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elvirable · 1 year

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Instincts

[ Astarion x f!Reader/Tav ] | ao3 link

rating: explicit | word count: 3.7k | status: complete themes/tags: vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, creampie, feelings realization, denial of feelings, light angst at the end, you know the sex scene after the tiefling party?, yeah so this is it, with astarions pov, already catching feelings smh, smut is halfway through, just skip to after all early dialogue

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Little did he know that evening, that was the beginning of his simple plan crumbling apart.

In other words: Astarion has been struggling to balance century-long instincts with newfound feelings, an undeniable connection. He carries out his simple little plan as intended, but meets complications he didn't quite expect. ----------- A/N: so i hung up my cod medals of honor to write this.. i've been playing for a month now. originally posted without proofreading, but its now edited for grammar and some terms -----

It was hard not to have fun around you.

Something of a child-like giddiness would buzz through his nerves whenever you sauntered over, his marbled red eyes wouldn't dare to miss a beat of the vision you were. Swaying hips and that deceivingly coy face. Of course, you were strikingly beautiful – a wickedly delectable sight – but that wasn’t the only source of his carnal anticipation.

It was just you, the enigmatic little thing you were.

Admittedly, Astarion believed he had read you like an open book the moment he laid eyes on you. It was an instinct of his: gathering a cerebral repository of notable ticks and body language, facial twitches, and octave changes in those around him. Watchful, constant observations.

He had chalked you up to a sort of stoic character at first. Graceful, to a degree, in your manner of subtly balancing the world around you. A stable composure, quick and quiet without brash or idle chatter.. unlike that Gale. You were a less flagrantly repulsive hero-type crafted in his mind – but he had still expected you to be oh-so predictable with a shallow drive for self-emaciating ‘justice’. Whereas the others wore their baggage like a garment, you held your cards close to your chest – like a chameleon suddenly thrust into the spotlight.

Yet the sun rose and fell two or three times around the wilderness of Elturel, when he found himself pleasantly contradicted. He normally didn’t dedicate much attention towards someone he believed he so easily pegged, but his interest began to pique. Just enough to leave him sitting with an edge and a consuming desire to peer in closer.

Maybe it was the way your mouth twitched into a quiet smile during his verbal antics on the road or the firm passiveness you held from the blighted village to the drama of Emerald Grove; an intoxicatingly confusing blend of traits you harbored. The closer he watched you, the less blurred you became. You didn’t fear being authentic and enforcing boundaries to those who attempted to use you – but you weren’t cruel; you met the world around you just as it was, without discrimination. No unnecessary harm, no free handouts either.

Or perhaps it was your sarcastic remarks that stirred what little glee he had in him; an especially delicious and refreshing insight into your humor. While he could care to give a critical note or two on your lack of blatant cruelty, Astarion respected your compelling demeanor; he witnessed how all these companions turned their eyes so frequently to you with decision.

But what he did know for sure was the eye contact.

Gods, the first time your heads swiveled mid-strife and your gazes locked with a rich crackle – the memory alone was enough to stupefy him! Something strange stirred, something that didn’t sit comfortably. He didn’t know what to make of it.

With all this said, that same sensation boiled inside his stomach as he mulled over his every interaction with you. He recalled that moment of midnight – when all was still and you had caught him prepared to taste your throat. Your wary stare pierced through him, washing away briefly the desperate pangs of blood-thirst and left him feeling.. nervous.

Ugh, how he despised the feeling.

He was sickened when all those ledgers of observations caved in on himself, caught in his pale throat. He had taken such an overwhelming liking to you – to the extent, he had realized, that he was drawn to your guidance, your approval; a repulsive frustration at the time enough to coil through his cold veins. Without much to say, however, he was adamantly relieved when you conceded and soon regularly allowed him to drink from your slender neck.

His trail of thoughts glossed over your stifled grunts onto the following morning: when you came to his defense as everyone felt the need to chime in with their unfettered prejudices. And how his ease, his excitement around you became persistently potent – a fresh energy that filled him as you spurred on his teasings and whims. Astarion noticed your subtle release of your ever-strong walls, just enough so he could relish in your humor and affable side.

There was always a hesitation at doting on the sensation that rose inside him at these thoughts of you. He surmised he was merely back in the practice; where he spun honeyed words and charmingly guile eye contact, to wrap his target around his finger. Any little edge of control he could grasp onto, the familiar taste of influence he used to know so well. These habits of two hundred years were kicking in. He’d play the part and – sooner or later – this eagerness to please would be reversed onto you.

Whether it was his own willful denial or the culmination of fate’s ever-spinning thread, the first crumble began the night of the tiefling party.

Cool and clear was the star-freckled night. Everything was too merry for him: the wide-toothed grins of the tieflings, sharp strums of the lute, the chatter. Even the wine was downright awful, pungent and tart like vinegar.

Astarion would’ve normally indulged in his bitter mood, but it was the sight of your drunken smile that diffused his prior desire to complain.

How interesting, he thought as his eyes lapped up your squinted grin and eased laughter. It was helplessly infectious to see you so earnest, casually prattling on in conversation throughout the camp.

Red eyes followed while you made your rounds, encouraging the tiefling’s dancing lights spell and conversing with the bard. Astarion even raised a brow at the playful expression that washed over your face as you spoke to the hulking druid by the name of Halsin. When you strolled over to Shadowheart and he caught that carefully provocative glint in the raven-haired cleric’s eyes – a chord of jealousy grew taut inside his chest.

He had half the mind to feel insulted that you hadn’t wandered in his direction yet, but that was quickly dispersed when he noticed you dismiss yourself and head towards a wooden crate near the riverfront.

Almost like a shadow, Astarion swept in your direction. Whether it was to merely take in your smile up close or to put his plan in motion, he settled on the latter. You were rifling through the crate that held what could barely pass as wine, muttering a quiet curse about the little tiefling probably pocketing a bottle or two.

“Here’s my little treat with her cheeks all flushed,” the words dripped from his mouth with a sweet cadence. “You will come to my bed tonight, won’t you?”

You swiveled at the sound of his voice, raised brow accompanying your hazy smile. The influence of wine lowered your usual wariness, and he caught the realization flutter across your face; there was no constitution in attempting to act reserved, especially with the rapport you two had grown. Amusement was written all over your face, hardly concealed – you had decided to play along.

“A little treat? You can do better than that.”

“Oh, I certainly can. It would be my pleasure.”

He leaned closer, half-lidded eyes darkening and breath heavy with a mischievous delight. You watched him expectantly, reveling in what would pour from his lips.

“How about this one,” he loosened his posture, as if you both were stowed away from the entire world instead of dawdling along the outskirts of the shoddy camp. “All these accolades from the tieflings are nothing compared to the sound of my name, cried from your lips.”

Astarion watched the smile further spread across your soft lips, the wickedly sweet crinkle in your eyes while you crossed your arms. An exhilaration rose underneath his suave demeanor, even the bemused snicker invigorating.

“Is that the best you can do?” came your quick quip.

“Hmm, let me give it another go,” his voice was thick with arousal, a hungry glint in his eyes. “Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation – it’s as if the Gods made you just to ruin me.”

His words clung to the air for a moment. The deliberate onslaught of poetic pleasantries laced with such ardent lust, the hum of the wine – Astarion studied your face swirling in thought. Heat had built up from the lower half of your body up to your cheeks, a quiet neediness wavering in your stance and threatened to boil to the surface of your skin.

Gods, you were thinking, it had been the longest time and you’ve been touch-starved.. more so under the urgency of all the trouble you had been thrust into. You never trusted a pretty boy, but you'd be damned if his flowered prose didn't stir something in you; you had never been the subject of such pursuits, real or not. Desire rushed through you, coiling in your stomach.

There was a beckoning in his eyes as they clutched onto yours, imporing you to draw closer, and his boyish features were even more alluring when caressed by the moon’s glow. However, you couldn’t bring yourself to trust those flowery words. They were tinted with an air of rehearse.

“Did these really work on Cazador’s targets?”

“Well, they’re working on you, aren’t they?”

A mild bashfulness buzzed through the warmth on your cheeks, as you couldn’t really deny it.

“How about if I said these little words… everyone’s favorite,” Astarion continued, pausing for effect.

“I love you.”

Sly amusement colored his face. He had succeeded in riling up the intrinsic urge, no matter how much you tried to conceal it. How adorable you were when your gaze fluttered briefly.

“Having fun, are you?” you observed, smile holding on your lips.

As he had mused earlier, he was. It was hard not to whenever around you.

Festivities settled down, the entire camp fast asleep once the wine crate had emptied and bellies were full. Only the chittering of crickets could be heard amongst the trees.

The forest, usually dressed in potent darkness, stilled beneath the moonlight. A serene, subtle beauty of the night – one Astarion was very accustomed to knowing, to living . He had done this so many times it had become second nature – the salacious rendezvous, the secrecy and fleeting thrill of them all.

He had contemplated before, the image of you melting in the throes of pleasure. He wondered whether you preferred his hands gentle or rough, what sounds would dribble from your lips – if they sounded as sweet as you tasted.

Though nothing could prepare him for the reality, which far surpassed fantasy; the pretty little thing you were, bare figure caressed by the lowlight, slowly making your way towards him.

“There you are. I’ve been waiting.”

You offered him a coy smile, cheeks still warm and rosy. An ache rushed between your legs at the sight of him sauntering forward, his well-formed broad physique. Lean, yet muscular – and the soft details of his appearance; the crease of laughter lines, the curl of his lashes. Just the anticipation of it all served enough to make you wet.

“Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you,” he leaned closer, desire coating every syllable.

“You don’t have me yet,” you matched the pulse of his words, emanating a playfulness to goad him on further.

Greedy lips suddenly met yours, and you were pressed against the tree trunk. His palms gripped the back of your thighs, swift dexterity almost catching you off guard. You instantly melted, like a puddle, in his grasp; your soft lips just as eager, skin aching and impatient for his touch. You never realized how sensitive you were, how truly touch-starved until you fought the gasp that escaped your throat.

Astarion didn’t waste a beat, carefully laying you onto the grass below while he drawled slow kisses along the curve of your neck. Fervent yearning permeated from your skin; you wanted more, and he was prepared to give you everything .

He drank in the sight of your arousal, eager to please you yet potently roused from the position he was in: you were such a delectably pretty thing sprawled beneath his weight, completely bare and vulnerable. Wide eyes bashfully beckoning him to just taste you.

“Part those precious legs for me, beautiful.” He directed, his voice less of a growl this time – instead more sweet. Soft.

You could feel your face heat up further at his words, following his command without hesitation. Tender hands trailed along the soft skin of your thigh, his intense eyes briefly leaving yours to watch his fingers lingered over your folds – you were glistening with slick , fevered arousal.

“Oh my, you’re already so wet for me.”

His voice was almost a whisper now, as a keen excitement rushed through his veins. A twitch pressed against his briefs, his cock already hard and eager especially when his eyes darted towards your rosy. So willing, ready to indulge his every whim. For a moment, he settled in your vulnerability – a sight he didn't expect to see. You were always full of such delicious surprises.

He shook the thought from his mind, allowing a sly smile to return to his lips.

“Who knew you were so needy?”

Your cheeks flushed, timid lips scrambling to form a defensive retort before he slipped two fingers inside. Only a quiet gasp left your mouth as your soaking warmth struggled to adjust, tightening around his digits. You were barely able to comprehend the words he said, instinctively bucking your hips.

“ Astar ..” your breath hitched before you could even finish, when his fingers began a slow pace. Teasingly slow, you would beckon, but there was nothing you could even fathom whispering anymore. Your walls began to clench, eager to receive his unwavering attention.

Hums of pleasure pulsed through your every nerve, rapidly as he fastened the curling pace of his fingers. Every hitched and quiet whimper encouraged him, his palm soaked with your slick. He relished the sight of your round breasts rising and falling feverishly, your heat clenched around him – his cock further hardened, precum no doubt pooling on the fabric of his briefs.

All you could manage was to focus on the pleasure mounting between your legs, thighs now quivering with anticipation. His thumb slid up to your swollen clit, never breaking pace, to draw teasingly slow circles. He adjusted his weight to lean closer to your face, the sudden attention causing an overwhelming shyness to press your eyes shut. Your thighs trembled more now while his fingers beckoned and lured your pleasure to spur closer and closer.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his voice the gentlest you’ve ever heard.

He couldn’t place the sensation – of feeling entranced in a sense, when whimpers of pleasure fumbled from your beautiful lips. Astarion almost felt lost, nearly mesmerized, when you kept those pretty eyes trained on his. He could feel his eyes soften at your vulnerable stare, and all at once everything inside him craved to slide into your warmth. To feel you melt into him, to hit every right spot to make you sing, for every sweet prayer cascading from your lips to be for him.

“Mmf..” You were left in a sudden foggy haze, a mix of pleasure and confusion when he abruptly withdrew his fingers. You couldn’t fathom any words to speak, only furrowed your brows in a hazed and disorientated manner.

“I’m sorry, love.” His breathless laugh seemed dazed before the low, heaviness returned to his tone, “You were practically just begging with those lovely eyes of yours.”

