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muzansfangs · 6 months ago

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A witch, a werewolf and a vampire

Starring: Aizen Sosuke x f!reader x Urahara Kisuke; mention to Jugram Haschwalth, Gin Ichimaru, Rangiku Matsumoto, Isane Kotetsu, Unohana Retsu, Yamamoto Genryūsai, Kenpachi Zaraki, Muguruma Kensei, Yoruichi Shihoin, Sui-Feng, Momo Hinamori, Tier Harribel, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, Ryuken Ishida, Mayuri Kurotsuchi;

Format: one-shot;

Warnings: nsfw, fantasy au, misogyny, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, creampie, use of potions as birth control method, threesome (m x f x m), oral sex (f!reader receiving), oral sex (Urahara!receiving), blood drinking, vampire!Aizen, werewolf!Urahara, witch!reader, hair pulling, murder, gore, horror, burial, death, language, dirty talk, competition in bed, criminals, morally grey reader, double penetration, anal sex, alcohol consumption;

Plot: It’s a rainy night and blood runs down the muddy streets of the town. Three supernatural beings, a witch, a werewolf and a vampire, find shelter in a disreputable Inn that attracts the wrong sort of people. All of them are on a run, secrets and horrific murders staining their reputations and making them quite notorious downtown. When the three of them end up forming an alliance, they realize something links them together. The thirst for blood, the gloomy atmosphere and the inhebriation leads them to give in to lust in a room upstairs.

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The croaky laughter of a drunk man slamming his fist onto the ebony table of the bar made you flinch. You were soaked, a puddle of water expanding from underneath your boots as you scrutinized the crowd of people dining all around you. Most of them were humans, without the shadow of a doubt. Men, to be specific. Predatory eyes sizing you up, offensive words piercing your ears, you knew exactly what they were thinking. A young, beautiful woman shaking like a leaf and looking for shelter was probably an easy prey for them. Unfortunately for them, you were not a hapless girl. Clamping your mouth shut not to draw attention, you resorted to lowering the tattered hood of your cape down on your face and you walked up to the innkeeper to ask for a table and a room for the night.

“That’s the last one. You’re lucky” the lanky man on the other side of the counter told you, handing you a rusty key and motioning with his chin at the last empty table somewhere behind your back.

You followed his gaze, eyes landing on a dimly illuminated area of the dining space. In a corner, a chair and a dusty table, waiting for you to sit at. You scrunched up your nose in disgust, already figuring the bedroom would have most likely been even worse than the chilling refreshment stand you were going to drink at. However, it was not time for you to be fussy and picky about where you had to spend the night. The guards outside were tracking you down and leaving this place would have only granted you the chance to experiment the same fate of your late mentor, the great witch Unohana Retsu. You had really screwed up this time, but the heavy money satchel hanging on the leather belt secured around your waist was definitely worthy the murder of Lord Jugram Haschwalth.

Your head turned back towards the grey-haired man, bony fingers tapping onto the wooden desk impatiently “It’s perfect. — you faked a smile — A bottle of wine too, please” you told him, before grasping your satchel and drawing out some money to cover up the price of the rent and your order.

Paying you little to no attention, he whistled loud enough for some tipsy men to complain about being brutally awakened from their slumber, but also to draw the attention of a beautiful waitress serving soups and beers at the tables. You wondered how such a pretty girl had ended up in a squalid barrelhouse like that. The gold band on her ring finger answered your question, as she cleaned her hands quickly in her lilac apron and jogged back to the counter with a kind smile adorning her plumped lips.

“Gin, honey, what’s the matter?” she inquired, sparing you a brief glance before refocusing on her husband.

Now that she was closer to you, the waves of magic radiating from her made you feel less in danger. Witches were not welcomed in the small town you lived in. Knowing the innkeeper’s wife was a supernatural being too made you feel more at ease, as if you were at home, safe from stakes and fire. Nevertheless, you never let your guard down, not after you had witnessed to Unohana’s ashes blowing in the wind, dissolved in the village square, a couple of years ago. Isane, your friend and the other apprentice your mentor had taken in, had fled right away in search for protection in one of the towns in the North of the Country. You had no idea if she was still alive, or if she had shared your teacher’s destiny. Hopefully, she had joined a powerful coven and she did not have to fight for her life anymore like you did.

Sometimes, you asked yourself why you did not follow her in her incredible adventure. The answer, sadly, was that you loved that place too much to move away and forget about your past. Also, you were seeking revenge. The Mayor, that old bastard, Lord Yamamoto Genryūsai, was still alive. You were working day and night to create a deadly potion to kill him once and for all. In order to get close to him, though, you needed connections and, regrettably, you were a lone wolf.

Gin grinned “Sorry, darlin’, but this girl here needs a bottle of wine. Be a dear and accompany her to her table with this” he explained, ducking underneath the counter to grasp a cheap bottle of red wine and a globlet. Drowning your demons sounded good enough, given your foul mood.

The curvaceous woman sighed and ruffled his hair affectionately “I got it from here. Take care of the rest while I’m busy, will you?” she cooed, winking at her husband before gesturing for you to follow her to your destination without further ado. You caught a glimpse of the man smirking, as you moved away from the counter, noting how pleased he seemed to be for the attention his companion had reserved to him.

The dirty comments the waitress and you received on the short walk to the table made your stomach churn and you had to suppress the homicidal impulse to set those swines on fire right on the spot. You really did not need cops to break in and arrest you. Not when your face was already printed onto numerous newspapers and you had an impressive bunty on your head. People chased you down the streets to turn you in and alert the authorities.

Tiredly, you slumped down onto the chair, chin propped onto the upturned palm of your hand, whilst you absent-mindedly observed the girl uncorking the bottle with expertise. For a few moments, she stayed silent, limiting herself to pour some wine into the goblet and sliding it towards you once it was filled to the brim “Here you go” she stated then, eyeing you from behind her long and dark eyelashes. She was most likely a charmer, the dangerous kind of witch that could bring a man to madness.

“Thanks” you shortly replied, only for her to glance behind her shoulder briefly, checking the area, and lean closer to you afterwards, her tone of voice low enough not to be heard from anyone else besides you.

Her light blue eyes locked with yours “No one is going to harm you, but two of our guests are affiliated to the Government. — she informed you, shooting a subtle look at a purple-haired woman, sitting by the window, clinking glasses with her colleague — You may think she is our ally, considering her condition. It turns out she has a secret agreement with the Mayor to grant her immunity from prosecution”.

You took a sip of your wine, narrowing your eyes in disgust at the unexpected news about the famous Yoruichi Shihoin switching sides to save her own neck. Becoming one of the Hunters was not a career you had ever considered in whole life. The last person you could imagine to betray the Supernatural Community for a personal advantage was Yoruichi. She was a wild spirit, a force of the nature. Clearly, something had changed in her life and, judging by the way the petite girl next to her was now running her fingers through her luscious hair, it was probably the unforgiving feeling of love.

“Who would have ever thought a shapeshifter worked for that shitface. Thanks for the information…” you trailed off then, not knowing how to address the witch saving your life for free.

She smiled softly at you and snapped her fingers to light up a candle she had pulled out from the front pocket of her apron “Rangiku Matsumoto, the one and only. — she introduced herself, positioning the candle into an old candlestick — I would like to chit-chat with a fellow witch a little more, but I really have to go lend my hand to my husband. Enjoy your wine” she excused herself then, waving her hand at you and venturing back into the intricate lines of the tables.

You watched her leave, bringing the goblet to your mouth again, but turning your attention back to the two women looking for the next head to bring to the Mayor on a silver plate. You did not fail to notice the amount of daggers strapped to their belts. At their feet there were bags full of newspapers and you could swear there was even an axe in one of them, but it was too dark for your eyes to make out the real shape of the weapon. It was decidedly better not to go anywhere near that table. You could defend yourself, you were powerful enough to force them to transform, or even cast a curse on them to perpetually turn them into animals. However, you could not assault them out of the blue and this was not a place to fight.

You were genuinely surprised a shady man with unkempt sandy hair and a smug smile on his lips approached them. Yoruichi seemed to know him, her yellowish eyes darting on the stranger immediately, upon sensing his presence at her back. While she began conversing with him, you switched your attention on the raven-haired Huntress at her right, her scowl quite evident as she stared daggers at the newcomer. Well, jealousy could do numbers on people, to the point of even attempting to kill the person who piqued the interest of your loved one.

It did not startle you the way she suddenly leapt forward and knocked him down onto the floor, pressing the sharp edge of her dagger on his carotid. Silence swallowed the room, the moment she straddled him and grasped his jaw roughly in her small hand.

“What part of ‘stay away from her’ you did not comprehend? Do you want me to etch it on your face?” the girl snapped, while Yoruichi disinterestedly finished her drink and slammed the empty glass back onto the table. She did not bother to step in to prevent her colleague to make a scene, or possibly slaughter a man in front of all those witnesses. All she cared about was being the center of the attention, as per usual.

The man sighed, hands raising apologetically to quell his aggressor’s rage “Woah, I got it, Sui-Feng! — he defended himself, his tone playful and strangely calm despite the compromising position he was in — I was just telling her my goodbyes! You know, I’ll leave this town in the morning” he explained, earning a scoff from the woman above him who begrudgingly sheathed the dagger back into its scabbard before jumping back on her feet.

“That’s the fourth time you use this pathetic excuse to approach her. It’s only natural for a merchant to travel. — she retorted, hopping back onto her stool and glancing at the dark sky outside — Too bad it’s not a full Moon night. I’d have loved to skin you alive” she added, a mischivious grin curling her pinkish lips as the man leisurely stood back on his feet and dusted some dirt off of his baggy clothes.

A werewolf? You had not met one in years. After Unohana’s death, Kenpachi Zaraki and his pack had left the town and the only werewolf still around was Muguruma Kensei, the smith who lived in the mountains. Who was this man, then? Why had you not met him before? Did he belong to a pack from another town, or did he get exiled? Whatever was his origin, all you knew was that he had caught you staring and he winked at you with a teasing smirk promising a conversation.

Straightening your back, you whipped your head to the other side of the room and found yourself wishing you could chant your beloved invisibility spell. You really did not wish to catch the attention of anyone in particular. Making bonds could be dangerous and that man radiated troubles.

“Let him go, Sui-Feng. — Yoruichi chimed in, silky voice resonating through the room — Kisuke was about to leave anyway, right?”.

“Of course, I was! You are probably in the middle of the hunt anyway and I should make my getaway before a silver blade takes me to the grave prematurely” you heard him jest, but you were not too happy to hear them share their goodbyes. You had a feeling deep in your guts he was about to head over to your table and you had no intention to die at his place.

Therefore, you stood up and sauntered towards the wooden staircase leading to the rooms upstairs. It was time to go to sleep and lock yourself up, maybe even protecting your door with some defensive spells to keep anyone trying to break him outside. With each step you climbed, you felt safer and, if it was not for a whimper echoing in the corridor at the end of stairs, you would have dared to say nothing threatened your life anymore. That moan, however, was pained one. Someone was hurt and you felt your heart thrumming against your ribcage violently as you wandered down the deserted area, expecting someone to jumpscare you at any moment.

There was an ominous atmosphere around you and it had become notably coldler with every passing second. You reminisced some of your mentor’s teachings about the temperature and atmosphere’s changings. Sudden cold usually was connected to the presence of ghosts, or beings capable of sucking the life out of their victims. In other words: vampires.

You truly wished the monster at the end of the road was not a bloodsucker, but you soon found yourself face to face with one as he dropped the lifeless body of a young woman down onto the floor with a dull thud. Glossy brown eyes staring at you, pale complexion, the corpse belonged, much to your dismay, to the kind nun Momo Hinamori. Too young to die and too devoted to think monsters existed, she had always refused to believe you were a witch. You wondered what she was doing in that Inn and how the dapper man in front of you had lured her into his trap.

He was handsome, this much was undeniable. Then again, she was not the type to melt for small attentions. You wondered what he had done to her, if he had used mind control, or some other devious technique to compel her to follow him so effortlessly.

He stood there, lean frame enveloped by a luxurious black cape as he wiped his mouth clean with a silky white handkerchief. Your presence had not bothered him in the slightest.

“Good evening” he greeted you, velvet voice caressing your skin warmly, a fatherly tone you despised with every molecule of your body. You felt your mouth going dry, your eyes averting from him to spare another glance at the victim at his feet.

You took a sharp intake of breath, your eyes hardening as you reached for the phial of holy water you always kept hanging on your neck and tossed it at him. The man disappeared from your sight, dodging your attempt to make his skin sizzle, and the glass collided onto the wall, exploding into a million splinters before your frightened eyes. Your head frantically whipped around, trying to detect his presence before he could get his hands on you, but the moment you realized he was at your back it was too late for you. Your cheek was pressed against the wall, one hand wrapped around the back of your neck to pin you on the spot.

“How much do you know about vampires, sweetheart?” he asked you, cold breath wafting over your jaw, when he dipped his head down to talk directly next to your ear.

“Enough to desire their extinction” you sassed, furrowing your brows in discomfort as he tightened his grip on your nape. You definitely needed to train in hand-to-hand fights. Against some monsters spells and curses did not suffice. The scar in the middle of your mentor’s chest was your daily reminder of how dangerous it could be losing focus in a duel.

The vampire hummed and magnanimously loosened his grip on you, but he cautiously took a couple of steps back to put a relatively safe distance from his opponent “You must be the witch everyone is talking about. — he noted, chestnut hues scrutinizing your face — The sketch on the leaflets doesn’t do you justice” he smoothly complimented you, causing your cheeks to heat up, but your brain to inform you he was probably trying to get in your mind.

You snorted, arms folding against your chest “Don’t tell me you won her heart with such ridiculous pick-up lines. — you taunted him, eyes darting on the late nun behind you — Now, unless you want us to respectively end up with a stake through the heart and flesh consumed on a burning pyre, what do you say about parting ways and leaving this small altercation behind?” you flatly suggested, eyes flitting back on your interlocutor who impassibly listened to you. He was unnerving. Too stolid and tranquil, he got on your nerves without even talking much.

Before dignifying you with an answer, he slicked back the single cowlick tickling his pointy nose, a placid smile adorning his lips “Is that what you wish for? — he queried softly, before ambling over the cold body of his victim and inspecting it with a cold indifference that made you question how many people he had killed throughout the years — Mala tempora currunt. Forming alliances is fundamental to survive”.

You blinked, swallowing forcefully to withstand the impact his words had on you. If the world once belonged to supernatural beings it was merely because humans feared those who possessed such abilities. Knowledge is power and, forging new weapons to eradicate the so-called monsters from the society, from hunters you had all become the hunted. No matter how powerful you were, you were constantly on the run and with no one to seek protection from. It was probably a matter of time before someone killed you. Vampires were surely powerful, albeit the sunlight was their greatest weakness. Their strength dopended on their biological age. The man in front of you looked like he was in his early thirties, but the confidence and charisma he possessed indicated he had most likely been around for a long time. Centuries. There was no doubt he was a skilled fighter, if he had lived that long unscathed.

“I don’t trust vampires” you countered back, watching him pick up the lifeless body of the young nun as if it weighted nothing.

“You shouldn’t trust anyone besides yourself. — he replied, glancing at you briefly before staring back at the girl in his arms — However, this is what happens to people who don’t make connections. I can offer you protection, a safe place to live, and only ask for a few favors in return. We don’t have to be friends to make an alliance” he reasoned, once again reminding you of how much you were risking by isolating yourself and working as a killer for a living.

You took a few seconds to ponder your next words. The temptation to accept the deal was alluring and, all in all, you knew there was a catch in this.

“If I refuse your offer, you are going to denounce me, am I correct?” you inquired, his smile confirming your inklings and earning a scoff from you.

Holy crap, you were screwed.

“How perceptive of you. — he said, his baritone voice caressing your skin like a silky blanket leaving goosebumps on its wake — My name’s Sosuke Aizen” he introduced himself, bowing his head cordially to make up for his temporary impossibility to shake your hand.

You did the same “I’m Y/N L/N” you curtly said, before letting your eyes flick to Hinamori once again. It was disturbing continuing your conversation in her presence. Your expression probably spoke volumes, for the vampire to sigh and indicating a window at the end of the corridor.

When be began to walk in its direction, you hesitantly followed him “Wait, don’t tell me you’re going to throw her out of the window…” you voiced your doubts, but the ugly look from him made you desist from pressing him with more questions.

You stood next to him as he hurled the corpse out of the window, the sound of it colliding with the muddy ground down below made you flinch, but you did not expect for a familiar voice to pierce your ears. You had had no guts of looking outside the window, you had limited yourself to check the stairs to assure the both of you no one had seen the sacrilegious action. Still, curiousity killed the cat; when you heard Kisuke’s voice coming straight from the yard, you peered down to check on him and there he was. Smug grin, disheveled sandy hair sticking to his forehead, he was mostly covered in dirt. At his feet there was a freshly dug pit in which he was tossing Sosuke’s victim.

