#orris concrete

[httpsghostie]

Enemy pt 2

pt 1

if I saw him walking towards me like this I would run

I'm speechless this is so long I'ms orry I got carried away

Summary: you put yourself in a delicate situation with your superiors despite knowing more and end up in wrong hands.

Word Count: 4,3k

Warnings: dubcon, smut, König x female!reader, strong language, blood, gore, violence, knife play, spanking, dacryphilia, edging, unprotected piv sex (wrap it b4 you tap it), no use of y/n

masterlist

You've underestimated him, that's for sure. But you found out too late.

You found out when you were walking around, trying to find your captain to discuss some issues, and instead found a pile of dead soldiers and a pool of blood.

The door to his cell was ajar and of course the lights were off. That fucking bastard, how was it so easy for him to take down four trained soldiers? And how did he get away from the chains?

Maybe it happened when he was being fed, maybe he was strong enough to break the chains. And even if he was, why didn't he snap out of them when you were literally milking the info out of him?

You reach for your pistol and carefully follow the dark hallway to his cell after calling for backup, but you decided they would take the time you couldn't waste with this bastard. On the way, you rolled one of the soldiers with your foot, he'd been stabbed on his vital parts, and you deduced he did this to every other one of your guys.

Your ears ringed, your blood boiling through your veins with anxiousness, but at times like this you couldn't show your weaknesses. You were in it until the end.

You stand in front of the door, your fear getting even worse. You know you shouldn't show it. He smelled fear, he got off from that, of how your pretty eyes widened at his sight.

In an instant, the door is kicked open by your right foot, and before you could inspect the cell, your body was thrown on the ground in a loud thud, a heavy weight collapsing onto you, pinning you down on the floor.

Your head got dizzy from hitting the concrete too hard, but you could recognize that man from a mile away. You could recognize his nauseating scent even if someone brainwashed you for years. 

He pressed your weak body with his weight as his blood covered hands caressed the black fabric on your mask, slowly lifting it up to reveal your puffy lips, waiting for him. He can't help but smile at the memories of your lips wrapped around his girthy cock as he held your head in place. He wants to do it again. But not now, now he's worried about other things.

"You're so pretty when you keep your mouth shut." He runs his finger along your lips, you could almost feel the metallic taste of blood. "I want to kill you so bad, slit that beautiful throat you got." He grabs you by the neck.

"Then do it." You said with gritted teeth.

"And end the fun of hunting you?" He pushed you back on the floor as your face started to get red. "I'll give you another chance to live, how merciful I am." He laughs, standing up and leaving you there, almost like the way you left him.

He disappears in the dark, and the last thing you remember were his eyes piercing through your soul, marking you forever, and your vision blurs. There were dry tears on the corners of your eyes, and your mind was filled with red.

You wake up in a white room and as soon as you open your eyes, you're blinded by the bright lights that reflect on the white walls and floor. There's no one with you. Great, they didn't even bother to put a recruit to watch out for you, ouch.

When you're prepared to leave the room, a doctor sees your movement and says he's glad you've finally woken up. He tells you about a concussion, and you listen to it until it slowly starts to sound like a distant babble, so far away, and your brain can't handle any more information as someone lurks behind the doctor.

He. It was him. He was there for you again. He was going to get you.

He's standing behind the man, holding a knife up to his face. His gaze. You can only feel how creepy his gaze is on you and how intimidating he looks with his gigantic size.

You know he's smiling, of course he's smiling, he's fucking insane, that's why. He's not leaving you alone, he's going to get you, he's going to kill you. You're gonna pay for what you did.

And the thoughts don't leave your injured brain as you try to run but your body does not respond to any of your commands.

He's there, he's going to kill you.

He's going to kill you.

"-and some might experience hallucinations." You blink rapidly and he's gone. You look back to the doctor. "Are you alright?" He asked you as he saw your sweaty forehead and your out of breath figure.

"Mhm." You cut him off, reaching for the clothes on the side of your hospital bed. "How long have I been asleep?"

"A day. Listen, you should rest." He puts a gentle hand on your shoulder and you push him away.

"I can't afford to rest."

You get dressed quickly and leave through the white corridors, trying to find your phone in the never ending pockets of your vest. Your head was hurting like hell, you felt your brain pounding on your skull. 

You're going to end his life.

"Tell me you got that motherfucker!" You screamed on the phone as your captain picked up.

"Listen, you need to calm d-"

"I am fucking calm! Where the hell were you when he killed our men? Where the hell are you now?" Your anger makes your head hurt even more.

"I can't talk right now." You were able to hear other voices in the call, like someone else was talking in the room he was in.

"Then shove your dead men in your fucking ass!" You scream again, throwing the phone on a wall. Everyone around looks at you and you feel embarrassed, picking your phone up and shoving it in your pocket.

The sun falls down and you're met with a beautiful night and a sky full of stars. But that sight irritated you deeply when you had spent the last five hours looking at it when you couldn't sleep. He always came back. He always found his way into your brain. That manic look on his eyes whenever he had control over the situation. It's okay, you could handle it.

"You'd look so pretty with a knife up to your throat."

"What?" You blink fast, looking frantically to the sides and trying to find him lurking in the shadows. He wasn't there. He wasn't real. You shake off the thoughts, taking another long sip of the now cold coffee in a bottle right by your side.

But as they say, idle hands are the devil's tools. You couldn't stay still, how the fuck did he escape? How did he break those chains and most importantly, how did he break that iron door?

You wander around the hallways, finding your way to what used to be his cell. The floor still had a blood stain that couldn't be washed away, and thankfully they didn't care enough about such a thing. Holding a flashlight to the door, you see it wasn’t forced, so maybe he escaped when someone got in.

You take a deep breath before entering the cell, leaving a foot holding the door from the inside. It had a mechanism of automatically locking when closed, and there was no way to open from the inside. 

The dim light is enough to illuminate the room, but you need to get closer to the chains if you want to examine them.

"Fuck." You mumble, trying to stretch your best to get to it, but it's too far from your hands. In a blink of a moment, the foot that supported your weight slipped and you fell to the ground, leaving the door unattended.

You look desperately to it, but it stays open. You sigh in relief, standing on your feet again and moving closer to the chains. You pick them up, but they have no sign of damage, someone unlocked his cuffs.

It's strange, this doesn't make sense at all.

Fear starts to settle in your mind and you think you should leave by now. As you leave the cell, your heart starts pounding mercilessly in your chest and your vision blurs. Your head is spinning and your legs betray you, making you fall on your knees and hands.

Bullet wound.

Bullet wound?

The night creeps onto your brain, you rolling the guard on his back, watching his lifeless body turn. Besides having stab wounds on the stomach, he had a bullet wound on the cheek, wait, what? Was it necessary to shoot him if he was dead already? Or was it necessary to stab him? And either way, how? König didn't have any guns, let alone a knife. Well, of course he could've snatched it from them, but how?

Plus the guard's cheek wound seemed to have come from a bigger caliber than what they dealt with down there.

This was suspect as fuck.

You regain consciousness, looking around, and you smile as your eyes meet with a red light from a security camera in the corner of the hallway.

But they wouldn't be so stupid, would they?

You sprint your way to the vigilance room, sighing as you face an at least easy obstacle. There was a guard there, of course, watching the cameras, but he seemed to be more interested in what you had to offer.

"Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes." You fake a smile, leaving the room. Like a needy man, he doesn't hesitate to go where you told him you'd be, and you lock him inside, saying you just need a few more minutes.

You try to get the images as fast as you could, putting them in a flash drive and running back to your room.

It seemed almost too easy.

As you're turning left in the hallway that leads to your room, you hit a wall, well, a man, but he was so tall and bulky he could be considered a wall.

"Where are you going in a rush in the middle of the night?" Ghost asks. Solid as a rock.

"Asking you the same thing." You scratch your head in embarrassment, he was too close for your liking.

"What you got there?" He points to your clenched fist, the flash drive was in your hand.

"Nothing." You say too fast, trying to get past him, he grabs your arm tightly, making you open your palm and yelp in pain, the small device falling on the ground. He stomps on it, smashing it on the ground, and gets even closer to your ear.

"Don't mess with them." He growls. "Go back to your room before you get yourself killed."

He knew something was up, and that confirmed your suspicions. He let you go and stood there looking at you getting away.

"'Cause you're gonna pay for it, maus." You turn back and he's still standing, holding both of his hands in front of him.

"What did you say?" You frown, walking back to him, ready to tear him apart.

"What? I didn't say anything?" He looks genuinely confused. "What's wrong with you, nitwit?" 

Aw, Ghost and his delicate words.

"Yeah, I hope you didn't say anything."

You couldn't give yourself rest, you've been awake since you woke up at the hospital a day ago. The footage was gone, there was no way you could get it back, Ghost knew about something, and you were close to finding out the truth.

But you didn't give up so easily, you needed to know what happened. 

While everyone else was getting breakfast, you went to the vigilance room again, trying not to get caught. The room was left alone for a few minutes as the guard miraculously had to go to the bathroom, you know, maybe it was the laxative you put in his coffee earlier.

You searched through the files and finally found the one you were looking for, the night he escaped.

The hallway was calm, a few men guarding the door to his cell. A man slowly approached them, and he wore a mask, but everyone could recognize him. The captain. What was he doing there?

