#make it unusable as a hair stick! not that i have enough hair to stick. so. probably just desk decor for me!

[pagesofkenna]

everyone but also @ranseur, look at this polearm i bought at a board game cafe the other day

[swordsandholly]

Little Death

Incubus!Soap x fem fat reader | Ao3

NSFW | MDNI | cw: dubcon, noncon, drinking, biting, afab reader, blood, PiV sex, cunnilingus, anal, monsterfucking, size difference, kidnapping, dead dove

Word Count: 4.5k

You sit in your apartment on your worn out couch, sipping a glass of shitty gas station wine at some godforsaken hour in the morning. Just like you do nearly every night these days. Love Island plays loudly on the TV while you try to drown out the overbearing silence that seems to cling to you. It surrounds you at all times, everything just a little too quiet. A little too distant.

You knew getting divorced would be lonely. You didn’t expect it to be this bad.

Your eye connects with a piece of paper that’s been living on your side-of-the-road coffee table for the past… who knows at this point. The friend that gave it to you meant well. She intended it to be a funny, light hearted gesture. Instead, you just feel pathetic. The pitiable fat girl that can’t get a date. Not that she’d be wrong. Out of drunk boredom, or maybe sheer desperation, you grab the stupid cut out article. It’s some plasticky, cheap print with the title ‘How To Summon A Lover’ which is probably the laziest headline in the world for a supposed spell.

Are you lonely? The summary asks, Do you need some special company? Just follow these steps and get exactly what you’re looking for!

It’s stupid. It’s corny. Luckily - or unfortunately - you are just drunk enough to take part in stupid and corny. Your eyes graze over the materials list - paper, a red marker, a metal baking sheet, and a stick candle. Your brow scrunches. You suppose you can sacrifice one of your outdated, unused decor candles that sit on your mantle. You gather the supplies with clumsy, uneven steps.

Fuck your ex. Fuck him for making you this sad and pathetic. Fuck him for piling on the insecurity, for isolating you and taking nearly all your friend group. For all of it. You plop down on your rug, items in hand and thoughts swirling angrily.

Step 1: Place the paper on the baking sheet

Step 2: Draw a pentagram

You roll your eyes. Of fucking course it’s a pentagram. You do it, still.

Step 3: Write “I Light The Flame of Desire” on each side of the page

Step 4: Place the candle in the center of the paper

Step 5: Light the candle and concentrate on your intention until it burns out.

You regret picking up such a big candle.

When you wake your mouth is dry and your back aches. The sunlight offends your eyes when you attempt to crack them open. You must have fallen asleep on the floor at some point. You look down at the mess in front of you. The candle burnt the paper into almost nothing at some point. Thank god the article told you to put it on a baking sheet.

You feel so fucking stupid.

You stumble into the shower, allowing the hot water to help rouse you from your hungover, groggy state. That feeling of stupidity tickles the back of your mind. It’s not like you expected it to work - really, what’s making your heart twist and shame crawl up your back is the disappointment, is that it didn’t. At least you don’t have to work today. You don’t particularly feel like being around people. Not that you do the rest of the time.

As you turn to get out, fear strikes through you at a shadow in your periphery through the fogged shower glass. Just as soon as you see it, it disappears. You shrug it off, heart still thumping wildly as you towel off. Something in your gut churns as you do your best to get ready for the day. An unease that won’t leave as you make yourself at least appear like someone with their life together. A feeling that someone is watching makes your hair stand on end.

You send up a thank you to the universe that you managed to get up early enough to make it to the grocery store during quiet hours. While buckling your seatbelt, that shadow comes back. Right behind you, in the back seat. It’s gone as soon as you check the rearview mirror. You let out a shaky breath. It keeps happening. While you get your shopping cart, while you choose produce. Every time you turn an isle, it’s there. It sends shivers down your spine. Some black, effervescent shape that follows you worse than a shadow. That catches your eye even when you consciously try to ignore it. You really need to lay off the drinking.

As soon as you get home, you toss everything from the night before - including the baking sheet. Some superstitious part of you rears its head, telling you to walk the damn thing all the way to the outside dumpster rather than leave it to fester in your personal trash. You don’t believe in ghosts or spirits. You’re sure you just drank too much, that you slept strangely and it fucked with your head. That not speaking to anyone besides brief interactions with coworkers and customers for weeks on end has left you jumpy and off. Maybe you really should see that therapist your lawyer talked about. She’s expensive though, and not covered by your insurance…

You turn over another bottle of wine in your hand, wrinkling your nose. Not tonight. Not when you turn to put the bottle down and nearly jump into the ceiling at some shape moving to the living room from behind you. Only in your periphery, only vague images, leaving you uneasy. You toss and turn when you finally get into bed. It still feels like you’re being watched. Like there’s a camera just over your shoulder, or in the ceiling fan, staring down at you. For the first time since you were small, you bury yourself under the covers and screw your eyes shut, hoping it will save you from the monsters under your bed and in your head.

You stir at a weight dipping your bed. It’s slight, so slight you almost miss it entirely, until it isn’t. Until whatever it is moves again and you feel something brush over your legs. In a panic, still half asleep, you turn onto your back, fists flying through the air only to be caught by inhumanly large hands. You flail, kicking as a scream catches in your throat.

“Shh, sh, yer a’right.” A distinctly Scottish brogue coos, pinning you to the bed without so much as a grunt. You finally manage to open your eyes properly. He’s big - eyes a bright, unnatural blue with a wild light in them. When he grins at you it exposes long fangs where his normal canines should be. Two horns poke out from his head, the shorn sides of his haircut further exposing them. There’s an unnatural red tint to his skin, darkening to nearly pure crimson at the ends of his exposed limbs. A shiver runs down your spine.

“Wh- who the fuck are you?” You squeak, far less threatening than you might have liked.

The beast’s grin only widens. “Donnae ye know? Ye called me, after all.”

Your eyes widen to saucers as you stare up at him. Did- there’s no way that stupid spell worked! It was a cut out from a damn off-brand Cosmopolitan. It was stupid sleepover bullshit. It was - It’s wasn’t- You couldn’t have summoned a real, actual factual demon into your apartment. No, this has to be a prank or intruder or - or hallucination even.

You try to shove at his chest as soon as he retracts his hands, a weak attempt at escaping. Part of you expects to phase through him - to wake up in your quiet, dark bedroom. Except his hands are very much real and warm as they pin your wrists back against the mattress. The silhouette of massive wings block out the little bit of moonlight that might have otherwise drifted through the slit in your curtains. You can barely make him out, now. Those too-bright eyes glint like a cat’s as he stares down at you.

“Now, why did ye call me, little one?” He leans in, nose brushing against yours before ducking his head down to lick a long stripe up your neck.

Your face heats, mouth struggling to form words. “I… didn’t think it was real…”

“Tha’s not a reason.” Too-sharp teeth nip at the shell of your ear.

“I just… why do you want to know anyway?” You spit defensively, thrashing under him in a sudden burst of confidence - or desperation. You’re not sure. It does fuck-all for you, the beast pinning your thighs under his weight. A deep, warning growl rumbles in his chest. You freeze at the sound - some ancient instinct telling you to stop all action and pray it saves you.

“It’s no’ polite t’dodge my question, bonnie.”

You whimper involuntarily, his sharp teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck with just enough pressure to threaten a bite. The words tumble from your lips near incoherently, “I haven’t- I’ve only been with one person… for a long time. I’m nervous… about a second…”

He hums. Something brushes your shin - a tail, you think. You can’t make it out in the dark. “Whit’s yer name, doll?”

You blurt it, a little horrified at giving that information to some supernatural creature. For some reason you find yourself following it up with, “What’s yours?”

He laughs and mulls it over, jaw clenching briefly, as if he can’t make up his mind about what it is. “Call me Soap, aye?”

You snort despite yourself and he - Soap - quirks a brow. “Weird name for a demon.”

“Incubus.” He corrects.

You have half a mind to complain when he tears your nightgown off before you can react. The cloth rips fast, practically disintegrating in his rough hands. That’s until he climbs down the bed, taking one nipple between his lips and flicking the other. Your back arches, hands fisting the sheets. You let out an indignant ow when he bites down on the fat of your breast, leaving a mark just shy of drawing blood. Soap ignores it, continuing to lavish them with attention as he sees fit. Your thighs press together and you can’t help but squirm, becoming desperate for more in spite of the voice in your head telling you to run. He senses it, you think, moving down your body leaving nips and bites in his path before settling between your thighs. He takes your underwear off in much the same fashion, turning them to shreds in barely a moment. His wings disappear into the shadows - there but not simultaneously. Shifting in and out of your vison.

“Look a’ tha’.” He sighs. “Whit a pretty pussy. Cannae believe yer lettin’ her go unused.”

You whimper and attempt to close your legs, failing when those massive hands hook under your knees and push them up to your chest as far as they can go. His nails - near claws - dig into the flesh of your thighs. A gasp tumbles from your lips as his tongue drags through your folds. Soap places a light kiss your your clit before following with a harsh suck that leaves you twitching and whining. Part of you feels ashamed for enjoying this as much as you are - for lapping up the attention from this stranger like a starved dog - but it feels too unreal for you to really care. Too fictional to apply your real world morals or sensibilities.

You yelp in surprise when his tongue flicks over your back hole, causing him to chuckle and mutter, “Tha’s for later.”

He doesn’t leave you time to think on that promise. You throw your head back as he slips his tongue inside. Fuck, it’s deep. Unnaturally long - built to systematically pull pleasure from you just like the rest of him. You find yourself grinding down onto it despite yourself, pent up body giving into instinct and abandoning rational thought. You grab onto his stupid hair to further press him into you. He doesn’t seem to mind as a low guttural sound rumbles through his chest.

A thick finger circles your entrance, replacing his tongue in one swift motion. He doesn’t wait to add a second - the stretch causing you to hiss. His fingers are big. His proportions just on this side of incompatibly large. You wonder briefly, distantly, why his claw-nails aren’t hurting you. It’s hard to care much when the pad of a thick finger presses roughly against that spot that leaves you gasping. His lips wrap around your clit again, sloppily sucking and licking at the little bud as you careen closer and closer to the edge. Your back arches harshly, almost painfully, as you tumble over with a choked moan.

“So easy.” He chuckles. Your face gets hotter, an indignant pout forming on your lips. Rude. Your eyes drift over his body and, somehow for the first time tonight, you realize he’s already naked. Not a single piece of cloth in sight upon his arrival. You let yourself take in his strong torso, the thick dusting of hair from his chest all the way down to a healthy happy trail, down to-

“That’s not gonna fit!” You squeak, clumsily trying to back away. His cock hangs heavily between his legs; thick and veiny and already leaking. His hand on your sternum stops you in place. You’re sure he can feel the way your heart hammers away in your chest - practically beating against your ribcage. For a moment, you think you see sympathy in his eyes. Rather quickly you realize that warmth is, instead, hunger. An eagerness to swallow you whole dances across his sharp grin.

“We’ll make it fit.”

That’s all the warning you get before he’s bullying his cock inside you, inch by inch despite your shaky pleas to slow down. It burns, just crossing over the threshold into too much. Your teeth grind, a deep whine resonating in your throat. Your fingers claw at the sheets below you and your body jerks with odd shocks of pleasure and pain all tied up into one.

“Fuckin’ tight…” Soap groans.

“S’too much!” You practically sob, hips squirming to get away from the intrusion.

“Y’can take it.” His other hand grabs onto your waist to still you. You can’t stop the moan that forces its way past your lips as his hips meet yours.

You expect it to hurt when he fucks you - he doesn’t allow you time to adjust, each thrust practically punching the air from your lungs. Instead, it sends electricity up your spine. Your brows knit together, eyes screwed shut as warmth pools at the base of your spine. Soap hooks one of your legs around his hip, the other over his shoulder. You watch him through bleary eyes, the strange red of his hands contrasting with your natural, human skin. The way his hand nearly wraps around your thick calf. The way his core flexed with every thrust. The pleasured knot in his brow.

Soap lets your raised leg drop, pressing his weight down onto you and bracketing your head with his forearms. He smells so good - spices and trees. It invades your senses, leaving your mind somehow foggier than it already felt. He pulls you into a kiss. It’s not romantic, not emotional, just a searing exchange made up of messy teeth and tongue. He tastes like cinnamon. His fang catches your lip and copper coats your mouth. A light whine escapes him as he licks it up and sucks at the small wound.

“Please, please, please.” You pant rhythmically, chest heaving.

“Please, please, please.” He mocks, chuckling at your begging as he presses his thumb to your clit.

You practically seize, already overdone and so close to another. You’re babbling, you know that much, but the contents of your words are lost on you.

“Gonnae cum f’me?” Soap presses his nose to your temple. “Gonnae cum on this cock?”

You nod vigorously, nails leaving half-moons his strong shoulders. His thumb swirls your clit as he continues to spill filthy words into your ear. Things you’ve never thought of, otherworldly promises no man could keep, and groaned nonsense to match your own. Your climax slams into you. You practically howl, whole body shaking. Soap’s tongue drags up the side of your face, licking up sweat and tears. He’s not far behind, a growl rumbling through his chest; his hips stutter as he spills inside you.

You think, for a moment, as you desperately try to catch your breath, that it’s over. He’ll disappear off into the ether and you’ll wake up tomorrow from this strange dream. All of it a lonely, mentally unwell delusion that you can tell your therapist. After you book her. You really should if your brain is coming up with shit like this.

Except, he doesn’t stop. The slowed rocking of his hips immediately picks up again. He leans up, hands gripping your waist as you let out a long, keening whine. You try to shove at his hands, to kick your shaking legs. They’re clumsy. Weak and used and uncoordinated. The sweat on your palms leaves you slipping, unable to get a grip around his wrist. Soap just laughs - dark and unnatural. Far too entertained by your panic. A malicious spark lights his eyes as he stares down at you.

“S-soap!” You gasp, mind and body going into overdrive. “P-please! You don’t have to - you can - fuck - just stop!”

He laughs again, only speeding up - using the hold on your soft waist to fuck you back onto him. An anger flares up in you and you reel back, slapping your open palm against his face as hard as you can manage. It doesn’t do anything to deter him, his hips still slam full force into yours without so much as a stutter. His chuckle cuts off into a gravelly groan. “Do tha’ again.”

As much as you don’t want to give in to him, you do. You batter your fists against his chest, his arms, anywhere you can even slightly reach. You dig your nails into his hands. He just speeds up, lewd, wet sounds an loud slaps echoing in the room along with your moans and shouts. Soap pulls out just long enough for his arm to encircle your waist and flip you over as if you weigh nothing to him. You hardly get your bearings before he’s forcing his cock back in your cunt. His hands latch onto your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll bruise, if not be crushed completely.

“Please! Fuck - Soap - please - st-” You choke out, barely able to lift your face out of the sheets to breathe. Your whole body tremors violently. You try to reach behind yourself for him - to get some purchase, but all you’re met with his a hand firmly planted between your shoulder blades to hold you in place.

“Whit? Ye think tha’ was all? Jus’ one round an’ yer done?” The beast condescends, voice rough. “Nae, we’ve go’ forever. Well, until yer body gives out, at least. Gonnae shove my cock down tha’ pretty throat next, I think.”

The hand still on your hip lets go. Gathering slick from between your thighs, Soap pushes his thumb against your back hole. You gasp and attempt to lurch forward, to get away, but it doesn’t work. You can’t move out from under the weight of him. You feel a glob of something land there, quickly realizing he spit on you just to gasp as his thumb pushes inside. Part of you hates that it feels good, hates the words spilling from his lips about your unused ass. The rest of you succumbs to the fullness as his thumb is replaced by a finger, then another, working you open.

You whimper, fear mixing with the ongoing growing pleasure in your gut. It’s all too much. You’re overstimulated, soft body bruised and exhausted. Filled to the brim. Soap drapes himself over you, removing his fingers with almost a pop, and sinking his sharp teeth into the crook of your neck. His arms bracket your head once again, nearly flattening your against the mattress underneath him. You cry out, tears streaming as you feel another climax approaching, your pussy drooling down your thighs.

Something deep in the back of your brain snap as you cum. You lose yourself to base instinct. The heat in the room and anger in your chest consumes you. The air burns as it enters your lungs, sparking and electrifying your skin. Your head turns, eyes locking on the strong forearm anchored just above you. On impulse you lurch up, sinking your teeth in as far as they’ll go. A dog with prey caught in it’s maw. Soap growls in your ear - deep and animalistic. His blood isn’t quite coppery, not like yours, it’s far too sweet. It only spurs you on, your fingers twisting so tightly in the sheets you hear threads pop. Your other hand reaches back to dig your nails into his upper arm, to scratch at wherever you can reach. The sounds tearing through your throat aren’t right. Aren’t human. His arm muffles them slightly, the grunts and growls becoming borderline screams as you cum again so soon.

