#not glitter. splinters of metal

[itsabouttimex2]

Can we get an eclipse King's continuation does y/n wake up?

Eclipse Kings

Part Two: Barbed Dusk

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: You Are Here) (Part Three: Wild Dawn)

(Extra One)

(You are a ragged little thing, unfit for luxury or lavishness. “Thankfully”, Macaque sees to curating your hygiene.)

They are covered in scars.

The Six-Eared Macaque; golden eyes dimmed in frustration and impatience, is now bereft of his crown. It had borne him a striking silhouette, each wicked spike on the circlet fashioned from gold.

You could not have known it yourself, and the shadowy king would never admit it to one whom he deigned a necessary pest as most, but… he had commissioned it only a week after losing his beloved Xiaotian.

With tear-stained cheeks and gouges torn into his fur from constant scraping, the simian had wobbled down from the mountain and into the nearest smithy, then threw down a glittering heap of golden coins. His only request had been; spoken brokenly, for “something that would hurt”.

The blacksmith had been hesitant at first. The request was unusual—not for the opulence offered, for he had forged again and again petty trinkets to sooth a lord’s ego. No, it was the pain. The simian’s trembling voice and sunken eyes spoke of a sorrow too vast to comprehend, but the blacksmith had seen enough grief bite down any questions. Instead, he had worked through the night, the rhythm of hammer on gold ringing out in the silence, a somber requiem for the monkey’s fresh loss.

So the blacksmith had fashioned him a twisted crown from that heap of treasure, taking what little was left as payment after beating the metal into a branching circlet that splintered out into harsh thorns, then plated it with rhodium to darken and reinforce the malleable gold underneath.

“It’ll hurt,” the man had reminded him, touching the crown only with his thickest gloves.

The look in Macaque’s eyes had told him enough- “I want it to,” spoken through his hollow eyes and gaunt frame and torn fur, but left unsaid on trembling lips.

And Macaque had taken it with his bare hands, punishing his treacherous fingers for “allowing” his son to slip through them.

He had not allowed his agony to end there.

The sharp tips bit into his scalp, drawing thin rivulets of crimson that trailed through inky fur, leaving raw furrows through its heartless embrace. He hadn’t winced or cried or paused, instead pressing it down further and further, lips curling into a grimace that might have once been a smile, his heart brittle and sharp like fractured glass.

It would hurt, but never as much as losing his son.

An unassailable grief, incapable of transmutation into vengeance or betterment.

Until you.

Until you had wandered into their stately pagoda, wandering through the lavish halls and snatching their food, leaving the trail of an all too familiar scent in your wake.

Until you had ran from them in fright as so many had years ago, twisting through woods just as jagged and thorned as the crown that Macaque had finally pried from his forehead, smashed and discarded at the empty grave they had fashioned for their found son.

You had led them back to him.

That thought alone keeps Macaque’s hands gentle as he lathers a thick sponge with fragrant soap, wetting it and rolling the squashy corpse* against your forearms.

His mate, holding his own sponge, tends to your legs with a manic smile- it hasn’t dropped even after a full night of sloppy celebration and utter destruction. Every last little memorial and shrine they had created now lay in pieces around the pagoda, only sparing what little the prince himself would have use for- the clothes and toys they had left on these altars as gifts that would have been now resided in the boy’s room-

“It’s Y/N’s room, too,” the little one had insisted, forcing them to make arrangements appropriate for both a demon toddler and a mortal… whatever age you were. Folding screens and an extra mat.. but nothing else. Not from malice, though- they simply hadn’t quite learned what else to put in “your” room.

There was no need to separate what was his from what was yours- you simply didn’t have anything at all. Every little luxury you had accumulated in that muddy rattrap was all for your brother.

The boy’s bed, piled high with plush animals and soft quilts, had been eagerly pushed closer to yours, left with “only” a few pillows and a single blanket as he excitedly prepared to sleep in warmth and safety for the first time in years.

(Only was not a word you knew. There was no “only” in the life of one who owned nothing.)

“You had enough of a nap on the way here,” Sun Wukong sighs. “So stay awake a little longer. We can’t let you go to bed filthy or injured.”

You want to protest. To scream and cry and plead for them to take their hands off of you, to let you return to that familiar; if squalid, hovel, to let you- and your brother- go back to the only home either of you had ever known.

But words die on your chapped lips, too exhausted to be parted for begging.

You just lay there in the tub, head held aloft by one of Wukong’s muscled hands, completely incapable of moving or protesting. You just… sit there, and accept the reluctant doting.

MK (“Qi Xiaotian”), the kings and all their soldiers and maids say. You don’t think there’ll ever be a moment that you’re used to that. ) sits next to the tub with worry in his little black eyes, trying his hardest to focus on the book he was gifted by his fathers- hand-drawn pictures of him decorate each page, detailing his growth from baby to toddler. Supposedly it would “stir his memory”, but the effort seemed futile- he had simply been too young to remember anything before you.

Neither of you were truly “home” in this pagoda, no matter how they tried to push you into believing that.

MK would adjust, definitely. He would come to enjoy plush toys and doting maids and loving fathers, ample food and warm water. He could grow to love silk pillowcases and wool blankets. He could grow to love warm halls and loving fathers.

He hadn’t lived like you had. No, MK had spent his time safely inside that wretched dump, playing with whatever toys you could scrounge for him, chasing little bugs and cooing at the occasional rabbit or squirrel that came in for shelter.

This was going to be harder for you.

The warmth of the water feels unfamiliar, outright alien in its softness . You are too used to icy streams that prick at your skin, the dry rasp of dirt and grime. Here, the milky water cradles you like a cloud.

Help.

You are being helped .

And you know what that means. Help comes at a cost. A leering smile from a vendor who would try and tail you through the woods. A begrudging shove of stale bread into your hands after a trade. Mumbled curses about a “pest” under the breath of a housewife giving you a chunk of too-ripe fruit.

What price will this cost?

The thought churns uneasily in your gut as Sun Wukong tilts your head upward, his golden eyes studying your face. They gleam like the sun, but there is no warmth for you.

(Not yet.)

They’re calculating, cataloging each bruise, each scrape. Every pale white line scarred deep and unremovable. The truth of agony is plain on your skin, a map of suffering written in purples, blues, and scabbed reds.

It does not miss him that his son is, in turn, totally unblemished.

Admiration without love. Gratitude without familiarity. Respect without want.

You have done him a greater favor than any other being could provide- you are owed praise and repayment, that much the vaunted kings know.

You are deliverance from grief and agony and a haunting eternity of wondering “what could I have done to save him?”.

But you are not his child.

The golden king’s hands are steady as he finishes rinsing the soap from your hair, the last traces of filth swirling down into the bathwater, which drains into a little bamboo pipe leading outside.

One of them, you don’t care to see which, wraps a towel around you. It smells faintly of mint and ginseng- things the rich put in their soaps and lotions.

The silence stretches, broken only by the soft lapping of water and the occasional creak of the tub as one of them shifts. You think you should feel safer in this moment, surrounded by warmth and covered neck to ankle, but the unease still roils in your stomach, a highly coiled spring just waiting to snap.

The unease is not lost on MK, who cuts through it like hot butter.

Y/N!” He cheerily calls, catching your attention. You turn your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. He’s holding the book up for you to see, a wide, gap-toothed grin plastered across his face. “Look! This is me! When I was a baby!”

The drawing he points to looks almost too real, imperceptible from reality aside from the lightly yellowed edges. An infant demon with wide, curious eyes, bundled in blankets, his tail peeking from the swaddle You glance at the page, then back to MK, who looks at you expectantly.

You don’t know what he wants you to say.

You don’t even want to speak.

But you manage a “It’s cute,” voice cracking from disuse. It’s the first thing you’ve said since they brought you here, and it feels strange. “ Very cute, kiddo.”

The silence grows tenser for your words, winding further through the room and forcing it into unease. And, like before, MK keeps going in spite of it.

“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t wear something warm,” MK fussed, tugging on the towel with one little paw. “You need to put some clothes on! And you need something to drink!”

“Your Baba can get them something to wear,” Wukong coos, tapping one clawed finger against his son’s rosy snout. “The maids sewed up some nice clothes for the two of you.”

“Moonlight, if you’ll get the paste, I’ll run and grab what they made.”

Macaque nods and releases you to sit alone on the floor, turning to scrounge through his lavish cabinets, each one stocked with a costly product that you couldn’t put a name to, paired to a price that would make your eyes water if you heard it spoke aloud.

You sit motionless on the tiles, towel wrapped tightly around your bruised shoulders. The plush fabric is too heavy, too soft. It’s not comforting—it’s suffocating. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run , but… to where? To what ? There’s no dirty stream to lose your scent in, no puddle of mud to smear yourself with for camouflage. There is no place left but here .

As you think on escapes, Macaque’s shadow coils- like a wispy vein of smoke- along the floor, and for a moment, you swear it’s alive, flickering toward you like a snake.

But you blink and then it is still, unshifting and steady.

You don’t imagine things often. You can’t bring yourself to think that this was one of those rare circumstances.

…he’s even more dangerous than you had believed, and with that dawning revelation a little spark of hope is squashed in your chest.

The sable king turns to you with two glads jars, both smelling of fresh herbs even through their seals. One he sets on the wooden rim of the bathtub, and the other he brings to you- the contents glow from within, faintly white and luminescent, as though moonlight itself had been processed and bottled.

“This is going to sting,” the king warns, dipping his claws into the glittering paste to scrape out a generous, gelatinous lump. “But it’ll keep you from getting infections.”

Everything hurts, and you are tired. So, so very tired that your eyes smear the colors of the world all around, incapable of perceiving fine details. All the embroidery of Macaque’s kingly robe, purple and black and silver, blend into a dark blob as he approaches, as he kneels, peels away the top of the robe, and begins to smear the paste across your upper body.

The searing sting is immediate , sharp enough to make you gasp, breath catching in your throat. It feels like fire crawling across your skin, burning out the grime and decay that had wormed under your flesh. It hurts, worse than icy waters soaking your feet in winter, worse than all the hounds that bit at your heels as you leapt fences, worse than all the beatings you had taken when your thieving was thwarted.

Throughout all your life, only one thing has brought worse pains- hunger. But even that feels like a distant memory now, boiled away by the sensation of prickling, running through your skin in a steady march.

Macaque pulls away with a little huff, shrugging his shoulders as you twitch and writhe in place.

“Be grateful. That stuff costs an eye and a half.”

It’s strikingly casual for a demon of his status, speaking almost like a…

Maybe he had spoken like this to MK once.

Maybe he was settling back into it, with his son back, and simply didn’t think to harshen his tone with you, given his preoccupation with unscrewing the second jar.

“This is something we’ve been trying to spread in that mortal village of yours- a paste blend to scrub teeth with. Mint, ginseng, and some rock salt…”

“…why, um. Why is it… why just for mortals and not demons, too?”

“Yaoguai grow their teeth back once they’re damaged- doesn’t matter if they rot out or get snapped. A new one grows in after the old. Mortals need to take care of what they’ve got. So one of our, ugh “Sworn Brothers”- with a real soft spot for squishy little mortals - worked to make this stuff with another of our “brothers”. He even gave us a crate for our own citizens.”

“…he seems nice,” you remark, thinking on the existence such a benevolent immortal. “I hear most demons just eat mortals.”

“Most yaoguai do,” he snaps, eye twitching at the term you used. “And those yaoguai have tried to break into our village before, and my mate has always protected all of you, even before I came in and married him. Now we protect all of you from yaoguai together.”

(…if he weren’t twice your size and equipped with claws and fanged canines, you might’ve seen fit to call him something mean.)

“Now, open your mouth.”

“…excuse me?”

“It’s an herbal paste. For your mouth. You wet it with clean water and scrub it over your teeth- it scrapes out filth, and there’s not much else you brought with you into our pagoda.”

“Hmm, almost like I didn’t bring shit because-“

Snapping through the air like a whip, he interjects with a snarled- “Language .”

Macaque’s eyes are narrow, golden irises flickering with a dangerous edge that makes your stomach churn. He leans closer, looming over you, and you’re suddenly reminded - and quite vividly- of the disparity in your sizes, in your positions. His shadow shifts, darker, heavier, wrapping around your silhouette in a way that feels utterly suffocating .

Your mouth clamps shut instinctively, a primal reaction to the unspoken threat. A dozen instincts claw at you: run, fight, scream—but there’s nowhere to run, no fight you can win, nothing. So, you simply sit there, jaw tight, avoiding his gaze, your whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm.

The shadow king exhales sharply through his nose and leans back, his oppressive presence retreating as he composes himself. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, though still sharp enough to make you flinch.

“You’ve had it rough,” he says, somewhat reluctantly. “I get it. But you’re under our roof now. Which means you obey our rules. Watch your tongue, brat.”

Submission is a bitter taste you’ve rarely sampled- rare is it that you lie down and grudgingly accept a losing lot. But there is no choice now- he is stronger, faster, smarter. You have lost without even making a move.

“You haven’t been here a day, and you’re already biting a hand that hasn’t had time to feed you.”

“I didn’t ask to be here”, is what you want to say, to scream about the unfairness of being ripped away from a home that you were at least familiar with… but you’ve been cowed, and thus, simply open your mouth.

Reluctantly, you open your mouth.

“Good,” he says, his tone softer now, though still carrying that edge of command. He dips a soft-bristled tool you hadn’t noticed before into the herbal paste and scrapes up a small amount, before lightly dipping it into a small jar of water, then maneuvers that unfamiliar tool into your mouth with some small measure of gentleness.

The first bristles touch your teeth, and the sensation is strange. Foreign. Not painful, exactly, but intrusive. You flinch, more out of instinct than anything else, and Macaque pauses, his eyes narrowing just slightly.

“It won’t hurt. Or taste bad. Azure made sure none of this would be unpleasant for a mortal.”

You try to nod, though it’s awkward with the tool in your mouth. Macaque takes it as a cue to continue, brushing your teeth with a deliberate circular rhythm. long. But, true to his word, the paste doesn’t sting or leave an acrid aftertaste- instead, it’s cool and herbal, with a faint sweetness from the mint. The bristles tickle more than anything, and after a moment, your teeth start to feel… bare.

Stripped of grit and mud. Of moldy leftovers and bits of sand.

The grime that’s been built up after years of poor living is stripped like bark is peeled from a tree, in that all that is left under the coating is a smooth, soft white. The sensation is uncomfortable in its newness, leaving your mouth feeling raw and exposed. Your tongue darts along the surface of your teeth, licking again and again at the lack of filth.

