#its also that I get to enjoy my own stench

[salty-stardust-burgerbitch]

Having a musk kink is honestly so relieving. I get back home from a long walk feeling rank and sweaty, smelling my pits through a shirt AND a hoodie, and instead of it making me feel gross (in a bad way) I can just remind myself that there are so so so many wonderful muskslut girlies out there who would happily lap up every drop and lick me clean. And bam! Now I feel sexy and powerful and gross (in a good way)!!!

...That said, I'm still a bit too sweat-drenched to be comfortable. I wonder how we could fix that?

Oh, who am I kidding. I mean how YOU'RE gonna fix it~

[some-bunniii]

Alastor and Lucifer come to your rescue

・❥ You’ve been kidnapped. Good thing you know two handsome fellas who’d come to your rescue in a heartbeat—or lack thereof.

~ 5k words

x: reader is g/n. no use of y/n. enjoy 🥰

“You better just let me go. It won’t be pretty for any of you if you keep me locked up for much longer!” You called from the suspended prison cell, hanging from the ceiling with a single, thick chain.

The demon thugs below barely blinked, ignoring your words as they continued their game of hellish poker. Empty bottles of liquor were scattered across the floor, their heads spinning with a drunken buzz while they snickered between each other.

“Whoever wins this round gets first tool pick for torturing the prisoner.” The dealer laid out the deck of cards, flicking his gaze to the cage just above their heads.

“Maybe that will finally shut them up. It’s been–what, three hours since we grabbed them, and they’re still yapping.” One of the shark demons sighed as he shuffled his hand.

The iron bars pressed against your fingers, their chill biting your skin as you gripped them. The dank air, thick with the stench of mold and something fouler, clung to your lungs with every breath. They had plucked you from the street just as you stepped out of the bar, saying you owed money to some freak down in the Greed Ring and your stash of cash needed to be coughed up before the night's end.

Except you have no memory of stealing money from anybody! They must have confused you for someone else, and surely whoever is waiting for their mula will find out your kidnappers snagged the wrong passerby. Sure, you were in Hell for a reason, but your behavior since working at the Hazbin Hotel had improved considerably.

You’d have alerted any of your friends at the hotel of your whereabouts if you could, but the thugs had shaken you of any loose change and electronics the moment you arrived at this dusty, empty warehouse. Angel Dust was the fastest texter, but you were sure he was at the studio by now—in every position except the one that would answer your cries for help.

Was three hours enough of an absence for anyone to be worried? Maybe Charlie would find you tardy for this evening’s lesson and panic, or Vaggie would notice your desk was empty much longer than usual.

You knew someone who would notice the moment your presence became suspiciously absent. Actually, you could name two that would–and who’d come to your rescue in the blink of an eye.

One of them was the very King of Hell himself, Lucifer Morningstar. You met him when Charlie gave him a tour of the hotel all those months ago, and you were immediately taken by his humor and perfect looks, awed by his power and history as an angel. You would like to feel that Lucifer felt those same butterflies upon being introduced to you when you dipped your head and batted your lashes at those pretty eyes of his.

“I heard you built this hotel up from dust with a single thought!” you said, your voice trembling with excitement as he drew closer. “I've never met someone with such a skill in architecture.”

“You flatter me,” the angel chuckled, extending an open palm, “but also undermining my powers. I’m so much cooler than that. Let me show you!”

In a burst of red magic, a yellow rubber ducky appeared with a comical pop, and you blinked in surprise at the familiar face staring back. The ducky looked… just like you, and a smile spread across your features at the silly little you, reaching out a finger to brush across its beak. 

“That is pretty cool,” you affirmed with a laugh, meeting his prideful gaze, “I never thought I’d look so cute as a duckling!”

“You do that all on your own. Here, you can have it.” Lucifer held out the duck with a wink, and your eyes widened in delight, and you quickly lifted a hand. “Just a generous gift from your gracious, very impressed King of Hell!”

When your fingers brushed against his, it was like feeling earth’s sunlight on your cheeks again, a warmth that spread up your arm and had your shoulders loosening in relief from unnoticed tension. Taking the toy in your hands with sudden, fresh energy, you turned it for a close inspection. It felt real, rubbery, and smooth against your palm. It definitely sounded real when you squeezed its little body, and it quacked, like a real duck! 

When you lifted your head, he had been dragged off by his daughter to finish touring the halls, and you were left with a pounding heart. 

You brushed a thumb across the little duck, warmth rising in your cheeks from the encounter with the angelic man until your smile faltered as his words echoed in your mind.

Very impressed. Did he… like you? The conversation had been brief but charged, and you hoped to see him again and learn the real Lucifer Morningstar, not just the King of Hell. If Charlie could win him over with that visit to Heaven, that is.

That was your first interaction with him–and not your last, either. He began visiting the hotel quite often, reconnecting with his daughter and lending a hand behind the scenes whenever she desired. Lucifer always made time for you, too. 

Giving you colorfully themed rubber duckies became his little tradition, gifting them with theatrics and compliments that had your cheeks hot every time. Lucifer’s features always glowed when you laughed at his stupid dad jokes and stared in awe at the creations he took the most joy in.

The morning you had been kidnapped, you reached for your phone, clicked on the contact with a rubber ducky icon, and typed a quick message while heading for the lobby.

[You: Going to the bar with some friends next to the sweet shop. Want one for the next time you stop by?]

[King of Ducks: You know I can just snap my fingers and make a dozen, right?]

You were shocked to see Lucifer had answered immediately; that was rare for the reclusive king. He had gotten better at including himself into the hotel and as a normal member of hellish society, and you liked to think that was in part due to your efforts. 

[You: Yes, but their desserts are good. Plus, when was the last time you went out and ate non-magically cooked food?]

[King of Ducks: Yeah… no thanks. I don’t trust anything made by sinners. How about I dig around for my last bag of Eden Apples and whip up an appetizer for dinner tonight? Will you be at the hotel?]

[You: Yes, I will only be out for a few hours. See you then!]

[King of Ducks: Can’t wait. ʚ(•ө•)ɞ]

You weren’t sure how to categorize your relationship with the King of Hell. You were one of the very few people he spoke to and who he enjoyed talking to, yet there had never been a confession or a kiss, just outings and shared time at the hotel that bordered on date nights.

Could Lucifer be at the hotel now, waiting for you to eat caramel apples with him? He’d get worried, but would he be able to navigate the hurdles of modern technology to track her phone to the warehouse? That might be a problem. You sighed, hope diminishing as you watched one demon clean the barrel of his gun.

There was one more, however. A powerful demon that knew almost every corner of the rugged outskirts of Pentagram City, where he practiced his expanding powers on criminals just like the scum that gossiped about their latest murders below you. 

“Alastor, I'm going out to the bar.” You had stood in the doorway to the lobby earlier today, lips curving into a soft smile as you tipped your chin up to meet the crimson gaze of the fluffy-eared and charismatic facility manager. “Just visiting some friends, I won’t be long. Save a spot for me at dinner, okay?”

Alastor’s gaze lingered on you, the sharp edges of his grin softening. “But of course, my dear,” he purred, his voice full of warmth. “Take your time, enjoy your evening. I’ll make sure there’s a spot just for you—waiting, as always.”

Alastor always knew where you were heading, partly because he was technically your boss—since you sat as the concierge and receptionist for the hotel—but also because you felt completely safe wherever your journey would lead if you knew the infamous overlord was watching your back. 

The terror he inflicted on any bystander who heard his name didn’t rub you so terribly, not when they had even deadlier crimes. They were in Hell, yet the demon’s only victims had been those clutching pearls of insatiable greed and power, ones that wished to climb the ladder by slaughtering anyone who opposed their seat of violence. 

Alastor was the one who welcomed you into the hotel in the beginning when he found you scrounging for scraps in the alleyways like some feral cat. He had approached you with interest, and when your eyes set upon the infamous Radio Demon who offered you a warm place to sleep and delicious food to fill your growling stomach, you had almost taken it in a heartbeat.

Then, you remembered who exactly this demon was.

“If you think I will make a deal with you, think again! I’m not that desperate to sell my soul!” You backed into a brick wall with a glare.

“Nonsense, I would never ask such a thing.” He brushed off your words with a dismissive wave of his hand. “All I ask in return for room and board is for you to work. Tell me, are you efficient with modern communication devices?

“Yes, I can operate a phone.” You had held back an odd smile.

“Excellent! That is all I require.” Alastor had taken you by the elbow to lead you toward the large, seemingly abandoned building at the top of a grassy hill. “I disdain all these newfangled gadgets that have taken over our wonderful city. I have no use for it, but alas, it is a staple of our world now, so we must become accustomed to stepping out of our comfort zone.”

You had listened to him chatter about the modern world's problems in comfortable silence. Although strange, his voice was smooth and lively, diverting all of your attention to the eloquent words that easily rolled off his tongue. 

No stranger had ever offered you such kindness, especially in a place like Hell, and you were determined to make the most of it. Alastor did not seem to mind your company, even when he showed subtle resistance to the companionship of the others in the hotel, like Angel Dust, who always tried to wind up the demon with constant references to his provocative career choice.

He even let you catch the fireflies in his strange but breathtaking pocket lagoon hidden in the shadows of his room. They danced across the soaked grass, lighting up in soft, yellow hues that blinked a trail across the darkness, one that you followed eagerly with a glass jar in your grip.

With gentle hands, you entrapped three… four… five lightning bugs into their new glass home, where they lit the darkness between your palms, like clutching gold sparkling in the sunlight.

Alastor watched you with an amused smile as you took joy in such a meaningless endeavor. Catching bugs to light up a jar, what a silly little idea. 

But… what a cute little endeavor. Innocent fun that brought light to the most beautiful aspects of the natural world familiar to his childhood home in the South. One of the few things he missed about the painful, mortal world above. 

When a flickering cloud hovered over the murky pond’s edge, you stood right at the water as it lapped at your feet and leaned as far as you could over the shimmering depths. Outreaching your arms, you reached for the fireflies dancing just out of reach with a quiet grunt.

Right as you clamped the lid shut on a flurry of lights, the dewy, slick grass beneath your feet sent you stumbling into the pond. You dropped the jar and flailed, squeezing your eyes shut to await the cold plunge into the muddy water.

Nothing came, however. Only the feeling of a sturdy force wrapped tightly around your midsection. Your eyelids fluttered open, and you tipped your chin down to find a green, smokey tentacle holding you steadily, with another clutching the fallen jar above the pond’s motionless surface. 

“In the mood for a midnight swim, hm?” Alastor teased, and you twisted your head to face him, surprise written across your features. 

He snapped his fingers, and the tentacles slithered back into the middle of the clearing. Carefully lowering you onto the soil, they dropped the container into your open palms before dissipating into the air.

“You caught me!” You breathed in relief. 

“Of course I did.” Alastor chuckled, tone softening as he looked you over. “I can’t have you slipping away from me too easily; who will try my Cajun sauce when you are not around?”

“I do like your sauce,” you replied with a laugh. “Thank you; I’d rather not be soaking wet trying to care for these little guys.” 

He watched you closely, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes as you carefully cradled the jar. The way the soft lights danced against your face seemed to draw his gaze, and for a moment, the usual mischief in his expression faded into something more contemplative.

“What will you do with them, if I may ask?” He tilted his head.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged, following the flickering lights between your palms in a trance. “I just think they’re beautiful. Maybe as a bedside night light? Or, we could use it as lanterns for the hallways. Angel Dust would be grateful for a path back to his room during late nights returning from the studio.”

“An interesting idea. I’m always touched by your capacity to care for the wellbeing of others,” he had replied, a genuine warmth underneath the faint static of his honeyed voice.

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment, and you hid a bashful smile by pulling the jar closer to your face. A thought struck you suddenly, and the container lowered in your hands as your brows furrowed. You glimpsed at Alastor’s door behind you, lips tipping downward. 

“Wait, isn't this all apart from your room? Which means when I leave, they’ll just… vanish?”

The Radio Demon watched your falling features in surprise, struck by the fact this was emotionally tolling on you. A pang of… something strange had his chest tightening, a feeling Alastor hadn’t felt since he watched his mother cry over an antique vase that shattered after he had romped with the dog a little too wildly as a boy.

Why would he deny you something so innocent and harmless? He’d find no joy in restricting you from taking the silly little creatures with you. 

He may be a demon, but he wasn’t a monster.

“Usually… yes,” Alastor began, lifting a claw to tap gently on the jar’s lid, “but I see no disadvantage in giving you a little sample of my home.”

The glass fizzled with green energy, the fireflies growing anxious by the strange magic that consumed the jar for only a moment. The jar sizzled out like a dying bulb, and the remaining demonic aura sent tingles through your fingertips.

That smile of yours wrapped him tighter around your finger, and your eyes widened in wondered delight. You met his crimson gaze with a hurried thanks and dashed out of his room to find the perfect spot for your twinkling lantern. Your quick farewell didn’t bother Alastor; he knew you’d be back to collect more, and he’d greet you once more with the usual dapper grin. 

You weren’t sure what your relationship with Alastor was, either: but, you knew he would come to your rescue at a moment’s notice. Except, he would never set foot near any gadget that could ping your location. So… how would he find you? Were you doomed to be swinging from the ceiling forever?

Then, your hands settled upon a tiny object still deep in your pocket. Lifting it to view, your eyes lit with an idea. 

A paper clip, one that you could transform into a makeshift lockpick. It was a good thing you knew how to pick locks. Very well, if you were to brag. Bending the metal with practiced ease, you scooted to the lock that kept you sealed away and quietly slipped the clip’s end into the tiny hole. You strained your ears, listening for the familiar clicks that would lead to your grand escape. 

“You son of a bitch!” One of the demons snarled below, slamming his fist onto the table as he glared at the player across from him, startling you. “I know you cheated!” 

“It’s called being a sore loser,” the other drawled, swirling the liquor in his glass. “It's not my fault you’re this bad at—”

“Excuse me, gentleman.”

Their heads snapped to the open doorway across the floor, your eyes trailing up the finely-tailored red suit until they landed on a pair of fluffy ears and tiny antlers that stuck out from the top of his head.

“Alastor!” You cried happily from above, wiping your brow with relief.

His gaze flicked to your figure dangling above the criminals, who rose slowly with deadly glares at the new arrival. They lowered back onto the men around the table, his grin sharpening as it widened from ear to ear, and his nails tapped against the microphone on his staff.

“I believe you’ve taken someone who does not belong to you,” Alastor continued, boredom lacing his tone, “return them, and I will grant you a less painful death.”

The room was unfathomably silent. The only sound reaching your ears was your own heartbeat thumping against your ribcage as you watched the scene below in breathless anticipation.

“Is that him?” One of the thugs whispered, and another nodded with a set jaw.

“Yes, but he’s outnumbered twenty to one. We can take him.” He pulled an angelic blade from his sheath. “Alert the rest of our men. The Radio Demon won’t last for much longer.” 

His accomplice obliged, and Alastor let them go, thrilled by the added challenge as he took another step forward.

“Well?” He hummed, looking at the men expectantly.

One parted their lips, beginning to speak, until the overhead lights flickered and fizzled out, except for one on the opposite end of the warehouse. Everyone, even Alastor, furrowed their brows in confusion. 

“Behold!” A disembodied voice echoed across the long space, dripping with theatrical flair. You perked at the familiar tone, a smile tugging at your lips. The remaining light in the warehouse intensified, casting an exaggerated, almost divine glow on the figure emerging from the shadows. 

“The Morning Star has arrived!” Lucifer announced with a flourish, eyes shut and arms outstretched as if addressing an adoring crowd. 

Unfortunately, he was faced in the opposite direction of the crowd. Alastor’s smile faltered at the sight of the short king before it sharpened even further, and his claws clenched around his staff.

“And I am here to—! Oh.” Lucifer’s yellow gaze met the wall, and he pivoted on the heels of his boots to face the group across the warehouse, snapping his fingers and vanishing in red smoke.

In an explosion of confetti, the angel popped into existence beside Alastor, and Lucifer’s grin grew in devilish triumph.

“As I was saying.” He cleared his throat to the jaw-dropped onlookers, twirling his apple-tipped cane in his fingers. “I am here to relieve you all of life, forever, since you can’t keep your hands to yourself like decent people.” 

The thugs blinked, glancing between each other. Some looked like they were about to beeline for the exit, while others only bared their teeth in anger.

“Did you follow me here?” Alastor ground out, eye twitching as he twisted his head with a crack to side-eye the king.

“No!” Lucifer replied with a huff. “This is my city, remember. I know my way around these parts just fine.”

“I was here first,” Alastor hissed, adjusting his suit with a hmph. “This is my rescue. Don’t you have some toys to play with back home?” 

“Still up here!” You called from the bars of your cell, peering down at the two bickering men with an eye roll.

They looked up at your crouched figure, then at each other with calculating glares, and finally rested on the mass of criminals before them, more pouring in from the open doors.

“Watch and learn, bellhop.” Lucifer rolled up his sleeves and stepped toward the group of thugs who clutched their angelic weapons with trembling fingers.

He lifted a hand, pointing a finger gun toward the closest demon, whose eyes widened as the King of Hell aligned his sights as he looked down the imaginary barrel of a gun.

With an audible “pew!” A firework shot from Lucifer’s fingertip, slamming into one of the demon's stomachs and skyrocketing him out a window with a shriek. 

The darkening sky lit up in a burst of sparkling colors, and a thunderous boom shook the building. The thugs around the table blinked, glancing at each other warily as the apple-cheeked man clasped his hands and looked at them expectantly.

“Anyone else?” Lucifer smiled with shark-like teeth, brushing the dust from his coat. 

They gulped, lowering their weapons, but the largest demon, a centipede-like man who stood three or four Alastor’s tall, hissed in rage and lifted six silver, gleaming pistols toward the angel, all clutched in its multiple pairs of arms. 

If the angels could be felled by their own steel as they did during their attack on the city only two weeks ago, surely their once-heavenly king could fall from it, too. There was too much money on the line to flee just yet. The demon pulled each trigger simultaneously, and Lucifer quirked a brow.

“Huh, that’s efficient,” he said as bullets flew past his hat, and he ducked quickly to avoid them. 

Alastor threw up a shield of green, the bullets from the rest of the thugs ricocheting off the powerful barrier and zipping across the floor, hitting one of the demons right in the chest with a pained gasp.

“Do not worry your fragile little crown.” The Radio Demon stepped forward, waving off the king without a glance. “I will handle these delinquents.”

“There’s not a chance in Hell I’m letting you have all the fun,” Lucifer replied, and he pulled a long, fiery whip from within his coat. 

The whip crackled with an infernal glow, flames licking the air as it uncoiled. He cracked it against the floor, splitting the concrete and leaving scorch marks across its surface. With a snarl to charge, the thugs surged forward, brandishing their weapons and aiming their guns at the two men’s foreheads without faltering.

