#scream it: ONLY TWO AND HALF MORE MONTHS FOLKS

[ellerywithablog]

me reminding myself that i am an adult capable of doing hard things like going to work tomorrow after two weeks off for spring break

[chillinglyadventurous]

Sneaking Around - Stanford Pines

Tags: NSFW! Age-gap relationship, sneaking around with Ford Pines so his brother, your boss, doesn’t find out.

Be gentle. This is my first NSFW post. I don’t know what I’m doing. I wrote this last night when I was half a sleep. Please ignore typos.

Minors DNI

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3 > Part 4

You’d been sneaking around like this for months. What started out as chaste kisses around corners where Stan and the kids couldn’t see turned into Ford sneaking into your bedroom late at night only to sneak out early in the morning. You and Ford both knew Stan would kill him if he ever found out.

Stan had taken on a fatherly role in your life when you started working at the Shack 10 years ago when you were 17. Now, you and his brother were sneaking around like teenagers. It almost reminded you of your high school boyfriend, the one you would ditch work to make out with in the back of his truck.

Now, your back was pressed up against the back of the vending machine door which led down into Ford’s lab. Your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist as he thrust into you. You quieted the little gasps and whimpers escaping your body with the back of your hand held securely between your teeth.

“Shh,” you giggled as Ford let out a guttural groan when your muscles tightened around his length after he had hit just the right spot. “Shh,” you repeated when his hips hitched a bit too hard against your own, the lewd slapping of skin against skin echoing around you.

He fucked into you a bit harder, testing to see how well you could keep yourself quiet. One hand slipping between your bodies. You were already so close and he knew it. He’d had you with his mouth in the basement. He had you with his fingers on the stairs.

A whine escaped you when he slipped two fingers around the base of his cock just to stretch you that much more. Your head fell back into the vending machine with a loud thud your hazy mind couldn’t comprehend. Your walls fluttering in time with your heart.

“That’s it,” Ford encouraged as his fingers and cock held steadfast, thumb circling your clit in a relentless pattern. Clockwise, counterclockwise, and back in rapid succession, “Come on, [Y/N], be a good girl and cum for me.” He chuckled when you bit down on his sweater clad shoulder to stifle the sweet moan he was doing his best to draw out of you, angling himself to keep hitting that spot that made you tremble.

You whined, “Stanford, please!”

He repeated the shush you have given him as he watched your jaw go slack, eyes and forehead crinkled together. Your mouth fell open as he continued he thrusts rhythmically.

Suddenly, you heard Stan’s voice as he guided a group of tourists into the gift shop. You and Ford froze. His cock buried deep inside you, bodies flush. One of his hands slid up your body to cup around you mouth. You did the same to him. Your eyes were wide as you stared into Ford’s. You were breathing so heavily, the air forcing itself through your nose as it was unable to escape your mouth.

Your eyes rolled back and a whine escaped you when he adjusted you to keep you from falling, sheathing himself deeper into you as he pressed you further into the back of the vending machine. He was too still and you needed him too much for this to stop. Your mind body was screaming, unconsciously milking him in an attempt to get him thrusting again, but he wouldn’t budge. In a last ditch attempt, your hips rocked against him.

A loud groan slipped through his lips and past your hand. He gave you a stern look before dropping you back onto your feet, “Naughty girl.”

You could hear Stan’s angry voice, “Well, folks, it seems my cashier has mysteriously disappeared!”

Your state was incredulous as he flipped the hem of your dress back down to your knees, stuffing his cock back into his pants before zipping them up. A frustrated huff left him, but he kissed your forehead so sweetly.

Your body still buzzed with arousal, throwing your arms around his neck to keep him close to you. Damn Stan and his fucking tourists. You kissed him once, twice, three times, “I’ll sneak out. You go back down there.”

“I’ll make it up to you later, I promise,” his forehead rested against yours as he took a calming breath.

This wasn’t fair. He knew it. The sneaking around was killing both of you. It may have been incredibly sexy, but it often led to moments like this, unable to finish. You were both often left frustrated and needy. It was really starting to get to both of you.

You kissed his lips, sending a shock of pleasure down through both of you. “I love you,” you whispered when his hands left you, his body peeling off of yours.

“I love you too,” he smiled before disappearing into the elevator.

You slipped from behind the vending machine. The tourists didn’t notice you, but Stan did. His face angry. Time was money, “There she is, everyone!” You gave Stan a sheepish smile before strolling back behind the counter on shaking legs, “Remember, we put the fun in ‘No Refunds!’”

As the crown browsed, Stan strolled to stand next to you. The stool beneath you was the only thing keeping your knees from giving out, “Sorry, Ford was showing me the quantum destabilizer. I lost track of time.”

“I let you live here for free kid,” he grouched, “don’t be skipping out on work to hang out with that nerd.” Stan snorted, “I think he has a little crush on you. I’d kill him if he ever touches you. Can’t have him distracting my best employee.”

You nodded, “Sorry, Stan.”

[evilminji]

Gold can be exchanged for goods and services (o.o )

Pariah's Keep probably has a shit ton of Precious Goods from various places.

Danny is become King?

If Danny becomes King... then the Zone will somewhat obey him. The Crown and Ring could EASILY tell him where the next natural portal is, where it opens up, and for how long. How many there are. Could probably make a few.

Probably WAS supposed to be making them. Consciously. But, well, Coma(tm).

Would probably count as Kingly Duty to filter and collect. Clean Ecto goes out for souls that remain, a Gateway home for those that wish to LEAVE, so forth and so on.

Effectively, being The Grim Reaper. You don't CAUSE Death. You just guide the way home. If folks so choose.

And that's neat! Horrifying, but neat! And Danny can TOTALLY see how it would eventually drive him completely breakfast cereal fruity nuggets! LUCKILY, he's got a vaguely bro's/Mentor thing going with the ghost who has ALL OF POSSIBLE TIME flowing through HIS head! So Danny should be Gucci!

The headaches suck though.

But WHAT... to do with all this Gold and valuable Space Goods? Most of these aren't even recognized currency on earth! Like the Shells. You could buy a mansion with one of those... on the right planet. On Earth? Pretty paperweight. Hmmmm >.>

Wait.

WAIT!

<o> *points to top of head!* CROWN! It can? Predict and make PORTALS!

Portals lead any WHERE and any WHEN!

:O

Gold... can be exchanged for goods and services. He remembers, holding a gold brick, about to eat so, SO much pizza.

But WAIT! I hear you wondering! Surely, you mean? Within his past? The history and region of space he knows, right? Ha ha :) Nope! Cowards.

Danny is on the alien otter's planet, trading those sweet, sweet Shells for some snacks no human could eat and a shawl for his sister! He's hiding, badly, behind a food stall in the Martian market place. Hoping future hero J'onn Johnes doesn't notice him.

Lying to the Space Cops, bout where his untraceable Space Money came from, on an alien trading satellite. The Green Lantern's not buying it. Oh noooo >.> sudden Fright Knight. Looming Menacingly by the loading doooocks. Everyone's upset! Definitely not related to him! Better go check on that! :) *gets the heck out of dodge* (my king. Please stop using me as a distraction.) (No promises)

But! It's all fun and games? Until your human friends get sick. Like... REALLY sick.

And then you suddenly remember time and space mean nothing to you. One 15 minute flight that way, two doors, a quick flight of stairs, and a literal child's play place slide? You could be in the 32nd century.

That disease is AT BEST, an unpleasant afternoon, there.

Here, your friend could die.

You trade a student two Spanish dubloons. They have no idea what they are. Just like the look of them and know they're real metal. They walk into the pharmacy for you. Don't question your "social experiment paper" lie.

You're back in less then an hour.

The screaming argument about ethics and mortality lasts hours.

She still takes the medicine. Gets better. Won't talk to you for months. Because why does HER life matter more? Why bend the rules for HER? And you can't bring yourself to say what pulses as Truth from both Crown and Ring.

You could because she didn't Matter. Time... would not notice, nor change. She was in no way pivotal to the flow of history, must one more ant beneath its unrelenting march. Mattering only because those who love her CARE. Because one or two little things might change for the better.

But it takes the shine off of it, a little.

Being able to go to the FUTURE. Watch movies and see aliens and humans alike in the crowd. Read books and dance to songs from people who won't be born for hundreds of years. Eat snacks from the farthest reaches of the cosmos. Or the early BCs!

And that's BEFORE other time travelers clock him as That Shopping Guy. The one who keeps popping up... buying things. For what? Unknown. Probably dinner. Half the time it's food. Trinkets. Once it was a really, REALLY nice goat. (His aunt was THRILLED.)

It probably drives Bart crazy. Because NO ONE knows anything about the guy? Everyone just universally goes "oooh yeah! HIM! Yeah, he sure does Exsist(tm). Very... present and exsistant." Like that's not CRAZY! He has so many question. So Many! What is he even BUYING!? Why? Is there an order? Or is he winging it?!

*pulls out list* he needs ANSWERS!

@hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight

[appleblueberry-pie]

Im back with another yandere satoru request hehehe

So, I was wondereding what would happen if Satoru's beloved found out about his very unhealthy obession with her?

Hold on, lemme cook rq- So, instead of getting the fuck away from him (like most logical people would do) she decides to try her best to get him some help. Like, she'd confront him about his very distirbing behavior, (basically tearing down his entire facade and presenting it to him) and when he's begging her not to be afraid of him, not to abandon him, she tells him that she wants him to get help.

Heres where I kinda got a little stuck....the thing is...he would listen to her every beck and call, but would he really get the help he needs, or would he decieve her and trick her into beliving that he's getting better when in realitly he hasn't changed at all. (He's just alot more careful about what he does behind her back.)

Mkayyy, thats all folks. Thanks for coming to my ted talk.

You kept hearing noises from your backyard.

It woke you up. You couldn't really recognize what it was, but you really hoped it wasn't raccoons eating your berries again. You admit, your garden has many fruits and vegetables, but you certainly didn't want them being eaten. They took too long to grow! So, you got out of bed, threw on your robe over your night gown and quickly made your way downstairs to your backdoor.

When you opened the door and stepped onto the grass, everything seemed fine. Your strawberries were intact. Carrots still growing. No lemons dropped from the tree. But to the far right, you did see a familiar figure continuously puncturing another man's insides with a pretty dangerous looking knife thing.

Someone was in your yard.

Someone was being killed in your yard.

You're within distance of a killer.

By the time the realization set in, the familiar looking man had already saw you staring at him. It was Satoru Gojo.

You both stared at each other. It grew painfully silent and you took a step back, your eyebrows furrowing. You began hearing your heartbeat in your ears and began breathing faster. Your lips separated, probably to scream, and Satoru dropped the knife, immediately running over to you to shut you up in time.

When he trapped you in his arms, you tried to scream in surprise, but he already had one of his hands covering the entire bottom half of your face. "SHHHHHHHhhhhhh. shhhhhhhh. shhhhhh." His heartbeat thumped against your upper back and you tried to look up at him. He was already staring down at you with those big blue eyes and you tried to take his hand off of your mouth. "It's okay, baby. You're alright. It's alright."

Well, he didn't kill you, so clearly you didn't have to be scared. You still tried to talk and he tilted his head. "......you gonna scream if I let you go?" You shook your head. He stared down at you, as if he was trying to catch you in a lie. But then he laughed and finally loosened his hold on you. You took his hand off of your mouth and turned around. "...............Why are you killing someone in my yard?"

He says nothing.

You try to look back at the corpse and he blocks your way. "Fertilizer."

You avert your gaze and hug yourself. "For your tree."

"I already fertilized it two weeks ago. You were there. It doesn't need fertilizer until like a few months later." Satoru goes silent and sighs.

"Alright, babe. You caught me." He stalks closer to you and stops when he's directly in front of you.

"I killed him because he was a terrible waste of space." His smile was unnerving and you only felt more uncomfortable and confused. "What....?" "....He was useless. And he got in the way." The way he spoke made things a little awkward between the two of you. Did this have something to do with you and him? You hoped not. But with the way he said it, and the way he was staring at you began giving you confirmation that this was the case.

"He doesn't deserve you like I do." You inhale sharply and take a step back towards your door. "Satoru-" "No, I'm serious."

"You can't just....kill someone. He's dead!" His shoulders shake as he laughs at your statement. "You think I don't know that? That's the whole point. To die." You shake your head, "I-I need to get you help. This isn't okay. You shouldn't think it's okay to kill someone just to....I don't even know."

"To have you," He states. But you didn't hear. You were already back in the house to research different forms of treatment he could possibly receive. You didn't know what you were going to do with the body.

Satoru did plan to use it as fertilizer.

He lied to you for 12 weeks. And he hated every second of it. He never liked hiding shit from you. Which is why he straight up told you that he killed that dumbass from a while ago. You deserve better than some liar. But he'd be damned if he let some random take you away from him. So, he told you that he was going to the therapist that he been paid off and also killed.

He told you the body was taken care of and you didn't have to worry about it. After all, your tree leaves looked perkier than usual(he didn't tell you that either).

When you heard he was consistently meeting with his therapist, you let him take you out more often. You let him hang out at your place to have sleepovers if you had the time, and you realized that you might have a small crush on him. You shouldn't have a crush on a killer, but here you were. You should've called the police on him a long time ago(not like he'd get rid of them either), but he promised you he'd be good. And he has been. So you trust him.

Satoru learned to stop doing things like being a killer when you're around. It was smart to do it at night. But definitely not where you live. Probably the stupidest thing he's ever done. He should buy that house a few towns off. Everyone would be better off dying in there anyways, especially if there'd be no trace of them in the first place.

He's lucky you're gullible.

[readyforevolution]

"I walked into restaurants and they would point at me and say ‘The (N-word) can’t eat here.’ I would go to a hotel and they would say ‘The (N-word) can’t stay here.’ We want to Charlie Finley’s country club for a welcome home dinner, and they pointed me out with the N-word, ‘he can’t come in here.’ Finley marched the whole team out. Finally, they let me in. He had said ‘We’re gonna go to a diner and eat hamburgers; we’ll go where we’re wanted.'

“I slept on their couch (Rudi and his wife) four nights a week for about a month and a half,” Jackson said. “Finally, they were threatened that they’d burn the apartment complex down unless I got out. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

Jackson’s response to the one question lasted more than three minutes.

No one on the Fox set interrupted him.

No producer screamed into a headset trying to stop him.

“I really didn’t think it would get as much attention as it has gotten,’’ Jackson told USA TODAY Sports after the game, “but as much response as it generated, I didn’t get one negative response. Not one.

“I didn’t know Alex would ask me that question, but I’m glad they gave me a chance to respond.

“I’m glad people listened."

Reggie Jackson

Loud. And clear.

Really, the oddest reaction was from America itself.

Folks acted as if they were shocked this was happening 50 years ago and not centuries ago.

Wake up.

It was in the ’80s when Al Campanis, general manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers, uttered on national TV that Blacks lacked “the necessities" to be general managers or managers in the game.

It was in the early ’90s in Los Angeles when Rodney King was brutally beaten by police officers on the city streets and every officer was acquitted.

It was in the mid-’90s in Vero Beach, Florida, when an apartment complex refused to allow a reporter’s two black children to swim in its community swimming pool.

It was in the past five years that George Floyd was murdered in Minneapolis, Breonna Taylor was shot and killed in her bedroom in Louisville, and Ahmaud Arbery was murdered jogging in Georgia.

So, really, we’re shocked that Jackson couldn’t eat in restaurants, sleep in hotels and hang in country clubs with his white teammates 57 years ago?

Welcome to America.

Racism still flourishes in this country, but the only difference, as Hank Aaron once told me, “the difference back then is that they had hoods. Now, they have neckties and starched shirts."

“In the South," Jackson said, “you knew they didn’t like you. You knew they didn't want you. They didn’t hide it."

Now, racism may not be as overt, but as Jackson reminded the country this week, don’t be naive to think it has gone away, or even greatly diminished.

Oh, and just in case you needed a reminder, there are only two Black managers in baseball, one Black general manager and there still has never been a majority Black owner. Jackson said Saturday he still is incensed the he was denied the opportunity to bid on the Oakland Athletics in 2005 when it was sold to John Fisher.

So, you really believe things have changed?

“I am glad,’’ Jackson said, “that I said what I did. It needed to be said."

And repeated over and over again.

[be-my-ally]

Do you mind?

This is pure, meet-cute, fluff where literally nothing happens. For the prompt - “Do you mind? I came here to get away from other people.” 

thanks to @whositmcwhatsit for the game + @thatbanditqueen for the prompt + @ellie-24 , @vintageshanny , @missmaywemeetagain + @from-memphis-with-love for the fun!!

I super stupidly got a lil bit confused with scheduling this post so ... it's uhh.... by my attempts at scheduling the post 13 hours early, but actually 11 hours late. many apologies folks.

It’s overwhelming - the noise, the people, the conversations. You just need five minutes to yourself, time to take a breather, and try and get yourself back together. You hadn’t known everyone was going to be bringing a partner, or a date, to this party; you’d managed to forgive Nancy for it, because she was the one picking you up (or rather Paul,  her date, was driving) but you had felt blindsided when the group was waiting outside, double the size you had expected since everyone had their plus ones. It was meant to be casual, the birthday party of Sharon’s brother - the perfect excuse for a get-together of people who were now all busy with their own lives. It was meant to have been a chance for you and your friends to catch up and have some fun; you’d all agreed to attend as a group - no partners. Worse than being blindsided as the only girl solo was how left-out you were feeling, it was just making you feel lonely. 

You make your way across the lobby, desperate to find somewhere quiet - away from the other event rooms, or guests. Build yourself back up to going in, stay for the toasts and leave politely after another half hour. You check the time on the large clock above the reception desk as you wander past; half past eleven. A pitiful time to be wanting to leave a party. You want to roll your eyes, internally berating yourself for being so overdramatic. You cringe as you think about how much you’re now looking forward to being tucked up in bed, cup of tea in hand, with perhaps one of the gossip magazines you’d picked up earlier in the week and how much you wished you could just skip this whole party.  It’s quite a large hotel, and there’s several reception and event rooms but eventually, on the other side of the lobby, you stumble into an empty and dark space; seemingly some sort of library/games room situation, judging from the bookshelves surrounding the walls.

You look around, seeing, in the barely-there dim light from the hallway that allowed the objects in the room to be just visible, a little couch nestled in a corner. You practically throw yourself onto it, burrowing your head into the cushion. Ugh, it had been frustrating, and ultimately overwhelming to have to continue to answer the exact same questions again and again from the other people at the party - the same two worded responses coming out of your mouth. 

Where was your boyfriend? Not here. Did you come with a date? Not today. Are you still ‘going’ with Daniel? Not anymore. Sorry to hear about your dad. Thank You. They almost all responded with a similar politely sad but evidently morbidly curious face; clearly desiring to know if your break-up had occurred before or after your father’s funeral, or wanting to know more details in general. It had almost been worse when the questions had ended and small-talk had resumed; relief at the chance to not have to explain your life, but annoyance that it was clearly only because word had spread about your situation. You kick your feet against the sofa cushions still feeling your upset rise again at the memory of being stood in your group of friends while everyone around you laughed about their wedding plans with no regard for the fact that most of them knew that you and Daniel had broken up almost a month ago. 