Soap flips you again, tearing his arm away from you and planting his feet flat on the bed, using his inhuman strength to help bounce you on his lap. You snarl, nails digging into his pecs to draw more blood. It drips down your lips, onto your chest, it covers the pads of your fingers. It’s animal. You’re just an animal.

“There ye are.” He grins, eyes practically glowing.

You don’t think much of it, you can’t think at all, really. Not in words, or even images. Pure instinct drives every action, your nose flaring at the scent of sex and blood that’s filled the room. Your skin is feverish, limbs shaking. Frenzied. That’s the word. Frenzied and rabid as you reach for strength you don’t have an meet his thrusts.

The two of you keep going that way - for how long, you aren’t sure. At some point you end up on the floor, at another he holds you against the wall by your throat. At another you hear the bed frame crack in two. Claw marks and bruises litter your body - litter his, as well. He pushes his cock into your back hole, not caring about the minimal stretch. You don’t need lube, you’ve drenched the both of you enough. The last thing you’re conscious for is Soap moaning in your ear as your hands wrap around his horns, holding on with all you have as your lips meet.

When you wake, your body feels heavy. Buried under something - blankets, you think. Though, your blankets at home have never had this weight to them. It’s more than quilts - your fingers tentatively running over both the texture of soft cloths and thick furs. It feels luxury, buttery smooth under your touch. Briefly, you shut your eyes again, content to drift back into blackness out of this cozy dream.

When you do peek your eyes open, a shudder runs down your spine. This isn’t your apartment. You shoot up, looking around the odd bedroom. It’s strangely decorated. Modern but with hints of something more scattered about. The smooth, painted walls of a modern home and ornate, lit fireplace of a castle mixed with current and antique furniture alike. A large couch sits in front of the mantle with embroidered, thick blankets hanging over the back. There’s a cracked door that seems to lead into a walk in closet. The area rug covering the far half of the room is a rich emerald green embellished with flowing designs in various golds and darker tones. Drawings and random scrawl are pinned to the far wall. There’s an open sketchbook on top of an old, hardwood desk with similar designs carved into it as the mantle.

Panic begins to surge as you open the massive curtains on the wall opposite the mantle to reveal floor to ceiling windows. They’re heavy like tapestries. You realize quickly that two of the panels are sliding doors onto a balcony, though you hesitate to step out. It would only corner you further. The sky looks like fire - waves of clouds lit in orange and yellow hues. It moves to fast. Streams of flames twist and run across the sky, overtaking one another.

You swing open the only other door that doesn’t appear to be the main exit. All it leads to is a bathroom. Large and expensive but nothing abnormal. Except for your shampoo inside the shower upon further inspection. Memories flood you, the night before comes in flashes. Was it the night before? Time feels wrong. Everything feels wrong. You’re sore, eyes heavy and body weak. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, dressed in some gauzy, black floor-length thing that leaves little to the imagination.

Just as you exit the bathroom to look for somewhere else to hide or run, the main door opens. Soap steps in, adjusting the sleeve of his t-shirt. You freeze, as if he won’t see you as long as you’re still.

It doesn’t work, of course. Those bright eyes lock onto you, thick brows raising. “Bonnie? Yer up!”

He looks… different. Less demonic. Not that anything has visibly changed much besides the fact that he’s wearing actual clothes. He simply fits into the scenery better - the room made to accommodate him. You realize part of the strangeness of it is the furniture size; meant for someone much taller and wider than you. The light helps as well, defining the contours of his face that you couldn’t make out in the dark. You back away from him as he approaches, pressing yourself against the wall as tightly as you can.

“So glad yer up. Are ye hungry? I can-“

“Where am I?” You cut him off meekly, eyes darting around the room.

“Och, my home of course.” Soap grins as if that explains anything.

“Why?” It doesn’t come out like the demand you want it to, more like a plea. Your voice cracks and you can’t meet his eye.

He tilts his head, eyes watching you, raking over you from head to toe. A predator observing it’s prey - deciding how best to catch it. “Ye live here, now.”

“What?” You gasp, trying to back further into the wall as if you could phase through it should you just try hard enough. “No- no, please! You have to let me go home! I need to go home!”

Johnny shrugs far too casually for your liking. “A soft little thing like ye? Nae, think I’ll keep ye fer the time bein’. Never met someone who could keep up like ye can. Go’ a lot of pent up energy in there, hen.”

“I don’t-“

“Yer gonnae feed me fer years tae come.” He continues as if you didn’t say anything at all, “Besides, I’ve go’ some friends tha’ I think would like ye.”

[svsss-brainrot-blog]

Luo Binghe and Shen yuan interaction where Luo Binghe can read Shen Yuans thoughts.

It comes with the dusk, after a long day handling strange flowers for trade, when Shizun deigns to allow his humble and devoted husband to bathe him, and run the teeth of his ivory comb through long, dark tresses.

“Ah, Luo Binghe,” echoes in the back of his mind, like a sacred whisper, something warm flowing within it. “You are far too good to this old man.”

His hands still for a moment, halfway through a stroke of devotion. With a curious hum, Shizun’s eyes open, catching his in the mirror, and a trace of confusion slinks through that place behind his own thoughts.

“Binghe? Is something wrong?” His eyes search over him in that way they always have, but there is nothing to see when his mind is where the curiosity lays.

The thing is, Luo Binghe is not unused to having another’s thoughts in his mind. But he has never had Shizun’s. Even more so, it seems his revered master and husband has no idea that he’s doing it. Perhaps one of the Tethered Thought Lilies from earlier had managed to cling some of its pollen to the demon’s sleeve without notice. A careless mistake, he ought to know better. He’ll have to scour the room to make sure he didn’t track anything else in by accident.

“Nothing is wrong, Shizun,” Luo Binghe assured him, resuming the task at hand. The lilies were not very potent, and with the level of cultivation he and his husband possessed, they could not garner an effect for more than a few incense sticks’ worth of time, if that. “This humble disciple was only admiring the beautiful view.”

Right on cue, a fetching trace of pink races to color the fine, soft pale skin of Shen Qingqiu’s face.

“I swear he’s trying to get me to explode some days! What shameless words! How much more must I be expected to endure before he makes his move?”

“Shizun must know,” Luo Binghe continues, setting down the comb in favor of nosing along his husband’s neck. “That he is the best sight this unworthy one could ever see, in any lifetime.”

“This is it,” come Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts, trilling with something like anticipation. “The part where he kisses me and whisks me away...”

Luo Binghe smiled, and, just to be contrary, pulled back to pick up the comb once more.

“Huh? He didn’t…?”

Luo Binghe twisted the long, luxurious hair into a simple braid. “May this lowly one accompany Shizun to rest?”

“What. The. Hell.” His Shizun’s voice nipped at his mind, filled with a buzz that the demon lord could only identify as the beginnings of irritation. “Where the fuck is my kiss, Luo Binghe?! All that talk all day of love and devotion and you aren’t even going to kiss your one and only fucking husband goodnight?! What was all that buildup today for if you were going to back off at the last moment?!”

“If it pleases Binghe, this master will permit it,” is what his husband actually says with grace and elegance, but Luo Binghe is struck dumb for a moment by the sheer intensity and vulgarity that just swept through his mind. Something sharp and unpleasant digs into his consciousness where he can feel their short, unplanned bond.

With a smooth motion, Shen Qingqiu stands from the vanity and slips away, and as soon as his hair leaves Luo Binghe’s hands, the thread that binds them snaps.

“Shizun wait,” the demon calls, quickly moving to hold the other around the waist, nearly melting as the feeling of connection returns.

“Stupid.” Shizun’s voice cuts through at the first brush, cold and cruel. “What idiotic thing was I thinking? He had his fill just this morning, he would not care enough for it again so soon. And why should I care? Not every word is meant to ply my willingness. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

And then, a thought so quiet, it barely registers under all the other cacophony. “Did I do something to displease him? Is that why?”

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe calls, once more burrowing into his neck. Guilt cut thick through his heart, making the scar on his chest ache. Shizun would fret, and undo all the effort Luo Binghe had put into his relaxing bath, but he could not bear to let his most beloved think he was unwanted. “…Shizun could never displease this lowly demon.”

“What.” Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts echo his words.

“Forgive me, Shizun,” Luo Binghe asks, tightening his hold. “It seems this unfilial one had some pollen left on his sleeves from the Tethered Thought Lilies. I should not have pried.”

“FUCK,” his inner thoughts declare as he abruptly pulls away.

“Luo Binghe!” his master chastises with a scandalized expression. “You-!”

“Shizun’s thoughts are so straightforward,” Luo Binghe says, bowing his head. “And this one did not think the short duration would be of consequence. But this Luo Binghe was wrong.” Still, he reached out, pulling the other close once again. “But this one did not mean to upset his husband, whom he loves dearly and longs for with great affection.”

With as much repentance as he could muster, Luo Binghe laid a chaste kiss at the corner of his husband’s lips. The immortal master simply stared at him for several long moments, tumultuous emotions flittering through the back of Luo Binghe’s mind faster than he could decipher.

“Take me to bed if you’re truly so sorry, you foolish thing.”

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe purred, lifting the other easily into his arms for a proper kiss as he carried them to their chambers. “I love you.”

“Fool,” Shizun sighed, acting put upon even as a trill of pleased satisfaction rumbled through Luo Binghe’s thoughts.

“I love you too.”

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: not gonna even acknowledge the time break between chappies... all i'm gonna say happy cassian chappie ! <3! i hope u all enjoy it mwah thank u for reading

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: Adjusting to life in Velaris means learning to train with new, friendly faces. A tentative friendship forms. Azriel keeps his distance.

CHAPTER NINE :: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)

Whoosh.

Training staff gripped tightly in your calloused hands, you swing with a muscle memory built over decades, the stick whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard.

You're going through the motions. A simple warm-up, running a drill that you've done enough times you could probably do it in your sleep. The movements are familiar, easy. Routine.

If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you're still in Exordor.

Except... there's no familiar wind current to perform its melody in the early morning, dancing through the mountainside trees. No frozen chill to the air around you. No crunch of snow beneath your feet to throw your balance. No bound chest to chafe your skin.

No looking over your shoulder in pure panic at every unexpected noise.

Well, not quite that last one. It's a habit you're dedicated to breaking for the sake of your shot nerves — but evidently failing, considering how you straighten up and whip around when the door leading out to the training ring shudders open.

You hold your breath on instinct and clutch the training staff tighter.

Stepping out into the early morning air, the dawn still unbroken, is another Illyrian warrior.

Mother, how many of them were there around here?

You hadn't got to meet anyone else after that encounter on the balcony, almost exactly one week ago. Hadn't exactly wanted to either.

You hadn't even wanted to see Azriel again so soon after the churning, sickening twist of emotions you had barely managed to stumble through after your severe reawakening.

He hadn't come to see you.

You hadn't asked.

Besides Madja, Rhysand was the only new face you had come to know. He had taken to coming by your room a couple times over the week, checking on the progress of your healing, particularly sympathetic on the state of your wings. Revealed his own with a polite flourish.

He was... different than you were expecting. Perhaps you were learning that rumours are not everything — certainly it's clear that there is more to Rhysand than what first appears.

As Highlord, he had to discuss your potential living situations once you were healed enough to leave the infirmary.

I meant what I said. He had said, violet eyes kind as he hovered at the end of your bed. You're no prisoner here. You'll be free to go wherever you wish, even back to Exordor if that's what you decide.

And if I don't? You had whispered, your gaze fixed on the fine sheets of the bed. If I decide that... I have no home there anymore?

Then you'll have a home here. For as long as you would like.

And though it overrode every single instinct you had learned to trust, everything that had kept you alive this long, you chose to take his word for it.

Rhys said no harm would befall you in Velaris and you would be welcome here for as long as wanted.

But... that didn't mean you were exactly looking to make new friends.

Staring the newcomer that enters the balcony with much less grace than that of usual Illyrians, you watch him closely, not quite daring to take a breath.

At a first glance, you had thought it might be Azriel—heart leaping up your throat—but that was quickly washed away. Something in you knew from the hair standing up on the nape of your neck, before you even saw him properly, that this male was utterly unfamiliar to you.

He's taller, you realise. His hair is a longer and he doesn't quite move with the grace of the Shadowsinger — though, perhaps you are just so unused to seeing a male so relaxed. So caught off guard, in fact, that when he turns he gives a little yelp in surprise.

"Fuck!" He says, one of his large hands jumping out and clenching into a fist —his whole body switching to a fighting stance, you realise— before he relaxes again. His fist uncurls into a less threatening open palm.

"I- sorry, just didn't realise anyone else was out here." His fighting stance melts away, open palm still extended. He gives what you think might be a friendly smile.

You don't respond, only gripping the training staff a little tighter. Every hackle is raised, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, and your entire body winding itself up to prepare to fight, if it comes down to it.

The male seems to realise this as his next move is to raise both hands, palms out, the universal signal for surrender. They're large, tanned, and void of the scars you've come to know on Azriel.

However, where there are usually shimmering cobalt blue siphons, this newcomer has dazzling ruby red ones instead. You count each of his. Seven.

Your throat tightens — like all of Illyria, you've heard of this warrior too. The Lord of Bloodshed.

He doesn't exactly look so fearsome at the moment, his expression easy-going, even friendly, from behind his raised hands.

He seems to be waiting for you to make a move or to speak but after a moment, he realises neither are going to happen.

"Rhys said there might be another Illyrian around." He says, taking a tentative step forward, in the direction of the training ring, letting his hands drop to his side. You notice how he tucks his wings in a little more, like he might be trying to be respectable. Polite.

He's watching you closely. "Didn't mention you were a female, though."

Instinct makes you want to sneer in response — the only time Illyrian males bother bring up the differences in sex is to make some nasty comment about the biological weakness of females.

Not born to be warriors. They spit. Fragility is bred into them from the moment they're conceived. Breakable. Less than. A female in the training ring has as much place does as a male does in the kitchen.

But this male... says female in a way you've never quite heard before. As though he's somewhere closer to awe.

"My name is Cassian," The male introduces himself, his tentative steps becoming more of a stroll as he wanders across to the weapons stand. He eyes them halfheartedly, his focus still on you.

He turns lightly, tucking in one of his wings to peer back at you. "And yours is...?"

You still haven't moved, only tracking his movements with a slight shift of your eyes. Part of you wonders if he already knows your name and he's simply being polite.

Cassian nods as though you've spoken, despite the fact you haven't made a sound.

"Okay, not a big talker, I get it." He dips his head in a little nod, giving you an easy smile, then a quick wink. "Promise I don't bite."

No reaction. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a joke or not.

Either way, Cassian turns and focuses on his selection, pulling one of the training staffs off the weapons rack into his strong, sure grip.

Despite Rhysand's promise, your heart begins to rabbit wildly.

You wonder if this is some sickening game of cat and mouse—if he's perhaps going to tire you out before he selects his true weapon. If he wants you to know he can best you, even without a blade at his disposal.

You're a decent fighter—hell, a great one even—but you know better than to expect to come out on top against the Lord of Bloodshed.

You finally force yourself to move; shifting your feet to face him, you sink into a fighting stance, staff poised to face him, prepared to bare your teeth.

Cassian blinks. It takes another moment for him to realise that none of his friendliness is working to thaw your iciness. He quickly sets the training staff back down with a clatter, raising his hands once more.

"Woah," He says, giving a small shake of his head. "Not looking to fight. Unless you and I are in that ring—" He gestures to the training ring behind him. "I will never try to fight you. And... I hope you can say the same for me."

You don't even realise you've released your breath until you deflate a little, relief coming in small, incremental waves.

He doesn't want to fight. There's no proving yourself, at least not today.

Maybe some day in the near future, he'll demand you get in the ring to earn your space here—because that was the first thing you ever learned as an Illyrian warrior. But not today.

Reluctant and relieved all at once, you lower your training staff.

Your hesitance or silence doesn't seem to hinder Cassian. In fact, he smiles at the motion.

He's quite handsome, you note. In that rugged way, not quite so classically handsome as Azriel. The unexpected thought makes you flush. You shake it away with a shiver.

"You have your reasons for your unease I bet," Cassian continues, his hands drifting back to his sides. His wings have begun to spread out a little more, as if relaxing.