They open the door for him and he gets in, there's a few minutes between him walking in and out, but when a guard opens the door, he's suddenly shot in the face. König walks out too, helping the captain take down the other guys.

It's pure brutality, and it's also so explicit. The violence of their hands committing such a crime, not hesitating to kill an innocent life for their own benefit. You hated them even more when you saw the captain's eyes widening, probably it was the moment you asked for backup on the radio. 

He gave König a little tap on the arm and said something, then ran to the opposite side, leaving König alone to do whatever he wanted to you.

Then why did he spare your life?

He could've killed you so easily, why did he decide to let you go?

"And end the fun of hunting you?" You remembered his words.

The door gets kicked open behind you and two soldiers drag you out of the room, you try to get away from their strong arms, kicking and trying to scratch their skin.

Ghost was walking by when he saw you, giving you a disappointed frown. You knew what he wanted to say, you saw it in his eyes.

I told you not to mess with them.

You went too deep.

They drag you to the captain's office, throwing you on a chair.

"It's enough, you know too much." 

When you think about biting back, you feel a stinging pain on your neck and the men holding you down. The pain was unbearable in your veins, like it was tearing you inside out, and soon your brain started to shut down.

Your head hurts when you wake up, and you panic when you feel your hands tied behind your back. You'd been tossed on a mattress, and your body was hurting more than usual, your stomach was hurting, you couldn't believe you were hungry in times like this.

You swallowed the weird taste on your mouth, looking around the room with half lidded eyes. Your head falls to the mattress once your eyes meet his and you sigh heavily, trying to shake off the hallucination.

"You know, this didn't have to go the hard way." You hear him say, you quickly turned your head and he was still there. "I told you'd be going to pay for that. You know how badly you humiliated me?" You chuckle.

"Aw, poor König." You laugh, but your laugh is cut as soon as he crouches in front of you, gripping your chin to face him. He makes you stay on your knees, and you gulp nervously.

"You really look prettier with your mouth closed." He throws you back on the mattress like you're made of paper and gets some silver tape from the chair. You widen your eyes, shaking your head from side to side. "Are you gonna shut up?" He lands a harsh slap to your face and you nod. "Good girl, maus. See? Not too late to learn."

He throws the tape back, grabbing you by the hair so you could stand. He's looking deeply into your eyes, and for a moment you fell for it. You didn't know if it was from the sedatives, but you fell for the way he looked at you.

"What's that puppy look for?" He asks, letting go of your hair. "I haven't even fucked you yet and you're already dumb?" He chuckles. 

You can't express how badly you want to give him a sarcastic response, but judging from your red cheek, he wouldn't be pleased by it.

He reaches for his knife and presses it right against your throat. You swallow hard, trying not to move.

"Can't help but remember how cute you look taking my cock. I think I might have to do it again." He moves the tip of the knife across your collarbone, then down to your chest, stomach, slowly stopping at your crotch.

You're looking at him with not a single thought behind your eyes, the pain in your head was gone miraculously, and it's like time has frozen. He's so tall, so masculine, so insane. Maybe your taste in men is completely unhinged, or maybe he was hot.

He moves behind you, one hand to your mouth and one holding the knife against your throat.

"You can scream, cry, and no one can hear you here." He really got off from your fear, and you feel his devious smile. "I can do whatever I want to you." He gives you a creepy laugh.

Your shirt is ripped off from you, leaving you in a sports bra that also got cut by his knife, letting your chest free from fabric. He runs the knife along your tits and smiles from how hard your nipples are.

Pants were also a thing he didn't want to see you in, but this time he just pulled them down, leaving you naked. He stood in front of you once again, eyeing you up and down, like you were to be his last meal.

God, this was so embarrassing. Humiliating.

He takes his gloves off after putting the knife on his boot, revealing his veiny hands that were at least double the size of yours, and runs an eager finger around your folds, chuckling when his fingers meet your sticky fluid.

"You're fucking wet." He inserts a finger into you without any warning and you moan, trying to close your legs. "I can't believe you're into this."

"Shut up." You grit your teeth and look at him through your eyebrows, trying to keep your balance. And there goes another red cheek, you swear you could taste the blood from a cut.

"Watch your mouth." 

He fingers you quickly, sometimes pausing to rub a few circles on your clit. He was enjoying the power he had over you, to watch your limbs get weak to his touch, to feel how wet he could make you without doing much.

You could feel something growing inside of your stomach, and showing it off would make him get his fingers away from you, but he saw it in your face.

He removes his fingers, slapping at your wet cunt, and makes you kneel for him. You whine, but there's not much time to complain when he's burying his cock down your throat. Thank God you don't have a gag reflex. He fucked your pretty mouth with so much taste, making you drool all over your tits.

He loved hearing the sounds you made, like your throat was made for him. He couldn't forget this feeling, that night when he met you, he wanted to live in that moment forever, him securing your head in place, pressing your body against that cold wall so you couldn’t get away from him, and coming right down your throat.

You cough when he pulls out, your face covered in tears and your own saliva. He pushed you on the mattress, spreading your legs further apart. He was so fucking hard, he needed to see how hungry your pussy was for his cock.

He pushes his pants further down, and pulls his shirt up only to expose his abdomen. His fat, girthy dick wanders on your wet folds before entering you in a long thrust. You suppress a moan, it's not like you've fucked anyone else that had such an advantage down there, it's hard to take him.

He holds your knees to your shoulders, increasing the pace on which he fucked you. You felt so good, so warm and especially tight, so fucking tight around him.

In a moment, he's pounding so hard into you that you can barely breathe, you feel the sweat sticking your bodies together, how his body hair stuck to his body with your slick, and how you're quickly reaching your high.

Why is it always written on your face?

"Not yet." You cry out as he leaves you empty, turning you to have your ass in the air for him. You tried to struggle, but he held your hips in place as he entered you at full speed, hitting your cervix repeatedly. He slapped and scratched your ass, leaving red marks. "I'm gonna ruin you, make you only ever want me." He growls as he takes the knife again, holding you close with his free hand as you try to escape him. "I'm gonna ruin you so bad that I'll be the only one you'll be willing to fuck."

His knife glides on your skin, pressing a little too hard for your liking, and you can't help but flex the muscles on your thighs as you feel it giving you a light scratch.

"Shh, shh, easy, maus. I’m not gonna kill you right now." He whispered and gripped your thigh way too hard. You winced in pain and he let go, lurking his hand around your body and pulling you close.

You've felt worse pains, but neither of them ever turned you on. This was something else. You had no clue on what you've been drugged with, but you lost every inch of self preservation you could ever have.

"Ahh, just like this." He moans, still fucking your brains out. "That's it, hase, let me hear you, hm?" Until now you've only let out soft whimpers, trying your best to keep quiet in fear he’d tape your mouth, pressing your lips together and scrunching your nose. "It's not like anyone else will hear you down here."

"Fuck, König." You finally cry, like you were holding your breath for hours. Your hands are touching his abs, nails digging on his flesh as he pushes past your physical limits. It’s such a strange feeling, he was definitely too big, too much to take, but at the same time you craved even more of his touches, like you were starving for any kind of touch.

“So pretty when you scream my name.” His hand takes a few soaked hairs off your face, then stops at your neck, squeezing tight.

“Please, it’s too much.” Your voice cracks and he throws your body on the mattress, your face buried in it, inhaling the sweet smell of dirt and making a tiny pool of tears.

“You didn’t seem to listen when I was the one asking you to stop.” His hands grabbed your waist and he pulled you down on his cock, like you were some kind of toy. He whimpered as his long fingers entered the tight hole of your ass, pumping it back and forth with his thrusts.

You could feel a burning sensation crashing against your skin as you reached your orgasm almost forcefully, contorting your face as your body was shaking uncontrollably. “See? And you wanted me to stop.”

“Shut up.” You mewled, and he wasn’t very happy about it.

König pulled you by your tied hands and stood in front of you, grasping your chin tightly.

“Why do you have to be so impolite when I’m trying to give you pleasure?” He lifted just a bit of his hood to spit on your face and slapped you. “I’ll have to teach you some manners.”

He tapped his dick on your face, covering almost half of it, he smeared your tears across your cheeks and pushed his long shaft past your lips. “Scheiße.” He murmured under his breath as his tip brushed your throat. He couldn’t contain the need to ruin your pretty little face.

You looked at his arms with blurred vision, he was so strong, so tall and masculine, yet he used all of that for the wrong reasons in war, fighting for the opposite side. You cursed yourself for ever letting this happen.

His pace becomes irregular and he’s panting even more, looking down at you with that lunatic look. He’s holding your hair in his fist, fucking your throat until you couldn’t even talk, leaving your jaw sore. He pulls out, using his free hand to jerk his member in front of you until he’s coming all over your mouth and chest.

The taste is almost the same as last time.

You both take deep breaths before he’s getting dressed again, preparing himself to get away from you.

“Wait, König, please.” You try to crawl to him in a pathetic attempt to make him feel pity for you.

“Please what, maus?” He asks in the most innocent way, looking deeply into your eyes. You can’t form a sentence, you’re not even sure what you want. “I told you’d pay, hm?”

