#they certainly don’t belong under the tree that’s for sure

[etherealeowyn]

“When you look at me like that my love, I don’t think I could do anything other than give in to you" - Elrond (Rings of Power) x Fem Reader

Y/n reunites with Elrond and explains that she doesn't want to be left behind when he goes on his journeys anymore.

Fluff

Word Count: 817

My requests are always open, so feel free to message me if you have an idea! I'll write for any character from The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, or The Rings of Power!

All the trees surrounding the city of Lindon had turned into a series of warm orange and yellow hues. Fortunate were one’s eyes when the autumnal sun danced upon their leaves, for it seemed as if they were sparkling, making the already ethereal location even more stunning.

Y/n’s long blue velvet dress swept across the floor as she walked on the perfectly lain cobblestone path, her footsteps echoing through the open halls. Her eyes flickered from tree to tree, feeling a sense of immense happiness knowing she was once again visiting the place she loved so dearly. Delicately, she held a letter from her love, comforted by the knowledge that she would soon be in his arms.

Her elven ears slightly perked when she heard footsteps growing closer from behind. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips when she recognized that the steps were familiar, belonging to none other than Elrond.

“My love,” Elrond spoke, his soft voice breaking the near-silent atmosphere of the hall.

Swiftly he spun her around by the waist until her body was delicately pressed up against his. Y/n stood there momentarily, staring into his eyes, taking in all his gorgeous features before saying, “It feels like a lifetime since I last laid eyes on you.”

Elrond laughed slightly before responding, “I agree, a few months feels more like a year when I’m away from you,” making her blush.

“Promise me, you’ll never leave me again. Life is so mundane without you, I practically died of boredom.” Y/n joked, causing the elf to smirk at her.

Tucking a strand of her long hair behind her ear, he said, “I’ll try my best, but you know good and well that I can’t promise something like that,” with a laugh. “Middle Earth always has something in store for me that I cannot prepare for.”

“I can’t argue with that,” she replied, “But maybe Middle Earth will be kind enough to let us make up for the time that we have lost with each other.”

“I can only hope,” Elrond spoke, taking one of his fingers and delicately placing it under Y/n’s chin, before angling her face up so their lips could meet.

“Or…,” she began, wrapping her arms around the elf’s neck, “Perhaps next time I could join you.”

A mix of surprise and concern appeared on his face, this being the first time that Y/n had ever asked to join him on one of his missions. At the same time, he couldn’t help but imagine how much more enjoyable it would be for him if the love of his life accompanied him.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind that, but you must know that most places I travel to are riddled with danger. I’m not sure if I’d be able to keep you safe,” he replied, worry prominent behind his voice.

“Darling, I have immense faith in your abilities to protect me, quite frankly, I feel safer in your arms than here,” she spoke, looking up at Elrond through her eyelashes.

Y/n had grown tired of the long days and even longer nights spent without him in various elven cities, for she never felt at home unless she was by Elrond’s side. She was willing to follow him anywhere if it meant she’d be by his side.

“When you look at me like that my love, I don’t think I could do anything other than give in to you,” he said turning away for a moment to hide the rosy blush creeping onto his face.

“I’m well aware,” she replied taking one of her hands and gently caressing the side of his face, “Does that mean that I could go with you next time?”

“Yes… but on one condition,” Elrond responded grabbing her hand from his face and placing a delicate kiss on it.

“I’d do anything,” Y/n whispered hastily, eagerly wanting to know the condition that he had thought out.

“Would you marry me?” he asked, his grey eyes softening and brimming with pure love.

Y/n’s jaw dropped slightly at his question, before she immediately jumped into Elrond’s arms, letting him spin her around in celebration. When he finally set her down, she gently grabbed both sides of his face and brought his lips to hers, planting a kiss full of pure excitement.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Elrond spoke, with a smile pulling at both corners of his mouth.

“It’s absolutely a yes, a thousand times yes!” she exclaimed before the elf pulled a beautiful silver ring from his pocket, adorned with the most stunning moonstone that Y/n had ever seen.

She extended her hand and watched Elrond slide it onto her index finger, immense joy running rampant through her body, making it feel like she was floating.

“I can’t wait for our next journey together,” Elrond softly stated, wrapping his arms around Y/n in a loving hug.

[thefoxtherapist]

Hello! Is it alright if I request a Jiyan x male reader? Where male reader got hurt during a war but hide it so that it doesn't make anyone worry but Jiyan soon found out?

If your uncomfortable with this request you can just ignore it thank you for your time

Of course! I hope you like the request<3

Admittedly, I'm recovering from surgery so if there are some mistakes in this, I am so sorry lol- but I have to distract myself some way!

Injuries were common on the battlefield, yours were no different than anybody else’s. At least you had managed to escape with your life. You kept the wounds wrapped with bandages, tied tightly so they could be hidden underneath your uniform. And then you pushed on, as a good soldier does. 

You didn’t want anybody to worry, especially not when you were so close, you felt close, at least. Maybe hiding your injuries wasn’t for the best, it certainly wasn’t ideal, especially not having to wrap your own wounds, disinfect them yourself. It was tedious, but you kept that reminder going.

Countless of your allies have lost their lives for your home, this was your honour.

And it’d gone well! None of your fellow soldiers noticed, not even the medics you made a point to avoid. You took any alone time you could get to mend your wounds, and then you were back at it. Even you were impressed with your sneakiness. Or at least you were impressed by it.

Clawed gloves gripped the tree you were resting under, your shirt pulled up made it near impossible to hide the bloodied bandages from the General. “General Jiyan-” You cleared your throat, lowering your shirt to cover the half done bandages anyway. But the damage had been done.

He pushed himself off of the tree and came to stand in front of you, the tip of his weapon digging into the dirt beside you. “You need to return to the city for treatment.” Typical Jiyan, even dating him, he kept his priorities straight. He was a soldier first and foremost. 

But so were you.

You stood up, hand holding your abdomen as you looked up at him. “I can still fight, Jiyan. I belong here, on the battlefield.” He furrowed his brows at you, leaving his weapon in the dirt to cross his arms over his chest.

“One mistake could cost you your life and the life of your comrades.”

“I’m not reckless. I know what I’m doing.”

Jiyan dropped his arms, quickly reaching forward to press against your wound. You grimaced in pain, blood soaking through the fabric of your shirt. Jiyan pulled his hand back, his face visibly disappointed by your choices. You couldn’t help but look away from him.

“You’re going back to the city.”

“Jiyan!”

He snapped back at you, your name falling from his lips in a rushed tone. He almost never yelled at you outside of barking orders to the squad. You hesitated, pressing your hand against the bleeding injury once more to try and stop the blood. 

“I don’t want to see my boyfriend die because he doesn’t know when to stop.”

Jiyan’s tone grew quieter, more sombre. The General sighed, pressing his palm to his forehead as he looked away from you. “I worry about you.” He looked at you from the side, a small frown on his face. 

“Jiyan..”

