone flew overhead, missing her entirely. 

What should have urged her all the more only brought her to her knees.

She couldn’t afford to falter like this, not when the wager was her sister’s life. 

“No one’s after you,” she muttered to herself. “There’s no time for this… Get up.”

She had to press on. So why couldn’t she move?

Eiji refused to give way to the fear. Surveying the perimeter, there was little to be done and less to be seen.

It had to be now.

Closing her eyes, she leveled her breath. Slow. Deliberate. 

She emptied her lungs with a hiss in her throat and put her all into seeking Emiko out.

With the rolling of her stomach subsided, she picked herself off the street. 

Nails bit crescent moons into the meat of her palms, arms trailing behind her as she took off into the direction she foresaw. 

She felt her. She saw her in mind’s eye. 

Smelled the cracked wood in the air. Burnt, not yet ablaze. 

Blood… so much blood.

Eiji found her before too long, limbs akimbo under the caved-in front of a vacant business.

Her sister wasn’t alone. Shock coursed through her as she took it all in.

Three women crowded the body. One at her head, keeping her still, as the others made quiet work of removing the debris from her broken form.

She didn’t have to turn to know they were less alone than the moments that had passed. “Is she dead?” The man asked, feckless to a fault.

He was an eager one, wasn’t he. If this had been out of character for the man, if he’d been a stranger to them… surely they would have reacted.

The smallest among the women only threw herself at him with tears in her eyes.

“Lord Tengen,” she sobbed. “We couldn’t find the lair. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded towards Emiko, his eyes never straying from her unconscious frame. “And the girl?”

“An Oiran.” The name fell from Eiji’s lips with the ease and vitriol of a curse, “Kyogoku House.”

Every stranger encountered this night turned to her, suddenly occurring to them she was worth acknowledging at all. Turned on her just as quickly.

“Kakushi are meant to be seen… not heard,” he warned with a snap, all bitterness.

An incredulous echo fell from her lips, “Kakushi?”

He pinned her down, swiftly and effectively cutting the indignant echo from the root.

“Now what did I just say.” 

The man towering over wasn’t asking, not remotely. He looked at her nearly expectant, all but daring her for a response.

Thick arms neutralized the struggle, pressing into her to drive the point home. Voice lowered in tandem with his head, the words in her ears enough to fill her gut with coal. 

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least make it worth my while. Might just be tempted to take matters into my own hands and modify the offense.”

“Don’t. Please… stop. You can’t touch her. Please don’t touch her.”

Eyes fell shut as she laid witness to the swan song rasping from her sister’s bruised lips. 

Tears streamed, hot and itching. Time slowed to a crawl. “Emiko. Forget about me,” she bade. “You have to save your strength.”

Gravel dug into her cheek the rougher he forced her down. A hitch in her breath. Eiji kept her gaze fixed ahead, locked on the carnage. 

The women on assist weren’t concerned with lowering their voices. 

“The hell’s a nun doing in the Red Light District?” 

“You can’t say that in front of her, idiot.”

She burned under the heat of their scrutiny. Even more as his touch grazed her prone form, searching for weapons. It seemed he’d been blessed with brains to match his brawn and beauty after all.

“You’ve got red on you,” he noted. “You must have seen something.”

“Not my blood.” The words ran cold on her tongue. Near metallic as the blood staining her veil. “He’s dead now.”

“And the demon spared you after it fed?”

“Sir, there was no demon.”

He turned her over. Crouched over her thighs, urging her to continue.

“Patron. Something took her and he was a shit witness. I eliminated my sister’s rapist. If you have complaints, I suggest you keep them to yourself.”

“Eliminated, huh?” He pressed, incredulous. His eyes returned to the women tending to Emiko’s injuries. “Don’t suppose she’s one of ours?”

His aubergine companion spoke with unbidden ease. “Lord Tengen.” A pressing gentleness, as if shepherding apoplectic cats in their twilight years rather than the man straddling her. “In polite society, there are certainly ways to extract such information.” 

He eyed her beneath his rippling thighs. Considered the account she’d woven for him. “You really don’t know anything?”

“If I knew what you were talking about, I’d tell you.” She met his gaze, beseeching. “Please, just help my sister. Kill me for my crime if you must, but please… She needs to leave this place.”

When the weight on her thighs was suddenly relieved, she had little time to breathe. He loomed over her, making fast work of tossing her over his shoulder.

“Don’t go getting too dramatic on me, Sister. Isn’t blind faith supposed to be your thing?” He gave her backside a condescending slap before taking off.

Too burnt out from the fight to argue, she merely allowed herself to be lulled by his hellish pace.

She hadn’t slept in so long. The push and pull of the jostle took her back to that day.

Fractured memories of the shore. She was no more than a child then. Now a woman grown, the bitter cold kissed her cheeks.

She looked out on the water’s edge. The drag of the waves. The crash as they touched back down.

Walking into the sea, she collapsed. Falling onto her knees, the water soaked her kimono. She abandoned her zukin, letting the habit drift away. When she looked down, there was an isolated pool of blood.

Her eyes widened, hands shaking as she dragged her touch underneath. The source of the bleed was heavy. She pulled desperately, fighting the mounting tide and her own limitations. 

When it breached the surface, she was loathed to lose her grip.

She knew that face. She wore that face. 

Realization dawned on her and she was all the more desperate to retrieve what the watery grave that saw to claim from her. 

Limp in her arms. On death’s door, if she hadn’t crossed the Sanzu River already. When she opened her eyes, they were worse than void—they were dead.

Eiji woke with a start, her own eyes locked on the ceiling of the infirmary with a scream locked in her throat.

The medical wing remained so unclouded, so quiet, there was a small part of her that considered she might be dead already.

Eyes blinking into consciousness, she wondered to herself how everything got so fucked.

“The prodigal daughter wakes,” came a rasping welcome.

“Emiko!”

She nearly tripped over herself trying to reach out to her; the hand beckoning her closer so small under the covers. 

Closing the distance between them, Eiji was treated to a slap to the cheek. She didn’t even register it at first. Her expression thrown, ears roaring. 

“You’ve killed me, bringing me here.” Her voice was as weak as her will to live. “Good as signed my death warrant, you bitch.”

Eiji stared in shock before it hit her as one thousand blows.

She was asleep.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t protect her. Hell, she was barely able to find her on time. She’d failed her and the burning realization that there might be more threatens to consume her.

“What happened while I was out?”

Emiko turned away with a hiss—either from aching injuries or her own malcontent, she’ll never tell. “You heard what Lord Tengen said,” she groused. “Demons and the like. He works to annihilate them…”

Her throat went dry in an instant. “What?”

“Sissy, I’m tired.”

Already having rolled to her side and brought the bedding past her ears, Emiko’s eyes pooled. She let the tears fall away from view but couldn’t hide the way her shoulders shook.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

Thoughts swirled in a vicious cycle. She was as furious as she was suicidal.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

The unspoken reverie was loud enough to hear even separated from the bond their blood allowed.

exhaustion. trauma. betrayal.

It was all Eiji could do to crawl into bed with her, arms wrapped around her trembling body. 

“Are you more angry that I couldn’t save you… or that I did?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Emiko rolled to face her sister, curling tight against her as a babe to its mother. 

“Too late,” she teased gently. Her voice is gentle as the touch that ran up and down her back. “Then tell me. What is it?”

“Just cursing the heavens for damning us with this face and body. And all the bastards who came before Uzui.”

Eiji kept her eyes on the wavering fist curled around the sterile linens they both wore. Trailing her fingers up her back, she brings her palm to her sister’s hair. Pulled her in close, stroking her scalp. She said nothing, merely gave her the means to speak.

“He’s a Hashira. Former Shinobi, by his own account.”

“Shinobi,” she echoed, incredulous. Aren’t they meant to be a dying breed?

“I can’t deliver on the promise I made. I was coerced into accepting his hand, it was the only payment he wanted…” Emiko kept talking over her, vision clouded as if in a daze. “I couldn’t just let him kill you… we needed safe passage.”

A fresh tremor coursed through her. The sight chilled Eiji’s blood.

Bloodshot eyes nearly so vacant as her dream stared back. She didn’t have to hear it to know. 

“Emiko… look at me.” She was desperate with tears of her own threatening to break.

“I can’t go through this again. I refuse. Even once more and I’ll die. By my own hand if necessary.”

Her head shook, stunned to silence.

“Those women are his wives. Says I should get used to them.”

“I can’t let you go through with this!” She refuted further, “I won’t. Not for my sake.”

Holding her hands flush against her ears, Emiko’s eyes shut. Face twisting in anguish and grief, she pushes away from her. “Sleep first, then dream.”

“I’m not dreaming. I’m pleading… Let me help you.”

“You don’t understand,” Emiko argued. “That night… It left me with scars, scars you haven’t seen. He saw me. He saw all of me.”

Eiji’s face flushed with anger. “He fucked you?”

“No… He only kept me talking while I was bandaged. Said he wants to wait until the wedding night to touch me.”

“Show me,” she insisted. “If he’s seen it, I need to see.”

It’s a beat before either moved, let alone spoke. Eiji pushed herself off the bed to stand on shaky ground. She was wary, but didn’t argue. Her sister looked away in a pastiche of offered modesty.

“You can look,” she prompted, voice faint.

When Eiji returned her gaze, visions of that night returned with a vengeance. 

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

Breaking on a sob, she saw her under the roof collapse so vividly as she did that night.

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

Her sister’s skin was tattooed, marred with the visible representation of her own failure. Hypertrophic scars cut around her waist. A contracture piece gnarled on her back. Superficial grazes claw across her breasts. 

pierced. mutilated. shattered.

She had to avert her eyes, choking on her own shame. She would never forgive herself. 

Head raised to the heavens, she was anywhere else.

“The Madame will never have me back now,” Emiko noted wryly. “At least there’s one good thing out of this mess, even if it won’t last—”

With the shattering of glass, the words died in her throat. It took seconds for her eyes to catch up, watching her sister follow after the broken vase. Eiji was there, already on the ground. There seemed to be no rhyme, reason, nor method to her madness.

“What are you doing?”

She sifted through the rubbish on hands and knees, seeking out the perfect instrument for her needs. She’d have to start soon while the sight was fresh in her mind… The rest were tossed aside.

“I’m not letting you down again.”

“What does that even mean?” She pleaded, “Eiji, stop… You’re scaring me.”

And still, she refused her. Not until hope was secured.

Lord Uzui ushers his bride inside the bedchamber, quickly sliding the door shut behind him.

no prying eyes, no vying wives.

Eiji makes to sit on the marital bed, still lost to the events of the day. It’s an absolute miracle her knees haven’t given out already.

“Not so fast.” 

The command chills her to the marrow. He’s behind her before she can react, let alone flee. Uzui pins her in place, a belt of his corded arms wrapping around her middle. Despite the warmth, she’s frozen in place as she stiffly shies from his touch. 

His voice in her ears only drags her further. “Let me look at you.”

It’s not permission he’s after. He’s taking what he wants tonight.

Kissing down the column of her neck, he gives her tit a rough pinch. The assault punches a groan out of her throat, “Lord Tengen, please.”

“Look at that. My prized whore acting like a virgin for her husband. How quaint is this.”

“I just don’t want to sully the garments.” She pushes past the fear and finds her voice. “With all your wives, I don’t see you stopping at four… who knows when you’ll need it again.”

The man drops his arms. There’s a soft sound, almost muffled. She looks over her shoulder and he’s laughing behind a manicured fist. Her eyes widen, the whiplash becoming all too much to bear.

He watches her, watching him. He doesn’t react to being caught. Doesn’t scold her or tease. Merely lowers his hand, leaving only a seductive beam in its wake as he leans forward to take the wataboshi hood from her head.

His gaze lingers on her lips. Before he thinks to act on base impulse and desires, he turns to place the hood away for safekeeping. She trails after him and shirks off the uchikake, offers him the robe and fan. Fingertips graze, earning a hum of anticipation from her husband.

“If you’d prefer me not to do the rest, I suggest you undress yourself.”

She bows. “Thank you, Lord Tengen.”

“Your respect and frugality are refreshing.” A sigh escapes him. “With any hope, you’ll rub off on the others… In more ways than one, I imagine. And I can imagine quite a lot.”

Her cheeks flush at the suggestion. 

He gropes her ass as he passes, already stripping as he takes his spectator’s seat at the foot of the bed. Uzui watches her as an expectant beast would his prey. She takes a steadying breath when he bids her to start.

Eiji thinks of the shamisen players in the brothels. She wills the strings to the forefront of her mind. Her eyes are closed as she tugs at the knot of her obi-jime… 

No more than a feather on the stream, the silken cord spills to the floor with unbidden ease. 

Her ivory obi joins the pool of fabric at her feet. She gives herself over to the music, abandoning her nerves.

Deftly unfastening the datejime leaves her kimono hanging loose. She sheds the rest like a second skin, stepping out of her confines in only her slip of a nagajuban.

More than a chrysalis. A rebirth.

The juban is her only defense. She knows it’s guileless to hope, to dream. It’s all she could have wanted just to keep her sister from the bedchamber.

No. She will do what needs to be done.

When the last whisper of cloth leaves her exposed, she’s quick to cover herself. A futile gesture born from her days in the convent.

A hand catches her wrist and she’s far too exhausted to fight him. Neither for her body, nor her modesty.

Fingers curl around her own as he guides her to the bed. Pushing her gently, back flush against the futon, he holds her in check with only his right hand; keeping her arms raised so nothing might obstruct his view.

He appraises every inch of her flesh, taking his left to explore with the pad of his touch.

neck and collarbone. sternum. breasts.

Kneading her aching tit, Uzui nods in approval. “Scratches are gone,” he notes. “Didn’t even leave a scar.”

her ribs. her waist. 

He traces the lesion with reverence. “I’m sorry I wasn’t of more use to you then.”

The words tumble from her lips before she can stop them. “You’re blameless,” she says under her breath. 

“Come again?”

“My… my sister. She feels every bit of shame for that night. There’s nothing left. Please don’t trouble yourself.”