You reach out, fingertips knocking against something, before your fingers curl under the cushion. 

You scream into it, muffling the noise - as frustrated as you were it would be mortifying to be found like this. You relax for a second as you lose your breath, for some, potentially insane reason you can feel your annoyance lessening and your body starting to release the tension it had been holding. You ready yourself for another, 

But you’re distracted when you take another breath, ready to go again, by a faint cough in the opposite corner. 

“Do you mind?” Your head whirls around, noticing for the first time, a man sat in an armchair on the other side. You push the cushion you’d been screaming into back into its place as surreptitiously as possible, blushing at the idea that someone had just witnessed your behaviour. 

“I came here to get away from other people.” He says it in such a tone that you’re immediately annoyed again, who was he to speak to you like that? You scoff, nose wrinkling; 

“Huh? Well yeah, me too.” He makes a wordless harrumphing noise and you roll your eyes. “I have just as much of a right to be here as you do.”  He doesn’t respond - standing up and starting to walk over to the sofa. He walks through the streak of light shining across the floor from the window in the door and you quickly realise why his voice had seemed familiar. You blink, slightly dazed at seeing Elvis walking towards you, frantically sitting up and smoothing out your skirt; panicked voice in your head telling you to be calm, it’s ok, he’s just a man, don’t panic.

He plops himself down beside you, for a man claiming he was out here to get away from people he had clearly been desperate for company, leaning back against the cushions. He angles himself sideways to get a better look at you, and you tuck your legs up - deciding there was little point in pretending to be all prim and proper when he had just witnessed your miniature breakdown. It means you can sit sideways on the couch - examining his side profile. His hair is coiffed within an inch of its life and it immediately makes you want to muss it up, you wonder if he feels the relief you do when you can finally brush out your Elnett. You sit in silence for a moment, but you can’t resist for much longer than a couple of minutes. 

“What - What are you doing out here?” You glance at his fancy looking suit and tie, “You, uh, here for a party?” He shakes his head at your tentative questions, glancing over at you, 

“it’s a- uh benefit thing but it’s really just an excuse for everyone to hound me for somethin’ or other, half of the producers are in there… they want me to do more movies, I don’t know - I, I,  shouldn’t tell you this but I’m not happy with them at the moment and I-I want to go back to the music but…I don’t know.” You frown, having no idea how to respond to that, hesitating briefly before patting his arm gently. 

“Oh, that sounds awful - you should be able to do whatever you want to do.” He huffs a little laugh at that, staring across the room before turning back to you, 

“Anyway honey, what’s got you all screamin’ into that little pillow - what’d it ever do to you?” He smiles as you blush, you were still hoping that by some miracle he might not have noticed that - although you suppose a screaming girl flinging herself onto a sofa was pretty obvious. 

It sounds trivial and childish when you try to explain, especially in the face of his own, clearly much larger and important problems; “‘s just - I’ve had this difficult break up recently, and all my friends were gonna come to this party solo but they’ve, they’ve actually all brought their partners and I’m just, all on my own. I just, I didn’t want to come anyway but I definitely wouldn’t have agreed to come if I’d known!” 

“Pretty thing like you couldn’t get a date?” You blink at him, he’s turned the charm on full force and it feels almost a bit much to have his bright eyes focussed on you. 

“No-no it wasn’t like that,” You’re quick to deny that it was something you’d failed to do, “I didn’t know! They all told me we were coming together!” He laughs, a little cruelly, 

“And you believed ‘em?” You frowned, squirming a little - you had believed them, perhaps in sheer desperation to make it worthwhile leaving your house, or from the belief that they also wanted to spend time with you. You shrug, unsure what else to say, you wish you weren’t going home to an empty house, you wish you’d at least been able to have fun this evening, but it wasn’t like you’d be able to do anything about it now. You change the subject, 

“Tell me more about the movies, do you not like making them?” You tried to remember if you’d even been to see his latest release, but couldn’t even remember the name to suggest it wasn’t as bad as he thought. He looks pleased that you’re interested, and starts to chat away - explaining his reservations with the soundtracks, and filming methods. You are listening, but there’s something about his voice, and while you’re interested in what he’s telling you, fascinated by the glimpse into an industry so removed from your everyday life as he starts to go into the intricacies of his studio contracts you can feel your attention beginning to wane. Your eyes starting to drift close, and your head dipping towards his shoulder. A moment later his hand, somehow simultaneously heavy and delicate, brushes your shoulder, startling you out of your relaxed almost-asleep state. 

“C’mon honey, who’s gonna take you home? You got a car?” You blink, shaking your head, 

“No, no I’m uh, No, I got a ride here - It’s not far though,” You shrug, “I can get a cab, or walk.” He frowns at you, 

“You’re dead on your feet,” He looks at you sideways, as if assessing you for something, “I got a room upstairs, you can join me if you like?” You blink properly awake at that, a surge of anxiety rippling through you - as much as you’d want to you’re not ready for anything intimate again, too fragile. The idea of having to turn down Elvis though is sending your heart racing. 

“I don’t, I don’t know if I can, I haven’t, not with just anyone and my, my, boy-my ex-boyfriend he was uh, no I think I really ought to go home.” He nods, a little sadly, 

“Well that’s alright sweetheart, if you want, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea - just, just offering to, uh, sleep mama, that’s all.” He looks back at you, completely earnest, eyes wide, and you can feel yourself caving in, 

“Well alright then. But, no funny business.” He does a scout salute as he beams at you, and you giggle - relaxing again; you know you shouldn’t trust him, he’s still a man you’ve just met and yet he just gives off an air, that you somehow know you’ll be safe with him. 

Your nerves skyrocket as he pulls you by the hand into the elevator, you hope he can’t feel your anxiety through your clammy hands, and you wonder how it is that he was just able to sneak away so easily. He starts to talk in the confined space, you wonder if he can tell you were getting nervous, telling you,

“I’m not sure if it’s the same thing,” Looking a little nervous himself, “Because I haven’t - haven’t uh had a split, but I, I get lonely too. I just, just like having someone ‘round to uh, take care of… or take care of me.” He whispers it like a secret and your heart aches a little for him, but before you can respond the doors are opening and he’s pulling you down the hallway. It’s not that late so you don’t expect for him to immediately be directing you through to the bathroom, instructing you to get ready for bed, but you also can’t find the energy to protest. 

You’re glad, now you’re thinking about it, that you didn’t bother with too-much make up, as you inspect your face, hopeful that keeping it on throughout the night won’t make you break out too much. His voice though chimes in through the door - almost as if he could hear your thoughts; 

“There’s cold cream on the side there, honey.” You’re pleased, but also a little disconcerted - was that how many women he had over? Your eyes rove over the counter, seeing the little jar on the side, and you reach for it - before noticing the little stack of eyeliners and mascaras, oh, it’s for him. You hate that that makes you feel better - you shouldn’t be feeling jealous, he’d invited you up here to sleep, because it was convenient. Nothing else. 

You leave the bathroom, having taken the pins out of your hair and brushed it out, and face fresh from being washed to find him waiting for you. He had already gotten himself changed - monogrammed silk-satin pyjamas that looked almost too similar to something your father might have worn, it made you smile to yourself. You still couldn’t believe you were getting to see him like this. He motions you forward, 

“Let me take care of you, honey,” You frown, a little confused, until he’s turning you around to undo the waistband on your party dress, his fingers light over the zipper down your back. You clutch the dress to your chest as it starts to open down your back, still shy about showing off too much to him. You can’t help but shiver as you feel his hands on your bare skin; perhaps you’ve been touch starved since your break-up, it feels like an age since you’ve even had a fingertip brush across your body. You yelp a little when he tugs the dress down, pulling it off of your arms and away from your torso, pooling at your feet. He chuckles when you wrap an arm around yourself, embarrassed at your boring, old, bra slip and underwear, 

“S’ok baby, here put these on.” He hands you a soft cotton shirt, and you nibble your lip looking at him for a moment, before he playfully huffs and putting a hand over his eyes, “I won’t look, go on.” You hastily pull the slip off, quickly shrugging the shirt on.

“Ok, you can open your eyes again.” He looks over at you, smiling, clearly pleased with however you look. You feel like a child, but you honestly couldn’t care less. Instead you make the subconscious decision to lean into the warmth and coziness he was providing, clambering under the bedsheets he pulled back, fingering the EP adorned on your breast while you waited for him to come back from the bathroom. You’d only known him two hours and now you were feeling owned. It wasn’t, however, an unwelcome feeling, alarmingly domestic perhaps, worryingly forward but not unwelcome. 

When he returns he turns off the lights, climbing in behind you. You know you should be more reserved, more reluctant but you can’t find it in yourself to be instead curling into his body, his arms automatically coming around you. You can't help but hope that this might happen again as outlandish as it might seem. But if nothing else ever comes from it at least you can sleep happy that it had been worth your while leaving the house tonight, if only for the feel of his warm body against yours, and the knowledge of how his hair looks before he goes to bed.

…

[myosotisa]

ceilings - s.h.

Steve Harrington x Reader, Chrissy Cunningham x Steve Harrington

‖  summary: 2 and a half years of your relationship with your best friend Steve.

‖  tags: cheating/infidelity, dubcon, sexual content. you're the one outside of the relationship. slight emetophobia warning. reader is described AFAB, no pronouns, no y/n. angst. hurt no comfort. it's a rough one folks, no happy endings here. please consume with caution.

‖  word count: 2k

The first time your best friend touches you is October 30th.

A few times a month you and your tight knit group of friends get together around a hand stained table and play board games. Those are your favorite nights – full of laughs and screaming and jokes and drinking. You count the days of your quiet, empty life between those evenings.

It's a Friday. You've had more to drink than you normally do. Steve, your best friend, is sitting next to you, your friends Jonathan and Nancy across the table. Eddie, the only other single person in your friend group, and Chrissy, Steve's girlfriend, are both not there.

When Steve gets up to refill his drink, you swing your legs up to rest on his chair, laughing to yourself. When he comes back, you expect him to throw your legs off with a fake scowl, maybe sit on your shins in retribution. Instead, he scoops a forearm under both your calves to lift them and settles them into his lap after he sits down.

You're stunned, but only for a moment. The 4 of you return to the game, your legs resting on Steve's thighs beneath the table.

Another drink later, you feel Steve's warm palm against your shin. It's a completely innocent touch, just resting on your skin. To you it feels strange, unfamiliar – you're touch starved and accept it as is.

The night goes on and Steve's hand starts to move. A subtle brush of his thumb turns into a gentle rub along your shin and keeps inching higher and higher. You're intoxicated, dizzy, struggling to keep up with what's going on as it progresses. And his touch feels good.

Jonathan excuses himself to stumble over to the bathroom so you, Steve, and Nancy pause the game to talk. Steve tucks the tip of his finger beneath the hem of your shorts and you can't help but look over at him in shock. He just smiles, same as always, and goes back to talking to Nancy. You face forward and try to get your fuzzy brain to figure out what's going on.

Am I just imagining this? You've known Steve for years and he's never shown any interest in you beyond playful flirting. He flirts with everyone. And he's with Chrissy: beautiful, blonde, skinny, perky. They say I love you daily and live in this apartment together.

But she's not here. And Steve's hand is brushing your clit over your shorts.

You don't stop him.

When Nancy and Jonathan say they are getting ready to call a ride, you get up too. Your head is spinning and you can't think straight. Steve looks a bit disappointed but doesn't stop you.

The next 2 times you all meet up to play games, Steve finds a way between your legs. Even when he's sober. Even when Chrissy is home. Under the table, around a corner, behind someone's back. He takes two fingers and drags them up and down your slit, over your clothes, and looks delighted when your breath catches in your throat.

You never stop him. Even when you're sober. Even when you go home hating yourself.

You tell yourself it's thrilling, the sneaking around. Rationalize how nice it is for someone to know everything about you, even the dark and dusty corners of your heart, and still desire you. One night he whispers how much he wants you, what he'd do if the two of you were alone. And you can't remember the last time you felt wanted. It's like a drug – a strong hit of Steve in a dark corner soothes the lonely ache inside your heart. Even when you go home alone and he gets into bed with her.

The first time he fucks you, she's asleep in the room next door. It's the middle of the night and he has his hand over your mouth, whispering that you need to be quiet so she doesn't hear you. It feels like you're being torn in two; feeling wanted and feeling alive as you do something you shouldn't, drowning in your guilt and shame at what the reality is.

He finishes inside you without even getting you close. You walk home alone with his cum sliding down the inside of your thigh.

A year goes by.

Every time is the last time, both of you say so. He complains of feeling like the guilt is crushing him. You try to offer solutions that he never accepts. You both talk about how wrong it is, how fucked up you both are. How it hardly even feels good or exciting anymore.

He pulls your pants down anyway, whispering that it's the last time.

It isn't.

It's October again and an unhelpful part of your brain tells you that it's a few days off from 1 year since it began. You are sitting at your desk at work and unlock your phone, pulling up Instagram. You scroll by a few posts when you spot his username.

It's like dropping an anchor through glass.

He proposed to her this weekend, the caption explains. The photo is Steve on one knee in front of Chrissy at the place they had their first date. You swipe and it's a selfie – Chrissy holding up a pretty little diamond on her slender finger and 100 watt smiles from both of them. The comment section is full of people congratulating them: how perfect they are together, how happy they look.

You run to the bathroom and lose your lunch.

That weekend after the games are put away, he stands in front of you, asking if he can fuck your mouth. His hand is so comforting on your jaw, his eyes so full of tenderness. You undo his pants yourself and part your lips like you have a hundred times before.

You go home unsatisfied and sob into your bedspread.

2 months later and he has a crisis. The worst day of his life. He's shaking, crying, panicking. But he doesn't go to her. He goes to you.

You hold him as he cries, comfort him, tell him everything is going to be okay. A bitter part of you can't stop thinking about all the times you walked home alone after getting him off, drowning in guilt and emptiness. Comforting yourself as you cried into your pillows. But you tell yourself this moment is important – he needs you, he wants you, he is choosing you. He feels like his world is ending and he knocks on your door.

3 weeks later and the moment means nothing. The cycle continues.

The first time you tell someone the whole story, from the very beginning, it doesn't go as you hoped. It's someone who doesn't know anyone involved, 3 steps removed from all of them. You are desperate to get it off your chest, beg for help from how it weighs you down day after day.

A part of you thought maybe they would understand. They would see why you do it, why you keep saying yes, why you don't put a stop to it. You hoped they would at least try to see you.

The only questions they ask are, "Does his fiance know? Are you going to tell her?" You don't know how to answer. And all you feel is judgement. The weight only gets heavier.

You never speak of it again. To anyone.

A few more months pass. Steve and Chrissy have another fight. He ends up in your bed. After coming inside you (again), and not asking if you came (again), you lay there and talk. He explains the fight, says they just keep fighting, that sometimes he dreads going home to her.

You tell him maybe this isn't working, maybe he should consider leaving her.

"You're only saying that because you want to be with me."

It hits like a punch to the gut. "Steve, you know everything about me. Do you really think I'd do that?"

He doesn't answer, but you know he understands. You'd never put yourself before him. He knows that. "She loves me… And I love her."

If you loved her, how could you do this to her for all this time? You want to scream.

If you loved her, why are you here in my bed?

Instead you listen to him make more and more excuses of why he stays with her. Despite his own betrayal, despite how shitty they treat each other, despite how wrong they are together.

I love you and it's killing me. You want to scream.

You never do. And he goes home to her the next morning.

You ignore his advances for the next 6 months.

It feels good. To set a boundary that way. To choose yourself. And eventually he stops trying, accepts it as it is. The two of you go back to being the same best friends you were before that October 2 years ago. It feels like growth, like you're finally doing something right.

Sure, you're lonely. And sometimes seeing him with her, knowing she still doesn't know, makes the guilt crawl back up your throat and threaten to choke you. But it gets easier.

Then you have a crisis. The worst day of your life. You're shaking, crying, panicking. And you don't have anyone to go to but him.

He buys you food, streams your favorite movie. He sits right next to you on his couch, a comforting arm around your shoulders, a warm touch you haven't felt in months. It's something that friends do. It's casual, normal.

But you feel so empty, so broken, so hopeless. You're so fucking alone. It feels like your world is ending. And when his hand strays too low, you are desperate to feel something different. Something else, even if it's worse. 

It's like a drug – and you relapse.

The cycle begins again.

A few more weeks go by. You get home from work and check your mailbox. There's a pristine white envelope with gold embellishments sitting on top of the normal junk mail. You flip it over and see your name in the perfect curve of Chrissy's handwriting.

A wedding invitation. Asking you to save the date. There's a handwritten note from her on the bottom next to the RSVP. "Don't bring a plus one if you can help it! There's someone coming I want you to meet and I really think you'll hit it off ;)"

You didn't think it was possible, but you hate yourself just a little bit more.

2 weeks later Steve shows up at your door. He walks in like he owns the place but stops short when he sees the invitation on your counter.

With a kitchen island's width of safety between the two of you, you finally ask. "Does she know?"

Steve's eyes meet yours. The flop of hair on his head moves as he shakes it in a 'no.'

"Are you really going to marry her without saying anything?"

He doesn't answer. Just stares.

Bile rises in your throat. The white envelope in his hand gives you the strength to ask the question you knew would destroy everything. "Just tell me this, Steve. Was all of this because of how you feel about me?" Your voice cracks, tears pushing at your eyes. "Or, if I had said no, would you just have gone and found someone else to fuck behind her back?"

There's a long stretch of silence. It feels more and more like a noose tightening around your neck as the seconds pass.

"I don't know."

A sob tears its way out of your throat, your hands grappling for the counter between you to stop from collapsing. Through your tears you see him falter and then try to reach for you, but you flinch away.

"Get out."

He actually has the gall to look shocked. "Come on, let's just talk about this."

"Steve." Your voice is liquid nitrogen and he freezes on contact. You've never spoken to him like this before and he doesn't know what to do. "Get. Out."

He whispers your name and it hits you like a slap, another sob tearing up your esophagus as you turn away. Eventually he stops hovering, collects his briefcase, puts his shoes back on. The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse onto your kitchen floor and cry your fucking eyes out while he goes home to her.

They get married that spring.

thanks for reading.

[waythroughtheice]

I just think they're neat, have thoughts.

I like to think if Geo and Lan were in the same time period but still facing their threats seperatly they'd be social media buddies. Maybe rivals in public chats.

They publically call the other Megaman a copycat.

I bet Lan would call Geo out for appearing everywhere without a passport.

Geo would call Lan out for not being able to go anywhere without chaos occuring.

They are the only ones allowed to pick on each other. They step in in each others crises. Technically they should not be able to contact each other, what with the whole entirely different communication methods needing specialized tech to work with. They do not care.

A beautiful social media rivalry.

Maenwhile, the two are planning a way to make all the tech cross compatible. Possibly preventing a war between two sides of the world in the process.

Geo would not be 100% isolated in this world. Because Lan would not let him. There would be at least one message a day probably. As well as plans to figure out how to manipulate reality to get the crew of missing folks back. (You can't tell me they wouldn't. Geo is calmer but still a bit of a gremlin in canon. Imagine Lan's influence. Lan. Who roller skates everywhere. Yeah.)