You stepped towards him and he dropped his arm to his side, pivoting his torso towards you. You carefully opened your arms, wrapping them around him. Jiyan tensed but then relaxed, wrapping his arms around you after a moment to return your affection.

“And I worry about you.. That’s why I have to stay.” You spoke quietly, holding him tightly against your chest. He brought his hands up to your back, gloved fingers curling into your shirt and holding you tightly.

“Fine, but you’re to stay at the outpost. Promise me, that.”

You exhaled, but nodded, at least you could stay by your lover. “Fine, I promise.” You agreed quickly.

Jiyan nodded in return, nuzzling his face against you.

“Let me see those wounds.. At least let me patch you up.”

“Heh, sure thing, Doctor Jiyan.”

[anonymous-dentist]

1946

There are plenty of legends surrounding Count Dracula. They say that he bathes in the blood of virgins. He has knives for hands and his fangs are sharp enough to cut the very air itself. He can turn into a bat. He can turn into a mist. He’s over one thousand years old, but he doesn’t look a day over fifty.

This, of course, is all bullshit. Count Dracula isn’t real, and Cellbit isn’t even one hundred yet, and he certainly doesn’t look fifty years old. He has a shower and electricity and a radio. He even has an automobile, not that he uses it for anything but trips to town to beg the werewolves to please stop leaving dead rabbits on his front porch.

Still. Maybe living in the crumbling remains of a long-abandoned castle on a hill surrounded by dead trees and graveyards full of empty tombstones and half-disturbed graves gives a bit of an impression. And maybe Cellbit was a bit dramatic when he was first turned, but who wouldn’t be when faced with immortality for the first time?

Quesadilla Island is no stranger to the supernatural. There are the werewolves in town, there are the demons scattered across the island. There’s the talking skeleton that cries if you look at him weirdly. And then there’s Cellbit, “Count Dracula”, the island’s only living vampire.

Quesadilla Island is no stranger to the supernatural. Vampires are a danger to society, and so it’s up to vampire hunters like those from the Federation to make sure the vampires stay under control and away from the more fragile citizens.

And that’s fine, really. Cellbit hates people, anyway. He likes how they taste, but the artificial blood that Mouse magicks up for him once a week is a good substitute.

He likes his castle, and he likes his alone time, and he likes spending said alone time in the secret room in his basement trying to figure out ways to absolutely slaughter the shit out of every Federation hunter on the island so he can live in peace.

Tonight is one such night. The werewolves are all transformed with the full moon, and Richarlyson is with Felps in the Square for the night, so Cellbit is, thankfully, alone. He can polish his knives in peace.

And then he hears a knock at the door for the first time in half a century.

“Hola?” he hears. “Dracula?”

Cellbit perks up despite his best attempts to play at being annoyed. He knows this voice, it belongs to one of the non-supernatural townsfolk. The cute one he’s only spoken to once, and the one he probably shouldn’t speak to again if his drunken memories are anything to live by.

The vampire hunter.

Cellbit immediately rushes upstairs and pauses in the foyer to fix his hair in a mirror. Unfortunately, he can’t see his reflection. Fuck.

He opens the door, anyway, and he tries not to be too obvious with his smile as he leans against the doorframe just oh so casually.

“Hello!” he cheerfully says. “Good evening!”

He immediately internally smacks himself as the hunter raises both eyebrows. Too obvious.

Cellbit clears his throat and repeats in a much calmer voice, “I mean. Hello. Good evening. I was not expecting you.”

The hunter looks him over, and it occurs to Cellbit that this is the first time that they’ve ever spoken. Ever. Of course, he already knew this, but-

The hunter smiles and makes eye contact. “Can I come in?”

“Uh. Sure?”

The hunter winks, and then he ducks under Cellbit’s arm and enters the castle as Cellbit stands there, frozen. What.

“Nice place.” The hunter whistles. “Is it just you?”

Cellbit stares at him, watching as the hunter flops onto the foyer’s most grandiose sofa and kick his muddy feet up onto the seat. The door closes, but neither pays it any mind.

“Ah,” says Cellbit. “Sometimes. Can I help you?”

The hunter shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

He gives Cellbit another once-over, eyes lingering on Cellbit’s neck and chest- uncovered, for once, because his shirt has been left with the top buttons undone, for once, because he was alone just a few minutes ago.

If Cellbit was capable of blushing, he would be doing so. Instead, he buttons his shirt back up and coughs into his fist.

That seems to jolt the hunter back into action because he hops off the sofa as quickly as he had fallen onto it and he smooths down his long red coat and he says, “I want to… ugh, how do I say this?”

He paces a little, hand running through his hair, and then he throws his head back and just kinda blurts it out: “I want to kill Cucurucho.”

He looks at Cellbit, frozen yet again. “Can you help me with that?”

Cucurucho is evil incarnate. It’s also the current head of the vampire hunters of the island, complete with its own personal armory of bullshit tools meant to make Cellbit’s life a living hell: stakes, holy water, blessed weapons. It even has a dagger in the shape of a crucifix, what the fuck?

Cellbit wants it dead. He wants to suck the life out of its unholy abomination of a body and he wants to burn its corpse in the sunlight it holds so dearly. He’s got a thousand potential murders in mind for it, but that’s gotta come off a little strong, right?

So Cellbit shrugs very casually. “Maybe. Why?”

That’s the million-dollar question: why would one of Cucurucho’s own loyal hunters want it dead?

The hunter looks down at the ground briefly before looking back up at Cellbit with absolute nothing in his eyes.

“My son is dead,” he says, very, very calmly. “And so Cucurucho needs to be dead, too. That’s all.”

This is the look of a man already dead.

“Okay,” Cellbit says. He nods, because he, too, is a father. Somehow.

The hunter blinks slowly. “Just like that?”

“What, did you want me to interrogate you some more?”

“I dunno. Aren’t you supposed to hypnotize me or something?”

Cellbit raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to hypnotize you?”

(He can’t, but the hunters don’t need to know that.)

“I mean… maybe? I don’t know how this works, man!” The hunter throws his arms up and collapses back onto the couch in an annoyed huff. “Maybe you’re just going to eat me, who knows?”

Cellbit delicately takes a seat on the closest chair… which so happens to be the one nearest the hunter’s sofa. What a coincidence.

“You know that I don’t eat people,” he scoffs. Not anymore, anyway…

“I mean, sure, but you’re Count Dracula! You’re weird!”

Cellbit blinks. That’s one way to describe him.

“I’m not Dracula,” he says. “You people do know that, right? Like, you do know that he’s copyrighted material. I couldn’t be him if I wanted to.”

The hunter looks at him incredulously. “No mames, who the fuck are you, then?”

What, so they actually don’t know? What?

“Uh,” says Cellbit, a little caught up in how fucking stupid his tormentors really seem to be. “Cellbit?”

The hunter’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit, I knew I recognized you from somewhere!”

Uh-oh…

Cellbit’s glad that he can’t blush, because he’s got a bad feeling coming on based off of the way the hunter actively scoots down the sofa and towards him, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt.

