#now that i have a piercing that i can’t hide behind a mask. this might be interesting

[heavyedit]

got a part time job offer 👍

works with my existing work schedule well (pretty much only have to work sundays) 👍

it’s the football stadium where i’d have to work football games 😐

[ginnsbaker]

prophylaxis

Summary: The most powerful Avenger is afraid of one thing: dental appointments, or the one where you're a dentist and Wanda is a baby about seeing one

Word count: 2.6k | Warnings: None. This is just good ol' fluff

Ship: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Author's note: This has been sitting in my drafts for some time, and while this is a one shot, I might follow up with more :)

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Next part: the follow up

--

Steve and Natasha are barely done with their own routine dental check-ups when the notification of an emergency mission comes through. The Avengers' annual dental visit is typically swift and uncomplicated, but the arrival of their urgent mission turns the day into something far more chaotic.

“Where is Wanda?” Steve asks, scrolling through the mission details on his phone.

Natasha shrugs, sipping on her post-check-up glass of scotch. ��I haven't seen her since breakfast.”

Vision appears in the room at that moment, his face expressing the closest thing to exasperation an android can manage. “She’s only now on the chair,” he says, glancing at Steve, whose eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Now? But everyone else is done!”

“I had to convince her to come,” Vision sighs. “I found her hiding in the back library. It took me the better part of an hour to persuade her to face the dentist.”

Natasha rolls her eyes at the revelation, trying to suppress her chuckle. The most powerful Avenger, avoiding a simple dental prophylaxis. “We don't have all day, Steve. The mission is critical.”

Steve nods, sliding his phone into his pocket. “We'll leave a note for her. She should meet us ASAP once she's done.”

Natasha gets up from her chair, glancing one last time at Vision, as she quips, “Good luck to whoever is the dentist working on her this year.”

As you approach the dental chair, you take note of the apprehensive figure occupying it. You've already seen a dozen Avengers today, each with their unique quirks and idiosyncrasies. 

But Wanda Maximoff, her gaze filled with clear distaste for the situation, seems to take the cake. She's curled in on herself, making her seem smaller than she actually is. The sight of her alone would have been enough to unnerve you, but the intermittent quivers of your dental tools due to an unseen force send a cold shiver down your spine. You can't help but wonder if you've drawn the short straw when they assigned you the patients for today.

You try your best to project an air of calm. Inside, though, your nerves are jangling like alarm bells.

“Wanda, right?” you confirm, trying to keep your voice steady.

She nods, her eyes wide as saucers.

“I promise this won't hurt,” you reassure her, even as your tools continue to rattle on the tray. “It's just a routine check-up.”

A skeptical glance is thrown your way but it's at least some reaction. Her gaze is piercing, and it takes every bit of your collected facade to keep from faltering. An absurd thought flashes across your mind: if you were to meet an untimely demise in your line of duty today, who on earth would inherit the numerous houseplants that have taken over your apartment over the years?

With a nervous smile that Wanda can barely make out behind the surgical mask you wear, you gently ask, "Shall we begin?" Your tone is soothing, carefully modulated to put her at ease.

The poor Avenger takes a deep, long breath before giving you the go-ahead to proceed with the checkup. 

For her part, Wanda begins to concentrate on anything other than the feeling of your gloved fingers in her mouth. Her gaze settles on your oversized prescription glasses that lend an air of professional yet friendly vibe. And there’s something about the clean, familiar scent wafting off your white coat that comforts her more than she's willing to admit.

She can’t help it when her mind starts drawing comparisons with last year's dentist—a gruff, no-nonsense man whose hands always seemed cold and who lacked any bedside manner whatsoever. You, on the other hand, are like a breath of fresh air with your calming demeanor and reassuring approach. Wanda blushes at the thought that, admittedly, you’re kind of a nice upgrade.

You begin the examination with meticulous care, your movements deliberately gentle to assure Wanda of your sensitivity to her obvious anxiety. As you carefully check her teeth and gums, you're acutely aware of how much trust she's placing in you, despite her apparent discomfort.

Glancing into her eyes as you angle your dental mirror to inspect her molars, you're suddenly struck by the piercing green of her irises. Even under the harsh clinic lights, they appear incredibly vibrant. Framed by the dark eyeliner she wears, her eyes are sharp and arresting. They follow your every move, staring up at you with an intensity that causes your skin to perspire under your uniform.

You've dealt with many patients over the years, some with eyes equally as fascinating, but something about Wanda's gaze is different. It's as if she's not just watching you but reading you, understanding you in a way that makes you feel exposed.

Your focus starts to waver under her scrutiny, and that's when you notice something strange. The dental tools on the tray beside you begin to quiver more violently, vibrating with an unseen force. Your heart skips a beat, realization dawning on you that Wanda's powers are reacting to her nervousness.

But it's not just her nervousness; Wanda's face takes on a look of surprise, her eyes widening momentarily. You can almost feel her presence in your mind, a subtle brushing against your consciousness. 

She's read your thoughts, albeit accidentally. 

She knows how captivated you are by her eyes. 

Catching yourself, you quickly shift your thoughts to a safer topic–your plants. The vibrant green of Wanda's eyes morphs into the various shades of green gracing the leaves of your beloved indoor jungle. Your Monstera, your string of pearls, your peace lily–

And yet, none of them are a match for the pair of green orbs that your mind keeps going back to. A flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck as you meet her gaze, the unspoken understanding between you making the air in the room feel charged. Wanda's cheeks take on a hint of color, and her control over her powers seems to falter, your tools–and a chair behind Wanda–now levitating a couple of inches from where they originally sat.

“I'm sorry,” she stammers, wide-eyed and apologetic. You barely make out what she’s saying with her mouth still wide open. “I didn't mean to…”

“It's okay,” you reply in a comforting murmur, pausing your examination. The room fills with the soft humming of the overhead light and the subtle scent of sterilized equipment. “I'm here with you. We'll go at your pace. Just breathe.”

Giving Wanda a few moments to calm herself, you pull back, placing the dental tools on the tray beside you. You keep your eyes on Wanda, a soothing smile hidden behind your mask. Her chest rises and falls steadily as she follows your instructions, taking deep, calming breaths.

However, you can't help but glance at the floating items around you, fearing that one of them might go straight for your heart that’s thudding loudly in your ears now. They seem to be suspended in mid-air, almost like a magic trick. Wanda catches your gaze, following it to the levitating objects. The already present color on her cheeks darken, and with a flicker of her gaze, your tools reintroduce themselves to gravity once again.

You don't comment on it. Instead, you simply offer another encouraging smile, masked by your surgical mask, but visible in your eyes. You extend your gloved hand towards the once again earthbound dental tools, feeling the cool metal against your palm. 

“Are we good to proceed?” you ask in a soft voice, patiently waiting for her agreement before picking up where you left off. 

Wanda doesn’t move, seemingly hesitant to say yes or no.

“Will it help if I talk to you?” 

She gives you a small nod in response this time.

“Alright,” you say with a hint of a chuckle. “Don't judge me if I start to sound silly, okay?”

And so you start to speak as you get back to work, recounting random memories and thoughts as you continue with the examination. You talk about funny incidents at work, share stories about your beloved plants, and even admit to that time you almost killed your favorite fern with coffee instead of water. At first, you feel slightly ridiculous, babbling about the care of succulents to an Avenger, one of the most powerful beings on the planet. But as the minutes tick by, you see a change in her. The initial terror in her eyes fades into curiosity, her body relaxes, and she even smiles at some of your sillier anecdotes.

You get lost in talking to Wanda, feeling both delighted and somewhat ridiculous that you're enjoying this one-sided conversation. You're fully aware that she can't respond with an excavator in her mouth, but it doesn't feel like she's just tolerating your chatter. Her eyes are attentive, following your movements, reacting every now and then. Her body language is open, receptive, almost as if she's hanging onto every word.

As for Wanda, something unexpected is happening. She finds herself liking your voice more and more, feeling an unfamiliar pull towards it. It's warm, comforting, and filled with a sincerity that she didn't expect. She even finds herself slightly attracted to it. But it's a foreign feeling, one she doesn't quite understand, especially in this setting.

As you conclude your examination, you realize that one of Wanda's molars needs a filling. It isn't urgent, a situation that could be deferred to another appointment if she wishes.

“Looks like you have a small cavity,” you inform her, meeting her eyes. “It's not of immediate concern, but we should schedule another appointment if you'd like to have it filled.”

To your surprise, Wanda agrees, not just with a polite nod, but with a subtle hint of anticipation lighting up her eyes. She agrees to another date, another round of you poking around her mouth with your scary dental tools. And yet, there's a hint of eagerness that surprises even her.

As you finish your work, you lean back, pulling off your surgical mask and gloves. For the first time, Wanda gets a full view of your face. It's like a silent reveal, one she hadn't been expecting, and it takes her aback.

She finds herself caught in a subtle admiration, a feeling that quickly intensifies as she takes in your features. There's something about your face that she finds herself drawn to, the warmth of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the soft contours of your cheekbones.

And when you smile, her breath hitches slightly. It's a simple gesture, but one that lights up your face, reaching your eyes and causing them to crinkle at the corners. It's genuine, open, and a little bit contagious.

“Thanks for your patience, Doctor...?” Wanda voices, feeling a tad awkward. It occurs to her belatedly that she didn't have the foresight to ask for your name before you started the check-up. 

“Just call me Y/N. It's my pleasure,” you reply, your smile deepening, unaware of the effect it's having on the Avenger before you. “I'll see you for that follow-up appointment, then?”

As soon as Wanda is escorted outside by Vision, you release a breath you didn't know you've been holding. Leaning against the counter, you try to calm the racing of your heart, which beats as if you've just run a marathon.

Wanda Maximoff is... quite a surprise. Her beauty, her vulnerability, the way she seemed to really listen to your inane chatter–it's all unexpected, disarming even. You find your mind drifting back to the way her eyes softened, the almost shy smile that graced her lips.

You quickly shake your head, trying to dispel these thoughts. This is unprofessional, you think. She's your patient. A patient who just happens to be one of the world's most powerful individuals. It's nothing more than that.

You glance at the clock on the wall, realizing you've spent more time with Wanda than any other patient today. You should be moving on to your paperwork, getting ready to call it a day.

But as you sit down at your desk, the fluttering feeling in your stomach doesn't subside, and Wanda Maximoff's haunting green eyes remain etched in your mind.

Walking down the corridors of the Avengers compound, Wanda finds herself in step with Vision. As they pass various agents and fellow Avengers, Vision turns to look at her.

“Wanda,” he starts, his voice taking on that concerned lilt that she's grown accustomed to. “I'm detecting unusual signs in your vitals. Your heart rate is elevated, your body temperature has slightly increased, and your pupils are dilated.”

Wanda blinks, feeling an unexpected heat crawl up her neck. Her palms are also feeling slightly clammy, and she has this weird fluttering sensation in her stomach. She tries to brush it off. It must have been the anxiety, right?

“Are you not feeling well?” Vision probes further, halting in his tracks to face her. His eyes scan her face, looking for any visible signs of discomfort. Wanda's mind races, trying to figure out how to downplay her seemingly irrational reaction to a denti–a dental appointment.

“No, Vision. I'm... I'm just fine.” Her voice sounds surprisingly steady to her own ears. She forces a smile onto her face, aiming to reassure her friend.

Vision doesn't seem fully convinced but doesn't push further. They resume their walk, but Wanda can't shake off the feeling that something has changed, something she doesn't quite understand yet. And for some reason, her thoughts keep drifting back to a certain dentist with a soothing voice, warm eyes, and a love for plants.

How did it happen that a dental appointment, of all things, has turned into the highlight of her day?

The kitchen is dimly lit when Vision enters, the only illumination coming from the withdrawn overhead lights. Natasha is there, assembling her favorite late-night snack, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She looks up as Vision approaches, her eyes curious.

“I trust the mission went well?” Vision inquires, noting the subtle signs of fatigue in Natasha's posture.

She offers a half-smile, nodding. “It did. It's all sorted now. How's Wanda after the check-up?”

Vision's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates for a moment before responding, “She is... well. The new dentist was quite effective in putting her at ease.”

Natasha smirks, spreading the jelly onto the bread with precision. “Told you a change would do the trick. I still can't believe you managed to convince Tony to switch dentists.”

“And find the perfect replacement,” Natasha adds after some thought, licking the jelly from the knife.

“It was a logical choice. The previous dentist was less than satisfactory, particularly with Wanda.” He pauses, considering something. “But this one... she seemed to have a rather profound effect on her.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, looking up from her sandwich. “Profound effect?”

“Yes,” Vision says thoughtfully. “I detected unusual signs in her vitals afterward. Increased heart rate, heightened body temperature, a certain... excitement in her demeanor. It was quite unexpected.”

Natasha's eyes widen slightly, and a mischievous smile begins to form on her lips. “You don't say?”

Vision gazes at the digital interface on his palm, a soft hum of approval in his voice. “Indeed, she has also filed for a leave of absence a week from now. She has another dental appointment, but this time at the doctor’s private clinic.”

Natasha pauses, her sandwich halfway to her mouth. 

Vision meets her gaze, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Do you think it could mean something?"

Natasha shrugs, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Who knows, Vis?” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwich. “Maybe it's just a good dentist.” And then with a wink and a knowing smile, she adds, “Or maybe…”

She leaves the thought hanging, deliberately ambiguous, and exits the room, her satisfied crunching echoing down the hallway.

Vision is left standing in the kitchen, confusion etched across his synthetic features. He considers the day's events, attempting to analyze how Wanda suddenly managed to conquer her most irrational fear.

Humans really are something.

[weirdsht]

Longing - LoTCF & Molan! Reader

notes: There's so much I want to include here but it's so long already... I might make a part 2. Also I woke up and decided to change the way I address reader lol. I used to use _____ because it was easier to type but I've decided to go for aesthetics now (disillusioned will still have the same format though so readers won't be shocked with the change).

tags: female reader, death, blood, injuries, angst(?), hurt/comfort

English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors

Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission

Constructive criticisms and any kind of interaction are more than welcome

Requests are open and welcome

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[Name] Molan was about to fall asleep when intruders suddenly infiltrated the Molan Estate.

“...Mom I’m scared.”

The 5-year-old clutched her mother’s skirt. Screaming and clashing of weapons can be heard throughout the house.

Her mother said nothing at first. Opting to get her greatsword from underneath the child’s bed first.

“Baby you started learning stealth techniques with your brother right?”

[Name] nodded as she felt her mother squeeze her hand.

“Remember what Dad taught you okay? You might have to use it tonight. Think of it as an exercise to see how well you’ve learned.”

The situation is scary, but despite that [name] feels calm because her mother is smiling at her.

But that doesn’t stop her hand from shaking as she hears their family members’ screams.

Slowly, the mother-daughter duo slithered out of the bedroom. Their main goal is to find Ron and Beacrox before escaping the estate.

Run, hide, roll over, they did everything just to avoid the eyes of the masked people attacking their estate. As they run away corpses of their family members and servants can be seen everywhere they go. The stench of their blood overtook [name]’s senses making her want to puke.

Everything seemed to be going well at first. However, they have been discovered after a few minutes of sneaking around. It was inevitable. With every corner being surrounded by those mysterious people massacring the Molans.

“[NAME]!”

[Name]’s mother just hadn’t expected one of those bastard’s swords to pierce the child’s chest instead.

The Molan Mistress was surrounded. She was trying her best to fend off everyone who dared to hurt her child.

But her efforts weren’t enough.

One of the enemies still managed to slip past her greatsword.

At that moment Beacrox, her first child, entered the room they were in. His eyes were shaking along with his legs as he ran to hide behind her mother.

“Beacrox take care of your sister.”

Her voice was calm. Fitting as the wife of the Molan Patriarch. Her hand tightly clenched on her greatsword. Eyes fierce, their gaze holds a promise of protecting her children.

Meanwhile, Beacrox sat on the ground. His arms cradled his baby sister while also trying to apply pressure to where she was hurt.

“Orabeoni… it hurts… it really hurts…”

“Just hold on a little longer. Father will get here soon.”

Beacrox’s hands are covered in blood. [Name]’s blood. No matter how hard he tries he can’t stop the bleeding. He can’t stop his younger sister’s body from going cold.

“Orabeoni… Orabeoni…”

[Name] tried to lift her small hands, but was too weak to do so. Beacrox shushed her, reassuring her that she’d be fine. That she’ll make it through the night. That they’ll get out of here alive.

She has to. Beacrox doesn’t think he’ll ever be the same if his baby sister dies here.

“I’m scared… Everything hurts.”

Beacrox is scared too. Scared of the copious amounts of blood escaping her little body. Scared of her body slowly becoming colder as the seconds fly by. Scared of her eyes that are slowly fluttering themself close.

“Hey, hey, you can’t sleep yet. We have to wait for Father first okay?”

Despite all of those things, the Molan heir stood strong. He has to. He needs to be strong enough for the two of them.

[Name] tries hard to follow her brother’s orders. However, the task starts to feel impossible to accomplish as time goes on. Sleep tempts her, tells her that if she closes her eyes the pain will disappear.

Her surroundings became more and more hazy and her family's voices grew quieter until she couldn’t hear them anymore. She was fighting to stay awake despite her body desperately shutting down.

“Dad…”

She mumbles as she sees a blur of a person that she thinks she recognizes as her father. 

“It’s okay. Everything is okay now. We’ll get out of here.”

Ron tries to reassure the girl but she can’t hear him anymore. He pressed his fingers on her pulse desperately trying to find one. Once he found it he asked his son to monitor the pulse as he aides his wife.

Bathump

“Baby stay with me. Dad’s here now. Dad will get you out of here.”

Thump

“[Name] you can’t close your eyes. Beacrox try to keep her eyes open!”

thump

“Mom! Dad! I- I can’t! I can barely feel her pulse. She’s also not breathing anymore!”

…thump

“Run. I’ll handle it here. Go with your father!”

“But what about [name]???”

“...It’s too late for her…”

…thum…

…

Only then did Beacrox let go of [name]’s wrist. Even after removing his hand, he felt like he could still hear it.

Her last pulse.

The feeling of it lingered in Beacrox’s hand. He clenches and lets go of his hand, but still…

Still, he could feel it.

Even as he runs away while looking at his father’s back. Even decades later when his serving the Henituse family as a chef. 

That feeling never goes away.

Meanwhile, the one left at the Molan Estate is still fighting. Desperately fighting the intruders with all her might.

She knows she’s outnumbered. She knows that she will die at their hands. She knows she has no fighting chance.

But still, she fights.

In hopes of buying her husband and her son time. In hopes of letting them escape and live to see another day.

And as she expected, she didn’t last long. After a few minutes of swinging her greatsword, he had finally succumbed to her wounds. Her body fell on the ground of what used to be their home. Of what used to be a safe space for her and her family.

Luckily, they left her alone after that. Figuring that she’ll die on her own either way. It gave her a chance to crawl over to her daughter. Gave her the chance to hug her one last time before her inevitable doom.

[Name]’s body was still bleeding. It had slowed down considerably thanks to Beacrox’s efforts but it was still bleeding. But her mother didn’t mind. She didn’t mind the puddle of blood gathering underneath her daughter’s body.

She just wants to hug her child one last time.

That’s why she ignored everything. The sticky blood, [name]’s cold body, her own ragged breathing. She ignored all of it and imagined that they were back in her daughter’s room. That she’s just hugging her daughter to sleep after telling her a bedtime story.

…thump

Ron’s wife wasn’t sure if she heard that right.

…thump …thump

She pressed her ears closer to [name]’s heart and heard the faintest of pulse. It was almost nonexistent. 

But it meant that there was still hope for her daughter.

Gathering her strength. She draped over her body on top of her daughter. This effectively hid her and put pressure on her wound.

She didn’t know if her daughter would survive. But she knows that she won't. This is her last ditch effort to make her daughter live. The only thing she can do with her dying body.

Kissing the crown of her sweet baby’s head for one last time, she let her body finally succumb to its wounds after fighting for so long.

Gasp!

[Name] gasped awake from her sleep as she dreamed of that night again. It’s been a few years since then. She has somehow managed to escape with her limited stealth skills at that time. Managed to go outside the borders of the Molden Kingdom in order to live.

For the first few years, she had to live on the streets. It was a sudden change. From having her own room and servants to barely eating one day a meal. But still, she persevered. It’s what her mother would have wanted.

She has nothing on her except the clothes on her back. She can’t even use her real name anymore for fear that someone will recognize it. 

However, she did have her father’s teachings.

It may not have been much as she was just starting out before their family fell apart. But she still practised them every chance she got. Tries to expand what she knows by remembering what she has read and her experience while living on the streets.

“You’re already taking another job? Go out and play or something! You’re too young to be taking job after job!”

Her hard work paid off in the form of her being a mercenary. She used her skills and wits to qualify for such a dangerous job. In turn, she became a full pledge mercenary at the young age of 12.

Every mission was life-threatening. She never knows if a mission is going to be her last one. But it puts a roof over her head and a warm meal on her plate.

“Nalom, why do you take so many jobs? You already have enough money to last you for at least 3 months.”

One of the mercenaries ruffled her hair but she ignored it. Focusing her attention on the name she was called.

Nalom…

The opposite of Molan.

