#please don't mess this up tumblr

[stanchett]

French Lessons

Gwen from In Fabric x fem!reader; NSFW, praise kink if you squint

Beta’d by the lovely @booitsrue, @larissaslover333​ and my girlfriend @deadtooth-taylor​!!! This is my very first fic, so please be gentle!! Thank you and enjoy <3

P.s. thank you so much for 300 followers!!

2.5k+ words

——————

You always struggled with foreign languages. It was too much to memorize, and the different tenses never quite clicked in your brain. You had a hard time envisioning yourself finishing the course, but you needed a few more credits in order to graduate. At the beginning of each class you silently cursed yourself for choosing such a difficult language to fulfill the requirement.

As you rose from your seat with a sigh and collected your things, your professor called you down to his desk. Trying not to seem too defeated, you slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way down the steps of the lecture hall. You listened politely as he criticized your performance in class, desperate not to hang your head in shame at his words.

“You know, I can recommend a tutor if you’d like. She’s about your age and quite proficient in the language. As this is an introductory course, this material shouldn’t be as difficult as it is for you, and you may benefit from seeking outside help.”

He pulled out his phone and jotted down a name and phone number. You nodded in agreement and thanked him for his time, taking the post-it note from his fingertips.

——————

“You could always drop the class! That’s what I do if I’m not invested in it.”

Your roommate was sweet, albeit air-headed. She was much more interested in the ‘college experience’ - drinking, partying every night, and never hooking up with the same guy twice - than any coursework. She sat on the kitchen counter, kicking her feet and crunching away on a salad she picked up from the cafeteria. While you attempted to busy yourself with making dinner after a much longer day than you’d hoped it to be, your eyes wandered to your book bag with the sticky note sitting on top.

“We can’t all afford to drop classes on a whim halfway through the semester.. Maybe I should give that tutor a call and see if she can help me out.”

You plated your dinner of chicken, rice and veggies and plopped down on the couch. Phone in hand, you squinted to see the number on the paper across the room and dialed it carefully. With a deep breath, you pressed the ‘call’ button and waited. On the third ring, a deep yet feminine voice picked up, “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Gwen? I’m Y/N, my Intro to French professor passed along your number to me. I was wondering if you’d be willing to tutor me.”

There was a long pause, as if she were preoccupied when you called. You picked at your nails nervously. She cleared her throat and finally answered, “How does tomorrow at 7 sound?”

Suppressing a sigh of relief, you throw a silent celebratory fist in the air for your roommate to see, and she returns it with a thumbs-up from the kitchen.

“That sounds perfect. See you then!”

Without another word, Gwen hung up on you. Choosing to ignore the lack of a reply, you dropped your phone next to you on the sofa and bring your plate to your lap.

“Oh, I’m passing this class with flying colors. Just you wait.”

Your roommate jokingly rolls her eyes and leaves the room as you click the TV on.

——————

The next day passes slowly, and you trudge through your Art History and Physics courses. After the latter lets out of the classroom, you plop down on a bench outside and pull out your phone. Scrolling through your social media notifications, your mind wanders to your tutoring session tonight. You knew what she sounded like, but wondered what she looked like. Your mind struggles to put pieces together and you quickly realize you had forgotten to give Gwen your address. It was an off-campus apartment, so you would need to send it to her. Pulling up her contact, you typed out an awkward text message,

“Hey! Just realized I forgot to send you the address. It’s the first building on the corner across the street from campus. Apartment 4b.”

Why were you so nervous to send it? You do anyway, hoping you didn’t seem too scatter-brained to this stranger. Your phone vibrated almost immediately with her response,

“See you there. XX”

You caught yourself blushing at her reply. Her voice was so distinct and entrancing on the phone, you could practically read the message in her voice in your mind. You looked up from your spot to see if anyone had noticed your shift in composure, but no one amid the flurry of students seemed to care about anyone else in their general vicinity. You pocketed your phone and headed to your next class feeling a little lighter than before.

——————

It was 5:30 when you finally returned home. Tossing your bag to the floor, you rid yourself of your shoes and headed straight for the kitchen.

“Long day, huh?” Your roommate pipes up from the hallway. You assumed she could tell from your lack of greeting upon your arrival the kind of day you must have had.

“Yeah.. That, and I’m kinda nervous for my French lesson.” You shuffle through the contents of your shared refrigerator and decide on a perfectly-ripened apple, “I don’t know, I hope I can learn a thing or two from her.”

“I’m sure it’ll go great! Listen I’m going out, don’t wait up okay? I won’t be back ‘till late so you two will have the entire place to yourselves..” She says with a wink and a playful eyebrow raise.

“Yeah, thanks. We really appreciate it!” You throw back at her with heavy sarcasm. You sort your books out and leave your French textbook and notes on the coffee table, tossing some others under your arm before retreating to your room to get started on your other homework.

——————

You had completely lost track of time with your nose stuck in your Physics textbook when you heard a knock on the door. You check the clock - 7:00 on the dot. You leap up from your bed and nervously walk to the door, silently chastising yourself for not setting aside the time to put out any drinks or snacks before your tutor arrived. You ease the door open and nearly drop to the floor at the sight before you. Dressed in black from head to toe, Gwen leans on the doorframe with her arm extended upward, confidence radiating from her being. You had to look up at her to make eye contact, given the few inches in height difference between you. However, your eyes made a quick stop at her perfectly-painted lips, just the right shade of pink for her. She was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

Quickly taking notice of you soaking in her image, she smirks at you, eyeing you up and down herself. “Hey.” She jerks a nod toward you and lets herself in, brushing past you and taking a quick glance around the apartment. Her eyes land on your French books on the table.

