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naffeclipse · 6 months ago

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Sea Tears

Reader x Selkie!Moon

Commission Info

Thank you to the darling @cipher-the-sidhe for commissioning me to write about Selkie!Moon! The setting and the scenario are absolutely delightful. It's a shame I haven't written a selkie until now but I'm so glad I finally did!

Content Warning for mild injury and blood.

———

You tread carefully through the salt-tinged darkness and listen. A low hum plays along the moonbeams brightening the Salish Sea coast in an ancient voice you cannot translate. The fish and the seals might understand it as it thrums like insects on the wind or the constant, murmuring dance of the waves. You wonder if it is simply the sea. Perhaps it is something hidden along the dark inky waters now softly lapping up in the high tide.

Bends and sharp juts of coves shelter the rocky beaches. Further inland, a dense forest of coniferous evergreens conceal the beautiful shore and thrive in high levels of salt spray. You descend to the water, minding every step knowing that a slick, ocean-stained rock could easily lead you into a stumble and your head could crack open like an egg on the wave-smooth stones.

These beaches are not for sunbathing and sand castles. They are to stand and admire the great breath of the Salish Sea and the bumps of crags lining the dark teal ocean—if the mist and cold don’t form an avid deterrent.

You rub your arms over the sleeves of your jacket and breathe a crisp scent. Driftwood dots the edge of land and water, and heaps of bull kelp sway farther out in the sea, lurking like guardians just along the surface to whatever might wander from the depths.

Tonight, the fog is wonderfully parted by the silver-fingered light of the full moon. You scan the crevices in between dark, angled but blunt rocks, seeking the smooth fragments of seashells. In your years, you have rarely discovered a whole heart cockle or horse clam shell. There are only remnants of what was whole.

The sand is firm and brown. The water gushes between stones before receding gently back with a frothy lace edge, bubbling and tumbling over itself just to do it all over again. You spy a fragment of a castoff shell, bleached and pale. You bend carefully down to scoop up its shard like a piece missing from a puzzle you wish to finish.

You hold it between your fingers. A curve or perhaps half of a spiral of a shell, sculpted by the waves now, softened by the time of being broken. Still, it is beautiful.

Carefully, you straighten while you slip it into your pocket. A soft understanding fills you to the bottom of your rib cage. A kinship, perhaps. You cast your eyes around you for a moment, admiring the moonlight until it shines upon a texture that is not often found here.

Fur. Silver and speckled in blue-gray, it sits, slumped and hunched between two rocks, lying lifeless.

A seal. The dawning comes upon you in a moment of the rushing tide, and then, your feet are moving towards it. Your heart twists while you watch it sharply. How it could be so still and thin? Is it injured? You don’t have your phone with you—you left it in the car parked beside the oceanside road. Who would you call? Wildlife service? Perhaps it’s already too late.

No. You pray it isn’t.

You weave between sand and stones. Where the unmoving figure lies is thick with rocks, with almost no beach to speak of other than what is buried beneath. Your sandals slip on the slick edges of the rugged terrain. Wobbling, you catch yourself before you sling your body along a craggy boulder. You pass over the harsh edges and corners of the rocky shore, almost within reach. The fur hasn’t moved an inch at your rash approach. Your throat bobs for a moment in the horror of coming upon a long rotted seal—then your sandal-clad foot slips.

A whip of sea and wind, and you fall. You throw your elbow down to catch you and it scraps sharply down the side of rough rock. You gasp when you bounce and slide, splashing into a thin strip of the tide slipping between cracks and crevices, but hold your chin high, away from any fatal head injuries.

You inhale slowly, eyes wide in the relief that you are not currently dripping your brains out of your skull like spilled yoke. A thin, stinging pain erupts along your forearm. Prying yourself off of the ground, watching where you place your feet, you get back up. A glance at the fur confirms it is still there. Slowly, you twist your arm to examine a fine, ragged cut slicing towards your wrist. A mix of sand, salt water, and blood spread across your skin.

You breathe as it flares with pain. You close your eyes and convince yourself that you’ll clean and bandage it once you get back to your car.

First, the seal.

You lower your arm. Blood drops into the water as you at last reach the two stones the fur is wedged between, and tentatively, you reach out with the vain hope it might be warm and move with life. Your fingers stroke over the beautifully silver shade of the coat, dappled with blue-gray markings and a few, lovely rings at the end. But strangely, it’s cool with mist and bunched like fabric. Your mind turns the conundrum over slowly as if examining a broken seashell before you tug on it, higher, higher, until you hold in your hand the thin skin of a seal.

A pelt.

There is no blood, sinew, or otherwise, much to your relief. It carries a smooth sleekness on its underside. The strangeness of it tugs at a part of your mind, a memory of folklore and tales spoken around a table late at night. The beautiful pelt fills your vision with its starry silver shade and the Pacific ocean-deep hue of its markings. Carefully, as if handling platinum and sapphires, you caress the fur with the back of your fingers. A drop of blood from your arm threatens to stain it and you quickly shift the hide to your clean arm. You can’t ruin this beautiful coat with your crimson.

You lift your head. You gaze out over the ocean, rippling with the incandescence of the moon upon its onyx surface. Your heart bobs within you. Your eyes seek, and your ears strain.

The hum of the ocean which has filled you since you first arrived in the darkness grows. It is no longer a muffled, soft sound carried from behind closed lips but a soft melody lifted upon a voice. It rises to the sky. Over the driftwood and waves, you turn to face it, clutching the seal skin to your chest.

A man sings.

A part of you, undeniable and filled with longing, strides towards it. Following the curve of the rocky beach, you watch your every step. A plea in your core echoes with the desire to find the one singing. The crystal vibrations of the siren call rings through your bones.

A rocky cove crops up on the side of a bluff, cutting off the beach but resuming with a swell of the tide into its darkened alcove. Once you near the mouth, you stop to bask in the lovely timbre.

Then, with your fingers tangled in the soft, sleek fur of the seal pelt, you stand upon a rock just out of reach of the oceanic tide and peer into the cove.

In the glow of the night, a man stands in the icy shallows. You can only gaze at his striking figure wrapped in moonbeams. He steps lightly, his movement rhythm. The water ripples softly underneath him. He waves his arms, his limbs flowing over his head and down, like a wind sweeping the rocks and ushering the mist higher onto land. He turns, and one leg sweeps over the inky surface before stepping back.

His body is long-limbed and slender, blue-gray like the speckles on the fur you hold. Upon his face is a marking of a silver crescent. His rich copper eyes flash in the dimness and are half-lidded in his homage to the great sea. Your breath stalls in your throat caught upon his visage. His face is wide and flat. Draping behind his head is an appendage much like a seal tail, an even darker blue with spots of glimmering silver-like stars.

His voice carries a song you have no name for but that which you hold only the most reverence in its echo. Your lips part unwittingly in adoration. He sings to himself and dances to an audience of the black sky filled with the moon.

But you twitch a hand forward as if you might catch a note of his lullaby and cradle it close to your chest. The man’s head snaps towards you. You freeze.

In a second of time and starlight, he holds your gaze, and you slip into the coppery irises that fill his wide eyes. His attention slips to what you clutch. You glance down, admiring the fur anew before you find your voice, hollowed and soft.

“Is this yours?” you ask.

The man stares, motionless like the bluffs the waves beat against. A few heartbeats pass within you. The man gently dips his head. The tail on the back of his head sways slightly like a nightcap.

“It is,” he speaks. “Please return it to me. I cannot return to the sea and my brothers without my coat.”

His voice rasps through the salty air and brushes the shell of your ear as if he whispered it to you.

The word emerges in your mind like the fall of dusk. Selkie. One who has shed his fur to take a faintly human form under the full moon. The tales you’ve caught murmurs of were always of women, beautiful and naked, who begged for their seal skin back but spent the rest of their days held captive by the man who kept it hidden, forced to become a bride and carry his children.

An ache takes over your heart at such a cruel fate.

You answer with a gentle, “Of course.”

You slowly step into the icy waters. A shiver rolls up your body and you catch your tongue between your teeth to keep from gasping out at the shock of the brine. The selkie watches you, his eyes unreadable, his hands poised with his fingers half furled—as if you intend to dangle his seal skin in front of him before yanking it out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. You wade far less gracefully in the echoes of his dance and song to reach him under the cove’s mouth, “I didn’t intend to keep it. I only meant to return it to you.”

You find the truth along your tongue. Even if you didn’t catch a glimpse of his beautiful melody, you would have left the coat where it lay, too afraid of stranding a selkie without her or his skin.

He says nothing until you present it to him. Carefully, you hold it out to him and his long fingers grasp it. A soft breath leaves him. His shoulders lower while he turns his coat over and examines it, stroking the fine fur before leveling an unreadable gaze over you. You’re small before his tall figure. You feel clumsy and cumbersome in comparison to his lissom body.

A true selkie, right before your eyes.

“So you did,” he at last murmurs as if he were dreaming. His copper eyes glide over you. His blue-gray body shimmers with a galaxy-like illumination. He carefully folds his coat over his arm before holding out his other hand and bidding you closer. “Come here. Sit with me.”

You stare at his offered palm. A few thoughts cross your mind of danger and temptation, a selkie ready to snatch away an unwary human, but would he have asked you so kindly? You slide your fingers into his grasp. He holds your hand before gently tugging you down until you cross your legs and sit in the icy cove water beside him.

“Is it true?” you ask, then flush slightly with the bluntness of your voice echoing in the alcove.

He tilts his head at you, the appendage at the back of his head slipping over your shoulder. His silence coaxes you softly into asking, “Do humans really steal the coats of selkies and force them into marriage?”

The selkie’s eyes lower, somber, before he dips his chin. “It is true. But not always.” His eyes find yours and hold them softly.

He has yet to release your hand, but slowly, he lifts your wrist and turns it slowly. You almost forget the sting until the sight of the bloody cut down your arm strikes you once more. Your lips twist at the sight, glancing at the selkie and fearing his judgment. How human you are, bleeding in his ocean.

“What did this?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes outlining the edges of your wound.

“A fall,” you say sheepishly, “I thought your coat was an injured seal.”

A laugh, rolling and deep, loosens from his lips. A not unwelcome shudder fills you in the sound. Mischievous and sincere, all at once.

“You must be more careful,” he says, his laughter dying as he leans closer.

You curl your fingers. Pressing back in the slightest as he hovers over your torn flesh, you hushly ask his name.