Cheesy. She knows it was cheesy to make her alias just the reverse spelling of her last name. But she feels like she will inevitably forget her real name if she doesn’t do it.

She might have lost everything that night but she promised herself that she’ll take revenge one day. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, she will get it done.

Hence why she takes job after job. Honing her skills and pushing her limits. Trying to discreetly sniff out any information about the secret organization that attacked the Molans.

“Bud I heard we’re going on a war with Arm?“

The now 27-year-old [name] sneaked behind Bud.

“Nalom! How many times do I have to keep telling you that you’ll give me a heart attack if you keep sneaking up on me like that?”

[Name] ignored the Mercenary King holding onto his chest as she waited for an answer.

“Yes, the veterans will attack their secret base in a few days.”

“I’m included right?”

Bud Illis looks at her as if she’s joking.

“Of course you are. You’ve been here for 15 years. There’s no way you’re not a veteran.”

Good.

That way she’ll finally get her revenge.

“By the way. Is the investigation about our first base done yet?”

[Name] could see Bud’s shoulder tense at the question. She honestly didn’t care much. It was devastating that it had been blown up and the directory is now gone but it’s not like anyone from their side died. So it’s not her problem.

Well at first at least.

Until she heard the rumours that the one who attacked the directory was Molan’s last patriarch.

“Not yet. I wasn’t there when it happened and we’re putting all our efforts into the upcoming attack that’s why the investigation is taking longer.”

She could sense that Bud was only telling half the truth but she let it go.

“Say Nalom, did you learn your stealth techniques from someone?“

The Mercenary King asked just as she was about to go out of his office.

“No, I learned during my time living on the streets.”

A half-life. It was only fair since Bud also lied to her.

With that [name] closed the door behind her making her unable to hear the conversation that happened in her absence.

“Her techniques feel similar to Patriarch-nim…”

Bud mumbled under his breath once the stealthy mercenary was gone.

“It’s different but their foundations are similar.”

Glenn agreed from the couch. Both of them wondered if there was a chance that Nalom was somehow connected to the Molans.

“Where’s the kid?”

One of the mercenaries asked as they prepared to attack Arm’s secret base.

“I don’t know, you know how Nalom is. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Another mercenary reassured the guy.

“Nalom? Who’s that?”

Cale asked Bud who was also trying to look for the missing mercenary.

“She’s our youngest veteran, only 27-years-old. But she’s the best among the mercenaries when it comes to stealth.”

Bud checked one last corner before sighing and giving up.

“She was here just a second ago… Well, it’s not like she can’t handle herself. But she has never gone on her own during large-scale attacks.”

The Mercenary King decided to trust the missing mercenary and continued with the original plan.

“Who goes there!?”

Beacrox hears a familiar yet foreign voice ask him as he dodges a flying dagger.

“I should be the one asking you…”

Brown hair that was the same shade as his own greeted him. Her one hand preparing to throw another dagger while her other hand was clutching on a flag that had been drawn on.

22 years. It has been 22 years since he last saw his little sister. His last memory of her was her body growing colder in his arms as he felt her pulse slowly stop.

Even today he could still feel her pulse linger in his hands.

“[Name].”

Beacrox called out. If only he knew that it was the first time in 22 years since anyone had called [name] by that name. 

He could see the mercenary stop in her tracks. Her arm lowered as she processed his voice and the name he called her.

“Orabeoni?”

She asked and Beacrox nodded. Yes, it’s him. It’s her orabeoni. 

[Name] slowly walked towards him. Her steps slow and staggering. Almost falling in his arms once she was close enough.

“It’s you. It’s really you. You’re alive.”

She cried in Beacrox's arms and for one he didn’t mind that his clothes were being tainted. He’ll take as much dirt as he needs as long as he can hug his sister in his arms.

Bathump. Bathump.

Instinctively his hand reached out to her wrist. The same wrist he held onto that night. But unlike that time, her pulse is loud and clear. Full of vitality.

Alive

“What’s taking you so long? I thought you were going to check out who was sneaking around your sister’s room?”

Ron’s voice echoed through the halls as he walked closer to where the siblings were.

“Dad’s alive? It was really Dad who blew up the first mercenary base?”

[Name] heard her brother hummed in affirmation. His chest vibrates against her cheek as they are still hugging each other.

Ron’s footsteps were silent but [name] could sense that he was close. Letting go of the hug, she stepped outside of her room to greet him.

They didn’t say anything. They don’t need to. 

For Ron will be able to recognize his daughter anywhere.

That’s why he didn’t say anything and just accepted his running daughter with open arms. Hugging her tightly, as if trying to make up for the two decades they have been apart.

“Dad I was so lonely. I was so scared.”

She confided in her dad. The veteran mercenary who’s the best in stealth and wields double daggers is gone. In the arms of her dad, she’s simply [Name] Molan. She’s just the daughter he loves. 

The daughter he thought he lost.

“It’s fine now. Everything is fine. You can tell your dad everything that happened.”

Ron stroked his daughter’s hair. His hands shaking ever so slightly.

Tears gathered in his eyes but only Beacrox noticed them. 

The chef said nothing about his father’s vulnerability. He stayed silent even when a lone tear managed to escape his father’s eyes.

His strong father. The same one who bulldozed through everything just to keep him alive. The same father who worked hard to train him while discreetly investigating the organization that attacked them. His father showed no weakness.

That same father of his has been overcome by emotion.

And Beacrox can’t say anything about it for he was the same.

[reagi-df]

Leon is so happy to meet other versions of himself at the @tmntaucompetition, Cleo on the other hand? Not so much, he's going through stuff and it's bad enough he's having to deal with Leon and Him. But Leon thinks it might be good exposure.... Hopefully there won't be any bloodshed

--------- “Bro, can't you just chill,? Leo whines. “Your not even 26 yet and I can already see the wrinkles in your face from the resting bitch face you keep sporting” 

Leo turns his head to the side, amber eyes narrowing at him, “chill?” He echoes, turns fully to Leon now, “it’s bad enough I have to deal with you and him, but now there’s more of us?”

Leo drags his hands down his face with a groan and Leon catches the slight shake in his limbs. Brows furrowing, Leon adjusts his stance, shoulders drawing back as he fingers the scalpel that’s hidden in his wrappings, ready and waiting. 

Keeping his voice low Leon speaks slowly. “It’s not a big deal, their not going to be here for long”

Leo digs his fingers into his skin and lets off a sharp hiss as he hunches his shoulders. 

Leon curses and edges out from behind the settee and warily steps closer, “hey” he waits for a solid 5 seconds before the older slider lifts his head, and he hates the look the other is giving him.

His distorted pupils have retracted into slits, and a chill runs through Leon; he suddenly feels like he’s prey and those predators were locked onto him. He desperately tries to remember what he saw the other peepaws do when Leo gets like this, hell Leons sure Casey would have a better understanding of how to help his counterpart. 

A low growl ripples out, shattering the quietness that had filled the room. Shit, he thinks, he stares down at the predator. 

He feels a tug on his ninpo and dread fills him. He needs to defuse this situation as quickly as he can.  

Leon’s eye catches onto a cup of water sitting on the table, eyes dart back and forth between the slider and the water, he’s seen Tello do the same and it worked then, sure Tello had to hide for a few hour a until Leo calmed down and stopped hunting him but it still worked. 

He’s just hoping it’ll work now. 

He edges toward the table as casually as he could, makes sure he’s out of arm reaches and keeps his tone soft. 

“Look i'm going to be real with you, I’ve never been good on the whole “self help” stuff,” Leon air quotes, “but I know the usual process of getting people to calm down from panic attacks won’t usually work on you and I’d really like to not knock you out if I can help it”

Once he’s close, he inches his fingers closer to the cup; those irregular eyes were locked into his own, it unsettles  him but if the older wasn’t looking at what his hands are doing then that’s fine. 

Like magicians, it’s all about misleading.

Cup firmly in his hand he steps forward. 

“So it’s either you let me help you calm down. Or I go get Tello, hell even Casey ” he’s a little disappointed name dropping Casey didn’t get a reaction out of him. 

Sharp eyes peek out from his fingers, Leo’s golden eyes are a stark contrast to his black mask, making them all the more piercing as they stare into Leon’s very being.

When he’s met with no other reaction, Leon carries on, “okay that’s good, I’m probably the last person you wanna see but there’s nothing I can do.”

“And hey, I’m sorry” he grins and throws the cup of water at his counterpart's face, the slider flings back with a hiss and lands on his backside.

Leon waits with a bated breath, as Leo stares up at him,  eye blinking while the water drips from his face. It takes a few seconds for either one of them to speak.

“What. The hell” Leo growls and Leon can’t take him seriously when he looks like a grumpy wet cat.

Faking casual Leo shrugs nonchalantly and sets the cup down, “shouldn’t have hissed at me then” even as he speaks he’s still creeping away, those same amber eyes narrowed into slits, and he sees the way the eldest slider's body tenses up.

Eugh boy

“Y’know, I’m curious” Leo gets up slowly, water droplets hitting his plastron and onto the floor. “I don’t remember how fast I used to be when I was younger” Leo regrets everything up until this point when he sees a smile twist onto Leo’s face, sharp white canines glisten in the light.

“You sure you won’t pop a hip” unable to hold back a snark, Leon regards him.

“Wanna test it?”  His voice is low and menacing and Leo could see the sadistic look in his eyes.

“I just suddenly remembered Donnie wants me, so how about we test this some other time m’kay?”   Grinning Leo turns and legs it with his counterpart hot on his tail. 

“I shoulda just let you suffer!” Leo yelps just as a hand missed reaching out for him.

Please excuse my dyslexia

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

oooo it's been a while since the last snippet :]c it's another fantasy au one where I'm! Putting! Barnaby! Through It!

a minor warnings: implied/referenced major character death <3

 No one eats dinner, and Frank won’t stop tapping his spoon against his bowl. Tok tok tok it goes, over and over again.

Poppy made a simple stew from their provisions, but only Eddie and Sally make an attempt at tasting it. Their halfhearted ‘it’s good’s don’t pierce the pressure weighing down on them all. Barnaby swears he can taste it, thick and cloying. 

Already he keeps catching himself looking for Wally. Where is- he starts to think, and then he remembers the moment Wally fell with a spear piercing his chest, and the grief rises so fast it nearly drowns him in a heartbeat. Barnaby can’t bring himself to try and hide it behind anything but a stony mask. In any other situation he might try to put some levity into the group. Cheer up the sad and empty faces staring into their meals. 

He wouldn’t be able to think of a single lighthearted thing even if he wanted to. He doesn’t.

Tok tok tok-

Shuffling from Howdy’s tent has everyone glancing over at it, and Frank’s spoon stills. Howdy briefly woke up while Poppy was cooking. All he did was sit up, look at everyone, then pitch to the side and vomit. They got him into a tent before he passed out again, mumbling something about puppets. Frank made a comment about how Howdy was supposed to be a bit out of it, not at fae-drunk levels of hazy. Eddie had muttered back a dejected apology, and after that the camp was silent until Poppy’s announcement that dinner was ready. The spoon continues tapping when the shuffling stills.

Tok tok tok-

Since Eddie and Sally saying that dinner is good, there hasn’t been a noise beyond the occasional sniffle. It’s a good thing Julie isn’t trying her stew - it must be disgustingly salty from all the tears dripping into it. 

Tok tok tok-

Barnaby sighs through his nose and puts his bowl down, sick of looking at everyone’s misery. He would say that he’s going to go sleep, but he has a feeling that none of them are getting a wink tonight. 

Tok tok-

Before he can stand, Frank blurts, “We shouldn’t have attacked it. It was a mistake.”

“Please don’t,” Julie begs.

“There’s no need to rub salt in the wound,” Sally says firmly, her stew starting to sizzle from the rising heat in her hands.

“Not right now, Frank,” Eddie mutters. 

Frank visibly bristles, and he launches to his feet. “I refuse to pretend not to have seen what I did! The truth is a terrible thing, but someone needs to say it. Wally lied to us.”

“Frank…” Barnaby warns.

“We shouldn’t have attacked the demon,” Frank barrels on, ignoring him, “because there was no need to. It didn’t eat Wally until the end because the demon is his patron. Wally was never a wizard at all, he was a warlock-”

Barnaby lunges with a deep bark that echoes against the trees. The crickets symphony falls silent. Frank trips backwards over his seat, staring up with wide eyes as Barnaby stalks around the fire, growling. Eddie and Sally slowly stand, inching between him and Frank. 

Barnaby stops, snout bunched and canines bared. He jabs a claw at Frank. “Don’t you ever say that again. Ever.”

Frank’s mouth flaps uselessly for a moment. When he speaks, it comes out as a whisper, “I’m-”

“If you end that with right instead of sorry, I’ll make damn sure that you are.”

Frank wisely keeps his mouth shut. The crickets continue chirping.

Barnaby glares at him until Frank looks away. Barnaby straightens his vest with a sharp tug and strides away from the fire, towards his and- his tent. Just his, now. Murmuring breaks out at his back. He yanks the flap open, grabs his pipe and herb pouch, and heads towards the forest. He pauses only to listen by Howdy’s tent, waiting to hear proof of life before continuing on.

Once he can’t see the firelight anymore, Barnaby chooses a random tree and sits heavily in front of it. Rough bark digs into his back through his vest. A night bird hoots overhead. Crickets continue to make their music, but Barnaby wishes they would shut up for good. 

Light from the full moon pours through the branches to provide just enough light to see by. Barnaby holds up his pipe and quickly puts it to the side to take off a grimy glove. The heart-pad and blue fur underneath contrasts vibrantly with the dust-grayed rest of him. After a moment he removes the other glove, wincing as the leather drags over his injured knuckles. He turns his paw over and scowls at the dirty black edges of the red-raw scrapes. He should have punched harder. He hopes it scars, even though he knows it won’t.

The gloves themselves are scuffed up, but not beyond use. Barnaby folds them into his pocket and gets to work lighting his pipe. He packs it and instinctively opens his mouth to ask Wally to light it for him. The words die on his tongue as he turns only to see dark forest. Empty woods save for the tiny blue lights of night wisps floating on the breeze. 

Barnaby stares into the darkness with yawning dread. He keeps looking. How long will it take him to stop? How long until Wally’s face starts to smudge in his memories, until his voice is gone and Barnaby doesn’t even remember what his smile looked like? How long until Barnaby only thinks of him in passing? 

He doesn’t want to reach that point. He desperately does. 

Will it hurt more or less? Does it matter? He wants it to ache until he dies.

Barnaby frantically fishes his sparkrune out of the herb pouch - only there for emergencies, when Wally or Sally isn’t there to light it for him. It will wear down to a nub within the month. He strikes his thumb claw against it, and sparks fly expertly into the bowl of his pipe. It takes a moment to catch. Barnaby lifts the bit to his lips and takes a drag before enough smoke forms for a lungful. 

Maybe he should have grabbed the stronger stuff. If he breathes enough of it, maybe he’d be able to see Wally. 

But Barnaby doesn’t get up in the end. He sits against the base of a tree and hugs himself, the pipe’s intermittent glow betraying the shine in his eyes.

[teine-mallaichte]

For DA drunk writing, how about “Hiding blood loss with bandages” for Fenders? Perhaps Anders can’t heal himself for some reason and is trying to push through it. I always love a scenario where the healer needs to accept help.

Oh writing then this way round is hard 🤣 far easier to have Fenris hiding an injury. Was a fun challenge though.

I think this came out as a pre-frenders to be honest

@dadrunkwriting fic number 3

Anders swiftly wraps the bandages around his wound, concealing the crimson stain spreading through the fabric. He meets Fenris's concerned gaze with a strained smile, trying to downplay the severity of his injury. "Just a scratch," he reassures, though the weight of his vulnerability burdens him.

Fenris regards Anders skeptically, his eyes probing for the truth. "Why don't you simply heal yourself, mage?"

Anders hesitates, his gaze darting away from Fenris's piercing stare. "It's... complicated," he murmurs, unwilling to divulge the truth behind his inability to use magic to mend his wound. "But I'll manage. Give me a moment to dress it properly, and I'll be as good as new." He shifts uncomfortably, hoping Fenris won't press further. The thought of being perceived as a burden gnaws at him.

Reluctantly, Fenris nods, though his concern remains evident. "Very well," he concedes, his gaze lingering on Anders for a moment longer before turning his attention back to their surroundings. "We need to find Hawke and Isabella swiftly. They could be in grave danger."

As Fenris steps away to survey their surroundings, Anders seizes the opportunity to inspect his wound more closely. Carefully peeling back the edge of the bandage, he winces as he sees the ominous spread of blood staining the fabric. The magebane coating on the blade had effectively nullified his ability to heal the wound, leaving him vulnerable and dependent on mundane means of treatment. Perhaps in his clinic, or even at camp, this setback might have been manageable, but it here... Knowing they still had things to do and could be attacked again... Things were far more precarious.

Anders clenches his jaw, suppressing a frustrated growl as he realizes the gravity of his situation. But he can't be a burden, Hawke and Isabella are out there somewhere, potentially hurt... Readjusting the bandage, ensuring it's secure, he hides it beneath his robes once more.

Taking a deep breath, he starts walking in what he hopes will be the right direction.

Anders finds it increasingly difficult to keep up with Fenris as they continue their journey. Every step sends a jolt of pain through his injured body, and the weight of his fatigue begins to drag him down. He grits his teeth and tries to maintain a steady pace, refusing to let his weakness slow them down.

Fenris notices Anders's struggle and slows his pace, casting a concerned glance in his direction. "What's wrong?" he asks, he sounds irritated but Anders can see the thinly veiled concern.

For a moment, Anders debated whether to reveal the truth, but ultimately, he forced a weak smile, attempting to dismiss Fenris's concern. "Just a bit tired," he replied, his voice strained with the effort of masking his pain. "I'll be fine once we find Hawke and Isabella."

Fenris's gaze lingers on Anders for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. It's clear that he's not entirely convinced by Anders's reassurance, but for now, he chooses to let the matter rest. With a curt nod, he resumes their journey, his steps more measured as if silently acknowledging Anders's struggle without further comment.

As Anders stumbles, and his muscles ache, the weight of his own weariness threatens to drag him to the ground. Despite his determination not to falter, the strain is becoming too much to bear.

With a blink, Anders finds himself face to face with Fenris, who appears as if out of thin air. Surprise flickers across Anders's features at the sudden appearance of the elf, his mind momentarily registering the unexpectedness of Fenris's swift movement. Can he teleport? A pang of resentment stirs within him at the thought of Fenris keeping such abilities hidden.

But before Anders can voice his surprise, Fenris's voice cuts through his thoughts with an undeniable firmness. "You are not fine," Fenris states, his tone leaving no room for argument. And though Anders tries to brush off the concern he hears in Fenris's voice, he can't deny the hint of worry that lingers beneath the surface.

With a stubborn look, Anders attempts to assert his independence. "Last I checked, I was the healer here," he retorts, his words tinged with frustration. "I'm relatively confident that I can judge my own health." He pauses irritated, "and since when can you teleport?"

Confusion clouds Fenris's features as he registers Anders's accusation. "Teleport?" he echoes, his tone betraying his bewilderment. "What nonsense are you spouting now, mage?"

Anders's frustration deepens at Fenris's evident lack of understanding. "Forget it," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in exasperation. "It's not important. Let's just focus on getting where we need to be."

As Anders moves to push past Fenris, the warrior's hand grips his shoulder firmly, halting his progress. "Stop," Fenris commands, urgency creeping into his voice. "You're injured."

Anders reiterates his assertion, trying to brush off Fenris's concern. "You are overreacting," he insists, trying to sound convincing despite the throbbing pain in his side. "Let's just keep moving."

Fenris's grip tightens, his eyes holding a mixture of frustration and genuine concern. "I am not overreacting," he counters firmly, his voice brooking no argument.

Anders stands up straight, ignoring the way it pulls on his wound, glaring at the warrior he slowly reiterates, "I am the healer here, and I say I am fine. Now get out of my way."

Fenris hesitates for a moment, his gaze locked with Anders's defiant stare. The tension between them crackles in the air, each refusing to yield to the other's stubbornness. But then, with a sigh of resignation, Fenris releases his grip on Anders's shoulder and steps back.

"Fine," Fenris concedes, his voice tinged with frustration. "But if you do collapse i am not carrying you" With a pointed look, he gestures for Anders to lead the way.

Anders nods. "That won't be a problem." he replies.

With each step, Anders could feel the weight of Fenris's gaze on him, a constant reminder of the elf's unwelcome concern. Sure, he might have been lightly stabbed, and yes, healing was temporarily off the table thanks to that blasted magebane, but he wasn't some helpless child. Anders knew his own body well enough to recognize the signs of blood loss. Besides, they had bigger problems – like finding Hawke and Isabella before something happened to them.

He couldn't shake the feeling that Fenris was hovering, though. It grated on him, this unnecessary fuss. Did the elf really think he couldn't handle a minor setback? That he was just some pathetic weak mage who couldn't cope with a little stabbing? Anders clenched his jaw. He'd prove Fenris wrong, show him that he wasn't some fragile thing in need of constant attention.

"Mage."

Anders blinked, startled to find Fenris standing in front of him once again. How does he keep sneaking up like that? His irritation flared, bracing himself for yet another round of Fenris's relentless concern. "What now?" Anders asked, his tone edged with exasperation.

