#tales gone stale

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.1k

Summary: What do you call a deaf pirate? Not 'Siren Food' apparently, which is really sort of hilarious when you've been kidnapped by a hungry Siren. Not for the Siren though—he's definitely not having a good time.

A/N: *rushes in at the 11th hour* Happy Mer-May!! I've been back and forth with clinical rotations and also working on some commission things and Leona's Part 4, but like, it's a fanfiction holiday. I couldn't miss out. And for one of my favorite tropes nonetheless. So here we are.

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

There was a legend that floated throughout the Sage Island Seas of the Pirate With No Ears. Which was ridiculous—half because such a tall tale managing to survive so long and so wildly really showed just how pathetic the rest of the gossip around here was, and half because you still had ears. They just didn’t work very well was all.

Some said you’d been deafened by a prowling sea sorcerer who had tricked you into trading away your once keen sense for some mortal foible or other. Others whispered about how you’d been trapped in an ice cavern, surrounded by electric eels and sharks, and that the only way you’d been able to weasel your way out was by cutting off your own ears so that you’d have enough wiggle room to escape from your bindings. Which made absolutely zero sense at all.

In reality, all you’d done was stand far too close to a canon for far too long when you were far, far too little, and ever since all you could hear was the dull ringing of post-battle silence. Sometimes it was a bit sad. When the waves crashed against the shore, or when the gulls flew overhead—you were sure all those things sounded very lovely. You remembered music and laughter and sometimes they echoed in your head at a distance—a memory not quite forgotten but certainly fading at the edges. But other times, like now, where your fellow crewmates were bawling into their ales and wailing about lord knew what… well, it was always nice to find a silver lining in these sorts of things.

One of the tipsy lads tottering around the deck of The Rose Queen tripped and landed against the wood with something that looked like it’d be a very loud smack. Your brain helpfully filled the silence with some nonsense noises and park-play-style laughter instead. You watched Cater stumble by out of the corner of your eye. He patted your head and said something that twisted his mouth into a gaping ‘uuuuu-eeeee-oooo’ before he puttered away to leech off First Mate Clover instead. Ace threw a drunken arm around your shoulder and burbled something against your cheek that popped with the scent of stale booze, and you decided to pretend that you were as alone at sea as your muted senses would like to think.

The party raged on long into the evening and you stared down at the rabble contentedly from your perch in the crow’s nest. They were a good bunch—dullards though they may be. You’d heard (hardee har har) that they were planning to raid the Port o'Bliss, and something must have gone terribly right. You only really hung around to scrub barnacles off the paneling and keep an eye on the tides well enough that Deuce wouldn’t run the lot of you ashore, so you weren’t really sure how the whole ‘pirating’ business actually went about. But clearly they were doing a pretty good job of it.

You rested your chin on your crossed arms and sighed into the salty breeze. The night was warm and pleasant, and before you knew it, you were nodding off against the rough fabric of your sleeves. You weren’t quite sure how long you spent dozing there tangled in the ropes of mast, but it was long enough that by the time you snorted back awake the festive lights had dimmed to embers and most of the crew had sidled away below deck to either keep drinking themselves blind or collapse in a pool of their own colorful vomit.

There was a lone figure swerving towards the bow—precariously close to the railing for someone so clearly unsteady on their own legs, if you did say so yourself. You squinted suspiciously at his mused lavender hair, not entirely sure you recognized the head bobbing around below you. But perhaps The Rose Queen had picked up some fresh recruits at the Port, or maybe the crew had gotten a bit too booze happy with some dye. Purple Hair leaned up against the rails and tipped forward on his toes like he was thinking about diving in, or maybe barfing. Either or, you sighed and shimmied your way down to stop him from tumbling into a watery grave.

“Oi!” you called, the shout vibrating up and out of your throat, and the kid jumped half a foot in the air. “What do you think you’re doing? Get away from there. Riddle’ll have your head if we have to send out the rescue rafts this late at—”

The kid turned to face you with wide, wide, glowing eyes. Your own went round as dinner plates as you watched his too-dark pupils pulse like drumbeat. They were so bright, practically illuminating the whole of his delicate face, but there was no light to them. Matte and sleek like a shark’s eyes.

He shouted something at you so whip fast that you couldn’t even begin to make sense of, and then he was glancing nervously back and forth between the roiling waves at his back and the encroaching deckhand at his front—making all sorts of nonsense gestures that had you sighing behind gritted teeth.

“Look,” you said, interrupting whatever indiscernible gibberish he was spouting, “I don’t know who you think you are. But you’ve picked the wrong ship to try and—I don’t know—seize? Pirate? You can’t pirate a pirate ship! But either way, you—”

Then the kid opened his mouth like he was screaming, and you frowned again. There was strange prickle along your arms that had goosebumps crawling up your skin and the hair raising at the back of your neck, but you shook it off and moved forward with another weary sigh. You pulled a length of rope from the belt slung around your hips and held the limp bundle of salt-soaked mesh up like a threat.

“I will throw you overboard. And hogtie you first,” you promised cheerily. “So you actually sink.”

Purple Hair just looked like he was trying to scream louder, and you were sourly tempted to stick your fucking tongue out at him and make petulant ‘nyeh nyeh nice try’ noises at him, but then there was a heaviness behind you. A creak in the wood that you could feel if not hear. You rolled out of habit—tumbling across the deck just in time to avoid a nasty swipe along your back. And oh no. The thing crawling up over the railing was worse than any lavender would-be ship thief. The black tipped claws and flared fins were telling enough, but the sharp-toothed grin was somehow more so. It tilted its unnaturally lovely head at you and spoke politely—clearly and very, painfully, slowly.

“What’s—this—perhaps—” you were able to vaguely make out. Maybe. The dark and your panic were both a terrible hindrance to putting shapes to sound. His lips curled into something wicked before parting far more smoothly than the younger man’s had. Singing. It was singing, not screaming. Hauntingly green eyes glowed bright and you felt the tunk tunk tunk beneath your feet of the rest of the crew starting to move around beneath you. Around you.

Then there were more of them—crawling up over the railings, trilling into the night air. All far too lovely and far too sharp to be anything but predators. The moonlight illuminated their fangs and scales in a ghostly white glow. There were shivers running along your spine, but otherwise nothing but silence echoed through your head. Small mercies. You watched several of your fellow crewmates rush out of the cabins only to double over with their hands clasped over their ears. Others stuttered and tumbled forward towards the railings as if they were being dragged along like puppets on a string. You cursed and ducked between them—looping your rope around their legs as you went and tugging them to their knees like a line of falling dominoes.

You let your hapless comrades collapse to the deck and curled the last throws of rope around your fists. You were decent enough with a knife when it came to dueling an unmoving, completely unaware foe—like a barnacle or some rusted over door hinges. But real people? Sirens?Fucking literal blade-tipped-merfolk straight out of every sailor’s nightmare? No thank you. So the teeny blade stayed sheathed at your hip and you dove into the fray to find something rope-wrangle-able.

At the other end of the bow, you watched Purple Boy straighten from a crouch. There were new, silvery blue scales crawling up his neck and forearms. He was still tottering around on legs that he clearly wasn’t all too used to, and you watched as the little guppy started to make a furious beeline for Captain Rosehearts. Which—no. Absolutely not. You were never one of those pirates who was like ‘oh, Captain, my Captain~’ but Riddle was good. He was tough, and taciturn, and could throw a tantrum that could bring down an entire harbor. But he’d written out all of his ridiculous six hundred rules by hand so that you could have them. And the teeny furrow in his brow as he staunchly taught himself hand sign after hand sign so that he could yell at you in earnest was so endearing that you’d protect that little firecracker for as long as you breathed.

So you went after Lavender Head, and then of course Lavender Head turned and tried to shout at you all over again. When that continued to not work at all, the Siren began to backpedal in earnest. He turned his head and squawked at whoever was around to listen, but in the chaos of the attack there didn’t seem to be many of his pod free to lend him a hand.

You descended on the little snake, rope at the ready and perfectly happy to make sushi out of the fucker, when something big overshadowed the both of you. Another Siren crested over the side of the ship, larger and clearly more impressive than the rest of its kin. Which matched your stupidly terrible luck just fine. Ah, yes, Mister Big Bad. Please. Go for the deckhand rather than the literal trained mercenaries less than ten feet away. Brilliant. The Siren bared its fangs like some great, terrible, beast and tore into the paneling with its curved claws as it attempted to drag you down to your watery grave. You cursed, and kicked, and yelped in a panic when the thing managed to get one of those cold, pale hands around your ankle.

Despite the fact that all of it surely happened in less than a few seconds, your descent seemed to progress in steps. First, the Siren tugged you over the side. Second, you smartly flipped the loops of your rope up to try and lasso yourself a handhold. Thirdly, you outright missed the ship and instead tangled the spools of thin rope all around your Murderer To Be. Said Murderer’s eyes widened in shock as your unintentional trap wrapped the both of you up like a mess of bugs in a spider web. And finally, the pair of you crashed towards the churning ocean in a knotted-up heap and slowly sank beneath the waves.

.

.

You rubbed the grit and salt from your eyes and sat up with a groan. Where were you? Not too far out at sea, hopefully. Washing up ashore had been nothing short of a miracle, and you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth if it meant you got to avoid becoming chum for another day. The sand beneath your fingers was soft and white, and it slipped beneath your palm like water. You moved to push yourself to your feet and froze—a blur of amethyst swiping out and knocking you back onto your ass with a splash.

You spluttered and spat, and had just barely managed to flip yourself over like a turtle who’d been upended on its back when you caught sight of the absolute last creature in the world that you’d ever wanted to see again.

The big Siren had washed up nearby.

Because of course it had.

The creature narrowed his eyes at you and immediately set about lashing his rope-twisted tail against the sand like a rattlesnake. He bared his pointed teeth in a hiss and you were dowsed in a barrage of saltwater ammunition.

“Stop! Stop!” you begged, spitting out wayward chunks of seaweed, and shells, and gods knew what else. “I get it! I won’t come near you, jeesh! I wasn’t planning on it to begin with!”

The Siren curled his lips unpleasantly, putting that wonderful row of dagger-like pearly whites on display. He spat something completely indiscernible—the line of his mouth so harsh and flat that you couldn’t have even begun to pick up the shape of things if you tried—and you scooted as far back as you could without toppling yourself over again.

He dug his clawed hands into the sand and said something else, just as clipped and tight. You assumed it was an accusation. You were very used to recognizing the glare that accompanied those. When you didn’t respond, his brow tugged down low and he snapped something else—this time jabbing those pointed, black, nails in your direction. Ah, so definitely a complaint then.

You cocked your head at him out of habit and that griping turned into a snarl so ferocious that you could feel it racing up your skin like static. Which was definitely pretty trippy.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you told him honestly. Which just made the spiked fins flatten all along the side of his head and another wave of those zippy sneers dance up your arms. “Literally,” you tried. “I—”

The Siren opened his mouth and that sparky static from earlier amplified into something near painful. It was strong, and prickly, and left the imprints of invisible shackles all along your already aching joints. You could feel his voice carrying on the breeze—brushing against your cheeks and playing with hair. Thin, icy, fingers digging their way into your brain and yanking. But there was something missing from all that ethereal hypnotism. Something pleasant and sweet to complete the circle of temptation. A voice, you’d guess. There had to be a call after all, or else it hardly mattered how deep and all encompassing the need was to answer.  

When you didn’t immediately, like, fall to your knees in subjugation or drown yourself in the inch and a half of tepid water pooling at your hips, the Siren’s eyes dimmed with something that almost looked like hesitance. His brow pinched tight and he parted his red lips wider. A seagull dropped from the sky. Three different crabs crawled out of the sand to bow down.

“I can’t hear you!” you tried again, loud enough to have your teeth aching. His mouth went wider, and an entire ass tuna beached itself to flop pathetically near your ankles. “It’s not a challenge!” you wailed. “My ears literally, actually, do not work, you fucking overgrown anchovy!”

The static disappeared all at once, and the Siren’s lips slipped into a small, surprised sort of ‘o.’ He blinked his too-long lashes at you and stared you down like you were some sort of escaped alchemical experiment.

“There,” you huffed. “Finally.” And then went quiet and a bit concerned. Because apparent Song Immunity or otherwise, the thing was still hugely impressive and scary looking. His claws definitely wouldn’t have any problem picking the leftover bits of you out of his teeth, and you knew well enough that if he dragged you into the depths with that powerful tail of his, there would be no resurfacing.

The Siren too was using this time to glare at you like you were somehow a threat to be taken seriously. Which was half flattering, half pretty funny.

“Well…” you said after a long moment. “I should get going, I suppose.”

You made your way to your feet in the mucky sandbar and started heading off to see where you’d been stranded. You could feel the Siren’s heavy gaze on you the whole while, and decided he was probably trying to figure out if you’d taste better paired with seaweed or a nice jellyfish spread.

.

.

The pair of you had been stranded on a small, crescent, islet that couldn’t even rightly call itself an island. You were able to walk from its curling east to west coasts in just under fifteen minutes, and that was at a meandering pace where you stopped to peer into all kinds of little grottos and rocky formations. There was some vegetation at the heart of it—short palm trees and tufts of grassy knolls—and thankfully a few deep divots that had collected some still rainwater, but otherwise it was entirely boring and stupid. Not even any weird tortoises or anything meandering about to make friends with.

By the time you circled back around to your original stranding point, you had fully expected the Siren to have flipped you the metaphorical bird and fucked off back into the ocean, never to be seen again. Instead, he was still stretched out in the shallows of the bay, carefully fanning his long tail out in the seafoam and picking through the mess of it with his pointy claws.

He reminded you of a beta fish—with wide, flowing, fins that looked far more like silk than skin or scales. The tips were a deep, plum purple that gently faded from near black to violet and finally a vivid sort of lilac at their junction. The bulk of his tail looked like it could be made from literal gemstones with the way it shimmered in the morning light (gems that had perhaps been a bit dinged and/or literally torn out in chunks from where he may or may not have been smashed into the rocky shore curtesy of your terrible hogtie, but who’s to say).

There were jagged cuts lining the right half of his pale torso. They oozed a strange sort of silver ichor that was probably some kind of mystical merman blood, but you absolutely refused to get close enough to try and find out. The fins framing his pelvis were tangled and thin looking, and the sweeping ones that trailed all the way down to the tip of his tail were battered and torn. Clearly pulled to bits by your handy, dandy lasso skills. Which… was still tied up at the base of them. Huh. You’d assumed he’d be able to slice through all that knotwork without issue. But maybe…

You approached the Siren cautiously. You caught the exact moment he must have realized you’d returned because the fins along the sides of his head flattened like the ears on a pissy cat and he turned on you with a very dramatic snarl that probably sounded all sorts of menacing.

��Hello,” you greeted, and the merman spat something that you assumed was probably a very polite ‘fuck right off.’

You nodded because, well, fair enough. And then pointed to his injured fins and the waterlogged ropes still twisted up around the heart of them.

“I can get that off if you promise not to eat me.”

He shouted something no doubt very indignant and then was back to hissing at you. Which definitely didn’t sound like an agreement not to immediately murder you on the spot.

“Alright,” you shrugged. “Your loss, I suppose.”

Well, your loss, really. Keeping a wounded Siren around was just asking for trouble. Their pods were viciously protective for one thing, and that wasn’t even taking into account the poachers and rivals who’d be more than keen to come sniffing after the fresh trail of blood in the water. Maybe you could find a big stick or something and just, I don’t know, push him back into the ocean and be done with it.

The thought must have shown on your face, because suddenly he was smacking his tail against the sandbar and spitting something that you very much assumed was a demand along the lines of ‘you are going to take accountability for this.’

Which absolutely no way in Hell. He’d kidnapped you sort of, so that made you his problem, thank you very much.

You felt your stomach gurgle, and it must have been pretty loud going off the stink eye he sent your way. You turned your nose up at him and went about collecting the various critters that had been washed ashore in his tenor’s tantrum.

“Thanks for the food!” you chirped petulantly as you worked on scaling the tuna with the knife from your belt—making long, pointed, eye contact as you did so.

The Siren sneered at you and went back to grooming the shredded ends of his fins.

The rest of the afternoon became a sort of pissing contest between the two of you to see who could earn the title of Bitchiest Beach Bitch. You thought you were definitely winning with the whole ‘eating something that could have been his long-lost cousin’ thing, but then he went and swamped the entirety of the small fire you built (and all of said ‘cousin’ being cooked over it) with one sweep of his tail, so now you were at the very least tied. You set up a nice little shaded hutch out of driftwood and ferns to escape the sun, he called down seagulls to shit all over it and pick it to pieces. He tried to roll around to reach some of the tighter fibers tangled in his pectoral fins, and you chucked rocks at him until he reared on you with a scream that had all the hairs on your arms standing on end. Y’know. Perfectly mature things like that.

That night you curled up beside a tall, jagged rock just at the outskirt of the bay—determined to get some shut eye but to also keep within range of your newest pest in case he decided to try and pull something sneaky. But every time you’d just about settled in to sleep, the shallow tide would lap against your toes in harsh shush shush shushes that had you furrowing you brow until you finally had enough and sat up to see what all the hubbub was about.

The Siren was tossing around in the shallows like a fish in a net—throwing his long body against the bindings and flailing like his life depended on it. And as much as he’d definitely deserved to get caught up in your unintentional hogtie, watching something as large and no doubt powerful as he was wriggling around like a worm on a hook was… Well. Something soured a bit in your gut as you watched him give one, final, great buck against his bindings before collapsing back into the shallows in a circle of seafoam. He panted against the surface of the water, the tips of his pale hair dripping down in a curtain around his haggard face, and you could see a fine tremor running along his shoulder blades.