Picking your jaw up off the floor and coming out of your stupor, you manage a “H-hi,” shutting the front door and hoping you don’t seem too strange to her. Quickly remembering your manners, you shyly ask, “Can I get you anything? Water?” You take a step into the kitchen before getting her answer. “No, I’m alright.” She elegantly lowers herself onto the couch, removing her jacket and begins leafing through your French notes, making herself right at home. You try not to watch too closely as she crosses her legs, her skirt hiking up to reveal more of her long legs in the process. You swore you saw the upper seam of her stockings before she passively pulled it back down, snatching it from your view. She had to know how captivating she was. You were practically drooling over her already, failing to notice you had overfilled your water glass as the cold sensation trickled over your fingers and snapped you back to reality. You dumped an inch or two from the glass into the sink and made your way over to her, nervously settling down beside her.

“So, where should we pick things up? At the end of your notes..” she turns her head toward you, licking her lips as her eyes flick over you, no doubt noticing the anxious air about you, “or should we start from the beginning?”

——————

“Uhh.. vous… avez?” You say, the questioning nature clear in your inflection. You had been working on conjugations for the last hour and it was becoming easier to remember them, much to your surprise and Gwen’s delight.

“Yes! Very good. Now, what’s the last one?” You thought for a moment, trying not to lose yourself in how close in proximity you two had become. Not to mention how good praise felt coming from this stunning woman beside you. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered, and you tried your hardest to ignore the fluttering it sent downward as well.

“Ils ont!” You proclaimed triumphantly, hardly able to contain your excitement. “That’s it!” Gwen congratulated with a smile, her left hand falling to rest on your knee. “Let’s try être next.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The contact made your mind whirl, how could you possibly focus now? You felt the heat rising in your cheeks and a sudden drop in your abdomen. “A-alright,” you stuttered, the warmth of her hand making it damn near impossible to stay on-task.

“Je..” She began for you, her gaze moving away from the textbook to read your expression. You kept yours down, you couldn’t look at her or you might combust on the spot. “Suis,” you finished. “Good,” she tapped her fingertips on the inside of your knee as confirmation, “Tu?” You wracked your brain for the answer, her ocean-blue eyes boring into you. You failed to catch them skittering over your lips. “…es?” You finally responded. Her hand inched up your thigh and you silently curse yourself for choosing to keep your jeans on instead of swapping them for shorts before Gwen arrived. “Il?” She asks, smirking at the obvious blush on your cheeks. She halts her movements and you give her the answer as soon as it comes to you, “est.” Was she scooting closer to you?

“Nous?” You turned to look at her, your eyes sweeping over every detail of her face, and noticed how close it had gotten to your own. “Sommes.” You answered definitively. “Vous?” You swallowed hard, her hand continuing on in its ascent. “Êtes,” you felt the temperature in the room rise, your pulse soaring. Her lips were inches from yours. One conjugation left. “Ils.” Gwen whispered against your lips. You bit back a whimper. Her hand hovered over your center through your pants. You ached for her touch, this beautiful woman you had only just met. After a long pause, you finally whispered the answer in return, “Sont.”

Gwen closes the distance between your lips in an instant, your hands reaching for her as she moves to straddle your hips. Her skirt gathers at the tops of her thighs, stockings and garter belt on full display. You moan against her lips as she rolls her hips into yours, desire overwhelming you. “You did so well for me..” she whispers, lowering her lips to your neck and sucking on your pulse point. Your hands explore over her thighs, her breathing growing heavier along with your own. Without warning, you thread a finger underneath one of her stocking straps, snapping it loudly over her pale skin. She gasps against you and returns her lips to yours hungrily, her hands stroking down your torso before unbuttoning your pants. She pulls away and looks down at you with so much desire you feel like you could melt. “Is this alright?” she asks in a low voice, her fingers toying with the button. “Yes,” you immediately say back, hoping you don’t sound overly-eager.

“Good.” Is all she says in reply, her eyes looking deeply into yours as her fingers ease downward, quickly finding your clit through the fabric of your underwear. Your hips jerk in response and you squeeze your eyes shut before releasing a whimper, your nails digging into her thighs. There’s no doubt she can feel the patch of wetness that has been practically building since you started your lesson. She leans into you and captures your lips once again, pulling a moan from your chest as her deft fingers tug your panties aside and begin stroking up and down your entrance. Her free hand suddenly grasps your jaw, her face inches away from yours. “How badly do you want it? How badly do you want me to fuck you?” She husks against your lips, her voice alone causing your eyes to roll back.

“So badly, please-” before you’re able to finish, she slips a finger into you and back out. You gasp. Bringing it to your lips, she taps them lightly, silently asking you to suck it clean. You take it eagerly, moaning at your own taste as your tongue swirls around the digit. Her pupils dilate as she watches you intently, pulling her finger from your mouth with a pop. “Please fuck me,” you beg pathetically from beneath her, the smirk on her face growing into a devious smile. “That’s my good girl.”

Two fingers slip into you and you throw your head back against the couch, your nails scraping down Gwen’s thighs and leaving clear marks behind. Her hand moves from your jaw to your throat, and you feel your eyes grow wide momentarily. A choking kink was new to you, and you loved every second of it, but that didn’t stop the flush from taking over your cheeks at the discovery. You were too preoccupied with her fingers working their magic inside of you to care much though. She curled them just the way you liked, to hit that sensitive spot like she knew right where it was. Your nails found their way to her back and scraped their way down, eliciting a groan from the woman above you.

Her fingers picked up their pace as her other hand fell from your throat to tug at the hem of your shirt, and you thanked the heavens above you decided to take your bra off before you started studying. Her lips quickly found your nipple and you realized you wouldn’t last much longer like this. The coil inside you was wound almost painfully tight. Your legs shook when she flicked the sensitive skin with her tongue. You grasped her jet-black hair in your fists as your chest began to heave with your impending orgasm. With one last curl of her fingers, you came undone below her, cursing and crying out for every neighbor in the complex to hear.

She slowed the pace of her fingers, helping you ride out your high before pulling them from you and kissing you on the cheek. Climbing off of you, she slipped them into her mouth one at a time, humming in approval at your taste. She looked back at you and admired her handiwork, leaving you completely spent on the sofa.

“So, same time next week?” Gwen says with a chuckle.

[bloodstained-valentine]

slipknot as THIS !!! (im bored . sigh .)