But he doesn’t answer. You watch in the quiet of the tide as the selkie blinks, and a tear falls onto your sliced forearm. A soft tingle spreads through your flesh. You glance down, and another tear falls, mingling with the sand and ocean salt, but the tingling becomes a gentle sensation knitting and stitching the skin together. In stunned silence, you observe seven tears in total bind your wound as if you never fell.

“This is my thanks for returning my coat.” The selkie releases your arm to gently wash it with a touch of brackish water. Blood and sand wash away, leaving your skin as it once was. He lifts his head and smiles. “I am Moon, and I must go.”

“Oh.” The sound is so small coming from you. “Moon…”

You echo your name. It feels so weak in comparison to his, but he takes it within his mouth and he sings it once. Your heart bobs within your chest as if floating upon a storm-tossed sea.

“Goodbye,” he rasps. He holds your gaze, soft as seafoam, and tugs his coat over his body. He slips down into the water. A flick of velvet flippers emerges, and a large seal lifts his head above water.

You gaze at the beautiful copper eyes of the seal. Whiskers twitch and a wet nose presses closer to you. Slowly, carefully, you stretch your fingers and stroke the soft fur of his head. Your palm runs down the slippery slope of his neck to his strong, blubbered back. The selkie holds beautifully still.

“Goodbye, Moon,” you whisper.

The selkie eyes upturn, somehow grinning in an animal form. In a sharp splash, he turns and dives into the water. The sleek dappled fur of his pelt mingles with the moonlight reflecting upon the black ocean before the waves reclaim one of its own.

You stay in the cove for a time you cannot account for, watching the waters, wishing to catch the echo of his song just one last time.

Gradually, like the moon beginning to shift across the darkness, you get to your feet. Water splashes back into the cove. Your heart grows heavy and forlorn, and you rub your fingertips together as if still stroking his fur.

Perhaps you might return in search of broken seashells but find the selkie again.

#naff's writing commissions #selkie!moon #this setting was delightful and selkie moon is *mwah*#just augh i love any mythical sea creatures!#naff writing

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romanoffsdarling · 1 year ago

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Summertime Sadness

Pairing: Dom!Wanda Maximoff x MILF!Reader

Summary: You hadn’t expected the summer after your divorce to be anything more than you simply getting used to being alone and drowning your sorrows in glasses of wine. The sudden homecoming of your daughter brings those plans to a screeching halt, but nothing could have prepared you for the woman that she brought along. Her best friend, the woman you’ve been hearing about in all of her phone calls home, offering you a glimpse into parts of yourself you never even knew were there.

Word Count: 4,891

Warnings: Legal age gap, oral (R receiving), fingering (R receiving), and hints of possessiveness. 18+, Minors DNI.

Author’s Note: I’ve seen a lot of stories with Wanda being the MILF, rightfully so, but I wanted to spin it a bit and make the Reader the MILF in this instance. Hope you all enjoy! (Also, I’m so sorry for disappearing for so long, college has been absolute hell.)

You never truly comprehend how much time you waste, how much had truly slipped through your fingers, until it’s already too late to do anything about it. Until you look into the mirror and see the once youthful face marred by faint wrinkles, a sign of wisdom your best friend would tease, and hair speckled with the vaguest hint of grey.

Twenty-five years... You had been married to your husband for twenty-five years; giving him your youth, giving him your heart and soul, and you never once imagined that he would have tossed all of that away for some floozy at his law firm. Never thought that you’d look down at your left hand and not see the delicate gold band situated on your ring finger. Of course, even now, you didn’t regret marrying him-- for it had given you the house you lived in now, the friends that had flocked to your side when the news of his infidelity spread through the neighborhood, and it gave you your darling daughter. Even if she was not yours by blood, you couldn’t imagine anyone housing the same space in your heart like your beautiful Natasha did.

All you did regret was being stupid enough to trust him so much. For putting your faith, and your dreams, in his clearly incapable hands. It had hurt, and still does hurt, but it wasn’t because you had lost him-- your marriage, in truth, had been dead for years-- but for all the time you had lost in chasing smoke and mirrors; in staying for something that should have been let go of long ago. You hated him for what he did, for getting caught with his pants down in between his secretary’s thighs, but you hated him even more for not being man enough to simply let you go, to give up the fight when it had already been lost after his first thirty seconds with his new whore, and it’s for that reason that you were currently scrubbing every inch of his old office clean.

You wanted to get rid of any reminder of him-- both in your home and in your mind.

The smell of bleach and lemon disinfectant surrounds you, but you had long grown used to the cloying scent. Dark oak floors, and the matching desk, gleamed underneath the antique lighting of the room; it had been a long time since they had been given the proper care they needed. It seems that I have more in common with inanimate objects that I thought, you muse, a sense of bittersweet irony strewn within the thought.

Settling back on your haunches, a sigh escapes your lips, and you roll your shoulders, wanting to relieve the tension that had been slowly building up for the past couple of hours. “I’m not getting any younger,” you mutter, tossing the damp rag to the side. “I just hope everything will get a bit easier.”

Even to yourself you knew that was asking for a miracle.

Before you could delve down into that specific line of thought, you faintly hear the sound of the front door being opened and the familiar sound of jangling keys with the slightly deadpan calling of ‘mom’ permeates the usual silence. The sound, although not unwelcome in the slightest, causes a small frown to furrow your brow all the same.

“Natasha?” You call back, already making your way towards the living room, sure that your confusion rung clearly within your tone. An expression that only grows that much more pronounced when you’re met with the shimmering gaze of your daughter; tousled red hair cut short, falling to just above her shoulders, and her usual penchant of wearing darker colors being tantamount. “What are you doing home, sweetheart? I wasn’t expecting you for another month.”

Her lips twist in a wry smile. “Are you not happy to see me, mother?” She tilts her head, faux hurt making an appearance. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

You gently swat her arm, before pulling her into a tight hug. “Of course, I’m happy to see you, Natasha,” you murmur, your lips briefly brush across her cheek before you disentangle from her completely. “I just know how you value your independence too.”

“I knew that you were alone in the house, mom,” she replies, a shrug calmly following her words. “I didn’t want you to wallow in self-pity while that fucker I call a father gets his rocks off with someone half his age across town.”

“Language, Natasha,” you gently chide, well aware your daughter was in her early twenties now and didn’t need to be reprimanded for it. “You know that your father still loves you dearly, and I believe he’s excited to see you whenever you get around to going to his new house.”

Jade eyes roll so hard you’re almost concerned about them getting stuck. “He should have thought about that before he stuck his tongue down someone else’s throat.” Natasha’s lips press into a line, clearly agitated, but she takes a deep breath through her nose and forcibly calms herself down. “But I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to spend time with you.”

Sudden movement from behind Natasha causes your reply to catch in your throat when you finally focus on the woman standing behind your daughter. Whose presence you were completely astonished you hadn’t noticed before, especially given how electrifying it felt to have her emerald eyes honed directly on you, but your gentle smile doesn’t fall away; even if you do feel it twitch slightly due to your surprise. Your hand, that was near enough to your daughter’s forearm, clenches around it in a silent reprimand, but you try your best to keep the pleasant tone to your voice.

“I see that my daughter didn’t think it best to introduce her guest first.” You gently pinch Natasha once before stepping closer to the unknown woman in your home. “I apologize for not noticing you sooner.”

The woman smirks, the light emerald of her eyes shifting to tantalizing jade as she observes you. “It’s quite alright,” she replies, her voice a husky whisper that’s enveloped in an accent you couldn’t pinpoint the origin of. “I’m not surprised that Nat was too focused on her mother to remember me.”

Subtext is etched into every inch of that statement, but you didn’t have time to even try to sift through it before your daughter’s teasing voice cuts through.

“It’s not my fault my mother is more interesting than you, Wanda.” She slides past you to stand beside the now smiling woman. “You just need to learn to get on her level.”

Wanda’s gaze shifts from your daughter to you once more-- the barest hint of her earlier smirk returning. “I don’t know, Nat,” she teases, amusement, mixed with something else you couldn’t put a name to, laced within her words. “I think I quite like my view from where I’m at.”

Your daughter, once again, rolls her eyes skyward but her easygoing smile doesn’t leave her lips. “Mom.” She turns back to you and gestures towards Wanda. “This is Wanda Maximoff, I’ve talked about her a bit when I’ve called home.”

The name finally clicks into place within your head. Memories of your daughter’s exasperated voice, filled with hints of fondness, come forth from the recesses of your mind. All of the stories, all of the thinly veiled jokes, that your daughter had shared with you, and the clear warmth that she felt for the other woman, brings a fond smile to your lips. An expression that causes various emotions to flicker across Wanda’s face for the briefest of moments before it smooths over.

“So, you’re the one my daughter kept talking about?” You couldn’t keep the genuine amusement out of your tone if you tried. “Her best friend?”

Wanda arches a brow. “I’m your best friend, Nat?” She playfully places her hands to her heart. “I’m honored that you think so highly of me.”

You can tell your daughter just barely refrains from rolling her eyes. Not even bothering to deign Wanda’s teasing words with a response, Natasha turns back to you. “Can we go put our things away, mom?” She rolls her shoulders, and, for the first time, you notice how tired she looked. Of course, it was over a four-hour drive from your house in Westview to her college in Ithaca.

“Of course, sweetheart,” you soothed. “I’m just going to finish up some work down here and then I’ll get started on dinner, okay?”

Natasha smiles. “You’re the best, mom.”

Your heart flutters at her words, a simple compliment to most, but one that you’ve desperately needed in the last few months. Knowing that you may start crying at any moment if you tried to speak, you wave your daughter towards the stairs and step back towards the hallway to continue your work in the office. But, before you could a throat clearing behind you causes you to turn back around-- only to be met by beautiful emerald eyes that seemed to encompass you in a bubble you didn’t know if you wanted to escape from.

“Is everything alright, Wanda?” Your gaze quickly flicks over her body: from the black skinny jeans with holes, to the simple red leather jacket, and the casually tousled way her dark auburn hair fell over her shoulders. “Did you need something?”

Pale pink lips quirk for a moment, before a genuine look of something passes over Wanda’s face once more. “I don’t need anything.” She shakes her head, a low chuckle escapes her, but you weren’t quite sure what was so funny. “I just wanted to thank you for letting me stay here with Natasha. Especially since it was clear you didn’t know I was coming in the first place.”

“It’s not a problem, Wanda,” you reply, a smile of your own playing across your lips. “I’m glad that I won’t be alone in this house for however long you both decide to stay. It definitely beats what I was going to do.”

“What were you going to do?”