Imagine the news when Lan gets involved in the Duo mess. Half the world is frantically telling their friends aliens are real and the other half is just screaming that they already knew this. Geo offers to help probably. What's another god?

At the end of SF3 Lan and Geo would probably scrap so many plans for figuring out how to save the crew members. Until it clicks that Kelvin is the only one that came back. Plans are still on! (The world trembles in fear.)

Geo still goes back in time. Just not as far. Lan asked many questions that day about why his friend was in two separate place and why he looked different and why his account was glitching and- (Lan, months later, having just learned what happened from a Geo who just went through the events of operate shooting star: You fucker. You time traveled and didn't save the crew we've been obsessing over trying to save!)

Dr. Hikari is. So tired of trying to keep track of his sons through the news. They keep getting places and he's never entirely sure he has the right Megaman in the news because theres no photos (good protect minors policy. Bad for dad of chaos children who can't eat without stumbling into a cult.) Help him. His wife cackles in her son tells her everything. Revenge for not coming home more often.

Hope is also in a group chat. Boreal, and the Hikari parents are there. They are all team let these kids be kids- wait no how did you- stop breaking physics- kids. Please.

Kazuma would be a Hikari cousin here. Because I like his design and wanted to include him.

(I may or may not already be doing something with this but I just. Wanted to share. Chaos children uniting beloved.)

Geo and Lan begin in the same time period would be so chaotic. Lan definitely calls Geo a copy cat, Omega-Xis is the one who calls them the copy cat. (Geo doesn't really care, which makes Lan get annoyed.)

They absolutely call each other out on everything, but when the chips are down they're back to back and fighting seamlessly. Chad is......irritated. He and Solo get along well, actually.

Lan bothers Geo always. Geo is eventually bugged out of his room like two weeks into his self-imposed exile, and he probably meets Luna and co. early because of it. They absolutely begin to manipulate reality. They use Geo's dimensional-travel ability relentlessly. Lan figures out a way for Mega Man.exe to travel with him. Then for Lan to go with him. The dimensions quiver in fear.

The two geniuses are cackling as they make their supposedly incompatible tech compatible. A new industry has been birthed and it was done by two ten year olds.

Geo probably kicks Duo off-planet. It's his planet get off. He probably calls in the alliance with King Cepheus and uses the Duo situation to make alliances with other planets. Lan now has access to a galaxy that wants to be friends with him. Uh-oh.

By SF3 so many just tremble in fear at Lan and Geo's escapades. Kelvin and Yuucihiro are literally the only ones who can reign them in, somewhat.

Geo @ Lan after the time travel escapade: Yeah I didn't ask because you want to solve it yourself. You'd yell at me if I did save them because then we'd have all these plans we can't use anymore.

Dr. Hikari is the Lone Ranger of common sense. He tries so hard. He and Kelvin get along great after Kelvin is rescued--they often go for drinks to sigh.

The parent group chat shares tips on how to divert the children's attentions from dangerous things, and how to keep them fed healthy things since they're so active!

I see your "Kazuma is a cousin" and raise you "Kazuma is Lan and Hub's triplet."

[superpixie42]

So it's not quite ready for AO3 buuuuuuuuuuut

I did make progress on The Thing aka my whole 7-part new AU for InuKag Week. After not writing anything for months, I'm a little rusty and this is more ambitious in terms of style and world building than I typically work with so I'm not sure when the whole thing will be ready, but I love love love @inukag-week and seeing so many folks coming out of hiatus to participate really inspired me to get *something* ready to rock.

Much love to @anisaanisa @kstewdeux and @dawnrider for their help as I shook off the cobwebs.

So here is Part 1: Love Languages (aka Touch & Miscommunication)

General Info:

Summary:

Kagome Higurashi would sell her soul to get into a good high school. No. Literally. The ratty old journal she found in her grandfather's shed may have been a long shot, but with only one more day before her entrance exam, she really didn't have anything to lose. But when the Hell Hound Inuyasha actually materializes in her room, it turns out to be more than either of them bargained for.

RATING: M or E (but this part is T, for language)

Words: 2,000 (I know I was shocked too)

TAGS (for the whole fic not just these parts) Modern AU // InuKag Week 2023 //Serial Style// Time Jumps//Tumblr events//Modern setting//Sexual content- masturbation//Demon Summoning AU//Bittersweet Endings//No additional character tags

In which Kagome learns to be careful what she wishes for.

–

Kagome checked the instructions one more time. She had the candle, the fresh meat, the knife, and was using clean linen paper. Honestly it all looked so… dorky. She let out a frustrated sigh, unsure if she felt more disappointed or just plain stupid. Doing stuff like this was probably why she wasn’t going to get into a decent high school. Or college. And if med school ever found out she honestly tried to summon a demon using instructions she found in a handwritten journal in a shed on her grandfather’s shrine she would have a better chance of becoming a patient than treating them. 

And yet here she was. Kagome Higurashi on her knees in a black dress and dark cardigan looking straight out of an American horror movie, hoping against hope that her soul was worth a better-than-passing grade on tomorrow’s entrance exams. She was smart - smarter than her current situation made her feel, that’s for damn sure. But after nearly a semester of sick days there just wasn’t enough cram school on Earth to get her up to speed. She needed this to work. This had to work. 

She checked the clock: a good hour before her mother and brother got home. It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath Kagome quickly sliced the kitchen knife across her finger. She pressed down onto the middle of the white page. With as much conviction as she could muster she finally spoke: “Inuyasha, I need help.”

A beat passed. 

Then another. 

Nothing happened.

Honestly, she didn’t know what she expected.  Defeated, she swore violently and tore the useless little paper with its stupid little spell clean in half.

As soon as the last fiber broke there was a deafening roar. Kagome screamed and stood, pressing her back against her bedroom door. In front of her the air crackled with energy as the room went black, then flashed orange with light and heat as the walls burst into unnatural flames. In the middle of the room, pulling his way out of the torn half of paper, was a giant white dog. It growled and snarled and snapped its jaws; spittle hissing into steam. 

The Hell Hound filled the whole room, his red eyes with blue irises bore into Kagome, staring her down like the prey she was suddenly very sure she was. As Inuyasha’s shoulders dropped low to let him take the single step between them, Kagome considered her options. 

One, burn to death. 

Two, be mauled to death. 

Three, something equally melodramatic considering she summoned a fucking demon to pass a test. 

She quickly surveyed the room for an option four, looking hopefully at the window behind the hound. Her vision was blocked as the beast twisted slightly to face her fully again, its pointed white ears alert and focused on the heartbeat she could hear loud as a drum. She watched the ear twitch at her intake of breath. Maybe it was a lack of oxygen from the arson she’d accidentally committed, but the longer she looked at the ears the softer they looked. Figuring she was going to die anyway, Kagome slowly raised her hand; Inuyasha finally blinked, then moved his eyes to follow her raising arm. 

As softly as she could manage, Kagome dragged her middle finger down from the tip, but the ear didn’t so much as flinch. Emboldened, she quickly caressed her thumb and forefinger on the fluffy white ear. 

As soon as her fingers closed around the soft appendage the growling stopped and instead she heard a very human voice shouting in her face.

“What the fuck lady? You don’t pet a Hell Hound!” 

As suddenly as it appeared the fire disappeared. Kagome dropped to her knees in confusion and relief as her room reappeared around her, untouched and unscathed by the flames no longer licking at her face. She blinked stupidly at where the monstrous dog had been only seconds ago. In its place was a pale, fit, glowering man - the pointy ears she’d just held in her hand perched on top of a thick pile of frizzy white hair. Below the pinned back ears were thick, scowling eyebrows, molten golden eyes with slit pupils, and an expression as black as a thundercloud. She tried to find somewhere else to look when the heat returned quickly to her face as she realized that the angry demon dog man was a naked angry demon dog man. 

She ripped her eyes back to the ears. Unusual. 

Then to his eyes. Unsettling. 

The penis. Unexpected.

In an undignified fluster she smacked her face to the floor in a deep bow.

“My name is Kagome and my Lord Inuyasha I beg you to help me, please please I have to get into High School! In exchange I’ll give you anything you want I swear! Just make sure I pass and it’s yours.”

Inuyasha stood absolutely dumbfounded in the middle of what he now realized was a small bedroom, in a small house, next to a small shrine. When he’d felt his summoning charm call him he expected to rip into a board room, or a camp fire, or the aftermath of something that had gone very pear shaped. He was used to being offered souls, meat, or blood in exchange for power, murder, money; or to make problems go away in whatever manner he wanted. He sure as shit didn’t expect a teenager in a pink cat sweater to touch his ears and then ask him to help her cheat on a test. 

He scoffed. But after five hundred years of the same pathetic, selfish demands, novelty wasn’t something Inuyasha was willing to walk away from so quickly. He bit. 

“Keh, what can a girl like you even offer a hell hound?”

Kagome lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Anything you want. I’m a virgin-”

“Nope.”

“I am so!” she shouted indigently. She raised herself up onto her knees and glared. Yes, Kagome was turning to black magic to pass her exam but she wasn’t going to have her character assassinated by a demon. “You don’t have to be rude ya know!”

Inuyasha blinked as his ears flattened of their own accord. It had been a very long time since anyone scolded him. Another unexpected turn in this summoning. He crossed his arms and returned her glare.  

“I mean no I’m not interested in your virginity. Or your soul, you humans have such tiny souls anyway.” He smirked as he saw her lip twitch with what he was sure was a scathing retort. Kagome, however, did not take the bait. Instead she reigned in her temper and bowed low again. In a much less desperate tone she spoke into the floor. 

“In exchange for making sure I get into a high school that will get me into medical school I will give you anything you ask.”

“You summoned a demon for that? If you can’t even pass an entrance exam what makes you think you can survive medical school? Ya can’t offer your virginity to a demon twice ya know - how were you even gonna graduate?”

That, however, was too much. Kagome stood and stomped over to him, poking her finger into his chest for emphasis as she shouted. 

“Listen here pal! I could pass that test all on my own if they would just give me some time! It’s not my fault I got sick, like doctors aren’t allowed to get sick sometimes!?” She growled in frustration, a sound that Inuyasha couldn’t help but appreciate as it sounded not unlike his own. “It’s not fair. I just need time to catch up on the material and I know I could do it on my own. But if I don’t take the test tomorrow, or I flunk and retake it, that’s it, my reputation will never recover even if my grade point average does.” 

Inuyasha considered her request. I wouldn’t take any effort at all to change her score on the exam. But then he’d be back to aimlessly wandering until someone much less interesting with a much less, well not wholesome, but definitely more gruesome demand calls him. This Kagome stood up to him, defended herself, faced death in the eye and instead of running she reached out to touch it. While he had already decided to grant her wish, he had also decided he wasn’t quite going to do it the way she asked.

“You ain’t the only one with a reputation,” he said. He took a step back, cutting the tension and giving Kagome space to breathe. “If I’m gonna get you into this stupid special school I gotta make sure you stay there. Folks summoning me need to know I get the job all the way done, not taking the easy way out.”

Kagome narrowed his eyes, skeptical of the idea of creating an ongoing contract instead of the single transaction she expected. But then again, he wasn’t entirely wrong. What if changing her scores got noticed and she needed another fix? What if she got sick again? Isn’t that why you’re supposed to be really, really specific with genies? Assuming there were genies- but that afternoon’s events made her consider taking up antiquing as a hobby just in case.

“You still haven’t told me what you want as payment.”

“Well,” he said, “depends on what you need.” He picked at his ear with a pointed finger to feign disinterest. “To guarantee a passing grade I’ll just need something small. But to un-dead someone you cut up in clinicals will be a whole other matter,” he smirked at her undignified snort, “but not as much as convincing the class leader to take six months in Shanghai to improve your standing. But let’s not worry about that just yet.” 

Kagome braced herself, but still felt the air rush out of her lungs when he finally said, “I want your right eye.” He continued quickly, “For one year, I want to see everything you see through that eye. It becomes my eye. If I get bored, I can simply make it go black. Or maybe I use it to track someone for another wish. Or maybe I don’t do anything at all; but it’s mine to do as I will.”

He slit open the tab of his left thumb with a quick swipe of his claw. “Do we have a bargain?”

Kagome hesitated. This seemed more annoying than costly- thought being suddenly blind in one eye wasn’t what she’d expected. Was this better or worse?

Did she really feel like she had a choice anymore? 

“Deal.”

With one smooth motion Inuyasha thrust his thumb into her eyesocket. The force of the blow knocked her to the ground and she quickly threw both hands up to cover her face as her left eye burned. As soon as it started, it ended. Kagome blinked slowly, looking around the empty room. It looked exactly as it had an hour ago and if not for the dull ache behind her orbitals and the sweat caking her brow she might have thought it was all a dream. On hands and knees she scrambled across the floor and snatched the small mirror from the desk.

Staring back at her was one of her traditional brown eyes. The other was bloodshot, with a blown pupil, and a bright sapphire blue iris; and without her permission, it winked back at her.

[13leaguestories]

February 2023 Forecast

I am writing this with my back and neck in horrible pain. Worse way to start your morning is to get up, stretch, and then pull something. I feel bed ridden.

"T, are you done with your break?" No idea. Define break. My brain is slowly coming back to me so good news is I'm not quitting lmfao. My brain almost had me in the first half ... and most of the second. When I do return though, I'm implementing a new writing process called "write what I want to fucking write when I want to fucking write it."

"T, did you need to add all those expletives?" No. But you know how a lot of folks be like 'as I get older I'm going to curse less?' I'm the opposite. I curse more. It makes me feel all tingly inside.

Alright, welcome to the second best month, purely because it's my birthday month, that's literally it. You know I share this month with both my brother and my father, plus my parents and my brother's anniversaries. Like, the shortest month is basically the busiest for my family in terms of celebrations. Why did they do this? I don't know, no one uses sense in this family besides me.

MOVING ON! Bout to enter into a All My Woes episode.

Superstition S3

Still on break. Do not ask me when it's coming back. Because I'm going to do what I should've done (and what you guys thought I do already) and actually write a good bit of it. I'll probably put up a poll asking if you guys want to keep the bi-weekly schedule or if I just update it as the episodes are complete.

Throne of Ashes

Working on updating the demo with Makaio's finished demo and some bug fixes for the other routes. Nour is next and Ozara will be following them on that upload schedule.

Insight

Because unlike its cousin, For the Crown, Insight is not 100% dead, it's more like on life support. But I'll be updating it with the new UI that I have to bring it in line with the others. Also an additional chapter will be added so now the demo will end at Ch5.

Future T here. I've already updated it with the new UI and the first bug fix. A bigger one is coming so still, if you find any bugs, hold off on sending them in. Bug reports make me depressed and you guys don't want to see that, right? RIGHT?!

Horizon: Sea of Stars

Per my "do what ya want" lifestyle, yes, Tierra has done it again. She has said fuck it to common sense and those two friends out of ten that said don't do it, and she went and made a new project. I blame eight friends who inspire me in the most negative ways because I never blame myself. Never blame yourselves, you're never toxic, it's those around you. (That's a lie, do not quote me. My god.)

This is a scif-fi project (because I needed to have the holy trinity of the best genres out there to make myself feel complete (jokes on me I still feel empty)). The MC is like Phoenix MC in some ways where this is not exactly 100% self-insert friendly, there are a few traits included and mindsets that you as the reader can't change. 6 romances, 2 males, 2 females, and 2 nonbinary. 5 of the 6 are aliens. And art is on it's way with two of the characters already done. I have art of the alien species as well because I know how difficult it can be to picture an alien based off of descriptions alone. They will be included in story to further help.

This is me just telling you guys, I'll post all of the info of the book itself with the demo like I normally do. Especially when I figure out where I want the demo to stop at. It's still pretty much in alpha mode with only one chapter done and even that is still seeing edits.

Also if any of you have got this far and know an artist or you are someone who can do really nice colorful covers and are good with backgrounds then tell me because I'm still searching for a cover artist.

. . .

There is also now a Light Mode on some stories. If it's not there then it's being worked on. Don't look at Superstition, it's not there.

Alright, I think that's it. I'm going to go lie down and scream at the heavens about my neck.

Future T again. My neck is better but if I look over my shoulder it's like "naw girl, stop that."

[pcos-and-endo-awareness]

What’s YOUR personal experience with these disorders? :-)

Hello anon! I know I’ve made this post before but it’s buried somewhere. So here it is! Buckle up folks!

I always struggled with bad periods. Heavy flow, horrific cramps, irregular timing. I just thought that’s what it is and everyone deals with it. I figured the pain I experienced trying to use tampons was all in my head, some psychological fear due to my religious upbringing.

It wasn’t until college that I realized maybe my experience wasn’t normal. Maybe people aren’t supposed to be in this much pain. Maybe something was wrong. My pain got to be so overwhelming that I went to the emergency room. After a rather traumatic experience, I was eventually told that I had ovarian cysts and one of them had ruptured, and just go to my OBGYN and take some Advil. (Great advice, wonderful care. /s)

PCOS was in my family history, and my aunts and sisters all struggled with it. My then OBGYN diagnosed me with it, but basically said the same thing as the ER nurses. Take some ibuprofen and birth control and get over it. A diagnosis doesn’t do anything.

I had another episode with cysts about two years later, after I was out of college. I knew what it was this time, and I knew they’d only tell me the same thing. Take Advil and stop crying. So I didn’t bother going to the ER, and I tried to deal with the pain on my own. My (much nicer) OBGYN monitored the two softball sized cysts on my right ovary, and said we’d just keep an eye on them until they went away. That worked for a while, but not for long. One night my mother insisted on taking me to the ER because I was practically screaming in pain. After another traumatic visit, I was, you guessed it, told to take Advil and go home. It was probably another rupture.

Except it wasn’t. The next day I visited my OBGYN for an ultrasound so she could see what was going on. I was called back later that night and told to come in for emergency surgery. The cysts were torsing my ovary and cutting off the blood supply. Very scary situation, I’d never had a big surgery before. I was rushed in for the laparoscopy. This procedure usually takes less than a half hour. For me, I was on the table over two and a half hours. The reason being, not only did I have two huge cysts, but I was discovered to also have endometriosis. The cysts and all my organs had lesions, and everything was fused together. My OBGYN had to scrape the extra tissue from all my organs, she said it was the worst case of endo she’s ever seen, and I must have the highest pain tolerance ever to not be screaming my head off all day long. It was during this surgery I lost my right ovary, dead from having no blood supply.

Recovering from that surgery took me six months. It was brutal and at times, humiliating. My insides were raw and my muscles felt like goo. The only good thing to come out of it was meeting my lovely physical therapist, whom I still talk to today.

Today, five years later, I still deal with PCOS and endo. I have it mostly under control with the depo shot and many other medications. But… I struggle to lose weight, I have high blood pressure, I have major chronic fatigue, I’m at risk for diabetes, I still have migraines and flare ups and GI problems. My health is always going to be a problem for me. I am always going to be battling my hormones. I am going to struggle getting pregnant, if I even can. I am always going to have the risk of losing my other ovary and going into early menopause. I can only pray that these two disorders don’t take away more from me.