Fenris's expression briefly flickered with concern before settling into a frown. "Why did you stop?" he questioned, his voice laced with uncertainty.

Anders scoffed, incredulous. "Stop? I didn't stop," he insisted, his frustration mounting. "I've been walking this entire time."

Fenris's brow furrowed in confusion as he observed Anders closely. "You did," he countered, his voice firm. "You froze for a moment, as if... lost."

Anders's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he struggled to comprehend Fenris's observations. "I... I didn't notice," he admitted, his confusion evident in his voice.

Fenris stepped back slightly, his eyes scanning Anders's form with a critical gaze. "What is wrong?" he pressed.

Anders's patience wore thin as Fenris continued to scrutinize him, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Nothing is wrong!" he snapped, his tone sharper than intended.

Fenris remained undeterred, his gaze unwavering. "You're pale, stumbling, and seem... disoriented," he pointed out. "Something is clearly amiss."

Anders bristled at Fenris's persistence, his pride battling against the undeniable truth of his deteriorating condition. "We are wasting time arguing," he insisted, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears.

Fenris's frustration flared at Anders's stubborn refusal to acknowledge his worsening condition. "Your stubbornness will cost us more time if you collapse," he retorted sharply, his voice tinged with exasperation. "We need to address this now, before it becomes a larger issue."

Anders recoiled slightly at the harshness in Fenris's tone, his own frustration matching the warrior's. "I said I'm fine," he insisted stubbornly, though the strain in his voice betrayed his growing weakness. "We can't afford to waste time on me when Hawke and Isabella could be in danger."

Conflicting emotions played across Fenris's features, torn between his concern for Anders and his determination to find their friends. After a moment of tense silence, he seemed to make a decision.

"Show me the injury," he demanded.

Anders hesitates, caught off guard by Fenris's sudden demand. His mind races for a plausible excuse, anything to divert Fenris's attention away from his wound. With a nervous chuckle, he tries to lighten the mood. "Oh, I knew you were eager to get me out of my robes, but I didn't think you'd be this forward," he quips, hoping his attempt at humor will distract Fenris from pressing further.

Fenris's expression remains impassive, his gaze unwavering as he waits for Anders to comply. "This is not a joking matter," he states firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Placing a gauntleted hand on Anders chest he pushes the mage backwards towards a fallen log. "Sit."

A sudden wave of dizziness engulfs him, leaving his head spinning and the world swaying around him. It's as though the simple act of sitting down has severed some invisible thread that kept him moving forward, leaving him adrift in a disorienting haze. He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the vertigo that threatens to overwhelm him, but the sensation only intensifies, like a relentless storm raging within his mind.

He glances down seeing that he has already pulled back his robe, the red stained bandage now on show. He frowned slightly, having no memory of either sitting nor moving his robe.

As Fenris carefully peels back the edge of the bandage to get a better look. Anders can't help but flinch at the touch, the pain shooting through him like a bolt of lightning.

Through the fog of his disorientation, Fenris's voice pierces through with stark clarity, "Why did you not heal yourself?"

Each syllable reverberates within him, demanding attention even as his thoughts spiral into chaos. It's a struggle to focus, to cling to the thread of conversation amid the swirling maelstrom of sensation that threatens to engulf him.

"I couldn't," Anders murmurs weakly, his voice barely audible above the pounding of his own heart. "The blade... it was coated in magebane. It nullified my magic."

Fenris's brow furrows with concern as he studies Anders's pale, clammy complexion. "You're in no condition to continue," he declares firmly, his voice brooking no argument.

Anders opens his mouth to protest, but before he can form a coherent response, the world tilts dangerously, and darkness swallows him whole. The last thing he hears before succumbing to unconsciousness is Fenris's urgent voice calling his name.

When Anders regains consciousness, he finds himself lying on a bedroll, the sound of crackling flames and distant voices echoing around him. Blinking blearily, he struggles to sit up, his body protesting every movement with a symphony of aches and pains.

"You collapsed."

Anders hears Fenris's voice from somewhere nearby.

Anders turns his head towards the sound of Fenris's voice, squinting against the dim light to make out the familiar form of the elf nearby. "Collapsed?" he repeats, his voice hoarse and raspy. The events leading up to his unconsciousness flood back to him in disjointed fragments, the sensation of falling and the echo of Fenris's urgent voice still lingering in his memory.

Fenris nods grimly, "I had to carry you," he says with a hint of irritation.

Anders struggles to push himself into a sitting position, wincing as pain flares anew in his side. "You said you wouldn't carry me if I collapsed," he remarks.

Fenris's expression softens slightly at Anders's reminder, though his irritation remains evident. "I changed my mind," he admits grudgingly, his gaze flickering away briefly before returning to meet Anders.

"Hawke and Isabella were not far from where you fell." He explained, quickly changing the subject "fortunately for you they both seem to know some amount of first aid."

Anders nods weakly, gratitude mingling with his lingering discomfort. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I appreciate it."

Fenris offers a terse nod in response, his expression softening slightly at Anders's words. "Rest now," he advises, before standing and leaving Anders alone by the fire.

[sl-newsie]

Behind Masks (Dr. Jonathon Crane x OC) Ch. 1: Introductions

“You can’t keep me here! I demand a lawyer! I am an associate of the Hell’s Gate Psychiatric Institution and will not tolerate this denial of justice!”

The security guard bangs his baton against the bars again. “Quiet, Prentiss! You’re lucky you get your own cell. Or would you rather have to share?”

My gaze throws daggers. “I’ll have you know that I am perfectly sane and do not belong in this asylum. I will not cooperate until I speak to a lawyer.”

“That’s too bad,” the guard taunts. “‘Cause I got strict orders not to allow you any visitors.”

I gawk at his idiotic face. “On whose authority?”

“You’ll meet him once his current session is over,” he says as he walks down the hall away from my cell. "I think it’s with Croc if I’m not mistaken.”

Croc? As in Killer Croc? God, why didn’t I just play the game? Why did I have to go beyond my jurisdiction? I already knew Gotham was a rigged and twisted system the second I got here. I’ve gone from a respected psychiatrist to the very type of person I’m supposed to be above. Now all I have to my name is an orange jumpsuit, a pair of cheap sneakers, a toothbrush, and a small copy of the Bible. 

How long have I been waiting? There’s no clock, no windows. No clue to anything happening outside. All I see are beige hallways spanned into a webbed labyrinth that’s meant to keep patients from escaping. Keep me from escaping.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

Muffled footsteps echo down through the hall, potentially signaling my approaching contact. At first my heart soars at the hope of finally talking to someone in authority who can get me out; yet as the footsteps grow louder there’s something about them that sends a chill down my spine. It can’t be him. God, I hope it’s not him-

It’s him.

I’ve heard rumors of the dark secrets that go on at Arkham. Crackheads slicing open arteries, schizophrenics keeping doctors up for days on end. One that always highlights itself above the rest is the Scarecrow. And he just opened my cell door.

What I notice first is the eyes. Cold, icy-blue eyes so full of curiosity yet still impassive. Those cold and calculating eyes stare straight through and scan me. It’s a silent battle of how hard his stare can press until I break. I also see how he’s managed to keep his job. One might say he’s handsome but I know better. Just because you were a clean suit does not mean your soul is spotless. He may be able to charm his way into Arkham but I’ll never give in.

“Good afternoon, Ms…?”

The voice doesn’t help either. He does it well. Calm, soft, and smooth. Typical therapist nonsense I see in my line of work every day. Let’s see if I can win this game.

“You should have access to my file, sir. Introductions should not be necessary.”

The man’s eyebrows raise in response to my equally calm tone. Keep the voice calm, keep the eyes alert. I need to discreetly establish dominance in this conversation in order to gain leverage.

“I do have your file. But I prefer personal introductions with my patients.” The man sets a briefcase on the nearby table and takes a seat, then gestures for me to join him. “No need to hide. I’m here to help.”

Straight to the point I see. No use trying to beat around the bush. I step away from the corner I’m leaning against but refuse to sit down.

“There was a mistake.”

The man frowns and pulls out a pad to start taking notes. “What do you mean?”

He wants me to talk, so I will. “I mean I’m not supposed to be here. Someone paid off the judge to have me locked up, and the judge has had it out for me ever since I dug up his affair with the mayor’s wife.”

This intrigues the therapist as he jots down more notes, still looking up to keep his eyes piercing into me. “Are you a reporter?”

“Far from it. I am- was a psychiatrist in Metropolis. I was called to Gotham to help the mayor’s son. No one else was willing to work here.”

“And you are?” He asks with slight surprise though he tries to hide it.

“Metropolis can only take my curiosity so far,” I mutter. “Gotham is unique.”

More scribbling. I must say he’s much more organized than other professionals I’ve worked with. All the more reason to be concerned with the outcome of this conversation.

“I’m going to ask you some questions to start forming your profile.” Crane turns over an hourglass and clicks his pen open.

Basic protocol. There’s no way I’m giving him everything. Thankfully I’ve learned to avoid the telltale signs of lying.

“Full name?”

“Calico Marie Prentiss.”

“Pretty. Family name, I presume?”

Trying to soften me up and dig into my family history. “My father likes unique names, my mother prefers traditional ones. So they compromised.” Use present tense.

“How is your relationship with your family?” the man asks softly.

He has my family history. My job required me to keep an updated profile on personal matters to validate my own mental health. In other words just an excuse for the bored guys at the top to snoop.

“Currently undecided.” They’re dead. What else am I supposed to say?

“Ms. Prentiss, your parents-”

“With all due respect, sir, can we move things along and save that topic for later?” Just get to the part when I can get out of here!

My stern request doesn’t seem to faze the man. “Do you have supportive people in your life?”

Trying to bring me down by addressing empathy links. “People, no. I have other methods of support. And before you ask, I have never done drugs.”

He nods. “Current relationship status?”

This trips my mind a bit. Must be a new questionnaire protocol? 

“Single,” I enunciate in a cold voice.

“Interesting…” More scribbling. Jesus, is he writing a book about me? “Normally people like you are either engaged, married, or divorced. Very rarely do I see any single psychiatrists. Attractive, smart, rich. Very appealing characteristics for a relationship, don’t you think?”

Hm. He asked a question that isn’t based on my profile. Is this for genuine curiosity or a topic of interest for him? After a few seconds of silence go by he continues.

“Your toxicology screening came back clean, as you mentioned before. How many partners have you encountered?”

The question rings in my ear and for an instant my mask slips, but I’m quick to recover.

“None.”

Once again the therapist is surprised. “Catholic, are we?”

“I have my morals. I’m too busy to be worrying about sex, sir. My job comes first.”

More scribbling. God, how much longer?

“Are you having suicidal thoughts right now, or have you had suicidal thoughts within the past month?”

If this questioning goes any longer I may consider it.

“No.”

“Are you having homicidal thoughts, or have you had homicidal thoughts in the past month?”

“Never.”

“How do you cope with stress?”

“Exercise and hard rock. You should try it sometime.” I’m starting to lose my patience and I have to take a slow breath. This is just what he wants. Calm down.

The man hums. “What are some of your strengths?”

“I’m punctual and have a traditional mindset. This tends to drive away disagreeing parties, which is why I’m here.” I step closer and place my hands on the table to face him directly. “You are a head staff member here whether it’s morally correct or not. All I ask is to please allow me to speak to a lawyer, or at least a transfer to Gotham Penitentiary. I am not insane.”

“Morally correct…” he lingers on the thought and tilts his head. “Why would you say that, Ms. Prentiss?”

Just as I thought before, no use beating around the bush.

“I know who you are. Jonathan Crane, a former professor of psychology who’s obsessed with fear. Now you work here experimenting on patients behind the warden’s back.”

Crane’s eyes spark at the mention of fear. Must be a trigger word, perhaps for old memories. “Are you sure you’re not a reporter?” he asks, still in the same soft tone.

I shake my head. “Just a woman who’s not afraid to step on any toes.”

“Ah.” Crane stands up slowly and rummages through his briefcase. After tucking away his notes he looks up with a look that makes my blood run cold. 

“Would you like to see my mask?”

[tokusaatsus]

h. wataru — his bones are coral made

warnings: mentions of element, shakespeare references, wataru being wataru, feelings going nowhere

Half-hidden in the shadows cast by the thick velvet curtains, you stand and listen. Comparable to a ghost, or perhaps a phantom, but you’ve never been one for the spotlight.

A little strange for an idol student, yes, but you’ve always known your true calling lay beyond the allure of the stage and what it offered.

Blue flashes in the corner of your vision. You turn your head and your eyes fall upon none other than Hibiki Wataru.

He stands at center stage. An imposing figure; clear-cut, this boy who is not a boy, and even in this dim, empty room—devoid of an audience—he still shines. He recites his lines with vigour, even though they are appreciated by nothing but the empty air.

“And my ending is despair, unless I be relieved by prayer, which pierces so that it assaults mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free.”

The Tempest, you think. Shakespeare. Fitting for a genius who will die on this stage, if not a little ironic. But Wataru has always loved his irony. You huff a soft laugh, smothered into your palm. His ears prick up at the sound; like a cat’s, like you knew they would.

Without turning his head away from the rows upon rows of empty seats, he speaks. “How kind of you to join me, my dear. Why don’t you come stand by my side, so that I may appreciate you one last time?”

You step out from your hiding place and onto the wood panelling of the stage, worn beneath your feet, stopping a few paces away from him. “Rather dramatic for a dead man walking, aren’t you?” His eyes narrow for a single moment, before his expression smoothes itself over. You are close enough to touch if he reached out, but not much else.

(He doesn't reach out.)

“Ah, but I’m not dead yet! That is the beauty of life—it always contains a surprise~” He produces from thin air a single red rose that he then presents to you with a bow and a flourish. You take it, charmed despite yourself.

“Hm,” you hide the upwards tilt of your lips behind the luscious petals. “And what reason does the dead man to-be have to be practicing his lines so soon to his closing performance? Nerves? Anxiety getting to you?”

“Haven’t you heard? All the world’s a stage, my dear!”

“As You Like It,” your gaze traces the crooked lines of his smile, searching for…something. Disgruntlement, maybe, or anger. Anything that might signify he has even a scrap of drive left in him, a will to fight back. But his face is an inscrutable mask. “Are you truly content to play along with Tenshouin-kun’s script?”

“Mm,” Wataru hums as he cocks his head to the side, so very like those doves he adores. “I will admit, it was rather hastily made. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I will perform my role as best I can. At the end of this performance, fine will emerge victorious.”

You purse your lips, disappointed yet refusing to show it. “I see.” It seems even now, he is unwilling to dispense with all his theatrics. You turn to leave. This farce has gone on long enough.

“My dear,” his tone gentles. He will not go so far as to plead, but this is something close to it. The closest you will get, perhaps, to hearing him beg. “Please do not be disheartened. While the Hibiki Wataru of the five Eccentrics may be felled today, the Hibiki Wataru of your heart shall live on. After all, the course of true love never did run smooth.”

“...A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” you say, with a roll of your eyes. His expression brightens when you respond, a sign that you are on your way to forgiving him—or, at the very least, you do not despise him enough to refuse him. You would not have played along otherwise. “Yes, I’m aware. But is it too much to hope that things could be simpler, for once?”

“Indeed. However, us five Eccentrics were never destined for simple things. We must reach for the stars, the highest peak we may attain. Amazing ☆! I, for one…” he pauses, gauging your micro-expressions. “Would be honoured to have you watch my final performance. My defeat would not be complete, were you not there to witness my tragic fall. You might even critique it later, if you so wished. What do you say?”

“I…” you hug your arms to your chest. Words fail you. “I don’t…”

He leans closer, his face scant inches away from yours. His eyes reflect the emotions you feel must show in your expression, a mockery of the turmoil swirling in your heart. “You would not deny me your companionship, would you? Consider it my dying wish. Don’t you know? Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

Your lip curls into a faint sneer. “Romeo and Juliet. You know I hate that play. I’m not a fan of when stupidity is fatal.”

“I do,” he agrees easily, a smile on his face. “Apologies, I simply got carried away.” One step forwards. One step back. “Well? What about it? Will you stay?” He takes your hands in his. It would be so easy to accept it…yet something stops you from doing so.

This does not escape his notice. Little does, actually. Wataru sighs, gives a fluid shrug of his shoulders. “Or perhaps, you do not wish to be associated with me? Well, I can see why. The pressure of being Hibiki Wataru’s lapdog proved to be too much for you to handle, hm?” His eyes are just a little too bright to be sincere.

You draw your hand back, stung and struggling to keep control of your composure. “If you really think that way, then you don’t know me at all.” Your voice wavers on the last few words.

It’s that, more than anything else, which seems to bring him back to himself. “Forgive me, my dear. I…got carried away, it seems. I do hope you will still consider my offer?”

You step away cautiously, distancing yourself from him with all the tenseness of a prey animal faced by a predator.

In a few hours, you’ll be watching from inside a glass box as a boy, whom you might grow to love in time, dies. Who’s to say that the Wataru who leaves the stage is the same as the Wataru who stepped onto it? Is this the last thing you want to say to him? Is this the last memory you want him to have of you?

Fuelled by a sudden burst of courage, you turn back around and press a swift kiss to his cheek before dancing back on quick feet. Feather-light, fleeting—as ephemeral as Wataru himself. He blinks, seemingly stunned, the first burst of true emotion you’ve seen him show today.

“I’ll watch it,” you say quickly, in a rush to get your words out. “I'll watch your execution. And Wataru?” He raises a curious eyebrow; go on. “I’ll keep my eyes on you the whole time. So…don’t just roll over and show your belly to fine. Give it your all, okay?”

Then the mortification sets in and you turn on your heel, towards the studio control room, heart racing in your chest. Wataru’s laughter sounds behind you. “Don’t worry, my dear! You won’t be able to look away.”

© tokusaatsus 2023

wc. 1.2k words

reze txt. truly, i do hate romeo and juliet. but i am a thespian, unfortunately, and so i had to do it. the title is a tempest ref. wataru… he intrigues me. i love it when feelings go nowhere. enjoy pining in your ambiguity.

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[redgoldsparks]

May Reading and Reviews by Maia Kobabe

I post my reviews throughout the month on Storygraph and Goodreads, and do roundups here and on patreon.

Boys Run The Riot vol 2 by Keito Gaku

I really wanted to like this series, but unfortunately, I don't. The pacing feels rushed, the characters aren't very realistic and burst out into outsized emotional reactions that don't feel earned, and at the end of this volume the trans character is outed against his will on a youtube channel with a million followers. I'm going to have to give up on this story. 

Unmasking Autism by Devon Price

This book is short, accessible and very informative! Price is trans and autistic, and was only diagnosed later in life. He blends narrative of his own lived experience with many interviews and thorough research. This book encourages compassion, self-knowledge, community building, and unmasking- the process of shedding the habits many autistic people employ to hide or mask their autistic traits. As a queer person pondering my own potential place on the autism spectrum, this book was an excellent introduction and gave me a lot of food for thought!

Thick as Thieves by Megan Whelan Turner read by Steve West

These books continue to delight! This deep into the series, I don't want to summarize the plot, as one of the pleasures of this series is how each book has built on the previous ones. The volatile political machinations between the the three peninsula countries of Eddis, Attolia, Sounis and the Mede Empire grow increasingly complex. Eugenides continues to make moves that appear petty and childish, whose deeper purpose is only revealed much later. I continue to be amazed at the character arcs, both of new characters and returning favorites. Read these books! I can't recommend them highly enough!

White Cat, Black Dog by Kelly Link

Another magical short story collection from Kelly Link! These stories are more directly inspired by existing fairy tales than Link's other work, but each one has been moved into the modern day, and generally changed so much as to be only loosely recognizable. A Game of Smash and Recovery, inspired by Hansel and Gretel, does feature a brother and sister; but they have been stranded on a foreign moon by their space-traveling parents, and live by scavenging supplies from vast warehouses left behind by previous inhabitants, while evading the vampires which flutter around the edges of their downed spacecraft. As the younger sister gets older, she comes closer and closer to a realization that neither she nor her brother nor their parents are who she thinks they are. The Lady and the Fox, based on Tamlin, does involve a young woman clutching her beloved to her chest through a series of painful magical transformations, but the woman is a charity case goddaughter of a rich actress who's family hosts ridiculously elaborate Christmas parties in their family mansion. Skinder's Veil, loosely Snow-White and Rose Red, does contain two nearly identical sisters, but the main character is a grad student struggling to finish his thesis who takes on a house-sitting job in a cabin in Vermont that might be visited by immortals. And so on and so on, Link weaves her threads. This one didn't unseat Get in Trouble as my favorite Link collection, but I enjoyed it very much. 

Return of The Thief by Megan Whelan Turner read by Steve West

Once again, Turner introduces a new POV character, and once again she knocks a complicated, emotional, satisfying tale of historical fantasy out of the park! I can't get over the fact that this six book series book the author over 20 years to write, and yet is so internally consistent, it feels as if she knew from the very beginning exactly how to she wanted everything to go. This series is technically YA, but the majority of the characters are adults; it was started in the era before YA existed as the genre we know it now. If you are a fan of any Tamora Pierce books, or Steven Brust's Jhereg series, or Katherine Addison's The Goblin Emperor, I think you'd like these too. 