#0 , sid

#1 , joey

#2 , paul

#3 , chris

#4 , jim

#5 , craig

#6 , shawn

#7 , mick

#8 , corey

[makifishcake]

SasuNaru🧡💙

There was an attempt cause THIS IS LITERALLY MY FIRST TIME PAINTING DIGITALLY

[royalarchivist]

If there's one request I can make of you guys, it's that you please please please let me know if I upload something and it doesn't look right (ex: the audio is desynced, the visuals are glitchy, etc.)!!! It's embarrassing!!!!

[missjoolee]

if you could only see

*read tags for fun facts. mostly written while half asleep. not edited.

"Oh," she says, the corners of her mouth drooping into that familiar frown that accompanied the majority of his high school career. She sets her mug down on the coffee table.

Oh? A similar frown is quick to replace the elated grin his face had adorned when he arrived. "'Oh' is what people say when they get socks on their birthday, Mom. Not when their son tells them that he's engaged!"

"It's just..." she hesitates, as if looking for the correct words. "...you're still so young."

"I'm almost 22. I--"

"Exactly! Only 22!" Emily interrupts. "How can you be sure?!"

"What?! Mom! This is Julie we are talking about!" Luke can't sit still and stands up from the couch. Resentment builds within him. Why can't she ever be supportive from the get go?

"Well.. You've only ever had the one relationship. You can't know what you want really, never having experienced other relationships."

His mouth drops open in disbelief. She cant honestly be suggesting what he thinks she might be.

"I thought you liked Julie!" His hand flies up with the statement, emphasizing his frustrations.

Emily stands, no longer able to remain seated as the conversations heats up.

"Luke, Julie is lovely. And lord knows she's done you a world of good, but you could really benefit from dating around a little!"

Oh, so she is saying what he thought she was saying.

He let's out a humorless huff of a laugh. "Are you insane? You think I should give up the best thing in my life, a sure thing, on the chance I might find someone that can make me just as happy somewhere down the line? Yeah, that math doesn't check out."

She is getting visibly agitated now as she takes a step closer to him.

"Julie will always be your teenage girlfriend. Your relationship will never be more than that of children!"

"God. Do you hear yourself?! Julie's not in her teens anymore. Our relationship has grown with us. We have supported each other through personal growth, and continue to challenge each other to be the best we can be! We've already been there through hardship together." Luke leans into Emily's  personal space, not wanting to back down. It's a familiar dance at this point, these arguments with his mom.  That thought gives him pause but he never drops eye contact.

His mom claims that Julie would prevent him from flourishing as an adult, but in this moment,  with Emily, he feels the most like he's a kid again in the worst way possible. Suddenly, he feels very tired. He takes a step back with a sigh.

"You're unbelievable." His normal volume voice sounds quiet after the heightened pitches from a moment before. He turns and heads for the front door. There is no point in staying.

"Luke? Luke! Get back here!" Emily follows after him. "Most marriages at your age end in divorce! I'm just trying to help you not make a mistake that will ruin your future!"

Luke's at the door but he spins suddenly to face Emily one last time. "It's not a mistake, mom! If you could just see all the ways she loves me, maybe you would understand why I feel this way. How I know this is the right thing to do."

"But Luke--"

This time he interrupts her, not caring to hear anymore of what she's likely to say. "I mean, if you could see how bright her eyes get when she says she loves me. I just.. " Julie's smile, eyes full of mirth flashes in his mind, replacing a lot of the angerfilled responses he wants to shout at his mom. "There's no way being with her could ever be a mistake."

He opens the door and steps outside. "If you can't be happy for us, don't bother joining in on the celebrations."

He closes the door behind him. His mom might have tried to say more but he honestly couldn't care less anymore. It's time to head home. Back to the welcoming arms of the woman he loves and can't wait to marry. She makes him a better writer, and a better man. She supports him and his dreams more than his mom ever has. This exchange has proven that all his mom will ever be good for is giving him great song ideas. But the one starting to ruminate in his brain this time promises to be a lot happier than Unsaid Emily.

[jennicatzies]

Hey been a while since last art post

Anyways tsp whiteboard dump but it's extremely limited because tumblr isnt a big fan of over 10 pictures in a single post

[ ft. Klari#3021 (discord) and @/saturnjart (instagram) ]

It was revealed to me that i can just go on the website to upload up to 30. Woah

Extras under the cut [ // drawn blood cw ]

Zendoodle woah

Full Jenn-Klari-Saturn Narratorverse ish saga

...tried to get a snapshot of the board but then I was greeted with this random ass line anf I have no idea who did this but it's funny

[dixidin]

Considering 2.4 for hsr just came out today. I must say!-

IF WE CAN GET HANYA AND XUEYI ANGST THEN WE CAN GET ARGENTI ANGST C'MON HOYO LET'S DO THIS

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

I have only done a little research into this new Tumblr Community they will be rolling out soon, so I may be way off base on this thought.

But from what I have read about it, it seems like it will only serve to further intensify the cliques and "popular" kid mentality that has been tearing the fandom apart lately.

I really hope this isn't the case, but I guess we will just have to wait and see....

[l-e-morgan-author]

Patience in Recovery

They said she was full of hope, all that time.

They said a lot of lies. I knew because I'd listened at the door, when they didn't know I was in the room at all. I'd overheard the doctors talking, and I knew what they said.

They weren't particularly happy with the way things were going. Nobody was quite sure if her voice would recover properly, because of how long she'd been breathing smoke. Mine recovered just fine, and I wasn't hurt as bad as Patience was.

It was irony, I guess, when you thought about it, that her name was Patience, because now we all had to wait to make sure she'd get better. The doctors had talked to her, and she wrote back answers (carefully, and with her right hand, because the left was still in plaster).

They told me she was brimming with hope, like the way my eyes had been when I woke up in hospital and they told me what had happened. She was ready and waiting to get better.

But I heard them discussing worriedly among themselves, how she was lying there and not actually wanting to get better, like it was too hard. Her body was battered, and seems her mind was, too.