[aemondslefteyeball]

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi (7)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

[Modern!Aemond x Fem!Reader]

[Warnings: Gore, death, animal attacks, masturbation, creepin']

[Summary: They best pop some broken shot bottles between their fingers]

(Love y'all hoping I'll get two out next week have a good weekend drink water)

Word Count: 4.9k

Chapter 7

Three months after the disappearance, life was back to normal for most. Aemond found himself growing ever more restless as the summer cast a sweltering heat over King’s Landing. Despite how awful he felt, he was starting to handle it better. Helaena wasn’t the I-told-you-so type, but he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he continued going after the promised five sessions. He wondered if other people could see the difference in him. Earlier this week he had responded to his secretary when she asked him how his day was instead of grunting. But the torment of not knowing where you are was eating him alive. The scans in Moat Cailin were apparently going slower than expected due to issues with interference or something along those lines. Days blended into each other but that morning he had walked into his Grandfather’s office and requested a long weekend; it was the closest thing to a vacation he had taken after graduating. Otto once again shot him that empathetic glance, and nodded. “Aemond.” His hand had been resting on the doorknob when his Grandfather called out. He turned, half expecting to be lectured. “I would have done the same for your Grandmother.” Otto Hightower was not a man anybody could accuse of being emotional, but there was a deep sorrow in his voice Aemond had never been privy to. He had never really heard much about her, but supposed this was why. Aemond nodded at his Grandfather once more before leaving the room. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the night at the tree, you refused to go back there. It made no matter, Barba wouldn’t push you to do it. Whatever poison had seeped into you had only metastasized, it seemed. The days blurred together and your nights were riddled with serpents twisting in the burrows of the Earth. Finding little comfort in rest, you found yourself at your clearing more often. Tonight you were joined by Barba, who was looking at you excitedly before pulling out her black iPhone. You looked at her questioningly, what could have been months ago all of you agreed to limit phone usage to ten minutes a month unless absolutely necessary. 

“Is it okay if I play something?” Her voice was as soft as always, but you braced yourself for religious music. 

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah go ahead.” Giving her the ‘all go’ gesture, she turned the device on and pulled up her Spotify library. 

Barba gave you a meek look for a second, her icy eyes gauging your expression. “So, Uhm, I have a kinda unconventional music taste?” 

You smiled, figuring that you could stand to listen to music about the Old Gods as long as she was happy. “Oh, I’m fine with anything.” You shrugged, secretly hoping that she wouldn’t play any country music. 

“Are you sure?” Barba raised an eyebrow as she tilted her head towards you. “Like it’s not super common.” Suddenly curious at whatever tree music she was hiding, you just shot her two thumbs up. 

You thanked R’hllor above that it was not country music. It was not Old Gods gospel either. So far it seemed to be some folksy song that had the occasional sound effect. You nodded approvingly, folk music wasn’t your favorite genre but it was pretty good. It also made sense for Barba, though you wondered why she thought folk was so unconventional. As soon as you started to close your eyes and enjoy the singing a scream pulled you out of your thoughts and had you staring between the phone and Barba. She just offered a small smile before the tempo of the song picked up and the growl started again. “Barba what the fuck?” was the only thing that you could even think to say. She just shrugged at you as she turned the volume up and tilted it so you could hear better. You hadn’t heard a lot of metal before, but the song actually sounded pretty nice. You still couldn’t stop staring at Barba in shock though. Who would’ve thought that the quietest, sweetest girl in all her classes listened to this? “Honestly I kinda fuck with it.” You started dancing as best you could to the insanely fast tempo. What the fuck are this guitarist’s fingers made out of? “Heavy metal Barba.” 

“Oh, this is black metal actually.” She corrected, a gleam in her eyes as the two of you clumsily danced to the undanceable song. Barba tilted her head back to scream with the song, you miming guitar. She started laughing then, and the two of you continued until the song was winding down. When Barba stopped giggling, she handed the phone over to you expectantly. 

“This is your ten minutes, listen to what you want.” You moved to hand the phone back to her before she pushed it so it remained in your hand. 

“Seriously I just threw you in the deep end, pick a song.” You scrolled through her library hopefully, searching for the song you had been hoping to find. 

When you clicked on it, Barba’s face lit up in recognition. “Teenage Mary said to Uncle Dave, ‘I sold my soul, must be saved.’” Both of your voices rang through the clearing. “Gonna take a walk down to Union Square.” When the timer sounded the two of you groaned in unison. Barba shut the phone off and put it into her back pocket. 

“What do you think of Aly’s expedition?” Barba sat on the log, you following on the one across the fire from her. 

“It’s dangerous.” You sighed, dangerous didn’t really even begin to cover it. The only mercy at your disposal was the heat. “Sara seems pretty on board with the idea. Floris too. Sabitha won’t let Aly go without her…” You paused for a moment, glancing into the fire. “I think I want to go.” 

Barba stared at you hard for a second before pulling her lips into a hard line. “The Cessna is too dangerous, but this is fine?” 

“There’s safety in numbers, and we know our feet work. Can’t say the same for the ‘ol shitbird.” You weren’t sure if you were ready to tell her about your dream the night prior. Ivestragī se sȳndror mazilībagon ao dāez. A crimson river swept through the valley, white driftwood caught in pink rapids. Se riñar, ñuha riña. A cloud of red smoke was the last thing you remembered before Baela shook you awake that morning. Barba would no doubt tell you how the terror you felt while sleeping was a gift. She snapped you out of your thoughts with a dry laugh. 

“Fine. But if it doesn’t work I’m taking the plane south.” 

“I understand.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aemond had bid entirely too much money on the pink monstrosity that sat before him. Regardless, you couldn’t come home to a torn duvet cover without having immediate questions. He inhaled again before he stepped into the bedroom. Vhagar thankfully wasn’t napping in her usual spot, and taking that as a sign Aemond tossed the new one on the bed as best he could. He could just have the maid straighten it later. His task in the room was completed, but he couldn’t wrench himself away from the closest substitute he had to you. He walked across to the other side of the room, looking at your desk. A few textbooks were stacked off to the right, and Aemond flipped through them before moving into an iPad, stapler, and tape. He opened the top drawer, rummaging through it to find basic office supplies. Following that he moved on to the bottom drawer. This too yielded nothing. A few folders were neatly labeled with subjects and an unmarked manila envelope. He flipped through the folders and didn’t find anything of interest. He undid the string on the envelope next, pulling out a few pieces of sketch paper. Aemond lightly brushed his fingertip across the drawing’s lower lip, a rising hunger growing in him. The next one was decidedly more risque. You were playing the piano but with a robe draped around you. Draped was a loose word for it, as the robe seemed to be a formality. Plum silk looked as if it had been poured around your hips, your naked back exposed to him. Aemond took in a sharp breath as he dragged his eye over the soft curve of your waist. From the angle you had been drawn at, he could see the curve of your breast, infuriatingly too little of it however. His eye lingered on the image for a second longer before he took in the next one with a widened eye. Aemond felt a predatory grin slip across his face as a burning jealousy took hold of him.

The paper was promptly set down on the desk before the blonde reached to undo his belt, cock painfully throbbing against his slacks. Upon being freed, it slapped against his buttoned shirt and he let out a groan. Aemond spread the precum down onto the rest of his length, holding a breath in before releasing it with a soft moan as he stroked down to the base. His eye locked down intently on the drawing of you, back arched and face twisted in pleasure while presumably, Emerson was bringing you to your peak. His pace grew more fervent, angrier at the thought of it. You looked blissful, but he knew he could break you down to the point of deliriousness. Aemond would find you when you were playing piano, and you would be as oblivious to his presence as always. He decided he would stand behind you then as he pumped his cock with one hand now, eye tightly shut. He would brush your hair to one side, letting his breath draw goosebumps from you. He would insist you keep playing, while one hand tossed that little skirt aside and snaked into your panties. If you stopped, so would he. The thought drove him wild, and he was bound to escalate it. His breath came out in pants, pace quickening. Aemond would kneel between your legs next, spreading one while taking care to leave the other so your foot could still rest on the pedal. From there he would plant gentle kisses along the tops of your thighs, wondering what your moans would sound like. Finally, he would tear off your panties, relishing in either your submission or annoyance. Aemond knew you would be so good for him after he dragged his tongue up your slit, swirling his tongue around your bud before pressing on it hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue lowered to the hole, pushing his tongue into it while pressing his aquiline nose on your clit. If you behaved he would reward you greatly, though truth be told either path would end in the same result. You would still end up spread on the piano, your skirt tossed up around your hips as he relished the sweet moan on your lips when he finally entered you. When you met his gaze he would start rolling his hips into you. He wondered if you would buck your hips as you approach your peak. He would be unrelenting. Unyielding. He would move his thumb to assault your bud until you started to shake. Aemond needed to feel you clench around him, head tossed back in abandon as you unraveled on his cock. The pace at which he stroked himself increased as he gritted his teeth. Aemond was a jealous man, and he wouldn’t stop until you were unable to remember your own name, let alone your ex’s. A primal groan was released from Aemond’s lips as he finally came, but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until you were looking him dead in the eye when he came in you. Aemond reached out a hand to lean against the desk, catching his breath before he put his cock away. 

Fuck.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why didn’t you tell them about your dream?” 

You paused for a moment, wondering if it was a rhetorical question. You continued to examine the charred body of the deer with a detached eye. When you met Barba’s icy blue eyes you sighed. “Aly is a brick wall with hair.” Barba leaned back on her heels, nodding for a second. Your gaze flickered back to the stag, curiosity took hold of you. Reaching down, you wrenched a vertebra out of the corpse, holding it up to the light for a moment like a gemstone. “This bone didn’t burn at all.” You examined it for a moment before smiling at Barba and getting up. 

You met Sabitha, Aly, Nettles, and Myrielle at the clearing in front of the cabin. Shooting Aly a small smile, you tugged at the straps of your backpack. “When do we leave?” 

Aly smiled back at you “In an hour.” 

You nodded, taking a knee and unzipping your rucksack, pulling the bone out of it. You had fashioned a piece of twine through it, and approached Sabitha while she was putting her water bottle in her bag. “This is kinda weird, but will you take this?” 

Sab’s eyebrows knit together, running her fingertips across the bone before she looked back up at you. “Sure, but why am I going to be wearing a vertebra on my neck?” 

“Just do it, please. I think it’ll keep you safe.” 

“Like a lucky rabbit's foot?” 

“I had a dream last night.” You weren’t sure why you couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of your mouth. Thankfully Sabitha smiled at you, gesturing at you to continue. “There was, I don’t know. Red smoke and a river of blood. Just please keep it on you, okay?” 

“Yeah, sure. Thanks Y/N.” She pulled you in for a quick hug before you two turned back to the group. 

The group was exchanging hugs, hope on their faces as they saw you guys off. Yelling suddenly rang out as Rhaena bustled out of the cabin. “Wait! Wait for me. I’m coming.” Rhaena panted before she looked at Ser Criston with doe eyes. “Criston, I mean Ser Cole. Please don’t try to talk me out of this, okay?” Her eyes were pleading, Cole looked as if he were a shell of a man. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I just feel like my friends really need me.” Baela’s lips pulled into a tight line across her face and you sucked your breath in through your teeth as quietly as possible. 

“Oh, wow. Well, that’s uh…” Ser Criston looked away for a second, his face suddenly twisted in false disappointment. “You know what? That’s really brave of you, Rhaena.” They both giggled for a moment before he met her gaze again. “I’ll do the best I can without you.” 

“I’ll come back for you, I promise.” Baela physically cringed, and you shrugged at her. She’s your sister.

“Okay.” Rhaena went in for a hug immediately after, and Criston’s mask dropped. He stared at all of you with a long-suffering look. He tentatively patted her on the back, his face scrunched as he did so. Everybody else in the group tried to distract themselves as Rhaena leaned in for a moment longer, sighing dreamily. 

Last hugs were exchanged as the group of you set off into the brush. The mood was cheerful, and the breeze was a relief. You hummed quietly to yourself as you took in your surroundings. Marguerita Passion had to get her fix. She wasn’t well, she was getting sick. Went to sell her soul, she wasn’t high. Didn’t know, thinks she could buy. Dappled sunlight shone through the leaves, and Nettles joked about girl scouts. In the afternoon you found yourself actually starting to bond with Rhaena. She still seemed a little off, but she was interesting. The group of you hung back a little while Aly and Sabitha picked up their pace. Eventually, Aly’s gaze turned back to you, before she turned and gave Sabitha a look. Subtle. You didn’t hear the conversation, but Aly looked grave. Not that anything was new, really. When darkness fell camp was quickly established. “So get this.” Sabitha was animated as she spoke, her face lighting up. “After Bill Pullman falls in love with Sandra, his fucking brother wakes up! It’s a whole ass mess. I mean, this dude actually thinks that Sandy is his fiancee.” She gestured wildly, locking eye contact with everybody. “So just…” Howling rang out in the distance, and all of you froze. You looked in the direction it came from and swallowed. Your heels dug into the dirt. 

Aly rocked back for a moment, looking at the fire. “We’ll be fine. Wolves are scared of humans. Besides, it doesn’t sound like they’re very close.” The nagging feeling still didn’t sit right with you, and you stared at Sabitha for a second, who was rubbing the vertebra. “We can take turns keeping watch, just to be extra safe but I really don’t think we have anything to worry about.” 

“You know who does need to worry?” Sabitha wiggled her eyebrows. “Our girl, Sandy. Because she does not know this man and he’s never seen her before he’s like, ‘Who is this girl?’ And his doctor is like, ‘Well, you must have amnesia because you don’t remember your wife-to-be.” As Sabitha rambled on, the group relaxed. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, and you last remembered Sabitha moaning about how unfair it is that Natasha Lyonne is straight.

Morning found the group anxious, but ready to carry on. Birds sang and insects chirped as you continued. Later in the morning, Aly heard the sound of rushing water, and the group of you rushed to it excitedly, undoing the lids on your bottles. To your horror, the water was a deep, muddy red. “I don’t think we should drink it,” Rhaena announced, letting the handful of water she had cupped drain back into the river. 

“No shit.” Myrielle sniped. “It smells weird.” The scent of rust hung heavily in the air, with no signs of life in the stream.

“Y/N, what did you tell Sab about your dream?” Your arms crossed over your chest as you took a step back, gaze flitting away. “A river of blood?” Nettles continued. Your eyes were locked onto the water. “And a cloud of smoke.” 

Aly scoffed after Myri had finished, her eyes rolling. “Yeah, and last night I dreamed I went water-skiing with Jaenara Belaerys, so.” Rolling your eyes and shaking your head, you found your friendship with Aly growing ever-thinner. It was okay if she didn’t believe in things, but you were getting sick of her constantly shitting on everybody else. She was out eating dirt last night but you were crazy for what happened at the seance. 

“Mineral deposits can change the color of the water,” Rhaena spoke out. “Like iron, maybe?” 

Sabitha nodded, looking at it again. Aly smiled at her. “I’m sure that’s what it is then. Come on, this has been a fun pit stop but we need to keep moving.” She turned on her heels, clodding away. 

“Um, guys.” Myrielle held the compass up. The dial was spinning all over, never landing in one spot. 

Sabitha stared at it for a second before looking away. “The iron in the water could be messing with it. Especially this much of it. It’ll probably work again when we’re away from the water.” Her tone was hesitant as Sabitha gripped the vertebra that hung from her neck. 

“Seriously?” Aly shot the group a hard stare. 

“I don’t know, maybe we should think about going back?” Myri looked at Nettles hesitantly.

“We just need to get away from here.” Aly grabbed one strap and shifted her weight to her left leg. 

“Wait, let's think about this.” Sabitha blurted out. 

Aly stepped forward, her gaze flat. “Think about what?” 

“I don’t know, this stream? It is a pretty big coincidence that Y/N dreamed about it… we heard wolves last night…” You decided to stay out of it, suddenly regretting your admission to Sabitha. All you wanted to do was try to keep her safe, not start infighting.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” 

“I’m just saying tha-” 

“What? What are you saying? That the fucking woods are speaking through Y/N? That they don’t want us to leave? Do you know how insane that sounds? The woods don’t give a shit and all this nonsense.” She gestured towards you suddenly as you met her gaze, your nerves being grated ever thinner. “And dreams and omens and whatever the fuck.” Aly gestured to the bone on Sabitha’s neck. “That is. We can survive without a compass. We’ll use the sun to travel south and we can place cairn stones or something under trees. There is a solution for everything.” Aly was going to make an amazing engineer. Absolute disregard for human feelings and a stubborn resolve to fix anything. “An explanation for everything. Now, that said, nobody forced you to come with me. Anybody that wants to go back, by all means.” She spat. “But I’m losing daylight.” You shared wary looks with each other before you looked at the river one last time. Doc Martens rustled leaves as you followed Aly. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He swore he wouldn’t do this again. Aemond cursed Emerson, but he knew that was a deflection and cursed himself afterward. Once he regained full control of himself he put the sketches back into the manila envelope and placed it back in the desk. He let out an audible sigh at the empty room, his gaze landing on the bed again. Some giant moth… thing of yours stared back at him from atop the bed where he had haphazardly thrown it after putting the new duvet on. Closing the bottom drawer to the desk Aemond walked back to the closet door. Pushing it further open, he took a deep breath before rummaging through the hamper once more. He would have the maid wash your clothes, but not all of them. And after three months in the wilderness, you wouldn’t miss a few pairs of panties. This was a turning point, he promised himself. What had been done was already in motion, but he wouldn’t deny it to himself any longer. He was attracted to you and missed your presence in the house. Aemond would talk about it with Dr. Greenwood and make it right. The expiration date on your marriage was a little under a year and a half away, but maybe until then the two of you could come to an understanding with each other. Besides, it wasn’t like Emerson would be here for you when you returned. After Taenys had morphed from emotional support to a vine growing on Emerson she attended fewer briefings before she had stopped coming altogether the past month. The last he had checked, she made her relationship with her public on social media. You deserved better, but in the meantime, he could fuck you hard enough that you would forget about her. He made one last move to the drawer of your nightstand, opening it before grabbing one more item and making his way out of the room. He spent the rest of the day alone. Helaena was at some summer camp with the twins, and the solitude had been weighing heavily on him. He did ask the maid to do your laundry, and he was grateful that she wouldn’t ask questions about the stains on it. Every day felt like a repeat. He was the first person who would be contacted when you were found, but he couldn’t help the compulsion to continue checking Twitter for continued updates. Aemond had always prided himself on his restraint but found that his need for you was becoming an addiction. He reminded himself that he would sort it out with Dr. Greenwood, not that she needed to know everything. Aemond would fix it as he had done his entire life, and things would be better when you returned. At some point he locked himself into his office, diving back into his work for a few hours respite from the storm in his head. When his eyes grew too bleary to continue, he returned to his room. Every step of his routine was just another meaningless thing he did to occupy his time. When he finally finished, he stood at the edge of his king-sized bed observing his bounty. Three pairs of panties, and the journal that had been almost entirely filled. He needed to get to know you if he was going to be of any use when you returned, after all. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You fluffed the blanket before placing it on the ground. Your feet ached from all the walking on shitty terrain, with your mind weighed down by exhaustion. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but we’re one step closer to home. I promise this will all be over soon.” You shook your head as Aly spoke, just wanting to sleep and get fucking help. 