"And if you want me to piss off, I certainly will. My goal is not to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. But... well, I do have just one question."

He pauses, as if waiting for something. Permission, you realise faintly, which surprises you enough that you give a rather jerky nod, permitting him to ask his question.

A brilliant smile spreads across Cassian's face. "Did you really stab Azriel with a fork?"

The question takes you by utter surprise, fresh bewilderment rippling across your features. You shift back almost awkwardly, stepping out of your fighting stance. The memory from months ago rises up inside, the first meeting in your lonely shelter.

How did he know that? He could he know that?

"I—" You trip over the words, not entirely sure how to answer the question. You can't quite tell why he's asking—is he assessing you as a threat? Your voice is tentative and guarded as you murmur out, "...yes?"

You don't think it would've mattered how you answered truly, as the moment you confirm it, Cassian roars in laughter, his head thrown back and his hand clutching his belly. He laughs loudly for a moment, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Holy shit, I thought Rhys was kidding! Cauldron, what I would've given to see that." His hazel eyes glitter brightly, as though he's excited. "Was he surprised? I bet he was. Where did you stab him?"

His easy tone, like he's talking to an old friend, takes you back. You find yourself responding with an unexpected ease. Looking back on it now, it is a little funny.

"He was," You nod, nearly smiling at Cassian's enthusiasm. Your lips twitch and you gesture to your neck, somewhat awkwardly, miming the motion. "In the neck."

Cassian laughs again. "Oh, and I bet he'd deny the whole thing if it ever came up."

You don't know quite what to say to that—Azriel hadn't ever brought it up and you certainly weren't going to remind him of it. You tilt your head to the side a bit, an unknown feeling making itself known in the pit of your stomach. An anxiety of an entirely different kind.

The male before you is not an enemy. He's not an ally either... and you can't understand what he gains from talking to you.

You can't even fathom the idea that he might just want to be your friend.

So, you turn. Tighten your grip and resume the exercise that had been interrupted. Muscles groan as you work through their achiness, slowly becoming warmer as the hot blood pumps around your body.

Despite what Madja had said a week ago on that balcony, today was actually the first morning you were allowed to train.

For the last seven days, the exercise you were restricted to was mere stretches; only enough to ensure each of your wings could extend fully and that your limbs could move without serious cause for concern.

It had driven you stir crazy.

The only time you ever skipped so many days without training was during your cycle—something you had mercifully missed the end of this time around, hidden away in your unconsciousness.

So, at the first opportunity, when you rose from your bed this morning and Madja hadn't given you that pointed stare and instead gave you directions, you had found the training area. Began with old routines, if only for the fact you don't know who you are when you're not training.

Inhaling now, the wood of the training staff creaks beneath your iron grip. You're trying desperately to use it as a tether, to some semblance of normal for yourself. It's difficult when there's so many changes lurking.

The solid stone makes you sturdier than before. There's no snow beneath your feet to sink your boots into, to find your balance on. But your injuries aren't entirely healed either.

The pain is not fresh but it's still hindering enough to be a nuisance. Your left ear still twinges from time to time—sometimes it seems to hum so loudly you can't hear clearly, others it dulls altogether. Neither are particularly pleasant to experience.

Pain, however, you have plenty of experience in. Gritting your teeth and pushing through it is practically standard for the Illyrian way; especially when you know your body. You know how much it can take. You know it's been through worse.

But the pesky problem with your ear keeps you off balance, just enough that it shows in your motions.

You keep stumbling around like a goddamn fledgling with every new attempt, footing clumsy, which makes you burn in humiliation because that's what you learn first. It's impossible not to feel unendingly frustrated as decades of training all get shifted slightly to the left.

It doesn't help either that there's still those holes in the edges of your wings.

Fae healing is incredibly advanced but even so, there is only so much magic can do.

Lacerations can be healed, stabs and slices stitched up with ease — but a hole, torn forcibly in and through the delicate flesh of Illyrian wings? You know that you should be thanking the Mother that they even still work in their complete capacity.

The skin around where the stakes had been forced is puckered and stiff, whitened by the scar tissue and trauma. It had been sickening the first time you had curled them close around you and realised with a faint horror that you could technically see through them — a irregular circular gash preserved in either wing of how you'd been pinned down.

The air passes through them as you shift, causing an uneasy shiver. They don't catch on the wind quite the same as they did before.

You haven't taken to the skies yet. You're torn between your eagerness to fly again, to prove to yourself that they can still, and the sinking fear that that's something new you'll have to relearn as well.

So, instead, you run through the training drill for the nth time, trying to get back in sync with your own body. Trying to push past where it seems to falter and trying and failing to not care that your wavering movements now have an audience.

Watching him subtly out the corner of your eye, Cassian appears to be running drills of his own, a gentle warmup. He stretches his toned arms above his head, the motions limber and easy. Briefly, your mind wanders to Azriel's own morning training —never mind that you did have experience training with him over many mornings — and the most peculiar fluster flows through you.

You bite your cheek and rein in your drifting thoughts, gripping the staff tighter.

Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard. Your left eardrum squeals, jumping abruptly in volume at the motions, and though you manage to contain yourself to a wince, your twist goes off kilter.

Your wings stretch out to counterbalance but they don't catch the wind as well as you're used to. Your feet stumble to realign and all you can think is how fucking easy it would be decimate you in a fight in that second.

Something awful starts to grow in your throat and it takes a full moment to realise its the urge to cry, clawing up your throat.

You inhale shakily, eyes fixed on the stone beneath you, and will them away. You weren't a crier — but then again, never had you ever felt quite so utterly hopeless as you were right now.

You've always had this—always had the fight from within your bones, always had your body, always relied on your dexterity to push you forward.

Shadow covers the stone before you. Your head shoots ups, that same panic you can't shake jolting in your chest.

"Hi." Cassian says, giving a little two-fingered salute. He smiles kindly. "Cassian. We met maybe, uh, 5 minutes ago? Remember that?"

You blink at him, not even noticing how the distraction sends away the urge to cry. Swallowing thickly, you give a tentative nod.

"Fantastic. Great memory." His smile melts into a grin and though it sounds like he's teasing, you don't exactly feel like it you who's being made fun of. "I— I have no doubt you're an excellent fighter, especially considering you managed to land a hit on a warrior such as Azriel."

Cassian seems to hear his words only after he's said them and gives a minuscule frown. "Wait, don't tell him I said that. He'll never let me live it down."

When you don't react in amusement as he was aiming for, Cassian changes his tone again, more serious this time.

"Look, I might not be exactly sure what happened that meant you ended up here. I know it might not seem like a welcome change of pace but— well- and what I mean to say is— I can see your missteps."

The admittance of your failings makes humiliation swell up within you. You avert your eyes. Cassian, aware of his awful blunder, barrels on.

"But I can see you're getting your feet again." He adds, softer than before. "After whatever happened to you and your wings, I can tell you're already doing better than most Illyrians would. I also know that everything is easier with a little support."

Your gaze tugs back to Cassian's face as his sentence ends, the offer within it leaving you momentarily dazed. He wants... to help you?

You open your mouth to say just that—but instead, say, "They... didn't tell you?"

Something foreign yanks on your heartstrings. You can't say you had expected privacy, not when Rhysand was already generously providing you with both medical aid and a place to lay low and recover. You were in no position to ask for more.

Suddenly, you become hyper aware of your wings and their gaping, obvious scars to pair with the thin white lines of the lashes adorned across them. You rein them back self-consciously, keeping them tucked close against your back. There's relief in that simple motion alone.

"It is not their story to tell." Cassian nods, grave and serious. "And, just as important, sharing it is not a requirement to be allow yourself a little support."

You don't have to tell him, if you don't want to.

Before you, an Illyrian male, like so many that you've detested all your miserable life, and he doesn't know a thing about you. He doesn't get to know what happened unless you decide to tell him.

You taste his words, mulling them over in your mind as you try to figure out what he means. In the heart of it, you can't understand what he truly stands to gain from this offer of support.

"What... kind of support?" You question warily.

Unthinkingly, your grip tightens on the training staff once more—a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of baring your vulnerabilities. It had been well-trained out of you. Connections of any kind risked exposure... and well, the one time in your life you had given it a go, it had only been proven true.

"Whatever you wish." Cassian grins, as if pleased you had asked that exact question. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and rattles off his list easily, with a slight shrug of his armoured shoulders. "Friendship? Training? Someone to listen when you need it or to drink your sorrows with? I've had plentiful practice with all."

He sends you another wink, teasing and easy like everything else about him. It's disarming actually, just how different he is from what you had been expecting from only the rumours around Exordor. Lord of Bloodshed. He's so...casual.

After another beat of silence, Cassian clears his throat when it becomes clear you aren't exactly jumping onto any of his initial offers. The caginess you exude is palpable and something ragged in Cassian's chest tears wider at whatever his mind conjures up about what might be lurking your past.

True to his word, Rhys hadn't delved into your story or how you came to end up here at the House of Wind.

All Cassian knew for sure is that Azriel had talked of training with a bastard some months ago and now, you were here. A female warrior from Exordor.

Cassian thinks that Azriel likely would've mentioned it if the bastard he was working with was female—but he hadn't. There's much more to your story, he can tell, and it seems to ripple from the edges of your wary, dangerous form at just a glance. Almost a full picture for him to realise, to see clearly.

But... these things were earned.

If Cassian wanted to be your friend, to know your story, he would do it the honourable and hard way.

He would become someone that you could trust in this new, unfamiliar place and he knew it was possible because what Cassian knew lay within him was reflected in you. The one clear part of the picture.

A warrior who knows themselves best when they're fighting.

"Train with me. Please." Cassian tries once more, ready to relent if it was too much, too soon. "There is a lot we can teach each other, I'm sure."

That seems to catch you by surprise, your brows jumping a fraction up your face. You school the expression away quickly but not before Cassian catches it. He nods.

"What do you say?" Cassian grins again, holding out his hand, palm up. Nonthreatening as can be. "Friends? Allies? Reluctant rooftop sharers? I'll take any happily."

You eye his hand, that still cautious air in your gaze, but Cassian can see as something settles within you. Tentatively, you reach forward and put your hand in his, giving it an awkward, stilted shake.

"I'll take allies for now," You say, somewhat demurely. It's taking a mountain load of trust for you to do so, Cassian knows. He does not take that trust lightly.

Cassian grins. "Allies it is."

[NEXT PART: SHADOWS]

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[serv0z]

Mart.. More yapping below!!

i have a lot less on martlet bc?? really we dont have much lore on her(as far as i know). shes highly observant but shes kind and welcoming enough to let Clover room with her in the neutral route despite noticing their crimes and live a happier childhood. ive never seen genocide yet so i dont know if we got more lore on her. she makes all sorts of crafts so i think she'd work in the steamworks a bit and try to fix things up and salvage stuff for other creations that are unused there and eventually help build the houses up on the surface for the monsters ! from what ive seen of zenith martlets design, she has this. darker palette, her hair is much longer, she has badass battle armour and her wings are much bigger and have stars and galaxies in them. granted, this is not a natural transformation nd is more reminscient of undyne because she injects herself with either determination or what was extracted from the integrity soul.(I have remained spoiler-less to genocide so far, no one say ANYTHING) to add to it, her hair and wings have darker tips, inside of them are barely visible stars that blink in nd out of existence. because she has a workshop and crafts things i think she'd be covered in oil and grease often, getting it on her shirt and face. she carries around her goggles because shes constantly going around and checking on her puzzles in snowdin and also crafting things like Ava. i gave her boots more of a flair, her hair has these two pieces sticking out the back as a nod ig to zenith and a stray feather in her hair she doesnt even realize its there!! I wanted to make her body more on the bigger side. bc shes a royal guard she obviously does training and bc her arms are. well. her wings and she flys around often shes STRONG. bodybuilders have more fat on them, theyre not super skinny and i wanted to show that but idk how well i portrayed it here. I wanna portray it better in future drawings though.

[chvnnie]

a/n: no smut! just some angst w a somewhat happy ending! idk it just came to me! bye!

The water droplets that cling to your back stick you to the bathroom door. Hair too damp, the water spilling down your nude body and dripping to the floor. Plop, plop, plop as if the liquid has a heartbeat of its own. Eyes shut, you focus on the soft sound to slow your breathing. Maybe, just maybe, if you try hard enough, you can evaporate with the water.

Anything would be better than this.

There’s a dull knock on the other side of the door. His head lulling back against the wood, level with yours. The sound of his breathing is too loud, drowning out your treasured drops of water.

“Are you ready to talk to me?”

Your eyes open, red and stinging from the shampoo you lathered in just moments ago. Purposely not rinsing properly, you let it roll down your face. Seep into your eyes. It was nice, a distraction from the feeling of your heart being ripped from your rib cage.

It beats on the other side of the door.

He sighs, and there’s another thud. As if he’s turned, forehead now pressed against the wood. “Baby, just say something.”

The taste on your tongue. Mouthwash burns it, yet that name overpowers its strength. Baby. It makes your stomach churn. Your lip trembles, nose wobbling along with it. If tears fall, it’s the shampoo.

It’s been days since you haven’t fought. Everything. Everything requires a war, the fight not stopping until you’re both broken and bloodied. Voices raw, achy. Heads throbbing. There’s been little reprieve.

Tonight was the night your white flag was raised. When he came home late, tie loosened and curls threaded as if fingers danced through them. He greeted you with a kiss to your cheek before dropping his stuff on the unused kitchen table. It took you a moment, too consumed in washing the dishes, for you to notice.

“It’s after eight.” You say, turning off the water.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got caught up in something.”

“For like, three and a half hours?” It’s impossible to stop the chuckle of disbelief. “It isn’t even your busy season.”

You know him better than yourself. Like the back of your hand, everything about him etched into your brain. Your entire soul, flesh, blood. Without even looking, you know he’s chewing his cheek, unfastening his cuff links. “Can we not do this tonight, please?”

“Not a text, not a call—“

“I’m so tired.”

“So am I.” Your words catch in your throat, sobs on the precipice. The last bit of energy you have is used to stomp them down. “You could have at least told me—“

“What do you think I was doing?” What is heavier in his tone — the pain or the frustration? “Do you think I was cheating? Off fucking someone else?”

It almost shames you, the fact that it did cross your mind. There are no other signs that point to that, nothing to really give you reason to think that. It’s the build up — the weeks of back and forth, never finding a middle ground unless he’s buried inside you. You’re so fucking exhausted. It would almost be easier to think there was another woman than to admit what it actually is.

Even thinking it feels like swallowing glass.

“You do.” He scoffs, throwing his tie on the table. “You really do.”

“Chan—“

“I fucking love you.” His voice is strained, tears like a waterfall. “Don’t you get that?”

“I don’t!” You snap back, forcefully removing the rubber cleaning gloves. The fall in the sink with a splash. “Do you really think fighting every night is love? This push and this pull, I’m so fucking sick of it.” You turn to the staircase, anxiety building in your chest so quickly. You need to get out of here, to get away from all of this.

As your foot hits the first step, the glass shatters. Your ribs cracked open, raw and exposed.

“I want a divorce.”

How can he expect you to talk to him after he says something like that? You replay the moment in your mind over and over again, the words louder each goddamned time. With a shaky breath, your hands cover your face. Nails in your scalp. Numb.

Chan is sniffling. What you don’t see on the other side of the door is the waves of regret. Salty and bitter, twisting around his ankles to pull him deep. Those four fucking words. They made you still, body immediately tense. The mere seconds you stood there felt like eons. Right when his hand reached out, ready to take it all back, you climb up. All too quick.

Why did he say something he didn’t really mean? For you, he would bring the moon to earth. Hang the stars above your bed. Crawl into the depths of the earth and break it down from the inside, watching it collapse with you. He’s tried, many times, to describe his love for you and nothing can come close. It’s bigger than him.

Bigger than this.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, choking softly on his tears. “I don’t know why I said it. I just—“ his inhale is shaky, like he’s unable to fully catch his breath. “—I don’t even know. Baby, please, please come out.”

Your entire soul. The start of time and the end of it. Every planet that ever was, that ever will be. No matter how hard you push, how badly you want to step away.

When the handle turns, he falls to his knees.

Shards of glass pierce your skin from head to toe, digging deeper when the agony he’s feeling hits you. It’s written across his face, etched into his gaze. Sorry. Sorry isn’t close to enough.

You tilt your head down, looking at your husband for the first time in hours. This isn’t the same man that left your house this morning; jaded, empty. This is the man you fell in love with.