He leaned downwards to plant soft, reassuringly delicate pecks across the nape of your neck; each a mantra to affection, leaving a buzz in their wake. Carefully he peeled down his briefs with a wasted moment to rub his eager cock against your slick warmth.

Your moans sounded even sweeter closer to his ear, and a delighted sigh pressed from his lips onto your skin. His throbbing cock was met with some resistance as the length and girth was suffocated by your tightening walls, warm spasms at the sensation being filled.

A guttural, low moan hummed from his throat. Fuck, you were so perfectly tight.

His cock pulsed at the sudden attention, aching with pleasure and a warm buzz radiating through his skin. He paused for a moment, needing to relish every second it felt to be now pressed so deep inside you. The softness of your skin, delicate cues of pleasure washing over your face, how your warm walls enveloped his cock.

You moaned as he pushed more of his length inside your needy warmth, tears beginning to well up in the corner of your eyes. Pleasure and slight pain blurred, the tip of his cock almost pressed against your soft cervix and a rouse of heat traveling up your spine.

His hands gripped the globes of your ass to adjust his leverage, slowly but deliberately digging his hips against yours with each thrust. His body was achingly ready, alive with frantic urge. He was incapable of any pretty words to whisper, tangled groans replacing his usual velvet tongue.

As he pounded quicker into your warmth, your pulsating soft walls sucked his cock tighter and deeper with each buckle. He nestled his head into the nape of your neck. Sweat formed on his pale forehead as he wrestled with his restraint, his cock stroking in and out, hitting pleasure points you never knew existed and relishing in your shameless cries – desperate for him.

Soft, warm pleasure unraveled across you in hot waves. If you had the mind, you could only hope that no one could hear you two – the sounds and wet smacks of his skin colliding against yours – but all you could do was turn your pleasured cries and whimpers into soundless gasps.

Your lips parted, hips bucking before your back arched from the ground. Every fiber of your body attempted to get closer to him, and his to you. Of some act of grace, your hand caressed his face, lifting him to face yours.

Oh, how he wanted to melt right there.

Eager eyes met each other, brows furrowing together into a soft, tender stare. Astarion’s hips began to buck erratically for a moment as he struggled to regain his resolve. Once steadied, he continued to bury deeper into you in every perfect way. You were clenched so tightly, so divinely around him while his name trickled as a whisper from your lips.

“You – fuck .. “ you couldn’t be bothered to form a proper sentence, every whim of comprehension overwhelmed by new heights of white pleasure. You were lulled into a stupor, and his grip tightened at your garbled pleas.

“Thaaat’s it,” Astarion practically begged, voice ragged, his eyes never leaving your beautiful face as it twisted with sweet expressions. An eagerness gnawed inside him, to push you to the edge of your pleasures. You were so perfect while you cried his name, taking all of him so well.

“Come for me, sweet girl –” Hushed and delicate was his tone, only causing you to surrender any inhibition.

Heat wound tightly in your abdomen, lashes wet with the tears trailing down your warm face. Every nerve was wound so tight, finally snapping into a rush of white hot pleasure that left your skin flushed and tingling. You tried to whine out his name, but it spilled out into broken gasps as you reached your fingers to grip his silver curls.

His hips began to stagger, riding out your pleasure until he could no longer postpone the succumb to pleasure. They lost their rhythm, and a low moan rumbled from his throat as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensation of your tightening walls, pressing into you.

You could feel his cock throbbing in you, as your nerves are slow to fizzle from the glowing buzz, and it swelled. Your slick walls were overstimulated nearly by his desperate, choppy thrusts before a cry escapes his lips – his cum flooded into you, thick and hot. He felt waves of warmth, so real and alive. So helplessly right.

The air was silent, as you both collected your breaths in hurried gasps. Astarion peeled his weight off of you only to roll onto his back, by your side. Your body felt light and completely slack, almost boneless as you sunk into the earth underneath you. Aftershocks of pleasure still rippled throughout your nerves.

Both of you laid sweaty, flushed, exhausted, lacking the energy to care. You broke the silence with a wobble in your voice.

“Fuck, you came inside me..” you stated the obvious, reeling from pulsing nerves and vision hazy.

“I’m sure the druids have something that’ll take care of that..” Astarion said breathlessly, extending an arm to wipe the sweat glistening off his forehead.

He waited for a quiet laugh or a retort, but neither came.

Turning his head, he was met with the vision of your exhausted figure fast asleep. Slowly your chest rose and fell, face at ease – a vulnerability he had only seen when you were in deep sleep, if you weren't tossing and turning.

The quiet sat with him while he attempted to gather his thoughts, his experience. He had seen an entirely different side of you – exposed delicate. Part of his conscience pooled with guilt.

He had a plan. A nice simple plan. It wasn’t foreign to casually bed strangers, seducing and manipulating them into following his every whim. Hells, this had been routine for two hundred years . The count was lost on how many nights he spent using people like ragdolls, only to be lured back into the hands of Cazador.

Astarion returned his gaze to the stars glistening above, attempting his best at reducing it to the odd circumstances or perhaps he was simply out of practice.

Regardless – even if it was more than a fluke – he had already fucked things up. The thought felt tainted now, uneasy and riddled with remorse.

Little did he know that evening, that was the beginning of his plan crumbling apart.

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cupcakeslushie · 2 years

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Part 1 || Next

Gremlin must get clean before he can see his little bro.

Little more info: So it’s been a few days for the family but three years for Leo. The prison dimension kept Leo in pretty stable condition, which was a blessing and pure torture. He never had to eat or sleep but he would still feel hungry and tired, and the Kraang used him as a constant punching bag but no matter how bad his wounds Leo couldn’t die.

Also…Mikey is fine! I had no idea that tag would scare so many people lol 😂 but I suppose maybe some of y’all know my MO by now and thought the worst so here he is. Just a little recovery needed from being a badass mystic warrior and saving his brother.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt fanart #rise leo #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt movie #my art #rise of the tmnt movie spoilers #rise donnie #rise april #feral leo au #rise mikey #rise casey jones #leonardo hamato #donatello hamato #april o'neil #michelangelo hamato #casey jones #feral Leo au main

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boolger · 17 days

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A lapdog at a farm - chapter 1

AO3 link. next chapter -> Call of duty. Explicit, 18+, minors do not interact. read the tags. wc: 4,147

Farmer!John Price x Hybrid!Reader, hybrid! Kyle Gaz Garrick x hybrid! Johnny Soap MacTavish x hybrid! Simon Ghost, John Price x Nikolai.

Summary: When Price was young and left his childhood home, a farm in the middle of nowhere in England, he didn’t enter the military. Instead he moved to London, got a degree and a good career, earning good money. He got you, a human dog hybrid as a pet, after feeling lonely - and you lived your best life for years, spoiled and pampered, Price’s lapdog who got praised at every party. Loved and fucked every night. That was until Price decided to return to his roots and go back to farming - dragging you along to the middle of nowhere, away from all the wonders of the big city. Expecting you to accept this sudden change in lifestyle and pretend to be a farm dog. Bad luck however, because you fucking hated it, and became more and more unruly. In hopes of getting you to calm down and to keep his live-stock and farm safe, Price then got three working dog hybrids - and all at once, your life was even worse than before.

tags: Rape/non-con elements, dub-con, dog!hybrid!people being kept as pets, alternative universe - farm, dark, farmer!John Price, working-dogs, punishments, mating cycles/rut/heat (no omegaverse), the dove isn't dead but its dying, reader is a brat, knotting, animal tails and ears, mentions of trauma, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, collars, rough sex, breeding kink, biting, threesome, foursome, everyone is fucking your honor, enemies to lovers, chubby reader, reader has a pussy

author's note: Hi sinners <33 Just a heads up; the reader is gonna be a spoiled brat. If you want a smart and sweet reader who isn’t mean at times, well. Bad news. This ain’t it.🥰The reader is she / her and has a pussy and is chubby. I tried my best to keep the descriptions somewhat vague otherwise. Reader is a cocker spaniel hybrid. I will tell the others along the way. In this universe, hybrids have ears, tail, claws beneath nails and canine fangs. There will be heats and ruts but there is no omegaverse. They will have personality traits of their dog breed and so on. Now. I know there aren’t wild wolves in the UK… but in this fic there is, ok? mwah.

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The countryside was peaceful compared to the city; the absence of the bustling streets and constant traffic, created a quietness that was indescribable.

Out here, at the new farm, the noises only came from animals that lived in the stables and barn or the occasional rumble as a tractor turned on. The wind caressed the never ending fields of wheat and the long rows of fruit trees, under which the goats and sheep walked most days.

The stress here wasn’t the same kind as in the city. Sure , there were stressful moments and sometimes Price looked like he needed to sleep for more than just the few hours he got everyday.

But he didn’t have to worry about the morning traffic, waiting in a queue for an overpriced, questionable tea or coffee. There was no need for him to wear a suit, no noisy, overfilled train cars in the underground. No crowded dog or hybrid parks, no meetings or rules to follow - except those John Price decided for himself.

He was happy, so much was clear to you. It had been three months since the move - Johnhad gone back to his roots, buying back the farm that his parents had used to own a little while ago, using some of his endless wealth on renovating the place. There was no step on the stairs that was loose, like it used to when he was a kid - sure they still creaked, but you weren’t afraid they would disappear from beneath you.

It was modernized, but most of the old charm left. Price fit right in; the furniture he had inherited and never believed he would use was suddenly in the living room. His knowledge of the business world was abandoned in the city, for the knowledge of farming that he still had left from his youth. John got a couple of farm hands and workers, who helped him with the big place.

It was like he reclaimed his own self that had been buried beneath the suits, ties and paperwork. Now he didn’t smoke his cigars from stress, but from pleasure, clearly much content.

It was like the farm had truly made John Price happy once more; his smiles more genuine, his true self stepping forth. Returning to his childhood home and taking over the farm had been the best decision Price had made. There was no question about it.

… and you hated every bloody day at the farm.

The early morning hours in bed with him, being disturbed by the farm waking up, the rooster crowing and John leaving the bed, giving you a pat in between your ears, taking all the heat with him. The constant bugs, the muddy stables and the big animals, the helpers who always teased you for not fitting in, the lack of friends you had out here. The foxes’ screams in the night, the wolves howling, and the cows occasionally mooing sounded like creatures stepping out of nightmares.

You were not made for farm life. Literally. Simply not made for it.

Some would argue that you, as a hybrid pet, didn’t have a say in it and sure , legally you didn’t. But you were a lapdog, an elegant pet. Not a farm dog. Created to be cared for and cuddled, you were a purebred cocker spaniel hybrid; you weren’t made to run around on a farm, following John on his duties And doing work.

Sure, you had the instincts to hunt a few things here and there, but it was mostly balls and the occasional bird or squirrel. You weren’t a guard hybrid, not really a working dog.

You had had enough trauma throughout your life - you deserved not to be forced into this! You had grown up being trained to be a lapdog, not a working-dog like you felt like John expected you to act like now.

You wanted John to be happy, you really did - you loved your Master! When he bought you a few years ago, when you were still aggressive and unruly (… more than now at least), you had thought he would tire of you like everybody else had. But with patience, rules, training, praise and punishment and a whole lot of sex later, you were a perfect hybrid pet for the city! People always praised how well you looked, laughing when Price said you were really a little troublemaker. You would follow him throughout the fancy apartment, on your daily walks, sometimes for meetings.

But why the fuck did it have to be a farm? He worked somwwhat the same time that he did before, genuinely seeming to enjoy himself. Forgetting about poor you!

Out here, there were no hybrid daycare that you would go to when he had long days, there were none of your playmates nearby, everything stank of animals and there were no places nearby for you to get your hair and fur styled and pampered! No nail technicians, no fancy cafes, no shops for John to buy you things in! No special made coffee or chef-made meals every other evening, no freshly baked croissants.

You felt like you had tried . You really had.

But after the first week, you had your first breakdown - and as the weeks passed, they didn’t stop. At first, John was sympathetic, like the perfect owner he was.

Cooing at you, kissing your forehead, as he gently scratched your ears. Kissing away any tears, saying it was okay - that you were just overwhelmed, that it would be okay. That you would come to like it out here.

Big fucking joke.

He had tried every trick in the book, in an attempt to please you and made you less upset, but as days turned into weeks and tantrums began to appear, you knew his patience began to disappear.

He followed professional advice and then the advice of the neighbors down the street, Rodolfo and Alejandro (who had caught you running away at one point), tried some of the workers’ advice. He had given you your own room, and it was mostly designed like your own, perfect to the pale green paint on the wall, all your toys and dog beds, your CDs - everything. He had tried hauling you along every day, trying to give you a routine to follow - but after two weeks, he gave up, not having the energy to deal with a tantrum that got worse and worse each day. He went on walks with you, fucked you silly, tried his best — and you didn’t want it.

No, you wanted to go back to your old life. Not this country life that you hadn’t signed up for, with horses that neighed loudly whenever you passed them; they were definitely going to trample you at the first chance, you knew that. You could hear foxes scream in the night, warning you of the dangers. The goats and sheep were so fucking loud and no you didn’t want to go pick fresh apples off the trees - had he seen the size of the spiders crawling on them?