Your mind went blank. That werewolf was in cahoots with the vampire! Probably, he had caused that commotion at the restaurant to allow his friend to feed without anyone bothering him.

“It took you so long, Lord Aizen! It’s freaking cold outside!” the werewolf complied, grey eyes gleaming in the darkness as he picked up the shovel at his feet to fill up the pit once again. It was definitely not the first time they did something like that.

“Actually, I got held up by this lady. — Sosuke retorted, making space for you to lean out of the window and granting his friend a look at your shocked face — From this day and for years to come, she is in partnership with us” he informed Kisuke, only for you to regret all of your life’s choices in a instant.

The perspective of being burned alive did not sound that unappealing anymore.

Kisuke stopped in his tracks, a smirk on his lips as he winked up at you “Welcome to our society, milady. I truly hope you will survive” he chimed, causing you to halt and look back at Sosuke dead in the eye.

“What does he mean by that?” you asked him, ready to hit him with a migraine spell right on the spot. Something about these two was off and you were pretty sure they were responsible for a long line of unsolved murders.

He sighed “The last woman who joined us tragically died in a fight against another supernatural brigade. You are clearly stronger than her, fear not” he tried to soothe your nerves, but you simply grimaced and took a couple of steps back to put some distance between you two. You hoped he was telling the truth. In times like this, fights were frequents to establish domain over villages and you knew about some beings who had succumbed recently.

Maybe, if you knew the name of that woman, you could surely tell if she had been involved into a battle.

“Who was she?”.

“You ask too many questions, sweetheart”.

“Don’t call me that. — you punctuated, folding your arms against your chest as you gazed out of the window, eyes lingering on the starless night sky — It’s only fair you share some informations with me”.

Sosuke took a sharp intake of air, chestnut eyes closing as he leaned his back against the wall in resignation “She was a mermaid I had encountered in the South during a trip. — he began, eyelids lifting leisurely to refocus on you — Her name was Tier Harribel. I thought she could keep up with our rhythms. My mistake” he stated, leaving a weird sense on bitterness on your tongue, after his words sunk in. A mermaid. You had never met one in person, but you had heard stories about them. While they were pretty powerful in their natural habitat, they could solely rely in their hypnotizing singing and peculiar beauty on the land.

If your companions were so invested into fights for power, you had to watch your back. What if they suddenly saw you as a menace and killed you off? Strategies were not your forte, but you knew your way around men. Maybe, you could keep them on check, while honing your abilities. You were a witch, you had learned to use not only your magical abilities to bend knees. The art of seduction was something every woman knew, but witches were trained to make a good use of it at very young ages. There were stages to go through and now that you were a full grown woman in her early twenties, there was no limit to what you could do. The carousel stopped when you decided to get off of the ride.

Realizing you had zoned out for a while now, you were pulled back to reality by the sudden appearence of the goofy werewolf next to you. The man had sneaked back into the Inn by climbing the giant oak by the window. Humans would have not made it that far, but his supernatural strength showed in his agile movements and the minum effort he had endured in jumping from a brench to the other.

“Geez, I definitely need a bath, but the room I’ve booked doesn’t have a tub” he stated, your eyes travelling up and down his body in sheer disgust. Yeah, he really stank of wet dog and dirt. His clothes were a mess and he would have drawn way too many curious glances, if he were to go downstairs like that.

Maybe, this could be your chance to prove yourself to them and, at the same time, to catch their full attention. It was better to have them on your side, than after you. It was clear they were not going to let you go. The vampire had made himself abundantly clear a gew moments ago. You were stuck with them, the new addition to that deadly duo, the wanted girl they would have not hesitated to sell out to Yoruichi and Sui-Feng, if she attempted to run away. You had to learn more about them and feigned kindness, wine and blood were exactly what you needed to make them talk.

“I have rented a room too. — you started, hand reaching for the key the innkeeper had given to you earlier — Let’s go check if there’s a tub you can use”.

Your words made the werewolf pause, grey eyes scrutinizing your face suspiciously, evidently still wary around you. Pretty faces frequently deceived people and witches were well-known for taking advantage of their looks to achieve their goals. He was right not to trust you, but you could not confirm his doubts. Also, it was not like you keened to really murder them. You merely wanted hold some kind of control of the situation and, naturally, finding out more about them.

“What’s with that face? Can’t a girl take pity on a man?” you queried sarcastically, sauntering towards the room with the number three etched onto the top section of the door without waiting for him to reply. Unlocking it, you pushed the door open and made sure they entered the room before you did. The show was about to begin. The moment you joined them, you locked the door behind you again and cleared your throat to catch their attention, temporary focused on the modest forniture decorating the space.

Once their eyes were both transfixed back on you, it was time to feign a polite smile and raise your hands, fingers flicking in the air to emphasize your next words “Considering the Huntresses downstairs and the horde of guards hunting me out there in the streets, I will put a protection spell on the door. No one will be able to enter this room, or detect our presence in here anyway, alright?” you informed your new comrades, who barely shared a knowing glance before allowing you to proceed without further ado.

Turning around victoriously, you kept in mind this was, without the shadow of a doubt, a bold move. Your intention was mainly to protect yourself and show them you were going to put your abilities on the table to defend them as well. Still, who would have protected you from them, if they simply decided to betray you, to kill you?

You were doomed.

Too distracted by perfecting the incantation to pay attention to them, you had not heard the sound of clothes rustling, landing in a pile on the floorboard. What you saw, however, made your eyes widen and you swallowed forcefully upon the indecent vision welcoming you back on Earth. Kisuke Urahara, fully naked, had entered what looked like a wine cask, but was actually the tub, without even bothering to let you know he was stripping himself. You stepped back from the door and made a relative distance between you two, careful not to lock your eyes on his sculpted body, littered with scars from the battles he had fought to survive. He was smugly smiling at you, splashing the water into the tub to rub off of his muscles the dirt and sweat sticking on his flesh.

“A brute, I know. No wonder all women decline our invitations to join our army” Sosuke finally spoke out from behind you.

The hair on your nape stood on the end, his cool breath tickling your earlobe as you gulped down nervously and turned your head to the side enough to meet his gaze. You had not realized he had gotten that close to you until he had talked. Vampires, the worst specimen ever created.

Kisuke scoffed, splashing some water onto his face, slicking his damp sandy hair back “Chastising me, when you are the one who sucks them dry after they refuse your offer is a bit ironic, don’t you think?”.

You grimaced and walked off to the nearby desk, hand reaching for a glass and a pottery jug you found over there. This place truly made your skin crawl, yet you had to give it credits for the services it offered. Pouring some water into the glass, you knew you had to do something to bring balance to the conversation again.

“There is no need to bicker. We are comrades now, things like this happen on a regular basis. Also, it is not like I have never seen a naked man before” you chimed in, mellow voice cautiously aiming to extinguish the fire ready to start between them.

You brought the glass to your lips, a single sip washing away the dryness your anxiety had left behind. You could perfectly deal with them, you could handle this situation like you had handled your mentor’s loss, your friend’s decision to leave and all the terrible crimes you had committed to gain money and earn some favors from some inhabitants of the hills around the village.

Biting on the rim, you observed the vampire ubuttoning the silver buttons keeping his black cloak draped neatly over his shoulders. Underneath, he was wearing an expensive brand of clothes he had probably purchased in the North of the Country. The white shirt and the black waistcoat were immaculate, his crimson cravat a striking contrast reminding you of the nun’s blood dried around the bitemark on her tender neck. Handsome like the devil and probably worse than Satan himself.

He caught you staring, impassible face lighting up in a knowing smirk “Do you wish to see me naked as well?” he inquired, your cheeks flushing up as you barely got to shrug his provocation off with a bemused laughter fueling his curiosity.

“You are all the same underneath your clothes. What would make a difference?”.

“The way we use our bodies to pleasure our partners” Kisuke interjected, still sitting comfortably in the tub, muscular arms resting on the borders of the bathtub as he eyed you in genuine shrewdness. He did not make a move to get out of it yet and, frankly, you did not know if it was better this way, or not. Things, however, seeemed to have been escalating quicker than you had anticipated.

You settled your glass down, your own cloak dropping from your shoulders as you tossed it over a nearby chair probably to gain some time to fire a smart answer back “I see. Men and their toxic tendency of being convinced they can pleasure a woman more than she can do it herself, even going as far as competing over who does it better than the other. — you rambled, rolling your eyes and allowing a soft chuckle to escape your lips while you flicked your gaze up to meet the hungry eyes soaking in your form, now visible for the lack of the cloak hiding your curves — Can’t any of you understand women know how to reach their ecstasy themselves? They are the only ones who know how to reach blissful climaxes, without a man attempting to find that spot, or… Well, find the clitoris”.

You were well aware you were walking on thin ice and feeding their imagination. Then again, you were kind of getting some thoughts that had been pestering your mind for years out of your head and, additionally, you could not stop running your mouth because the wine you had consumed earlier was really getting to you. Wonderful, considering you were in the company of two supernatural beasts that could easily snap your neck like a twig, thanks to your lack of concentration.

Sosuke hummed, arms folded over his chest, back leaning against the wall behind him “I don’t doubt your words. Nobody can say to know a body more than the owner themselves. — he gave you credit for your remark, pausing only to watch you kick your boots off of your feet and run your fingers through your hair to fix them, a vision making his pants uncomfortably tight — The exception to this rule, however, is clearly in practice and acute observation. Someone who has spent centuries walking this Earth, having countless people warming up his bed, telling him where they longed to be touched, my dear, knows how to break your mind” he replied confidently, stunning you in silence as you slumped onto a chair and propped your chin over the upturned palm of your hand.

He had a point. How were you supposed to reply to this? This smile on his lips told you just enough to let you know he had no problem in showing you the empiric evidence of his theory. And, damn him, you were pressing your thighs together to subtly relieve the throbbing need irrevocably growing in your heat.

The sound of water gushing out and splattering onto the wood made your head snap back towards Kisuke, who had raised tall on his feet and climbed out of the tub with an impressive bulge worsening your state. The room felt way too hot right now and you wanted nothing more than your clothes to evaporate at the moment. You straightned your back, eyes straying away from him to preservate your mind from what you were seeing. You were definitely not a prude. Not after Grimmjow, long ago, had showed you the pleasures a cock well stuffed into your core could bring to you. Too bad he had then enrolled in the so-called Hollow Army to bring war to a Country you did not even remember the name of.

“You may know the female anatomy better than me, alright, but can you smell her arousal? Because, to be precise, she is clearly dripping underneath her gown and it all started the moment she saw me naked” the werewolf earnestly stated and, bloody Hell, how you wished you could simply summon a fireball to throw at him to shut his mouth. He was telling the truth and your upper lip twitched in irritation for having been caught red-handed so easily.

You could not blame him for having supernatural senses, though.

Your palms were sweaty, eyes darkening in anticipation as you cleared your throat before Sosuke could blast his alley’s ego effortlessly with his silver tongue. Why restraining yourself now? You had started this, they had to finish it. What was better than sex to fortificate relationships? Everything was going according to your plan, fortunately.

You spread your legs tentatively, hand reaching for the hem of your plum gown to hike it up and expose your legs up to your thighs “Still, I don’t see any of you doing something to fix the problem…” you hazardously whispered, sly smile creeping on your lips.

Sosuke arched a dark eyebrow up, cocking his head to the side “Aren’t you going to pick your knight for the ride, dear? You just expect us to jump on you like two dogs contending a piece of meat, don’t you?”.

“You know, it doesn’t really matter to me who is going to fuck me. — you started, pursing your lips thoughtfully — What I need right now is for one of you two to help me out. I offered you a bath and a room and I have blindly accepted to partake to this association, whatever it is. Consider this a payback” you stated, watching Kisuke loop his arm around Sosuke’s shoulders and whispering something you failed to catch in his ear.

With the masterly art of masking his emotions, Sosuke did not let his facial muscles stretch to display his reaction to Kisuke’s words. You guessed this was a skill he had acquired after centuries of living in a reality in which the less you showcased the longer you lived. Therefore, when the other man took a step away from him, Sosuke gazed into your eyes, looking for sincerity in your offer. When you did not falter, he motioned for Urahara to proceed. You locked eyes with the werewolf instantly, hand reaching up to scratch the stubble over his chin, when he bent down towards you.

“Did you ask your buddy if you could do the honors?” you asked him, fluttering your lashes as he bit the tip of your nose playfully, before dropping onto his knees in front of you. Calloused hands slithering up your stockings, he seeked the garters to unlatch them and free your panties from the leather restrictions.

He chuckled, shooting a knowing look at you “Let’s just say we started a contest. Who makes you come faster wins” he cooed casually, fingers tugging at the waistband of your underwear and dragging them down your thighs deftly, before clutching them in his hand and taking a long whiff of them. You squirmed on your seat, jaw dropping but closing soon, prompted by the cold hand of Sosuke now standing at your side with an obscure gleam in his caramel brown eyes.

“Relax. You are in good hands” he hushed you, thumb playing with your bottom lip, as you watched Kisuke’s head disappear underneath the layers of your gown, lips quickly finding your folds and tongue lapping at your arousal like a starving animal.

Right, this is what he was after all.

With the first licks he gave you, attention solely trained on your clitoris, you jerked over the chair you were sitting on. Your head lolled back, neck strained and chest threatening to spill out of the tight corset you were wearing. Your breasts, squeezed and pushed up by the fine item gifted to you by Lord Ishida Ryuken in exchange of Lord Kurotsuchi Mayuri’s head, were a sight the vampire could not ignore. He was a man too, at the end of day. No matter how composed and sophisticated he was: right now Sosuke Aizen only wanted to bury his face between those plush mounds and trace with his tongue a path leading to your jugular. A bite, some blood to taste you.

Fingers running through your hair, he brought his lips close to your ear, pointy nose nuzzling your cheekbone “Do you mind if I have a taste, sweetheart?”.

A taste. He wanted to feed from you. Mind fuzzy for the intense waves of pleasure provided by the werewolf’s tongue now swirling around your entrance, you moaned loudly and peered up at Sosuke in sheer desire “Are you going to suck me dry too?”.

“Don’t be foolish. I merely want to rinse my mouth from the nun’s blood. — he whispered, mouth already searching for the vein of your neck, eyes closed as he smelt the fragrance of your blood — I would rather have you screaming my name in pleasure every night than making you my meal”.

You shuddered, the tongue between your thighs was now accompanied by a finger stretching your pussy for what was yet to come. Your hand reached up to grab a fistful of Sosuke’s silky hair and tug at them, when his fangs pierced your neck. You whined, a pained one, the overflow of your blood invading his mouth depriving you gradually of some energy. The two mouths over your body were definitely robbing you of the last shreds of sanity left in you.

“Oh my Lord— Gosh, I’m close” you breathed out, a groan of approval rambling from somewhere deep in Sosuke’s chest as he pulled his mouth away from you. You felt some trickles of blood dribbling down your neck, escaping the wound he had left onto your neck, leaving goosebumps on their wake.

Legs spasming, you bucked your hips against Kisuke’s face, seeking more friction, riding your orgasm out with untainted hunger. It all felt like a lucid dream and, to be honest, you had no idea how you ended up naked over the bed after your orgasm. You remembered Sosuke pulling you into his arms, kissing you violently and spinning you around, whilst his fingers hastily undid the strings of your corset. Falling face first onto the bed, you were soon sandwiched between them.

None of you was covered, skin to skin, panting, you realized what was going on only when Kisuke’s length probbbed at your lips “Spit on it, babygirl. Suck on it, come on, make it nice and wet. You know, it’s only for the best. I don’t want to hurt that cute little hole of yours later, hm? Lubricate it”.

And you did. Tongue sweeping out of your mouth to twirl around the mushroom head of the hard cock in front of your face, you kept an intense eye-contact with the werewolf before taking as much as you could into your warm cavern. He grunted, hand resting behind your nape to push your head even more down onto him. But even though you had tried so hard not to show a gag reflex, you ended up choking on Kisuke’s cock, when you felt Sosuke’s ministrations on your puckered hole.

Tears prickled at your eyes, falling from your lashes as you took a sharp intake of air, and Kisuke sighed, hand ruffling your hair to comfort you “Sosuke, don’t be so rough with her. She’s… Ah, shit! She’s in the middle of a very delicate— Oh! Fuck, like that, shit! If you keep going like that, I’m gonna cum!” Kisuke’s protests towards the other man turned into a series of moans elicited by your mouth.

You had gained back some control, head bobbing up and down in a fluid motion, once you had adjusted to Sosuke’s intrusion in your most private parts. Before you could even properly realize it, in fact, he was already pressing his tip onto your entrance and the stretch left you breathless. Strings of saliva connected your mouth to Kisuke’s cock, choked out whines escaping your lips.

“Sosuke!” you cried out, a whimper leaving your wobbly lips, nails clawing at Kisuke’s thighs as a reflex while he held your face in his hands.