You shrug. “Just wallow around and get drunk off of some wine.”

Wanda considers you for a moment, emerald eyes cast in shadow. “I’m not so sure about the wallowing, but I’d love to have a glass of wine with you sometime.”

“Oh.” You’re surprised by the simplicity in which Wanda makes the offer. None of Natasha’s previous friends, or best friends, had ever bothered, or seemed that keen, to spend time with you. Not that you’d ever fault them for doing so. Who would want to spend time with the parents of their best friend? “I’m sure you’ll have much more interesting things to do, Wanda.”

A smile, much softer than the one’s she had shown you before, plays at the corners of her lips. “I’m not so sure about that, but the offer still stands regardless.” She looks over her shoulder when the call of her name from Natasha’s room spears through the house, an almost disgruntled look etching itself across her face because of it. “I think it’ll be fun to get to know the woman that raised Nat. Her stories of you haven’t done you justice in the slightest.”

You’re not able to reply before Natasha’s annoyed voice from the upper-level calls Wanda towards the stairs, clearly impatient with how long her friend was taking. Conversation over then, you think, taking a small step back, towards the direction of the kitchen. The action elicits the smallest of frowns from Wanda, an expression that is there and gone before you could even blink, and you offer her one last wave before heading further into your house, vaguely aware that you didn’t hear the telltale signs of footsteps on your stairs until you rounded the corner.

The following week passes quickly, and you easily grow used to having Natasha back home-- Wanda slipping in seamlessly throughout it all. It was nice to have some company in the large house, even if Natasha did tend to disappear to reconnect with friends she had left behind once she went off to New York and left Westview behind, but knowing that your daughter was there, and would continue to be, if you needed her soothed you in a way that you hadn’t even known you needed.

Wanda, despite Natasha’s persistent pestering, seemed to enjoy spending her time lounging around the house, citing that she didn’t know anyone in Westview and didn’t plan on getting chummy with the locals, offering her help whenever she saw you doing something, with an ever present look in her eyes that you still couldn’t place. Although you didn’t exactly mind spending time with the younger woman, her perception of the world was enlightening, along with your shared interests in various topics that had never seem to intrigue anyone else except you-- until now, of course.

You could feel yourself getting close to her, closer than you’ve allowed yourself to be in a long time. Not since college, you muse, taking a small sip of the chilled wine that Wanda had just brought you. Finally deciding, with Natasha going out for friend’s birthday party, that it’d the perfect time to finally share that glass of wine. You didn’t bother trying to argue with her, not when she looked so earnest in her request.

Wanda settles next to you, causing you to shift your position, pressing your back into the arm rest, in order to be able to look at her. Emerald eyes were glued onto you, a smile playing on the edges of her lips, before she shifts into a comfortable position of her own.

“So,” you begin, setting down your wine on the coffee table. “What are you planning on doing once you graduate college? Any idea on where you’d like to end up?”

“I’ve always loved the idea of being a Producer, being the magic behind the scenes if you will,” Wanda replies, a charming grin catching her lips. “And, yes, I do believe there’s a place that’s caught my eye on where I’d like to end up.”

You arch a brow. “Really?”

Wanda simply hums in response, a spark of mischief dancing within her gaze-- a look that you had long since grown used to. It’s clear that she wasn’t going to answer you, not that you truly expected her to, after all what college kid has plans on where they’d like to end up? Ideas, perhaps, but nothing concrete as most go where the wind takes them.

“Well,” you continue, a soft smile pulling at your lips. “I’m glad that you have everything figured out. I definitely envy you for that?”

The younger woman’s brow furrows at that, bottom lip disappearing behind pearly white teeth. “Why do you say that?” Emerald eyes flit over the immaculate expanse of your house, one that you had strived hard to maintain through the years. “I think you’re definitely a few steps ahead of me in that department.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You wave the pseudo-compliment away. “All of what I have isn’t what I originally dreamed of, or wished for, myself, but when certain cards are laid out in front of you.” Trailing off, you run a singular look over the now empty expanse of your ring finger. “You either fold or raise, I wasn’t willing to do the latter. Not when it had so many other consequences attached to it.”

“What would you wish for then?”

You shift your focus back to Wanda, confusion etched across your face. “What?”

She waves a hand. “You said that all of this isn’t what you originally wished for yourself.” Wanda shrugs. “What is then? What would you wish for?”

“I wish I could find someone that’d treat me in the way he never did, that’d show me what love truly is, and make me forget about all that he’s put me through,” you sigh, taking another sip of your wine. “Of course, with my age, I don’t think that’s really in the cards for me anymore.”

Wanda scoffs. “I don’t think that’s true. I think there are quite a few people that’d love to be with you.”

Something tells you, maybe some deeper part, a more sensible part, of your brain, that you shouldn’t continue forward with this conversation, that you should take her words as the compliment they are, but another, more needy part of your brain, one that desperately needs to feel some form of validation after so long, doesn’t want to in the slightest.

Rolling your shoulders, you level Wanda with a look. “Really?” She hums in confirmation. “And who might those people be?”

“Me.”

If it wasn’t for your back being wedged against the armrest of your catch, you’re fairly certain you would have reared back completely at the calm nonchalance in which she gave you the answer. “Y-You can’t be serious Wanda.” You shake your head, not believing at all what you were hearing. “I’m over a decade older than you.”

She tilts her head. “So?” A salacious smirk tugs her lips upward. “I think that makes you even hotter.”

“You--” You huff out a breath. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Wanda. I think I’m going to get you some water because you’ve obviously had quite a bit to drink already.”

But, before you’re able to even push up from the couch, Wanda’s hand grabs your wrist and tugs you closer. Noses almost smashing together, you’re only able to keep yourself steady by grabbing ahold of Wanda’s shoulder with your free hand. “I know exactly what I’m talking about,” she hisses, warm breath ghosting across your face. “I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you on Nat’s phone and it only grew the moment I saw you in person.” Her hand lightly traces down your face, almost reverently. “You’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen. No one could ever compare to you in my eyes.”

The sweets words, coupled by the earnest expression etched across her youthful face, causes your willpower to begin to falter. How long has it been since someone looked at you like that? Spoke to you in such a manner? Have you ever had that? The thought makes something twist within your gut.

“You’re my daughter’s best friend,” you begin, trying to force some semblance of reality into this situation. Trying to make yourself see reason before you did what this was no doubt leading to. “We can’t do this, Wanda.”

“We can do whatever the hell we want. We’re both adults, I’m not some child.” She tugs you closer, nuzzling her nose against yours. “And what I want to do is kiss you the way you’re supposed to be kissed.”

A hitch in your breathing gives Wanda all the information she needs, and seals your fate completely, but, even with that go ahead, at the clear sign that you wanted her as much as she clearly wanted you, her lips still descended onto yours at a snail’s pace, giving you the opportunity to pull away.

You didn’t want to.

Didn’t want to have this moment be ruined by what could potentially come after. For the first time, in what felt like forever, you were going to put what you desired, what you wanted, before everything else. So, when Wanda’s lips finally did meet your own, and you’re able to faintly taste the cherry chap-stick she seemed so fond of, you give your all to the embrace. Mouth easily opening to her questing tongue, a small moan escaping from deep within your chest at the feel of it entangling with your own, and Wanda seems to press even closer.

At this point you’re not even sure where you begin and Wanda ends, being pressed so closely together as you are. All you do know is that you never want this to end, never want to go a moment without Wanda’s warm hands trailing down your body, slender fingers digging slightly into your sides to pull you tightly against her, never want to be without the feelings she invokes within your chest-- the butterflies she causes within your stomach.

With a small snarl, Wanda rips her mouth from yours, making you just barely stifle the noise of disappointment the action causes within you, but the darkened emerald eyes leveled with your own renders you temporarily mute. Wanda’s chest heaving in her effort to get enough air, but she doesn’t once stop running her hands down your body-- seemingly not being able to get enough of touching you.

“I want to see you,” Wanda growls, hands gripping the material of your flimsy shirt and quickly pulling it over your head. Darkened green eyes taking in each inch of flesh that’s been revealed to her-- on any other circumstance you’d be mortified by the fervor in which she was looking at you, but underneath all that hunger, you could see a sense of awe, a spark of reverence, as if you had just made a wish of hers come true. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.” Her head dips, pressing a hot kiss against your neck, tongue soothing the place her teeth had dug in. “I’m going to worship you, baby, I’m going to make everyone else before me feel obsolete.”

Your back arches on its own volition, pressing yourself further into the heated touch of the hand trailing down your abdomen. Burning kisses, that feel like they’d send the raging inferno coursing through your veins absolutely haywire, following the path her fingers had just traced-- sharp canines delicately nipping the flesh of your navel before her tongue sweeps over the flesh to soothe the mark that she had undoubtedly left behind. You’re barely aware of when Wanda had been capable of tugging your sweatpants down your leg, along with your panties, before tossing them in a random direction behind her, but you’re definitely honed in on the moment her tongue, that had just done such sinful things to your chest and stomach, made contact with the apex of your thighs.

A breathy whine escapes you then, the feeling of Wanda’s tongue lapping at the wetness beginning to escape you, little hungry mewls escaping her throat, as if you were the most appetizing thing she had ever tasted, brings a whole new high to your pleasure-- something you had never felt before. Digging your fingers through her hair, tugging at the long strands to pull her impossibly closer, you’re rewarded by a breathy snarl, Wanda’s lips latching onto your clit and sucking it into her warm mouth-- slender fingers taking up residence where her tongue had just been, entering you hard and fast. Not giving you even a moment to get used to the new feelings before she’s pounding into you, the slender digits curling up just right to brush the spot within you.

The sounds of your wetness, of the sloshing noises that Wanda’s fingers made every time she pulled out, would have normally made you embarrassed, and it probably would have, if Wanda hadn’t made sure to maintain eye contact with you throughout it all. Emerald eyes, blown almost black with lust, keenly observing every minute expression that flits across your face, tongue lashing across your clit in the precise moment that you needed her to, fingers scissoring inside of you the moment you felt your high coming that much closer. The simple fact that she already seemed to know your body so well, that she could already read your face, in a way that your ex-husband never could, makes the need to have her closer almost like a drug coursing through your veins.

With the fingers still tangled in her hair, you tug her upwards. Seeming almost hesitant to leave, Wanda follows your wordless command after another thorough swipe of her tongue, her mouth latching onto your own the moment she’s within reach. And, the heady mix of yourself and something that’s inherently Wanda, fogs your brain, but you still have half the mind to wrap your arms around her back, arching more fully into her body-- needing to feel connected to her in some way. Moreso than you already were.