When you in one of your biggest tantrums took off and bolted from the farm in distress, Rodolfo and Alejandro had almost hit you when you emerged from the corn fields onto the road.

You had cried the entire drive home, no matter what the two men had tried saying, especially as Rodolfo called Price in advance — your master was livid . The worst thing was, that it was not that kind of anger where he yelled at you before punishing you - no, this one was almost silent, a sharp grip on your collar as he dragged you along after thanking his neighbours.

He had belted you then, ignoring your crying and screaming, only stopping when you broke, sobbing and going quiet. He had explained it to you then, what could have happened, what dangers you could have ended in - and as you sobbingly apologized and tried to explain, that you wanted to go back to the city, John had sighed .

Said that he had pampered you too much since he got you, which had made you greedy and attention seeking. Which only made you cry more, as you hid your face in his neck, fingers digging into his shirt, ass cheeks burning.

“Spoiled rotten, little birdie,” he mused, though you could hear the softness in him, your tail wagging a little, hoping to get him to be less mad.

“‘M sorry,” you had whined in distress, upset with yourself as well, ears tipping down, “wanna be good but I don’t like it.”

Your rather dull escape attempt resulted in several things. An AirTag on your collar, so that he always knew where you were. A remarkable lack of treats, sex and then… the crate .

You fucking hated the dog crate.

Sure, it hadn’t been nice of you to bite one of his pillows into a simple pulp of fabric, feathers everywhere. Or create chaos in the kitchen… or get drunk on his fancy whiskey (that one had ended worse for you, hangover was a bitch and there wasn’t much sympathy from John). And yes, you might have ripped most of the flowers surrounding the house up, until one of the workers had caught you. Maybe pissing yourself in the middle of the living room while staring him in the eyes and ignoring his warnings had been a little…excessive.

But the dog crate? You hated that thing with a burning passion.

Hated it when he locked you up, ignoring your whimpers and whines, your promises to behave, ignoring your little howls as he left.

Mean. The farm had made him mean. Perhaps you had become a bit unruly too, but it was like he didn’t take your clear suffering seriously.

Mean and happy - unruly and suffering. What a pair you were. One of the workers, KAte Laswell, who was a big helper and often stayed over for dinner, suggested a fucking shock collar. You had growled, only stopped when John sent you a sharp look.

You had even heard him talking over the phone with somebody, saying that he didn’t want to rehome you, but he didn’t know what to do.

That had made you melt a little and you had cried as you had crawled into his bed a couple of hours later, begging him to not abandon you. Fears of never getting to see John again or being loved again by him made you cling onto him as he kissed away your tears, gently fucking you.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

It was a random morning a couple of days later, that you found him still in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, humming to himself while smoking a cigar.

He looked nice like this. Despite how he sometimes muttered about being too old, he wasn’t really that old. Late thirties, and perhaps it was the peace on his face or the sun rays that kissed him, which made him look younger. But still. There was a decade between you, but days like this, you were reminded that it didn’t matter.

“Are you going to stare all day or are you going to join me, Darling?” He asked teasingly, pulling you from your thoughts. You let out a little huff and kissed him good morning, receiving a pat on the ass before you sat down on your own seat. It had been a while since the two of you had eaten together - often he was up at the crack of dawn, so his calm behavior and gentle humming was unusual to say the least.

“Why are you not working?” You asked carefully, as you ate some of the bread, trying to ignore how it wasn’t a fancy sourdough one - though you were pretty sure he had picked it up from a local bakery in the village which was a little drive away.

“Because,” he put the paper down, then tapping some ash off the cigar into his ashtray, before looking over at you, a pleased smile on his face, “you and I are going on a trip.”

“A trip?” You didn’t even bother to be embarrassed about how your voice got higher with excitement or how your tail thumped against the backrest of the chair as you wagged it, “where are we going? When? Can we go now?”

Price had laughed, a happy sound that you knew not many got to hear; it made your heart beat a little faster, made you feel butterflies in your stomach.

“Well, we got to do a few things first to get ready, and you ,” he used the cigar to point at you, your tail wagging a little faster, “need to not freak out when I tell you where we are going.”

Despite the warning, tears streamed down your cheeks when he told you. John didn’t get mad as a part of you had expected; he knew your abandonment issues first hand, knew how you had been left behind before, from one bad owner to another.

“You’re going to sell me and leave me with a mean owner and I’m gonna die of hunger and thirst - and - and —“

“Not gonna leave you, princess,” John crooned, covering your face in kisses as you hiccuped and sniffled, clinging to his clothes, “you know that. My favorite puppy. Pretty girl.”

Despite your tears and small sobs, your tail wagged at his words, “silly puppy,” he mused with a smile, gently scratching your lower back, “‘m not gonna sell you. Ale and Rodolfo are looking for a hybrid, I figured we could go look at the auction as well.”

“What if - what if - what if you’ll like them more?” You sniffled dramatically, sure that your life was only going to become worse than it already was. One thing was this bloody farm and the crate, another thing was having to share Price. You didn’t like the idea one bit. If that happened, you were going to show him how a proper tantrum was thrown - the crate would probably be the least of your worries.

As if to prove his love, John bent you over the table, fucking you in between the clattering dishes and cutlery, tea and coffee almost spilling over. Despite how many times your owner fucked you, it made you lose control of your mind every single time. His cock reached so deep inside you that it bordered on pain, your mouth open as you panted and moaned at each thrust; your soft stomach being pressed against the edge of the table, one hand holding onto the back of your collar, the other on your tail. The table rattled, John groaned and moaned, your fingers desperately trying to hold onto anything.

“My princess,” he snarled darkly into your ear, “you’ll always be mine-“ a moan, a grunt, “- no matter what happens, yeah?”

“Yes ye-ah- yes, sir, I’m yours - ah ah - I’m yours!” you managed in between pants and wails of pleasure, fear of abandonment forgotten in the ocean of euphoric satisfaction.

You came harder than you had for a while; the reminder of your worth, of how you deserved his worship, making you cream around his throbbing length, legs in spasms afterwards. He pushed deeper, filling you up with a loud roar like sound, his hands moving to grab onto the fat of your ass and hips as he came. Pain and pleasure made your toes curl and a content sigh left you, your tail wagging against Price as he chuckled.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The auction hall was filled to the brim with humans and hybrids alike. Every owned hybrid followed their respective owners, all wearing mandatory leashes so no pets would be confused with the ones that were being sold. You wore your own pink one with pride, gem stones sparkling. A matching leash connected to the D-ring on it, that also bore your tags. You were convinced yours were the most beautiful in this entire place.

“They’re bonded,” Laswell pointed out, pointing to the papers that hung nearby, showing off general information about them, “gotta get all three.”

You dared to look at the little board with the informations about the three hybrids they were looking at.

“Ah, we don't have space for three, mi amor.”

“eso es una pena,” Rodolfo answered, while you looked over at John - who kept looking at the three hybrids. You dared to peek over at them.

All three of them were enormous .

Two of them wore muzzles, meaning they were biters. At least at the auction. You shouldn’t judge then, not really, but you did... Even though you had worn a muzzle five years ago, when Price had chosen you. You hadn’t tried biting people out of malice; you had been scared and angry at the world. Angry for being abandoned once more, over the fact that you were most likely being passed on to another abusive master. You leaned a little closer to Price, taking in his scent.

Even from the start, despite all the problems and your attitude problems, he had been sweet. Strict at times — probably not enough — but kind.

The biggest one looked like a Great Pyrenees breed, most likely. The fur on his ears and tail looked shorter, badly cut. Probably due to matting or if he refused to get it cut. His hair, a dark blonde almost brown, was in a buzz cut. He had scars, all over - unable to hide because of the lack of clothes most hybrids were given, only underwear. There was a lot in his face, though you suspected a bunch were hidden by the muzzle. He stared into nothing, his ears curled back, though they moved now and again, listening to different sounds.

“Hard to get sold,” Laswell commented and you looked over at her in synchronicity with John, “they’re ex-military.”

Like he had been called to them, a man who wore one of the seller badges appeared.

“They’re obedient once they fall into place,” he happily explained, going full seller-mode, “they’re just not too fond of the auctions - too many people.”

“Makes sense,” Price mused, clearly interested - much to your annoyance. The fact that he asked follow up questions made you frown, fingers tightening in his shirt. He was here to look. To help Alejandro and Rodolfo, who both had continued their walk. You dared to look over at the hybrids again. All three were staring at you and John.

“How come they were discharged?”

“One of them got a hearing loss -“ he nodded towards them, “the one with the mohawk. And they’re a bonded pack.”

“So only retiring him was out of the question,” John concluded once more looking over at them.

You felt your tail go in between your legs. He couldn’t be seriously considering those three . you couldn’t help but let out a small whine. Price gave your leash a little tug.

“They’re working dogs,” the seller continued, his eyes flickering to you, making you huff, “so they’ll need something to do, not just be pets.”

“Oh I know. I have a farm. Need some work dogs - this one isn’t guarding much.”

They all laughed, your tail going even further between your legs with embarrassment.

“You can’t be serious,” you whined in a whisper to John, not caring that you sounded needy - spoiled would Laswell had said and you ignored her as she rolled her eyes.

“Hush, Princess.” John didn’t even look at you.

“You have animals there?” The seller asked, “one of them is a herding dog - the border collie.”

“I do - several. That’s why there's a need for guarding dogs as well, bloody wolves have been terrorizing us.”

You knew he was telling the truth; he had muttered about dead sheeps and goats several times - even a calf had lost its life to the wolves in the area, despite he and Laswell having shot two already. Even foxes had gotten into the coop, despite the fences.

“They’re good at that too, with their training,” the seller offered, clearly interested in selling them or at least getting John to bid on them. “The one with the mohawk, Soap , will have hearing aids with him, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

You looked over at this “Soap”, scrunching your nose. They were still staring, the biggest one bending down to listen to the third one, a beautiful black man, whisper in his ear. No doubt judging you.

“It says here they don’t do well with others,” you muttered, in a desperate attempt to sway John, pointing to the board with their papers. It did indeed say so, to which you wanted to argue that YOU should be his main focus in this whole thing - how would he even consider adding them to your household if these dogs could get a hold of you?

“It’s in the sense that they’re not really housetrained to be social family pets,” the seller swooped in, pushing your argument away, annoying you even more, “they’ve had missions all their lives. They need to have something to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll get along with them, sweetheart,” Price answered, giving you a small scratch beneath your chin as he finally looked over at you, a glint in his eyes, “some company will do you good.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. Hardly . Price’s smile told you that he thought this was a great idea however. You dared to look at the men again. Still staring, fucking bastards.

The black man seemed like a mix of some breeds, German shepherd and… you looked shortly at the board. Belgian malinois. Fancy. He wasn’t as tall as the big one, but broad and with scars as well. There was a more slender look to him, but his six pack proved he was strong. His curly hair wasn’t too long, probably cut not too long ago. He was looking at you curiously, making you raise your upper lip a little, as if to warn him.

The one with the hearing loss looked like some sort of border collie - covered in scars as well, some of his skin looking like it had been too close to fire. He was broad like the two others, his upper arms the size of your head. He even sent you a cheeky grin, even daring to wink at you. You just looked away, tipping your chin up a little.

“You can look closer if you want, sir?”

You were pulled back into the conversation at once and before you could argue, John had already passed on your leash to Laswell and walked towards the men with the seller. You whined, distressed that he was really, actually considering this.

“You’ll be fine,” Laswell commented calmly, with empathy in her voice for once, though she didn’t look at you, merely at John and the others.

“He is gonna lose interest in me,” you whined, perhaps a little dramatically, bottom lip wobbling a little as you could feel tears welling up in your eyes, “then he’ll leave me in the crate all day and only care about them an—“

“Calm down,” Laswell said, “you’ll work yourself into a fuss.”

“He can’t do this to me,” you argued in a sullen voice, already imagining John forgetting all about you, focusing on these three hybrids for the rest of his life, leaving you cold and lonely inside the dog crate - maybe even rehoming you, “he promised he wouldn’t get rid of me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Laswell answered just as calmly as before, “John loves you too much, you’re just being spoiled. Hanging out with some working dogs will do you good.”

“They probably have fleas,” you said, your prejudices seeping into your words, knowing you’re being mean, judgmental against your own kind, “they’ll kill me and eat my dead body.”

Laswell laughed. “No they won’t. Worst thing they’ll do, is probably knock you up.”

A high pitched, scandalized sound left you, despite knowing you had an implant. Laswell laughed again, giving your leash a little yank and then scratching you behind your long ears.

“Settle, Princess. That won’t happen without John’s permission.”

You almost cried at the sight of John shaking the seller’s hand.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

They all met up again for the actual auction part and you sat at John’s feet, sniffling a little. Crying hadn’t helped, in fact John had just petted and kissed you, calling you sensitive. Alejandro had gotten a hybrid earlier that they didn’t need to bid on - she was for sale for a certain price. Something about being too intense without enough space to roam, having attacked others before.

Fucking great. Beasts all around you.