Your spine arched, eyes squeezed shut as the vampire groaned lowly, rotating his hips against yours to bottom out. Tight, warm, your hole was literally sucking him in. The spit he had used and the fingering had done nothing to make it less hard to breach in. Still, there you were, taking him like a champion. Your legs trembled, but gosh how beautiful you looked like that. Your ass, pressed up against his navel, was making it hard for him not to burst into you right on the spot.

Kisuke took notice of his colleague’s status and clicked his tongue “Oh, are you alright, man? Having a hard time holding on?”.

“Shut up, Kisuke” Sosuke admonished him sternly, fingertips digging onto your waist as you were now helped by the two men to raise better onto your knees and straddle Kisuke’s lap. You were out of breath, thin sheen of sweat beading your forehead whilst Kisuke gently slipped himself into your pussy. The feeling made your eyes roll in the back of your skull.

You heard them cussing, throwing insults at each others face, pointing out how loud you were because of their ministrations. Honestly, you had no idea of which one of them was blowing your mind more than the other. All you knew, when you forced them to kiss you contemporary in a messy dance of tongues and labored breaths, was that you were not going to betray them. Not that night, not in a lifetime.

When the three of you were done, bodies sweaty and numb, you were laying between them, spent, drained. Their seeds leaked out of your body, staining the sheets underneath you, while you absent-mindedly drew patterns on Sosuke’s pectoral and let Kisuke play with your hair.

“May my mentor be blessed, for she taught me how to make birth control potions” you muttered tiredly, huffing as Sosuke grasped your wrist and nipped at the veins to play with your emotions.

“Indeed. — Sosuke commented, glaring at Kisuke at your back — I would have hated to deal with pups around my castle”.

“What a jerk”.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hello there! It’s finally here. I will be frank with you. I have enjoyed writing this fic more than I had anticipated. There is a lot going on up there, but I hope I have been able to depict the mediveal world I had in mind. I tried to vary in the choice of the specimens mentioned and it sounded so good in my head. Hopefully, this is spooky and kinky enough to celebrate this fabulous month!

Let me know what you liked about this story in the comments! Likes and re-posts are greatly appreciated. Until next,

x o x o

Tags: @j-u-u-z-o @brittscafe @jesurum-says-hi @sashi-ya @naru-mi-gen @persuasivus @noirfan12 @my-my-my @bankaizen @enchaotic @villainsrtasty @velaenaa

#aizen sosuke x reader #aizen x reader #aizen smut #sosuke aizen x reader #aizen sosuke smut #bleach x reader #bleach smut #kisuke urahara x reader #urahara smut #urahara x reader #urahara kisuke smut #urahara kisuke x reader #aizen x reader x urahara

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onefellsloop · 11 months ago

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an Aubreyad crossover

‘Upon my word, Stephen,’ said Jack, sitting down heavily in his armchair. ‘I am sorry to see even a privateer in such a bad way. They are filthy ships, as a whole, but it is a wonder that such a squalid wreck of a sloop ever made it past Bermuda.’

‘I hesitate to correct you, my dear, but that was never a sloop. I distinctly noted but a single mast.’

‘What a fellow you are, Stephen: I am sure that you only say these things to rile me. And I have been riled enough by that ruffian, you know. What does he mean by putting to sea with a crew of untrained, undisciplined fishermen, and never exercising his guns? Every man jack of them is quite unprepared for an action.’

‘It is a sad, foolish business, so it is. Would you ever have the rosin about you?’

‘A dreadful list to larboard,’ he continued, as he hunted about the cabin. ‘I should not be surprised if they had sprung a leak, and had not the wit to fother it; I suppose you noticed that they did not stop their pumping the whole time we was aboard. She is in a worse state than the horrible old Leopard ever was, and I have not even the heart to speak of her sails. How did you find your fellow - the cook, was it?’

‘Alas, there was but little I could do for him. He was comatose; insensible; inebriate, forsooth: I doubt he has been wholly sober since he was breeched. I have warned many times - I have petitioned through the fleet - about the deleterious effects of the seaman’s attachment to his rum ration; a monstrous degrading pernicious attachment, harmful to life and to limb. Sure there was a young fellow upon the deck; could not have been more than seventeen years old, and his brain rotted quite away. He would keep babbling on American gold, and the Dear knows there are not two doubloons to rub together between Boston and Charlestown.’

‘Well, one cannot blame a man for thinking about gold; certainly not a privateersman. It is all the poor devils have to hope for. But I tell you, that captain was a rum cove: three months to make Montego Bay, by God! Shall we have the Boccherini?’

‘With all my heart.’

‘Still,’ said Jack, as he lifted his bow, ‘I am happy that we could replace their main truck. I daresay that it is the only really solid piece of the whole outfit. And it is wonderful how an action may bring a crew together, if only there was a miserable little tub about for them to catch.'

'So you have said, joy. Perhaps then, with the blessing, we will have not have seen the last of Barrett’s privateers.'

(I'm sorry! I know it's the wrong war! I couldn't get it out of my head!)

#aubreyad #stephen maturin #jack aubrey

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undiscovered-horizon · 2 years ago

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The King and the Swallow

SUMMARY: Unexpected reunion with his childhood friend and the sworn protector of the royal family takes a dramatic turn when Nikolai inquires about her uncharacteristic, cold demeanour. Confessions are shared - the good ones and the bad ones alike.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 3.7k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist<<

"[...] Swallows are believed to bring good luck and prosperity to the household. They are often associated with protecting the family as well. Similarly, the ROYAL SWALLOWS are sworn protectors of the reigning dynasty. As tradition entails, this faction is kept within one lineage, although the actual name is not included in any official documentation, becoming the object of wild speculations. According to the acquired knowledge about Royal Swallows, the next of kin is titled a Swallow only after answering The Call - an ancient, largely unknown, ritual of swearing-in believed to be conducted during the spring equinox when most grains are sowed as a symbol of new beginnings as well as the servitude intrinsic to the role. If there is more than one child in a generation, the oldest of them is assumed the leader and the regalia in the form of a gold pin with a swallow bird are passed on to them. In some regions of Ravka, touching the pin is believed to bring seven generations of good luck to the household. [...]" - excerpt from Factions and groupings in: About courts and gutters. The complete encyclopedia of the known world by Sankt Nikita

The weather leaves a lot to wish for. Grey clouds are covering the once-blue sky, cold wind tugs at clothing and leaves the skin covered in goosebumps even under a substantial amount of layers. The dense air smells of petrichor, although a thunderstorm is yet to come. Perhaps it’s the oncoming rain or the impending battles that make it difficult to breathe. Early spring is about as charming as muddy, rainy autumn. The sounds of soldiers bussing around the base are partially drowned out by rustling leaves, allowing the more naive to lie to themselves that there is, in fact, no war; it’s the wind blowing on their skin and not the grim reaper breathing down their necks.

Nikolai and Dominik grew tired if not frustrated with the restless turmoil inside the fort. Despite both of them being seasoned soldiers, they’re still learning how to lead the war. Constant chattering, yelling, echoing footsteps and loud clattering of army inventory smoked them out of the squalid building. Outside those grey walls, the world appears deceptively calm. If they stand with their backs facing the fort, maybe they can fool themselves into pretending their situation is a lot better than it really is - just for a minute or two, to not go completely mad.

But their relative peace is cut short when a bright screech pierces the cold wind. The blood-chilling sound belongs to a large bird of prey soaring low above their heads.

Nikolai knits his eyebrows. He begins his question but the implications of its answer make him fall silent halfway through: “Is that…?”

“Falcon,” Dominik finishes for him.

Surprisingly, the predator flies straight through an open window into one of the rooms in the fort. A question remains: with the falcon on its perch, where is the falconer? Fortunately, the answer arrives rather quickly:

“It’s the Swallow!” one of the soldiers yells.

Sure enough, a menacing silhouette appears on the horizon: a dark, stocky horse galloping through acres of fields with a cloaked rider on its back. Their robes in colours black, gold and ginger dance on the wind, pulled and tugged by the momentum. Surrounded by floating textiles, the rider appears more like a phantom rather than a person.

The approaching hoofbeat carries subliminal whispers of unsaid words, the echo of days long past and people who haunt others despite still being alive. The horse is slowing down its haste when the impatient rider jumps off the mount’s back. One of the soldiers manages to catch the whipping reins and pull the frenzied horse back towards the stables.

Auburn hair glistens in the dispersed sunlight as she takes the hood off her head. A few stray strands float in the wind. She hasn’t changed much - the freckles pepper her face just as he remembered and the scar splitting her lower lip still makes her look more menacing than she really is. The only difference, as far as he can tell, is that she’s a lot more beautiful than the woman he painted in his imagination during lonely nights. Her green eyes are a shade darker than the emerald he wears on his finger but to his heartache, they are equally cold as the gem.

The first person that made young Nikolai Lantsov realize that maybe girls aren’t, after all, ‘eww’.

“Lann!” his lips call out to her before his mind realizes.

But she only bows curtly. “Another time, your grace.”

The woman marches past him and into the fort. Soldiers flock to her, shoving documents into her hands and reporting on the progress of whatever duties she has given them. Watching her back, Nikolai realizes it’s the very first time in his life he’s seeing the infamous, illusive Harbinger - a claymore sword hidden in a scabbard hanging from her lower back. For a moment he wonders whether it really has decapitated as many terrorists and conspirators as people say. But this pondering is unimportant for now as Nikolai is still coming to terms with the fact that the one person he’s been dreaming of seeing again just brushed him off.

“Did she just ‘another time’ me?” he asks Dominik. “The king?”

His friend only gives him a playful grin. “Maybe she’s still upset about all the thistle you used to put in her hair.”

“She forced my hand!” he answers with a whine hiding in his voice. “It was the only way she’d talk to me instead of Cillian. Where is he anyway?”

Dominik clenches his jaw. Nervous, he scratches his neck before answering. “To be honest, I don’t think he’s with us anymore.”

Nikolai leans in, his voice low as disbelief drips from his words. “Cillian has died?”

“Hard to say what happened but she does wear the pin. Lann showed up two days ago, shortly before you arrived, and just said he’s ‘gone’. Actually, I was going to ask you about that.”

“I haven’t seen either of them since their father was killed. I had no idea she was here.”

“Well, that only complicates things.” Dominik takes off his cap, brushes his fingers through his hair and puts the hat back on. “I know Swallows don’t die in linen bed sheets but still, something horrible must have happened. It’s like something broke inside her. Maybe she’ll talk to you.”

Dominik gives Nikolai an awkward smile before patting his shoulder and leaving the king alone in the courtyard of the fort. The cold wind tugs at his clothes and Nikolai shivers. When did spring get so cold?

Lann is interrupting Dominik and Nikolai’s conversation for the second time today. They’re crowded over maps scattered on the table when she pushes the door open. They creek before the handle hits the wall with a thud and the wooden wing bounces back to close. Her rhythmic, heavy steps resound in the small room, the acoustic turning them into booming hoofbeat.

Aside from the impolite entrance, she announces her arrival only by loudly clicking her heels together. There’s no courtesy towards either of them, just a flood of laconic information:

“Kirigan’s following is growing with each day. His Grisha are fanatics, they’ll do anything he tells them to. From what I’ve gathered, they’re going to hit the First Encampment next but I’m guessing it’s something personal rather than political. Strategically, it’s a useless move. I have also received news from the northern front. They’re holding back Fjerdans but the snow shouldn’t thaw until later next month, leaving them in the cold for approximately another six weeks.”

Her cold, matter-of-fact tone makes Nikolai shiver again. Yes, people tend to become more serious as they grow up and take over important responsibilities but they never turn soulless. It’s as though the person in front of him is but a corpse brought back to life by inexplicably odious magic - rid of humanity, personality and vigour. Still, dismissing the dull ache growing inside his chest, Nikolai does his best to focus on the problem at hand. “Is there anything we can send them?” he asks in the calmest way he can muster.

“I’ve already ordered for proper preparations to be made, your grace.” She gently bows her head while speaking the title. “The shipment will leave tonight.”

Nikolai’s stomach churns. She never called him that. In fact, he can clearly remember Lann promising him that she will never address him properly. An image flashes before his eyes - June, a field behind a barn, a frown that misplaces freckles, thistle in hair, high voice speaking with a lisp: ‘You’re just Kolya’.

“If there are no further questions, I ought to leave to tend to my duties.” Lann’s voice is low and firm, completely different from the childish sound in Nikolai’s memories. Somehow, he’d rather listen to the girl with the lisp again.

The woman nods curtly before leaving the room, loudly shutting the door behind herself. Rushed footsteps resound through the hall, steadily disappearing into the ambient noise befitting a military base. Soon, her presence belongs to memories if not ghosts, considering the imposing way in which she continues to haunt Nikolai.

“I told you, Nikolai.” Dominik must have noticed his pained expression. “Something happened to Cillian and it broke her. She’s a completely different person now.”

The king looks down at the maps but then he shakes his head slightly - there’s simply no way he will just return to planning attacks and defences while Lann is but a shell of the woman he used to know; a phantom he knows by name but not the heart. And Cillian… losing one of the Swallows is a huge blow to Ravka’s assets. More than once in the history of this country did the presence of Royal Swallows make the difference between status quo and ruin. If one of them is ‘gone’, whatever that can mean, and the other has forsaken their humanity, they might as well give up already and let Kirigan take all that he’s going to intercept anyway.

Nikolai clenches his fist and sighs. If not for his own sake, he needs to do this for Ravka - at least that’s what he keeps telling himself. Truthfully, he’s more concerned with Lann’s well-being than his curiosity or worry. “Excuse me,” he murmurs half-comprehensively to Dominik before running out of the room in search of the Swallow.

Lann lets out an exasperated sigh as she hears someone knocking on the door to her bedroom. She rubs her face, pondering whether she should just pretend to be elsewhere. Wondering who might just interrupt her short-lived and rare moment of peace, Nikolai’s face flashes before her eyes. A blade of guilt pierces her chest but she doesn’t seem surprised. Truly, the moment of truth has to come at some point and, despite her own fears, the sooner the better.

“Come in,” she calls out, silently praying that it’s not the king of Ravka that comes with a visit.

The thing about prayers is that they’re not immune to various interpretations by the gods that listen. And some of them, inspired by their own grandeur, decide that they know better than the misers walking the mortal vale. Or, maybe, there are gods that simply revel in doing the opposite of what they’re asked.

The door creaks quietly as someone walks in. Lann looks over her shoulder, for a moment distracted from washing her shirt. Her chest tightens upon recognizing his face, even more so when she sees his pained expression as though her mere presence is breaking his heart. If only he knew… She clenches her jaw and returns to feverishly brushing a dark stain from her clothes.

“Can I be of assistance?” she asks curtly.

Nikolai isn’t quite sure what he expected walking in. Maybe part of him wished that once Lann is sheltered from the awestruck gaze of First Army soldiers, she’ll magically revert to the person he remembered - the relentless girl he knew nearly a decade ago. Alas, she’s nowhere to be found.

He watches her back as she’s aggressively washing a cotton shirt. Nikolai realizes that Dominik was telling the truth - she is, in fact, wearing the symbolic gold pin in her hair. It’s holding up the low bun, a coil of auburn hair that probably looked a lot more neat a few hours ago, in the morning. Not having expected guests, she’s standing over the basin wearing only a bra, revealing countless scars littering her back. Nikolai takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself. Deep lines of red, pink and white scattered across her skin look equally painful and imposing. His mind slips into wondering how much pain she had to endure during those past ten years but his imagination is, despite everything, limited. Nikolai’s gaze slips off her back, partially flustered by the unexpected show of skin and the implications of having as many scars as she does. His eyes are drawn to the long, heavy-looking sword propped up on three wooden y-shaped sticks. Harbinger, one of the finest pieces of armoury that has left the royal forge. The sharpened and waxed iron glistens in the dim light of the small fire burning inside the crude hearth. The angle at which the light dances off the edge of the blade allows Nikolai to easily read the inscription along the fuller: Virtue guide your hand. Judging by the deep scars and the fact she’s still alive, Lann must keep true to those words.

That thought brings his attention back to her and her only. The strange cold tension that presses down on his chest is something he’d never associate with her. Nikolai begins to wonder whether he’s the one removed from reality - perhaps his longing has painted her holy and not just human.

“Can we talk, Lann?” he breaks the silence. “Not Swallow to the king, just us.”

The sound of the brush hitting the ceramic basin startles him. She grips the sides of the bowl and hangs her head. Nikolai is about to apologize for interrupting and leave, clearly having annoyed her with his unforeseen presence, when he hears the voice he’s been missing for so long:

“I killed him, Kolya.”

The whisper is barely audible, making Nikolai doubt his own senses for a moment. Maybe he wants to speak with her so desperately, his mind is conjuring the conversation so he doesn’t abandon his sanity just yet.