I don't understand. She brightened up a lot when I first came in, and I thanked her for saving me, and she smiled, just a bit, and made a thumbs-up gesture. She was awfully white, and made the sheets look skin colour, and there were all sorts of bulky dressings everywhere, but she whispered, in her hoarse voice, that it was "worth it". I can still hear that if I think about it.

They said she'll walk again, all that sort of thing, but they're worried about the way her hand was damaged, and the amount of burns she got. They don't know if she'll be able to comfortably knit again.

Knitting is her safe thing, her biggest hobby; what would Patience do if she couldn't knit?

She told me she'd knit me a jumper when she was out of there, and that was as good as telling me she loved me, for Patience. Seems she warmed up to me at last.

I was trying not to complain; you know how it is, though, sometimes? When you're living in a house and someone else in the house doesn't like your existence. I guess it was pretty sudden, and Patience is a cagey old dear, but it doesn't feel nice.

Mum wasn't cheerful anymore, not how she used to be. Her expression was worn and like she hadn't slept in a week. I heard her crying one time after she and Dad met with the doctors. Then she and Dad got into an argument, the worst argument I've ever heard, and that's saying something. It was just words, but words are important. Some of the things they called each other weren't very nice, and I shan't reproduce them.

Grief can tear apart a family. I hope it doesn't ours. I hope Patience gets better soon, and all better, because otherwise I don't know what we'll do. She's important, though I'm sure she doesn't realise how important. She better get better quick. I pray for her every night, and I wouldn't like to tell her how much I cry about it. She wouldn't be in trouble if she hadn't saved me. Then again, they say I'd probably be dead.

I guess she figured I was worth saving. Guess I'd better buck up and be someone worth saving.

Get better soon, Patience, and I hope when you're better I can show you how much I care, in a less obnoxious way to how I did before. Rhona out.

&&&&&&&

Added this story to my page of free stories, found here. There's almost 6k of writing on here, all told, and I continue to add to them on a fairly regular basis.

[savage-rhi]

🫂

[trimmedarmor]

doing the equivalent of gripping something intensely hard then forcing myself to let it go every time i see something about the stupid fandom drama i got pulled into earlier this year

[heliza24]

This was one of those lines and scenes that basically turns me inside out with envy as a writer. This exchange is working on so many levels. Like on a macro level it is summing up the themes of the show. Andy and the other inventors are fixated on creating technology that will protect them in the face of climate change but it's not enough to protect them from murder. In fact sometimes it's the technology itself that's being used to kill them. Andy is constantly talking technology in these big sweeping terms. He uses it to keep himself separate and apart from the rest of the world. But Darby uses it for connection. She fell in love with Bill on the internet. She uses technology to find the clues that lead her to answers. She uses Ray to keep herself grounded. She sees the humanity, the people-made hacks, threaded through every interface and every computer. The dead speak to her but so does code. And when the show touches on a generational divide I think that's what it's mainly saying. How do you view technology? Is it a tool to help you stay separate and apart from the rest of humanity or a way to speak to the dead? In reality there are people of every generation that have every possible relationship to technology. But there is something that feels very Gen x about Andy and very Gen Z about Darby in their relationship to computers.

Bill is kind of an in between. He meets Darby on the internet, but their courtship is analogue. He woos her using Morse code after they graduate off of Reddit. After he leaves Darby he starts making art that protests smart cities. Maybe he was murdered because he opposed some sort of tech that Andy is working on. We're not sure yet. And he's frustrated that Darby is so obsessed with the case she can't look up and see him, and for Darby the case lives on her phone. So it makes sense on a scene level that he would be railing against phones here. He's just been so vulnerable with her, listed the moments he knew he was in love with her, and she's too scared to be vulnerable in return. Instead she turns back to the phone. So it makes sense that he's displacing his frustration with Darby onto the object of her obsession. And her response just cuts through his defense mechanism. It's such a good rebuttal. It refutes his initial assumption, that her obsession with the case means she doesn't love him. It lets her be vulnerable and defend herself at the same time. It's such a good line.

Another thing I loved about this episode was the way that the Bill/Darby relationship shifted. In the beginning of the series Bill feels very dangerous. He's a stranger Darby met on the internet, he's hacking lights on abandoned train tracks to send her a message, he's sweeping her away on a cross country roadtrip to find a killer. He could easily be a killer himself. Those early scenes between them are shot in a way to emphasize the danger and the edginess that exists between them, and you’re supposed to be scared for Darby. But as we gradually get to know Bill we realize how caring and thoughtful he is. We see how much he cares about Darby and especially about her consent before anything sexual happens. And in this episode we realize that there was always a dangerous element in their relationship. But it was Darby, not Bill. It was Darby's obsession with the case, her comfort and dedication to the dead over the living, and her spiraling mental health that threatened their safety and their relationship.

By the time Darby is in Iceland, it seems like she's grown past this negative mental health space, at least to an extent. She's written about her experience finding the killer with Bill and put it behind her. But death finds her in Iceland and pulls her back in, and in this episode we see her resort to some of the same unhealthy coping mechanisms in order to solve the case.

The other perfect line from this episode was "sometimes I feel like I would have to die for you to love me", and I think it's so wonderful because it's both extremely true and totally wrong. Darby does have a connection to the dead, and she is bound to Bill more strongly in his death than she was during the years after he left her. She is intent on finding out what happened to him, but at the same time she is drowning in grief. She's unwilling to offer Bill's name when the other guests lists the other murder victims at the bonfire because that would mean he is really not coming back, he's really just the same as all the other serial killer victims they investigated together. And she loved him more than that. She loved him in life too.

This show is so good, the writing and the dialogue and the symbolism and sense of fate that runs through it is so good. I really hope they stick the landing of the mystery because I just love it. This episode in particular is just rattling around in my brain, I can't let it go.