John won the bidding on the three working dog hybrids he had been interested in - because of course he did. He spent way too much money on them too, according to you.

One more - or well, three more fucking things to hate about this “farming life” that had been forced upon you.

Maybe John had gone mad.

next chapter ->

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diazsdimples · 6 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @theotherbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings and @puppyboybuckley (who published the final chapter of the Mudslide Fic, PLEASE go read it!)

I wasn’t gonna do this today cause I had the shift from hell and didn’t manage to write anything yesterday between birthday things but I managed to cobble this together after my shift! Frostpunk AU weirdly came back to me so please enjoy this small snippet!

Much to Buck’s relief, both Edmundo and Christopher are still alive when they make it back to the city, in record time as Bobby will have him believe. Rappelling down the cliff with two semi-conscious, reasonably unstable patients is more difficult than they’d initially anticipated, so in a rush of fear as he watches Bobby struggle with Christopher, Buck offers to bring the boy down himself.

Much like they did the day Buck carried Christopher to the cabin, they strap the child to Buck’s chest, using a small harness stored in the med kit on a “just in case” basis. Christophers head clunks repetitively against Buck’s chest as he pushes them off the cliff, slowly letting the rope out with each jump. He wishes that it wasn’t a two-hand job, that he could cradle Christopher’s head with one hand and keep the rope moving with the other.

Above him, Bobby abseils down with Edmundo dangling to the side of him in a basket. They’d done one last temperature check on the two of them before descending into the heavy, cold mist that lay over the city, and Edmundo’s had been the lowest they’d seen it since the rescue. The way Eli’s face had paled and he’d instantly tugged Bobby aside, talking with him in low, hushed tones was enough to tell Buck about the state of his health.

It made a cold, thrill of fear rush down Buck’s spine, settling in the pit of his stomach as a constant reminder of how precarious Edmundo and Christopher’s situation was, as he carried the small boy to safety.

The moment Buck and Christopher touched the ground, they were pounced on by a team of medics, headed by Hen.

“What’s the story, Buck?” Hen asked as she hurried to help peel off Buck’s outer layers and unclip him from the harness.

“Found this guy and his dad half frozen yesterday. He’s probably 7 or 8 years old and got moderate to severe hypothermia. Eli’s been monitoring him and he’s stable but barely conscious. Probably malnourished and seriously dehydrated,” Buck pants as he lowers Christopher onto the stretcher Hen has prepared. The kid’s light brown curls fall over his face, curling against his eyelids and Buck reaches out a tender hand to brush them back before he can stop himself.

If Hen notices, she chooses not to mention the look in his eyes as he does this.

“Alright, we’re going to take him to the med tent now. What about his dad?” Hen asks as two medics swiftly hoist Christopher’s stretcher into the air and run off in the direction of the nearest med tent.

Buck watches, half in a daze as Edmundo is lowered to the ground. His lips are pale and chapped, and his face looks lifeless and devoid of colour as his head lols to the side. A sick feeling creeps through Buck’s body as he thinks of how close they came to not making it back. How close Christopher came to losing his father.

“This is Edmundo Diaz, severe hypothermia, dehydration and malnourishment. He’s had issues with his oxygen and heart rate consistently through the journey home. Hen, he’ll need around the clock care, someone to stay with him, to keep an eye on him,” Buck says, hearing the urgency in his voice as he speaks. He doesn’t know what compels him, other than a sense that Edmundo is the other half of a magnet that’s drawing him ever closer, but Buck continues talking. “You guys can’t spare another medic but I-I don’t mind sitting with him. I’m good at taking his vitals a-and I could keep an eye on the kid.”

Hen eyes him, as if trying to read what his true motivation is. “Go,” she finally says, inclining her head towards the tent. Buck doesn’t need to be told twice.

No pressure tagging @hippolotamus @spotsandsocks @evanbegins @smilingbuckley @thekristen999 @elvensorceress @rainbow-nerdss @wikiangela @daffi-990 @watchyourbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @bucksbackwardcap @fortheloveofbuddie @aroeddiediaz @jesuisici33 @buckbuckgoose @exhuastedpigeon @cal-daisies-and-briars @wildlife4life @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @nmcggg @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @kitteneddiediaz @epicbuddieficrecs @spagheddiediaz @loserdiaz

#james writes #frostpunk au #tired words that probably don’t make sense #hoping this pulls me out of my writing funk #buddie #eddie diaz #911 abc #evan buckley #911 buddie #911verse #911 fanfic #911 #eddie x buck

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chickenparm · 2 years

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Amidst Daydreams(Scaramouche/Reader) - Part Three/End

It takes a village to care for a child, but how many to teach a puppet how to be a human? Just one is all he needs, it seems.

AO3 LINK Previous Part

Kabukimono!Scaramouche/AFAB!Reader 6,359 Words - NSFW m!Masturbation, non-consensual voyeurism, that last tag sounds worse than it is i swear, P in V, fingering, the softest smut this side of the mississippi

The puppet remembers the moment of his birth in startling clarity. The light searing his eyes, the heat burning his skin, every fiber of his being singing with the static euphoria of the lightning’s will. A will strong enough to forge him into being, piece by piece with a single-minded purpose.

The puppet also remembers the moment that purpose is taken from him. When the impossibly heavy burden that weighs his entire body down is stripped away with fingers that delve into his chest. All at once, the sensation of divinity that could only be understood by someone crafted as its vessel leaves him in a choked sob.

Or perhaps he’d been crying since the very beginning, since his first breath was taken through shuddering, redundant lungs.

He remembers something akin to a second birth. His impossibly tiny world shaking and heaving with unknown force before once more his eyes burn. But there is no heat, there is no divinity, there is no gnosis tucked in the empty space at his breast where something should have been beating. There is only the amber light of the only home he’s ever known, wood groaning above and below.

And footsteps - heavy, unbothered by the racket made as their heels hit the wooden floorboards.

The puppet’s first birth is something harrowing, a constant stain at the back of his eyelids that he can’t seem to shake. But the second… Only happy memories reside there. Stacked high, one upon the other until the very top of the tower teeters with each new addition. With every ounce of his being, he clings to the hope that it does not fall.

It doesn’t feel like a home at first. Even as he relishes the scent of tea leaves and something he’d later come to learn was human food. You’d been so patient, so kind when it was well within your right at the time to have denied any responsibility for him. And even as his mind worked sluggishly to piece together everything around him, only one thing felt stable in such a maelstrom.

You.

Knowing what he knows now, after an enlightening conversation with Niwa, the Kabukimono isn’t surprised he had latched onto you so quickly. With a little thought, he can pinpoint the exact moment that the emptiness in the cavity of his chest began to fill itself in with something just as powerful as the object that once resided there.

The evening when he’d fallen apart for the very first time. When the memories of abandonment rang so strongly in his mind that he’s certain you could have felt them yourself - and you must have, because just as swiftly as it descended, so too did you sweep it away like the tears on his cheeks. Your hands were so warm. So unlike his own that hold a frigidness even when pulling blades from the forge.

The very moment he collapsed against you, leaning into the easy embrace you offered in return, the echoes of his birthright were silenced in his chest. All that’s left is a feeling of fullness, of impossibly tangled thoughts and feelings that he hadn’t been able to decipher nor describe. As it settles between his ribs and among his nerves, he can only cling tightly to its mass and hope that it stays with him.

It stays nameless and coveted until the frightening morning of your illness. Only then is he allowed the knowledge of what might be fusing with his very being. Love, explained in your own words, the best way he can understand it. Certainly, he has a vague idea of what love might be - he’s seen it in the way Katsuragi cherishes his wife. He’s witnessed it at the end of the day in the village when families come together and share their happiness with one another.

Niwa’s explanation comes as an uncomfortable shock, but the light it sheds on everything makes the weight on his shoulders a little lighter. With the guidance of his teacher and friend, the Kabukimono is able to finally understand what’s going on.

A yearning to be in your presence, to share the uncertainties with life. The elation he feels at your side, the odd loneliness when he’s at a distance. Even with Niwa and Katsuragi, even with the tentative friends he’d made in the village, no one could ever bring him the solace that fell on his shoulders like the wisps of morning mist.

And when he comes to a conclusion, murmuring the words in wonder, Niwa can only smile with his hands on his hips and an expression of pride on his face.

As sudden as it feels from the outside, the Kabukimono knows that without a doubt, he’s been trying to love you this entire time. Now, he simply needs to figure out how.

Therein lies the problem that plagues him when he returns that afternoon to check on you. Unaware of his presence, you lay where he’d left you, buried beneath your blankets and looking so, so comfortable. Would you let him join you, he wonders while kneeling at your side, his palm flush against your forehead.

Never before have you denied any of his attempts to be close to you. While before it had been an unknown, addictive sensation that he wanted to endlessly chase, now he understands its root cause. The thought of sliding between the sheets of your futon and conforming his body to yours is something he can’t quite shake, even as he’s forced to return to the furnace after the midday break.

For the first time, he finds himself hopelessly distracted. Niwa seems almost expectant, but when he catches sight of the pinched look on the Kabukimono’s face, he doesn’t broach the topic. At least, not until they’re cleaning up for the evening and are preparing the forge for the work to come in the morning.

“Are you nervous?”

“Is that what this is?” The puppet pauses in his mindless sweeping, pushing the dust around aimlessly in a way that does nothing to further their progress. Niwa’s hand wraps around the broom, easily tugging it from the Kabukimono’s lax grip.

This frees the puppet’s hands up to cross his arms, fingertips flexing as he works through the twisting sensation in his gut. As he does, he murmurs his thoughts to Niwa. “My stomach hurts, my skin feels hot. It almost feels like I want to cry, but I know I won’t. Is it normal for my hands to shake like this?”

Holding one aloft, just to prove his point to Niwa, the tremors are easily visible to both males. Leaning on the broom, a fond sort of smile crosses the taller man’s face. “Of course it is. It’s not often that you love someone so deeply. I’d say it’s almost a one-in-a-lifetime sort of thing.”

Neither mention that his lifetime is so very long. It doesn’t feel prudent, considering the lightness of the atmosphere contrasting to the twisting of the Kabukimono’s stomach. Tucking his hand away again, he asks, “What should I do? Should I do what Katsuragi does with his wife-”

“Ah… Kissing them like that might be a little surprising.” The broom nearly hits the floor with how that question startles Niwa, but the man is able to catch it before wood clatters against stone. “The simplest option would be to just tell them. You talked about it, and got sent to me, so it wouldn’t be out of the blue for you to talk about your feelings.”

Even on a primal level, at his freshest in the world, the puppet was acutely aware of the apprehension that comes with facing rejection. After all, his first experience with this world was the bite of abandonment, of being unwanted. To hear something like that from you would likely spell out a death sentence - one that he wouldn’t bother to fight against.

Almost as if he’d read the Kabukimono’s mind, Niwa drops the broom he’d been trying to keep upright and instead claps both hands on the puppet’s shoulders. They don’t even flinch under the added weight, bearing Niwa’s sudden expectations quite easily. “If there’s one thing I know best in this world, it’s that not going after the things you want will only lead to regret. At least you could say you tried - and even if it’s not reciprocated, you know they won’t abandon you over it.”

“I thought you knew bladesmithing the best-”

“Not the point, Kabukimono. You can keep all your feelings for them inside if that’s what you want, but you’ll always be thinking about the possibilities. That’s just going to eat you up inside, turn you bitter and resentful. That’s not fair to either of you.”

Fair. The Kabukimono understood that rather well, one of the first things he’d learned. Not everything was fair, but it was up to the people involved to do their best to make it so. While the time to make his initial experiences right has long since passed, maybe it isn’t too late to try and do things right by you.

Perhaps if you pushed, he would have.

On his return home, you’re awake and moving around with the sluggishness of someone that still isn’t quite feeling up to par. At the sight of him leaning a hand against the doorway to remove his shoes one at a time, a smile spreads on your face - slow at first, then all at once when he returns the gesture. If you notice how shaky he is, you don’t make a mention of it.

In fact, you make no mention of what you’d instructed him to ask Niwa about. It’s almost as if it’s been forgotten, pushed away now that it isn’t at the forefront and he isn’t pestering you about the intricacies of human relationships with one another. Any earlier than this afternoon, he might’ve been hurt at the dismissal, but Niwa’s careful explanation shed a little light on things.

He’d embarrassed you. It’s a feeling he’s only vaguely familiar with, only recently coming to real terms with it now that he no longer depends solely on you for companionship. There’s no room for that sort of trepidation between the two of you, not while you understand him so completely.

But it goes both ways, and he’s acutely aware of how you couldn’t even look him in the eye after he’d wheedled at you over rapidly-cooling Chazuke.

With this knowledge, the Kabukimono carefully compartmentalizes thoughts of running at you full-tilt with the intention of kissing you until you melt in his arms like you do when he’s hugged you in the past. Instead, he focuses on the little joys of his day - success in forging, the new weapon that Katsuragi has been working on, the premise of a real sword dance on the horizon with its completion.

And after his long-winded recount of the day, he finally notices the way you lean your cheek heavily into your palm, elbow propped on the table. Half-lidded eyes watch him with as much interest as you can muster, quietly asking little questions to keep him going. Even barely-awake, you still humor him and his excitement at simply being alive; yet another reason the cavity of his chest no longer rings hollow.