Silence hung in the air for a brief second. “We don’t need another speech, Alysanne. We need to sleep.” Sabitha’s face hardened as she glanced back into the fire. “I’ll take first watch tonight.” 

Aly shook her head, sitting by the tree. “Let me do it. You should all rest. Aly leaned against the trunk of the tree, and your eyes grew bleary as the flickering of the fire faded from your vision. 

Silver hair flashed through the dense brush. You ducked under vines as you followed after the man. The silver hair evoked some feeling of familiarity but you couldn’t quite place it. Jungle grew over pillars of stone, with the man flickering between them. The further he walked, the more intricate the stone became. The jungle seemed to either respect or fear it, as the plant line abruptly ended after you stepped into a clearing. Your boots padded over black cobblestone as you pursued the man, pace quickening. “Wait!” You ran after him, but he always seemed to elude you. He was only walking, but with a strange sort of glide to it. The man finally entered an ominous building. You stopped to stare at it for a second before taking a deep breath and entering. To your surprise– and horror– the man was waiting for you inside. He stood casually across the room, clad in strange, sunset-colored robes. Long silver hair cascaded down part of his ruined face. Flesh melted and sloughed off. The closer you looked at the man, the less human he started to appear. Ēdi naejot gaomagon ziry syt se dārion. His voice was half-gurgled, and you stepped back suddenly. You picked up maybe three words of what he said, but what you did know didn’t sound great. Then it dawned on you. That voice. His eyes were swollen sickeningly far from the socket, and you could see his jaw hanging loose where the sinew melted away. Charred bone crept into a Cheshire grin as the demeanor of the man changed. Kessa sagon. Se riñar emagon vēttan ziry sīr. The melted man continued forward with a predatory grin. Weeping, blackened skin hung off his body like a glove, slowly dripping down his body. You stepped too far back and stumbled back onto the stone. The man was upon you in an instant, doughy fingers digging in as he whispered in Valyrian. You were unsure of exactly what he was doing, but fingers wrenched into your right thigh, muscles tensing as you cried out. His swollen eyes opened briefly, purple and blazing. Suddenly the whispers turned to growls before his eyes closed one last time. Īlē ivestretan

You woke up to the shaking of the wolf’s head. Sabitha yelled as she was pulled away from your side. A scream wrenched from your lips as the canine bit into your leg. You panicked suddenly, bringing your boot to kick at its head before angling your foot so the steel toe collided with the wolf’s temple. It let out a pained whimper and you didn’t give it a moment to recover. You were on it in a second with a rock you had grabbed and promptly bashed it into the creature's head. Grunts of exertion left you as you slammed the rock back into the ruined mess of skull and brains, unable to see from the tears blurring your vision. A hand was suddenly placed on your shoulder, and you choked out a sob as Nettles pulled you back from atop the body. A buzzing sounded in your ears, and your vision started to blur. Your thigh looked like ground beef when you could see it clearly, and Nettles moved to wrap a makeshift tourniquet around it. When it was done, she helped lift you to stand. Left arm wrapped around Nettles’s shoulder, the pair of you walked towards where the rest of the group was gathered. Your gait grew unsteadier, and you were unprepared for the sight of Sabitha on the ground. The lower right half of her face had been torn apart by the wolves, her teeth visible through the holes in her cheeks. Aly kneeled beside her, wailing while holding the vertebra. Streams of blood oozed from Sabitha’s face as you collapsed against Nettles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sabitha :(

Black Metal Barba’s Jam

Taglist: @chainsawsangel

[bh-writingdump]

Zeek's Freaks

[1st draft]

Coven Origin

Tonight, Ezekiel has trouble settling. First rounds of bans on kids from attending school. More companies are creating magic suppressants, especially with monster fighting back. Witches are caught in the middle (active or not).  

Couple of kids who were raised among folks that allow magic are playing with some reanimated wooden toys in the yard. An old spell a grandparent probably made.

None of the magic no adays amounts more than fireworks, shifting water, shaking earth and guts of air. one kid at the party had become remarkably talented at long distant wet wellies before being put to bed.

So much lost.

Idly, you roll a seed in your hand, watching the bean expand  into a seedling, then back into it’s shell.

“zeek! why don’t you c’mon in— did Marley leave her kids again? I swear she’ll--” Parlov looks about ready to say more when he laughs at your vein attempts to unravel the bean shot that had crawled up your arm and flowered several times.  “allow me.” He takes off his glove, touching the vine briefly. Like some hokey magic trick, it shivels up and turns dust under his fingers. “what’s my reward?”

“My undying gratitude.” Ezekiel replies deadpan which further amuses the older gay man who wraps an arm around you.

He was the last friendly face you saw for the next two and a half years.

hospital

It was an accident. There was a fire, a misplaced can, some at the party thought it was an explosion – Ezekiel learned this years later.

At the time, Ezekiel came in to eat with the gaggle of witches only for someone to scream then waking up in the hospital, chained to the hospital bed. Doctors and nurses talked above them like they didn’t exist.

Once they were better, they tried to use their magic on a houseplant. Nothing happened. It wasn’t until the magic drip was brought it that they felt bits of their magic came back and were alive again. The doctors and nurses spoke like it’s a shame that you were among a population that couldn’t “live” without it. Never mind that you didn’t ask for anyone to remove it. The scrapenel was no where near your second heart but they were sure as hell going to remove the “undesirable” organ.

Afterall, it wasn’t Ezekiel paying the bill.

Being a fight risk, Ezekiel wasn’t allowed a phone. It wasn’t until much later that Ezekiel found out how much their community had been searching for them. A missing person’s was filed but nothing happened. The world would’ve rather let them slip between the cracks.

New Job

Normally, Ezekiel would be owing the hospital/government for the bill and violation of zir body but instead it was considered a kindness that Dr Drew purchased the debt.

Dr Drew’s lawyer made an agreement for Ezekiel to work off the debt in exchange for room, board and any additional medical procedures. Due to being considered a ward, Ezekiel could only run from the procedures for so long. They didn’t help, in fact, they made Ezekiel perpetually tired and eventually Ezekiel found ways to pretend taking the pills.

After a while, Dr Drew stopped caring. Ezekiel couldn’t work off the debt while being bed bound so put Ezekiel to work. Frequent bouts of dizziness and several collapses at work meant potentially more doctor visits.

Dr Drew instead assigned Ezekiel to other work after Ezekiel couldn’t walk for several months and it was clear that Ezekiel wasn’t faking the symptoms.

That’s how Ezekiel was put with classified projects. While Dr Drew didn’t trust Ezekiel, neither would anyone believe the word of a crazy witch.

.

.

.

[Zeek's Freaks pg1]

[theremina]

I fully expect to get shouted at for saying this. I still think it’s worth saying. ❤️‍🩹

The amount of reasonably well-off white people I’ve observed losing their entire shit over crappy AI theft these past couple months is… well, it’s completely understandable, of course.

But let’s unpack the fervor pragmatically.

As a classically trained full-time professional musician who has been honing their own craft since early childhood, and as someone who is used to being taken for granted, undervalued, even exploited, by folks who literally have no idea how much work and expense goes into doing what I do, I keenly relate to frustrations concerning algorithmic AI theft.

That being said, never have I ever observed a single one of the most reactive, aggressively angry white professional artmaking chums lashing out blindly over this problem come anywhere close to the same level of agitation regarding far more brutal atrocities: systemic racism/sexism/transphobia/homophobia, the climate crisis, Roe being overturned, anti-science / antivax rhetoric, etc. Yanno, shit that’s literally, directly killing people and the planet.

Some of the same dudes screaming “unfriend me if you’re going to post that garbage, and btw FUCK YOU” at the world right now are the same men who’ve opined in the past that I shouldn’t “get so worked up” over various systemically violent, directly life-threatening issues faced by millions, even billions of us.

Listen, I’m not saying artists don’t deserve to be concerned or upset. I don’t use any art generating AI myself, in large part bc I’ve seen how much needless pain and stress it’s causing a lot of my loved ones. For me, personally, it’s not remotely worth it.

That said, a lot of the same white, predominantly male artists we’re all watching yell at Cloud right now use Spotify, right? No judgement. I do, too! And a lot of you enjoy music with synths or samples that reproduce piano or string or drum or horn or choral vocal sounds? And you’ve probably watched a bootlegged television show or two in your day, yeah? Or resorted to 12 foot dot io?

Meanwhile, you’re out here literally damning random non-artists to hell for making corny-ass AI selfies? That’s the hill you’ve decided you wanna die on? Okay…

OR! Or, hear me out, what if you allowed your personal frustration over this issue to radicalize you less selectively? Mebbe? Could ya try showing up with a fraction of this passion to support reparations for Black Americans, or the safe and legal reproductive rights for half the population, or combating climate crisis, or disability rights, or universal income, orororrr, etc?

Look, I dunno. We live in an abattoir. Times are only getting tougher. Maybe before you decide to have another Totally Normal One that involves howling directly in the faces of disabled and low-income folks who aren’t in the fine arts or commercial arts industry and probably can’t afford a boardwalk caricature right now, let alone a $1K commission for you, you could try hitting the pause button, take several deep breaths and ask yourself: “am I picking healthy battles?”

(This is the exact same advice I try to give myself every single time I get worked up about something that isn’t literally life-threatening. I do not always succeed, of course. My shit stinks, too!)

Butt. Maybe next time you observe a friend getting excited prompting images for their own personal pleasure by using AI, consider restraining yourself from calling them a “lazy thieving scumbag”? Remember, not everyone can afford decades of training and school. How is your Facebook buddy who’s happily making endless Beksinski/Moebius/Ryden-derivative computer doodles for their own personal satisfaction managing to trigger your biggest, scariest threat response?

There gotta be some middleground between “woo this AI fad is fun and harmless” and “my barista friend sharing Meitu-lookin cybercosmonaut selfies on IG is stealing food directly out of my family’s mouth” worth exploring.

Sincerely, I get why folks are upset. But maybe don’t bring a nuke to a knife fight.

I promise you, this is a lesson I have personally learned the hard way. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so hard for you? Or —and this is my main concern, tbh— so hard on people who don’t deserve to be your punching bag.

I dunno. I’m just a bit shocked at how emotional some of you are able to get about this specific issue when your chosen line of work is largely run by rapists and racists and robber barrons. (Oh my!)

[th3-0bjectivist]

     Folks, I’m back, and I’m bringing you more music because it’s my blog, and on my blog the music party don’t quit until I die, or until I’m finally permanently incarcerated by the law for online lewdness. This entire month (mid-March into mid-April 2023) I’m dedicating to Lady-Vocalist-Hotties-Who-Rock... but aren’t exactly Hollywood-caliber famous. First up is Collide, and now that I’m divorced, I don’t mind telling everyone that I’ve had a crush on lead singer kaRIN for over a decade and a half. Her voice, when not drenched in obnoxious autotune, is the sexiest thing since sliced bread. Instead of yelling or screaming, this lady lead vocalist gets downright sultry; very closely approaching the microphone and delivering a breathy, contemplative, and skilled lyrical performance that makes me wanna get on my knees and beg for a repeat live performance… preferably at her very own bedside. Folks, I’ve been listening to this group for years and I can tell you for a fact that not only are their albums unfairly undervalued, Collide’s entire catalog is about as popular as the nerdy dipshit in class with taped-together glasses who constantly smells like pee. This L.A.-based group has pounded out ten quality studio albums since the mid-90’s, each of them sounding slightly tonally different from one another. And because they aren’t as radio-friendly as say, Linkin Park or Korn, you’ll probably only hear them randomly on the internet these days. But when it comes to electronic rock, I’ll take ten trip-hoppy, darkwave-y Collide sandwiches over ANYTHING you’ll get served on modern mainstream radio. If you bother digging a little deeper into the mythos of this band, you’ll discover that this musical duo is all about combining musical styles, as well as masculine and feminine energies to create a sound that is both positive and negative. It’s hard-rocking, and soft-spoken, it’s cerebral and subconscious. This is Tongue Tied & Twisted from the very excellent 2008 album Two Headed Monster. And if that preface is still not enough to convince you to smash play, here’s a picture of young kaRIN to tempt your palette. 

     Oh, my dear, sweet kaRIN… your panting voice has been the primary source of my nocturnal emissions most pleasant dreams for over a decade now. Did I mention I’m single now? We’re about the same age, we could hit it off. Hit me up on plentyoffish.com. Oh, there’s also a guy in the group nicknamed Statik. He does the instrumentals; she does the lyrics/vocals. Image source: https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/karin-from-collide--72409506479103536/

[reptilian-angel]

Hidden In The Stars - Chapter Two: “Meet Me Inside”

ME: It’s certainly been a minute hasn’t it, folks? No apology can ever be enough, I know, but I hope no one’s too angry over my lack of updating. I won’t go on a tangent as to why EXACTLY I haven’t updated this in a couple weeks shy of a year, but to sum it up, my mental health took a serious nosedive and it’s only been until the recent few months that I’ve finally got myself together to get the urge and want to create art and write again.

To everyone who came across this fic and took the time to read it while it was on hiatus, and also gave such sweet comments when they were through, thank you all so so so much, from the bottom of my heart. They really helped me through some really tough spots that I went going through and have really helped me get the juices for this story flowing again.

That said, this chapter is 80% filler due to me getting a LITTLE too carried away with providing depth to a side character who is most likely to never appear in the story again, but please bear with it as the rest will be a bringing us back to the main plot.

Here’s what to expect: There are more reasons to hate Stella than meets the eye and a certain hitman slithers in to up the ante!

I own nothing, save the poor soul in the first half of this chapter, please enjoy!

Scone swallowed, the attempted repression of the sound popping their ear canals nonetheless. Anything to break the oppressive, near mute air in the parlor room.

Their nervousness was understandable. Affairs inside the Goetia Manor had been . . . Quiet. Too quiet, to put it delicately. (They winced at the cliche’ line they had been smart enough not to say aloud.)

Which, to any who worked there, was highly distressing.

Scone was careful not to make direct eye contact with the stone-faced Lady of the House not five feet from them as they prepared her afternoon tea. Muscle memory ensured that they properly put in the exact amount of tea leaves for Princess Stella’s preferred blend, with the necessary bowls of sugar, milk and lemon wedges placed appropriately at their respective places on the tray. They fought the wince each time the china clinked together, the noise akin to slamming doors, a sound deeply familiar to everyone in the manor. The shiver that crawled up their neck at the glares the only other demon present shot at their back didn’t help their nerves in the least.

Scone didn’t need to look. They could easily picture the Swan Demon sitting at the parlor’s ivory table, back ramrod straight as always. Her posture was as stiff as a gargoyle’s while her eyes were just as menacing glinted in their purveyance of the world outside the expansive stained glass window. A picture of painted elegance, broken by the sharp agitated tapping of her claws. Scone found it safe to assume that the tapping was aimed towards them. Another of the barest of clinks from the dishware only increased the tapping. They barely hid the cringe, worry sparking at the action.

At this point, the Princess would have been throwing a fit, screaming loud enough to be heard clear across the manor and getting in good throwing practice through launching the teapot at them. But in all honesty, Scone would have taken the screaming and customary attempts at bodily harm over . . . Whatever the heaven this was.

It was a simple statement of fact that the Lord and the Lady of the house hated each other. Or more rather, the Lady hated the Lord with a passion that would have been admirable had his Highness not been dealt the brunt of it. It was one of of the worst kept secrets both in and out of the estate that the “happy couple” - And that term was to be used in the most sarcastic way possible when alone. - Could be everything BUT that.

It would be pitiful enough for the Princess to repeatedly take out the hopelessness of their consigned union on the Prince, were it not for her enacting her abuse on just about any servant within seeing distance. It was just as commonplace for Princess Stella to strike the Fury of Satan into the staff each time she went into one of her rampages. From throwing them clear across the room to once shattering one of her diamond-studded mirrors over one servant’s horns, her actions were relentless and ruthless. And given Prince Stolas’s own conditioned fear and meekness when faced with it, there was little to be done about it.

Scone had learned that all too quickly, even as an adolescent impling just beginning their duties in the manor.

Barely five weeks into them starting they witnessed far more than they should have. They witnessed the Princess crack open the head of one maid who made an ill-timed remark towards the parlor décor. After that, she went on to spew verbal insults towards one of her aides until they hit their breaking point and committed suicide by hanging themselves off of the railing on one of the balconies. Finally, she make literal mince meat out of one truly unlucky servant who was desperate enough to try and steal some of her jewelry to pawn off. Scone remembered how sick they felt when they witnessed her newest aide fee his bleeding black remains to one of the Prince’s sentient carnivorous plants.

They also vaguely remembered the massive shouting match that his Highness had initiated with Stella afterwards. Of course, it was only the bare minimum that they could recall as they were just starting to swear off meat forever.

They did have recollection of the aftermath, not that it was good to. The sight of Prince Stolas’s bleeding crown feathers had verified who was the victor.

Scone felt a small frown on their face. As guilty and horrid as they felt for feeling so, it was far better that his Highness was there to take the Swan Princess’s attacks instead of them. Compared to the weak and meager physique of imps, demons like members of the Goetia Family were far more physically capable of enduring assaults on a consistent level. For as willowy and delicate as most of them could appear, such as his Highness, Scone had heard many first hand accounts of the ferocious and bone-chilling beats of damnation that lay just beneath their unassuming surfaces. Ans as the Prince was the son of the late King Paimon, his power should be close to that of a force of nature.

And that was nothing to say of his magic-wielding expertise. Even without the Grimoire of Worlds, his knowledge of more spells, incantations and curses than any in Hell could say they had heard of, the Prince of Stars was one not to be trifled with. Unless you wished to be tossed head-first into a portal, while bleeding and screaming and lit on fire, to Lucifer knew where.

That is, for whoever wasn’t Princess Stella.

To say that the woman scared his Highness went without saying. From the day they were wed, She went well out of her way to break her husband and bring him to heel like he was an unruly dog in need of “teaching”. Berating him, beating him, micro-managing almost everything in his day-to-day life to where only the wise and privy to the Royal pair could see the tight choking collar she had wrapped around his throat. And given how pacifistic and gentle the Owl Demon was in nature, it hadn’t been a challenge for her Highness to keep a firm grip on the Prince.

As awful as the daily abuse he endured was, the divided loyalties were even worse. Princess Stella had made good use of the principles she had been raised on for gaining tools to take control of the household. She had been quick to take not only the Prince in command in an iron grip, but those in that command as well. The Princess had had next to no servants in her own family to cater to her whims prior to her marriage, so it came to no surprise that Princess Stella had wasted no time in sweeping nearly two-thirds of them by whatever means necessary.

Blackmail, pay-offs or by sheer intimidation, anyone that she deemed useful was swiftly molded into whatever role suited her needs; a spy to send into a rival’s palace to garner crippling information, a grunt to handle those who required “physical motivation” to be kept in line, or a retainer to occasionally open a letter from a fellow Goetia or taste a dish “carefully” prepared by the cooks. Whatever they were made to do, in the end, they were all pawns to be used or thrown away.