“I was really drunk, but-” the hunter says. “But! I remembered your name!”

Cellbit swallows a lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember yours.”

“That’s fine, you will.”

And that isn’t intimidating at all.

“Because you are the vampire who turned me!”

The hunter pulls back the side of his unbuttoned shirt to show some very sculpted muscles… and two little pinpricks right on his collar still scarring over even three weeks after the fact.

Cellbit’s mouth goes dry. Because maybe he got a little drunk at Forever’s Halloween party three weeks ago, and maybe he hooked up with the most beautiful man on Quesadilla Island for the night. The night is a fuzzy mess at best, and he certainly doesn’t remember turning anyone, but he does remember:

“Roier,” he weakly says. “I am so sorry.”

The hunter- Roier’s- smile is blinding. “Don’t be. Because now there are two vampires on the island, yes? And Cucurucho can’t kill both of us.”

…To Be Continued?

[genderfluid-insomniac]

“Name are you wearing our clothes to MK’s sleepover?……” ///Six Eared Macaque x Reader x Sun Wukong

“No.” The shadow demon said to you, not looking up from the book he was reading and completely ignoring your pleas with your puppy dog eyes. “Come on! I know you don’t think being extremely social but it’s a few hours of talking with MK and the gang and then it’s all sleeping. I promise if it becomes too much then you can leave but please…pretty please!” You’d been trying to convince your lover to go to the slumber party MK planned and were going to use his excitement with his shadow plays to your advantage (which usually worked) but it wasn’t working right now.

“Fine. It’s alright, I guess Sun and I will go then. We’ll miss you!” Faking a sigh and disappointed expression, not missing the face Wukong gave you as he tried to not react to the immediate annoyed glare shot your way. Macaque loudly groaned and dramatically shut his book before sitting up and getting close to you. “You’re very lucky that I love you, lotus….Alright. I’ll go, only because I don’t trust peaches from doing something stupid-“ You pulled him close for a hug and quickly thanked him repeatedly, grabbing a dark violet bag that you had already packed knowing he’d give in to your demands, and kissed his cheek gently. “Thank you, moonlight.”

Without a second thought, you ran out to the edge of the cave, the roar of the waterfall deafening your ears and a few tiny hands clambering up your back and clinging to you. The soft white furred monies chittered in your ears and some pulled bits of your hair; even if you couldn’t understand them you could tell they wanted you to stay here and steal your attention that was usually on their kings along with your affection. “You guys have to stay here.” Speaking over the waterfall and emphasizing your words with your mouth, petting one of their heads, and receiving a churr in response.

“I’m beginning to think they like you more than me and I raised most of these guys!” Some chitters and shouts were directed at their older brother who was now frustrated at their complaints and decided to pull you into his chest. Effectively, humming deeply almost nearing a growl that got some of the monkeys off you (albeit begrudgingly), and squishing his face into your neck in an attempt to show the others you belonged to him. Yeah…..sure maybe Macaque too but he doesn’t care right now. You laughed and waved the other demon over, putting your hand on the rushing stream and stepping on the stones in the pool in front of it as the golden symbol shone brightly on the splitting falls.

“Come on guys we’re gonna be late!” You relaxed when you touched land and looked back to see the two mystic monkeys right behind you, Wukong sitting on his somersault cloud patting the space next to him as an invitation and Macaque leaning under a tree mindlessly playing with shadows the sun left on the dirt. “So how are we gonna get there?” The shadow only opened his mouth before the sage loudly spoke up, pointedly glaring at him and floating away. “No- Nope. Nu-uh! Your shadow portals are too creepy and probably unsafe, especially for our special mortal.-“ You were jerked behind him by his gold tail and pushed against his hoodie-covered chest, a questioning look was sent to him and then Mac before to shrugged off his grip. “Well, I’m certainly not going on your dumb cloud when you can’t even spell much less drive!”

You got in between them and shrugged out of the tail's tight grasp, hoping to stop a tedious already fought argument and get to MK’s place already. “Can you both stop being petty for one evening?! Gods, you’re both centuries older than I am and I still feel like I need to parent both of you.” Both celestials readjusted their bags on their shoulders and looked at you with offended looks, the reactions did nothing to you and you continued on with your plan. “How about a compromise? We take Sun’s cloud the way there and on the way back we take Mac’s portal. Sound good?”

They thought over it for a second before nodding slowly and going on either side of you. A dark-furred tail curls around your waist before pulling you closer to him, mumbling something just under his breath before helping you up on your boyfriend's cloud. “I’m going to hold onto you, lotus. I don’t want you to fall off.” Nuzzling his face into your neck and showing some rare affection, you guessed since he wasn’t as into PDA as his lover was and wouldn’t be able to do anything obvious when you were with the gang.

You wrapped your arms around him backward and fell back into his plush scarf as the cloud zipped off into the distance. Moving fast wasn’t something you were fond of before you met these two and it certainly didn’t get any better now, closing your eyes and turning your head away so you could breathe without the gusts of wind suffocating you. A hand intertwined with yours and wrapped around your waist, silently reminding you that you were safe and in good hands (probably the safest you could ever be and also the most dangerous…so).

The time it took to get to MKs place wasn’t long and you hopped off the cloud, knocking on the door and stepping back when you heard the loud stomping of footsteps. The brunette quickly opens the door and smiles widely as he scans your group before landing on the shadow with an expression of shock. “Hey-How’d you get Macaque to agree?! He never shows up whenever I invite him to stuff unless I promise him food..” Behind him, you could make out someone saying “simp” who you could easily guess was Mei and sent Macaque darting off into the shadow portal further in the house to get her.

You just laughed and playfully nudged your lover, “MK that’s my little secret, and I’m not telling.” He only dramatically groaned and whispered curses under his breath to which the kid got lightly smacked with Wukong’s tail. “Language.” The king walked in and tossed both of your backs, which you let him take when he tugged on them, giving MK an apologetic look and grabbing his hand and pulling him inside. Seeing many things happen, Pigsy and Tang were making the “world's greatest popcorn” according to Pigsy, Sandy and Bai He were petting Mo while discussing what movie to watch, and finally, your lovers were having a playful argument while (who you could barely make out as Mei) a green and white blob fell through two shadow portals.

If someone had to guess it was the comment she made toward him about a minute ago and after Mac caught your disapproving glance he quickly stopped, she landed on the ground and very dizzily got up while not missing a beat. “Ha! I can’t see straight but I’m gonna guess that Name told you off. Oof-” Quickly getting tripped by his tail and falling onto the ground, smirking at her then at you, and walking by you to put his bag down near Wukongs and yours. “Like anyone’s allowed to call me a simp except you two.” You softly laughed and intertwined his hand with yours, going to sit next to Bai He and hugging her back when you sat next to her (Macaque isn’t exempt from the hugs since he’s her favorite out of the group).