Ripping her mouth away from your own, when air becomes a necessity, Wanda groans. “You’re doing so good for me, baby.” Nimble fingers are quickly accompanied by a third. “Taking my fingers so well. Fuck you’re so tight for me, aren’t you?”

You nod, a soundless scream escaping. The stretch, the feeling of being so full, and the warmth of Wanda’s breath across your ear, a combination you never knew you needed until now. The cliff, that you hadn’t been able to achieve by yourself, and rarely ever with your ex-husband, seems to be getting closer and closer; you were more than excited to finally take the plunge.

“That’s right, baby,” Wanda coos, thrusting harder into you. “Just feel my fingers in your perfect cunt. He never fucked you like this, huh? Never treated with the roughness you’ve obviously wanted?”

Something in her voice, in the darkened tone, tells you that this line of questioning wouldn’t be as rhetorical as the first. “N-No--” A sharp whine is pulled from your lips. “Only you. Only you’ve fucked me the way I’ve wanted.”

A sharp grin pulls at Wanda’s lips, her free hand gripping your hip in a possessive hold. “And I’m only ever going to be the one to do it from this point forward.” Her head dips, teeth digging into the sensitive flesh right beneath your pulse point. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Yes!” Your back arches, your incoming orgasm nearly blinding you. “I-I’m so close. I-I can’t--”

Wanda rolls her hips, shushing you gently. “It’s alright, baby. You’ve done so good for me. Be my good girl and cum for me.”

At her command your body finally releases the final coil that had been prepared to spring forward, as if it had been waiting for her words all along, and a keening cry passes your lips-- Wanda-- as your world is whitened by your pleasure. Only vaguely aware of Wanda’s lips pressing repeatedly against your cheek, her fingers gently guiding you through.

When you come down from your high, from the toe-curling pleasure that she had given you, and your vision clears enough for you to see Wanda, still hovering over you, with that same look of reverence on her face from before, you couldn’t help the almost shy smile that appears. Something that causes Wanda to dip forward to place a chaste kiss against the smile, so tender from the hungry ones that she had bestowed on you only a moment before.

“How the fuck could he ever leave someone like you?” It’s said in a low voice, one that you don’t think you were supposed to her, but her clear confusion fills you with warmth, nonetheless. Emerald eyes raise to meet your own gaze, softness suffused within it. “Will you give me that honor, baby? The honor of making you forget.”

Your earlier words, said in a mournful whisper, come back to you instantly: I wish I could find someone that’d treat me in the way he never did, that’d show me what love truly is, and make me forget about all that he’s put me through.

“I’m over a decade older than you, Wanda,” you rebuke. “Why the hell would you want to be with someone like me?”

Her brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t I?” She lowers herself, finally pressing her body against yours, allowing you to feel the warmth of her skin, she places another gentle kiss to your lips. “You’re the only woman that’s ever made me feel like this. I don’t give a damn how old you are, I don’t give a damn if Natasha has an issue with it, I’ll talk to her, all I care about is that I get to have you like this again. That I get to love you in the way that you deserve to be.” Emerald eyes sharpen, her grip on your body tightening. “In a way that only I could ever give you.”

Your eyes flutter shut at her words, something you’ve been wanting to hear for so long. Could you actually take this plunge? Allow yourself to take such a huge risk? Potentially cause a crisis with your daughter and Westview at large? What if it didn’t work out?

What if it did? The gentle voice of your conscience counters. What if this is your chance at finally being happy? At finally finding the one person you’ve been searching for? Are you really going to let that pass you by?

You didn’t know how this was going to turn out, how any of this would end up snowballing into years down the line, but as your eyes open and you peer into emerald green, a color that had enchanted you since you first looked upon it, you know your answer instantly-- have known it for longer than the question even being posed.

“Yes.”

Wanda’s answering smile, bright with her happiness, is all you see before she descends onto your mouth again, clearly wanting to show you everything that you’d now be experiencing from this point on.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #summertime sadness #mcu imagine #avengers imagine

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kedreeva · 4 months ago

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Since all blackshoulder hens kinda look like this (white base, speckles of color that may vary in shade but can sun bleach in sun to look like other colors etc, rust collar on their neck but may or may not have color), one of the major ways to tell what color a BS hen is, is by looking at her tail feathers. Her actual tail feathers, not the elongated tail covert feathers (which is called the train, in males and females).

In this case, you can see the feathers are normally chocolate brown, faded to more sepia brown and even to a more tan/cream/beige on the oldest feathers. This particular shade is how you know she's a purple!

#peafowl #peahens #peafowl masterlist #my pets #stella

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undeadcannibal · 2 years ago

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Your honor I'd like to propose an amendment to the 🍆 head cannon post:

Curvature and distinguishing colors, features? Are they darker or the same shade? Lighter? Hair color? Texture? Who's got a lean? 🥎⚾s?

Summary: More requested ‘N.SF.T’ headcanons for Task Force 141, Los Vaqueros, and König~ Part 2 of this post here!

Genre: Headcanons, request(s) Characters featured: Price, Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alejandro, Rodolfo, and König.

Warnings: explicit content!

A/N: Never did I expect for that other post to become as popular as it did. I’m happy y’all enjoy my gross and overly-detailed headcanons. Also, please note, if any of you happen to not like or find any of my hcs to be gross or not what you expected, keep in mind they’re just my headcanons. Don’t take ‘em seriously, dudes. Weird and rude replies will be deleted. ( Gif credit: xxx )

Gaz―

Not much of a curve to it, honestly, he’s pretty straight curvature wise. Distinguishing colors? I’d say his foreskin is the same as his skin tone overall, tip-wise? I’m thinking it’s a bit darker than the color of his lips and flushes an even deeper color when he’s fully aroused, mhm. Hair color of his pubes is dark and also has a some curl and texture to it when he does let it grow out for some time. Balls, too? Hm... I’d say Kyle’s sporting a nice, snug set he prefers to keep smooth and clean more often than not.

Bonus! Kink headcanon is that he adores you paying extra special attention to his balls. Worship them and he’ll be cumming all over your face in no time~

Ghost―

Slight upward curve that stimulates you in the best of ways. IDC what anyone says, man has a mouthwatering cock with a nice flesh-pink tip and anyone can fight me on it. Probably slightly darker than his overall skin tone but not by much. Pubic hair stuff... I’m torn between him being a natural dirty blond or brunet. (I can’t remember where I saw the fanart from, but someone has a headcanon that he bleaches his brunet hair blond and oof, I’m in love, also give him long ass roots since he can’t keep up with his root touch-ups while out on missions) Straight-ish texture to his hair as well, grows pretty smoothly altogether. THIS MAN has a thick vein running down the middle of his shaft, my lord. And finally, for his balls, I’m thinking he’s got a hefty set that he’s quick to push you down to so you can pay them some attention, expect some light tickling from the hair there, too. uwu

Bonus! Kink headcanon is he struggles with being submissive and prefers being dominant the majority of the time due to his trauma. He doesn’t like the idea of submitting to someone -- he’s far too afraid of what kind of consequences it could possibly have for him. This doesn’t mean he’s a sadistic or strict Dom. If anything, he’s hyper aware of your reactions to every little thing he does, also refuses anything hard or physical against you, he detests the thought of causing his partner pain.

Price―

Leans ever so slightly to the right, isn’t too noticeable though. Since he’s circumcised in my previous post, could probably notice a scar that separates light flesh-tone color of his shaft from the faint pink of his tip. Also, despite him preferring to trim his facial hair specifically, I’d see him as going fully natural bush-wise. Man’s got a lovely cushion of brown hair that’s got just the faintest amount of gray speckled throughout. While he looks very textured, I personally think his hair would be soft af. Large set of balls that droops a bit lower now than when he was younger~

Bonus! Kink headcanon for John is - if you’re willing - he’d love to use you as an ashtray when he’s smoking. He’d light up, take a few puffs, than order you to open your mouth so he could tap the ashes off onto your tongue. Ordering you to keep your mouth open so he can see the black and grey specks of ash decorating your tongue before having you swallow.

Soap―

Has just the slightest upward curve to him, definitely jokes it’s great for helping stimulate his partner’s g-spot. Also knows all the best camera angles for top-tier dick pics. Shade darker than his natural skin tone and also has a smidge of hair going up the bottom of his shaft. Doesn’t mind in the slightest though. As mentioned before, he prefers going all natural and doesn’t shave or trim much. Lord, the amount of hair this man has. Has treasure trail, hair thighs, ass, groin, everything. Sorry, I love hairy men, what can I say? Also, when he’s super pent up, his tips turns a deep ruddy shade you love to see every time. Balls are on the larger side with one being slightly smaller than the other, also very sensitive and will have him turning into a whimpering mess if you pay special attention to them.

Bonus! Kink headcanon is he takes every spare chance he can get to take and send nudes and videos of him jacking off. Doing his best to make those sounds you love whilst trying not to get caught by anyone. Those moments are for your eyes and your eyes only~

Rodolfo―

Sobbing because his cock is the same gorgeous shade as the rest of his skin, although can see the head of his cock and his balls being a tad darker. Maybe has a tad lean towards the left. Has trimmed dark hair that feels amazing beneath your fingertips. Balls are a bit on the larger side. Run your tongue over them and his dick will be twitching above your face in no time, also will draw up tight to him when he’s cumming~ Please spread this man’s thighs apart, he’s got beauty marks for days and will fucking tremble if you kiss and run your tongue over them!

Bonus! Kink headcanon is he’s got such a praise kink when it comes to his partners. The hottest thing in the world for him is for him to be showering his partner with compliments, feeling them clench tightly around him as his words register in their pleasured-addled minds.

Alejandro―

Much like Rudy, he’s a beautiful shade of tan all throughout, and his cock head is just as flushed and ruddy when he’s aroused. Much like Rudy, has a lean but his is the exact opposite, veering to Also is hairy just like Soap, but nowhere near to the same degree. If anything, man’s sporting a thick bush, hairy thighs, and legs. Also another man sporting thick veins throughout the length of him that he’s more sensitive about being touched than he’d like to admit. Large set of balls that do sag a bit but doesn’t mind in the slightest definitely likes to teabag his partner as a result if they allow him to

Bonus! Kink headcanon for our man is that he’s a sucker for sloppy oral, giving or receiving, but especially receiving. Nothing excites him more than seeing how ruined and messy he can make your face as he fucks it.