Which was why it became a necessity to take one’s life or livelihood into consideration when it came to choosing between either the Lady Swan or the Lord Owl. As terrible as it was, it was far better to have someone else to take the lashes of the Princess’s temper. If given the choice between losing a finger to chopping vegetables or losing the whole hand to the Swan’s tantrums, well, there wasn’t a choice at all. Better the wall than the castle. Scone’s father had once said to them before dying from a heart attack.

With all that taken in account, in all but official name, Princess Stella was the reigning ruler of the 36th house of the Ars Goetia, with all knees bent before her.

Although, not entirely.

Very, very few of the others escaped her Highness’s lividity and greedy eye, seeing through their fear and keeping to their vows of serving the Prince. Some were disgusted by the behavior exhibited by the Swan and, despite having next to little power, did all they could to console and aid his Highness. Occasionally leaving a glass of Absinthe within reach of the sobbing Prince, making sure first aid kits were hidden somewhere inconspicuous in near every room of the palace, even going the lengths to misdirection her Highness each time she went on a tear. Scone bit back a small laugh at the few times where Stella wound up going after the very imps and demons on her payroll. Timing and awareness became paramount, with some successes and some failures.

But the fact that there were still a few who stood with him supposedly was the reason that, on occasion, Prince Stolas found enough vitriol to snap back at his wife. Despite his meekness and fright of her venom, his Highness was just as good at delivering just as much vinegar and salt as he was given. But still, even with those moments of strength against her cruelty, the reality remained.

Their mother once told her that the man was the head of the house, but the woman was the neck. And no matter what, she could turn the head any way that she wanted. If Princess Stella had it her way, Scone was sure that the Prince’s head would most likely had been snapped long ago.

They quietly sighed. Things were certainly bleak in this part of the cesspit of Hell. As was per for the course with this realm. With all the violence and rage focused inside these walls, all they could do was adjust to it. True quiet was a foreign mistress in the manor.

. . . Which, again, brought up the question of why the Hell this prolonged silence was happening at all.

BAM! A hard hand slapping against a smooth surface snapped them out of their stewing thoughts. “Just what are you doing over there, girl? How hard is it to make some fucking tea?!” The Princess’s infuriated squawk almost made them drop the tea distiller in their hands, making them realize to their own horror that they had done nothing but fiddle with it for the past five minutes.

Fear fluttering their veins, they immediately went into motion, almost dropping the distiller as they quickly refocused their efforts on the completely ignored porcelain teapot in front of them. “Y-Yes, my lady! I’m sorry, forgive me, it took a bit longer to heat the pot properly than usual -”

“Enough of your piddly excuses, just bring me my damn tea!” Her Highness cut her off curtly. Scone bit their lip to prevent any more words from spilling out and hurried to comply. Otherwise the teapot could just as easily be turned into a scalding club aimed for their head.

Their movements became automatic. Warm the kettle. Place distiller in the teapot and add the exact amount of tea leaves. Pour in the hot water carefully to an inch away from full. Fix the tray with the instructed amount of scones as the tea sets. Make sure the condiments for the tea were within acceptable reach. Napkins folded precisely to a sharp double diamond pattern and set it five centimeters and a half from the tea cup saucer. Double check the silverware. Remove distiller. Deliver tray.

Scone barely registered hastily but calmly setting the arranged tea tray down before the fuming swan. They wisely kept their eyes down as they lifted the teapot and poured its finished contents in the awaiting cup. Once it was filled as much as was appropriate, Scone made quick work of prepping it. Two lumps of sugar. One slice of lemon and milk to be poured until she says when so don’t fuck this up like Powder did last week or you’ll be the next bucket of chunks that’ll be feed to the plants -

“When.”

Scone almost didn’t hold back the ump at the terse command. Thankfully, irrespective of it making them lightly jostle the milk pot, no stains had splattered on either the tablecloth or worse, the Princess. Not like poor Nettle, who had been so nervous she tipped the whole tray onto her lap and ruined her Highness’s gown. Only Satan knew what happened to her.

Scone pushed that thought aside. Focus. Focus. Delicately picking up the saucer with two trembling hands, they perfectly placed the drink in front of Princess Stella and calmly followed it with the napkin, spoon and plate of *beezleberry scones in their proper positions. With everything in place, and a half-second glance to confirm the tea had been distilled correctly from the corner of their eye, they graciously stepped back with a silent bow of their head. Their hands remained folded neatly in front of them, thankful that they had ceased their shaking. “Your tea, your Highness.”

As expected, they received a sharp “humph”. “Certainly took your sweet time, didn’t you?” She spat at them. She narrowed at the drink placed before her with a scowl. “. . . The milk?”

“Made fresh from the peas brought in from Wraith early the morning, my lady.” Scone answered without hesitation.

She made another grunt of contempt. “The sugar?”

“Crushed from the sugarcane and processed with great deliberation, my lady.”

This time, she grunted haughtily. Lasering in on the lemon slice perched on the rim of her cup, she raised a perfectly manicured hand and pinched it between her talons, the sharp tips piercing the skin of it. “. . . And the lemon?”

Scone gulped softly before answering, “It was one of the few that his . . . His highness personally picked from his garden, my lady.”

One of her Highness’s eyebrows twitched, before disappearing and being replaced by a contemptible sneer. “Really? Why am I not surprised? That pathetic man wasting his time pissing away in that eyesore of a weed patch of his.” She turned over the lemon slice still dangling from her talons with faux contemplation. “Even his shitty attempts at growing food are an embarrassment. Just like those stupid, crowding plants of his, always nipping at me like I’m a teat to be sucked from.”

Scone bit back the correction that had budded on their tongue. I don’t think plants work that way . . .

“Bring me another pot!”

Scone blinked at the Princess. “My lady?”

“You heard me, you stupid bitch!” Scone found it hard not to wince under her Highness’s searing gaze. “Do you expect me to drink this sewer water when it’s been tainted by that fool’s paltry citrus?! Do I look like a filthy commoner imp like you?” Any answer that Scone could give was dashed away by her Highness throwing the offending slice at their face, their eyes shutting on instinct to prevent the juices from stinging. They dared not move in any other way until the Princess gave them leave. The last maid who tried that had been rewarded with a butter knife being launched straight into their spinal column.

“Only a nerve-dead retard would drink this drek! It’d serve you right if you drank it, seeing as that’s all the good you little horned rats are worthy enough to get in your useless, miserable lives.” Princess Stella shot at their shaking form, completely ignoring how badly they were shuddering. “If you weren’t passable labor, you would just be disgusting rats all ready for the Exterminators to clean up.”

As vile as her insults were, Scone was not foolish enough to contradict her. Too many servants had their own tongues cut out for such a notion. “Y-yes my lady.” Scone stuttered meekly.

“Tch! Why Lucifer doesn’t do away with you vermin I’ll never understand. Probably because that bobblehead of an airhead daughter of his cried bloody murder like he was trying to put down her mangy little hamster.” Princess Stella spoke tersely with a pompous toss of her pure white feathers. “Satan help all of us if he ever makes that sunshiny brat of his Queen of Hell. She must’ve been dropped on her head by that polka-loving cast-out, how else can she be so nauseatingly sweet and dimwitted enough to go through with those ridiculous “redemption” plots of hers.”

Once again Scone withheld any contradictory comments, nevermind that words like the ones she was just tossing out casually were bordering on vicious and blatant treason. His majesty was known executing other such nobles for less. The incident where one such Duke made a joke out of “correcting” his daughter on her role as Crown Princess while attending the last Rebirth of Hell Gala was still haunting the Pride Ring.

Her highness, clueless to Scone’s inner thoughts, made a small sound of exasperation. “Oh, what am I doing talking about politics with an imp of all things? As if your feeble little synapses can grasp the concept of politics. Fuck, I’m honestly surprised you have any brainpower to wipe your filthy asses!”

Scone could only nod softly. “You’re absolutely right, my lady.”

“. . . . . Well?”

Scone’s heart skipped in fear at the warning growl in her highness’s voice. “Your highness?”

For the second time, the Swan Princess smacked her hand against the tabletop harshly, the tremors of the strike causing the items on it to rattle. “Are you fuckin’ dense, imp?! Why are you still standing her with your thumb up your ugly arse?! Take this swill, get to the kitchen and get my. DAMN. FUCKING. TEA!” Scone just about fell flat on their rump as the Princess whipped out an arm and swept the untarnished teapot off the table, sending it crashing at their hooves with a terrific splash of Hell Ginger tea that soaked the cuffs of their trousers.

They unashamedly cowered at the sight of the Goetia Princess towering over their two foot one frame. With the look of red-hot anger flickering in her eyes and her impressive height, the swan Princess looked as physically imposing as jabberwocky getting ready to eat them for lunch.

Or worse, feed them to the plants in bloody black chunks.

They didn’t waste another minute. Scone scrabbled back onto their hooves and only spared one last second to bow at the boiling Goetia before hurrying to the parlor door.

“And someone to clean up the mess you made, you whore-born slut, or I’ll make you lap it off the floor with your tongue like mangy bitch you are!” The threat hissed at their back as they grappled with the uncooperative knob. If only it was a threat.

Scone gasped out an affirmative “Yes, your highness!” before finally finding success with the door and practically sprinting out of the parlor. They tried to pay no mind to the parting “Useless cunt” growling with vigor as the words chased them through the halls of the palace, Scone desperate to swallow the tears in their eyes.

They weren’t sure how long they ran for but when they eventually let themselves stop to catch their breath, they recognized the west wing hall that led straight to the ballroom. The walls of the corridor were tastefully decorated with large portraits framed in pure gold, each one painted to perfection as they depicted snapshots of some of the most prominent moments of his Highness’s life. From his hatching to his adolescence to his young adulthood, Prince Stolas’s form was made out as prestigious, proud and regal. Windows spaced each work of art with either a marble vase or an elegant clay pot holding one of his Highness’s many animate and varied plants. Most of which had been cultivated and raised by the Owl lord’s own hand himself.

That meant they had made it halfway through the manor and it was only a hop, skip and a jump away to kitchens. Scone sighed in relief. Thank Satan. Maybe if they hurried they could manage a brief run to the servant’s quarters and grab a change of pants. After all if there was anything else that set Princess Stella off it was having an untidy uniform -

That was when they remembered the slice of citrus still stuck on their cheek. The juice of the lemon clung unappealingly to their skin as they carefully peeled the now limp slice off. They made a small sound of complaint. Great. They were probably going to smell like lemon for days. That was all they needed.

They looked over the slice with a more rational gaze than the Lady of the house did. They hummed thoughtfully. Although, all things considered, they could have way things thrown at them. At least lemon was a pleasant smell. And considering Prince Stolas himself had grew and provided the majority of the fruit used in the palace, the taste of it was surely exquisite.

Their stomach than rumbled rather pointedly as though it agreed with them. Scone felt themselves redden. They looked at the slice again, weighing the pros and cons of eating what had caused her Highness such grief.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Well, since the Princess didn’t want it, and they had always been taught not to ever waste their food. At the end of the day, they never knew when their next meal might be their last.

Tentatively licking their lips, they slowly tucked the “shitty” slice of lemon into their mouth and instantly fought back the moan at the explosion of taste that greeted their taste buds.

The lemon had just the right amount of tart and sweetness, where they could savor the flavor and still enjoy the tingly sensation of the fruit’s famous bitterness and without being affected by the rough handling it had gone through, it still had enough moisture inside to quench their thirst. Even the remains of it were savory enough to chew through and swallow.

Scone had once tasted lemons from the fruit stocks in the city market and with this one errant slice, they could easily pot the differences among the artificially-sprayed, overripe and occasionally lethally sour “fruit” over what his highness had cultivated. They sighed contently, the rind of lemon still held preciously between their fingers. Whatever the lady’s opinion was, in all honesty, that was the best dredge of fruit the serving imp ever had.

“Well, it’s nice to see my efforts being so appreciated.”

Scone squeaked out in undignified surprise, the now juiceless rind flying out of their hands. Whirling around, they felt their blood chill at seeing the voice’s owner.

Prince Stolas looked down at them, looking every bit as prim as proper as the Princess. But where her Highness was all starch ivory and sharp reactive angles hidden vainly with designer silk and Pridemulberry, his highness contrasted her with subtle, soft lines, simple but elegant attire that looked as common as casual clothes but still be worth a mint and florentine feathers; not at all unlike the light peeking as it encroached the edge of sky in the early twilight hours of morning. His expression towards them was also much more bearable than the acidic glares Scone had endured earlier, much more patient and tempered.

And at the moment, bemused. At them. For what they realized, with utter mortification, they had said outloud.

Embarrassment and not only a tad of fright, Scone rightly feel to their knees and couldn’t back the rapid spewing of apologies for the second time that day. “Y-y-your Highness, I am so sorry for my outlandish display! Please, please, please forgive me, sir! I swear I meant you no disrespect towards you or her Ladyship-”

A snort cut them off.

Looking up Scone blinked up at the Lord of the House and was surprised at the rare scene – the Tall Owl holding one ebony hand over his mouth as it was contorted with a . . . A smile?

A wobbly and soft one to be certain but it was assuringly it was a smile all the less. His Highness’s first set of eyes crinkled at the corners as a small hoot (a giggle?) escaped in spite of his efforts to hide it. “Oh, do forgive me, I’m-,” Another hoot. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just, pfft, ‘Ladyship’ . . . I’m sure Stella would outright molt if someone important said that straight to her face and meant it.”

Scone’s look of confusion was startled away as his Highness locked all four eyes back towards them. “Not that you aren’t important, dear little imp. Work like yours is valued, just as you are deeply treasured by someone I’m sure – Just not by someone like my wife.” He sighed tiredly. “I know from first hand experience it takes a strong stomach to try and stay polite to her with a straight face. And even then all I have to show for it is a migraine and an upset stomach.”

Scone only smiled in response to that, albeit uncomfortably. But they couldn’t say he was wrong.

“But knowing there's at least someone in this palace who actually holds the food I grow into high regard does help to lessen the ache,” His Highness said calmly but Scone didn’t need to look to know that the Prince was now eyeing at their soaked trousers. “As others clearly don’t.”

Scone winced. “A-ah, I’m sorry, you Highness?”

“Please, there’s no need to play ignorant.” His Highness said with a calm shake of his head. “I know my wife all too well, or rather. I know whenever something has upset her to the point where I can hear her all the way to the observatory. Clearly my hobby has offended her delicate sensibilities once again and she decided to vent it towards you.”

Scone was completely unprepared for the slight incline of his head, his body bending in an informal bow. While Scone struggled to find their voice, he then said in a completely noncondenscending tone, “If she attempted to assault you or if she insulted you in any way, I apologize.”

They then regained the sense to get back on their hooves and immediately exclaim in respectful protest, “Oh no! No no no! Please, your Highness, don’t apologize! Especially not to some lowly servant like me! Her Highness was only r-reprimanding me for my work! And why wouldn’t she?! It was all my own fault so please don’t apologize, sir!”

Prompt humiliation stopped their ramble with a choke before bringing a flood of red to their cheeks, darkening their already crimson skin. They always had a habit of babbling when they got nervous which only got exponentially worse when they were being addressed by nobles like the Prince and the Princess. Usually when they got like that the Princess would briskly snap at them to shut up or backhand them if she felt impatient. Scone swore that one such time one of their teeth got knocked loose when her Highness was questioning her about the arrival of her Vulcan bath salts and they had taken too long to respond.

However, much to their relief, his Highness was much more patient. His beak curved in what looked a smile but was more subdued. Scone could only recall seeing such an expression on the numerous other portraits showcasing both the Lord and Lady of the House. Not a smile but not a frown, controlled and immaculate. Every bit the way a proper prince of the Ars Goetia should look.

For some reason, Scone felt a stab of sorrow for him. But this time, they were smart enough to keep quiet about it.

The Prince hummed coolly. “. . . She was that angry then?”

Scone lowered their face, but their lack of answer seemed to be telling enough, since his Highness sighed sadly. “I see.”

He then straightened up and squared his shoulders. “I’m aware that you all endure a lot in serving this household and also put up with much more than you need to in regards to your situation. But all the same, you shouldn’t suffer whatever crass or violent episodes my wife feels appropriate to deal out when she feels like doing such. It’s not much, but perhaps adding a bonus to your next paychecks might in some ways convey how your duties greatly benefit this house.”

Scone felt their jaw drop open. “That’s-  That is incredibly generous of you, your Highness! But, but we couldn’t possibly -”

His Highness shook his head again. “I insist. It’s no trouble whatsoever.” A spot of amusement then made its way into his next statement. “And perhaps I should send an extra bundle of my next crop to the servant’s quarters as well?”

Scone felt their face redden even more terribly than before at the soft reminder. Bu they still managed a small grateful smile regardless. “. . . That would be wonderfully gracious of you, your Highness.”

The Prince of Stars gave a satisfied smile in return. “Glad to hear it.” He raised his hand to his chest, most likely to smooth out an indistinguishable wrinkle or crease on his romper. “Before I let you go on your way, may I kindly ask you for one more thing?”

Scone perked up. “Yes, your Highness?”

“Forgive me, in advance?”

Scone was, of course, taken aback. “I’m sorry, your High-”

SNAP!

The imp known as Scone acutely went stone cold silent.

Their eyes went wide and blank. Their posture as rigid as a marble pillar. Whatever thoughts were in their head went mute and in that moment, the soul of the servant vacated the body, leaving only the hollow, senseless shell.

And that was all that Prince Stolas needed.

                                                       ~X~

Stolas did the utmost best to ignore the pang of guilt that took place in his threat like an awaiting pellet. He sighed warily.

He honestly couldn’t believe the lengths he currently had to go through to keep some secrets in this place. But hopefully, stars willing, that would not be the case for much longer.

He examined the oblivious idle imp before him. After a minute he gave a small reassured breath. Good. No signs of mental damage – no twitching limbs, crossing eyes, nosebleeds. The hypnosis he had cast on them weeks prior had taken root without incident or fatalities. If all went well, it should easily be removed once he was finished here.

Right then. No more time to waste.

In a neutral and clear voice, he addressed them. “Scone Horndelle, can you hear me?”

Scone didn’t hesitant. “Yes, your Highness.” They replied in a monotone manner.

“Do you know who I am?”

“You are Prince Stolas Goetia. First of your name, Lord of the 36th house of the Ars Goetia Family. Son of King Paimon and Queen Alycone, may Satan bless their bones.”

Stolas felt his beak twitch at the last bit. “Thank you. Do you recall what we spoke of the last time we were together?”

“Yes, your Highness. Your request has remained deep in my subconscious since you first issued it.” Scone said with a straight face, as though they were talking about the weather.

“And have you spoken to anyone in or outside of this palace since then?”

“No, your Highness. I have mot said a word of my assignment from you to anyone as per your command.”

“Does Stella suspect you?”

“No, your Highness. Neither her nor any who swear fealty to her have suspected or questioned my actions as of late. As far as I know, she is not aware of your intentions.”

Stolas hummed softly. “Yes, so it seems. She has been giving me a pretty wide berth as of late. Ever since the party, I’ve barely interacted with her at all.”