Moments pass without a word. Just when she’s about to take it all back, he’s pressing kisses into the worst of it.

Eiji chokes on a whine, eyes widening in shock. “Ah!”

“I think your sister would disagree with you there,” he whispers tenderly against her belly. “I only met her once but she looked like she wanted to kill me for even breathing the same air as you.”

Her heart stutters in her chest, conflicted between the sensations roiling through her and the threat of being found out. She keeps her mouth shut. Neither pleasure nor information would pass her lips. Not when she’s come so far… 

She would not let her down again.

Once she found the ideal shard of glass, she made fast work of undressing herself.

“What are you going to do?” Emiko asked desperately.

Eiji walked to her sister’s bedside. She caressed her face. “I’m going to protect you.”

She returned to her own bed, drawing the curtains around her.

Before she lost her nerve, she pressed the glass into herself. She kept digging the piece further inside until she was certain it would take.

She ignored the cries and pleas of her sister. She had to do this. She had to make this right.

With a trembling fist curled around the bloodied glass, she took a leveling breath. 

“Once more,” she urged herself.

She dragged the piece along her back, piercing herself to the hilt. Eiji didn’t need a reference to know. She’d never forget for as long as she lived… It would take her a great deal longer to forgive herself.

Falling to her knees, she curled in on herself… With her body shaking from the shock of it, the deed was finally done.

“Never… Never…”

He laps at the trail of pink with his lips, relishing what reactions slip past her schooled features.

“Even still, it’s healed up nicely,” Uzui remarks, dragging her back with him. “Clean margins, not a trace of infection.”

“You certainly know your way around a battered woman.”

“If you recall, my girls are former Kunoichi. Scars are a part of the work culture… You’ll fit in perfectly, my little prize.”

Eiji masks her disgust with a breathy titter. “And here I thought I’d scared you away,” she quips.

“Thought or hoped?”

With those three little words, the room chills around her. She won’t allow herself to falter.

“I am but a traumatized woman.” A dangerous answer to feed a dangerous question. “You don’t think they're mutually exclusive?” 

He bullies her legs open with the mass of his bicep. Abandoning her arms, he locks her in place with a firm hold on her hip. Rakes his nails against the meat of her thigh, all too quick to soothe the path with his tongue, just as before.

“Answer me,” he growls against her.

Before she can think better of it, she pushes against his shoulder. He buries his face in her cunt, undaunted by her silent protests. 

One swipe of his tongue and she’s gone.

“I… I thought!” Her thighs tighten around him, despite herself. “We had—ngg! We had a… a deal—”

A harsh slap to thigh has her opening back up for him. She stifles a cry behind a shaking palm. He carries on batting at her clit in rapid succession, her groan turning helpless when he buries himself past his knuckles. 

Two fingers with a wail on the third, too thick as they scissor inside.

She’s anywhere else.

The cacophony of noises bleeding from her lips has her mind racing in tandem with her pulse.

Unrelenting pleasure. Blinding sin.

He makes quick work slinging her legs over his shoulders. Colors her thighs with his affections, cups her cunt. She jerks further into the assault.

Propping himself on the balls of his feet, he suckles his fingers. Uzui laves up the juices, savoring every morsel of her essence. 

“And you’d never do anything to rescind a deal, would you, sweet Emiko.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t dare dignify him with a response. If Uzui wants to go fishing, he can drown in her silence for all she cares.

Slow to start, he presses down and teases her all the more. Middle finger lapping her juices, he fucks them deeper every time. His wrist twists without resistance. It’s all she hears. He latches onto her clit, a steady staccato of tongue and teeth with his forearm shining with sweat and her own wetness.

Bracing for the forced release, she maintains a white knuckle grip on the sheets beneath her.

Thighs shaking. Stomach tensing. But it’s over before she can fall over that razor thin edge.

He pulls out without mercy, without warning. She sobs at the loss, sweat beading along her temples and brow.

Uzui takes his time spreading her lips, appreciating her cunt twitching around nothing apart from a watchful eye and wandering touch to match. He slaps her tit, diving back into the fray. She’d scream if she thought it would help.

She’s never felt anything like it. 

His nose prods her clit while he gives her a tongue lashing she’s never known. He laps up her juices like a condemned man drinking his last.

Hooking his fingers, Eiji sees white. She came under him and he fucked her right through it, fingering her while spreading his idle hand over her middle. His pinky caresses her scar with such care, almost worship.

It takes her far too long to register he’s been grinding into her splayed thigh.

He’s hot on her bare skin, heavy and thick… She doesn’t have to see him to know.

As if he can read her trepidation like a damn book, he takes her hand and drags it encouragingly over his cock. “You can touch,” he offers.

She says nothing, denying him all the more. Pushing against his advances, she means to end this encounter. Any longer, she fears he may see fit to fuck her into the little hours.

He pushes her back no less than three times before relenting. Fed up with her efforts, he scoffs angrily. “Should’ve brought Suma in to sit on your face,” he laments, all petulance.

Tossing her over his shoulder, he settles her before the bureau. 

“Hands against the wood,” he instructs her curtly, nodding where he wants her. Damn bastard’s already slotting a knee between her legs. “Forearms, too.”

When she does so, he roughly forces her back into an arch. Eiji hears the whistle of the strike before the pain registers. Feels the dresser’s chill graze her nipples before the burn on her bottom. She grits her teeth, detaching herself from the scene.

His touch roves across the handprint left behind before drawing back to hit her again.

Appreciating the canvas before him is a short lived reward.

One hand with an iron grip on her chin forces her attentions. He pinches and gropes what he can reach with the other, the taunting lilt of his voice never leaving her.

“Open those eyes.” The order sends tingles down her spine. “Let me see my gorgeous bride.”

Another thrashing leaves her crying out. He tightens around her jaw, tears flowing freely now.

She does as he commands, her deep brown gaze at last meeting his scrutiny.

It’s when she catches sight of herself in the mirror that her resolve nearly crumbles at his fingertips.

where did emiko end…

                                      …where did eiji begin?

He takes her in his arms, flush against her back as he cages her against the dresser. Uzui sucks a bruise just under her ear, his eyes never leaving the mirror. He feeds his cock inside her, ears singing with every scratch of her nail against the wood. 

A rough gasp tears its way through her. Eiji remains frozen to his whims as he callously fills her to the hilt. Barely four thrusts as he meets no resistance.

He can’t help but groan at the sight of her. 

Stuck-still, she’s too shocked to move, to speak or breathe. 

It’s not long before he tires of her cockwarming and his grunts fill the room with a renewed pace. One sharp snap begot the rest and her cunt fell so tight around him.

He sets a punishing staccato, the sounds of them filling the room in a symphony gone wrong. Coaxing the cries from her, Uzui kept pushing and pushing… bottoming out until he was coming apart himself. 

“How can a whore like you be so damn tight,” he murmurs, nearly slurring his abuses. “All that work getting you open? What a waste…”

Beads of sweat make a mess of his forehead, the silver strands of his hair catching on his skin. She flushes beneath him as he nears his release.

“Keep those eyes on me,” he commands. “I want you to see who’s making you come.”

She holds more than her will as she looks at her husband. She holds her contempt. Her rage… Her every motive and intent. That’s why it’s such a shock to them both when she meets him thrust for thrust for thrust. 

even as the wooden borough grates against the floor and wall. even as he works his spit inside her asshole.

“Fucking close—”

He throws his head back with a trembling exhale and stuttering hips. Eiji’s unbidden wails fall on deaf ears as he spills his seed.

His shaking breath echoes off the walls in a strange marriage of ecstasy and quiet discontent. Would that he could, he’d stay buried inside her forever. 

Uzui pulls out with a hiss, beyond loath to leave her pristine warmth. Releasing her, his gaze falls to their combined fluids trailing down her legs. He spreads her cheeks, reveling in the sight of his debauched bride.

Spent. Humiliated. Done. Eiji rests her weary head against the wood, between her trembling hands.

No blood, she relishes inwardly… with Lord Tengen none the wiser, Eiji has fulfilled her duty. If there was a shadow of a doubt, it’s gone now. He wouldn’t find proof of her innocence. It was gone by her own hand the day she gave herself her sister’s scars. 

Kisses press against her spine, all the way down to her tailbone. He massages her bruised and bruising flesh while huffing in the musk of their consummation. She twitches under his watchful eye and it’s all the prompting he needs to dive back in for seconds, albeit gently this time.

The deft tongue that pleasured her is the deft tongue that cleans her. She doesn’t shy from it this time. He feels the stark contrast as she bears down on his face, grunting his approval as he lazily stokes himself.

It’s not just for her benefit. Tengen knows that despite the closed doors, this intimate moment was always going to be shared.

Not his wives. Not even the heavens.

He knows the nun is sitting vigil at this exact moment, waiting outside those very doors to tend to her battered sister.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure that was her role back in Yoshiwara. Poor girl’s never known the touch of a man, has never come apart by another’s tender care… judging by her disdain that night, she’d likely only ever heard the shameful encounters of brutes and bastards. 

Who was he to deny her? To deny either of them?

If the Sister wanted a show, he’d give that holy voyeur the most flamboyant fucking of her damned life.

Emiko sits beneath a wash of indigo, the stars shining bright enough to spite her. She wrings her hands, anxiously praying he’d be done with her soon. The sun was barely set when they arrived back from the ceremony… He’s had her in there for hours.

It’s all she can do to pray he’d leave her soon enough.

“Stop it.” The familiar prayer falls from her lips, a hush of a bid. She broke on the words as her sister had done so many nights. “Put her out of her misery, damn you.”

In the quiet isolation of the veranda, the only voyeur is the moon above. Emiko weeps for her sister. She weeps for herself.

No one will mind. No one is around to hear it.

[delta-pavonis]

OKAY. OKAY.

HEAR ME OUT.

Hellknight!Hob wearing this. Chest hair and tiddies out, full happy trail, all of it...

Of course, I think about that, and that inspires a ficlet. And then that ficlet turns dark. So... *shrug* *shoves new baby out in the world*

Rated T

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

The first time Hob sees Dream is when the latter has the audacity to enter the Morningstar's realm. He watches as the Dream King intimidates Squatterbloat into bringing him to the Palace. The demon is stupid and gullible, easily swayed, and Hob has a mind to bury his morningstar in the moron's fleshy head, but he would rather observe the visitor and his raven from the shadows.

Hob trails them, the straps of his armor expanding and morphing to cover his body with the mottled charcoals and midnights that are the palette of Hell. Squatterbloat leads the King in a circuitous route to their destination, passing a cell whose occupant not only commands the attention of the sovereign of the Dreaming, but whose pleading pains him. Curious.

He follows the pair of black figures beyond their guided tour, all the way into Lucifer's Hall, sliding unnoticed through the crack in the main doors. Hob is good at his job. He hadn't been successful at being a bandit and cutthroat in life for nothing.

Hob takes a place in the long shadows of one of the pillars and observes.

Apparently the Lord of Dreams and Nightmares is here in Hell to retrieve his helm, one of his important symbols of office. And of course it is some overly ripe idiot like Choronzon who has it. Sometimes Hob just wants to kill them all and promote new individuals to the positions of power, sometimes the house can't be cleaned, it needs to be razed and rebuilt.

But what is truly awe-inspiring is watching the battle between Dream and the Morningstar themself. The Dream King wins, although not handily. It makes the victory even more impressive. Hope. Of fucking course. Hob is quite sure that he has never seen the Lord of Hell so visibly angry in all his 600 plus years in the underworld.

Helm secured and confidence restored, the Lord of the Dreaming is proud and... well, he is incredibly beautiful. He is sharp angles in soft greys and blacks, luminous white skin draped in flowing ink, spikes of hair wafting against gravity.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Hob follows Lord Morpheus and his raven back outside. They walk slowly through the barren, twisted landscape, calculated and careful. Imperious.

Hunger ripples down Hob's spine. He wants.

The Lord stops, body going more still than death. "I am here in my official capacity as King of Dreams and Nightmares. You have followed me for long enough. Show yourself, fiend."

The Dream King's voice is so much deeper and darker than Hob expected and now it is directed at him and it goes directly to his cock. He decides to drop any pretense all at once.

Hob has no shame as he steps out from hiding, the shadow-plates sliding back and leaving him in what really amounts to a series of leather straps and a loincloth, buckled to accentuate the triangle of his torso and the strength in his chest, with sleeves from biceps to palms. The Knights of Hell need no metal protection - they shield themselves in darkness and guile - and so Lucifer Morningstar gives them intangible weapons: the ability to inspire lust and envy as much as wrath. He drops his physical weapon and holds his hands out to his sides.

"Dream King," Hob inclines his head. "I am not here to harm, nor am I here at the behest of my Lord, the Lightbringer." He meets the King's piercing blue eyes and has to grit his teeth to hold in a gasp at how sharply they cut into his breast.

That look trails from Hob's head to his toes slowly, then back up. Judging. Assessing. "So why do you dog my steps, Hellknight?"

He shrugs and takes a step forward. There is no reason for Hob to not be bold. He has long been dead. He has been a resident of Hell and served the Devil themself, has lived that fate worse than death, for almost seven centuries. He has, quite literally, nothing to lose.

So Hob nudges a the magic at his disposal into the cant of his hips, the tilt of his head, the purse of his lips. He lowers his eyelids and takes another step towards the luminous being of black and white before him. "I merely wish to look my fill before I can no longer."

"Bossss..." The raven flies a nervously tight circle above them. He is summarily ignored.

"You wish to more than look, Hellknight, for I can taste your dreams." The Lord of Nightmares snarls as he takes multiple steps to get into Hob's personal space. "You dare-"

Hob laughs loud enough to interrupt him and those ice shards widen in shock. "Oh, yes. I dare." He steps up once more and now their faces are within inches of each other. "How do you think the Morningstar trains their knights? Do you think there is anything you could do to me that would be worse than 700 years of this?"

The resonant chuckle that curls across Hob's skin should probably worry him, but he cannot muster such sense when he is watching the pupils of the Dream King's eyes bleed black outwards, eclipsing his eyes entirely, and wholly captivating Hob. "Lucifer Morningstar's sins often get in the way of their... creativity."