You were pulled into the ginger monkey's lap when he sat down next to you and got comfortable as you ignored the “aww” you got from the peanut gallery, squeezing Macaque’s hand in yours and cuddling into both of them. The movie you all ended up putting was about a planet of blue aliens trying to stop being colonized called Avatar, which Sandy had been a fan of the writing and filmmaking. Of course, MK and his mentor immediately suggested a monkey king-themed movie, luckily that suggestion was overruled by the majority and you all changed into pajamas before starting the movie. You had forgotten what you packed when quickly getting ready, going into a bathroom to change, and laughing to yourself at the probable reaction you’d get from your mystic monkeys.

The soft maroon fabric of Macaque’s pants (the ones he wore the most often) felt so comfy against your skin and the pale yellow sleeveless undershirt that Wukong wore during training that you “borrowed” was just the right size (it wouldn’t swallow you whole). You had no doubt that they knew you stole them for yourself but wouldn’t expect you to wear it tonight and they’d definitely notice their scents covering yours. “It should be fine….hopefully.” The shadow demon was more possessive but the great sage got more jealous very easily, so if you stayed with both of them nothing bad would happen, right?

Probably. Maybe….

You came out of the bathroom, tossed your bag of clothes towards your sleeping bags, and sat down in your boyfriend's lap again. Trying your best to not draw too much attention and ignore the arms and tails snaking around your torso. “Lotus…. When we get back you’re not going anywhere for days,” He cheekily laughed and nudged his boyfriend who raised his hand to the back of your neck, grazing the sensitive spot and causing a shiver. “Ha! Not like you’ll be able to when we’re done with you.”

Both celestials held you tightly against them and lowly purred, tails curled with each other and you. MK just rolled his eye at his mentor's behavior while Mei snapped a picture and went on to watch the movie. You didn’t dare leave their clutches the whole night, not like you could anyway.

[another-shameless-fangirl]

Demon

“They aren’t really ghosts, you know.”

“What?” Danny blinked out of his bliss staring out at the lights that floated across the park and turned his attention to the voice on his right. Each of the soft lights dotting the distance he had figured was a spirit, moving aimless and slow or following a habitual path they had carved out for themselves in life and found comfort in after death.

An old man sat on the bench near where Danny stood on the concrete path under an ancient willow. His grey hair thinned at the top and was combed over a pale bald head. His wire glasses were rectangular and too large for his thin face. Danny couldn’t tell the man’s age but spots and lines of concern felt long ago made him pretty sure the man was at least 70. Danny turned his body toward the man stiffly.

He wasn’t used to people actively talking to him. Since the accident happened and he started high school, he cut off all communication with Sam and Tucker barely acknowledging them in the hallway and letting them draw their own conclusions as to why he was avoiding everyone now. It was safer for them to think he was just a jerk instead of… whatever he was now. Half human, half ghost, it was all so confusing. Until he figured out exactly what he was, whether he really was a hybrid or not, then they would be better off without him.

The past few months had been lonely but he wasn’t sure this was the kind of company he wanted in their absence.

“They look like people but they aren’t.” The man told him certainly and Danny felt a chill go up his spine. He did not see the man there when he walked up to stand under the willow tree to observe the peaceful scene. He wasn’t sure why but he felt like an intruder. He looked out at the peaceful lights flying and walking in the distance then back to the seated man. Danny smiled politely.

“They’re not people. They’re ghosts.” He said lightly but where his conversation went, he really wasn’t sure. There was no way the man had lived in Amity Park without knowing about the ghosts that lived here too. The man shook his head, tutted, and crossed his wrinkled arms to his chest. His weathered wood cane shifted against the bench but did not fall.

“They look like that to trick people.” He said with a malice that made Danny recoil.

“That… They’re not tricking anyone. They’re just existing.” He said and the man scoffed at him.

“They look like that to make themselves more palatable for people. These things are evil.”

Danny stared at the man who glared across the scene before them. The ghosts who could only come out at night were harmless. Most of them were Echoes, ghosts that couldn’t do much more than relive a moment in their lives that proved they had existed at all. Danny had tried once to speak to one of these souls and they either didn’t see him or had ignored him completely. He wondered which it was sometimes and what the difference was between him and them. Were they ever at the same power level he was? Able to move freely and follow his own thoughts? Were they evil like the man said?

Was there enough difference between them that he could be sure he wasn’t evil too?

“How do you know they’re really evil? They’re not hurting anyone.”

“They’re biding their time. They’ll behave for now but the other ones,” The man waved a hand at the boy. “Big nasty things, bombing the streets and frightening people.”

Danny frowned and the man kept going.

“Ghosts didn’t used to be a common thing. They were special, peeks at what used to be and now you see them all the time in town. They’re so strong you can see them clearly and they’ll look right at you and cause you pain.” Danny looked at the man who just stared straight ahead. “It’s only a matter of time before these ones start lobbing bombs at people killing us all.”

A hard lump formed in Danny’s throat. “They just-“

“They’re vile.” The man scowled at Danny. “They’re evil creatures- not human anymore and pulling their power from somewhere evil to stay where they don’t belong.”

Danny frowns at the man and it’s tempting to leave. Did other people believe this?

“You don’t think they belong in the human world?”

“Not anymore.” The man uncrossed his arms. “Ghosts can’t be here on the living plane with that much power. Ghosts are what’s leftover from human souls. What these are, they’re not leftover so much as they are repurposed.”

Danny turned toward the bench completely turning his back on the park and the spirits alike. The old man looked at him for the first time and brown eyes were clouded and practically looked through the boy. It was unsettling but the man seemed earnest.

He didn’t even want to ask but he had to know.

“Repurposed into what?”

“Into demons.”

Another chill struck through Danny and something in his core swirled at the word.

Demon…

The vitriol hatred was still there but it simmered under the calm words. “They’re so far from God that their souls turn into something unholy, untouched by light.” The man said solemnly. “They cause pain and suffering to the living and lie about everything. Agents of the devil come to bring hell on earth. All while wearing the face of the dead to make us drop our guard.”

Danny stepped back but didn’t run away. “You think the ghosts in town are all… demons?”

“I know they are.” The man rasped almost sadly. “The way they look, sound, they’re trying to mask what they really are. They’ll trick you into thinking they’re just kids and then drag you into hell themselves.” The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into it. Danny watched but the man didn’t continue without prompting which he couldn’t help but do.

“How do you know?” The thoughts began to swirl in his head. “How are you sure that they’re not just ghosts with powers?”

“What do they need powers for exactly? They’re too sturdy. Too strong.” The man tucked the cloth away. Danny peeked at it and half expected to see speckles of blood like a movie but it was clean. The man straightened his posture. “Why would you make a creature strong if you didn’t plan on using it for what power is used for? The strong ones are going fight for dominance to claim this land their own for the devil. The ones that look like us are here to convince us all it’s okay.”

Danny looked out over the ghosts scattered around the park. He wanted to tell the man no and that he was wrong, but what if there was a truth in what he said?

“I- Phantom won’t let that happen.”

The man scoffed.

“Phantom is the worst of them all.”

A pit formed in his stomach so quickly he felt sick.

“He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It’s very existence is wrong.” The man scoffed and he began to stand up. Danny stepped backwards quickly but the man barely looked at him as he continued.