In an unspoken competition, your dual saviors readied themselves, green tentacles curling around Alastor protectively as a few snaked forward and throttled a group of demons while another threw one out the already-broken window. His antlers extended, eyes turning to radio dials as his form grew and shifted into a demonic monstrosity, claws extended for the succulent fleshbags before him.

Lucifer lashed out with his whip, the flames searing the air as it wrapped around the largest demon’s pistols, yanking them from its grasp with a force that sent the weapons clattering to the floor. With a flick of his wrist, the whip coiled around the centipede-man’s legs, dragging it down to its knees. 

“Kneel before your king,” Lucifer sneered. He gave the whip a final, violent crack, sending the demon sprawling across the ground, flames licking at its many dismembered appendages.

Lucifer danced across the room, ducking and diving as he karate-chopped a demon, and they exploded into colorful paper mache. Alastor grew twice the size, his antlers lengthening and his eyes shifting into radio dials as he plucked a snarling criminal from the floor and swallowed him whole. 

You did not want to sit around and take a stray bullet to the heart, so you continued picking the lock with hasty fingers. Bullets flew past your cage, but you did not halt the task as you heard the familiar clicks of unlocking mechanisms. 

Realizing their chances were much slimmer than initially thought, some of the men hurried away, teeth chattering in fear, as they left the rest of their friends to be eaten by the hulking red demon and set on fire by balls of flame that engulfed Lucifer’s hands.

The final click had the lock to your cell plummeting to the ground, bonking one thug on the head, and he face-planted onto the concrete with a groan. 

“I did it!” You beamed, chest swelling with a rare ego.

The door swung open, and you poked your head out, watching with a fluttering heart as the two contrasting figures worked in tandem to rescue you.

A tendril curled around the last demon’s leg, dragging him toward the gaping maw of the Radio Demon as he cried out in fear. The sudden force had his finger curling around the trigger, discharging a silver bullet that flew right above your head and shattered the chain that kept you suspended with a piercing shriek of metal.

The cage fell, and you along with it. With a gasp, you helplessly grasped at the bars, squeezing your eyes shut for the impending pain and misery as the floor rushed to meet you.

Six wings spread quickly, and Lucifer sprang forward, arms outstretched to catch your screaming figure midair. The cage around you burst in a plume of red smoke, and you coughed, brushing away the lingering smoke as your heart pounded. Your eyes lifted to meet Lucifer’s soft gaze, the overwhelming relief washing over you like a wave, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to his warmth and safety.

“Are you alright?” He asked, scanning your body for any injuries. Heaven only knows what he would have done if you had any.

“Now that you two are here, I've never been better,” you replied with happy tears brimming. 

“Right, that guy is also here.” Lucifer rolled his eyes, glancing at Alastor’s shrinking figure as the demon licked his lips in satisfaction. “I hope you know I could have done everything without him.”

Of course, you did. He was the King of Hell. You shook your head with a smile as he descended smoothly, carefully lowering you onto two feet. Your chest was still heaving from the adrenaline as your gaze fleeted across the broken bodies littered across the ground, stomach churning at the sight.

Alastor strolled forward, taking his turn to examine you. His smile had receded, softening at the edges as he sidled up to you.  

“You know, you handle yourself quite well under pressure without assistance. I knew your skills would come in handy someday. Although, in a few more minutes, I would have been there to free you without fuss.”

“Except I'm the one who caught them. That is a sole save in my books,” Lucifer cut in before you could speak. “All you did was have a late-night snack and ruin my good mood.”

“Preposterous. It was I who took care of most of these nuisances and saved our dear one,” Alastor chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Without me, you’d have only been floundering against the opposition like a frail duckling in alligator waters.”

“I’m so thankful that you both saved me,” you proclaimed, eyes shining with gratitude as you locked elbows with both men at your sides, “I couldn’t be more grateful for the rescue. Why don’t we get some celebratory drinks from Sinbucks on the way back? A hot cup of black joe and an Earl Grey tea for my handsome saviors.”

“Fine.” Alastor shrugged, not sparing a glance at the man on the other side of you. “But only if this blathering fool pays for it.” 

“Anything for you,” Lucifer agreed, winking your way, “but your friend here better wait outside on the curb. I’m sure they wouldn’t like a rabid animal stinking up the place.”

With a giggle, you pulled them along and left the warehouse, strolling down the trashed streets with a skip in your step. 

You glanced at both of them, pleased and content with just being near you. There was never a dull moment with either of them at your side, or with them together, for that matter, and you wished times like these lasted longer.

Although, you hoped that could happen without being kidnapped next time. 

heyyy guys 😇 im back!! sort of. more like i took a break in writing my novel (roughly 70k words in) to work on an idea i’ve had for awhile but didn’t have the motivation for until now. also, summer overtime at my job and physical therapy have shortened my spare time to do anything… ick.

but now i’m freeeee!! so have this “little” guy for now, and i’ll have more to feed you all soon! now time to crawl back in my hole and write 🥲 goodbye 🤍

taglist 🏷️ (combined characters, 1/2)

@ohnoivefallen @doodlebob2726 @coleisyn @undertale-is-sansational @nehy019 @mixplara @chewbrry @yellowsubiesdance @airwolf92 @lxkeee @jellybellyrulez @catnoirsleftnut @mbruben-stein @froggybich @moonlovers34 @just-trash-yeah-thats-it @wings-of-sapphire @the-tortured-poet @enigmatic-blues @bethleeham @blue122 @cherry-4200 @azullynx @luzzbuzz @for-hearthand-home @helluvapoison @th3-st4r-gur1 @concentratedconcrete @cimadreamer @marsenbie @guacam011y @maxiskindahere @purplerose291 @fictional-character-whore @0willowwisp0 @yourlocalgoldenretrieverboy @wpdarlingpan @halo-balo @chipper-chip @lvstyangel @acrazyartist @midorichoco @ivebeenthearchersstuff @indestructeible @otherthoughtsofbu @anonymousewrites @watchinthestarz @mechanicalmari @luxmessorem @cherry-cola-100

[yandere-romanticaa]

A month has passed since a strange cult took you within its ranks. It wasn't necessarily by choice but it was something you needed to do in order to survive. Your entire village had been destroyed in a sudden onslaught of ferocious demons, massacring all of your friends and family.

You were left with nothing.

For days you had roamed the mountains and with a heavy heart had accepted the fact that you were going to die, be it from starvation, dehydration or some stray demon devouring you from head to toe.

Lord Douma had other things in store for you.

He was a strange one, the man who rescued you. He was oddly easy to amuse and absolutely everything you did was incredibly entertaining to him. One of his favorite past times were when he would simply stare at you as you talk about your life and perform everyday, mundane duties. At first you thought nothing of it - he saved your life, the least you could do was indulge him just a little bit.

Red flags started to show up soon though - the way he would move and carry himself, it simply was not natural. Whenever there was a meal, Douma would not even look at the food or even have a sip of water. You chalked it up to him having his own private meals and decided to think nothing of it.

You had managed to settle within a comfortable routine which just so happened to often cross paths with the great Lord himself. He seemed to greatly enjoy your presence and would have you with him from the moment the sun had risen until wee hours in the morning.

How was he never tired?

Suspicion slowly turned to fear as you noticed that some members of the cult were missing. No one knew what came of them or where they were last seen, as if some foul creature had spirited them away.

You brought up your concerns with Lord Douma but he just called you silly and told you not to worry about it. "Nothing bad will happen to you!" he'd say reassuringly but his words gave you shallow comfort.

Douma, for whatever reason, was also quite fond of physical touch and you were his favorite when it came to that. He was absolutely shameless and would explore your body however he saw fit. Amongst those odd trysts, you noticed that a powerful metallic smell would cling onto him and would never go away no matter how hard you washed his clothing.

No amount of praying could prepare you for the horror you'd encounter on one moonless evening.

You had woken up due to a strange noise and, against your better judgment, decided to investigate. With nothing but a single candle in your hand and a long but thin nightshirt covering your body, you ventured downwards the dark and creepy hallways. It felt as though the shadows themselves were out to get you because you'd flinch at every single sound no matter how miniscule. The closer you got to Lord Douma's chambers the stranger the noises got - giggling, slurping and crunching could be heard as a horrible stench filled the air, a smell so vile that it made you want to throw up your dinner. You'd often ask him what he liked to eat but naturally, Douma would just dodge your question or say something really silly. "It's easier if I eat alone!" he'd say as he caressed your hair. With each step you took the stench became stronger and stronger and Douma's words continued to ring inside your head like bells.

"You see, I'm a bit of a night owl! It's also not smart to come to my chambers without knocking first!~"

You should have listened to him and his thinly disguised warning.

Through the tiniest of cracks you saw Douma on the floor, covered in fresh blood. A wicked grin danced across his lips as he toyed with the severed limbs with the mauled corpse of a young woman, her eyes stricken with fear even in death.

It took you every ounce and willpower to not scream bloody murder.

With the way he was treating the corpse you'd think that Lord Douma was but a child with a precious toy. His light tone and playful gestures sent chills down your spine as you covered your mouth with your hand, a desperate attempt to conceal any potential noises that may escape you. You watched him for a few moments as you let it all sink in, not even realizing just how much your entire being trembled with fear. Just before you could make a break for it you heard Douma speak.

"I know you're there, watching me. I don't know who you are but I can smell you!"

Crap.

Dropping the candle to the floor you could do nothing but freeze as Douma continued to speak, total indifference lacing his voice.

"I would leave, if I were you. I am in a good mood tonight and shall play stupid so I won't turn around to see your face! Now, be a good little disciple and go back to bed!"

Squeaking like a helpless puppy, you ran away with your tail behind your legs, not realizing that Douma knew damn well that it was you. The demon could sense your presence across a giant mountain if need be and your sweet smell would invade his senses every time he would think about you. It was a shame that you saw him in such a state but he really did not want to kill you. He was content with playing dumb and hoped that it would be the same case for you as well.

As long as you kept your lips sealed, everything was going to be alright.

Part 2 here!

[fernclans]

A time to start anew.

(tw for blood, violence, and implied death)

“Cliffpaw, grab the kits and run--!”

A small red tom woke with a start, fear and adrenaline filling his veins as the thick stench of blood filled his senses. The lone apprentice of ▇▇Clan doesn’t even take the time to stand properly, bolting immediately from his nest and sending its contents scattered behind him. He barely has a moment to parse the camp in front of him before whirling on his paws and angling left to the nursery; he couldn’t count how many cats had already fallen, but against such a massive enemy the tom knew instinctively they stood no chance either way.

Misfortune had followed a patrol home; a patrol of young wolves out for a hunt. The packs northward had been growing larger over the past seasons-- more pups meant more prey which needed to be killed. Though predators themselves, Cliffpaw knew it was foolish to believe cats weren’t also prey in their own right.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Let’s get going!” a kit nearly his own size shoved his way past ▇▇▇▇, a smaller she-kit following behind with what could only be a moon-old kit in her jaws.

“Head to the tunnels!” ▇▇▇▇ shouted over their shoulder, just barely audible against the snarling and barking of wolves.

Giving himself a firm nod, Cliffpaw overtakes the eldest kit and begins to pick up the pace. “Follow me-- I can lead us somewhere no wolf can find.” He hoped. He’d only been there once, two moons prior the beginning of his apprenticeship with Magpiestar; The Moonlit Caverns. A place where those blessed with the ability to do so commune with their ancestors, sacred and protected.

A small dip beneath a stone obscured by plants Cliffpaw never learned the name of marking an emergency tunnel into the system below -- it was narrow, and not well-maintained but it would have to do. A shriek sounds from behind him, shrill with terror. “AMBERKIT!” Cliffpaw hears the tomkit shout as his eyes meet the dark stare of a wolf whose jaws clamped around the tail of the white and grey tabby she-kit.

“Take the little one and through that hole and RUN-” Cliffpaw orders, hoping his few moons of training would be enough to save Amberkit and get out of there before the wolf could get a worse hold. Without hesitation, he lunges forward and latches to the large hounds face, teeth fighting for a grip against its massive forehead. 

He looks down at the wolf, eyes black and hollow, and then further down at Amberkit, tiny and helpless within its jaws. His paw begins to slip when an idea strikes him. Leaning into the weight, Cliffpaw scores his left-front paw down the wolf’s left eye and landing with a thud when it pulls itself back, a high-pitched whimper leaving its muzzle, releasing its hold on Amberkit’s tail.

His mind fights to take the moment to look across the camp while the wolf was still dazed -- were ▇▇▇▇ and ▇▇▇▇ still alive? Did they somehow escape as well? Precious seconds are wasted while Cliffpaw fights against himself, muscles tensing in indecision. A growl, deep and low is quick to make the decision for him. The red tabby surges forward, grabbing Amberkit by her scruff and forcing himself through the tunnels.

Whatever happened above, they would have to get through this together.

hiii welcome to my latest little clangen venture :3 this save, i selected a single apprentice and all the kits i could and decided to let it up to fate if they can rebuild from such a tragedy post style will probably change moon to moon while i figure out what kind of flow i like, but i hope you enjoy!

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER ONE: Night Shift

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt has to accompany Foggy to the ER in the middle of the night because he dislocated his shoulder. In need for some peace and quiet, Matt wanders the halls of Metro General and instead finds you crying in one of the abandoned hallways. A conversation ensues.

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mention of injury.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: My brain gets the strangest ideas for fics and then I have to write them or else I will go crazy. This is how this baby was born. Keep in mind, I’m not a doctor. I simply watch a lot of medical dramas and I like to research medical terms for the fun of it. Heed the warnings for the entire series (see Series Masterlist) but also chapter-specific warnings that apply, as seen above. I hope you enjoy!

Read Chapter 1: Night Shift here on AO3

Ever since he can remember, Matt has hated hospitals. The antiseptic scent that lingers in the air, the sterile white walls that seem to close in around him—it all brings back memories of days spent in agony, tied to an uncomfortable bed, and seeing nothing but an endless void of black.

He can only tune out so much. The stench, the sirens, and the overlapping voices in an emergency room—they could easily kill him. 

Hospitals remind him of what he lost. He lost his vision, he lost his father and in the process, he lost his innocence. Matt lost everything, and even though he is well aware that it isn’t the hospital’s fault that he decided to save a man or that his father made a deal with the devil and got himself killed, he still hates the same empty walls that made him feel so small to begin with.

Matt doesn’t want to be a liability, he doesn’t want to be the reason the people he loves get hurt, and yet it continues to happen time and time again.

Maybe he’s cursed. It’s the only explanation for how things are going for him now. Maybe God has a grudge and finally decided to exercise his right to make his life a living hell. There is an infinite number of possibilities, but none of them make sense. 

He’s the anti-hero of his own story and that of everyone else who has ever dared to let him into their lives. He’s his own worst enemy, his personal saboteur. His unwavering pride has a tendency to get in the way of his happiness, which often leads to more bad than good, but admitting that would leave him vulnerable and exposed—and he can’t let himself get hurt again. 

It’s better to push the people he loves away before he can hurt them and force them to walk out on him the same way everyone else in his life has walked out on him ever since he can remember. At least in his twisted mind, that’s true. 

He never thought he would find himself in Metro General again, not since Claire came into his life. Claire, the caring nurse who saved him when he was on death’s door and continued doing so until she realized that falling for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes with its own set of risks. 

Foggy dislocated his shoulder. 

It’s almost laughable. Out of everyone, he chose Matt to come to the hospital with him. Not Karen, Matt. He had the choice between the most empathetic person either of them have ever met, and Matt, someone so far out of touch with his own feelings, living in denial has become the standard for him. Foggy chose the latter, for whatever reason he doesn’t even seem to know himself. It just felt like the most natural thing to do, he told Matt when he asked his best friend, “Why me?”

He should feel honored that he trusts him that much, but being trapped in the sterile four walls of the hospital he only connects bad memories to while Foggy is stuck in the queue for an X-ray feels more like torture than an honorable act. 

The loud, demanding voices of the nurses, the painful groans and soft cries coming from the patients in the waiting area of the emergency room a few doors down, and the obnoxious beeping of the machines lining the walls in every room are like a swarm of bees in Matt’s inner ear. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get them out. He’s allergic to them.

The room smells of disinfectant, blood, and other bodily fluids. He tries to focus on his cologne and the scentless laundry detergent he has grown so accustomed to over the years, but the balm only lasts for a few seconds before the wound reopens and his senses are flooded.

Matt keeps rhythmically tapping his fingers on his thigh. How much longer he can sit on this uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology area and wait for Foggy to return, he doesn’t know. It won’t be long now until he loses his mind. He is about to drown in his own misery.

He feels the desperate urge to land his fist in the wall next to him. He wants to scream, cry, maybe even both—this night is not going well. He hasn’t had a good night in weeks. Tonight though, he’s stuck in the hospital rather than outside, doing something against the injustice he is forced to listen to every day.

The hits he took the previous night were pretty severe, and his ribs still hurt. The numb ache that tears through him whenever he moves is a temporary relief from the pain induced by the noise around him. Whatever bits of sanity he tries holding onto eventually slip through his fingers. 

Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. He gets up, his head tilting toward Foggy’s elevated heartbeat. He’s still in line. Fifth, probably.

Matt taps his cane against the floor, making his way down the hallway. He’s not quite sure where he’s going or where he will land, he just knows that he needs to get out of there as fast as possible.

Rounding the hundredth corner of the evening, the sound of clattering metal trays and medical supplies disappears behind layers of drywall and automatic doors. Matt takes a moment, and he realizes that right here—right where he is now—he can finally breathe again.

The sound travels more easily. The air wafting through the vents and over the cotton sheets on a row of empty beds is the only sound that meets his ears. They’re lined against one side of the wall. The rooms are empty, the doors locked. It seems as if in a moment of desperation, he found his way to one of the abandoned parts of the hospital. 

A lack of funding caused Metro General to cut their losses. It certainly wasn’t an easy decision, but with capitalism on the rise, public hospitals are barely holding on.

Even though the truth is depressing, Matt still can’t believe his luck when he realizes how quiet it is. That may be a selfish thought, but he can't help it. The world is always so loud and uncomfortable. Finding someplace quiet after torturing himself in the waiting room for hours feels like heaven on earth on such a busy night.

The fog dulling his senses finally dissipates. He takes a deep breath. The air is cleaner here. No disinfectant, only the faint scent of plastic and dust; he wouldn't have thought it possible that he would ever consider that combination a blessing.

That’s when he hears it—a slightly elevated heartbeat followed by a series of muffled sobs. He got so caught up in the fact that he finally found what he was looking for amidst the chaos that he forgot to fan out his hearing.

Despite what he originally believed, he isn’t alone.

The air smells of the salty essence of human tears. Matt stops dead in his tracks, not sure whether to continue his journey or to turn around and return to the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology department.

“This nervous breakdown space is occupied,” your soft voice bounces off the high walls. It’s thick with exhaustion. Pain. Loss. He almost recoils at the all-too-familiar feeling it elicits in him.