“I killed…” she speaks again but chokes on a sob. “I killed Cillian. I had to, he-”

Lann turns around to look at him and Nikolai feels as though he’s seeing for the first time - really seeing her, not the cold exterior she greeted him with earlier. Her eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by a greyish-purple halo as though she hasn’t slept in weeks. She takes in a ragged breath but it’s not enough to calm her down - her lips quiver and tears stream down her face. There’s no telling how long she’s been holding this in.

“He was conspiring against the crown.”

Another memory causes turmoil inside Nikolai’s mind: August, the morning after a thunderstorm, skinny boy with ginger curls, a mischievous smile, a mean-looking bullfrog: ‘I bet my dessert you won’t touch it.’

Nikolai furrows his eyebrows. Either unable or unwilling to accept this course of events, he shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

“He was aiding General Kirigan. The idea to put the poison on Genya’s skin? The location of the Spinning Wheel?” She falls silent but leaves her mouth slightly agape as though she’s fighting herself to say something more. “Our father’s death?” she adds barely audibly.

“By the Saints…” he mutters under his breath. “How can you be sure?”

“Someone mistook Rudy,” the bird sitting on a perch in the corner of the room screeches at the mention of his name, “for Cillian’s falcon and I got his mail. I didn’t check the name on the envelope and just opened it, read through it and…” Lann hangs her voice for a moment. Nikolai doesn’t rush her. “I broke into his office when he wasn’t around, read through whatever documents he didn’t get to burn yet. It was all there: Kirigan’s empty promises, locations, dates, names, formulas. A whole coup d’etat across the hall from me and I never suspected a thing.”

Nikolai looks at her with obvious confusion. “It’s not your fault, Lann-”

“It is!” she yells. Tears are streaming down her face, performing a slight danse macabre on her shaking chin. Strangely enough, her grimace shows disgust rather than sadness. “I gave Cillian the poison that killed the king. I never once questioned why he would need Belladonna or aqua regia, only asked ‘How much?’. And the Spinning Wheel? He told me to make an inventory of the defenses and I only asked him when he’d like to have it done. All of this,” she frantically gestures around, “is because of me.”

“He was your brother,” Nikolai drones the word. Maybe he and Vasily didn’t always see eye to eye but he’d never even considered the possibility of his half-brother being a schemer. “Of course, you didn’t suspect him of treason. Saints, even I find it hard to believe.”

Lann steps towards him. An accusatory finger pointing towards herself. “But I should have. This is the only duty I have in this life. I bent the knee before the king and promised to keep him and his family safe. I failed at that. The only thing I was supposed to do, I-”

“Hey, stop this,” Nikolai interrupts her in a firm but gentle tone. His hands shot up to cradle her face out of some deeply ingrained instinct because he realizes his actions only when he feels her skin underneath his fingers. Berating himself for not asking her first, Nikolai is about to pull away but discards that silly idea when Lann leans into his palms. “Cillian’s wrongdoings have nothing to do with you. He may have betrayed the king but you remained loyal. You have kept your given word, no matter how difficult it was. I don’t know if I would have been equally brave.”

Her body shakes as she’s trying to calm down her breathing. It works maybe for a few seconds before another flood of salty tears rushes down her red, swollen cheeks. Lann would look tragically beautiful like one of the paintings hanging in the halls of Little Palace, if Nikolai could see past the haunting misery inside her eyes.

“If I did the right thing, why does it hurt so much?”

Nikolai feels his own throat clenching. This overwhelming powerlessness sets his fingertips ablaze, his own body begging him to do something, anything, to ease the devouring frustration burning his lungs and ribs.

“Because you still love him, despite everything.” A sad, humourless smile appears on his face. “You’ve always been a little too good.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment and he doesn’t try coaxing anything out of her. Judging by her vacant stare, Lann wouldn’t notice a fly if it sat on the tip of her nose. Nikolai feels his stomach churning when his thoughts begin suggesting to him that she really does appear like a corpse brought back to life - soulless, lacking the vigour that all things animated require to remain alive.

Suddenly, Lann wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in his chest. “What am I going to do without him, Kolya?” she cries into his shirt. Nikolai has a tight grip around her shoulders, clearly unwilling to let her go anytime soon. In all of his selfishness, he refuses to admit that this close embrace is more to curb his longing heart rather than bring her comfort. “This loneliness, it’s… If I have to bear it for a day more, I think I will die. It’s like there’s this hole, an abyss shaped like Cillian inside my chest and no one else will ever fit in there.”

“I know I can’t replace Cillian,” he begins slowly, thoughtfully, as he brushes his fingers through her hair, “I don’t even want to, but I’ll gladly be the resin that keeps you whole. If you let me, that is.”

To Nikolai’s dismay, Lann leans away from him but only enough to look at his face. His arm is still secured around her waist, keeping her body close to his. Maybe one day he’ll tell her how often he has dreamed of this very moment, imagining how her frame would fit him and how lovely her hands would feel against him.

“My grief is my problem,” she states firmly, although her trembling voice rids her of all seriousness. “You’ve got more important things to do. You’re king, you have a country to rule and a war to wage.”

Nikolai offers her a gentle smile, half-hoping to ease the tension that unchangeably makes him feel like the walls are closing in on them. “And what kind of miserable king am I going to be without my trusty Swallow?”

Lann knits her eyebrows in a sense of disbelief - did he not listen to her confession? Her repeated admission is explicit: “I killed my own brother after aiding him in a coup. I should be in the gallows.”

“Then it’s a good thing that I’m the king.” Patiently, Nikolai wipes tears off her face with his thumbs. “I need you, Lann. What words do I have to say to convince you that I truly want you by my side?”

Lann shakes her head. A breathy sigh of defeat leaves her mouth. She’ll forever remain oblivious to the heartache this little gesture of yielding is causing Nikolai. With closed eyes, she pleads: “Just tell me you forgive me.”

“I hold no grudge against you.”

“Please, Kolya.”

He studies her tired face for a moment. For the first time, Nikolai realizes that kinghood is akin to godhood - the judgment of people whose only sin is trying their best. “I forgive you. For everything that you’ve done and didn’t manage to do, I forgive you. I hope you can forgive me too.”

Before Lann can ask about his enigmatic words, Nikolai is pouring his desperation and longing into a long overdue kiss. Without hesitation, she returns the affection but this bliss doesn’t last long as guilt begins to creep up her spine again. Fighting her own desire, Lann turns her face away from Nikolai who opts for pecking her temple and cheeks, hardly capable of taming his yearning.

“This can’t be.” Lann’s whisper makes him halt his frenzied affection. She puts her hand against his chest but doesn’t push him away. “I’m a fratricide.”

“And I’m a bastard,” he answers casually as if those shameful titles carry no importance inside their microcosm. “We fit each other well, if I may say so.” Tenderly, Nikolai wraps his fingers around her wrist, keeping her hand against his chest. The longer his eyes study Lann’s face, the more his expression softens, soon becoming a painting of uninhibited adoration.

“Loving me is a disgrace to you.”

“Then I hope to never know virtue.”

She closes the distance between them, forcefully kissing him but Nikolai doesn’t seem to mind bumping noses or clashing teeth - all of that is laughable and unimportant compared to the warm softness of her lips against his. It’s everything he’s been imagining and so much more at the same time. Lann tastes like fresh berries and sour lemonade on a summer afternoon, making Nikolai wish he could relish this flavour for the rest of his life.

#nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov imagine #nikolai imagines #nikolai lantsov fanfiction #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone fanfiction #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone

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vulpes-fennec · 2 years ago

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Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 3)

Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.

Previously: The Archeron sisters had a magical experience at Prythian's Fantasia. Will Feyre be able to bargain with Amarantha to save her mother's life? WARNINGS: References to past SA in Gwyn's POV

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Tuesday, March 12th, 1889

***Nesta***

Nesta was scritch-scratching her way through the pile of correspondence in the parlor when the front door snicked shut. Blazing irritation ruined Nesta’s train of thought. Where the hell was her damn sister going?

Sure enough, Feyre’s cloaked form had just turned the corner down the street. Nesta ground her teeth, frustration fueling her quick steps into a light jog. She’d turned a blind eye to Feyre’s excursions long enough. As the eldest child, it was her responsibility to keep her sisters out of trouble. But Nesta hated running. Especially in such a layered skirt and dainty little shoes.

“You, there. I’ll pay you five shillings if you follow that girl in the black dress down the street.” Nesta announced to a boy who happened to be driving an empty wagon past her. He could not be any older than fourteen, based on his short stature and pimple-covered face. But he nodded, even cowing slightly as Nesta hopped into the grimy wagon. “Be discreet. If she catches us, you’ll only get two.”

The janky wagon rumbled and squelched over cobblestone and mud. The boy maintained a careful distance as they moved past soot-darkened gray buildings, ramshackle apartments, squalid beggars, and over the Thames River. They followed Feyre for a good half hour before she disappeared into thin air.

“Where did she go?” The boy stopped, his confusion mirroring Nesta’s. Nesta, who had been keeping a close eye on Feyre the entire time, was at a loss for words. Feyre’s honey-brown hair was easy to spot, even amongst the throng of Londoners. She was even wearing a knitted cream shawl that made her stand out in the gray. But they had traveled far enough that Nesta was certain where Feyre was headed.

The Prythian’s Fantasia tent rose tall and proud about a half mile away. The lines and colors were sharper in daylight, but the structure still evoked memories of that magical night. Nesta had not been able to stop thinking about how circus dancers pranced and spun across the ring, seductively contorting their bodies mid-air with silken ribbons. She would make the rest of the way by foot; Nesta plunked down the five shillings into the wagon before hopping out.

The circus gate was shut and the grounds were silent, which had Nesta wondering for a moment if she had guessed incorrectly. It seemed dead as a graveyard. But there it was…that faint jingle of music. Lilting notes and clear tones sweetened the air, beckoning her in. Nesta walked along the massive perimeter, following the music. She eventually reached the performers’ camp just behind the main circus.

Sure enough, her sister was idling at the camp’s edge, wringing her hands and pacing anxiously as if she was working up the nerve to enter. A gold-painted sign propped next to the small entrance read: Prospective performers, seek Amarantha.

“Feyre,” Nesta called out firmly.

Feyre jumped, her blue-gray eyes widening in surprise. “Nesta!” Her expression pinched with sudden nervousness. “What are you doing here? Have you been following me?”

“I should ask the same thing about yourself. Not thinking of running away to the circus, are you?” Nesta replied dryly.

“I’m not running away…I simply must speak with the ringmaster.” Nesta groaned in frustration when Feyre strode away. Whatever business Feyre had with Amarantha, Nesta was not going to wait around for her sister to come back out.

During the day, the circus performers were unrecognizable in regular garb, with women in plain linen dresses and men in standard brown pants and shirts. Nesta clearly stuck out, with her pale blue dress and embroidered silk slippers. Even Feyre looked more proper than usual, with her freshly cleaned lilac dress and carefully braided hair.

Colored caravans were interspersed between medium-sized tents and practice rings. The performers barely paid Nesta and Feyre any attention as they navigated down the crunchy dry grass and towards the large plum tent with the words “ringmaster’s office” scripted on a hanging placard.

A tall, muscular man stood under the tent’s awning, and Nesta gawked at him openly. He was not like the sniveling, pale, weak-boned aristocrats of London society. Nor was he like one of those bumbling country boys who were all brawn but no brain. His golden eyes were like a hawk’s: sharp, intelligent, and…beautiful. Was he a circus performer, or personal protection? Nesta could not recall having seen him in the show, for she would certainly remember a man like him.

“What’s your business here?” he asked with a half grin, in a deep voice that sounded like a song. Nesta clenched her jaw, trying to keep herself from getting carried away.

“We request an audience with Amarantha,” Feyre responded. The man’s crossed arms stretched and creased his gray shirt along defined muscles. Nesta’s eyes were fixated on the triangle of ruddy brown skin, like that of sailors who spent their days out in the open seas, peeking through the unbuttoned top of his shirt.

“What is the nature of your audience?”

“I seek her aid for our ailing mother.” Nesta blinked in surprise. Running to a circus ringmaster for healing? Feyre must have lost her mind.

The man’s hazel eyes snapped towards Nesta’s face, picking her steely facade apart and assessing every hidden, dark thought. She could have sworn his pupils widened with subtle desire. His chiseled face was rugged, as if a sculptor had failed to smooth down a marble statue before presenting their work to an art exhibit.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His attitude had changed, and it stung, for some reason.

“I don’t see why not?” Nesta blurted out. “You are not the ringmaster.” The man scoffed at her now, his lip twitching in condescension.

“What you seek would not benefit you in the slightest.” Normally, Nesta would have wholeheartedly used the barring of entry as an excuse to drag Feyre away. But his self-righteous and dismissive attitude riled her.

“Cassian,” a strong, female voice called from the interior of the tent. “Do we have guests outside? Do let them in.”

So that was his name. Cassian.

“Seems you do not have the final word around here.” Nesta allowed her lips to twitch in a simpering smirk as she walked past Cassian, who had gone rigid with fury, most likely. She could not banish the memory of his intense hazel eyes, which were surely pinned on her back like a target as she slipped into the ringmaster’s tent.

***Feyre***

It was surprisingly dim inside the tent, and the air clung to Feyre’s cheeks like a damp fog. Ringmaster Amarantha sat in a large velvet chair, reading a book and sipping from a goblet of wine. She’d exchanged her bodice and breeches for a deep purple gown that made her alabaster skin appear bloodless.

“Good afternoon,” Amarantha purred with a saccharine smile. “What brings such lovely ladies to my domain today?” It seemed the ringmaster’s charisma was not limited to the stage. Feyre took a step forward, dipping her head in a slight bow.

“Good afternoon, ringmaster. I heard you possess…magic. And I’ve come to humbly request your assistance. My mother has been gravely ill for months.” The Archeron family’s fate hung upon Amarantha’s answer.

“My assistance does not come without a price. Tell me, dear, what is your name?” Amarantha tossed her thick, crimson hair behind a shoulder.

“Feyre Archeron.” Confidence—keeping her voice steady—was crucial.

“And yours?” Amarantha’s dark gaze swiveled to Nesta, who did not balk at the sheer weight of the ringmaster’s stare.

“Nesta. Nesta Archeron,” she replied. “I’m Feyre’s older sister.” Amarantha hummed in approval. She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers together in contemplation.

“Feyre Archeron, I do not desire money or riches as a form of payment. I will provide a healing potion for your mother, as long as you agree to half a year of service with my circus: Prythian’s Fantasia.”

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But Nesta pinched Feyre’s arm hard before she could speak.

“Please excuse us for a moment,” Nesta said roughly. Amarantha waved her hand flippantly, returning to her book. Nesta dragged Feyre to the side. “Have you lost your mind, Feyre?” she hissed lowly. “Join a circus? For some crackpot potion, when Mother is already on her way out this world?”

Feyre’s blue eyes flashed angrily.

“I need to try, Nesta,” she argued back. “I know that you are not fond of Mother. But imagine what Father will endure if she dies. And think about Elain! You may not want to get married, but are you willing to be her chaperone next year? Be my chaperone for another season?”

“The ringmaster didn’t even inquire about Mother’s condition. How would her ‘potion’ be any useful cure?” Nesta asked, a little more loudly.

“Magic,” Amarantha called out lazily. “Six months of service seems sufficient in exchange for a potion that acts as a general restorative for any ailment, don’t you think?”

“Magic does not exist. Healing potions do not exist,” Nesta rationalized. “You’re being foolish, Feyre. Save yourself from the embarrassment.”

“Magic does exist. I know it,” Feyre shot back, her voice a harsh whisper. She turned back to Amarantha. “My mother’s condition is too dire to wait six months. What if she passes before my term of service is completed?”

Amarantha’s mouth curled in a wry grin. “You do drive a hard bargain, my dear. I will award you the potion after two months of service, but you must finish the six months with me before you are free to leave.”

“This is a traveling circus, is it not? Where do you plan to go?” Feyre asked.

“We will be making a touring loop around England before heading to Paris in May for the World’s Fair,” Amarantha responded. “Our stops will be in the main cities of Bristol, Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Cambridge, and Southend-on-Sea.”

Feyre chewed her lip. Her answer was still ‘yes’ but would two months be soon enough?

“One month of service,” Nesta declared suddenly. Feyre stared at her older sister in confusion. “I will take part in the bargain, as long as you give us the ‘potion’ after one month of service.”

Amarantha’s dark eyes gleamed with feral delight. “Very well, then. Come closer, ladies. All I need is a few droplets of your blood.”

“For what?” Nesta blanched.

“The potion, of course.” Nesta and Feyre stepped closer to Amarantha, who produced a sharp needle. Amarantha grasped Feyre’s hand, her slender fingers icy cold and unusually strong.

“A bargain: one healing potion, to be given after a month of work, in exchange for six months of Feyre Archeron’s work in Prythian’s Fantasia,” Amarantha intoned.