König―

Doesn’t really have much of a curve or lean to him, but rest assured he’s got veins for days lining his shaft. And, if you run your tongue along them, he melts on the spot. Perfect male whimpering audio material <3 The color of him is noticeably darker than the rest of him. That, combined with his beautiful sandy colored curls make for a mouthwatering view. Also has large, yet tight balls that are far more sensitive than he’d like. Overstimulate the big guy right now!

Bonus! Kink headcanon is that due to his size all around, he’s grown to have a liking for size difference with his partner being smaller than his. It’s pretty easy given his height, but more so it drives him feral to see his cock bulging his partner’s belly out with every thrust he gives.

#john price x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #simon riley x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #könig x reader #call of duty x reader #task force 141 x reader #los vaqueros x reader #cod headcanons #headcanons #'nsft'#opened mail #requests #my writing #lordsexmachine

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sanctus-ingenium · 2 years ago

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I was wondering how achieve such a wonderful textured finish on your pieces? They are wonderful and I love their resemblance to aged photographs and the speckles of colors in the backgrounds. Your art is mesmerizing :)

you can see some of the texture brush sets i use in my #info_asks tag but i have some more (procreate) tips aside from just brushes

also hi i made this whole thing and then stupidly hit ctrl z to erase ONE word and i lost the entire bottom half of the post and all my image descriptions so fuck you tumblr i had to make this twice

to get a faded photo or old digital screen look, consider duplicating the canvas (once all the layers are merged) and using a gaussian blur tool on the new duplicated layer. then set that to low opacity to add a misty sort of look. looks nice in combination with some chromatic abberation and a small bloom effect. then a subtle noise filter on top:

for faded print effects, it's really worthwhile to learn how to use layer masks. you can use a layer mask to non-destructively 'weather' blocks of colour or lineart, without erasing the layer itself. the weathered ink/block print effect here was made using layer masks which means that if i just hide the mask, the lineart becomes solid black again and easy to alter or colour in:

for old paper effects you can just set a paper texture on multiply over the art sure, but you can also combine it with the blur & bloom thing, a really subtle drop shadow and canvas tilt, and highlights to make it look like an aged photograph of a card. this originally had a transparent bg but i'll post it here with a white bg so that the drop shadow is more obvious. the scuffed edges of the card (left) were hand drawn, simple white stucco brush. the bigger patch of scuffed ink (top right) was a texture stamp.

for block print looks you can move the colour layer out of alignment by a few pixels - but only after you're absolutely sure you're done with it, otherwise you'll get something like this -

i forgot to erase out her eye before i moved the red layer so now her eye defeats the 'look' of a misaligned print. the black lineart and red layer were also given the same layer mask treatment as described above to make them look faded or like the ink didn't stick down right to the paper

you can do this with multiple colour layers too. if the colour layers are separated and set to multiply (as in this cmyk example), it'll leave halos and edges around each shape which mimic old comic book print

just to show what you can do WITHOUT any special brushes, here's a piece of one of my mez tarot cards from before i got any extra brushsets at all. for this one, i added a green tint over everything to mimic a sun-bleached or faded print (my actual goal wasn't 'medieval illustration' but actually 'trading card from the 60s that got left on someone's windowsill for decades'). the background texture is the procreate noise brush. the texture under the green lion drawing is the procreate concrete brush (to make it look painted onto a wall). the lettering and lineart is procreate's 6B pencil. but to properly aim for The Look of it being a printed physical object, i also used a perspective blur so that the edges are out of focus, and metallic gold highlights which don't match the lighting of the actual illustration and appear to be catching some other external light. that texture was made from the procreate noise brush

it's pretty simple compared to my later stuff but i still really like the effect

in terms of colours, you need to keep them unified so that they all appear to be acting under the same external light source, like if someone is holding up a torch to a painting then the painting colours will be glazed with firelight even if there's no painted fire. a really easy way to do this is to slap a multiply layer over everything in one shade - grey-yellow for a weathered paper look, or greenish blue for sunbleached photos. this unifies all the colours of the drawing. or you can apply a gradient map at a low opacity so that there's only a subtle change. or just do it by hand - if you want everything to be slightly tinted yellow, just pick the colours you normally would, but move the colour wheel towards yellow to get a yellowfied version of the base colour. easy

it's really important to consider how fading and weathering can affect printed colour. white paper yellows, black fades. you will rarely see pure black or pure white. which means you can use pure black or pure white to add external effects like the white scuff marks on the hierophant card. if the whole drawing is yellowed from age but there's some white somewhere, it's an easy shorthand to show that the scuff mark or whatever was not originally part of the drawing (great way to add some nasty stains lol)

#info asks #i don't have like a specific set of steps i follow i kind of freestyle it every time #obviously i have favourites i like to use but like that sphinx drawing? don't ask me how i did it because i don't remember #i just played with it until it looked nice. the blue dots are ... some sort of effect layer i don't remember which

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lichenaday · 9 months ago

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Diploicia africana

This crustose-placodioid lichen grows in yellow rosettes on siliceous, rock in South Africa. The upper surface is often bleached and wrinkled toward the center of the rosette, and speckled with black, lecideine apothecia. Being that D. africana is a) crustose b) saxicolous and c) endemic to the southern hemisphere, it shouldn't be surprising that this lichen appears to be largely understudied, and it might be more widespread than currently recognized.

images: source

info: source

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novankenn · 2 months ago

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Jaune Arc of Orleans

Words of Woe Tidings

Jaune found himself walking through a quiet forest. The air was still, but cool. The foliage surrounding him was vibrant shades of green. Jaune had been in this place before. Many times in fact. It was here that he conversed with the Light. This was a place of reverence to Jaune. A sanctuary from the harsh realities of his reality.

He continued to walk through the glade, following a well worn foot path, that cut through the mossy undergrowth. There was no sound. Not the buzz of insects nor the chirp of birds. Not even the rustle of leaves in a soft breeze. No there was only peaceful grave like silence.

Jaune never could fathom the distances he would traverse in this place. Sometimes he was but a couple steps from the clearing. Other times, much like this it felt as if he had been walking for minutes if not hours. Yet, like always he entered the small clearing, and at the nexus of multiple worn walking trails it sat.

A stone chair, much like how a throne would be depicted in fantasy artwork. It's glossy black surface speckled with flecks of white. It resembled a discarded fragment of the night sky. However this time, unlike the others the Light was not seated upon it. In fact there was no sign of that ethereal being, within the confines of the clearing.

Jaune was confused and concerned. Never in any of his travels to this sacred place had this happened. Never had he ever been in the clearing alone. The rustle of leaves and the snap of branches startled Jaune, causing him to whip about and look behind himself.

His eyes grew wide as he stumbled backwards the color draining from his terror twisted face. It was a massive creature of ink-like flesh, blazing violent red eyes, and bleached bone colored plates. It's great maw was open, displaying fouled dagger like teeth, a twisting sinuous tongue and dripping viscus drool.

The creature stepped from edge of the clearing into full view, and Jaune's body collapsed to the ground, all his strength having fled him. It stalked forward, it's great hooved feet crushing the vibrant grass into the dirt.

Jaune wanted to scream. He wanted to cry for help, but his voice was trapped with in his dry throat. Completely helpless he watched as the abomination closed upon him.

Jaune noticed a blur of motion out of the corner of his right eye. A fraction of a moment later an equally as tall, but not nearly as massive being of golden light slammed into the monster's side. The massive antlers forming a regal crown upon its head. Jaune knew who if was... there was no doubt. The Light had come to save him.

Still unable to use his voice Jaune just watched as a pitched battle ensued between the the Light and the monstruous beast. A fist composed of golden light slammed into the creature's jaw filling the air with the sound of snapping bone, followed by an agonized howl. Yet still the beast fought. Curved claws of bone slash and racked the air, narrowly missing the Light, as it ducked and weaved around the brutally powerful strikes.

The Light ducked to the side, under a wild slash of the creature's claws, and locked its sleek but powerful arms about the beast's neck. Jaune swallowed as corded muscles flexed, the abomination squealed in rage and pain, then fell silent. Jaune found some of his strength returning and quickly climbed to his knees and bowed low before the being of gold.

"The darkness even now still tries to invade my sanctuary." the Light spoke its voice sounding like the light chiming of bells. "Are you well, Jaune?"

"I am, thank you for saving me, my Lord."

"I would be indeed a poor host if I were to allow harm to befall those who I invite to refuge. Look upon me, Jaune."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Flesh of shadows, armor of bone, and eyes a burning red approach you." the Light spoke, his featureless face aimed directly at Jaune.

"Are we going to be attacked?" Jaune asked.

"Awaken Jaune, darkness encroaches..."

"My Lord?"

"Awaken Jaune, death approaches..."

"My Lord, I..."

"Awaken Jaune, awaken..." the Light passed one of its great hands past Jaune's face.

Jaune's eyes snapped open and he bolted to seating upon his bed. He was drenched in sweat, and gasping for breath.

==> Table of Contents <==

#rwby #jaune arc #joan of arc #traditional gender role reversal #female dominated society #gender-bent characters #AUs with grimm #glynda goodwitch #fem!ozpin #jaune arc of orleans au #qrow branwen

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wildlunar · 2 years ago

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Red Bird

Roman Roy x Reader

word count: 1800

synopsis: nervous for his mother’s wedding, Roman’s lover takes him away for a breather

warnings: mentions of abuse

The Tuscan sun fortifies the solstice season—paints the landscape in the most vivid of colours and bleaches their skin in brown-speckled kisses. The trees flourish, all green and incandescent, and Roman can’t quite recall it ever being quite so magnificent when he was a child, though, back then, he never found the beauty in many things.

Nerves taint his palms in gummy sweat, forcing his knees to buckle under its burden, and as the black Lincoln Navigator pulls into the driveway of the Italian villa, Roman does his best to quieten his haring heat. It is not so much the place at hand but, rather, the people within it that he dreads to encounter, the false courtesies and watchful eyes of those who searched his words for his undoing. And then there was Peter, the faux husband, who he is yet to encounter and holds no interest in ever calling father. He doesn’t have to imagine how bad that encounter will be.

The car stops, respite over, and, once again, he is thrust into a game he has no desire to play. But this is for love, he swallows, and to love is to perform at being loved. He is smiling at his reflection in the window, poised with mirthful agony, preparing himself for the rendition when he is quickly goaded away from it by a hand on his knee. He doesn’t need to look at her to know she has watched him through the entirety of the journey. Worried, just as he, at the prospect of fucking something up and being torn prematurely from her mask. Simpering at her, he squeezes her hand, once, twice, to reassure her before kicking his feet out of the car and beginning again.