You turned back to your rock and ground the heels of your palms into your eyes, fighting the absolute batshit insane urge to feel bad for a monster who had literally tried to drag you to your death less than twenty-four hours ago.

The water was calm and still for the rest of the night.

.

.

The next morning, you picked up a few of the crabs who had crawled up to shore and went about getting them clean and fit for eating. You glanced at the Siren, who was busy preening over his janky fins and fussing over his hair. It was entirely unfair that you probably looked like a half-drowned rat, and yet this creature that wasn’t even meant to exist on the surface was somehow managing to put himself together well enough to rival the courtesans you’d seen meandering around some of the wealthier coastal towns.

You stared at the crabs. There were three of them. It wasn’t really sharing if it was meant to be a bribe to keep him from eating you whole. Or at least, that’s what you reassured yourself as you cautiously tiptoed back to the water’s edge.

The Siren swiveled on you with a snap of something that looked sort of like a ‘What?!’ and you held up one of the gutted crabs in offering.

“I don’t know if you all eat fish or whatever, but…” You waved the limp crab awkwardly.

The Siren rolled its purple eyes and said something fast and sharp that you couldn’t really parse. Something, something, not, something, something, are crust—Something, something, are you that stupid? (you recognized the impressions of those words well enough to mouth them even in your sleep).

“Look, do you want it or not?” you interrupted, and he bristled—all those delicate, violet, fins flaring up like a porcupine’s spikes.

The Siren crossed his arms stiffly and pointedly turned in the other direction with a mutter of something you had no hopes of catching.

“Whatever,” you snapped and went to bite into your meal. Only to immediately forget that these pointy little fuckers still had their shells on them. You reeled back with a yelp as you stabbed a million, tiny, carapace-shaped holes in your tongue.

The fucking Siren had the gall to turn back around so that you could see him laughing at you.

.

.

That night he was back to flipping around in the shallows like a miniature hurricane.

You counted out the waves sloshing against your heels, telling yourself you’d intervene in his self-destructive tsunami once it hit one hundred. And then it became two, then three. You shifted hesitantly to peek over the rock’s edge and watched him curl into himself like some terribly wounded creature before shaking himself out of the fog of pain that had clearly settling over his nerves, and then continued with his nonsense.

You hurled a big, pink seashell at his head and he whipped on you like a rabid dog, practically foaming at the mouth and raring for a fight. When he lunged forward with the waves—seething with hatred, and blame, and nearly crashing onto his already shredded front in the process, something angry in your snapped.

“Look, fish face! You were the one who attacked me! You!” you demanded, stomping perhaps a bit closer than would be rational. “So stop acting like I’m some scheming shithead who was planning to trap you like this from the start!”

The Siren roared something back and slapped his tail in the surf. Static zipped along your cheeks and you grit your teeth. He glared at you bitterly and then began to repeat one word over and over—slow and angry.

‘Eeeeehhh-Pppe-llllll’ said his lips. Strong and harsh with the shape of it.

And then he was back to spewing all kinds of rapid-fire vitriol that you wouldn’t have bothered to keep track of even if you could. Something in his expression shifted almost quicker than you could notice and he lifted his massive tail out of the water. He smacked the fins in your direction and pointedly jabbed a clawed finger at the creases of them—where delicate, silky, tendrils met strong, gem toned, muscle. Where the purple was light and clean. A pale, shiny, lavender. Almost just like—

“That kid?” you frowned. “You attacked me because of Purple Head?!”

He sneered again and pointedly sent a splash of seawater into your face.

“You—” you grit your teeth. “He was still attacking us first! He was going after my friend!” you snapped, kicking your own wave back. For all the good it would do. “You don’t get to act all noble and protective, and like any of that makes any difference when you all were going to eat us!”

The Siren’s face twisted up like you’d force fed him soured milk, and he looped back around with a dramatic fwoosh of water to dive into the shallows. It was maybe two or three feet deep at best, and he was barely submerged. Not to mention how utterly ridiculous it looked to see a creature that was no doubt usually the peak of grace and athleticism reduced to flopping belly first into the waves with his proverbial legs tied up behind him. But you recognized a door slamming in your face when you saw it, no matter the species. Fine. Let him be a petty bastard. He could rot away in the sandbar for all you cared.

.

.

The next day you woke up with goosebumps crawling up and down your limbs.

There were all sorts of gulls crash-landed in the sand around you and more sad, little, sea creatures gasping on the beach than you dared to count. You shoved a particularly chubby octopus back into a tidepool as you passed and wondered just what sort of nonsense your co-strandee was getting up to now.

The Siren was circling the bay with his head held high above the low waves—lips parted and clearly caterwauling like a dying porpoise. The surface of the water trembled with whatever was making its way out of his mouth, and he looped and looped around the shores. It reminded you of the time you’d seen a whale calf separated from its pod. It had gotten trapped in a shallow inlet when the tides had changed, and your ship had been anchored just off the same coast. You’d watched it circle and circle, lifting its heavy snout to snort sharp jets of water into the air. Deuce had passed you a scribbled note when you’d asked him what it sounded like.

‘It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.’

There was a moment where the Siren paused in his paces and tilted his head. The fins there flared out to the side, like he was listening for something. But after a long moment the spines drooped back against his damp hair and he went back to his singing an aria to no one.

‘It’s looking for its family,‘ Riddle had signed to you when you’d asked him why the calf didn’t simply leave once the tides had turned in its favor. ‘This is where they last saw it, so this is where it will stay.’

“Maybe they forgot about him already,” you mused petulantly, turning back towards the center of the islet to try and scavenge up something to eat from all the poor creatures who had collapsed beneath your nemesis’s wailing.  

The bitter thought wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it ought to be.

.

.

That night, the waters were still.

You squinted suspiciously at the merman curled in the shallows of the bay. He’d pulled himself half-out of the water, resting his more human looking bulk in the soft sand as gentle waves lapped at his tail. He slept on his front with his arms crossed beneath his pointed chin—his unbound fins sticking up behind him in a way that deliriously reminded you of bedhead. You watched him carefully for nearly an hour, searching for any tightness in his muscles or change in his breathing that might indicate he was faking it. But as the evening stretched on and he never lurched awake to try and gauge your eyes out, you assumed he might actually be properly resting.

He'd been swimming in circles all day—the aborted, stuttering, beats of his bound tail looking painful even by your non-tail-having standards. Eventually the tremors along the ocean had grown stuttered and strange, like perhaps his voice was giving out on him. And once that had happened, he’d curled up exactly where he was now. And hadn’t moved since.

You stared at the Siren hesitantly. He was certainly in enough of a state that you could probably pull off that whole ‘shoving him into the depths with a stick’ thing. He’d probably just let you do it—sink to the bottom in a mess of shredded fins and tangled twine and never rise again.

You gnawed at your lip, feeling something unpleasantly hot and sticky twist up your stomach.

The knife glinted between your fingers and you thought of crying whales and of the crew that you already missed so much that it felt like a gnawing chasm had opened in your chest.

You huffed out a miserable sigh and lamented for not the first time in your life that you really were just so fucking stupid sometimes. And then you were cautiously making your way down towards the waterline and the sleeping Siren sprawled out in the sand. Slowly—so very, very slowly—you tiptoed towards the mer and tried to get a quick glance at what amounted to the worst of the damage.

The rope had been thin and long, and the more he’d struggled, the more he’d dug the twine into his fins. You reached forward at half speed and slipped the blade into one of the too-tight creases beneath the bindings. You winced a bit in sympathy at the raw, pink skin beneath. No wonder he hadn’t been able to just rip the fibers away. He’d probably just ended up tugging them over and over against the oozing wounds beneath.

The first strand broke beneath your fingers with something that almost felt like a pop. Like seams ripping on a shirt. You glanced quickly at the sleeping Siren to confirm he was still lost to the world and not gearing up to bite your fingers off at the knuckle, and then continued making your way through the worst of it. It reminded you a bit of the time Ace had accidentally snared a sea turtle in one of his fishing nets and the lot of you had spent the better part of an hour slowly working the thing free of the seemingly endless tangles. You delicately worked the tightest edges away from the harsh indentations they’d left against his scales and peeled back the muckier bits with enough gentleness to avoid mangling anymore of his already battered fins.

The last of the rope finally came away with a satisfying, wet weight and you let it fall to the sand beside you with a pleased nod. Now you could let Mister Merman swim away in the morning with no unpleasantly gross sense of moral obligation weighing down your consciousness. Maybe he’d even be thankful enough to look at you with something other than a venomous glare for once. Certainly nothing like the one leveled at you right now. And—

Oh.

You didn’t even have time to properly gasp before you were being flipped and pinned into the wet sand. The Siren loomed over you, digging his black claws into your shoulder until you could feel the first pricks of blood breaking the surface. He snarled in your face, the curtain of his pale blonde hair shadowing his eyes in something so dark it was nearly black. The brilliant purple cast off his glowing irises were like little spots of stars in an otherwise empty night sky.

He leaned forward, teeth bared, and then some sort of tight expression flickered over his face. He paused, brow tugging together steep and angry. He hunched down once more, fangs at the ready, and then ducked back out. He shook his head, like he was trying to clear fog from his brain, and then he was snapping his canines at you all over again.

The Siren reared back with a booming snarl that sent ripples through the soft tide lapping at your ankles. He turned with one, final, icy glower and dove back into the shallows, disappearing beneath the surface in a flash of amethyst scales. He flicked his tail sharply as he went, and one of the tattered fins snapped against your nose with enough of a crack to make you yelp.

You sat up in disbelief, rubbing at your aching skin and watching in outright consternation as the great predator of the oceans swam tight laps beneath the warm waters of your little lagoon—fins occasionally cresting over the surface to smack pointed fistfuls of water into your gaping face.

Deliriously, one of The Rose Queen’s hundreds of nonsensical rules bounced about your head. Happy to fill the otherwise entirely empty space behind your eyes.

‘Never save a Sea Serpent on a Sunday,’ Riddle had demanded, hands at his hips. ‘No Serpents, or Sea Horses, or Sirens to speak of.’

‘Man,’ you thought wildly, brain high on adrenaline and static as you watched one of the aforementioned Sirens swan about like he hadn’t probably just been a half second away from gnawing on your literal bones. ‘If I get out of this alive, Captain’s definitely gonna collar me this time.’

.

.

.

[TAG LIST]

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[a-dauntless-daffodil]

Vaggie: “Stop trying to push past me, asshole.”

Angel Dust: “Move, I’m gay.”

Vaggie: “And I’m down here at 2 am getting a snack a drink for my girlfriend, what’s your excuse.”

Angel Dust: “Do ya want me raidin’ the fridge at weird hours, or doin’ drugs?”

Vaggie: “I want you to wait your turn and quite shoving.”

Angel Dust: “Ya gonna have to bribe me."

Vaggie: "With? Letting you live?"

Angel Dust: "Please, I'm gonna need way more than that- I wanna know why you’re wearing Charlie Chip’s button down shirt and ONLY her shirt!”

Vaggie: “Only one I could find.”

Angel Dust: “Oooh~?”

Vaggie: “She’s pretty annoyed at my clothes by the time she gets them off me.”

Angel Dust: "HA!"

Vaggie: "And I get pretty annoyed with you by default."

Angel Dust: "Aww thanks toots, my heart is all mooshy. Cotton candy princess got some SPICE to her, huh?”

Vaggie: “Yeah well, speaking of spicy, if any of my clothes made it out a window and onto the hotel steps again, they aren’t mine and I’ve never seen them.”

Angel Dust: “I mean I guess that shit lie will work… if they’re ya panties or whatever-”

Vaggie: “A thing that I wear. Right.”

Angel Dust: “-the rest is kinda an iconic outfit thing though, toots, don’t know anyone wouldn’t know who’s it- wait a sec- are ya saying ya DON’T wear-?”

Vaggie: “Here. Leftover cake.”

Angel Dust: “You can’t bribe yourself outta THIS talk, Vaggie Tales!”

Vaggie: “Sure I can, it’s triple chocolate and has sprinkles. Take it and hide or else everyone else will come crawling out of their rooms for a share.”

Angel Dust: “Crawling, ya say?”

Vaggie: “Literally. Trust me.”

Angel Dust: “Hmmm… and, is triple chocolate-”

Vaggie: “Husk’s favorite. Have fun.”

Angel Dust: “We’re picking up the panty thing tomorrow, toots!”

Vaggie: (already leaving) “No we’re not.”

Angel Dust: “We sure as hell are! Maybe for real! Off the hotel front steps! IF YOU EVEN WEAR ‘EM!”

Vaggie: (already gone) “Go pick up your Doctor Seuss crush before the cake gets stale!”

Angel Dust: “YOU TAKE THAT BACK! He’s not a twink in a hat! HE’S A RUN DOWN TONY THE FUCKIN’ TIGER WITHOUT STRIPES AND AFTER A WHOLE CARTON OF SMOKES!”

Vaggie: (distantly) “Whatever…”

Angel Dust: “You’re just too lesbian to appreciate it!”

Vaggie: (fading out upstairs) “That, and I’m too not-single for it either…”

Angel Dust: “Oh that bitch….” (bites cake) (mumbling) (sulking) (single) “Hope Charlie Chuck yeeted her damn clothes clear across town.”

Charlie: “I didn’t. This time.”

Angel Dust: (SHRIEKS)

Charlie: “Hi.”

Charlie: (dropping down from ceiling and scurrying over the counter top wrapped in just blanket)

Charlie: “I wanna share an extra piece of the cake, please.”

Angel Dust: “DON’T BEDSHEET GHOST SCARE ME LIKE THAT! Fuck!”

Charlie: “Sorry! Cake?”

Angel Dust: “Didn’t ya girlfriend already get you a slice!?”

Charlie: “Of course she did!”

Angel Dust: “So what’s wrong with THAT one??”

Charlie: “It’s gone…”

Angel Dust: “Gone HOW-”

Charlie: “I started missing her and came down to meet her and the cake, um.” (points at stomach) “Didn’t survive.”

Angel Dust: “Un-bi-lievable.”

Charlie: “Caaaaake?”

Angel Dust: “Here.” (shares cake) “SHOO!!!”

Charlie: (shoos) “I’m shooing! And by the power of this cake, maybe I can throw MY shirt off of her this time!”

Angel Dust: “Oh your dad have mercy..... how much sugar have ya already had?”

Charlie: “Enough to shower a tit- uh sorry- THROW shirt clear across town!”

Angel Dust: “Just take it off her before ya yeet it.”

Charlie: “? Oh!! RIGHT!!!!”

-an hour later at angel dust’s door-

Charlie: (knocking) “Angel? I need you to watch the hotel for little while!”

Angel Dust: “I’m busy! Don’t interrupt the cake!”

Charlie: “PLEASE Angel Dust it’s IMPORTANT and I wouldn’t bother you but I can’t find Husk so-” (door opens) “-oh hi Husk, can YOU please watch the hotel for me??”

Husk: “Why the fuck.”

Charlie: “I need, to go apologize, to my girlfriend.”

Angel Dust: “Vaggiraptor is right upstairs, ain’t she? Why’d we have to watch the hotel for that?”

Charlie: “Because I…”

Charlie: “…I need to figure out, where she landed, first…”

Angel Dust: (GASP) “Nooo…”

Husk: “What?”

Angel Dust: “You didn’t.”

Charlie: “I didn’t mean to!”

Husk: “What the fuck did she do?”

Charlie: “It was- the sugar! My hands were shaking- I was frustrated! And really really distracted!!”

Angel Dust: “HOW could you!? I TOLD ya-!”

Charlie: (on her knees) (wailing) “And I FORGOT!!!”

Husk: “You know what? Fuck it. I don’t wanna fucking know.” (heads back to the cake)

[astralnymphh]

before the flora.

knight!ellie x princess!reader teaser. beginning is essentially just lore. bonus excerpt with ellie and princess interaction below the sketch. wrote the intro in january. no warnings tbh. illustration by @trackinglessons :P READ THIS . PALESTINE MASTERPOST

When the universe was born, there was only fire; a slowly waning blaze. And so hence when death begins to unfurl its low, groaning bloom— there will only be ice.

Yet the heavens and earth are nay alike, as death— and life, are interwoven by the timeless nuptial that is humans, and Mother Nature. Cordial and tepid heartbeats meet with her frigid and frightening marrow this season. Flakes are falling, a howl swells in the wind, and hearths stay an undying tongue of flame in the province of Istenad. Isle of riches and hedonism gone rampant amongst those who proved meritful of a conversation spat over gilded chalices. Or those who wiped a famished tongue stroke over the sole of His Majesty— The King's tan leather boots in entreat, declaring the hide a tenfold more gullet–watering than their stale, daily spare of bread. Where high life reins, low life is there to scrub their steeds.

The wintry pearlescent tundra fringing around uncharted woodlands hums your name— it carries by gale, an airy reed of vowels pulled through your ears. 

Tut, tut, tut, the pecking of bark.

Everything seems to resound much heavier over the windows thick limestone sill. Woodwinds, the sough of pine boughs— a chorus wafted. Woodpeckers, they beat rigid timber with their sonnets of calling. The echoed tut starts to sound awfully kindred to a beckoning call of your name. And at daybreak, when the tangerine sun dips its head under the coast, you feel a magnetic lull to traverse your truest passions and slip away into the night, arctic chilled steel in hand. The quantity of hay sticking beneath your shoes collected by skittering across the night–doused thoroughfare was well enough to concern your maids on duty to dress you, brows fuddled at the streaming of straw near your door come morning.