“I’m sorry.” He cries, bowing down until his red cheek is flush against your foot. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

Despite the words that have seeped into the walls around you, the foundation of your home all but quaking from the hate and anger that it’s been pelted with. Despite the fact that your heart lay, covered in glass and bled out on the floor next to him. You believe him.

If he really meant it, he would have taken his ring off. 

[iliketangerines]

Hi I hope you’re doing well 🫂✨I love your writing and this is my first time requesting 🫣🥰

Would you mind writing mk1 Shang Tsung smut 😭😭😭 he’s soooo deviously fine in this game 🥺🫶🏽

stars in your eyes

a/n: this is not an odd request at all cutie. in fact, i love it dear god. why can't three burly angsty men destroy me in real life.

pairing: director!shang tsung x sub!afab!reader x dom!havik x dom!quan chi

warnings: nsfw (MDNI), pussy slapping, clit slapping, overstimulation, pussy eating, creampies, slight breeding kink, praise kink, degradation kink, blowjobs, hand jobs

Shang Tsung had traveled to a club and found you there, fresh-faced, nervous, but oh so pretty and submissive

you had given him a lap-dance, pretty eyes blinking up at him, pretty red lips begging to be bitten, and body looking perfect to be ruined by him

he slipped his business card in along with a few hundred in cash and waited for a phone call from you

it had taken almost a week of waiting, your body haunting his thoughts as he kept on checking his phone, but you finally called

you talked in a timid and sweet voice, and Shang Tsung wanted to hear you moan, to have your voice ruined by sucking on his cock

he tells you to come in for an audition the next day and that he’ll provide costumes for you

you agree and thank him for the opportunity, adding on an innocent sir at the end of the thanks before ending the phone call

Shang Tsung can’t help himself and pulls his cock out and imagines your lips wrapped around his dick, lipstick smeared and mascara running down your cheeks

you arrive the next day a few minutes early, and Shang Tsung observes how nervous you seem, how your make-up is applied, how you squirm in his seat as he leans in a bit closer to you

he brings you to a back room, black leather couch sitting in the back with a nice rug sitting in front of it, and Shang Tsung sits in the middle and tells you to change in the room next door and impress him

he already knows he’s going to hire you, but he wants to have a taste right now

you bite your lip and nod, going to the next room over, and Shang Tsung bounces his knee impatiently as you change into the costume he’s chosen for you

you come back into the room, face warm and eyes downcast as you tug at the harness, and Shang smirks at the sight of you

you’re dressed in a lingerie set that does nothing hide your chest or your pussy from prying eyes, and a garter belts squeeze your thighs and cause a bit of fat to pudge out

Shang Tsung has never been so hard

what really sells the vision is the collar around your neck, and he imagines it’s his collar, claiming you as his, but he shakes off the thought and beckons you to come close

you teeter a bit awkwardly in front of him, unused to his stilettos you’re wearing, but you make it in front of him and kneel in front of his spread legs obediently

he pets your hair, purring out a praise, and you face warms at the words

he leans back and tells you to pleasure him, and you bring your hands forward, unzipping his pants and pull his underwear down far enough to take his cock out through the hole

you stroke his dick, spreading the pre-cum down his shaft and take the tip into your mouth, pressing your tongue into the slit and suckling on his dick

he groans and resists the urge to grab your hair and fuck your face until you’re crying

you bob your head up and down, taking him further and further into your mouth until your nose is buried in his clothed pelvis

you hum around his dick, tongue pressing into a vein on the underside of his cock, and Shang Tsung clenches his fist to stop himself from cumming too quickly

you bob your head up and down the full length of his cock, tongue pressing and prodding against him for a few more minutes, and Shang Tsung sees stars as he finally cums into your mouth

you whine and eagerly swallow his cum, and when you come off his mouth, you stick your tongue out to show you’ve swallowed it all

Shang Tsung pets the side of your face and tells you that you deserve a reward

he helps you up on shaky legs, and he doesn’t miss the way that your wetness coats the inside of your thighs

he brings you to another room and has you sign all the papers and everything else, and he enjoys watching you squirm in your seat as you try to rub your thighs together for some friction

he sends you off and tells you the date of your first film and who else will be performing with you

you come a few minutes early to the filming day just as before, and he tells you to dress up in a costume once again, and he’ll be waiting for you in the filming room

when you knock on the door and enter, Shang Tsung knows you’re going to be a hit

that sweet expression mixed with the tight white dress and fake angel wings and halo above you really do sell you as an innocent little toy for him

two of his other actors are waiting for you in the room already, dressed with fake devil wings and horns

none of the cameras are rolling yet, but he wishes they were to catch the expression of your face as Quan Chi and Havik stand up and tower over you

they bring you over with gentle hands to the center of the room, a somewhat elaborate stage of hell, and Shang Tsung starts the cameras

there’s a bit of the introductory dialogue, but soon enough, Quan Chi picks you up, arms hooked over your legs to spread you wide apart

your dress rides up to expose your pretty pussy to the camera and Havik laughs, calling you a naughty angel for not wearing any panties

you try to deny it, but the protest turns into a yelp as Havik slaps your pussy and watches as you clench around nothing

he laughs in that deep voice, saying that naughty angels must be punished before landing a series of slaps on your pussy and pinching at your clit

make-up streams down your cheeks as you cry and sob, trying to jerk away from the contact, but Quan Chi keeps you still in his arms

Havik laughs at your pathetic mewls but finally stops abusing your drooling pussy and presses a sweet kiss onto your clit

you whine and whimper as Havik laps at your clit, using his fingers to spread your folds and dig his tongue deeper into your pussy

Quan Chi readjusts his arms, his hands digging into your thighs and leaving bruises on your soft skin, and your hips buck forward into Havik’s mouth

the man brings his fingers up, shoving them into your pussy and curling them to find that sweet spot inside of you, and he hums around your clit

you arch your back off of Quan Chi, and he chuckles as Havik starts to abuse that spot within you

Shang Tsung can see the way your wetness drips down onto the floor, and he pulls out his own aching cock and lightly strokes himself to ease some of the tension

as you throw your head back into Quan Chi’s chest, cumming on Havik’s fingers, you grow limp in his arms, eyes glassy and make-up ruined by your tears

Quan Chin puts you down on shaky legs and disappears off the camera to go and grab something, and Havik grabs onto your cheek and kisses you roughly, shoving his tongue down your throat

you whine and melt into the touch despite the roughness, and Quan Chi returns with a dildo, one that resembles a tentacle

he tells you to be a good angel and arch, and you do so without a single complaint, still occupied with the feeling of Havik roughly kissing you

Quan Chi slides the tentacle between your soaked folds, and you jump slightly at the cold silicon touching you

the man slowly slides the dildo into you, and you moan into Havik’s mouth, slightly squirming at the texture

Quan Chi swats your ass and tells you to stay still for him as he roughly fucks you on the dildo, and you moan into Havik’s mouth

the man moves down to kiss your neck, sucking hickeys into your neck, and Quan Chi continues to fuck you on the dildo, telling you you’re such a naughty angel for enjoying being fucked by two demons

you whine into the air and ask them to cum, pretty please, tears are gathering on the tips of your eyelashes

Quan Chi has a cruel smirk and says no, stuffing the dildo back into your abused cunt before forcing you on your knees

both Havik and Quan Chi take out their dicks, and Quan Chi tells you to work for your orgasm, and you whimper but put Havik’s dick into your mouth and Quan Chi’s cock into your hand

you stroke Quan Chi, flicking your wrist and pressing the pad of your thumb into the slit of his cock, and he groans at your ministrations and tells you to keep going

Havik has grabbed onto your face, fucking into your throat with reckless abandon as he tells you what a whore you are for enjoying this

your hips twitch as you try to bounce on the dildo, but with the way Havik’s holding you and Quan Chi is next to you, you can only clench your pussy around the thick tentacle

Havik pulls you off of his dick, patting the side of your face harshly with his palm as he makes fun of how whorish you look, that you’re such a cock slut

you agree dumbly, and Quan Chi grabs onto your chin and forces his cock down your throat, grabbing onto your hair and dragging you up and down on his cock

Shang Tsung can see the way Quan Chi’s throat bulges in your throat, and he wishes that were him

but all in due time

you bring your hand up to stroke Havik, but your strokes are shaky and uncoordinated as you lose air from Quan Chi thrusting into your throat

finally, he pulls out of your mouth, and Havik and Quan Chi stroke themselves, and you stick out you tongue and let them shoot their cum all over your face

you swallow what lands on your tongue, and they drag you up, Quan Chi bringing you in for a rough kiss as he gropes your ass, and Havik takes out the tentacle, a loud squelching sound filling the air

Shang Tsung stands up and exits the room, putting on his own costume, just a pair of horns and wings bigger than Havik’s and Quan Chi’s and walks back into the room

he walks in on them with Quan Chi sucking another hickey into your neck and Havik squeezing and slapping your red ass

Shang Tsung checks that the cameras are rolling before stepping onto the stage

immediately, they stop what they’re doing and pull you so that you stand between them

your wetness drips down your legs, and your wings and halo are slightly askew, but it just enhances your ruined image

Shang Tsung approaches you and tsks, putting his thumb into your mouth, and you automatically suck on it

you’re completely fucked-out, willing to do anything Shang Tsung says, and he smiles internally at the thought of that

he mocks your expression, saying that an angel should’ve look so debauched, and you can only moan around his thumb at the words

he continues on, saying maybe he’ll keep you as his own little pet, for him to use and fuck and breed when he wants to

he signals the other two to let go of you and for Quan Chi to stop rolling the cameras to move another prop on set

Quan Chi does so, and he and Havik start moving a bed onto set

but you’re still a drooling mess in Shang Tsung’s arm, sucking on Shang Tsung’s thumb and clinging onto him like a lifeline

Shang Tsung smiles and brings you to the bed and tells Quan Chi to start filming again

once he hears the camera click, he removes his thumb from your mouth and trails kisses down your neck, your stomach, until he reaches your cunt

he spreads them with his wide shoulders and forces you to keep them apart as you hiccup and sniffle as you try to grab for Shang Tsung

he tuts and tells you to be a good angel and keep your hands to yourself, and you immediately put your hands on the sheets

Shang Tsung can see how your pussy drools for him, clenching around nothing, and how it’s still swollen from the way Havik slapped it earlier

but you look so pretty like this, clit swollen and pussy sore, and Shang Tsung files away the thought of hitting your sensitive clit with a riding crop

Shang Tsung buried his nose into your clit, grinding into the overstimulated nub, and laps at your pussy with his tongue

you whine and arch off the bed but dutifully keep your hands on the bed as Shang Tsung hums into your abused cunt

he fucks you on his tongue, relishing in your needy moans and pathetic mewling, and he quickly brings you to an orgasm

as your chest heaves up and down, he climbs up and slides his dick between your folds before sliding into you

you’re still wet and tight around him despite the dildo inside of you earlier, and he groans at the feeling of you clenching down on him

he sets a brutal pace, hips slamming down onto yours and slapping against your clit, and he tells you that you can move your hands

immediately, your hands claw at his back, and he purrs about how much of a slut you look like right now and asking what the other angels would think if they saw you like this

you can’t respond, just blabbering out nonsense, and Shang Tsung slows down his pace and tells you to answer like a good whore

you babble out that they’d think you’re just a cumslut, a dump for demons to breed you with their seed, that they’d think you’re a dirty angel who can only suck dick

Shang Tsung smiles and calls you a good angel before continuing with his ruthless pace

as he continues to fuck you, tears stream down your cheeks, and he has to resist the urge to kiss them away

instead, he bites your neck, and you keen, your pussy spasming around his dick

you squirt all over his torso, and Shang Tsung’s eyes sparkle as he realizes that you’re a squirter

squirters always raked in more cash

he fucks you through your orgasm, and you can only let continue fucking into you, chasing his own release despite the sparks of pain mixing with the pleasure now

Shang Tsung’s hips stutters, and he buries himself deep inside of you and spills his cum deep inside of you

he lazily thrusts in and out of you as he cums, and pulls out when he can feel his dick softening

he looks down at the mixture of your cum and his cum mixing, and he shoves it back in with his fingers, commenting that you’re going to be a wonderful breeding bitch

Quan Chi cuts the cameras, and Havik immediately rushes over with some damp towels and water for Shang Tsung and you

the director helps you sit up, but there’s still a far away look in your eyes

he helps you drink some water and eat a small bite of a granola bar, but your eyes are still slightly watery and glossy

Shang Tsung frowns and gets up to go and check something, but you grip onto his hand and ask him in a quiet voice to not leave, small tears dripping down your cheeks and a slight sniffle escaping from you

he sends a concerned glance over to Quan Chi and Havik, who tell him to take care of you and that they’ll clean up, and he picks you up and brings you to his office

he lays you down on the couch and cuddles up next to you, and you let out a dopey smile and snuggle into his chest

you fall asleep soon after, and Shang Tsung realizes that you need a lot more comfort right now than he was providing

and then he smiles at how compliant and submissive you are, how compliant and submissive you can be, how he could get you to do anything in this state

the film releases soon after, and Shang Tsung watches as the numbers rise

he pets your head as he sits at his desk, and you whine, your cock in his mouth as he has you cockwarm him

he’s going to have so much fun breaking you in

[seramilla]

(Have fun with Carmilla’s response!)

Lute fidgets with the mane feathers that had grown from her neck. She stayed in her room thinking about what Emily said with a scowl for weeks.

“Forgive myself…what a joke…why should I forgive myself?…”

The end of her hair brushes across her shoulders as she sits up. She throws the covers off and glares hatefully at her digitigrade. She isn’t even sure when they changed but she stopped caring. It’s just one more thing to add to the pile of things she hates about herself. She hops off the bed and immediately regrets her decision unused to her new legs. Lute loses her balance in an instant and snarls at herself for being so pathetic. She forces herself to get up and uses a bedpost to get used to her new balance. A few steps around the room and she’s as good as new…in a manner of speaking. Lute has always been highly adaptable to survive no matter what, sadly enough. The familiar faint sounds of steel clashing reaches her ears. She perks up at the prospect of a training room. Lute cracks her door open and peeks out finding an empty hallway. She silently slips out and closes the door behind her then follows the sounds to their source only to find the overlord and…and Vaggie. Lute slinks into the room unseen and stays out of sight.

She watches them from the shadows on the balcony, eye glowing like a creature at night. She’s never seen Vaggie look so happy since…well since ever. She can admit to herself that she’s jealous of how much happier Vaggie is down her despite what she had done to her. She can adm-

A familiar spear pierces the column beside her head making her freeze.

“Vaggie! I’ve told you n-”

“Someone else is in here *watching* us!”

Carmilla raises a brow and looks as Vaggie leaps up letting her wings out and flies to her spear.

She recognizes the shape hidden in shadows and stares in surprise. She hadn’t once expected to see the beast out and exploring her home.

Lute panics seeing Vaggie closing the distance AND Carmilla spotting her and scrabbles away on all fours sticking to the shadows. How humiliating and fitting for her. She’s been reduced to nothing more than a lowly animal in her reactions. She slows a bit thinking to herself that maybe it’ll be over with if she lets Vaggie catch her.

Lute peers over her shoulder only to yelp as her cheek is cut and seconds later gets tackled to the ground. She instinctively hides her face behind her disproportionate arm and whimpers.

Vaggie sneers at the demon spying on her and her ma-mentor.

“Who are you, what do you want!?! Stop hiding your face and talk!!”

Lute flinches at the tone and softly whimpers out a quiet apology.

“Speak up! And show me your face!!”

Lute slowly lowers her arm unable to meet Vaggie’s eyes.

“…i’m sorry, for everything i have ever done to you…”

She forces herself to lock their gaze.

“…I’m so sorry for forcing those extra drills on you, for forcing those errands on you…”

She swallows hard.

“…I’m sorry for cutting out your eye…and tearing off your wings…I’m sorry for killing your dragon friend…for-”

Vaggie’s laughter makes her freeze.

“I’m sure you are ‘sorry’…Lute.”

She flinches at the disgusted tone used on her name followed up by a scoff.

“You’re just sorry for what you’ve become and probably think apologizing will fix this. Well it doesn’t matter because I’m NOT going to forgive you. Heaven CLEARLY knows you don’t deserve forgiveness since you’re down here now. Oooh how the mighty have fallen.”

Lute stays quiet looking up at her.

“Nothing to say?”

Lute struggles to find the words making Vaggie scoff.

“That’s what I thought.”

Vaggie grabs her spear and turns to leave when Lute grabs her. She turns to yell at her to let go but the words die in her throat at the sight of an empty eye socket mirroring her own.