A pale hand shoots towards him and Hob braces for impact, for pain.

He gets nothing of the sort.

Fingers that are the coolness of a lake in summer skate with hedonistic gentleness across Hob's cheek. The palm cups Hob's jaw sweetly. Honeyed breath caresses Hobs lips before they are pressed together. Then he is being kissed with the fondness and warmth of a dear lover.

And that is when Hob realizes that he has vastly miscalculated.

Against his better judgement, Hob is lost to the tide of it. The softest touch of tongues morphs into lazy familiar licks, mapping Hob's mouth as if to memorize, immortalize.

The King of Dreams pulls away and Hob is left panting and hazy.

"I touch you, I kiss you, as I would a lover, as I would my beloved." The King whispers it like a benediction. Hob gasps at the horror that settles into the marrow of his bones. "And never will you feel it again."

And then he is gone.

Hob watches, frozen, as each stride the King takes covers miles. It is only when they have disappeared over the horizon, both Lord and Raven, that Hob realizes tears are streaming down his face.

[rollforalis]

Kiss Prompt

Linmir/Lylah (WITH Xiphos)

"You have a question" Xiphos stated, nodding her head at Lylah. Her hands were still around the (empty) glass, and though the Warforged had no face, her voice carried amusement, possibly a tinge of mischief. "You may ask". Linmir set her own glass down, leaning towards Xiphos "She can always tell when there's something on your mind, but like, yeah just ask whatever. We won't mind" she says with a fond smile. Lylah looked down into her mug, mortified that she'd been that obvious.

"Well" Lylah began, choosing her words carefully, "It's silly to ask - and and it's none of my business if you don't want to share but.." She lifts her gaze to look at the couple, feeling more stupid by the minute "Do you two kiss? Since Xiphos doesn't have a face, I mean. Augh, sorry"

Running her hand through her hair, Lylah only blushed when her question was met with laughter. Linmir's laugh was loud and sharp, like she could wield it with the same finesse as her rapier. Xiphos' laugh was more akin to music, flowy and inhuman but beautiful all the same. Both laughs were very dangerous, Lylah thought.

"That's it? God, I was expecting way worse" Linmir says. "Yeah, we kiss. It's just different." Xiphos leans in close, angling herself next to Linmir's ear and whispering. Despite having no face, she was incredibly emotive in her own way. The tilt of her head and the fluid way her shoulders dropped could tell Lylah that she was in trouble. Linmir only confirmed that suspicion, her grin widening and taking an almost predatory edge. Her eyes narrowed and Lylah heard her mutter "Yeah, I agree" before she abruptly stood.

Linmir rounded the table, as fast as always, much to Lylah's envy. But instead of teasing or roughhousing, Linmir grabbed Lylah's chin, her gloved hand guiding Lylah's head upward as she leaned down to meet her. The glove was smooth against Lylah's skin, as Linmir's hand drifted to her cheek. Linmir kissed with purpose, with fire, as if it would kill her to give anything less than her everything. Lylah reciprocated as best she could, matching every kiss and feather-light touch until Linmir finally pulled back. She looked over her shoulder to Xiphos while Lylah pretended like she wasn't trying to catch her breath. The Warforged seemed to light up, lovingly caressing Linmir's face as they swapped places with effortless grace. Lylah was still reeling from the first kiss before she realized what the switch would bring.

Cool, metal hands slid over her neck to cradle the back of her head and Lylah instinctively shivered, noting uselessly that Xiphos had etchings in her "fingerpads" not unlike fingerprints.

Smooth metal met Lylah's lips and on instinct she kissed back. Xiphos may not have had a mouth, but the slender fingers playing with her hair and the telltale feeling of Xiphos' magic building, like the sound of an orchestra tuning, echoing inside of Lylah's head were just as intense and passionate as Linmir's kiss had been. Lylah cupped Xiphos' cheek, making a surprised hum when the ghost of a kiss crossed her lips, and slowly pulling away she smiled crookedly at the two women. Linmir's sharp grin hadn't left her face and Xiphos brought a hand up to her faceplate, musical laughter soft but self-satisfied.

"You could have just said that you use prestidigitation" Lylah said, trying to play it off as if she hadn't just been kissed so thoroughly she'd have a new, impossibly high standard set. Linmir slung an arm around Xiphos and kissed where her temple would be. "We thought there wasn't any fun in just telling you".

[milfhandholder]

My Personal Headcanons on Grell's Past Life (A Masterdoc)

*with excerpts from a draft that will never see the light of day!

The autism got to me ok

Now before we start, I feel like I have to add some disclaimers, number one being everything about this isn't really based on anything concrete, this is strictly my delusions. Second being if there's a flunk in the time period, ignore it. Turn your brain off.

Mr and Mrs Sutcliff

Before our beloved baby girl, there are, of course, her parents. They're nameless in my head, only going by Mr Sutcliff and Mrs Sutcliff. Grell doesn't remember either (more on that in a later post about her reaper years). Her parents were happily married actually, her father knew he had to marry well and coincidentally fell for the best lady during his time. Her mother fancies a handsome man in a suit, perhaps that's where Grell got her taste in men

Her father had brown hair while her mother had red hair which she inherited along with the kind-yet-kinda-arrogant eye shape her mother has. Yet despite that, she looks more like her father: perpetual smile, sharp chin, a more angled face rather than a rounder one, broad shoulders, his eye color (I have never thought abt her eye color before Dispatch so imagine it as you like). Grell's attitude is a mix of both families, the good and the mostly bad coping response

They also know about her 'homosexuality' and her father states that it's fine as long as no one else knows. Their song is Our Word, TRUST

Early life

1840 - 1858

Grell Sutcliff, in my mind, was born to a wealthy old money family. She was her parents only child and as a son, they knew early on they had to teach her to be a respectable young man to be a good heir for her father's business. She's not close to any of her parents; her dad was fine enough to joke around with but he has his moments of anger (I see them like how Emily Dickinson and her father were potrayed in Dickinson) and her mother—though more soft-spoken—was strict with decorum and required Grell to act appropriately at all times no matter what

She had some cousins but most notable would be Martha who was 8 years old when Grell herself was 18. Martha was Grell's first exposure to her hobbies that are seen as feminine like sewing and dressing up but still no 'awakening' yet

She used to be very obedient and less outspoken with her opinions, some even regard her as a serious person who is above anything that isn't seen as polite. During social events, you can usually find her chatting away with people of the highest status but afterwards, she'll be very tired and would look disgruntled somewhat (my girl is tired of masking). Usually when that happens, she'd slip out of the party for a break, this is where she gets the opportunity of a lifetime, the cataclyst of everything actually

As seen above, at 18, Grell was invited to an event by Aubrey Churchill at his country house (privacy reasons, he said) which was actually more of a lively party for bohemians alike which wasn't something Grell was used to. Though she felt overwhelmed, out of place and slightly judgmental about it at first, she frequents the event more in the future after meeting her best friend Charlotte Moore

Crisis

1858 - 1862

Brown hair, blue eyes, and a fiery spirit, Charlotte was an upper-middle young lady who aspired to be a writer and mostly dabbles in poetry and short stories. She was Grell's first 'gender envy' which Grell misinterpreted as a crush so when Charlotte privately turned down her proposal to court her—stating that she didn't really see Grell as a future husband—, she got over it pretty quick and the two remained friends even when Charlotte moved to New York when they were 22

When Grell turned 19, she met Charlotte's cousin and a son from Grell's family friend, Julian Williams who was around 24 years old, no bitches, no rizz, bad vibes. They became fast friends, too fast actually. Julian's a dick and ended up using her as an experiment/for funsies :///. Charlotte attempted to get Grell cut the relationship off BUT THE ASSHOLE IS LIKE LICE, HE JUST WON'T GET OFF. Eventually, Grell does call their fwb situationship off when they almost got caught and Grell decided that "hey, maybe I don't want to get stoned for getting caught making out with someone who doesn't even like me enough"

Things have not gotten better because at 20, she gets stuck in ANOTHER situationship, girl FIGHT BACK. With none other than Aubrey and Eleanor Churchill (married couples are freaks) who were 25 years old and 20 years old respectively when they first coaxed Grell to join in on their... weird fuck pile. They treated her better than He Who Must Not Be Named and they did ignite her love for theatre and acting but still... on thin ice

Anyway, they don't matter. All you need to know is that they eventually drifted away from the situationship all together because they found someone else

Jane Doe, The Only One Who Deserves Rights

1862 - 1868

MY BELOVED JANE DOE (not her real name obvi), if you've read TWBDT you know she was Grell's wife during her human years and that she was a lesbian who was looking for a beard. Why, you ask? Because Julian is a pisshead who was jealous that Grell moved on to the Churchill and decided that the best way to remedy his jealousy is by spreading a rumor about her 'true nature' as if he wasn't sleeping with her beforehand ://

Mr Sutcliff had no time for such bullshittery and basically told Grell to pack her shit up and get a wife quickly. During this time, Grell wrote a letter to Charlotte:

Idk what else to put during their relationship aside from the fact that it was only with Jane that Grell started to question her gender a bit because she's the only one who isn't a raging transphobic cunt (sorry y'all Charlotte's a victim of her time, she changed later on though). Unfortunately girlie didn't connect the dots faster and ended up having a one-sided crush on Jane rip. They're cute and I wish they were real :( wholesome yuri

DEATH~✩

1869

Unfortunately, all good things do come to an end. 1869 in particular was a hard year for her because that's when the pressure starts caving in on her. Aside from her father forcing them to have kids already, Grell's starting to realize that her life just sucks man. As much as she loved Jane, it's not fun marrying someone for status and appearances only and not for love. Long story short, she ended up breaking down under the intense pressure after a huge fight with her father and she died via slitting her wrists in a locked bathroom in her home with Jane getting inside way too late

Grell died pissed off, believing that her suicide was as an act of revenge against her family because now, they don't have a heir that came directly from their bloodline, and overall became a bitter and jaded person she was in the reaper OVA

[thegreenleavesofspring]

.

I have... a bad habit. A self-defense mechanism, but a bad one. Of, any time I encounter something out in the wild that I wanted and couldn't have (an event or an emotion), I deem it "stupid". Beautiful weddings are stupid. Birthday parties are stupid. Loving husbands are stupid... etc. And I don't say it to whoever I am talking to, I'm not quite that socially clueless, but I shore up my own disdain for it in the privacy of my mind.

And it's one I've had for most of my life although I've only recently quantified it. And I find myself doing it a lot and I'm trying to be mindful, now, of making myself stop and go "Do you actually think it's stupid or are you kicking against the pain of what you don't have" and nine times out of ten I'm preemptively trying to head off pain.

So anyway I'm trying to let it through in tiny little bits so it doesn't all come crashing down as an overwhelming wave and mourn it piece by piece at a time. And I'm also doing a lot of introspection. Because I never was taught how to regulate my emotions and that one person was right, I do tend to let them rule me, and I don't mean to, it's not an active conscious choice on my part, but that's not enough, I have to learn to master (not repress) them.

So now I'm trying to learn to master my emotions rather than letting them master me but that means constant monitoring and today I'm going down a checklist of "Why am I so tired and lethargic" and it's the depression setting in again for Round whatever and I always get really tired and sleepy and lethargic in the days leading up to that, yay. But along the way I realized that... the last time someone told me they loved me was Get Loved Nerd in my inbox and afaroffsong says it to me sometimes. And it helps. But sometimes I wish I had someone to say it to me in person, too, it helps to hear it audibly (and if it comes from someone who is telling the truth, not trying to be manipulative.)

I genuinely don't remember the last time I got a hug. Not dispensing one to make someone else feel better but just someone hugging me because they liked me as a person and wanted to hug me. I mean I hug my boys all the time and sometimes they even hug me back but those hugs are usually accompanied by headbutts or biting or kicking or fish-flopping or various other bruising activities and besides, they're little, they don't really have any concept yet of... consciously returning love? They need the hugs to flourish but it's not their place or their duty to return a hug.

I don't know. It just feels like, my whole life, any affection I got was conditional on how useful I am to someone and just for once I'd like to feel valued just... as me. I realize I'm not an easy person to love and almost an impossible person to like, once you strip me down to the bare bones, I know this, not only have I been told this but I've got enough self awareness to know that I'm all sharp edges and sharp angles and acerbic sarcasm and terrible but unintentional blunders. But surely I'm not all bad? Not all the way down? I just... surely it's not wrong to want to be valued as a person, not as your usefulness? Just... for someone to enjoy one's company?

Anyway I've been doing a lot of handing over bitterness and envy and sorrow to God lately and even... I don't know, what I thought were godly desires but maybe I'm feeling them too strongly? Putting them ahead of Him? I don't even know anymore. I feel like I'm blundering around in the dark trying to find His will and running up against rough rocks instead and I don't... I'm trying to do right, trying to do His will, but how can I possibly be? When everything I'm doing is wrong? I don't even know anymore.

I'm not sure... I don't know how to do this. And right now I can't hear Him. Which I don't think I have any egregious outstanding sins that would take me away from Him so I'm assuming I'm supposed to be walking by faith? Not by sight? But I'm not sure... I don't know. I don't know what to do.

I'm so very lonely.

...I should probably go brew myself a cup of raspberry tea, it sometimes helps lessen the severity of the depression. Hormones, yay.

[faytalepsy]

Andylind + 46

Andylind x Kiss out of envy/jealousy

“You failed today.”

He cringed away from the blatant statement, the bite of disappointment in her voice of steel, needing no reminder of the fiasco that was todays training. Her fingers tapped on the polished wood of the desk, more metronome than rhythm.

“I thought you had an ounce of competence. Apparently I was wrong.” He bristled at the statement, having finished the course as one of the best, despite his lack of sleep. “General, I performed better th-“

But her voice lashed out before he could finish.

“I don’t care how many fucking fools you ended up beating. I expected their mediocrity. But you…”

Her eyes flashed as she rose, slowly rounding her desk. It had always been a mystery how he could be towering over her and still she managed to look down at him.