[lethal--omen]

[Id: Two digital redraws of Gym Trainer Elesa's friendship snapshot from the game Pokemon Masters. In it she is seen holding out on hand with her middle and ring fingers bent closed, as she leans towards the camera with an open mouth and her other harm flung behind her. In both images, she has been drawn with brown eyes rather than blue. Both of the drawings have a border. In picture 1, there is simple black lineart and a dark purple border, whilst in picture 2 the border has some light blue details added to it, and the lineart is now coloured. There are pink sparkles in the background of both images. /End id]

Decided to do some composition practice by redrawing one of my favorite Friendship Snapshots from Pokemas!!! (The background is taken from the game minus the sparkles, will add it in a reblog)

[dalamusrex]

Shor's Stone

(Content warnings for: abuse mention; descriptions of blood, gore, and corpses)

“‘Hop over to Shor’s Stone,' they said. ‘It will only take a couple hours,’ they said,” Dalamus grumbled to himself atop his horse. The palomino mare below him ambled along the cobblestone path, tired from a short skirmish with a small pack of wolves. The Rift’s woods were full of them, and Opal was not a warhorse. Thankfully, the wolves had been easily dissuaded with a well-aimed horse kick. The rest immediately fled in a panic. Hopefully they would tell the rest of their brethren not to bother with this adventurer.

“I am sorry, girl. I will be sure to get you a treat once we are back home, hm?” He reached forward and petted the side of her neck in an attempt to calm her. Just a bit longer and he would be able to get out of this blasted sun…

During a routine visit to buy alchemy ingredients, Elgrim had asked Dalamus a favor. The miners of Shor’s Stone had fallen ill, and they needed medicine. Elgrim is too old to be traveling, and hardly trusted a soul. But he has known Dalamus long enough to know that the mer could handle himself should trouble arise. Not that trouble will arise, of course, Elgrim assured. The mer was given a box full of elixirs to deliver, which he balanced before him while seated in the saddle.

Shor’s Stone--a mining village just North of Riften, between the Velothi Mountains and the mountains which contain Redbelly Mine. The mine from which the village makes its income. Unfortunately, mining is a dangerous job in many ways. If one did not get crushed by collapsing tunnels, they risked being choked by fumes of unearthed gas, or accidentally set aflame by torches lit in gas-heavy chambers. The constant chipping of stone and ore fills the lungs with dust, often causing breathing issues. Such is the issue this time, as well. Without the miners, their income has slowed to a crawl.

It will only take a few hours, Elgrim said. Just drop off the medicine and come back. Simple as that!

But when was anything as simple as that…

Another half hour passed and Dalamus finally saw the peaks of houses appear before him. Filnjar, the blacksmith and unofficial leader of the community, stood at his forge staring distantly into the embers. It was not until he apparently heard Opal’s hoofbeats that the Nord looked up. Filnjar did not smile, but some tension leaked from his shoulders in relief when he noticed the box of medicine.

“I presume you are the delivery man for Elgrim.” Filnjar spoke as Dalamus carefully dismounted his horse, attempting to keep the box level as he did so. Once on his feet and the box secure, he could face Filnjar.

As much as Dalamus hated being thought of as a ‘delivery man,’ he could hardly argue. He handed the wooden medicine box to the Nord. “For today, I am. Here are the elixirs. Give each miner one elixir to drink over the course of a week. Hafjorg sends her well wishes.”

Filnjar took the box from the Dunmer’s hands and placed it on his workbench. Grabbing a nearby tool, he pried the box open to inspect its contents. Sure enough, at least eight peach-colored potions sat inside, compartmentalized with thin wooden slats and wrapped in parchment to prevent breakage during transit. Filnjar smiled, shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you for coming all the way out here, lad, even though I suspect it’s not your day job. Before I set you off with your coin, may I ask.. Are you a mercenary? A blade for hire?”

Dalamus’ hands hesitated on Opal’s reins, anticipating a new request if he were to answer affirmatively, and inwardly groaned. He just wanted to get home. The heat of the sun was thinning his patience. And yet… “I can be, for the right price. Why?” He turned his piercing glance back to the blacksmith, and could have sworn the Nord shrunk a little.

“Well…” Filnjar began. “We haven’t seen the guards from the nearby watchtower in quite a while. They’re probably just in a drunken stupor and sleeping it off, but if something has gone wrong, no one here is equipped to deal with it. Since you’re already here, would you mind checking on them? I will give you what money I have left to spare, plus what I owe you for the delivery.”

Dalamus mulled it over for what seemed like an eternity. Even Opal nudged him impatiently, as if asking him to make a decision already. He did not want to do more. He had already done the job he promised. He wanted to go home. But.. if the guards were just being lazy, it would only take a moment. And he had not yet been paid. “...Fine. I will check on the guard tower.”

“Thank you, lad.”

Dalamus scoffed. This was supposed to be a quick delivery job. Deliver the medicine, Elgrim said. Now he was trudging off to a watchtower to investigate. Hopefully, the guards would be completely fine, and he could leave.

But as he approached the tower, he quickly realized that the worst had happened. The smell of old blood and active rot filled his senses and immediately placed him on alert. He approached with caution, hoping that perhaps the guards were not the source. Perhaps they had gone hunting and this was the smell of their kill. Judging from the pit near the entrance which had not seen fire in at least a week, this seemed unlikely. The mer scrubbed his face with frustration.

“Hello?” he called out towards the tower. This was stupid. Why did he have to do this? Anyone else at the town could have called up to the tower just as easily. But the lack of response was concerning…

...No, it was not! Dalamus did not care about these people. He was not invested in their safety. He was delivering the medicine for money. He could assume the guards were dead, and return. There were many ways he could lie.

...But what if townspeople come looking for bodies to bury?

Why did it matter?! It was not his problem! He did not owe anyone this investigation. Except, he had agreed to it. And his payment might get withheld if it was discovered that he lied one way or the other. And he was already here.

...Fine.

“Hilye,” he said, ordering Opal in Dunmeris to stay put while he approached the tower. The smell of rot hit him like a wave once he reached the abandoned fire pit. It had not been lit in many days–no smolders, no fresh ash, no trace of food or utensils nearby.