Matt keeps his cane hugged tight to his chest, his knuckles whitening with how hard he is gripping the base. “Oh, I...I’m sorry,” he says, careful to keep his voice light. “I didn’t catch you there.”

You’re essentially a stranger to him. A troubled one, at that. You must have your share of problems or you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be crying your eyes out. He doesn’t want to intrude, but he also can’t turn around. Not now, not anymore. You’ve already noticed him.

You sniffle, your hands wiping against the soft skin of your reddened cheeks. For a moment, your heartbeat picks up in speed before returning to its normal rhythm. “It’s alright,” you assure him.

Matt picks up on the faintest hint of disinfectant and the scent of antibacterial soap on you now, maybe a little blood, and definitely antiseptic laundry detergent—you’re wearing medical scrubs.

Your shampoo smells of vanilla and some herbal element he can’t quite identify just yet. Your perfume isn’t expensive, just enough to last through a long shift and filter the sweat that is seeping out of your pores. It’s not unpleasant. You smell like someone who’s been working hard and far past your limits, too.

“Do you need something?” you ask him. 

He pauses for a moment, rethinking his answer. His lips purse. He’s not sure how to answer that without completely giving himself away.

Your eyebrows raise slightly.

“Oh, just…some peace and quiet,” Matt says, finally finding his voice again. It sounds a bit more nervous than he would like to admit.

The chuckle you exhale is one of surprise and possibly even a bit of genuine amusement. “Yeah,” you sniffle, “I know that feeling.”

“Well, I’ll, uh, leave you to it. Sorry again.”

“No. Don’t.”

Matt stops in his tracks when the words pass your lips. 

You pat the space beside you. Your perfume becomes a little clearer. It’s so natural, so… you. He could get high off of it. Or maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation catching up to him. 

“This is the only quiet corner in this hospital,” you tell him. “Trust me. Underfunding has its perks for introverts. Rest in peace to about thirty internal medicine beds, but lucky me.”

Your chuckle echoes bitterly off the walls. You use humor to cope, apparently, but you’ve run out of strength to pretend.

His cane begins to gently pave the way as he makes his way forward. “Do you mind?” Matt nods toward the bed you’re sitting on. 

You pat the mattress again with a shake of your head. “Not at all.”

Gentle seems to be the one word that is consistent with everything you do. He can’t get this picture he has painted of you based on the sound of your voice out of his head. Maybe you’re an angel and he has officially gone insane, or maybe there are just a lot more good people left in this world than he originally thought. 

Matt folds his cane and skillfully sits down on the edge of the mattress. You smell even better up close. Your heartbeat reminds him of a beautiful symphony, no longer as erratic as when he first picked up on your presence. 

“I’m Matthew, by the way,” he says.

He can hear a sudden uptick in your heartbeat. He may have just imagined it. You suck in a sharp breath, and he’s sure he didn’t imagine that, but then you lift your hand to take his.

“Olivia,” you say. 

Matt listens closely. You have no reason to lie about your name. Your heartbeat may be faster, but it isn’t a lie. You just seem a lot more nervous and unsure than before. It doesn’t quite make sense why you would be unsure about your own name.

“Nice to meet you, Olivia.” His lips curl into a soft smile.

You smile back, he can hear it, but it lacks an essence of truth. You’re trying hard to seem like you’re okay. It’s not your fault that his senses are sensitive to all changes in the human body, even in that of a stranger he just met.

You’ve been crying, so of course, you wouldn’t be alright. The question is, why? 

“I take it you’re not part of the staff,” you say into the silence.  

“No.” Matt chuckles. “I, uh, have a friend with a dislocated shoulder,” he says.

“Ah! Let me guess, his doctor in the ER reduced the dislocation but insisted on doing an X-ray just in case, so now you have to wait because radiology has a hold-up longer than the Nile?”

A laugh rumbles through his chest. “Yeah, that… that’s pretty accurate.”

“It’s always like this,” you say. “A dislocated shoulder doesn’t have priority. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“You work here?” he dares to ask. 

You pull at the bottom of your scrub top. “Guilty as charged. Trauma surgery. I’ve been an attending here for a little over two years now.”

“Oh, wow! That’s…that’s incredible.”

Matt has encountered his fair share of doctors in the past, but no one has ever been quite like you. You’re unique. Mysterious. An enigma. You have piqued his curiosity, to say the least, and your profession only adds to the pile of interesting things he can ponder about.

You smile at him again, but it’s still not a genuine one. “Thanks,” you drag the last syllable out, the air deflating your lungs.

He swallows. “Or it isn’t. I didn’t mean to–”

“No, that’s not… some days just aren’t that rewarding,” you say. “That’s all.”

“And today has been one of those days?” Matt asks.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Your eyes roam over him once again.

He reaches for his hair, running his hand through it. He ruffles the brown strands until they’re covering his left temple. Matt’s not sure if you saw; there is a high chance that you did, but he can't anticipate your behavior. Not yet. 

You let out a longer breath. “Not a fan of hospitals, I take it?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “It gets… loud,” he says. 

“Sensitivity to sound.” You nod. “Noted.”

He hears the fabric of your scrubs brushing against your skin and the cotton sheets on the bed. You cross your legs, opening yourself up to him just slightly, and he wonders if you really are comfortable around him or if you’re just being kind. 

“Probably to smell as well? Feeling? Taste?” There is a soft smile laced in your voice. This time, it’s real. 

Matt chuckles. You hit the nail right on the head. You’re simply not aware of how sensitive he is to these things. “Pretty sensitive, yeah,” he says. 

That about sums it up. You nod, but you don’t push him any further. 

“Well,” you say, “The ER is pretty disgusting. And loud. And to be forced to wait in front of radiology is probably a scenario they offer as a torture device in one of the seven circles of hell.”

He can’t help himself, “It’s nine, actually.”

“Sorry?”

“Nine circles,” Matt clarifies, his lips twitching in a faint grin. “Dante’s Inferno. A good Catholic boy’s guilty pleasure.”

You let out a genuine laugh this time, and it warms his senses. It’s a rare sound in a place filled with so much pain. He can almost hear the weight from your shoulders hit the floor. The tension in the air seems to ease, if only for a moment. You allow to let yourself go. 

Your grin turns into a smirk. “Catholic, huh?” you retort. 

“Since the day I was born,” he says. “Are you religious?”

That seems to steal your breath away. You have no words. For a full minute, silence settles in between the two of you. It’s almost uncomfortable, and Matt fears he must have crossed a line. He just doesn’t know how to apologize for something he is truly curious about. 

The topic of God and religion seems to hit a nerve when it’s not used in a humorous context. There are many reasons why that could be. He spends every day battling his own religious trauma and the demons that he feels he’s harboring deep inside, but he still holds on tight to his faith. If he doesn’t have an excuse—if he doesn’t have anything to hold onto other than what broken self-respect he has left—where would he be?

You finally clear your throat after what feels like an eternity. “No,” it’s a simple answer. “I don’t believe that there is a God.”

Your mouth stays open. You want to say something else, but your lips close within seconds after the thought has passed by you, and you swallow it. He wonders what he could have learned about you if you had allowed yourself to say what you were truly thinking when the words first left your mouth. You’re holding back, and it is audible. It might even be visible. Your cheeks are running hot. 

Matt nods. He doesn’t question you. Your beliefs are yours. Most of the time, he doesn’t even believe that there is a God himself. 

“It’s hard to keep the faith in this world, especially when you work so hard every day trying to save people’s lives. When you are forced to see what the system does to those who can’t defend themselves over and over again, but you can’t do anything about it. Or when you see what people do to each other. I mean, the cruelty of human beings is unmatched, and it makes you wonder if God is just a sadist, or if maybe he isn’t even real because a gracious God wouldn’t let innocent children die,” you cut yourself off in an instant, and he tilts his head toward you in surprise. 

Your breath shudders. “I… I’ve seen too much bad to believe that there is an all-merciful God,” you say. “So I simply don’t.”

You try to meet his eyes, but all you see is your reflection in the red of his rounded glasses. Your heart breaks a little, he can hear it. Your shoulders slump. You’re defeated.

He isn’t sure how to react to that. How to help. How to be a decent human being. Matt just doesn’t have the answers you need, and it makes him question his own faith for a minute. Not that he has ever not questioned it; his relationship with God is as complicated as it gets.

You catch yourself after a moment of staring into the void of his glasses. “But… that’s my opinion. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” Matt says.

You were smiling, and now you’re not anymore. He doesn’t like that. He liked it more when you were more open with him. Your legs have moved back to your chest, your arms clinging to them. You’ve retreated. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. The edge in your voice breaks his heart. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I get it. Injustice…it’s a parasite. I’ve encountered my fair share of good people who deserved better than what they got. You try and you fail over and over again because the world isn't fair. I’d be the last person to judge you for not sharing my beliefs.” He breaks off in a chuckle. “I'm not that kind of guy.”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. “What is that you do again?” You didn’t ask that question before.

“I’m a lawyer,” he states. “Defense attorney.”

“Wow,” you let out a soft puff of air, “And you chose to go to Metro General instead of jumping on the big money train to the Upper East Side?” 

Although your tone is joking, Matt can tell that there is an ounce of truth in your words.  

He hides his laugh behind a cough. He’s not sure if he’s surprised or if he actually finds that assumption hilarious. Maybe a bit of both.

“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I have never even been in the same station as the big money train.”

“Oh?”

“No. We, my partner and I, do pro-bono work. We don't get paid for our services. Well, other than baked goods and overdue bills in the mail, of course.”

You chuckle. “That’s a relief. Not so much for your bank account, but ethically.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry for assuming. That was prejudiced of me,” you say. “I’m not trying to judge you. I’m sorry. Rich or not, it’s none of my business.”

Matt shrugs. “It's okay. Lawyers and doctors are the two professions so many think make millions of Dollars a year, and while that may be the case for a few, a lot of us just… don’t,” he says.

“Amen! If I had a drink, I’d toast to that.”

“Yeah, well, an intoxicated doctor would not fare well in the legal sense.”

“You think that would end my career?”

“I can’t even give you good legal advice other than, don’t.”

Your giggle turns into a laugh. “Thank you for the advice, counselor.”

He joins in. “Anytime.” 

For a moment, only the two of you exist. Matt adjusts his position, but he doesn’t take his bruised ribs into account. His wince is barely audible, yet you notice it in an instant. And when his hair slips, you can see the gash on his forehead. The one he tried to stitch up himself but probably did an awful job at concealing. 

Your eyes narrow in concern. “What happened to you?” your voice barely breeches the sound barrier. 

“Oh, nothing,” he tries to shrug it off. “Just an accident.”

“An accident?”

“I am blind, you know. I tripped, hit my head. It happens.”

“Hm.” Much to his surprise, you don’t press him further. Instead, you gently reach out to brush the sweaty strand of hair from his face that he used to cover up the aftermath of his latest endeavor. 

Now that he thinks about it, his ribs really do hurt. He’s sure nothing is broken, but they are severely bruised. Even he can feel the blood pooling under the skin. 

You bite your lip, not wanting to pry. The urge is obvious to him, but only to him. You’re good at your job. You focus on the task at hand. That is probably why you became a doctor in the first place; to help people, not to pry. 

But Matt Murdock doesn’t need help. 

“It’s fine,” he assures you. 

You nod. “I believe you.”

You don’t. You’re lying. He appreciates the effort though. You try your best at making him feel comfortable and welcome. Asking questions would only drive him away; you wouldn’t be able to satiate your pathological need to help. It’s who you are.

“Whoever patched this up did a terrible job,” you say, “and I don’t want to know who did it because if you tell me it was you, I will lose my mind, so, I choose to believe you for the sake of my own sanity.”

His lips part in a soft laugh. “Yeah, you don't wanna know,” he says.

“Can I fix it?"

He opens his mouth to decline, “You don’t have to, I–”

“Please.” 

There is no arguing with you, it seems.

Your footsteps echo in the empty hallway. One of the drawers in the cart across from the bed slides open at your touch. Matt can hear the distinct crinkle of packaging and the clanking of metal. When you return to his side, your steps are a little heavier. 

“I’m going to clean the wound and then apply a butterfly bandage to help the skin grow back together,” you explain. “The cut isn't that deep, but you must’ve hit your head pretty hard when you fell. I can’t force you to get a head CT, so… If you experience any nausea or neurological deficits in the next few days, you should come back to run some tests. But—and that is not my expert medical opinion because I don’t have the tests to back it up—I think it should be fine to heal on its own.”

“Any other advice, Doc?” he jokes. 

“Well, I can’t give the same good news about your bruised ribs.” You only have to place your hand on his side and his lips come to press tightly together. “I’m guessing third and fourth,” you say. “If one of them is fractured, it makes you run at risk for internal bleeding, but to see the extent of your injuries, we’d have to get an MRI. That is not my call to make. I can’t force you to get your battle scars checked out, I can just advise you to think about it. Really think about it.”

Matt sighs. His laughter has long died. “I know.”

He doesn’t want to repeat himself. He’s fine. He has to pretend that he’s fine because he doesn’t have time for doctors or questions. Neither you nor the law can protect him from the damage that the truth would do. 

You’re disappointed, but you swallow your pride. With delicate precision, you start cleaning the wound on his forehead, the cotton swab dabbing at the dried blood. He winces at the sting of antiseptic, a subtle twitch in response to the pain.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

Matt manages a half-smile. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse.”

That doesn’t make you feel better, but you accept it. You’ve learned to respect your patients’ wishes, even if that means swallowing a lie. 

As you work, your fingers graze over his skin with a careful tenderness. It’s a stark contrast to the harshness of the world he navigates outside—a double-edged sword. If he doesn’t go out there, more people die or get hurt. He would sustain the same injuries over and over again and almost die rather than pretend that evil isn’t lurking right outside his window every night. And there is a bigger storm brewing in the distance, one he isn’t fully prepared for. 

Yet.

You finish cleaning the wound and proceed to carefully apply a fresh bandage. Matt can feel the cool adhesive against his skin. Your touch is soothing, almost comforting, and he allows himself to relax.

“There,” you announce softly. “All patched up.”

Matt lifts his hand to touch the bandage, a habit he developed over the years to reassure himself that someone cared enough to tend to his wounds. “Thank you,” he answers. 

“No biggie.” You shrug with a tiny smile, and that makes him smile, too. It shows him that while you are displeased with his lack of respect for himself and his health, you aren’t mad at him. You just care.

The shrill beeping of your pager tears a headache through his skull.

You curse under your breath. “I’m so sorry,” you say as you skim over the text that has been sent to you. “The, uh—the ER needs me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he quickly responds. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go. Save a life!”

You’re reluctant at first, but then your lips curl into a broader, more genuine smile, and in the heat of the moment, you grab his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Matthew,” you say. “Take care of yourself.” 

Your footsteps retreat and your heartbeat gets fainter as you walk down the hallway. He’s speechless. He doesn’t even remember how to say goodbye. 

“Oh, and do me a favor?” You stop momentarily just to ask him, “Get those ribs checked out?”

His mouth opens and closes like that of a fish on dry land. “Sure,” he says. 

“Thank you,” these are your last words to him before you take off running. 

Both of you know though that once he is out of Metro General and on his way home, he won’t come back. Not for himself, at least. And it is something you have to accept as much as he has to accept the fact that you are long gone, off to save a life in the very four walls that seemed so scary to him all alone only fifteen minutes ago.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @littlehappyperson @danzer8705

[sephirthoughts]

If you dare, something I haven't seen much: vincent valentine & rufus shinra

I'm curious how you see them interacting. if you have a thought, go for it, otherwise providing options: 2, 5, 28, 34

OK! Vincent and Rufus! I got things you said (2)through your teeth, (5) didn't say at all (28)in the dark, and (34)whispered in my ear. I loved this prompt because it produced this absolutely ridiculous scene. Enjoy!

He sat in the dark, into the small hours of the morning. The office lights off, so the poisonous, green glow from the reactors could and must be appreciated to its fullest. So there was no glossing over the ugly reality. That Shinra was a machine that swallowed blood and spit out gold. That he was a petty autocrat, enthroned on a mountain of garbage. A dead man ruling an empire of bones. 

“You are not your father,” a man’s voice whispered, right into his ear.

His hand was instantly on his gun, but a cold, metal claw had already caught him by the throat, and was squeezing threateningly. His eyes flashed to Darkstar, whose monstrous bulk was coalescing amongst the inky shadows, fangs bared and crimson eyes ablaze. 

One look at the intruder, however, and the massive, demonic hound gave a high-pitched whine and cowered, like a whipped cur. Rufus glared disdainfully after the beast, as it slunk away, with both its tails between its legs. Some fucking guard dog.

“Are you reminding me, that I am not my father, or yourself?” he asked calmly, removing his hand from the stock of his gun, and placing it flat on his desk, with the other.

“You seem to need to be reminded,” the intruder answered.

Rufus sighed forbearingly. “If you were going to kill me, you would have, by now, so do you mind getting to what you want and sparing me the theatrics?”

“Said the man sitting alone, in the dark, at the top of a giant tower with his name written all over it.”

“It’s not money,” Rufus mused. “You’ve bypassed my security to get to me, which means you could easily have walked into a bank vault and taken what you wanted. No, you…you believe in your own righteousness. You have the stench of ideology, all over you. Let me guess, Avalanche? Is this an absolutely fantastic bit of irony?”

“Coffin wood.”

“I suppose y—what?” Rufus said, actually caught off-guard.

“It’s not ideology that you smell all over me, it’s coffin wood. And dry-rot.”

“Do you think convincing me that you’re deranged is going to further your goals, somehow?”

The man sounded offended. “I’m not deranged, I sleep in a coffin.”

“You’re not deranged…you sleep in a coffin. Can you hear yourself, when you speak?” Annoyed past the point of prudence, Rufus looked up at the man holding him by the neck and gave a start. “A Valentine?” he said aloud, before he could stop himself.

The man looked surprised. He also looked fucking magnificent. Rufus suppressed a scowl. These goddamned Valentines and their perfect genes. No wonder that lunatic Hojo was so obsessed with them. 

“How did you know?” asked the most obvious Valentine ever. 

“You look exactly like your father. And I’ve seen your personnel file. Employee profile: Valentine, Vincent,” he said, to no one in particular. 

A glowing holographic screen obediently materialized above the desk, displaying the HR file for Vincent Valentine, including a large, full-color photograph. Notably, the upper right corner of the file bore a stamp that read ‘DECEASED’ in red ink.

“Hm. I’m impressed you recognized me. I was so young in that photo.”

It took Rufus a full five seconds to comprehend that the man wasn’t joking. Then he was even more irritated. “Your hair is long now. That is literally the only difference. Are you absolutely certain you’re not deranged?”  

“Fairly certain.”