“I AM sorry Vaggie…I DO mean it…I don’t want or need you to forgive me. I NEED you to know I am SORRY…”

Maybe it the desperation in her voice or the pained self loathing in Lute’s remaining eye but she relents and nods.

Lute lets go of her just as Carmilla arrives and a new wave of panic fills her soul. She could tell what kind of bond these two had. A mentor and apprentice…as well as a mother and daughter. She wasn’t stupid, it was like how Adam had been like her older brother…not that it mattered anymore he was gone…everything she had was gone. She scampered away before the Overlord could say anything, retracing her path back to her delegated room. She closes the door and hides beneath the bed hoping the overlord will leave her alone, that Vaggie won’t explain what that was about. The mane of feathers on her neck stands on end as the door slams open dashing her hopes. The woman is pissed…but who hasn’t been with her lately? The feathers flatten accepting her fate as the bed is flung away. Her hollow gaze looks up meeting furious red orbs.

“You better start explaining yourself you pequeña perra vil, or I will send you to Lucifer personally.”

“I…I’m sorry I-“

“What I mean is-“

“It’s because-“

She tries over and over again and again but chokes up every time. How can she began to explain it to CARMILLA FUCKING CARMINE, the former angel that fell protecting the identity of her lover that happened to be the EX HIGH SERAPHIM SERA? She knows she’s pissed at her. Who isn’t? She’s hated herself for so long for her preferences, believing she was fucked up and WRONG for just liking girls. She remembers the first time she told Adam and how he slapped her. She never brought it up again. She buried EVERYTHING deep down inside and hated it, hated that part of herself because her mentor the person she thought she could trust told her she was wrong and disgusting for it. Lute tries to explain all of it but it hurts too much and cuts so deeply into a VERY old and forgotten wound that has been festering inside her far too long. She keeps trying to tell her wanting to tell SOMEONE…but she keeps choking up and gagging on the words she was trained to hate and revile.

Carmilla stares at the broken beast looking up at her desperately trying to explain itself to her.

Lute pounds her fists against the floor furious she can’t speak her own truth. So she starts small.

“…i hate myself…”

Carmilla rolls her eyes at the obvious but freezes as the creature continues.

“…i have for so long…i’ve hated what i am for so long now i don’t think i could ever see myself as anything ELSE than how i look now…”

Carmilla’s breath hitches in her throat. This reminds her of the way Sera sounded when she spoke of how guilty she felt about their love they had for each other.

“…I remember the first time I shared my…my preference…with my mentor…I thought I could trust him…”

The overlord’s heart sinks.

“But then he was yelling at me…screaming that I was wrong. Adam slapped me over and over again until I rejected what I am. So there must’ve been something wrong with me. I’m a mistake…then I thought…maybe if I am really good and do exactly what I was made for it’ll fix itself.”

The broken black and gold eye looks at her desperately wanting to be seen and heard for once.

“It didn’t so I tried harder and harder…then Vaggie joined the ranks. We were close once friends, sisters…I think I wanted to be more but I couldn’t because that would be WRONG. I was jealous of the praise she got. Adam praised her so much…it’s not fair.”

Lute grits her fangs.

“I denied liking her like that and SHE got praised for being herself. I was so mad at her and myself. So when I caught her sparing that sinner, something broke. How does that SINNER get mercy when I DON’T? I saw red and lashed out. I-”

Carmilla watches her grab the feathers on her twisted arm and tug.

“It’s all I’ve known…but I’m so tired…so tired of it all…pain makes it numb for a bit. Emily says I need to forgive myself but I’m just a mistake. Mistakes don’t deserve forgiveness. That’s what I was told. I can’t forgive myself.”

Lute looks up at Carmilla feeling so raw and so exposed, wanting…she’s not even entirely sure what she wants anymore but she knows she doesn’t want to hurt anymore. Tears blur her already ruined vision as she looks at the floor and starts to wail. She’s exhausted from countless years of feeling so angry and hating herself. Lute is certain she can’t have what everyone around her has. Maybe that’s what she wants? Probably but no one would ever want something like h-

She flinches away feeling a large hand between her wings and gently rubs her back. Then looks up at Carmilla deeply confused as tears stream down her face.

Where Carmilla had seemed about to tear her a new asshole when she came into the room a moment prior, Lute flinches under the fallen angel's touch, and drops face-first onto the floor in a prone position. She has never felt lower than she does now, so her position on the ground should mirror that. She's fully prepared for the overlord to slap her, punch her, strangle her, or do any number of horrible, painful things to her body. It would be exactly as Lute deserves, and couldn't possibly be worse than anything she's faced thus far down here.

Except it is...so much worse. Carmilla kneels over her, still looking so much taller and larger-than-life, simply leaning down on her knees above Lute. The hand between her wings doesn't move to inflict pain or serve justice; Carmilla's large claws just...lie flat on her back for a moment. Even through the fluff around her neck, Lute can feel all the distilled power flooding through Carmilla's body, waiting to be let loose at any given moment. An angel of Carmilla's former status always has that air about her. Even if she weren't lying prostrate on the floor, Lute knows not to make any threatening movements in her presence, if she values her head.

Which she doesn't, but that old training and instinct of hers still wants to keep her alive, despite everything. She knows even less of what to make of Carmilla when that hand actually starts to move, stroking Lute's back in a comforting motion, ruffling the feathers like one might the hair of a child.

Wait, is Carmilla Carmine trying to COMFORT her???

"One thing about being in Hell..." Carmilla begins, intentionally stroking the feathers at the top of the wings on Lute's back, "...is that mercy and forgiveness are the rarest commodities down here. There aren't enough souls you could possibly pay for that. Emily has all but offered it to you on a silver platter. The only thing you'd have to do is reach out and take it. Oh, if we were all so lucky."

Lute sniffles some more, and hides her face in the floor so Carmilla can't see her crying. Carmilla continues to stroke the wings on her back and the feathers around her neck. Lute might think she's doing it to mock or taunt her, but there isn't an ounce of mirth in the overlord's voice. Not like when she'd barged in a moment before.

"Yeah, on the condition that I forgive myself first!" Lute explains, just running through her head again how ridiculous that sounds. "It's not just Emily I've wronged. Her, Sera, Vaggie, and even you! It's not my place to forgive myself of that! And it's not her place to say that's all I'd need to do!"

"Yes, you're right," Carmilla hums, looking off into the middle distance, staring at the wall above the tossed-over bed, pondering Lute's statement. "Each person you've wronged will have to set the conditions for how you can make it up to them. That's how apologies work."

"I don't deserve forgiveness, anyway. I don't want it."

"So you're just going to give up?" Carmilla asks. "Stay in this room until you starve to death?"

"Why not?"

"Because we both know you're better than that," Carmilla states bluntly, halting her rubbing of Lute's feathers long enough to lift the girl's chin to look at her. She holds Lute's chin firmly in her grasp, forcing her to look at her.

"That your body went through such a drastic change is proof positive that you have much to atone for. You're capable. You wouldn't be here if that weren't the case. Satan knows I went through the same when I was thrown down here. I may never get my wings or halo back, but honestly, at this point, I don't care. I kept fighting. It's all I knew before, and it's all I've ever done. I never gave up. "

Tears stream down Lute's face again, and with Carmilla holding her chin firmly in place, she can't hide them anymore. "What if I'm done fighting? Fighting, and competing, and trying to be better than everyone else...look where it got me."

"That's your choice. But wallowing here in your own filth won't be much of a life. And I simply won't condone it. I'm not going to let you self-immolate under my roof, upsetting Emily, and reversing all the growth and progress that Vaggie's made. I will not sit back and let you sabotage that for them."

"Fine, then I'll get out of your fucking hair! I didn't want to be here, anyway!" Lute yells. She turns around, until she's got her back and the bulk of her wings facing Carmilla, and curls in on herself upon the floor. She starts sniffling more into the sanctuary of her knees, drawing them closer to her body, and feeling sorry for herself again, trying to give Carmilla the hint that she wants the overlord to leave her alone.

"Just go away. Please," Lute whimpers, wrapping her wings around herself, as if that will let her hide. "Just let me die."

Lute probably wishes she hadn't said that to Carmilla so quickly, because suddenly, that clawed hand that had been so gentle with her before suddenly grabs her by the scruff of the neck, pulling, and lifting her off the floor. Lute screeches and kicks, tail thrashing this way and that as Carmilla mercilessly drags her out the bedroom door by her thick neckline of feathers. She scrambles, but Carmilla holds fast. There's no way she can escape, being as weak as she is.

No! Lute screams in her own head, unable to speak due to shock. No, I didn't mean it! Please! Please don't throw me out! Don't throw me away! Emily...Vaggie...please, I need to--!

The wind is temporarily knocked out of Lute as Carmilla tosses her on the ground, and the bestial angel yelps as she lands on her tattered wings, which are still sore and inflamed from where she'd been extracting feathers before. A bright light is blinding her from above, and she whimpers before turning over, covering her face with her claws.

"Oowww..." Lute seethes between her teeth, rubbing the sore back of her neck where Carmilla had grabbed her. "Fuck!"

It's happened. Carmilla has thrown her out, leaving her to the bright, blinding light of the Hellish sun. Lute starts to cry again, trembling all over at the implications of what she's just done...now that she's all alone...

"Lute? Carmilla, what's going on? Why is she out here?"

Vaggie!

Lute's eye shoots open. It's still difficult for her to see anything, what with being thrown out of that dark, dank room and into the light so suddenly, but that voice is unmistakably Vaggie's. She doesn't sound too pleased to see Lute again.

Lute's eye struggles to adjust to everything around her. She realizes she's not outside, but actually under the blinding bulbs of the training room she'd spotted Carmilla and Vaggie sparring in earlier. From this angle, all the lights look like miniature suns. They are painful, too harsh on her new demon eye. She turns over to try and get up, and collapses again, whimpering. She's still not used to her own feet.

"It seems this one wants to die," Carmilla says matter-of-factly, standing there behind Lute with her arms crossed, clearly unamused. "Seems rather adamant about it, in fact. Since it appears you two have a score to settle, I thought I'd let you do the honors."

"WHAT?!" Lute and Vaggie screech at the same time. Lute swings her head around to look at Vaggie, with her hair tied up in a rather elaborate ponytail, wearing the same battle outfit that Odette and Clara always used when salvaging her and Adam's weapons.

Satan, the two of them really have changed, haven't they? Lute thinks. But the trajectory of that change could not be more different.

"Carmilla, I already told you!" Vaggie insists, looking at Carmilla with something resembling anger and frustration. "I didn't kill her during the battle, and I'm not going to do it now! Death is too good for her!"

"And why is that?" Carmilla asks, still looking like she couldn't give a damn.

"Because...she's hurt so many people! Hurt Charlie! I'll never forgive her for that! She needs to suffer for it!"

"And how much suffering is enough?" Carmilla continues. "When her body is no longer recognizable? When she's let herself starve to death, or is killed out on the street? How much more pain and atonement is necessary before it makes things right?"

Vaggie looks down at the pathetic jumble of feathers slumped on the floor in front of her. She holds her spear at her side, fist clenched tightly around it, as if she wants to shove it directly through Lute's still-beating heart. Lute doesn't think she'll ever get used to Vaggie's eye looking at her that way. She had cared for that eye's owner, once upon a time...and then she'd ruined everything, for her own selfish means.

But then Lute is surprised when Vaggie's eye softens. For whatever reason, the other former Exorcist's entire tone shifts when she looks back up at Carmilla, and sighs heavily.

"It won't," Vaggie says finally, throwing her spear onto the hard floor of the training room with a clang. "Nothing will. It won't bring back the people we killed, Sir Pentious, Dazzle...it won't make our bodies the way they were before. Violence just begets more violence."

"So what will you do, then, mija?" Carmilla asks. It is not lost on Lute how softly and affectionately Carmilla asks that question of Vaggie. How much love and understanding she provides for this angel, one who is not of her blood; not even her own daughter. But whom she's taken to claim as her own, just the same.

Vaggie smirks. Not in the hate-filled, disbelieving way she had before. It's more mischievous and playful, like when she and Lute had been about to spar or go out on the battlefield together.

"I guess I'll have to beat the will to live back into her, like you did for me," Vaggie chortles. Carmilla smiles. "Come on, Lute...let's see if you still got it in ya."

Fucking Satan, Lute thinks, what in the fucking Hell does Vaggie have in store for her, now?

[seoulmatez]

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ 𝒞𝐿𝒪𝒰𝒟 𝟫

info ⭑ nagi seishiro x reader. 1.4k wc. sfw ﾉ fluff 

nagi doesn’t think his apartment has been this clean since he first moved into it.

to be fair, it hasn’t ever been really messy—not by his standards, at least. just cluttered. the only person who ever visits consistently is reo and despite his thinly veiled complaints about the lack of tidiness, nagi feels no need to impress him. you, however, are a different story.

he thinks it might be a little bit rude and even more embarrassing if his home is in any sort of disarray the first time you get to see it. that’s why he set his alarm early and spent his entire morning cleaning; organized all the pairs of shoes he carelessly kicks off at the entryway, washed the dishes he had neglected last night, and folded and hung up all the clothes tossed on the unused lounge chair in the corner of his bedroom.

nagi’s lighting a candle when he hears your knocks and muffled sing-songy voice announcing your arrival. once he’s sure the wick is burning, he tosses the lighter onto the coffee table before scrambling towards the door. in his rush to let you in, nagi misses the little step that separates the small foyer from the rest of the apartment. his hands stick out to catch himself in just barely enough time and he curses under his breath at the blunder. after righting himself, he pulls open the door, revealing your figure on the other side.

you’re smiling, but it looks like you’re holding back a laugh.

“everything okay?” you ask as you survey him from head to toe. you could have sworn you heard something—or someone—hit the door only a second ago.

nagi nods, his snowy white bangs bouncing up and down with the gesture. he’s sure you can piece together what happened without his input and he’s not too keen on admitting that he tripped on the way here. instead, he turns his body to create some space for you, jerking his head in the direction of his living room. “come in.”

“you can put those on.” nagi points to a pair of new slippers that he bought just for you. he figures you should have your own since you’ll be around more often. well, he thinks you will—people who are dating hang out at each other’s houses, right?

you do as he says, trading your sneakers for the house shoes (that fit perfectly) while glancing around his apartment. it’s neat, neater than you expected. the scent of dish soap and lemon cleaner tips you off that he had cleaned before you arrived and his effort brings a smile to your face.

“so,” he twirls the fine hair at the nape of his neck around his finger, “i have mario kart if you want to play. and we can get takeout if you’re hungry.”

“sounds good,” you assure him, following the man to his living room. other than the pop of green from his cactus situated on the table beneath his television, everything from his furniture to the lack of décor is neutrally colored. that much doesn’t surprise you but you’re curious to see if his bedroom has more character.

in your search for his room, your eyes catch sight of a narrow staircase leading up to a lofted area. “is your bed up there?” you point at the landing.

pulling his gaze away from the handheld console in his hold, nagi’s dark eyes follow the path of your finger and he hums in confirmation. “you can check it out.”

you take him up on his offer and make your way up the steps. the space you find at the top is just as simple as that of his first floor but twice as cozy. there’s a hammock chair in the corner that slightly swings with the air of your arrival and at least three throw blankets in varying shades of gray strewn across his mattress. your foot gently taps the soccer ball resting on the light hardwood floor, sending it rolling toward the wall, as you approach his bed.

shedding yourself of your slippers, you flop onto the mattress with a soft thud. your body sinks into the cushion as though it’s a marshmallow—it certainly feels as soft and pillowy as one. you’re two seconds away from calling down to nagi to comment on how comfortable his bed is when you turn on your side to face the table settled beside said bed. the surface you’re met with is littered with taped-on photo strips dating back to when the two of you first started hanging out.

the series of pictures are arranged chronologically like he’s been adding them as they’ve been taken. and you can see that, with time, he grew more comfortable with the camera—with you. poses that were once awkward peace signs turned to tight-lipped smiles and eventually he even went as far as crouching down so you could hold your fingers above his head like cat ears.

in his bed, swathed by his familiar scent, nagi’s little gesture leaves your heart floating and fluttering in your chest. you have your own identical set of these photos at home pinned to the bulletin board that hangs above your desk, you look at them every day—yet there’s something different about seeing them stuck to the spot that nagi stares at before he closes his eyes to go to sleep.