“I expect my soldiers to be flawless.” She dragged out another pause, a scorpion waiting to sting.

“Like Farah.”

There it was, the name that had his nostrils flare with annoyance. He was well aware Rosalind latched onto his weakness, finding the cracks in his skin to slip her claws beneath and dig deepest where it hurt most. But that didn’t stop her from succeeding by bringing up perfect Farah who finished the training segment perfectly after dragging her perfect little Saul from his party yesterday so they could prepare to be Rosalinds perfect little star team.

“I thought you could match her, work hard enough to be exceptional. But now even Silva seems like a better match.”

It wasn’t fair. Comparing him to fucking Saul when he worked twice as hard to please her while his friend resisted the General wherever he could.

Since he had entered the office he had waited for this blow, the shame and the anger that would follow. But somehow it stung less this time, stung less because although Farah performed better, he was here, with her, the sole focus of that razor sharp attention.

“Perhaps you should stop wasting your time with mid-class fairies and put your focus on improving your skill set.”

The comment was haughty, spoken with all her superiority and still it had him raise his chin, finally look her in the eye. Was this what it was all about? Him fucking another soldier? But before he could even begin to finish that thought she pounced, fingernails digging into his jaw as she angled his head down, making him face her black tipped boots. He could feel her breath on his cheek as she leaned in, a shiver running down his back.

“Don’t you finish that thought Eraklyon.” She leaned in further, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“We both know who you thought of yesterday.”

Almost involuntarily he leaned into her, into that whisper he couldn't shake. The woman who dug her claws so deep into his mind there was no removing her presence.

And she knew. Her lips brushed his cheek in a mocking kiss, holding not promise but claim.

You're mine, they said.

Even if I give you nothing, you're mine.

[crmsnmth]

September Sky Chapter Four, Part 1

-455 I was standing above the sink, washing the day's dishes. For most people, this was just a normal part of the day. Those people didn't have a person shouting at them from the living room. Screaming how she hated me and wanted me gone. Right now. Just get out. But the minute that I'd actually go to leave, she come running holding me back. Telling me she was sorry and that she loved me, and that she'd try harder. I had learned how to deal with it, slipping into the fake world I was building in my head. A fake world that wasn't this sharp.

As I stood there, washing a knife and wondering what would happen I just drove it straight into my chest. She kept screaming. I actually found myself feeling guilty, like always. I know I had done something wrong. I always did. And she was always there to remind me how I fucked up. Lately, it seems that's all I did.

I stood there, washing the dishes, and wishing I was dead. She yelled at me that I didn't vacuum the floor right. Or there was dust on the TV stand. Or accusing me of cheating on her.

I started drying the dishes and put them in the places she wanted them in. In the end it didn't matter, because she would change her mind and claim to have told me. Sometimes, it seemed like she did those things just for a reason to fight with me. To hate me and break me. Then love bomb me for a week so I'll forget all about the time she cut my hand so bad I had to go get stitches in my palm. Or the broken mirror she had shattered over my head. Or the time she straight up punched me in the face. I wore a black eye of domestic abuse shame telling everyone I walked into a door.

It had become routine though. And I loved her. I loved her for all the good times, with all my heart. And to me, that made it worth it to stick through all the bad. I'd take her jabs and low blows, just to hear her say she loved me sometimes. Sorry had become my prayer. And if I wasn't apologizing, she was. The codependency was far from healthy or safe. We were horrible to each other. But those moments where we somehow worked? We were the king and queen of the entire planet.

I put the last plate away and sighed. I headed out of the kitchen and into the small living room. She didn't say anything now, just staring at the TV that was so quiet you could barely hear it. You couldn't actually make out what anyone was saying. A cigarette slowly burned between her fingers. I flopped own into and old and torn up recliner we had scavenged somewhere, probably from the side of a road.

"What? You can't sit by me now?" She asked, with venom in every word.

"Sorry," I moved from the chair, next to her, lighting my own cigarette. I watched the smoke for a second, envying its ability to escape into nothing.

"I don't what you next to me if you don't want to be by me," she growled.

"It's not that at all. I just sat down. I'm tired and just sat down in the closest spot."

"Fuck you, Chris. You're a shitty liar." I looked at her. I knew in a few hours I would be talking to someone else. Someone who did love me. Under that thick hide of anger and resentment was the person I had loved. It was all because of me.

I caught her picking up the crystal ashtray, just in time to duck as it smashed and added a new hole in the apartment wall. Our landlords were going to hate us.

* * * *

My eyes snapped open. It was still dark, and the red glow from my Christmas lights were the only light on in my room. They cast shadows that danced on the walls. From behind my shades, a streetlamp was just the right angle to cast a shadow of slats across my bedroom floor.

My heart was beating quickly. I could feel the blood violently rushing throughout my veins and arteries. As if I'd been running in my sleep. And maybe I was, I was covered in sweat, but was extremely cold. The hard bite of panic does that. It freezes you right to your core. Its cold knives being driven into your flesh. I pulled my blanket up and shivered slightly. Waiting for my breathing to catch up with itself. Waiting for my heart to slow down. To stop seeing movement in the shadows. To remember where I was. And know I didn't need to duck from an ashtray aimed at my skull.

[silkclan-gossip]

🐾 SilkClan Gossip – Moon 11 🐾

By Snakespeckle, your source for all things juicy in SilkClan!

This moon’s been a whirlwind, and the fur is flying! 🌪️ From secret ambitions to unexpected new additions, I’ve got the scoop on everything SilkClan has been whispering about. You won’t want to miss this one—let’s dive in!

🌿 Runningkit’s Promotion! It’s official! Runningkit is now Runningpaw! It’s so rewarding to see kits grow into their roles as apprentices. With all the time they’ve been watching and learning from Clear, they’re bound to rise quickly. Let’s see what kind of warrior this bright young one grows into. 🌟

🌀 Snappaw’s Arrival – And Guess Who Their Mentor Is?! Drama at the border! Streakminnow found a FierceClan apprentice waiting at the edge of our territory. The Clan wasn’t too happy, but the apprentice refused to leave. FierceClan's not pleased, but guess what? We’ve welcomed Snappaw into the fold, and they’re now my apprentice! That’s right, my apprentice. Watch out, SilkClan—this duo’s going to turn some heads. Let’s see what Snappaw’s made of.

🔥 Relationships & Rivalries:

Who’s Eyeing Who? Clear’s trying to butter Posyclaw up, dropping compliments about her fighting skills. Maybe a strategic friendship brewing? Or just a well-placed compliment—time will tell. Meanwhile, Streakminnow seems to have their eyes on Cliffscar, wanting to get to know them better. A budding alliance, perhaps? Let’s just say, I’m keeping my whiskers twitching around those two.

Basilstar’s New Favorite? I overheard Basilstar complimenting Streakminnow, calling them a valuable Clanmate. High praise from the top! Could this mean we’ll see more of Streakminnow in leadership circles? They’re sure making an impression.

🌟 Bonus: Posyclaw’s Storytime Dreams

As for Posyclaw, she’s angling for some new stories from Stoneraven, probably to distract her from the rumors about Burrowfleck and Snapdragon. I see through you, Posyclaw. We both know there's more than just stories on your mind! 😏

Speaking of stories, I’m itching to hear something new from Pondquill. Who better than me to soak up the gossip firsthand? Come on, Pondquill, give me something to work with! 🐍

💪 The Go-Getters of SilkClan Duskplume, our bright rising star from last moon, is already making waves. Basilstar may act cool, but she’s been sneaking glances at Duskplume’s swift volunteerism on hard tasks. Not bad for a newly named warrior! Duskplume’s got their eye on getting to know Robinpaw better. What could they be planning? A mentorship of sorts? Hmm, one to watch for sure.

And let’s give a round of applause for Heatherpaw, who’s working twice as hard to prove herself. She’s all too aware that some cats might still see her as an outsider—hang in there, Heatherpaw. You’re doing great, even if some clanborn cats can’t see it yet.

🔎 Clan Drama: Whiskers are Twitching! Wisteriaspeckle’s eyeing Heatherpaw with a bit of envy over her gleaming pelt, and let’s just say, jealousy’s not a good look. Brush your fur, Wisteriaspeckle—it’s not that deep!

Meanwhile, Duskplume’s relentless dedication isn’t going unnoticed. Wisteriaspeckle pointed out that they’re always first to volunteer for tough tasks. Maybe we’re witnessing the start of a little admiration—or is it something more? 👀

Stoneraven’s been bumping heads—literally—with Basilstar, offering some reassuring nudges of support. But at the same time, they’re getting overwhelmed by Clear’s constant gifts. “My nest is getting too full!” Stoneraven sighs. Maybe it’s time for Clear to tone it down a bit. Not everyone needs to be showered with presents, Clear! 🎁

⚡ Conflict & Controversy Clear and Parsleypaw got into it this moon—something about nesting materials, of all things. Parsleypaw didn’t take too kindly to Clear taking the last bit of their favorite bedding. Oops! Meanwhile, Robinpaw’s sharp tongue made an appearance again, upsetting Gardenia with something rude. Honestly, Robinpaw’s been rubbing more than a few pelts the wrong way lately. Let’s hope they cool off before making any more enemies.

🎯 A New Rivalry Brewing? Runningpaw’s been quietly watching Clear, trying to figure out if this is the right path for them. It’s always the quiet ones, right? If Runningpaw’s taking notes, Clear better watch out—there could be a new competitor for those coveted skills.

🌟 Bonus Tidbit: Streakminnow's Wardrobe Envy Streakminnow’s been spotted wishing for a pelt that shines like Heatherpaw’s. Looks like everyone’s envious of her well-groomed fur this moon! Well, time to hit the water and get that coat gleaming, Streakminnow. 😉

That’s it for this moon, clanmates! Keep your whiskers twitching and your ears perked—you never know what might happen next in SilkClan. And if you hear anything juicy, you know where to find me! Until next time, stay sharp. 🐾

– Snakespeckle

[alicenaivory]

•⊱ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 •⊱ (written 2019)

[My hands overlap the steering wheel of a black Chevy that I had stolen from a victim about a week in a half ago. I drive down my road to no where, smelling the rain as it rolled down the window shield. The thunder rumbled in the sky, I feel it in my chest.

I always did like thunderstorms. The electric feeling caused by lightning. It never bothered me even as a child.

Many kids feared the thunder, yet I always took a window seat. I could still hear the voice of my father. The wind of his hand as he pointed at me and said..

“You call this bravery? This girl isn’t normal you know.”

The thought of all the vile things he would say is something I wanted to forget forever. With my vampirism I should’ve always made it a priority that no man ever talked down to me again...

And didn’t I failed immensely?

I take a glance at the rear view mirror, wishing I could avoid the failure I see myself as.

Whatever happen to my confidence? Had it all burned out?

Has it been sucked out of me and placed somewhere where I’d never find?

I stepped against the breaks, angling the wheel toward the right. The tires screech against the concrete as I stopped so abruptly. It was a little smokey as I park the black chevy on the side of the road, opening the door to exit the vehicle.

This isn’t the first time I’ve gone rogue.

I wasn’t worried about where I was headed.

It’s not always about the where or the why.

Sometimes it’s about the going and just doing.

At least that’s what it’s like for me.

I see lights flashing ahead, the engine of a car heading my way. I can smell the smoke of the engine overheating, there’s no telling how long this person has before they actually run into a little problem themselves.

If they stop for me, what game would I play?

Would I be the damsel in distress? It was cliché but it lured my victims towards me each time.

The red truck approached closer, I wave my slender fingers with black sharp nails donning on each tip. I want to make my presence known. Not that the tight red leather skirt and matching corset didn’t help.

The car stops for me to no surprise, window raising down welcoming me with a smile by a ginger male. He’s driving all alone which made him the perfect prey.

He smiled at me so effortlessly, I didn’t sense that it was forced like mine was. He had it in him to be so kind and caring towards others.

I simply wondered how humans had it in them to care so much for other people. To be so selfless even if it killed them.

I envied those traits, longing for them as they had slipped away from me and now beyond my reach.

“Your car broke down sweetheart?”]

Either that or I turned it off and waited for you to come along.

[I wanted to curse myself for being so straight forward. I was usually more patient with my dinner and that wasn’t subtle enough. The expression he gives in response showed that he fell right into it.

He switched his gear into park and got out, a white v neck clinging to his muscular frame along with blue jeans on his lower half.

“Awe, don’t be embarrassed. Some cars aren’t reliable.”]

Neither are men. [I mumbled bitterly, audible enough for only me to hear. I walked ahead of him to open the hood of my car.

I also wanted to give him more time to take in the sight of me. The way he cleared his throat lead me to think I had him in my clutches. He began to tend to the car, his features clouded of confusion when he lets it back down.

“Miss, I can’t find anything wrong with this car.”]

You can’t? Well that’s too bad.

[“It is because I thought you were having car problems.” He crossed his arms over his torso, walking closer to me again.]

Did I say that or you implied that? Maybe I’m just looking for fun.

[Even that was too straight forward. I could compel him but it was fun toying with minds that I didn’t know of yet. Brains that didn’t need frying. Moments that I didn’t have to predict.

I wanted excitement.

“I’m a specialist in that too.” A welcoming smile appears on his face. Theres something so innocent and pure about him. Something that I wanted to taint and destroy.

I come closer to invade his personal space. Swinging my hand around to lace in his red hair. He’s bold. Immediately grabbing my waist to go for the kiss.

We haven’t even shared names yet.

In one swift movement I hit his head on the door of my car. The hard collision was enough to knock him out. I caught him before his frame touched the ground. I held his weight effortlessly, the smile I forced started to fade.

It disappeared in the wind along with every single feeling I still had.

I shoved him in the backseat of my car, easing back into my driver seat and speeding off down the road. I had a secluded cabin in the woods. I killed the owner and tossed her into a lake. Therefore the house was mine until further notice.

I made that cabin my own personal torture chamber.

I took a sharp right to cut through the secluded woods, turning off my lights and diving slow until I’m directly in front of the cabin.

I turn off the ignition, inhaling deeply to capture his scent. I can tare into his throat and drain every bit of him.