“Well then, Vincent Valentine, will you kindly tell me what the hell it is that you want, that has you in my office in the middle of the night, threatening my life, before I kill myself from exasperation?” 

The Valentine stepped back and pulled something out of the idiotic cloak that he was somehow making look amazing. Rufus stared at the object in blank disbelief. It was…it was one of those stupid robot cats, that Reeve was always playing with. 

“I came to return this,” the Valentine explained, which only raised more questions. “I wandered into the wrong office.”

Rufus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You wandered. Into. The wrong. Office.”

“Mn,” he nodded. “Sorry about that.”

“Then why, pray tell, did you grab me by the neck!”

“You would’ve shot me, if I hadn’t, and there would’ve been a big scene. I really don’t like noise.”

“And the creepy whispering, about me not being my father?”

“I already told you, you seemed like you needed to be reminded.”

“You were right about that, at least. Because if I were my father, you’d be dead already.”

“He didn’t have anything capable of killing me, any more than you do. If you knew of a way for me to die, I would welcome it. Not to be a bother, but could you direct me to Reeve Tuesti’s office, so I can return this thing? I’m getting sleepy and I’d really like to leave.”

“You have gone far off course,” Rufus informed him. “Director Tuesti’s office is three floors down on the—wait, no! I am not giving you directions! You are trespassing! And you just threatened my life! You may think you’re invinci—”

“Three floors down, got it,” the Valentine interrupted, with a solemn half-bow. “Thank you, Rudolph.”

“Fucking…Rudolph???” Rufus ground out, through clenched teeth.

He had officially had enough of this shit. He whipped out his gun and fired a shot, just in time to entirely miss the red-cloaked menace, as he vanished in a melodramatic, crimson whirl. God damn slippery vampire-ass Valentines!

He had his hand over the button to summon building security, when he thought the better of it, and drew it back. The last thing he needed was a gaggle of fools in here tromping around, tracking in dirt probably, failing to find anything, and publishing a description of a suspect that very much fit Count Dracula. People would say the new president was losing his mind, and hallucinating fairytale monsters. 

No, there was no use kicking up a fuss just to be humiliated. He’d send the Turks after the Valentine…in a little while. If he gave the man a head start, maybe he’d kill that annoyingly upright pain in the ass Reeve, while he was down there. Now, where was that stupid dog?

“Darkstar!” he shouted, into the cavernous blackness of his idiotically massive office. “You have five seconds to get over here and explain yourself!”

[NOTE: it's probably unclear, but (5) things you didn't say at all was Rufus' name. Vincent never said it because he called him the wrong one.]

[mi-i-zori]

Nightmare of the Frost

CoD Fae!AU - Fae!Ghost x f!reader

SYNOPSIS : The Hunter has met her fair share of dangers. The Winter is by no means a peaceful place, and she has gotten used to the never-ending waves of broken souls that keep threatening its balance. Yet some of them often turn out to be much more powerful than she imagined. It is something she is constantly reminded of when her life is almost stolen from her ; and when a far greater threat always seems to find her when she needs it the most.

WARNINGS : Gore, body horror, nightmare, death, weapons, violence, blood, wounds, predator behavior (Fae VS Human), fluff (?)...

Author’s note : I am really excited about this one. So much that I actually wrote it more than a month ago, when I just decided to start developing this AU. Turns out I really enjoy writing this kind of stuff. As always, inspired by @ghouljams ’ work.

Also : Happy New Year !

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

In front of her, her target howls.

The Hunter watches as its body threatens to crumble under the corruption it failed to purge. Darkness spills from its now twisted form, and its limbs crack underneath its monstrous weight. Bloody tears swarm its deranged face ; the snow pooling at its feet has become a sea of crimson. Many frozen trees have been brought to their knees by its claws. Right in front of her, the once peaceful fae quickly ends up losing himself, becoming a mindless, raging creature.

The dark magic spewing from its aura is suffocating. The sharp teeth protruding from its crooked jaw snap at every snowflake falling from the grey sky. Its consciousness has been reduced to nothing more than a few terrifying, destructive instincts. Yet, even as she stands a few meters away from the beast, the young woman can see the pain swirling in its flickering eyes ; begging for her to end it.

Her trusty dagger sings as it comes out of its sheath, glinting under the foggy sunlight. Seeing its own reflection on the blade’s surface, the monster lets out a menacing growl, standing tall on its deformed hind legs. It is probably trying to intimidate her, to force her to run away just to pounce the moment she turns her back on it. But the young woman knows better ; she steadies her own stance in the slippery mud covering the frozen ground. When her opponent doesn’t budge, staring her down, she launches herself at it. A risky move, says a voice in her mind, but she can’t let the Corruptor gather any more magical energy.

Despite its rotting bones, the monster moves quickly. It dodges many of her blows before its claws pierce her arm, caging her against its darkening form. Letting out a scream, the Hunter plunges her weapon where its clavicles probably once were, the sharp iron tearing and burning its corrupted flesh. The creature shrieks and wails, a rotten stench emerging from behind the teeth threatening to rip her head off. Its aura is slowly surrounding her, and she has to pierce a glowing red eye for it to finally let her go.

Her feet have barely touched the ground that she starts staggering, clutching her head. The acidic magic tries to dissolve her mind, erode her entire being. The ashen wards lining her skin shatter one by one, and it takes her a considerable amount of strength to hold even a few of them together. Her nerves tremble as her protections screech in agony, her fingers almost breaking around the weapon in her hand.

A powerful strike from her opponent sends her flying. Her bones crack ominously as her back collides with a nearby tree, the sharp edges of its bark tearing at her clothes and skin. Specks of light dance before her eyes, concealing the silhouette of the beast. Its ragged breaths get closer and closer, urging her to find her footing once again.

But she doesn’t.

Her legs fail to support her weight. The Hunter collapses, the snow freezing her skin through the lacerations of her clothes. The monster’s twisted silhouette comes looming over her, a thick miasma spewing from its gurgling throat, penetrating her senses and wounds. Her blood starts boiling in her veins, the ice enveloping her doing nothing to quell the pain spreading in her limbs. Crushed by the corruption, her body refuses to move. And soon, her consciousness fades.

As her eyes slowly close, she doesn’t notice the somber presence emerging from the fog.

A choir of terrifying wails and broken screams slowly invades her ears, its erratic rhythm beating in harmony with the migraine haunting the back of her head. Despite the pain, the Hunter forces her eyes open ; the crimson rays of a bloody moon fill her vision, illuminating her weary self. Something cold crunches under her palm, like fresh snow mixed with dirt, and the ragged edges of tiny rocks grapple at her skin as she tries to sit up. Her mind focuses on the pain ; yet something tells her that it is only and illusion, for her body is filled with the kind of apathy that is only born from the foggiest dreams.

Her consciousness suddenly clears, allowing her to focus on the desolate depths of the nightmare. A raging sea of darkness and ice spreads before her, its inky waves threatening to tear her away from the temporary solace of the dark shore. Hidden under the murky waters, the decaying corpses of long lost sirens sing, trying to lure her towards her own demise.

She has to wake up.

Her whole being trembles as she stands, her feet digging in the snow-covered sand. She turns away from the obsidian sea to face a massive expanse of blackened trees. Their magic resembles the one pulsing through the Winter ; yet it is distorted, broken. All around her, the shore is littered with the swaying forms of what she thinks might be the previous souls who ended up here. She is trapped, she realises. The corruption of the beast surrounds her, closing in on every single part of her body and mind. Her will to fight it is quickly fading. She has to find a way to escape before she becomes one with it.

A light pressure on her shoulders makes her jump. A series of black tendrils wrap and dance around her, gradually forming a path in the darkness. Amidst the tension in her limbs, she is tugged forward by the inexplicably familiar aura swirling in their misty forms. They seem to form a barrier around her, preventing her essence from being swallowed by the monster’s poison. Her instincts push her towards the illusion of the wintery forest ; she doesn’t know if she should fight it.

She doesn’t really know anything anymore.

Suddenly, a hand shoots out from the darkness, immediately taking ahold of her coat. She doesn’t even have time to react as everything around her shatters like glass. Her vision blurs once again, and she feels the iron grip on her clothes roughly pull her forward. The sounds echoing in her head merge into a deafening symphony as the figures dancing around her vanish. Then her consciousness sways, her eyelids closing under the pressure of an invisible force. Only the cacophony of voices remain, adamant about invading her soul.

Amidst the chaos, a hazy voice gently rings in her ears, stirring her awake. It seems close. It tries to touch her, to tear her mind away from the darkness invading it. She knows this timbre ; and, compelled by its cold warmth, she gathers the remnants of her focus on its mesmerising echo.

A sudden gust of wind blows into her clothes, hindering the senses she is trying to regain. She does her best to shake the cold away, but the Frost keeps its hold steady on her limbs. A series of painful waves rattle her bones, her muscles screaming as she tries to flex her frozen fingers. A metallic taste taints her tongue, and she feels a thick liquid coating her lips as she lets out a broken moan. Blood, she realises, and her memory suddenly starts working again.

The silhouette of the Corruptor sways in her mind, triggering the fighting reflexes laying dormant under the pressure of its magic. She tries to force her muscles awake ; but they refuse to obey, coaxing a frustrated growl from her throat. A piercing light flickers behind her eyelids.

The voice calls out to her once again, and she still can’t figure out who is trying to wake her up ; but she longs to answer, to grasp the spark this mysterious presence is slowly lighting in her soul. Yet the more she fights, the more she becomes wary of this uncanny familiarity. The corruption is already trying to break her ; could this be a trick to prompt her to willingly abandon herself to its depths ?

But then, the dream finally breaks. The illusory moon crumbles as her instincts violently shake her awake, reducing the magic that tried to devour her to nothing. One last wail tears through the night as she opens her eyes. The real moon of Winter greets her, its blue light gently shining through a milky veil of mist.

Where is she ?

Her eyes automatically start scanning her surroundings. The magical fog blurs the dark silhouettes of the trees circling around her. Her skin is numb where the snow kissed it ; yet her body is surrounded by a strange warmth, similar to the one emanating from the voice that tore through the nightmare. A steady beating rings though the torn leather of her glove, and her head gently falls against the comfort of a soft, heated fabric.

A masked silhouette is the first tangible thing she sees, and the familiarity of the magic helping her out of the nightmare suddenly makes sense. The Spirit is holding her against his chest, dark clothes contrasting with the white screen clouding the forest.

- Steady now, luv. There you go.

The calm dancing in the abyss of his voice soothes her frantic mind. Despite something telling her that his magic might also have something to do with the gentle mist clouding her mind, she can’t find the strength to fight it. Instead, she coaxes her voice out of her throat, vocal cords grating against the numbness haunting her muscles.

- The… Corruptor… ?

A violent cough cuts her sentence short as blood cakes in her already dry mouth. The Ghost steadies a hand against her chest, slowly dealing with the cold discomfort taking hold of her lungs. A chuckle echoes in his gruff tone.

- Took care of it for ya.

It’s only after registering his words that her eyes focus on a twisted form laying still in the snow behind him. There, the glossy eyes of her target stare at nothing. A thick, deadly fog swirls around it, slowly absorbing the remnants of corrupted magic escaping from the freezing carcass.

When she weakly clutches her chest, she can feel the delicate ridges of a thick, brand new tether hooked into her soul.

Shit.

Yet, right now, there’s nothing she can do. Her tired self is threatening to succumb to sleep. The Spirit’s heart gently beats under her ear, his oddly comforting scent filling her senses. It’s rich, but clear. Firm, but light. Frigid, but warm. A fragrance so mesmerizing she has to fight herself not to get lost in it. It lulls her, tries to trick her into a false sense of safety. She mustn’t fall for it, she thinks, gritting her teeth. Subconsciously, her trembling hands clutch the fae’s clothes.

The man lets out a laugh as she weakly struggles in his hold, both against his magic and her own fatigue.

A part of him would love to torment her a little more ; but he wouldn’t want his prey to break so early. It is already bad enough that a corrupted being tried to steal her from him. The bitter taste of its soul still lingers on his tongue, and his lips twist behind his mask. He erases it by burying his face in the crook of her neck, the idea of her own flavor making his mouth water. After starving for so long, he wants to savor her for a little longer.

Tucking his prey into the safety of his arms, he starts walking towards the borders of the Frost. His confident strides slowly tear through the snow, easily ignoring the hungry stares of other fae in the shadows. Not far behind, even weaker monsters cower away from them, from him, silently wishing they could have a taste of the human tucked against him. He temporarily marked her with his scent before ; now, the golden thread binding her soul to his will tell all magical non-humans that she is his to play with. To consume. He still offers them a low growl, just to bury the nail further into their minds. One can never be too careful.

The heat lingering outside of the Winter makes him shudder. Yet he doesn’t hesitate to step past the borders, following the light remnants of the Hunter’s scent to bring her back on a familiar path. It guides him near a small cottage outside of the city, the magic emanating from it reminding him of the one mixed with the young woman’s. It’s probably where she gets all her magical protections from, he thinks. He’ll have to be wary of the owner.

Careful not to get too close to the house to prevent triggering any potential trap, the Spirit gently lays his sleeping prey in the grass, taking in her gentle expression. It is a stark contrast from the frown she constantly wears during her hunts, and he finds himself liking this peculiar dichotomy.

He really can’t wait to see more of her.

His shadow rises under the moon as he takes one last glance to the sleeping woman in front of him. Before leaving, he makes sure to take a souvenir of her, just to give her a reason to come and find him again.

Days later, when the Hunter wakes up in the safety of the Apothecary’s home, she notices that her trusty dagger is no longer in its sheath.

And, somewhere in the depths of Winter, a new blade of iron dances in the gloved hands of the Ghost.

[xerotiny99]

Knuckle Velvet // Ethel Cain #1

Knuckle Velvet

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Reader

Warning: abusive relationship, depictions of sexual abuse and physical abuse. Non-consensual sex/rape.

Note: my adaptation of 'Knuckle Velvet by Ethel Cain' from the Golden Age EP. This piece of work DOES NOT relate to the idols in real life. This is also experimental writing, in reader's point of view and Yunho is referred to as the second person. Don't get confused. Critics are welcomed but please don't judge me. Requested to listen to the song and understand the lyrics before reading this, however it isn't mandatory. Enjoy!

Gist: in this push and pull game of love, you knew you made a mistake by falling in love with him.

Song Rec: Knuckle Velvet by Ethel Cain

Word Count: 2,904

Reader's Perspective.

          Sunlight pools into my eyes through the broken window of my room; the long empty space harbouring pointed shards of glass, spills in the warmth my yearn for in my heart. The suddenness of my soul, the marred skin on my face, the raggedness of my hair, as I lay my head on the bed, feels surreal to deny the pain. White sheets stained with my blood, tainted with the dirt your hand had, an unseeming candour had stricken between us two again and the aftermath had been quite remarkable.

I stare at the void between my lifeless body and the door to my room; the small cut on my lower lip stings to the fickle air playing with it, scabbing the pouring blood till it loses its colour and becomes a shade of torment. The burn in my stomach growls every time I recount our argument, every reminisce about your enraged eyes was blowing my conscience.

Click-clack!

The doorknob to the door twists and turns, the sound resonates with my pulsating heart but not quite with my mind. It takes me a second to realise he was back, you were back at my door like you usually are after every argument and useless fights. I catch a glimpse of your silhouette through the crack of the door beneath, moving, restless and angry. You probably want to see me, want to tell me you love me. And when you spell out those three words, I forget about everything and run back to you, back in your arms.

I should've known it from the start, from the time I met you; falling for you was a tragedy in it self, like, I, an angel, fell from grace for you, just to be loved by you. Insignificant justifications of my own notions, the short-lived existence of love between us, the strumming of our hearts I once heard till they flatlined, I was your mere puppet. I still am.

"Open the door, sunshine."

Your voice seems so warm and comforting, so composed.

The doorknob rattles to your force, even the hinges creak and squeak; while I lay on bed watching it all unfold, waiting, holding my breath, preparing myself for when you manage to break the door and storm in. Growing pains in my stomach rumble so deep, lurching me from the daze—it hurts, it hurts to feel anything at all. My broken skin hurts. My bruises hurt. My cuts hurt. Everything hurts. But not more than you. Nothing hurts the way you do.

Clatter!

Metal clatters with the floorboards, splinters of the door aching from the brute push. Your footsteps alert me, your jagged breathing alerts me, and the stench of alcohol from you alerts me. Tears swell in my eyes, bubbling my hazy vision with your shadow growing and growing. You come to stand next to me, by the edge of the bed, inspecting my body propped halfway on the bed and with the floor.

"Sunshine," you rasp, and play with my heartstrings. "Sunshine...I—" you catch your tongue, realising how badly you had hurt me before.

I find your warmth engulf me, border me with the affection I lacked. You're sitting next to me, your face still so beautiful in my eyes. So breathtaking. Your pale cheeks are cherry glazed, your brown eyes are so full of love and warmth, and your lips—you're smiling at me. I straighten up, reaching out my cold hands to caress your face. Instead, you cup mine. You cup mine and pull me close, pressing your lips against mine to initiates a kiss. Hunger, lust, and pleasure, a kiss symbolic of these three attributes.

I drown in you again. I drown till I die.

"I love you, sunshine." You mumble against my lips, and nothing could hurt me more than that.

"I love you too."

I find you shuffling then, pulling and dragging till you're out of your clothes; you fling your jacket halfway across the room, surprising me. But I helplessly push myself to you, to feel your warmth. After all, I craved it as much, yearned to be engulfed in it because—because it was the first time, you'd feel so warm to me. Otherwise, your gelid body has always been too far gone, far to fathom the pain of my evermore death. My body fits so perfectly with yours, or maybe I'm in a delusion. Maybe we're two opposite pieces of puzzle, never meant to be fit.

You fumble with your hands under the hem of my dress, its tattered pieces shaping with your sleek fingers so well. You were the one who tore it, nicked it off with your brute strength to reach the sweeter depths of my body. And you do the same now, trace your warm fingertips along my thighs, dispersing a string of tickles on my skin. I needed you bad. Desperately. You waste no time in doing so, tugging at the pieces of my dress to tear them apart. Completely.

"Yunho," my voice trembles in fright, "not now."

I couldn't let you have your way with me, not after you had the audacity to hit me. Still, I desire you as much as you do. Your hand is pressed against my soaked cunt. This touch of yours is my weakness, you could touch every part of me and make me forget about everything. And you do. When your fingers dip past my folds. You're so eager, you must be; prior to this, you had ripped my knickers off.

"Then when?" you whisper, burying your head in the crook of my neck and leaving behind your favourite kind of bruises. "Sunshine, I ought to have you now. You know it too."

You pull me in your lap, and without a second thought, I wrap my legs around your waist. The distance between us is dithered to nothing, so close to you yet distant in a way our hearts work. But then why do I hear your heart pounding in your chest? Why do I feel the beats under my fingertips when I caress your chest? Do you really love me?