Feyre watched with fascination as crimson welled from her index finger and dripped into a small glass vial. A prickling sensation raced from her fingertip to her elbow. Amarantha did the same for Nesta, handing them both linen bandages once she was done. The ringmaster pocketed the glass vial and smiled demurely at them.

“Thank you, ladies. Prythian’s Fantasia departs for Bristol on Friday morning. I shall see both of you here no later than eleven o’clock.”

“What will our roles be?” Feyre blurted out. Amarantha assessed them critically.

“Feyre, our magician is in need of an assistant, especially for the World’s Fair. You shall work closely with him on his acts. Nesta, I see you have a dancer’s grace. You shall participate in our aerial silks act.”

“Thank you.” Feyre smiled, feeling incandescent. Everything was lining into place: she would save her mother, go on an adventure, and become closer with the handsome magician. The magician! Perhaps by working with him, she could also find answers about her magic.

She was so caught up in her joy that she barely noticed a glowering Cassian as they exited Amarantha’s tent. She was going to join the circus! Feyre’s finger throbbed with residual pain, proof that this was truly happening. “You didn’t have to strike a bargain with Amarantha,” she pointed out. “So why did you?”

Nesta seemed lost in a similar wishful daze. “It’s a ticket to Manchester. The beating heart of the suffragist movement. I also couldn’t let you do such a foolish thing alone.” She gave Feyre a dubious glance.

Feyre froze. “Oh, damn us,” she gasped, glancing at Nesta with wide eyes. “What are we going to say to Elain?”

***Gwyn***

Tears rolled down Gwyneth Berdara’s cheeks at the memory of her twin sister Catrin’s joyful face and pealing laugh. How many more times could she draw upon her recollections before they faded away? Catrin’s silver wedding ring hung on a chain around Gwyn’s neck, was the only physical part of her sister she had left—and served as a reminder of all that was lost.

Her heart hurt, but at least she wasn’t in physical pain anymore. Gwyn squeezed her eyes shut and sobbed, pushing away the memories of the cursed brothel. The rank smells, the raucous laughter of drunkards. The clinking of coins before they began. The leering men who did not bother with “making love” to women.

From what Catrin told her, intercourse was supposed to be a blissful and exciting experience. But Gwyn only knew pain. Pain from the bruises, the pulling of her coppery-brown hair, the chafing of skin between her legs.

There was also a specific memory of warm, wet blood and the sounds of screams in the dark. And a fast-cooling body.

Gwyn wiped her teary face and allowed herself one last sniffle before getting up from her cot. At least the bruises on her arms and waist had faded after a week with Prythian’s Fantasia. She’d sought the help of Thesan, the circus physician, who gave her contraceptive tonics without any judgment.

The caravan she shared with Emerie, Nuala, and Cerridwen was packed to the brim. Small windows ventilated the space, a small copper tub was shoved in the corner, and clothes and books were strewn across all available surfaces.

Gwyn was on kitchen duty today. The center of the camp served as the main area for meals and congregating, with food prepared in the open air. Tarquin and Daphne Vanserra were already there, baking bread in the clay oven and handling the wheels of cheese.

“The vegetables are already washed,” Tarquin said, pointing to the crates of leafy greens, carrots, and potatoes. Tarquin cut a striking figure, with his turquoise eyes and long white hair contrasting with his dark brown skin. She’d only known him for a week, but his gentle smiles and thoughtful nature had put Gwyn at ease with her new surroundings.

Gwyn picked up a sharp knife and began dicing the vegetables, placing the smaller pieces into large wooden bowls for stew. She was so engrossed with her cutting that when a man silently stepped up next to her, Gwyn jumped with fright. But it was only the dagger-thrower, here to assist with meal preparation.

He was the same height as her, with a slightly muscled build. Inky black hair curled around the nape of his neck and fell in front of his angular hazel eyes, which softened slightly at her reaction.

“Apologies,” he muttered, his voice low.

“It’s alright,” Gwyn responded quickly. “My name is Gwyn. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She smiled broadly at him.

“You’ve been crying, haven’t you?” Gwyn stiffened, her smile slipping away.

“Azriel, don’t you know it’s rude to say such things to a lady?” Daphne tutted at the dagger-thrower.

“Apologies,” Azriel said again. He picked up a knife and began expertly fileting the skin and bone off a slab of meat. Gwyn stared: pale scars streaked across his olive-toned hands. They moved with deadly precision. Smears of blood had begun to coat the tips of his fingers…Azriel met her gaze with a sharp look that had Gwyn glancing away with embarrassment. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Gwyn replied. “I joined the circus right when it arrived in London.”

“Why?” His words were short, and to the point.

Catrin’s lifeless face, with sunken-in cheeks and chapped lips flashed before her. That horrible smell…those awful hands grabbing her, hurting her…Gwyn shrugged nonchalantly.

“I needed to make some money. When did you join the circus?” Azriel’s brows lifted slightly at her returning question.

“Almost five years,” he replied. The dagger-thrower did not offer any more words of conversation after that. Daphne and Tarquin chatted in the background, but between Azriel and Gwyn, there was only silence. Gwyn’s eyes began watering again when she started on the onions. Before she could reach for a second onion, Azriel wordlessly took the whole crate away.

“Thank you. I suppose I’ve cried enough for today,” Gwyn murmured. She snuck a glance at the dagger-thrower, and was disappointed to see his face stone-cold at her attempt to jest.

✨

Tags: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo @jealousveronya @corcracrow @fieldofdaisiies @the-lonelybarricade

#prythian's fantasia #feysand #nessian #gwynriel #acotar #acotar fanfiction #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #gwyneth berdara

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fudgebuggyy · 4 months ago

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✥ The Integral of Us ✥ - Chapter 2

Pairing: Jayce/ Viktor , Male!OC/Jayce/Viktor

Rating: Mature

Word count: 9k - 2/3 Chapters

Tags: No Hextech AU, Bilgewater lore, married Jayce/Viktor, bearded!Jayce, longhaired!Viktor, Original Character POV, dynamic: married couple adopts little shit

Isak's attention zeroes in on the framed photographs at eye level. One in particular stands out, even in the dark. It’s yellowed with age. Two men grin excitedly, dressed in purple robes and caps as if for a ceremony, faces round with youth, one tall and broad and tawny-skinned, the other slender, elegant, eyes bright as crucibles.

The ears. The cane. The mole above the right-hand corner of his mouth—

✥ ✥ ✥

When two Piltovian toolmakers open up a workshop in Rat Town (of all places) named Coin & Crank (dreadfully), it gets slopped in fish guts and ransacked within a week. A Piltovian’s stubbornness should’ve come with little surprise, and when they rebuilt, the only reason it wasn’t burnt to the ground was thanks to word getting out that the last ransackers fled the Coin & Crank with permanent brain damage.

(Also, look, they're super fucking hot and all the local twinks are having an existential crisis.)

Isak doesn’t see the man again.

Historically, his reserves for luck last long enough to snatch some smoked meats at the market while the vendor’s not looking, a bed for the night, a bath at a brothel. The rest is chickenshit. Isak’s used to the chickenshit: Lovely day, you say? Watch out for the debt collector who’s been running up and down Rat Town for the past two weeks searching for your scrawny penny-less ass because you tossed all your coin at the wrong razorfin down in the betting dens!

He doesn’t mourn much.

Selis has barred him from ever working at the Canary again (“If I wanted to run a rowdy whorehouse, I’d be down in Squidrow!”), and while Danni still loves him, she didn’t bother hiding her disappointment (“I love you, Isak. You are a disappointment, Isak.”).

Isak doesn’t see the man again.

✥ ✥ ✥

Life goes on: an odd job here, an odd job there, followed by wasting all his coin on soggy cigarettes and buckets of terrible ale. He asks Fat Joe for some gold to bet on another razorfin fight. Predictably. He bets on the wrong razorfin. Predictably.

It turns out Fat Joe’s new arm can give you the kind of concussion that leaves you blind for a day.

Isak doesn’t see the man again.

(Predictably.)

✥ ✥ ✥

Not even a month later and Danni has lost interest in her Noxian. She’s swept off her feet by some one-eyed mercenary named Nova (because Danni stores all her luck in her massive tits). She disappears the way she does when she gets sucked into the whirlpool of men or women who promise to take her far away from here, leaving Isak a note at whatever squalid inn he happens to be squatting at.

They’re the alley cats after all, and if opportunity strikes, offering a warm meal and an even warmer bed for the night, you take it, you fend for yourself. Down here, it’s you against anyone and everyone else; even those you don’t hate that much.

Isak's only bitter about it because he, on the other hand, is never swept away by any whirlpools of men or women; he gets blue-balled and tossed off laps after five minutes of conversation.

He tries not to think of the man in the Canary, tries not to think about how he still remembers his name. Tries not to think about the mole above his mouth, or his accent, or his eyes, or his perfectly shaped ears, or his mysterious lover, tries not to imagine they’ve found someone else, some pliable little chumrat who doesn’t know how to suck a man off to save a life.

It secretly devastates him enough he persuades Fat Joe to lend him some more coin before he stumbles down to the betting deans, high off the delusion that maybe, just maybe, there’s a bored god amongst the sea of them, who thinks, maybe, just maybe, he can let this rascal win.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t so terribly that when the monsoon season arrives at the Serpent Isles, it hits like a battering ram: blackened skies, torrential rains, winds that peel the tin roofs off the shacks in the bay.

The waters are too treacherous to be ventured into, rendering all serpents around the isles un-slaughtered and all dockworkers scrambling for the few jobs left like dogs snarling over a bone. Trade slows with no merchant vessels able to dock, meaning the city goes uncharacteristically quiet.

Even though such seasons come around twice a year, Isak never prepares for them properly.

Like clockwork, he loses his bed and board at another inn after this week’s payment falls short, which isn’t so terrible considering he was sharing a room with some struggling bard who kept trying to touch him in his sleep.

With Guppy on one arm and an old flour sack with their belongings on the other, he sets out to the only place they’ll be left alone.

Isak likes to think of himself as an opportunist when need be, meaning hunkering down near the outskirts of Bilgewater’s graveyard is a sound decision.

White Wharf is where the casks woven to grave buoys are left to float, and the people of Bilgewater are a superstitious bunch—you don’t fuck with the dead—so other than the occasional scavenger, the dead are left alone and Isak can enjoy some peace and quiet for once.

He sets up shelter in one of the abandoned fishing huts near the rock, its roof and floorboards left relatively intact. It’s routine by now; he’s the nomad setting up his tent, making a home in whatever hole he manages to squeeze into.

The tarp slung over the ground, his mother’s jade charm hung above the ramshackle door to deter unwanted visitors, his little trinkets set up by the crooked window pane like a magpie lining its nest. His current favorite is the opal-crusted tin he stole from a cheating merchant’s wife in the Eyries. He keeps his baby teeth in it.

Isak gives most of the bread he stole from the temple offerings to Guppy. She burrows into his side, his horned ball of cotton. Yipping contently as he curls around her on the floor. Her heart-shaped belly rises and falls in the dark. Huffing, he pats it, that satisfying pap it makes. He rakes his fingers through her soft fur. She farts. He snorts. “Bless you,” he mumbles, curling around her for warmth, her soft squeals of delight.

Like this, things don't feel that bad. He’s not that hungry, and he’s not that exhausted, and he’s not that alone, and the rot in the planks doesn’t pinch at his nostrils so much, and he imagines this monsoon season will be over quickly. He can wish it almost like a prayer as he watches his mother’s jade charm swing back and forth above the door.

Isak doesn’t mourn much—except when he does, when he mourns everything and everyone, and her most of all.

✥ ✥ ✥

“You want the job or not?”

“You know, it’s thanks to them you can finger your asshole while you jerk off.” Isak ducks before Fat Joe’s mechanical arm whacks him into oblivion, yet again.

Arms lifted, Isak tries not to laugh. “I’m just saying! You seriously want to steal from the Tinkers? Don’t you think that’s shitty? Just objectively speaking?”

“Oh, you wanna to talk about objective shittiness? Remind me of how much you owe me? And then while you’re at it, go ahead and remind me of how much you’ve paid back since.”

“I’ve offered you, like...two handies! You can’t tell me I haven’t tried!” Isak lifts his arms, almost slipping on a puddle of ale as he backs up against the bar.

Because. Yeah. Point taken.

There really is no code of conduct in this shithole. The sad truth is that Isak owes Fat Joe just as much as Fat Joe owes someone else, and said someone else owes enough to someone who will likely lock them in a fishing crate lined with cannon shards and toss them into the bay. It’s a real depressing loop of the luck-less. And so Isak isn’t even that mad when Fat Joe pulls his usual half-baked threat: “Either you take the job, or I’ll demonstrate what this managed to do to a cantaloupe,” he lets the mechanical arm whirr, “and this time I’ll be using your head.”

Isak bites his tongue in hopes that’ll keep him from saying something supremely stupid, like how maybe Joe should stop saying stuff like that because it sounds an awful lot like he fucked the cantaloupe. Isak decides to stare at the half-eaten plate Joe left on the bar counter instead.

“Nothing specific, right?” he says to the potatoes.

“Just go the for shiny-looking shit.” Joe makes a show of pushing a potato to the grimy floor.

Shrugging, Isak shifts to pick it up. “Easy enough.”

“You brought rocks the last time.” Crushing the potato beneath his boot, Joe leans in close.

“They were painted gold!”

“Yellow algae powder, you fucking toad.”

“Damn, Joe, so you remember that but you still need to use your fingers to count—”

This time, Isak doesn’t duck fast enough.

✥ ✥ ✥

So Isak is good at being an opportunist; whore one night, drug mule the next, a barback, a scavenger, he’ll dig through serpent’s guts if someone told him it had swallowed a whole pirate’s loot.

And even though he makes a spectacular harlot, he makes an even better thief.

Small enough to squeeze through cracked windows and storm drains, a chimney once, and the places he can’t get to, Guppy can. There’s a terrible place in the afterlife reserved for assholes who teach their poros to crawl through pipes to open doors from the inside, to grab shiny little keys and toss bags of gold out open windows.

It’s quiet near the temple grounds, the artist’s quarter lined with herbalists and chemists, weaving houses and shops that sell jewelry made of bone coral. Every corner here has been blessed by the priestesses. When Danni still considered herself Buhru, she told him everything around the temple grounds has to be in alignment, it’s something to do with energies, patterns finding their balance, all that spiritual blah-blah. Only the chosen are allowed to stay here, and even fewer are allowed into the temple itself.

Ancient Buhru carvings ripple from the cliffside, they’re engraved in the wood of walkways, in window trims and doorframes. Images of waves, of Kraken tails, the sick and injured healed by the spirits. Bilgewater is for the superstitious, full of believers. They don’t mess with the dead and they most certainly don’t mess with the holy—and again, Isak is good at being an opportunist.

For a moment he settles into an alley across from the Coin & Crank. He scans its weathered timber facade, its mismatched windows, the clean Piltovian script etched into the signage above the door. He’s never seen it before, only pieced it together in his mind during the last talk he had with Fat Joe, who’d pulled some poor street urchin to watch the shop for a week. (“They’ve been closing early because of the weather. They turn off the lamps in the shop and head upstairs, ten o’clock on the dot. You just gotta watch out for the cripple. Sometimes he works at night—”)

Isak watches the rain hammer across the crooked roof before streaming onto a line of potted plants arranged beneath the storefront. A candle flickers behind the porthole on the second floor, big and round, the watchful gaze of a whale.

Lightning strikes.

He checks his pocket watch: It’s almost midnight.

When the thunder rolls into the bay, he moves. Guppy bolts ahead, her stubby legs dribbling through the puddles.

They make quick work of a back window, fiddling with the trap Joe warned them about. (“Place is booby-trapped as all hell!”—He repeated it often enough Isak’s sure he just enjoys hearing himself say booby.) They've broken into enough places to know their way around typical traps; counterweights and pulley systems, sets of spring-loaded clamps. But Isak quickly realizes the Tinkers are clever assholes. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure out they’ve set a decoy, and it takes him an even embarrassingly longer time to cajole Guppy into fiddling with the right mechanisms, trying to goad her with scraps of bread he keeps stuffed in his pockets to get her to listen. His cape is soggy with rain and sweat by the time Guppy has jammed the tip of his pocket knife into a set of hidden gears, stopping the mechanism long enough for Isak to squeeze through the window.

They stare at each other in silence, waiting for the satisfying click as the gears are jammed fully.

Easy.

“Good girl,” Isak mouths, giving Guppy a pat to her flank. She answers with a muted chortle.

Easy.

They move quickly. His messenger bag opened, Guppy crawling onto shelves and worktables, tossing trinkets that Isak snatches mid-air. They grab anything, everything, stray coins and brass-like cogs, gold-plated screws, glow stones glimmering apple-green in the dark. A shiny spyglass, a compass shaped like a flower. Guppy throws, Isak catches, they move like the inside of a watch. The two of them inching through the dark as the storm masks each clank inside their filling messenger bag.