Loop of your knuckles, bend of your wrist, a hand flexed on the hilt of a meticulously poached sword. A swing 'round your waist, a cold hale grip the air could taste, fighting off many mythic brutes of moonlight, however only conceived where dreams are airtight. The mind, it plays. The play it perceives, a viewing spread like tawny butter. Ghouls and ghastlies encircle a quaint pond, chanting away in cryptic grumbles and beastly bumbles, enraged with their slobber frothing at the fangs you tore from their sockets— deeper than artless, juxtaposed to the blinding ruby reds and dyed paper sunflowers of the theater. Your mind’s play felt real.

Unfortunate to your heart, dreams will stay dreams.

Nary a princess was meant to tune into melee, especially at your courting age. Nevertheless, your psyche has spurned from what a maiden is expected of and is completely in a haven of your own structure, your signature sanctuary. 

In the farmsteads, a forthcoming soldier harvests not just crop— but dexterity. Derived and nurtured in the faraway prairie village of Dunwich, where the fertile seasons prove flaxen of corn and the trickling sweat of every farmhand turns to gold. Any newborn granted to this quaint village is fated to form calloused hands with labor written in their palm lines as time unfolds. In their— well, her— adolescent years, the yearning for practices of gallantry in knighthood swiveled her sights to the colossal stone castle way.. way far away. Sprouting beyond the earth line, far as the eye can see.

So, she learned, she trained, she slept, partaking in a ranged cycle taught by her ruthlessly departed father: Sir Joel. Reprisal became her nemesis; never able to rend the barrier of hesitation and cleanse her shut eyes of revolting imagery. The horseman of death was not omitting the trauma of this hazel-haired soldier. A weight so burdensome, her speckled skin remembers the tales of every scar clawed into it. Like how the lips of a bard cling to an everlasting ballad.

Every knight knew well to exile any lingering ties to the past. It's been years since he passed, she understands that. Though, the heart never lies, and certainly never covets forgetting.

Ambitions stemming from legions of knights in waiting have fallen short, submerging within the moat of the castle and sinking deep into the catacombs with no elegy sung. An allegory for dreams long since vanished. A domain so valued longs for those biding life with rigid bones, such as she. Tempered by the hardships, endured like metal meeting the blacksmith's chisel. 

A vividness to her movements, flowing like a river. For it is water that soothes the most cosmic fires, carves veins into the earth's soil, descends from the heavens above and proves iron soluble. A knight so pinpoint and poised like a painter, yet so daring and baneful like a warrior of evenfall. An artisan of her craft, this knight-to-be is. Born to thrive in matters regarding protection of their kingdom and its nobility. By the sheer tenacity of her skill, she will excel. From the self–instructed lessons in a verdant pasture, basked by undying light in her hometown— to the ordained priming within the royal court. 

They were forged to be dutiful. 

You are a daughter of the illustrious King, Sagard, and swan–grace queen, Sagard— maiden name Adela, and sister of your highly revered and cherished kin, Prudence. Subsequent to her fabled rise, was your fall. A pratfall you plainly turned a serene ear from, for you foresaw its coming. Clandestine adventures and lollygagging in the marketplace earned you right in the clasp of consequences. You knew that, knowing it kept you on the balls of your toes before you'd be caught suiting into an act more repugnant— be it, no.. befogging yourself in a peasant boys' dire–in–muck rags, merely to play "boy" games as a young one? 

Sacrilege! 

Prudence was there, at every occasion, scolding with her youthful finger at the palace fore, sucking her fingertip wet of spit and dragging a stroke over your soot–strewn cheek, just before scuttling the halls in search of father, cawing, “Father, Father! My sisters become a boy again!” until it rang his fucking ears to a pulse. Hmph, father even countered his own remark of squawk, pouring through the walls, “Hah! The second son I wish I reared! Tell me, what peasants skin does she clad: butcher's boy, or of the farmer?”

Rebuking the role of royalty isn't your entire bastion of vengeance. You purely long for a world of your own color. Your self-brewn arcadia of art. In a concise phrase, desire for sovereignty. And your family chastised you curtly for every scant display of free will, short of the Queen, she is fair.

Daughter of the King, Princess of the thicket. You retain your fortunes. Modestly.

“Why don't you resemble your sister more?”

A ruby crested box designed by the best of goldsmiths is lodged at the margin of your beds footboard, safekeeping of your esteemed regalia. You possess a bedazzled amassing of circlets, veils, brocade and velvet tunics of long lengths within this box. But do any of them revel in the blessing of being worn on regal skin? Never. You opted for garbs of less gilding and jewels, so that you might taint it with whatever adventures mold under the ribbing of your foot. That shit offended your skin with its indelicacy of forgetting a human will don its fabric golds and woven jewels.

Even— court gatherings. You don the likeness of simplicity and temperate elegance. This morning's virginal aurora, a broach of light swoll from the windows arch, to the footing of your bed, made the wake of your eyes begin upon a lighting behind sheer skin. Your box of regalia shone in that incandescence momentarily. It danced, fleeter than you, irkingly so. You had to squint whilst flipping the clasps and hauling the heavy lid slanted against your bed, or else you may be heaven–blinded. “Every inch of Princess,” you intoned in quietude at the sight of glamored fabrics, “—whom I shant mirror.” and reached for the homelier fabrics, scratch of cobalt-blue linen delight brushing under your prints, you grasped your reserve tight.

“I was not made aware that there is a village wedding to be, dear sister— from what river does this dress of rags hail from?”

“It is not a brides dress, nor rags, leave me Prud—”

Prudence had blocked the shut of your chamber door with her hand flattened, pursuing, “You glum your gems. Rotting in that chest, tasting no light, no glory.”

You kept your lips thickly sown shut, casting dimly eyes to the ground.

“Shall I send for the steward so he may sell—”

“No need.”

“Hmm, most stubborn, are we? Then I—”

“I am least stubborn,” you wedged your fingers beneath her palm, prying the door loose, “—it is you, who strays your own counsel, unmoving as a mountain.” ending with the trudging shut of your door, ceasing in silence.

[++ bonus excerpt from act 2, scene 1]

“Uh–huh..” she draws out. Legato; a sarcastic reply, and wipes her tongue through the press of her lips together, “This far out? You must rebel quite often to have made a friend, I bet?” she tilts her head, a bit playful.

“You bet well— a lot, I assume?” 

Cannily, she winks, “Indeed I do.” and aligns her face onward. Gesturing to her horse's rump a second— third? Eh, whatever time— she jerks her brow with a head cock back, “Hop on, I'll take you there.”

Both brows fall, and you flinch bemused, “Wh– uh,” as you hem and haw for words, grating a stutter, “But not a moment ago you spoke of the roads recent perils—”

“Surely it's not far?” she spoke presumptuously, “I mean, you've come this far, My Lady. Nobody would travel the woods past sunset, besides you it seems.” now a matter–of–fact vocal barricade that shoves itself into your ears and winds the cogs to think cleverly.

You shan't know my transgressions, sweet Knight. You may talk.

Trust is sparse as a puddle marched in.

“‘Tis but a mile out. Bravo on your convincing, Williams.” you wry and scoff. 

“Can't fumble that name, huh?”

“I would not want to dishonor your knighthood.” 

“You honor me with your coincidental presence, Princess.”

“Honor in your mind.”

"Hmph," her breathy chuckle, a sweetness you luckily caught with ears even numbed by the snowsquall. Do not blush. Do not smile. Fuck. Guess you'll be visiting Malina after all, the gale of a displeased sigh icing your lips over as you approach that dangling stirrup.

[doublekanble]

heart

Alastor/reader (gnc)

romantic-platonic

word count: 5.5k

or, alastor is a man of many things, and you believed he can never love without hurting his love. tw: a small paragraph of al eating your heart.

1. “–I was right.”  you coughed, the more you do, the more your voice choked on itself. Your body seized and shuddered with every beat of your heart as blood spew from the wound, already giving up on getting yourself away when you can barely breathe. He wishes he could’ve made it easier for you, but he got caught up. “you really are selfish…”

As the hand he’s holding onto quickly grew cold, Alastor hoped, for all its worth, that when he fall, however long it’ll takes, you’ll find the strength to finally accept his love for you. For now, he set his left ear over your heart, his hair stained red, Alastor listened closely for what he thought was the last time, as you and your life stops entirely.

(having done this time and time again, for the first time in a long time, he felt a longing for warmth, your warmth, the one seeping from you and dissipating with the cold air in the night.)

2. If there is ever a need to described himself, then Alastor would be the first to say that he is a man of many thing.

The charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor second to none. He’s your friendly neighbor who greets you with a smile and a caring friend. He’s the perfect son and an amiable stranger. Everything you want, he will be. Everything, except all you ever wanted from him is someone to talk to.

You’ve always a strong fascination for writing from years gone by. From the gloomy and miserable words of a poor but astute poet, riddled with nihilism and pain, to a long-gone romanticist who wrote fairy tales and chasing love he couldn’t held in his hand, or a myth, lost to time and rewritten over and over again. All the books you ever care to curated in your home is that of the classic and the dead.

Perhaps that’s why he’d grown so attached to you and the poetry you sewn into existence with clumsy words.

With his unfortunate lot in life despite his mother’s best effort –god bless that woman, Alastor would, in time, learn how to play charade better than anyone else, barely remembering the last time he bother to show care to anyone else with love and honesty rather than bemusement. He doesn’t need moth-bitten books to guide him through conversation when he can just as easily play the role of a salesman, granting you the option to pick between a piece of stale bread or the last supper. But only a salesman in the end, his words and gestures is with all the saccharine and none of the sugar.

Although he could never hope to weaves paintings with his word, ever only a mockery of one, Alastor welcome his shortcoming in strides, as long as people bought into his act. For the love he lacks in his heart, valuable you, his treasured companion, would make up for it all.

In stark contrast to his hidden callousness, you were a much more genuine person. The books and stories you gathered throughout your short-lived life give you a means to convey the feelings that made up your whole existence. In the occasion where he manage to pick the right topic, you would choose to hastily penned out your thoughts, writings border-on obsessive as you speak of vivid strokes of emotions no single word in any language can ever hope to capture. And yet, your heart, enraptured by the scenery, frantically beat so loudly in your chest as you speak of worlds end and death departed with shared poison; it would also spoke of a love so ordinary and mundane.

You’d never mourned the Danish storyteller that chased love endlessly, simple deeming it a life worth living. He wondered if you ever regretted telling him that.

(you sing praises to the odds and the out of sort while cursing at the commonplace of life, Alastor charmed the ordinary and laugh at the macabre death brings. as long as you’re there by his side, he have no need to love anything else.)

 3. Just like everything else about you, your close proximity to Alastor is not the standard, and should always be seen as an exception.

That evening, you both got shooed away after a particularly early dinner, his mother’s only excuses was that you, the esteemed and beloved guest, already help with cooking, so it’s only natural you’ll get to spend the rest of the stay resting up. Even if the most you ever did was being so horrendous at chopping veggies, Alastor ended up taking over your load instead.

He laugh about it, saying that you’re pretending so you don’t have to do the work. His mother slapped him on the back of his head, while he nearly chop off his own fingers, she comforts you about your culinary skill. You smile at him when she turns her back on you both, knowing full well Alastor’s fighting his instinct to throw the first thing in his hand at you.

You two stand awkwardly on the porch and stare at the only available seat before Alastor argues that he did the most work so he should take the rocking chair. You point out how he’s practically whispering in the hope of his mother not noticing, he doesn’t bother to deny it.

After some mindless chatter, Alastor would suddenly joke about how if he were to ever read the same works as you, maybe he’ll be able to conceived a love so vicious and gentle too. You, sitting just by his feet, only gives him a sheepish smile. It wasn’t until before you’re at the front of his door, already bid his mother goodbye and ready to go back, that you would throw a remark at him.

“I think you’re a pretty vicious guy on your own,” you walk the three step down and continued through the front walk nonchalantly, hands in your coat pocket instead of linking with his like usual. “If you were to love someone, you’ll hurt them in the end. Even if you were to read all of my books.”

You stand at his gate. Although you’re waiting to see whether he’s going to go with you, you might as well have been gauging his reaction. Unconsciously, as he catches your gaze, he relaxed his grip and stride towards you like a panther to a sitting duck.

“You’re welcomed to, by the way. Just don’t dog-tag them.” Faint stinging shot through the heart of his hands from where his nails was digging into. His laugh sounds more like choking as he ignores your offer for now.

“Now, I wasn’t aware you have such a dreadful view of me, let alone thinking I can’t – what?” incredulously, Alastor barks “Love?! HAH!I supposed one of us are going to have to break that pathetic news to my mother.”

The moment he reach you, he catches a soft sigh falling from your lips, “It’s not that I think you can’t, Al.” the nickname that he imprinted on your frontal lobe sounded like nails on chalkboard, “It’s that I think you shouldn’t.”

“How delightful…”

You turned and began to walk on your own. If Alastor was anyone else, he would’ve taken this at face value and get offended at your eccentricity.

“And where, pray tell, does these impressions of yours come from?” He snatched your left arm, pulling it from its resting place and do the job himself. You give him a look, he smiles.

“I’ve been watching you.” His expression must’ve been something, enough for you to instantly stop on the sidewalk as you stammered and tries to pull your arm from him. “Not like that you deviant! I was just trying to get a read on you, since everyone kept talking about you being unattached and all.”

“Yes, yes, I know. What now, you want in on the chase? It’s ok dear, I know I’m utterly irresistible!” Refusing to let go of you, he only laugh on as you scowl. It’s well known to everyone that Alastor have been available for the longest time since anyone ever known him. It was also a well-kept mystery, the fact he have never courted a single person throughout his entire life.

“Utterly hogwash, that’s what you are.” Huffing to yourself, you finally would relent your arm to him. Your shared steps echoing across the darkening street, it’s near curfew. “I do have to say, I see what they meant, about you being a good spouse and all that,” He smiles a bit brighter at that, “But I just can’t see you being vulnerable with anyone else. You despises things not going your way, and love just have too much uncertainty!”

“Yes, yes,” he repeats, as if soothing you from a tantrum, “Weak and frail Alastor, the poor soot of New Orleans, unable to tear his ribcages open and show everyone his organs the same way his beloved whimsical friend here does every day ~.” You hiss as he settled his own weight against you with his head on your shoulder, nearly knocking the both onto the ground, “I guess you’ll just have to be with me for the rest of your life then! If you don’t, I’ll simply drown in my own piled up misery! What a life it’ll be!”

“Sure you will. Now get off and take me back home you dramatic coot.”

4. At that time, there was no need for Alastor to inquire your meaning of “vicious”.

In direct contrast to your trusting nature, you’re also perceptive and doubtful to a fault. The first slight of your tongue was a comment on how he can stop smiling around you. Always with that same gaze as you have now, lying underneath him. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he said to you that day. But it was enough for you to stood up and walked from the table with a ten-dollar bill pin under your half-finished lemon tea. The issue was quickly resolved with a phone call to your home, but he quickly learned that you don’t take kindly to – and quite frankly, refused to participate in – saccharine sweet insult.

But at what point did he stop hiding himself and let you read him freely, he thought. If he bit down on his tongue until he bleeds and shut you out like how he did to so many others who couldn’t even take one step near him, then maybe something could’ve turn out differently.

Replaying that moment over and over in his head, for the first time in his life, Alastor think about the concept of love, really think about it. It simply was an aspect of life that he never pay mind to, equating it with romance book and kissing under starry skies, and thus, utterly useless. When he think of love, all he have to go off of is his dear old mother, who sacrifices and suffers so much for him, which, in time, he pay her back with everything he have. His life was only about her and himself and the bodies under the forest floor and it was everything he wanted and more. Until one rainy day, with his eyes on the script he’s writing out for tomorrow’s broadcast, bleary-eyed and hearing the bed calling his name, he thought about you.

When he came to, he already dropped his coffee cup. The brown liquid burns, even through his slipper.

After that, Alastor would start picking out books from your carefully curated shelves, sitting in your armchair and skims through the lines while you spread across the ground like an old cat, he tried to find the feelings that you described to him in the same page you’d read a million times and over. But as he does so, he would soon find that there’s not a single word in any of those old and yellowed pages of yours that is able to captured the quickly spreading rot in his heart. In a frenzied, Alastor would burn through your small library faster than you could ever hope for.

(Alastor knows that time and time, again and again, as long as you’re willing to reach for his hand, he will never let go of yours.

at some point, he’d stop caring about whether you’re willing to at all. why would he, when the meaning of being able to love you became all he care to know at all.)

5.

“You don’t need to love like I do, you know that, right?”

He turns to you, on your stomach, lying in your nest of blankets and pillows with a pencil in hand putting down incomprehensible charcoal shape.

“Bragging now, are we?” he gets up from the armchair and settled down by your side, eyes watching your hand while propping the book he was reading in his lap. You crank your neck and stare at him with a look, “And how are you so sure I want to love like you, dear?”

“You’ve been plowing through my books.”

He sends you a beaming smile, acting innocent while playing with your hair.

“You offered.”

“Aren’t they all the one I told you about?”

Your eyes on the book he’s holding, then the one he just placed back into the shelves. It feels like he’s back in his mother’s kitchen, with his dirty nails behind his back and a poor excuse for the missing bread on the dinner table. Except this time, there’s just you and him in your small living room, and you’re looking awfully smug about it.

Raising his hand in the air, he sigh pitifully, “Ah~, guilty as charged, darling.” and offers nothing else. The silence afterward is enough of a white flag anyway.

Pleased with what you got from him, you turn back to your work, seemingly unaware (or even worse, maybe you don’t care at all) about the gnawing in his chest and the storm raging in his head while his hand weaves through your hair.