“There,” Macaque huffs, pulling back as he dips the brush into a bowl of water to rinse it clean. “Clean enough that you don’t have an excuse for getting sick.”

You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze. You don’t feel like thanking him. Not after everything.

Instead, you glance toward MK, who’s still engrossed in his book. He’s watching you through the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of signal. You don’t know what he expects from you—a smile? A reassurance?

It seems like you’re as much a stranger to him as he is to you, despite your efforts to keep him safe all these years.

A demon prince hailing from the kings of Flower Fruit Mountain, heir to the throne.

To you, he had only ever been a sweet little brother.

Did you realty know him at all?

The thought alone is too much.

The warmth of the bath, the suffocatingly tight towel, the newness of your teeth, the watchful eyes of a being so much stronger than you. It’s all too much. You sit down and draw your knees up to your chest, clutching the towel tightly, a silent plea for space that you will not receive.

The tension in the air again grows palpable, but before it can thicken further, the golden king reappears, his arrival announced by the clink of glittering beads against tile. Sun Wukong strides in with a bundle of neatly folded clothes in hand, his gaze flicking between you and Macaque.

“I can take over from here, moonlight.”

[mimimarvelingmarvel]

time bound part one

pairing: worst wolverine!logan howlett x f!mutant!reader

Part One - Masterlist

summary: Y/n’s life takes a dramatic turn when the Time Variance Authority intervenes, pulling her from a critical moment in her timeline. The TVA sends her to the void where she eventually meets with Deadpool and a very familiar face. With Deadpool's universe in the balance, alongside his reluctant would-be pal, Wolverine, and the enigmatic time-bending mutant known as the Veil, the trio must complete the mission and save Deadpool’s world from an existential threat.

overall warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader, AFAB Reader, Use of Y/N, Her X-Men name is Veil, She/her pronouns, Swearing, Angst, Heavy Violence, Character Death, Deadpool (he’s his own warning), Hurt, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, TVA

word count: 1.3k

The mansion is a war zone. Screams and gunfire echo through the halls, mingling with the sickening stench of burning flesh and molten metal. Blood splatters the walls, once lined with family photos and cherished memories, now smeared with the desperate last stands of my friends. My heart hammers in my chest, a relentless drumbeat urging me forward as I sprint down the corridors I once knew like the back of my hand. Now, they feel like the intestines of some dying beast, twisting and turning as it thrashes in its final moments.

I skid to a stop outside Logan’s quarters, nearly slipping on a pool of blood. The heavy oak door is reduced to splinters, gunshots carved deep into the wood. Logan isn’t there. Damn it. Where the hell could he be?

Of course, he’s been in one of his foul moods all week, growling at anyone who dared get too close. Typical Logan, retreating to the nearest bar when things get too heavy. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I rake my brain, trying to picture him—his location. There has to be something, some clue that could lead me to him before it’s too late. The X-Men are losing. They’re being slaughtered, and the only chance we have lies in Logan’s bloodied hands.

I force myself to see it, a twisted sort of daydream: Logan tearing through our enemies, me getting to him just in time. My thoughts race faster, my vision blurring with desperation. It’s not enough. He could be anywhere in this town, and my friends—my family—are dying.

“Kurt!” I scream, the name ripping from my throat, a raw, desperate plea. “Kurt, where the hell are you?!”

I stumble into Kurt’s room, eyes wide, hoping for a flash of blue, the familiar scent of brimstone. Nothing. The room is a wreck—furniture overturned, shards of glass glittering like ice in the moonlight, blood smeared across the floor in haphazard patterns. How much of it is Kurt’s? How much of it is anyone’s?

A cold dread grips my insides, gnawing at my heart. I can’t lose them. Not like this. Not now.

“Kurt!” I call out again, the name choking in my throat as I stumble forward, deeper into the room. My eyes scan the wreckage frantically, desperate to catch even a fleeting glimpse of him.

Suddenly, the world around me shifts. Time fractures, and I’m flooded with chaotic visions, flickering images of what could be, what might have been, and what is. It’s my curse—my gift. Chrono-Perception. I see Kurt laughing, his smile wide and genuine. Then, in another vision, he’s gasping for breath, his eyes wide with fear as a blade plunges into his side. The echoes of possible futures assault my senses, each one more horrific than the last.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the noise in my mind to settle, to focus. But when I open them, the reality of the present hits me harder than any of the potential futures. Just beyond the overturned bed, a familiar blue hand sticks out from beneath a collapsed bookshelf.

My breath catches in my throat, and I rush over, time seeming to slow around me, each step dragging as if the universe itself is dreading what I’m about to find. When I reach him, my heart sinks.

Kurt’s body is twisted at an unnatural angle, his once vibrant blue fur now matted with blood. His gentle, kind eyes are wide open, staring into the void. I reach out with trembling hands to close them, my fingers brushing against his cold skin. The sensation of his lifeless body under my touch sends a shiver down my spine. He wasn’t supposed to die like this. Not here. Not now.

A flash of another potential future assaults my mind—Kurt, alive and well, teleporting behind me with that infectious grin, teasing me like he always did. But it’s just an echo, a cruel reminder of what could never be.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I gently close his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

I know I don’t have much time. The echoes of the future still buzz in my head, warning me of the impending danger. But it isn’t just my perception of time that sets me apart. My Time-Linked Vitality means my body ages slowly, each year passing like a drop in a vast ocean. It makes me resilient, gives me strength, but it also means I’m cursed to watch as the people I love die around me, one by one.

The pain of losing Kurt, of seeing him like this, is almost too much to bear. But I can’t let it consume me. Not now. Not when there are others still fighting, still clinging to life.

With one last look at Kurt’s lifeless form, I force myself to my feet. I wipe the blood from my hands on my tattered pants, my resolve hardening with every breath. The mansion is still under attack, and my friends—my family—need me.

I turn to bolt to the next room when a strange shift in the air makes me freeze—a ripple, like reality itself hiccupped. This isn’t my doing.

I spin around, but before I can even process what’s happening, a door materializes out of thin air. It hovers there, glowing with a light that feels wrong, like it belongs to a place that doesn’t give a damn about things like hope or mercy. My heart lurches, adrenaline spiking as I instinctively reach for my powers. But they fizzle out, sputtering like a dying flame.

The door swings open, and a figure steps out. Cloaked in shadow, they bear the insignia of the Time Variance Authority on their chest, a symbol of cold, unyielding authority.

“Y/N,” the figure speaks, voice smooth as polished steel. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“What?” The word comes out more as a snarl, anger sparking to life within me. I have no time for this. “What the hell are you talking about? I need to stop them—my friends—”

“—Are meant to die,” the figure interrupts, their tone as final as a tombstone. “This timeline is not yours to change.”

The words hit me like a blow to the gut, driving the breath from my lungs. “What?”

Another figure appears beside the first, blocking my path. “It’s not your decision,” the second figure says, calm and detached. “You’re disrupting the timeline, and for that, you must be removed.”

“Removed?” I echo, my voice quivering with fury now. Cold dread coils around my chest, squeezing tight. “You can’t just—”

The first figure raises a hand, and my world goes dark. My muscles lock, frozen in place as a swirling portal opens beneath my feet. Panic surges, but it’s too late. The world dissolves into a whirlpool of shadows and chaos, the cold hands of the TVA agents the last thing I see before I’m dragged into the abyss.

The Void is worse than death. As I fall, time twists and warps around me, past, present, and future bleeding together in a nauseating blur. Memories crash over me in waves—Logan’s gruff voice, the X-Men’s laughter, the mansion bathed in warm sunlight. It all slips through my fingers, distant echoes swallowed by the darkness.

I hit the ground hard, the impact like a sledgehammer to my spine. Pain explodes in my ribs, but I grit my teeth and force myself up. The world around me is a desolate wasteland, an endless expanse of lost possibilities and forgotten timelines. Cold, lifeless, devoid of anything remotely human.

I stagger to my feet, my body aching, the emptiness of the Void pressing in on me from all sides. It’s suffocating, the silence so loud it’s maddening. I am alone—truly, terrifyingly alone.

My chest aches as I push through the underbrush, my hand pressed firmly against my side where the pain throbs persistently. I can’t see my future here—my control over time-slipping is erratic, even on a good day. The uncertainty only makes the situation worse. Each step through the dense forest feels like I’m wading through thick, invisible mud, the oppressive silence wrapping around me like a heavy shroud. My breath comes in ragged gasps, the crushing weight of despair threatening to overwhelm me.

A flicker of movement catches my eye, a brief flash of light piercing the gloom. My heart skips a beat as a figure materializes from the swirling smoke, gradually solidifying. I squint at the fiery glow surrounding him, a stark contrast to the dark, oppressive forest. Fear grips me, and I instinctively reach for my powers, but nothing happens. I’m powerless, feeling utterly useless.

“Hey there!” The figure calls out, his voice carrying a mix of amusement and curiosity. “You look like you’ve seen better days. Want a hand, or are you planning on moping around all by yourself?”

I blink, trying to process his presence amidst the chaos. “Who are you?”

He grins, flames dancing around his fingers. “Johnny Storm. You know, the Human Torch.” His casual tone does little to soothe my fear, and I take a step back, distrust etched on my face. “You look like you could use some company. So, what’s your story? Lost and hopeless, or just taking a scenic tour of the void?”

I scowl, irritation mingling with confusion. “I’m not in the mood for jokes. I’m having a really bad day—dragged into a cosmic wasteland and all.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement still lingering in his expression. “Ah, a bad day. I’ve had a few of those myself. So, what’s got you all twisted up?”

I swallow hard, my mind replaying the horrifying scenes from moments before—Kurt’s lifeless body, the screams of my friends and family. “I was trying to save my friends when these… guys in suits showed up and sent me here. Why are you here, anyway? Cosmic firefighter?”

“More like a cosmic firestarter,” Johnny retorts with a wink, his flames flaring playfully. “Anyone the TVA deems as trash ends up here—the lost and abandoned. Now, how about we get you out of this mess? The Borderlands is a decent place to catch a break.”

I narrow my eyes, skepticism etched on my face. “Borderlands? Sounds like a place where people go to get even more lost.”

Johnny smirks, his flames casting flickering shadows on his face. “Well, it’s got its charm. Plus, we’ve got a few folks there who might be able to help you out. But if you’re expecting a five-star resort, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

“I’m not picky,” I reply with a hint of weariness.

Johnny’s grin widens, but there’s a hard edge to it now. “Oh, and just so you know, there’s a delightful lady named Cassandra who’s been making a little shit storm. To put it mildly, she’s a real cunt.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve encountered a few of those in my time.”

Johnny’s expression darkens further. “She’s a real menace. And then there’s Alioth, a cosmic entity that thrives on chaos. Think of it as a hungry monster that devours everything in its path.”

“That sounds… cheerful,” I deadpan. “What do you do here, anyway? Fight monsters and avoid psychopaths?”

Johnny chuckles, the sound a welcome break from the heavy silence. “Pretty much. But don’t worry. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve, and from what I can see, you can handle yourself just fine.”

I look him over, nodding grimly, quick to expect my fate.

Next Part

A/N: Will maybe consider making a taglist! But lmk what you think!

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ dabi + dermal piercings (& you sucking on them!)

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, blood + licking up blood, hair pulling, toxic relationship (possessiveness, touya’s a lil mean) words: 1.1k

notes: the biggest thanks to @t-tomuras who birthed the idea of dabi having dermal piercings (outfitted with pretty sapphire studs) with meee ♡

They haven’t healed—not fully, anyway—but that doesn’t really matter. 

He can hardly feel half of them regardless. 

Still, they’re breathtaking. 

Dewdrops of sapphire adorn his torso, glittering in the gauzy moonlight with each of his gentle inhales. Eight in total—four strung across his collarbones in pairs of two, four framed by sharp, jutting hipbones. 

They’re a dainty contrast to the gaudy gold sutured across his flesh, old and worn, stained with ash and fire and blood. They look almost natural in a sense, as if his body had sprouted the jewels itself, grown from his tissues.

“So pretty,” you murmur to yourself, a delicate index finger tracing over the jutting gems embellishing his collarbone—slow, appreciative, gaze shimmering with awe in the dim light. 

Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, your pupils pulse, gaping and gluttonous, trying to consume the sight—suck him in, swallow him down, stash him away behind bone and blood for safekeeping. 

The dermal piercings are nearly as pretty as he is, sprawled out beneath you, fluffy tufts of ivory messy and splayed on the dark sheets outfitting his mattress. They almost rival his eyes, the blue almost as deep, the glimmer almost as beautiful.

A tongue darts out to lave along his bottom lip, scar tissue licked raw by it’s incessant caress, the point playing with one of the hooked staples at the corner of his mouth. Rough hands flex on your hips, coarse and callused, his glassy gaze framed by heavy lids as he stares up at you, unblinking. 

Your own gaze sweeps between the piercings and his face, unable to focus on one for more than a few seconds at a time, enraptured by the beauty that is Touya, spread out on display below you.

Another gentle skim of your fingertip over the twinkling little bumps, so light it’s hardly a touch at all, a fragile shiver rippling through his flesh. Pressing down, you watch as your nail sinks into puffy velvet skin, still slightly swollen from the needle, a soft hiss of air expelled through gritted teeth—wispy, not sharp, his hips twitching up infinitesimally.

It’s nothing more than a dull pressure, nerves fried to hell, singed and faulty and dead beneath dense scar tissue, but it makes his cock throb anyway, half-hard and filling with life, pelvis rolling up once, grinding into your core.

A syrupy little giggle drips from your lips, head ducking down to plant chaste kisses to the four gems lining his protruding collarbones before your tongue unfurls to smooth over them in one slow, continuous drag, flat and broad, sealing the dermal piercings with a thick coat of spit. 

His chest stutters, intake of breath tangling on the whine that splinters in his throat, spine arching off the mattress to urge the piercings further into the heat of your mouth. 

Your lips curl into a smirk against his skin, cheeks hollowing as you suck on the metal, hot and soaked under your mouth, the point circling them; first lazily, then with more force. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, curse tapering into a whimper. “The other ones, now.” 

Sliding down his legs, your body settles between his thighs, his knees spreading wider to accommodate you, ankles hooking at the small of your back and locking you in place, heels weighing down on the base of your spine. 

Damp breath wafts over his hip piercings in a gentle caress, chased by the tip of your tongue, tracing the edges of each jewel, refusing to lick over them. 