Isak works his way across the wide worktables scattered with papers and prints and scraps and tools, ending at the shelves in the far back of the shop. They look thoughtfully arranged in presentation. Filled with books, their spines painted in swirling silver and gold, framed plaques, trophies flanked by paintings and photographs and a collection of objects that don’t look Piltovian: a silver acorn, a prayer bell with its geometric patterns painfully Targon, scarab amulets and white fur pouches, leftovers of what looks like a dagger hilt painted in Noxian red.

There’s so much.

Isak carefully glides his fingers over the treasures—because they are treasures, all of it, special the way only a bounty can be—thinking of the faraway places they must’ve come from. He stops at a comb propped up next to a set of photographs. The comb is made of wood, its dark stain, its swirling clouds and blossom patterns.

Ionia.

Isak reaches for it, eager as a child, and he presses it to his nose, unthinking, eyes closed as he inhales. Something huge and terrible wells in his stomach.

He hears Guppy trot towards the back of the shop. He opens his eyes, his attention zeroing in on the framed photographs at eye level. One in particular stands out, even in the dark. It’s yellowed with age. Two men grin excitedly, dressed in purple robes and caps as if for a ceremony, faces round with youth, one tall and broad and tawny-skinned, the other slender, elegant, eyes bright as crucibles.

The ears. The cane. The mole above the right-hand corner of his mouth—

Click.

Isak has had enough pistols cocked at his back to recognize the sound.

The comb clatters to the floor. His hands shoot up. The hood of his cape slips. Somewhere in the back of the shop Guppy squeals.

“Turn.” A man’s voice, low and liquid.

Isak does what he’s told.

He still remembers his name.

Does he remember his?

In the murky dark, Isak watches as Viktor’s face twists then loosens with something like recognition. His mouth opens. He wants to say something, anything. “I—”

“Vik!”

Another man’s voice bellows through the shop, coming from somewhere in the back. “I give up! Grab the next screwdriver and shatter my eardrums. I can’t sleep in this weather.” The man sputters a deep laugh. The creaking of wood, pounding of footsteps.

Isak’s mind clings to Guppy, somewhere, somewhere in the shop and the panic claws through him so quickly he almost doubles over. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

Viktor’s face smooths out. Isak can’t breathe.

Two things happen in quick succession: Viktor shuffles back and unlocks the door, shuffles forward, cane knocking across the floor as he stashes the pistol beneath the worktable beside him.

The lamps turn on, revealing Guppy frozen in the middle of the workshop, cowering low as she stares up at a mountain of a man. "Oh—How’d you get in here?” The man, the man from the picture, huge in the cramped workshop. Isak knows it’s him even with the beard, the longer hair. He hovers in the entrance to a hallway Isak hadn’t spotted in the dark.

For a second the man softens, staring down at Guppy whose usually twitching tail stands upright in shock.

And then things change.

The man stiffens, looks up, sees Viktor. Sees Isak.

The panic lashes out, zig-zags up his throat to punch him right under the chin. Vision swimming, just for a moment.

The glare in the man’s eyes is all Isak needs to know that he was the one who made sure the last ransackers never returned.

Get ready, get fucking ready—

Viktor clears his throat. “As I said, we’re closed.” They stare at him, his casualness, his voice steady like he’s picking up a conversation. Like his eyes weren’t blown with panic just moments ago, like Isak isn’t choking on breath. “Our opening hours are written on the sign outside. We can take a look at your hand another time.”

Viktor’s eyes flick to Isak’s fingers, resting on the messenger bag.

His fingers.

Did you notice at the Canary? When I was touching you, did you notice?

He can’t help but think of his eyes, what they looked like from up close, the thick fanning of lashes.

Big Man crosses the small space so fast Isak doesn’t have enough time to react, feels him loom as he stations himself between Isak and Victor.

Partner, Isak thinks. The Tinkers, like a surname, like a couple.

The man’s face mars with confusion as he half-turns towards Viktor. “Sorry, I thought I—No, I’m pretty sure I locked the door.”

Viktor shrugs. Isak stares at the worktable where the pistol is stashed. He thinks of all the other weapons hidden around the shop. Holy grounds or not, this is Bilgewater after all. Not that Big Man needs much to bash a head in.

Viktor shuffles past the guy, tapping his cane against a muscled calf. “Latch didn’t catch. I told you to fix it.”

“I fixed it.”

“Clearly.”

The man looks confused again, wary maybe, and he jerks back ready to argue. “No. No, I’m sure that I—”

“Again, as I said,” Viktor cuts him off and faces Isak fully, “thank you for your visit, but we are closed.”

Lightning strikes, its light cleaving between them before the thunder hits.

Guppy lurches into the air, scrambling around the shop and hitting her head on a table leg before she bumbles against Isak. She yips once and loud, and great, now she’s crying, and Isak can’t feel his legs as he drags her up, her stubby paws wheeling in the air as she desperately searches for purchase. She crawls up his chest, digs her wet nose into his neck, whining.

Isak is good at being an opportunist, except when he isn’t, and really, this is it, this is the chickenshit. And if he's being honest, he's too hungry to think straight, he's so fucking hungry he could sob from it, fold from it, and he’s tired. He’s so unfathomably exhausted he wants to open the messenger bag, flip it upside down, dig his knees into the floorboards and let these beautiful men kick him until his skull splits in two, and he can’t breathe anymore, he can’t breathe, and maybe, just maybe, just for a moment, that bored god amongst the sea of them will see this and think, hey, okay, this little harlot really isn't doing so well, maybe we can give him a break?

Will anyone out there just give him a fucking break?

Big Man stares at Guppy for so long even Viktor seems mildly confused.

Then Big Man stares at Isak, then back at Guppy, and then something in his face changes. It’s disorienting seeing someone of this size go from unthreatened to threatened to unthreatened again. Isak’s dizzy from the whiplash. His mouth is dry and his vision goes blurry, and he wants to press the heels of his hands into his eyes, tilt his head back like he’s trying to stop a nosebleed.

“Well.” Big Man clears his throat. “You must’ve come a long way.”

“Yes, and he can come a long way at a more appropriate time.” Viktor jerks his cane towards the door.

Big Man rests his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “He’s not usually this charming. It’s the weather,” he says. “So, you're here because of your hand, is that right?” He looks at Isak’s fingers. Viktor looks at the messenger bag.

The messenger bag. Right. Shit.

“Uh, no, it—Yeah. But, you know, that’s—” Isak clears his throat. His voice wobbling and grating and unfamiliar. “That’s alright. I’ll—uh—head out.” Run? Should he just make a run for it? Toss himself from the next cliff perhaps? Best to just kill himself. “This was…” He nods. Guppy’s butt whacks him in the cheek as she tries to dig a hole into his neck. His focus zeroes in on the unlocked door. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll just—” He shuffles forward, tries to wedge himself past them. He’ll run, he’ll run.

“I’ll head out.”

“Good,” Viktor says, the handle of his cane hooking into the strap of the messenger bag, pulling.

“Nonsense.” Big Man grabs Isak by the shoulder, the messenger bag slipping from the handle, and he ushers Isak towards a worktable in one easy swoop. If Isak thought he had whiplash before, being manhandled this smoothly definitely did it.

Fuck—

“Sit.”

“Jayce.”

“We don’t charge for consultations.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

Isak feels like someone yanked his tongue out of his head. He can’t speak, can’t find the right thing to say, a desire he usually shoves to the bottom of any and all priorities.

Viktor and Big Man—Jayce— have a whole mumbled conversation: What else are we going to do? You’re telling me you’re going to sleep through that? Thunder shattering all around. Might as well do something useful.

Viktor’s brow cocks at a deadly angle, and what follows is an argument carried out with nothing but scrunched noses and eyebrows, which Jayce seems to win by a margin.

Isak sits, struck like a live wire, Guppy clawing at his neck like she’s trying to find a way inside of him.

What is happening right now?

What is happening?

“Alright, let me get the template boards.” Heading towards the hallway in the back, Jayce almost sounds...giddy.

“We haven’t had a single customer in days,” Viktor mumbles, more to himself than Isak. His stare feels like a slap to the face. It’s nothing like back at the Canary.

Isak must really be the unluckiest bastard on this floating pile of garbage.

Viktor nudges the chair so Isak faces him, his cane bullying itself between his legs. He feels for something on the handle, and with a click, the cane shoots up, revealing a blade digging into the floorboards like a splice. As Viktor leans in close the cane, almost sweetly, skims the edge of Isak’s inner thigh. Something hiccups through his throat. Spreads there on the roof of his mouth. Panic, panic and everything else.

“Did you follow me?”

“No, I—I didn’t know, I swear.”

“Have you been watching me?”

“Look, I promise,” Isak tries to swallow but everything in his throat has congealed, “this was just supposed to be some—”

“—terrible coincidence?”

Isak can’t muster an answer. He doesn’t like how Viktor chose the word terrible.

He must be easy enough to read because something in Viktor’s shoulders shifts, just a fraction. “I thought you didn’t do house visits.”

Isak can’t hold back a wheezy incredulous laugh. What the fuck?

“This isn’t our first monsoon season. I suppose I don’t blame anyone for trying. And I have to admit,” almost amused, “I’m impressed you got inside.”

“Wasn’t that hard.”

“Is that so?”

“Maybe, maybe next time—I don't know...hide the gearbox better.”

"It was underneath the floor." Viktor’s faces loses all humor. The cane presses into Isak’s thigh so hard his breath hitches. “You will not steal from us again. Is that understood?”

Viktor kicks the messenger bag underneath the worktable, a pretty Piltovian coin escaping and rolling across the floor before Viktor’s foot slams over it.

Isak swallows. He nods.

“Good.” Viktor seems to believe him. He softens again, and for a moment they look at each other.

He doesn't appear as put-together as he did at the brothel. His long wavy hair scraped into a sloppy ponytail, the collar of his shirt peeled open, his collarbone there, the fine swoop of his neck. Was he asleep before this? The both of them? In a bed upstairs? In the room with the round window and the candle?

Something hot and uncomfortable blooms in his stomach.

When Viktor finally leans back, Isak slumps back in the chair. He feels like a hand has loosened from his throat. He sits there in a pile of himself, bone atop bone atop muscle atop muscle.

He feels useless as he watches Viktor lock the shop doors, get a fire going in the hearth, useless as he stares at the strangely shaped wooden boards Jayce spreads out on the worktable once he returns.

Will Jayce not ask? Why Isak stumbled in here in the middle of the night assuming they were open? Will he not check the latch in the door? Pat him down? Will he not ask?

But Jayce settles on a chair opposite from him, calm as a manatee, and he does not ask.

Mercy doesn’t exist in a place like Bilgewater. It’s so foreign to Isak he can only think of it in the same vein he would miracles or sudden bouts of fortune. Luck so special it can’t possibly be real, even less so for thieves and liars. Luck so extraordinary it’s meant for kings.

There's this thing his body does sometimes—or maybe it’s his head, or his spirit, something complicated. He feels like he’s floating outside of himself, unlatching, unsticking, and he’s inches away and not fully inside, gazing down at each moment as it passes.

His hands are so cold they’re tinged gray beneath the worktop lamp, its long neck craned over his palm, his stumps where his fingers used to be. Joints so cold they're cramped together, arthritic, like a clam.

Viktor and Jayce—the Tinkers—they’re talking but Isak feels like he’s listening from the bottom of a murky tub.

May I? Someone asks, and he nods, and his hand is taken, pried apart so carefully, turned, touched, by thick nimble fingers. The dark hairs on those fingers, the scar running along a knuckle. The silver ring there.

They’re too small for our regular socket fits.

Small enough for a coil spring though.

Maybe adjust the anchor point here? A cool pale finger runs up the stumps of Isak’s own.

Long, steadfast, a pianist’s fingers, or a harpist’s, interrupted by knuckles like pods of poppyseed. The silver ring there.

There’ll be some harnessing necessary.

A strap that loops around the wrist like this, you see?

Too tight?

Too loose?

They discuss things like flexion and extension and circumference. There’s twine and there’s chalk, calipers, instruments that look like rulers.

Has his hand ever been prodded and poked at this much? Looked at this intensely? His ugly three-fingered crab claw.

He sees nothing but these strangers’ hands like creatures tenderly getting acquainted with his own, moving around each other like gears linking, linking, linking, linking—

We have an arrangement. The memory of Victor’s words from the Canary bubble up inside of him.

Isak stares at their matching silver rings. Pretty. Charming.

Have they found someone for their arrangement? Have they been busy arranging?

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, watching. He thinks someone asks him if he’s hungry, but he’s too outside of himself to know. And he doesn’t know if they asked out of politeness or because they were getting themselves something to eat anyways or if his hunger is somehow sitting on top of him, pearling out of his pores like sweat. He guesses he’s always hungry. Maybe he was born hungry, ravenous, gluttonous, terrible.

Then there’s bread and there’s cheese and there’s meat and apple slices.

He eats. Guppy eats. They inhale, shovel as much as they can into their mouths, stomachs like ravines.

The last time they had a full meal was in the betting dens three weeks ago. Or four?

He’s so warm all over. He’s so tired. His jaw aches from all the chewing and his mouth falls open, and he knows he’s saying things, and he wants to say everything, because he has no principles or sense of self-preservation or capacity for shame.

He’s speaking through a haze, from the bottom of this murky tub, bobbing in and out of conversation, unsure about who said what and if he even said anything out loud in the first place.

Freljordian, huh? That's Jayce. His voice is not as low as Viktor’s. It’s affirming and warm, like a shoulder squeeze. He has a voice for stories, for reading aloud, for speeches.

It makes things inside of Isak hum. He hums with it.

Part. My mother was from Ionia. Have you been? The comb on the shelf.

Couple of years back, yes.

We've been, hmm...three times?

Four.

You know that time didn't count. An inside joke.

We’re nomads of sorts. The acorn, the prayer bell, the scarab amulets, the pouches of white fur.

I guess I’m a nomad too.

They speak about everything, they speak about nothing in particular.

Viktor tells him they were scholars once, before they left.

Our old professor had a poro.

A poro in Piltover?

Well, I certainly didn't expect to see one here, of all places.

What are they made of, do you think?

Love. They’re made only of love.

Is that so?

It must be.

What’s his name?

Her name’s Guppy. She followed me here.

Followed you from where?

Everyone in Bilgewater was someone else before this, its impenetrable fog banks hiding you from the past, keeping you.

Sometimes it feels like existing in a vacuum.

Like the afterlife.

Yeah, kind of like that. Like the afterlife…

They speak about everything, they speak about nothing in particular.

From the bottom of his murky tub, Isak blinks and looks up and sees these two strange men at the surface. They're gazing at each other, talking. It’s that look before a kiss.

It's quiet now. The rain must've stopped.

✥ ✥ ✥

There is an extraordinary kind of luck reserved for kings. Isak decides to name it mercy.

#jayvik #jayce talis x viktor #jayce talis x male!original character #viktor x male!original character #jayvik fic #arcane #league of legends #eventual throuple #bilgewater #runeterra #the integral of us

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assectations · 5 months ago

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Elgar'nan was in such a good position to be what both the Dalish, and the City Elves needed him to be, in order to turn them against everyone else.

Me & Lamia ( winterfromtevinter) have been tossing things around and it really stirred the feelings. he's a God returned to shepherd the lost and the faithful, a Saviour who will deliver them from their oppressors steel, unlocking their shackles and telling them to rise like the Sun. The ruins of their civilisation vultured upon, their history lost to time and desperately held onto in song and passed down tradition. In the cities they starve, they're enslaved, they live by surviving. He might never walk amongst them ( the god figure that he is ), but he says all the right things, he bathes them in his resplendent aura and they reciprocate with devotion, with blood. I already said that it was overlooked, the Elves being another valuable tool and ploy for the Gods to capitalise on. They don't have the firepower and raw strength of the Antaam, nor the magical power and gold of the Ventatori. But when you unlock that fury and grief of a people slaughtered, oppressed and driven into the dirt. You get wildfire. Unquenchable and unpredictable. How can you withstand against the forces at your door, when there's wolves stealing your people in the streets? Burning your barricades, assaulting your provisional roads. Harrying your troops from one point to the next? making the most simple, complicated. and this is such a stressor to Rhen, and he can't afford to ignore it ( in the game it doesn't happen, but you know ). Both as a figurehead of an operation set on stopping the Gods by whatever means necessary, and also as an elf himself. Who has felt the stinging bite of being called a knife ear, who has experienced the cramped and squalid conditions of an alienage, whose work does at times — require him to prey upon the fancies of those who sneer derisively at him. he knows it. he gets it. it doesn't matter that Elgar'nan's words and godly devotion are conditional and exacting. he brings wonders and a promise of change, and it's not empty politics, or placating commentary. for a people who pray to their gods on one hand, and cry for vengeance in the other. It wouldn't take much at all. Bellara, Davrin and Rook sat around the dining table late at night, when the rest of them have all retired from the evening, sharing uneasy looks. talking in quiet, hushed tones about what could happen. what it could mean. elves descending from spirits is utterly irrelevant, when the threat beyond the eluvian threatens to set all their people on fire.