He laughs deviously, leaving you there alone. Hands still tied tight behind your back, your naked body that he used to get revenge and your chest, covered in his bitter cum. Your jaw is sore, your limbs are weak, and there’s nothing you can do to get out of there. He left you with more questions than answers.

Oh, you’re so gonna pay for that.

taglist: @butterbunana @alyObe @snoisisabitch @nuhteyam @iamabsolutelynothere @blissful--moon @jellyluvr @khomugi @xaintxun @kichimiz @frog-spot

[princescar]

dr/raincode au for WIP Wednesday please

Kyoko clenches her fist. "Who are you?"

They let out a whimper, struggling to sit up. Once they do, their hood slips off, revealing a young woman with choppy hair in twin braids. She looks up at her, tears already streaming down her face.

"I-I-I'm so-orry! Please d-don't b-be mad! I-I didn't mean-n to fr-frighten you..." Her hands are clasped against her chest, and she bows her head all the way to the concrete.

Thanks for submitting!

[passionatecatalingramnea]

BOSS BOTTLED PARFUM 50ml

A 50ml bottle of BOSS BOTTLED Parfum. BOSS BOTTLED PARFUM, for a man who knows he’s a BOSS. His sophistication is striking, his warmth inspiring. A woody-ambery scent with a noble heart of orris concrete and fig tree root accord expressing his powerful charisma. Ingredients: Alcohol Denat.· Parfum/ Fragrance· Aqua/Water/Eau· Limonene· Linalool· Coumarin· Geraniol· Eugenol·Citral· Methyl 2-…

[parfumery-wiki]

MyScent 150 (eau de parfum) Acca Kappa

Soft amber

A rich and particular bouquet first discloses a sparkling bergamot accompanied by incense and iris butter; then it melts down by the warmth of vetiver, vanilla, benzoin and amber. Charming and welcoming, it is a highly charismatic fragrance, one of those that you don’t forget.

Top notes: Bergamot, Incense Heart notes: Orris concrete, Vetiver Base notes: Vanilla, Benzoin, Amber

[hatad]

@vilanele​ .

      ❛         anybody ever     teach     you not to stare    ?    makes you look like a       weirdo .         ❜  

[a-crumb-of-whump]

A New Beginning #7: Tools

Masterlist

Content: Mouth/teeth whump, vampire whump, vampire whumpee, gagged, mild asphyxiation, dehumanisation, wounds/injuries.

This is set years before Carlos was given to Ryker's parents. I've had this in my drafts folder for ages but just. never got the energy to finish it LOL.

-

“Come here.”

Carlos obediently did as he was told, crawling across the concrete floor until he was close enough that his master could yank him forward by the hair.  He forced the vampire to lay his head in his lap with his neck trapped in between his knees, quickly slipping a slim metal ring into his mouth to make sure it remained open while he did while he needed to do.

“Your fangs are getting too blunt again,” Master murmured, hooking a finger under Carlos’ fang to get a good look at it. The vampire made a soft noise but did nothing to stop him. He didn’t want another punishment. “We’ve got another hunt tonight. Need them in good shape before then.”

That meant they needed to be sharpened again. This was one of the worst parts of getting prepared for a hunt in Carlos’ opinion. He always ended up catching them on the inside of his mouth afterwards, and the process itself hurt so much.

Yet he stayed there like the obedient thing he was, wide eyes watching as his master grabbed the knife he used from beside him and began to fiddle with it, making sure it was sharp enough to do Its job.

All tools need to be sharpened every now and again, he got told each time he showed even an ounce of fear. Whether it was a particular look in his eye or the way he flinched as the man brought the knife closer to him, the response was always the same.

Eventually, he learned to just accept it.

With his knees trapping the vampire in place, Master began to carefully run the blade of the knife along his left fang, careful not to chip it as he did so. Thankfully, Carlos had learned not to fight it long ago, so chipping was a rare occurrence now.

Still, fresh tears welled in his eyes as he stared up at the man holding him in place. He couldn’t help it. He felt like he was suffocating with his master’s knees clamped shut on either side of his neck and his mouth hurt so much. It always did, but sometimes he forgot about the severity of the pain until he had to go through it all over again.

Master seemed to ignore him, as usual; focusing solely on getting the job done. Every so often, he’d pause to pet and praise him condescendingly, but otherwise paid the vampire no mind.

Carlos thought he preferred that to the days where he’d mock and bully him for his tears.

Finally, he finished up the first fang. With his mouth still forced open, all Carlos could do was whimper absently and keep his eyes trained on his master as he positioned his head for the next one. He could already feel the difference. Simply breathing was enough to bring the first fang immense pain.

The only time Carlos ever made a noise was when he felt the knife slip against his gum; cutting the soft flesh open instantly. The pain elicited a cry; short but loud, and in a way that caused his master to jump and cut into the flesh again.

��Well, that was fucking stupid,” he spat; angrily slapping the vampire across the face as punishment for frightening him. He tried to recoil, but was still held firmly in place by Master’s knees. “Tell me how sorry you are.”

The vampire did his best to pronounce the words coherently. “I’ ‘orry!”

“Are you?” Another slap across the face came at him. “Say it again. Louder. Convince me that I don’t need to punish you again today, or do I? Hm?”

He frantically shook his head and repeated the words again a little louder; tears welling in his eyes all over again. I’m trying. Please, I’m trying.

After a small, dissatisfied grumble, the man tilted Carlos’ head back into place and started sharpening the second fang again. He was so much rougher this time, and seemed to purposely nick his skin on occasions, just to get back at him.

Despite that, Carlos made sure he never made another sound.

-

Taglist: @whumpshaped @whumpsday @inkkswhumpandstuff @pigeonwhumps @whump-blog @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @sacredwrath @emcscared-whumps @pumpkin-spice-whump

(Ask to be added or taken off. The taglist is for the main story, along with any AUs, drabbles, etc.)

[katcadecascade]

Silco x Reader WIP: Pressed thin like your favorite page

A/N: I got sucked in, maybe it’s daddy issues, maybe it’s maybelline. I’m still writing a lot more stuff, this is more or less the prologue/meet cute. Idk yet if this is gonna be multiple chapter or one loooonnng thing. Anyway enjoy!

Title: Pressed thin like your favorite page

Summary: You teach the children of the undercity how to read and write. That is if they still want to. The number of students in your alleyway-turned-classroom has dwindled down since the end of Vander’s era. Now you’ve been recommended to teach the child under the care of the one and only Silco.

Ao3 Link

Chapter One: Oh Teacher My Teacher 

Word Count: 4542

“My hand hurts.”

You kneel down next to the wooden crate, it’s brittle wood is a decent desk for the skinny child under your temporary care. 

“You gotta loosen your grip, Tyson, here may I?” Your hand guides over the boy’s, straightening out his bent wrist and adjusting his fingers holding the pencil. “There we go, feeling better?”

“Uh huh,” Tyson continues with his scrawling, a far cry from the alphabet that he’s been studying for over the course of a week. 

You ruffle up his hair, ignoring how greasy it is. There hasn’t been any running water in your neighborhood lately, something about trash clogging the pipes. It was an issue that was brought up to Vander but…

“Teacher, Teacher! Lookie here!” Another small child with a wide open smile latches to your arm, pressing parchment to your cheek. 

“Ouch!” You dramaticized, holding your wounded face, “You nearly gave me a papercut Franny.” 

“‘Orry,” the kid mumbled in a rush still waving the paper, “but look! I wrote it, I wrote it!”

Indeed, on their brownish stained parchment are the words ‘My name is Franny!’

It’s not in a straight line, dipping down and the name is written bigger than the rest of the sentence. The childish script and lopsidedness all warms your heart.

“Oh my word, you certainly did!” You stood up carefully, picking up the child under the armpits to twirl around in celebration. “It’s beautiful Franny!”

“Yay!”

“Hey, me too!” Tyson jumps on top of his desk demanding, “I want up too!”

Franny stuck their tongue out and blew. Fortunately you aimed the spit away from the grumpy boy. 

“You’ll get your chance too,” You patted his back and gently nudged him back on the concrete floor. The crate was wobbling a little too much for your comfort. “After all, you two have my full attention today.”

The two kids cheered as you force a smile. 

Last month you had nine kids bored yet curious in the alleyway right outside the dank and old apartment you call your own. You were patient with the younger kids and challenged the older ones. The stubborn ones stuck around the most.Vander was the one who sent kids your way, the ones who squinted at posters or traced shapes onto the dirt stained windows. The artistic kids swung by to pick up new words, treating the alphabet as another thing to graffiti. 

You remember laughing as the kids rushed to paint ‘SUCK’ to fix ‘ENFORCERS SUKE’.

Those were the early days with so many students ready to pick up your broken pencils and paint brushes with tattered hairs and used notebooks. You all had such a nice time despite the daily struggles of the Lanes. 

It lasted for as long as it could. 

Last week you had six students show up to learn. 

Today it’s only two because one lives in the apartment above you and the other doesn’t want to clean fish buckets in his parents shop. You haven’t seen the other four at all. 

It’s been quiet since word got around about Vander’s death. 

You’re scared of the power vacuum that is bound to come. People on the street are getting more bold, careless and drunk. No one is keep each other in check because there is no more figurehead of this hellscape. 