He holds the door open for her, holding out his palm for her to take and crows out the words, m’lord, as she does so. She returns his sentence with a relieved snicker, indulging in him, replying to his sentiment with a simple ‘milady’, as she straightens the hem of her dress.

He’s not used to her wearing summer dresses; at tracing flowers and pastels and subtle frills as delicate and ethereal as tissue paper. Fragility is a concept not meant for office spheres, and in their youth, she had been prone to parading in saturnine, comforted by boy’s shorts and oversized tees to ever consider dressing ‘elegantly’. But here, under the reckoning eyes of his extended family and the esteemed guests of his mother, she turns in sunlight and he, ever the gentle watcher, basks in her excellence.

The rest of the family trudges the path ahead of them though Roman cares little about the distance as he takes in the familiar scenery with her, hands entwined like a lifeline. He’s enraptured by it all and for a while he has escaped madness for serenity. “When did we stop coming here?” He asks her, pushing up his sunglasses.

“I don’t know.” She squeezes his hand. “For me, it was when we were fifteen.”

“I never came back after military school,” he says. “Too many randos and tom-fuckery for my liking.”

“Ah, yes, the post divorce blues of Caroline Collingwood. You could almost write a novel.”

“Hmm, very nice. Revolving door policies and sexual manipulation. Very salacious. Definitely one for the kids.”

“Sicko.” She nudges him with her shoulder and in return he pays her back, harder, a game, one they’ve played many times before. In the crossfire of their impelling bones, she lets go of his hand and the weight of its loss causes a cleave to break through.

Surrendering to the inevitable is a concept he’s never been very accepting of yet has had to conform to anyhow and for the third time in his silent, reclusive life, he finds himself faced with defiance. They stroll further to the songs of the chaffinches and all he can think about is how close they are: her hands, his hands, hands that touch, skin that’s drawn to each other, perpetually longing for the warmth of another body—it is all a mystery to him until now. Without thought, he reaches for her, dancing with her fingers till they come together once more, undoubtedly where they belonged.

But there's a certain vulnerability in seeking her affections and doubt settles in and clogs his throat when the image of his father pushes him further and further down. Sweat exudes from his hands and it takes every part of him not to wipe his palms and shove her away.

He stutters. “Me holding your hand doesn’t, like, mean anything, by the way. Not in that way, at least. Just to fucking clarify. Unless, you know, you, erm, want it to mean something. I don’t mind. That’s cool.”

“You don’t have to hold my hand if you don’t want to, Rome.”

“Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that. I was just being, you know, fucking, nice and making sure you—where are we going?”

They slip away from the group without being noticed and she leads him, hand in hand, into a secluded garden. Even after eighteen years, she treads the grounds as though she’s lived there all her life.

“You’re not gonna kill me are you? Take me into the bushes and hang me on the vines or—”

She makes a swift turn into a gap in the hedgerow and after ensuring it’s absence of people, slows her pace back down so that she’s walking beside him. “I thought it’d be nice to go somewhere quieter.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that? To murder me or to jump me? You know, if you wanted to fuck that bad we could’ve just done it back in the car. Would’ve given the driver a straight up boner to see you get your tits out.”

Rolling her eyes, she diverts her attention to one of the flower beds, crouching down to the earthskin. Picking at the cluster of lavender which scatter the ground beneath their feet, she brings its head under her nose to smell and he watches, enchanted, as he catches tiny glimpses of her mellow skin. Her knees, like roseate pebbles, rest just beneath her chin and she closes her eyes languidly as she takes it in. An existent vision bathed in blossom.

There is a part of him that can fathom the fact she’s, most likely, done it all for him though like many things, it’s a gruelling pill to swallow and not follow the urge to choke on it. Even after all these years, Roman can hardly believe she’s with him, standing by him, accepting him despite the trauma that macerates him into nothingness without so much as warning. She is the best of both of them, always has been, at almost everything really, though he can find no bone in his body that loathes her for it. He loves her, oh he loves her, but gnarled hands and welted skin acquire the words before he can ever speak them.

“You know,” she begins and he is startled out of his thought spiral. “The last time we came here you had this massive blow up argument with Logan. One of the worst ones, so bad I could hear him through the walls. And Caroline came up to my room, all jittery like a, fucking, baby bird and practically begged me to go out and find you. I mean, I had no idea you’d even gone out but when I came out to find you, you were just lying here in the garden, tangled up in a lavender bed and staring up at the sky.

You were so fucking out of it, you wouldn’t talk to me for ages but when I laid down beside you you reached out for my hand and squeezed it until you felt like talking again. You smelt like absolute shit, looked like shit too, but you were so warm and some of the petals had gotten lodged in your hair. And you kinda reminded me of this bloodied up version of that ‘Spring’ painting by Botticelli.”

Raising from the floor, she turns to face him, finally, finally, and smiles, unabashedly. She stares at him, right in the face, as though she were studying his very being, the lavender twirling back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. Slowly, bit by bit, the gap between them closes and he searches her eyes for the reason of her unnatural silence.

“What?” Roman’s voice is the most sincere it’s been all day, small and unsure, and he thinks his heart may stop if she doesn’t say something to him.

Instead, she brings the lavender flower up to his face, its bittersweet aroma a pleasant intrusion on his senses, and tucks it behind his ear. Her touch is a delicate thing, as though he were a present and this flower was the final bow on his pristine wrapping, and she has moulded him into something worth having, something beautiful. She strokes his gelled hair behind his ear, careful of her handiwork, and follows the lines of his face with her eyes, with her hands, tracing patterns over his neck then his cheeks then his lower lip.

“You’re so pretty,” she says. And he believes her to be joking until she kisses him and they mould together sweetly under the shade of the bushes like twining roots.

This is her devotion, he realises, swept up between sad eyes and fleeting touches and messages found beneath stumbled words. And he drinks it in, a man starved, eyes closed, worries to the wind, everything her. She presses into him, wrapping her arms around his neck to bring him in closer and he lets her take him apart with her mouth, stamping, burning, caging her name inside him.

They part and Roman chases her lips, perception glazed with bewilderment. “You’re doing great,” she says, returning her fingers to the sides of his face. The touch makes his whole body shiver. “The best out of all of them.”

Ah, he thinks, half-dazed. This is her face after love. And he wonders what his looks like under her own desirous haze.

“We’ll get through this together, okay. You and me, like always.”

Finally, he finds his voice though it comes out all clumsy and jarred. “Oh, wow, yeah, okay, we got this. Go team us.”

She snorts, patting him on the back. “Try not to buffer too much, R2-D2.”

He can feel himself blushing and he stutters out mumbled idioms in an attempt to regain himself. It is futile. There will never be a time where she doesn’t steal his breath for herself.

“Can we, erm, ha—” he lets out a noise, somewhere between a whine and a laugh “—maybe, do that again, sometime?”

Chuckling, she returns her hand into his own and tugs him back to place another kiss on his cheek. “We can do that as many times as you’d like, Rome.”

#succession #succession fic #succession fanfiction #roman roy #roman roy x reader #roman roy imagine #roman roy fic #roman roy fanfiction

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casualsnickers · 7 months ago

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Month of Emmet Quick Write #3

Prompt #3: Battle

It's a bit peculiar that Subway Master Emmet wears white all the time. The commuters just think it's a 'twins' thing- the depot agents know better. In other words, Emmet's tailor hates him.

*Inspired directly by @kobandan. Their comic for day two absolutely activated the few neurons in my noggin.

Read the whole thing below the cut.

Wrappers crunched. Small talk and loud chatter alike filtered in and out of the office as footsteps echoed on the polished linoleum.

“C’mon Ingo! Relax a little!” From within her chair right beside Ingo, Elesa reached across the table into the takeout bag, pulling out a handful of loose fries. “You know, there’s a concert that’s gonna be happening in Virbank this weekend,” she hummed, taking a sip of her drink. “The one with that singer that you liked back when we were teenagers. What’s his name again? Piers, I think? And then you got Emmet into it too!” Elesa then brightened. “I know! You should come with me! Both of you guys! I have extra tickets and I think it would be nice- to reintroduce you to that kind of stuff.” Elesa playfully nudged Ingo in the ribs with her elbow. “A fun little bonding activity~ Well? Come on. What do you think, Go-Go?

“A…band? Ah, but aren’t musical concerts quite… loud?” Ingo replied hesitantly. It had been some time since he had returned from Hisui and he had found that the modern world was… well, to put it mildly, ‘loud’ would be an understatement. The Battle Subway was loud enough- Ingo often found himself making a beeline to his and Emmet’s office to recover from the mental strain of working in such a vivacious environment. But he found himself warming up to the idea more and more as his friend enthusiastically elaborated, taking small bites out of the ‘loaded burger’ that Elesa had so quickly jumped to buy for him.

At that moment, the door to the main office clattered open. Boots clicked on linoleum. Fabric shuffled. Keys jangled.

In strode Emmet, a massive grin on his face as he closed the office door with one foot, hanging his hat on the stand and ripping off his gloves. Upon seeing both Ingo and Elesa leaning up against one another, the man practically beamed. He opened his mouth to speak. Elesa beat him to the punch.

“Em... Honey... Sweetheart. What in dragons’ name happened to you?” Elesa immediately set down her food but made no attempt to rise, leaning back in her chair with a disgusted expression as she gave the man a slow once-over. “Your clothes!” The woman then stiffened, crossing her arms. “Tell me you didn’t go and service another engine with your battling gear. You have a bad habit of forgetting to change.”

“I. Did not!” Emmet pulled off his subway coat and half-fell into an empty spinning chair, picking his feet up as his chair rocketed into the wall. He then pushed himself over to his desk and eagerly pulled over his stack of maintenance documents. “This isn’t oil. It’s dust. Soot. Ash.”

Emmet’s entire outfit- his usual sparkling white slacks, jacket, hat, and dress shoes- each were stained and smudged with varying levels of grime, each atrocious and each downright offensive. His hat and slacks were splashed in sickly purples and greens, speckled black patches like soot decorating his shoes and slack edges. His jacket had numerous holes in the tail end as though a dragon-type had gnawed on it and a few buttons had either been torn close to falling off or were gone entirely. A massive chunk of Emmet’s hat- including the Gear Station insignia pin- were just completely gone, exposing the stuffing and the nylon inside.