A growl rumbles in his chest—dark, decadent—and slim fingers knot in the hair at the back of your head, knuckles curling tightly and yanking, sharp bones pressed flush to your scalp.

“Don’t tease.” 

Another giggle escapes your lips, airy against his slick skin, but your tongue obeys instantly, gliding over the jewels in slow, heavy laps, smothering them in saliva. A sharp gasp catches in his throat, fading into a stringy moan when your tongue tenses into something hard, brushing across the studs in firm, rhythmic motions—back and forth, back and forth. 

The piercings on his hips are considerably more sensitive than the ones threaded along his collarbone, the skin healthy and alive and so, so responsive, your humid breath adoring his stomach with dewdrops of condensation.

His grip on your strands has loosened, breathy pleasure melting on his tongue, hips shifting under you, hard cock prodding your ribs. 

The salt of his sweat stings your tastebuds, strong and pungent, but you don’t stop licking until every last ounce of it has been washed away, cleansed by your spit and soaked up by your tongue.

But even after that, you’re still ravenous.

Your lips encase the tiny studs in a pucker and suck greedily, the capillaries tangled beneath his skin snapping under the force. Blood floods the surrounding tissues, seeping through the small pinpricks, jewels swimming in sticky crimson.

You sop that up, too, copious amounts of drool mixing with scarlet and turning the viscous substance a watery pink, painted in wide, messy strokes across his gut. Tart copper saturates your mouth, eager tongue weighing down on the weeping punctures, desperate for more. 

Blotchy violet blooms below your mouth, so dark they rival his scars, your name etched into his flesh using his own ichor as ink. The vigour of your suction increases, siphoning another torrent of warm metal to ooze from the wounds, a needy moan vibrating against his skin. 

It’s so good, his hips rutting into your ribs in pitiful, uneven little motions, but he’s starting to chafe beneath your blotting tongue, little fissures splitting smooth flesh thanks to your ceaseless lapping. Reluctantly, you pull away, laboured breath drifting across the piercings, still trickling lines of carmine. 

A masterpiece. Yours. 

“Goddamn,” Touya’s panting, a slight flush to his cheeks, clumps of hair clinging to his temples. “I should get these piercings across my entire body if it means you’re gonna slobber all over ‘em like this.”

He doesn’t need to—he knows he doesn’t need to, knows you’ll worship his body without the pretty little gems budding from the surface of his skin—but you giggle anyway, pressing a kiss to his left hip, blood staining petaled lips. 

“I dunno,” you hum in mock thought, a delicate finger tracing along the staples curving over his belly button, tiptoeing across gold. “Don’t you think you have enough?” 

His head lifts from the pillow slightly, staring down at his own torso, sapphire scanning across the gold sutured into his flesh, stitching healthy skin to something dead and warped. 

“I suppose,” he sighs out with a practiced indifference, head flopping back down, a languid smile crawling onto his face. 

His eyes dart down again, heady and shaded by thick fanned lashes, flares of mischief catching in the rising moon. 

“You’d better get to work, then.” 

Starting with the metal barbells climbing the underside of his cock. 

[storiesbyrhi]

Part Three: I used to think that was true about everything

Eddie Munson x Reader Series Masterlist 2923 Words

If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.

Warnings: canon typical violence, references to sexual assault, swearing, drug and alcohol use, sexual references, child neglect, death/grief, references to organised crime

Night, October 29, 1995

Eddie sat at your vanity. The ceiling of the apartment leaked, rendering anything left behind rotted and ruined; it didn’t stop him looking for pieces of you. He avoided his reflection’s gaze, instead looked at the tragedy mask hooked over the mirror.

He couldn’t remember where it had come from, only that you would try to sneak up on each other, screaming BOO! with the mask on. Eventually, you’d grown so accustomed to the thing that its miserable face didn’t make either of you feel much.

Eddie clenched his jaw.

He remembered crawling across you on the couch in the mask. You’d laughed and kissed him through it.

He remembered curling up in your arms in bed. You’d say, “I love you,” and he’d make you say it again and again. You hugged him so hard his ribs hurt.

He remembered you standing in front of the stove, a pot on fire, and you failing to put it out. Eddie had come jumping through the room, throwing a towel over it. He’d looked at you and you’d just grinned. “Restaurant,” he’d said on a breath out, pulling you into him.

He remembered standing across the room from you, you noticing him and asking what was wrong. “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanna look at you,” he told you with a grin.

Eddie looked away from the mask. He pulled open the top drawer of the vanity. Waterlogged journals and entirely drowned photos. He could make out the shape of you in them and it made him ache. Beneath those, a bridal catalogue.

The night he proposed. The way you said yes like you’d been waiting your whole life to answer.

Your wedding dress. White and fluffy and not as Robert Smith chic as he’d expected. So, so beautiful nonetheless.

He remembered reciting creepy nursery rhymes in creepier voices at you, “Down with the lambs, up with the lark. Run to bed children, before it gets dark.” He’d chase you around the apartment while you screamed in delight.

All the time spent silently working on your own things. Eddie would write music or plan his next D&D campaign while you worked on puzzles, complaining whenever there was a piece missing.

He remembered fights with cans of whipped cream. Shared showers to wash it out.

Belts unbuckled and beds unmade. 

Eddie slammed the drawer shut, the mirror shattering with the force. He looked up at his splintered reflection. The tragedy mask a haunting echo of his own face. If that is what life wanted for him, he’d give it one hell of a show.

It wasn’t the first time Eddie had painted his face. Though grunge was taking over most of the bars he grew up in, Eddie was a metalhead through and through. The black and white was stark, unnerving, and unhinged.

He found dry clothes in the wardrobe, behind a couple rows of motheaten band shirts and your favourite outfits. Nothing smelt like you anymore. He couldn’t feel you in any of it.

Eddie walked to the window, the empty space framed by glittering glass and snapped wood. He looked out onto the city. The fires had started a day before Devil’s Night even began.

The knife thrower, Eddie thought. Andy. He’d be first. A show of strength to begin the campaign.

“Here’s to Devil’s Night… My favourite holiday,” Neil Hargrove said.

The men shot down cheap liquor and dared each other to swallow a bullet. They took turns, letting the metal sit on their tongues, then gulped it down like it was a miracle drug that would turn them into something more than men.

Other people in The Pit watched, half impressed with the commitment to show, half terrified of what they’d do next. Brenner’s men were untouchable live wires, prone to fits of rage and acts of cruelty. They were just as likely to pull their guns on each other as they were to erupt into their signature unison chanting.

Susan Mayfield shook as she walked over to the table, steadying herself not to spill a drop of their drinks. It didn’t matter that she shared a bed with Neil. They all scared her.

Eventually, when they got sick of each other’s faces, they stumbled out the bar and into the night. Their crimes would not end, but their individual brands of sickness necessitated time alone.

Andy had loaded his pockets with stolen shit throughout the day. He walked to the pawn store three blocks down from the bar.

Gideon, who had a good thing going with Brenner and therefore wasn’t afraid of his men, snorted at Andy. “What’s this? This got blood on it, Tin Tin?” He offered a couple hundred. “Take it or leave it.”

Begrudgingly, Andy took it, mouthing off and slamming doors as he left.

Outside on the street, the crow watched.

Through the bird’s eyes, Eddie followed Andy. He ran across rooftops, faster than humanly possible. The spaces between buildings collapsed for him. If all those assholes from high school gym class could see him now.

In an alleyway lighting a cigarette stood Andy.

Eddie tumbled from the rooftop, landing with a manic kind of laughter that said abandon all hope. He stalked towards Andy.

Andy watched Eddie’s figure come from the darkness. “What the fuck you painted up for?” he sneered. “Halloween ain’t till Tuesday.”

Eddie kept coming towards him, and Andy buzzed with excitement. Violence! He opened his jacket, pulling out a knife. Eddie lunged and the men fought. It was easy for Eddie. He didn’t lose his breath. When he took a punch, he recovered immediately. Andy, a mere mortal man, grew incensed.

“I’ll kill you!” he roared, slashing his blade through the air.

It was a one-sided fight that began to end when Andy dropped his knife. Eddie grabbed him, yelling, “Murderer!”

Andy snorted. “What?! I didn’t murder nobody, man. I don’t even fucking know you. What d’you want?!”

“I want you to tell me a story,” Eddie replied, voice low and gravelly. “A man and a woman in a loft, a year ago. I’m sure you’ll remember. You killed them,”

“Yeah, yeah. Some dude. Some bitch. Whatever.”

He’d remembered so quickly, so easily. Like it meant nothing. Eddie threw another punch, Andy’s head bouncing off the brick wall behind him.

“Her name was…” But Eddie couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say your name out loud. “You cut her. You raped her,”

“Yeah? Sure, yeah. You know what? She loved it!”

Eddie froze, the callousness catching him off guard. Andy took the opportunity and headbutted him. Andy stood, grabbed at whatever he could, hand finding a metal pipe in the trash piled up in the alleyway. He started to beat Eddie with it.

“Murder?! Let me tell you about murder, man. It’s easy! It’s fun! You’re gonna learn aaaaaallll about it!” He pulled two knives from somewhere within his coat. “I’d like you to meet some buddies of mine… And we… We never miss.”

The crow shuffled, waiting from its position on a fire escape.

Andy threw the first knife; Eddie was already up, easily ducking it. He came marching forward. Andy threw another. Eddie blocked, grinning at Andy.

“Try harder. Try again!” he mocked.

Andy screamed, throwing a third knife – his last. Eddie clapped his palms around the blade, catching it midair. He redirected it back, piercing Andy’s shoulder.

Eddie walked to him casually, reaching into Andy’s jacket to find more weapons. “So, Andy. Which is it? Murderer or victim?” Andy was trapped. “We’re not all murderers, you know. But, victims?” he posed. “Aren’t we all?”

The crow took flight as Andy’s eyes closed.

Neil pushed his way through the dancing teens. He didn’t understand why Brenner bothered with this place. Why he let bands like that – what is it? metal? grunge? who fucking knows – play at the club. “What is the fuckin’ world coming to,” he muttered to himself. “Get the fuck out my way!”

He jogged up the back staircase, arriving on the second floor mezzanine. Grange, Brenner’s right hand man, stood stoic and vigilant.

“Hey, did you hear? Arcade Games fell down. It went BOOM! How ‘bout that,” Neil boasted.

“Gather your soldiers. You’re on for tomorrow night,”

“Is the man in?”

“He’s taking a meeting,” Grange replied.

Hopper watched as Andy’s body was lugged into a coroner’s van. He had six knives sticking out of his chest.

“So, who’s this sack of shit?” Callahan asked.

“That’s Tin Tin. One of T-Bird’s little helpers. I think you can rule out accidental death,”

“Don’t any of your street demons have real grown up names?”

“Could be a turf hit… but it doesn’t look like your usual gang crap,” Hopper thought out loud.

“And… what do you call that?”

Hopper and Callahan looked over to the closest building, its bricks graffitied in blood, the outline of a bird clear.

Gideon was counting the cash intake; the days before Devil’s Night were always good for business. Something caught his eye and he looked up, a silhouette of a man at the door.

“Piss off! We’re closed!” Gideon called.

The crow cawed. Eddie knocked on the security gate with three even bang, bang, bangs.

“Go sleep it off somewhere else, dust head! Unless you wanna get mutilated!”  

Eddie ripped back the security gate and walked to the door. Gideon froze when he saw the painted tragedy mask through the glass. Eddie politely knock, knock, knocked.

Before he could do anything, Eddie was smashing his way in, looming over Gideon as the crow swooped, landing on the pawn shop’s counter. Gideon screeched in fright.

“Suddenly I heard a tapping, as if someone gently rapping – rapping at my chamber door,” Eddie recited.

“What-what the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“You heard me rapping, right?” Eddie asked, cocking his head to the side.

“You’re trespassing! You owe me a new door!”

Eddie smiled. “I’m looking for something… An engagement ring,”

“You’re looking for a coroner, shit-for-brains,” Gideon said, pulling a gun and levelling it straight at Eddie. He unclicked the safety, aimed, and shot.

Eddie stumbled back a few steps but didn’t fall. They both watched as the blood quickly rolled back into Eddie’s chest, the wound healing in seconds. Gideon felt his stomach drop and he scrambled, swearing and terrified. Eddie grinned, picking Gideon up and throwing him well behind the counter.

Eddie jumped from the floor to the counter, counter to one of the racks on the ceiling holding pawned guitars and other stolen items. He hung upside down in front of Gideon.

“Mr. Gideon, I do not like your tone. And you’re not paying attention!”

Eddie grabbed Gideon, pulling him back to the counter. He dropped from the ceiling rack and broke the glass countertop, pulling a switchblade out and piercing Gideon’s hand, earning a breathtaking scream from the man.

“A gold engagement ring. It was pawned here a year ago by a customer of yours named Andy,”

“I don’t know a-”

“Tin Tin… He confided in me before he ran out of breath.”

Eddie began to pull boxes off the shelves, going through everything in search of your engagement ring.

Gideon tried to free himself from where he was nailed to the counter.  “What are you doing?!” he cried, unable to pull the blade out.

“Am I getting warmer?!” Eddie yelled back. “I like games, Mr. Gideon. Don’t you know this one?! Am. I. Getting. Warmer?”

“Okay! Okay! I’ll tell you! The rings! They’re in a metal box under the shelf there!”

Eddie moved, finding the box. The world faded away as he sat cross legged on the pawn shop floor, holding the box yet apprehensive to open it, as if it belonged to Pandora herself.

Gideon continued to yell from the front of the shop. “Take them! Take them all! Chew on them! Choke on them! I don’t fucking care!”

Tentatively, Eddie opened the box and flicked through the jewellery. He closed his eyes and pulled ring after ring, feeling nothing. Then, it hit. The emotion washed over him.

You had been out with Max, a shopping trip to buy more grip tape and blank cassettes. When you unlocked the door and entered the apartment, Eddie jumped up from the couch.

“Hi…?” you greeted, suspicious of his mood.

He grinned.

“What did you do?” you asked. You looked around. Gabriel was sleeping peacefully under the coffee table. Nothing looked broken. There were no magic beans bought in place of real food.

“Why do you always ask that?” Eddie laughed, letting you put your bags down before pulling you into him.

“Because you’re you. And you have that weird little smile on your face.”

Eddie laughed again. “I have a surprise for you,”

“Good surprise or bad surprise?”

“Good. Always good for you, my love.”