Even as he said it, he could still hardly believe the words. His “dear” wife was never capable of shying away form making her presence known in every room she was in, whether in a crowd of important socialites or simply him in his solitude. With the air of an agitated panther and the shriek of a perturbed crow, Stolas would always feel the instinctive bud of fear blossom into nerve-wracking terror each time she was in closing distance. Not that he needed to see her to feel her sulfuric airs seep into his own, leeching what gentleness and gentleness and warmth he was fortuitous enough to obtain.

But recently, at least ever since the chance he had damn near taken to snuffing himself out, she had kept her distance. She hadn’t let up on her insults or sharp rebuffs on him and his day-to-day routine, not in the slightest. Satan forbid she loosen the leash a bit. But in actual face-to-face contact? Stella avoided him like the Black Plague had come to Hell.

He didn’t even entertain the notion of her feeling guilty about trying to poison him. Not once, in all the centuries that they had been married, had she ever expressed a shred of regret for all the humiliations and cruelties she had sadistically bestowed onto him. If she didn’t feel sorry then, why in the rings would she start now?

The few times he had seen her. She made it a point to only remain in his proximity for as long as it was required of her. Even with her sudden newfound want for distance, she made sure to remind him that she was not to be ignored in any shape or form, talons digging into his arm with enough force to draw blood. Not that he would be given the courtesy either way. The minute that the whatever menial business concerning them both was concluded, a small party with some of Stella’s “friends”, a ten-minute interview on 666, an awkwardly tense brunch with Duke Gremory, Stella didn’t delay in making herself scarce. In her urgency, she wouldn’t even give herself a half-second to throw a scathing insult over her shoulder.

As bewildered as he by it, Stolas was not the kind of man to look a gift-hellhorse in the mouth and complain. Not with what with the plan he was brewing. Stolas refocused his attention on Scone. “Back to matters at hand. Pertaining to my request, how did you fare?”

Scone answered without missing a beat. “I was successful, your highness. Achieving it took longer than expected, but I eventually located someone for you. They asked me many questions about my occupation and who had sent me but thanks to the disguising charm you gave me, no one was able to discern my true identity nor who you commanded me.”

Stolas made an approving hum. “What else do you have for me?” Scone’s bare expression remained unbroken as they begun rifling around the inside of their vest. Not even a minute after, they neatly pulled out a small, folded piece of paper and held it out towards the Prince.

“The name of the demon you seek and the address to the location of the meeting is written on here. The time of the meeting will be eleven o’clock PM this coming Thursday.” Scone instructed blankly as Stolas took the paper carefully into his hands. “I was told to say to you to bring $ouls required to pay in advance.”

They paid no mind to the gleam in Stolas’s eyes as he peered down at the delivered parchment held in his claws. “Hmm yes, I expected as much. Thankfully procuring the fee should be no problem. After all, Stella hasn’t got access to all of my money – not yet, anyway.”

A faint scratching. He paused, only for a moment. He turned his head all the way around in a quick survey.

No movements in the windows. No fleeting red tails at the corners or windows. No sound of fading hoofsteps. No whispers of slow, practiced breathing.

Good. No one else was here. Stolas felt an odd mix of relief and a small pinch of surprise. Looks like Stella even cautioned her staff to back off. Interesting.

He turned his head back to Scone in a paced turn. He knew it wasn’t needed, he made sure to smile gratefully at them. “Thank you very much for your work, my dear. Although I’m sure you would hate me for the manner in which I went about it, your aid has proven invaluable to me.”

Scone was neither flattered nor insulted. They simply continued to look straight on with their empty gaze. “Thank you, your Highness.” Stolas wasn’t offended by it.

Tucking away the note in trouser pocket, he then popped open the collar of his romper and pulled out another folded piece of paper, this one tinged golden yellow like the others he had specially commissioned. “That said, I have one last chore for you to do for me. Once it’s competed the hypnosis I have cast on you will break and erase itself from your mind entirely. From then on, you shall live the rest of your life as though you had never been under a spell such as this. All the triggers will be stricken from your psyche and you will lose any and all memory of these sessions.”

The owl then smiled sadly. “I realize I should have done this a long time ago, but please understand – With how thorough and hounding Stella can be when she gets suspicious of something, I find that this method is the best way to avoid any problems.” Looking at them, he added. “Also, I know the lengths that she’ll go through if she wholeheartedly believes someone is lying to her, or worse, not telling her what she wants to hear. She doesn’t care one fig for the truth, simply what she can use to win more favor. She certainly learned that lesson well from her parents.”

Not that they were around to brag or gloat about their daughter and her accomplishments like their were their own anymore. For all their skills and intricate schemes, karma finally caught up to them in one fell swoop. And in Hell, karma was more than a bitter bitch; it was a life-sucking, ruinous, relentless harpy that hovered with a gaping maw near your throat, just waiting for the right moment to snap her jaws shut.

He may not have cared for them much, before and after they became his in-laws, nevertheless he did pity Stella for her loss. Or rather, he would if he didn’t know her better.

She barely shed a tear over her, after all, so why the fuck would she weep over them?

“. . . As deplorable as it is, this method is the safest for the both of us. But you have my word that after today, you needn’t stomach this any longer.”

“Yes, you Highness.” Scone replied, hopelessly neutral to his vow.

Stolas cleared his throat in an awkward cough. “Right. Now, for your final task.” He bent down to their level once again and spoke carefully. “After this session is over, continue your evening as normal. But before you turn in for the night, you must do two things – First, inform the head of staff that you’ll be taking the day off tomorrow to run some personal errands for Stella and I. If he objects, tell him it is on our orders and not to bother either me or Stella about it. She’ll be leaving tomorrow to visit one of her friends over in Envy so she won’t be here to contradict me.” Out of her many irritations and aggravations, she absolutely hated being interrupted while socializing for trivial matters, usually resolving them with splashing expensive wine in their faces or kicking them for good measure when she felt merciful.

He extended to them the yellowed note. “Second, memorize the contents of this letter right down to the last period. Once you are confident you have it all committed to memory, touch my crest at the very top of the letter. It’ll disintegrate the paper instantly. No traces should be left but wash your hands just to be safe.”

Scone took the note and only stared at it for one moment, registering its shape indifferently before tucking it into the same place as the previous note. “As always, tell no one of what you read on this paper. Follow my directions on it exactly. It’s absolutely vital that every single thing is done precisely.”

“Yes, your Highness. I shall not fail you.” Scone promised.

Stolas smiled at the dull response. “Good. I trust that you won’t.” He had to. He straightened himself back up one last time and nodded. “Now that you have your orders, you are to continue on whatever task you were on before I stopped you. Speak of this to no one. As I promised, after today I shall never compel you for any reason ever again.”

He knew Scone wouldn’t react to it but he smiled down gratefully at them. “Once I snap my fingers, you will wake up. You’ll have no conscious memory of this interaction but you will still follow my command even so. I apologize for any strain this puts on you.”

“Thank you for your kind words, your Highness.” Scone bowed low. “I live for no other purpose than to serve you.”

Stolas was thankful that they couldn’t see the displeased frown on his beak. He hated how the exact spell he had used always had the recipient turn so subservient. It was one thing when they acted so out of their own fee will, but it was another matter when they forced to.

Well, at least, they wouldn’t have to again after this. Or at least towards him.

Stolas gathered himself. Pressing his thumb and middle fingertips together, he looked straight into Scone’s eyes as he stood back up. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Very well.”

SNAP!

Just the bulb did with the flip of a light switch, Scone Horndelle came back to life to with a gasp.

Their face was a plethora of different rapid emotions, confusion being the most prominent understandably, as their eyes repeatedly fluttered open and closed. A debilitated moan left their mouth as they rubbed the heel of their palms into their eyes, like they had just woken from a deep sleep (Which wasn’t wasn’t too far from the truth). “U-uh, what . . . What just . . . ? What was I -?” They murmured, obviously fatigued.

He didn’t answer. Instead, Stolas, in a bold display, utterly blew past their shaky incomplete question and knelt before them.

Only paying half a mind to their jolt of astonishment that gave way to alarm at the Goetia kneeling before a lowly imp, he zeroed in on the now damp stain on their trousers. He smirked. An easy fix. With a simple wave of his hand, the tea splatter dried and faded away in a second, the imp’s trousers looked almost completely untouched by his dear wife’s rage.

If only I could say the same for myself. He thought somberly. He smoothed his face into an even smile, letting nothing of the past few minutes slip into the open as he peered back up at the sputtering servant.

“Pardon me,” He started, ceasing their pleading ramble straightaway at the Prince’s full attention. “I know you must be confused. Of course, it’s my fault for not being more careful.” The lie started its easy slide from his beak as he gestured at their now clean uniform trousers. “I thought I could remove your stains with a simple spell that helps with my own little accidents, but I wasn’t paying attention and accidentally scrubbed a little bit of your memory instead.”

At their startled expression, he simply waved it off. “No need to worry, the spell was only meant to tamper with short-term memory so I doubt you’ve lost anything truly important. But nonetheless, I do apologize for inconveniencing you.”

Before Scone could start off on another protesting tirade, Stolas arose back up with all the grace he was brought up on. Shoulders back. Chest out. Hands tucked behind neatly. The height difference was hilariously clear between the two demons with the owl at his full height, he noted with some humor, something that Scone couldn’t help but warm their face prettily at.

Stolas almost wished that he had time to admire it. “Now then, I believe I’ve wasted enough of your time. I imagine Stella is waiting for you to get back to her. It’s nearing lunch and I know very well how moody she can get when she gets even the slightest bit peckish.”

The admittedly pleasant flush on their face disappeared like he had snuffed out a spark of flame on a match-head. It was easy to imagine their level of fright judging by how their face faulted. Before he could even blink, Scone had turned curtly on their hooves and shot down the south end of the hallway, making noises of distress all the way. Halfway out, Scone gave an inaudible curse and turned to rush back towards the Prince. Skidding to a stop, Scone almost fell over in their attempt at an urgent bow, their rising anxiety running them even more ragged than their tryst at Demonic Track Relay. “P-please, please forgive my rudeness, your Highness! Please please please forgive me! I’ll accept what ever reprimand you deem suitable!”

Stolas huffed out a chuckle. “That won’t be necessary. Just continue on with your duties. But, if you would kindly tell the chefs to have my lunch sent to my study, I would grateful. Also make sure it’s piccolo who delivers it. He does make a rather delightful cup of coffee.” Plus they know how to properly check food for any “additional” garnishments.

“O-of course, your Highness! Thank you very much, your Highness!” Scone gasped. “Please excuse me, good afternoon!” They barely bent back upright before once again shooting right back down the hall, hoofsteps echoing thought the corridor.

The Prince stood alone in the hallway, idle for only a few precious ticks of time before following Scone’s lead, albeit much more sedately, beginning the trek to his private study. The brief tip was uneventful, which was just fine. Stolas was far more focused on the paper that felt as weighted as a loaded gun in his romper. He momentarily wondered if the imp he coerced to “pick up his dirty laundry” sort to speak, could feel the gravity of their task written on that tiny slip of parchment. He doubted it, but dear dark lord, did he hope that they would accomplish it.

Safely inside his study, he swung the door shut tight with a flick of his wrist. With a third snap of his talons, the privacy wards carved on all the window frames and the mantle on the door awoke with a glow. Letting out the breath he had held in for the past three minutes, he pulled out and unfolded Scone’s letter with trembling fingers.

The words on the creased surface of it sent a rush of excitement, elation, nervousness and apprehension through that made the tips of his feathers stand on end.

                                             “Copperhead

                                      Xibalba’s Keep 11:40

                                          Private room #4”

Stolas down the nervous pellet that was definitely rising in his throat this time, rolling into a ball of anticipation that was welling up in the pit of his stomach. With how he felt right at that moment, he wouldn’t be all to surprised if he vomited right there and then.

It wasn’t because he was nervous. Not really. No, he wasn’t giving in to his wobbling joints just yet.

He scanned the blunt and brief message in his hands over and over, possibly twenty times, until he could see the words with both pairs of eyes shut. His beak moved soundlessly on repeat as he tore up the correspondence without warning, only stopping when the paper was reduced to paper snowflakes. After that, he needed only a second of concentration to conjure a flame in his hands, a much smaller burst of fire than the flare he had displayed weeks prior, turning the feeble kindling to ash in a heartbeat. Once he felt nothing but soot, he extinguished the flame and snapped open a porthole sized portal and tossed in the residue to some forgotten reach in space before snapping it way just as quickly.

Anyone who witnessed any of this would think his methods of disposal seemed a little over the top. But they didn’t have to live with any invasive, sycophant witch like Stella for over 5,00 years.

Like a great deal of other things he had the misfortune to learn with his dear wife, Stolas learned that his privacy was nonconsensually considered persona non grata. In her eyes, there was always a secret to find no matter where you looked. From files to the rubbish bin, any demon can uncover something if they looked hard enough. (Not that she would ever look in the trash herself with her perfectly pedicured claws, not with plenty of “already grubby” servants nearby.) And secrets were how Stella kept what pawns and assets she had in line, himself included.

As a result he learned throughout bitter trials to adeptly rid himself of critical trash, both to his pride and chagrin. The measures he had to go through to keep some sanctity, and sanity for that matter, would make a member of one of human spy agencies on the surface weary to the bone.

Stolas stilled his pacing to take a deep breath to calm himself. In and out. In and out. In and out.

It was fine. It was fine. He would only have to tough it out for a little while longer.

His hollow bones stiffened with resolve. He strode confidently to the expansive bookcase that covered nearly the entire west wall of his office. Each shelf was stuffed to capacity with tome after tome, each one either added by himself, pilfered from long forgotten enemies or given as gifts or a token of favor, the collection could hardly be estimated. Any sorcerer would surely find themselves boggled by the wisdom and knowledge scripted within them, secrets of botany, tales of ancient histories an, of course, endless facts about the universe that he once spent hours observing with boundless wonder. He inadvertently took notice of some of the titles he, admittedly, had come to neglect over the years.

. . . . The reasons why weren’t important.

He instinctaully reached for one such book, the leather of the cover well-worn and aged well despite his neglect. He ran his wingtips over the embossed lettering with an absent smile. Glamorous Glamours and Superb Shrouds: A study on the guises of Hell.

Even with all his powers of premonition, he knew that there was no certainties of how things from here would go. The future was always an infinite of what-ifs and maybes, each decision in the present only a factor that either resulted in victory or calamity. He himself could be taking his first real steps toward his salvation, or signing his own death warrant.

The only certain future was the one that was always uncertain.

But, really, at this point, what else did he have to lose?

Stolas had long since made up his mind. What way this path would lead him down, whatever came after was inconsequential.

He gave himself a shake. He had stalled for long enough. Scone had their chores, and he had his.

He flipped open the book, his eyes easily taking in each and every word written inside. Enjoyable section, but not the one he was looking for.

This was going to take some time. The owl thought with a pout. With a hapless shrug, he want to take a seat at his desk. Ah well. He was used to working long hours. And this time, he was doing something productive.

With that in mind, he reach out to turn the page.

                                                        ~X~

It was just another night at the Old Keep.

The decades old radio cut itself in at random from in between static and eighties Latino music. The knobs had long since pilfered so the only means to change the station was by twisting the crudely bent antenna or asking the barkeep to give it a good thwack. The bulbs in the overhead lamps stuttered every five or so minutes, the out of date lights bright enough to grant any piece of shit that wandered in the bar a momentary look at the pathetically small supply of scum-covered tables and rotten chairs. A few of them lay on the grimy, dirty as sin floor due to lack of attention or whoever had knocked it over as they had been dragged out by the surly hellhound bouncer earlier. The patterns from where their heels had been drug across the floorboards made a disturbingly clear trail from where they sat to the unhinged hole in the wall that was at one point laughably referred to as the front door.

The restroom door was cracked open as warning as to the abominable mess that lay within, but even anyone just coming in could easily tell by the vile stench that the toilets in there were never to be used or even approached under the threat of death. Any who couldn’t hold it found an easy to access substitute in the almost depleted storage room, as long as the barkeep didn’t literally catch them with their pants down. And the final touch was the scattered bottles, crushed cigarettes and condoms both torn and used scattered around with the same artistic placement as puddles on a rainy day. Even though it was a two-story building, everybody who was a familiar face knew that the upstairs was hardly any better and kept mostly to the ground floor.

All in all, the place was as classy as the rest of Hell. And the clientele wasn’t any better. A fat and smelly old sinner slumbered away at one table, half asleep in what was probably a bowl of pretzels, snoring and hacking up whatever bits were inhaled. A pair of demons, a perky incubus and a skinny imp, totally unconcerned with the shitty ambiance of the bar, rolled away unabashedly in one of the only two booths as they made out like the Extermination was just around the corner. Their moans and gasps were the only thing actually competing  with the din of radio fuzz and the comatose sinner snoring. No one made any move to stop them, the sole waitress only getting close enough to pick up their ignored glasses and scrabble away before she got roped in.

The male imp known as “Copperhead” watching all this from his stool as the rundown old bar gave an amused snort. He observed as the incubus broke away from the imp he was deep-throating for long enough to lick his lips salaciously at the slender, more attractive imp to which she responded by flipping the bird. The  other now perturbed imp noticed this and snapped at the incubus, sparking a two-minute argument between him and his client before they were back at it like nothing happened.

He turned his gaze back to the cracked and stained glass he had been drinking from for the past half hour. The vibrancy of his acid green eyes reflected against the drinks swirling inside, its dark ale staring back with its own pair glowing with challenge. He let out another snort. Yeah, he wasn’t drunk enough to be seeing things yet. The stuff here wasn’t strong enough for that.

Xibalba’s Keep had, like many of the bars in Greed, had risen and fallen during the years following the Prohibition. Where legions of mobsters, moonshiners and bootleggers had dropped into Hell like missiles and took to Hell like the hellish sinners they had been damned to become. Those of the few not insipid enough to get ripped apart in their first week, at least. Lucifer’s law forbade any of them from actually leaving the ring of Pride, but that did nothing to stop them from extending their hands towards the hellborn. As expected, business flourished and grew like a beanstalk, in Mammon’s realm most of all.

Sadly, also as expected, not everyone found great success; the founder of Xibalba’s keep being one such sorry bastard, some Latino con/wrestler or something along those lines. Racism was a universal concept, and Hell and it’s denizens were not the type to be shy about their views on discrimination. Poor guy’s shot came as fast as it went.

Since then, as time went on, the Old Keep has had a long, messy track record of owners, short-lived and otherwise, and not a single one was consistent enough to keep a steady stream of consumers coming in. And so the bar had given way decay, only as good as an outhouse in the middle of Sloth where folks coked themselves up in the middle of a crap.

To sum it up, a shithole no one would set foot in lest they had one already in the grave. Or, if they were looking to add someone else’s.

Which was why he was here tonight.

He had got a call through the usual way about a new job. Or at least a “discussion” for a new job. The details of it were a little too minimal for his liking, but the promissory he had been given had too many numbers for him to write it off from the get-go. From what he got from the gist of it, it concerned one of the blue bloods higher up on the food chain and that the price for dealing with them without a question.