"When we're okay," I whimper, feeling your teeth sink in my flesh and bite till it bleeds. "Until we put this behind us."

"We always have," you mumble, pulling back and licking your blood-stained lips. "And the sex after is just better, isn't it? I get you begging and pleading, I have you so vulnerable and desperate. Hopeless too."

You thrust two fingers inside, your sleek and thick digits curling to bring me pain again. I told you to stop, didn't I? But you didn't listen to me. Why do you hurt me? There's a havocking storm in me, waiting to blow up; the more you prod your fingers in me, the more I'm tempted to push you away. You're so deep in me, letting my flesh squelch around your fingers and musing to it like it is music to your ears. But isn't it right? You adore the sounds I make, be it in pain, pleasure or despair.

"You're swallowing my fingers, sunshine. Like you usually do after we're done fighting," you add, pecking my lips gently. "Does it turn you on, when I throw you around like a doll? Don't you...? It makes you feel more loved when I abuse you."

I can't utter the words I feel roiling my tongue; I want to cry. And I'm sure I have a few tears rolling down my cheeks.

You have your way with me, even when I protest. My body feels so lifeless as it stays strewn on the unkempt bed, as I watch you dress yourself up and flash me a smile. You're look so satisfied with yourself, with what you've done, with how you've hurt me this time. But you look so damn breathtaking. Standing at a distance from me, buttoning your creased shirt, running your fingers through your hair to set it, you're a piece of work, Yunho. A piece of art I held so dearly in my eyes and never let go. Never want too either.

My heart hurts. The way you've gored through it, the way you've left your dagger in after stabbing—you're obsessed with it, aren't you? You're keen on ripping my heart from my chest and wrenching it in the palm of your hand till it's devoid of anything at all. Loving the way my crimson blood taunts your skin and soul, you must find it so pleasurable. And the justification for your behaviour keeps changing every day. I chase your truth every day. You keep telling me you're healing; you're healing in the way you love me. But is this love? Is this really love, Yunho?

I see the look in your brown eyes, the warm and kind, gentle at times. I notice every speck of brown floating amid the dark of them, wondering if there ever is any piety in them. I hate it so much. I resent when you act different through your eyes, different in the dark and different in the light. As I watch you now, Yunho, I feel so helpless. I feel like I want to run away from you. Because I know you won't change. All your truths are your lies veiled in morality—they hold no significance in my heart. Your words are hollow and meaningless, just like your promises.

It hurts when I open my mouth, the several cuts from your teeth on my lips stinging. "You—you fucking piece of shit."

I stutter, but yet catch your attention with my broken voice. You smirk. Why are you smirking, Yunho? Do you find my tears pleasing? Am I entertaining you? I need to know. Because I know it's delightful to find you so happy. And it's me who's making you happy.

"What did you say?" you ask, smiling so smugly.

I sit straighter in bed, every part of my body aches to your abuse, every inch of my skin is littered with painful bruises. You love inflicting them upon me, you always do.

"You're a fucking piece of shit, Yunho." I repeat myself, my throat suffocating, my chest convulsing, my jaw slack from the pain. "You—you, you're so fucking fond of breaking me. But you always—but you never see how fucking vulnerable you are. Hitting me makes you feel more like a man, you fuck—"

You don't let me finish, aiming at my jaw with your fisted hand; you don't hit my jaw however, your punch comes flying to my face, to my mouth. Your knuckle scrapes on my teeth, your skin scratching—you've done it again. You've shed your skin on my teeth again. It's going to bruise now. Your knuckles. They're going to bruise.

"Fuck," I spit out, not understanding the impact of your punch beforehand.

But when I do, it's already too late. My mouth floods with blood, the metallic taste coating every corner till I feel unease crawling up my stomach. You're panicking, I can tell by the way your footsteps grow louder by me. You hug me again. I'm not surprised. Your warmth is peaceful again. I'm not surprised. I bleed on your sleeve again. I'm not surprised. How many times have I drenched your sleeve in my blood, now? How many times has it been, Yunho?

You've knocked my tooth out; I feel its crown poking my cheek. I want to spit it out, but I can't because you're pressing your hand against my mouth, attempting to stop the bleeding. Naked in front of you, bleeding uncontrollably, we've been here before too. You're so close to me again, the distance between us is nothing but your sparse dedication to me. A dedication to kill me in any way you find, but your trials are delicate, they're soft. You kill me softly. All the time.

"I'm so sorry, sunshine," your voice cracks, "fuck, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you—"

You're crying. Your hot tears trickle on my face, slowly slipping down to my chin and neck. Why are you crying? Do you feel remorse for what you've done? Do you really? So, you are a human being capable of feeling human emotions and out of them all, it's guilt. It's so clear in the way you cry. Your body shakes against mine, your cheeks are turning red, your face is so flustered; you're really guilty, you're crying and it's genuine.

This reminds me of our first fight. The first time you ever raised your fist at me, the first time you yelled at me. You cried then too, feeling sorry, feeling guilty for ever letting your anger get a hold of you. Your untamed rage is so childish. It always is.

I push away from you, spit out the loose tooth floating in my mouth, and I spatter blood when I mumble. "Ymoure sumch a fumcking chilfd."

"What?" you gasp, perhaps you didn't understand me because my mouth was full of blood.

"You're a child." I repeat, swallowing the blood, "a fucking child. You use me the way you please. If you don't get your way with me, you throw a fucking tantrum."

"Sunshine, it's all for you."

Your words don't validate your actions anymore.

"No, it's not! It's fucking not," I push you away, shoving with my whole strength to throw you off the bed. "You cry when you know you've fucked, you cry when you know I'm going to leave you, you cry when you want to make me stay."

I was hitting all your right buttons. I am pushing you to your edge. You are fidgety right now, listening to me, staring at me with tearful eyes, and ragged breath, you're noticing everything about me, and I am too; you're shaking, trembling. Was it because of the anger again? So, it seems, you know it too. Truth hurts, doesn't it?

I hear you grumble under your breath, "fucking bitch."

And then I hear the resonating thud of the door; you pulled it close with spite, so much of it, that I wonder you'd knock it down too. You're gone, though. Really gone. The silence was dense, enough of an indication that you're gone. But then I hear the engine of your car roaring, eventually the screech of tyres dragging on the road, reeking of asphalt. You're truly gone. You left me. You really did.

I don't know how much time it took me to clean and steady myself, but when I was standing in front of the entrance door, I realise how long it had actually been. The window to the left shows nothing but the dark sky, the glooming night—the moonless sky murmuring of cold rumours. The house is dark, beyond anyone's imagination. I couldn't see anything, couldn't discern anything, nothing at all.

In the same darkness, I stay till I crumble like a paper, and fall to my knees; you're gone. Nothing in my heart is hoping you would come back. That's when the fear builds in my mind, taking over everything. The cold night is scary, frightening to the soul. The same coldness seeps in my heart, shutting my senses till I realise what I don't have without you here with me.  I miss you so fucking much. Are you really not coming back?

Yunho, come back. Please.

I need you.

Can you give it back? Every drop of blood I spent on you, I spilled for you, I bled for you every time to let you have your way with me, can you give it back? I laugh at myself as I realise I'm never getting my love back. I know I spent it all on you to save you from yourself.

"You're not coming back," I mumble to myself, not bothered by the cold or the sting on my wounds, especially my tongue.

"You're never coming back."

[ask-the-crimson-king]

The Erebus Short Story

And no, it's not Child of Chaos.

This is "Visage" by Rich McCormick, the advent short story that got released earlier this month.

Welcome to my lore post/review of it. Spoilers are under the Read More.

I will say I do think this is a worthwhile read. For the basic premise, it focuses on Erebus in the aftermath of his face being skinned off in Fear to Tread by Horus, a piece of lore I never thought would get any explanation other than "he's Erebus, how do you think he got his face back?". I won't give much detail other than that, so if you're interested in learning how it was done, give it a read.

I'm going to dig a bit deeper into the story itself, so as said before, spoilers under the cut. This post also became huge because of the quotes, so I apologize.

Hello and welcome everyone who has either read this or don't care to and would like to read my ramblings on the story.

This is not going to be super concise or may not even make a lot of sense; this is mainly going to be me going over the passages I found interesting and talking about them.

First off, this scene;

‘My… lord…’ the chirurgeon managed through a constricted windpipe. ‘I am pleased… to see you have stabilised.’ He squawked – an attempt at a breath – as his face reddened to the colour of the XVII Legion’s armour. ‘Please… rest… that we may begin the process of repairing your wounds.’

Erebus’ lipless mouth was locked in a rictus grin, as if he found the situation perversely amusing.

‘No time,’ the Dark Apostle said, tendons in his cheeks visible as they worked his mouth and tongue. ‘The athame leaves its mark on those it touches.’ He raised the dagger, still clutched in his left hand, its edge hissing gently even now with its master’s own blood. ‘It is simple, chirurgeon. I need a new face,’ Erebus said, as he pulled the man closer to the ruined mask of his own. The chirurgeon could smell the Dark Apostle’s breath, hot and rancid, even over the metallic stench of blood. ‘I will take yours,’ Erebus growled.

‘But, my lord,’ the chirurgeon stammered, falling backwards as Erebus loosened his grip on his neck. He rubbed at his throat, his voice still hoarse. ‘I fear such a procedure would kill me.’

‘Then you must give thanks to the gods directly,’ Erebus said conversationally to the cowering man as he sat up on the stone slab. ‘That your sacrifice may be in my name.’

This initially caught me a bit off guard. My gut reaction was "uh. Hey, Erebus? Don't you have sorcery or something to put your face back on? Also, this is just a human. Isn't this face, y'know, not going to fit your skull??"

And luckily for me, all of these questions get answered.

Erebus examined it. It lacked the full range of intricate tattoos that had decorated his own face, but he could address that later. He could feel the athame’s effects coursing through his body: a grave-cold touch flash-freezing nerve endings as it slowly severed his physical connection to reality.

The mutilation was symbolic, as well as agonising. Stripped of his face, he was stripped also of its web of warding tattoos. Between the athame’s wounds and the constant attention of the Neverborn that he attracted, Erebus knew enough of the diabolic to understand that waiting much longer without those wards would put his life in jeopardy.

This solution would not last – a mortal’s face was not only physically smaller than a Space Marine’s, but also lacked the dense web of blood vessels – but Erebus had ensured that his acolytes were all marked with the same basic warding tattoos as he had been. The face would buy him the time to craft a more fitting solution. Perhaps he could even coerce Fabius to help him, he thought; the Chief Apothecary of the III was a skilled fleshcrafter.

First off, warding tattoos. That's cool. Also gives a bit more purpose than "this is done when one is devoted to the gods/their faith", which I also enjoy, especially because it's just more practicality. I'll definitely be incorporating that into my own lore with my Word Bearers lads moving forward.

Also, what better wards than ones literally etched into your flesh? That's metal as fuck.

Second off, hey, even Erebus acknowledges the face is too small and probably incompatible! And also he thinks about approaching Fabius again which probably would never go well for him. I don't know if he still has the leverage he thought he had now that Horus openly disgraced him. If I remember correctly, the leverage he used against Fabius in Fear to Tread was basically "I'll tell the other Legions you've been experimenting with them, too" and genuinely I don't think Erebus will be listened to by anyone at this point. Lorgar was basically done with him from the first minute he shows up in Betrayer, Horus literally flayed his face off, I think he's fallen from grace here.

And also Fabius is Fabius. I don't think he'd put Erebus's face back on unless there was a really good deal for him or truly at all as a means of

But then we get this, which is both comedic and a bit ridiculous:

For a moment, as the last needle left his body, there was no pain. Erebus allowed his hand to move to his new face, and touched its skin. It was too tight, already splitting along lines of pressure, the capillaries and blood vessels strained to bursting. Erebus smiled, or tried to; his new lips could not move.

‘Behold,’ he said. ‘The new face of your–’

Erebus screamed as his face caught fire. Black flame sparked under the new skin, turning fat and flesh to ash in an instant, a total rejection of the unwilling donor’s gift. The Dark Apostle clawed at his skull, tearing stitches and skin alike as he fought to free himself from the torture.

‘Too late!’ Erebus howled, and he ran from the agony, springing from the stone slab and staggering out of the apothecarion, still scraping with wild fingers at his flaming skull.

It's just funny. The flayed face literally bursts into flames. I don't have much other commentary other than this is ridiculous and hilarious and feels completely on-brand for Erebus. I cannot explain why. This genuinely made me laugh out loud when I read it.

He cannot smile. He can barely speak. He tries to say "behold the new face of your master" or something along those lines and it immediately catches on fire. That's hilarious. Amazing.

Afterwards, he plunges his face into a vat of old and congealed blood from Legionnaires at Isstvan [because of course it's taken from Isstvan, everything will be taken from Isstvan because Isstvan is important. Remember that from now into infinity. Black Library certainly wants you to] and then we get the Blessings of the Gods Any% Speedrun WR attempt as set by Erebus.

Now, I will say before I start yoinking a few more passages, I do not know how to fully feel about this entire thing. On the one hand, I do very much enjoy some of the descriptions used, as I will highlight, but on the other...

The first portion with him dealing with the Lord of Change [assumedly] was something that I liked. Not just because I do very much enjoy Tzeentch, but mainly due to a few key descriptions:

‘Then lend me your eyes,’ Erebus asked.

No, a million voices said. They screamed it and shouted it, bellowed it and whispered it, laughed it and sneered it and spat it.

All except one. Small, quiet, almost imperceptible in the cacophony of its peers, it spoke a different word.

Yes, it said.

If he had a face, Erebus’ mouth would have slid into a predator’s smile.

‘See, daemon? There is always another path,’ he said.

[. . .]

A bird, flying impossibly through the void, so small, so fragile against the infinite black. It beat its wings to escape, but Erebus knew the realm of daemons better than any other alive, and he caught it easily. He cradled it in his tattooed hands. It was tiny in his grasp, like a child’s toy, and he could feel its heartbeat: an irregular rhythm that was never the same twice. The bird looked at him with eyes like gemstones, one the purest blue, the other topaz yellow.

A name.

‘Your kind cannot resist sharing your knowledge,’ Erebus said. ‘So you hide it, somewhere small, somewhere hard to find.’ He stroked the bird’s plumage with his thumb. ‘But I am very good at finding things that others cannot, and I am very patient. I also know the most important question to ask.’

He asked that question now, and held the bird to his ear, to hear its answer. It spoke a single word with a single voice, as quiet as a wish.

Erebus would have smiled, had he possessed lips. Instead, with a skull’s rictus grin, he snapped the bird’s neck with two fingers, and spoke the word it had told him.

I love this description. I love the frailty of the tiny bird, I love the instance of "quiet as a wish", I love how Erebus calls out the daemon for wanting to spread information, it's wonderful. I love all of the above.

What I don't really like is that the majority of this Tzeentchian venturing has been done before. Winged Astartes through a daemon realm? Mephiston did that on Sortiarius in City of Light. The many paths thing? I think there's been at least five or six different instances of that happening. And while I do like how Erebus is presented as being a bit more savvy than others would be -- actively saying "No, I'm not choosing a path cause that damns me" -- he then kinda goes back on this?

‘You seek to contain me in a trap of my own making. I know this trick, daemon. I have walked such paths many times before, with others of your kind,’ Erebus said.

No trick, the voices chorused in return. A path to what might be – a path to what has come. We can show you the possibilities, but you must make the choice. You are the instrument.

‘Entertain me, then. How will I play your game?’ Erebus asked.

This is just weird. Why include this if he's immediately going to just... go along with what the daemon wants anyway?? To show the reader "oh he's done this before"? Maybe I'm nit-picking here, but I do consider myself a Tzeentchian connoisseur when it comes to 40k lore, and I would've liked to see something a bit different to just "walk the paths of fate, ooOoOOo" yet again. It feels a bit one-trick and, ironically enough, pigeon-holed.

I think what I would've liked to see would maybe be Erebus thrown into a facsimile of a library on Colchis, probably one of Vharadesh's archives if we want to keep the whole "your first choices were here" thing going on. Have him peruse the volumes and dig for the answers he seeks that way. It's something more associated with the Thousand Sons, but I think it could work as a better motif than the exhaustively used "walk the paths of fate and see how you failed ooga booga".

Again, might be nit-pickish, but I like Tzeentch content. And I don't hate all of this section, I do enjoy the descriptions as mentioned before. I also think the library or archive would work better since Erebus is calling out the daemon for some part of itself always wanting to share that secretive knowledge.

SOMETHING. I like playing to the knowledge aspect of Tzeentch, and I'd like to see it used outside the Thousand Sons for once.

I've gone on long enough about this, so I'm going to move on.

From Tzeentch to Khorne as Erebus comes face-to-face with a massive Bloodthirster guarding countless skulls on Terra. I don't have a lot of notes on this other than the Bloodthirster reads a lot like one of my player's character from a Black Crusade game I ran and that felt funny to me.

Also, brief aside, from basically here-on Erebus is constantly referred to as "the instrument" and due to me being strange and having internet brainrot at times, I keep associating it with the TOOL from Petscop. If you know you know.

Another aside, Erebus is completely naked in the scene for reasons that I don't really get. Maybe to show he is vulnerable? Is this a subversion of the armored warrior thing? Is it to get Erebus to admit he is vulnerable in the face of this massive daemon? It's probably something along those lines. I found it an interesting enough detail to log in my mind as he talks with the beast and eventually gets its name. I don't have much else to really say, Khorne stuff isn't my forte.

Now, I will comment before continuing; on my first read through, I thought this was not only filling in the gap of "how did Erebus get his face back?", but also filling the gap of "who are the four princes/greater daemons he summons to use against Erda in Warhawk?". I'm still 30/70 on whether these daemons are the very same, but leaning more on the "probably not, it's just a coincidence" side.

Still an interesting thought.

Okay. To preface what is next, it's time for Slaanesh. From the heavy handed, "I know many secrets", it's probably a Keeper of Secrets in the form of a snake. Hurray for fellow snake enthusiasts everywhere.

I have a lot of thoughts over the following scene, which I will try to articulate as well as I can. Due to the length of it, I'm going to showcase it in screenshots instead, with appropriate image descriptions attached.

There's a lot to go through. First of all, Erebus is told all men desire and then gets shown Horus.

That is simply funny. Erebus does like the Warmaster. But I don't buy his "he's chosen by the Pantheon so I trust him as their champion" thing. I don't think that's the true reason why he doesn't strike here. For one, he knows this is an obvious test of wills and limits, and he knows that he can't fail it or else he's probably done for. For two, if we take all that he is into account, Erebus isn't really... super into power grabs for himself. He likes to play the role of manipulator, he likes to pluck off the limbs of scorpions until he gets stung. That's how I've been reading him, anyway. He still absolutely wants power, but he knows how to get it without necessarily centering everything on him, if that makes any sense.