The last time you talked to him about love, you more-or-less called him and his love hazardous. While Alastor have no trouble with accepting it from anyone else, with you, it feels as if you’re discarding a part of him to the dogs. Although his knowledge on many topics far exceeds yours, when it came to pure and genuine emotions from the heart, you’d know enough to examine him under all type of love there is, and time after time you’d deemed him impossible to ever love. And despite knowing loving and love is wholly separate, it tears him open to even considers that you’d thought of him as unable to love and be loved and something about it is just so incredibly agonizing to the point of wanting to rip you open so you can see just how unlovable you are too.

But in your living room, sitting right next to you the way no one else is allowed to. He sigh, making sure his words doesn’t come off as unpleasant as he feels.

“If I don’t have to love like you, then how do you supposed I should be doing it?”

“I’m not sure, but hopefully not at all.” You said offhandedly, but you might as well just drove a knife through his stomach, but it’s you, so he let it be, “If you can’t help yourself though, you’ll probably do something really horrible.”

“What do you supposed I’ll do?”

You turn to him, a hint of surprise in your eyes at how close he is now, but you let him be, “Undecided. But you seems like the type to let it eats you alive.”

“I’ll let my love eats me?” Laughing in disbelief, he could almost call you cute with how you nodded to yourself, resolute in your idea about him.

“You’ll let it eats you, yes.”

Alastor chuckled to himself as he tap your sketchbook twice, you hand it to him.

“Well, I’ll need to make sure that I won’t be alone, aren’t I?”

You laugh openly and said that’s true, he’s too selfish to be taken alone. Alastor couldn’t care about how much of that was just more of your usual jest and how much of it is your view of who he is. If you, who love so selflessly and readily, agrees without push back, that someone as selfish as him will doomed whoever it is that he loves so much, then who is he to deny.

At that time, the line of charcoal you put onto the paper come together to show a shadow of a small man dragging a coat by his unseen feet, a mock-up from one of the stories that you loved. Alastor stop wondering if he ever could love something like the poems and stories you’ve read a million times over, instead, he think it’s best if he loves the way you expected him to, the way he can see himself doing.

6. To be loved is to be changed.

You told him this while he stand in your kitchen, trying to shoo you back to the table so he can work without fuzzing over you. And now, while he’s holding you, so cold and so unlike you, Alastor wondered whether you would like it if your bones were to be buried in the same spot as the others.

As much as he’d love to keep it near with him, there’s not a single excuse in the whole round earth that can ever help him convinced his mother of letting him uprooted the garden out back and buried you down there, neither can he bring you with him everywhere. Alastor wants to try taking you to the morgue after he’s done, but how do you explain bringing in a set of skeleton with missing ribs? It’s simple, really.

You don’t.

He lifted you up in his arms and sat back on his sofa, your lulling head settled just below his chin, wanted to savor what’s left of you for just a bit more before rigor mortis sets in and makes you even less of what you are now. The gramophone in the corner of his room spewed utter nonsense as Alastor closes his eyes.

It’s Tuesday tomorrow, but he will have to roll up his sleeves and get to work on cleaning out one of the guest room in his hunting lodge if he doesn’t want the ants to take you first. He’ll have to call in sick, too. Alastor likes to think that when he sees you again, you’ll at least have the will to appreciate the troubles he went through for you and not complaint about being locked up inside. You and the love you have for him, akin to small river, a gentle stream, with orange and yellow leaves floating across, tucked in a forest somewhere. It widdled down the rocks and carved a path for itself. The same one that you oh so heartlessly withheld from Alastor.

You'd appreciate being bury in such a scenery, it’s a shame you won’t be, though your body would’ve made way for the prettiest flowers. But you’ll have to take what he can afford to give. To be loved is to be changed, after all.

(when, not if. having gone on for this long, he’s sure that you’re suspended in between life and death in the hell you refuses to ever believe in. half of him prayed that there’s not a river there so you can drown yourself in it just to forget all about him. the other half prayed you’ll remember nothing at all, even of the literature you love so much.

at some point, where will you stop being yourself? when you forget enough of yourself? Alastor doesn’t need to care about the semantics. he knows he’ll choose you time and again, even if you forget how you love.)

7. You take your time reading through farewell letters.

Unless the cats and dogs on the street can write, then there’s only a few, you kept a significantly smaller number of friends by your side. But it must’ve been hard to even focus with Alastor sitting right next to you.

“Darling, surely we can-“

“Please don’t make this any harder than it already was, Alastor.”

Desperately holding onto your wrist and halted your pace for just a second, he all but plead a hopeless case.

“You’re not thinking straight! Are you really just going to up and leave because someone told you so? After living your whole life here?!”

Your hand, moving like clockwork, already finished with the letters, refusing to stay in his. You pulled back from him and place the rest of the letters in a small wooden box with a deer carved on its lid. “You know it’s not just that.”

In times like these, he wonders if it was himself who have gone mad. As if the whole world is in on one big joke and you are just following along with it. Any moment now, you’ll burst into laughter and tell him that everything is a lie. You’re not moving to Washington to help a friend you know for some years with their business, and you’re not leaving him, not after everything he showed you. But you’re holding onto the letter with his mother’s name written on the front with misty eyes as if you have no other choice. So he held you by the shoulders to the point digging his nails into it and turned you to look at him.

“Then what else is there?! For Christ sakes-“ you look as if this is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do in your life, he felt as if this is the hardest battle he have to fight, “Please, mon Chéri, talk to me...”

Alastor collapse onto you, his whole weight pins you down on your small couch. Head on your chest, he listens as your heart beats just a bit faster. You let him.

“…what do you think we are, Alastor?”

Without hesitation, he reply.

“We are whatever you want us to be. Whatever it takes for you to stay.”

For someone like you, a romantic at heart, just like who he is now, that should’ve been enough for you to at least considers the possibility of forgetting about what’s right and wrong. For sure, it would’ve been enough for you to stay, if you were anyone else.

But you’re you, and he’s only himself. The romantic in you see through his act for the longest time and still fall in love with him, but just like how your love is selfless and kind, it’s also viciously rational. If you were anyone else, you would’ve ignored the rational part of yours.

“I’m sorry, Alastor.” All this time, he was desperately proving himself to you. Doing everything in his power just so you’re willing to forget your rationale and love him just as much as he loves you. “We’ll die loving each other.”

He doesn’t care if he die, Alastor wants to scream out. He’s ready to die to love you, he have been screaming out all this time. But despite all of his effort, you deemed him a love not worth chasing after till death, while he already planned the path to hell with you.

Your fingers, shaky and gentle, brush through his hair. If it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have to place himself bare and vulnerable like this. But if you were anyone else, he wouldn’t have love you at all. And if it’s death holding you back from loving him, then so be it.

8. For a long time now, Alastor knows you more than anyone else.

You were never a dancer, not by choice either. Its pathetic in the cutest way, how you froze up and refused to move, the way you stutters and try to pull from him only ever makes him want to bully you more. But from the way your brows draws together, to the way you’d tripped over yourself chasing after his footstep, all of it, Alastor earned from you.

From the way you stayed up overnight, to how the bottom of your shoes dragged against the pavement as you walk. From the tip of your pencil, to the bottom of your bookshelves. Every books on your shelves and every sketches. Alastor swear with all his life that no one else knows better than him when it came to you.

He knows intimately the curves you’d penned on your signatures; he knows how you’d change your mind at a moment notice about anything, he knows how you take with you small things on the side of the road that you deemed pretty enough and he knows you still have a lot you want to do here that you’ve told your lovely friend. So it’s only normal for Alastor, the person you grown to love so much, to know exactly why you refuses to even considers being by his side, and it’s just his luck that he also knows just how to write a letter with words just like yours.

So when was it that you got a friend you trusted so wholeheartedly, so faithfully, so much so, you’re your dearly cherished Alastor became a second thought in your mind? Weren’t you a romantic? Weren’t romantics idiots who can’t think straight when it come to love? So why was it that you alone refuses to let yourself love him and remained so loyal to someone you only considered a friend, someone who couldn’t even tell your lettering from his? Was it them? Who fed you lies after lies to captured you in their own hands? Was it them who taught you the telling and sign of a madman? Is that why your view of him was so horrible, you' refused to ever fathom life with him?

He knows you would’ve hated him for this, but Alastor adores you, and sometimes you just don’t know what’s best for you, even when it’s staring at you from across the front walk and following you to your home.

So if someone as rational as you can be swayed back to his lodge for just one more visit, then your friend surely can be swayed too, to come and visit you some other time, down here in your beloved New Orleans.

9. If anyone ever ask anyone else, then they will say that Alastor, beloved local radio host of New Orleans, is a man of many things. But if they were to ask you, then he’s one of the person you cherished the most, and your dearest friend.

He’s everything, the charming popular radio host of New Orleans, the life of the party, a bachelor that’s second to none. Alastor plays himself as your friendly neighbor who will always greets you with a smile and a clenched fist behind his back, hiding a stain just on the cuff of his sleeve in the early morning, a caring friend that offers you help just in the nick of time. Alastor is his mother’s perfect son, who spent more time comforting her about your whereabouts than to care for his own fracturing mind; an amiable stranger, gripping the newspaper detailing yet another disappearance with a bit too much force. Everything you have ever wanted him to be, he was. And yet, to his utter bewilderment and maddening grief, you refused to let him be anyone other than a friend you talked to about everything.

In the letters you saved from your beloved pen pal-turn-missing person, they would call you mature and wise. Sentimental words and kind, to his eyes, all are but hollowed gestures advising, agreeing, and offering you a place up in Washington until you can forget all about him and move on with your life, leaving Alastor to be nothing more than a nostalgic blot on the tablecloth, nothing more than yearning in early Junes. Until you forget the fact you ever love him at all, all because you decided that you couldn’t afford to let yourself be love by him.

Keeping all of it in mind, Alastor decides your dear friend should be bury far away from the comfort of your room. Three years, seven months and eleven days after your death, Alastor dragged a body into the woods. Not just any old one like usual, but not anything else too special.

It’s odd, even though you’ve been gone for the more than a year by now, it’s almost as if you’ve neve left his side. Maybe it’s the rest of you, lying peacefully in your nest of pillows and blankets, in your room that he diligently maintain. Maybe it’s your shared books he sometimes takes from his shelves and skims through in the dead of night after a hard day. Maybe it’s the locked box, sitting by his work desk welcoming him home after a night out, the same one he held in his hands, void of blood and anything else.

Or maybe it’s the reverberating sounds of heartbeat, so unlike his own. In both his waking days, in his reveries, over the sounds of the jazz band down in his favorite speakeasy and following him into the woods. Ever so silently, oh-so gently, utterly viciously in his left ear.

In any other case, Alastor finds he absolutely adores the idea of your ghost haunting him until his fell into his grave.

(you said that he should never love because he couldn’t be in control. he mourn the fact you never even let him prove you wrong. Alastor would’ve let you dance on his rotting corpse if that’s what it takes for you to let him call you his.)

10.

Somewhere in his heart, Alastor had hoped that you of all people can evade the hand of rots.

It’s a genuine shame that in the end, all of the words in the world will do nothing to stop you from sharing the lot with the others, he thought, staring down from where he straddled you with his hand peeling off layers of skins and fat. Warm fingers brushes against your hollowed cheek, before raising a small hammer and bringing down onto your bare chest. Alastor wants to preserve you for as long as possible, but to do that properly, he might as well take all of your innards out and sewn you up. It’s not that he’s not open to that idea, Alastor love every part of you. It’s just that he’s sure you’ll be extremely upset when you find out. So he’ll have to get comfortable with doing things the hard way, no matter how hard it is to do so.

With steady fingers in spite of the drumming in his ears, Alastor patiently picks out every pieces of bones he could, placing them into a small, wooden box. With a wistful smile, he closes the lid and set it aside. He miss you already.

Pushing your lungs out of the way, he dig his hands in. With blood runs up to his wrist, Alastor tries to be as gentle as he can while pulling your heart out. One hand holding onto it, another carefully cutting away everything that ties it to your body.

Distinctly, every part of you was always warm, and over time, Alastor, who’s hands are as cold as winter itself, find comfort in your touch. It was almost like you were made just for him, and him, you. And now, with your heart, cold and silent in his hand, Alastor realized what a miserable life it will be to go on living without your warmth with him from now on until he’s six feet under. But it’s ok, he’s sure of it, because above all else, what he’s been chasing after this whole time is in his hand.

For a brief moment, Alastor wondered if he were to meet you in another lifetime, one where you aren’t so complicated and so in love with the idea of living a fair life and a right love, would you have let yourself be wrong and love him. But he’s glad that your love, with all its beautiful intricacies that causes him this much pain, with a wound in it, still look as beautiful as he hoped.

Sinking his teeth into it, into you, the taste of iron and metallic flooded his mouth and drown his senses as he closed his eyes shut and nearly buckled under the taste of you. There’s not a single word in the book to describe the visceral sensations running through his blood and spreading through his every veins. Alastor shivers, the back of his head felt numb, his fever grows as he desperately takes his time and savor you. It’s a shame you can’t last forever, but he’ll take what he can get for now.

(as his teeth tears into your veins, he hears a sounds, so familiar, somewhere in the corner of his ears. it wasn’t until he caught his own heart beating that he realized that the rhythm he’s hearing isn’t his at all.

until the day you two can meet again, until then. he pray he will never forget the sounds of your heart, beating so gently.)

[littlebluespoon]

as a big tiddy person can I request something with Octo!König and a reader with a larger chest? He’s canons, drabble, whatever you feel like doing 💕

I do try to write most of my things as neutral as possible so that no one feels excluded, like if I said reader had boobs and you don't, and that takes you out of the fic. That's something I don't want to do to people. That being said, I will absolutely write something specific if requested <3

so here we go!

Female Reader is a civilian and is already married to Octo!König. This got a little carried away and there's not so much focus on the size of readers chest so if you'd like more or different do let me know :)

tw: 18+ MDNI, female masturbation, monster fucking? maybe, tentacles, hybrid character, female anatomy described

Dinner at home without your husband was always hard. It was lonely and sometimes he had been gone so long that it didn't even feel like you were married. Of course you knew what his life was like, you agreed to it but it doesn't mean you can't feel sorry for yourself sometimes.

So tonight dinner was popcorn and whatever sad romcom you found first. In an effort to feel good you had put on the lingerie that made you feel confident and sexy. It was also Königs favourite set on you, it's the one that no matter how crazy it drives him, he refuses to rip it. He takes it off of you slowly, hesitantly so that no harm comes to the delicate lace and he can see you in it again.

---

Popcorn stale, the credits of a movie you didn't pay attention to rolling in the background, everything was drowned out by your own fantasies as your fingers pumped in and out of your pussy, never quite hitting the spot. As you desperately chased a high that wasn't coming you missed the door and your husbands greeting. You didn't even hear as he walked in and right up to the couch you were laying on,

"Missed me Perle?" the voice startled you as you scrambled to cover yourself before realising who it was, " You seem frustrated, would you like some help?"

He fixed his eyes on you, a stare that would make grown men weep but for you, it's a promise of pleasure. A small nod was all it took and his own fingers replaced yours. Thick fingers that knew exactly which spots to hit, how deep to go and how to stroke your clit just right to have you seeing stars.

As you cam down from the high you felt König's fingers leave you and the tell tale suction from his hybrid form make its way across your skin. This was one of his favourite ways to cuddle and destress from work. He burrows his way around your boobs. His head sat squarely in the middle as his arms wrap around your breasts and pull them together, effectively squeezing himself in between them. Of course he can't leave your nipple out in the cold so he always makes sure to cover them with his arms and even takes care to place a sucker right on top, so he can play with you all he wants.

[hexbees]

Dread and Drunk | Draco Malfoy

pairing:: deatheater!draco x f!reader no use of y/n!

summary:: after leaving a party in the slytherin commons, the room of requirement allows you in.

word count:: 1,265

warnings:: consumption of alcohol; drunk actions/talking

You’d never been able to hold firewhiskey well, usually stumbling through the hidden entrance embedded in the dungeon walls to the slytherin common room at the end of the night. Keeping focus on the way your feet rise and fall, you keep a hand firmly planted along the wall. Lord forbid you repeat what happened last term and embarrass yourself again.

The memory of you being woken up by Cedric, having passed out from intoxication barely twenty feet from the door, instilled more motivation within yourself to keep it together. While you tried your hardest it was clear you shouldn't have taken those last two shots before leaving.

The first few minutes passed by you in a blur, having gone up a set of stairs you don't remember. You came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, swiveling your head, not knowing exactly where you were. It wasn't a hall that you recognized. Typically you didn't wander around the castle without a known destination in mind, having heard stories of classmates getting lost.

A door slowly appeared, catching your attention. You watched as it formed from a tiny hole, barely big enough for a mouse, into a door three times your size. Your mouth dropped open, head tilting, you pressed a shaky hand into it.

What the fuck? 

When it creaked open and fell away from your hand, you stumbled. Taking the smallest peek inside, not wanting to enter a room you weren't sure you were allowed in, you remembered the tales Hermione had told you in the library.

The room of requirement. Of course! Gods, I'm a dumbass.

Without even second guessing after your realization, you droopily walked in. The room was filled with stale air and an unbelievable amount of dust. Surely the castle didn't think you needed a respiratory infection.

Your fingers glossed across countless piles of books, the covers having traces of the glide imprinted from sweeping the dust off. You wiped the pads off onto your jeans, not even caring about them appearing dirty as you’d be taking them off as soon as you’d make it to your dorm.

My dorm. I'm going to my dorm.