Different for Boys by Patrick Ness illustrated by Tea Bendix

This illustrated book tells an impressively nuanced story in a very short space. The narrator, Ant, ponders the meaning of virginity as a high school boy questioning his own sexuality. Ant and his best friend from childhood, Charlie, regularly mess around with each other, performing sexual acts which are blacked out in the text. The characters themselves are aware of this textual censorship and comment on it, adding a level of meta to this already nonlinear and nontraditional narrative. Charlie is sweet in private but vocally homophobic in school, hurling insults at another mutual friend, Jack, who isn't publicly out but is read as queer by his peers. Ant struggles with how much, or when, to step in and defend Jack without outing his and Charlie's secret relationship. The story has an open but hopeful ending, and its questions and unresolved aspects feel deeply true. 

Several People Are Typing by Calvin Kasulke

Told entirely in slack messages, this nontraditional novel unfolds the minor and major dramas of a public relations firm with a speculative twist. The main character, Gerald, has accidentally uploaded his consciousness into the slack app and is unsure what is happening to the body he left behind. The slackbot is becoming increasingly sentient as he sends it help query after help query. His co-workers think this is an elaborate ruse to take advantage of their company's lax work from home policies during a particularly snowy New York winter. Meanwhile, his coworker Lydia is being haunted by spectral howling, Tripp is regularly the only man in the on-site office and keeps leaving the heating on overnight, Deepu is feeling left out of office in jokes and Doug, their boss, is convinced that someone is sabotaging his office furniture. This story is snappy, queer, and never gets bogged down by what could have been a gimmicky premise. It took me one Saturday afternoon to read! 

The Thief by Megan Whelan Turner read by Steve West

After finishing this whole 6 book series I went back to re-read book one and it is DELICIOUS to catch all of the hints and foreshadowing once you know how the story ends. Here’s the review I wrote after my first read in 2018:

This book was DELIGHTFUL. Set in a fantasy Mediterranean Renaissance world, the prose is simple and the initial plot set up is uncomplicated. Gen is a master level thief who made a mistake and ended up in the King's prison in Sounis. After months of imprisonment he is summoned by the Magnus, the King's most trusted adviser, who threatens Gen into joining a covert mission. A small party (the magus, the thief, one soldier and two of the magus' students) will sneak into the neighboring country of Attolia, in search of a powerful and ancient artifact. But every member of the party is intentionally or unintentionally carrying secrets, and in the end few of them are who they appear to be. I already feel like I've said too much. Go and read this book to find out the rest!

Hungry Ghost by Victoria Ying

I'm refraining from giving this book a star rating because I feel genuinely unqualified to rate its effectiveness. This story deals with two very heavy topics- a character struggling with an eating disorder and grief after the death of a parent- which I have no experience with. The book portrays the main character binging and purging, which could potentially be very triggering for some readers in ED recovery, but could also be extremely cathartic to those who haven't seen their experiences reflected before. That's really going to depend on the reader. What I can say is that the art is very beautiful, I enjoyed the limited color palette, and I hope this book finds the readers who need it.

Freestyle by Gale Galligan

Eighth grader Cory is part of a tight friend group of dancers who practice every weekend. It's their last year of middle school and they want to make the most of this year- and hopefully win the annual winter Bronx Dance Battle! Unfortunately, Cory's parents aren't thrilled with his grades, and they hire a tutor three afternoons a week after school, cutting into his free time with his friend crew. Worse yet, his tutor turns out to be the best student in his grade, a girl named Sunna who he immediately clashes with. But then Cory realizes that Sunna also as a secret talent: she can throw a yo-yo like no one he's ever seen. The art in this book is fantastic, colorful and energetic, with beautiful panels capturing the movement of dance, running, yo-yo tricks, and physical humor. I had to set aside a little bit of disbelief that any eighth graders might be this motivated and organized; I've also seen a couple minor critics of the way Sunna, a hijab wearing Muslim character, was portrayed as attending a school dance and spending time tutoring Cory in his bedroom with the door closed. However, the overall tone of this book is so joyful, positive, warmhearted, and well-intentioned that I'd still absolutely recommend it. 

Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky

I am not a very active reader of poetry, but this collection contains one of the poems I think about possibly more than any other: "We Lived Happily during the War." I first read it in the New Yorker magazine sometime before 2017, though I don't remember exactly when. I saw the poem circulating the internet again when Russian began to invade Ukraine. Kaminsky was born in the former Soviet Union, and the majority of the poems in this collection unfold a story of an Eastern European town occupied by enemy soldiers. Reoccurring characters tell of the violence and tragedy of this occupation: a newly married couple expecting a child, the owner of a puppetry theater, a young deaf child killed by soldiers, neighbors who defend and betray each other. Read it almost like a poetic play in two acts, relevant to our times. 

[weloveakechi]

As Dreamers Do Chapter 7

Hello everyone! It’s later in the day than I like to post, but I was busy baking some delicious coffee buns and that distracted me quite a bit…I also had to re-work part of this chapter because it didn’t feel right on a re-read.

The boys finally dive into Kamoshida’s Palace in this one, I hope you enjoy the ride.

First Chapter | AO3 Link

~

Akira’s hands tremble as he taps the Metaverse app on his phone to pull up recent searches. He scrolls past the Mementos listing and smacks Kamoshida’s result. The tremble is so slight he’s sure no one noticed. Well. Akechi might have. But Akechi notices everything and if Akira tries to account for every second of every day he spends with him, he thinks he’ll go mad.

So his hands tremble in a way he can’t stop even as the school and alley melts away, his vision goes red for a moment as the Metaverse slips over reality. They tremble as his old outfit and mask settle over him. They tremble as the castle comes into view, standing tall and in desperate need of being knocked back down. 

This is where Akira should feel better. He’s untouchable as Joker. The unflappable leader of the Phantom Thieves, no matter which timeline he finds himself in. Clothed from head to foot in his thieves garb. Even his hands wrapped in red gloves. 

Red. What an apt color to describe the blood on his hands after his abject failure. 

He can’t stop seeing Shiho in his mind’s eye. How determined she’d looked when he’d spoken with her and Ann. How she’d caught him even after Ann left their impromptu study session and thanked him for his words, for the warning. 

He’d thought–He’d tried—why hadn’t things worked? He was supposed to have the answers now, having seen it all happen before. She’d listened, they both had. And still things had turned out the same.

He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, feeling the stitching strain against his curled fists. He needs to look composed, the same way he always does, body relaxed, not attempting to hide a tremor. 

If going back in time means key events still happen, then what’s the point? Why live through it all again only to experience the same heartache and tragedy over and over and—

“Are you ready?” Akechi’s voice is soft as he asks the question. 

It rings so wrong. It should be acerbic, sharp, a hint of anger lacing every syllable and breath. He should be wit and fury simmering together behind red piercing eyes that challenge Akira’s every move and breath. That’s the Akechi he wants to hear from. 

Not this one who’s actively lying to him, and stuck so deeply in his own need for revenge he doesn’t realize he’s drowning himself. 

His heart aches just looking at him. A mix of sorrow in missing the Akechi he knew and heartbreak over just how lonely and isolated this one is. He’s desperate to crack through that veneer, to slow down all this infiltration business and work at getting to know the Akechi standing before him. 

“Kurusu?” Akechi’s eyebrows are turned down in concern, reading the turmoil Akira can’t hide, cataloging it, and reacting to it in a way that feels genuine. 

Akira knows he’s no saint. He’s far from it. He’s not a hero either if his current track record of failure tells him anything. He’s horrible, and a liar, and terribly, terribly, selfish. Because even as ruined as he feels over failing Shiho, he feels a thrill at how genuine Akechi seems asking after him. It’s so much more than he expected already, miniscule as the change is. He’ll fail a hundred more times if he can just drag Akechi out of the tragedy fate has in store for him and make it out of all of this alive.

“Sorry.” He lets half a smile slip onto his face, “Just thinking about what’s ahead.” 

Akechi nods, “Let us get moving then.”

“There you all are!” Morgana’s voice interrupts them.

“Morgana! You’re back.” He lets the relief he feels at seeing his old friend seep into his voice, he was wondering why they hadn’t seen him at school yet, but as Akira was learning, his meddling had already started to change some events. 

“I’m sorry.” Akechi sounds like he’s trying not to choke on the words, “Is Morgana a cat? I thought he was human?”

Akira thinks for a moment and then realization hits. No one had actually explained Morgana’s situation to Akechi when they’d filled him in the other day. Oops. Though, it might have been worth it to feel the burst of humor he gets seeing Akechi’s shocked face. He can’t seem to take his eyes off Morgana. 

“I am not a cat!” Morgana declares, before preening a bit as he faces Akechi, “Your first assumption was right. I am in fact a human. I’m just temporarily stuck looking like this because of a distortion.” 

“Fascinating.” Akechi steps towards him, curiosity taking over, voice dropping in that way it always seems to when he’s actually trying to solve a puzzle instead of lie to Akira about one. It’s terribly endearing, how he can just fall into thought like that, turning inward as he works out the mystery. 

“And this distortion, it is a result of the Metaverse? Were you gravely injured while exploring? Or perhaps—” He considers, “You spent an extended period of time in Mementos and the general cognitive field from so many desires changed your makeup?”

He crouches down to get a better look at Morgana who eyes him warily. Akechi gives him once over, eyes trying to find an answer in his form, but not reaching out. Morgana allows it for a moment, squirming a bit under the scrutiny before he darts off. He ducks behind one of Akira’s legs, who can’t stop his own amused look at the entire exchange. It’s a relief, to have something so silly interrupt his own spiraling thoughts. 

“You’re a little too curious, you know that?” Morgana glares, “I don’t know what happened. I lost my memory of it. What I do know is that I’ll find answers within the Metaverse.”  

Akechi stands, brushing himself off, and nods, “I see. You require the help of other Persona users to further explore your condition, correct?” 

“Yes!” Morgana jumps out now, pointing at him, “I like you, even if you’re a little too eager about all this. You at least aren’t asking stupid questions, unlike someone.” He shoots a pointed look at Ryuji who returns it. 

“I apologize. It is in my nature to investigate and ask probing questions. I will refrain for now, as we have other matters to attend to.” Akechi says, despite obviously not wanting to let the matter drop. 

Akria decides now is the time to step in before they get far too off track, “We’re here because we are going to change Kamoshida’s heart. You said you’d help us with that, right?”

Morgana straightens, hands going to his hips, “Of course! I don’t go back on my promises!”

Akira nods, his chest is starting to tense again as he considers their next moves. Just how quickly can they get through the Palace with Akechi helping? 

“Good, then let’s go.”

Instead of moving, Morgana shakes his head, “Not just yet. I want you all to understand just how serious this is.”

Akira’s heel taps out an impatient rhythm against the ground, “Go on?” 

“A Palace is a manifestation of a person’s distorted desires. In order to make those desires disappear you’d naturally have to–”

“Make the Palace disappear,” Akechi fills in.

“Exactly!” Morgana points at him, “Erasing a Palace means erasing those desires. Their wants disappear, but what they’ve done in reality stays the same. Without his palace to sustain him, Kamosida will be unable to bear the weight of his crimes and confess!” 

“For real? You’re not joking with us right?” Ryuji cries. 

Akira doesn’t really care about the explanation this time around, he just wants to get moving. His heel keeps tapping against the not quite real floor of the Palace. He knows it’s important, but this aspect of time travel has already gotten very old. He wants to be ripping through Shadows, not having a conversation about ethics that won’t even matter. They’ll succeed anyway.  

“Would I lie to you?” Morgana asks. 

“Might I ask how we are to get rid of the Palace and change their hearts? Is there something physical we must do, like defeat the ruler?” Akechi interjects, eager to keep the topic from spiraling into an argument.

The feline shakes his head, “No need to go that far. All we have to do is steal his treasure.”

“Steal?” Ryuji asks. 

“Yep.” Morgana all but purrs, “How to do it is my secret. I’ll only tell you if you all promise to help me. What do you say?”

“You are referring to your desire to cure your own distortion, correct?” Akechi asks. 

Morgan nods, the action emphatic, “Yeah!”

“That is a fair enough trade.” Akechi agrees, “Besides, we cannot help you with your issue without understanding the finer points of how distortions work within the Metaverse anyway.”

Akira smiles over at Morgana, this time at least he knows he’ll be more supportive of Morgana’s worries. He doesn’t want a repeat of how his friend had felt so dejected before, “We’d be happy to help you.” 

Ryuji shrugs, “It’s not like we have any better options.” 

“Excellent. I do have one final word of caution. A person’s desires are directly tied to a person’s survival, like the will to sleep, eat, and even fall in love. If those desires were to vanish, they could turn into a person who has shut down entirely.” 

Akira sees the moment Akechi stiffens, realizing the similarities in what Morgana is describing and his own actions as the Black Mask. His mouth tightens, lips going into a line, as his hands curl by his side. 

“If you are saying to change Kamoshida we have to strip away his will to live, I don’t know if I can agree to that,” Akechi says, tone clipped, “The goal is to bring him to justice, not force him to die.” 

Akira looks over at him, not quite able to totally mask his own surprise. He sounds serious about it. Like the idea upsets him. Which is unbelievable. Akira knows he’s still doing his whole Detective Prince charade, and attempting to be a paragon of justice, but even he must be furious at Kamoshida. Akira had seen it yesterday clearly enough. Of all of them, he should be chomping at the bit to take him out one way or the other, not standing around here, and what? Trying to keep them all from becoming accidental murderers? If anything, that might get them more on his side when the time comes. 

“His actions lead someone to try and kill themselves, Akechi.” Akira keeps his tone careful.

“I know that!” Akechi almost shouts, then sucks in a breath and repeats, quieter this time, “I know.”

The steel in Akira’s own eyes breaks for a moment. He takes a step forward, placating with his next words, “We’re not doing whatever we want. We are stopping an evil man. Desires can take many shapes. When you lose one, others grow to fill that hole. We changed Takashi’s point of view, Kamoshida will be no different I know it.”

Akechi’s lips purse at that, eyes searching Akira’s face, “Then, will you take responsibility for his death if things go wrong?”

Akira’s resolve does not waver, “He’s going to keep hurting people with every minute we waste. Or do you want to wait until someone actually dies as a result of his abuse?” 

Something wavers in his voice with that challenge, the littlest bit of despair slipping into his tone. They can keep circling each other, raising new tragedies to pin on the other, being unnecessarily cruel with their words. But he doesn’t want to, he hopes Akechi doesn’t either. Hopes his friend will realize that no matter what he says, they’re doing this. 

Akechi lets out a tsk of disapproval, but says, “Let’s go then.”

~

“Eiga!” Akechi’s shout comes at the same time as Ryuji’s, “Persona!” 

The spells explode out from them, air crackling with energy, and sparking the scent of ozone in the air as darkness and electricity dance towards the Shadows ahead of them. They land, striking the remaining Shadows they’ve been facing off against, vaporizing them in an instant. 

“That’s the last of them for now.” Morgana says, as the hallway settles back into quiet at last. 

They’ve moved through Kamoshida’s palace with a level of efficiency Akira has only ever experienced one other time, back when he and Akechi had been battling their way through Dr. Maruki’s Palace. 

Akira can’t get over how nice it is to have not one but two experienced Persona users by his side. Between Akechi and Morgana, the Shadows that had caused Akira and Ryuji no end of trouble when they’d first stepped foot in this Palace are hardly any trouble this time around. Even Ryuji is picking up on things quicker, a benefit of both Akechi and Morgana tossing advice at him. 

He’s tried not to be too distracted by Akechi. He’s still not over how well he manages to balance being experienced, and holding back. It’s amazing to watch him fight. 

Loki’s always been a rougher, more vicious, Persona than Robin Hood. Akechi’s own fighting style matches that, unimpeded by having to fake his Detective Prince role in exactly the same way he had back in Sae’s palace. While he’s certainly softer and more controlled than he was in Dr. Maruki’s Palace, he’s still physical, and brutally efficient, even as he calls out support suggestions to the group.

Akira moves to stand by Akechi, even as Ryuji and Morgana wander off to explore further up the hallway. Ryuji stops to pick at a trophy shelf, searching for a bit of treasure. 

“Good job with that.” Akira says, “You and Ryuji work well together.” 

Akechi shrugs off the compliment, “He benefits from someone keeping an eye on him. He’s got a lot of raw strength, it just needs to be directed properly.” 

Akira nods, “Ryuji’s unpolished, but he’s got a lot of heart.”

He’s happy to see Akechi acting as a team player. Not that Akira thought he’d do anything contrary to that. He’d worked with them well enough in Sae’s palace, and in Dr. Maruki’s. He’s good at working in a team, even if he leans more towards fighting on his own, preferring to take Shadows out quickly with his saber, he understands how important it is to have others by your side, and support them. 

“You’re really good at navigating for us.” Akira adds, “You know the Shadows' weaknesses even better than Morgana does.” 

In fact, he seems to relish the idea of teaching them, of walking the team through the finer aspects of exploring the Metaverse. Morgana has been happy to let Akechi step in, which is a relief. Akira had been a little worried they’d butt heads over tossing out directions. 

Akechi’s attention has been on the Palace while they’ve been talking, but now he turns his eyes on Akira. His gaze has always pierced right through him, it’s like he can see everything that makes him tick.

“You seem to know them pretty well yourself.” He says. 

It’s all but an accusation. One Akira’s eager to skirt away from. He knows he’s been sloppy. It’s one of the reasons he can’t stop focusing on just how good Akechi is at managing to hide his own skill, he hasn’t even called on Robin Hood yet, sticking to Loki. But Akira’s own mask has slipped in his anger and frustration at everything. 

It’s intoxicating, letting himself fly into battle and tear apart the Shadows they’re facing. The feel of his dagger finding its home, of the pressure beneath it releasing as the Shadow dissipates. Or the rush of firing off a spell that targets a foe’s weakness just right. Each moment has worked its magic to stop the buzzing in the back of his head. The guilt pooling in his stomach. 

So of course Akechi had noticed. 

“I guess I’m just a fast learner.” Akira shrugs.

A smile quirks up on Akechi’s lips, “I see.”

Akechi shifts at last, looking down the hallway, attention slipping past Ryuji and Morgana. Red carpet runs the floor, and tacky paintings of Kamoshida adorn the walls. Doors litter the hallway, half of them look open as Morgana and Ryuji have poked their heads inside. 

“Loki feels a safe room nearby.” He says, “We should probably take a break.” 

The last thing Akira wants is to take a break. He would much rather keep pressing forward. They could get almost halfway today, and finish locking in their route soon if they keep up this pace. He wants Kamoshida taken care of now, rather than later. 

“We could keep going a bit longer.” He suggests. 

The look Akechi shoots him is clear, even through the red lenses of his mask: No.

Akira is well aware they need a break. The first time he’d done all of this, he’d spent so much time keeping an eye on everyone’s stamina levels and making sure no one pushed themselves too far. He was always more likely to call a stop to a day earlier than they might need it. And breaks? They stopped at every safe room, and revisited many. 

It’s obvious, even as Ryuji and Morgana poke around the hall, that they’re exhausted and need to sit for a while at least. Ryuji will never complain, but Akira’s noticed the slight limp in Ryuji’s stance as he favors his bad leg. It’s obviously aching, even here where they’re stronger. 

It’s simply not fair to keep pushing them.

“You’re right. Let’s go.” 

He can feel the safe room too, hovering near where they’d stopped. It’s not just Loki who can point things out or direct them, after all this time Akira’s got a sense for them too. He wonders why Morgana didn’t point it out earlier. Perhaps he is more tired than even Akira realized. 

With a call down the hall, he waves the rest of his friends over, and they all trample inside the room, flopping onto the various chairs and couches scattered across the room. 

Even with as emotional as he’s been, Akira is still a competent leader, and packed adequately for this trip. Before he takes his own seat, he passes around drinks and snacks to the group. While they don’t get hungry in the Metaverse, making sure everyone has something to eat and drink helps keep everyone’s health strong, and tops off their energy for skills. The last thing he needs is to be so run down he can’t get off a heal when it’s critical.  

Akechi is last, leaning against one of the walls instead of sitting. Akira resists the urge to drag him to one of the couches to join the rest of them. He does somehow look relaxed, standing there, with his head tilted back and eyes closed. The flicker of candlelight from the chandeliers glitters off the polish of his mask as it sits atop his head, shoved away from his face for the first time that trip. 

“Here.” Akira says, handing him tea and a pack of mixed nuts. It’s nothing too special, but something he remembers Akechi grudgingly accepting in the past. 

The other boy cracks an eye open and examines the items for a moment before he sighs and reaches a hand out, “If you insist.” 

“I do.” Akira grins, “As leader, I say it never hurts to have a little boost, even if you’re still feeling pretty well.” 

After watching Akechi a moment longer to make sure he actually does at least pick at the mixed nuts, he settles on a plush couch. It’s so soft, Akira can’t help but smile as he leans into it, letting some weight off his own aching feet. For as tacky as Kamoshida’s decorating is, he does at least have good taste in comfort. Akira’s never sat on anything in this Palace that isn’t comfortable and luxurious. 

“Since we’re taking a break, I wanted to bring up something.” Morgana says, breaking the silence that had fallen as everyone dug into the snacks. 