He says it in "Child of Chaos", how everyone will eventually turn back to him again. He KNOWS people will still need him and his abilities and expertise and that they'll always come back eventually. He'll always have a seat of power that is greater and grander than many others, they just won't know it because he knows how to veil it in the glories of another.

No idea if that made any sense, but there's more to this scene I want to unpack.

I do like the detail of Erebus's new eyes also assisting him in clearing his head. The athame -- or really the daemon -- is trying to push him to get vengeance for all the humiliation Erebus has suffered, but the eyes he received from his time with the Tzeentchian daemon helps him to see things more clearly. I like that a lot. Using the gifts of the others to better survive the next trial ahead.

I also like how Horus just completely goes for the throat with Erebus. It speaks to all his assumed insecurities, that Horus never needed him, that he's so far beneath the true chosen of the Pantheon, etc. etc. I can't really tell if these are genuine insecurities for Erebus or whether this is just the daemon assuming they are, much like we the reader may. I think Erebus is a bit more assured than this, but we don't really get much of a peak behind the curtain to how he's really thinking or feeling. I do think this is a deliberate writing choice, however, so I won't knock on it too much. Would I have liked to see a bit more of what he was feeling in this moment? Sure, but Erebus as a character would never show that. Leaving one guessing is the best outcome for him.

Afterwards, Erebus shuns a gift of some weird... blood? in a cup, grabs the serpent, gets the name and obtains a tongue. We also are given this description:

‘I grant you my tongue, that you may savour this gift,’ the serpent whispered, euphoria in its voice. Erebus felt the organ flick against his ear, the softest touch of breath on skin.

And the mental image of a pink snake going blelele against Erebus's cheek is adorable. Also, "the organ". I don't know why but that made this all the more funny.

Moving past the snake, we come to the last of the Big Four, Nurgle. And this is the one place that surprisingly almost overwhelms the Hand of Destiny.

But how? You may be asking. Well, dear reader, it is through a most enticing luxury few others can afford:

‘Lost, are you?’ the helmswoman asked. ‘It’s easy to get lost out here, traveller. Come with me, I can give you a place to rest.’

Her voice was warm and comforting, at odds with her appearance, and he found himself drawn to it.

‘This place is my test,’ Erebus said.

‘Hush now, traveller. You must be tired. You have come such a long way.’

[. . .]

 a cabin that rose from the swamp on teetering wooden stilts. Its interior was damp, and clumps of quivering moss could be found clinging to several surfaces, but Erebus found it strangely comfortable. He decided he would heed the woman, and rest a while before continuing his travels, and he took residence in a spare room with a cot that seemed uniquely designed for his proportions. He fell asleep quickly.

When he awoke, the woman was in his room. Her skin was pockmarked with sores that wept a thin yellow liquid.

‘Did you rest well?’ she asked in her warm voice.

‘I did,’ Erebus said, and he meant it. His sleep had been so deep, so pure, that it had cleansed his mind of his previous trials, wiping it clean of pain, of anger, of impetus. So deep that he found it difficult to recall how he had arrived in this place. ‘I came here for a purpose,’ he said slowly.

‘It cannot have been important, if you have forgotten it,’ the woman said, a wide smile spreading across her bleeding lips. ‘Come, drink,’ she said, and offered a wooden bowl of viscous liquid. Erebus accepted the bowl without question, and tipped its contents down his throat. The liquid was as warming as the woman’s voice, and he felt his concerns slide away as its effects reached his limbs.

It's the power of a very good nap and a homemade meal. And he stays here for a very long time. He just naps and rests and is given good hearty Nurgly stew.

I very much enjoy this depiction of Nurgle. This could've easily been a "walk through the Gardens, become wracked with pain that the Grandfather can alleviate" or something, but instead it takes the comforting aspect of the Grandfather's influence and really goes a very good job portraying it.

And yet Tzeentch got the cliche "walk through the paths of your failures past and future" no I am not going to be spiteful and petty I am NOT biased I promise [lies].

What eventually breaks him out of this state is his hunting trips -- he goes out to find food for him to eat, having forgotten what else he needed to do. He gets told to stop his hunting and to just let go, and after he awakens from sleep yet again, his companion is missing. So he decides to go through the kitchen, and eventually finds his face:

He was prepared to return to his cot, when he caught sight of a red mess of a shape in the reflective copper surface of a saucepan hung from a hook on the wall. As he moved, it moved, and he realised that it was his own face. His face, mauled and mutilated, maimed and disfigured.

He saw the Warmaster, his talons red with transhuman blood, and the contentment that filled his soul dissipated. It was replaced by a cold fury.

The woman returned a moment later, a crop of mushrooms clutched between her fingers. Erebus manoeuvred his bulk to bar her way.

‘You cannot hold me here, daemon,’ he thundered, staring into her milky eyes.

‘I do not hold you here,’ she said, her voice as clear as ever. ‘You may leave, if you have somewhere else to go.’

‘You think that I will forget my calling? I am Erebus – the Dark Apostle, the instrument of the gods.’

‘Names are meaningless,’ the woman said. ‘Death carries names beyond remembrance, and death conquers all.’

Erebus then makes an attempt to kill her, but this being the realm of Nurgle [and also the warp], such thing is meaningless. But he's gotten his clarity back. He's not a nameless traveller staying with a decaying granny in a swamp, he's Erebus again.

Mostly. He does offer to try and help her, if he is here for all eternity, and she tells him of a rare plant on the edge of the swamp. Of course, Erebus has trouble finding it without a nose, so he asks for one and is granted it.

Which then leads to a scene that I found funny for all the wrong reasons:

Under moss and dirt, beneath dead leaves and dying wood, Erebus uncovered a well.

It was built from bricks, their edges rounded with age, and he wasn’t sure if it was still functional, but as he slid the metal covering back, he saw the reflection of his mutilated face staring back at him in clear water. He reached in and cupped a hand of that water to his mouth. It was fresh, cold and sweet – a sliver of purity in a tainted land.

He filled a canteen with the water, and returned to the cabin. When the woman appeared with her own liquid, Erebus rejected it, drinking deep from the well water instead. The sight of it made the woman screech in fear.

‘What is it?’ she howled.

‘Water,’ Erebus said.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘It is poison!’

He turned the canteen over in his hands, watching as the woman recoiled in fear. He allowed a drop of the water to fall from the canteen’s cap, watching intently as it fizzed and popped against the slime-green floor. As the smoke cleared, Erebus saw a tiny circle of brown amongst the green: the rotten wood returned to health.

The woman cowered in the corner of her hovel, a shivering corpse of a creature made somehow more pitiful. Erebus laughed.

‘Now, daemon, it is your turn to drink.’

Water is poison. Clean water is poison. In a Warhammer short story.

This is just hilarious. Completely unintentionally so, probably, but it is very, very funny that water is being used as a way to defeat a daemon in Warhammer. Something something the rule for showering in Yu-Gi-Oh! tournaments.

I do like that the well even exists, and that it took getting the gift to use it against the very daemon who was trapping him there. After days of bathing her with well-water from the canteen, eventually he gets the name from her, and he's finally out and free.

And he's got a new face:

He brought his hand upwards, feeling at the meat of his face, and found a shifting, squirming mass of flesh. He rose, and called to his acolytes.

‘Mirror!’

A hooded figure returned with a jewel-embedded mirror, its silver handle carved with runes. Erebus looked into its depths, and saw the reward of his trials: not just the services of powerful allies, but the power of the Four, represented in the visage of one.

He had seen this before – as a child, in the deserts of Colchis. Now that prophecy had come true.

Eyes that could see futures yet to pass. Ears that rang with the beat of the Blood God’s war drums. A mouth that ached for the rarest tastes. A nose for death in all its forms. With his new face, Erebus smiled.

And that ends the short story. I like it, overall. I do have my gripes with it, but I think one of the things that really stands out for me is the use of description here. I really enjoyed the word choices used.

I think this story could have handled a couple of the god-things a bit better, but I'm also a bit nitpicky when it comes to Chaos aspects. I would like to see some more diversity in the representation of Chaos as a whole, because a LOT of it does feel a bit one-trick-y, and we saw a bit of that, which I will take.

I would have liked to see a bit more into Erebus's head. I know this is third limited, but even through that lens we can see a lot about someone. Here it felt a bit more like physical reactions than mental ones. It felt like we were barred off from seeing more, but I also think this is probably by design, as I mentioned before. Erebus, as a character, wouldn't want anyone seeing more than just surface level. We see what we want him to see. He doesn't want us to know how he really felt during his trials and tribulations, we have to make those assumptions ourselves and live with them. Same with all the decisions he makes through the story.

Overall, not bad. I liked it well enough, and I think this is some competent writing and a good enough answer to a question I think most people shrugged off.

I hope you enjoyed my various ramblings and nit-pickings, I'm terribly sorry this post got so long. There was a lot I wanted to talk about and I'm curious to see if others agree or disagree or what their thoughts were about it.

[riversimmone]

Line in the Sand

Line in the Sand - chapter 1

RiverOfTheSand

Summary:

AU GaaSaku. Because war is coming. Because a king needs a queen. And because no-one warned him his most dangerous opponent would be the one warming his bed.

Notes:

Cross-posted from fanfiction.net. Technically. I'm done waiting for my muse and want to post this here on AO3. Please read the tags and read and kudo and comment. I hope you enjoy. :)

End chapter notes:

Thankyou so much for reading. :)

.

This is a work in progress story you can also find on AO3 and FF.NET.

Enjoy. :)

.

Chapter One: Enough is Enough.

-o-

Death was such a final affair. It couldn't be undone, bribed away, or blackmailed to disappear. Fighting it was a delay tactic at best, and denying its existence was detrimental and foolish.

It was also, sometimes, the only thing that made sense.

"The king is dead!"

The voice came from outside the mausoleum, but echoed through the building like a doomsday proclamation.

Death made sense.

Except the fact that sometimes it didn't. Sometimes it made no sense whatsoever. He was struggling to understand how he had come to be standing here, looking at this particular coffin, feeling these… feelings; guilt, regret, hatred, love and sheer terror.

What kind of omnipotent being let murderers, rapists and other sundry evil men live, but took away a broken country's last ray of hope? The sky was already darker than it should be at this time of the day, so what was the point? Why was he here, mourning, when so many others deserved it more?

"The king is dead!"

Yes, he'd died this morning; the blood in his bedchambers had yet to be cleaned and the redhead staring at the coffin in front of him could still smell the stench of it, hours after having found the body.

Sabaku no Gaara lifted his arms, his eyes travelling over the lines of the palms of his hands. It all seemed so arbitrary.

"The king is dead!"

He growled. Would someone shut that person up?

The words that echoed within the walls of the mausoleum (despite coming from outside), haunted him and he wished they would just die too.

He had never felt more confused, more foolish for believing that death itself would not touch these hallowed halls. He should have seen this coming. It was his duty to his king, to his family, and to his country.

The king is dead. He reminded himself.

And yet somehow, those four words were more comfort to him than he'd ever felt.

Gaara was still torn, however. He hadn't hated the fool, though the older man had given him every reason to. They were family… once upon a time.

But the children of the Sabaku clan had been scattered to the wind when their country fell into civil war. Who would claim the throne? Who would kill their own flesh and blood to get on that throne? And who would be forced on bended knee?

Ultimately, the answer had been: no-one.

And so the war raged. For three years; for three years their loyalists fought for and alongside the sibling they wanted to see crowned. People died then too. And then the outsiders invaded, taking advantage of the chaotic state of affairs; more death had come to them, and the estranged children were forced to put their disagreements aside to force the invading harbingers out of their lands.

And they won.

Gaara stood stiffly, glaring down at his brother's coffin.

Why did you have to die, stupid fool?

It was Kankuro that the people had wanted when the dust settled, and for once, the trio siblings had sat down and listened to the voices around them. It was Kankuro's cheeky face that was plastered around the royal home, the royal city, and pretty much the entire kingdom. The people didn't even know him personally, but somehow he had the kinder face of the Sabaku children, and they trusted that dorky smile.

Gaara groaned inwardly.

And the truth was, they weren't wrong. He had his foul moods just like anyone else, but Kankuro had been the better sibling – the nice one. Even in the heat of battle; Temari could scare a battalion with a glare and he… Gaara didn't have to try, he just naturally terrified all.

But who would the people want now? And how long would that person hold the crown before they too, were betrayed?

Even now, other nations were circling the borders like vultures, sensing their weakness. How long would it be before death visited them all again?

For three years, Gaara had fought his siblings, thinking he wanted to rule. He might not have been the first born, like Temari, or as well-liked as Kankuro, but there was no denying his power. If he wasn't meant to defend their people with that power, then why had he been born with it?

The gods were laughing at him, he was sure of it; give an ant the ability to conquer every ant hill, but deny him the spoils.

"Gaara!"

Temari's voice broke through his thoughts and the redhead looked up to see her striding into the mausoleum, flanked by two guards. She waved at them and they halted, letting her approach Gaara alone. She looked determined.

"The people are going to riot," she said. "Advisor Yura believes we cannot sit on this; the people will want retribution."

Gaara stared back at Kankuro's coffin. This was not how he had intended to celebrate his twenty-first birthday. It seemed so long ago now, that Kankuro had been slapping him on the back and questioning his sexual orientation, given that Gaara hadn't wed any of the noble ladies yet. He was the only sibling without a significant partner.

I have standards. His monotone reply had been met with a laugh and a giggling confession of his brother's own sex life.

Kankuro's widow crept into his head, and Gaara sighed. He felt sorry for her, mostly. She was too kind hearted a person to do what needed to be done next.

Gaara himself didn't want a kind woman. For most of his life, he hadn't wanted a woman at all (he liked them, but only when they didn't talk). He was twenty-one now, and had never held down any kind of relationship. He'd rarely partaken in sex and still had little idea what he was doing – which only added to his desire to avoid sexual situations. He found it too hard to let everything go and open himself up in front of anyone without the pressure of pleasing another person, let alone himself.

He was too easily impressed by feminine curves to trust himself in the sight of them.

It was a free life, but also a lonely one.

"We have to get out there." Temari stepped up next to him. "We have to tell the people that this treachery will not go unanswered."

The warm hand on his shoulder reminded him yet again that he wasn't as alone as he felt.

Finally, he'd been on good terms with his brother, and now this?

He couldn't stand it.

The pain was going to tear him up from the inside and he didn't know how to stop it.

"Gaara?" His sister's voice was soft, almost cautious.

He shook his head slightly. "How could he?"

Temari frowned. Was he asking how Kankuro could die, or die and leave them behind? She sighed.

"He loved you. Even when you were at each other's throats – even when we were all trying to kill each other. Kankuro… never stopped hoping we would all come back here someday. He loved you most of all."

It still didn't make any sense to him.

He didn't get it.

Making his decision, Gaara squared his shoulders and turned to face the guards who had been dutifully waiting for them to finish their conversation. He stared into their faces and they stared back. Loyalty in this country meant equal footing – even a servant deserved to be treated with respect.

He nodded to them. "Tell the advisor to gather the people. It's time to make a stand."

A wide grin spread over the faces of the guards and they rushed to obey his command.

Temari clasped her brother's hand, feeling the same desire for revenge rush through her. Gaara squeezed her hand back, though he didn't feel as confident as he'd sounded. But he was determined: he would not let anyone take advantage of his people again.

-o-

On the other side of Sunagakure, green eyes raked over the city hungrily, taking in every detail.

Silk curtains wafted over her face, falling against her body gently, highlighting the contours of her petite body; she loved the feel of it, but more than anything, she enjoyed the cool breeze drifting in – a sign that even balmy summers in this city could be gentle on the wind. She was taking a moment to admire the beauty of the foreign city beneath her before letting the reality of her situation sink in. Sunagakure. Her new home. It had seen better days – at the height of its power years ago, it had stood as a beacon to distant travellers – but even now it still retained a regal air about it.

It was… entrancing.

Sakura Haruno was the heiress to the last of the nomadic tribes that had come to Sunagakure to parlay with king and request permanent residence, only to hear the news of the man's untimely death. They were a proud people, brave warriors and healers, but they were dying. Country borders were closing in light of the new political tensions, and it was becoming impossible to safely traverse the old travelling roads they loved so much – in just this last month alone they'd lost fifteen people in their caravan to brigands and foreign soldiers mistaking them for spies.

This couldn't continue.

Most people thought they were just gypsy nobles who were hardy and interesting enough street entertainers when they were short on money, but the truth was that they were the descendants of the Kiraaku – a Yakuza-like clan that had once been infamous for manipulating their way into powerful families. They'd literally fucked, manipulated, and murdered their way into the noble court.

But things changed when Sakura's great-great grandfather gathered what was left of their clan (after an assassin killed their patriarch) and turned them into nomads. Slowly, the legend of the Kiraaku died down, and very few knew of their bloody past. Their history was dead. And yet they themselves, survived.

Sakura turned away from the balcony and looked at her sleeping father; she had come to his chambers, hoping he was awake, but now hesitated to disturb him. He was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it. A sickness picked up from a neighbouring country had infested his body and now he had very little time left. Kizashi was all she had left of her mother – the woman who'd been kidnapped, raped and murdered by brigands before Sakura was even old enough to talk. Mebuki had been a beautiful woman, and it was her exotic looks that the pinkette had inherited.

But enough was enough.

They needed to find a new home if they were going to prevent these things from happening again. And her father had a plan to make that happen.

In this country, the daughters of the smaller tribes were highly valued in buying and selling for marriages with nobles because of their exotic looks and rumoured, unique skills. It was a fetish that made her uncomfortable, but what kind of Kiraaku descendant would she be if she didn't take advantage of it?

"Sakura?"

Her father stirred, reaching out for her as she ran to his side.

"Daddy?"

"I knew it was you."

His sight was failing, along with his internal organs. Even she, with all her medical prowess, couldn't save him, and she hated herself.

"Don't cry."

Her tears trickled down his arm as she kissed the back of his hand.

"I can't help it, daddy."

"You can't cry yet."

She nodded. "I know."

"Yuri can lead our clan now, but you need to do something else for them."

"I don't know…"

"Do this, please? For me?"

Sakura tightened her hold on his hand. "I will, daddy."

She had no problem with seducing the richest noble she could catch the eye of. They were all rolling in dough. If they fell for her charms, it was their own fault. But her father had higher dreams and, upon news that the king had died, had expressed his desire for her to aim much higher.

The youngest Sabaku…

He had more wealth than your average noble, and the power he wielded in battle was too much of a temptation; she may not agree with the way her ancestors had hurt people, but the blood of the Kiraaku ran through her and she couldn't deny she really wanted to see this living legend in the flesh. His people mostly feared his power – though they revered it too – but if the rumours were true, he was headed for that ivory throne.

Even if she failed with him, there had to be someone in that court that would find her attractive.

Sakura kissed her father's forehead as his eyes closed and his breathing evened out again, indicating he was asleep.