“hey, the game is—” nagi cuts his sentence short upon seeing that you’ve found the souvenirs from your visits to photo booths across town. he wasn’t even thinking about them when he told you to help yourself to explore his room. your silence blankets him with a strange sense of unease. nagi knows the two of you haven’t been dating for very long but he hopes the display doesn’t make you uncomfortable.

at his voice, you sit up on your knees to meet nagi’s eye. his finger is nervously twirling at his hair again and the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks are flushed a rosy pink. despite his height, you’ve never seen him look smaller.

you figure he’s embarrassed about you stumbling across the pictures. the both of you are still settling into your new relationship status, clumsily fumbling with couple-like behavior and romantic actions. although, he has nothing to worry about. it’s cute—his growing collection of memories.

you jerk your thumb over your shoulder, gesturing to the prints with a small smile. “mine are hanging in my room, too.”

the tension in his shoulders practically melts away with your words and his feet no longer feel anchored to the floor. nagi joins you on his bed, the mattress dipping underneath his added weight. he leaves a safe amount of space between himself and you but he’s considerably more relaxed than he was a moment ago.

“look,” you start, pulling your phone out of your pocket. nagi’s newfound proximity and his exhibit of your shared photo excite you and make you want to share one of the many ways you are beginning to fall into the designated role of significant other. you tap the glass surface of the device which lights up with your action, revealing an image of the two of you that reo took. your arms are wrapped around his waist and one of his hands sits atop your head. neither of you is looking at the camera, your gazes are focused on each other instead. with a smile, you turn your phone to him, “we’re even on my lock screen.”

nagi silently stares at the captured moment displayed on your screen. the day wasn’t long ago and the memory of it is still fresh in his mind. it was the first time you referred to him as your boyfriend in the company of someone close to him. just looking at the photo makes his heart skip a beat like it did when he heard the foreign-sounding word spill from your lips. only when the screen returns to its sleeping state does he look up to you.

he’s never had a way with pretty words and even now he’s struggling to voice his feelings, so instead of saying something sweet and saccharine fitting for the occasion, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “wow, you’re mushy.”

“shut up,” you tell him through an unconcealed laugh. your thumb and index finger come together to flick the center of his forehead. the fluff of his hair lessens the impact but he still rubs the spot instinctively as a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. you smile back at him before smoothing your hand over his head. “let’s go play.”

hihi~ sua here :3 ! thank you for giving this a read! if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging and/or leaving a comment! much love from me to you ❤︎

[wheels-of-despair]

Pinch-Proof Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie forgot to wear green, but you have an easy solution. Contains: St. Patrick's Day shenanigans, lunchtime fluff. Words: 1.1k-ish

"If ONE more person asks where my green is and tries to maim me, I'm going to fucking SNAP!" Eddie punctuates his last word by slamming his lunchbox onto the cafeteria table, making several people at the next table jump and turn around to glare.

"Problems, dear?" you ask sweetly as he angrily plops into the chair next to you. He gives you an exasperated look.

You probably shouldn't tease him. You went through the same thing in first period. You'd been in the classroom for approximately ten seconds before Ms. Click asked where your green was. You tended to avoid owning things that contained green or orange, as they were the school colors, and you didn't want anyone to mistake a random article of clothing for school spirit.

You'd searched through your junk-filled backpack and came up with a green hair band. Not the big showy scrunchie kind, just simple green elastic. You always kept a few spares for emergencies. You swapped it out for the black one you were wearing, and considered yourself green enough to avoid the dreaded St. Patrick's Day Pinch.

"Look at this shit!" Eddie pulls up his sleeve and reveals a sizeable red mark on his pale forearm. "I know O'Donnell wants me and all, but JESUS, she doesn't have to be so rough!"

"O'Donnell did that to you?!" you ask in disbelief, leaning over to get a better look. That's not a friendly pinch from a playful teacher. That's a knife in the tire of her ugly brown Buick.

Eddie nods and slowly retracts his arm, a little frightened of the storm brewing on your face. You look from the angry red blotch to his big brown eyes, and you soften immediately.

"Gimme your vest," you say softly as you reach into your backpack.

"What?"

"Hand over the vest, Munson," you order without looking up.

"Why?"

Your hand finally closes on the small box buried in a side pocket. You pull it out triumphantly and smack your tiny sewing kit on the table.

"I'm going to put something green on it, so this problem is no longer a problem."

Eddie shrugs out of his battle vest and obediently hands you the worn denim. You use your jacket sleeve to wipe the table clear of any potential crumbs and lay the vest flat.

"Where?"

"Anywhere," he says, watching you closely.

You unravel the green thread, cut off a decent sized piece with the tiny scissors, lick the end, and squint as you thread it through the microscopic eye of the needle. Tying the end and snipping off the excess, you make a note to thank your grandmother for this gift that you'd thought odd at the time. You point to a spot between two button holes, looking up with a silent question. He nods in approval.

You poke the needle through the denim and begin sewing the easiest thing you can think of. You become so focused on your project, you tune out the nerdy discussion about some sci-fi book happening around you, until you feel a nudge to your shoulder.

Eddie's holding a pretzel out to you. Right. Lunch. You lean over and take it from his fingers with your teeth, thanking him with a wink before returning to your sewing. You soon realize he's offering you a pretzel every time he puts one in his own mouth; his feeding you becomes so routine, you don't even have to look up when you accept your snacks. The rest of Hellfire thinks nothing of this, they're used to you two being gross, and their conversation never misses a beat.

Finally, after half a lunch period, you tie off your creation and slice off the unused thread. Though it's an odd color, your lime green pentagram is unmistakably a pentagram, and green enough to ward off future maiming. Well, the St. Patrick's Day kind, anyway.

You stick your sewing supplies back in the little box and return the vest to Eddie. He runs his fingers over the bright green symbol.

"Last I checked, clovers weren't exactly metal," you shrugged, cheeks blushing, suddenly self-conscious about your little green pentagram. Was it bad? Had you overstepped and violated some kind of metal law? You idiot, why was defacing his most prized possession your first course of action? Surely there was a green pen or marker somewhere in that mobile dumpster you call a backpack, you could've just drawn something on the back of his hand.

"I'll rip it off tomorrow, after you're out of the St. Patrick's Day Danger Zone, if you want," you offer.

"Like hell!" Eddie bellows, looking at you as if you've grown a second head. "I love it!" He swings it around and puts it back on with a flourish. His fingers return to the little green pentagram, looking down at it fondly for a moment, before flashing you a bright smile. It makes all your worries vanish. It always does. You happily hold his gaze, then a burst of laughter from a passing pack of jocks brings you back to reality. You glance at your watch, confirming that there's just enough time to wolf down your lunch before the bell rings, and pull out your food. You push half of your sandwich toward Eddie.

"For the pretzels," you explain.

"Then what do I owe you for the pinch-proof pentagram?" He reaches for the sandwich, unable to resist anything he knows you made.

"Oh, just your undying love and ever-lasting affection."

"Deal," he grins and takes a bite.

With your confidence restored and your brief panic already forgotten, you decide to play with him a little.

"I did it for selfish reasons, you know," you admit in a low voice.

"You did?" he asks through a mouthful of sandwich. You nod, leaning so close that only he can hear.

"I'm the only one who gets to maim you," you breathe into his ear.

Eddie chokes on his sandwich. You try not to laugh, cracking open your can of soda and handing it to him. He grabs it, desperately chugs half of it to stop his coughing, and sets it down with a glare. It's at this point that you realize the rest of your group has gone quiet.

"What'd you do to him?" Jeff asks.

"...told a really funny St. Patrick's Day joke?" you suggest to the wide-eyed table, entirely unconvincing. Or so you thought.

"Well, let's hear it!" Grant urges.

Dammit. Your eyes return to Eddie, sitting smugly with his arms crossed, looking at you expectantly.

"Go on. Tell 'em." Double dammit. You stall by taking a bite of your sandwich, racking your brain for anything moderately amusing.

"So a leprechaun walks into a bar..."

[00127am]

SETLIST FOUR : give it up for viva la vida nine!

@ shangri-la as the lead singer of viva la vida nine, you have little interest in anything other than your band and stealing the attention of the crowd from any other competitors. until you watch rival lead singer of pantera, nakamoto yuta, preform. cocky, charismatic, cavalier nakamoto yuta. the same nakamoto yuta who you cannot stand (him and the way he makes your knees feel weak). after that, you're much more interested in stealing his attention (though you'd rather die than admit it).

THURSDAY, AMP 08:00PM

Ten nudges your shoulder, a cheshire grin plastered against his lips as he signs hello to you, tilting his head to get a better look at the scowl on your face. The delight he takes in his constant teasing is nearly palpable, visible in the soft squint of his eyes and the lopsided quirk of his dimples. His hair falls over his eyes in thin strands, blonde bangs long enough to skim the bridge of his nose. His roots are growing in, dark brown hair burning at his scalp and slipping underneath the brighter blonde that frames his face with a doting curve. Blue colored contacts blink back at you but they do little to mask the teasing lit in his eyes. 

“You really kicking me out?” His voice is still muffled, even with his cherry lips pressed up against your ear (sure to leave a vivid mark of his lipstick) and you find yourself biting back the hint of a smile. He can sense it too and you feel his lips curve into a broader smile, hot breath sticking to the curves of your ear and forcing a movement in your earrings. 

“Keep it up and maybe I will,” you try your best to sound annoyed but there's too much affection in your voice to mistake the statement as anything with veracity. 

Your response makes your bandmate hum, a low, baritone sound that mixes in too closely with the tuning of Johnny’s bass guitar for you to differentiate them. His fingers momentarily intertwine with yours, giving you a quick squeeze, before he’s raising his hands. Ten’s always had pretty hands, long fingers coated in tarnished gold rings and fingernails painted a vibrant color that always matches your own in some way or another. And when he signs with those pretty hands, he’s fluid and elegant. He signs the way he dances, each motion seamlessly flowing into one another to the extent in which you’re unsure of where one starts and the other ends. 

The way he signs Yuta’s name is clunky, unused and unpracticed. The signs are choppy, each syllable pronounced with a harsh movement of his hand. He didn’t have to sign it, you didn’t need any other indication that he was about to preform than the shift of the curtain and the whine of the mic. And unlike Ten’s signage of his name, Yuta is anything but clumsy and unappealing to the eye. 

If you heard the words that Ten was speaking against your ear and signing in front of you, you didn’t acknowledge them. So utterly captivated with the rival lead singer just a few hundred feet away that everything else has faded out with the sharp ring in your ears and the blur of your peripheral. Everything but him. 

“You sure you don’t like him?”

09:35PM

“What are you so focused on?” 

Johnny’s voice is just short of amusement, volume fluctuating with the strum of a few here and there cords from the band currently on stage--hooking up their instruments with the familiar squeal and whine of feedback. The question is directed to the lead singer who’s currently comfortably relaxed against the back bar of the venue, elbows digging into the wood paneling and head tossed ever-so-slightly back. His lips are pulling into a smug look of satisfaction, an expression otherwise unnoticeable if not for the benefit of knowing Yuta for so many years. There’s a cigarette held in between slim fingers and metal rings, unlit and crumpled as the blonde unconsciously toys with it as if he has forgotten it’s there in the first place. Not many things can make Yuta forget about a smoke. Not many people. In fact, his bandmate struggles to think of just one. 

And in classic, expected fashion: Yuta declines the privilege of a reply. But it doesn’t take long for Johnny to follow the line of his vision. Sliding over tousled hair and through crowds of groupies. Past the small security detail on the left and just before the barricade of the stage. Straight towards you. He grins, the full extent of his entertainment showing on his face as clear as day. Even though Yuta wasn’t looking, he could feel it. It’s enough to cause the smallest twitch in his eye as he readies himself for the inevitable, taunting comment. 

“Oh, I see,” he nudges the blondes shoulder, “Lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,”

If anything were to get his acknowledgement in this conversation, it would certainly be the topic of recognizing you. Or, misidentifying you. Yuta turns partially, brows set in a downward line and lips pulled into a pout. Expression scrunched and eyes narrowed as he finally dignifies Johnny with a response. 

“What? No,” 

Johnny returns Yuta’s puzzled countenance with one of his own, raising his brow as his tongue pushes against the bottom row of his teeth. He swallows, looking to his bandmate and then to you, and then Yuta, again, and then back to you. He blinks a few times before raising a thin hand, knuckles a soft red and veins catching on the dim orange hues of the bar. Johnny gestures in your direction, finger perfectly poised at the back of your head. “So you’re not staring at her,” 

And Yuta follows like a moth to a flame, eyes slipping against the flesh of the older man’s finger, skimming his nail, before meeting the forty-five degree angle of your jaw. He looks longer than necessary, a few seconds of a lingering glance which Johnny notes with a miniscule upwards dart in the corner of his lips (one that if Yuta had noticed he would have returned with a scowl). The confusion of the situation allows for leeway in an honest admission, words slipping out without a single thought on the matter. A confession met without penance. “Yeah, I am,” 

“Right. Yn. The lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,” 

“No,” Yuta’s fully turned now, shooting Johnny an incredulous look that matches his tone, “That’s my fan,” 

The emphasis on ‘my’ doesn’t fall on deaf ears. Nor does the conscious (or unconscious) decision to use it. You’re not ours, not Pantera’s, but Yuta’s. And based on his tone, Yuta’s alone. Knowing you (or at least the stories about you), Johnny doesn’t think that would be a sentiment that you would find particularly endearing. He meets his bandmate’s gaze with an equally perplexed one, tone in disbelief and perhaps the slightest hint of vexation that is mellowed over by the amused lit to his words. “Your fan? Don’t tell me she’s the one who you’re all lovey dovey for,”

“I’m not lovey dovey,” it’s the wrong denial provided as Yuta waves him off lazily, rolling his eyes, “It’s just interest. Can’t I be interested in one of my fans?” 

My. Again. 

“Not when your supposed fan is the lead singer of our rival band,” 

And with those words being said (for what feels like the millionth time), Johnny swears he can hear the slightest snap in Yuta’s patience, a sharp sound that’s as clear as the strings on his bass. “She’s not the lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine. I met her after our last gig, I watched her the whole set. I’m telling you she’s-” 

“Yn of Viva La Vida Nine,” 

Your voice is entangled with the audible whine of the mic on stage, pulling Yuta’s attention with a harsh tug and the whisk of his eyes back to the center of the bar. He turned so quickly, so urgently that Johnny swears he got whiplash. An idea that bubbles laughter in the back of his throat, a sound that Yuta has all but cut out. There’s no bandmate, there’s no cheering crowd, no clink of the bottles at the bar, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, but you. 

Yuta Nakamoto considers himself to be a rather practical man. He’s never worshiped anything. Never fallen into the thinly veiled trap of complete and utter obsession. He’s not an addict, not someone who is constantly chasing the adrenaline of a high. He sticks to what’s in front of him, what he’s good at, what can make a crowd scream or earn him a few more bucks then the last song did. He has never faltered with any desire. Any compulsion. Craving. Yuta Nakamoto is a practical man through and through. 

But, oh god, it’s taking all he has not to fall to his knees and worship you.

@ previous @ home @ next

🧾 © 00127am 2024

[dasiesanddarkness]

wesper winter day two!

Theme: First meetings

Prompt: stroopwafels

Summary: "Ghezen, I'm so sorry.”

Jesper turned, but his angry remark died on his tongue as he saw who had knocked his precious treat from his hand. Standing in front of him was a man with big, brown doe eyes widened in horror and messy hair sticking up at every angle. He was pretty, with delicate features and a sincereness in his eyes that Jesper was entirely unused to seeing. He had the dusting of a five o’clock shadow that suggested he was older than he looked, and just looking at him had Jesper forgetting all about Emorson.

no tw and general audiences

full thing below the cut!

Jesper didn’t win often.

Most nights, he entered the gambling dens with little change and exited with none. Even if he did win a round or two, he was easily convinced to try his luck again, and usually gambled his winnings away within the hour. Every once in a while, though, he’d win and be smart enough to get the hell out before he lost again. On those rare occasions, he liked to go out and treat himself to a stroopwafel for his excellent work.

Today was one of those rare occasions. He had a pocketful of kruge, enough to maybe consider actually putting some of it towards paying off his debts. First, he’d stopped for his celebratory stroopwafel, and was standing to the side of the street with his treat in hand, talking to one of his many acquaintances from around the Barrel.

“And then I told him to just shoot me, and he wouldn’t! He kept telling me I’d regret it, but I wasn’t about to cower in fear over someone who won’t even send off a warning shot.” He took a bite of his treat as Emorson nodded along and made some comment about the cowardice of some people.