Even Emmet’s standard black dress shirt and gloves were completely ruined. The starched collar and sleeves of Emmet’s shirts had what looked to be bleach spots on them, one of his shirt tails completely untucked and shredded to bits. His black gloves were almost completely white to the fingertips, the leather around the knuckles- concertedly- missing as if cleanly taken out with a hole punch.

Emmet didn’t look the least concerned that half of the skin along his arms and a section of his leg were completely visible, instead seeming to enjoy the attention as he tapped his foot against the tile. His own hair- messy and half-alive with static, was blown backward as if Emmet had decided to go skydiving for the first portion of his shift.

Ingo raised an eyebrow. An inkling of his mind raised the question that he wasn’t nearly as concerned for his brother as he should’ve been. As if it was something to be expected and just as easily tolerated. “You are unusually chipper for a man that’s filthy and practically indecent,” Ingo murmured, locking eyes with Emmet who leaned his head against his hand lazily. “You look as though you’ve crawled through the insides of an unmaintained tender.” Ingo took a long swig from his drink, narrowing his eyes. “Slept in one, too.”

Emmet smirked. “You’re one to talk. The water ran black when you were reintroduced to modern plumbing,” he drawled, still staring unflinchingly into Ingo’s eyes. “You thought being dirty was normal. And you were covered in actual, literal dirt.”

Ingo immediately felt his face heat up. “That is not the point here!” he claimed, not quite meeting Emmet’s eyes as he crossed his arms. “Why do you look as though you’ve strapped yourself to the tracks and let numerous trains run over you?”

Elesa snorted, almost choking on her drink. Her entire face went flush as she began laughing. “That’s one way to put it, Iggs!”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Elesa” Emmet chided, his own face beginning to redden as he scooted his chair purposefully away from the two of them. “That is not what happened.”

“Would you care to explain then, Emmet?”

Emmet grinned before unclipping his pokémon belt and setting it on the desk for both Elesa and Ingo to see. Almost every single pokéball was in the same state of disrepair: burn marks, scrapes, dents, and dings in each one. “A verrry powerful trainer visited my line today!” Emmet beamed. “They arrived with a looot of super strong pokémon! It was very cool! They brought friends! A lot of strong friends! It was fantastic!” Emmet then hunkered down into himself, bringing his shaking hand to his chin as he snatched up a loose piece of paper, frantically scribbling down barely legible words. “I should remember that. ‘Follow Me’ on a bulky pokémon- preferably attached with a defense-boosting item or maybe leftovers. Skill Link Ability pokémon with a Rocky Helmet maybe? Or perhaps Loaded Dice would be better?”

“Okay, so your battle was crazy,” Elesa interjected, carefully but concertedly scanning the massive amounts of damage in Emmet’s outfit. “But how did your clothes get so bad? What’d you do? Stand in front of your pokémon while they were fighting?”

Ingo involuntarily snorted, struggling to conceal his laughter after remembering that his good friend Dawn used to perform that exact same scenario when they were still in Hisui- to psych out the few wielders that existed. That or just mess about. Ingo could perfectly imagine Emmet doing the same right in front of his Eelektross.

“Overheat,” Emmet started, pointing to the massive burn streaks staining his shoes. “Acid Spray.” Another gesture to his heavily bleached shirt. “Bug Buzz.” The torn threads in his shirt. “Discharge.” Another pointed finger at the torn fabric on his jacket sleeves. “The battle was verrry serious! So much fun! They used all kinds of new strategies that I haven’t seen before! They brought a bunch of new pokémon! Them and their friends! There were six of them!” Emmet exclaimed, his grin growing wider and wider as he rocked back-and-forth in his chair, causing the frame to squeak. “Each one stronger and smarter than the last!”

“Did you at least win, Em?” Elesa asked tiredly. “You better have. Getting all that fixed is gonna cost a pretty penny.”

Emmet’s grin almost stretched across his face as he fully leaned back in his chair. “All six of them won against me! Just barely! It was the most fun I’ve had in months! I hope they return to the Super Doubles Line soon so that I can battle them again!”

“Wait. The Super Doubles Line?” Elesa clarified. “As in, the ‘challenging trainer usually gets obliterated by the seventh car’ Doubles Line? The ‘nothing but depot agents’ Doubles Line? The- ”

“You can just say that you haven’t prevailed on those particular tracks,” Ingo teased, stealing the rest of the spare fries at the bottom of the bag. “I would never presumably figure out that a record exists of how many times you have been ejected from the Super Singles, Doubles, and Multi Lines. And I would certainly- never- look at those records.” Ingo then blinked innocently at Elesa as he scooted his chair just the tiniest inch away from the woman who looked as though she were about to strangle him.

“You do not have a record!”

“We do!” Emmet replied snappily. “All trainers have their battle facility records locked onto their IDs. It is not hard to find.”

“Nevermind. You’re being overly ominous again and we’re not going down that road. But the Super Doubles Line? Wow. Must’ve been some kind of monsters to get all the way through- the six of them in one day- just to destroy you… You had fun?”

“Yyyup!”

“What on earth are you guys feeding the Depot Agents on your supers lines anyway?” Elesa groaned, pointedly asking Ingo instead of Emmet who had begun to whizz through his papers. “I tried getting through once- way too strong for me.”

“We feed them coal slag and commuter debris,” Ingo answered with a stoic face, crumbling up the wrapper of his burger and tossing it in the nearby trash can. “Food wrappers. Plastic. Newspapers. Chewing gum. Some rust scraps off of repaired engines prevent any potential iron deficiencies.”

“Ah, but you are forgetting grease, Ingo,” Emmet chimed in. “Grease- Curve rail grease is essential for a depot agent’s balanced diet. That and stripped screws. And maybe a healthy serving of handrail and seat sweat.”

“Eugh. You guys are absolute loons,” Elesa responded without missing a beat, fully leaning against Ingo as the woman took a joking picture of Emmet in his atrocious work attire looking completely unbothered. She then sent the picture to Skyla unprompted. “You know, I’ve never seen someone so happy to have lost six times in a row at their place of work,” Elesa commented snidely under her breath. “Did you at least steal some pointers from them like you usually do, Em?”

At that, Emmet whipped out a small, battered notepad from his coat pocket, eagerly showing off the multitudes upon multitudes of detailed battling graphs, paragraphs of messy handwriting, and heavily highlighted sections. “I did! And now! I want to recruit more pokémon to the team!” He said it more to himself than to Elesa or Ingo, pulling open his desk drawer in order to pull out a thick, heavily-banded book that looked close to bursting.

“Oh sweet dragons above- you’re pulling out Ol’ Reliable, Em? What’s the occasion? Gonna make some more abridgements? Honestly, you should just have the library make a copy- that’s a whole concrete brick right there.”

“Says the woman with five hand-banded design template books twice the size in her house,” Emmet snarked back, struggling to open the cover of his tome. “Let’s see. Eenie, meenie, miney… huh. That’s odd.”

“What’s the matter?” Ingo asked, taking a massive bite out of his second burger. He was quick to wipe the sauce off of his cheek. “What are you looking for?”

“Foreign pokémon.” Emmet then paused, scowling before stowing the book away back under his desk, crossing his arms. “Foreign pokémon,” he grunted. “Abilities. I don’t know the abilities of the pokémon I battled against today. I don’t even remember what the names of the species are.”

“Emmet. You do realize that the Battle Subway collects and archives trainer data during registration, don’t you?” Ingo piped up. “The free connectivity to the C-Gear? To Entralink? To the recommended vs recorder? You were the one to tell me that all trainers must register their preferred pokémon with an attendant before they even so much as board a subway car. Unless perhaps… you did forget about that particular clause…?”

Emmet was out of his seat in a moment’s notice, the seams in his shirt beginning to splinter and pop apart as the man shoved his hat back onto his head and grabbed his jacket off of the hook, marching squarely over toward the office door. “Be back soon. Next destination: the attendant’s desk.” The door slammed shut after him.

A moment passed by before Elesa once again reached across the table and pulled out a carton of onion rings alongside Emmet’s burger that he hadn’t even touched. “I call dibs.”

“Absolutely not. I paid for those.”

#pokemon #pokémon #monthofemmet #monthofemmet2024 #submas #emmet #subway master emmet #subway boss emmet

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criminal-sen · 7 months ago

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Been seeing lots of ppl with these bleach-speckled shirts lately so I gave it a shot (and painted a bunch of creepy eyeballs bc ofc I did)

I tried using a tie dye technique - wrapped up the shirt in a big spiral and let it soak in bleach - but uhhhh it didn't turn how I expected at all. Still looks kinda rad tho (or maybe my love for shitty, home tie-dyed shirts has lowered the bar). The back looks cool too but enough is enough with the photos for tonight

#got the shirt for 3 bucks at a Michael's (craft store)#it is soooo stiff and uncomfortable😭 but i must perservere and it will get softer over time #diy clothes #bleach art

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skybrushus · 7 months ago

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Lyra signaled and then turned right off of Sea Stallion Drive in my Royal Equestria Security Forces (RESF) dreamscape. Bon Bon routinely checked the car's navigation system and watched through car's window right side window as the character of the city change before her eyes.

As they drove away from main downtown thoroughfare of Ft. Trotterdale they left behind swanky shops, upscale restaurants, and fashionable new apartments and townhouses tailored to the young business executives. Just a couple blocks further and they were passing through older working class neighborhoods. Beyond them lay the older apartments, shops, cafes, and dormitories that surrounded the university. Journeying further brought them into a vast sprawling maze of light industrial, truck yards,warehouses, and eventually the commercial docks of the city. It was around 7pm but being it was summertime there was still a far bit light in the sky as Celestia had not entirely relinquished her reign for the day.

There final destination was small, dingy, two-story office building that was probably 60 years old and hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint in 20. Decades of diesel smoke, factory emission, tropical sun, rain, and general neglect had left the building's exterior color rather indeterminate.

Normally during the day this area was abuzz with activity, but it was the early evening on a Friday and most businesses, and their workers, were now closed and vacated. Only one window at their destination showed any light and possible occupancy. Lyra pulled around to the back employee parking area. Letting the car coast to lessen the rumble of its V8. There was only one other vehicle parked in the covered parking area. Bon Bon squinted at license plate on the squat, subcompact. Like the building it was parked under, Ft. Trotterdale's climate had not been kind to its. Faded red paint, speckles of rust on the body panels, and sun bleached plastic trim told the story of its daily toils.

Bon Bon checked a note on her phone and looked at the license plate again. "Yep. That's Fast Talk's current car. Lyra shut the engine off looked over at her partner. "Well now that we've found him lets pay him a visit. What passes for the cleaning service isn't suppose to show up until 9pm. That should give us a chance to have a nice chat with him!"