What was in the fun of rushing it?

To act so rash?

I had nothing but time to waste and spare.

I push open my car door, stepping out and shutting it behind me. I take the male from the back seat, a line of blood is running down his forehead. He finally starts to wake from his unconsciousness.

“Where am I?!

Let me go!

Put me down!”]

If you insist.

[I drop the male to the ground roughly, he hits the back of his head. He intakes another concussion but he doesn’t goes unconscious this time. I reach down to grip his ankle, dragging him through the dirt, collecting branches with him.

His body squirms and he screams, trying to find his hardest to fight me off. I take him up the wooden steps and into the cabin with me. I throw him towards the middle of the floor, shutting the door behind me.

In enhanced speed I’m standing over him, stepping onto his chest with my right heel. I add pressure until the sharpness of my heels poke through his shirt and enter the flesh of his skin.

The fresh scent of blood makes my nostrils flare. I swipe the tip of my tongue over my lips. My vampire visage takes over my human one. The expression of terror comes over his face, his screaming is louder than before.

“What kind of monster are you?!”]

Monster.

[I repeated the words as if it had hurt my feelings. Maybe it did in the slightest. I was only a product of what was around me.

I swallowed the lump that formed in my throat, adding more pressure to stab him deeper.]

The type that can push your rib cage into your heart.

[I use my vampiric speed, reaching down to wrap my manicured hand around his throat and force him against the nearest wall.

I relished in his pain. The screams falling from his lips were music to my ears. I missed this song far more than I let on.

“Please don’t do this! I have a family!”]

I don’t do why should I care?

[I answered him truthfully, feeling nothing from his attempt to get through to me. To get through the black hole that was in place of my heart.

I twist his head to the right, taring my fangs into the flesh of his throat. The blood fills the warm caverns of my mouth. The taste of him finally touches my tongue, I tare back his skin and his crimson squirts thickly across my face, running down my neck.]

My plans isn’t for you to die just yet.

[I drop his figure to the floor, his body is almost motionless, he’s going through the dying process but I know he can still hear me.]

This pain you’re feeling is only temporary...

maybe even a little unnecessary.

That’s how I feel daily and it’s endless.

Could you imagine? Eternities of misery and longing for what’ll never be.

[I bring my wrist to my lips, biting into my flesh which caused a crushing sound. I brought my wrist to his open mouth, my blood drops into it. I allow a decent amount to fill him until I smell it in his veins before snatching my hand away.]

See you soon.

[I swiftly snapped his neck, it was easy and effortless. I expelled a sigh of defeat while lifting up and pulling him with me. I drag him towards the basement door, pulling it open and flicking on the light.

I carried his heavy figure down the old wooden stairway. He was now dead weight but it wasn’t too difficult. I stop near a vacant bed, dropping him on it. It was already soiled in blood from what happen before him.

I sauntered toward the only dresser in the room, grabbing some overused handcuffs. I take them towards him, making sure to cuff each of his hands securely before I made my way back upstairs.

Even if my prey is mere inches from me, I still feel beyond empty. I had very little reaction and maybe I was just unamused by it despite everything.

I was stuck with two options.

Do I kill him or do I play maker and sire and still kill him?

I saunter over to my counter, grabbing a half empty bottle of Green Apple Ciroc. I take a hold of it with a crimson colored hand, plopping on the nearest couch.

I guess now I will just wait.]

[tomyrtle]

Bound into insanity — Bound into eternity

Tom Riddle x Moaning Myrtle

Part 1/31 < here

Story summary: Myrtle Warren never becomes Moaning Myrtle, moreover, she never dies, and most importantly, she gets rid of her acne. In her quest for revenge, she decides to seduce the most handsome (and incidentally hated by her) boy at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle, but even her makeover from ugly duckling into a beautiful swan has not prepared her for the unexpected complications caused by a badly brewed love potion.

Is it a WIP?: No. This is a series; first part "Bound into insanity - Bound into eternity" is around 200k words long and I've finished writing it in late March 2024. The second part is titled "Bound into eternity - Bound into depravity", and is currently a WIP sitting at around 100k words (I'm not really stuck in the middle, but writting middles is the worst, please sedate me lmao). I always finish my fics, so there's no danger of getting invested in a story only to find out it's been last updated in 2009 (I know the pain). The publication schedule will be once a week, usually Fridays mornings.

Most important tags: slow burn (a painfully slow one, believe me); Tom Riddle: a manipulative,possessive cute little thief 😇🚩; mild? stockholm syndrome; mind games; horcruxes; BODY SWAP; yule ball; school play; dubious consent (when we finally arrive there); and of course last but not least: Tom Riddle is his own warning (and he's so babygurl at it).

What do I as an author love about this fic the most?: The humour. There's copious amounts of it included, a lot of it rooted in the body swap itself (it lasts for several chapters and includes some gender-specific 'occurences'), however Myrtle being both boy-crazy and a prude at the same time definitely is a treat in itself.

Please do keep in mind that this story is being translated from Polish. I'm not an English native speaker. I'm open to discussion and concrit.

A sneak peak of how Myrtle views Tom:

Had she said he was not ravishingly handsome, she would have been sent straight to the ninth circle of hell for such an outright lie. The contrast between his alabaster skin and black curls gave him such a noble appearance that he could easily have passed for a member of one of the most prestigious pureblood families. This image was only reinforced by high cheekbones, a gaunt face full of sharp angles, and black eyes framed by long lashes, which, with their charm, made it impossible for girls to look away. Aside from looking like a young man snatched alive from the pages of classic romances, Tom Riddle also presented himself to the world as such. Questioned about him, Myrtle would have said she hadn't been paying him any attention, though the truth was much different. No, by no means did she stare at him with her tongue hanging out (only occasionally), but she watched with envy as he wrapped everyone around his finger. She believed that their academic results were similar in many areas (excluding Defence Against Dark Magic, in which he was second to none), but it was he, the golden boy, who collected all the accolades and was lavished with points. Myrtle once stole his graded essay and compared it with hers - apart from the different means of communication, the information contained in their essays was identical with the difference of one extra sentence. By mere peculiarity, Riddle got an outstanding grade and she got an exceeds expectation grade, which she considered to be favouritism mixed with sexism. Not without reason did the Slug Club consist entirely of boys.

If you're interested in reading, you can find the first chapter HERE.

[demonsandco]

Okay okay we know with their demon forms it requires a lot of upkeep now what do you think they would do and what they need help with. Cause what comes to mind is a family grooming session 😊

I love this ask thank youuuu. I wasn't sure if you wanted their canon forms, but this is mostly based on my own personal headcanons for their demon forms! I hope you don’t mind that :) It would be much easier for them to handle their insane forms, but what's the fun in that?

Before I start, all demon horns need constant maintenance. Demon horns never actually stop growing, so routine sanding, usually with a custom shaped whetstone, is important to keep horns smooth and to keep them from getting too long. Without proper care, horns can easily become overgrown and asymmetrical, as well as gain a rough, dry and almost scaly texture, which is rather uncomfortable for the demon in question

All other forms of upkeep vary from demon to demon, depending on what features they have (ei. scales, feathers, fur, hair, etc.).

Lucifer

Lucifer's horns are rather easy to reach, curling forward along the sides of his head, so it's fairly simple for him to keep them maintained himself. It's something that he does often, especially because neglecting them could easily impact his image. After all, it's common to see him bring out his demon form to intimidate others, and he wants to make sure he looks well put together. Caring for his horns is not much different than shaving his face in the morning, nothing more than a quick and simple part of his routine.

The thing that actually gives Lucifer trouble is his wings and tail. General self care is something he can handle easily, but feathers naturally wear down and need to be replaced, which means molting. Molting leaves him feeling absolutely miserable. His entire back starts looking patchy and he feels itchy and irritated all over, but he can never seem to properly reach the areas giving him trouble himself. His pride tends to get in the way of asking for help, so he's often left to suffer through it until the new feathers finish growing in.

Lucifer would need to trust someone quite a bit in order to let them help, but it's always a huge relief to have that itchiness soothed by a caring hand. Most often, Mammon ends up being the one to help out. Not only is the second born the only other one who still has feathers, but he's also very skilled at reading Lucifer's moods and telling when he needs help. They never speak about it afterwards, but it's a much needed binding experience for both of them.

(The rest are under the cut)

Mammon

Being a model, Mammon takes very good care of his appearance. Unfortunately, no matter how many times he does it, his horns always give him an insane amount of trouble. They're very tightly coiled and rest at a slightly backwards angle, making it difficult for Mammon to reach the inside parts of his horns. It's not uncommon to see him sulking his way over to Asmodeus' room for help with those hard to reach areas, after spending hours trying to do it himself and failing.

Other than his horns, Mammon has it pretty easy. Like Lucifer, he has to deal with molting, but it never seems to last too long for him, much to the eldest's envy. His wings are also featherless, so molting is nowhere near as uncomfortable for him. The only big feathers he needs to worry about replacing are the ones on his tail. The rest are much smaller and less irritating to regrow.

His wings and other featherless areas do need extra care, though, in the form of moisturizing. Without protection from feathers, those areas get dry and cracked easily, especially if he goes flying. To deal with it, he's got a pretty big collection of scented moisturizing lotions and oils that he can pick from, most of which were gifts from Asmodeus, since they have similar wings.

Leviathan

Levi's demon form is rather unique compared to his brothers. Instead of having true horns, he has antlers. Rather than needing constant care, his horns grow to their full size, shed their outer layer of skin and then eventually fall off to start the process again. Levi often goes to the ocean to isolate himself when his horns are ready to fall. He usually lets them sink to the bottom, where they take the form of the devildom equivalent of coral, providing shelter for aquatic life.

On top of shedding his horns, he also sheds his skin. His sheds are entirely determined by his horns, happening once when the antlers are full grown and ready to lose their protective, velvety skin, and again later on when they're ready to fall. While his antlers' life cycle is reminiscent of a deer's, the shedding of his skin is very similar to a snake's shed. It's not hard to tell when Levi is close to shedding. The old skin begins to separate itself from his new scales, giving him a dull gray sheen over his body and his eyes begin to look dull and glazed over.

It's definitely not a pleasant feeling and he can't see very well through the skin either, so he tends to avoid his brothers. High humidity is also needed for him to shed properly, so if he can't go hide out at sea, Levi's going to lock himself in his room and soak miserably in his bathtub.

Satan

Satan's self care routine isn't too difficult, but it's definitely the most time consuming and he absolutely hates it. He's not the most patient demon, especially when it comes to tasks that he thinks are wasting his time. When it's time for him to maintain his more demonic features, Satan needs to put aside an entire day for it.

Satan's horns are easy enough for him to handle. The inside part of the sharp curve of them often gives him some trouble, but he's nothing if not stubborn, so he usually manages to sort it out on his own. Horns on their own are rather time-consuming to care for, but what really takes up all of Satan's time is the multiple other horn-like protrusions along his body, as well as his tail. He's got boney spikes in the areas that his bones are closer to the skin (elbows, spine, ribs, jaw, etc.) and, like regular horns, they're constantly growing.

Whether he likes it or not, he always ends up needing to ask someone for help, and that someone usually ends up being Asmo. Not only is the process tedious, but he also has a very hard time reaching the spines on his back properly, so a helping hand is very useful.

Asmodeus

Unsurprisingly, Asmo has a very in depth routine that he follows to a t. Every week, he sets aside an evening to take care of his horns and wings specifically, sanding down his horns to keep them smooth and shiny, and moisturizing his wings with oils and lotions to keep the skin supple and soft. Being related to scorpions, Asmo also has a carapace in his true form that resembles the exoskeleton of actual scorpions. It doesn't need much extra care, but he always makes sure to keep it bright and polished.

The downside to his carapace is that it can't actually heal unless Asmo molts and completely replaces it. He's not the biggest fan of molting, but he'll force himself to molt early if he gets scratched or hurt in any way. He can't stand the thought of any part of him looking dull or banged up.

Overall, though, Asmo definitely has his self care handled perfectly. He's also very particular about how things are done, so he's very hesitant to let anyone else do it for him. He does, however, love helping his brothers out with grooming and self care. Especially the ones that he knows are likely to neglect themselves without a proper push.

Beelzebub

Beel's self care leaves much to be desired. He's completely horrible at taking care of his demonic attributes, but he often forgets about it or runs out of time. It's not uncommon for his horns to be rough and chipped or for his insect-like carapace to look dull and roughed up, especially with how aggressive his sports matches can get. Between school, working out, fangol and his constant hunger, regular upkeep gets put on the backburner.

Luckily, Beel and his twin often partake in allogrooming! They both find it easier to take care of each other, rather than themselves. This is especially helpful when it comes to Beel's horns. They curve so tightly along the sides of his head that he can't actually fit his hands between the horns and his skin to smooth them out. Belphie, on the other hand, has much smaller hands and can easily reach around and sand them down, while Beel takes care of him in turn. They rarely talk during these moments, but it serves as good bonding time for the two of them.

Beel's carapace is something he can handle himself, mostly because it doesn't really require anything. Like Asmo's, the only way for his carapace to "heal" is for him to molt and replace it, which he puts off for as long as possible. It's thick and hardy and since he doesn't put much stock in looking perfectly put together, he doesn't worry about it all that much. Whenever he does feel the need to molt, it goes by pretty quickly and he's back to his regular schedule in no time.

Belphegor

Belphie is honestly the worst at taking care of himself. Not because he doesn't care, but because he has such a hard time gathering up enough motivation to even get up in the mornings, much less put in the effort to look nice. If no one steps in, he can go days at a time without brushing just the hair on his head. Even on the days that he does that much, chances are that he didn't bother brushing the rest of his fur, too. After all, if he just doesn't show off his demon form, then no one will notice right?

Luckily for him, Beel does notice when his twin hasn't been caring for himself. While the rest of the brothers only need to worry about their demon forms every other week or even just once a month, Belphie needs to do it daily because of his coat. Without proper daily care, his hair gets oily and matted together very easily, which only makes it harder to deal with later. Beel knows that that's a lot to handle and often steps to brush out his twin's coat, even if he doesn't need any help in return. It's much easier for Belphie to feel motivated enough to help groom Beel than it is to care for himself, so their joint grooming helps them both.