As he turned towards the tower, he spotted a guard. Or… what used to be one. Leaning against the side of the tower’s entrance was the corpse of a guard, pale and rotting. A sword wound split the man’s chest nearly from shoulder to hip, and various insects clung to the putrefying form.

One guard found… Two to go.

He made his way to the tower’s entrance and onto the stairs. With each step, the stench of decay grew greater, straining even Dalamus’ sensory tolerance. He could not hear any heartbeats, nor sounds of movement, and could only conclude that the worst had happened.

Two Riften guards lay slaughtered on the top floor, one with an arrow through the skull, the other stabbed in the back multiple times with a bladed weapon. Their armor appeared ill-fitting, their corpses filled with putrid gasses causing bloat. Judging by the lack of a struggle, the guards were likely attacked at night. Perhaps the guard meant to keep watch had fallen asleep, himself, allowing their quick demise.

A letter sat on the table next to their last meals, now molding.

Akar,

We’ve word of a band of Legion soldiers advancing on your position. Reinforcements are on their way. Talos guard you.

A black brow rose on the vampire’s face. So they had had a warning, yet still fell? Filnjar had implied that the guards partook in revelry if not frequently then consistently. Perhaps they really had imbibed too much on the night of the attack. Fools.

The sound of rustling in nearby trees froze him. He kept low to the floorboards and crept over to the ledge to peer down. Were the soldiers back? Had a brigand come to loot the bodies? No… It was much worse.

A large troll had followed the scent of the blood and rot--and possibly Dalamus’ yelling--straight to the tower. It grabbed the corpse at the side of the tower, picking it up with the ease of a child lifting a doll. In a gruesome display of strength, the troll ripped a limb off the body with a sickening crack and squelch. It put the arm in its mouth and peeled the metal armor off with its teeth before spitting the inedible material aside. The wet sounds of chewing were occasionally punctuated by the loud crack of a bone.

“You must be fetching kidding me.” He cursed under his breath in disbelief at his rotten luck. Dalamus dragged a hand down his face again. What now? He could wait and hope the troll leaves once it had its fill. What if the body out front was not enough to satisfy its hunger? It might ascend the stairs to consume the two corpses here. He could drop down the other side of the tower, but would still need to cross the troll’s line of sight to get to Opal and return to town.

The sound of Opal’s nervous whinnies pulled him from his thoughts and into action. The troll had noticed her and was advancing towards her, hoping for a large, fresh meal. Opal, Divines bless her, was dutifully waiting for Dalamus to return despite her terror.

“Miraga!” he yelled from the top of the tower, commanding Opal to flee and find somewhere to hide, giving her permission to escape by whatever means necessary and get to safety. “Miraga!”

The mare turned and ran, and the troll attempted to follow but was stopped by Dalamus landing upon its shoulders after leaping from the tower, and sending them both tumbling. Dalamus immediately rolled to his feet in time to dodge the swipe of a massive clawed hand. The troll roared, sending spittle and loose food flying, enraged that its meal had been interrupted.

Another swipe from the creature aimed to take Dalamus’ head clean off his shoulders, but he ducked and thrust a dagger upwards into the troll’s arm. Its skin was thick and leathery, extremely difficult to cut or pierce. Even his ebony-steel could not find purchase in the troll’s arm. Dalamus leaped backwards to avoid the second hand, but misjudged the length of the creature’s arm and was snagged by sharp claws and sent off-balance.

A backwards roll brought Dalamus to his feet again, adrenaline coursing through him and allowing him to temporarily ignore his wound in favor of strategizing a way to either win or escape. Trolls were generally slow but persistent. There was no guarantee it would not follow him back to town should he turn and run. The miners were in no condition to defend themselves, and he did not want the guilt of a town massacre on his hands. He was not heartless.

One slip up and Dalamus knew he would end up in two pieces on the ground. And, of course, this battle just had to take place in the middle of a beautiful sunny day–his wounds would heal slowly, if at all. Bumps and scrapes were the least of his worries though.

For once, Dalamus wished daggers were not his weapons of choice. Normally he enjoyed getting up close and personal with his enemies in combat, but not when it involved getting within grabbing distance of a troll with rancid corpse breath.

He kept the troll at a distance, circling the small space behind the tower. Dalamus could feel the troll’s eyes sizing him up, possibly mulling over which limb to separate from his body first. Vampire flesh tasted terrible, but trolls were not picky.

The troll lunged, and Dalamus ducked, bringing a dagger straight down into one of the beast’s feet. It roared, but before Dalamus could pull away, he was lifted from the ground by his middle and forced to leave his dagger embedded in the troll’s flesh. The giant hand surrounding him threatened to crush his rib cage. He felt a bone crack in his side, then the troll’s other hand grabbed his left arm and began to pull. A scream tore from his throat as another rib cracked and his left arm dislocated from the socket. Through tears and searing pain, Dalamus reached for his second dagger still in its sheath at his hip, and with as much force as he could muster, he thrust the ebony steel dagger straight into one of the troll’s eyes.

It dropped him immediately, clutching at its face and roaring, stumbling backwards in agony. Dalamus had only fallen a few feet, but he felt as though he had been tossed from the top of the watchtower to crumple to the ground. Everything hurt, but he could not afford to stay still. He was now entirely unarmed, and his left arm mostly useless, not to mention the sharp pain which bloomed in his side with every movement. Though he needed no breath, mild panic brought the habit back, and to his detriment. Every gasp invited stabs of pain.

The troll, now finished with its anguished bellows, pulled the dagger from its eye and tossed it aside far too distantly for Dalamus to ever dream of reaching. If he got caught one more time, he would be killed.

So, Dalamus kept his distance once again, he and the troll circling the small clearing. Even the brutish creature was hesitant to step within fighting distance, the dark blood spilling from its eye a grim reminder that this Dunmer was no simple prey. Drips of crimson began forming a circle as they strafed their small battlefield. Normally, a troll might leave this battle. Wounds severely diminished its ability to hunt. Certainly losing an eye did. But there were three corpses here, and it was not about to let so much food go to waste. It drooled with anticipation and frothed with anger.