“Phantom… Ghost… It’s still an unholy creature. Damned to earth unable to pass into heaven and apparently kicked out of hell.”

Tears formed in Danny’s eyes. “That’s not true. He’s just a kid-“

“Even if it was a child once, it isn’t anymore. An undead creature of bizarre power fighting for dominance in a damned town while wearing the face of a child,” the man picked up his cane and shook his head. “If that isn’t a demon then Lord help us when it reveals its true face.”

Danny stepped back again onto the grass and further under the weeping willow. He stayed there firmly off the path as the man walked slowly toward the street.

A gloved hand rubbed at green eyes. He grit his teeth and called after the man’s retreating form. “You’re wrong. I’m gonna prove it!”

“Don’t be naïve, child.” The man waved a dismissive hand back at him. “Save your soul while you still can.” He turned around a corner and was out of sight.

Danny felt a rage in him that felt so cold and kicked off the ground launching himself into the air. He saw the man from above but what was there to say? What if the man talked more and that rage solidified and proved him right? What if Phantom was the worst of the ghosts, no, the demons that now inhabited the town.

It made sense. He wasn’t a ghost, he wasn’t human. Both species had told him he didn’t belong in their worlds. If he didn’t belong to either side, maybe the old man was right.

If he wanted answers, maybe he needed to look down.

[trickstarbrave]

slightly spicy part of the reincarnation au. or as i like to call it: cock blocking voryn

also i think its cute to make voryn rly like sweets. tall intimidating leader of house dagoth sneaking sweets...... gap moe

Voryn sat in front of the mirror, disgruntled, Nerevar standing behind him with a pair of scissors. 

“I know.” Nerevar soothed him by rubbing his shoulder. “But it’ll be good in the long run.” Voryn didn’t enjoy cutting his hair. Being without long hair felt… Wrong. Incorrect. Yet he knew it was in horrible shape, splitting and fraying like an old worn rope. It was dry and dead and dull, unable to be tamed. It wasn’t how his hair was supposed to be, it wasn’t the long waterfall of black that Nerevar loved running his fingers through, loved complimenting and braiding--

He stopped his thoughts again, trying hard to not get lost in the past that he was unsure belonged to him or not. 

“It’ll grow back soon enough.” Nerevar replied as he began carefully cutting away most of the length, leaving it in a short style. His hair was already starting to grow back, at least. It had been falling out before Nerevar found him, but now the patchy areas were filling out well enough. “I’m sure now that you’re eating properly and well taken care of, it won't be long until it’s back to normal.” Voryn knew he was right; even as a child Voryn’s hair grew quickly. Nerevar knew as well, always marveling at the length when they were just children in Kogoruhn--

Voryn suppressed a groan of annoyance. His memories were getting scrambled again. It couldn’t sift between his memories as a child in the Sixth House Cult and his memories as a child in Resdayn anymore. The two just seemed to be all mixed together, his memories of Resdayn taking over more and more. Playing games with Nerevar, reading with him under gnarled trees, sparring with him… 

With his short hair and still gaunt face staring back at him in the mirror, it felt like he was looking at a stranger. 

“There, it doesn’t look too bad now does it?” Certainly the style wasn’t that bad. It was a little choppy, but that was more so due to the condition of his hair, not Nerevar’s skills. “Maybe you’ll like this style even more.” Nerevar added cheerfully, giving Voryn’s shoulder a squeeze.

Voryn opened his mouth to retort, to annoyedly remind Nerevar he never liked having short hair and Neht knew this full well, but he bit his tongue instead. 

Nerevar didn’t know the inner turmoil Voryn was going through with memories of the past overwhelming him. Not even Voryn knew how he was supposed to feel about them, or if he should act on them or not. For several years he didn’t want to be Voryn Dagoth, not if being Voryn Dagoth meant also being Dagoth Ur and bringing other people pain and suffering. Yet, here at Nerevar’s side, it was different. Being Voryn Dagoth in Nerevar’s eyes didn’t make him a person worthy of scorn and pain. It didn’t mean he had to be a killer. If he was Voryn Dagoth it meant he was loved by Nerevar, and he wanted that. He wanted that so very, very badly.

“... It’ll be fine for now.” Voryn answered, annoyance still present in his voice. Nerevar stroked the now short, black hair sympathetically. 

—

A few maids brought in a variety of small dishes into the dining room they were seated in. Many foods Voryn had never seen before--not in this time, at least, but there were a few that were also not present in the past. 

Stewed meats, spiced curry, steamed mudcrab, not to mention pastries from across Tamriel, all laid out. It looked like a small feast for a party, despite it just being the two of them. 

“Nerevar,” Voryn began, apprehensive as he was led to his seat, “I highly doubt I could possibly eat all of this.” 

Nerevar laughed that sort of melodic, joyful laugh with his full chest that always got Voryn’s heart racing. “I don’t expect you to, Voryn.” Nerevar remarked. “I just wanted you to try some of everything. You didn’t get to experience different cuisines before, did you?” 

He vaguely remembered some from his life as Voryn Dagoth, but his memories were a bit faint. Certain Voryn remembered his preferences, but not how they all tasted. 

“Here,” Nerevar began getting him a plate, first with crusty bread and cheese from Cyrodiil. “Try this.” 

Voryn took a bite. The cheese was sharp, along with a mild mustard on the bread. It was savory, not unpleasant. 

And thus began Nerevar having him try a variety of things. Meat pies, steamed crab, roasted meats with a variety of sauces, everything. Sometimes he’d even feed Voryn, a look of pure delight on his face as he watched Voryn savor it. It was honestly truly delightful, a lot of the food he enjoyed greatly. There were so many things he had never tasted before. 

“Try this next.” Nerevar held up a pastry for Voryn to try. It was flakey, golden, with honey drizzled over it making it shine. Voryn was getting full, but he couldn’t say no when Nerevar looked as giddy as a child. Voryn leaned in, taking a small bite, before making a soft sound of delight. 

It was sweet. Sweet and floral to the point his mouth was watering. He licked the honey off his lips before taking the pastry from Nerevar, taking a larger bite. It felt like a damn sin he had never had something so delicious before, as he ate greedily despite how full he was. After the small pastry was done his hands were left sticky from honey and he couldn’t help but lick the stray sweetness despite knowing how rude it was. It was just too good not to savor. 

When he looked back Nerevar’s giddy smile had faded to one of surprise, his cheeks dusted pink, his ears slightly tilted down. Seeing Voryn look back at him though his ears perked up in alarm as he cleared his throat, looking away.

“I-I take it you enjoyed that?” Nerevar asked. “They’re pretty good! Bretons know how to make pastries…” Nerevar picked up another treat, holding it up. “Try this one next.” Voryn once again bit into the offered dessert, letting Nerevar feed him, another soft moan falling from his lips. This one was soft, powdered sugar dusting it, with a complex flavor. It was sweet, yes, but a little bit citrusy and slightly bitter to offset it. Voryn licked the powdered sugar off his lips, as Nerevar continued feeding him. 