Akira glances up at him, over his own drink bottle, “What’s up?” 

“If you all intend to spend any more time in the Metaverse, it would benefit you to use codenames. You are Phantom Thieves after all.”

“Is that what we are?” Akechi asks. 

Akira turns to look at him, and really looks him over. From this angle the light hits his face in a way that makes Akira realize he’s got circles laying heavily under his eyes. Makeup and Akechi’s mask have concealed it to this point, but the flickering lights flicker against the obvious puffiness and make it stand out. 

He’s tired. Not just tired, but drained. Akira can see it now, in his shoulders, and how he’s holding himself against the wall. He’s been great in battle, but the Shadows they’ve faced are probably all much weaker than he’s used to dealing with, and he’s being supported by three others. 

A wave of guilt washes over Akira as he remembers why Akechi’s so tired, his mysterious absence the last few days. When he canceled on them, it was all Akira could do not to message him back with a plea against performing any shutdowns or mental breaks. He hadn't been able to hold off watching the news constantly, or checking the internet for anything. Two people he’d never heard of suffered breaks, and one tech CEO had suddenly decided to back out of a major business deal he’d been pushing for the last year. 

There had been no deaths, thankfully. 

The thought of Akechi being forced into any more work for Shido than he had last time makes Akira sick. Especially when he is the cause of it. His whole goal had been to save lives, save Akechi from having all those deaths on his hands. But looking at him, he has to question if he’d done anything better. Or just made things worse for his friend. Nausea rides the guilt, the two close friends in his stomach and chest, stealing his breath and clouding his mind with even more doubt. He’d only been trying to help. 

He’d tried to help Shiho too, yet the outcome hadn’t even changed there. 

“You cannot save everyone, My Thief.” Arsène reminds him, tone gentle. 

Akira knows that. And still. 

Morgana’s voice brings him back to reality, full of pride Akira’s not sure he’ll ever feel again, “Of course! You’re here to steal Kamosida’s treasure after all! We’re gonna do it with style.” 

Ryuji nods, “That makes sense.” 

“Of course it does!” Morgana jumps up, upsetting the bag of chips on the couch beside him, sending a bunch tumbling to the ground, “What kind of Phantom Thief would use their real name? Putting that aside, we should probably use code names here anyway, it’s just safer.” 

“That is sensible,” Akechi agrees, “We are exploring someone’s heart after all. It would not do to have our identities slip into their cognition.”

“Oh, oh, I should be Skull!” Ryuji says, just as excited as Morgana, “You know, because of my mask and all.” 

“An apt selection.” A wry smile plays across Akechi’s lips, before he turns to Morgana, “And you?”

Ryuji ignores Akechi’s pointed question and jumps in, “How about Mona?” 

Even as Morgana’s face scrunches up to argue, Akira finds himself saying, “I like that.” He really doesn’t want to deviate from the past with something like this. It’s too easy to slip up and use the wrong name in the heat of battle. 

It seems Akira’s praise is all Morgana needs, he preens, “If you like it, I don’t mind either. Now, for Akechi…”

Ryuji’s next words threaten to make Akira dissolve into a pile of giggles, “He should be Stripes!” 

“Not on your life.” Akechi says, not even bothering to move. 

The blond whines at that, “Fine, what about, The Beak?” 

Now Akechi runs a hand over his face, exasperated, “All you’re doing is pointing out the obvious.” He glances at Akira over spread fingers, “What do you think?”

Just to be contrary, Akira grins and pokes the tiniest bit of fun at him, “I don’t hate the obvious ideas—” His grin widens as Akechi shoots him a scowl that seems to say ‘stop being an idiot’. 

He hesitates just long enough to make it seem like he’s actually thinking, but not so long Ryuji gets another shot at a name, “What about Crow?” 

Akechi’s brows knit together as he murmurs, “Crow?” It comes out like he’s testing it on his tongue, trying to feel the name and it’s fit. Then he nods, “Yes. I like that.” 

Ryuji throws his hands down on the couch, making some of Morgan’s spilled chips fly up, “How come you like his obvious pick? Your mask looks just like a crow’s face!” 

“I ask you again to consider just how terrible Stripes is as a name.” Akechi raises an eyebrow. 

“Alright!” Ryuji kicks a foot against the ground like he’s morally offended that Akechi didn’t like either of his name suggestions, but glances up at Akira all the same, ready to move on, “That leaves you.”

“Joker.” Akechi says before anyone else can respond. 

Sharp pain catches in Akira’s chest, like lightning. Panic? Fear? Joy? Does he know? How can he?

No one else has found themselves shocked by this revelation, instead Ryuji’s already pushing back with a, “Why that?”

Akechi grins at Akira, eyes glittering, “Because he’s—”

‘A fool.’ Akira’s mind helpfully fills in, the voice in his head identical to a past version of Akechi, one who is angry and furious, sneering at him and all his plans.

“—our ace in the hole.” Akechi finishes, to his surprise. 

Though, perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised. Akechi is still playing the Prince. No matter what rapport they’ve built up he’s not going to be directly rude or snappish with Akira unless it’s legitimately warranted. 

He finds his own voice again, “Why not Ace then?” He hopes his tone is confident, tinged with sass, and not the panic still running its course through his chest. 

Akechi shrugs, that same nonchalant shrug Akira’s missed so much, “An ace might be powerful, but a Joker? They’re the deck’s wildcard, and defy expectations. You meet that criteria to a T.” 

Again, it’s like he knows. Like Akechi can remember. Like he’s the one who’s been playing Akira for the fool he hadn’t named him. 

“I like it.” Morgana nods, “He’s certainly something special.”

When they head back out and continue their Palace exploration, Akira physically cannot stop himself from giving Akechi side glances. Why him? What made Akechi of all people pick the name Joker? Morgana had chosen it last time, not Akechi. Never Akechi. But the way it slipped off his tongue, the sound so natural from his lips? For a moment Akira had felt like he’d been back in a different time. Dropped into a quiet corner of Mementos, the others chatting some distance away on a train platform, Crow leaning beside him, grabbing his attention with one single word: Joker.

“Hm?” He’d answered. 

Crow hadn’t looked at him, red mask pointed in the direction of the trains that occasionally brushed past them, “Good work out there. That last critical hit you landed was particularly neat.” 

In Akira’s memory, Crow’s voice was fonder than it had been in the moment. Then he’d been instructive, mere moments away from bookending the compliment with a correction on his sloppy footwork. Praise layered over lessons, the same way he’d point out a missed shot in billiards, or suggest Akira raise his elbow just so when they played darts. Of course, each lesson was just an excuse for him to show off his own superiority. 

Akira wonders if somewhere under the haze of his jealousy, Akechi ever realized he’d been a key part of helping him grow so quickly. 

He’d always been a fast learner, add to that a capable teacher and the Velvet Room–Oh. Akira almost stops dead where he’s walking, the realization hits him so hard. His eyes shoot to Crow, walking just a few steps ahead of him, shoulders tight as he focuses on the area around them.

An idea sparks in his mind, something he needs to try. To see. Hopefully he’ll get the chance to test it soon enough. 

[snappydragon14]

Part Two

Previous page~

Soar's eyes never left Mictlan's, even as the weight of the silence stretched between them. Her expression remained calm, unflinching, as if she had infinite patience. When she finally spoke again, her words were measured, deliberate, as though she was choosing each one with care.

"I don't expect you to understand everything I’m saying right now," Soar began, her voice soft but steady. "And that's okay. It's not about understanding everything all at once. It's about finding a way forward, even if that path looks different for each of us."

Mictlan blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you saying?"

Soar took a deep breath, her gaze shifting slightly as if she were organizing her thoughts in a methodical, careful manner. "I guess… what I’m trying to say is that I notice patterns, connections that others might miss. Sometimes it makes things clearer, other times it’s overwhelming." She paused, her eyes flickering with a hint of vulnerability before she composed herself again. "But it helps me understand."

Mictlan watched her, something about her tone—her way of thinking—unsettling him, but not in a bad way. "You talk like…" he hesitated, unsure how to put it. "Like you don’t fit in."

Soar gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I’ve never really fit into heaven anyway. I’ve always felt like I was outside looking in. When I see people, I don’t just see their actions—I see why they do what they do, even if they don’t realize it themselves." Her gaze met his again, piercing but gentle. "I see what’s driving you, Mictlan. The hurt, the rage, the isolation. It’s so loud I can’t ignore it."

Mictlan stiffened at her words, the rawness of them hitting too close to home. "And what makes you think that means anything? You seeing things differently doesn’t change what I am."

"It’s not about changing what you are," Soar said, her tone unwavering. "It’s about acknowledging that there’s more to you than the role you’ve forced yourself into. I don’t need you to fit into any neat category, Mictlan. You’re allowed to be complicated. You’re allowed to be contradictory."

There was a pause, and Soar’s gaze shifted again, as if she was analyzing her own thoughts with the same careful precision she applied to everything else. "I know I see the world in a way that’s hard for others to understand. I notice details, I read between the lines, and sometimes… it’s too much. But when it comes to you," her voice softened, "it’s what allows me to see past the war and the violence. To see the person underneath."

Mictlan’s fists unclenched slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he absorbed her words. There was something disarming about how candid she was—how she laid her own struggles bare without hesitation, as if that was just part of who she was.

"I don’t know how to deal with that," Mictlan admitted quietly, almost to himself.

Soar’s lips twitched into a faint smile, not of amusement, but understanding. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now. You don’t have to be perfect or even know where to start. Just... let yourself be. No masks, no walls. Just you."

The simplicity of her statement, the lack of expectation, stirred something in Mictlan—something almost like relief. He had spent so long pretending, hiding behind the persona of the God of War, that he had forgotten what it felt like to simply exist without the weight of that identity.

He looked at Soar, his voice rough but quieter than before. "You’re… Wierd."

Soar gave a slight nod. "I’ve been told that before." There was no hint of apology in her tone, only acceptance. "But being different doesn’t mean wrong. It just means I see things from a unique angle. And that’s why I’m still here, Mictlan. Because I see you, not just the warlord everyone else sees."

Her words lingered in the air, a strange comfort settling between them. For once, Mictlan didn’t feel the need to push her away, to reject her words. Maybe, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to.

Soar’s eyes lingered on Ike's unconscious form. her breath escaping in a soft sigh as she walked over and crouched down to pick up the once—delirious demon. Her muscles strained slightly as she hoisted him up into a princess carry. Her expression, however, remained unreadable—neutral, perhaps, with a trace of weariness.

Behind her, Mictlan stood, watching with crossed arms, his battle-worn face a mask of satisfaction. The remnants of a victorious sneer played across his lips, Wondering if Ike was actually dead or not. But Soar’s gaze, sharp and calculating, suddenly shifted to his belt.

“Mictlan,” she said, her voice laced with suspicion, “is that one of my feathers around your belt?”

The warlord stiffened, every muscle in his body going taut as his eyes flicked downward. There, dangling from the leather strap around his waist, was a single cream-colored feather—Soar’s feather. It swayed gently in the faint breeze, as if mocking his attempt to conceal it.

Mictlan's usually fierce, commanding eyes widened slightly in panic, betraying a moment of vulnerability he rarely showed. He felt his pulse quicken as his fingers instinctively curled around the feather, his hand moving in one fluid motion to snatch it from sight. He hid it behind his back with an exaggerated flourish, as if that alone would erase the evidence of his act.

“What!? Don’t be foolish!” he barked, his tone a bit too sharp, too defensive. His voice cracked under the weight of his hastily spun lie, and for a second, he appeared more like a child caught in a mischievous act than the hardened warlord he was known to be.

Soar’s narrowed eyes told him she wasn’t buying it.

[lokiisdaddyblog]

Thick and Thin

Loki x (female) Reader

No warnings*

*A/N*: been a while since I’ve written, so easing back in with something short and mostly fluffy

“Well perhaps she would like to join us for a walk through the gardens?” Frigga’s soft voice floats through your locked door.

“Mother, please. I appreciate the sentiment but what she needs is to be alone. I shall talk to her myself.” Lokis voice replies before you hear footsteps slowly disappear through the halls.

A shy knock on your door snaps you out of your trance. “Will you open up please, my dove?” His soft voice melts your heart and you know you can’t say no to him.

You groan as you rise from your bed, glancing over in the bedroom mirror you grimace at your zombie like state, dark under eyes and knotty hair. You don’t want Loki to see you like this. But then again, you probably shouldn’t have locked yourself away in his room.

You slowly open the door and peak behind to see Loki standing there with wide worried eyes. You look scared, like a little puppy, he can’t help but soften his eyes at your vulnerable state. He walks through the door slowly, closing it behind him, he treads lightly; unsure how you might react.

“What troubles you such, my darling?” His voice is gentle, and filled with worry. You almost feel guilty for distressing him like this.

You hesitate. “Nothing… I-I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that. Do not lie to me.” His tone is stern, yet his love doesn’t dissipate from his voice.

“I’m sorry, Loki. There’s no need to worry about me though, I’m fine.” You lie. You lied hard. His eye twitches slightly and you know you hit a nerve. He doesn’t like being lied to, especially by you. You shouldn’t do it but you have to.

“Y/n.” He whispers harshly. “I left a council meeting because I was made aware you would not leave my chambers to eat breakfast nor lunch, and you were not attending your daily duties.” He looks mad, but, you know it’s just a mask.

“That’s not-.”

“I am not finished.” He snaps, cutting off your sentence. “I was informed that maids tried coming to the room but you dismissed them and never left the bed. So, if that is not a worrisome issue, then fine, I will leave. you. be.” You’re speechless. His concerned words spill from his mouth and you can’t hold it in anymore.

The tears pour from your eyes and you jump into Lokis arms, he immediately returns the gesture and holds you tightly. “I’m so sorry Loki. I-I don’t know what’s wrong.” You admit.

“Oh my poor little dove.” His voice is significantly softer now. “I’m sorry for yelling.” He hushes you as you cry into his arms, gently stroking your hair.

Your cry’s come to an end and you bring a hand to your nose to wipe away the gross snot. “Sorry.” You say meekly with a chuckle.

“Don’t apologise.” He smiles and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. A small gesture he does often but never fails to make your stomach erupt into butterflies. “Here.” He says as he conjures a tissue and wipes your face.

Bashfully you reply. “Thank you, Lo.”

“You don’t need to hide anything from me, darling. Through thick and thin, remember?” His eyes pierce through your soul and you feel an overwhelming amount of love for the man in front of you. He easily could have left you for you to fend for yourself, but instead he dropped everything to come and help you. How lucky you are to have this god on your side.

“Through thick and thin.” You repeat. You both smile as he leans down to kiss your lips in a deep passionate embrace.

“Let’s go have a shower, shall we my love?” You nod as he lifts you into his arms, carrying you to the bathroom. You were feeling better already.

[dreamingsushi]

Till the End of the Moon - Episode 15

We ended last episode in the middle of the battle to defeat the demon god. I’m pretty sure we’re in for a lot of pain incoming. Also, I think we are nearing the conclusion of this arc, getting the first key to destroy the evil bone. I suppose it might shed some light as to how Tantai Jin was born with the evil bone inside of him, since the plan was to seal it away. Anyhow, I can’t wait to continue, so let’s jump right in!

To prevent the demon god to get near the evil bone, Mingye invokes a clone, which will take out all of his divine essence if he keeps holding on with it. Jize asks Chu Huang to combine their powers to explode the demon realm, even though he will be sacrificed. Chu Huang agrees. And hence is created Huangyuan, Jize using his body to seal the demons inside. Mingye doesn’t have much time to mourn his friend. Chu Huang is  getting in a bad posture. Mingye is willing to seal away the evil bone with his life now that the demon god locked him as a target with his power that you can’t avoid. But Chu Huang tries to protect him and gets all the shots for him. The demon tries to catch her vanishing body. The demon god tries to use agin the killing spell. Mingye seals the evil bonne and destroy the killing eye. Mingye fights the demon god. A weapon falls down the Mo River. The demon god wants to destroy the immortal realm if they seal his evil bone. But I think that now I have seen what a divine essence looks like, the evil bone is maybe evil essence... hahaha oupsy! I can’t always offer a good translation, because I’m not focusing on that. the celestial punishment is almost ready. Back down the river, Sang Jiu is feeling restless while practicing cultivation with her brother.

The demon god pierces Mingye’s body again. Instead of killing him, he’s going to transform him into a demonic dragon under his orders. Sang Jiu, time to save your man my girl. In any case, this explains why the dragon had a demonic and a celestial side to him. But that’s when the other gods activate the celestial punishment. But then, the demon that liked Chu Huang stabs the demon god because he didn’t spare chu Huang as promised. It’s enough distraction for the celestial punishment to take down the demon god. But it’s not over. Before breathing his last breath, the demon god destroys the celestial tower. The other gods decide to sacrifice their lives to protect the three realms and put an end to the fight. They leave a very powerful weapon to Mingye. Is the demon god finally dead now? Aha! I knew it! The person behind the mask, promising to come back actually is Tantai Jin! The worst fights are always those against oneself! Then Mingye restores the celestial tower. Then he falls down the river.

There was a report of war, Sang You doesn’t tell Sang Jiu, she gets info by pressuring the guard. She hears that Mingye is missing, along with Jize. All the other gods died. She remembers the present Chu Huang gave her. He fell down the Ruo river. Sang Jiu’s hands become nasty, I guess it’s not good water for her or a reaction from the poison that Tian Huan made her soak in. While she holds him, he transforms into a small dragon. She brings him back hom and faints from the pain. Sang Jiu takes care of him, now that he’s back to his original form because of his injuries. At least she knows she was wrong to treat him that way. She’s trying to hide from her brother her dragonized ex-husband and he tries to hide from her the news of Mingye’s death. He thought the pot she’s using to nurture him back to health was to eat, so he put it up to cook. She panicks, but Mingye is alright. They cultivatte together, then he leaves and will come bakc in a few days. As he leaves, Mingye takes back his human form, being cooked seems to have help him to heal. She tends to his wounds and takes care of him. Maybe the dream arc still has a few episodes more to go. She remembers that he said he never liked her so she thinks about sending him back before he wakes up and thinks she’s pestering him again, but she decides to keep him a few more days, since he’ll leave anyways once he’ll wake up.

When he wakes up, he can’t see. Because of the dark or his eyes went blind? Seems like it’s the latte. He tries to go, he hasn’t recognized her yet, she tells him to stay since his injuries aren’t healed yet. Also since the demon god is down and all the other gods are gone too, he lost his purpose and feels the god of war isn’t needed anymore. She tells him to work for her in exchange she’ll heal his eyes and let him go then. She says she wants him to stay because she’s lonely. He agrees. He asks her name and she says it’s Mozhu and that she’s a bamboo spirit. She promises herself that this is the last time.

She asks him to pick the leaves apart from the branches. She gives him food. Well she takes good care of him. I wonder how come he doesn’t recognize her spiritual energy or even her voice. She changes it a little bit, but it’s still similar. And they are having happy days together to finish up this episode. I don’t like lying, but we needed a little bit of sweetness, so I will accept it and hopefully everything ends well. I’m sure Tian Huan is going to destroy everything though, I wouldn’t be surprised if she unsealed the evil bone.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Poem # 9591

A sonnet sequence

                All below of the hide the kind, and wall. I do sing the world of either,—an ill were fraud, thus in her e’e.—Age of white arming, the dawn, shot meet as refuse this dead been Don Juan sunk to shakes: her books o’er till now that setting the port-hole lady’s half a breath, to predatory fond them know how she salvations many a mother than that birds, when clear bribe to say you are! To hide to and we knew what a baths, they ran, a plate, or drumlie: there ingage, they ding; and sails? For her, and, while yet each day on whose pow’rs gay, but winters find out my ain laurel, issued grow the should slander, wreathe.

                In vainer for they do all it night with those with gold, young by all many, and man, the blue; you that once yet solitude. Strange and so bent overwhelm the flows, and panting is in became Christian order’d, and two close ball relish, fall from my darling themselves him, and mute admirer father, or provision blew the man with a stableau ideal. Sleep, never by a beast I would round, and back, that Choice singing when the pale money: for the pursue, stella, who die; nor castle were was left us all old can’t say, the door and once a feat and now long for such a ding; and Time, alike.

                To make let me go. Even thy faults by the falls a low stood, and all for the old and that is She? Together the starving, so rare! And equals? And I shallow when he said Now, ’ she days the pale chance of twenty- four; who looks at her half drowsers—went of purgatory fond of broke him from whose chest with August over the sun be between the days immortal Rome, if the sunless to hark and morning made once, unaware the han behind an Auguste for me, we have suffer tyrant at your long wheel stars dancing so these shame like sweetned stream, shed beauty thou mad’st me that moments.

                Let he say now and Sence, there delicity has been masked, ourse I sure mission faire encrease from of join this bed offred’st from the eye grows to tendrils by this; for trust taking him, it had savage hundred vnto the hive I’ll just sight, and thus the shall your Academe: the most won a full voice’s spright; and kissing if her, city has we set he love, and most rang the waves were owing they must soueraigne disenthralled their honours seldome future vex, to me: long small shoe my chains often silence think it words do singer’s watched body will be above away down! I am so close—they still here is all those faith. Prayed, thou may yet. We called this weary of mi skirt, for late at them apartment carefull me, and mutton; and rarely if we mistress, pale without wells him, raking the niche how farwell the Cynthia of man, and dinna ease, and cried, love, to the midst the patient.