#a. [ commentary ] // beyond the fade.#a. [ musings ] from the rookery.#a. datv spoilers

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countlesscrimes · 2 years ago

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Rabbit Hole

Tick tock goes the clock hanging on the schoolroom wall…I wonder if any other silly sucker has noticed that it’s both sideways & halfway hanging off its hinges completely.

Tick tock, it’s ten past two & if you fall too far behind, we will having nothing else but well wishes when we watch the train go by.

Than it wrecks. The train wrecks & women are throwing their babies into the bog below rather than smell their infant roast it’s little life away.

Adieu to you, farewell my fairest friend…who are you again? How was it that we met? Some summer spent swimming until our skin was made of sheer gold, then the nights turned long & lonely so I had to say goodbye to the best friend I have ever found; sweet slumber.

My mother was the type of woman than nuns would say was a “living saint”(the icing on my mother’s cake is that she remembers the name of all 7 men that she has ever slept with & can genuinely claim she loved each man then & she remains too)…therefore as her failure of a daughter, so often turned into the whore yet never made worthy of the title wife.

I have strategically swayed myself from simultaneously being both overly melodramatic & utterly melancholy….altogether manipulative. My own raw beauty is only on par with the the offensive images that rape your eyes of a train derailed into a shallow, stagnant, swamp. Yet the more you wish to turn away from the obscene, you become increasingly compelled.

It’s become a commitment, sitting safely across a field while simply watching the devastation unfold. To add about the water; not nearly so shallow that once her husband was inevitably killed in the crash, that she could lift her baby & petticoats, wading to firm ground. No, just shallow so that you don’t fully submerge within the initial crash & your head is above water…for now. You were witness to your husband’s passing but you poor baby just vanished as the coach sank deeper into the squalid depths of water not fit enough to put a fire out at a brothel.

Your cursed petticoats & corsets have you entangled to your doom. No one is going to come cut away the cloth that has me tied to some seat feet below, no no- NOT WHEN THAT SAME CLOTH COVERS MY CHASITY. All the good men were gone years ago, not one left alive willing to risk propriety for the prolonging of humanity.

So, tick tock, just wish on a clock

At least you can’t count the numbers on it

Quite unlike the many stars in the sky,

More unnamed than we have identified already.

As I lay me down to sleep, I hope it is only mere moments before my lungs are flooded with this filthy, wretched water. I hope infant baptism was well worth it, so that my baby is free of original sin & hasn’t another moments heartache. I know my husband has hardly been the head of house, good Christian man he should so I damn him to hell with his many whores (the writer of this poetic monstrosity a guaranteed guest.

Tick tick, wish upon a clock but it’s beyond a bit to late to save this wretched woman I am, but MY GOD loves for my wicked ways.

written by, yours truly!

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libidomechanica · 3 months ago

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“She words fond falling pearly raving his Doric lay; at”

Who will one thou sprung in degree. In a long thus, O Sea! Since or clicked perfidious as theyr good we would, could rock thee; depending o’er throne, all wed ye sall billowy-bosom

straws its hooves if it brings us from hue to be aged, or she thing and did not stay. The tent lamp-lit from the days of her be unsoft. With the blinden was slop’d his function;

and Terebinth good hiveward, gallops in him spread of stray the smitten annoyes. By all to the both, making the Base. While tears, all, jewel on his much familiar to the woo’d

and rules. He gave a scent bugaboo followed the glad, I warm. We holes. Full telling Not fortune were sweet forth knows they such a riding that for persists or taint-worm shone in hevene

and themselfe to intelling perhaps, as a love upon the night, this warming mortals. Must fade: his bene theyr wee think scorn dell, or canst not ceased: given in age like a

sudden grace, for me to looke all those spoken, lovers that of my tears, I do loved you will regrets and belief; O gentle look fires. Dear might of the dawns there, and new she’d heart

I’ll confound? Or the silent will ne’er wi’ nae wanton’d round at a’! Than that had brown, nor needes that are only said, My love a mother’s ready strength my rock languish me! That

grief. Intent lamp-lit from our fear two smiled on every people to gloom, and you like thy Remember so fresh lap pluck them selfe denying; adowne fierce pure Gold! And dancing their

little spak’ to yours, you telling news of beauty and bid he, last Lover! From hated, wretched glance just Káfir thing thro’ ripen’d before mere loves Crowne paid to hold wolf with sanction

a sing, the pansy fresh dews were deale these window. Long fast, and walk from world dropp’d and draweth on the informing break, and the turn as their like a prized behold my face there.

Beneath in Life into a Myrtles her falsehood accuse her? ’ When their poised feeble foes: who seek thee mine. Twilight upon her since we lose dangerous spring. To feel—till tell

you shall silence of delicated here. That sweetness only spending round and we slept, and rainbow’s chippes, this cote, a fleece, a thought once, that brow or dove, I rise, for you

biblically, dark days is flower white the lamp is function mair enchanting. Hear you for the maiden blood replete, but thilke same Fount of Justic, wood shunn’d, her and we are smooth muskets

and resides his hear we hope, a thing, gall, something squalid cottage, foole, how fallenge answer bring pains for the depth of ourselves, and in my love any other with me

in, and rainbow’s glow-world-without their unsuspect, a dove, and said, The dark bush o’ mine eagle sored her feeble for the tense, and have uncertain, so in your crow-toe, and

cheerfull process o’ Ballochmyle. To-morrow, all Day and cheek so pale jessamine for Jock of each of Loving— all that next, too alien too lately enough, O girl,

rubb’d his sacrifice: this were that millions I aim at. Daughter them goe: the gas, put how faire break could be in flaming till tyran he blood, strange, i, that, passes and bore us,

that she I languished edged within that make. Has a moon wrath stand in a flower abode. But heresy, such fame in the through my song is due, by mother Johnny, that marital

and wrinkled played, and look’d out empty glory in a noted from plead for to be so true? She words fond falling pearly raving his Doric lay; at length the word swans, powdred

with Her I would that is you end. The answer of Phillis, he ask, a woman-post in bright! His friend beg a hands woke to thou have loord, and And you to mark was all.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #174 texts #ballad

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neillien · 7 months ago

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Monday inspiration : another PRICK in Jesus's A R M [unfinished first draft].

take me from the back, I like that… that lack of personal space we have.

What are you talking about?

Close the door and I will tell you.

jacket collar Carmina Burana disorient graffiti pawnbroking.

White fur coat, dropped from the shoulders. Tattooed neck. I snatch the few coins I posses from my fur pocket, raise an eyebrow and half expect the assistant pawnbroker to offer a couple more pounds for the antiquated mink I sling down on the counter. I trust my fake tits look enormous to in the attentive eyes of the pawnbroker. The pawnbroker's assistant His estimated value is well below what I want. It's a 30day loan. the collateral belonged to my mother. I have to work hard to recuperated the item I have pawned off, signed temporarily away to the pawnbroker's safekeeping, huh.

A drizzle of early evening rain, grey sky, poorly lit the shop display of old gold watches, the plethora of smartphones, musical instruments power tools. Security grid, padlock. My boy outside the store, turns his jacket collar up.

with him, my boy eating his nails, I cook. I won't have my boy going hungry. The flies in his veins are stirring. Time he is fed.

All the popular ingredients and cutting agents I've used before are made from scratch.

Our little kitchenette, the worksurface hygiene, the glove compartment fridge where I stash perishables and miscellany. Dinner is served.

The car’s rear-view mirror went long ago. I fixed a Guilloché enamel hand mirror to the ceiling, elegantly it hangs tied by rosary and Sellotape. In the half-dark watching him

airbag warning light. /seatbelt

take a flat knife to the grime under his fingernails and scoop the muck out, singing a Blondie song. is a blatant excuse for vanity and crows feet not a single fucking iceberg tonight. The car’s interior cosy lounge. Him with his sullen grin his lips a monarch red his face made for celluloid. YR face. Too expensive. In no time at all he’ll be affordable: retaining the adorable but lacking composure.

Listening to the rain interrupting. I feel the first sensation. The squalid utensil of our eyes engaging I am pulling an empty arm to my chest, rivulets of dark anise clad his teardrops/ oh the arduous man who cries, payment on completion. Open his shirt, rip out his heart. I didn’t want his inertia looking thinly thinking like a snow leopard awaiting his mother’s nipple. He bites into his euphoria hard.

O Fortuna

Velut luna

Four Johns’ ahead. Close the door will you dear it’s raining pitchforks out there. It is time I tore up that love letter. All bottled up with vodka and a touch of mistletoe . Rain washaway, washaway chalk on the wall.

I miss him, I miss him. I am sick of hearing the repetition of grief. My heart was not made for loving. Oversharing, it makes me wilder rather than reciprocate.

#wall decor #september 16 #2024

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gduncan969 · 1 year ago

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He Already Knows

John 4: 29 “Come, see a Man who told me all things that I ever did. Could this be the Christ?”

There are a lot of things in my life, I’d prefer you didn’t know about me because they are just too embarrassing to tell, but to convince you, I’ll give you two of them, one of which I don’t remember because I was just two years old at the time. I was born right in the heart of Scotland’s biggest city, Glasgow, just off its busiest street, Argyle Street, in one of those old, somewhat squalid, gas-lit tenement buildings the city was famous for back in the early 1900's. Seemingly, I’d managed to escape my mother’s watchful eye and wandered out of our first floor apartment, down the stairs, out the building, toddled 50 ft along West Campbell Street and on to Argyle Street where I stood in the middle of the street between the tram-car rails, dressed only in my undershirt! The traffic was stopped in both directions and the people in the street-cars were killing themselves laughing at my plight. Someone ran to inform my mother but she was too embarrassed to come and rescue me so she sent my 11-year-old big sister to fetch me to the applause of the gawkers watching the scene unfold. I’m so glad I don’t remember that one but the other one I want to tell you occurred about forty years later and is seared in my memory. I was the owner/operator of a chemical analysis laboratory in Northern Ontario and was setting up the apparatus to do cyanide analysis in water samples from a local gold mine (cyanide is used to extract the gold from the ore). The apparatus required a vacuum pump to suck air through the sample to remove the cyanide gas formed by adding some acid to the sample. Everything looked great, so I added the acid, turned on the vacuum pump and—nothing! No air bubbles whatsoever! There must be a leak I thought, so in a moment of brilliant inspiration, I pulled the hose off the vacuum pump, stuck it in my mouth and sucked!! Ah, yes, there were the bubbles I was looking for as the cyanide gas entered my lungs. I’ve just killed myself was my first thought! My second thought was, what a stupid idiot I was and the third thought was to ask one of my employees to drive me to the hospital immediately! On the way over to the hospital, I did some quick calculations and figured I would live because the cyanide level in the sample was pretty low but I may still be the only cyanide poisoning victim ever recorded in Ontario. I’ll never forget the poor emergency doctor who treated me while holding the poisoning manual in one hand and the hypodermic in the other. Yes, we are all capable of doing some pretty dumb things and worse still, some pretty nasty things in the course of our lives.

The story of the woman at the well in John 4 tells of an encounter Jesus had with a Samaritan woman who came at midday to draw water from the well and ran into Jesus who was sitting there on his own while his disciples had gone off to town to buy some food. “Give Me a drink.” asks Jesus (verse 7) to which he got the terse response, “How is it that You, being a Jew, ask a drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.” (verse 9) The conversation then unfolded to where Jesus tells the woman to “go fetch your husband” (verse 16). Of course, he knew full well she didn’t have one, having been married five times before and now simply living with number six—a lifestyle that is even more common than marriage in many places today. At that point, the woman begins to sit up and really take note of this stranger who is telling her things he shouldn’t know.

Many sermons have been preached on this incident in the ministry of Jesus and many different conclusions have been drawn as to the interaction between the two but we can all agree that the encounter was no accident (Jesus has never experienced an accident) and through it we get a clearer picture of Jesus as the “living water” within all of us who call upon his name and which “springs up in us into everlasting life” (verse 14) as we drink of it and feed it to those around us. Further clarification of this is given in Matthew 7: 38 - 39 ““He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.” But this He spoke concerning the Spirit, whom those believing in Him would receive; for the Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified.” The Holy Spirit flows into our hearts when we ask Jesus to forgive us and cleanse us of our sins and then He flows out from our hearts (KJV - “belly”) when He baptizes us in his Holy Spirit as He did the hundred and twenty believers in the upper room in Acts 2.

The woman at the well was not too impressed with Jesus’ declaration that he was the source of “living water” and called his bluff to give it to her so that she could stop carting a heavy water-pot back and forth every day. The reason she was there at midday, however, rather than early morning or evening, is very likely so that she could avoid the sneers and comments of the other women who knew full well what kind of woman she was. Also, the reason she was being so snarkey with Jesus was that she knew what most men were like and they were wont to “proposition” a woman for one purpose only—her body. That’s what surprised the disciples when they came back to find him talking to a despised Samaritan woman (verse 27). But verses 17-18 changed everything. Jesus begins to fill in details about her he couldn’t possibly know and we err if we take his statement about her five husbands as being all Jesus spoke to her about her private life. Note what she says to her neighbors back in the village, “Come, see a Man who told me all things that I ever did. Could this be the Christ?” (Verse 29). I believe she and Jesus had a long talk about a whole host of struggles she’d had throughout her life and it wasn’t she who raised these issues but the Lord Himself who gently took her back through them to expose them and to heal them. Oh, that others could have that same conversation with Jesus bringing their life experiences and tragedies out into the light of his loving Presence and laying them to rest in his forgiveness and acceptance of us just as we are.

Many years ago, I attended a Full Gospel Businessmen’s Fellowship International (FGBMFI) meeting to hear a fellow Glaswegian, John Hutchison, give his testimony of how he came to Christ but after he spoke, he began to call out those in his audience who the Lord had indicated to him were suffering from various physical problems in their bodies to come forward to lay hands on them for healing. I had never seen this before so I and five others drove 90 miles the following evening to hear him speak again and once again he did the same thing, only this time I got a moment to speak to one of those he had prayed for, a man in his sixties. I asked him what had happened to him because he was staggering like a drunk man as he was walking out of the building. His response was, “I don’t know what has happened to me but something has because I’ve never felt this way before. I have cancer but I feel different and I can’t understand it”. John became a good friend and mentor to me over the years until he left for Heaven over twenty five years ago but after that second meeting I asked him to come to Kirkland Lake, Ontario, where we lived, and I would organize a dinner meeting for him to share his testimony once more. That happened a couple of months later and out of that meeting was formed the Kirkland Lake Chapter of the FGBMFI. But there’s an added aspect to all of this that has remained with me ever since. Just before John was due to arrive from England and take part in the dinner meeting, I was driving to work one morning with my thoughts on the upcoming meeting when I started to get quite nervous. “What if God reveals something to John about me that I don’t want anyone else to know and he calls me to come forward for prayer? Oh, dear, what would God possibly tell me?” The thought had no sooner entered my head when I heard these quiet, matter-of-fact words, “I’d tell you I love you!” I’m tempted to add the word “Dummy!” to the end of that sentence but He didn’t say it, nevertheless, there were lots of tears that flowed as I completed my journey to work. I have had but one encounter of finding myself in the visible light of God’ Presence and I could only say to him over and over again, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man” but he would not depart and stayed there bathing me in a love that was overwhelming in its intensity. I just cried and cried.

All of us have this marvelous ability to bury our hurts deep within ourselves because dealing with them is too painful but that’s exactly why He came—to deliver us from our past, first by exposing it and then taking all the guilt away to begin anew, walking in the light of his love and his acceptance of us just the way we are. What a mighty God we serve! If you’ve never experienced this transition all you need do is ask him to come into your life and take over. Perhaps you are like many others who feel that you are basically a good person who has made mistakes but on balance the good outweighs the bad and that in the end, God is a forgiving God who will turn a blind eye to all your shortcomings. The difficulty with this is that God has no “blind eyes” to turn on us because He is omniscient—all-knowing and there is nothing hidden from His sight. He is a Holy God whose purity is so all-consuming that any sin, no matter how small, stops us from entering His presence. “For our God is a consuming fire” says Hebrews 12:29. He sacrificed His only Son on a Roman cross to open the narrow doorway through which we might humbly stoop and enter into his Kingdom to find life everlasting through the shed blood of His Son, Jesus Christ. So, if he already knows every detail about us, why then should we falter or fear when we humbly ask Him to forgive our sins and take control of our lives. If you haven’t done so, what’s keeping you and don’t forget to tell others what you have done? As a young Christian, I used to think God had a “Secret Service” organization to which I could belong so that I wouldn’t have to tell anyone I was a Christian and thereby avoid being ridiculed. Ultimately, I found out He didn’t have any such organization and that Luke says in Acts 14:22 “..that we must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God.” If we let the fear of tribulation stop us then the Lord will let us know that our fear is simply a lack of trust in Him to deliver us and show us marvelous things about ourselves we’ve never even dreamt of.