After the dripping blood had created three quarters of a full circle on the ground, the troll lunged. Dalamus dove to the left, landing on his shoulder and the pain forcing a cry from him. Red eyes searched for his destination, one of the fallen guards’ corpses. Another hasty leap had the vampire practically landing in the stinking corpse’s lap. Putrid flesh and offal smashed under his weight and stained his clothing with rot.

He could hear the thuds of the troll’s feet stomping in a rush towards him while his back was turned.

In a decisive movement, Dalamus grabbed the fallen Nord’s sword, pivoted, and stood, bringing the blade straight up, right through the troll’s lower jaw and into the skull. Its rage ceased instantly, but momentum brought it forward to collapse on top of Dalamus, and the corpse. Pain exploded everywhere at once as he was pinned to the ground between two stinking masses. He did not know which was worse, the rank troll drool and dark blood now dripping to stain his front, or the faint sensation of slimy rot and wriggling creatures against his back coming from the corpse below him.

After what felt like an eternity, Dalamus managed to wiggle his right arm free to lift the shoulder of the beast off him. Then he continued to wiggle until he could get his knees up and kick the troll body away from him. He crawled to a clear area of ground and laid back down to process what had happened and assess the damage. Two, maybe three ribs broken, left shoulder dislocated, an open wound on one side of his abdomen. Blood stained every inch of his shirt, and he was pretty sure some degloved corpseflesh clung to his back and maggots were crawling into his hair. Somehow, it was the best case scenario after a fight with a troll in the middle of the day. He would not heal if he continued to lay in the sunlight though, and after all this, he deserved his damned payment. Oh, and the villagers would probably like to know what had happened to their guards. But first he had to at least take care of his shoulder.

“Opal?” Dalamus called, hoping she might be within earshot. After a painful moment of waiting, he heard the crunch of leaves under hooves, much to his relief. She had taken refuge in the nearby trees, waiting for the battle to subside.

With more than a few winces and grunts, Dalamus got to his feet and all but hobbled over to his horse, taking her reins and leading her to a tree with a fork at his chest level. He put the tree between himself and the horse, and the reins over the fork in the tree, wrapped around the wrist of his dislocated arm. The goal was to have Opal help him relocate it.

“Bivi. Re’aldis.” He told her to back up, and slowly. Opal obeyed, moving backwards step by step, slowly lifting Dalamus’ arm up and over the fork in the tree. He clenched his jaw to tolerate the pain and braced himself against the trunk. Opal continued until he was pressed up entirely against the tree, but once there was resistance in the reins, she stopped.

“Bivi,” the mer ordered again, too tired to remain patient. Opal was reluctant.

“Bivi!” he shouted, and the horse, startled, pulled backwards as commanded. All his frustration evaporated as pain rushed to fill its place. A shout was forced from his chest, and Opal rushed towards him in concern.

Reins no longer taut to hold him up against the tree, Dalamus fell backwards onto the ground, white hot pain ricocheting up his side and shoulder as he caught himself with his now relocated arm. The reins were relinquished and his horse snuffled at him from above, disheveling his hair in a supposed attempt to soothe or perhaps apologize. Dalamus was too exhausted and in too much pain to care about his hair, or his ripped clothes, or the corpse jelly that clung to him, or the maggots on his shirt, or how he reeked, or how much blood was oozing from his side.

Although he would not die of blood loss, at least not any time soon, the more blood he lost, the sooner he would need to feed in order to replenish it. And with the sun still high in the sky, his wounds would not close. The longer he sat here, the more of a danger he was to the people of Shor’s Stone and Riften when he returned. Perhaps it would be best to feed from an animal between here and there. With a groan that eased into a whine, the mer slowly pushed himself to his knees, and then his feet, placing a hand on Opal to steady himself.

“Juli, Opal,” he rasped out in praise, giving her neck a stroke. His hand left a smear of dark blood on her coat. Whoops.

Dalamus trudged slowly over to the troll’s corpse, a sneer lifting his lip to reveal a threatening fang at no one in particular. Despite thirst scratching at his throat, the dark, stinking blood pooling around the dead creature was anything but appetizing. He was here for something else…

The sword he had used to impale the troll was still seated firmly in its skull, blood seeping out of either end of the wound it had created. With a few shoves of his foot, Dalamus managed to roll the hulking creature onto its back, then braced the foot against its chest in preparation to remove the sword. His muscles protested and burned, broken bones sending electric jolts through him with every strain. Through gritted teeth and a whimper of pain, Dalamus pulled the sword out, the flesh squelching as it released the steel.

He grips the sword hilt in both hands, brings the blade up over his head, and swings the sharp edge down hard into the throat of the troll. Again. And again. And again. Blood and odd slivers of corpseflesh flung into the air and onto Dalamus himself. Swords made for terrible chopping tools, especially once it reached bone–but perhaps he would get an extra reward if the townspeople knew the trouble he had been through for their ‘simple’ errand. With every swing of the weapon, his body screamed at him. Even more so when his arms absorbed the shock each time the blade bit into the ground.

Once the majority of the flesh had been hacked away from the spine, Dalamus changed to a more delicate approach. He used the point of the blade to try and slip between the segments of neck bone, stabbing the rubbery disk until finally it gave. Then, with a final chop, the troll’s head rolled free of its body.

Dalamus grabbed the troll’s head by a fistful of fur—hair?—and lifted it to peer into the dead eyes of his enemy. The jaw fell slack, still oozing foul saliva and stinking blood. If he did not get compensated for this… He sighed in exasperation, triggering a jolt of pain in his side.

Dalamus glanced at his horse and his shoulder throbbed in response. The mere thought of pulling himself up into the saddle caused discomfort in his shoulder, and the slowest of gaits would still jostle his broken ribs as he kept balance and time with the horse's movements. Walking, it is.

The only consolation—if one could call it that—was the sun still hanging in the sky. It meant he still had time before the vampirism began knitting his body back together. If it were to heal back wrong, such as during physical activity with the body in motion, it would have to be re-broken. Such was a fate he wanted to avoid if at all possible.