He was definitely acting strange, but you went with it. “Okay…”

“It’s up in the attic,”

“If this is like the time you-”

“No! I promise! No tricks. It’s good. I promise. It’s good.”

Eddie’s big brown eyes were sincere, so you let him pull the ladder down and direct you up it. Slowly, you climbed, heart beating out of your chest.

You felt the warmth before your eyes settled on all the candles. The entire small space was filled with tealight and cathedral candles. Eddie tried to gauge your reaction from below.

There was something close by, your attention directed to it by a lack of candles between you and it. A small, dark box. A ring box.

You reached out for it. Inside was a golden ring, beautiful and ethereal. Like something the elves from Eddie’s favourite book would wear. Your breath caught in your throat and you took one step down the ladder to look at him.

Eddie said your name. Your eyes welled up with tears.

“I love you. I love you so much,” he started.

Gideon watched as Eddie poured gasoline across the shop.

“You have one chance at living,” Eddie told him as he picked up a shotgun and aimed it at Gideon.

“Take anything you want! Take anything!”

“Thank you,” Eddie replied too gracefully. “Now, you’re gonna tell me where to find the rest of Tin Tin’s little party pals,”

“The Pit! They all hang out at The Pit! All of T-Bird’s little potato heads hang out there! Funboy lives in a room above it!”

Eddie nodded, almost placated. He used the butt of the gun to smash at the remaining in-tact counters. He pulled a tray of rings out from the cabinet and began throwing them at Gideon.

“Each of these? It’s a life… A life you helped destroy.” One after the other, Eddie threw the rings.

Gideon begged for his life.

“I’m not gonna kill you… Your job will be to tell the rest of them that it’s time to roll for initiative… Tell them Eddie Munson sends his regards.”

Eddie poured the remainder of the rings down the barrel of the shotgun, pulled a guitar off the wall, and began to walk out of the shop.

“You walk outta here and they’re gonna erase your sorry ass! You hear me? You’re nothing but street grease!”

“Is that gasoline I smell?” Eddie quipped, looking back over his shoulder with a wicked grin.

Gideon froze again.

The crow followed Eddie onto the street. There were maybe five seconds for Gideon to free himself and run, then the ring-loaded shot set the shop ablaze.

Eddie watched for only a moment before he heard the cop car pull up behind him. He turned and watched Hopper get out, pulling his pistol.

“Police! Don’t move!”

Eddie took a step.

“I said don’t move!”

“I thought the police always said freeze,” Eddie wondered.

“Well, I am the police, and I say don’t move, Snow White. You move, you’re dead.”

Eddie shrugged and slung the guitar over his body. “And I say, I’m dead and I move.” He held his hands up but continued to walk towards Hopper.

“Not one more step. I’m serious.” Hopper removed the safety.

“Then shoot, if you will, Detective Hopper,” Eddie said, bowing before the cop.

“What are you, nuts? Walking into a gun? You high?”

“Not right now. You don’t remember me?”

“What are you talking about?” An eerie feeling was settling over Hopper.

Eddie said your name then. “What about her? Do you remember her?”

Hopper hesitated. “She’s, uh, dead, my friend… I want you to move over to the curb there. Real nice and easy… We’re gonna wait for backup… This is… It’s all getting too friggin’ weird for me.”

Eddie nodded, slowly moved over to the sidewalk and took a seat in the gutter. He looked up at Hopper. “Do you know someone named Hargove? He had a friend who shouldn’t have played with knives…” Eddie motioned to himself, to the coat he was wearing. “Like it?”

Hopper recognised it. Realised it hadn’t been with the body. “You’re… You’re the guy that killed Tin Tin?”

“He was already dead… He died a year ago, the moment he touched her. They’re all dead. They just don’t know it yet.”

With his pistol still on Eddie, Hopper glanced over at Gideon’s shop. Looters had already appeared, taking whatever they could carry. “Get away from there!” he yelled, his sights leaving Eddie a second too long.

When Hopper looked back, Eddie was gone.

“What the… Guy shows up looking like a mime from hell and you lose him out in the open?” Hopper scolded himself.

End Note: Thank you for the support thus far. I love all you little bleeding heart goths. xo Rhi

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[babylon-wails]

⍫⍫⍫ BABYLON WAILS -- Prologue ⍫⍫⍫

Rats In A Cage Part 1: Crucifixion & Rebirth

The air was pregnant with the stench of blood and rot. Somewhere, far off in a city drowned by its own sins, a bell tolled for the dying. But here, in the heart of Babylon’s splintered shadow, there was only the hammer and the nails.

Each crash of iron against flesh screamed louder than any of the jeering crowd. Blood burst from the split skin of her hands, running rivulets down the grain of the wood. The Queen had demanded her silence, but my mother, Magdalene the Witch, had no use for silence. She wielded her suffering like a blade, weaponizing every second she remained unbroken.

I wasn’t there that day. How could I have been? I was only hours old, an infant cradled in the arms of flight and fear. But the memory burns so bright, so jagged, it has carved itself into me. Lucida, my adoptive mother, always said memory was a kind of infection—some toxin that burrowed deep, reshaping you from the inside out. Maybe she was right. Maybe my mind is a fevered wound that never healed.

Still, I see it. The hammer, heavy and cold as justice, splitting the air like a gunshot. The Queen—Asha, First of Her Blood, Monarch of Babylon—loomed over her, bathed in sunlight like some false god. “The sins of the mother,” she’d declared, her voice sharp and cruel as glass, “will be crucified for all to see. Her treason, her heresy—her existence—dies today.”

Magdalene’s head jerked back as the first nail plunged into her flesh, the agony spasming through her body. But she didn’t scream. She wouldn’t scream. Her teeth gnashed, her jaw locked tight enough to crack. The veins in her neck stood out like war banners, trembling with effort. Her defiance was a hymn, each drop of her blood a verse sung for the damned.

And Asha stood there, drinking it in. The Queen didn’t flinch as blood spattered her boots, didn’t blink as Magdalene’s arms sagged, crucified before the unholy cross. Babylon cheered, a symphony of baying wolves. But Magdalene—my mother—stared at her executioner with eyes hollowed by rage and despair. I could almost hear her thoughts, see the words twisting on her blood-slick tongue: You will die choking on the ruin you’ve built.

The memories come unbidden, like shadows writhing in the periphery. I wasn’t there, and yet I was. I hear the second hammer strike, feel the splintering wood bite against her skin, taste the metallic tang of blood in the air. I wasn’t there, but it doesn’t matter. The memory lives in me, carved into the sinew of my soul like a scar I never earned.

Magdalene’s gaze fell skyward as her breath rattled, her body trembling with the weight of the inevitable. Even as her arms went limp, her chest heaving in shallow gasps, she never surrendered to the screams clawing at her throat. Not one goddamned word. She died like a star imploding—a cataclysm in the heavens that takes the light with it.

Queen Asha stood triumphant, her scepter glittering with false promise. The crowd roared its approval. But I know the truth. I know my mother wasn’t beaten. She may have fallen that day, but she didn’t break.

Because she never screamed.

⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫⍫

The room reeked of burnt flesh and bleach, a cruel cocktail that clung to Mystery’s nose even as her senses began to flicker. Pain came in waves, a cruel tide pulling her under, dragging her to the edge of oblivion and back again. The whip struck again, carving fiery lines into her back, each crack ricocheting through her nerves until all she could do was scream.

She hated herself for it. Her mother never screamed. Not once. Magdalene had faced the hammer and the nails, the jeering crowd, the Queen’s cruelty, and still, she had defied them with her silence. But Mystery? She wasn’t her mother. Not yet.

The fire roared to her left, its blistering heat licking at her exposed skin. The water to her right cascaded over her body in relentless torrents, sharp as glass and cold as death. They called it "purification," but Mystery knew better. There was no cleansing here—only breaking. Only shaping.

Her body spasmed again, muscles seizing in a futile attempt to resist the endless cycle of torment. Her vision narrowed, blackened, tunneled. The edges of the room dissolved into formless shadows, and the faces of her tormentors blurred into specters. She was losing her grip on reality, her mind retreating to some dark recess where the pain might not find her.

Then he appeared.

A man loomed in her fading vision, crouching close, his pale face framed by the sterile white of a lab coat. His gloved hands hovered over her wounds, precise and impersonal, like a butcher inspecting meat. His mouth moved, forming words she couldn’t hear over the rush of blood in her ears and the crackling of fire.

Her vision tunneled, the edges of the room blurring into nothingness. The faces of her tormentors dissolved into formless shadows, their voices a cacophony of jeers and orders she could no longer decipher. Pain consumed everything, swallowing her whole. Then a new figure emerged from the dark—a man.

He moved with purpose, his steps deliberate and unhurried. The sterile white of his lab coat seemed out of place against the grime of the room, but the way he carried himself—aloof, detached, and maddeningly calm—made it clear he belonged here.

Mystery’s head lolled to the side as her vision flickered. His face came into view, blurred but unmistakably sharp. He crouched beside her, gloved hands hovering over her wounds, and spoke in a low, measured tone.

“You’re holding up better than most,” he said, his voice clinical yet threaded with an almost lazy curiosity. He tilted his head, as if studying her like a specimen under glass. “Though I suppose that’s not saying much, is it?”

His words were muffled, her blood-filled ears drowning out most of the sound, but she caught enough. Better than most. Not saying much. 

Her lips parted, the words scraping against her raw throat. “Who…”

He didn’t answer, at least not directly. Instead, he leaned closer, his sharp eyes scanning her wounds with detached precision. “I’ve seen worse,” he muttered, half to himself. “Much worse. And yet…” He paused, as if considering something that only made sense in his own head, before adding with a faint, sardonic smile, “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

His gloved fingers pressed lightly against a burn on her arm, sending a jolt of agony through her already broken nerves. Mystery jerked, a strangled cry escaping her lips. He didn’t flinch. 

“Pain’s a good sign,” he continued, his tone almost conversational, as though they weren’t in a room of fire and torment. “It means you’re still alive. And if you’re alive, you’re useful.”

Useful. Not human. Not a person. Just a tool. Her teeth ground together as anger flared somewhere deep within her, burning hotter than the fire around her.

“No…” 

The word escaped her lips in a broken whisper, her head lolling against the cold surface. Her vision swam, the edges of the man’s face darkening. Still, something in her fought through every burning ache running through the sinews of her muscle, like venom to the heart. Her trembling hand reached out, catching his wrist, nails digging deep. A golden gleam burned beneath her melted flesh, giving the man pause. For but a moment, her gaze met his, eyes full of defiance.

 “You won’t…”

The man's expression remained frozen, unreadable, though the way her torturers' eyes snapped wide, paired with a single instinctive, flinching step back, painted a picture worth more than a thousand words. The doctor let out a hum and then, as though amused by her defiance, he chuckled—a low, humorless sound that felt more like a knife against her skin.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “But don’t worry. I’m not here to break you. Not entirely, at least.”

The last thing she saw before the darkness claimed her was his hand reaching for a syringe, the needle glinting under the flickering fluorescent light. 

“You’ll understand,” he murmured, his voice the last tether to reality. 

“Trust me.”

-⍫⍫⍫-NEXT-⍫⍫⍫-

[elainarcheronslawyer]

Surprise it’s Santa! Happy solstice my darling, I’ve written you a wee elirel fic ( maths isn’t my strong point so who knows how many words) set before Elain was turned fae. Now as promised here is your cheeky little mood board:

I hope you enjoy the fic and I’ll miss sending you anonymous messages. Lots of love Santa x

without further ado

To speak in flowers

It’s split into 2 parts and Azriel doesn’t turn up yet. He will on the 21st through I promise.

The wind was howling through the stone walls of Grayson’s keep, the cruel kind that cuts straight through you instead of going around. Elain shivered as she walked pulling her fur lined shawl tighter around her shoulders. The shadows nestled under the window and curling along the floor appeared to trail after her as she walked. Neat, small steps clipping their way along the stone floor. Her mother had taught her that. Neat, precise steps for a lady- Elain had never been particularly concerned with the way she walked but she was grateful for her mother’s lessons now. Grateful for learning how to sit and walk and speak in a manner befitting a lady of her standing. Without those lessons she would find it much harder to gather the information she needed. If people stopped seeing her beauty before her careful watching eyes, if they stopped hearing her musical giggle before noticing her quick, clever fingers pocketing anything that could be of use, then she would have been caught a long time ago.

Better to be ignored than dead. Azriel had taught her that. The large rodent her sister had brought round for tea, before demanding assistance in the upcoming conflict had terrified her at first, still at least he (unlike his brothers) possessed table manners. The shadows still trailed after her, flitting around her feet. She paused, spun on her heels so that she faced them and removed her shawl, using it to swat them back out the open window.

“Such magic is to easily spotted here,” she whispered after them. Still Elain couldn’t help but feel a little lonely without them as she continued her walk.

The letter tucked discreetly into her bodice practically burned through her skin. She could feel the ink from the perfect, curling letters searing through her so that the guilt was practically branded onto her very soul : liar, traitor, thief. Still those tittles were better than the alternative, death. If she was unable to pass information over the wall via Azriel then the human lands would have fallen weeks ago.

The oak door at the end of the corridor was marred with iron. Comforting but useless. She glanced pitifully at the dark metal and slipped through the door into the banquet hall.

The arched ceiling held up by hand painted wooden beams was all that remained of the original hall. The rest, cold grey stone and splintering beige wood had been added by Grayson’s father when he inherited the estate some 50 years prior. Elain’s eyes darted quickly around the room, in between the 12 dozen or so servants preparing for tonight’s festivities, to rest on the singular crackling harth that provided both warmth and light to the great hall.

She began to walk towards it, sensible heels clacking as she did. Unfortunately it was just as she approached the fire that she was spotted by one of the round faced servants

“miss Archeron!” The voice was warm but a quick glance at its owner was enough to tell Elain all she needed. The attendant was middle aged, probably with children and definitely a spy. Their eyes glittered with a subconscious cunning that raised the hairs on Elain’s back. One wrong move would not only cost her own life, but also the lives of all Pythian. Without the vital intelligence on the human queens she was supplying, Azriel’s spies would be blind and the threat of invasion would become a very real possibility.

Elain smiled sweetly and bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. Apparently this was enough for the attendant as they returned her almost sickening smile; the dark slash of their mouth twisting into something closer to a wince than a smile. Nonetheless Elain had to move quickly.