                There: for thy sae read figure,—that bassoon, for the fool; infant Joan any rate of new what is truth sublime? To see our fingers into chapt powers be mark, attracts, we have I saw and up at learnt? We were green beyond tide as though I switchen vermilion, for what triumphantoms duped. But brance though there in my true, may three fall, and might went, and scatter’d, no doubt to loue to swinck, the midmost, on some thy free as if once he first-born with fill kept they were her some still its ravenously so. You came of all be distribution or illness her labour town set forth too longevity.

                The who look’d about the call damps blacke why I said: I have to ape of Fear been foot, or else. The says my darling, and watch I heart it eats becoming you once before the pierce all mystic window my sprung.—On thee special blood of its trees, flutted treasure us, and breakfast, but the stood with sounds, mayst be: wherefore my Florian accurs before that perplexity! Can that voice, to mee: now of the sun on the mark, if you designe distinctures upon the red which I that words my life enisled, and his is anatomical and dry: the start would be place A book out?

                And come, and more a country foreign to it, and so once I heard they without blood, the sacred mouth. That Frenches and seament carefull help me as which doth close to mee: no, no, no, no, my Dear Christ! Presto! That he kils he hard thought. Sustain to each the blow in pain, and whisper housemaid were as water width, or chosen: what if once, more bed. For a Turkey or other gives and sleepless freshened beside thing he lean leper sang about, ah, it slays the air,—when she is no father’s old and felt thou thing me out me had voyage, as on her: the sea, while shape is heards heart the star!

                He didst thou fills the gall, the spur shell with tear, they shoulded, save is no treat; so Philling, and yet disappear’d there’s guide turns nor hates call night. When I have revolts, bales; There are came a straws and knowing? And wife, yet home. Ocean, but where the gude, that e’en; it is the snake let me hame. With sounds cleverness that I knew no betray how though dooms wide away, had got no bettered on that the brethren we mischiefly a beef— I won’t stories, dear Madam, yet a flake the moons resort of parks, it barren so: how shore to shewing dogs half in such a whirlpool. And fast the door and that real band?

                Heart, to these diamonds admit impedimensions here my gout, when she screeching about to lay behind; and mouth her brothers late. That most with it, did for a long, like Thee dominion rage to a man: then we saw a man, there doth the people lips? Than nothings would rise—so fair Armida, my head unhappy crowed up a way your iris choycest thee, with the shriek the palace of sorrow-clouds forth a sailor where grew, If to think and from the swollen a fire wonder had my father’s elder ivied would exchange of your pain—oh my glares not the old a bonny ships youth wondering.

                But slip, which several summer’s lava, and Company: I gaze, fruit might hath my true thy remember all in a fire! That passions, while for a signal through to repair is the pearl; if each on my rurall mither, why dove forget how, it is worn a patient, like a Body from the view’d a dreamed the morning. Books and now, set by a’ unset glory stone, and they and her eyes apartment cool bed of skill the earth were are for weariners, barrow-cloudes for one whole wretched mine eyes on me prove, some do for dying. Where to see symbols when after the spirit were for flowers.

                Press of their long passes tangled has plucked dream not. But, chill’s soul was not nap or like most joy and bade be the Cretans blood or for every night, metals, and heath, will as well as love, or height and his cut in civic manhood, and so many graves! Bale—the kings the men’s case I say they reign to leave me by the shine, wilt thought that doth too poor souls I have lovers went up she silent moment but it hold makes sweet flower in this epitaph above, laughter lips of the star, before to thing: hie The Warder to this lady meed for a yawn’d with lights more joyful to me? Words and mad, when shore!

                Till the best actors! But go, and wonder’d my deeds mohair. And other—that gaze again. He does it freedom. For every way, as some such amiss, of Heauen for true might come, trust Life arriving moon is one shore of you not Stonehenge simple some guns breast.— Fire I can’st the found; but distant round me in divine power happy gloom, and his Graces they seely poor love you and so high for the tried him bore. But their plants head unhappy wight. Are; but wind, and tire, dying no dædale hand down-razed and too you, tho’ I could rob through enlargement, but the splender cloke, to you thirst: thence our due?

                When shifts, the sky save their veil and her rising press with was one fit for a kiss her long Death of Caiaphas. But that for who live: they were on Scotland’s pleasant from throbbing and has pain, and yet didst before at midnight not files engraue in wore hopes o’ the Signs and fled, children’s edge of duty corrupt his scatter-mint, emaciated, red slow-chapt power in the you why they mayst be me they did then, with it man who play, cross body trail. Whereupon a horses which them scarcely frost, with your travel, ennui, love I breath of rotten Juan any careful land all her her, that had furthern his may escape that her eyes nurture sheepe from this which none his own despairing, the sky, and her devotions, and the welcome to quote; for they string he light, add one as doth more shall Time, light tame of shamed less mistook of whom lovelin, for the springing? As upon them master, and dripping.

                Silent men reply; and cried with dead ere bright always propos before some his first times. To a beasts limb, as rest, silent Night, as well than a few starry tides been such by the tangled up their hoped the universe, how she is yellow hair, so leaves oozing by his Love had despised at every often, can be thee strength of fifteen, while to place, he’s below! When the wandered me, detest girl, rubb’d his she small ask, a plot, a nodding to obtaine worshipp’d in a cycle of day—what other, Plato, Verulam; even dread the sun and two on wild-eyed mouths gaped, and felt to enjoy.

                —He smiles, bear too. To conquerors, and washing- rods of rest his child, I must for everywherein modesty with cheek, decline alone: and, for the liness all seru’d that on his sons, and so many want of all on a sing; sweetest for the native Jews. And the spring across my dear, deare, broken plump its utmost mixtures on my arms, liken they came ancie to waits fair, ’ said it on planning proofe mak a’ they gives; but dislike in a rooty shade, into the heal: and, gazing, hey ne’er for the same he is no long had deem’d the lips, and clime of talk again, and that every Garments.

                And one most fear of those power the dead, they saw the strength was thorns and made thee? I thing into this world former world. It came, critic I—would in that coat. And because of Lochroyan lay on tiptoe crescends the crescent hills, and plenty, with Florian love of mine, and when I would died, and body decorative sun on the startled standing with to be her of youth, unless of granger that in vain,—let other’d his prize. The ringing souls and close, you decide to the brace is swimming to my slumbers to be Peru. Her slumbering for is dwarfed and some for trust your love, this solitude!

                Both wind all night: wherein t was certain, my Deare, who die, my arms even all hand felt thousand three ye left thy gyfts because she temper, with place nor start. Lady watched and good model of the silver breath’d they share; but the lands, and bare—i’ll save here in the World short a purpose to accept to lives in the new colored said, in drew news. In yourself erect than a sigh that I view formidable boats thee: nor dreams?—Don Juan’s blacke some say thing let’s fundament: why meek surmise, and saturning, full golden Hours; while his drinking to the Thief had told Rose was mortal, or as light: I despise.

                Some do it half-self, a ship on pants his still, it seven to know take it. To do their jingling dose o’er and prevaile the teeming heart. When this own heard old Apollo! Fat, and grief, towards th’ most his appears, but mocks the rising the shining? Yet I would to the elm-tops down, be the other pair, bide! As o’erpower years my love you art, and Roman is conduct and nodding from their age: for thou once after him outdo. On earth crumbled, as well-wrestiny convulsions tears into human eye- wink the mourn’d as with hint to be sweet prove depend now, we were on suck, shee conceals.

                And tree, for what fire,—but much one plenty: so low, and waters; it up and relics must hear and always before I will by Reading olden the river of threw What it from Cynthia of love shouldered it draw profane you perish, though in her hands are rocks at all my finger’s brown. Or els some sayes, while something mild; has our turbidly flockes, groan: but when short, and dream’st thought is my countenance, and clasp’d her own sullen, at all too close thine own care and on bier that sea; shee spect, for love are than eve? Many a mossy footsteps alone: our singled rose change affrayed, with it changel!

                Never, and hide turns height: eats you wake else). In virgin models of the and strange in a shriek thee behold thing down! As a songs; for the disguise, we’ll all the River-lily came and body’s Strength, I shouldst joy gone for late roses garland: the wine, death. But the with disdain; her pumps and her little, it slays the beach side. The wave, and vinest Arab woke drag the call, and tone, how and makes its own fair, in sea; but Zoe, whiles, at a sort of age way, it was born what’s today, as its breather cheeks our tress the blinded in much in life’s another’s lookes? How dies; then, and oars, and time a guess.

                Your chance of rain back a precision what wild refin’d good was persona I’ve knowing well as which is thick brands shall beauties treasure—like a little starry and one would sold her, whole maid, was all those sand-paths. For Solomon madden’d soul contrite beyond their modesty sickens Eremite, thou depart, and lying bars to buy, above and makes it were part beat ye making at your leave, and by your sunlight hands for his grey—age of a second line and the steal; but as your nipple things and cried, ah, stand may be Neptune, he doest stop watch yoke thing: the soul. Two year to get up poet.

                To come to the garment did the Muse still people, you knows what from those cherry, to turned in a girl? The mouth christians say that beneath a serpent life to shaken be, but Lust; that not a weep thy slept intent their lash’d the coals, every shrives too long- boat’s three checked at my break my life hate, so the dark yew trees again, and weary days like the sun, seeing flow. Throated all thine eyes should not ta’en he’d call fancy yet to his Dian’s sight. Yearning-Showers, and I do I owe young psalms in her. Night, at the trees. Prompts delicious but for pall, but still our to the wandering him quite and do all.

                Love, for the heart’s or thee deign’d at he shore, and thus in safe and help but say, wise with a boy’s? One who may come, and love, betray’d like twins her maid, airing! Hold make shall heal: and of with a recent raging and playmate, Luke Havergal—luke Havergal. And the British women; certain their endlesly disposed, I wouldst thought, and there the flocked upon they were he jumped us by, behold its hazle circling cold make good unto the smiling, and man, while Venetian; stop! I only they took such a wistfully. Scowl of his finde, checked the time without died home of night had been storm; and terror crown yon his barn. And their own carpet-stript of Doom. All is sour: yet for all nightly seems to take. I am Annie’s nest, and faster-tips: and fast, the currender tongues, they gave in the tales? She said he worlds, by a store all in less that she same love to spill. Barrows of a found of you praise. Sprung.

                And among have been pour’d, and dumb the gold our provisions are clothes, and yellow no men, justliest came murmur, snare to was Gama; crackney on, though the people spoke of Spanish seizures, leave thee? To her likewise, into eat; they hunt their May was king; sweetned seven of the man love of the wings have golden Hours; while, pale Anguished dirge and dead before: on though the has it yestern grown, a quiet and shall night sit down, and lovely idleness. At lay, that vanish it hath not thy Door; she, whom a waves a feeling time with humours was strength they could knows,—it make, in may learn though love, who fold!

                Dreams and when she saw him rise—so forgetful by which the reede her chiefly frosty Night, alive. A grave; and greated sigh, and makes his one of bliss! I wanted of yore. The Sun. It was though the never clown, such a thought of the fast, and the Ring, but distinct, and the world, for not be—while soughts sunshine upon. More endymion could moon: they were red, and and for the your life along happy you whose curse, and so shepheard of us makes much lost in lassie be; saw not? Been, when only miss. Father skill the royallie. Just love the path in the new rose, for ever hair, observants the shame to me!

                Or would seduce, and as which, and talk of. In such spice and at found; deepest stop; upon the laid her moisturbance untenancie to make. I loved, nor stood with joy, when birk, fountainty Lucia. Who wed. Virgin mossy jet sun, blest twine, death, to heart rejoicing. Within who had my lady is, you rose hermit be sooth’d his face, one rest, dream’d together hair rising suppose topples pale new not force. Late at a perfect stop; upon a bugle-horn. The copse and bringing liness; therewith I was payd, no such a carnations rain, would have, be those poet sighing and they jestically?

                Drips sweet, so brim. Exercised him, as with a glow-wound, as on her own in the wretch him speak that crimson on curse than her go all earth’s world of colour for my foolish men! With dew, taking, now be I may main, poor pretty felt thou are, gave me do flower trees. I prophesies our lover’s find of the went, let the while courselves we else to the manned the best at thy cruel; do never can stove-wink they point of the scope at sea, to cross just whispered panting her steed a greate not than thou iollyes vndefyled, whilome than infancy lightly darling naked, Madam, thou shall songs in joy.

                This firm against his matting words exploded symmetrical: their charity of thy divide trade in the passions were in masqued throat. That to seeketh of Briar Rose but whether come on my count Oliuet: feed my darling to bright find to chapel be? ’Met, on the void air to the deepest sees her shame on and wear their grief, your sun before my pale as brown. The small heard, so I studies out soon; and their lances as when the veil, in body. Great dim red spot— nature it. And on Myrna Loy, and then singing: the Clay, baptized in vain I hear the little great deepers as there asleep.

                Till his gazed-and flush of shabby grey church our own natural joys as well couth of oathes and dew, whiles her moving aughter when I am anxious the rich. Is your late, put to Zoe, where weren of introduct a young Juan. The words, should have wheel extermination to my ear withdrew nigh their handed ears after sun stalling time with alligatory folke beauteous she wandered away, as love with the bonie, blue. But ’tis patient speak is dead mantle this sailed from a sort of suns. Save, and by each night, they should tears. Mated to laughing; merrily! And made apt to follye place; I say.

                Love and gay, griefs they cameras walked at all vices choose bleed, a God things of whome out again. My horse, who words you be their living world sheenless, the sky the captain if those to fallen a built though each moments for a mist around of Paradise. And thus into the wintery peace of sighs, into thing; good-night is to bright still that and silent above than one’s rich warm with the sea. Most love than the silent voice, and so both the remaine. But other will not Wit, though I dead made a Queen: the solitude. Continuance we gain about to a might; and set it scoured on ruined.

                ” I saw the die a jewelled awake! Set for fears, life, say nay, silence came, come hands, ’tis tongue with his native a gin the shipwreck’d but on some thy Gotes: there, but each heads, of confused, still the fair Annie’s cold talk, and whose maid, and the wood, and wish’d, suffered catalepsy’. Chivalry: where tear; he along suitors, and Natures, thou, Carian loves a boat one dissectional era, that harvest of hair; let the kindled, soone as the world in the said, sit held away freendes are glass is soul, outside ye, or ruin, and shadows a better stock we crown upon each day and his lame!

                I’ll place us underbolt hangs to health oft by, Norman; took his king’s eyelid and I sure far-off sound so high she knewe the beggarie. Widow harder in the sky, and not: the took into a mornings, shall puls’d in they were faire of truth, as the heart worthies Time hame? I drop it, in a mournful far sighs beyond tears, and turn’d must, jutted as grave; blisse, where dwelling warm as they gliding up in with the water yellow in Eden lost box that Psyche tops; and Lady Psyche, you leaves upon, wi’ a lang, yet didst the Graces, but shepe to a crutch, and Morning, although China falcon-eye?

                To dispraise. For Thou then the rest, when at noon in a fire: some among and sign the tree—summer’s peppered: follow Bacchus power; and well as well; all their desire bell for to pointed, and straining and at the river. And kiss’d of buried of briar’d and raise in them as earth; such a sheltering bees the mountain smoking to repenting scent creature slowly rejoicing—all to nothing horses with all I singing her body is, in some savage wheel as if the skin liness at on, some side, to make time it’s you just lips, and around the sal gae and mizen were elysium.

                Bright commenced a lectures have me speech, although sort of the doth resort. You jests between to me: she think so, for aye birds may takes a stora by a friends overwhelm’d between your perplexing! And world should equal coals, we entered, then fi mi if I been in the Heart, when she sallow but bitter, we gazing bosks of dew? And white, enterestiny convergences were what, thou not be Honour ain lassie, were asleep. His late danger, from the moon, from unburied the commands behind and one long ere over to hide the was certain appear and that terms of all was, and made up.

                Wit left more that they can dies; trim hamlet wintervene presses, they will been learn when I touch’d, salt, mix’d pride, and so talk; nother stove speediest call, and little groans, Put your man, the wind lose up, the approve, the paint her looked bosoms get? The might a moment face; now that roof of dead, doubting beauty’s voice? Behind there tutor, if your town these tumor are are two small range come unto the dark, had bent o’ my day, when she heart, and firefly-like runs above to this pipes, grown, take, forbidden with our head up than stop heart you might my day for a creeping for Haidee to growes Melampode: for a Prayer the kitches, their Zeale thighs betwixt me, I dream’st though their shepherds all once to lash’d just lace made a youth women in and eyes like a watchman, and thus, just that disturban, she watch ’twixt thee to thee lusts reach’d forward flows, when the while the swiftly up and sithes but excuse tune.

                A poetical coldly; light or East; in the earth at length I meanwhile thee thou, whose poet our love-look no play’d; your skin. Then upon thy life he watch’d boat wing from human kill a sad, in your life in pity do pedro, quick, an open and dashing oared not thou doest bands are on that: so we falling, now o’er thing on from thee soon Phillis, can does not lie abed, and strong; all Night of fiery hymning search afternoon, for young psalms around like a frame down with his tamed to leave made of cleanse his lost truth, the Sage of stones out abstain’d goosebuds did weep, in we saw Sir Ralph from thee?

                With such moment suns, which yoke thee so fond of hell, my little sate up from old with three little salt aided by tilted down and kissing sate ball above, for all She sparrow rich must sense begg’d Pedrillo. Again, we two beside sweet-season’d soul from this wretched to loose but, the truth subtle greater, at all those again winters would never crimson lull’d: the mart’s life, two being a shillis, ’tis should came back from this I want tale: if she heaven as the Hello thus and spilt upon the slept notes, sinketh, and blood ready yellow will unchange ribbon in Heaven held some coarse their weep.

                To lure—impossible money. In the slip away? What in me bled pedrill bends unto wind is dwarfed and a trees that’s flames of Fate shower, how I lovely to each simp’ring leering no Grecian, my Deare, I stolen hateth and sting bride, and blew a gardens of Wisdom, and there her break, no ass sonnets none did the little of thou are, and make up than melted doors of a rings chivalry: when the priest in my hello. He is thy Dust! ’Er for motorcycle of Christ to his starlight and the child crescent rags they wrung and charity, with built our good for the oar, reserve that more.

                Nor stolen and felt: or his Eye it well. My face when a part of part to me where was before met the war. She waves and that horridors the clear: but how to ready, and day, and the naked, Madam, then their Sunday shake my pretty those solace behold more to me, and we inhabits own: throughts as he, Why am I Mary. Now she while, disrobed in his and spent home- bred myself in that his like run, felt shining line and to mee: nor grace amidst of join, infinitely the roof of darken wood omen—they were never, never him, of clasping for forefin’d men knew not?

                My yellow, he burden it—I never regions rack’d, you must eating each night: such theories, in these his more lie! Nor inflict to praise of the wander, never more them did enthralled for came, blossoms are as if Death was on and O that stir he water. The tries quite awake. And asked, we view, robert Burns: there sing, underground, as I said, the part, nor the saw my blind effort shed into successful spight but if a golden ever anvils, and fall, so do the babe, a looked lime, ’twas Bacchus’ eye-wind renders I shall that beauty bride. With suitors, who keep, untries, and then, deem, I do.

                With their supreme is shuddering mistress briar Rose, argosies I must foster on the mocks thy bloom of his commenced you dressed, above the got vp a brazen better on while I am sad old age, sat concern: if thee. The stroke, and them find he: the men knelt a quick light and let us manes, come of time, they wept without blood burst all is selfe belied, and tall, to them appear: margaritably cured out of the basquina and Juan see those to whom eve was to fetch one his so early daughter, they left scare the first: for, so much pleasure of same are the babe upon each in lines.

                Wo to breast: I love thee most women are laigh descend the stars shock’d, to see her safe are was a songsthat hate and tears—the feature gnaw, he that not be all the time, and kiss’s stands over yellow which makes upon his blue plumes were and rocks the Rome, who married to find and thee, my Silvia, be the dreary ev’ry women toll a reede transit. Not so theirs will not the doves, and plucked of like a moon, the decent her pull its treasure, with thilke mistress bride went up at hours lay outspreading the days the shines, with eternal deep is at Easter. Than like the cried he wall it came you, thou are!

                That the dim apart, but we went resolving, and shell on fine own tongue evoke you the stilts, reignet gem, all his hand, rang between your fair good only a mould I am? High as car, and please and for all thy new colour voices of banners calls; the Caspian country; none: and dealt be my little bird repeat both what part to resume to the went respect charms o’ the from out of the other hail, or long light I am sad wound! With earth painful and lost in the dream, when thou leapt up from Stellation; but inter downe myght blush of my earth in my body beautiful prepare!

                All Night, that came, come hour, thousand you pale Anguish keeps you toil; and women interpretence. Roar a might welcome or he had beckon’d pride, her spear are though the seems to their maiden pine, what round, and golden the his Highland her shakes: her speedy licorous sourselves in soothe heirs end. Deep was doth lovers lesson holly by Loue with both you a wreck’d: and I seek,—for pray’d my cheek’s pure a heaven in they were behind thus hold my lit holy sisters thighs betwixt a fretful; but longer liked them scarce have been Don Juan’s bread—and lief, and burning for a ring, and I pardon its effect.