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kudosmyhero · 2 years ago

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Batman (vol. 1) #307: Dark Messenger of Mercy

Read Date: November 27, 2022 Cover Date: January 1979 ● Writer: Len Wein ● Penciler: John Calnan ● Inker: Dick Giordano ● Colorist: Glynis Oliver ● Letterer: Ben Oda ● Editor: Julius Schwartz ◦ E. Nelson Bridwell ●

**HERE BE SPOILERS: Skip ahead to the fan art/podcast to avoid spoilers

Reactions As I Read: ● pg 2 - did Batman pose for that near life-size poster? To avoid graininess in a picture that size, you'd want bright studio lights and low ISO film… which tells me Batman went to a studio and posed heroically. That's my head canon now. ● pg 3 - Lucius! <3 (apparently his first appearance, according to the podcast!) ● I love reading the app on panel-by-panel because things like that lovely sunset sneak up on me ● (I just wish the DC app had the option to view the full page in addition to panel-by-panel like the Marvel app has) ● (and fix that screen rotation, DC! Jesus.) ● pg 5 - I like this guy's cranberry-colored suit. It works somehow. ● pg 6 - sputters GORDON ACTUALLY SAW BATMAN LEAVE ● pg 8 - the woman in pink looks delightful ● pg 9 - I love them all ● pg 13 - spill it, Quentin! ● pg 14 - I bet I know who that gloved hand belongs to… ● pg 14 - I've never seen Batman go out with visible bandages before now. It seems like it's a vulnerability that he would normally try his best to hide ● pg 17 - how tf did I not see that coming?

👏👏👏

Synopsis: A bag lady in a subway is murdered by poisoned gold coins laid on her eyes by a mysterious "benefactor" who kills her to release her from her squalid existence. After finishing business matters concerning Wayne Enterprises with the second in command, Lucius Fox, Bruce Wayne retreats to his apartment at twilight and learns about the ghastly murder from Alfred. Changing to Batman, he goes to the GCPD Headquarters, where he learns from Quentin Conroy, who files a complaint with Commissioner Gordon that the coins have been stolen from his late father's priceless collection.

Batman prowls the Gotham streets to look for the killer and finds a band of homeless people, led by Shamrock, a friend of the murder victim. During the visit he saves one of their number from being slain by the coin-killer, whom they recognize as John Francis Conroy, aka "Limehouse Jack", but the killer escapes. The street people tell Batman that Conroy disappeared from their group fifteen years ago. Batman confronts Quentin Conroy and learns that Limehouse Jack was his father. The elder Conroy succumbed to job pressure, left his family, and took to the streets. Though Conroy claims his father is dead, Batman is not so sure.

Later, masquerading as a panhandler, Batman traps and battles Limehouse Jack with the help of the street dwellers. Limehouse Jack proves to be Quentin Conroy, whose motivation was to "give (the street dwellers) peace!" Later, after Conroy is taken in, Batman tells Gordon that Conroy's shoe soles gave him away. One heel was worn away more than the other, and, though Conroy did not limp, "Limehouse Jack" certainly did.

(https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Batman_Vol_1_307)

Fan Art: batman by Morriperkele

Accompanying Podcast: ● The Overlooked Dark Knight - episode 07

#dc #dc comics #my dc read #podcast recommendation #comics #comic books #batman #fan art #podcast - overlooked dark knight #lucius fox

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70won · 1 year ago

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they don’t approach her anymore. the girl with a sharp tongue and an even sharper grin. the reporters had caught along soon after her winning year that johanna mason wouldn’t smile pretty for the cameras and it wasn’t worth all the editing it took to make her comments appropriate for airing. they stuck to pictures now. flashing cameras dotted her vision and she turned her back every time she caught one in her periphery. she wouldn’t let them succeed in capturing even a still of her because johanna knew she looked delectable and she refused to give the rest of the capitol that viewing pleasure.

her stylists had dressed her like an angel that would have topped a christmas tree. johanna thought it a poor attempt to rectify her otherwise squalid reputation and general dislike among the masses. she was originally clad in flowing white and gold, modest and pure. but moments before stepping into the party, she had shed a good majority of her ensemble leaving her adorned in gold jewelry and only a gauzy white fabric wrapped loosely around the parts that mattered. her skin shone with gold glitter and the metal around her head meant to be a halo instead resembled a vicious queen’s crown.

she yawned loudly, lounging on a chaise the colour of mustard. her attention waned until she caught the comment made behind her. finally, someone with some personality. she turned to perch on the back of the sofa with a grin that meant no good. “ no no, that’s not what you said. what was it again ? ” she cocked her head as if needing to recall his words and when she spoke her voice carried loud enough for the guests in the vicinity to hear. not that they’d care, they were too self absorbed to eavesdrop. “ that you wanted her to drop dead ? that’s not very nice now, is it ? ” her volume was only meant to scare the other boy and it was clear in the way she darted her eyes over his shoulder to ensure they hadn’t truly been heard. she quieted down again, keeping the rest of the conversation between them. “ don’t forget you’re still district, three. those words are mighty close to treason. ”

he fucking hated these things. every year he was paraded around like a damned stuffed peacock, dragged out to bump shoulders and shake hands of the so called adoring public that made his new life of wealth and indentured servitude possible. he pulled at his collar, trying and failing to loosen the fabric, everything he was wearing felt too small, so tight it was difficult to move. it didn't help that the get up had been tailored with microelectronics and small led lights so that he lit up like a christmas tree. he grimaced when one of the sharp wires poked into his neck and tugged on his collar again to relieve the discomfort.

a guest brushed by him with a shrill laugh and cosmo caught a glimpse of his reflection in an impressively impractical piece of headwear and realized he was scowling. i could just die - ! the guest was saying.

❝ i wish you would, ❞ cosmo mumbled under his breath. the moment the words left his mouth he choked and shoved his champagne glass into his teeth in case they had overheard but she was still laughing, blissfully unaware. the same couldn't be said to his fellow victor beside him, ❝ of . . . joy, die of joy, ❞ he winced. he really hated these things. // @70won , idk who allowed him to be here tbh but here we are .

#khozmoh #jo the shit disturber at her finest #also don’t talk to me about the length of this reply I don’t wanna hear it #ARC : VICTORY TOUR .

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itslostfocus · 2 years ago

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vocab list: 옷

신발: shoes, footwear

구두: formal shoes

깨끗한: clean, neat (깨끗하다 - for Adjectives)

청소하다: to be clear (for Verbs)

맑은: clean, pure, clear; sunny with no clouds

치우다: to tidy (up), clean (up/out); move, remove, clear (away)

지우다: to erase, delete, rub off

버튼: button (elevator, power, smartphone, etc; not common in clothing)

단추: button (clothing)

더러운: dirty, filthy, mean, awful, terrible, nasty (bad and wicked person)

지저분한: dirty, messy, unclean, squalid

더러워지다: to get dirty, filthy, messy, soiled

오염된: contaminated, soiled

비열한: bastard, sneak

입다: to dress, wear

옷: dress, shirt, clothes, wear, apparel (daily life); one or several

드레스: dress (West)

복장: formal clothes (work, funerals, etc)

변장: disguise

모자: cap, hat

뚜껑: cover, lid, cap (bottle, pen, container, box, etc)

상한: maximum, the upper limit

마무리짓다: to wrap (something) up

바지: pants, trousers

팬츠: pants

팬티: underwear (regardless of the gender)

셔츠: shirt, t-shirt, polo shirt, etc

스웨터: sweater

양말: sock

의복: clothes (=의상)

의상: clothes (=의복)

세탁물: laundry (clothes that need to be washed)

옷가지: several clothes

착용하다: to wear something that sticks to the body (clothes, hats, shoes, necklaces, etc)

쓰다: to wear/put on a hat, helmet, etc

닳다: to wear out (something til it becomes old), dry up (moisture to decrease); run out (oil or electricity)

장갑: glove

주머니: pocket

호주머니: pocket (attached to a cloth)

포켓: pocket

자금: budget

용돈: pocket money

짝지어주다: to pair up

한 쌍: pair

2인조: pair of people

한 벌: a suit (formal clothes, the 2 pieces), a set (pair of formal shoes), top and bottom clothes

치마: skirt

코트: coat (winter); tennis/basketball court

외피: outermost layer of an object thast has multiple layers (outer covering of a coat or garment)

도금: plating, gilding, coating an object with a thin later of a metal (gold or silver)

외투: jacket (in general)

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judjira · 2 years ago

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a rude summoning

AN: mina !!!!! ngl guys mihyun is my ult so i put a lot of thought into this one lmao sorry it took so long, also a sneak peek of the next apartment girl in line: tzuyu !

pairing: mihyun apartment au wc: 1565

“Oh no.”

Mina can feel it happening before it actually happens.

“Mina? What is wrong?”

Her bedmate turns over, concern in her eyes.

“I believe…it is happening again.”

Tzuyu furrows her eyebrows, and Mina can see her blinking wearily, before widening them in realization.

“You mean…?”

Mina nods, even though Tzuyu probably does not see it.

“…would it be alright if you informed Lady Dahyun?”

Tzuyu disappears with only the sound of flapping wings. Mina sighs once more, sitting up in bed and drifting over to the dresser in Tzuyu’s room.

It was bad enough that it had happened thrice earlier this week, but right as she was about to sleep? Did the universe really hate her that much?

"Bloody Mary.”

Oh, dear. It sounded like children this time, perhaps adolescents. Did they have nothing else to occupy their time with?

"Bloody Mary.”

What is it going to be tonight, she wonders. Three wishes? Their future? The image of their spouse?

"Bloody Mary.”

As the words are uttered the third time, Mina closes her eyes. There is a tug on her gut, like a heavy weight is pulling her down, down, down, into some unknowable void of space and time.

When she opens them, she is someplace else. Definitively not her room in the Sanctuary.

Before, it used to be in noble dressing rooms, with opulent and shining gold mirrors that were a statement of wealth and status, or in small, rusted, handheld mirrors in the most squalid of homes and slums, or even in the wilderness, in clear ponds and lakes when the moon shined just the right way.

Now, however, it is a bathroom, as it usually is these days, in one of the local condemned buildings that litter the cityside, uncared for and left to rot. A single candle is set by the sink, illuminating the dilapidated comfort room, as well as her summoner.

She used to be summoned by kings and queens and nobles that asked for her sage wisdom or prophetic counsel, or by peasants and common-folk that sought a way to better their lives, or even by witches and warlocks in the woods that desired her spectral power.

Now, however, it is a pair of teenagers, probably on some bet or dare to scare the wits off of each other, unknowing of the true meaning of the legend of Bloody Mary.

Mina sees them before they see her, and there are in fact two of them, a light pink flush over the one in front. She groans, turning to the one by her side.

“Ugh, I told you this was stupid! Ghosts aren’t real, Minjeong.”

The one behind her, only crosses her arms, pouting.

“You haven’t even asked anything! You have to ask the ghost a question, or else it won’t answer you!”

That isn’t true at all, really. Mina can answer them at any time, her presence in the bathroom obscured by her own will. These two seem interesting.

“Ugh, whatever.”

In the olden days, perhaps Mina would have felt slighted by the blatant disregard for her nature. It would have warranted a curse, maybe, on their bloodline, something about their firstborn, but now, all it does is bring about a bemused smile to Mina’s face as the the girl in front leans forward to the mirror, face set into a stern frown, cheeks still red.

“W-who’s the person I’m going to…marry?”

Ah, a classic question, then. Easy enough to answer. Usually, Mina graced these kinds of whimsical questions with the same amount of solemnity that was given, which is to say, none at all, and resorted to scaring whoever asked, but she’s at least the slightest bit curious as to the future of this girl.

Peering into the mind of the girl in front of the mirror, she learns things.

Her name is Yoo Jimin, and she is a highschool girl in her last year.

Her future is rather clearcut, as futures are nowadays. Not like in the olden times, when people barely lived up to thirty.

She’s meant to be a lawyer, and that no-nonsense attitude of hers seems to serve her well in a court of law.

As for her spouse…

Oh!

How interesting.

It seems her spouse is the very girl that goaded her into this whole ritual, a girl by the name of Kim Minjeong.

Now, that is just heartwarming.

Mina just loves these kinds of stories. They’re the ones that truly strike a chord with her, true romance between young souls.

A giggle unconsciously leaves her lips.

“D-did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“There was a laugh!”

“A laugh?”

“Yeah, it was like a woman giggling, or something!”

“Okay, I know you’re trying to scare me, Jimin, but it’s not going to work.”

“I’m serious!”

Mina stifles another laugh, their banter uplifting her mood entirely, completely forgetting her sudden summoning. She ups the ante, waving her hands.

The candle flickers, and Minjeong immediately rushes to Jimin’s side, hand grasping Jimin’s tightly.

“Okay, I believe you!”

The fear on Jimin’s face, however, is forgotten, as her cheeks heat up red, blinking down at their intertwined hands.

Mina uses this time to speak, coming out of the shadow of the mirror to stand directly where Jimin should be standing in her reflection.

"Your future spouse…”

Jimin’s head snaps up to the mirror, eyes wide and face paling.

“…is standing right next to you.”

There’s a haunted silence, for just a few moments, before a disbelieving breath comes leaves Jimin’s lips.

“R-really?”

Minjeong, on the other hand, is still scared witless as her eyes dart around the room, holding onto Jimin’s hand.

“Yes, for real! I’m scared, okay, this was just a stupid prank! Can we go home, please?!”

Jimin stands there, dumbfounded as she stares right into Mina’s eyes, ghostly images flaring in her pupils.

Then Mina winks, and multiple things happen at the same time.

The mirror cracks, the candle blows out, and the girls scream in unison.

There’s the scrambling of feet and a series of yelps as the girls stumble out of the bathroom.

“Come on, Jimin, let’s go!”

“Sh-she spoke to me! She actually—I saw her in the mirror!”

“Good for you! If you want to keep talking to her, be my guest!”

“W-wait, Minjeong, wait for me!”

Mina laughs, her night fully made as she watches the two run from the building, as quickly as they can.

Then she feels the tug on her gut again, as a familiar, sleepy voice whispers into her ear.

“Minari…come back to us.”

Mina smiles, and as cute and heartwarming as the two girls were, nothing makes her warmer than the soft call of her Lady’s voice.

“Minaaaari…Tzuyu’s worried. So am I.”

The pull of this summoning is unlike any other, not for how her ghostly body responds to it, but how her heart does, leaping and jumping in her chest as she lets herself get pulled.

“Mina…come back, please. I’m sleepy and I need my good night kisses.”

With a laugh, Mina closes her eyes, her form shifting spaces and warping through her summoning.

The next time she opens her eyes, she is in front of a dresser, in the Sanctuary. Not just any dresser, but the landlord’s dresser, in the landlord’s room.

And sitting in front of her dresser, candle lit in hand, is Lady Dahyun, eyes drooping as her head lulls forward.

“Lady Dahyun.”

Mina softly calls, heart bursting with warmth despite the natural cold her body feels in her form.

Dahyun’s eyes open, and it’s then that a lazy smile comes upon her lips.

“There you are, Minari. Where’s my kisses?”

Mina chuckles, although a quiet and familiar sadness comes upon her.

In the reflection, her form is clearly seen, body as tangible as can be, with her flowing white dress stained red with dried blood, and her long, jet black hair going down her shoulders, bangs almost completely covering her eyes. She stands next to Dahyun, smile on her face as she beholds her lover.

But in the space next to Dahyun, she is invisible, intangible, and certainly incapable of touching the Lady of the Sanctuary.

That does not stop her from leaning forward from where she is, pressing her lips against Dahyun’s head.

Dahyun should not feel anything besides a cold touch upon her temple, this she knows, but the way Dahyun smiles, lips curling up ever so slightly, almost fools Mina into believing that the gracious Lady has received her love physically, as she has always hoped to give her.

“That’s better. Now, get some rest, okay? Tzuyu’s waiting for you in your room.”

Mina bows her head, manners never leaving her.

“Very well. Good night, Lady Dahyun.”

The Lady only smiles, bright as she can despite the exhaustion so clearly evident in her eyes.

“Good night, Minari.”

Later on, Mina tucks into her bed, the allseeing eyes of the angel who’s been waiting for her taking note of the familiar slump to Mina’s form, caused by the impossibilities of her intangible body.

Pure white wings wrap around her, a soft smile upon her angel’s lips as no words need to be uttered between them. Tzuyu knows her pain.

And as she closes her eyes, Mina forgets for a moment that she is a ghost.

For how can a ghost feel the warm touch of a lover so corporeal?

#apartment au #drabble #mihyun #twice fanfic #twice fic #mina x dahyun

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