After gathering his daggers from the area and placing them back in their sheathes, blood and all, they began the trek back to Shor's Stone. Opal walked diligently beside him, allowing him to lean against her flank when pain halted their progress. If paused for too long, she would reach back and snuffle him with her big soft nose and remind him they still had a ways to go. Walking the path uphill was surprisingly laborious, but he knew it meant they were close.

As they crested the small hill, Dalamus could see the miners of Shor's Stone lining up to get their medicine from Filnjar. They looked and sounded terrible, a step away from draugr. Constant coughing had left them completely exhausted, their entire bodies sore, evident in how they shuffled forward. Darkened eyes and unkempt hair spoke to their lack of sleep. One face in the line stood out to him, and he felt the hairs on his neck bristle and his posture stiffen.

A scarred older Dunmer with greasy black hair falling to his shoulders stood halfway down the line of miners. His eyes were tired, barely open, and trained on the ground in front of him. He did not see Dalamus approaching, and this gave the vampire confidence.

Leaving Opal's side, Dalamus strode past Filnjar towards the line of sick miners. The Dunmer in line glanced up at the commotion, locked eyes with Dalamus, and all exhaustion in his body was replaced with terror. Drevain was flung to the ground before he could get a single word out—not that Dalamus would have listened to anything he had to say.

The vampire's previously dislocated arm threatened to fall out of its socket once again, the joint screaming at him, but the pleasure of landing a perfect punch across Drevain's face was too good an opportunity to pass up. The world around him ceased to exist and all decorum dissolved once he saw Drevain on the ground, frightened of him. The sick older mer was weak, thinner, exhausted, and Dalamus drank it in like ambrosia.

The vampire grinned, a flood of victorious adrenaline surging through him and pushing his own pain to the back of his mind. It could be dealt with later. But right now? He had Drevain at his mercy, and his head swam with the possibilities.

He knelt over Drevain like a sabre cat over a felled elk. His fangs caught in the light, and at this angle only his father could see. Dalamus' arm came down again, this time gripping Drevain's throat tight, pinning him against the ground. With every movement, every attempt to escape, Dalamus squeezed tighter. His fingers bit into Drevain's flesh like a blacksmith's vise; he could feel a pulse under his fingertips, struggling against the pressure. The vampire's lip quivered with barely restrained rage, his father's gasps and whimpers music to his ears.

Then, betrayal! He was being pulled off of Drevain! He struggled against the weak hands and arms, but it reminded him of his own pain and exhaustion. It took at least four people, but he was thrust back into Shor's Stone, where his revenge could not take place. Where he was surrounded by witnesses who did not know of Drevain's atrocities. Who only knew him as a miner now being assaulted.

He resisted the urge to spit and hiss and bite, to fight back, to throttle the closest person for daring to come between him and the revenge he had dreamed of for years. Instead, while being restrained and questioned, he explained himself, his words dripping with venom. “That mer, that fetcher, is my father! He is filth. Rot. Liar. Abuser.”

Stunned speechless by the accusations, all the restraining hands left Dalamus, although they remained close just in case intervention was necessary again. Dalamus moved to stand over the fallen Drevain, the rest of the townspeople hovering around him like a cage ready to close.

Dalamus' face twisted into a contemptuous smirk, and his voice lowered to a growl. “Look at you. Feeble old mer. I could kill you right here, right now. It would be so easy.” The townspeople tensed, ready to leap into action, but such was not Dalamus' plan.

“But I will not. Because I am not you. I am better than what you made me. I even brought medicine.” His voice darkened and his red eyes seemed to glow with malice. “I hope you choke on it. I hope it burns. I hope it sits heavy in your stomach and nauseates you, knowing that I saved your life. I hope it eats at you for the rest of time knowing that. You. Owe. Me. That you live because I will it. Because I am better than you.”

Dalamus turned his red eyes to Filnjar, who visibly startled. Only after recovering was he able to hand the injured Dunmer the money he was owed--and he seemed more than eager to get rid of it, all but flinging it into Dalamus' hand. Dalamus weighed the heft of the coin pouch and, satisfied, nodded. “Unfortunately, your watchtower guards were killed by passing Imperials. I killed the troll that had begun feasting on their bodies. It should be safe to reach them for burial, if you wish, but I warn you the sight is.. not pretty. Oh. And, Father~” he called, locking eyes with the other mer for a final time, his sing-song tone not enough to disguise the venom on his tongue.

“If I see you anywhere near my family, I will tear you into so many pieces that every animal in the Rift will get a bite.” It was Drevain's turn to live in fear. He tossed the troll's head towards the downed mer as proof of his prowess in battle, proof of his strength.

Dalamus then pushed himself up into Opal's saddle and they began their trek towards home. Every broken bone in his body screamed in time with hoof beats, but it was important to Dalamus that Drevain see him leave strongly. He had to make an impression, even if it meant searing pain. He had to appear strong. Triumphant.

It was only after he was certain they were out of eyesight that Dalamus curled in on himself in the saddle, gripping at his side, sucking in air through his teeth in a vain attempt to somehow stabilize himself. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain came rushing back. He felt as though he had been run over by an entire herd of horses. Twice. And the sun was getting low. He needed to get back to Riften quickly. The sooner he could lay in a bed and get everything stabilized, the sooner he could heal correctly.

But it was not just the physical pain that engulfed him. The confrontation with his abuser left him trembling despite his own clear upper hand. He had felt so powerful in the moment, but now he was wracked with fear. Were there going to be consequences to this? What if Drevain did not believe his threats? Had he just endangered his family rather than protecting them? He slumped in the saddle and fought the urge to sob, clenching his teeth to prevent any sounds from escaping. Nothing could prevent the sting in his eyes. He had come so close to killing Drevain. So why did it feel like Drevain had still won?

When he got back to Riften, he would warn his loved ones of Drevain’s presence in Shor’s Stone.

“Ruhn,” he told Opal. The word for “home”. He just wanted to get home. Everything hurt.

Everything hurt.

[messrsbyler]