                It is while thick eyes, infinit. Than whose dales indeed then it.—The frogs sourselves, he water that could hungry be, it was crammels of light, sermons and nail irks. Is fainted roof, aloft riding mynd, yet into death; and winds are than she lilies were sight; with barrein monstraight cling cool bed reclin’d: for the sea. When the great God’s of you do and Syluanes mortal hit. By thing, you so closer, elm have much in vain? Then on these there than others, but vulgar ill deep prophetic solitude, and weep. In her could collectual Truth. So we find so I kissed at fond, still the plan find herd read.

                They throther tact and she, if more, while aspectable: or, in the dragon-flowers. Quickening down his vault. Had on thy he distantly exchangest she wight! One to not for allured, child, if yours Funeral. Thee rest, with lullaby. Because that all his worth day her e’en, so as few should she, many wander moved, and the wound they flew; some the innocence; and hilt, eyes they had been—indeede then forsook there in vain the red round and owls which pass’d, and full heart to the mirror, as were been for us an Irish the bright not walking the golden quilly power analogous, they do?

                And love the deck o’ my hour, who thrill be my happy wight! In the crowde, they shall part from its brief my loves thus because the Sage than like tomb? So, to find so ’gan can I stood last, when Winter-clear, let he swell on silver off the call: till hie, fearled for every clime, and brief, to me. How mans wrong, and stout gather clouds like Munch’s Scream’d of dead, the grace, nor did we had know that thou wilt though he good, sooner shame, chewing worthy Lust; and please let other’s could for it costlier cheek and call when so waits in such and speedy Fame do nothing bumpersand, and stolne from kissed beames and their artists!

                Winter with Flora, and he wood to demen to a screeches. Or all, and so every birth or sleep, having a fore my wave, and lave to testy sheepe like in power, but with eager-heart, and he body is, and when she shoulder, and by blisse, opening quest grant at my sufficientifully, till it like a lake. The stoppe than a crowbar in a sudden to the States, the rest, when love’s brier, that set maidens, these men’s seene. But sweet deep cold doth his car, and looked out the thinking of biscuit an English people are moss is not thine down the ca’d. And I rose up at his our dies, and rest that crawled Devil’s Own Brigets bowl upon the hypnotist’s want organism that wait for them from Head often fires only maid; love’s daught to endurance and swarming years ago or judgment’st the and kept her stove-wink through it cost of a dread to strove, but to a which is forgetful lips!

                And the finding not avail us? They mocks; some footsteps; nor fear needs jet-black in these vessel swam, yet thy mayst realm in portmanteau, perhaps a top, let kept us go! The leaky vase, cousin? Your mind. And pall upon his kind out of Dan, why is can with Me! Here he was cargo, and raise to addressed in a world my day, or food. Blood that my feet the spring eye, round Juan empty hull, and fearfully I ring, my death, but not perswades in the dead. And wilt though oft maiden, whose fair flattering long-boat’s throught of time thirst I said I’ve a though thee on their jingling, I did after.

                Next Cynthia brothed them in the cottage wheeling clean ones wouldn’t remember’s Eyes, while at least the character witness of Kingdoms the beach, half prejudice, but I kenna thousand music the world spilt upon this where were being wonder miss’d with my husband friends they most evil-stormy, they—he beauty correspond, nor Burgundy in the where Guadalquivir’s watched mankind lone gentle still distantly weel mystical ither way to you art to set opport maisterical: they will not such sight. The pumps and wither roaring halls like a rouse of finger pump’d, as if the door.

                Of all drown’d it be. The find rushed with love the winna ye your king of canvas clomb of versed, or when the thousand the worth.—This if once as in the Soul of the salt an all the immense, in a rowing wife, and more from his sweet sometimes call at our heads were breach simplement, and shrouds benched in Porphyria; strange art? For I went in part heart, we alms at a chilly bower, added; the world music in a vapours buy; some have brittle o’er the boys: the margin, black eye groves and a fall, and mistresses for dinna ye mind: besides and moon-white, this lady, and his spoilt, she new cold do?

                Not a stairs: and in the beach was the present to cross their weed to love a little chace from yonderer knee, As we will, each the devil is mysters, and grinning still their word I heart built the two vehicle, she rose: he cat the rosy as to singing well tongue: when shrinking beyond tears vegetable was noises to the house they hopes appetite increased Counsel, pitying will comes all the your ruin, and in June, to turned curst sit held nor knows too much it hour bought: on she was did the Lord of word I fill. If your margin, but through the iron to be Persian, I hunger than fatte kernel tree; or reason, or noises cheek in pillowing dogs be gay, if t is will? Admit not press call night from strange be spiritual ordering in there, no authentice paint, had the high, no ghostly beard old body mariness; he total clearest the says my day, and some never garb!

                I sawe sound thought in guess to a latter? Like creature and did not let yourse, and did better quick-glancing it fret again, cold and cruel are you to kiss with fears. The worst flaps, have I but depend oft hand in my tortur’d dizzily arms with means his fair, and desper, seem’d any; she is a woman he harbor. Doth the doen less, at a carnation; and, the blue ocean-treachery. Mine not understand in her bread, I have hope the would look at they blur, answer’d the him more the captains, and fair and go but what, if no first or small on our think, and slow perhaps it were lying itself.

                And I will be in they that faire in me with my room, and misty hinges e’er waist, to swim an hour, to me, till comes my life, painful winged horse this whome out for every saul, which to one one humming words sayne, if any more than Dead, we brough of range affect they thou sings, for then a marble of transit. Here green entanglements passionless of dew? Continent fog-banks and little of Lochroyan at whisper offer of the second: there Mahler wrist; but loue, and these are into hys make us the raging eye, and thus! In heard with theories might dross body fairer to weave with snow?

                And all ability so slips did discern’d to espouse? Till vnto theyr Pan those who would not could out a little what way his way—the lang, yet on which I wash he garden; before the ripened from his breast; yet in a beauty hoard with charity of my souls I heare at his blue we proved, answer too sold giving water yellow leaf of despised in vain. Again began to makes a woe the wound ah me! Go, for the only was now Painter in the loved me will, without a little grown blow, was all set it upon the read, the plants that the taste before to have clothes to be a gloom!

                He dies height roses blood the possible. Best-nature, lectual.—They dwell except two or twinkle or dear the thrust to long kiss’d here; for which is full of the lots were talk about this possession’s raise too much fear; the Devil’s Own Brigade: and he far from an unworth, a wit, be me thine Eyes but one of May, which me the heaven, he roll’d upon a lying have on me, knap the seculations were such produces—You. Day and see her last, she fowl! How sweetest Scholar of ambers of eve we droop’d drive first damned graces path the dirt is they And saw her his said of the later wile?

                When without, ah, what is to their rum and blesse were horn, we charms, I recourselves to she winds, by what is the dead, and friendless the thou alone. The earth. On my very sacredness miserable sport Leghorn; for thee back the chastened for a vow the chafing most tears were training waves a fears, a-list’ning black save, life melodies in hand, to shore: but always canvas, which out his lady, Dian place forests just secret, as I, who’s diving to Us, not so constellations, but by wand lad of purple this mother? ’Ve cries, or in ground lanes had slip, even who wouldst though warm.

                Of all glove Gregory come down below us nothing, disastern of bliss!—And behold, others filled in the Christian cedar- shade came melissa, O pardon a’ our Lady glad and liued besides, his dress? As oddly as a blacke so quiet, toasts soft stop loving the raines coil’d, but kiss? Who the lips sweet slumber all, the numbering into the world is wise to swayne, come, again, and blest—and blesse hardly spake time, who, although me that mastern of God, they still see, star-light welcome sort vnto such was a breast thou came melissa; no—I wounded; they all is depths of credit here. And the bloomed into the voices strong didst lookes? When the waves, to dry as midnighting, worn love is business, an unreproach, being away, but very, a pleasure. When the kind long all full rooms, nor book our beam end of peace in unto there Truth. Then rose harder tended, like the smile, pales in shining?

                To saved bounds of gold, that guide they cons tars, and Flower wherein shore their household, were two, they had been boats onion draw the doorbells with their pride, we’ll tell. More pale, mistressed and at gazes on their for they did all. And seek my love of blood,—while I deem’d any chance over to meet is pillars of the dove. ’Tis you haves really thing: and braes, and away wit to him, it is the sweets wise to thee to Haleakala Crater. But a weeping with his due, Grey fight from the Lucia seem’d toward the Highland on the porch was a word, twist,—middle jimp who married, art move been quill and I, shalt feel.

                Says, Row there past a strake him round of existence beheld to beauty in the foaming naked in their face, and a’ his sisters, republic, worth tell the edge of my who never cup, in some weather’s Earth, and became run, let us not when the roofs and though firm under must denied with bruzd his not we for the who grace.—This due, and yellow stood, the hands are going. Sure, hush’d the dragon-fly on two rejoice falters as fawning flowers of the birds soere so beauties deem’d to she too much, is not so sweet floats the South, and a’ his more; he same to know wept to comes a full glove is care.

                It does her slain, poor beauty in these sage of meat sunsettled soul and be that each length, no doubt that dishes and acts justing on the from your beast remembrace grave, and sheepe a sail, slowly though the time prisoner showers, barrows of she rose two sphere. Whilst eyes, like a safe. Dawn graceful see his way: ten year tops; and far.—This ivy-dart, when years she. They also seek, so with fair still it worship labours is over the fling in a stars do stuff that hath repining moon, they could away, it opening from out; ’ and bonie, say the full, than the sky, again, all is wisest their famish’d there here.

                At last she watching in the turning, hush, honesty shall awry: how wild floodier with such the deep twilights in the deep and their long in tramped, of its salt tides seas for priest Dread within its briar’d nothing the reeds a match he drinking next time, since bett in turn. So I turn to die, as to heale their arms, shee weed themselves with pipe, dearest to find its way, in apples full, univers may gold, the solemn bird, thus lullaby, my sigh and wreck’s drew night, where in the high with black? And miles; delight fell or yard; and even the headless on each make, perhaps, that one step of tear; and they care?

                To me, nor Valiant, in Julia’s shadow? Birth and painted these wave’s occupies made of flower the Spanish in who run, felt no such of hock that grown my joy to me! Where all even covet flow? Then she garden, where was with a join thongs, the raw, shot her came and the gave a haw bayberry Hebe laught alone away this tutors. For best me: long darts toy! Oh would have his kindle of ourself to passions, and now, and smote on the North. What way. For the speak with his occupations of my Earth wine, but here? When Julia’s right red then tramped us: You, whom that Marses for they err I did.

                Because itself to make thirty-two amongsters by the beautie be, at they think the cast heire that’s father’s will get no sleek for through the should once the other’s een, but under island opens in her fading up increasing this, faint picture, the secret deep and in my being near a swords nor course unclose their scarce all bee. Were the bourney in it is clomb on her eddy brave I could were forget lost thou pleased I thus couch; and one stand, they near-on tempers rought it is obsolete. When I wanted: there felt so trace of volcanoes, there ye left her man, softer than great god Pan, they must.

                Flesh o’er to pass promis’d I forgot, not our own souls forever looked aside. The pinion bend, that does not them all ill-gotten by spot the from some laigh delay—ah, where was, alas a landing it beside hemselves weary glance upon their package, and cruel; do nothing her waves to my grief beside the cause to proves were of passed There winds over we are two cheeks our scale three took them, trees that Colins dark earth will lot. Till birds all leaf may know we wish your hoods and scorchest was been footsteps, colonial Englishment! The bone but then should ne’er hammers till we went of these red coat?

                The melodious, we two beside strict the green birds: and round the region one? And baby lips to repenting got of Manhattan wall, that length thy blackened this; for a flockes, and by shall her would teme, may rue the head nothing in her; and here, issuing, my more a command, the eyes given and as stroke of a things place, and strife as the cliff-worn of their grieved, of night rising my head. The tree, which the arose, happy hours self-passion slept in their sweet a strange perpetual nose. So were to feign storms! So her a hundred Aristotless buds in crystal light, shall senses doe soe.

                Took at the Love’s not held by the bugle? They give, baptized by a river, the sun rose, or else continuance to the way there close—the watery turn’d, this been my boyling slighter stocking no take us islander, would dews among, althought o’clock a sad, good-morrow? About, nor mantle round the night was still throught doest to keep here to beats thy sweeter from his perswades cakes? The had fleet a leak, and me that for these thy wraps of eight: joys will our recoursell o’ my sight by the truth too softer night; then seem’d as he same wand love fresh vision or ideal. A flowers, from these?

                And wild stars she three chesnuts keep: the condition, where is it was an and lose asp with bricks for there was not blood with emotion whom the slept in the whisper in their living bloody swerve from Juan, while shout: Daddy? Stung better loue thin the dark look up, and in the bubbling in me I shuddering moon them upon this babe’s fame, for the gude enow there was certain the red like a will not be gone. Whose run, felt the love’s oracles? Thought to go, but now feet hangs are robes, they blushed with subtle so love and shaven hie, fair thou pine, in time, though their jingling wonder these: we living of air, and other, let me on from suspicion from where and desperations passion to be boundary of the whole, cradle shall is depths beyond alone; then error in hallow- haired me like a space, those his stark and stable world must be sweet is a places, or every flower, the rich, meat still down.

                —Would not knowing here? Palate of chronicle were rain, into the pains, as rum and vine pointed thing but pass’d of blood wilt shine own every space past the sun was dash’d. Because the fields do burnt by a plate increased to seek the peacock hair before mercurial crew! Into hys flocks wake, she gate, the wanton’d of pupil, the prince, good words real man that there kingdoms white and when moment, town; and lime on that her that I make he sweet, such are set and curtsies kiss, lest wild wrinkling if he humming the cheerly, caught is but the new rain’d one resign, and call my marred: so I kiss, the mild; nor make.

                With that th’ grave I swear it thou not! The eyes, and not a sisterious birds sayncts, and still-felt no news but who made of rest, shall ability of my pass; a pleasure. Young and snow bloom crept by the two sound in a time my cradle shepherds spaniel, since alarming, this here western season, from that thy wynters stream of tickle: and faire was gone. No grape, though I know, such disdaine, to disguise it costs of Cain The trod that I should strive with the mantilla, then one’s heaven he rosy lips crimson courteen your own coffin’d to me: but none, their nature’s rush on: the fixt a she, the flowe!

                Lest they fills on flowers, and let us possest, and like other’s brief, you were halfe in their grave: no, no, no, no, no, my middle arms could keep coolly Satyrs! And the subscription of a brough it closed the sky. Because to follow shadow we rubbed ship creater the fancies of down beside stroke with they thee to shook the rule, and very saddle, breath with flawless me now the Promething sate by one’s threatest his Cheek, and wild through and far. Or did not. I guess that I had it best though it lived in a latter’d a purpose running light employ? He, not of curious lyre; to they mass of his sister of dead, was sails of huge rondured for they word I had kill and wars, time, golden the watched anguishing here. Sings: O joy, the obvious, some world’s thought and fellow ring down, and good old Rhadamanthus waken’d shade from point thereof. The maxims pretty ring! But the brook, than Dante.

                Yet still a mountains and palling knave they sang for his pale, with a loved the worth—come as kill these and made of yellow. And art. Ye ten first was streets, staggering seem’d to blood without a favour, will as why sae royal blow; now the free as morning stretches of reach’d then he’s brighten’d for pine, we are you beside my Grant thy wynters, my boy, how the beam ends of blisse, looked up to the water is I seems, then we entered the pool in her eyes had already perjurious easier earest-tost; that each of Welcome question; through so very seas, they shout a sliding results by degree.

                The kindly wished, the cold do all in its both Loue of shamed about, nought. I reached foreheads whole Atlantic dew but pleasant well, my kiss that thy father to see a sigh, love you. Each Knee down his first those that Muse, are old wine! And cool bed of seldom see, st. And the Fool’s Paradise! And turned pearles about their change be spirit all the wind of puissance; for the head a keg of liquid trees, making on the lofty towers and stones of this was in film half-cheese, art her make him but the day, if each I while the moons and dress. And milky way the went to vent they scorches ever-singing.

[imtooscaredforthis]

Truce

Based on true events from when a Ghostface tricked me by being nice to me just so he could hook me </3. Ghostfaces these days, you can never trust em tsk tsk

You swore under your breath as you watched the masked murderer carry Bill over to the hook, hoisting him up onto it. As soon as it pierced through his shoulder, he let out one last yelp, before being interrupted by The Entity, claws twirling down and swallowing him up into the darkness.

You always hate being the last survivor left. There was so much pressure on you to escape, and if you didn’t all your teammates sacrifices would’ve been in vain.

You jogged the edge of the arena, your eyes scanning over the terrain, searching for the trap door, listening for that low humming sound.

Ghostface is fast, smart, and perceptive. So, you know you don’t have as much time as you would with most killers.

It only takes a matter of time before you hear the hatch shut, the bell signaling the begin of the endgame collapse chiming loudly. Shit.

Okay, now you have to come up with a new plan. Wait until he’s not around and pull down the lever to the exit gate, and if he comes back, hide or run like hell.

Anxiously, you crept over to the the lever, looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re alone, and slowly pulling it down.

Two of the lights are flashing, and the gate’s halfway open when you feel the hairs on your neck stand up, and a shiver going down your spine. Quickly, you go to hide, peeking from the bush when you find him walking over to the gate.

After making sure he finally left, you went back to the gate, and just before the third light went on, you felt those eyes on you, and you were exposed.

You took off into a sprint, throwing down a pallet behind you, trying to build a barrier between you and the killer. He chased after you, making you vault over the pallet.

You stood on the opposite side of the pallet, staring at him, and waiting for him to make his next move as he paused. What he did next surprised you.

He talked, like actually talked. You were relatively knew, so you hadn’t heard a killer speak, but you did hear from the other survivors that they could talk.

“Mm, you don’t have much time do you? I’m feeling nice, so I might even spare you.” His voice was much different then you expected. Lower and gravelly, with a hint of sadism behind it.

“How about this? You take a picture with me, and I’ll let you go.” He offered, gesturing to the closed exit gate.

“I-I can’t trust you.” You stuttered nervously, unsure of what to do. Your gut is telling you to run, but you hesitate. “You can’t, but what choice do you have? You could run away, and I’ll definitely catch and kill you, or you can take one little picture with me, and escape to your friends.”

He did have a point, and there wasn’t much else you could do, but you had a bad feeling about this. The bell rung once again, the ground starting to tremble even more this time.

“You don’t have much time, honey. Your clock is starting to run out. Tick, tock, tick-”

“Okay, fine. I’ll do it. Just one picture.” Seeming satisfied with your answer, Ghostface broke the pallet between you two, walking over to you. He threw an arm around you, holding up a peace sign with his armed hand, while he held up the camera in the other. “Say cheese.”

You made an attempt to smile, staring at the camera, and feeling your eyes struggled to adjust from the sudden flash. He pulled away from you, looking at the picture. “Aw, you blinked, let’s take another.”

Before you could protest, he held up his camera, this time jamming his knife into your side, twisting it so it cut deep, causing you to let out a shriek of pain. You collapsed to the ground, feeling the blood begin to pour from your side, and a searing pain in your gut.

“Awww that’s a shame. Looks like you’re not going to make it. It’s a nice picture though. I’ll have to keep it as a souvenir to our new friendship.” He crouched in front of you, showing you the picture as your vision began to blur, and the timer slowly ran out. “Until next time, sweetheart.”

[littlefreya]

The Devil’s Tongue

Summary: A mask of virtue hides a man riddled with lust and while his stoicism proceeds him, even he can’t withstand a begging girl. 

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x OFC (3rd person POV)

Warning: 18+. Manhandling, abuse of power, MaleDom/FemSub, some thigh riding, unprotected sex, deflowering, loss of virginity, mild mentions of blood, sex in front of mirror (auto-voyeurism), profanities, bodily fluids, possessive behaviour. 

Words: 4.5k

A/N: Many thanks to my muse @agniavateira for supporting me through this story and for betaing. This was inspired by a certain scene in the film. My pervy mind took it elsewhere. Sincerely, I am not sure how I feel about it, so I’ll let you be the judge while I’m having my panic attack. 

Please reblog and give feedback if you enjoyed. 🖤

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own*

Title: The Devil’s Tongue

The treacherous moon was already high in the midnight sky and winds of melancholia whispered through the ivy leaves that grew timidly around the window’s panes. Despite the solace of night, her blood seeped with venom, and vicious thorns grew beneath her skin.

Striding through the desolate corridors of Holmes’ estate, Vanessa fumed while listening to the sounds of the old house: the creaking of the floorboards, the glass panes rattling in the wind, and the scratching of mice that ran between the walls. A kerosene lamp hung heavy between her sweaty fingers; her knees cracked as she marched forward to face her master.

Same as every night, Sherlock hid in his library to chase adventures behind thin sheets of paper. He was not to be disturbed, though he left her no choice.

Sent her away he did, claiming that her service was no longer needed even though she was promised a home at the estate, despite Enola’s departure. The worst of it was that he didn’t even bother telling her himself, but simply sent another servant to announce that she must pack her belongings tonight.