She would marry into wealth and restore her clan's honour by taking that crown (or similar) by whatever means she felt necessary. But first, she needed to play the marriageable woman. She needed to show off her exotic looks, her unique skills, and charm the pants off that man.

-o-

[vixensbrainrotts]

In another time — Shinichiro Sano

Content: Imagine

Warnings: mentioned accidents, rather derogatory language (from Shinichiro’s point of view) towards a homeless man

Tropes: non-canon content, non-canon Shinichiro

Summary: an alternate universe in which Shinichiro didnt choose his fate, but rather it was forced upon him

Vixen’s two cents: I love Shinichiro. I cant handle him not being there, this is my coping mechanism. Sorry if this is a little odd to read this isnt my normal writing style, i wanted to try something new. If you like this and want to see more, please let me know! Also remember that my requests are always open so if you have an idea, please tell me about it, id love to write it! Enjoy

„Stop Messing with your IV.“ Shinichiro grunts form his chair at the man occupying the hospital bed in front of him. The man on the bed does not respond, only continues to finger the IV insert in the crook of his elbow. Shinichiro sighs, shifting front in the uncomfortable chair and rests his arms on his knees.

The silence in the room was loud. It hung in the air like the stench of the dead. The light was the typical sterile hospital-blue, and the floors were the signature awkward speckled white and blue that every other hospital had.

The window to Shinichiro‘s right would have shown your average hospital park, with your average hospital park paths which weaved around your average hospital park trees and average hospital park ponds.

But none of that could be seen. It was dark; it was late; and most importantly, it was cold. Way too cold to be sitting in front of a homeless man who wouldn’t leave alone his IV. Out of the reflection of the dark window Shinichiro could see the man; the old, wrinkly, rancid lump of a life that he had most literally ran into earlier that day.

„The IV itches.“, it spoke. Shinichiro turned his head to look at him, an almost offended scowl on his face: „So what? You leave that damn thing or or else. I didn‘t drag you in here half alive just for you to die.“ The thing on the bed met Shinichiro‘s eyes and stared. Cold, hard, lifeless beads of black pierced his own eyes, and the air felt electric all of a sudden.

The clock that hung on the wall was the only source of noise, its everlasting ticking marking the endless spiral of time. Shinichiro counted the seconds he heard: three, four but he was sure to already have missed some: eight, nine, ten nevertheless he kept counting: fourteen, fifteen just to see for how long he could endure the daggers thrown his way: twenty-one, twenty-two. Some time around one-seventeen, one-eighteen his eyes started watering, and he gave in, blinking away the tears that had formed.

He heaved another sigh, once again shifting in the chair, this time slouching back and throwing his head over the edge of the backrest. “How are you even alive anymore?“ He grunted at the man, the angle at which he sat making the sound almost guttural. „In general I mean.“ Shinichiro knew the man was homeless; the clothes, the skin , the smell, it all accumulated to the one conclusion. Based on what he saw and sensed however, he could not fathom how the husk of a man sitting on the bed had managed to sustain himself in the first place.

“I’m cursed.” It grumbled back at him. And Shinichiro almost rolled his eyes, “Right.” A lunatic then. he thought, running another hand across his face, contemplating that it would have been better to run the loony over completely. “Cursed.” His voice was flat and unimpressed as it replied to the shrivel in the Hospital bed.

Another silence insued, but this time it was Shinichiro who was staring the man down with a you’ve gotta be kidding me expression. The man was avoiding his eyes, instead choosing to flit his gaze from one ceiling tile to the next. Shin counts the ticks again, and this time he could feel his blood pressure rising. He gets to around fourty-four, fourty-five before the homeless man spoke again.

“I can travel back in time.” Shinichiro didnt know what he was expecting, but this wasnt it.

“What.” It felt like the blood is his body froze, whether it was with rage or with confusion he didn’t know.

“I was naive when i accepted the curse, and now look! Im here. Ive tried to go back and fix it all so often, but it just wont work. I cant do this anymore. I dont want to. I’ve failed and now it’s all over.” The man keeps talking, his already rough voice now thinning into a whispered shout, his voice straining under the sudden stress as he fell into a hysterical spiral, rocking his body back and forth on the bed, his arms coming up to hug himself.

The monitors beside the bed beeped, and nurses came rushing in, flooding the room with a flurry of noise and movement, but Shinichiro remained sitting on the chair, staring down the stranger. Only when one of the male nurses asked him to please leave the room does he get up and remove himself from the room. Shinichiro cast one last look over his shoulder when he stood in the hallway to see the man being lifted onto a separate bed, and be wheeled out behind him into another direction, the nurse squad accompanying him running in perfect coordination.

Shinichiro stood there for a while, and he thinks he might have been offered a seat by a lingering nurse, but he wasnt quite sure. There were no ticks to count, so he didn’t know how long he was standing there. Too long probably. Numbly, Shin made his way down the average hospital stairwell and through the average hospital reception before exiting the average hospital doors, the click that shut the door finally easing his mind.

His breath billowed up in front of him, the clouds of condensation rising slowly, wafting through the cold, crisp air before dissipating completely. His ears picked up on the noise surrounding him- the distant beeping of cars, the solemn crow of a bird in the distance, and most notably, the rain. It was raining now. How strange, he could have sworn it was a clear sky when he looked out the window earlier.

Shinichiro blinks a few times, the piercing cold making his eyes uncomfortably dry as he makes his way down the concrete stairs and towards his bike. It takes him a while to understand that he might have killed that man tonight.

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 5

Previous // Next

CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, blood mention, scar mention, non-sexual nudity

It felt wrong to touch the boy’s face. It felt wrong to touch a person who had been endlessly abused into mindless submission, someone who had been trained through pain and suffering that they had to exist at the will and command of another. It felt wrong that the boy was still sitting naked, all but skin and bones, entirely unmoving on Rowan’s floor. 

What other choice did Rowan have? Was there another way to communicate with this boy, one  that wasn’t as direct as physical contact? Necessity, Rowan reminded himself as the boy’s face turned upward in his palm. I’m doing this out of necessity.

Even as he gently guided the boy’s face to look upwards, he refused to meet Rowan’s eyes, his gaze directed towards the floor. That was alright. It was going to have to be alright for a while, Rowan suspected. 

After a moment he let his fingers fall away from the boy’s chin. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was relieved when his new houseguest held the position rather than dropping back to the ground. 

“Hey there,” Rowan greeted. He did his best to smile. “I don’t know if you remember, but my name’s Rowan. I know this is new for you, but it’s new for me too. It’s new for both of us. I’m sure you’re probably scared, but we’re going to get through this. We’re going to have to learn together, alright?” 

The boy didn’t even blink. 

---

Master didn’t seem upset that Pet was holding still and looking up at him. By the hint of a smile on Master’s lips, it seemed that he was pleased by the unusual posture. 

It didn’t dare meet Master’s eyes, of course, but now it could try and read his lips. Even if it couldn’t decipher the words that Master was speaking, it had already come to enjoy the soft murmur of Master’s speech. The kindness and warmth was enough for it to relax. 

New… new… new for both of us… learn together…

Pet knew that it could do that. Pet was happy to learn new things for its Master, and it was going to try its very best to do them well. Failure meant punishment, but even worse, failure meant disappointing Master. Disappointing its old Master is what got Pet into this mess to begin with. It could handle any amount of pain, however Master chose to train it, but disappointment always burned the deepest. 

Pet can be good. Pet can learn with Master. 

---

It struck Rowan that now only was the boy still naked, but the stench of waste and sweat clung to his body. The putrid odor of the liquidation event had begun to seep into the room at no fault of the boy’s own. 

Of course - Rowan privately scolded himself for forgetting. The facility never gave its victims the luxury of proper hygiene, and this one had been stuck at the liquidation event for days, before eventually being stuffed in a box. There was no wonder that the boy’s curls were slicked down with grease and dirt. 

Rowan attempted a smile. He knew it didn’t reach his eyes, but how could it, when he knew how much pain this person had been through? 

“How does a bath sound, yeah? Can we do that?” Rowan offered this enthusiastically. Rowan also knew that his bathroom was a bit of a disaster, scattered with half-empty shampoo bottles and skin care products he hadn’t used in weeks. He tried to soothe himself by rationalizing that the boy wouldn’t particularly care about the room’s cleanliness. 

There was no reaction to Rowan’s offer, not a nod, not so much as a twitch. It was all he could do not to sigh, worried that any sighs would be interpreted as misplaced frustration. The last thing he wanted to do was set the boy on edge. 

He remembered what worked earlier, the very gestures that had lured the boy to his bedroom in his first place. After giving himself a determined nod, Rowan took a few steps backwards, and gestured with a low hand to invite the victim to follow along. 

Much to Rowan’s relief, the boy understood. He scampered forward on his hands and knees, eyes glued back to the ground, every bone on his gaunt frame showing. As much as Rowan would have preferred him to walk on two feet, this was going to have to do for the moment. Just enough to get him cleaned and settled in, nothing more. Then they would begin work on rehabilitation. 

As soon as Rowan opened the door to the bathroom, the boy bolted forward and into the tub in a tangle of limbs and apparent enthusiasm. Rowan hadn’t spoken a single word or made a gesture. He smiled in spite of himself, and cocked his head to the side.  

“Alright, I guess baths are okay? That’ll make this easier.” Rowan thought about the many victims that had been tormented by water, scalded or frozen at inhumane temperatures, or held beneath the surface until they drew mouthfuls into their lungs. To have a victim who was at least amiable to the cleaning process would relieve the burden on them both. 

The boy had resumed the typical kneeling position in the tub, seemingly unbothered by the hard porcelain. Rowan figured it was best not to try and correct that for the time being. One step at a time. Be encouraging. 

Rowan leaned over to the spigot and slowly turned it on, carefully easing the handle towards “H,” and diligently checked the temperature as water began to flow. Once it was comfortably warm he plugged the drain and watched as the clear liquid began to pool around the boy’s legs. Rowan almost swore he heard a contented sigh as the boy’s eyes slipped closed. 

For the first time in more than a day, Rowan felt himself smile, a genuine smile. And for the first time, he felt that maybe he was cut out for this. 

---

Pet was grateful for the washing before it even began. Its old Master was so particular in keeping Pet clean, and would have his servants scrub Pet down every day beneath a stream of hot water. Sometimes the soap was floral, other times it was citrus, but it always left Pet smelling wonderful. Handler never gave it such luxuries when it was sent back to the training facilities. 

The water rose ever higher, first over its thighs, then over the pale skin of its stomach, until the water finally came to a stop right above its navel. It could have groaned with how pleasant the warm water felt on its aching legs and bruised knees. For a moment it nearly dared to speak, express its gratitude for the kindness, but knew better than to open its mouth without being told. 

Still, it was a treat to have Master wash it rather than a servant.

Master gently cupped warm water over its head, and Pet closed its eyes tight to keep the water out. With each new splash of water Master continued to talk away, his voice nearly as warm as the water, wrapping around Pet’s shoulders along with the suds. Of course, the words were still indistinct, and Pet listened in case there was a command it could discern, but it was already starting to think that maybe Master just liked to talk. Pet wouldn’t mind that at all. 

---

“I’ve never really had anything to name before,” Rowan mused aloud as he worked his fingers through the boy’s curls. The texture was so much deeper than his own, the ringlets rich with weight. He made a quick mental note that the dollar-store shampoo he used for his own pin-straight hair would most certainly not do in the future. 

“You see, I had to name a goldfish when I was a kid,” Rowan continued as he began to rinse the shampoo out. “I had to name it, and I stalled for weeks. My parents kept asking me, and my sister kept bugging me about it, but I just didn’t have anything. My mom eventually suggested ‘Goldy,’ and I just went with it. But if you can’t tell me what you want to be called, at least not yet, you deserve a name. A proper one, something with a bit of dignity.”

He wondered if there were websites to help with such a thing. namesforyourbrainwashedhumanslave.com? It wouldn’t surprise him. 

“You’re going to have to learn to wash yourself in the future.” Rowan gently wrung some of the water from the boy’s thick head of hair and hoped he wasn’t pulling on the roots. “It’s okay if that doesn’t happen right away. I’m more than happy to help, but I want you to feel comfortable doing things on your own, without having to ask me. You can come in here and have a bath whenever you want. The apartment incorporates the cost of utilities into the monthly rent already, which means we can use as much as we want at no extra cost. It’s nice to have almost unlimited heat in the winters, especially this far north.”

As he began to carefully wipe away the grime on the boy’s face with a warm cloth, Rowan nearly startled when the boy leaned into the touch. He hadn’t expected to feel pressure returned against his hand. After pausing long enough to pull himself out of the shock, Rowan pressed on and began to scrub at the dried blood on the side of the victim’s face. Flakes of muddy brown and deep crimson scabs covered the deep gouges that ran from his temples, down his ears and jawline, almost down to his neck. Given the extent of the damage, it was a wonder there was any skin left. 

“I hope one day you can tell me how these got here,” Rowan murmured as he got a good look at the wounds for the first time. Blood flaked away and fell in hues of brown into the water, mixed with fresh red from the most recent and still-weeping wounds. 

“I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered before he could stop himself, because he knew he had to be hurting the boy, no matter how gently he tried to proceed. The wounds were deep, and Rowan wondered if they needed stitches. How was he supposed to tell? Maybe they were too wide for stitches, maybe the scar tissue was already too well-formed. 

They were different than the scars that Rowan had seen on other victims before, and he had seen the aftermath of many instruments of torture in his time. These scars were jagged, and they were as wide as three fingers across, as though they had been continually torn open. It was the first time Rowan saw them this close up, and he noted that the cartilage of the ears was warped and knobbed. Again, something like he had never seen before. 

The water had turned a translucent copper color, and Rowan tried not to be sick as he reached in to drain the bathtub. A quick hand gesture and the boy got out of the tub and knelt back down on the bath mat. 

Right, towels. Dry him off. 

“Let’s get you dry, huh?” Rowan spoke. Maybe it would help ease whatever tensions were running through the boy’s mind if Rowan kept narrating what he was doing. He imagined it would be beneficial to take away some of the nerve-wracking suspense, and instead replace it with vocalized certainty. 

Forcing a smile on his lips, Rowan grabbed the freshly-laundered towel he had set aside, and held it out in the boy’s line of sight. 

“I’ve got a clean towel here. If you want to do it yourself, just grab the towel, and I’ll stop. Otherwise, here we go.” 

As soon as the terry cloth made contact with the boy’s shoulders, he leaned into the touch, his upper body shifting a few centimeters closer to Rowan’s own. Again. This time, Rowan didn’t startle quite so easily. In fact, he was surprised at himself, and the happiness that blossomed in his stomach. 

He knew he couldn’t take happiness in this forever. There was no joy to be taken in a human being that acted on inhumane training, a human who sought other human contact because they were told to, not because they wanted it. But if the boy wasn’t afraid of him and his touch, that was one small victory. Rowan had a feeling he was going to have to take the little victories for what they were. 

“You’re doing great,” he said, not for the first time that hour. But this time, Rowan knew he might have been talking to himself as well. 

---

Taglist: @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader @dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast @whumpzone

[alexanderlightweight]

Happy Wednesday!

What about trophy husband/sugar baby alec for a prompt? (I know it's not too far off what you just posted, so I hope it's different enough to interest you)

Have a good one

Hey! Thanks I did in fact have a good day! And lots of fun prompts like this one: I hope you enjoy it!

—

Alec frowns as he contemplates the pendant, though he doesn’t bother looking at the price. Magnus has plenty of mundane currency and Alec has a great deal of the Lightwood fortune and his own money.

“Oh, something catch your eye?” Magnus asks him and Alec nods without really thinking about it. “That one.” Alec says because Magnus is being very sweet and patient but Alec also knows Magnus gets antsy if they don’t find at least one thing Alec likes in each store.

It’s like Magnus doesn’t understand that Alec derives pleasure from seeing Magnus enjoy himself; not actually shopping himself.

But it’s not Alec’s job to judge Magnus, it’s his honor and pleasure to support Magnus and show him that Alec loves him, everything else is just a bonus.

A bonus that also involves a lot of mundanes.

Unfortunately.

“Sir, this pendant is five thousand dollars in its current form and you want to… rework it?” Alec sighs and is about to give up when an arm wraps around his waist and a chin hooks over his shoulder.

“Mr. Bane!” She gasps out and gives Alec a confused look, “and this is your—?” She trails off leadingly and is clearly surprised, though Alec doesn’t get why when she recognizes Magnus.

“Just his.” Alec says because he can’t deal with the exhaustion of mundanes knowing him. There’s a dark chuckle against his ear and Alec doesn’t get why the woman is suddenly stuttering and blushing and grabbing the pendant and going to the back.

“Is this yet another necklace you’re going to slip into my jewelry despite knowing I can tell each time?” Magnus rumbles against his back and Alec leans back, trying to chase away his pending headache with his boyfriend’s presence.

“No.” Alec mutters because his head feels tighter the longer they stand there, in a room that smells too strongly of perfume and the stench of prey.

He turns and wraps his arms around Magnus, burrowing into Magnus’ neck to hide from the migraine burrowing into his skulls

“My poor darling,” Magnus soothes and he presses cool, magical kisses to Alec’s jaw. “I’ll get you home soon, alright?”

“Lunch—“ Alec mutters because they canceled yesterday due to a sewer rift and he wants to sit with Magnus in a country far from the one they’re in.

“Alexander, I’m not sure—“

“It was a promise, Magnus.” Alec reminds him, because it was a promise and Alec couldn’t keep it but Magnus is too generous sometimes. “We’re going to Italy. Tonight. Or I’ll call Cat for a lift and go without you.” It’s an empty threat because Alec is going nowhere without Magnus, but it does the job because Magnus laughs and kisses his forehead again.

“Alright, my Alexander. I’ll take you to Italy tonight.” Magnus says and Alec nods against his chest, because good.

Magnus is much better at keeping promises. So Alec is sure they’ll get there. And Magnus has been craving that one shop’s ossobuco and bread.

“But if you make me eat pasta while I’m this tired and then judge my noodle skills I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Isn’t that just self-punishment?”

“You always end up carrying me into bed once I’m asleep anyways Magnus, does it really matter?”

“Oh my god.” Alec hears and he ignores it because it’s not a demon it’s a mundane and the deal is that Magnus gets the… honor of dealing with them.

“Wrap it for me.” Magnus says in a politely cool tone. There’s no danger but Alec can tell he doesn’t like something but then Magnus adds, “what was it for darling?”

And Alec murmurs, “it matches your eyes. I’m going to take it to that little stall in the Brooklyn shadow market, the one that does commissions. I need something that reminds me of you to deal with clave meetings, Magnus. And they won’t let me bring you.”

And Magnus snorts and says, not to Alec, “the bracelets on that rack as well, and the order I put in a month ago, if you please. And then we’ll be leaving.”