Reaching deep into the folds of her skirt she retrieved the fine dark powder of crushed poppy seeds and blew them straight into the attendant’s face. The effect was almost instant, and Elain threw up a prayer to long forgotten gods when after a brief coughing fit the attendant crumpled into her out stretched arms like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

One surprised gasp, gentle smile and set of kind words later, Elain was finally leaving Grayson’s keep and on her way home. The apologies and well wishes for the attendant hadn’t been forced. She did genuinely feel bad about drugging them. But if the contents of the letter rang true then there were far more important things to feel guilty over.

🩶🩶🩶

Elain’s walk through her own manor was equally as quick. A glance at the great aunt clock in the foyer told her time was very much of the essence. The weather had already started to turn cold and she’d have to hurry if she wanted to beat the snow.

Her greenhouse was blooming with life regardless of the cold, for which Elain was grateful. She made quick work of gathering the flowers she needed: monkshood, red verbena, Pennyroyal and the chiffon tulips of the continent. She wrapped them in brown paper and tied it with straw - another message. The contents of the letter was too precious to risk it falling into the wrong hands so Elain burnt it. Besides had been trading secrets in her bouquets since long before Feyre had left. Been taken. Run away.

A brief stop in the kitchen had her filling a basket with fresh bread, jams and the wooden crockery she had nabbed from their former home. Cottage. Shack. It didn’t matter now. The Illyrian’s on guard duty had once again failed to introduce themselves. A mistake Elain intended to rectify before she left again.

The snow was falling thick and fast. If she didn’t do this quick there was a chance what little courage she had left would leave and she’d be late. So, she gathered what was left of it, placed her basket on the ground - the flowers bobbing as she did- drew her fur lined shawl tighter about her shoulders and did what any reasonable woman would do.

Elain screamed.

A blast of wind behind her followed quickly by a soft crunch in the snow, told her it had worked. She spun on her heel and come face to - well, chest - with four fully grown Illyrian warriors. The one in front raised a singular bushy eyebrow. Elain smiled sweetly and introduced herself.

“My name is Elain Archeron and you’ve been sitting on my roof for the better half of a day and well it’s really snowing and you haven’t left for at least 12 hours so you must be starving and no one should be-” what was she doing? “starving so I had the kitchen prepare something,” the man- male grabbed the basket from her hand and glanced over it briefly.

“Jam and bread?” He asked incredulously, “Winter hits hard below the wall, it is all we can spare,” Elain could feel her voice shaking and not just from the cold. The four Illyrians nodded and took flight without so much as a nod of gratitude. Still, Elain found people more willing to cooperate after kindness, she hoped the same logic could be applied to fae.

Tucking the bouquet under her arm, Elain set off (properly this time) into what was quickly becoming quite the snow storm.

I’m sorry to split it into separate parts and that Azriel hasn’t yet appeared. I promise he does in the next bit. I got a bit carried away editing and accidentally (on purpose) wrote a sort of prologue.

XOXO Santa

@possumsandprose @acotargiftexchange

[bodhranwriting]

The City of Dunbar

By Bodhrán M.

Imagine a rising city encased in glass.

The sunlight bent and broken

And filtered through a cage of clarity.

A climber can take three routes

Up, and higher, into this nest of

Locks and keys and silver chains.

First the dreamer –

The artist, actor, dramaturge –

Rises on the wings of change.

Amidst the glitter and the colour

Of histories and fantasies of life,

Making keys of multihued and

Satin, starry skies.

Then the traveller –

The merchant, trader, artisan –

Floats up on a fountain of coin.

Silks and spices, metals and mores,

Bringing the outside world inside,

The keys glimmering and huge,

Earth-rich artifacts.

And finally, the wolves –

The smugglers, thieves, killers –

Circumnavigate the gates and

Claw their way with bloodied fingers

Up through the sewers and grates,

Keys fashioned from splintered bones,

A life for life.

And so the city tumbles

And turns with relentless grace.

Top-heavy from climbing folk,

Spinning the slums to the skies,

And, perhaps, in time the city turns

And shatters the glass cage.

[softshuji]

𝟐𝟑:𝟏𝟕𝐏𝐌 | 𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀

Title: Maybe I love you

Summary: Izana finds that he comes to you every night, but it doesn't mean he wouldn't kill anyone who knew that though. Link to main masterlist here!

cw: fem! reader, semi-suggestive, possessiveness, brief kissing, nightmares, izana and reader are a bit dense, reader calls him sir, pet names (good girl) mentions of sex (nothing explicit) praise, marking. Reblogs appreciated!

Izana doesn’t know if he has the capacity to appreciate beautiful things, he doesn’t know if he knows how, at least not in any way that doesn’t involve destroying them. The stars for example, bright and cold and so close he can skim them with his lithe fingers as he sleeps beneath a moonlit night, the velvet blanket of dark dotted by a sheen of glitter and he thinks he can feel the chill of the more distant ones as the breeze blows in through the open window.

The netting flutters, catches on the exposed wood, the single strip of the torn windowpane, a not-so-subtle reminder of his earlier outburst and he wants to ruin it again, wants to rip away the memory and feel the blood on his knuckles, the callouses torn open, flesh peeling back to remind him of something, to feel something.

His gaze drops from the moon, pearly, opalescent and milky white in the sky, to the upturned guitar on the chair, strings pulled loose, curled with the force by which he’d smashed it against the ground in his grief, loose splinters of varnished wood now beige against the dark carpet. And he thinks this when the regret sets in, an unfamiliar feeling for him, because he is Izana Kurokawa and he has not gotten this far by constantly looking back. Has he?

But it feels foreign to some extent. The lash of pain in his chest, the tightening of his ribs, the sting in his throat, in his eyes when he remembers how he’d slammed it against the ground and all the anger had seemed so trivial when he heard the string snap, a chord that burned at somewhere he thinks a heart might be. 

Just like all those things he has lost to something or another, some divine providence that keeps taking from him. He glares at it, as if the splinters of wood and varnish are themselves responsible, as if they can sate his anger, assuage his rage against the world.

You’re in the room next door, and you hear the soft pad of his feet hitting the carpet, the shuffle of sheets and a clunk or two as he picks up the two broken halves of the guitar, of his heart. He frowns, now that the clarity has descended and the moon has shifted behind the clouds and tries to piece it together, joining them back, something lurching inside when they crash against his cut palms again, all varnished wood and strings loose with force.

It’s a shame that his hands are only for breaking, isn't it?

He has an ear trained on your room, and in truth he isn’t sure what drives him to drop the guitar onto the unmade bed, sheets twisted, the imprint that remembers him as clearly as you always do. 

The hallway light flickers on, pale yellow spilling through the slice at the bottom of your door. It always happens like this. He comes to you as midnight approaches and you reach for him and he latches onto you till morning pours over the sky and then he pulls away again and again and the cold indifference slams down on you, a metal sheet of steel and frost.

And you let him. Every night, your arms open, skin warm, him practically folding into you, his mouth warm against your neck, teeth grazing the juncture of your shoulder. 

It’s predictable. Izana Kurokawa finds himself in your bed every night.

He knocks. ‘Y/N.’ A command as usual, the edge of his voice a little higher, a little more desperate, the inflection of a question, of a plea all the same, because despite himself, he’s determined to keep up the act and pretend like he’s just using you to warm himself.

‘Come in, it’s open,’ you say, muffled by the sheets, your hair spilling ink across the pillows, your back to the door and watching the light seep across the carpet as he shuffles in.

He looks smaller like that, dwarfed by the light, pyjama pants rolled up to the knees, the messy hair framing his face and haggard eyes that still reflect the moonlight falling in eaves across the painted wall. 

You turn over, your cheek pressed to the soft Egyptian cotton, fatigued eyes squinting against his shadow. 

There is a second of recognition, understanding even, as his gaze drops to you huddled under soft throws and a heavy duvet in his shirt that just about reaches your thighs. It sends the blood rushing in waves to his head seeing you like that. In the bed he owns, the shirt he wears that kisses your skin in all the right places, with the hallway light glinting off the mahogany headboard. 

You look at him, dishevelled and beautiful, cold and distant. He is spring frost clinging to Winter’s chill, to what he knows, and you are the late spring blossom that thaws the mildew in the morning.

‘Izana?’ Your vision hazy, dotted with the black spots of exhaustion, but forthcoming all the same, the softness of your eyes, your upturned mouth a balm for his anxiety. 

‘Y/N.’ He says your name like a command, like a request. You like the way it sounds from him, the power that curls along it, as if you are more than you are, as if he can make you more. His prized possession to mould and touch, the fire that warms him. 

You open out your arms, still on your side and he all but crawls into your embrace, slotting himself against you, his breath warm against your neck. You shuffle forward, your arms around the small of his back and pull, not all together gently, till his pelvis bumps against yours. Your thigh lifts against his, weighs him down and your hands come up to tug at the hair at the base of his neck and all the while, he is softly sighing, dry and slightly dehydrated lips grazing the column of your throat and all of it elicits a slight shiver from you, needy and tenuous all at once. 

‘You okay?’ You start, your voice low and undulated by the whistle of the breeze through the draught, the silence that’s almost weightless and heavy, thick with tension.

‘I’m fine.’ His chest against yours, cheek laying flat against the dip under your collarbones. A lie, because he’s used to it, because he has a facade to keep up and he’ll be damned if he allows himself to look weak, even in front of you. Especially in front of you.

‘I heard you. Couldn’t sleep?’ If he hears you swallow against the tide in your throat, he makes no mention of it. 

‘I was… having trouble.’

‘Me too. Are you going to stay?’ And maybe you crave him as much as he does you, maybe it is nice to be needed, to be owned in such a way by someone like him, who could easily break you if he chose, who moulds you to wrap yourself around him, buries himself in you till there is him, and only him. 

He blinks, pulls you closer, tighter, his hands resting against the dip in your hips, the familiar ache of you tightening in his stomach when your breath fans his ear.  

‘I’ll stay,’ he says, as if you had thought he’d say any different, as if he has not made a pattern of silently begging for warmth. ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’

You sigh, your tongue darting out to lick at chapped lips. ‘Nightmares, as usual. Thinking about things.’ It is a silent understanding, the weight of a shared and perhaps understood experience. Is that not what it means to be human?

‘Mhm.’ His voice is rough, the low cadence of it is a rumble in his chest, a thrum against yours.  He nestles further into your touch, his lips meeting the plane of your chest and your heart jumps under his breath. ‘What was the nightmare about?’ 

‘You’re sure you want to know? They’re all the same.’

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance as his lips press a soft and hesitant kiss against the slope of your collarbone. He pretends, but he is not half as good a liar as he assumes he is. Or maybe it is that this corrugated wall of concrete and metal and roughness is chipped away when he is alone with you.

‘I dreamt about you, about you dying.’ And it happens so often that the sharp and jagged edges of that paralysing fear have wilted away and left only numbness there, despite the fact that you know that nightmare could come any day now, a day where maybe you search for him as he lies in the snow. 

He pauses, his breath tickling your clavicle. ‘I see.’ And he sighs and tucks an arm around your back, a kiss here and there and always so chaste, as if he is holding back. ‘It was just a dream, not real.’

Perhaps that’s why this works, why you come back, why you let him shape you. A shared fear, a need for each other, the push and pull of a puppeteer and a puppet on a string. Maybe for once, letting go isn’t so hard, letting yourself be moulded by his rough hands seems almost blissful when his breath tingles at the hollow of your throat.

Today is worth a little more though. Today the tension in his bones is rigid, sharp and you can tell by the way his grip tightens on your hips, keeps you pulled flush against him, that the incident is still weighing heavily on his mind. 

You test the words out on your tongue, search the spiderwebs for courage. ‘Don't worry about the guitar,’ you say and a hand winds into his hair lightly scratching at his scalp.

‘I'm not.’ A lie, he knows that. You do too. It’s easy to see in the violet of his eyes, flecked through with iridescent lavender, the white lashes that kiss the apple of his cheeks, soft and cold as frost. 

‘We can always get it fixed, I'll fix it for you tomorrow.’ You’ve no idea how, the technicalities of it all, the weight of its significance but it hardly matters. Your delicate touch, the unflinching embrace and willingness to run towards him is enough.

‘Why?’

The answer is obvious. ‘Because it means a lot to you, because I want to hear you play, remember?’ You’re smiling, he can sense as much by the curve of your mouth against the soft shell of his ear, the slow and easy exhale of breath that lifts his platinum hair. It had been a flippant request made in a more vulnerable moment, when he had been craving your touch, and you were happy to be wanted by him after spending so long vying for his approval. You had it, you just didn’t know you had it.

‘I don't remember promising that.’ With more mirth this time, a soft sigh that has the tension easing from his bones, seeping through his skin and into yours. 

‘So? No take backs. Consider it a gift for fixing it.’

He almost smiles. And maybe you can’t fix what’s been lost, but you can do this, you can give him yourself to pour his frustration into.You love him, you’ve never said it, never thought it, too scared to approach the sleeping lion, as if by giving it that space you will have brought to life. You wonder if he can love you back in any way that does not hurt so much, if perhaps he can love something that does not end with it broken and lying dead at his feet. You know he can, but you wonder if he knows it.

‘I see. In that case I should reward you.’ 

‘With what? It’s not that big of a deal.’

‘Are you disagreeing with me y/n?’ An eyebrow lifts and his grip on the small of your back tightens in warning, a thrum of energy pulsing underneath the cool of his touch against your warm skin. His hand moves to the back of your neck, squeezing lightly, his thumb and forefinger amping up the pressure before softly skimming over the skin with a featherlight touch.

‘No sir,’ you say, your breath now caught in the confines of your drying throat, your lips sliding along the curve of his smooth neck and tugging on the fine frost of his hair between your fingers. 

‘Good girl.’ His thumb presses on the hollow of your throat and the sigh that escapes your parted lips is instinctual when your forehead drops to the juncture of his shoulder, the praise rolling over your skin in a wave. He tips your head, uses a thumb to tilt it to face him, drinking in your fluttering eyes, the sleep that’s only a moment away, the dilated pupils in which he sees his own reflection exactly how he prefers it. He likes it like this, to be the only one who sees you in this way, who gets to pull the breath from your lungs when his hand tightens around your throat, the power of your life so readily given to him by your own eager hands.

‘Y/N,’ he says, a domineering command, the delicious power of it curling to the base of your spine as his free hand traces the bones under his shirt. 

Your eyes flit to his, wide with both lust and adoration, your neck tingling from his telltale bite marks, the grazing of his teeth along the sensitive skin.