When your eyelashes brush the tops of your cheeks for a little too long, he makes the decision to hurry you off to bed. Touching you for the first time since he arrived home is the sweetest joy, better than any candy or tea he could ever hope for. The weight of you leaning into his side as he ushers you back to your futon makes his throat tighten, anticipation for something he can’t place.

“You know,” you start, letting him help you sit down in the softness of your bedding, “it’s strange. You haven’t hugged me yet - you always do when you come home.”

He supposes he hasn’t. While he wants to rectify that immediately, thoughts of wrapping you so tightly in his arms that the two of you sink together into one being are nearly impossible to fight, so too are there quiet reminders of why it might not be right. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, while he is painfully aware of exactly what it means to him.

Then your arms raise, reaching for him with an insistence for such a grave wrong to be corrected, and the Kabukimono falls into them like he was always meant to be there.

Palms pressing into his back, you sigh pleasantly against his ear as his weight settles against you. All the greed in the world pales in comparison to the way he turns his face to press his nose beneath your ear to breathe in your scent.

Breathing is unnecessary, initially only done with the purpose of interrupting his unnatural stillness. In this moment it holds a single purpose - the only way he can claim more and more of you in a way that won’t leave you reeling and wary of him. The shoulder his cheek is against shifts with the subtle movement of your head tilting to the side, almost as if you were offering for him to take and take and take and-

Too quickly, he pulls himself from your arms and struggles to find the correct words to explain himself. But you don’t ask for that, nor do you even seem upset. Perhaps it’s your illness, or maybe you don’t understand what he’d been doing, but you look at him with a vague dreaminess full of trust and familiar tenderness.

Settling for the easiest course, he withdraws enough to have room to stand and murmurs just above his breath, “You should get more sleep. Humans need rest to get healthy again.”

“Thank you for worrying about me.” The slow drawl of your voice as you settle in is like the smoothness of his own blankets that cradle him soon after, wrapping around his body and trapping him with warmth and comfort.

As he buries his face in his pillows to blot out the world, he has half a mind to burst back into your bedroom and exclaim that he’s quickly becoming convinced that caring about you is his sole purpose in this world.

Perhaps his birthright was ripped from him because there was a greater task for him out in the world, one that involved him building a life that venerates you at the very center.

—

The puppet dreams.

At first it’d been only wisps of color, scents, sensations of warmth and comfort. It’s only after he spends time acclimating to the wide world that the images in his mind come into focus.

The forge beneath a lavender sky, songs and stories that meld together into a single steady thrum that becomes indistinguishable. The sky radiating out from him in all directions, above and below, listening to his call as if he were meant to be among the clouds. The first sight of the blazing red of a perpetual maple in Autumn, leaves falling and regrowing in one hundred and sixty-eight cycles.

A weight on his chest that’s painfully familiar in its scent and pressure. The softness of skin beneath his fingertips as he mindlessly drags them down a body that shouldn’t be so known to him. Darkness takes his vision as he relishes in the sensations of touch, scent, sound. It’s your voice, sighing names that he knows belong to him but he doesn’t understand why you refer to him in that way.

And amidst it all, a pressure builds in him that he tries to grasp at, yet his hands are more occupied with tracing over dips and curves, squeezing at flesh that gives so sweetly between his fingers. Finally, finally he can open his eyes, and there you are. Perched above him, palms pressed to his chest to steady yourself, you look like the deity he might have been in the first moments of his life.

That unfamiliar pressure shudders with a roll of your hips, searing heat gripping at him as your rhythm stutters. Your nails dig into his chest, unable to break his skin despite your urgency and his sick yearning for you to leave some sort of mark on him. There is already the sign of ownership on him, but perhaps with enough force you could overwrite it and claim him as your own.

The lungs in his chest rattle as he sits up, darkness engulfing once more but with a quiet familiarity. A dream, one that leaves him adrift and yearning for something he’d never experienced. Subconsciously, he gasps for breath to cool his nerves. The room feels stifling, but not nearly as much as the layers of fabric and blankets in his lap.

Niwa had spared no detail, even as the man’s face grew red, so it’s not as much of a surprise as it might have been. The thought of loving someone physically is that that implanted itself into his brain, burrowing with the intention to wait until this very moment of weakness. The puppet can’t control his dreams, but even as he tentatively reaches for himself with a shaking hand, he doesn’t regret that they’re beyond him.

The pillows beneath his head protest as he falls back into them, suddenly feeling boneless the moment the skin of his palm touches against the throb of his arousal. Instinctual but hesitant, his fingers wrap around it and squeeze, and a strangled sound tears from his throat against his bidding.

Even the tentative drag of his hand from base to tip feels as if he’s grown intoxicated, the alcohol that’s never had an effect on him is unable to come close to the muddiness of his thoughts. Swallowing thickly, he spreads the beading moisture of his arousal and wonders if he’s doing something terribly, terribly wrong.

Because only one thought whirls in his mind, one vision that’s been burned into the back of his eyelids. You, tangled in his lap, rocking your hips and branding him with unfamiliar sensations he just can’t recreate with five fingers and his palm, no matter how hard he squeezes.

The blankets scatter as he rolls from them, stumbling to his feet with a sick sense of purpose. Your visage in his mind is blurry, the memory of your scent feels so far away. Just a peek, just a glance so he can finish this and find relief amidst the guilt growing in his chest. Niwa’s hesitance speaks volumes of how unwelcome this might be to you; it will be a secret he conceals for the remainder of his life.

Padding across the hall, he silently pulls the door open just enough for his vision to be filled with your prone form. The blankets have been kicked away in your sleep, leaving you clad in your nightclothes that show a little more skin than he ever expected to see from you. Peace is settled on your features, and as his hand tugs at the strings of his pants to pull himself free, he wonders if you’d hold that same expression if you knew what he’s done. What he’s doing.

Just like before, the first pass of his hand is almost too much. Pain blooms from his lip as he bites down into it, the flesh giving beneath his panic. Waking you would be the worst thing imaginable, but that prospect isn’t enough to stop himself from jerking his hips forward into his curled hand.

Your head is craned enough to show the line of your shoulder and neck, just where he’d not-so-subtly buried his nose only a few nights prior. The phantom memory of how your skin had smelled, how it had tasted on his lips when he pulled away and swept his tongue across them in the privacy of his bedroom. Both bring a sense of urgency and recklessness, barely stemmed with how his palm slaps over his mouth to stem the uncontrollable sound of his self-pleasure.

Perhaps he could get closer. The tatami would muffle his footsteps, allowing him to approach your form and bask in your presence. The proximity would be too much for his addled brain to handle, nerves already frayed at the mere prospect of gazing at you while touching himself like this. Holding himself back is paramount, and he forces himself to stay in place, even as he leans closer to the space in the door.

The wooden frame digs into his shoulder as he leans into it heavily, depending on the structure to hold him upright as his knees grow weak. The hand on himself is no longer his own, at least in his darkest thoughts. Instead it’s yours, stroking with far more confidence than he does, touching him openly rather than in a dark hallway that reeks of his shame.

Each fluttering blink of his eyes brings a different image. Your face before his, close enough to share in his breath, your palm dragging along his skin. Your knees on the floor as you use your mouth in ways he can only imagine in this one heated moment. The arch of your back beneath him as he grinds against you, eyes growing hazy and unfocused at the prospect.

Would you make the same sounds he does? Choked-off and strangled in an attempt to hide himself, that is. He desperately wishes it’s the opposite, that you’d be loud and unfettered so he knew that he was making you feel the exact same sort of unknown ecstasy that he suffers from at his own hands now.

The mere thought of bringing you the sort of sensations he struggles through now makes his stomach clench, anticipation building toward the notion of simply making you feel good. He would do whatever you wanted, whatever you needed, so long as you let him chase it alongside you. Knowing your mind could be frayed alongside his own is a prospect that feels sweet on his tongue despite being a far-off notion.

One particularly angled thrust against his palm makes his eyes flutter, vision growing hazy as he loses track of himself for a moment. Desperately, he moans your name against his palm, breath humid against his own lips, and doesn’t register the mistake. All he knows is something is coming quickly upon him, fast enough that it tears through rational thought and reason.

The scratch in his throat speaks of his wanton abandon, how careless he was in a single instance on top of a mountain of poor choices leading up to this very moment.

This very moment that your eyes slide open, vision locking on to him in the crack of the door. You look further down and see how tightly he’s holding his mouth shut, how he hunches against the doorframe, how his hand has ceased the furious movements that had brought him so close to being free of this if not but for a single night.

The Kabukimono doesn’t even shut your door as he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to fade back into the darkness. It’s too little, too late - you’ve seen him and what he’s done, and there’s no coming back from something like this. Not with how wide your eyes had grown, how your lips had parted in surprise.

Tears well in his eyes because of course they do. Once, you told him that they’re the physical manifestation of feelings too strong to be contained. As he makes it into his room and all but drags himself to the furthest corner from the door, they run down his cheeks and one finds its way to the tip of his tongue. These tears could be nothing other than the starkest regret, fear, terror for what’s to come.

Making himself smaller in that corner is easy. He’s slight of build, capable of bringing his knees to his chest and burying his face into the blissful darkness in an attempt to keep the world at bay. Something so miniscule couldn’t possibly be of scrutiny by the world, yet he feels your eyes on him nonetheless through the door he’d forgotten to close in his haste.

Sighing quietly beneath your breath, it sounds impossibly loud and akin to the sharpness of a sword cutting the air cleanly in two. It feels like a physical blow, slicing him to the bone as he buries his fingers in his hair to tug painfully. The wetness in his right palm smears across the skin of his forehead with the motion and he isn’t sure he could ever feel as dirty as he does beneath your gaze.

The tatami shifts beneath him, the sign of your approach and subsequent kneel down to his level. If you were to strike him, it would be well within your right, but the only sensation of touch comes in the form of your fingers wrapping around his wrists. With firm pressure, you pull his hands away from where he grips his hair harder and harder, nearly pulling it from the root in his spiraling panic.

“Look at me.”

Hasn’t he done that enough? This goes unspoken, his unwillingness to acknowledge you seeping into his very being. No, he’s done far too much looking. More than he ever should have dared to do.

Yet, you still don’t admonish him. Instead, one of your hands releases him temporarily, only to worm its way to his chin and pull him to look up at you. Even now, when he’s convinced that everything has been ruined, the most selfish parts of him take hold for one last lingering gaze at you. Just enough to take with him when he’s forced to leave.

But there’s no malice in your eyes, no anger. Not even annoyance as you blow a sigh from your nose and take in the sight of his tear stained cheeks and mussed hair, cheeks ruddy still in a combination of what he’s done and how he feels about it now. “Listen to me.”

The Kabukimono is always listening. At least, listening to you, that is.

“What were you doing?”

Of course, you already know. But speaking it aloud must be the penance you’re demanding from him, and it’s with an impossibly shaky voice as he breathes out, “Touching myself.”

“Why?” And when he can’t answer, embarrassment taking hold of him so tightly that he can’t even expand his chest to speak, a visible pang of disappointment crosses your features. Once again, he’s let you down. Undeterred, you try again, “Were you thinking of me?”

So subtly that he’s certain it would’ve gone unnoticed if you still weren’t cupping his chin, he nods. What use is there in denying the obvious? The disappointment fades, and left in its place is a smile. It’s small, almost tentative in nature, but undeniably existing where it shouldn’t.

“You’re terrified… Do you think I’m upset?”

“Aren’t you? You should be. Upset, angry, disgusted-”

“I’m none of those things.” And with a sideways tilt of your head, the smile on your face grows wider, a balm to his vision that’s still blurred with tears. “I’m actually… relieved.”

What? Relief barely registers in his mind as something you could possibly be feeling at this moment. Nothing that he’s done this evening would warrant you to feel any sort of relaxation, no matter the root source of your tension. His confusion must be palpable in the air, your tongue darting out to wet your lips and surely tasting it there.

With great mercy, you let him find peace. “Do you feel something for me? Is this a physical reaction, or something more?”

The Kabukimono has never hidden anything from you up until this moment. The only secret he’s held has been the damning existence of his impossibly heavy feelings. And with your blessing, your plea, he recognizes the only opportunity that will ever be afforded to him. Some might describe him as eccentric, perhaps even a fool if seen in the wrong light, but he’s far from an idiot.

So with the last chance to fix things laying before him, he snatches it without hesitation.

“It’s love. It has to be, I have never… will never feel like this toward another person.” When your smile doesn’t fade, neither does his confidence. It grows with each syllable he forces through his trepidation. “I can’t describe it. Without you I feel like I might die. Please don’t send me away, I don’t think I’d make it if you’re not with me.”

“Oh, Kabukimono,” You sigh almost longingly, leaning close enough that the scent he’s been craving overrides all his senses. From this close, your face near enough that he can feel the exhale of your breath across his lips, he’s certain that the only thing that exists now is you. He can feel your words against his mouth as you draw ever closer, “You don’t have to describe it. I understand it more than you could ever know.”