“Like, why even bother threatening me with the gun if you don’t know how to use it? It wasn’t even loaded!” As he talked, his hands moved rapidly, an old habit and one of many manifestations of his inability to be still. Just as he threw his arm to the side, someone stepped level with him, jerking his hand forwards and sending his stroopwafel flying.

“No!” Jesper grasped for it, but it had already fallen many feet ahead of him and was being trampled on by the crowd of people. “My stroopwafel!”

“Ghezen, I'm so sorry.”

Jesper turned, but his angry remark died on his tongue as he saw who had knocked his precious treat from his hand. Standing in front of him was a man with big, brown doe eyes widened in horror and messy hair sticking up at every angle. He was pretty, with delicate features and a sincereness in his eyes that Jesper was entirely unused to seeing. He had the dusting of a five o’clock shadow that suggested he was older than he looked, and just looking at him had Jesper forgetting all about Emorson.

“I really- I swear I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”

Jesper blinked, then let his most charming grin slide into place. “Well, what are you doing for the rest of the night? I’d love to buy you a drink.”

The man- the gorgeous, gorgeous man- furrowed his brow in confusion. He looked taken aback, which Jesper didn’t understand, because surely he was receiving requests like this everyday? He was far too pretty not to be.

“I-” he stopped and cleared his throat, his eyes flitting from Jesper’s face to the crushed remnants of his stroopwafel and back to his face. “That’s hardly fair. I ruin your stroopwafel, and you buy me a drink? Seems more like a reward than an apology.”

Oh, Jesper liked him. He was quick-witted and quick to speak, and Jesper thought it was lovely. “No apology necessary,” he said, and stepped closer. “If you hadn’t, I’d never have gotten the pleasure to see your pretty face.”

Wylan hummed, and his eyes sparkled. Some of the confusion still lingered, but the apprehension had disappeared, so Jesper counted it a win. “What if…” the man trailed off, and Jesper wished he hadn’t. WIshed he’d keep talking, with that lovely voice of his, melodic and sweet and so very enticing. “I buy you a stroopwafel to replace the one I ruined, and you buy me a drink just because.”

Jesper grinned. “Lovely plan. What’s your name, love?”

“Wylan.” He held his hand out, and Jesper took it without a second thought. It was strange. Most of his partners had never bothered to hold his hand. That tended to be more intimate than either of them were used to, but Jesper liked it. He liked being near Wylan.

“So very nice to meet you, Wylan. I’m Jesper. Now, lead the way. I believe you owe me a stroopwafel.”

this is my take on their first meeting in the show verse. it was fun to write Jesper's perspective, because i feel like most fics tend to be from Wylan's.

i hope uou enjoyed!!!

@wesper-winter

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Sluggy

Debut: Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island

Sluggy is what I in the business like to call a Pathetic Lump! Obviously I mean that only affectionately and I love this thing to bits! A little blob is always a great kind of creature. Often they are just purely cute, too, no matter how unsanitary they may realistically be! Sluggy, however, has a simple, but key thing to stand out from other blobs. It has hairs! Not a funny hairdo or anything, just regular hairs, sticking out of it haphazardly. Clearly its OWN hairs, it even has eyelashes! But I think there is something so unwholesome about a blob that grows hair.

Sluggies come in two variations! Pinkish ones with red spots do not move much, but yellowish ones with blue spots do. I like the yellowish ones because I like yellow and blue! Sluggies are sticky rascals and will stick to ceilings, dripping down when Yoshi is underneath! They are not very threatening, but they are just creatures. They probably eat mold. Don’t need to be threatening to eat mold!

Sluggies look kind of similar to Fuzzies, don’t you think? A soft white shape with dot eyes and some hairs. Yoshi’s Island Fuzzies, are, of course, the hard psychadelic drug reference that’s fun for the whole family, making the entire world undulate around Yoshi on effect. Not like Sluggy at all...

But oh! Lookie here! An unused sprite of a balloon-like Sluggy, even MORE resembling a Fuzzy! You may think it silly for a slug to inflate and fly, but this is actually a clever reference to the real biological phenomenon of me just messing with you! Maybe Sluggies were originally going to fly, or Fuzzies were going to look like this?

Well, in early previews, Sluggy the Unshaven- the boss form which we have discussed previously- is referred to, in prerelease material as a Giant Watabo! This may seem meaningless, and that is because I forgot to mention that Fuzzy’s Japanese name is Watabo! It specifies it as a “cotton monster”, and that is just so strange to me. This is so clearly a Blob. Even the spots on the small unused sprite make me think Blob Mottles, you know? I do not like the idea of a cotton monster being gelatinous and transparent, with an organic heart. That is not what cotton is about! That would get the cotton all sticky! And bloody! Blech! I would not wear that stuff! I am glad they settled on these as slug creatures, but also fascinated at the shared conceptual lineage that may have existed...

After not appearing in Yoshi’s Island DS, Sluggies DO reappear in Yoshi’s New Island! Maybe everyone is too hard on this game. Look how identical the model is to the official art! Someone was a Classic Sluggy fan!

Sluggies have not made any other appearances, but I like this image used for a puzzle. Look at all these friends. You can tell they are friends because Sluggy and some ghosts left the safety of their dank crypts to join the fun in the sun! I just hope Sluggy is staying in the shade and using enough sunblock. I legitimately think it could get sunburn on its internal organs. What a wretched thought.

[ghostwise]

in the gardens of Thay 3.2k words, Astarion/Durge cw: blood drinking, non-consensual illithid powers, bhaalspawn, bard durge In exchange for a taste of her blood, Astarion finds himself unexpectedly recruited for a part in Aya's charade.

Shadowheart pressed her hands over Aya’s head, smoothing down her dark curls with a rush of blue healing magic. For a moment the glow of the spell held fast—then it dissipated quickly, like rainwater on parched earth.

“It would be easier,” she said ruefully, “if we knew what happened to you.”

“It’s no great mystery, Shadowheart,” the bard murmured, her sulphur-yellow eyes closing. “You don’t cheat death and come away without some wounds to show for it.”

“But your wounds from the crash are healed.” There was a tinge of frustration to the cleric’s voice as she regarded the stubbornly broken head of her companion. “Your amnesia should be resolving by now. Unless it wasn’t caused by your wounds to begin with.”

A shadow fell across camp suddenly, as clouds drifted in front of the sun. Astarion blinked and waited for the warmth to return, and it did, moments later. He was still wholly unused to it.

“I’m open to any theories,” Aya said, a small smile curling her lips.

Shadowheart sighed and ran her hands through Aya’s brown locks of hair.

The Sharran was getting rather familiar, Astarion noted. Ironic, considering the cold image she tried so hard to project, but anyone could see that their resident amnesiac had become Shadowheart’s favorite project. One she doted on quite attentively, at that.

“There’s all sorts of magic that could cause it,” Shadowheart mused. “I think if the root were physical, it would already be resolved. And the druids know about physical ailments better than most, yet they too have been unable to help…”

“That doesn’t necessarily point to a magical cause. I could simply be mad.”

“You’re too lucid,” Shadowheart said, not even entertaining the notion.

Astarion bit back a laugh.

He could not truly tell if Aya was being manipulative, but he had to commend her either way. Shadowheart was a powerful ally to have.

Come to think of it, that was exactly what he needed: allies. More than these tenuous traveling bonds, he needed someone on his side. Especially if he planned on sticking around, which he very much did.

Mad or sane, Aya said nothing.

She only turned her yellow gaze towards him, inscrutable as ever.

.

Shadowheart did not understand madness. But Astarion fancied he did.

Madness was terrible and transient. You could be mad and make a life for yourself all the same, and blend in with the muck of the day to day, with some effort. He’d felt a little mad himself when he’d first awoken after the crash. He’d felt it when he was starving and when he was alone, too.

He was quite himself now, and for that he was grateful.

But it was enough to know that those things lurked within him still, cohabiting with that wretched tadpole and liable to exert their influence over him with the right trigger: hunger, pain, fear, grief. Such things were not uncommon these days. Tragedy could befall anyone, at any time, in an instant. The little tiefling bard was a stark reminder of this.

But if only he’d managed to lap up some of her blood before it’d congealed in the mud…!

Meanwhile Aya did not yet remember anything with the exception of her songs, and perhaps this too was a type of madness. She remembered more songs every day, and had lately spent hours plucking away at her lute, singing in her gravelly voice.

“I courted a lass in the gardens of Thay,

Her voice was honey sweet

And we hand in hand spent many a day

In happiness’ blinding reach.”

Her voice crooned softly in the night. Astarion heard it from his bedroll where he lay, awake and uncomfortable, trying to ignore the ache of hunger in his limbs.

He longed to hunt. But it was nearing midnight, and when she started like this she could go on for hours.

“I slaughtered my love in the gardens of Thay,

Her blood was a symphony

And her soft hands could not allay

All of my fury and grief.”

He weighed his options. Once they set off for the goblin camp, there was no telling when or how he would feed. Could he steal a few sips of goblin blood without anyone noticing? Unlikely, as everyone would be on high alert. This could be his last chance.

Outside his tent, Aya’s voice dipped softly, swooning through the night.

“An unsent letter in the gardens of Thay

The delicate writing reads:

‘My beloved I’ll never betray.

Your wicked bribes you may keep.’”

“Ooh, a drama,” he muttered under his breath. For a moment he nearly hoped she was done but the playing and singing resumed in yet another encore. He stifled a groan.

The songs were largely about people encountering the unexpected. Betrayed lovers, gold that vanished as quickly as it was acquired, curses and prophecies going awry. Many of the songs had a morbid slant to the verse. He did not recognize any of them.

He willed her to go to sleep, but of course, she did not. By the time everyone else was awake, Aya had not slept a wink. Nor, for that matter, had he.

And he was still hungry.

A vampire’s hunger was a terrible thing. It sat not in the belly, but in the heart, and it bled over every single part of him.

“Sleep well last night?” he asked Aya that morning, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Like a dove,” she hummed.

A liar, too. What in the Nine Hells did that even mean?

Astarion frowned. He’d have to deal with this sooner rather than later.

.

It wound up being sooner.

The goblin camp was a veritable assault on all his senses: noise and grime and screams. The scent of smoke and blood pervaded the ransacked temple, and he hadn’t eaten in days. Aya had been up every single night, singing with her lute, leaving him no chance to steal away. Nonetheless, she exhibited none of the fatigue she should; instead, she’d carved a path through the cultists like they were butter and she a hot blade.

There was something more to the amnesiac bard, that was certain. This was not the first time she’d killed. The sight of her reveling in their enemies’ deaths was enough to make him very thankful they were on the same side.

That night, when it was finally safe to make camp, and when everyone had fallen into a heavy slumber, he crept towards her bedroll.

His hunger made it hard to think. He’d hoped not to feed on an ally, but he knew what happened when he was deprived of a meal too long.

Surely she was as exhausted as he, if not more, after her little rampage. She wouldn’t stir, if he was careful. If he only took a mouthful… he could make a small cut with his blade, to disguise the bite.

Too hungry to quell his instincts, he leaned in.

Then a calloused hand was at his chest, pinching the fabric in a vice-grip.

It startled him. He jolted away, but couldn’t move; he was stuck. Caught.

“Shit,” he uttered.

Aya was looking up at him, breathing fast, and something in her gaze made him wonder if she was awake at all.

“No- no, it’s not what it looks like,” he said, anxious as her grip tightened. She’d clutched a handful of his shirt and twisted it in her hand with shocking ease, holding him still and off-balance.

“I swear! I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just- needed-” The word tumbled out, surprising and honest. “Blood.”

Aya blinked slowly. Still keeping a firm grip on him, she scooted over on her bedroll and sat up.

“Of course,” she said slowly, her voice thick with slumber. “I’m beginning to understand now. How long since you killed someone in cold blood?” Her lips stretched back, forming a half-smile. “Since Alfira?”

“What?” Astarion yanked himself loose at last—or she released him—and he fell backwards. “No! I’ve never killed anyone. Well. Not for food.”

He looked at her, suspicion flooding his mind along with the deep-seated instinct to appease her. Why bring up Alfira now? He’d never gotten the impression that he was a suspect. He chose his words carefully.

“I feed on animals. Boars, deer, kobolds—whatever I can get. Alfira’s murder was senseless, without rhyme or reason… as you, no doubt, recall.”

There was just a hint of a challenge in his words, and he held onto this challenge resolutely, meeting Aya’s steady gaze with his own.

It was a mistake. He felt something at the edge of his mind—then in the very midst of him. He sucked in a gasp of air as Aya delved further.

“What’s this-?” He looked away as if by doing so he could flee from it. “What’s happening?”

He was being mined for truth.

He’d seen her do this before, without a single care. Seen her bend others to her whims without mercy. He felt a jolt of fear at the idea that he might suffer a similar fate.

His memories were shuffled through like one would flip through the pages of a dull book. Then it was over as quickly as it began.

“You’re being truthful,” Aya muttered. “But don’t act so virtuous. You feed on vermin because you have been forced to. Not out of some noble attempt at morality.”

“I…”

The weight of what had just transpired settled on him, and he realized what she must’ve seen, what she now knew. When he looked at her again he found her alert, inquisitive, albeit tired, with a deep-seated darkness around her eyes.

And there was pity in those eyes. Vile and unwelcome, yet, malleable.

“Yes,” he admitted, gritting his teeth and ignoring the frantic spasms of his starving heart. “Yes, I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master picked. So… you can see why I’m slow to trust you.”

He paused, and thought of the fresh link Aya had just forged between their minds. It was a two-way street, if that was how she wanted to play it. So, somewhat desperate, he gave a push back along the same bridge.

“But I do trust you,” he continued firmly. “And you can trust me.”

“Uh-uh,” Aya said, tapping at her head. “Out.”

“Oh, you started it!”

“No, you started it,” she snapped. “When you tried to feed on me in my sleep.”

The tug of war between their thoughts left him nauseous. “Fine!” Astarion wrinkled his nose and aimed a short-lived glare at her. “I propose a deal, then: No more tadpole powers from you, and no more attempts from me to feed on you. Cross my heart, hope to die, pinky promise and so on-”

“Deal,” Aya said evenly, and with the cadence of someone who surely was crossing her fingers behind her back.

But for now it would do. The uninvited link vanished.

She reclined on her bedroll, and Astarion nearly sighed in relief.

“I’m so glad,” he said, attempting to recapture some of his composure. He should have tried to make a meal of Wyll instead… but it was too late now. He aimed an amicable smile at her. “I trust this can remain, er, our little secret?”

Aya gave a steely nod.

“Thank you,” Astarion sighed. “Thank you ever so much. Well! That being settled, I suppose I should go find a rat to gnaw on or something…”

“Oh, please,” Aya scoffed. “There’s hardly any need for that. I’m right here.”

Astarion frowned. He watched her for a moment, but her meaning became no clearer for it.

“Come again?”

“You’re not well, Astarion,” Aya said quietly. “I could sense it, even before I touched your thoughts. If you can’t fight you’ll just drag us down. So… have your damn meal.”

“You’re… offering?”

“I’m offering.” Aya raised a brow. “Do try to contain your excitement. And take only what you need—not a drop more.”

“Of course,” Astarion said, still in disbelief. “I shall be gentle as a babe.”

He perched himself carefully beside her and felt along her neck. Anatomy varied from person to person; he needed to bite just the right spot, or he’d risk her bleeding out. Aya regarded these preparations with an air of amusement.

When he was ready, he pierced her sweat-tinged skin with his fangs. He was met with a bloom of salt, copper, and beneath that, something he couldn’t name.

Now came the graceless part. Not wanting to waste a drop, he angled his head and clamped around the wound, and drank slowly, but deeply. As the blood settled within him it ushered away his pain, filled him with strength… it made him realize he’d been hungry for months, years, decades.

He was already sated, but the sudden high made it hard to even consider depriving himself of a few more mouthfuls of her blood.

It was like being submerged in a hot bath. It was like a chorus compared to a single voice. There was a presence in it, an awe-inspiring shiver, almost reverent, as if it were not just he and Aya in the tent.

But who else was there, in Aya’s blood?

And should it be such a surprise how different it was from that of the animals he’d subsisted on all his undeath? Not that he had any real point of reference. As he searched the sensation, he felt that there was a message in the red. A message for him, he realized in shock, twitching a little and feeling a thick droplet slide out of his mouth. Aya’s distant voice singing a wordless dirge, and a deeper voice singing with her.

Oh, if he had just a little more, he could understand…

Aya pried him off like a tick, her hand clamped around his gullet.

“Greedy,” she slurred.