Honestly you have no clue on what’s going to happen now. Who’s going to take up Vander’s place?

One part of the undercity is mourning, the other is ready for revolution, and the last division doesn’t care at all. 

You sadly align with the third description. 

Yes, Vander’s death brought great pain onto your heart, so did Benzo’s death. You took one day to mourn, to truly cry your heart out and feel absolutely weak for depending on those two for so long. It’s an exhausting feeling to the point of numbness. 

You appreciated and respected Vander for a long time. Yet learning about his death felt inevitable. 

Vander was a man too good to be true, and you said those words to his face once.

He laughed that deep and heavy laugh that mimicked the smoky pipe that’s always on his lips. 

“I could say the same about you. Teaching these kids how to read. A humble origin story, ain’t it?”

Humble, that word means little to you. You know the real reason why you teach these kids. It’s an investment, a long game where one day these kids are able to make it out on their own in any world in any language. 

Because the topside would never give them this opportunity to know the value between pages. You know these students of yours will always be underestimated. You desperately want them to succeed in at least something to give Piltover hell.

These kids find their genius in art, in their knuckles, in spotting out who is weak or strong. They all have their strengths and you know yours.

Reader. You love books and writing.

You share that knowledge with kids who aren’t good at drawing or fighting or cleaning up their parents' shops. It’s the best you can do and you keep doing it after Vander’s passing. 

So with your two students, you teach them how to properly hold a pencil. 

As sad as it is that there aren’t many students, there’s at least more paper. 

Vander didn’t truly see your passion in teaching and now he never will. You prefer it this way. 

So after a single day of tears and dread, you locked your grief back into its book. Shelved it into your full bookshelf that’s cramped with your other failed ideas and unfinished dreams. 

Because you rather have your face in a book than look up at the fumes of the undercity. 

“Alright you two, how much have you been reading those books I gave you?” 

Eager as always, Franny tugs their book out of their knapsack. The paperback is immensely water damaged somehow and you dare not to question that. 

Instead you give Tyson a questioning glance as the boy pulls at a loose string on his shirt sleeve. 

“Um,” his lower lip pouts out, Tyson won’t meet your eyes as he mumbles, “Lost it.”

“Tyson,” You sighed, “you promised me, pinky promised, that you’ll bring it back.”

This is not your favorite part of being a teacher, telling your students what they did wrong and them getting hurt in the process. 

Tyson refuses to look up, digging his chin to his chest and you crouch down right before you hear his little hiccups escaping his lungs. 

“Hey, hey, look at me, I’m not mad.” You tilt your head way low, trying to meet his eyes, welling up with unshed tears. “We love that book, it’s your favorite, Tyson. Or do you hate it?”

“No,” he meeped out, sniffing loudly. His hands ball up the edge of his shirt, stretching the material with every twist. 

You gently hold your hands over his, once again guiding his fingers to uncurl. His hands immediately squeeze yours and you cast a smile at how tiny his hands are. One day these hands will hold a real pen. 

“You care too much to lose that book,” You tell him. Tyson looks up finally, nodding once before rubbing his wet eyes to his shoulder. “Here let me,” You reach over to press the end of your jacket sleeve to his cheeks. “See, these tears prove how much you love that book. What happened Tyson?”

He sniffled a bit, taking a few deep breaths to get his lungs under control again. “It was really cold last night. The fire was getting small.” 

“Oh,” You ignored the ache in your chest, focusing on the new tears on the child. “Tyson, it’s alright. Last night was very chilly.”

“Yup, yup,” Franny helpfully added, “I got blue toes!”

Reactedly, You shot the little kid with an alarmed gasp. 

“Do you wanna see?” They don’t even wait, docking their butt onto the dirty alleyway ground and tugging on a boot. 

“Did you lose a toe?” Tyson quickly wiped his eyes clean to get a better look. He also lets go of your hands to get closer to Franny. 

“No I didn’t,” Franny pouted.

Back with you, you take a deep breath in and out. You shouldn’t be surprised that kids can change the mood like a sucker punch. 

“Kids,” you begin slowly, a certain chill in your voice like lingering frost of the night, “there better be letters on those toes otherwise this does not count as reading time.”

The two kids blink at you and then Franny grins and suddenly there’s a charcoal pencil in their hand. 

“Franny no!”

“I’m practicing writing, Teacher!”

Even with just two students, it’s a tiring afternoon. The three of you read out of Franny’s book. A storybook about a girl with three necklaces jingling so loud that it alerts a hungry lion. You’re not sure any other teacher would give this to their students but hey, you and other Lane kids really enjoy this tale. 

You had Franny and Tyson take turns reading. They recognise the pacing of the story so they’re getting better at connecting words to the picture in their heads. Stories are always the best way for a person to learn from.

Tyson’s book, a story about a lost duckling, is another story you’ve come to love. You’re not sure if you can find another copy of it. Maybe you’ll assign him to rewrite the story but that’ll take up a lot of paper you don’t have. You’ll have to remember to get more supplies, most of your pencils are chewed up by Franny. Ever since the number of students dwindled down, Franny has been treating all the pencils and papers as free real estate. 

It’s been a while since anyone else has come to your classes. You’ve seen most of your former students out and about in Zaun seeking out food or fights. They ignore your presence and you’ve stopped encouraging them to return. There’s this look in their eyes, they had their fill on being educated. They’ve learned the minimal of the basics and now they need to learn the real skills to survive down here. 

You don’t blame them on that. Even you can admit that reading a good book won’t help on cold, starving nights. These kids are now in a world without Vander, they won’t get the luxury of having their nose in a book.  

As for yourself, you know you can never let go of a book. You tuck them deep into your chest, consuming it while it consumes you. Your dirty fingerprints stain over the worn papers that imprint ink and dreams under your eyelids. 

Your greatest weakness is books. A world away from the one you sit in. Your crude classroom that’s littered with trash and crates that once held smelly animals. The broken pencil you savaged from bins, the paint brushes with its bristles snapped, and the notebooks half ripped out. 

This is your best as a teacher and for your last two students. You wonder when they’ll leave you like the rest. 

Then it will be you and your old books. Alone with inked fantasies that will feed on you and you will submit. 

Like footsteps in a quiet alleyway, it’s an ending that will one day find you and- 

Wait no, those are real footsteps in your alleyway you hear.

“You’re Reader.”

The newcomer marches like she expects no threats or dangers in this corner tucked in the Zuan. The woman is imposing with her tall stature, glaring down at you with your students still reading. You’ve reached the page about the lion prowling closer to the little girl. 

“Who’s asking?” You eye her up, not recognizing her at all.

You figured you’d recall any new rumors about a buff lady losing an arm. There’s dark cloth wrapped around her arm stub. 

“Come with me.”

The good news is that you don’t see a gun on her. The bad news is that fact scares you more than it ought to. 

Because the real sense of danger always comes from the eyes, you’ve learned that lesson from way back when, a period of time before you learned to read. 

Her eyes read of dissatisfaction, that you are merely a chore and she’d rather do anything but walk into your half assed classroom and escort you out. 

“Alright,” you comply easily, swallowing down a lump of nerves. “Tyson, go finish the book in Franny’s house. We’ll meet again later.”

Tyson has his hands back into your own, “Is she gonna kill you?”

Your shoulders hunch up, your soul crumbles at the sound of his meek voice. “No, um, no. I’ll be fine.”

It’s a gut feeling, or a desperate hope, that whoever this woman is with, these people want you alive. No one has ever tracked you down and wanted you alive before. That’s a type of thing people like Vander get to experience because he’s important.

You are not important. You are easily discarded, you must be, and yet this buff woman is glaring at you demandingly. 

“Can I have your room if you die?”

“...No Franny, you cannot.” 

“Then can I burn it?”

Without hesitation you answer, “Yes you can do that Franny.”

“Yes!” They cheer and immediately grabs Tyson by his shirt collar and drags him up the stairwell.  

Again you take a deep breath in and out. You nod to the woman and dust your pants as you stand up and follow her out of your classroom. 

You know better than to strike up conversation, idle comic relief risks getting punched and you would rather avoid that. Yet as the woman heads off to a familiar direction, dread build up and up within your brain. The frosty claws of fear scratch the back of your skull and dives into your heart at the sight of The Last Drop.

“What are we doing here?”

You barely recognize your own voice, blunt and clumsy than the usual patient tone from the teaching mannerisms you’ve picked up. 

“The new owner wants to see you,” the woman gifts you with a mean smile, opening the door wide open to you. 

Ever since Vander’s death there has been one consistent rumor that has everyone awaiting for the inevitable power vacuum to suck the undercity dry. 

Silco, a name from Vander’s youth, came back from hell and seeks a new throne. 

Everyone has been avoiding the bar not out of respect for Vander but out of fear of whatever this man has planned. 

“You must have the wrong person.” Your throat tightens up from breathing too fast. Damn it you should’ve been annoying and asked pesky questions just for her to beat you up and toss you to the junk heap. That would be way better than this! “I’m just a teacher, hell a bad one too! Have you seen my students’ grades? Terrible! It’s my fault and-”

A hand targets onto your throat, effectively silencing you even though she hasn’t squeezed down too hard. “Shut up. You’re exactly who he’s looking for.”