With a huff and a single pound in your head you decided to turn back around with the intention of leaving to make your way back to your inviting bed.

Just before you stepped over the threshold there was a faint knock, almost like something being closed. It was enough to have you jump slightly, being caught off guard and somewhat alarmed.

In your drunken state you didn't think there was any danger, maybe it had just been from the breeze of the door being open since it seemed like it hadn't been in a while.

“Hello?” The word came out slightly unsure and slurred.

When you didn't get an answer, not that you’d expected one, you huffed.

“Dumbass.”

You retreated again, this time truly stepping out and letting the door slowly come to a shut behind you. Before it fully did, a voice rang out, gruff and annoyed.

“The fuck did you call me?”

Your heart leaped to the bottom of your throat and settled there. Draco malfoy had emerged from the back of the room, barely being visible as his hand caught the door. He was irritated, suffering from a lack of sleep and a heavy heart.

“I-” you stuttered, “I- uh-” again, “I was actually referring to myself.”

He could smell the firewhiskey seeping off your breath, saw the way your eyes were being dragged down, how your feet were restless.

“Oh, you're pissed.” His brows rose, eyes glittering across the gryffindor pride t shirt you were wearing. The maroon of it was just slightly darker than your cheeks, he found it amusing.

“Mm” you hummed, swaying. When you nodded your head along your feet lost their balance, sending you stumbling to the side.

Before you could attempt to regain your footing from your delayed reflexes, one of his pale hands came down and out, grabbing ahold of your own hand. He steadied you back on your feet while suppressing his smile. You were shocked at his hand on yours, staring at it in a daze until your eyes climbed up his forearm where you could see the faintest outline of the dark mark peeking through his white button up.

“Gryffindor commons are quite a ways from here. I assume you were at the Slytherin party?”

You hummed again, not meeting his eyes or attempting to hold a real conversation. You were so tired, maybe sleeping in the hall again wasn't such a bad idea. You’d only need an hour or two before you'd be able to find your way back again.

He kept his head at an angle. He’d been angry at first, ready to throw insults and hexes at whoever was attempting to flee from interrupting his task. But with every sway and every sleepy flutter of your eyes he couldn't help the smile that tugged at how cute you were in that moment.

“Well,” he bent down, looking past the hair that was draped over your eyes to meet them, “I have one more thing to do in here, then I can escort you to your commons.” His hand was still engulfing yours in an attempt to help with your jitter, admittedly not doing much. He pulled on it gently, bidding you to follow him back into the room of requirement.

If you were even the smallest bit sober you yank your hand out of his, crush his foot with yours and bolt in the other direction. But the gentle hold, the minty fan of his breath and the sweet voice he was putting on only made you more willing. He was being nice, which was not unusual to you; to others of course, but not you. He’d bullied Harry and the Weasleys, called Hermione a Mudblood more times than you could count, but had never directed any insults at you. There was speculation against the trio as to why, having caught on fairly quickly in second year. The consensus was that his mother and yours, were friends, god forbid Draco ever upset his dear mother.

“Thank you, Malfoy.” You smiled at his back.

He didn't drop your hand until you were in front of a couch and laying back into it. The soft black velvet felt abnormally good under your fingertips as you pet at it.

Draco let out a laugh, almost being jealous of the inanimate object that got to feel your caress. You see, Draco had always craved it. None of his friends knew, not Blaise or Pansy or even Crabbe or Goyle. The only one who had caught on was his mother. Narcissa had watched him, watch you, at an annual Malfoy ball. She’d rubbed on his shoulder and told him to go for it. Encouraged him to seek you out, say you looked pretty, ask you to dance.

Draco was never one for romantics though, not at that time.

“Should be just a minute” He stood in front of you, smiling down as he swiped a strand of hair that had gotten stuck between your eyelashes.

As he went to finish packing up the vanishing cabinet you let words slip past your lips, meaning to promise it to yourself in your head. 

“I won't tell anyone, Draco.”

He froze with his back to you, straightening out and holding his breath. He had seen you look; he just hoped you were too drunk to notice it.

“I know you won't, mon amour.”

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐢𝐟 𝐰𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲.

──────────── 𝐰𝐜 — 1k 𝐜𝐰 — fanon!rafe on a one-way flight to simp city, some spice but nothing graphic or excessive, mention of drugs/being high (it's rafe, what did you expect?), 'kid' as a pet name bc he is that guy + cliffhanger? 𝐚/𝐧 — this was originally posted on @holy-pucks for my nov 23 slumber party, but i've decided to upload it here because it never showed in the tags. if you've already read this, i would very much appreciate you showing it some love here as well :) thx a mil in advance, besties! ────────────

main masterlist | MDNI

RAFE CAMERON knew the risk. He just couldn't be bothered to give a shit. 

if one of the loud-mouthed busybodies took issue with his behavior, that's their prerogative. they've been at it so long, drunk and overzealous, their flippant chatter is mere static in the background of his life. 

it isn't his fault their stale lives and expired marriages pale in comparison to the pocket of paradise he carved out of figure eight. rafe didn't ask for their attention, nor did he solicit their opinions — and he certainly didn't invite an audience; his girlfriend writhing in his lap will never be a spectator sport.  

it would be too generous to call it sympathy, but rafe can understand how they might get confused. once you catch a glimpse, you're as good as gone. a lost cause, irrevocable, and clear as day. beauty that effortlessly captivating is impossible to tear your eyes away from, and the original kook princess is bathed in excess. 

of all people, he knows the breadth of her magnetism and is just as weak for it, if not more. egotism drains along with reason when they're simply in the same room, his carnal preoccupation more than happy to fill the vacuum of power. 

rafe commands the island and its inhabitants — with one paramount exception. he wields power because she allows for it. she, who is his indisputable sovereign and to whom he pledges his undying allegiance with innate reverence. 

it was his wandering hands, after all, which led the pair to an empty veranda overlooking the bustling midsummer festivities. 

a laurel of fresh blooms became collateral damage soon after, having been unceremoniously knocked to his feet by her fervent desperation to feel his sun-kissed skin against her lips. 

rafe certainly had no objections. 

with a heap of silky fabric rucked up around her waist and her wrists pinned taut to the small of her back, rafe's girlfriend works him over with both teeth and tongue, the affection carefully choreographed to sync up with the sway of her hips. each nip, suck, or kiss accompanies her precise labors, and any marbled evidence left behind he'll wear with pride, much to the island's chagrin and his sisters' disgust. 

rafe previewed the evening's fireworks display as she bore down on his aching bulge, never once ceasing the light nibbling of his earlobe; it's the tell-tale, strained whimper diced by gritted teeth that incited action.

his hips jerk up in search of sweet relief, inadvertently finding her bare heat well beyond wet and wanting. 

rafe commends his past self for confiscating the lace as they neared the valet podium; the garment fares better as a pocket square. 

close proximity amplifies all those delicious, needy sounds, robbed of their potential prematurely; she is not yet immune to gossip.

it doesn't matter, rafe would know if his girl was close donning earplugs and a blindfold. her pathetic attempt at modesty is hardly an issue. much like how there isn't an inch of skin he hasn't traversed; there isn't a bluff of her's he can't immediately see through. no matter how soft or sudden, rafe can feel his girl teetering on the brink. 

the faint wobble of her bottom lip might as well be a formal declaration; she's trying and failing to keep herself from falling over the edge — the polite little thing knows the price of gluttony.

as he reclines in the stately patio chair, he pulls her down with him. in anticipation, rafe tips his mouth and angles his hips while relishing in the spoiled musings of a person who's never wanted for anything.

rafe relents, mercifully rutting into her as his thumb rubs a certain finger. 

"sooner or later, i'm putting a ring on this hand." 

giggling despite herself, she abruptly leans back to inspect his pupils.

"how high are you?" 

the friction of shifting pressure reluctantly betrays a soft spot in his chainmail cloak. the levity of the moment envelops them in warmth. a brilliant rarity peeks through between the velvety curtain of annoyance: contentment. 

even so, rafe doesn't allow the foreign state of mind or the white-hot burn of pleasure to distract him from his prior ambition. 

"kid, if i was high right now, we'd be halfway to the courthouse." 

she simply shakes her head and buries her face back into the crook of his neck.

rafe has an affinity for grandstanding. she hardly, if ever, took him at his word, simultaneously too smart and too skeptical to make his words into something more than he meant. sometimes, he said things because he needed to know how they tasted, and others, her on-again-off-again boyfriend just wanted to hear the sound of his own voice.

he is impulsive and unreliable, and no amount of love will change that.

rafe relinquishes her wrists in favor of her neck. his palm burns the nape as it keeps her a prisoner to his greedy, electric gaze.

the dull throb mounting under his touch cannot hold a candle to the heartbeat palpitating between her thighs. major and minor, the muscles twitch in anticipation as they, too, are overwhelmed by the casual display of dominance. 

he brings her forehead to rest against his. a novel softness in his voice fans across her gently parted lips. "i know you think i'm bullshitting you, but not this time. i'm so fucking serious, kid. the proof's at home in the top right drawer of my desk."

her disbelief persists, manifesting in an uncouth snort. 

"yeah, right." 

rafe scoffs at the sarcasm-dipped quip; the unwavering effort to make his life more difficult at every turn was actually sort of endearing, he hated to admit. 

"i've had it since our graduation... just never found the right moment, i guess," he shrugs, quieter now.

rafe knows a smidge of feigned ambivalence won't detract from the heated, earnest implication beaming behind his irises. 

the claim is substantiated by her quirked-brow baiting, an act that leaves him frantically fishing for his keys.

if they’re lucky, they might make it to the driveway. 

but the stars underestimate the proprietorial hunger of the kook prince, because they get three lights from the club before rafe parks the ford by the roadside. 

────────────

💌 if you liked it, pls lmk! 💌

⬸ back to the catalog  (masterlist) 

⬸ back to the main blog 

[snoutbleed]

Telling a story takes guts.

Forensic photographer Sören Heinrich can’t ignore the nausea bubbling in his throat when documenting someone's darkest day. He loses sleep over the fates he captures but is drawn to the purpose vested in his grisly role. When blood-slicked prints become Sören's next subject, he finds a message that blurs the line between his personal and professional life.

"This is where I’ve been. Don’t follow."

Unable to fathom his long-lost brother’s crimson handwriting, Sören descends into the criminal underworld for answers. The young boar's inner demons guide him toward a morbid self-reckoning.

Direktion 2 has their work cut out for them.

Crime is on the rise in post-reunification Berlin. Among the cases, the Polizeidirektorate in the city's westernmost boroughs is baffled by freak murders at the hands of denizens without motive.

In the shadow of the Berlin Wall, the crime wave takes a supernatural twist behind the lock of a post-Soviet puzzle.

Camera flashes at the crime scenes reveal gruesome secrets stirring in the shadows.

Unravel the conspiracy in #LONG STORY SHORT.

#The Filing Cabinet -- scan the profiles of those in the know. #Bloodstained Polaroids -- view the images of lives gone astray. #Evidence Board -- learn the details of secrets best kept. #Mystery Signals -- behold the lore of the mind melt. Face the music in the official Long Story Short playlist!

Everyone gathers toward the Abschnitt.

There are several Polizei Berlin stations like the Abschnitt, but everyone tied to this supernatural symphony ends up near this Spandau station particularly.

Sören Heinrich -- ( boar | tag | bio ) The black sheep of the Abschnitt. Sören’s abrasive nature keeps his co-workers at bay, a division widened by their western ideals clashing with his East German upbringing. He distances himself from the station through tight focus on his job, always the first to arrive at a crime scene. Don Jae Hale -- ( elk | tag | bio ) The silver-tongued Kriminalhauptkommissar of the Abschnitt. Hale is quick to dismiss the killings up until his leadership comes under siege by the paranoid public. Umeya Romanova -- ( fox | tag | bio ) The Bundeskriminalamt detective sent to assist with the Abschnitt’s mounting cases. Rumor says Umeya is there for more than the mystery, but her motives veiled by a callous attitude. Marieke Reiss -- ( rabbit | tag | bio ) The star psychology student barely escaped a killing. Now a key witness, Marieke can’t rest easy knowing she could be the next victim, driving her to take matters into her own hands. Reinhardt Müller -- ( donkey | tag | bio ) The Abschnitt’s disgraced ace detective, worn down and living in the grimy corners of Berlin. When crime spikes, Reinhardt tries to relive his “glory days" of detective work. Ukko Heinrich -- ( boar | tag | bio ) The crime lord defends his territory with brutal but firm methods. He's sworn to his found family, the country's political rift making him protective to a fault. Vorwitz Albrecht -- ( bat | tag | bio ) A gardener with good banners but bad morals. Vorwitz's unsavory career choices put him in the Abschnitt, but he finds a way out with Sören.

Entropy knows no bounds.

Stop, look and listen: stories are everywhere. Behold my settings.

Face more madness in #TALES GONE STALE.

LAID TO WASTE -- an abomination stirs in the bayou, its secrets poisoning a township. THE WASTED LIVES -- a group of galactic fugitives embark on a never-ending getaway on a runaway cruiser. (Links need an update. Stay tuned.)

The mind behind the melancholy.

ACHTUNG! This blog is 18+ for gore and suggestive content!

You can call me Dissy (she/her). I'm a writer with stories and ideas always bouncing inside my head, especially this one. Feel free to ask me about myself, my writing, my characters, or anything else. I promise you I can bark up a tree for hours.

I also do Polaroid photography: check out @hogrot for my shots!

I also encourage comments, critique, etc. about this setting. I want to pace myself while writing this, therefore I have all the time I need to refine this where I can. I don't expect this story to come out for a while anyway, especially as I run it through critiques. Hell, this pet project wouldn't have come into fruition thanks to the feedback of some incredible friends.

Shoutout to PYRY for doing character design and art for this setting, as well as giving his ideas and characters for the Heinrich plotline. Go check out his killer art. This story wouldn't exist without him.

Another shoutout to @tsanapi, an incredible artist who drew the art pictured above. Her sense of style is so keen.

And a final thanks to you, the reader, for tuning into the mind melt. This signals wouldn't have picked up without you.

[vivalabunbun]

History Might Have Forgotten

Summary: A new storyteller appears at Alhaitham’s favorite cafe, and you seem to like to pick his brain about reading between the lines.

Word count: 4.2k (The longest one I’ve ever written)

Tags: gn reader x alhaitham, sfw, slow burn, lore heavy (kinda), spoilers for archon quest, just alhaitham being difficult to get along with as usual. Kaveh just here for moral support. I did use in-game dialogue from their post on the cafe message board. Written before 3.4, so some things might be inaccurate later on.

Authors Note: Sorry if the fairytales are kinda wack, I tried to make my own. Also, I looked at a bunch of lore about sumeru and the scarlet king and goddess of flowers and just decided to run with it. Def not pure canon, but I hope you still enjoy!

“There once was a time when the lord of flowers had accompanied the lord of the forest into the depths of the irminsul, curious about the root of all knowledge in Teyvat. Its bright white branches stretched seemingly endlessly, throughout the realm. She was unprepared for the dull reality of waiting for her friend to finish her sacred tasks of looking after the irminsul. 

Looking around at the knowledge that flowed like a gentle sinkhole towards the tree of the world, whose white branches reflected off the calm pool, the lord of flowers felt the itch to get up and perform a dance. 

Perhaps dancing shall make the time pass by faster, and with that thought, the goddess of flowers closed her eyes letting the beat of imaginary music flow through her divine body. 

Each elegant step, each precise glide of her hands, each graceful twirl faithfully followed by the reflection in the pool of knowledge. Her dance so captivating that the lord of the forest could not help but stop and admire her friend’s dance, as an avatar of the irminsul, she could feel that the sacred tree was also pleased with this performance. 

As the lord of flowers knelt one knee to the ground in a bow, signifying the end of the show…

There was the echo of a drop hitting the waters still surface, followed by a violent rush of water as the surface tension broke, then stillness once more.

A Jinn came into existence. Its birth was witnessed by the lord of the forest and the lord of flowers whom the Jinn mirrored in beauty. 

‘It appears irminsul loved your performance so much, it wanted to create an avatar from your reflection.’ The forest lord interpreted the message from the world tree. 

‘A gift of the highest honor.’ The goddess of flowers spoke, gently caressing the locks which framed the Jinn’s gaze that looked not into her eyes, but into the depths of her heart.” 

‘What a ridiculous tall tale’, the scribe thought as he took a sip of coffee. 

Teal eyes peering over his cup, in place of where Maddah, the caffeine-addicted man, usually was, stood a fresh face. He remembers Kaveh rambling about how Maddah’s material had become so stale, the owners at Puspa Cafe had invited a wandering storyteller. 

Instead of the exaggerated legends of great battles, lost treasure, and towering monsters told by the jittery man. These stories were different, it was as if the storyteller was painting a scenery into the minds of the listener, slowly immersing them into a mental play. However, as a man of reason, Alhaitham found it hard to ignore the glaring inaccuracies in the stories. 

In the largest expanse of ancient text and scripts of kingdoms gone, there was no mention of such a Jinn. As he thought about the sources of this tale, calm applause rippled through the homely corner of the cafe. 

You had finished telling your tales for the day, a serene smile thanking your listeners as you headed towards the acting manager. A bit eager to collect your payment in the form of a warm meal and a few mora. It had only been a week since the manager approached your street performance near the Grand Bazaar, seemly desperate to invite you to perform at Puspa Cafe. 

Who were you to pass up such a cushy opportunity? A hot meal and a steady stream of mora were more than you could ever ask for. You brought forth your best stories, where one story ended, the next began. However, you would always stop after introducing the next story, ensuring that the anticipation drew your listeners back like bees to a sweet flower. 