‘Yes sir?’ A whisper. You rock your hips against him subconsciously, a thigh moving to trap him between your legs and you hate how your body betrays you in moments like this, how much you want him to give into the weakness of you, have him carving his name into your skin with the sharpness of his teeth.

His eyes darken, his lips a firm line as he watches you swallow from where his hand is clasped around your throat. It sets something off in him to see you like this, to touch you as if you were made to shape as he sees fit, the willingness of you to run into the lion’s den.

A knuckle brushes your chin, your head tilted up to face him and he waits for your lips to part instinctively before he presses his mouth to yours. 

It’s warm, feverish, desperate even, a muted sigh that he pulls from your lips as his hand strokes the hollow of your throat and when you gasp, his tongue slides along yours in tandem. It’s messy, the saliva breaking in a string when you part for air, only to slot your lips against his again and again, needy and with warmth pooling between your legs every time he bites down and pulls on your lip.

And Izana would kill anyone who knew this was happening, who knew that he came to you every night and begged for your warmth, his arms tightening around you as he whispers your name into the dark. 

You are his secret, his Doll and you know the level of power you hold to mould yourself to him like this, that you are perhaps the only person who has not flinched from his touch. 

He doesn’t know if it’s love, if it’s lust that has him marking the expanse of your chest, his name a choked and breathy whisper that he thinks sounds better to his ears than anything else could, your fingers tangled in his hair as he makes his way down, his tongue expertly gliding over the marks blooming in his wake. Maybe it should matter to you, that come morning, once he wakes up having driven you over the edge and released inside you once more, his mouth warm on your neck,  he’ll pretend as if he has not, as if he does not murmur truths into your skin every night, crawl to your bed like a starving man in the desert and let your name churn in his perfect mouth till the early hours.

It does not. You think you just love the way your name sounds from him, the way the praise comes that much easier when he is between your thighs. 

Or maybe you love him. 

a/n: I have no comments to make this time, only just to say happy birthday to my pretty king !!!!

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @mxnjiros @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @rottingreveries @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @welcome-to-the-internet-it-sucks @obitohno @sweet-seishu @burnishedcrown @saintokkotsu @nikokopuffs @sin-and-punishment @derk4iserr @mochimiyaas @bertholdts--butt @theaonlax

[wonderlanddreamer]

Shelby Sisters vs. Breakables

A modern Peaky Blinders drabble.

In the dimly lit confines of the Camden rage room, the air hummed with anticipation, punctuated only by the distant echo of shattering glass from a neighbouring chamber. Ada adjusted her protective goggles with precision, ensuring they sat snugly against her face. Her lips curled into a smirk as she turned to face Lydia. "Right, you ready for this?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of excitement and challenge.

Lydia, standing beside her, already had a firm grip on a crowbar. It was as if the tool had personally offended her, and her expression spoke volumes about the havoc she intended to unleash. With a grin that mirrored Ada's, she replied confidently, "Never been more ready."

The attendant, a young man who seemed both amused and slightly apprehensive about the chaos about to unfold, stood at the door. He gestured toward the room, a veritable playground of destruction filled with fragile glassware, outdated televisions, and what appeared to be an entire office setup, complete with a rickety desk and a decrepit filing cabinet. "Uh, just… go nuts, I guess," he said, stepping aside with a knowing nod.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, an intense energy filled the room. Ada was the first to feel the irresistible pull of destruction. She picked up a baseball bat, its weight familiar and reassuring in her hands. With a deliberate, slow swing, she aimed at a delicate porcelain vase perched precariously on a pedestal. The impact was immediate and satisfying, sending shards cascading through the air like a spray of glittering confetti. Ada exhaled deeply, a sigh of contentment escaping her lips. "Bloody hell, that felt good," she remarked, her voice tinged with a sense of release.

Lydia, meanwhile, had already set her sights on the desk. She attacked it with fervour, the crowbar descending with a powerful thud. "Why is this so therapeutic?" she mused aloud, her words punctuated by the rhythmic destruction. Each swing released pent-up frustrations, transforming them into splintered wood and mangled metal. "Tommy should book this place every time he pisses someone off."

Ada's laughter filled the room, a sound as liberating as the destruction itself. "If that were the case, he'd need his own private quarters," she quipped, her tone both amused and resigned.

Lydia moved on to an old printer, her weapon of choice swinging with precision. The impact sent the machine flying, its components scattering across the floor. "That was for last week's passive-aggressive 'I'm just saying' speech," she declared, her voice laced with satisfaction.

Not to be outdone, Ada selected a plate from a stack of mismatched crockery. With a swift motion, she hurled it against the wall, watching it shatter into countless pieces. "That one was for the time he told me I should be less intimidating in business meetings," she explained, her voice tinged with a mix of incredulity and defiance.

Lydia snorted, disbelief evident in her expression. "He said what?"

Ada, still simmering with indignation, reached for another plate. "Oh yeah," she confirmed, her grip tightening around the fragile object. "Apparently, I scare people. Which is rich coming from him."

Five minutes later, the sisters stood amidst the wreckage, breathing heavily and exhilarated. The room was a testament to their cathartic rampage, a chaotic mosaic of broken objects and scattered debris.

Ada wiped a bit of dust off her sleeve, her expression one of satisfaction. "Feel better?" she inquired, her voice warm with camaraderie.

Lydia rolled her shoulders, a broad grin spreading across her face. "Oh, much better," she replied, her tone light and playful. "We should make this a monthly thing."

Ada nodded in agreement, a sense of solidarity binding them together. "Agreed," she said, her eyes twinkling with shared mischief. "Now, do we tell Tommy about this, or just let him wonder why we're so suspiciously calm at the next family meeting?"

Lydia smirked, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. "Let him wonder."

[danosrosegarden]

💨💨💨💨🍃

…….🚶

..howdy partner..I hear you’re doing requests here..

I say that’s a mighty fine thing to do, I have a request for ye..if ya think ya can handle it partner..(I know you can I’m just playing up the cowboy thing)

How’s a bout..Fem!Reader goes to see Edward Nashton in Arkham, nothing smutty no no, we want pure sugar here cowpoke..something to make the tooth ache with how sweet it is partner.

Reader reassures Edward and they can have a tender moment of your choosing..

Alright..let’s get riding off. It was good to see ya partner. See ya

🌅

🐎

when the sun hits - edward nashton x gn!reader ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

{contains: sad fluff and mild mentions of violence.}

Arkham was a dark, empty night, void of stars, barren of any sliver of moon. It was as if you could feel the grime ground into the floor as you were led down the hallway. The frosty chill of the air in the asylum sunk deep into your marrow. It was impossibly bleak, hopelessly desolate. And you hated to imagine your Eddie in a place like this.

You couldn't help but feel a sheen of disapproval cast over the glaring eyes of the guards leading you to his cell. How could you still love a monster like him? To them, he was a rabid dog, fangs still dripping with the blood of the innocent, eyes still bloodshot with streaks of burning-hot frenzy. He was a killer. He was the man who giggled while he splintered bones, grinned gleefully as he cracked skulls. That's all they saw.

Fuck what they thought. You knew better.

Your stomach was in a billion impossibly twisted knots as the metal barricade groaned as it lifted.

And there he was. How to describe the scene.

The first thing you noticed were his eyes. Though bags pulled at the skin underneath them in a dull, weary violet, there was something deep in the pitch black pupils that glimmered like glitter underneath the whirring lights when he saw you.

Edward placed his hands on the glass, scoffing out a wonder-struck laugh.

"Hi, angel," a quivering voice spoke.

When Edward was The Riddler, he was no longer a cold, frightened child who kept his head down and spoke to nobody. He was strong. He was brave. You detected something in his voice that sounded like him before he put the mask on, something quiet and stamped-out and fearful. You felt the woosh of your heart in your ears, and your jaw ached and popped with anxiety.

"Hi, Eddie."

You stood facing each other, wading around aimlessly in a thick goo of silence. What to say. What even was there to say?

He spoke first.

"I'm so sorry."

You felt the stitches of your heart begin to rip apart. "Sorry for what?"

"For...for putting you through all this. For leaving you." His lip quivered. "I'm so, so sorry."

You cursed your body for the tears you felt welling up and burning in the corner of your eyes.

"I hate being without you." The words that poured from your lips felt mechanical, like you were a wind-up toy, marching without thinking. It came out rushed. Pathetic and whimper-laced. "I hate it so much, Eddie."

He shook his head rapidly, his breath fogging up the glass. "I'll find a way. We don't have to be apart."

A filmstrip of memories rolled in your mind of all the evenings he'd spent at your apartment. The tender mornings you'd wake up with your bodies entangled in one another. The laughing until tears were rolling down your cheeks. Your heart still struggled with his actions, but there was no denying how badly you ached for his presence.

It hurt to go to bed alone. The sheets felt stiff and bitterly cold, the blanket laying on top of you like the shell of the memory of his warmth.

"I don't care what I have to do. I'll write. I'll call. You can come visit," he said rapidly. "I can't be without you. I can't make it alone."

The future seemed gray and bleak from where you were standing. But maybe you could spot the sun peaking through the clouds. Maybe it might take effort, but it was as if you could feel the sparkling sunrays warming your skin as you peered into his eyes. Perhaps your apartment would feel less riddled with ghosts if you could still talk to him through letters and phone calls. Maybe his touch wouldn't feel a million miles away if you could still visit.

"I'm going to do whatever it takes," he swore with a low whisper.

You held you hand up to where his rested on the glass.

"You promise?"

[captain-of-silvenar]

A brain thought that grew too big, and turned into a new project.

Enjoy some Maormer fanfic!

---

Was it unlawful and cruel to go running for the shoreline after a massive storm churned up several lost and sunken ships in hopes of finding leftover treasures or supplies to enhance one's own ship?

Nylarril didn't think so, and so did a majority of the others living on Pyandonea.

For months now the sea was in a state of unrest with storms regularly falling over the island. It was the summer months when such storms were meant to happen. Scouting and raid operations were at a halt until there were calmer waters. Only those ordered by King Orgnum himself venture out and with no less than three storm mages per ship to grant them safe passage out of the misty veil.

Until then, Nylarril was home and was going scavenging. 

It was going to be awhile before he was called to action and he was hoping to find some decent tools leftover on the ships. If not, he could find some old weapons to turn over to the smith to remake them into new blades. And if it really was a worthless endeavor to search around the wreckages, he could at least find dinner.

There was no one around his area of the shoreline, at least to his knowledge. He did wake up pretty early after the storm had passed over the island. It was a blessing none of the trees had crashed down on his home and only blew leaves onto his path. A minor inconvenience, so long as he didn’t slip on any of them.

Nylarril was waist deep in the belly of a ship, cracked open like a shucked oyster. He could see the different levels and what was left of the cargo floating pitifully around him. Nothing survived their stay in the sea as plenty of them had been eaten by the fish or boring clams chewed the wood into splinters.

He did find the armory of one ship and started collecting the best looking pieces onto a floating crate for ease of carrying.

‘At least today wasn’t a total waste,’ he thought as he piled more miscellaneous pieces into the crate. ‘I can probably convince the smith to make me a new sword out of this. If any of the metal is good.’

With loot in tow, and maybe a few pieces of gold he found in some random corners, he started to wade his way back to the shore. He momentarily got lost inbetween the towering shells of the ships around him and found himself deeper into the ship graveyard. It was there that he heard a noise.

There was a persistent splashing sound somewhere inside the ship’s hull. It could be any number of things that could’ve been caught up in the wreckage. Maybe it was a bit of debris that was hanging in a weird way to keep splashing. Maybe it was a creature wrapped up in some rope trapped. Either way, it was making noise and that could mean something worthwhile to see.

With a new goal in mind Nylarril waded toward the noise. Rope around his waist to keep his floating crate nearby, it took him longer than he thought to find the source of the noise. The closer he got to the splashing the stranger it sounded. It sounded less like a piece of debris being pushed and pulled by the waves and definitely like something was caught and thrashing around.

It wasn’t long until he ducked under a fallen beam and turned the corner when he finally laid eyes on the cause of the sound.

“Mother Sea preserve me!”

Trapped, wrapped up in a tangle of netting and ropes, was a mermaid.

Serpentine in shape, trapped half in and out of the water, Nylarril could see the glittering silver of its tail splashing in the water as it thrashed around trying to get out. Its arms were pinned to their body and it twisted this way and that way to try and loosen the ropes but only serving to tighten them more. It had gotten to a point where one of the nets must’ve dug into flesh as a steady trickle of blood dripped into the water around it.

His exclamation instantly caught its attention and Nylarril was caught frozen by the eyes that gazed into his own.

Like two pieces of onyx set into a silvery face, glittering from the reflections of the water. They squinted and were accompanied by a snarled mouth lined with razor sharp teeth. This mermaid meant harm in every way possible despite being trapped.

This could be a benefit to him.

There was very little to no information about mermaids, neither here in Pyandonea or in Summerset. Were he to capture this mermaid and bring it to a Captain or even a Commodore this could be a great boon to him. On the other hand… it was also told in myths that to try and use a mermaid for selfish reasons would only bring ruin to a person's name. 

Choices, choices. 

Of which were about to be severely limited as the longer he stood there like a dumb bluegill with his mouth open the more aggravated the mermaid became. So much so that Nylarril noticed the water orbs starting to rise up and were about to skewer him.

“Wait, wait, wait!” he exclaimed while also dispelling the orbs with a wave of his hand. Without magic to keep them up, the orbs splashed harmlessly back into the sea. Much to the surprise of the mermaid it seemed by the shocked expression on their face. It stopped it’s thrashing just long enough for him to raise his hands and speak again.

“I’m not going to harm you,” he blurted out. “I can… I can cut you down… If you let me.”

Great job, offering to help the thing when not a moment ago he was thinking of passing it off to a Captain. 

But also he didn’t want to get stabbed to death with water.

Nylarril wasn’t exactly sure if it even understood Pyandonea but it wasn’t thrashing around anymore. It just kept… staring at him with those giant eyes. Blood kept trickling down some netting and dropping into the water, tainting it red. If there was ever a time to approach it was right now.

He untied himself from his crate, pushing it against a wall so it didn’t drift away. Hands up and slowly walking forward he approached the mermaid. As he approached he started to get a better look at it.

They were silvery before, but even closer up he could see the brilliance in their scales. The little bit of direct sunlight piercing past the clouds bounced off their scales in a kaleidoscope of colors. Nylarril’s knowledge of mermaids was sparse and few, but some of the readings and myths he knew mostly described mermaids as perfectly half fish and half humanoid.