“You still like sweets…” Nerevar muttered under his breath. At once, Voryn remembered a night in Resdayn. They were younger, just entering adulthood, Nerevar still working as a canvasari. Neht had gotten some honey for the two of them to enjoy on bread, a little sweet treat given dunmeri cuisine didn’t have many sweet foods. Oh, how wonderful it was, just the two of them and a surprisingly clear night sky free from ash or clouds. Nerevar fed him then too, dipping the slightly dry bread in the honey for Voryn to enjoy, only for Voryn to lick it off Nerevar’s fingers afterwards. 

As he finished the dessert, Voryn couldn’t help but hold Nerevar’s wrist, swiping his tongue at the powdered sugar still on his fingertips, slightly mixed with honey from the previous one. Nerevar gasped as Voryn lapped up the remains, the flush on his cheeks spreading across most of his face and to his ears. Voryn looked up at him through long, thick lashes as his tongue curled around one. 

In that memory, Voryn did more than just lick Nerevar’s fingers. He pulled off Nerevar’s tunic after the bread was done, Nerevar drizzling honey across his chest and stomach, Voryn savoring the sweetness right off his lover’s body. It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, all the sweeter from Nerevar’s moans under him as every touch and swipe of Voryn’s tongue got him harder and harder in his trousers. 

That was when Voryn began affectionately calling him ‘sweet Nerevar’ in private, sometimes teasing that he could still taste the honey on his golden skin and lips. 

When he let Nerevar’s hand go the hortator stood up with a nervous laugh, face still burning red.

“I-I’ll get us drinks!” Nerevar said as he quickly scurried off, face pointed downward to try and hide how flustered he was. 

As Voryn watched him leave, he licked his lips.

—

Voryn felt absolutely humiliated as Nerevar carried him across the temple, various priests, politicians, and guards watching with confusion. 

The healers told him if he wanted to make a faster recovery he needed to walk more, so the next time Nerevar came to visit him he invited him for a walk. Nerevar cheerfully lead him to one of the many quaint temple gardens to show him the variety of flowers there. But in the middle of one of Nerevar’s stories about Morrowind prior to the Red Year, his legs finally gave into the exhaustion that was building in them and he collapsed onto the pavement. 

“Why didn’t you tell me your legs hurt?” Nerevar asked him, worry making his brow furrow like he was angry. Voryn frowned in response, looking away as he was scolded. 

“I didn’t want to go back yet.” Voryn answered. 

“I could have taken you to a bench, you know that.” 

“You looked like you were enjoying the walk, and you always had something more you wanted to show me.” Nerevar’s frown deepened. 

“I could have brought the flowers to you, Voryn…” Nerevar shook his head as they arrived at Voryn’s room, the hortator shifting him in his arms to open the door. 

“It’s embarrassing for you to carry me like this…” Voryn grumbled as Nerevar laid him on the bed. 

“You wouldn’t have to be carried if you took care of yourself better.” Nerevar continued to scold him, gingerly removing the shoes Voryn was wearing to get him comfortable, before he took one of Voryn’s legs and began to rub his calf. “Your muscles are so stiff…” Nerevar sighed as he began carefully massaging Voryn’s legs, working the tension out of the overused muscles. 

Voryn couldn’t help but groan in relief; Nerevar’s hands were strong, yet they could be so careful when he touched Voryn. His touch was just firm enough to melt the tension from his body, yet gentle enough to make sure he didn’t cause Voryn any pain. 

“I just don’t understand why these damn things aren’t working properly yet…” Voryn grumbled, letting his legs relax as Nerevar engrossed himself in massaging them. 

“You were in bad shape when I found you.” Nerevar reminded him, a softness in his voice now too. “It’ll take time to recover, you shouldn’t try to rush it.” 

“The healers said I need to walk more or I’ll only delay my recovery.” Voryn reminded him. 

“That doesn’t mean you should try and push through pain until you’ve exhausted yourself.” Nerevar sighed again, exhaling his words. “Pushing yourself too hard will slow down your recovery even more.” Nerevar’s hand slid up his knee, beginning to massage his outer thigh. The muscles there were just as tight, Voryn wincing slightly at the tenderness. “Shh…” Nerevar soothed him as he began gently working the muscles, moving Voryn’s leg to stretch it out as he went to help relax the aching limbs. As he pushed Voryn’s leg further and further up though, he was met with no resistance as Voryn’s knee was pushed practically up to his chest. Voryn moaned softly at the stretch, before Nerevar went stiff against him. As he glanced down he saw the hortator’s cheeks were red, his eyes opened wide as he stared down at Voryn. 

“Y-you’re uhm…” Nerevar began, trying to fill the awkward silence. “Flexible…” 

“Haven’t I always been?” Voryn replied with ease, his breath barely a whisper. Voryn then shifted slightly, his hips tilting and leg moving up further. Nerevar swallowed roughly, the grip under Voryn’s knee growing tighter. When Nerevar remained frozen, Voryn continued, his voice still soft. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping me stretch, Neht…?” 

Hearing his old nickname, Nerevar’s eyes glazed over slightly, a hazy look clouding his blue eyes. His hand went to Voryn’s other leg, slowly massaging the muscles in much the same way, before he took his time slowly pushing that leg up to his chest as well, and then working to press both of his thighs open slightly. At the stretch from the muscles on his inner thighs, Voryn moaned softly, willing his body to relax under Nerevar’s touch. Above him, Nerevar swallowed again once more. 

Voryn couldn’t deny he enjoyed this. He enjoyed knowing Nerevar still found him attractive, still knew his body so well and knew just how to push and stretch him. He loved watching the way Nerevar’s pupils dilated as the robes Voryn was wearing slipped up, exposing a few more inches of skin. Nerevar’s fingers even went to trace over the now exposed thigh, calloused hands marveling at the familiar softness. 

Nerevar leaned over his body now, pushing both of his knees up to his chest once more. Voryn groaned again as Nerevar looped his lower legs up, putting them on his shoulders, and he could feel the muscles in his lower back, thighs, and calves stretch more. 

“Like this…?” Nerevar asked, shifting until his hips were just pressed to Voryn’s. Voryn gasped, his hands grasping the sheets under him. How many times did they test out Voryn’s flexibility like this? How many times did Nerevar take his legs and bend them however he desired, pounding into him eagerly, desperate to get just a bit deeper inside his lover? 

“Mm… Yes,” Voryn murmured. “Just like that, Neht…” 

“Does it feel good?” Nerevar’s hand slid up his stomach, watching the fabric ride up and crinkle under his hand, just teasing at exposing Voryn’s undergarments. 

“Yes…” Voryn’s voice was breathy, gasping out his responses. The stretch did feel good, and he couldn’t deny the excitement in his body from being touched so intimately by his lover once again. Nerevar moved his legs now, slipping them from his shoulders until they wrapped around his waist, laying his toned body down on top of Voryn’s. Nerevar’s face inched closer, Voryn’s eyes fluttering shut as his arms came up to wrap around Nerevar’s shoulders. 