On a similar note, Belphie has quite a bit of trouble with his horns and he constantly puts off taking care of them until they begin causing him physical discomfort. In the past, there's been a few times where he's let them grow a couple extra curls before they started weighing him down so much that he had to take care of it. With his twin's help, and a strictly imposed schedule, his horns haven't gotten that bad in ages, but they still tend to be rather rough most of the time. He also needs to sand down his hooves in a similar fashion. Normally, they'd be maintained just by walking on rough surfaces, but Belphie definitely doesn't walk around enough for that.

If Beel's not around to help out, Belphie has no qualms with playing the baby brother card and whining until one of the others agrees to help him. He's always willing to groom them in return, though, so he usually gets his way pretty easily.

[littleredwing89]

SOLDIER

SOLDIER

Soldier!Slade Wilson x Reader

Summary: Slade snatched your wrist and pulled you into the shower with him, one hand covering your mouth while his body pressed yours into the corner and out of sight.

Warnings – NSFW. Smut.

Word Count: 3,776

———

Glancing quickly to the left and right, you scurried across the sharp gravel, praying that no one would be watching in the dim, dusky light. With a quick half-shuffle, you quietly opened the door to the men's showers and slipped inside, thankful that only two cubicles were being used – and you knew one had to be his - Slade Wilson.

Sneaking down the short corridor, you prayed your footfalls wouldn't give you away, hopeful that the sound of gushing water would mask any noises you might inadvertently make. Your presence here was forbidden, and to get caught would surely end your military career. And if you were caught in his shower, it would mean the end of not one career, but two. 

However, after five long months of trembling at the sound of his deep, gravelly voice and aching for the feel of those rough hands to touch your body, you had decided to take matters into your own hands.

You spotted the distinctive stripes of his towel at the opposite end of the unit from where another bundle of possessions lay. Oh, how many times you had laid in your bed and stroked yourself, imagining that same towel being wrapped around his hips, envying it being lucky enough to dry those rivulets of water from his sculpted body.

Slipping out of your t-shirt and shorts, you quickly pushed them under his pile of clothes, before pulling back the edge of the shower curtain to slip inside. You stood there, one foot raised to step over the ledge, naked and vulnerable, your breath frozen in your chest. 

Your sergeant was standing there under the sporadic pulse of the spray, head down, water pounding the back of his neck, dog tags softly jingling under the force of water. Your eyes followed that cascading water down his tall, broad body, your mouth drying at the delicious picture being burned into your memory.

The cessation of water from the other cubicle made your inadvertent gasp of pleasure audible, and Slade’s head snapped upright, his icy blue eyes nailing you in place as they traveled leisurely down the length of your exposed body. At the sound of the other curtain being slid aside and recognising the danger of your being caught out in the open, Slade snatched your wrist and pulled you into the shower with him, one hand covering your mouth while his body pressed yours into the corner and out of sight.

Tense with the fear of discovery, you listened as the other shower occupant collected his things, and you both heaved a sigh of relief at hearing the door shut behind him. Your sergeant glared down at you, the water dripping off his nose doing nothing to lessen the fire in his eyes.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing, soldier?", he hissed, crowding you back even tighter into the corner. At 6”5’ he towered over you, making you shrink further.

"I'm...I'm sorry, I just--", you got no further before his voice sliced through yours, deadly sharp shards you’d only heard him use in the most dire of circumstances.

"Spit it out, soldier. I don't have all damn day”.

You closed your eyes, mortified, and wished the floor would open up under you, or that you would somehow miraculously fit down the drain. Far from pleasuring this man, as had been your intentions, you had obviously blown any possible chance you could ever have with him. Fighting back tears of humiliation, you pushed against his shoulders, averting your eyes from the wrath in his, silently begging him to just let you go.

Snarling his displeasure, Slade grabbed your forearms and shoved you back in the corner, taking no notice of the wet hair slopping into your eyes. Effortlessly lifting you up, he tried to force you to look directly at him but you ducked your head, trying desperately to hide those tears, but there was nowhere to go. Your cheeks burning, you trembled against him, the forgotten water still pouring over you both in a lukewarm caress.

With your eyes clenched tight, you could feel the force of his burning gaze, but it was a shock when he wrapped both arms around you, hauling you up against him and ravaging you with the deepest, darkest kiss you could have imagined. Tipped with rage, tinted with fear and full of frustration, it buckled your knees and made you sag against his hard body, shock and ecstasy coursing through you in equal measures. Running your hands up his arms, over his shoulders and down his water-slicked back, you pressed against him, your tongue tangling with his as you shared ragged, panting breaths.

Ripping your mouth from his, you struggled to breathe, fighting the silvery dots swimming around your vision. Fisting his hand in your hair, he pressed his body closer to yours and plastered his lips to yours. Moaning, you slid your hands up the plane of his back, caressing each bold bulge of muscle, simultaneously lifting one leg to wrap around his waist. Your knee slammed against the side of the cubicle with a loud bang, and cursed under your breath, trying to shift into a different position. You lifted your arms, wrapping them around his shoulders and rubbing the tips of your nails through his short hair and banged an elbow on the wall so hard your fingertips tingled.

Every time you tried to shift, tried to wrap yourself around him, you ended up making more noise, noise which was ill-afforded given your location. You whined in frustration, mewling your displeasure at being unable to get closer to him.

"Slow down, sweetheart”, he murmured against your lips.

The sound of his voice soothed you instantly, your mind automatically obeying the higher-ranking soldier, while your body instantly reacted to the velvet roughness of Slade’s command. With a soft sigh, you melted against him, gasping in pleasure as his kisses gentled; nipping little tastes of your lips, sexy, sweeping strokes of his tongue. You pressed yourself tight against him, feeling the water pool between your breasts and his broad chest, feeling the tight grip of his hand squeezing water from your hair to drip down your back, following the arch of your spine and curling over his fingers, splayed low on your back.

With a groan, he pulled away, burying his face in the soft curve of your neck, shudders wracking his body. Wrapping your arms around him, you held him.

"We shouldn't be doing this”, he finally murmured, so softly you almost missed it, "We can’t do this…If we get caught…”.

"Slade”, you murmured, caressing his back with your hands, trying your best to soothe him. You could feel his unease, and it echoed some of your own. Sliding your hands to his jaw, you lifted his head, locking your eyes with his, “I've ached for you for the five months we've been here…I’ve thought about you so many times”, you closed your eyes and laid your head back against the shower wall, your voice a broken whisper, "Please, Sergeant…please give me this”.

Pressing against you, Slade let you feel his response, "I’ve wanted this for so long”, he murmured huskily, eyes closed, "I know it's wrong, you're my soldier, under my command and I shouldn't do this—but I can't help it. I tried not to. God, I tried not to”.

His eyes opened and he smirked at you, roguish and handsome, that made your knees weak, “You have no idea how many cold showers I've taken, right here in this cubicle”.

"Probably about as many as I have over in the women's shower unit”, you said, caressing his cheek, a flush turning your face crimson.

"Fuck”, his pleasure in that mental image vibrated along your nerves, making you arch and gasp, rubbing your breasts against his chest. His breath hissed at the evidence of your own arousal, your nipples like diamonds scraping across his chest.

"C'mere”, he moaned, cupping your head and angling his lips to yours. Licking the beads of water from the soft curve of your lips, he teased and nibbled his way inside, stroke after stroke of his talented tongue making you dizzy with desire. Stroking his fingers through the wet, heavy length of your hair, you were soon gasping in pleasure and writhing against him, loving these kisses but wanting more.

Slade twisted you around so that you were directly under the shower spray, you quivered in pure pleasure. The  length of his warm body pressing against you, the feel of the cooling water cascading over you in a liquid caress, the sound of his ragged breath in your ear, the tactile explorations his hands were making over your body...all of it combined to give you a rush of pleasure like you’d never felt before. While the water poured over your head you lifted your lips to his and offered yourself to him completely, his name rolling off your lips in a tuneless chant as your body shook in euphoric bliss. Slade moaned, throbbing against your stomach.

His fingers stroked your cheek, your bright gaze met his dark, midnight stare. You trembled at the fire there, a fire that you knew matched your own. A fire you had only dreamt about, hoped to see.

Lifting your arms, he curled your wrists over the showerhead and tipped your head back until the water was streaming against your forehead and along the curve of your scalp, almost like a lover's caress. Cupping one hand over your hip and caressing the length of your body with the other, he admonished you not to move, tightening his fingers into your skin whenever you dared disobey.

Then, with a skill and style that set you aflame, he proceeded to claim every inch of your body as his, tasting you with his lips, lavishing you with his tongue, nipping you with his teeth, until your mind became a hazy mess. From his sexy whispers in your ear as he nipped your earlobe, to his careful attention to the full swells of your breasts, he set every nerve screaming for release, bursting with pleasure. 

Slowly, softly he nuzzled your breasts, starting at the upper slope and curling around to the underside in ever-narrowing circles that had you babbling incoherently for him to take you. When your hips rocked against Slade, pressing your heat to his cock, his fingers tightened on your hip, reminding you to be still. When you tried to lift your head from the teasing spray, shivers coursed through you at the added slickness of water to your skin-on-skin caresses, he wrapped a hand in the ends of your hair and tugged, reminding you of your position.

Finally Slade’s hot mouth enveloped your throbbing nipple after countless minutes of purely sinful attention everywhere but where you wanted it. You exploded in ecstasy and your thrashing body was rewarded with a sharp slap to your ass, reminding you that you had been told not to move.

Lifting his head from your breasts, Slade released your swollen nipple with a swift, curling lick that made your toes curl in pleasure, before snarling at you that you had been ordered to stay still. Pinned in place by the fierceness of his scowl, you tipped your head back and closed your eyes. You quivered in both longing and dread, reminding yourself that any punishment was worth the pleasure of having this man as your lover.

Standing up straight, he kissed your eyelids, a light, gentle pressure that made you ache. He reached up and slowly disentangled your wrists from the showerhead brace, softly sliding his fingers along the undersides of your arms before closing his hands around your ribs and lifting you up, only to turn and set you back down. A quick adjustment of the showerhead had it pointing directly at your aching, throbbing breasts, wringing a low moan of pleasure from you. With your eyes closed, the sensation of water flowing over you nearly brought you to your knees, but it was the first touch of his mouth against your soft, pussy that had them buckling for real.

Only the sheer strength of his arms supported you up, as Slade slowly stroked his tongue over you, broad and flat on the outer lips, then curling and stiff for a slow sweep along your wet slit. Whenever his tongue rubbed over your clit, he'd curl it up and flick over it, faster and faster, before capturing it between his teeth and tugging gently. Your legs clamped around his head, hands grasping for anything to hold onto, as you shrieked his name at the top of your lungs, gushing all over his face, coating him in your pleasure. 

Letting go of your hip with one hand, he took advantage of your orgasm and pushed his thick fingers up inside your core, spreading them out to stretch you, preparing your pussy for his thick cock. With each motion of his invading fingers into the depths of your spasming pussy, each flicker of that wonderfully talented tongue against your throbbing clit, you came over his face again, mewling his name loudly enduring the over stimulating ecstasy.

Surging to his feet, hands holding your hips to steady your shaking, dazed body, he slid you out from under the water's spray and pushed you down to your knees, his hand gently tipping your head back. With a low moan Slade tipped his own head back, stroking the swollen length of his cock, and released thick spurts of cum all over you.

Opening your mouth you caught what you could, but much of his release landed in your hair and on your cheeks, dripping down onto your chest. Rivulets of cum sliding down to coat your nipples before dripping off the hardened tips. You scooped the falling droplets into your hands and eagerly licked your fingers clean, reveling in the sweet, tangy taste of his cum.

Panting for breath, Slade leaned down to help you up off the shower floor, but halfway up his objective changed, and suddenly his hands were back in your hair, his mouth devouring yours, your tongues tangling as you slipped and slid your way up the wall, nails catching at his back, scratching him. As his tongue duelled with yours and you shared the taste of each other on your lips, he hissed in a pleasured pain, the sound peaking your nipples.

Nipping at his lower lip, you purposely scraped your nails across his back again, feeling the skin give way. Growling low in his throat, he yanked your head back, exposing your throat. Careful not to leave a mark too high for you to hide, he ravished you, bruising you from shoulder to collarbone, nipping at your neck he dared not mar. As he sucked and bit at your delicate skin, you trembled, wanting desperately to bear some mark of his possession, as he would now bear the scars of yours.

Finally you could take no more, and grasping his head, you pulled his lips back to yours. The little balance you’d found in the slippery shower was destroyed, and you tumbled out into the dressing area, barely catching yourselves before crashing into the bench where Slade’s clothes were still piled, yours tucked safely beneath them.

Pushing your shoulders back against the bench, he straddled your hips, still hard, rubbing himself against the soft skin of your stomach. Uncaring of the dangers of being caught like this, you were completely focused on each other to the exclusion of anything and everything else. You slipped your hands between you both, stroking him against you, feeling the head of his cock brush against the underside of your breast with each long caress. His head tipped back as his hands gripped your shoulders, your fingers caressing him, stroking his hard, throbbing length. Scooting down a little, you slid him into the valley between your breasts, moaning at the feel of his hot flesh pressed between your breasts. Squeezing them together, you completely encased him, shifting your hips to gently rock him up and down.

Leaning down, he pulled out of your hold, and cupping your jaw, pulled you up to kiss you. In your mind, you could see how you must have looked, your wildly curling hair tumbling over the back of the bench, lips locked with his, your arms braced on his shoulders, hands gently cupping his head and holding him to you, his arms wrapped around you, curling you up close. Opening your eyes and smiling softly into his, you lifted your hand and softly traced the barest fingertip over the sweet curve of his lips, feeling the tingles still shooting through you from your prolonged, deeply sensual kisses. His stubble tickled the sensitive tip. Swinging a leg over you, he smoothly reversed your positions, until with a gasp of surprised pleasure, you found yourself straddling his hips. Your splayed pussy was sliding along the length of his hot, hard, throbbing cock, making you ache for him to fill you.