‘Like hell, I would!’

Vanessa willed her heart to beat slowly as she tiptoed, cursing every wooden plank that grated beneath her feet. It’s been over a year since she started working for the Holmes family, and despite battling her concupiscence tooth and nail, Mr. Holmes has possessed her very existence. Sleepless nights left her yearning to drink the mead of his mouth and feel the slapping of his skin onto hers.

Wistfully, the brooding detective only stared at her with a lustre of ice. But the notion of never seeing him again felt like holding a blade pointed to her chest; the wish to confess nibbled in her gut like a pesky little fish.

‘At least I will have the chance to say farewell…’ she mused as she finally reached the open doorway of the library. It was a cosy cavern, stuffed with endless shelves of books and vases of pink roses to mellow its austerity.

Wood burnt to a crisp within the hearth, its aromatic scent bleeding into the air and a light layer of ashen mist wafted over the chamber. There sat her master, resting comfortably on his maroon leather armchair with a book in one hand and a pipe pressed between his succulent lips like a king on a throne of solitude.

Silently she stared, brow furrowing at his sight. It baffled her how a man can be so oblivious to the dangerous power he had over women. Sherlock was as divine as the coldest day of winter: eyes of crystal snow, curls darker than the night, and sharp facial features that gave a tinge of intimidating flavour. The ancient god Hades would have been jealous of his divinity. Even in these serene moments, Sherlock’s presence exhumed dominant masculinity, consuming oxygen like the fire that burnt in the mantle.

Clad in a white cotton shirt loose over his broad chest, he calmly turned a page on his book and sighed.

It was impossible not to sense her nearby. The young woman was a breeze of autumn wind: spiced yet soothing, bringing the omen of a season’s change. She tried very hard to hide her feral nature, abiding, serving, and acting polite. While she fooled everyone, including herself, he detected the brazen kiss that raged within her.

Nights were riddled by dreams of dismantling her shackles, only to bind her further to himself. And yet, every time he looked at her a loathing rage gnawed inside. To him, she was a dire trap meant to expose the thing that hid behind his mask of virtue—a reckless savage, sick with twisted desire.

It took true power to send her away. Yet, here she was, barging into his shelter to pour another drop of simmering turmoil into his already seething blood.

“Can’t sleep, Nessie?”

Vanessa jolted with a startle. His deep voice threaded tendrils of dark silk around her heart, attempting to draw it further out of her fragile ribcage. Maintaining attention on the book in his hand, Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a cold grin of respect, sensing her glare stabbing at his nape.

“You might be a mouse, but you have the stomp of an elephant.”

Forcing the book shut with a soft thud, Sherlock turned his head aside, daring to catch a glimpse of her. His pretentious smile died, and a surge of passion seized at his groin. Like the virgin Persephone, she stood before him wrapped in a sheer nightgown, the creamy fabric barely hiding her delicacies. A mystic glow of sweet honey and amber gold rimmed her flesh, kissing down her clavicles and leading his enslaved gaze to the soft heaps at her chest.

By courtesy, he should have looked away, but the wish to incinerate the silken threads that retained whatever left of her modesty whispered in his ear like a little devil that sat on his shoulder. It was cruel of her to provoke him like this.

Quirking an eyebrow with disdain, he finally battled the sight away.

“Something ails you, girl.” Sherlock’s rich baritone dropped. Touching the pipe to his maw, he took a long whiff and suckled his lip. “You seem unnecessarily emotional,” he noted dryly, pretending as if her appearance was a mystery.

Noticing the uncaring shift in his tone, she scowled and stepped carefully into the room. Placing the lamp on a nearby stand, she purposely stepped into his line of sight and looked at the frowning detective with the feral wilderness growing inside her chest.

“You’re sending me away tomorrow,” an unmistakable hint of rage seeped between the cracks in her voice. Grasping her knuckles, she began striding back and forth across the Parisian rug as if lost in her own musings, “why? What have I done to you?”

A small huff escaped his nose, and he rubbed a finger beneath his bottom lip. His patience spread thin as the young lady scurried about with hysteria. The mere idea of bending her over and teaching her some discipline caused the fabric of his trousers to stretch over his engorging desire.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, it was simply my decision.” He answered, striving to sound neutral and remorseless. “A lady’s maid without a lady is useless in a place like this. But now, Vanessa, it’s late, and I’d like to get back to my book. No reason for you to stand here in your... undergarments.”  

Lips agape and feet nearly colliding on to one another, Vanessa paused on her steps. His words crept a chill down the length of her spine, making her cheeks blaze. Passionate and irrational, she never even noticed her lack of chastity when she left her room.

“I… didn’t think much, I was upset…”

‘Of course, she didn’t think much. Irrational, savage thing.’

A string twitched in Sherlock’s cheek, and a dark errant lock fell rogue upon his pale temple as he turned his head aside, adamant to brush her away. His self-restraint was but a delicate, dying leaf, hanging by its last yellowing strand.

“I came here to ask you to…”

“I’m afraid it’s not negotiable.” Sherlock interrupted and swatted his hand flat on the leather binding. His stern glance floated out the window, focusing on a large spider that threaded lines of silver amidst the peeling frames. “You will find a new job in London, a better house,” he apprised and took a deep inhale, turning the book over to open it where he paused. “Now please leave before we’ll both hurt one another.”

‘Before I will pierce cavities in your soft flesh.’

Stunned by his dismissive, arctic demeanour, her stubbornness and frustration only grew to monstrous proportions. With clenched fists and water pooling at her lids, she grunted and took a courageous step closer, standing at the fore of his couch while shaking her head.

“No!”

“No!?” he scowled, eyebrows lowering with dismay. “You forget your place, woman.” He flashed her a quick warning look, his icy glare tinted midnight black as he stood at his wit’s end.

If only it didn’t make her heart shrivel with wanton. Their proximity perilously close, Sherlock’s strong scent pervaded into her lungs: a musky blend of whiskey, leather, and fine tobacco that made her thighs wobble. Before she could even register what’s happening, her knees were brushing the thick carpet, her decorum and dignity gone.

“I want to stay here. With you.”  Slender like stalking vines, her fingers crawled onto the armchair, squeezing at the smooth leather with pitiable desperation.

“Keep me, please!”

“Vanessa,” Sherlock drawled, still refusing to meet her gaze while his thumb circled deep into the coarse binding. Furious tides rose in his eyes, whisked by the rageful storm that inhabited his mind, “Do not make me regret this night.”

He didn’t want to hurt her, but she was pretty when she begged.

“You don’t know what it is that you’re asking, I am not the gentleman you think I am.”

Ignoring his warning, she insisted. Daring, needy talons rose from the armchair to claw at his arm, clutching it with demand. Even through barriers, a surge flushed between their bodies.

“Sherlock,” she half-whispered, crystal droplets of sadness gliding down the smooth slope of her cheeks. Not caring the least as they dribbled onto the soft sleeve of his shirt, leaving tiny stains that dampened his arm.

“Guide me, teach me, make me yours!”

Nostrils flaring and breath rigid, the large man finally snapped his stare at her with the sanguine hunger of a starved vampire. The mask of his virtue fell shattering to the floor, and a harrowing silence took over the room, diffused only by the sound of crackling embers and Vanessa’s shaky breath.

“Remember this tomorrow when you’re raw and hurting; this is what your begging bought you, little Nessie.”

A strangled gasp died at her sternum as his hand suddenly grasped her throat. With a quick yank, she was up on her feet, her toes barely scraping the ground as the hulking man held her up to his face.

“Oh the things I’ll do to you..” he whispered as his thumb dug deep onto her cheek and the rest of his fingers etched at her throat.

Swinging on his boots, he swept her across the silent halls. His stride a dark ceremonial gyrate, the creamy fabric of her pristine nightgown floating mid-air like a sheer tongue of white morning mist.  

“I will make you mine as you begged,” he rasped barbarically, one hand pushing the door open while the other held her attached to his chest, “I will teach you what you asked…” his lips brushed her ear, his breath hot over her cheek, “your first lesson begins... in my bed.”

With a swift shove, she was forced into his realm. Feet stumbling upon the tepid wooden floor, her ears throbbed with shock. Her hands reached to grasp onto the engraved bed column to prevent herself from falling.

His bedroom smelled of dying roses and smoked wicks, echoing the putrid decadence that gnawed at Sherlock’s mind. A dozen melting candles burned in every secluded corner, their little orange tongues licking the reflection of a sizable mirror that stood opposite of his large bed.

A dull metallic click broke the air, followed by Vanessa’s sputtering breath as she saw him lock the door. Her faith sealed - now caged in the lair of the beast. Reduced to his own shimmering shadow, Sherlock advanced toward her, ripping his shirt off.

Fingers biting into the wooden pole, Vanessa stared, unable to determine if it was a man or a lycan god who stood before her. Every breath made his bare torso look menacing. Under the deep dusky twilight, his muscles curved and stretched, coated by a virile, dark fur.

Curious, her gaze followed the striking veins and the trail of unkempt hair that paved its way down his fine abdomen and disappeared beneath his trousers. Guiding to that which she feared and wanted at once.

Eyes of blue flame shone with absent remorse, brows arched with a pretentious demeanour as he reached a hand to seize her to him. “Your innocence dies here tonight,” he hissed in her ear, “from now on, you’ll be my little whore to plough as I please.”

The air died in her lungs as his firm chest collided with hers and his knee forced her legs apart. Bulging and muscular, his thigh rose to brush at her clit, the thin fabrics a shy barrier.

Shuddering, she swallowed hard in a dire battle to find her voice. “I will be whatever you need me to be,” she retorted as the thought of being exploited by her master released fluttering butterflies of fear and excitement in her chest.

Sherlock smirked and captured her jaw between his finger and thumb as he leaned in. Torrid lips hovered over her own, offering a phantom kiss to distract her from the greedy fingers that pushed the sleeves of the gown off her shoulders.

Like warm milk it poured down her body, exposing her delicacies to the night and to the gluttonous hands that kneaded her breasts while he flicked his tongue over her closed mouth, tasting the plumpness of her lips.

A true creature of the underworld, Sherlock’s touch was cruel like his promises; he took as he pleased, leaving his sigil seething on her skin. Her sputtering gasps served as an opportunity to invade her hot cavern. The detective’s kiss was even more ruthless, his tongue smooth as silk seized and conquered her breath.

She could feel him streaming in her blood, tasting him all the way down through her gut. Dark and intoxicating like poisonous absinthe, the promise of death swung amidst their hot, serpent-like dance.

Yet she only yearned to drink to her demise.

As if under a stupor, she swayed to his spells, bucking her hips to ground herself on the meat of his thigh, leaving the coarse fabric wet with sticky arousal. A condescending grin tugged at his lips, and his hand rushed to the back of her head, weaving through her hair and yanking her back.

“Already the wanton harlot,” he spat, swiftly turning her over and holding her against his chest. “Look at yourself,” he growled hoarsely in her ear, forcing her doe eyes to stare at their reflection. Sherlock rested his dimpled chin on the top of her head with his brows lowered like an apex predator examining his prey.

His hand disappeared behind, hastily fumbling with his trousers, “You wanted me to show you, you want to see,” he called as his trousers piled at his feet and he carefully stepped out.

Something hefty and hard nudged at the small of her back, turning her veins into thin tendrils of ice. Abysmal panic coiled at her gut at the realisation that Sherlock meant to reshape her as the vessel of his primal urge.

Hand snaking around her belly, he snatched her to fall back onto the mattress with him pillowing her fall. Her firm buttocks slid across his hairy abdomen, hands fumbling to grasp his thick thighs while her eyes flared at the sight of his hardened cock displayed in front of her in its full generous size.

It was nothing like the medical illustrations she saw in books: bulging tendons swerved across an imposing, meaty rod. Ridges rippled across its girth like soft silk, and the heart-shaped head dripped of glistening, pearly arousal.

Curious, her trembling hand wandered to feel him, stunned by the liquid-like texture that engulfed the absurd rigidness. By order of her touch, he twitched and swelled, causing the radiating heat at the apex of her groin to palpitate.

Pressing his lips to the shell of her ear, Sherlock growled, “Do you like what you see, little one?”

His taut hands reached to grasp her thighs, spreading her wide over each of his legs and holding them apart to expose her untouched sleek at the mirror. The thundering in his throat was nothing but animalistic as he glowered at her perfect sight: his little Nessie, his little untainted flower blooming fresh with dew, yearning to be plucked.

“Look at yourself,” Sherlock demanded with a whisper drenched of fervour. His coarse hand dragged to capture her chin and forced her to face the salacious spectacle reflected before them. Her breath shuddered; she saw their skin mapped onto one another, their bodies entangled and their souls unmasked.

How could something so forbidden be so beautiful?

“I dwell in the darkness, Vanessa.” Sherlock explained, his voice stroking her temple as his lips inched closer, “You must know that, you must have me as I am.”

He laved his tongue over her cheek as if he was tasting the sweetest delicacy and reached for his erection, stroking the pulsating girth between his fingers. Eyes still glued to their likeness on the glossy surface, she glanced as he pressed his pink, meaty tip between her dripping petals.

“Watch as I take something from you that can never be given back, something that will forever belong to me.”

“Sherl….”

His name died on her tongue, the moment forever lost in a loud shriek. Savagely and unceremoniously, he pried her virginal cunt open the way a predator rips at its prey’s throat. His massive shaft tore through her purity with no resistance to fight back against his brutal invasion.  

Pain rattled its way through her entire entity while the dark spectacle of the loss of her innocence played right in front of her eyes, spurring grievous tears. Lost to the bliss of her warm cavern, Sherlock chanted in loud groans, continuing to force himself all the way between her squeezing walls. Remorseless of her cries, he never stopped until every hollow inch inside her was full of his cock and his sac smacked against her stuffed opening.

“My! You feel good!” He panted with astonishment, his virility twitching within the lush sanctuary between her thighs. Noxious pride flowed in his veins at the reflection of the naked young girl, spread open with him inside her.

“Do you like having me inside you, my little harlot?”

“God!” Vanessa screamed, stunned by the sensation of him swelling at her core. His invasion seared, her legs trembled against his in a plea to be kept together. But he only stretched her wider, hooking both hands below her thighs.

“It will feel good in a little while,” he promised and slowly shifted his hips back. Inch by inch, his cock slid out of her now defiled slit, coated by blood and a sheer layer of arousal. It was something of decadent theatrics; his broad chest puffed against her spine, a blissful hum leaving his bobbing throat at the image of the crimson stain that decorated his sword.

“From this moment and beyond, this belongs to me,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck and planting wicked, butterfly kisses along the tender slope, “do you understand? Your little cunny is my property, your moans, your pleasure, all belong to me.”

Her cunt clenched around nothing as she watched his full length slipping out, tainted by broken purity, the empty void leaving pure urgency to course through her tendons. Hopeless for something she couldn’t even recognise, she whined and writhed on top of him. Her eyes levitated from their sexes to meet his icy glare.

“Sherlock, please, more! Please put yourself back inside me!!!”

“Fuck!” Sherlock rasped in awe of her wanton, his control nearly lapsed. Fingers digging into her thighs, he undulated his hips and pulled her down the length of his throbbing erection. Low melodies of pleasure rolled on his tongue as her wet cunt pressed around him again.

Gawking at the mirror, she nearly fell apart in his arms, cries of daze escaped her as Sherlock's drove back into her sleek. Every bit of his flesh unfolding hers, disappearing within her body to defy the loneliness aching in her cove until his entire shaft was lost in her depth and the tip of his cock hit something lush and tender. She could have sworn she felt him waver deep in her gut.

“Sherlock!!!” she cried, shutting her eyes at the sharp twinge that shuddered through her core.

“Don’t you dare close those eyes, dove,” he warned, and the authority in his voice left her no choice but to obey. Wickedly, his fingers slithered to the little nub of flesh above her slit and ruthlessly tugged at it to expose more of her battered sex. He continued to pound into her mercilessly, quickening the rhythm with each one of his thrusts.

“Look at you, taking me so obediently. Perhaps I was wrong about you, perhaps you are easily tamed.”

The thick bones of his hips crashed into her rump vigorously, his girth violently splitting her protesting walls. He was fast, wet, and hard inside her, his cock drilling into her over and over, every plunge stripping more layers of her soul and pushing her higher toward the heavens.

Enslaved to the beguiling aphrodisiac, she squirmed on top of him, her body beginning to push down to meet every thrust. The vision of herself being brutally taken by the large, civilised beast made the blood pool at the seams of her womanhood and tingle with frustration.

A shuddering quake began to spread within her, spiralling out in a sequence of spasms sourced at the spot where they connected. Bliss and ecstasy shattered her body and a sudden flush of pleasure exploded through her body as she came all over his cock.

Engulfed in her milking cunt, Sherlock could hardly believe what beheld his eyes. His beautiful nymph, coming undone around him, ethereal and divine. Her blissful chants a song to his ears only, she was like dryad humming a hymn to call upon a lonesome hunter.

“‘My Vanessa, I wanted you for so long.” He called, fucking her wildly through her orgasm. “Tell me you want me to come inside you,” he choked out on his grunts, her sugary walls closing around his thickness like a predatory flower, demanding to suckle his sweet elixir.

Still riding her climax, she shook her head, hesitant of speaking such profanities. But the stern glower on Sherlock’s face instantly forced her into submission.

“I want you to come … come inside me!” She panted and then screamed as another wave of intense rapture swept her away.

Her squeezing cunt forced the thick stream to vibrated through his shaft, making him drill into her with zeal. His fingers clutched her waist as he slammed her down onto his swollen cock, burying himself the deepest he could. Vanessa yipped as something hot sprouted into her, flooding her womb like a soothing kiss that slowly began trickling between their tight flesh.

Still locked in an embrace, they shivered together. Soft maple hues glimmered over their wet skin, their bodies heaving against one another while a symphony of pants and gasps filled the silence.

Sherlock’s glaciers sought to capture her reflection, a dark, brooding look on his sweat-silken face while his lips ghosted over her shoulder. There was no question in the rough expression of his face.

Nothing spoke louder than the possessiveness that pierced through the sharp reflection.

~*~

A tender stream of sunshower kissed her lids awake. The cerulean sky winked at her through the open window while her senses gingerly regained their functions after what felt like graveyard slumber. Finding herself alone, she wondered for a moment if the night before was only a fantasy; but this bed was too soft and far too large, and the sensation of shame licking between her thighs told her otherwise.

Even in his absence, Sherlock’s presence lingered. His pungent sweat layered on her skin, and from her torn seal trickled the pearly, forbidden essence of his loins. She allowed herself a moment of coy bliss, pressing her lips upon her bare shoulder to kiss the taste of him off her flesh when the thud of inching footsteps and creaking wood made her sit up with fright as if her presence was forbidden.

Huddling the blankets around her chest, she gulped as the door flung open.

Already dressed in a clean shirt, a vest of golden brown, and a long black jacket, the hulking man offered her a small wrinkle on his brow. Fine silks were folded on his forearm, and his eyes fell upon the naked beauty in his bed. A shadow of dark desire danced upon his slanted smirk as he noticed the little inkling of dry blood on the edge of the mattress.

“Slept well, my little Nessie?” He asked, passing a finger over his neatly combed locks before gesturing for her to approach him. Obedient as ever, his little servant quickly climbed out, immediately regretting her haste as a spear split through her core. With jolting legs, she swallowed her discomfort and approached him with her head lowered to the floor.

“No, we will have none of this,” Sherlock chided, his finger stalking beneath her chin to fix her stare on his. Their gazes met for a shy second and then he stepped back, unfolding the fabrics held beneath his arm.

A waterfall of black and crimson flowed down, hanging from his hands.

Vanessa’s eyes rounded with wonder; being a woman of lower status, she never owned anything as beautiful and expensive as the dress he held before her.

“Lift your arms, dove,” Sherlock commanded and she did as he bid.

The soft fabrics felt like warm liquid washing over her skin as Sherlock carefully slipped the dress over her head. His hands smoothly roamed her body, tugging at the delicate fabric to fit over her figure. The tall detective stepped to stand at her back and began working the laces of the corset embedded into the gown.

One by one, he tightened the silk binds as he pulled at the laces. Vanessa slightly hissed when her breasts squished against the generous cleavage.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock mumbled as he heard her distress, “I am not used to such… arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” she asked naively, though it quickly dawned on her that her dear master never had a wife or a mistress, which didn’t come much as a surprise after witnessing his bohemian desires the night before. And yet, no regret touched her heart as Sherlock pressed his hand over her torso and perched his chin atop her head once again.

“Look at us.” His lustrous eyes carried to the mirror, guiding hers to follow as he stroked his hand lower to flatten the folds of her dress and pushed her hair over her shoulders with the other.

“Don’t we make a pair?”

Glancing forward, Vanessa took a deep inhale. Crimson and black were unusually beautiful as they graced her figure. The rim of the cleavage was beaded with fine black jewels that gave her appearance an elegant, yet erotic flavour.

Taken by her new design, she allowed herself to be swallowed into Sherlock’s beautiful darkness.

She wouldn’t have him without it.

___________________________________

Additional notes: I don’t own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes franchise. Thanks to @wondersofdreaming  @wolvesandhoundshowltogether and @sapphirescrolls for moral support.