With that she pulls you inside. 

The Last Drop is empty, a rare sight that you don’t feel blessed with. A shameful feeling makes you face the ground, as if you broke a pinky promise to return something but instead burned it out of necessity. 

The woman moved her hand from your neck to your shoulder, pushing you all the way to a back room that you vaguely recall seeing only seen Benzo allowed in. You don’t feel worthy to be walking in his path of a trusted friend, in a home to someone so important in this tiny and murky world of yours. 

Yet here you are, guided in by this unknown henchman to an even more mysterious rumor that terrifies all of Zaun. 

Silco.

You’ve imagined something feral from the name, from the knowledge that he is Vander’s downfall. 

In this large office with the fading sunlight bathing the room with warmness over a man doing paperwork. His posture is poor, slim body curved over the fancy darkwood table, yet the rest of him oozes off sleekness and confidence. No one dresses this nicely in the undercity, a waistcoat and with muted palettes that draw in shadows. If not for one thing you would mistaken this man as just another businessman from topside. 

One detail ruins the image of pristine Piltover privilege. The left side of his face, gashes long since healed with divots from his jawline to over his left eye and up to his forehead. 

There instead of an eyeball is this black sun, a miniature eclipse that captures your universe in chilling fear. 

“Sevika, you may leave now.” 

Your guide huffs boredly and hefts off, shutting the door behind her, and leaving you alone with the man that took down the Hound of the Underground. 

Silco straightens up in his chair, no longer entertained by his papers. He stares at you, only his right eye actually moves. The rest of his face appears to not express his full range of emotions, which right now just appears to be absolutely reserved and unreadable.

You on the other hand can’t help but fully project your nervous thoughts. Your hands hide in the sleeves of your jacket, balling it in your sweaty grip. You know your eyes are wide and there’s a slight tremble in your spine that threatens to remove the strength in your legs. 

There’s a sense of power from just standing in this man’s presence, trapped in a room no less. It’s dangerously close to consuming you in ways you know you won’t recover from. 

“You teach Zaun children how to read and write.” Silco doesn’t ask which means one thing.

“You need a teacher.” Your eyes flicker to the desktop, “I’m pretty confident you can already read and write.”

His hum is short, maybe it counts as a laugh but his serious face dismisses any room for comedy. 

“I am well educated,” Silco stands up and makes his way around the table, “and I’m confident that my handwriting is not at all a disaster.” 

“Are you making a dig at my handwriting,” you spat, too insulted and so delayed logically asking, “What do you even know about my handwriting?” 

Silco leans against the table and without breaking eye contact, slides a piece of paper off and presents it to you. “Since you’re asking for my opinion, I’d say it could use some improvement.”

Petty anger overcomes your fear for this and for only this type of thing. Books may be your greatest weakness but your personal craft of literature is a close second. 

You march up to the devil and snatch the evidence of your supposedly disastrous handwriting.

After studying it for three seconds you grumble, “I wrote this in a rush.”

Silco merely rests his hands on the table for him to relax his weight, still very much unconvinced. 

“And in the dark,” you belatedly add.

“Ah, have you always practiced in the dark?”

“No,” you frown and avoid the judging stare, “I do that sometimes but this one is only very bad because it was late and Mylo refused me from leaving unless I wrote him this!”

On the paper reads ‘Vi is a mean fuck face for stealing Mylo’s last bag of chips and much more!’

You reread the report of sibling conflict. It goes on for two more paragraphs. Ignoring the heaviness building into your heart, you toss it back on the table, unable to look at it anymore. You disgruntledly ask, “Why do you even care about any of this? Do you need a teacher or are you just bored?”

“Very bored, indeed,” Silco replies with a casual glance around the room, as if you’re more unentertaining by the minute. “But I do require a teacher. I still don’t know why it has to be you.”

He said that to himself, you know it, but it’s still annoying that he said it like you’re not right in front of him. 

“Why am I here then?” You ask seriously, nervousness returning. This could’ve been easy if he brought you here just to entertain him. A singular use that could result in you either dying or at least discarded for him to move onto his next victim. 

Silco pushes himself away from the desk with a smooth, graceful movement. He stands taller than you, a height that forces you to tilt your chin up. 

“You were recommended.”

“By who?”

“Hi Mx Reader.”

That tiny and shaky voice is the last thing you expected to hear.

“Powder?” Your heart lurches, a coil unwinding at an intense speed, and your turn so swiftly to the little girl hiding behind the desk. 

Her head peers over and she slowly walks over to you and your frozen state. 

You haven’t heard much about Vander’s kids either, that is you refuse to actually hear any of the news about them. All you knew was they were all gone but now there is only one kid left. 

You shakingly kneel down as the little girl approaches you, wary that she’ll run off at any moment. Considering everything Powder has been through, you’re not completely sure how she hasn’t broken down. Or maybe she has? Right now you can’t tell because you simply raise your arms out and she comes running in.

Thin arms latch around your neck and blue hair tickles your chin. Her tiny frame shakes as you embrace her. 

Soothing down her wild hair, you hum, “There, there, I got you Powder.”

“No!” Her shout is muffled as she buries her head into your shoulder, “Don’t call me that!”

Surprised, you take a moment to brush your fingers through Powder’s hair. It calms her a bit as her sniffling lessens. 

“Alright, I won’t,” you assure her, “I promise.”

“Pinky swear?” She mumbles.

You carefully untangle your arms to carefully cup her cheek. “When have I ever broken one of those? Never, that’s when.” 

Your thumb glides over to poke her nose, getting a laugh out of the little girl. With your other hand, you begin to wipe her eyes where tears were ready to shed. The sight of such a small and lonely girl always made you want to run away or bribe them to stop. That always leads to messy situations. 

But here, listening to what she wants and showing her that you’re on her side, it’s the best path to get kids back to smiling.

You raise up your pinky and she has one last big sniff before locking her little pinky with yours. 

“So what should I call you then? Blueberry? Tinkerbell?”

She takes her head and hides her face against your chest once more. 

“Alright, when you’re ready, tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Movement at your side catches your attention and that’s when you remember the other man in the room. You prop your head on top of the girl, eyeing up how Silco has been watching this entire thing. 

The man is simply standing there, his hands moved behind his back, making him appear like a waiting gentleman. By the way his head is tilted, how his one good eye squinted and pointedly only watched the little girl in your arms, you guess that he was studying this exchange. 

You rearranged your arms, one arm holding the girl’s back and other under her knobby knees. With her safely cradled in your arms, you properly turn to Silco. 

“What exactly do you want me here for?”

“She wants you to continue teaching her,” he answers, holding your gaze only for two second before looking at the girl. 

“That didn’t answer my question.”

He frowns at you, a little huff in his silent sigh. Silco fixes his posture, standing a bit straighter, “I want her to reach her potential.”

There’s something missing about his answer, you conclude as your gaze shifts between him and the girl. 

“And?”

A flash of irritation goes over his face, “Excuse me?”

You shrug with your one unoccupied shoulder, “I’m just thinking, you’re a prideful and smart man. Why not you teach her?”

“I’ll be busy with other matters,” he begins but gets interrupted by the girl hanging onto your neck.

“He’s grumpy that I wanted you and not him to teach me,” she shrugs too. “You’re already my teacher.”

“Ah,” your response is barely passing as a laugh, making Silco’s eye twitch. “I see, well I’m very honored.”

“You should be,” Silco states with a shaper voice but his frustration only makes you want to grin stupidly.

It’s just fun to be a child’s favorite. Makes you feel appreciated and flattered.

“I’ll always be your teacher,” you bounce the girl up a small bit and you both laugh as you spin her around. 

She smiles that brilliant and jubilant smile of hers. You never imagine that at this happy moment she tells you this.

“Jinx,” she grins, “I wanna be called Jinx from now on.”

Bad luck.

You stop spinning her around, your confusion all over your frown and squinting eyebrows. The moment she sees that, Jinx’ lower lip wobbles.

“You promised,” she said in her innocent and wounded voice that immediately gets you to mask your current emotions.

“I did! I’m just taking it in.” You nod a lot with a happy smile, “Jinx, huh? Do you know how to spell that?”

Jinx shakes her head.

“Then that’ll be our first lesson. Mr. Silco here has pencils and papers here right? Let’s go write your name all over them.”

“Now wait a moment-”

“Yeah!” Jinx jumps out of your grasp and dashes over to the desk. 

Her crash landing onto the big chair has its wheels rolling all the way back to the window. That gives you enough time to find some blank sheet paper and gather up the rather important ones. 

You hand over that stack to Silco, ignoring some words about Enforcers and territories to target. 

“We’re probably gonna be here a while.”

Silco’s jaw drops, “This is my office.”

You tilt your head from side to side in a thinking manner, “You’re telling me this when really you should be telling her.” 

Pointing your head at Jinx, who now has scooted the chair to the desk, she’s already snatching up the closest pens with both hands. She’s not ambidextrous despite always catching her attempt to be so.

Jinx grins up at Silco, “I wanna write my name.”

The man that has all of the Lanes in fear has absolute frustration and dissatisfaction on his face as he stares down at this tiny, smiling child. 

Silco accepts the papers out of your hand to smack them to his forehead, hiding his face but you see and hear the way he shortly groans and his shoulders lose their tension. 