This mermaid certainly was not, with the scales completely covering them from head to wherever their tail ended. They were more akin to lamia he’s seen on Tamriel, part women part snake beings. There was a long dorsal fin he could see poking out and tearing through a piece of a sail, possibly traveled the length of their tail.

Once he was close enough, Nylarril risked getting his dagger out. Slowly it came out of his sheath and the mermaids eyes were locked onto it instantly. There was a moment where he saw their tail twitch and causing a surprising amount of water to shift around him. Just how long was this thing?

But it wasn’t thrashing, and no shift of magic in the water made him think he was about to get skewered. So he carefully started to cut them free.

First starting well away from their body, pulling away the excess sails that were keeping it bound. Once those were away he could see the netting that were digging under their scales and causing them to bleed. Along their chest were familiar ridges of gills where the net was actually digging into flesh. And fairly deep with how much it was bleeding, and the pink of the inner gills were starting to become exposed.

“This is going to hurt,” he explained, as if the thing could understand him. Perhaps so, as it did nothing when his blade got closer to it. Maybe a slight flinch when the blade peeled away the first layers of netting, but nothing threatening anymore. It had to hurt eventually though, as he began to pick the netting and start to dig it out from the flesh. He heard a low rumble through their body and glanced to see it grimacing but looking away from the sight.

More netting he dug out of the flesh, a few small scales falling into the water below, until he finally tugged the last of the twine out of it.

“No more netting in there,” he announced. How strange that he was rather calm next to a practically mythical being. It probably had to do with seeing it trapped and bleeding that assuaged some of the glamour of it all. Not all things from Mother Sea were impervious after all.

There were only a few bundles of netting left keeping them hanging above the water and he solved it with a quick swipe of his blade.

Several things happened all at once then.

No longer bound and free to move, the mermaid shoved him backwards and into the water. Underwater, Nylarril was able to see the true length of this mermaid as it shifted around him. The length of two fishing boats stern to aft, it was a massive amount of body that was swirling around him and out of this ship graveyard. As the mermaid left he could see other parts of it’s body wrapped in sails and netting. And just like that, they were gone.

Nylarril got his feet under him and stood back up, wiping water out off his face to look at the empty area around him. All that was left was some blood lingering in the water, and glittering scales in the sand. He crouched down to pick one of them up. No bigger than one of his thumbnails, but it reflected sunlight like a mirror. Without this scale in his hand one could almost imagine that the mermaid was never here at all.

“I need a drink,” he finally said after a long pause. Nylarril collected his floating crate and retied himself to it and found his way out of the ship graveyard. When he reached the shore did he find others dragging their own loot out onto the beach. A few of them waved at him and called out,

“Found anything interesting out there?”

He thought about the glittering scale he stashed in his pouch. For a moment he thought about saying what he saw. Of onyx eyes and snarling teeth, and blood dripping from a mythical creature. And how it looked at him with wide eyes and kept still as he cut it free.

“No,” he lied. “Nothing interesting at all.”

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #19: Taken

Locke walked away from the merchant feeling quite pleased with himself. Showing up without the culprit of the crime was underwhelming, he had to agree. The Wood Wailers hadn't seemed pleased with him, nor were they impressed with his truncated version of events, wherein he found the merchant’s stolen goods and chocobo in a nondescript clearing, no masked Miqo’te in sight.

The merchant, however, had been overjoyed. Everything was returned, all was well, and though he’d lost a day of travel to the incident, what was one day if it meant continuing his journey with all of his wares returned to him?

So he’d gifted Locke one of his many fancy-looking rings, a silver piece bearing glittering gems of red, blue, and black. Locke strung the ring onto a leather cord, knotted it to make a necklace, and wore it under his shirt. He had no clue what the ring was worth, but that was a problem for later.

For now, he was content.

He would have been smart, perhaps, to return to Coerthas and his nook of a workshop. He could repair his arm there, and then he could resume his travels or even return to his boss. He’d earned two coin purses full of gil. It was more than he’d had in a good while. Surely it would cover rent. But the ring around his neck looked valuable, and he knew of no better place to get it appraised than Ul’dah. So he journeyed southward.

The next several days were comfortably lonely. Locke followed the road, through the fringes of the Twelveswood and down into Thanalan. Without a job to spur him forward, or a companion to drag him along, he traveled at a lazy, easy pace.

The sense that someone — something, more likely — stood just over his shoulder didn’t entirely vanish, regardless of how peacefully his days passed. It was there as he napped beneath the shaded boughs of a large apple tree, there as he fished from a secluded pond, there as he hunched by his campfire and watched the perch he’d caught cook to a perfect golden brown. It was a fact of the Twelveswood, as certain as the sun would rise and the seasons would change. He kept a fire burning low whenever he set up camp for the evening and slept with his arm slung over the scabbard of his Doman sword as if it were a stuffed toy, but otherwise, he accepted the forest as it was.

As he left the Black Shroud behind, the abundant trees thinned out, the paranoia of being watched dissipated, and the ground beneath his feet grew harder. The square silhouettes of distant buildings cropped up on the horizon.

The shadows had grown long by the time the road took Locke into the little mining town at Thanalan’s edge. The homes there were small, squat things, made with function rather than form in mind. He looked about as he ventured further, searching for anything resembling an inn.

The closest thing he found was one of two larger buildings. Unlike its similarly sized counterpart, it had a sign near the door — not that Locke could read it — and lacked a fence or gate, appearing more welcoming for it. He strolled up to the front and reached for the door.

On the other side, something thumped against the floor, footsteps rumbled, and metal clanged against metal. A gruff voice shouted. The noises rolled forward.

Locke took two steps to the side just as the doors swung outward, forced open by a crumpled figure thrown through the air. He hit the dirt hard, rolled once, and groaned but didn’t get up.

A wide silhouette darkened the doorway before lumbering forward. As sunlight fell on the Roegadyn, Locke noted muscular arms laden with scars, bloody knuckles, and a notched broadaxe slung over his shoulder, gray metal glinting. He spared Locke only a glance before continuing on to crouch by the man and rummage through his pockets.

The sounds of fighting rang through the building and spilled out of the open doorway, a cacophony of shouts and splintered wood and whistling steel. Though the action called to Locke, he followed the Roegadyn and squatted by his side.

“Whatcha doing?”

He didn’t look at Locke this time, eyes set instead on the few coins he’d collected from the man. “Taking what the cur owes,” he rumbled.

“Oh. Don’t look like a lot.”

“He’s short,” the Roegadyn explained.

“Huh? What’s that got to do with it?”

“You ask a lot of questions that don’t concern you. It’s annoying.”

Locke shrugged. “I’m curious.”

The Roegadyn scoffed but didn’t say anything else. His eyes settled on a thin band on the man’s left hand. He reached for it with heavy fingers and bloody knuckles.

Locke smacked the Roegadyn’s hand away. “Shouldn’t take that,” he said. “It’s an Eorzean thing, they got emotio— ah!”

He yelped and twisted away, avoiding the back of the Roegadyn’s fist. He half-scurried, half-dragged himself back and out of reach. The man’s thick fingers grabbed at empty air.

“This isn’t your business, boy,” the Roegadyn growled. He stood and squared his shoulders, throwing a shadow over Locke. “Back off.”

A thrill ran through Locke’s stomach, and his hand crossed his abdomen, coming to rest on the sword sheathed at his hip. He widened his stance, one foot in front of the other. Though he didn’t draw his sword, or even speak, it was an obvious challenge.

The Roegadyn grabbed his broadaxe, the leather braid holding it across his back slipping away from one shoulder. He hefted it and charged forward, a bellow erupting from his throat.

Locke didn’t need to See to slip past the axe. It was a sloppy, reckless swing, all brute force and no technique. He stepped in and ducked his head for the sake of his ears, felt and heard the rush of air above, and drew. His sword rasped against the sheath before carving through the air, striking as sure as a scythe harvests wheat.

But rather than flesh, metal found metal, sending a reverberation through Locke’s fingers. A Hyuran man had materialized between him and the Roegadyn, twin scimitars in his gloved hands, capturing Locke’s blade. Dark eyes flicked between Locke and the Roegadyn.

“Mind stepping back?” he asked Locke. A hollow smile flitted across his sun-kissed face, utterly humorless. “I’ve got business with the big guy.”

Locke frowned, considering. On one hand, he’d had a quiet few days and was itching for a fight, and the Roegadyn seemed like good practice. It would keep him sharp in case something more dangerous came up.

On the other hand, those swords the Hyur carried were nice. There wasn’t much in the way of embellishment, just a small maker’s mark on the base of each blade, but at a glance they were well-maintained.

I want to see how he fights.

“I’m still here,” the Roegadyn snarled, bringing the axe back around and swiping it at the pair of them. The arc was predictable, but the axe-head came in fast, strong as the man was.

The Hyur released Locke’s sword from between his own and dodged back in a smooth motion. Locke caught the axe with the flat side of his blade and retreated with the momentum of the blow, shoulder jarred from the impact.

Locke released his breath through his teeth with a small hiss. “Give me a show then, and he’s all yours.”

The Hyur looked at Locke, then back at the Roegadyn. “That’s an odd request, but if that’s what it takes. As you wish then.”

Locke sheathed his sword and trotted over to the man on the ground. He seized him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him along, away from the combatants. The man whimpered and kicked once in protest, but otherwise, he went along with it.

If the axe-wielding Roegadyn had an issue with Locke bowing out of the fight and pulling his quarry a few yalms away, he didn’t — more likely, couldn’t — do anything about it. His eyes were on the Hyur with the twin swords.

The Hyur darted in, quick as thought, swords flashing under the Thanalan sun. They bit into the Roegadyn’s leg once, twice, then they were gone, carried away as the Hyur danced back. The Roegadyn advanced, trying to close the distance, and the Hyur rushed in to meet him. He parried, dodged, slipped past the Roegadyn’s offense in a blink. Steel kissed the taller man’s side and arm, the swords coming away tinged red. Then the Hyur was gone again, graceful as a dancer, as hard to snatch from the air as a raindrop.

Locke felt a smile growing on his face. He sat back and watched the Hyuran man work, bright blue eyes following every elegant step and every flash of a blade, thoroughly taken with the display.

[nani-nonny]

I’m In the Wrong AU moment

I don’t know if this will end up in the main fic (if I ever get to writing it) but I’m bored and want to procrastinate hehe

Lee: Rise F!Leo & Leo: ‘12 Leo

Lee watches the teens fight, taking in the sight of the counterparts at their young age and their practiced attacks. When he and his brothers were their age, they didn’t have the practiced ease these kids have. He didn’t have the same teachings these kids had, taught from youth by a master in martial arts. He had a series of DVDs and a naive gleam in his eyes.

And it makes him wonder what it was like.

From the way they talk about their Splinter, it seems he was far more involved in their younger years than his Splinter was. His dad wasn’t the best growing up, having bouts of depression and locking himself away in his room for days—even months. It wasn’t easy, but he was there when it counted. And became far more involved the older he and his brothers got.

And he’s glad he has those memories.

Although, he can’t help but wonder if he had the practiced ease and fluidity like these teens do, how much of a better chance would he have had against the Krang?

If he had just a few more years of training under his belt, would he have had to sacrifice his brother’s life for the smallest chance at starting all over?

Ting!

Lee reacts on instinct, catching an incoming object with his prosthesis.

A small gasp and an intake of air between clenched teeth are heard when the metallic hand meets the airborne object.

Lee looks down at the object in his hand to see a small throwing star. He looks up at the teens to see Mikey whistling inconspicuously and walking away with his hands behind his back.

Leo finishes the last of the robots, cutting clean through the metallic skeleton’s ribs and letting the skeleton glitch out of existence. He’s quick to scold Mikey as he crosses his arms, “Mikey, you’re supposed to take into account the ricochet when you throw a shuriken.”

But before anyone else can say anything, Lee walks over to Mikey as he says, “It’s okay, no one got hurt, Mini Me.”

He flicks the star between his metallic fingers, letting the small weapon slip like liquid around his hand. He stops it on his thumb to flick it into the air like a coin before catching it and handing it back to Mikey as he speaks. “You know, it’s not that hard to figure out a star’s trajectory. I can give you a lesson or two, it’s not all that different from my portals.”

Mikey’s eyes widen as if stars are glittering from his dilated pupils. His mouth gapes open as he clenches his fists to contain his excitement, “Really?” Then he gasps and jumps where he stands as he exclaims, “You have portals?!”

Annoyed, Raph pushes Mikey away as his brows furrow with confusion, “What? What kind of game are you playing, lying to Mikey about ‘magic’?”

Donnie raises a brow incredulously as he crosses his arm over his chest and raises a hand to his chin, “Well, I wouldn’t call it magic but rather a gateway that connects two points on a—.”

Raph interrupts Donnie with a mocking hand mimicking a mouth moving, “Yeah yeah, can it, brainiac. I didn’t ask for a definition.”

Donnie frowns, “Sorry for trying to be accurate. You’re the one that was wrong in the first place.”

Lee’s attention is shifted from the two starting to argue toward Leo, who walks up to him with a suspicious but intrigued expression.

The younger counterpart raises a brow and asks, “You’re gonna start a lesson with Mikey?”

Lee nods, “Yeah, you want in?”

The tiniest glimmer in Leo’s eye ignites but he tries to contain his excitement. He clears his throat and shrugs, “Sure, it’ll be kinda cool to join in.”

Lee smiles, a warmth blossoming in his chest at the sight of Leo trying to stay calm. He's a cute kid, Lee will give him that. It makes him wonder if Junior would have become like Leo.

Leo sheepishly taps his forefingers together as he asks in a smaller voice, “And can you, you know, teach me how you did that thing with the shuriken?”

Lee nearly snorts at the sudden shyness and ruffles the top of Leo’s head, shifting the younger’s mask in a playful manner. “Sure, I’ll even throw in a magic trick or two,” he teases lightly.

Leo ignores the light tease and brightens at the additional lesson. He turns to Mikey for a high five, and the younger returns it without knowing what the high five is for, but happy his brother is happy.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Breathe

Please

BREATHE

Zeb's head is pressed against the ceiling, the black tide rising faster and faster until all the boy can do now is take one last gulp of metallic tasting air and sink beneath the waves of gibberish and scattered spoilers.

The ink is warm, metallic, and alive. It claws its way into Zeb's airways and slithers into his Pages. It seethes and seeps into his Narrative and stains and stains and stains.

Once upon a time there was a boy...

His lungs scream for air, his fingers clawing at the ceiling with a desperation previously unknown to him.