Kissing you feels like that dream of the skies. Weightless, abundantly free, opportunity to explore in every direction. The one he chooses is forward, leaning into you more and more until he’s on his knees and you’re on your backside, until he is the one slotted between your thighs rather than his dreams of you in his lap.

He’s always been a swift learner, and taking note of how to kiss you is something that comes to him quickly. Mimicking your movements, he finds a steady stride against you that feels eerily natural. More credence to the theory for his existence, his conviction that truly he was made not for the divinity of a gnosis, but the quiet contentment of becoming one with you.

Emboldened to impossible heights, his hands find purchase wherever he can manage - one at your hip, one curled around your breast and marveling at how he can feel even through your clothing how receptive you are to his fumbling advances. With that hand tugging at fabric, he chases that phantom sensation he remembers of skin-on-skin.

Arching into his palm, pressing yourself into his hold in an effort to be malleable to his needs, you sigh into the kiss. The puppet feels the first hint of madness, the all-consuming nature of what he’s become in the short span of time he’s been allowed to partake in what he’s yearned for.

And you let him. With the urging of your tongue pushing past his teeth, tasting something only you can understand, the desire you reflect back at him feels impossibly tangled.

Unraveling you starts with your clothing falling open, the fastenings flimsy enough that the natural movement of his hand down your body is enough to slide everything free. At your navel he pauses, wetly pulling away from your lips to seek guidance. In theory, he knows what to do, but more than any pleasure he could find for himself, he desperately wants to give it to you. Perhaps if he does, if he can prove that something in him is worth keeping, you’ll be further convinced to keep him close.

With one arm behind you to prop yourself up, your free hand finds his wrist and encourages him to reach lower. Further and further until your lips part in a gasp and undeniable wetness meets his fingertips. Like a siren song he follows it, pressing into the heat you’re offering and memorizing the way your head rolls back and away from him.

“Tell me.” he urges you, even as his fingers stroke insistently, searching for something he isn’t sure of. “Show me what to do, how to make you feel good.”

And in response, your hips shift enough for his touch to bump against something that grinds against his fingertips. It’s a wordless instruction, one he understands well enough to latch onto in every way. With swirling fingers, he chases after every little sound he’s able to rub from you. Always generous, you hold nothing back, and vaguely he wonders what your voice would taste like if he were to swallow it whole.

“Use… use your thumb there and y-your other fingers- ngh- lower. You’ll know, you’ll-”

Unwilling to be skeptical of any direction you give him, he maneuvers just like you demand and his fingers sink into the heat he’d been dreaming of. Your muscles clench around him as he goes further and further, knuckles pressing tight to your entrance. Like you want more, need more, it feels as if you could take him indefinitely.

He expects you to tell him to stop at some point, to have gotten your fill of what he can offer and grow tired of the sensation. But a sort of frenzy seems to take over you, your hips grinding down on his fingers in tandem with his movements, almost as if you were looking for something. Chasing something - and then you seem to find it with your back hitting the floor and your spine arching almost painfully.

You don’t tell him to stop, you don’t demand relief from whatever is causing you to buck against him so viciously, so he does the only thing he can. He doesn’t let up, repeating the same motions that reduced you to this. The soft give of you inside grows impossibly tight, clamping down until he can barely move his fingertips against something inside that nearly matches where his thumb is on the outside.

The only way to describe you is having been reduced to your base components, barely functioning as you writhe against his hold. He can’t help but note that when you’ve fallen apart like this, chest heaving and finally grabbing his wrist to stop his steady movements, that you’re impossibly beautiful. He could easily find himself addicted to this, to you.

But just as much as he wants to try and break you down further, his own needs are crawling up his spine, boiling a heat in his stomach that is so akin to how he felt in his dream. The Kabukimono wants - recklessly, viciously, so desperately that it leaves him feeling panicked and adrift.

Even ruined as you are, there’s enough coherency for you to take note of how close he is to falling apart. With infinite mercy, you reach to pull him closer. The right process clicks in his brain, breaking through the haze toward what he needs to do to you, to take from you. With your legs spread to slot his hips so nicely against your own, you offer yourself freely.

Is it selfish if he wants everything, and that happens to be exactly what you’re willing to give?

“Be… be gentle. I’m sensitive.”

Maybe he shouldn’t be as proud as he is when hearing that, but the only thing he comprehends is that he’s done well. That’s all that matters, but to keep doing well he wants to follow your instructions to the letter. So, with a gentle hand, he pulls himself out once more to line up against the entrance that once squeezed his fingers so tightly. Surely it would feel better on his cock, better for you, too.

With your wetness, he slides home so easily that he nearly sobs with relief. With taking him in so easily, he’s convinced of exactly how right this is. Lost in the sensation, he doesn’t realize you’re crying until the dim light of the moon outside shines across your cheek. Then, with further inspection, he realizes you’re not crying at all.

He is, and they fall freely from him to land on you. You don’t seem to care, instead focusing on wiping them from his own face rather than your own. Once more you treat him with unending tenderness, giving and giving until he feels content and complete. The only thing he can do is give in return, taking first by sliding himself free before thrusting back in.

The sharpness makes you gasp, and an apology bubbles on his lips before he realizes you liked it. So, with an impossible amount of giddiness, he does it again and again. Over and over, savoring the feeling of your body accepting him and refusing to let go until he has to force himself out for a split-second.

“You’re doing so well.” You pull him close, so much that your forehead bumps against his own and your labored exhales match his greedily inhales. In and out, as if the two of you are sharing a single breath at the pace of his reckless pleasure-seeking. Though, with how close he’d been before, the search doesn’t take too long when it’s found inside you.

The praise heightens everything, the validation that he’s doing everything you want bringing him to an unfathomable height before you push him over with a sharp tug on his hair. The strands beneath your fingers hold strong as you provide a sensation to keep him grounded, a tether as he pushes impossibly close and sobs brokenly over the all-consuming sensation of release.

Shaking against you, he can’t be bothered to mind his weight with how he slumps in your hold. So very familiar to how you’ve held him before, when intentions were far more innocent than the things you’ve done tonight, he’s certain something in his chest is beating. It throbs in time with your pulse next to his ear on your chest, forehead pressing into your collarbone.

Certainly, the two of you can’t reside on the bare tatami for the remainder of the night, but neither of you make any attempt to change this. In fact, one of your arms blindly reaches up to his nearby futon, swiping the pillow to tuck under your head with a pleased sigh.

In the silence that falls, comfortable and warm like the Summer evening outside, the puppet wonders if perhaps there is some merit to the claim that he’s becoming more human. With something like a heartbeat in his chest, the warmth of your body embracing him, his hand laced with yours against the floor, he can’t help but feel more like a human than he ever has before.

#if you saw me forgot to put a read more break on this #no you didn't #scaramouche #wanderer #wanderer genshin #kabukimono #scaramouche x reader #kabukimono x reader #reader insert #reader #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #mind the a/n for content tags #genshin impact #wanderer x reader

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 4 months

Text

tagged by @imogenkol and @thesingularityseries thank you both <3

Got a few things i'm working on right now, I am all over the place with my WIPs lately. But first some art:

On vacation this week and with the little in preschool I can delve into some major line art with this piece because I have the time and the patience. (saved the weapons for very last because I hate the intricacy of them and the body armour took enough time) Thinking this one will likely stay grey scale rather than color.

And some writing, a little snippet from the end of chapter 1 of "Penumbra" aka the Ladyhawke AU:

Dusk begins to settle, the sun fading through the shivering oak leaves that rustle in the wind. Striations of coral and tangerine blend like watercolours in the sky, dripping into one another as the trees darken into silhouette in the foreground. The last calls of the birds are a witness to the coming night and Price’s hackles begin to rise. He’s on edge, a common occurrence the closer the moon comes to rising. He needs a place to settle, to rest, travel can wait once more for the harsh light of the sun.

“We’ll make camp,” he says offhandedly, over his shoulder to his newest companion, the first one who can actually answer back in years.

Pulling on the reins he slows Nikolai’s gallop to a saunter as they look for a clearing, and through a thicket of trees, an old serfdom farm comes into view. In the falling darkness it’s hard to tell whether the farm is in a worthwhile state or whether it's worn to nothing but rotted wood, there’s little else around for shelter and the prickle of his nerves down his spine and his clenching knuckles tell Price there’s no point in looking further, time won’t wait any longer for him. The closer they get it's easy to see that the roofs of every structure have caved inwards from the deluge of rain received in the winter, shingles crumbling, walls splintered and bowing under the pressure of standing stable without any upkeep. They’ll make do for one night, carrying on in the morning. Tying Nikolai to the nearest sturdy oak tree, Price unloads the pan and pot for cooking, ordering Garrick to go collect the firewood.

Alone at camp, he unloads the final saddle bag, pulling the tiny lamb from inside it and cradling it in his strong arms. A calloused finger caresses the underside of the animal’s chin as large eyes stare up at him. Heart squeezing in his chest, his brow furrows as he looks down at the little being in his arms, so totally reliant on him. He wishes he was deserving of the trust she gives him – he knows he’s not.

Carrying his most prized possession over to the barn, Price places the woolly creature down on the cloak he has draped on the hay for her. A large hand that covers nearly the entire head of the lamb strokes softly, his thumb drifting upwards along the snout against the soft wool between dark mirror-like eyes. “Rest well, my girl,” he whispers in a husk. His armour sits tight on him as muscles begin to expand and shift with the coming night, as the first stars begin to twinkle his chest swells and his back wants to hunch. He hates this in-between stage, where he can feel himself slipping away, losing himself to an instinct that isn’t even his own – everything that makes the man falls by the wayside as the silver light of moonglow threatens to overwhelm the dying sun. Stripping himself of his last vestiges of clothing, folding them neatly, handling them with the pride and respect they deserved, he packs them away. Left bare, the chill of the night settling into the scars on his skin and the patches of hair that start to sprout from him, he looks over at the little lamb resting curled up. He sighs, knowing the time will come where once more he’ll have only a fleeting moment with her. A sight for sore eyes that lasts for a fraction of a second before they are once more separated. It never gets any easier, a constant burden that follows him – Always together, forever apart.

The sun finally dips down, darkness blanketing the world and crickets begin to chirp as the quiet of night takes the helm, and before him as he reaches out his hand, watching it transform into a massive paw with black sickled claws, stands the woman he’s been aching for every day for the last five years. Unable to touch her, his heart pounds in his chest and he could nearly weep at the sight of her beauty. It’s his fault they’re trapped like this, he’s done this to her, and he could scream at the curse that hangs over their head like the executioner’s axe. She’s his whole reason for living and this is what they’ve been reduced to: a yearning that can never be ended, a lifetime of heartbreak, a loss worse than death.

But the pain relieves itself, because in the blink of an eye he is no longer a man.

tagging: @carlosoliveiraa @strangefable @cassietrn @finding-comfort-in-rain

@cloudofbutterflies92 @theelderhazelnut @josephseedismyfather @la-grosse-patate @g0dspeeed

@simplegenius042 @voidika @kyberinfinitygems @direwombat @statichvm @clicheantagonist

@tommyarashikage @aceghosts @inafieldofdaisies @raresvtm @justasmolbard

#wip wednesday #skelly writes #skelly sketches #ladyhawke au #fic: penumbra #oc: rory sinclair #john price #wip art

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the-possum-writes · 2 years

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can you do a marshall lee x male reader where he turns the reader into a vampire?

Vampire Bite

❥Character: Marshall Lee

❥Tags: sfw, established relationship, vampirism, comfort, male!reader

❥Synopsis: After sharing your human lifetime with Marshall Lee, you decided to take the next step in your relationship and seal the deal.

❥Taglist: @watchingfromthefloorboards @foxpearlwilder

Marshall doesn't usually walk on land, but he's making an exception today as he pushes an elderly man in a wheelchair, the sun is still shining, and he's dressed appropriately in long gloves, a sunhat, and sunglasses.

"It's a beautiful day today, not a cloud in the sky." You smile tenderly as you take in the landscape around you.

"Yeah, we're fortunate." Marshall agrees, despite how vulnerable and exposed he feels, but he repeatedly tells himself that it's a special occasion.

He drives you down a wooden walkway that has deteriorated due to time and constant salty mist, but it is still stable enough to support your weight as he floats and pushes you instead. "Whoops," he says as the wheel collides with a rock. For a split second, you jump, readjusting yourself on the chair as your wrinkly hands fix the blanket on your lap.

"Wouldn't it be easier if you flew us there?" Marshall shakes his head when you bring it up.

"It's better this way; let's not rush it." he insists.

"If you say so." You drop the subject, taking his word for it, and enjoy the birds flying in the sunlight. The wooden walkway eventually turns into a dock, and you hear ocean waves crash against the wooden pillars; your eyesight has been failing you recently, but there's no denying the cool breeze against your skin and the enormous sun resting near the horizon.

"Marshall, look! We made it just in time!" As you point to the sunset, you jolt up excitedly, your voice gave out, and you soon found yourself coughing.

"I wouldn't want you to drown in your spit after walking you all the way here, so take it easy." He gives you a gentle pat on the back.