He brings his papers back down to glare at you, “I want this lesson done in an hour.”

You smile not kindly but you don’t push the man’s patience more than it already has been. Simply you nod and ask Jinx to refresh her alphabet.

-

Chapter Two: Song of Iliad

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “The Spirit of Polaris.”

Didn’t know what I wanted to write this week , but I told you you would get three stories every week, so that is what I have done. I hope you guys like it. 

Adam couldn’t sleep. He lay flat on his back with the warm Texas heat blowing through him. The windows in the barracks were open and a breeze blew through tugging at his shirt muggy with warm summer night air. All around him the other cadets lay sleeping in the night filled with the distant sounds of marching feet and the even more distant wine of aircraft engines. Light filtered in from the distant runway giving a gently white glow to everything around him. He sighed and rolled onto his side, trying to get comfortable, but it was no use.

Sweat pulsed from his pores with every beat of his heart, and slowly he sat up rubbing his head and blearily looking over at the other sleeping recruits. He had no idea how they were doing it. Most of them were probably from more humid climates, used to sleeping in this sort of oppressive heat.

He was more used to dealing with the cold.

He sat there for a long moment, debating on what to do before finally making a decision. Slowly rising to his feet, he quietly grabbed his boots, and slipped towards the barracks door feet almost silent on the wood flooring below him. He did his best to avoid allowing the light from outside to filter too far into the room, leaving only an instant sliver of illumination on the wood before stepping out into the cool night air. It was nicer outside, and he took in a sigh of relief as the wind brushed over his skin and cooled the heat.

He turned his head up to the sky, tilting his head back and frowned wilting.

The light pollution was so bad here, there were no stars to see. He slumped back against the wall and sighed. This was going to be a long night. 

Bending over, he put his boots on the ground and laced them up turning and making his way towards the distan runway. Up in the sky he could see distant circling lights of the planes both leaving and coming. He was drawn towards them, and the rolling sound of engines. 

He made his way through other small concrete buildings, quietly passing by, doing his best to avoid the dim flare of red, and a line of smoke that trailed up from the watch building,  and up onto a hill in the training field where he was able to sit and stare at the planes both coming and going. He found the roar of their engines to be peaceful, and wrapped his arm around his legs gently rocking back and forth in the night as the wind blew past him.

Adam was going to be exhausted tomorrow he knew, but there was nothing to help it. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, and there was no reason to lay there and hope it would happen. If Master Sergeant Kimball caught him at this hour, he would get his ass beat, and everyone in his group was going to get punished for him being a dumbass, but he was pretty sure their MTI was supposed to be asleep at this hour, and he couldn't Imagine the Master Sergeant missing out on his beauty sleep.

He had to keep his beautifully bushy eyebrows in top shape to yell at the cadets.

Adam rested back against the grass, hands behind his head to stare up at the sky watching as a slow moving red light passed through the distorted atmosphere. The breeze continued to tug at his shirt; he lay in the grass and stared up at the sky.

He was sort of half dozen when.

“Are you enjoying your evening layabout, recruit.”

He nearly soiled his pants jolting upright and nearly tipping over as he turned around to see Master Sergeant Kimball crouching behind him in the grass, the whites of his eyes wide and wild.

“Master Sergeant,I…. I…”

Sergeant Kimball stood staring down at him with his large eyebrows furrowed. Adam had grown a lot over the past year and was almost as tall as the man, but that did nothing to ease his abject terror.

“Sneaking past the posted guard to come watch the airplanes” 

Adam stammered, “I’m s-orry, sir. I- I couldn’t sleep and there are no stars out.”

Sergeant Kimball stepped forward, and Adam flinched back preparing himself for the string of abuse that was sure to leave the man's lips, but when nothing happened he slowly opened on eye too see the man staring up at the sky overhead backlit as a silhouette against the training field below.

“Sit your ass down, recruit.” He said, voice softer than it normally was.

Adam did as ordered dumbstruck as the man slowly lowered himself to sit next to Adam. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting on and placing it between his lips as he stared up at the sky, “This damned humidity makes it impossible to sleep.”

Adam could only nod in agreement.

He looked up at the sky taking a drag on the end of his cigarette causing the tip to flare once before dying away.

You’re right, not much a man can see of the stars here.”

Adam nodded tentatively, opening his mouth, “That was you, at the guard post? You saw me?”

“You aren't exactly one built for sneaking, son, white as a bare ass.”

Adam blushed and shuffled his feet, “Sorry sir, couldn’t sleep.”

Sergeant Kimball looked back up at the sky, “Tell you what, why don’t you and me go for a little drive.”

Adam wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Getting in the car alone with their MTI seemed like a great way to get himself singled out, but he couldn’t imagine how he could say no to this man either, so instead he just nodded and stood. Sgt. Kimball led him down through the base and towards the parking lot before the main building pulling the keys to a hover jeep out from one of his pockets. Adam got into the passenger seat using the frame to halt himself into the seat and sit down as the man began to drive. The vehicle was open, and so there wasn’t much conversation as they spend through the night, wind rushing past them in great usts as they sped up the highway, other vehicles roaring past them.

Adam closed his eyes feeling the rush of air over his skin as he leaned his head out the open side and into the night.

They left the city behind crawling out into the desert of scrub brush dark under the night sky above. The city lights faded into the distance, slowly replaced by blackness overhead. Stars began to wink into place, the brightest first followed by their dimer counterparts.

He closed his eyes, lifting his face to the sky in awe feeling a thrill in his chest as the desert passed by them on both sides and the sky grew darker, until it was possible to see the distant milky lines of their galaxy’s arm extending into the darkness.

It didn’t fail to cross his mind that he was alone with Sgt Kimball in the middle of the desert, a prime place to kill someone and bury their body, but generally tended to hope that he wasn’t going to die.

He didn’t think Sgt. Kimball hated him that much.

They pulled off down a dirt track and pulled to a stop with the sky arrayed above them. 

He clambered out of the car at the instruction of Sgt Kimball who sat himself on the hood of the vehicle and stared up at the sky.

“Beautiful isn’t it.” The man commented 

Adam nodded eyes filled to the brim with glowing white stars.

Sgt. Kimball looked over at him, “You’re serious about this.” it wasn’t a question 

Adam nodded.

Kimll leaned back against the windshield kicking one of his feet up onto the hood while dangling his other foot off the side, “A lot of those kids back there couldn't give two shits about what we do.” he glanced over at Adam, “You on the other hand, you try, pay attention in the classes, spend your free time studying while those little assholes fuck around.” He lit another cigarette, “I always know when someone is going to make it, and you, you will.”

Adam frowned a bit skeptically, “Er….. thank you sir but, I Thought you…. I thought you thought I was a dumbass.”

Sgt Kimball laughed, “Because you are, son. But the world is run by two types of people, assholes or dumbasses, and quite frankly, I tend t find myself liking dumbasses more than I like assholes.”

A cloud of smoke billowed up from his lips as he pointed up at the sky, “I’m assuming you know where Polaris is?”

Adam nodded and pointed with a finger.

“People been guiding themselves by her light for thousands of years, soon enough we'll be sailing the stars and she won’t be so useful anymore.” he paused, “I think we should visit her when we can, seems like it would only be fair to pay homage to the most important star in human history…. Second to the sun I suppose.”

Adam stared at Sgt. Kimball mouth half open. He didn’t think there was particularly anything poetic about the man.

“Shut your mouth boy, leave it open too long and something might nest in it.”

He closed his mouth and turned away, lifting his head to the sky above staring towards  Polaris, which winked at him from the distant expanse of space.”

***

“Get out.”

“But.”

“BET OUT! If you want to sleep inside than you have to prove you deserve it.” Chalan flinched back as the door was slammed in her face taking a step back into the moss as the sound of her mother’s voice echoed through the night. Inside she could hear raised voices, an argument rising up in the night.

“You dishonor yourself .”

“Dishonor myself Kazna, or dishonor you dishonor yourself.”

“You are too soft on her.”

“And you are a traitor to your own family. As her mother it is your job to protect and love her. It is NOT conditional.”

“You are weak Lanus, and your ideals will make her weak.”

Chalan turned her head away and trudged her way through the village trying to ignore the eyes on her as she could see peeping out the little windows in the side of the huts. As she walked her feet kicked up bioluminescent moss spores, which glowed as they moved and wet dormant as they lay still calling attention to her movements as she made her way through the open streets and out towards the edge.

The city watch ignored her as she passed by them. Spores clung to her feet and heels making her feet glow with every step as she walked into a small patch of coil tree, their berries glowing white in the darkness. She picked one idly and rolled it between her fingers. Behind her, she heard the sudden soft padding of feet, crouched low she spun spear held out before her in a defensive stance, sure she was about to be set upon by an enemy tribe, but instead was surprised to find Nehchal and Kanan standing behind her. Nechal glowing like one of the moons with her bright white carapace, Kanan blending into the darkness behind in comparison.

She blinked “What are you two doing here.”

Nechal raised her spear, “Watching your back for the night is dangerous.”

Chalan sighed, ‘You could just be honest with me.”

“You know I don’t lie.” Nechal said falling into step beside Sunny as Kanan did the same on her other side.