“Hortator,” A knock on the door interrupted them. The intimate atmosphere came crashing down instantly, shattering like glass. Nerevar jumped from the voice, his hands jerking away from Voryn’s thighs as though they were burned. “A Telvanni mage has arrived with word about Solstheim.” 

“I-I’ll be there shortly.” Nerevar untangled himself from Voryn’s legs, quickly pulling Voryn’s robes back down over the limbs. His face was burning red now, spreading up to his ears, as he stood up and adjusted his own clothing, clearing his throat. 

Voryn felt rage bubbling inside him at the interruption, practically seething. He was going to kiss Neht. In just another few seconds he would have been kissing Nerevar, soft and warm with desire just like he longed to. 

“I’ll… See you again, Voryn.” Nerevar said, barely glancing over his shoulder before hurrying out of the room, leaving Voryn stiff in his robes and frustrated to Oblivion and back.

[sparklecryptid]

unbound

A/N: you know that thing about mishmashing my aus together into somesort of coherent worldbuilding ive been talking about all night? have this.

also on ao3

-

In the beginning, no one gives Galahd any thought. Those who live on the Mainland don’t tend to think about Galahd or those living on it beyond trade agreements, tourism, and the occasional grumblings that come from the Clans of the islands whenever a monarch does something they don’t like. Beyond that there is little reason to think of the islands that linger just off of Insomnia’s northeastern coast. The islands are just there.

Unassuming and existing quietly enough that even the monarchs of Lucis forgot that there is a reason that the treaty binding Galahd to Lucis maintains that in times of hardship Lucis - Insomnia more specifically - must open her doors to those from Galahd. Whether they flee war or famine or something else it doesn’t matter. 

Lucis must always keep her doors open to those from Galahd regardless of why they come seeking refuge and only the monarch of the kingdom is permitted to demand why.

The Clans have never used that clause in the treaty until now. Regis isn’t sure who the man they’ve sent him is; the aventurine bead with a daggerquill etched into it tells Regis that the man is from Clan Khara - a Clan that Regis himself knows far too little about even compared to the sparse information he has on the other Clans - and the man smiles as he introduces himself but does not bow.

Regis holds up his hand to prevent his Council from making the lack of proper respect shown to Regis more of a an issue than it ought to be at the moment.

“Elder Demeter,” Regis begins, “May I ask why you’ve requested we take your people in?”

“You won’t be taking the entire population of Galahd.” Demeter’s smile had turned a bit softer after he had seen Regis control the Council that sits around him, “But a good portion of our people would rather remain - Lucian than live under Imperial rule.”

Regis’s brow furrows. He hasn’t received any reports of an invasion being plotted but he doesn’t spend much time thinking of Galahd regardless. It is possible that the Galahdians have intelligence that Regis’ people don’t.

“You have reason to believe you will be invaded and that you will fall,” Regis says, “May I inquire as to why you believe such things and why you would not ask for troops instead?”

Demeter’s smile brightens as if he was expecting Regis to ask and is terribly glad Regis did.

“You may inquire such things,” he agrees and shows too many teeth for Regis’ liking, “Trees bend and break and their corpses sprout new life. Flowers wither and rot and bloom again come spring. The cycle of seasons is something we know very well on Galahd, and we all do our best to prepare for winter.”

“You’re not going to tell me.”

“And have you snatch away some of our best?” Demeter’s smile is polite but a warning lingers behind it. “I think not.”

“You believe that it would not matter if you fought, that you would lose either way. Your intelligence agents must be very good indeed.”

“We have no standing military, sire, and there is little that your men would be able to do.” Demeter’s smile vanishes. “As I said before, I will not have you take away what is ours.”

“I would not take them,” Regis says and does not say that by right the people of Galahd already belong to him, he is their king.

“You say that with such certainty, but my family knows how easily Kings and Emperor’s fall to temptation. It is better to hide your wealth from a dragon lest they take it all, is it not?”

Regis bites back a laugh. The audacity from this man is certainly refreshing. It has been ages since someone other than his closest allies has dared to imply that Regis might be fallible as the rest of humanity.

“I see,” he says, “It is indeed wise to hide your treasures from a dragon’s even should they offer protection. Perhaps a new agreement should be made.”

Regis is not one to waste talent when he sees it and Demeter seems to know what type of man Regis is already.

“There will be time for that,” Demeter agrees, “After you keep the promise your ancestors made.”

“And I will keep it,” Regis promises, “Tell me what you need.”

-

Clan Lazarus has never been idle, though their curse has waned since they’ve first set foot on Galahd they’ve never stopped preparing for what might come.

There are branches of time where Galahd stands. Where she endures and her people remain on her shores and forests despite the Empire’s best efforts. There are branches of time where Galahd falls like an oak to an axe. Where she burns and those that survive do so under Imperial occupation and the desire to send outlanders from their shores lingers in their minds like fog.

There are times where she does neither. Where she simply exists and life goes on. Those branches of the tree are rare and Boreas has never been one prone to flights of fancy. This branch of time is thick, stronger than the others around it and will bear fruit ripe enough that they will linger in legend and history long after Boreas herself is dead.

Contingencies are made. Plans thought through again and again and it’s when every member of Clan Lazarus that has the Sight agrees on the best course of action that Boreas gathers the other heads of Galahd’s Clans and tells them that they should prepare.

“But we will be back?” Neptune of Clan Ulric asks, his face more serious than Boreas can ever remember seeing it in this lifetime.

“The future bends and breaks and mends itself into paths we walks and burdens we bear,” Boreas answers and bites at the tip of her frostbitten thumb, “We might not be back. Others will.”

Neptune relaxes. The taut line of his shoulders going soft as he exhales softly.

“I don’t need to see Galahd again after this,” Neptune says and Boreas does not tell him that he won’t. Neptune has made up his mind already, he will die in his homeland to give others more time. “But I am glad others will live to see her shores again.”

“Your nephew will,” Boreas answers, “Your niece as well.”

“And my sister?”

Boreas is silent. Her blue gaze piercing through Neptune as she looks at him.

He gives her a wry grin.

“She is your sister,” Boreas says, “You know the answer already.”

-

Nyx wants to fight. It’s understandable why Nyx wants to fight. Nyx wants to fight because Galahd is his home, because despite plenty of time to prepare and leave Nyx doesn’t want to give up the life he has. His bar-tending job with Libertus is going well, on Mondays he gets to go and help out with whatever needs to be done around town, Nyx has freedom here on the islands.

He is free to phase through Crowe when she tries to sneak up on him and nobody bats an eye when he and Selena decide that the best way to solve and argument is to see how long they can let themselves fall before instinct kicks in and they warp out of it.

There is a freedom in knowing that everyone knows Nyx’s family is a little bit magic and expects them to behave as if they could rend the world to cinders. There is a freedom in knowing that despite that nothing is expected of him. He does not need to rule because of his power and he has desire to.

He has less desire to go to Insomnia and leave those who will be fighting, those who will be staying. 