Upon your way to settle down at a table to await your meal, the peaceful atmosphere of the cafe was shattered by two bickering voices.

“And that is exactly why I've always despised materialists like you. Art is a precious fruit of leisure. You can't compare it to production and exploitation for commercial purposes!” A blond man exclaimed.

“Leisurely people are like people walking on a spherical ground, they don't exist. Why don't you use your brain and think for a moment? Can the production of anything exist without commercial exchange?” Was the rebuttal from an ashen-haired man.

Oh, and you thought you were supposed to be the entertainment as people dined on their coffee and meals. The clash of wits playing out in front of everyone’s amused glances, something about the reactions of the other patrons told you this was a regular occurrence.

“Have you no understanding of what passion is? Passion comes within the heart, not the cold machine of commercialism!”

“Passion is like a fire, without anything to feed it. It soon will flicker weakly before burning out into ashes. How can any passion survive without mora?” 

“Ugh! I cannot bare to listen to your mangled views of art!”

“Great, shall I take that as a sign that you have found new lodging?”

“How low will you stoop, Scribe??”

“Excuse me.”

Both of their heads snapped toward you, the person who had interfered with their debate. However, your interest could not help but be peeked by the discussion of this comical scene. You had abandoned your original plans of settling down, instead, you had wandered toward this lively table.

 As a supporter of art yourself, you felt the need to come to the blond man’s defense, seeing how his lack of composure is leading him down the path of defeat.

“Apologies, if I am intruding. However, this discussion is far too interesting to not join. May I give my thoughts?”

 The blond man shifted his position at the table, opening up room for you to sit down. 

“Please be my guest, storyteller. Please educate this materialistic man about the basics of human leisure.” 

Placing yourself in front of the ashen-haired man, you made sure to keep your back straight to give yourself an air of confidence. You began your surrebutter.

“While it is true that an aspect of art is tied to commercialism, the true value cannot be fully measured. It cannot be counted like mora, nor measured by a sexton. Thus, causing many scholars to brush art off as a frivolous waste of time. But the value of art can be felt, no? From the layout of this cafe, to the spines of books, to the print of the words. It’s all art.”

The man in front of you just returned a scoff. Oh, you knew you were in for a long debate now. 

Throughout the drawn-out debate, you had gained key information about the two gentlemen that had welcomed you to their table. The blond man’s name was Kaveh, the famous architect and fellow lover of the arts. The ashen-haired man, with whom you were engaged in continuous rounds of rebuttals, was the scribe of the Akademiya, Alhaitham. A stubborn and rational man, you concluded. Unfortunately for him, you can be just as self-willed. 

“As I have stated before. Art holds more than just monetary value, dear scribe. As a graduate of Haravatat, you should know that many of the texts you translated over your studies were preserved by storytellers and artists who first pasted them down in oral tradition, followed by written script and murals.” You signed. 

“That is exactly why we students had to be wary of the inaccuracies and inconsistencies riddled all throughout those texts. Just like with the tale you told earlier, there is no record of such a Jinn existing before, such a significant creation by the sacred tree will most certainly be recorded somewhere. The history that they record is so twisted by biases and failure of human memory, it is rare to gain anything of significant value from them.”

“Oh my, dear scribe were you by chance equating the existence of a character in a folktale correlates with a physical being?” You tried to stifle your snicker.

 “I did not expect you to have such a cute side. I heard that the children in Mondstadt do the same, believing that a man in a red suit will slide down their chimney to give them wonderful little toys. Were you disappointed?” 

Alhaitham narrowed his teal eyes at you in a slight glare. “You know what I mean. There seem to not be any mention of this Jinn in other Sumerian folktales.” 

You couldn’t help the urge to tease him, but you could feel that he did not seem to want to continue the debate after hearing the cackle coming out of his roommate from your little jest. 

“Yes, yes I was just jesting, dear scribe. Please don’t be disappointed. The Jinn could be an analogy of the bond formed between the lord of the forest and the lord of the flowers.” You stood up from your seat. 

Your food had long been eaten, his coffee had long been left untouched. You were at the moment considered an employee of Puspa Cafe in a way, thus you shouldn’t be upsetting the customers now. 

“Let us conclude this debate for today. I believe I have taken enough of your time, gentlemen. How about we continue this discussion another day? Perhaps over a meal again?” You gave him a smile mixed with customer service and genuine hopefulness. 

“Another time?” Alhaitham scoffed, “you want this debate to drag out?”

“Of course,” you noted that he likes to scoff a lot (must be his ego). “It’s to ensure that you will come back to listen to my stories again, maybe you will learn something new. After all, I have to prove to you and the acting manager my ‘commercial value’ no?” 

The tall man simply crossed his arms over his chest, an unreadable expression on his face. However, something in his eyes gave you the hint that you needed to confidently conclude, ‘he’ll be back’. After all, no scholar in your experience would ever turn down an opportunity to gain a new piece of wisdom. 

“I shall take my leave now, I bid you all goodnight. Until the next time we meet.” 

Alhaitham’s eyes followed your figure as you ambled your way toward the acting manager to bid her goodnight, before exiting from the intricately painted door of the cafe, your features highlighted by the warm hues of the setting sun. Once your frame disappeared from his field of view, the scribe realized an error in his interaction with you.

 There was an unequal exchange of information, from Kaveh’s blabbering mouth you had gained knowledge of their names, studies, and employment. Meanwhile, Alhaitham could not recall a time during tonight when you had given him your name, all they knew was that you were a wandering storyteller. 

‘Oh well, it’s trivial at this point.’ He did not even want to imagine how ridiculous a scene would be of the grand scribe chasing down someone simply for a name.

 ‘This unequal exchange of information will be balanced out in due time.’ He finished the rest of his cold coffee, unphased by the bitter taste. As if a thought was distracting his mind from the taste. Or was it the sweet anticipation of a future meeting that had mellowed out that bitterness? 

Good refreshing debates that stimulate his mind were rare to come by, of course, he would want to take this chance to polish his knowledge and beliefs. 

The moon chased the sun away, then the sun chased the moon away from its place in the sky. Thus, a new day came forth.

 It was five o’clock sharp when Alhaitham placed his pen down, the report in his hand half finished. However, it was no longer his responsibility for the day as dictated by the hands of the grandfather clock in his office. Tidying up his desk and taking his cape off the back of his chair, he knew he had to be quick so as to not run into an Akademiya intern with another mountain of paperwork to place on his oak desk. 

Since the removal of Azar and his group of corrupted sages, as well as the reinstitution of their archon, the piles of paperwork that ended up on his desk only grew exponentially. But, Alhaitham made sure that the paperwork trail will not follow him once he step foot outside his office doors. He made sure to clearly post his working hours right outside his door, it was not his fault that esteemed scholars seem to not be able to read his posting.

 He had arrived at his office at nine o’clock in the morning, worked a full day at his desk reading new research proposals, applications for open positions, and signing off on new amendments issued by the lesser lord. Now that the clock now reads a minute past five, he had concluded that it was enough work for the day. It was not like the entire Akademiya would collapse without their acting grand sage for the night, though he preferred to not have that title. 

Taking long strides across the marble floors of the Akademiya floors, Alhaitham made sure to avoid the searching eyes of others, especially if they happened to be carrying a stack of paper. Exiting out of the grand doors of the building and continuing down the winding path, allowing his skin to get used to the sudden change from the cool crisp air of his office, to the warm afternoon breeze typical of Sumeru. Thus, he began his routine journey toward a certain cafe. 

The moment he pushed open the door to the cafe, he could see the staff take one look at him, then start to prepare his order. There was no need for him to speak a word to any of them as he made his way to his preferred table. The familiar faces of other patrons were all around, more to join as they were still making their way from work to the cafe, the same smell of coffee and samosas wafting through the air. The only change seemed to be that Maddah was not standing in the center of the collection of tables.

In that spot stood you, the nameless storyteller who recently had just arrived, and the person patient (willing) enough to want to continue a debate with him.  

“Thank you all for coming back to hear my stories tonight, “ you began as soon as the last table was occupied. 

“The tale I wish to tell tonight may be a bit different, as I believe it holds a small mystery. Will you be able to decipher it?” 

Alhaitham could feel the weight of your gaze upon him as you questioned the audience. He simply decided to blow off the steam from the coffee that had just been placed on his table, the white vapors bending and warping his view of you. 

“There once was a dove, young and as soft as padisarah petals. It had a lovely coo, which earned the dove the favor of the goddess of flowers. 

‘What a lovely thing you are, just as the same as I. Oh, my little dove will you coo for me?’ The goddess stroked its down feathers.” 

Taking sips of his dark coffee in intervals as he watched you perform, Alhaitham could not help but find the story childish. Certainly not befitting of a cafe frequented by working adults, and yet here you were captivating a room full of weary grown-ups with a children’s tale. It must be your gestures and facial expressions that drew the audience in. 

At this point in the story, it seems to have been established that the dove would only coo about the events of the goddess’s day truthfully. One day, the lord of flowers must have grown tired of its cooing and left the dove on a branch, promising to come back for it. Then came a group of children.

“‘Little dove, little dove, sing us a tale!’ They cheered. 

So the dove, chest puffed with a sense of being wanted, sang the details of the day lived by its goddess. However, halfway through the children began to walk away. 

‘Wait, wait!’ The dove cried. ‘I have not finished.’ 

‘No more! Your tales are far too boring.’ 

‘Boring?’ Thought the dove, ‘but it’s the truth.’

Alone once more the dove gaze longingly at the marketplace in front of it. Eyes peeled for the goddess that promised to return. 

It watched a child drop a piece of flatbread which was then swiftly picked up by a mouse. A cat ran away from a dog that yapped nonstop. Merchants calling people over to their stalls, blacksmiths wiping the sweat from their eyes, and a sumpter beast resting near the edge.

 An idea strung into the mind of the dove, as it used its wings to find the children. 

‘Children! I have a new tale to tell, oh will you please listen to it?’

Resting on the lap of one of the children, the dove began.

‘There once was a mouse who followed the crumbs of bread left by a small child, straight into the watchful eyes of a cat! With a squeak, the mouse ran from the cat as the feline gave chase. 

Only for the cat to step upon the tail of a dog, who howled in pain, then began running after the cat who ran after the mouse. The dog’s clumsy body knocked over a basket of spices that belonged to a merchant, causing the man to let out a cry of despair at his lost profits as he began to chase the dog who ran after the cat who was still running after the mouse. 

The merchant in his rage failed to see the blacksmith, bumping into his arm causing the large man to brand himself with hot iron. The large man roared in pain, then began chasing the merchant who pursued the dog, who ran after the cat, who was hunting the mouse. 

The blacksmith, still nursing his wound, stepped on the head of a sumptering beast, who raged after being awoken from its nap and began charging at the blacksmith, who ran as quickly as he could, causing the merchant to run faster. When the dog saw that the merchant was getting closer, he began to prance faster toward the cat, who let out a hiss as she ran after the mouse who still had the crumb in its mouth.’ 

Finishing the tale, the dove heard laughter ring out from the children. 

‘What a wondrous tale,’ a familiar voice called out. 

It was the goddess, who had returned to search for the little dove and wound up hearing the tale as well. 

‘My little dove, will you coo more tales like this for me?’

Thus, from that day onwards the little dove would coo tales that brought new curiosity to the court where three friends met.” 

You brought your hands in front of your torso, signaling the end of the story. Giving a slight bow as the patrons began to clap. 

“So, can anyone guess what this story was trying to explain?” You finally revealed the question to the audience. 

A chorus of answers began to ring out from eager scholars and nonscholars alike wanting to test their wisdom.

“Is it an analogy for how lies are more beautiful than truth?”

“No, it must be symbolizing the corruption of truth due to pressure!”

“Was it a warning to entertainers that if their patron gets tired of their ‘coo’, they’ll be abandoned?”

“No, mmm not quite, my that is a dark interpretation. Are you by chance okay, sir Maddah?”

As the ensemble of interpretations dragged on, you could tell the crowd was slowly moving toward the answer you were looking for. 

“Oh! I know it! The story seeks to depict the origin of storytelling!” Kaveh exclaimed, one can only wonder when he had sat down at Alhaitham’s table and began ordering meals and drinks on the former scribe’s tab. 

“Yes! Excellent! I knew a fellow aesthete would get the unwritten meaning!” You clapped and looked toward the blond man with a smile. 

Great, you just inflated his roommate’s already overbearing ego. He could already see that baseless confidence travel its way up Kaveh’s face as he proudly huffed. After you had thanked the audience for being wonder listeners and for participating in your little mystery, you made your way to their table.  

“So, what did you think of the story? Did you find its hidden meaning?” You sat down right in front of him, in the same spot as yesterday. 

“Oh? Like what, how oral recordings of history become so marred and twisted throughout the years by many tongues to the point it is reduced to a mere story for a child?” Alhaitham picked right the debate right there, skipping the pleasantries. You let out a sigh, lips pouting a bit as you rested your head on one hand. 

“My, not even a hello? None the else. Your claim from yesterday just got challenged.” 

“How so?” He placed his cup down, attention solely focused on you now. 

“That same Jinn created from a goddess’s reflection from yesterday’s tale made an appearance in this tale.” You remarked. 

“Nonsense, these stories are not related, there was no mention of a Jinn. Plus, how can I be sure that you did not just craft this tale overnight when this debate was put on hold?” He crossed his arms, the wire of his headphones shifting slightly. 

“It is quite the popular folktale among some of the desert settlements I have visited, the tale of the goddess of flower’s beloved dove, and if you were willing to look past the superficial surface you would have seen the clear indicator. Tell me scribe, what does the line ‘what a lovely thing you are, just as the same as I’, remind you of?” 

Bringing one hand to tuck under his chin as he replayed that line in his head for approximately 5 seconds. 

“It’s what one would say if they were complimenting themselves in front of a mirror.” 

He saw you lift your head up a bit as the beginnings of a smile began to form on your lips. 

“However,” he added, “it’s such a jump to an interpretation from a minuscule detail. Such things do not hold much merit. Ever heard of confirmation bias, the tendency to interpret things to align your preconceived beliefs? ”    

“In the space where truths are recorded, there lies the space for truths not recorded. To interpret this space, one must naturally make some leaps of faith, often by relating the spaces between two written truths, one can find hidden knowledge take shape in that space.” 

“So you are admitting that the interpretation is made up?” 

“No, I’m simply saying that there is a hidden truth. I shall tell you the deeper meaning of this tale since you can’t seem to want to read between the lines. The story acknowledges that history passed through tales gets warped, evidenced by the tall tale spun by the dove about the mouse. However, the key events and characters remained immortalized in the dove’s story.” 

Your food had arrived in front of you, but your eyes never left his. Even as the enticing scent of tahchin beckoned.  

“The mouse was there, as was the cat, as was the merchant, and so on. As this tale continues to be passed down and hear, these events shall always be there. Through war, oppression, and persecution, that snapshot of time can still live through it all. Just waiting for someone to look past the surface and discover the past carefully encased by the cushion of folklore.”        

“What a poetic view of children’s bedtime story of a dove that can talk.” Alhaitham went to pour himself another cup of coffee, just to enjoy the aroma as he would like to have a restful night of sleep. 

“In the spaces where truths are left unrecorded each time one truth is, those truths are just forever lost to time. The question they raise is left unanswered. I have experienced this more than my fair share of times.” The scribe commented. 

“What if stories and art serve to lead you to those answers?”

“What if they lead you further astray?”

And with that, the second act of this debate seems to have drawn to a close. Alhaitham pulled out a book, enjoying the peace that had washed over the table as you shifted your attention to the tahchin. Kaveh had long joined another table for a round of TCG. 

“Dear scribe, can you answer me this? Have you read all text related to the history of Sumeru and its desert?”

Looking up from his book a bit peeved, he answers honestly. “I have not, but I have studied most.”

“So, your previous statement about how there is no record of the Jinn is incorrect. There is no record that you have read.”

“I have already read most.”

“But not all.”

He resisted the urge to press his lips into a thin line at the sight of you eating a spoonful of tahchin, a hint of smugness twinkled in your eyes. As if you had leveled out the rebuttals once more. It seems like this debate might drag on longer than he had anticipated. 

Authors Note 2: Okay so this story is heavily based on an oc of mine, but I thought it would be more interesting to have it to make it about the reader. But if I feel like it (or if enough people are curious enough) I might post my oc, but this series and blog will stay as a reader insert bc it’s more fun that way no?

[passivenovember]

All the way across time, Billy’s knuckles drip pearls of red onto the dashboard. He’s drunk. Can’t hold his head up for longer than ten seconds, just enough for Steve to get the seatbelt around him, and the door closed, and the window rolled down because, “I’m gonna ralph.”

Steve grips the wheel. 

It doesn’t matter. So his chest shouldn’t convulse, twisting with worry for this asshole. This dickhead. This reckless piece of--

“Steve, I’m gonna puke.”

Emotion clogs his throat, wading through two years of this means nothing to me. blonde hair and blue eyes and cherry red lips, paving the way toward nothing.

Billy grips his member’s jacket, “Please, I’m gonna be sick,” 

And.

Steve thinks he’d like to see that. Could enjoy it, maybe, relaxing into how a little bit of pain would smooth things over, but. 

“You’re not throwing up in here,” Steve says bluntly, neverminded the tell-tale shade of pea-green Billy’s nose has gone. “You should’ve thought it through before you did that last keg stand.”

“Had to do it,” Billy grumbles.