“You guys don’t have to.” As they walked, their feet lit up with the bioluminescent spores.’

It was a safe enough time of year. The spores could be easily seen across long distances in the dark, and so an arriving raiding part would have to be stupid to come at night. Even now, in the distance, she could see a slow line of spores ascending into the sky as a herd of  unknown creatures passed over the fertile valley before ethem.

Kanan placed a hand on her shoulder, “Why don’t we sit, this seems as good a palace asanhy.”

Chalan shrugged and sat in the moss as she tilted her head back towards the sky. She tried not to think too much about Nechal and Kanan being here. They had probably been spending time together before the argument between her parents broke out. If it wasn’t for her they might be having a nice night together.

“Do you think we are the only ones?” Nechal asked into the darkness 

Kanan looked over ather, “The only ones what/”

Nechal waved one of her hands upward, “The acolytes say we live on a floating rock in the middle of the void. That void is lit by burning gasses of unknown providence, so my question is, are we the only floating rock or are there other things living out there?”

Kanan laughed while Chalan stayed silent, “Definitely the only ones.”

“You think so?

“Doctrine of the citadel doesn't mention anyone else?”

“The doctrine also doesn’t talk about coil trees, but those still exist.”

Chalan lay there listening to their banter as she looked up at the sky. It was a good question, and if there was life out there, what would it be like? She tried imagining fanciful creatures to populate these unknown worlds, but found that it was hard to imagine anything that didn’t resemble something already their own. Not like i mattered anyway, it was unlikely any of them would ever find out.

She did her best to block the arguments from her parents of earlier and listened to the distant roaring of the mountain volcanoes glowing red on the distant horizon.

Nehchal pointed her hand up into the sky, “Look, Chalan, Eedacheel. It’s bright tonight.”

Sunny turned her head to the southern star.

“Beautiful.” Kanan whispered 

“That’s my favorite story.” 

“What?”

“Eedacheel, the spirit that guides, the spirit that brings Drev together. Remember, they say she guides us to those we love.”

The two of them shared a long look and Sunny had to stop from rolling her eyes at them. She stared up at the star Eedacheel had never done anything for her. She stared at the softly winking star. All she saw was distant and unattainable. If there was a spirit, it certainly didn’t care about her.,

[a-whump-dis-aster]

Ooh can I request forced to beg for the BTHB? -S

Yes, abso-tuba-lutely!

---

Whumpee stood defiant as ever, despite their battered state. It had been weeks, perhaps months, but there was no way they were going to give in.

Whumper, on the other hand, didn't seem even the slightest bit fazed. They acted as if it was some sick game, instead of torturing a living being. And it was their turn to play.

Whumper strolled around the room, shoes thudding against the concrete. It was relatively empty as of this moment, two chairs sitting near a table with an assortment of weapons ranging from knives to matches to small pistols.

"I've tried the normal things-" Whumper started, as if any of the things they did were remotely close to normal. "Death threats, extreme injury, near drowning, burns, cuts, bullet wounds, the like. But you don't seem to care. You have that hero complex about you, you know?" They spoke in an indifferent tone, pausing in front of the table to straighten a line of daggers.

"But, I'll be honest with you here. The self-sacrificing stuff is getting rather boring."

"Well," Whumpee glared at their captor. "You could let me go."

Whumper barked out a laugh in response. "Do you really think you can talk your way out? You aren't that sly. I think it's just time for a change of pace. Do you agree?"

Whumper continued, making Whumpee roll their eyes. "If you could care less about your own wellbeing, I suppose..." They trailed off.

"Suppose what?" Whumpee snapped, their tone coming out more agitated and panicked than they intended.

"Excuse me a moment." Whumper crossed the room before exiting, the metal door slamming behind them. Whumpee could attempt to run, but it had never worked in the past. Whumper returned a few moments later dragging a struggling body behind them. Whumpee frowned as the person was bound tightly to the opposite chair, a bag over their head hiding their face.

"Please, Whumpee, have a seat." When Whumpee didn't comply, Whumper pushed them down into the chair and bound them as well.

"Alright, ready for the grand reveal?" Whumper asked. They pulled the bag away with a dramatic flourish, revealing an all too familiar face.

"C-Caretaker?" Whumpee fought against their binding.

"Ah-ah-ah," Whumper scolded disapprovingly. "You get to watch."

Whumper picked up a knife, inspecting it before discarding it for a different one. A quick slice across the arm had Caretaker swallowing a cry, and Whumpee winced. The point of the dagger was buried in Caretaker's leg not long after, and Whumpee was gritting their teeth, attempting to tune out the cries of pain.

Several cuts and burns later, Whumper was growing bored. They picked up a gun and aimed at the shoulder.

"Wait-" Whumper stopped, turning to Whumpee.

"What, now you care for someone other than yourself?" Whumper mocked.

"Don't hurt them."

"If you care so much, beg."

"W-what?" Whumpee couldn't help their look of shock.

"Oh, you heard me." Whumper grabbed a knife and cut the bonds on Whumpee. "On your knees."

Whumpee hesitated for a split second before dropping to their knees.

"Please. Don't hurt them." Whumpee was quiet.

"Not good enough." Whumper ground their shoe into Whumpee's fingers, earning a sharp cry.

"P-please, don't hurt them. I'm s-orry." Whumpee's head was bowed low.

"Somewhat better. Try again later. If it doesn't improve, don't expect their-" Whumper jabbed a thumb towards Caretaker. "Health to get any better."

---

Apologies for the long wait. Realized today that I didn't necessarily need to have full on characters to write whump. Whumpee, Whumper, and Caretaker will do for now. :)

[passionatecatalingramnea]

BOSS Bottled parfum 200ml

A generously sized 200ml bottle of BOSS Bottled parfum. BOSS Bottled is for the man who knows he’s a BOSS. His sophistication is striking, his warmth inspiring. This woody-ambery scent with a noble heart of orris concrete and fig tree root accord express his powerful charisma. Ingredients: Alcohol Denat.· Parfum/ Fragrance· Aqua/Water/Eau· Limonene· Linalool· Coumarin· Geraniol· Eugenol·Citral·…

[khazad]

What is hobbit leverage...

NAT!!! NAT. I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED ABOUT HOBBIT LEVERAGE.

it’s really only related to the actual leverage tv show in that the premise is “a bunch of people find themselves working together for the sake of doing crime” and the overarching tone is “warm-hearted comedy” but listen sometimes when one special interest loves another special interest very much,

anyway you got wilbur baggins (formerly known as alba bingley, billy rounder, beau dussack etc etc) having spent a couple decades grifting his way across western europe but come back to his childhood home a handful of years ago to reclaim the estate of the late munroe baggins. now technically wilbur WAS munroe’s next of kin, but if he wanted to do things legally he would have had to identify himself as his father’s former daughter, so he decided to do things the fun hard way and invent a son wholecloth. and he’s been retired for a while now while he lives off dad’s money and his own ill-gotten earnings, and he thinks its going pretty well.

enter gandalf.

gandalf (or tarquin, as others might call him) (i havent found any decent paronyms for olorin or mithrandir) (nor for gandalf but gandalf is gandalf, yk,) has been keeping an eye on wilbur over the years and thinks that he’d be a serious asset to soren and his team.

(soren was the name his parents gave him, but he uses Søren for all documents and correspondences, because (in his words) he finds it makes him less approachable.)

soren wants to take a run at smaug. i dont have a paronym for smaug either, or even a concrete idea of how he screwed soren over (maybe hes a figure similar to damien moreau from leverage) but hes a formidable power. not all the company know about this, but not all of them need to, either. you don’t challenge smaug head on, you need to be as roundabout as possible about it.

but while theyre being roundabout about it, they end up finding themselves in positions where they could expend only a moderate amount of effort to cut down some other people in power who do a lot of harm and… then maybe one or two of them starts meeting people with problems that the company is uniquely equipped to solve….. and before they realize it, theyve become low key vigilantes

tbh the overarching plot is less important to me than the disparate little scenes in my head of

wilbur scamming and sneaking around utterly unnoticed

finny and kelly being a couple of gen z menaces

wilbur being alarmed at the inclusion of orville riesmann (age 15) in their operations until orry informs him brightly that he’s been 15 for three or four years now, for tax purposes

orry is a very, very, very good forger

beaufort is the resident hacker and software expert (yk.. mining….. datamining…….)

finding paronyms for bifur and bombur is hell but i wont budge

bombur is the least off-putting and most sensitive member of the company by far, and is a big part of their segue into community aid (as it were) and is usually their liaison to any individual who might need help.

bifur is the hardware guy. he builds gadgets

acquisition of gadget components is the domain of norbert riesmann, who blends in anywhere and has an immediately forgettable face

gandalf is still an immortal wizard except instead of a staff hes got a flamethrower

[mysteries-x-mistakes]

When I’m character building I’ll usually give my characters a color palette and/or a signature scent (because scents have colors to me). I tend to think of things in the abstract so having this impression of the character really helps me get a sense of who they are, sometimes even more so than a concrete description would.

like the MC for one of my wips is described as smelling like: wood violets, violet leaf, orris root, polished silver, cold glass, ink, dewy moss, a single black currant. the MC for another wip has the color palette: aquamarine, sky blue, seafoam, milan yellow, sand

to some extent these are special interests for me: I love indie perfumes and have taken the time to study what notes smell like what and the different combinations they can make & whenever I do digital art I get really picky about colors bc I seem to have a natural eye for what shades go together and can sort of tell colors apart better than other people. Using my senses is just one more language I’ve gotten really good at speaking. And it’s fun to be able to reflect that in my writing.

but yeah reading those descriptions, doesn’t that give you a hint about who that character is without even saying much? it’s one of my favorite things to do during character building :3

[friendlylocalwhumper]

belated whumptober no. 5: gunpoint

continued from this drabble.