Playfully he rubbed against you, teasing you. The swollen lips of your pussy slickly caressed him, and each brush of his cockhead over your swollen clit made you jump in pleasure. Leaning forward you kissed his head, his ear, his eyebrow. Wherever you could reach, you branded him with your lips. Ever so gently, he raised you up and then slowly lowered you down onto his swollen, eager cock. Slade’s shoulders were now supported by the bench, his rough hands clenched against your shoulder blades as you arched in pleasure, gasping as he stretched you.

As you had made your marks on his back, he now made his inside of you, making sure that you fit him, and only him. Lower, ever lower he guided you, until finally you could feel his balls pressing against the softness of your pussy. Gasping at the mix of pleasure-pain from being stretched like this, his name trembled from your lips as your pussy clenched around him, that rhythmic internal caress signaling yet another orgasm given you.

As you trembled and shook your way through euphoria, he never moved, forcing himself to just sit there and ride out the waves of your pleasure, watching you as you gave yourself over to pure sensation. Knowing that Slade was watching you, compounding your pleasure. You arched your back, rising and falling on his cock, catching glimpses of his possessive smile through the haze of passion fogging your eyes. Every slightest movement set off another round of fireworks in your stomach, and you drenched him with another wave of your slick. You were insatiable for him, and loving every second of it.

After what seemed like hours' worth of continuous pleasure, he tightened his hands on you, slowing your rocking motion, easing you to a halt. He held you as you quieted, stroking you from nape to knee, touching a trembling thumb to your lips, stroking the pads of his fingers over your cheek, sliding the backs of those long, strong fingers over the soft curve of your shoulder. Linking his fingers with yours, he lifted your joined hands and softly kissed your fingertips. At the romantic gesture, your heart melted, sending a wave of scorching heat through your body. You hummed happily, bliss taking over you.

"Sweetheart”, he murmured, tugging you down to him and kissing you passionately, reasserting his claim over you at the same time that he offered himself up to you. Your hands shook as you held his head, your nails lightly scoring his rugged skin, sending shivers along his length and making his fingers clench where they held you to him.

You leaned forward, rocking gently, causing your hardened nipples to scrape over his chest in a way that made your own breath stumble. Putting your moist, swollen lips to his ear, you whispered, "You feel so good".

Before you could even take your next breath, he had swung you around so that you were now leaning over the bench, knees spread wide, open and available and his for the taking. Fisting his hand in your tangled locks, he tugged your head back, arching you into a fully submissive angle, your breasts thrusting outward as your neck lay exposed and vulnerable to his teeth and lips.

He growled as he slid the hard, hot, full length of his cock deep inside of you, nestling it into that spot he'd created, that he'd claimed, that he owned. Your arms shook as you struggled to hold this position. Your nipples pebbled as he pounded into your pussy, whispering commands in your ear, pinching and tugging you with his free hand, but never letting go of your hair, keeping you arched back and wide open.

Using your slick that was freely running down over his length, he pulled back just enough to slip the head of his cock against your ass. As you whimpered in protest, he surged against you, curling around you and swallowing your scream, claiming you. Crushing your head between his fist and lips, he devoured you, quivering with each cry that poured from your lips, trembling as he listened to your passion, stroking you as you soared through yet another peak. Holding you tight, you both found release, groaning each other’s names.

Slowly, carefully slipping out of you, he rested on his heels, pulling you back into his arms, holding you tight. You felt so protected, so cherished as one hand curled around your waist and the other crossed between your heaving breasts to softly stroke the skin of your neck, caressing the pulse beat still pounding through you. You lifted your arms and held him to you, tipping your head to kiss the curve of his smile, touching your lips to the corner of his mouth and sighing softly in pleasure.

"I guess we better get going, before someone walks in”, Slade said, softly stroking you with his calloused hands, “But I don't want to…I can't get enough of you."

"Nor I, you," your voice rasped in his ear.

Feeling you tremble, he encircled your waist and lifted you up onto the bench, spinning you around to face him. Kneeling between your splayed thighs, he reached up and brushed a wild curl out of your eyes.

"We'll figure it out", he whispered.

———

Special Thanks: @offendedfishnoises​​​​​​ @internalsealpanic​​​​​ @batarella​​​​​ - thank you both for proof reading you beautiful hoes xoxo

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———

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

and then I don’t feel so bad

thanks again to @thecomfortofoldstorries for coming through when I whined at her about needing ideas

also shout-out to my older sister for being the coolest and getting this song stuck in my head today (happy birthday, sis. wish we’d been raised together)

---

Geralt holds the package tightly with both hands and glares down at it with icy anxiety building at the center of his chest. The cloak he’d special ordered two weeks ago is wrapped in brown paper, tied closed with a length of dark blue woolen string. The Witcher, who has faced countless monsters and angry villagers and vengeful nobles alike, takes a deep breath in through his nose and shudders at the thought of his next self-chosen contract: giving Jaskier a Solstice present. He hopes the cloak is good enough. He hopes that he chose a fashionable color, one that Jaskier will enjoy wearing no matter where he chooses to go this winter. Geralt hopes that the heavy wool he’d painstakingly decided on is the right kind of material for Jaskier’s tastes. He hopes… he hopes that everything he’s about to say and do goes well and that he doesn’t fuck this all up.

“Jaskier,” he calls, keeping his tone light as he knocks on the door of their shared room. “Are you decent?”

“Never!” Jaskier laughs from within. Geralt hears a series of quick, light-soled footsteps crossing the floor before the door is flung open to reveal Jaskier in all his evening glory. The bard is, as usual, painfully correct. He’s not very decent at all; his hair is a mess of brown waves that tumble down to cover his smooth, pale forehead. The apples of his cheeks are flushed fuchsia with a combination of wine and the high of a good show. His frilly white shirt is unlaced at the throat and loosened all the way down to reveal the sharp angles of his collarbones. Geralt gulps air like a man near to drowning and pushes his way inside. Has it gotten hotter, all of a sudden? Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow with worry and he closes the door behind his Witcher. “What’s got you even quieter than usual? Are you sick? Injured? Cursed?”

“Witchers can’t get sick,” Geralt answers, almost automatically. Jaskier rolls his eyes. 

“Your version of sick, then?” 

Geralt doesn’t know what his version of sick means so he ignores the comment entirely. Instead he shoves the package in his hands towards the bard and huffs. “I got something for you. I thought you might like to wear it to keep you warm, especially since I wanted… I was wondering if you’d like…”

Geralt growls and spins on his heel, running one shaking hand through his hair as if that might calm him down. It doesn’t.

“Fuck! Why can’t I be like you? Why can’t I just… say all the things I’m thinking? I’m no good with words, Jaskier.”

“I actually don’t say most of the things I think,” Jaskier shrugs. He bites the inside of his lip to keep from talking any more and ruining the moment. This is clearly something the Witcher needs to do on his own, whatever it is. He smiles softly and holds the paper-wrapped lump against his chest. “But I’m happy to wait for as long as you need, dear heart. Figuring out the right thing to say is hard.”

Geralt’s heart is pounding in his chest. Each beat rings out like one of Roach’s shoes against unforgiving cobblestone. He can practically see the sparks flying from it, igniting something in his chest that flares and wavers like a candle flame in the high breeze. He wants to protect the wavering warmth with every ounce of strength he has.

“I… I got you this,” he gestures towards the gift Jaskier has yet to open, “Because it’s cold at Kaer Morhen. The pass is treacherous, difficult for a human who isn’t prepared, so I wanted you to- I mean if you wanted to come with me, I would-”

His fumbling proposal is interrupted by a dull thwump as the package Jaskier was just holding suddenly hits the wooden floorboards. When Geralt looks up, terrified of the incoming rejection, he’s met with two watery blue eyes. Every one of his worst fears is being actualized in front of him and there’s nothing he can do to stop it now. 

“Fuck. Shit, I- I’m sorry for asking. I didn’t know if you would eve-”

Geralt is interrupted again, this time by Jaskier throwing his arms around the Witcher’s shoulders and starting to sob. Geralt panics and instinctively reaches to pull Jaskier closer against his chest. He tucks the bard’s face against the side of his neck and cups the back of his neck with one broad palm; his fingers scratch up the base of Jaskier’s scalp and into his soft, tousled locks. With his other arm Geralt holds the bard tightly around the waist, rubbing small circles into the meat of his hip as he waits for Jaskier’s breathing to return to normal.

“Do you not want to come with me to the keep?” he asks, voice low and gravelly but somehow smaller and more frightened than Jaskier has ever heard it sound before. His heart cracks wide open and his love for his grumpy White Wolf comes spilling out like water from a burst dam. 

“Of course I want to come to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier chuckles wetly. Sadly. “I just never thought… I thought you didn’t want me there.”

Geralt considers the words for a moment. He really hasn’t been the most welcoming friend, all things considered. He can understand why Jaskier feels a bit lost and a bit confused. Overwhelmed, his brain supplies. Jaskier is overwhelmed. 

He slowly releases Jaskier and steps away.

“Here,” he grins, kneeling and offering the package back up to the bard, who accepts it slowly. Now those bright blue eyes are shining with a different emotion, and Geralt envies the mages who can read other peoples’ minds. “Open it.”

Jaskier slowly unties the blue string and pulls two or three layers of plain brown paper aside to reveal a cardinal-red woolen cloak. A cloak that Geralt has bought for him. The hood and the hem are just the right size and shape for the season. The shade of red Geralt has chosen really brings out the pink undertones of Jaskier’s skin and the darker flecks of blue in his eyes. Jaskier knows that this cloak’s design is haute couture and probably cost the Witcher a great deal of coin. “Oh… Oh, my sweet, darling Geralt.”

Hearing his name said like that, with such affection and gentle reverence, throws the Witcher into another frenzy of emotion. He can barely stand it. His fists clench at his sides. It takes Herculean effort not to sweep the bard off his feet and spin him through the air, peppering him with excited, happy kisses. Jaskier is coming to Kaer Morhen with him! Jaskier is coming home with him!

“Geralt?” 

“Jaskier,” the Witcher whispers, taking one slow step and closing the distance between them. The bard does not flinch. He does not move away. He does not step back. “Jaskier, if you don’t mind, I’d like to kiss you very badly.”

“Of course,” the bard breathes, his hand floating up to rest against the warm, stubbled skin of Geralt’s cheek, “I’ve been waiting so long…”

When their lips finally meet, time stops. There is only the warmth of their skin where it’s touching and the soft, gentle desperation of two people trying to prove, for once and for all, that they love each other. When they pause for air Jaskier pulls away a fraction. “Let’s go sit by the fire and chat, shall we?”

“Hmm.”

Geralt settles himself before the fire and pulls Jaskier down onto his lap, arranging him until they’re both comfortable. “Will your family mind my coming with you?”

“They’re expecting you. Actually, they demanded your presence this year. Lambert actually threatened me with bodily harm.”

“Did they, now?”

“Aye. Eskel said he’d find you and bring you back himself if I was too cowardly to buck up like a real Witcher and tell you that I-”

He cut himself off with a blush.

“That you what?”

“That I love you.”

“Well that’s good news,” Jaskier giggles, “And quite the relief considering I’ve been head over heels in love with you for years, now. A decade at least!”

“Y-you…?”

“Me, indeed.”

“I’m glad we’ll all get to hear your wonderful stories this winter,” Geralt nuzzles down against the side of his neck and sends Jaskier into another fit of giggles. “And songs.”

“Do you like it when I sing?”

“I like it best when you make up little songs as we travel,” Geralt admits. “They’re sweet... and I feel like- like they’re just for me.”

Jaskier lights up brighter than a well-cast Igni and settles himself into the Witcher’s tender embrace entirely. He begins to hum to himself and then slowly, in a way that always leaves Geralt impressed and entranced, words begin to form into verse:

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, Big grumpy Witchers that have me quite smitten, Brown paper packages tied up with strings; These are a few of my favorite things.”

Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s temple and hides his blush in the bard’s warm neck.

“Hair soft as silk that went white in the Trials, Arms that can hold me and heft me for miles, Eyes of warm amber I search for in Spring, These are a few of my favorite things.”

The Witcher swears he can’t fall any more in love. It has to be impossible; but then Jaskier’s voice gets even softer and the words are sung so close to his ear that it makes him shiver. 

“When the wolf bites, When the bee stings, When I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things, And then I don't feel so bad!”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Letter 7: 🏹 Eye of the Beholder 🏹

A letter arrives in the mail... by way of bow and arrow. The poor piece of paper is skewered by a sharp arrowhead, leaving a noticeable hole when you retrieve the letter. Elegant script and verboise language flow scross the page, taking up almost every single bit of avaliable space. Paperclipped to the letter is a candid photograph of Grim snoozing (... You do not recall taking that picture).

A large, wrapped frame is laid by your front door. Hidden beneath the protective fabric is a lifelike portrait of you, posed similarly to the Mona Lisa of your world. Every detail is immaculate and perfectly placed (perhaps too much so), from the angle of your eyebrows and smile to the colors of your skin and hair, and even the reflection of sunlight in your eyes. It looks less like a work of art and more like a mirror—if a mirror reflected only the best aspects of you.

***Spoilers for chapter 5!***

Cher Trickster,

Bonjour! How does fate find you on this lovely day? I have noticed that you seem to be out of sorts as of late. Perhaps the weight of schoolwork is getting to be too burdensome, or you are experiencing heartache—from a fight with a friend? The worry and pain is scrawled so evidently across your expression, try as you may to hide it.

Remember! Even at the worst of times... Every morning, the sun rises without fail, blessing the landscape with its light and warmth. That is always something to look forward to! I encourage you, Trickster, to look at the world around you and to bathe in all the beauty that it offers! A stroll through the woods will clear your mind up. You will find that nature has a way of lifting your spirits, and bringing a smile to your face.

Of course, you may say that I have no right to intrude on your affairs—and that is where I must object! For Robin Hood taketh from the rich, and Robin Hood giveth back to the poor. You’ve helped to restore something precious to me, and now I must do the same in return.