A little boy born to a family of monsters who wrapped themselves in metal and called themselves 'Men'

The doorknob jiggles, the sound lost to the cacophony of running rushing liquid and Zeb's own fading consciousness.

The little boy thought himself a monster too, with blunt teeth and bright eyes. He longed to be as fearsome as his brothers father captors saviors heros.

Wood creaks, straining against the weight of ink and regret.

Until the boy met a real monster the worst monster of them all, the Beast. With black eyes and sharp teeth, curling claws to tear out the hearts of Men. Sweet words to poison the minds of children, and soft fur that felt warmer than any kind word the boy had ever heard.

A gunshot, crisp and clear, turns the doorknob and part of the door into a smoldering hole for all of half a second before the door loses all its bravado and explodes into a mess of ink and splinters, and Story.

The Beast loved the boy with all her stolen hearts, she forgave him when he hurt her, she kept him warm and safe in her burrows when the Men threw him away. And even though the Beast's voice was a rough and terrible sound it carried a love and a softness that curled around the boy's heart and refused to leave.

The torrent of ink takes Zeb with it, right out of the door and into the hallway where something grabs him by the scruff. He coughs and retches, throwing up lung fulls of ink and Worse.

Jack is still there in the room, on her knees with the sword sticking out of her. Zeb can't look, and he can't not look. Ink and tears sting his eyes.

And on the day the Men came back and slew all the beautiful animals the Beast's forest, she did not run from their blades their bullets their hate. She kept the boy safe. He watched her bleed starlight onto the ground as Arrows pierced her skin, watched the blood bloom into flowers and clovers and grass. He watched and he wept for he knew this was his fault.

Jack isn't moving.

Jack is still bleeding.

Ink and words seeping

Seeping

Seeping

Out

When the King of Men raised his sword above the Beast, meaning to cleave her skull in two, the boy threw his arms around her neck and shoved his face into her bloody fur. 'Please don't go' the boy said 'please don't go, I'll eat you whole I love you so...'

Zeb tears himself free of that hold and scrambled forward, slipping on ink and mess, ignoring the splinters that buried themselves into his skin. He throws his arms around Jack's neck and sobs. "I'm sorry I'm sorry it was an accident I'm sorry please don't die I don't know where I'd go if you died please please please..."

The King's sword fell fast in a glittering arc, and meant to lop off the heads of both boy and Beast in one fell swoop. Teeth met metal, metal splintered, eyes burned with hate and defiance as the Beast spat shards of the broken sword at the King's feet like curses.

'Raise a hand against me all you like, Man-thing, but touch not my pups lest you find yourself between my teeth.' The King sneered, the archers and gunmen behind him hefted their weapons, but the Beast did not move.

Half dead and animated solely by rage, she held her ground and bared her teeth at the King. She would break a thousand swords, be shot with a million arrows, swallow a billion bullets before she'd see the boy-pup cry again. And the King saw that in her eyes, and it scared him.

Unlike the Beast, Jack doed not speak words of reassurance. There is no promise to Zeb that no harm would come to him, be it from Gods or Kings.

There is only the trickle of ink, and a dreadful silence.

[gloriousmonsters]

Mememememe I want to see

please enjoy a selection from you're on a path in the desert, chapter 2: 'The Ancient', brought about by wondering what ganondorf's motivation is and being honest and brash enough he kind of likes you and is like 'sorry, kid' while murdering you to attempt a breakout in the first chapter. narrated by Zelda, starring Link and Ganondorf.

--------

You're on a path in the desert. Or... it's more of a beach, isn't it? You can hear the sea. Small crabs scuttle and hide among rocks smoothed by eons of lapping waves; the pristine sands glitter, here and there, with old coins and jewels set in tarnished metal. Pirate treasures, as if a ship was wrecked here long ago. A lonely blue sky arches high above, unmarred by a single cloud. A path of scattered white rocks, like sun-bleached bones, lead toward the edge of the water. At the end of this path, a man with evil eyes is imprisoned. A king. You, hero, must slay him; or it will be the end of the world.

Voice of the Curious: He didn't seem that bad!

- Yeah, he wasn't as bad as she hyped him up to be.

- Bad? He was very bad! I'm completely on board with the 'slaying' thing now.

- Hang on, how are we here? Didn't we die?

> I see what you mean, but he did very much kill us. That was a thing that happened.

Voice of the Curious: I guess, but he was so... sad. He just wanted to escape. He seemed like he'd been there for a really long time.

> He did.

Excuse me, who's this? And what are you saying about dying? Please don't tell me—

Voice of the Curious : We died and we came back to life!

- More or less.

- I died and it was terrifying and now I'm me and also this other part of me and they're both me and I don't know how that works or what's going on and I'm going to start crying probably

> This isn't the first time we've been here. Your 'man with the evil eyes' was the one that killed me, not the other way around.

He's not mine, and... It wouldn't be the same, the other way around. You need to slay him, not kill him.

- I get it. I'm a human, and he's a monster.

> Semantics.

Very important ones. Listen to me, hero. I hoped that this wouldn't happen, and I didn't want to scare you with the possibility. But please believe me—we're walking a fine line, now. All is not lost, but every failure widens his chance at escape.

Voice of the Curious: Really?

I do not like how you said that. This... voice, whatever it is, it seems very young. Don't let naivety influence you, hero. One failure means he's already found a chink in your armor—it is even more imperative you keep your guard up. Whatever he said, whatever he did, put it out of your mind. Focus on this. He is evil, and he will destroy everything if he escapes. You are the hero, the only one with the power to stop him. I—everything depends on you.

Voice of the Curious : That's a lot of pressure...

- I love pressure.

- I hate pressure.

 > Are you really sure I can do this?

Yes. You’re the only one that can. 

Voice of the Curious: Wow, she sounds... so serious. I don't know if I trust her, but I think she likes you.

Ha. That's... You matter a great deal to me. By definition, of course. You’re the hero, you matter to everyone. But we don't have time to sit here and talk about our feelings, whatever they might be. Your quest is the same, hero. It's time to go forward.

> (proceed to the prison)

N: At the edge of the water, the path of rocks continue—for a little while. Soon they're fewer and farther between, and in their place are footholds of debris, half-rotted hulls of wood, old chests rammed up on some invisible sandbank below the water. There have been many wrecks here, and as you pick your way forward, you see the largest of them up ahead. Splintered and broken, its massive hull impaled on the tall and jagged rocks that rise from the hidden seabed, like towers of some sunken castle. The rest of it is remarkably intact, but it looks ancient. Weathered, by years that have sapped color from cloth and wood and leached memory from material. Every detail blurred. The figurehead is faceless, nearly formless, like the... like the image of a loved one long forgotten.

> Are you all right?

Your path ends—or rather, takes a new form—at the side of the wreck. An old rope ladder leads up the barnacle-encrusted side. The old wood creaks as you ascend, but even that sound is... muted. This ship isn't just wrecked, it's becalmed. The muting of that sound makes you acutely aware of the absence of others. No birds cry in the sky; no fish splash in the water. The land behind you is already lost in a hazy fog. This is a lonely place.

Voice of the Curious: She's making it sound so depressing. It's sad, but it's also sort of cool, right? It's like an old pirate ship! It doesn't feel like a prison, it feels like... like a hideout!

Please be quiet. It's a prison. It might look... odd, but it's a prison.

Voice of the Curious : Do you think there's treasure?

...No.

Voice of the Curious: ...You want there to be treasure too, right?

I'm not interested. We have a very important job to do. To your left, across the weathered deck, a door leads to the fo'c'sle. It's not locked, but it's encrusted with barnacles, warped in its frame. Beside it, a sword is embedded in the wall, as if left there after a battle long ago. It gleams with its own light—

Voice of the Curious: It's not glowing, though. It's just a sword.

It's not—but... Ah. Yes. Well, it doesn't need to glow, does it? It's the hero's sword. It's made to kill evildoers and monsters. It's meant for your hand, and your hand alone. Take up the sword, hero. You'll need it if you want to save us all.

- But it's not glowing. Didn't you say it was important it glowed?

- What if I don't want to save everyone?

> take up the sword

- don't take up the sword

Sword in hand, you force open the door, rusted hinges screeching as you shove your whole body's weight against it. Before you is a sheer drop, lightless, only the first few feet visible in the foggy sunlight that filters past your shoulders. A rope ladder hangs over the ledge at your feet, vanishing into shadow. The air is musty, damp, and smells of moldering spice and rotting silk, wood permeated with gunsmoke and worried by the icy teeth of the ocean over the course of centuries. If this is the prison the king's been confined in, killing him will be a mercy.

His voice echoes up from the darkness, tired but commanding.

The King: I knew you'd return. Come here, boy. Let us speak face to face.

Voice of the Curious: He remembers us! And he sounds... older. I mean, he was already older than us. But he sounds much older now. 

Of course he's old, he's been in prison for a long time. Don't dwell on it or wonder about it, the more time and thought you give him the more dangerous he is. Just get down there and accomplish your quest.

> proceed down the 'stairs'

After what feels like half an hour of nerve-wracking descent, feeling for foot and hand-holds in the darkness, light begins to bloom below you. When you come to the bottom, a few minutes later, you find yourself facing another door—this one richly carved wood, remarkably well-preserved considering the state of the ship. It's hard to make out much in the light filtering through the cracks around it, but you can see intricate, geometric patterns, and the snarling face of a boarlike beast carved huge in the very center.

Voice of the Curious: What—

You waste no time fooling around and asking questions, and open the door. Striding within, you find yourself confronted with a surprisingly lavish room, dimly lit by old oil-lamps. Rich rugs cover the floor; a huge bed stands in the back of the room, partly hidden by curtains, and a huge desk carved with intricate details dominates another side of the room. Tapestries, paintings and maps nearly cover the walls, save for a section that seems dedicated to a number of weapons—at a glance you see twin swords and a trident. Everything feels a little... oversized, as if you're a child venturing into the room of an adult. When you look closer, you can see signs of wear and age—cracking paint, books with pages puffed by soaking and drying out, scratches in the fine wood and dust on the tapestries—but the overall effect is still opulent, overwhelming. This feels right for a prison meant to confine a king; it would be suitable for an emperor, confined to his office by the new regime, allowed to keep a pretense of dignity.

But across the room from you, there's a strangely bare section of the wall, interrupted by only two things: A porthole filled more by spiderwebbing cracks than glass, showing only blank darkness, and the King, who stands tall and studies you thoughtfully with pale gold eyes.

The King: You approach me, yet again, with your blade in hand. Interesting.

He's a big man, broad and heavy, a physique that might impress as brutish or sedentary if not for the way he holds himself. Straight-backed, imperious, with a hint of a fighter's grace in the way his stance shifts as his eyes track the step you take forward. There's no gray in his hair, or deep wrinkles on his face, but something about him gives an impression of great age and greater weariness. His face is craggy, but his eyes are delicately lined with black; he wears a topaz on his brow, and fine robes that inspire ideas of entrenched and confident authority. As he seems to reach an internal resolution in his appraisal of you, his teeth bare in what is hard to determine as a mocking smile or a grimace of pain.

The King: I suppose that if you try to kill me this time, it will only be fair. But I'd rather we talk.

Voice of the Curious: Ooh, talk! Yes! I want to know what's going on! Just, um, maybe we should stay at a distance.

Remember what you're here for. Don't listen to him, or him. Please, hero. Kill him now.

- slay the king

- kill him?

- You killed me last time, I'd like an apology before we do anything else.

> All right. Let's talk.

[kikiiswashere]

Sneak Peek - Children of Zaun - Chapter 20

Katya did not let herself look at the shoreline in front of her, fearing that if she did, her body would lock up in fear at the distance. She waited until her hands dug through mud, rocks, and silt before looking up. A relieved cry exploded from her lungs, and brackish water filled her mouth. She coughed and sputtered as she threw herself onto the shore. With the safety of earth beneath her, Katya’s body finally let the pain of the fall and ache of the sprint register. Her skin, lungs, and limbs burned. Her arms and legs trembled as she tried to clamber across slick rocks.

Behind her, Silco scrambled ashore. His hands slid underneath Katya’s armpits and he hauled her up the bank.

“I got you,” he wheezed. “Come on. We need to get away from the river.”

Katya nearly cried as she lifted to her feet. She staggered after him, her hand squeezed tightly in his. They climbed up the embankment, finally stopping when the rocks grew tall and could hide them from view. The pair flopped to the ground, resting their backs against a boulder as they panted and gasped for air, their ribcages swinging wildly.

“You’re not hurt are you?” Silco finally asked once his lungs no longer burned.

Katya gulped and shook her head. She placed a hand over her heart. It thundered beneath her palm. Both from exertion and panic. “Are you hurt?”

“Hitting the water hurt, but I think I’m okay.”

Katya nodded. After a beat, she unlooped the bag straps from her torso and opened them. Gold glittered up at her, and relief wracked through her soaked frame. At least they had gotten their boon.

“I’m impressed that you were able to swim so quickly weighed down like that,” Silco mused.

Katya sniffed and pushed her dripping bangs off her forehead. Next to her, he had unbuckled and unlaced his boots. He turned them over in his hands and dumped river water onto the sand beneath them. He took his socks off next and wrung them out.

“My parents taught me how to swim when I was little,” she explained between breaths. She glanced sideways at him, thinking of his furious but inefficient paddling. “Do you not know how to swim, Silco?”

Even in the dark, she could see an embarrassed red flush color his cheeks, complimenting the chilled pink tips of his ears.

“I suppose it depends on what you mean by swim,” he grumbled. “I can not drown.”

“How can you not know how to swim?” Katya asked, bypassing his technicalities. “You live in a port city.”

“I live underground,” growled Silco, his brows dropping unamused.

Before Katya could respond, there was a crash of metal, splintering of wood, and roar of fire. They both ducked toward one another, Silco throwing his arms over both of their heads. When nothing happened, they slowly drew apart and peeked over the boulder.

Across the River, the airship had finally crashed into the cliffs of Piltover. A bright, hot orange ball of fire was snagged between a split of rocks, charcoal-black smoke billowing up toward the starry sky. Beneath the sound of screeching metal and screaming flames, the deep, repetitive drones of Piltover’s sirens bled into the air.

“We need to get moving,” Silco whispered.

Katya nodded in agreement as he slipped his socks and shoes back on. They hurriedly squeezed out their hair and clothes the best they could, before slinging the bags of Hexes back around their bodies, and stealing into the night.

----

Chapter 20 going up tomorrow! See you then!!!