He gulped down some more of the bitter brew. Yeah, it was a sweet siren song, to be sure. But any assassin worth their salt knew better than to start dancing to their tune. Particularly more so when the singer was willing to toss out $ouls like it was chicken feed. Any demon that willing to part with his money to that degree usually went about with the perspective view of whatever or whoever was in front of them was easily disposable. Many learned that mistake too late, but he always learned faster than most.

All the same, he couldn’t deny the tiny crawl of interest ringing at the sound of future coin jangling.

Plus, if all went well, he would have a front row seat to the death of one of those pompous, high and mighty pricks.

He gave a bloodthirsty smirk akin to the kind you would hallucinate on a king cobra just before it struck. This was one of the things he loved about his work. That this job wasn’t always about the profit, it was about the pleasure.

Hence why he decided to waste his time in this rot-gut excuse of a watering hole, half an hour early as a matter of fact, choking down second-rate hooch while he waited for his mysterious client to give the word to meet. Heh. From the whole hacha two-step this guy was dealing out, it had to be somebody with some significant cash to burn. Maybe some low-ranking noble from one those noveau riche clans made up of hellcats. Or maybe some industrialist from Envy who felt “betrayed” by some business deal gone sideways and wanted compensation or some stupid shit like that.

Honestly, it didn’t really make much difference to him. As long as he got paid, it didn’t matter what the reason was for wanting someone dead. Down here, everyone had done shit or wanted to do shit for shit reasons and there was no point in looking deeper at the shit going on between. Because no matter what way you looked at it, it was all one big mess. And you never wanted to be the one stuck in it or cleaning it up.

The radio crackled out a scrambled screech before breaking into a choppy Latino jazz number, trumpets blaring out in random blasts like its player was having a heart attack. The couple in the booth fell to the floor in a graceless heap, the thud provoking the barkeep to bark at them again to take it outside only to be ignored once again. He took it all in with an eye roll and drained the last few gulps of his drink.

He had been about to signal for another drink when another drink was placed calmly beside the empty glass. He followed the length of the hand that had delivered it and looked evenly at the waitress now standing beside him. “. . . I didn’t order this.”

The waitress didn’t wince at the accusing tone, probably used to worse from other patrons. She pointed towards the barely held together staircase leading to the second floor. “Guy upstairs in room four. Said he knew you. Asked for the special stuff we keep in the back. It’s all paid for so don’t sweat over the tab.” She quipped before brusquely walking away.

He watched her walk away before turning his attention back to the “already” paid for drink.

He felt his eyes narrow at the cleanliness of the glass. It looked five times cleaner than the rest of the glasses and cups set up messily on the askew bar shelves. He also noted that there were far less cracks and chips in it, looking practically brand-new. He picked up the glass cautiously as though it was a bomb rather than a simple drink. He tentatively swirled the contents with a subtle rotation of his wrist. Hmm. No sign of anything unusual floating floating inside or resting at the bottom.

He ran the tip of his thumb over the rim and brought it to his mouth, swiftly licking at it in a half-second taste test. Nothing added to the rim. No lingering taste of anything. No strange scents either.

He peered at the drink skeptically. It looked safe enough to drink, but so could a bottle of water with iocane mixed in.

He took another minute to consider the drink in his hand. Slowly bringing it to his mouth with the kind of caution reserved for holding an active bomb trigger, he tipped the glass into his parted mouth . . .

. . . Only to bite back the groan of satisfaction at the rich, smooth taste of the liquor now running over his forked tongue. Holy shit, “special” had been right. He may not have the palette of one of those wimpy foodie snobs who brag about artisan toast on their sinstagrams, but even he could spot the sheer quality of what he  had just drank.

. . . Which meant this stuff was definitely more expensive than this entire bar put together.

He sure as shit couldn’t afford it and he seriously doubted the owner, now carelessly knocking back something that smelled like motor oil, could either. So who the hell -

A thought sprung into his head. Actually two thoughts.

‘Room Four.’

‘Said he knew you.’

. . . . . Well damn. He felt like a right fool.

He gave a low, belated chuckle. Almost missed his cue. What a rookie mistake.

Even with this in mind, he took his sweet time getting up from his seat, not spilling a drop of his drink as he swiped it off the bar top with his tail. He knew better than to leave it, if the putout look the bartender shot at his back was any indication. He sent a vindictive grin over his shoulder as he made a show of taking another savory sip.

He hoped the guy waiting in room four had more of this stuff, because he was sure as fuck wasn’t getting any more of the watered down crap at the bar.

The wood of the staircase creaked in warning and the railing was corroded and on the verge of falling apart, but he wouldn’t be a hitman if he couldn’t handle some rickety stairs.

He made it up to the second floor without incident, or the pitiful stairway falling out from under him. He made a judgmental sound at the stained planks and rabbit-sized holes in the floor, but continued on. He looked over the faded numbers painted poorly on the doors.

Room number 1, room number 2, room number something that was half a 3, 5 – Satan, who painted these? - Ah. Room number 4.

He smiled. Alright then. Rolling his shoulders, he quickly adjusted of his wide-brimmed hat so the rim of it pointedly hooded his face and straightened the bandanna tied around his neck. Can’t make a good first impression looking like sloppy seconds. He then raised a hand to politely rap his knuckles against the door.

“Please come in.” A warm, tenor voice floated calmly through the woodwork. The imp picked up faint traces of an accent, a decadent, high class posh one. Yep, definitely a noble.

He breathed in through his nose. Alright. Swallow down the sour face. Just until the $ouls are burning a hole in your pocket. For now, it’s time to turn on the charm.

He twisted the knob and casually opened the door, instantly being met with a dark room.

Before his eyes could even adjust, he could tell that there wasn’t much to the room. A table, an empty wet bar and two chairs made up the layout, all as old and tired as everything else in the Old Keep. An old-fashioned lamp did its best to give enough decent light so one could make out where to step before they crashed into the table. The smell consisted more of dust than the putrid air downstairs, but that was only a mild relief to him.

The only three things that were out of place in that termite trap of a room were the big, polished bottle of brandy sitting pointedly in the middle of the table, a glass matching the one he had set on the opposite end of the table, half-finished like his was, and the figure sitting silently in the chair farthest from the door. He couldn’t see the figure’s face, them leaning far back enough to obscure their upper body in the darkness. Luckily the light of the rusty old lamp showed enough of them so he could see the dark luster of the jet black fur of his paws.

He frowned. From what he could see, they appeared to be hellhound paws but the size of them was wrong. Delicate and tiny in comparison to the average hellhound’s. Cleaner and groomed regularly too. Maybe this guy was a crossbreed bastard or something along the lines of that, because nobles had a bit of an unspoken rule about being “public” with certain partners of opposite standing. Maybe they were one of those fancier hellcat breeds . . .

Ah, well, what does it matter?

He was a client, and he money to pay. Or at least, he’d better. It wasn’t unheard of for some clients to try and hold out on their part of their bargains, leaving the other looking like a broke-back bitch.

But Copperhead was no bitch, not in the slightest.

His features melted into a friendly smile, his eyes going lidded with the attitude of a serpent charming his prey, starting with a silky drawl, “Y’know, I’m not usually the kind of guy to accept strange drink from strange men, but I gotta feelin’ that we ain’t exactly strangers.”

A soft airy chuckle. “Your feeling would be correct.” One hand gestured cordially to the empty chair. “Care to take a seat?”

He gave a single nod. “Don’t mind if I do.” He plucked his drink from the coil of his tail, allowing it to wrap around the doorknob and pull the door shut. He sat himself down onto the chair and draped his arm over the back of it as he slowly drained the last of his drink.

“I take it the drink was satisfactory?” The other noted good humoredly. The imp sighed at the pleasant burn now running through his body.

“Hell yeah. Damn, since when does a dump like this get such good drink?”

The question had been redundant, they both knew that, but nonetheless, the other answered. “I might’ve made a small donation as to provide the current owner the means to procure it. Although I imagine not many will get the same chance as you have now to enjoy it.”

The bottom of his glass hadn’t even touched the table before the other leaned over to pick up the bottle. “Speaking of which, it seems like both of us could use a top-off.” Unscrewing the bottle cap off, he pointed the lip towards him. “May I?”

He hummed approvingly. “Much obliged.” He nudged his glass forward and watched as the glass was slowly refilled. He made sure to scrutinize the other’s arm as it revealed itself little by little. Long and fragile like a willow tree branch in winter and as scrawny as a beanpole, totally out of keeping for a hellhound. He made no comment but kept his eyes on the shape shifting in the pitch as they finished with his and started pouring more into their own glass.

“Not too often I meet a client so neighborly as to pour me a drink, let alone buy one. Guess you must come from good breedin’.” He remarked casually, but he was sure the stranger could hear the underlying question in his tone.

The other was mart enough not to rise to the bait. “You could say that.” He responded coolly. “I believe that business is always better conducted over a delightful meal or a good stiff drink. Especially when the host can foot the bill.”

“Yeah,” The imp nodded lazily. “Hard to argue with a full belly and a full cup. ‘Course I try to stay sober enough to make sure that the host doesn’t try and make off with my wallet.”

“And I applaud you for your good sense.” They replied, sipping at their brandy in a much more relaxed pace than the imp’s. “Not many in your profession do nowadays. They seem to be steadily going with the impression that they’re the ones who set the terms from start to finish. But even down here, deals are a two-way street. I can imagine that having the cognition to keep that in mind is the reason you and I are meeting here tonight.”

“Can’t take your shot at the rooster’s call, true.” He agreed. “Didn’t get to where I am now by being a cock-driven dumbass. And I imagine you didn’t either.”

“. . . I suppose that depends on how you see it.”

He arched a brow at that. The imp had expected a snarky response, or an arrogant quip. “. . . Rrright.”

An uneasy silence settled between them. Each filled the silence by taking a drink from their respective glasses.

After a bit, he broke it by shifting in his chair into a more professional posture. “Well, friend, as much as I love to shoot the shit over drinks, what’s say that we get down to why we’re both here tonight?”

The other hummed softly. “. . . . Yes, let’s.” He laced his long slender fingers together in a form familiar to a professor about to give a lecture, all traces of the sudden melancholy from before gone. “From what I understand, you are interested?”

The imp gave a smooth grin. “Oh, I'm interested, but only if I get what I’m owed.” He then fixed the other with a sharp glare, adding a rough edge to his smile. “That said, you got what I asked for, right?”

Most folk he often found were easily intimidated by his, heh, “venomous” stare. He could recall one time where a customer even pissed their pants from sheer fright at the sight.

But not this one. They made a brief, nonchalant sound as they took another sip of their brandy. “But, of course.” Setting down their glass, one hand slid back into the dark. The imp could just about make out the sounds of rustling cloth as the hand returned to the light, holding out a thick manila envelope towards him. “As requested, with a little extra, as interest.”

The imp took it and weighed it in his hand for a minute before giving an approving nod. He had yet to see the money, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he found a couple hundred thousand $ouls inside. “Not bad. Been a while since I received such a hefty fee upfront.” He began to open it -

“Or rather half of it.”

That calm retort stopped him cold. “. . . Pardon?”

The stranger either acknowledged the warning hiss and chose to ignore it, or simply didn’t give two shits or was playing the dumb bureaucrat, swirling his drink absently in one hand while the other lay upon the tabletop. “What you have there is half of the price that you asked for your services. By my estimate, with the interest included, even if you were to choose to walk away after I’ve given the details of your assignment, the amount should be adequate compensation for, what I’m sure is, your valuable time spent.”

“. . . Again, pardon?” The imp asked, gritting his teeth.

The other continued on entirely unphased by the imp’s hackles rising. “I can understand your confusion -” Yeah, THAT’S what he was feeling right now. “- But this is purely a precaution. If you choose to take on this assignment, you will have to agree to my terms.” He tapped one finger against the table’s surface pointedly. “You’ll receive half of the payment for now, and the rest will be delivered upon completion.”

The imp felt his hands curl into fists, his claws digging into his palms. Despite the flush of anger, running through him, he made sure to keep his face from giving away too much of how he was feeling towards this prick right there and then. “And may I ask, why the precaution, friend?”

“Just as you said,” The other stated simply. “I don’t fancy having my wallet picked when I have too much on the line. And as much as smooth talker as you are, and as much as you surely see me as some snotty, pretentious blue-blood, I do have the brains to keep my eyes open for wooden nickels.”

He tried to keep his cool, but still felt one of his eyebrows twitch. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“I assure you, I don’t think that in the slightest.” The bastard replied politely. “I have every intention of honoring my end of the deal, but I’m not going to pay full price for someone more than capable of leaving me high and dry if the horns are sounded. And I can promise you, there are going to be very big horns. I will not be left up the creek with what I’m about to do.”

The imp couldn’t see it, but he could feel the moment that the other’s eyes locked on to his. “Or rather, what I need you to help me do.”

A dark chill went down his spine. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt pinned by a single stare like this. Especially by no hellhound. “. . . Help you do what, exactly?”

“I need your assistance in killing a prince of demon royalty.” The stranger stated, acting like it was completely straightforward. “Or rather, making him disappear.”

He narrowed his eyes at them. “. . . I’m not sure I follow.”

“Let me be blunt then. Your role in this assignment will not be that of an assassin, but as more of an assistant, if you will.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your confusion is understandable. I know I would be bewildered if someone needed me as the podium for the book rather than the reader, but some things require more hands than you physically have. Even the power of to levitation can only do so much.”

“What the hell are you - ?”

“For this endeavor to succeed, I need you to bring me the tools that will make this facade of death as convincing as possible. By which, I mean permanently.”

The imp blinked incredulously. The emphasis on that statement was all too clear to him. “You . . . You’re talking about angelic weaponry.”

“Precisely.”

Copperhead waited only a second before scoffing. “Oh please, what the fuck makes you think- ?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act the fool with me. Your reputation with procuring and using angelic weaponry proceeds you, Mister Striker.”

“Striker” tensed at the sound of his name. After a moment, he leaned back into his seat with a frown. “. . . So you know who I am?”

The other ran a finger along the rim of their once again near empty glass. “My sources are good at keeping their ears to the ground, particularly when someone of your merit manages to get away with multiple counts of high profile murders; overlords, millionaire sinners and hellborn, a noble or two when really put to the test. If one can find you and scrounge up enough $ouls for your fee, there is next to no target that escapes from your sights.”

“I’m that good, huh?”

“I say so with the rose-tinted glasses off, my dear hunter.”

“Then drop the bullshit.”

The other demon had the nerve to play innocent. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ya’ll know so much about me, yet you really ain’t as smart as you sound.”

“Oh? How so?”

All pretenses of niceness were gone. He had entertained them for long enough. “You called for me to drag my ass down to this landfill with your word that you would pay it all upfront, only to give half of it with whatever bus fare money you call interest instead of the price I demanded for my talents. You waste my time  with this Envy Capitol Two-Step when its obvious ya’ll don’t have a single sense of what it is you’re doing and you try to hide it with all those fancy airs you’re puttin’ on. And on top of it all, you just go ahead and expect me to happily play water boy to this little Houdini vanish act ya’ll seem so set on, when you’ve obviously got the means to do it yourself. That said, what in Satan’s name is your real angle here?”

“No angles. I meant what I said – I want to make a Prince one with the dead. I’d be more than happy to explain the details of it, if you’re willing to accept my offer.” A small breath like a laugh was heard. “If you think this is something beyond your skill-set, I’ll send you off with what you have in that envelope and look for someone else. You needn’t suffer the indignity of failing such a high-profile hit.”

Striker shot to his feet and smacked both hands against the tabletop, making the glasses and bottles tremble. His eyes sharpened to point where if they were blowtorches then they would cut through glass. An agitated and frightful hiss filled the air, aimed right towards this smug, conniving sonuvabitch minutes away from being drawn and quartered with his Bowie knife. The other demon was silent, but Striker knew that he had his attention.

“Listen here, friend, and you better listen good,” He spat with everything molten and sharp in him. “I ain’t no on-call thug for hire or some dipshit rando needing a hit to get a hit of coke, and ain’t no convenient replacement you can use and screw over for some killing time mind-game you’re playing with the rest of those fat cats and upper-crust vultures who call themselves Goetia! I’m good at what I do, I get what I am for and I do NOT back away from whatever or whoever it is that I’m ordered to take out! And I don’t let anybody who wants to drop me like a cactus burr get away with callin’ me a back-out bitch!”

He dug the tips of his claws into the rotting wood of the table, the sound of cracking like firecrackers popping  against his skin and certainly drawing blood but he couldn’t bother to give a shit. He fixed the obscured demon with the harshest glare he could deliver. “I ain’t helping no silver-spoon fed, lily-liver, head in the clouds bird prince who shits in golden toilet and pisses on our legs and tells us it’s raining! If you expect me to just nod my head and say yes, just who the FUCK do you think you are!?”

Snap!

Striker only had half a second to see the other snap his fingers. Without warning, the light of the rusted old lamp suddenly expanded, growing more rich and bright with its reach, filling the room with light. A shiver of magic raced against his back, provoking him to turn around just in time to see a massive glowing circle of magic materialize on the door, arcane runes and letters far beyond his understanding burning like signal flares. He faltered at the sight in spite of his anger, the energy warming like coals raking over his body. “What the -?”

“You’re right. You deserve a decent explanation.” The other demon said calmly. His tone of voice showed he was entirely unfazed with this impromptu display. “Just because I’m in a rush, doesn’t mean I need to carry on with the dramatics.”

Striker turned around to ask him what the fuck he was going on now, but the other demon lifting the hood that had up until this point covered his face dissolved the need to ask like cotton candy on his tongue.

With four ruby red eyes glinting in the newly formed light, grey blue feathers darkening in the golden light and beak curved in a neutral smile, Striker felt his spine stiffen.

Prince Stolas, 36th demon of the Ars Goetia, dressed in a thick dark cloak and looking as calm as can be, was completely indifferent to Striker’s shock as he said with a straight face. “I am the prince who wishes to die, and I need your help to do it.

. . . . . . . . Fuck him running. He needed another drink.

- -

ME: Totally had to improvise the last few pages of this chapter so sorry if it’s a lil . . . MEH. But don’t worry the story will definitely pick up speed in the next chapter! And I PROMISE you will NOT have to wait long, for real this time! The love for this story is back and I am going to best of it GODDAMMIT

That said, I owe a HUGE thanks to two certain writers whose Imp!Stolas fics inspired me to get back my own. @HelluvaIolite ’s “Love Me IMPlicity” & @AjWriter ‘s “Captivating Liberty” are two of some of the best HB fics I’ve read/currently reading so far and I can’t wait to see what else they create with their mad writer SK-ILLZ! (Sorry I watched Moon Girl & Devil Dinosaur and Casey’s dialogue is contagious DX) Thanks so much you guys for giving me my spark back!

Also as a bonus, here are some of my HITS trivia for the story:

* Berries indigenous to the Ring of Gluttony. Thick, dark berries similar to black/blueberries but filled with poisonous seeds that could kill higher-tier demons in 30 mins, or lower-tier demons in 8 mins, unless removed and prepared properly. Declared illegal in the rings of Lust and Wraith for being the cause of the “Seeds of Wraith” riots.

Make sure to take note cuz you never know when I’m gonna quiz ya!