If you listen to the rumors scattered about the school, you may hear that I have a sharp eye. This is a trait that I pride myself on as a hunter. Ah, but it does not only come in handy in terms of tracking my prey, non! Why, it was this sharp eye of mine that happened upon the diamonds in the rough that would eventually rescue Roi du Poison.

That is correct! I speak of you and your companions!

There was a darkness stirring in Vil’s soul, you see. A darkness that many would not perceive—for Roi du Poison rarely allows the public to glimpse into the uncertain side of himself. What better remedy than to bring in “fresh meat” (pardon the unforgiving pun~) to stir up the pot? New talent... fresh faces! And a mysterious student with a different perspective. They were what Vil needed to pry open his eyes and “see” for the first time.

Roi du Poison, the Fairest One of All, our beautiful Vil... His sparkle was darkening, dying black with resent and envy. It was beautiful, in its own cruel, twisted way... But it was not the Vil that he worked so hard to be, the Vil that he poured his blood, sweat, and tears to become. To be “seen” as. Do you see, Trickster? My only desire is, and always was, to witness Roi du Poison at his finest, for Vil to recognize his own beauty, despite what the others say of him—and that was a feat that I could not tackle alone.

The one person I could save was Roi du Neige. I was ready to cast my life away to take his place—but Roi D’Or would not allow it. And it was thanks to Monsieur Multi’s quick wits that no civillians gazed upon the form Vil considered to be so unsightly. Monsieur Heart and Monsieur Fuzzball proved their mettle in combat—and even young Epel-kun demonstrated his strength! Ah, and the crowning jewel of it all... Monsieur Spade’s spectacular finale!

And I... A mere spectator in the presence of such a dazzling performance!!

At the end of it all, we embraced and wept in one another’s arms. We sang. We danced. Upon that stage, we were born anew.

Is that what Night Raven College has been missing all this time? The strength of unity.

It is marvelous. So marvelous, in fact, that it brings another tear to my eyes. Beauté... 100 points!!

And the crux of it all lies with you.

Trickster... My eyes do not deceive. There is much more to you than you let on—perhaps even more than you are aware of yourself. That mystique of yours has this hunter intrigued... Captivated!! You might even consider me a new fan of yours.

If there is anything I can do to thank you for restoring Roi du Poison to his rightful throne... you need only ask, and I will be more than happy to assist! There is no distance I will not go. No mountain that I will not scale, no poison I will not consume.

Call my name, mon amie, and I shall come running—even to the ends of Twisted Wonderland, and to the depths of the Underworld itself.

Until then. I eagerly await your response.

Yours,

Le Chasseur D’Amore, 🏹 Rook Hunt 🏹

[ktheist]

in another life (i would be your man)

muses. hero!yoongi / assassin!yoongi / father!yoongi / lawyer!yoongi

word. 2.5k

genre. reincarnation au

x

time and time again, you find yourselves in the other’s absolute mercy.

mercy, which both of you know, the other will not grant.

“have you any last words, hero?” the grass shrivels up around yoongi all because hot air wilts the greenest of life.

a single bead of sweat trickles down the side of yoongi’s face as he looks at you without a shred of fear in the face of death.

“all the gold you’re hoarding... does it bring you happiness?” he says, as though already finding serendipity before you can even drive your talon into his chest.

“happiness!” you roar, mockery dripping off your word, “such humanly sentiments. you forgot who you’re speaking to, hero.”

“yoongi... yoongi’s my name” he sighs softly, eyelids fluttering shut, “say it.”

it is you who fall silent this time.

to say the name of the soul who’s bound to you not for love but for destruction... have you the right?

in your last life, a good few hundred years ago, he’s the one that drove the cross into your chest.

in the one before that, you burn him at the stakes for the wretched powers he held.

in this lifetime, even the armor made of the silver cannot withstand the weight of your paw, talon digging into his chest as he lays underneath you, ready to accept the heroic death.

“very well, if not in this lifetime, then perhaps the next...”

you live for three human lifetimes as the great dragon who brought the continent together. the humans, without their hero, are mere mortals. they learned better than to put their faith in one man.

in the next lifetime, you find yourself kneeling in front of a silver haired man - what a striking hair color for someone who’s supposed to be on the low.

“my hand’s gonna slip,” that gravelly voice still sends shivers down your spine.

“what-” you breathe out, eyebrows knitting together.

he takes his aim.

but there’s something wrong.

the angle he’s pointing at will graze your cheek and ear at most.

then he shoots.

when the bullet bounces against the cement somewhere a few inches away behind you, your body moves on its own. your leg sweep out to send him tumbling down onto the ground. your thighs pin his hips down so he can’t get up and you push the gun farther beyond his reach.

“why are you doing this?” you hiss, knife against his throat.

“don’t you think we owe it to ourselves to be happy?” yoongi says simply, too complacent for a man who’s about to lose yet another life to his enemy.

“that’s not how it works,” teeth gritted together, you press the dulled side of the knife harder against his snow-kissed flesh.

“then, how does it work?” he asks.

for a moment, you’re frozen in place. then you’re taken back to where it all begins.

you were a queen who poisoned her king before proceeding to ruin the kingdom until it remains but a memory to those who’ve lived through your tyrannical era. yoongi was the crown prince from a small country who enticed you into his chambers and kept you locked in a tower like a caged bird while he went to war with the neighboring kingdom with your kingdom’s army.

“i- i hated you for seducing me and locking me up in that tower,” you murmur, breath shaky, “a- and you hated me because i-i couldn’t be killed... because i was...”

“a blood sucker.” he finishes for you.

a flash of anger crosses your eyes and paint your vision red. you press the knife harder - no doubt there would be a bruise, “no matter how immortal i was... i died because of a broken heart. you killed me!”

“i was breaking my own heart for having to keep you locked in that tower but if i let you go...” he trails off, his hand coming to settle on yours.

it’s the first time you hear him choke up.

“so many died because of our love,” yoongi’s voice comes out barely above whisper.

“your sin is mistaking hate for love,” you flick your wrist, switching the side of the blade pressed against his neck to one that could cut through clean and swift.

but before you can seal yet another lifetime of your surviving, a sharp pain cuts into your arm, forcing you to release the blade, your free hand cupping the familiar circular wound that’s gushing with blood.

you push yourself off him, going over the ledge and jumping off to your safety. and yoongi’s left in the cold, night air, the coms in his ear buzzing back to life.

it’s six months later that he finds you, dressed in deep red, smiling seductively as you cling on a man twice your age. all of a sudden, he finds himself ignoring whatever his partner’s saying in the coms and approaching you and the man.

yoongi can barely remember what he said but he remembers the overwhelming feeling of relief when the man pushes you off and march out of the room, shouting russian vulgarities.

“planting a bullet hole in my arm isn’t enough, you just had to sabotage my mission, don’t you?” you’re on top of him once again but the ground isn’t cold and hard as he’s always remembered in the series of you pinning him down in differing lifetimes.

“have you thought about what i said?” he doesn’t look like he minds it anymore.

being pinned down by you, that is.

rather, yoongi quite likes the view of your cleavage when you lean down close enough to whisper into his hears, “i reflected on my past mistakes... and truly, i wish nothing more than to have you gone from my sight once and for all.”

then his index finger ghosts over the softest protrusion of the healed up scar on your arm. and you feel goosebumps on your skin.]

you leave in the morning, slipping out of the hotel room in that skin tight maroon dress, noticing the woman in the lobby, looking like what you would’ve looked like if you were waiting for your partner who went against orders and checked into a room in the very same hotel he was supposed to eliminate his target at.

sloppy. fucking sloppy.

yoongi never sees you after that. he got reprimanded and almost got eliminated by his own agency if it hadn’t been his father, the head of the extermination department who pulled some strings and buried the matter.

it’s a surprise he’s still alive at the age of of thirty-one, owning a lawfirm of his own and living the life he’s never thought he’d have.

a normal one.

then, he spots you, walking down the sidewalk holding a toddler’s hand and smiling down at him like he’s the most precious thing you’ve ever hold dear to.

“stop the car,” yoongi orders.

“s-sir?” the driver, surprised by the sudden request, hesitates.

“pull over!” it’s the first time the young man has ever hear his boss raise his voice.

so he does just that, but a block away from where yoongi last saw you.

he runs as fast as his legs could carry him. but the sidewalk is empty of a woman holding a child’s hand.

it takes another year of him searching records of faces and names. for you have many and unlike yoongi, he’s sure you have no one to pull the strings and make one blunder disappear.

then he finds you, under a pseudonym, of a certain kim hana whose child is named kim youngsoo.

“it’s me,” he announces, stepping into the light that pours past the window and over not even half of the room.

“mommy, can we order pizza?” youngsoo’s lively voice rings from outside of the room.

“yeah, why don’t you decide what toppings you want and i’ll be out there in a sec, sweetie,” your voice sounds heavenly - none of the guarded strain that he usually hears. but your eyes, they look like the eyes of a woman who would give everything to protect her most precious possession.

“so it was you... one year ago,” you say, ambling to the dresser where yoongi easily finds out your motive.

“the gun’s not there anymore, you really think i’d break into the house of an ex-assassin and not think to look for weapons tacked up somewhere out of sight?” he hears the frustrated sigh you make before you stand with your feet apart.

looks like you believe his words.

looks like you’ve got no problems taking him on with bare hands.

“he’s mine, isn’t he?”

a scoff.

“you’re pretty dumb if you think one night’s all it takes to get pregnant with your bastard child.”

“who’s the father, then? why isn’t he around?” he presses on.

and his questions have always been intrusive but you notice the weight of his every inquiry. as if he’d drop dead right this instant if you don’t answer them.

“he walked away, couldn’t accept that we had to always be on the move just because he had a baby with a wanted woman.”

and it’s not the police that wants you.

“his social security number?” yoongi shoots you another question.

“i don’t know. i don’t remember,” you say simply, a shrug accompanying your answer.

“number one rule of being an assassin: never forget anything,” yoongi recites easily, even after five years, he still recalls the drilling his mentor forced him through, “so that leaves us with one possibility: he doesn’t exist, this ex of yours.”

“mooooom.” youngsoo calls out, sounding too close for comfort.

“just a minute, sweetie. why don’t you take my phone out of my bag and get ready to dial up the number to the pizza place?” there’s a lightness in your tone.

envy wraps around yoongi’s heart before he even realizes it. how he wished you’d speak to him in that delicate, loving tone as well.

“look, i’m tired, i’m done playing games, i’ve been done since that night. i know i fucked up and i know some day i’ll pay for it but not tonight... tonight... at least let me have one last night with my kid.”

it’s the way the word ‘my’ and ‘kid’ fall naturally off your mouth that makes yoongi realize that he’s the one stuck in the beginning all along. that he’s the one who couldn’t move on from the past even though he sought to change the present and threw your world upside down when he decided not to take the shot.

before he can say anything, you’re already out of the door but he senses no rush in your footsteps.

“do you have the pizza place’s number down?” there it is again, the soft, tender tilt in your voice.

it’s a little faint but he hears it clearly.

and it may very well just be a trick to make him sympathize but what is he to sympathize with when he’s only here to ask for confirmation?

why do you treat him like death who’s finally come to take back your borrowed time?

well, the answer was simple.

“i paid off the bounty,” yoongi meets you at a cafe where he knows you’ll feel safer.

no assassin will make a move in broad daylight, in public, with his face out for the cameras to record.

“how much?” you sound like you just got another loan tying you down.

“enough that they can’t resist,” he states.

and before you can even say anything, he goes on, “i want to see him.”

“no.” you say curtly.

“he’s my child too.” he slides the white envelope he pulls out of his pocket to you.

it contains the dna results from the hair on the comb youngsoo complained he lost and yoongi’s own hair.

“he’s doesn’t need a father,” you don’t even give the envelope a second glance, “if that’s all-”

“that’s not for you to decide on your own,” he cuts you off.

it’s the firmness in his tone that makes your eyebrows rise. min yoongi has always been a gentle soul. even when he was driving a cross into your heart, he’d done it with the heaviest heart.

and for him to place his foot down like this - how very unlike him.

which is why, when he pulls, you pull harder.

“if you so much as appear in front of youngsoo, we will disappear and i’ll make sure you’ll never us again.”

and with that, you take out the blank check from your purse and slip it over to him. the check and the envelop laying side by side.

money isn’t the issue, you’ve managed to wire every single penny you have to different bank accounts before the agency could even freeze the one in seoul. it took several trips to japan, hong kong and china but you eventually got enough to start a new life with your new life.

and that new life of yours is being shaken by the presence of an entity of the past.

you begin noticing the men and women dressed in plain clothing standing a few feet away from where you and youngsoo go. they’re there, acting absolutely normal which makes it unnormal. always watching, always being on guard as if their lives depend on you and youngsoo’s security.

it goes on for another three months before you finally get tired of it and approach one of them, “call your boss over.”

youngsoo’s blowing bubbles at the park when a sleek black car pulls up at the curb and a familiar face steps out.

“you can see him every week on saturdays, one no-show and you’re out. also- i decide when he finds out,” you set the rules and yoongi looks like he a little kid who’s about to perform at his school’s talent show, “do we have a deal?”

“absolutely,” he nods readily.

yoongi’s hand moves on its own and he almost hooks his index finger around your pinky finger as if asking for some kind of emotional support. but he stops himself.

he walks beside you, watching as you walk out from under the shades of the tree, your expression instantaneously brightening when the sunlight hits, “youngsoo-ah,” you wave the toddler over.

his little legs comes running towards you, curious, bright eyes staring at yoongi and right through his soul. he’s never felt so bare and defenseless.

the only thing that keeps him from running away is the fondness in your voice. and the smile on your face that he’s never seen before, “youngsoo-ah, this is uncle yoongi, he’s mommy’s friend...”

yoongi musters the best smile he can - he never needed to try. it’s the people around him that force smiles to please him. never the other way around. never him having to smile so he wouldn’t scare off his son.

he crouches in front of the child that’s partially hiding behind you, “youngsoo-ah, it’s nice to finally meet you.”