He snapped back to lucidity with embarrassing quickness. “Ah,” he said, a stupid syllable mouthed around the last drops of blood he’d taken. He tried to coax his mind back from incoherence, refocusing on her with ease. “Of course. I was just- swept up in the moment.”

He glowed. How wonderful. Was this what Cazador had deprived him of all those centuries? The other spawn would surely simmer with envy and hate if they knew how good blood could taste, how beautiful an afterlife could be; powerful, uninhibited and unstarved. He grinned, flexing his fingers. He felt awareness and keen insight from the very top of his white curls to the very earth below.

Aya, blessed blood, let out a giggle.

“Oooh,” she intoned. “Bit stronger than what you’re used to, huh?”

“Just a bit,” he admitted. “But it worked! I feel good. Strong. Happy.”

She smiled, pressing a rag to the wound to stifle its bleeding. “How nice,” she said in perfect monotone. “Alright. Fuck off now, please and thanks. I must clean up and get back to my perverse dreams.”

Astarion nodded slowly. He’d already pushed his luck and succeeded; no need to push further. As he withdrew from her tent, he glanced over his shoulder, driven to seek some sort of sentimental closure, to counter her rather abrupt dismissal.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

.

The next day, Aya was unsteady as a newborn fawn.

Thankfully the bulk of the fighting was behind them. As the others ventured forth to pick off the stragglers of the goblin horde, Shadowheart stayed behind to tend to her project.

Astarion pushed down an uneasy rush of feeling when their return from the field found Shadowheart and Aya waiting. There was no mistaking that look—the cleric glowered at him, and from behind her, Aya watched him silently.

“A vampire,” Shadowheart said.

Astarion pursed his lips and looked at Aya, who shrugged with a meager smile.

“That explains the pallor,” Shadowheart continued. “Though it doesn’t explain what you were thinking, feeding off the weakest in our number. Do you think I’m throwing healing magic at her for fun for you to be sapping her strength like this, night after night?”

“What-?” Astarion stammered, but he could recognize an ambush when he walked into one.

“A vampire among us?” Lae’zel asked.

“Aya has been hiding her wounds. She succeeded until this morning. Apparently she’d lost too much blood,” Shadowheart explained.

As if on cue, Aya tugged the collar of her shirt down. At the very least, Astarion could pride himself on doing a tidy job. Two symmetrical little bite wounds were visible on her neck, perfectly placed and not unseemly at all.

Lae’zel recoiled from the sight. “Tsk’va!”

“Hunting with vampires!” Wyll exclaimed. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Settle down, everyone, please,” Aya said.

Astarion waited, half-annoyed and half-curious. What was she playing at? Her lie hung tenuously in the air, recognized by no one but he and she. But she was a performer. So he let her perform.

“He trusted me with his secret, and perhaps we should have told everyone sooner, yes… but I saw no harm in letting him feed from me, just a little. Just until he was no longer starving.”

Appealing to their compassion, she turned with her hands outstretched and her eyes wide with feeling.

“He’s been dedicating himself to hunting animal blood as much as possible, to keep from hurting anyone. Should he suffer for what he is? I didn’t believe so. Hopefully neither do you. He fed on me at the grove, and again, the night Alfira…” Her words trailed off, pained.

“So it couldn’t have been him that killed her,” Wyll concluded, watching the display with interest.

The charade clicked in Astarion’s mind.

“Whatever the case, should I wake with so much as a drop of blood on my neck, I will end him,” Lae’zel said.

“Fair enough!” Aya quipped. Before Astarion knew it, she was at his side, one hand gracefully alighting on his shoulder. “You needn’t worry about that. Right, my friend?”

“Right.” Astarion looked at her. Her smile twitched slightly, coaxing him to continue. “And I am terribly sorry for all this?” he added, and Aya squeezed his shoulder gently.

That seemed to do the trick.

As the others walked away to process this new revelation, Astarion set a hand over Aya’s, keeping her close. In the vacuum of truth she had created, it was easy to walk her away from camp, just enough to have a private exchange.

He looked at her, noting the self-satisfied look in her eyes.

“So. That was fun. But tell me something: Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why did you kill Alfira?”

She let out a woozy chuckle. “Not sure. She annoyed me. I think that must be why.”

“I see.” Astarion mulled it over. “That does sound pretty reasonable, actually. But I can do my own lying, you know. You could have… clued me in a little?”

“And you would have played along?” Aya tilted her head, exposing, for a moment, the sinewed shape of neck. Her eyes shone with interest. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Against his better judgment, he laughed.

“I could say much the same for you. Stick around and you’ll see just how surprising I can be.”

[ange1sang]

deadline.

mickey x ian (gallavich) fic

wc: 1.8k / au where gallavich meet at college but everything else is the same / pining, flatmates, recreational drug use, fluff, references to uptown girls

part of the orange crush and nehi soda au

summary: back at their apartment mickey is struggling to write up a paper on conflict studies. ian helps take his mind off it.

They don't talk about the phone call they shared while Mickey was at his family's house. It seems to go unsaid that they won't address it - Mickey comes home to Ian sitting on the kitchen counter, shovelling off-brand cereal into his mouth while The Simpsons is playing on the TV. He looks tired, but no more tired than any other college kid with an assignment due at the end of the week. His hair looks like movie bedhead - sticking up at random spots and somehow still model-perfect - and he's swallowed up in a worn sweater Mickey knows belongs to his brother, having seen the washed out name tag sewn into the inside of the neckline when doing the laundry one day.

"Hey," he greets Ian from the kitchen doorway, putting on nonchalance to the best of his ability. Ian looks up from his cereal and smiles, soft and teasing all at once. 

"Hey," Ian answers, eyes lingering on Mickey as he shovels another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

"You doin' okay?" Mickey asks, his nonchalance failing when the words come out choked up and forced. He's still so unused to these small pleasantries, the casual care he's supposed to show to his flatmate, that every interaction makes him sweat. What he's even more unused to is that more and more often they aren't small pleasantries or casual at all - he cares about what Ian's answer will be.

"Mhm," Ian replies. He wipes milk from his mouth with the back of his hand and clears his throat. "Your family okay?"

Mickey scoffs.

"Dad's in prison. They needed help with some guns," he says. Ian smiles.

"Your sister?" he asks.

"Yeah, she's fine," Mickey nods. "I gotta study and shit, we need anything from the store?"

"Pizza in the freezer, we're fine," Ian mumbles through a mouthful of cereal. Mickey stays in the doorway for another beat, just long enough for Ian's eyes to catch on his again, before he nods and turns to go to his room. It isn't until he's sitting in bed that he feels his heartbeat thrumming in his neck, fluttery and anxious. He inhales sharply and exhales long and hard. The sound of Ian living and breathing just two rooms over is all it takes to ease the anxiety that's been gnawing at his chest all weekend.

.

The digital clock on the TV stand reads 00:14 in bright red. Rain is pitter-pattering outside, a sound that's been echoing through the apartment all day, and a tacky true crime documentary is playing on the muted TV, illuminating the living room and Mickey's laptop keyboard. The keys are greasy from the two bags of chips he's finished over the course of working on just four paragraphs of a conflict studies paper that's due in two days.

His brain feels fried, an ache throbbing between his brows that's been steadily building since he put down the first sentence of his introduction paragraph. His veins are pumping more caffeine and nicotine than blood at this point and every thought he forms ties itself into knots before he can type it up into the document. 

"Fuck," he mutters, and before he can remember that Ian's sleeping just one door away he shouts at his laptop screen. "Shit, fuck!"

He checks that the document is saved before slamming his laptop shut, cringing at the noise. Another day he would've checked to see that the screen was still functional but right now it's all he can do not to throw the laptop across the room.

"Stupid fuckin' paper, fuck this shit," he mutters, glaring at the detective on the TV screen no doubt describing some gruesome crime that would've just been another weekday when he was growing up. He can't help but think that he'd much rather be dealing with that shit than writing about onscreen conflict. The sound, soft and drawn out, of a door being pushed open pulls him out of his thoughts.

Hesitantly, Ian smiles at him from his bedroom doorway. 

"What're you watching?" he asks, approaching Mickey like he's approaching a rundown animal on the edge of a highway.

"True crime shit," Mickey mutters. Ian rolls his eyes and throws himself down onto the sofa beside him. 

"You're gonna make yourself paranoid," he chides, like growing up in their neighbourhood wasn't enough for a lifetime of paranoia. Mickey grunts back and watches Ian pick up the remote to start flipping through the channels. He stops after passing the same shows three or four times, landing on a curly-haired actress in bright clothes with big eyes. He turns the volume up straight away and when Mickey turns to look at him he's smiling at the screen, eyes wide like a kid watching their favourite cartoon.

"You gonna tell me what this is?" he asks gruffly. Ian's smile gets wider.

"Uptown Girls. My big sister, Fiona, used to love this movie when we were kids," he says, voice soft even through the remnants of sleep. "I think it reminded her a little of what she was like as a kid."

All Mickey manages to reply is a quiet 'shit' under his breath, not wanting to break the spell Ian's under. The bright colours on screen light up his freckled cheeks, pinks and blues moving back and forth against his skin like fairground lights. Slowly, the knots in Mickey's brain begin to loosen, untying and leaving behind only gentle, mushy feelings that make his face burn and his hands jittery. He rips his eyes away from Ian before he can be caught staring, slumping back into the sofa to watch the movie with him.

He reaches for the pack of cigarettes stuffed into the gap between the sofa cushions but before he can pull it out Ian's slapping his hand away.

"The fuck-"

"Here," Ian interrupts him, pulling a joint and lighter out of his hoodie pocket. Mickey raises an eyebrow, hesitantly taking the joint from Ian as the redhead flicks the lighter a few times until the flame is steady. "If you're gonna cook your brain in the middle of the night might as well be with this."

Mickey can't argue with that, and he mumbles as much as Ian lights the joint for him. The sickly sweet smell of weed curls around them almost instantly as Mickey pulls smoke deep into his lungs, handing the joint back to Ian.

"We gotta get a bong," Ian says, every word coming out as a puff of smoke from between his lips.

"Mandy probably has one we could have," Mickey mumbles. "Or we just make one out of a fuckin' water bottle or somethin'."

Ian laughs, soft and airy, and Mickey's heart flutters in an embarrassing way that he blames on the weed.

They pass the joint back and forth until it's all smoked up, the high humming beneath Mickey's skin like the grain that buzzes over the movie on the TV. A comfortable silence falls over them as they watch the movie, the main actress in girly, unruly clothes chasing after a little blonde girl, their interactions strange but endearing. The colours and style of the early 2000s are charming and just as sweet as the high, the imagery honeyed and saccharine like the heaviness that sinks into Mickey's limbs and eyelids. 

He turns to look at Ian, who doesn't seem to register him at all, and he can easily imagine Ian when he was a kid, watching his big sister's favourite movie and picking out all the details he loved the most. The actress grins, all teeth and sunshine, and Mickey is reminded of the smiles Ian lets slip when he isn't worried about anybody watching him. He can picture him, ginger hair and freckled shoulders, wearing those same bright clothes and running around a big city with his head in the clouds. He doesn't realise he's smiling until Ian's head lolls to the side and his eyes shift from the screen to look at Mickey.

"What're you lookin' at?" he asks, voice slow and thick like molasses. If he was anymore sober Mickey would have looked back at the TV but right now he feels like he's stepped in quicksand, stuck knee-deep in the green of Ian's eyes. Ian doesn't seem to mind, smiling crookedly and leaning his face against the sofa. His cheek squishes up against the sofa cushion but his eyes stay fixed on Mickey's, watching him with the same focus he was watching the movie with.

"What?" Mickey asks this time, only just biting back a laugh. 

"Nothin'," Ian replies, a barely-there lilt to his voice. 

"Same here," Mickey says, his smile growing when Ian giggles. He finally manages to tear his eyes away from the freckled face staring at him, looking back at the TV where the main actress is fighting over a fairground ride with the blonde kid. Mickey doesn't know if it's the weed or the movie or just how fucked his brain is from his godforsaken assignment, but he works up the courage to voice what's been on his mind for days now, and blurts it out before he has the common sense to change his mind. "Missed you when I was back home."

There's a soft little huff of breath, and he doesn't have to see Ian's face to know that his flatmate is smiling. 

"It was nice, when you called," he murmurs. "It was weird being alone here."

"Yeah, well…" Mickey starts, and then pauses, struggling to get his head on straight as warmth prickles up his arms. He looks at Ian again and finds that he's still smiling, just less amused and more sincere now. Any words Mickey had come up with die on his tongue, and he turns back to the movie before he says what's on his mind without thinking again. That thought makes his cheeks burn furiously, because there isn't anything else on his mind. He isn't thinking about the warmth of Ian's neck when he touched it and he isn't picturing Ian as the lead in a cheesy 2000s romcom. He isn't thinking about anything like that at all. He isn't. 

"Alright," Ian breathes, pulling his legs up so he can sit cross-legged. His bare knee rests against Mickey's thigh, and even though his heart is still hammering away in his chest, Mickey makes no move to pull away. He sinks into the sofa and Ian seems to do the same, still facing Mickey instead of the TV screen. "I can help you with your paper tomorrow."

"Don't worry about it, carrot top, I'll figure it out," he mumbles. When Ian doesn't reply, he chances a quick glance at him and sees that his eyes are closed and his lips parted, chest rising and falling slow and steady. Mickey breathes a soft sigh of relief. 

Gingerly, he reaches out and rests his fingertips against Ian's kneecap, a shaky sigh escaping him. He traces a small circle against his skin but isn't brave enough to trace anything else. He goes back to watching the TV, where the movie has paused for an ad break. He falls asleep before he can find out what happens at the end of the movie.

[breannasfluff]

When they start off in the late morning, Twilight slides in next to Wild and grabs his arm. The champion twitches, still unused to others reaching out even if he’s grown more comfortable. Still, he lets the rancher pause them until they’re in the back of the group.

Sky gives them a curious look as he passes, but Twilight just smiles and waves him on. Then he waits a little longer until the group is ahead of them enough to be seen, but not overhear a low conversation.

Wild is looking from him to the group and back again. ‘Something wrong?’ he signs.

“No, I just wanted to be able to talk in private.”

Immediately, the cub tenses.

“It’s not about last night,” Twilight rushes. “I—” How to phrase this? He’s supposed to be the emotionally mature one who’s good at handling these types of things. Still, Twilight finds himself shutting his teeth on the words. Maybe this is why no one likes sharing secrets.

Still, he’s got to do this the right way. He catches the champion’s eye as they start walking again. “I appreciate the trust you gave me, sharing about your past. I’d like to tell you a little of mine but…I want to know how you’re doing first.”

Wild stops and stares until Twilight nudges him to keep moving. “Me? I’m fine? What’s that matter?”

This kid. “Look, it’s not nice to just dump things on people when they aren’t prepared.”

“Like I did?” The blood is rapidly draining away from his face and he’s taut as a bow.

“No! By Din’s Fire, that’s not what I meant.” Twilight can’t help but throw up his hands, trying to withhold his frustration. “I’m trying to make sure you are okay emotionally before I tell you something that could be upsetting. It’s not…your burden to bear my past. I’d like to share, but only when you’re ready.”

“That’s—nice.” The cub is making the most peculiar face at him. “Very…mature.”

Twilight sticks his tongue out at him, which loosens the tension into a laugh. “Okay, yeah. I’m fine.” Then Wild darts a shy glance at the other hero. “I’d like to learn more about you.”

He can’t help but smile back before the low-grade anxiety makes itself known again. “You’ve heard about Midna, right?”

“She was your travel companion, right?”

“Yes.” Twilight lets his eyes scan the surroundings, making sure they don’t fall too far back from the group. “Midna was my travel companion. She helped me on my journey—a lot. I couldn’t have made it through without her. Did you know she used to ride on my back when I was Wolfie?”

This brings a frown. “Wait, how big was she?”

“Smaller than Four. She was in the form of…an imp, sort of. There was this curse and, well, it’s a complicated story. But during our journey, she was travel-sized.” He grins to himself at the description; Midna would hate it.

“Midna was my travel companion and she was my friend. But…she was more than that. We spent a lot of time together. She’s sassier than Wind and she had a fiery temper that matched her hair. Sometimes she’d insult me, but she also showed she cared. Midna…” he trails off because he doesn’t know how to put it all into words.

She grew on him—like mold on a log, he told her once. Her small hands fisting in his fur was a familiar sensation. Teleporting in squares of black only to reappear with her slight weight pressing over his shoulders.

“Did you love her?” Wild’s voice is very soft next to him.

Twilight scrubs at his eyes when they burn. “I do.”

Read the rest here!