—

Alec doesn’t think anything of it. Magnus kisses his headache away and hand feeds him food in a private courtyard so that there’s no need for Alec to fail at eating this tired.

They go back nearly a month later and there’s more employees, a lot of customers and a complete and utter silence when Magnus walks in, his hand on the small of Alec’s back.

And then they converge like a school of uneducated piranhas.

“Oh for—“ and Alec ducks away from Magnus’ hand and goes over to the champagne counter and takes a whole tray.

The server starts to say something and Alec looks between the server and Magnus, and then snorts when the server just nods.

Alec drains three of them and takes the last two over, one in each hand. He passes one to Magnus and gives his best, politically bland and false smile that he can.

The one he used on Lorenzo.

“Babe—“ Alec says, letting his hand linger like he’s refusing to give the drink until Magnus leans forward and kisses him.

And Magnus magicks the drink into something more potent under the protection of their joined hands.

“Thank you my love.” Magnus says and that causes a bunch of gasps and titters and Alec nods and leaves again.

Except this time he’s being followed by several young men — Magnus calls them twinks — and some girls who look even more delicate than Simon when Alec first met him.

“Can I help you?” He asks from where he’s looking at an amber ring that looks like the color of Magnus’ unglamoured eyes when he’s angry.

“Spill!”

“What’s it like? How did you bag him?”

And Alec frowns because he is not going to spill anything and he did not bag Magnus. That would require Magnus needing a body bag and Alec is going to die before he lets that happen.

“What?” Alec asks, hoping to somehow interpret what’s being said.

“Where did you meet?” One asks and she’s staring at Alec like Magnus sometimes stares at steak when he’s running low on magic.

“His club.” Alec says; because that’s true enough and Pandemonium has a mundane section.

And Alec is really unsure how much he can tell mundanes. This isn’t supposed to be his problem.

“My brother‘s girlfriend had a problem and they both kind of lost their common sense? And Magnus had part of the solution and was part of the problem, so it sort of just—“ and Alec waves a hand, “worked out.”

He’s given several wide-eyed looks and he doesn’t get one dude’s murmur of, “oh my god.”

It’s like they’ve had a realization.

Alec had no idea what they think they’ve understood.

“I’m going to go look at—“ and he squints across the room, “garnets. Nice to meet you.” He gets the last lie out of his mouth and hurries to the garnets.

Magnus has been expressing his enjoyment for Alec wearing jewelry and Alec aims to please… and avoid mundanes.

—

“How did he read that from here?” Isley asks, her eyes lingering on the tall, delectable man walking away on long, long legs.

“No idea.” And Jamie is also looking at Magnus’ Bane’s sugar baby wistfully. “Is it bad if I don’t know if I want to be him or fuck him?”

“Oh mood—“ Isley says even though she’s perfectly happy as a lesbian. “It’s the Magnus Bane effect, though normally his flavor-of-the-month isn’t so… permanent. Or doted on.”

“So what, you think his family got mixed into something shady? They made a deal with Bane for a better ending and Bane decided to go with the brother when they couldn't pay up?”

“I don’t know, Bane doesn’t seem quite the type. But what do I actually know about the guy?” Jamie huffs sulkily, “I wonder if Bane and his boy do threesome.”

There is a shattering of glass and they look over, paling to see Bane there.

Far closer than he used to be and inconveniently in ear range.

There is a cold, dark look on his face as he accepts the silk cloth hastily taken from a display by an attendee and casually wipes the glass from his hands.

Litter crystal shards are pulverized about him on the floor, and there isn’t a scratch on him.

“We do not.” Bane is saying and his voice is the temptation of molting coals. Danger is there and you know it but you want to lean closer and touch. “No one touches my boy, as you called him. Because he is mine.” And as Bane’s sugar baby comes over with a scowl and a stack of boxes they all see how the deadly rage swirls into an inferno of dangerous adoration. “And I am his.”

And they watch as Bane’s boy kisses Bane’s check, his scowl softening until he sees them and then he rolls his big hazel eyes and mutters something.

“Yes I agree.” Bane is saying, “I think we have rather overstayed. Lunch in Paris, darling? Or perhaps dinner by the time we get there?”

And Isley wonders what she has to do in life to get someone like Magnus Bane.

“We went to Paris last week—“ Bane is told, like it’s normal to say no to sporadic global trips, “I’d rather go back to Hokkaido. I didn’t get to see pikas last time, Magnus. I was promised pikas.”

“Then pikas you shall have,” Bane says like denying Paris to go look at whatever a pika makes sense. Perhaps we’ll stop by Germany first, I think you’d like their brats.” And then under his breath they all hear Magnus add, “and if not we’ll just go to Sweden instead.”

Isley gives up and abandons Jamie and the others and goes and face plants in the lovely, cushioning embrace of her partner's chest.

“It’s not fair.” She wails, voice thankfully muffled, “I don’t even like men!” And her hair is being petted as the woman comforting her laughs.

[silvercityofreblogs]

Some TMNT07 miscellaneous HEADCANONS THAT I LIKE TO THINK OF

This ends up a bit long. Also, english is not my mothertounge language so, there may be errors of grammars here and there.

Anyway, Some of prev hc of 07!turtles are here. Some of them may be ooc so just look away from this post. I just think that they deserve to be goofy

Leo

While he is the ghost of the jungle, he has his own fair share encounter of ghosts as well. Many of them caused him to get a fever the next morning.

One of the 'encounters' is him accidentally called out for it, other times is chase it, other time is that he picked an unusual stench(he should've ignored it) and questions it. Although he redeems himself from jabbing the supernatural encounter by meditating at night for 3 weeks.

When he tells his 'ghost story' to his brothers and splinter, he has a smug face that annoys Donnie and Raph(with affection) but when Splinter ask him 'Ah, my son, do you experience any after effect the next morning'

Beloved eldest brother cannot - No, he must never lie to his father - Never -

Leo: ...I got a fever the next morning...and it's hard to sleep even if I'm really exhausted...

Donnie: Smug ghost

Raph: Ironic fearless

Mikey: ghost of the jungle being ghosted

Splinter: Even a ghost must learn to recognise its own pride

Leo: Alright, alright, I'm sorry, sorry, I thought it was just dumb local kids pranks that's why I respond. Also, If it were you 3, I'll have you all set up as a sacrifice(bait) for the ghost if we are in a haunted situation

Raph, Mikey and Donnie: Love to see you try, Ghost 👻

He is fond of sharp stuff since he takes good care of swords and other sharp object mechanical parts and etc. For example, he sharp pencil until it's really sharp, every night he make sure that his blades are clean from remains stuck on it.

For that he is in charge of their metal weapon such as fixing broken swords, sometimes Raph sai, he even makes chain but he enjoys keeping them from rusting rather making it.

Also due to his fondness of sharp stuff, he bought kitchen knives straight from the shop, it cause Donatello to transform into mamatello

Donnie: LEONARDO!

Leo: *from his room*oh no, it's mamatello.

He occasionally forgets the name of certain technology products so he refers to them as it and may have forgotten some of their form

Leo: Is the tv really this big? Did it get bigger?

Raph: No it aint, you just shrunk, bro. Remote.

Leo: ..Wha..Oh*picks up the remote* this black thing plastic thing is it?

Raph: I say man 🤦

Silly time aside, Leo is the one who often does solo night patrol when other are busy or asleep.

In the comics of prequel movie, he has killed people, sometimes he wants too far as in broken arms, legs and bloody head and face for the thugs, he doesn't kill them just cause some serious concussion.

He and Raph both can be absorbed in the thrills of battle, only Leo tends to go overboard sometimes upon returning from central america.

Leo reads a lot about the stars, minerals and plants after the movie, he still reads strategy books like Sun Tzu art of war.

I hc that he can write poems, and haiku after his training. fight me

He is fluent in japanese, he picked up on some spanish but he is able to read it well, just not speaking in spanish.

Raph

I hc that he comes clean with everyone about him being nightwatcher after the whole winter thing. He even bowed apologetically to everyone in the dojo

Don and splinter had their suspicious but Don interrogates him how he snuck in and out of the lair.

Mikey on the other hand felt like an idiot for not recognizing his own brother based on the news and rumors that seem so related to one of them. He was shocked for 3 days.

After 3 days, Raph offers Mikey a ride on his bike donning night watchers helmet and a red motorcycle suit for Raph and Mikey an orange one suit and helmet. He wants to make up for his abscence despite being at home. They both had but Raph won't allow Mikey to ride on his bike unless if it's emergency

He paint his nightwatcher bike in red.

Ever since he bacame Nighwatcher, he became a vehicle expert it's mostly on his bike to take care of but he learns other vehicles in order to sabotage a gangs dirty job.

He is also super stealthy, won't see him coming.

Him being Nightwatcher has also made him to remember all the routes in the city, every road and every rooftop.

The others sometimes would tease about him being Nightwatcher. As a friendly sibling joke

Leo: Hey Raph, do you think you have a fanclub for Nightprince? Any admirers?

Raph: No, and if it did I'll run away from them. And it's Nightwatcher.

Donnie: But you're not nightwatcher anymore, you're Raphael, a grumpy sleepy snappy turtle.

Mikey: Haha, grumpy sleepy snappy turtle. Still, no jetpacks?

Raph: Obviously no, that's an offense to all our stealth training. I only have my bike and that's enough.

Donnie: Ah, yes of course your true love

The 3 of them are chased by Raph

It is Raph that started to call Donnie, Mamatello, To him Donnie became 'bossy' but still cares and worry for the well being of others in Leo's abscence and it still stays with him even after his return.

He also has convinced Leo to 'join' him because sometimes he feels like Donnie would became an Aunty-tello after his day job, and that is worse esppecially when he's mad.

Leo: What's in it for me?

Raph: He can sop bugging us about both of us not havin a job. I'll think of a day job that works for all 4 of us.

Leo: I do miss our geeky dorky brother being a geeky dorky brother. I'm proud that he's grown up but he's so...(irritated grumble) I'm in

Raph: Alright, we'll start by giving father extra cakes in silent

Leo: Wha...0_0

Leo went along with him anyway.

But Leo and Raph had a great time bonding and spendy their mundane free time

Raph may not look like it but he really is thinking of a job for all 4 of them

Raph just miss the old days because he actually miss the time they spend togeher.

When they go out on patrol, He is the most shocked towards Leo's violent impulse that he froze and is hesitant to intervene.

Luckily he was able to snap Leo out of it

Raph himself is too a battle maniac as mikey calls him and Leo but as nightwatcher he exercise some restraints.

Donnie akamamatello

Since he works from home, he sometimes cleans up the lair except for Raph's room because he sleeps all day with the door locked(or so he thought)

Since he works from home, makes him the 'leader' of the lair.

His job had him mentally drained because he's dealing with karens and boneheads every day, it drives him insane.

Poor harwoking turtle became sleep deprived, and if he does sleep, he dreams about a working his job without encountering any karens it's so peaceful until he wakes up

I like to hc that deep down he despise both Raph and Leo for just leaving him and Mikey by themselves to take care of the lair.

He can take care of the technological needs of the lair but it's difficult when he and Mikey are the ones that handle it when their father's health need to taken care of

He vents out all his frustration by training with his bo staff in the dojo

Donnie dosen't mind being called mamatello(who else has been managing the lair, splinter is getting old dude) He is proud of it too, because he discovered that there is something he can manage but if one of them calls him while their on a battle or etc. There's hell to pay.

I like to think that when he and Mikey have saved enough money for months they buy medical equipments and technologies, They sill have enough for grocery.

Sometimes he call on his brothers conducts a checkup but really he wants to test their equipment, he is so excited to use such fancy equipment bare with him

Example, Donnie: Raph, Mikey, Leo! X-ray come on all of us! I already test it on dad, It's all of you guys turns now.

Leo: He sounds...happy..

Mikey: Don's just happy we get to buy a new medical tech beside I won't be alone for the checkup.

Raph: Well, better than scolding us for some unfinished chores

Leo: Or buying kitchen knives.

Raph: Nah, I think you deserve that. Wtf, man?

Donnie: Hurry up!

In their nights of keeping the city safe as a brothers together, it's up to he 3 of them to exercise restraint on Leo, making sure that he dosen't accidently kill a thug.

Donnie is little afraid and worried of his eldest brother violent but he will do what he can to keep it in check with Raph and Mikey too.

Mikey

When he decide to quit being cowabunga Carl, he and Donnie come up with a plan to let Raph and Leo experience the horror of birthday parties for 2 weeks after that he works for 1 week before quitting completely.

It's mosly to compensate their absence and boy he enjoys it listening to their reactions from his headset.

Surprised at Raph's ability to adapt with the kids with a monotonous voice and Leo scolding the kids behind the parents back when he had the chance(it's rare don't worry), Both of them a one poin accidently knocked out a kid in the process.

Mikey: How's your job, fearless?

Leo: One of them were holding markers like their gonna stab me. They look like Chucky. It's annoying.

Mikey: *wheezing* Chucky. You're so mean

Mikey: Having fun, Raphie?

Raph: I didn't mean to knock that kid out, they're having fun.

Mikey: Dude, why

Raph: I didn't mean it

Since the 2 weeks of their shift, the kids stop slamming Mikey so hard due to Leo's shift, he scold some of the kids for slamming him when the adults are not seen somewhere.

He thanks Leo for that but that alone dosen't make up for his abscence.

I hc that he was frustrated when Leo stopped writing letters to them, when he didn't come home when his training period has ended.

Mikey opens up his frustration to Donnie and Splinter who empathise him, Raph at the time brushes him off by saying that he wants to stay in his room.

He has so much to tell him, he wants to lean on to Leo after his day job(back when he can enjoy it) like the youngest brother he is.

Yet, he wants to be angry at Leo but he distracts himself by focusing on his job Cowabunga Carl and be a goofball when he's back at the lair to rest before he continues the job the next day.

Having Leo to tell him about his journey is one way

Sometimes he handled the lairs technical issues by himself thanks to his observations on Donnie doing it while he explained to him. In return, he dragged Raph or Leo or both of them with him.

He has a diary in which he writes the name of the parent who scolded their kid for slamming him, he is very grateful to them, they are angels.

In their patrol when they are beating up bad guys and Leo would lose himself in the thrill of battle, Mikey was the first turtle to immediately stop restraint him from killing and Leo immediately snaps to reality.

Mikey: Yo, you nearly killed that punk! Sure their bastards acting all tough and harming folks but we don't kill them, we stop them! It's what we do, remember? Let the police and court, I guess to them.

Leo: ...Yeah...You're right, Mikey, Thanks, little bro.

Mikey: Your welcome, It's my job. come on let's give this to the police

[firstkanaphans]

Is Thai a hard language to learn? Did you learn on your own? Btw loving your translation so much

So, here’s the thing about Thai. Grammatically, it’s very easy. The verbs don’t conjugate, to make a word plural you just say it twice, and there are a lot of loan words. But then there are also the tones. There are five different tones in Thai and the tone you use to say a word will completely change its meaning. So khaao (stench), khàao (news), kháao (gist), khăao (white), and khȃao (rice) are all different words. Because of this, I find it much easier to comprehend and read Thai than it is to speak it.

The Foreign Services Institute actually has a scale it uses to rank languages by their difficulty for native English speakers to learn. Category 1 is the easiest, Category 5 is the hardest. Thai is in Category 4, requiring an estimated 44 weeks or 1100 hours to become proficient. The only languages listed as harder than Thai are Arabic, Chinese (both Cantonese and Mandarin), Japanese, and Korean.

And although I am capable of reading Thai, I mostly used Google Translate for the Eclipse novel because I’ve only been learning for a year and a half, so my skills aren’t quite at the y-novel level yet. However, Google Translate and Thai pretty notoriously don’t get along (You can see my post about First Kanaphan vs Google Translate here), so my Thai knowledge was able to help me fill in the blanks when Google’s translation inevitably didn’t make sense.

I learned mostly through self-study for the first 6 months and then followed that up with 6 months with a private tutor. I’ve had a lot of fun with it, but I’m definitely still learning. I’m glad you’re enjoying the translation so far 💕

[crowfeatherquill]

In Which Crow Does Things That Aren't Spider And Songbird

Hello gentlefriends! I'm posting fic again But Different This Time!!

My goal here is to have a chapter of this ready on the first Friday of every month. If I happen across a windfall of inspiration and end up with a massive backlog, posting frequency might increase, but I'd expect slow updates overall. Hope you enjoy <3

If there is one thing that carving out a modest existence for himself in the Underdark has taught Tathlyn, it’s that there’s a first time for everything. If there is a second thing it has taught him, it’s that the stranger and more interesting your life is, the harder the gods have to work to find new firsts for you.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s staggered about, disoriented and surrounded by fire, in the hopes of finding a path to safety. It also wouldn’t be the first time he’s been unable to escape the stench of burning flesh. It is, however, the first time he’s had the opportunity to do something quite so visceral as to crush an intellect devourer to death while it squirms, not-quite-born, in the skull of its unfortunate host.

There’s little time to process such a gruesome undertaking, though. The blood has scarcely dried on his hands when he catches his first glimpse of the landscape outside the burning…whatever-it-is. Nautiloid, the runic tablets had called it, as they bled information directly into his brain like the tip of an inked quill dipped in water. Part vessel, part creature, entirely disgusting, and frankly quite far down his list of priorities for unpacking. By his estimation, it ranks somewhere beneath the fact that, if the endless expanse of burning brimstone is anything to judge by, this Nautiloid-thing has found its way into the Hells. That fact itself is also swiftly outranked by the bellowing bloody dragon that dives across his field of view, arcing flame toward the Nautiloid’s hull -- or perhaps husk would be more appropriate? -- before being chased off by flashing purple cannon fire.

He takes a few staggering steps toward the nearest vertical surface -- something to reach out and ground himself against in the face of a tidal wave of panic -- and finds it unfortunately fleshy. He pulls away with a grimace, wiping his hand down the front of his armor and leaving a smear of slime mixed with the still-tacky blood of the intellect devourer. He’s too occupied with his own disgust to notice the figure prowling above him until it’s too late.

She descends in an arc from over his head and before he has the chance to reach for a sword he doesn’t have, hers is at his throat. This, too, is far from a first, but a fleeting sense of foolishness does cut the panic briefly. It’s been a long time since something managed to get the drop on him from above. There are far too many things that like to cling to cavern ceilings in the Underdark for him to risk ignoring his upper periphery under normal circumstances.

She calls him abomination. Intones a threat with confidence he is all too familiar with. But before she can deliver, something squirms behind the eye he would have called his good one up till now. He sees her stagger, just briefly, before he’s launched into visions -- scattered images seen through eyes that aren’t his at all. A dragon’s wing from an impossible angle. A silver sword nearly the size of its wielder from tip to pommel. A brief flash of his own face, wan and sweaty, the imprint of his magic writhing around his dead eye in response to his unease.

He looks a fright, he realizes. He can hardly blame her for thinking him an enemy.