He does a lot of things because he thinks he’s supposed to. Kisses Steve for two years because he wants to. Asks Steve to run away with him because he has to. Can’t stay in the red pin-point of Hawkins a moment longer. Avoids Steve because he had to break up with him. Punches Steve’s new toy across the jaw because he has to--

It gets old.

Billy makes a pained gurgling noise, leaning forward to clutch at his stomach.

Steve frowns. “I’m not slowing the car down, asshole,” but he pumps the breaks, anyway, aching to rub his back even as the words land like fists against Billy’s spine. 

The Beemer Idles at the next red light so Billy can blow chunks on the cobble brick of Main street. 

Steve hates this.

He wants to go home. He imagines what would happen if he told Billy to walk. To find his own way back to cherry lane--He peers out the window, into the dead of night. Counts to twenty. Says, “I can’t believe you did that,” the second Billy’s upright again. 

Billy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I tried to swallow it but it kept coming back up--”

“No, I mean.” The light changes. Steve pulls forward, so close to home he can almost feel his bedsheets against his skin. “The fight. I can’t believe--”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Steve presses down on the gas pedal. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re the martyr and I’m the monster lurching toward town hall. No two ways about it,” 

Steve turns onto Loch Nora, speeding toward his neighborhood like maybe if he gets there fast enough, things will start to make sense. He breathes through his nose. Feels the wind on his face. “You have twenty seconds to tell me why.” Steve says.

Billy fumbles around for his cigarettes, finally pinching one between his teeth and holding onto it while the car lighter sparks itself alive. By the time it pops free, glowing red like a fallen star in, Steve’s already cut the engine.

He’s home.

The grass needs watering and it’s almost summer. Billy puffs his cigarette. Won’t look at him and doesn’t say anything for a long time.

But Steve. He can’t accept that. It’s eating him alive, hope and anger raging wild in his stomach, getting drunk on stale beer. No matter what he’s thinking, chewing on words he can’t force into any meaningful order--

“It’s been more than twenty seconds.” 

Billy finally turns in his seat, eyebrow split open and trickling blood when he raises it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve swallows around the lump in his throat, and. Billy’s eyes. They’re soft on Steve’s face. Softer than he’s seen them in months, since Billy killed this. Killed them. 

Steve feels like a ghost, watching Billy drop his skull against the headrest. In profile, Steve notices his lip blowing huge. Notices he’s hurt, more than he’ll ever let on, and.

“Why’d you do that,” Steve tries. 

He’s ready to beg. To kick and scream. Punch out the dashboard and shatter the window and light the whole world on fire. “Billy,” Steve says, hating the way his voice is going to crack and blow everything apart. “I--”

“I think,” Billy rasps, “My knuckles--”

Steve undoes his seatbelt, absolutely sick to his stomach.

--

The first time Billy broke up with him, Steve didn’t eat for three days. 

Not because he’s so gone on the asshole that Steve can’t live without him, but because Billy had shown up at Steve’s front door with three broken ribs and a black eye someone could park a school bus on. 

And Steve took one look at him, cracked open and bleeding himself because Billy wouldn’t let Steve touch him, and knew, that.

This was his fault. And it was over.

They never talked again, after that. Surprise, surprise.

Not about anything that matters. Not about what happens to Billy at home. If Max saw something she wasn’t supposed to. If Neil ever got curious, if he had people keep an eye out. If, wrapped in each other’s arms behind a dumpster at the county fair, maybe they should’ve been more careful.

It was Steve’s fault. 

At the end of the day, Billy may think he’s Frankenstein’s monster but really, he’s the bird with shattered wings and Steve’s the asshole driving over it, so.

When Billy shoulders his way into the house. When he pauses, eyes glued to the skylight and the midnight galaxy beyond that, and says, “Looks just like I remember,” before he removes his jacket, wincing in a way that has Steve feeling like he just got stabbed with something short and dull, it gives Steve hope.

Hope that they can fix this. That Steve can patch it up just like he used to, tucking Billy into the bath, soapy water warming his chest until he’s not angry anymore. 

Steve doesn’t want to be angry anymore.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” He tries, and follows Billy down the hall to the bathroom, where he strips down to his boxers and plops, gingerly, on the edge of the toilet without having to be told.

They go through the motions.

Steve pokes and prods, slathering Neosporin over cuts and scrapes, even the ones Billy insists don’t hurt. He cleans the wounds, anyway. He tapes the knuckles. Says, “You got your ass kicked, Hargrove,” Chest filling with hymnals and shaking, crushing explosions when Billy smiles. 

It’s small. Almost non-existent, but.

It’s there. 

Steve winds Billy’s hair into a bun and runs him a bath. Without having to be told. And Billy strips naked, slipping into the water, without having to be told. 

But Steve has to be told. Asked. “Will you sit with me?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to be alone,” Billy sounds scared. Working hard to buff nerves from the atmosphere when he clears his throat and asks, “Will you get in with me.”

Steve turns, his hand still on the doorknob. He keeps his eyes on Billy’s face, on his lips, where they’ve started to turn purple on the left corner, no matter how much he wants to look. To see and touch--

“Whatever, stupid to even ask,” 

Billy’s eyes close like doors. His arms stretch and grip onto either side of the tub so he can lean back, eyes slipping closed so he doesn’t see the way Steve vibrates all over. The way his hands shake, pulling his shirt over his head. Unbuckling his pants. He steps into the water, refusing to meet Billy’s eyes as the bubbles close around them.

Steve clears his throat, ready to cut his heart open and apologize, nearly dying on the spot when Billy beats him to it.

“I fucked everything up.” Billy gasps.

And.

Steve wishes he could say it's awkward.

That he’s not hard, with the water scorching every inch of him, and Billy’s swampy, wet eyes pinning him in place, but.

He’s choking on want. On desperation and love. “Billy--”

Billy shakes his head, refusing to listen. “I just. With Neil--”

“--I know--”

“--I’m afraid, Steve.” Billy blinks, pinprick tears sliding down the swell of his cheeks. His knuckles turn white on the tub, grip so firm Steve worries for Billy’s split skin and fresh bandages. “I was so afraid when he brought it up that I ruined everything, and--”

Steve shushes him, wading forward a little, until he slots himself between Billy’s legs. 

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Billy tells him, sitting up. “I never want anything to happen to you, so I let you go. And then tonight, when you were wrapped in that loser’s arms, laughing at his fucking jokes--”

Steve wants to say that the loser means nothing to him. Could never mean anything to him, when he’s got Billy in his life like this--

“But it was my fault, Steve. Everything’s been my fault for so long and I treated you like shit because I was scared to death that something would happen. I pushed you away and now--”

“I love you,” Steve tells him. 

Because it’s all he can manage to say. Because it’s simple and easy and in the end, love’s gonna win out.

Steve won’t accept anything else.

But wherever Billy is, whatever he’s been sword fighting, tears staining his pillow every night for three months in a house Steve could never reach him, is putting on a hell of a performance.

“No,” Billy says bluntly.

“Baby.”

“No,” Billy says again, “Don’t say that. I’m shit. I’m scum, Steve, I’m--”

“I love you,” Steve shrugs. Billy’s eyes search his face, tears frozen and stuck to his flashes like unearthed diamonds. 

Steve takes a deep breath. Prepares for war. “What happened wasn’t your fault.” He begins, ready to slay the dragon, but.

Billy bares his teeth. Digs his heels in. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do.” Steve insists. He wants to touch Billy. Wants to haul him to his chest and lock him there forever.

Not now.

Not yet.

“You don’t deserve what happened and what happened, Billy--” Steve takes his shoulders, soapy hands moving to hold Billy’s cheeks until Billy looks at him. “That wasn’t you fault.”

Billy’s crying now, hunched forward so Steve as to submerge his chest in water, ducking to get those baby blues back where they belong.

Billy rattles, letting Steve’s hands gentle his cheeks, catching his tears and setting them free like wishes. Dreams. Steve presses a kiss, delicate as pressed flowers, to Billy’s forehead.

And both cheeks.

And each corner of his mouth, smearing his chin in a slow, sloppy kiss until Billy cracks open.

“I’m sorry,” He gasps, finally, finally, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck and pulling him close.. “I’m sorry, Steve, so fucking sorry--”

“I love you, Billy. I’ll tell you everyday, ever morning and before bed, cradling you in my arms, until you believe me,” Steve tells the dragon.

You’re cast out. There are no more shadowy corners to come home to.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: ET stay home (Human Perspective)

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)   (For those who may be confused, this is the telling of the same story from Humans are weird: ET Stay Home, but this one tells it from the human side of it. For the alien perspective please read the previous entry :) ) 

Broadcaster: This is Nine News Now and I’m your host Gabriel Thompson.

GT: Our top story tonight, local outback hunter Hudson White has come forward with claims that they have been abducted by aliens and taken off world for experimentation.

GT: We have Mr. White here tonight to tell us his side of the story on this interstellar encounter.

*Camera pans left to see Hudson sitting opposite Gabriel*

GT: Thank you for joining us tonight.

HW: My pleasure.

GT: Mr. White I’m going to cut right to the chase and ask you what many of our viewers are already thinking.

GT: Is your story just another crackpot tale?

HW: Listen darling; if I’d been in their shoes right now I’d be saying the exact same thing.

HW: But the real crazy thing here is that it did happen and it happened to me; and I’ve got the story and proof to prove it.

GT: Now before we go into your story, it was reported that local farmers found you out in the wilds of the outback after a severe sandstorm swept through the county.

GT: You were admitted to a local hospital were the doctors diagnosed you with critical dehydration and malnutrition.

HW: That’s right, I was up on their ship in space for what felt like days and I wasn’t about to start putting any of their alien bits inside my body.

GT: Is it not possible that you just became lost in the sandstorm and the experiences you claim to have gone through were nothing more than hallucinations?

HW: I spent me whole life out there in the outback.

HW: I get paid to hunt down wild packs of animals attacking farms, spending weeks at a time with nothing but a flask of whiskey and stale bread.

HW: You’ve got an iron pair accusing me of going wobbly over a little sandstorm.

GT: Why don’t you tell us your story then; start from the beginning.

HW: I was hired by the Befred Farm to track down a pack of dingoes that’d been attacking them every night for about three weeks.

HW: These critters would come in the dead of night and kill a sheep or cattle before buggering out.

HW: When I got to the farm I got lucky since the tracks from the last attack were still there. So I started following them back to their den where I hoped to catch them off guard.

HW: I got a few miles out when the weather shifted and a massive sandstorm started blowing in. Could barely see a few feet in front of me and before I knew it the tracks were gone. So I started heading back to the farm and try to catch the dingoes at night.

GT: And this is when you encountered the aliens?

HW: You better believe it.

HW: I’d made it half way back to the farm when it happened. The sandstorm was roaring all around me and even with me goggles on I couldn’t see far ahead of me. Then they came out of the storm like a god damn horror movie.

GT: Can you describe then?

HW: Not entirely.

HW: There were about four of them, each wearing a suit like you see astronauts wear with those big shiny head bits that blocked the sun.

HW: They were skinny things though. I mistook the buggers for some dried up trees at first until the front one started shooting at me.

GT: The aliens attacked you? Did you do anything to provoke them?

HW: Crikey, no!

HW: We just bumped into each other in the storm like blokes at a bus stop and the next thing I know they’re shooting at me.

GT: Were you hit?

HW: Nah; the one in the front must’ve been an ankle biter since he couldn’t hit the side of a mountain.

GT: What did you do in response?

HW: I swung up my elephant gun and shot them back.

GT: You what?!

HW: We just met and they’re already blasting? I took offense to that; but they were probably surprised so I just clipped them in the arm.

HW: Wasn’t fast enough on reload though and the bloke behind that front one pulled out another tinker and got me good in the chest.

GT: If you were shot in the chest how are you alive?

HW: No idea.

HW: I got hit and it felt like my soul was leaving my body, but the next thing I know I’m waking up in their ship with one of them leaning over me like they’re about to cut me up.

GT: Sounds like it was a stunner of some kind.

HW: A what?

GT: Something that knocks you out but doesn’t kill you, like in Star Trek.

HW: Ah, that sounds about right.

HW: Loved that as a kid; them sheila’s looked good in red.

GT: So these aliens stunned you and took you onboard their ship. What happened then?

HW: This tiny ship I was on hooked up with their big ship in space and they were in the middle of moving me to it when I broke free.

GT: These aliens didn’t take away your weapon?

HW: Oh they got me gun, but they missed the knife I keep under my shirt. Soon as one of them leaned over me I pulled it out, cut them good, and freed myself from that table they had me on.

GT: It’s amazing you could think so clearly under pressure; I for one would have been terrified.

HW: Once you spend enough time in the outback everything else feels like you’re playing on easy mode.

GT: So you freed yourself but were still trapped in space.

HW: It was a chaotic mess after I got up.

HW: Those alien gits started firing like they were hopped up on poprocks. I was dodging and rolling around like it was tax season avoiding them till I grabbed one and used them as a shield.

HW: I was about to demand they take me back when this door behind me opened up and there’s a whole bunch of more gits waiting to rush in and grab me. So I threw my hostage at them and stabbed one of them in the head when he tried to bash my head in.

GT: You killed them?

HW: Maybe. For all I know the blokes don’t die from being stabbed, but they didn’t get back up and I didn’t wait to find out. I left my knife and started running as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

HW: Anyway, these alarms starting going off and things are flashing blue. These doors start closing all around me as and I’m hearing this loud ringing of boots behind me so I figure I’m being hemmed in on all sides.

HW: Finally I hit this dead end with no escape until I look up and see a vent of some kind.

GT: What made you think it was a vent? This is an alien ship after all.

HW: I saw Die hard enough times to know a vent.

HW: So I took a gamble and jumped at the thing reaching for it with my right hand and the vent swings open.

HW: The guards are almost right on top of me so I used all my strength and jumped a second time and my hands grab the edges of it. I barely had enough time to pull myself in and pull the vent closed behind me again.

HW: Next thing I see is this group of aliens all armed to the teeth come pouring into the hallway and start standing around dumbfounded.

GT: You’re telling me they didn’t check the vents?

GT: I would think that would be the first place they would look.

HW: I know, right?

HW: I was sitting there in that tiny vent quiet as a murid looking down at these things as they start panicking and shouting into metal boxes of some kind. They looked like communicators if I had to guess.

HW: About ten minutes passed before they started filing out again back the way they came and I breathed a sigh of relief.

GT: A thrilling escape.

GT: What happened next?

HW: I made my way through the vent system for as far as I could. It was a maze of metal tight spaces and I’m pretty sure I got lost several times before I ended up on the bridge of the ship.

GT: How did you know it was the bridge?

HW: They had this huge window overlooking the planet with a bunch of alien’s running back and forth between these computer things. One of them was sitting directly beneath me and I wagered they were the captain since every one of those aliens would speak with them first before doing anything.

GT: That brings up a good question; what did their language sound like?

HW: You ever drag your fingers across a chalk board as a kid?

GT: I did.

HW: Imagine that and you’re not far off.

HW: The captain must have heard me because no sooner had I got there did they turn around and look up at the vent I was in.

HW: Before they could sound the alarm I kicked open the vent and jumped down to the bridge. The aliens started screaming and running around like ants, so I grabbed the captain and took him hostage.

GT: I see you have a habit of taking hostages, should I be concerned?

HW: Are you an alien that has abducted me?

GT: No.

HW: Then you’re fine.

HW: To sum up what happened next I essentially traded the captain for a ride back to the planet which they gave me; but the damn blokes left me in the middle of the outback again and I had to trudge my way back to the nearest town and I passed out along the way.

GT: Fascinating story.

GT: It’s a shame you don’t have any proof to back up said claim though.

HW: Who said I didn’t?

GT: Are you going to show us a blurry photo you took or a hunk of metal you claim was from there ship.

HW: *Slams alien pistol on table*

GT: * Looks confused*

GT: What is that?

HW: That’s the alien pistol they shot me with. I stole one off the captain on my way back to earth.

GT: How did you get a weapon in here? *Looks off screen at security*

HW: They thought it was a toy so they let me keep it.

GT: Are…are you going to shoot me to prove it’s real?

HW: I had considered it with your attitude.

GT: *Looking increasingly nervous but continues smiling*

GT: I don’t think our listeners would-

HW: But then I decided it would be easier if I just shot myself since I’m not a dick like you.

GT: Wh-

HW: *Picks up alien pistol and shoots himself sending him flying across the room and off screen*

GT: HOLY SH-

*Signal cuts out*

[gbee-writes]

Pen's Song-Story Challenge Submission :)

My assigned song was The Crossing by The Action Design, submitted by @howshouldiknowboutlife. I had a some trouble with this one, more than a few ideas that I really struggled to pick through and more than one didn't pan out. To be honest what I have here didn't turn out entirely the way I wanted, but it was the one I felt embodied the song best. Hope I did it justice!

@thepenultimateword, thank you for letting me participate!

TW; fatal injury and death

It was rare for anyone to remember their past lives. Most who did used that rarity to become famous and desirable; people like governments and historians loved that sort of thing after all.

Not Villain though.

Remembering one's past lives didn't always mean they remembered good things. If you revealed that you could there was no chance of any memory being kept to yourself.

No, Villain hated the thought of his precious moments being combed through. It would be as if his barest soul was being touched. Every moment he remembered was a treasure, every person in them even more so.

Some nights he would dream of the lives he had as a sailor, doctor, farmer, soldier. Villain remembered lives hiding from tyrannical governments, lives spent as an important part of some, lives where he was insignificant and ones where he turned the course of history.

It was his firm belief that no one else deserved to look at those. They were his own. Especially the ones where his path intertwined with hers.

In this life she was Hero. In this life they were destined to be at odds, claws to each other's throats, desperately trying to get the upper hand.