As they exited the vehicle Bon Bon reached down under the back seat and pulled out short barrel, 12ga, pump-action shotgun from its locking, concealed rack. Calling it a sawed off would disrespectful of the care that had gone into modifying and customizing it. Quietly her and Lyra closed the car's doors. As they did the car's paint scheme seemed to shimmer for just an instant as the vehicle's security wards activated.

Both were amused to find that the physical lock and the supposed security wards for Employees Only stairwell were inactive. Before entering the stairwell both mares pulled their RESF badges out and hung them from their belts. Then each they donned a pair of wraparound glasses that shimmered as several wards on them went live.

They'd dealt with Fast Talk numerous times and the stallion was mostly bluster. However some of the company he associated with were another matter. So out of an abundance of caution Bon Bon went first. Slowly and quietly she ascended the stairs while keeping the shotgun in a low ready position. At the top of the stairway a fluorescent light fixture flickered spastically. Carefully the earth pony peeked around the corner and let her eyes sweep over the hallway. The glasses showed no signs of camouflaged individuals or wards. Although the door knob of office in question did sparkled with a low grade form of ward. Bon Bon used her right hand to make series of signals to Lyra.

Thumbs up. Hallway is clear. Cupping her hand and making a series rotating motions followed by a wiggling of the fingers. Door is closed. Probably locked. Is warded.

The two mares softly treaded up to the door. From under it a thin sliver of light leaked out and the muffled sounds of a radio broadcasting some sporting event could be heard coming from within. Lyra knelt down next to the door knob and gently placed a one-use paper ward breaker on the door next to the knob. The mint green unicorn thumbed the safety off of her pistol and looked up at Bon Bon who carefully pushed the cross bolt safety off on her shotgun. Then the earth pony nodded her head.

Lyra's horn glowed softly and a slim force wall appeared in front of her. Then for a second her horn flared as it triggered the ward breaker. In an instant the both mares heard sharp, loud CRACK as the ward on the door and the physical lock broke. Before the sound had even subsided Lyra had turned the door knob and was heading into the office with Bon Bon bringing up the rear. Sitting behind a battered office desk and looking up suddenly from some paperwork was a wiry, slightly feral looking earth pony stallion. His left hand quickly moved toward but then moved even quicker away from the battered .41 magnum revolver sitting on top of the desk when he saw the muzzle of the 12ga pointed at him. Slowly he raised both his hands with the palms out.

Lyra quickly swept the corners of the room with her 9mm before snatching the revolver off the desk. Through all of this the muzzle of Bon Bon's 12ga never wavered from the stallion's chest. Lyra dropped her force wall and then used her horn to close the door to office behind them. Then she used her horn to magically pull all of the drawers open except one that was locked. Coming around the desk the unicorn did a quick visual inspection. Satisfied she smiled and finally addressed the stallion who'd remained silent through all of this.

"Fast Talk! Buddy! How have you been! We've been looking all over for you!"

The dappled violet stallion kept his hands up as he smiled weakly at her. "Um. Ladies! Good evening! What an unexpected surprise! I didn't expect to be meeting you tonight!"

Bon Bon lowered the shotgun muzzle but returned it to the low ready position. "Well now you have." The ivory white mare grumbled.

The stallion giggled nervously.

#baron-engel #mlp #anthropomorphic #dreamscape #resf #fttrotterdale #lyra heartstrings #bon bon

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mitskicodedwukong · 7 days ago

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🔪 BLACK BLOOD 🔪 || Macaque & MK

» ptolemaea (ethel cain) « 1:17 ─〇───── 6:23

╔⏤⏤⏤⏤╝🍑╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗ AUTHOR'S NOTE ╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗🍑╔⏤⏤⏤╝ ➤ This is reposted from my old account, @nothyenlowz :3 ➤ Writing blurp featuring Qi Xiaotian and Six-Eared Macaque. ➤ Probably a oneshot, might be related to a future AU. ➤ I just wanted to write something scary/creepy ngl. Macaque and MK do not have a good relationship in this rip. Also based on season 1, episode 9, Macaque. ➤ TRIGGER WARNINGS include profanity, creepy vibes, graphic descriptions of violence & gore, blood, implied possession, and major (temporary) character death. ➤ Word count: 1,113

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

❝ i was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood. i am here now, as you run from me still .❞

He did it.

Qí Xiǎotiān has defeated the Six-Eared Macaque.

Jīngū bàng lies a few feet away, the bright gold bands stained black with thick, thick blood. Pieces of flesh and skull are speckled against the staff and the surrounding stone, and Xiǎotiān is sure there's a surplus of black fur stuck to it, too. His hands face the same fate, perhaps worse. Jīngū bàng is cold and unfeeling, while Xiǎotiān feels much, too much. The gore on his body is warm, almost scorching. It feels like it's wiggling, like it's trying to slither back to the cold corpse splayed out beneath him.

He clenches his hands and shivers at the squelching feeling.

When Xiǎotiān had struck the shadow beast, it'd vanished, leaving the demon monkey in its place. He'd clutched his heart, on his knees and trembling, looking up at Xiǎotiān with wide eyes. He guesses Macaque hadn't expected him to break his illusion so easily.

Poor bastard. He shouldn't have underestimated the Monkey Kid.

His body is a mess. Xiǎotiān had hit him only once more, a careless swing towards his upper body. He's not entirely sure what he wanted from the strike—if he wanted the demon to die, to fight him, or to vanish through his own shadow—but it seemed fate had chosen for him. The staff caught Macaque below the jaw and forced him to the ground, shattering his skull and breaking some bones from the force. The following gush of blood and brains spraying across the stone and across Xiǎotiān's body immediate.

Macaque hadn't even exhaled before he was dead.

Now the demon's head is practically gone, an unidentifiable slurry of blood and bone and fur and brain. His magic has flickered out, letting his illusions—glamours, he thinks they're called—fall, revealing his namesake: six large ears, three on each side, colored in hues of pink, blue, and purple. Their glow illuminates the mess of his face at first, but then they fade like dying lanterns, finally going dark and flopping over each other.

Qí Xiǎotiān has killed the Six-Eared Macaque.

Xiǎotiān wonders what he should do. Should he leave Macaque here to rot, or bury him? Perhaps the carrion birds and the bugs would feed on his flesh until he was naught but sun-bleached bones atop the mountain—but maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they would sense the tangible taste of evil and they would avoid Macaque's body like the plague, leaving this moment frozen in time.

Xiǎotiān is tired. It's been a long few weeks training with Macaque, and his body is bruised and fatigued, covered in cuts and running on fumes. And the smell, that awful miasma of fermenting fruits and decaying blood, is beginning to get to him, wrapping around his guts like snakes and squeezing until he feels faint. He looks up at the sky, at the bright stars twinkling in the twilight.

Everyone will be worried if he's not home soon. Pigsy will chide him until he goes to bed, and then he'll chew through Sūn Wùkōng, and then, when they discover Xiǎotiān was not with the great sage, he'll be in even more trouble.

Best to cut his losses while he still can. Hiding the blood will be a feat in itself.

Xiǎotiān shuffles away from the body, towards Jīngū bàng. His arms tremble slightly from the weight, but he pays it no mind. His power is steadily rebuilding itself and he'll no doubt be back to full strength after some rest. The blood on his hands coats the red of the staff, and he prays it won't stain.

He finds himself hoping the same for his mind.

Xiǎotiān waits for a moment. He considers just blasting off, and he considers turning to face what's left of Macaque for the last time. Whether he'll say goodbye, condemn him to Hell, or hope he's reborn into something kinder, he doesn't know—he's not sure he'll say anything, really. But something in him has to look one more time.

So he does.

And the Six-Eared Macaque is gone.

Poor boy, whispers the world. You shouldn't have underestimated Liù ěr Míhóu.

Xiǎotiān trembles, holding the staff close to him, hopelessly staring down the last of the orange sky as night falls. He's afraid of many things, but the dark was not one of them.

Now, though, he thinks he'll have to reconsider.

There's a chilling feeling creeping up his spine. It feels like there are a thousand eyes watching him, boring into his spirit, and it only gets worse. There's whispers in the wind, dozens of voices speaking at once, condemning him, warning him, begging him. Run, boy, they say. Run while you still can and don't stop. Never stop. Even if your feet bleed; if your lungs shrivel up; if your body begs for mercy. He will grant you no such thing. They're tearing him apart, forcing themselves into his soul through his ears, the cuts in his skin, the tears dripping from his eyes.

"Stop," he sobs, clamping his hands over his ears. "Stop."

The voices shriek.

Stupid boy!

Pathetic.

Lost, he is lost.

Another lamb to the lion's den.

Get up.

Run!

And then they are gone, suddenly, as if they were never there.

Xiǎotiān feels... light. Like the atmosphere has gotten so much brighter, even though the world gets darker, blanketed by night's thick sky. He hears nothing but the wind and the rustling of trees. Jīngū bàng lies beside him, rolling against his foot.

Qí Xiǎotiān is fine.

With a shaking breath, he retrieves the staff again and wastes not even a second longer on leaving this damned mountain, hoping to abandon Macaque there, too.

Wherever he may be.

He manages to get into his apartment through his window and into the shower before Pigsy can catch him. He allows the steam to envelope him, the water hitting his back in a steady stream. Black, black fur and thick, thick blood swirls down the drain until no trace of the Six-Eared Macaque remains.

When he steps out of the shower and wraps himself in a towel, he braces himself against the sink and leans forward, swaying in exhaustion. His eyes slip shut.

Drip-drip-dip.

He opens his eyes.

Blood drips into the sink.

Quickly, Xiǎotiān brushes fog from the mirror and peers close to his face. A thin cut trails through his eyebrow to the bottom of his eyelid, then continues underneath his eye and down his cheek.

He traces the cut with a finger.

The blood is black, and it smells like something chemically sweet.

He hums quietly at the sight, and then he grins.

"Should of kept some peach-wood on you, kiddo."

❝ run then, child .❞

❝ ＹＯＵ　ＣＡＮ＇Ｔ　ＲＵＮ　ＦＲＯＭ　ＭＥ　ＦＯＲＥＶＥＲ .❞

#hyenlowz #[ 🃏 ]#mitskicodedwukong #[ 🍑 ]#blurbs #[ 🍸 ]#lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lmk liu er mihou #lmk macaque #lmk #lmk qi xiaotian #lmk mk

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