Lux shifts, restless and panicked. The gun trained on Decker is ready to tear another hole through him, to make more of his blood spill.

“Gun to the throat,” The cop above him says, nudging the cold metal harder up against Lux’s jaw. “Works.”

The other cop lowers his gun again upon seeing Decker curl up around his wound, harmless and weak. “You know what else works?”

The pinned warlock tries not to whine when he hears the familiar sound of a baton being pulled from its attachment at the officer’s belt. He’s holding still, he’s already cuffed and pinned, why does he have to be beaten? Isn’t his submission even in the face of his friend dying enough?

The weight is lifted from his back and legs just before the heavy sound of the baton’s impact against his back strikes. Lux arches against the ground with a startled grunt, cuffed hands coming up to protect his head as if that baton wouldn’t break his fingers and still cause a concussion.

The baton strikes, and strikes, and strikes. Lux groans against the floor, clinging to his worry for Decker. If he lets the fear and pain of enduring a beating take him over, Decker will die. It’s not important, it doesn’t matter, Lux is used to this. The baton slams against the backs of his ribs, his shoulders, his hips, and he thinks, it’s okay, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter.

“Ple-, -ease,” He moans in between blows. He knows Decker can see. Lux used to be that person, that kid, watching someone gentle and scared getting beaten. Maybe Decker would burst up and run in to save him like Lux used to do when he had to watch someone he loved getting hit; Lux likes to think that Decker would, if he wasn’t bleeding out right now. Getting cold and shaking and losing focus.

Fire lancing through his body makes Lux scream, his voice cracking in surprise. As his muscles spasm moments later, his panting jagged and desperate against his arm, Lux distantly recognizes the pressure at the small of his back as the prongs of a taser.

“Stay down,” A cop above him growls in a distorted, swirling voice. Lux swallows thickly. Did he try to get up? He doesn’t remember. He should, though. He should be fighting, getting to his feet, stumbling over to carry Decker to safety. Wobbly arms start to unfold beneath him as he tries to rise, the room spinning sickeningly around him.

Something smashes against the side of his head - the butt of a gun? The taser? Lux tries to push himself away, sideways along the floor he just crashed back down onto, but it looks like more struggling, so he gets another crack over the head with the gun.

“Just can’t fucking listen.”

“S-s-... o-orry,” The warlock slurs, clumsy fingers finding the site of the impact, slipping in blood. It stings.

The taser is pressed to his back again, and Lux gives a pitchy, winding whimper, hiding his face against his upper arm. He’s harmless, he’s obeying, he’s in pain and in handcuffs and under their control. He doesn’t need the electric current coursing through him again, punishing and painful, to understand that it’s over. No more fighting.

There’s some conversation happening above him. Lux can’t listen, can’t think past the mind-numbing terror of the taser being turned back on and agony lancing through his body a second time. Halting breaths huff against concrete as he waits.

The prongs of the taser leave. The baton doesn’t strike again. Lux waits, too scared to shift in the slightest. His fingers twitch against his head, anxiety crawling under his skin.

Someone goes near Decker, and that jolts him back into awareness well enough. “Wh-, what… don’t t-touch him…” Swallowing thickly, the warlock struggles to make his eyes focus. It’s a cop - a different one. The other two are gone. Decker is curled up tight and moaning.

“It’s me, Lux,” The cop says, his voice vaguely familiar. “Grant. Your cop friend.”

Cop and friend do not belong in the same sentence. Lux squints, dragging his arms down from over his head, his weight pinning his right shoulder uncomfortably. “Nnh, Grant? You… you, you gotta help him. His name’s, ‘s Decker. He needs’a… healer.”

“Looks like you do too,” Grant comments, hesitating. That hesitation could mean Decker dies. Lux grits his teeth and pushes himself up onto one elbow.

“C’n get up. ‘M fine. Get him out, go, he’s… been bleeding. Jus’... go, please, take’m to, to a healer.”

Grant does as he’s told, scooping Decker up into his arms. Blood seeps into his uniform, and weak hands push at him, but the cop doesn’t hesitate again. “You’re right behind us, right? You can get up?”

Lux pushes harder to prove he can, to stop the delaying. Palms with nerves frayed from the electric current press against the floor, his arms shaking badly. Lux nearly falls back down, cheeks burning in humiliation. “Just go,” He nearly growls, the last vowel going up in pitch like he’s about to cry. “I…” The floor comes up to meet him again. Lux blinks dizzily and looks over to see an empty space where Decker was, a thin puddle of blood left as the only evidence he was there. Grant took him away. Lux is so relieved.

“Ca-, -an’t,” Lux whines, pushing himself up again. Now that he’s alone, he thinks he can manage it. Just not without some pathetic complaints, bids for mercy that will go unpunished since no one will hear them. “I, c-can’t, I can’t…” Up on his elbows, then his hands, back arching stiffly as he curls up to get his knees under him. “Hurts, an’, ‘nd’m dizzy…” His fingers wrap around the bars by the cell door and he pulls himself up, gasping. Even his white-knuckle grip on the sturdy metal doesn’t do much to stop the room’s spinning. One step and he sways.

“Please, please.” His shoes drag, legs wobbling. He’s out of the cell now. He’s going to fall.

A cop rushes back in, wraps his arms around him, and Lux flinches away. He pushes, twists, begs. “Nnh-! No, ple-ease, please no, no m-more…”

“Hey, hey! It’s me, still Grant, just came back to help you out. I know you can’t make it on your own. Come on, I’ve got you. Picking you up - one, two, three.”

Lux keens in confusion as the ground disappears from under his feet and his side is suddenly warm, held against Grant. The injured warlock tips his head against the cop’s chest, eyes squeezing shut.

“‘e needs’a healer, bleeding… Grant, you, you… can’t let’im die.”

“I won’t, Lux. Two more minutes of waiting won’t kill him. He’s gonna be fine. You don’t have to get left behind, I can save you both. Christ, how hard was that blow to the head?” Grant shifts Lux in his arms, noticing the blood stuck to his temple, trailing down his neck.

“Wh-, which one?”

The cop frowns and holds Lux closer as if he’ll get torn away. “Nevermind. Just stay awake, keep talking.”

Lux hurts, but it’s manageable. It’s the deep ache that comes after a beating taken on a hard, unforgiving surface. The painful muscle spasms after getting a crackling taser shoved against his torso until he ran out of air to squeeze out of his lungs in a scream. His head is a jumbled mess of pain, but that’s familiar too.

As he’s set down in the back of a cop car, the door closing to leave him alone next to Decker, he’s reminded that Decker is in far worse condition. Decker’s pain is the scary kind that feels like the end of your life.

Those bloody hands have fallen away from the wound. Decker’s still awake, terribly conscious, but it hurts too much to put pressure on his own wound. Lux presses one hand to the seat between them for balance and the other palm goes to the source of the blood, pressing down cruelly.

Decker whines, and it hurts Lux’s heart. “‘m sorry. You’re bleeding.”

“No sh-shit sherlock,” The teenager grumbles, sinking down like it’ll help him escape the pressure. “Fu-uckin’ hurts.”

The older warlock opens his mouth to answer, but Decker leans over and lets his head fall on Lux’s shoulder, and it’s such an unexpected show of trust and bone-deep exhaustion that Lux snaps his mouth shut. Decker gets to curse, gets to complain.

“You’re gonna be okay.”

Decker holds his breath, then shifts closer with a wince. “Y’think so?”

“Yeah, I think so. ‘ve had this injury before. And if you haven’t bled out by now, then it can be fixed up. You’ll be all healed up ‘fore the hour’s up.”

“Really?” Cracking with dangerous hope, Decker’s voice squeaks as the driver’s door opens and Grant starts the car.

Where Lux’s palm is pressed to the gunshot wound, faint gold-white magic glows. Decker tenses, fingers digging into Lux’s sleeve as the healing magic starts its painful process.

“Yeah, really.”

[parfumery-wiki]

Odeur Du Théâtre Du Châelet (eau de parfum) Comme des Garçons Nose: Caroline Dumur

Soft floral

Inspired by the history of the theatre mixed with the modernity of its new creative director Ruth Mackenzie. In other words, past and future have an olfactory dialogue on the velvet seats of the Parisian landmark in the tradition of Comme des Garçons anti-perfumes.        

Perfumer Caroline Dumur brings this intricate scent to life with a blend of ambrette absolute, black pepper oil, rose oxyd, coffee accord, orange blossom, orris concrete, cashmeran, cedarwood virgina and musk.   

Key notes: Ambrette, Black pepper, Rose oxide, Coffee, Orange blossom, Orris concrete, Cashmeran, Virginian cedarwood, Musk