But he remembered times when that wasn't the case. He could feel the connection between their souls and it almost broke Villain. Because Hero didn't remember past lives.

She didn't remember him.

Villain would lay awake after a thwarted scheme with his fists clenching his nightshirt above his heart. There were past lives where her hands would trace the contours of his cheeks, her touch delicate; reverent. Memories of mornings domestically spent together taunted him from the moment Hero had burst in on the scene.

He needed her.

He needed her as much as he needed to breathe.

He needed her more than he needed to breathe.

----

Hero knew that there were people who remembered past lives. She knew that those who didn't could still find the people who were important to them before.

Once she had dreamed of finding someone; getting that burning spark that was a tell tale sign of a soul connection. It would be the closest she ever got to knowing what happened to her past selves. She had wanted it more than anything.

Not anymore.

To her utter horror she only felt it with one man and it made her stomach turn.

A villain. One of her soul links was with...was with Villain.

Why did it have to be him? He was known to be cruel and heartless, single minded in his goal for power.

He had recognized the feeling too, she was sure, when they first met. Villain had stumbled and stared. He never faltered for any other hero.

She had wanted to hate him. Hero wanted nothing more than to feel only what was right when she was around him but she just couldn't ignore that warm flame that had ignited.

Her worst fear was someone finding out and punishing her. As if having a murderer as a bond wasn't punishment enough.

Countless nights were spent tossing and turning with waking dreams of Villain. Kissing, dates, so much more. A sick part of her wanted to beg him for a relationship hidden from the world but she knew that would only end in disaster. They could run-

No, that could also only end in disaster.

----

Dust sprinkled down around them, stale air made worse by the crumbling pieces of concrete. There wasn't any other way things could have gone. Villain had simply flown too close to the sun; a mistake he'd made before but couldn't help repeating.

He couldn't move his limbs and a cold was seeping in. It wasn't easy ignoring the dull ache emanating from his torso but Hero was holding him and all he wanted to focus on was her trembling hands.

"You...you're always so beautiful..." The words come out so weak. Villain licked his drying lips.

Hero shook her head. A desperate kind of rage contorted her features. "Stop talking, you're delirious. This is exactly why I needed to shut that stupid bomb down and-"

"Last time we met you were a young man named Hickory."

The sentence hung in the air. Villain watched closely as Hero's face twisted between several different emotions; rage, confusion, horror, grief.

"...what?"

Villain smiled, causing a flinch. "Your name was Hickory. You were my father's hired ranch hand."

Her eyes widened as realization hit. "You remember?"

"I remember." He leaned into her shoulder. "I was the eldest son of five, set to marry the banker's daughter. We would steal moments together when we knew it was safe. The night before the wedding you convinced me to run with you; leave the town behind and forge a new life together."

Her voice was paper thin. "What happened?"

"We didn't make it a few miles from the town when they found us. We died holding hands."

A rumbling creak seemed to emphasize the answer. Hero curled protectively around Villain as a bigger shower of dust tried to bury them. He was regretting using the bomb to get her attention.

Several tense minutes passed before silence blanketed them again. Her shaking hands moved to cup his face as she shifted him further into her lap.

"Do you remember...are there any more?"

A painful chuckle fell from his lips. "So many, and I remember every one. We were wedded diplomats for warring countries once. You were so nervous the first time we met to arrange the marriage. It was hard work mending the rifts but you were so compassionate and driven." Tears slid down his cheeks. "Our children grew into wonderful people with a father like you."

"Were you...good too?" It was begging. It was accusatory. His heart ached.

"In some of them."

"But not this one." Hero's tone had gone hard.

Villain choked out another laugh, scared at how hard it was getting to breathe. "No."

A heartbroken sob jolted both of them. Hero pushed her forehead into his. "Why? Why couldn't you have been good this time?"

He didn't have an answer. It was easy to assume that if you remembered past lives your morals would stay the same through them, but somehow that's not how it worked for Villain.

A broken chuckle filled the air as he was reminded of the age old debate of nature over nurture.

Why was he like this? He was born into a crime family that raised weapons more than people. In a past life the same circumstances arose but he had gone against his family instead. Hero hadn't been in that one.

Rumbling shook the earth, the building threatening again, bringing Villain back to the painful present. Almost magnetically he was drawn to her eyes.

They were a bright green in this life, shining with the conviction they always held no matter her form. Though they were also filled with so much pain. Watery tears adding a melancholy beauty that Villain found mesmerizing.

"Good or bad..." He wheezed in a breath. When had it gotten so hard to breathe? "I'm glad...to have known you...all the same..."

Hero shook him slightly, ignoring his wince. "Don't talk like that. My team is working on extraction. You're going to be fine."

Villain smiled as she scooped his hand up into hers. Such wonderful memories surfaced from that simple act. "I won't...but you will..."

"No please, you'll be alright! We can put you in the reform program after you heal up. You can tell me about our lives while you do. It'll be okay, just hold on."

Villain drank in her features for as long as he could before slipping his eyes closed.

"Villain!"

Sounds went murky, like water pushing against his eardrums.

"We found-!"

"Need- ambulance-!"

"-old on, Villain!"

He slipped into a familiar nothing. A warmth that beckoned him into the next role he would take on. Villain couldn't wait until they met again, destined lovers or longing foes, together either way.

[idontknowmyownmind]

Fanfiction Recommendations: My All Times Favorite ♡♡

OG!Cale 🥀

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'His Life Is Too Easy' My Ass by The_Hollow

NEXT

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Lambert scowled as Aiden’s horse cantered out of the town Lambert was heading towards. A shit-eating grin on the Cat’s face as he raised a hand and yelled out, “Better luck next time Wolf, dinner on me when I get back!”

Presumptuous of the little shit to assume just because they’d shared a meal a couple of other times Chance had thrown them in each others paths, Lambert was going to hang around and wait for him.

He didn’t even have a right to be mad at him. It wasn’t like the other Witcher had cheated him, or like the ogre incident where they’d both been promised the contract. Aiden had beat him to it fair and square. Didn’t make him feel better about the situation though.

He had every intention of just passing through just to prove Aiden wrong until he actually laid eyes on the well kept Inn (surprising for such a small town). It was warm enough in the midsummer heat to warrant stopping for an ale and Aiden had mentioned something about dinner. Lambert was many things but he wasn’t prideful (or stupid) enough to turn down a free meal.

The woman behind the bar looked up as he entered and Lambert idly thought she looked like the grandmother out of some children’s tale with her white hair, plump figure, and kindly face (complete with rosy apple cheeks). She even had a pair of wire rimmed spectacles balanced on her nose, which she peered over as he approached.

“If you’re looking for work I’m afraid the other Witcher just beat you to it.” She stated matter of factly, giving a small, almost sympathetic smile.

“I’m aware.” Lambert said as he placed his coin on the bar, “Can I trouble you for a drink whille I wait for him?”

The woman’s gaze turned calculating. Lambert could guess what she was thinking.

“I’m not looking to start trouble. He’s a...” Lambert paused. A what exactly?

"I know him. He said he’d meet me here when he got back.”

The woman gave him another look as she passed him a mug and pitcher and Lambert felt as if he were being weighed and measured against something.

“Alright. But if anything happens to the contrary you’re both out the door. I’ll have no brawling in here. From anybody.”

Lambert shrugged, “Fair. What was the contract, out of curiosity?”

“Nekkers. Nest of them in the forest about a month back. Alderman’s men reckon there’s about ten or so. ”

Lambert nodded in thanks as he settled in to wait. An easy job for a seasoned Witcher. Aiden shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.

Lambert stared at the Cat medallion clasped in the boy’s slightly shaking hand as he held it out to him by its chain. He’d charged into the Inn as if a horde of Devils were after him (which might not be far off judging from the tears in his clothes. Something with claws was responsible for those) and, to the surprise of everyone, made a beeline for Lambert when he spotted him. The stench of slightly stale fear giving way to relief.

“In the forest. He said you’d help.” The boy said as if that explained everything.

Lambert stared at the medallion. He would have been tempted to wave the boy off and pass it off as some sort of Cat conceived mischief Aiden had put him up to if it wasn’t for the scent. He could smell blood clinging which didn’t seem to be coming from the boy and Aiden had been gone for longer than the job warranted. It was becoming clear that one way or another, the Cat had landed himself in some sort of trouble.

“Please?” The lad was almost begging now, the clagging scent of desperation blocking Lambert’s nose.

Lambert grumbled under his breath as he drained the last of the pitcher as he felt all eyes on him. He had been having a fairly pleasant afternoon, "Show me where.”

[languidlotus]

tagged by @aleng-neng. What are my fave top 9 shows in no particular order. (All of these I have at 10/10.) I'll only pick recent shows, as they're the ones I have listed on MyDramaList and thus have a ranking for. XD This means it's mostly bls and cdramas. 1. Moonlight Chicken.

One of my feelgood shows, even though it's still new. It feels comfortable and adult and grounded, with a bunch of amazing actors who are clearly comfortable with each other. As an 'older queer' it resonates with me a lot and I didn't dislike a single thing about it.

2. The Blood of Youth.

A really fun show with gorgeous, engaging characters and the right mix of beautiful scenery, beautiful people, and creative storytelling that I like. Sprinkle in some excellent fight scenes and a bunch of my favourite actors and I'm sold!

3. Old Fashion Cupcake.

I talked about mature stories earlier and this is another one of those. I could see myself in the main lead just a bit too much for me not to love this. Nozue recognizes that he's maybe stuck in a rut and complacent when he doesn't have to be. And, maybe, that handsome junior at the firm could help him get out of it (and make him recognize he's not straight).

4. KinnPorsche.

Look, I know it has its issues. I know. And I know people have an issue with some of the fandom. I get it and for the most part I agree. However, this was the first BL in a long time that I had the urge to write fic for. I enjoyed the complexity of the universe and the characters that much. (Even if some of it didn't make sense. but that's half the fun!) And that's why I like it. It got my brain involved. (And I just adore Tankhun, okay.)

5. Word of Honor.

Years ago I watched a few cdramas and then...somehow forgot about them? (I don't know how I did that.) However, back in 2019 I got back into them and eventually stumbled upon The Untamed. 'This is the pinnacle of cdrama for me and my tastes!' I thought. But then Word of Honor showed up. Look, everything about this show is stunning. The story, the characters, the setting, the clear and unadulterated love between the two main characters. Everything and everyone is beautiful and I've never gone through a cdrama as fast as I did this one. It's beautiful in ever sense of the word. And so, so queer. Don't believe me? Just search 'word of honor cdrama' in the gif section on tumblr and marvel at the art.

6. A Tale of Thousand Stars.

This is not the first Thai BL I watched, but it almost feels like it? Because ATOTS is the first one I remember going crazy about (and it set me on the road to basically loving everything EarthMix are in together). I was super invested and wanted to draw art and everything. It's just such a nice, soft, romantic story and the characters are so fun. This is probably the one I've rewatched the most.

7. Semantic Error.

As you can tell, I generally like stories that feel far away from home. I like magic and fantasy and settings that aren't typical. However, this is one of the few exceptions. I think it's the characters and their journey and the perfect execution of tropes that would have felt stale in any other show. It's a fun story with excellent characters and I get why it's so popular.

8. Mysterious Lotus Casebook.

Technically, I can't say this show is 10/10 yet because it still has a bunch of episodes to go. However, I can tell it's going to get close at least. (And will probably get to 10.) I keep comparing it to a perfect blend of The Blood of Youth and A League of Nobleman, in that it's a fantasy world with a master swordsman who's dying (and begrudgingly adopts a cute puppy who loves him) and a bunch of cases that need solving (to unravel the overarching plot). It's so much fun and the settings + characters are so beautiful. (And I may or may not heavily ship the loyal, eager puppy with the stoic, lying dying man who tries to push him away (and literally abandon him) in an attempt to keep him safe (from harm and heartache).) The hurt/comfort and love against all odds is strong in this one! He gave up his lifelong dream to protect a man who's been lying to him ever since they met and whom is at that point a wanted fugitive!! Because he trusts and loves him so. Also, it has a bunch of very handsome and gorgeous actors/characters in it, whom I love (and who suffer beautifully).

9. ??? I only have 8 shows that I've given 10/10 to (or a prospective 10/10, lol), so I'll just leave you with some other recommended shows that came close! Bad Buddy

Between Us

Choco Milk Shake

Ten Miles of Peach Blossoms

My Only 12%

Ancient Love Poetry

That's it! I invested way too much effort into this, but...it was fun? Sorry for clogging up your timelines with this, though!

[blackjackkent]

Glad I took a final look around, bc there's a whole chest of letters (loabeled "Chest of Grateful Words") and some Baldur's Mouth Gazettes pinned up on a board.

Various fun newspaper headlines first:

"Fresh Stock: An Interview with the New Master of Ramazith's Tower"

"Thorm's Army Dispersed from Baldurian Borders"

"Report: Stone Lord Killed by Beloved Ranger"

"Harpers Out of Hiding: Secretive Sect Step Forward to Aid City"

"Almond Cakes of Avernus: Elturian Refugees - and Owners of City's Newest Cafe - Share Their Recipe"

"Site of Foundry Blast Still Sectioned Off, Says Fist"

"New Waveservant at Umberlee's Temple: No Leads on Desecration"

"Ravengard Returned to Full Strength"

"Gondians Disband: 'Gond's Time Has Come and Gone'" (A/N: Bongle will be pleased. 🙄)

"Duke Stelmane's Murderer Still at Large"

"Planar Pains: City Caught in Center of Githyanki War?"

"Volothamp Geddarm's Guide to Baldur's Gate: Bard Seeks Contributors to Newest Edition"

"Last Holdout Cultists Cleared from Temple of Bhaal"

"Iron Throne Wreckage Continues to Block Shipping Lanes, Complain Merchants"

"Settles Bound for Lands Upriver Amid Claims Curse is Lifted"

"Business Boom - Take Your Troubles to the House of Grief"

"Witnesses Encounter Vampire Spawn - And Live to Tell the Tale"

"Six Months Since the Assassination of Archduke Gortash"

"Small Sun: Tour New District Built by Elturian Refugees"

"New Bardic School, Tiefling Founder, Secures Upper City Funding" (A/N: AHHHHH Go Alfira Go! :D )

"Jannath House to Host Evening of Art and Culture, Celebrating Salvation of City"

"Monument Planned for Heroes of the High Hall"

I love all of this. :D

Also a quick side note because I need to shout out my favorite bit of the ambient dialogue in the camp - everyone has been making random comments the whole night, but every once in a while, Shadowheart comments: "Withers has a keen eye for a nice vintage. Why were we scrounging in barrels and crates for supplies when he could source these? Gods, I remember one evening we had to eat fourteen apples, some fish heads, and a stale loaf of bread just to get by."

lolololol <3

On to the letters!

"Official Guild Letter":

Aw. :)

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Wehhhhhhh. <3 I'm glad we got you free of the curse, Art. Poor guy.

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Hector still hates you, Valeria, and this isn't helping.

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Atta boy, Mr. Duke.

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I'm assuming Beard Man is Elminster. :D Excellent. I think Hector probably has Gale keep an ear to the ground on how she's doing; the whole group felt very protective of Arabella.

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Oh, shut up.

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[incredibly loud squinting from Hector] You are so FUCKING creepy, ma'am. And if you come anywhere near Astarion again, by the way, Hector will kill you (if Astarion doesn't do so first).

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Aw. I'm glad they were able to find some kind of stability, even though there was no real good outcome to that situation. :(

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Florriiiiiiiiiiick. <3 She's so cool. I wanna be Florrick when I grow up.

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This is kind of sweet actually. Growth for everyone.

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EEEEEEEE :D I love this so much. She deserved such a good ending and she got it. (Though people KEEP putting Hector's names on things; I think he's giving up on fighting against notoriety. XD )

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HI DAMMON! Hector definitely makes sure Karlach sends him a super nice letter bringing him up to date. He's a saint in their eyes, made it possible for them to be together at all.

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Hee. Elminster turned out to be interestingly nuanced in terms of Gale's storyline; he didn't really seem to approve of how Mystra was treating Gale, but also wanted to toe the party line of the goddess of magic. Hector's a smidge skeptical of him as a result. But good to hear he and Gale are still on good terms.

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<3 If Nocture eventually decides to leave the Sharrans, and Shadowheart goes to help her, Hector would absolutely be there to help as well.

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Eyyyy, Voss. I love this because he greets Hector with the title "She'lak", which means 'benevolent burden' (a term for a do-gooder hero), which I already headcanoned was what Lae'zel calls Hector. So she's got Voss doing it too, which absolutely makes Hector smile.

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Aw. Hope seems to be doing okay. <3 As okay as she can be under the circumstances at least.

@writer86 pointed out to me that the House of Hope would make perfect sense as a regular headquarters for Hector and Karlach and Wyll; I think they probably go there pretty regularly for time to rest and recuperate.

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Aw, Mayrina gets a happy ending! This is great! She didn't end up naming her son after Hector after all though lol. Which he's fine with tbh.

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Oh no. XD

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I love the implication that Nine-Fingers might have just randomly showed up too and been the only non-companion here besides Tara. XD That line about getting Jaheira to sing intrigues me. Fodder for a one-shot perhaps...

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Zevlor is such a great character, man. I think this is a good end for him, and hopefully he finds peace and happiness in it somehow, in the end.

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Awwwwwww. Atta boy Geraldus!

It's incredibly unclear to me how easily Hector and co. can or cannot get out of the Hells. But if he has the freedom to do so, he would absolutely be there. (Though honestly, lbr. It should be Jaheira.)