"That'd be a real bummer. Then again, Marsh, I do appreciate you doing this for me." Even though you have a few missing teeth, you give him a huge smile as your eyes squint up.

Marshall knows this is the same guy he fell in love with and refused to let go, no matter how many human years have passed and how much you have changed over the years. This fleeting mortality, though limited, is beautiful in his eyes, just as you are. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you," he says as he pats your shoulder. A kiss on the cheek would be more appropriate, but he doesn't want to get sunburned.

As the two of you reach the end of the dock, the vampire stops pushing your wheelchair and makes sure you're comfortable by plumping your pillow and covering you with your blanket. As he floats over your lap (to avoid hurting your legs), you extend your arms and hug him as if he were sitting on you. After that, the two of you don't say much, instead letting the sun hang loosely over the horizon as its last rays of sunlight reflect over the waves. A few minutes later, Marshall leaned into your shoulder, but when he felt your chest flutter, he turned to look at you and saw that you were quietly crying as the sun completely set.

"It's so pretty..." you mutter, sobbing softly.

"There's still time to go back," he says quietly, wiping your tears away with his cold gray fingertips.

You respond with a smile, rubbing your eyes. "I'm not changing my mind; I'm just glad to have shared my last sunset with you." With the sun gone, Marshall removed his hat and gloves to properly give you a comforting kiss on the lips, resting his forehead on yours as he says. "...I just want to give you the options I never had," he says, and you agree with him. The title of Vampire King was not something he chose, and what's to give you the opportunity to decline if you suddenly reconsidered.

But you made up your mind long ago.

"Will it hurt?" you ask, determined but nervously offering your neck to him.

"I'll try to make it quick... Like a hospital injection "He promises, softly kissing your neck.

"Glob, I hate injections." You huff, trying to relax.

"I know."

You jolt up in your seat as Marshall pierced your flesh and tried to keep you in place. Although it was quick, as Marshall said, your limbs gradually became cold, much like when your blanket fell off your bed in the winter. Sooner or later, your heart rate slows down, almost as if you're falling asleep. When you wake up, the world seems lighter; you're surprised to discover that this is because you're only a few feet off the ground, which causes you to panic. "Easy there, I got'cha!" You hear Marshall Lee's voice coming from the night sky and feel his hand grabbing your own.

Even though it's dark, you can see clearly without a light source, which is when you notice your hand's lack of wrinkles. Looking down at your body and touching your face to see how you unconsciously transformed yourself back to when you were the most comfortable in your mid 20's, no longer tired or with sore knees.

"I feel like I'm going to fly away like a balloon!" You sob, clutching Marshall like a lifeline.

Marshall's chest vibrates in laughter, securing you in his arms. "Relax, I'm a good teacher. I'll show you everything about being a vampire, for free." he winks.

"Are you sure? I'm a slow learner." you jest.

"Oh I'm sure, more than ever!"

#adventure time x reader #marshall lee x reader #marshall lee the vampire king #reader insert #male!reader

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thecherrygod · 2 years

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thinking about hdb while holding my head in my hands and suffering

#my posts #i cant fully articulate this #idk if i have the time either #but. help. i will tag this with my organization tags. i may see this at some other time and maybe ill be able to so #disco elysium #hdb #im just thinking about him and martinaise harry and his childhood and the 15th indotribe thing and dora #how probably considering the type of friends he had and how they all ended..... they were probably all like him personality wise #like. im not saying they were bad people like harry was kind of an asshole but not fully #like they were all a bunch of teens in a bad situation trying to make the best of it however they can and well... didnt work out too well #but what i mean is that i think thats partially why he got that level of attached to dora? she didnt go through what he did #she had the money to not go through that she was stable she was a constant in his life that was pure and that wasnt always #going through something. a guide. harry went to her like a moth to a fire with pure devotion bc she was everything he never had #she probably also treated him different than what all his previous friends would have. i imagine her to be very gentle #and harry probably never got to know too much about people being soft so that was also. new. but somethign imposible to him #so i can see how he would love her like that to the point of basically worshipping her as god and how he would still love her #years after it went to shit even when he cant remember anything. it makes sense #i think they were engaged bc the wedding gown but idk if its said in game. but he loved her enough to want to marry her in a world #where real love isnt possible for him but only for new people in a new world he still wanted that with her even if it didnt work out #he holds to whatever he can of her as a lifeline and i. man. dude. yeah no i get him #idk how long they were together but it also doesnt matter bc of how harry is as a person #also of course at first it was all good. she was basically fixing him but he cant get fixed only with love in a world like that!#or with a life like his... it was always going to go down. and i. dude #... i am thinking about this as someone who still loves someone and we werent even dating like #i think if we dated and it went bad like. i think id be in a similar situation to harry tbh. i get him #yeah no yeah lmao i do think of this person also sort of as the only good thing in my life #and i am glad she did reject me when i confessed bc if i had fully lost her i dont know where id be? but also man its been 7 years #of the rejection and basically 10 of falling for her. i get harry so fucking badly on this one USHDGIUHUSG #ok in the end i did say what i had to say but in the tags i dont think ill make a proper post out of it #but i did write it in a way that wasnt articulated for a post so i think i was right making it like this lmao

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stellari-s · 2 years

Text

☀️

request; yes, by anonymous. requests open!

wc; 1 015.

tags; morningstar! ithaqua, gn! survivor! reader, yandere vibes! ithaqua, canon-typical violence, obsessive and unhealthy behavior, toxic dynamic, it's morningstar y'all he may be pretty but he ain't a good person, reader also isn't the most stable, i wrote this in the span of 2 ✈️ flights.

summary; only he can destroy the sun in your heart. nobody else but him. and he wouldn't have it any other way.

this is an unspoken contract, written in spilt blood.

a contract between you and him, both entrapped within the large, spiky gates that dares and threatens the world to find out just what is happening beyond.

it is a secret, known to none but you two.

oletus manor has over time forged you into someone you can no longer recognize. looking in the mirror is impossible without witnessing the empty shell standing before you, staring back at your dull eyes. even now you somehow have a distinct, sharp awareness that you had stepped through these gates with a wish in mind, but you have long forgotten what it was.

constant “games” twist your mind’s perceptions and play with your innermost fears and desires, and you have probably been spiked with some drug before, since sometimes your memories either feel overwhelmingly vivid enough to leave tingles on your skin for days or you have no recollection whatsoever. at times, your stomach feels like maggots are chewing inside - perhaps it’s an aftereffect.

over and over and over.

whenever someone gets injured, you don’t have the energy to care. at some point, the cuts and wounds that you originally noticed are no longer tended for.

your body, fully used to the pain, has grown completely numb.

you know that, and while fear slowly seeps into your heart upon that realization, you can’t bring yourself to care at this point.

everything is the same… until you find yourself before a face you don’t recognize. his silver braided hair contrasts with his black attire and an orangish red cape, and his axe is large, but he doesn’t seem to have trouble wielding it.

what stands out to you the most though is his mask. it only covers the upper half of his face, so you can see a wide smile that almost goes ear to ear, but his eyes are completely hidden by that black crown-like mask with a single faced sun in the center where his forehead is. chains surround it; it would surely give any normal person shivers down their spine.

everything about this person screams danger.

but you had twisted your ankle trying to turn on your heel and slam the pallet on him, so now you are rendered unable to move, sitting on the ground while holding your ankle and staring blankly up at that ominous mask.

“you,” he starts, his voice laced with a sweet poison that makes your palms sweat and your heart beat right out of your chest, “just tried to stun me, didn’t you?” he breaks the pallet like crushing a bug with those sharp stilts. “yet you couldn’t do it. how pathetic.”

even while calling you pathetic, he can’t conceal a sadistic giggle from escaping his lips.

“anyone would do the same,” you reply flatly, narrowing your eyes.

“really now? then care to tell me why everyone else trembles like a leaf in front of me? but whatever.” he lifts his axe, and you widen your eyes, half in fear and half in awe at his graceful motion and the way his axe gleams beneath the moonlight. “we can change that.”

you can’t avoid the blow. the blade of the axe digs into your skin near your shoulder. you feel the warmth of your own blood spilling from the wound, and that familiar dullness spreads around that area.

it’s a numbing type of pain. it’s not enough.

just then, an idea pops into your mind. it’s a crazy idea - certainly not one a normal person would even dream to ideate. but for days, perhaps months or years, any sense of normalcy has been robbed from you.

you grab the handle of the blade and push it in deeper. gradually, with more blood staining your clothes, the dull ache grows more sharp.

it is a more genuine, raw pain - a sensation you haven’t felt in such a long time. as strange as it sounds, it makes you feel alive for the first time in who knows how long.

you’re honestly relieved to know you still have some semblance of humanity left in you, but on the other hand, the axe-wielding hunter seems puzzled. that maniacal smile is replaced with a slight frown, from which you can sense confused curiosity.

“deeper,” you say, “aren’t you going to make me tremble before you ‘like a leaf’? if so, then push it in deeper.”

at first, the hunter seems to be contemplating something, completely still as if he is a statue. then his lips stretch into a grin. he complies with your request, digging his axe in until you wince and tears start to sting your eyes before he withdraws it.

through your tear-blurred vision, you can make out the hunter’s sick glee.

if it’s him… if he has that smile on his face, then i don’t mind.

your head starts to spin as you try to stand while putting most of your weight on the ankle that’s not twisted. the hunter takes hold of one of your shoulders with one hand and cups your cheek with the other, his claws digging into your skin in both places. he applies pressure to the wound though to help a little with the bleeding.

now that you can see him a lot closer, he looks very much like a normal boy. not really non-human in any way. you imagine under that mask of his is just a normal face you would be able to see down the street.

it is clear from your interactions, though, that he’s got one too many screws loose.

“let me break you,” he says, “let me destroy the sun in your heart, and then i’ll give you a new world.” his voice is gentle but deceptive, holding the poisonous allure of a demon.

you know that, but you are still drawn in hopelessly. “it can only be you,” you reply in between uneven breaths, “nobody else - only you.”

the hunter’s grin widens, and he leans in to whisper in your ear.

“i have a feeling we’ll get along very well.”

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noirvette · 1 year

Text

WE NEVER EXISTED

[band smau]

[SIX]

masterlist.

prev. | next.

The feeling of love often weighs heavy on Kenny’s mind. For him, love is a commitment, a two way street. Being there for someone is what Kenneth McCormick believes is a part of being in love. A sparks fly moment whenever he looks at someone. Kenny knows he’s in love, he’s never felt anything stronger than this before, and he cherishes every moment he can when the moment is available.

Ever since you had left, Kenny had felt a numbness that took a hold of him, like he was missing a giant piece of him ever since you had gone. At first he maintained constant contact with you; frequent texts, calls, even updates about what he was doing just so he felt a sense of normalcy, like if you were still around. In Kenny’s love-stricken mind, you were still with him, despite the thousands of miles that separated the two of you, he had felt connected to you through his phone screen.

At some point mid-way through the mini tours you were out doing, Kenny had rekindled some past friendships from highschool that he never thought he’d rekindle. Kevin Stoley and Red McArthur. Of course, he didn’t purposely go off to meet them, Butters had brought them along one day and he just was rocking with it but, he couldn’t help but admit that knowing other people that the friends he constantly hung out with was nice, it was refreshing..it was new.

Kenny liked new, he was always wanting to experience the latest thing or try the latest thing. Kenny..liked new things, new experiences, new relationships.

Kevin was someone he hung out with randomly a few times as a kid, stupid live action role playing games and overall childish fun often had the two meet up. Red was almost entirely new. He never interacted with her that much aside from maybe a few random classes, however he knew of her. He also knew that the two of them dated off and on growing up, eventually ending it for good sophomore year of high school. It was almost like another Wendy and Stan situation, however Wendy and Stan eventually became stable while these two just broke it off.

He was surprised to see the two of them together that day, ever since their official break up (which he remembers Bebe once mentioning that it was a messy one), they’ve never been seen together in the same room.

Kevin was easy to talk to, a little nerdy but he was overall fun and refreshing. He had new outlooks on life, he was like a breath of fresh air for Kenny and he appreciated that heavily. Kenny was so used to his friends and how they acted that he almost forgot that well other people are casually out and about and aren’t chaotic, messy, assholes.

Red was sweet, a bit shy and a bit awkward to connect to, but he was appreciative of her nonetheless. She even helped with his one sided puzzlement on how to connect with you while you guys were on temporary long distance. She was something new to Kenny, a whole new friendship for him to have. Kenny was a joyous, get along easily with kind of guy and new friendships tended to be common for him, but they were more often than not fickle, and he was excited for a more permanent sort of new relationship.

So when Kevin had been gone for a work related matter, and wasn’t able to hang out with, Kenny had found himself drawing closer to Red. Butters normally was with the two of them just tagging along but eventually Kenny found himself just hanging out with Red one on one.

Kenny didn’t often make mistakes either, he was the type of guy that when he did, he’d realize what he did and he’d own up to it. He HATED, seriously hated when people avoided the truth, he believes it just builds up karma for the person to experience later. It was one of his biggest pet peeves when people just weren't honest.

So when he made the biggest mistake of his life, a few several times, he didn’t open up about it. He did exactly the opposite and now he has no idea how to let you know when you come back from New York. In the back of his mind he knew he shouldn’t get angry at you or take out his feelings against you by ignoring you, you were doing nothing wrong, in fact you HAD done nothing wrong. You were still his girlfriend, his oblivious girlfriend who was currently on the other side of the country having probably the time of her life and here he was, stupid naive Kenny McCormick currently having the worst time of his life.

In the back of his mind, a small nagging part of him told him that he didn’t mind the sneaking around, the loving behind closed doors and curtains, the hushed whispers and giggles. In the back of his mind, he knew why too.

The idea of love often weighs heavy on Kenny’s mind. For him, love is a commitment, a two way street. Being there for someone is what Kenneth McCormick believes is a part of being in love. A sparks fly moment whenever he looks at someone. Kenny knows he’s in love, he’s never felt anything stronger than this before, and he cherishes every moment he can when the moment is available.

And Kenneth McCormick, stupid Kenneth McCormick, knows he’s in love with the idea of you

[TAGLIST]: @captivq @kimiesstuff @bwljules @the-cooler-kira @1one1person1 @kenny-the-ken @neenieweenie @n0tangeliccc @revzxn @mirophobic @gonefiishiing @musiclovebot @bootsieboo @bonez4brainz @4xbei77 @1996kj @sweetadonisbutbetter @scinclaitnoir @okarigold

#kenny mcormick x reader #kyle broflovski x reader #south park x reader #we never existed series

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rebootgrimm · 2 months

Text

I’m going to re-share this GoFundMe. I don’t know if they’re on Tumblr or not.

The copy-pasted story from the GoFundMe site is under the cut if you want to read, but as of July 1st they need money for:

Clothes

Temporary shelter (like a tent)

Food

Water

Hygiene products

Children’s supplies

Passport fees

Border crossing fees

Temporary accommodations

Possible flights out of Egypt

As like with every GoFundMe I share, if you can or can’t donate please reblog.

tags because it’s been hours and no one has seen this

@inktimerose @schnozzlebozzle @averagetmntfan @analog-cottage-gore @baileythebean

@thesilliestofallqueers @vv4loe @therearenonutsforsomeendermen @lilacquintet @candycoffinss

@ask-sora-aguilar

Hello!

This is Mohammed's family, currently residing in northern Gaza. We have initiated this fundraising campaign to help us leave Gaza for a safer place. Gaza has become uninhabitable. Let me briefly explain our situation.

Mohammed's family consists of:

Father: Mohammed (34 years old)

Mother: Sahar (30 years old)

Daughter: Tala (4 years old)

We are living in unimaginably harsh conditions. After losing our jobs in graphic design and digital marketing, we lost everything... our home, our jobs, our security, even the devices we used to work with, due to the devastating war in Gaza. We are now living in dreadful conditions, without a stable shelter or a source of income.

Our live turned into a nightmare due to the relentless war. Our warm home was not spared from the bombings; it was completely destroyed, and now we live in a small room.

We have endured numerous hardships. We have been displaced more than 5 times within northern Gaza, never reaching Rafah, always besieged under continuous bombardment, witnessing death day after day, miraculously escaping it.

On December 30th, we were trapped for 12 hours in a building belonging to our relatives, under constant airstrikes from planes and tanks. The upper floors were targeted and completely destroyed, but by the grace of God, we miraculously escaped under heavy gunfire and shelling. Mohammad was injured in his desperate attempt to escape danger, and now he suffers from a foot injury, exacerbated by the lack of medical care and malnutrition due to the famine we are facing.

We were forced to grind grains and feed on animal feed to survive. We haven't received aid for months, facing worsening conditions every day.

We separately need your support to leave Gaza and live in peace away from extermination and escape from the difficult living conditions, where bombings occur everywhere and every moment, electricity is scarce, and there is no decent food available. We have endured so much destruction in Gaza.

Please, help us leave Gaza and move to Egypt. The travel cost to cross the Egyptian border is $8,500 per person, and your contributions will be allocated to ensure their safe passage and evacuation from Gaza, in addition to covering the basic costs associated with them.

HOW WILL WE USE THE MONEY ?!

Your donations will give our family motivation to work hard for a new beginning. We decided to start this fundraising to help us to start a new and safe life So please we need your support thank you.

Your Donations cover:

Basic necessities

(water, food, hygiene products, children supplies)

Passport fees

Border crossing fees

Temporary accommodations and flights out of Egypt should we be able to secure them safe passage

In short, you can help us by:

Contributing: Every donation, regardless of its size, makes a difference in our lives.

Promoting: Help amplify our cause by sharing this fundraising campaign with your network of friends and family on social media platforms.

Let's join forces together to give us a new chance at life. We urgently need our support and solidarity.

Thank you for every contribution you make and for standing by their side in these difficult circumstances.

We will always be grateful for your generosity.

#Free Palestine #Free Gaza #All Eyes on Rafah #GoFundMe

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tiny-minecraft-rabbit · 12 days

Text

a new kind of warmth

Grian lept off of Monopoly Mountain, unsure what or where his next life would be, but knowing he couldn't stay here any longer. Not when the sand was red with blood. He ended up somewhere in the artic.

Part of the @extremetimedchallengeexchange which I had so much fun with!

Words: 1703

AO3 here

Grian is cold.

He hasn’t been cold in weeks. He’s used to the heat of the sun, the burn of the sand, the sweat dripping from his brows and the constant red tint to his skin.

Now he’s cold. Now there’s a bone deep chill. Now he’s freezing and his muscles are stiff and sore from it. There’s wind ruffling his feathers and the sharp pain of ice against his cheek. He flexes his hand and grimaces as his fingers dig into snow, the burn familiar and yet so very different from sand.

He lifts his head, attempting to open his eyes and meeting only the blinding reflection of snow for miles. He shut them again as he forced himself to his knees, shaking the frost from his wings.

This must be death then. Some purgatory– or Hell. He’d think Hell would be the fire and brimstone, but that would have been too familiar. A wasteland of snow and ice and constant wind felt like Hell enough, would be a fitting punishment for the life he had lived.

When he finally opened his eyes again, blinked away the brightness and let himself focus, he became a little less sure it was Hell. Not definite, but the landscape was less barren than at first glance. Most of it was ice– but behind him, when he finally stood to properly look around, was a spruce forest. Through the trees, if he squinted, he could see the warm light of torches and lamps.

He started walking.

Soon a cabin appeared in his view, with a large fenced yard that had wolves galloping about, foxes nicking the wolves’ toys out from under them, horses watching it all from a small stable, a big slumbering polar bear sitting at the steps of the door, and over a dozen crows sitting on the roof of the cabin. It was surrounded by a mountain range and he could just barely spot another home a couple meters away built into the stone.

If this was life after death (and what else could be when his very last action was falling from the top of Monopoly Mountain, too grief stricken to open his wings with the blood staining his hands), then perhaps this was the home of Death itself– or an angel or a demon or someone that could explain to him what afterlife he had wound up in. At the very least it would be warmer than out here (if this afterlife was even a little kind and had insulated walls).

He stumbled past into the yard, closing the gate behind him. He flinched when the first wolf came galloping up, but it merely licked at his frozen fingers. A few of the wolves barked and howled and then several crows joined in with squawks and calls of their own, probably alerting whatever being inside the home that he was out here. The polar bear poked his head up, blinking sleepily at him. He had a golden name tag hanging from his neck and he didn’t move from his nap spot as Grian approached.

There was movement in the window and then the door swung open– “What the fuck has gotten you so riled, chat?” The man standing at the door looked… surprisingly normal. For just a moment Grian thought he was a human, his blonde hair was pulled back by his hat and he was wearing dark green and black robes. The wings, he didn't see until they shifted and spread slightly behind him, big black things that stole all the light and almost looked like voids in space. He didn't have any other feathers on his face, or clawed hands, or taloned feet– Not like Grian.

He was an Angel then, like Skizz was, or something like it. Skizz's wings were white; the inky black of this stranger was much more intimidating. Was this like– his Guardian Angel? He didn't think his Guardian Angel would have a potty mouth. Also he was a terrible guardian given the whole– everything he just went through.

“Oh, hello there!” He called from the steps, waving at Grian, “Wasn’t expecting visitors. Would have cleaned up for you.”

Grian numbly waved back, stopping in the middle of the yard as he watched the Angel come down the steps, easily sidestepping the polar bear and effortlessly ignoring the dogs that followed in his heels. A few crows swooped on him and he laughed and shouted at them.

“Hiya, mate. You doing alright there?” He asked, stopping just sort of grabbing Grian's arm. His hand was outstretched as he looked Grian up and down, “I don't think we’ve met before. I haven't seen you around the server pretty sure. I’m Philza.”

“Grian,” he replied, staring at Philza’s wings– one of them was messed up, the skin and tissue had so much scarring that feathers, his flight feathers, no longer grew. It was something a respawn or a few potions should have fixed, not something you let heal on its own. “Are you, like, my Guardian Angel?”

Philza laughed, “The fuck? No, mate, I’m not anyone's Guardian Angel. Especially not yours. I’ve never seen you in my life.”

“That's good, cause my Guardian Angel must suck at their job,” Grian grumbled.

“I feel that, bud,” Philza agreed readily, stepping to the side, “Want to come inside, where it’s warm?”

“Yes, please,” he whined, taking the biggest steps he could manage with his numb legs towards the house.

Philza was quick to show him around. The place was small and quaint, even smaller than their sandcastle. It was crowded with sentimental items and cozy furniture. Grian was quick to sink into a plush chair and bundle his wings around himself. Philza bustled about, making tea and talking about his housemate, Techno, who was out at the moment, and his neighbor, Ranboo, who was also gone. It was just the two of them, and that was fine with Grian for now. He still wasn't sure what type of afterlife he’d wound up in and having more people in his afterlife sounded like too much right now.

A hot mug was placed in his hand. He glared at it for a moment, the steam and heat not quite welcome despite him still warming up from the cold outside. It almost made him want to drop the mug as his fingers started to burn.

He watched as Philza sat down across from him, a few birds perching on the back of the chair. They squawked a few times, Philza’s nose wrinkling in disgust.

“So, I don’t suppose you’re used to the cold yet, huh?” Philza remarked, lightly batting away a bird that nudged his cheek.

Grian hesitated at that, especially when the birds stopped moving to stare at him. It was unnerving with how they all looked at him, watching with an unblinking stare. “I– no not really. I’m used to warmer climates.”

“Oh, warmer climates… like deserts?”

Grian tensed at that, his wings folding up closer to his body. He glanced up at the birds, who’d started to disperse, moving to perch on other objects in the room, observing him from all angles. “I-yeah, like deserts I guess. How did you–”

“The sand,” Philza gestured to the grains that were slightly dusting the ground now, “It’s all in your wings mate. That can’t be comfortable.”

“I’m used to it,” He replied slowly, ducking his head.

“I fucking bet,” Philza rolled his eyes. He slipped out of the chair and onto the carpet, patting the space in front of him, “Come on, up! Let’s get those fixed.”

Grian blinked down at him, “What?”

“You’re getting sand in my chair, mate. It’s a bitch to clean up when it gets into furniture. So, come sit, I can clean them for you.”

He stared at Philza for a long moment, not sure he was actually hearing him right. It had to be a misunderstanding on his part. Preening was intimate. At least, it was supposed to be. Sure he’s had a few hermits he was less than close to brush a feather back into place or pull a pinhead, but Mumbo was the only person he’d let sit down and run his fingers through them in ages. Him and, of course, Scar these last few weeks. The only other person he evenly remotely trusted in the games once the blood started spilling (and spilling and spilling until all that was left was Scar’s blood to spill).

“It’s just getting the sand out, come on,” Phil waved him over again.

Slowly– ever so slowly– Grian slipped onto the floor with Philza. He had to set his mug down a second to stop it from spilling on the carpet as he turned his back to the other.

A part of him expected to feel the punch of a sword between his shoulder blades. He was tense as a bowstring, waiting for the impact.

When the fingers slipped between primaries he flinched.

Immediately the hands were gone. Neither of them said a thing for a second, then Philza went back to it. Grian was still tense, but he tried to stay still, hoping to make the process a bit quicker.

Philza worked deftly and diligently. “My son was an avian too,” he muttered softly after a moment, “He had his mother’s eyes.”

Grian hummed in response, not sure how to answer that and not sure if he was supposed to. Instead the quiet lingered, but the tension was loosening. He ruffled a few feathers, shaking out a bit of sand himself. Philza chuckled behind him before grabbing the crest of a wing to still it and returning to his work.

After that, Philza would make idle chatter, commenting on his adventures and his sons. Grian slowly relaxed under it all. The hands in his wings, the comforting warmth of the cabin and the hot tea in a pretty red terracotta mug.

It would be morning by the time Grian woke up again, a red wool blanket thrown over him. He’d have a million things to figure out and people to find, but until then he would fall asleep to the gentle help of a new friend.

#Grian #Philza #3rd Life #life series #trafficblr #dream smp #life series fic #dream smp fic #mcyt fanfiction #rabbit writes

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