“I should stay,” Nyx tells his uncle who looks at him with tired eyes, “I can-”

“You can’t change what is already in motion,” Neptune says and ruffles Nyx’s hair despite the fact that Nyx has been an adult for three years now, “There is nothing to do but go with the tides.”

“You sound like a Bellum.”

“I have been hanging out with Poseidon quite a bit,” Neptune agrees.

“He’s staying too isn’t he?”

“He is. Most of us Elders are. Our replacements have already been doing most of the heavy lifting while we prepare.”

“For war.”

“It’s not a war,” Neptune disagrees, “A war implies two opposing armies. We have none.”

“A massacre then. I could-”

“Save a few lives? Of course you could. But I can do the same and I rather it be me who stays than you. You will see these shores again someday, that much was promised.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything a Lazarus says.”

“I only believe the truth,” Neptune smiles, “You know your mother is staying too.”

“I tried to talk her out of it this morning.” Nyx huffs.

“She’s already made up her mind, just as I have made up mine. You have to take care of your sister. She’s the voice of reason out of the two of you.”

Nyx is silent after that. He wants to stay. He wants to stay. He wants to argue that Selena is just as restless and reckless as he is because she is. Nyx wants to argue that Selena can take care of herself.

He doesn’t. Nyx can’t. He is her brother. Nyx has to take Selena somewhere safe and make sure she stays safe. It’s what brothers do.

“Fine,” Nyx says and he and his uncle ignore the break in his voice as he says it.

-

“I am not supposed to be here,” Luche tells the hulking man he dragged out of an Imperial prison as they sit across from each other in restaurant at Hammerhead, “I am supposed to be on a boat to Insomnia.”

Titus blinks at Luche. He has spoken much since Luche had dragged him out of an Imperial base while cursing his weight and the various security measures Luche had to use his Sight to navigate around. Titus is tired. He has bags under his eyes the size of some of the fish Luche has seen Sonitus pull out of the sea and he’s pale enough that Luche wonders whether or not he’s been cursed by Shiva too.

“Why are you here then?” Titus’ voice is rough, hoarse from disuse and his words drag together like stone against stone.

“I saw your aunt,” Luche says and does not specify how he had seen Titus’ aunt, “She was devastated when she heard you were MIA.”

“My aunts are dead.” Titus’ shoulders are heavy with defeat and it makes Luche want to hit him. 

“Is that what they told you?” Luche raises an eyebrow and spies a spark of hope light itself in Titus’ eyes. “Can’t say for the other side of your family but the aunt you have in Clan Furia is very much alive. She’s going to beat you black and blue for not keeping in contact though.”

Titus makes a sound that might be considered a chuckle if one was seriously ill and in danger of death.

Luche counts it a victory.

-

The people of Lucis don't pay attention to the residents of Galahd until they have to.

Galahd falls. It's people scatter. They plant roots in new places, build communities where there were none before. Their home is considered Imperial territory, the rage in their breast at having to leave does not falter but it changes.

"We're going back eventually," Cor hears a Galahdian say to someone else.

"I wouldn't get my hopes up," the other replies in a heavy Insominan accent.

Cor turns just in time to see the feral grin that graces the Galahdians face.

"It's not hope," the Galahdian says as if discussing the weather, "It's fact."

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 9: Plants

(Disclaimer: only one of the characters in this story belongs to me. If you’d like to learn more about LevianthanPat, go here. This story is actually something of a sequel to the first time I wrote about him and EldritchPlier, who belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe. CryptidXian is yet another one of the LxianEgos made by @sammys-magical-au; go here to learn more about him.)

(Trigger Warnings: body horror, implied sleep problems, implied nightmares/night-terrors, gore, blood, organs, body horror, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

(If you’d like to use distorted fonts like the one you’ll be seeing in this story, then I recommend going to FancyTextGenerator.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3   Day 4 Day 5 Day 6 Day 7 Day 8 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13

It feels like only a moment or two has passed since you closed your eyes for the night. 

Now you’re reopening them and finding yourself in something that is most certainly not your bed. Most other people would probably panic in this situation, but you don’t. You know you don’t have to.

For one thing, whatever you’re lying in isn’t a bathtub full of ice, either. ‘Matter of fact, as you push yourself to sit up, a decent amount of leaves fall away from your face to join the rest in the pile around you. They all come in lovely shades of red and orange and yellow; it makes sense, considering the state of the trees outside your apartment. 

For another thing, you can’t feel the leaves as you brush them away from your clothes. It’s not that your skin is numb—everything within touching distance just doesn’t have the texture it should have. The leaves don’t crunch or crackle under your weight (very unsatisfying, I know).  

You’ve learned to recognize this hazy, near-weightless sensation. 

You’re asleep right now. You’re dreaming. 

And you have enough experience to brace yourself right now. You may not know how or when it’ll happen, but you absolutely know that there’s going to be a twist here.

Hundreds of years of scientific progress have already passed. Research has grown, numerous experiments have been documented, and people can still only throw their best guesses at the concepts of sleep and all its weirdness.

You doubt humanity will ever be able to fully understand sleep. 

A bit of a pessimistic outlook, yes, but you have every single damn right to be a pessimist. 

It’s been months since the constant stream of nightmares started plaguing you. 

Ten months, to be specific. 

Ten. Whole. Months. Of having a raging dumpster fire for a sleep-schedule. 

(To be fair, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a bit relieved that the nightmares didn’t finally end at nine months. Because timing like that would’ve just been begging fate to open a whole new horrific can of worms for you. . .)

Sure, this has paved the way for you to become a somewhat lucid dreamer, but that’s not really a silver lining. Just because you’re aware of when you’re dreaming doesn’t necessarily mean you have any more power in aforementioned dreams than you did before. 

You’d think that, at this point, you would’ve been able to adjust the nightmares. 

You’re sure that you could’ve adjusted to them, but you cAN’T, BECAUSE THE DAMN NIGHTMARES ARE ONLY HALF OF YOUR PROBLEM!

You heave a sigh, dragging your dream-hand down the side of your dream-face. It feels like how the plume of smoke rising from a freshly-ignited scented candle looks.

Yeah, the impending scenario is going to suck, but there’s no point standing here and getting yourself worked up over it. In fact, that’ll probably just make things even worse whenever they do decide to happen.

Might as well just take it in stride. 

You pick yourself up, pulling a dream-leaf from your hair and letting it flutter down to the ground, which is blanketed by long, unkempt grass. Turning around in a small circle, you realize that you’re in the middle of. . .some kind of garden? There’s a decent amount of trees surrounding you, all at varying distances from one another, but it seems only one of them has actually shifted colors and shed its leaves. 

All the rest are in full bloom, their branches covered in flowers. You can recognize a crabapple here, a cherry blossom there, a few different Cape Myrtles. The explosions of color are so pretty that it takes you a few seconds to realize how the trees are twitching. Not swaying like they would in the wind—there’s no trace of a breeze around you. Twitching. Like wayward muscles in a person’s arms or legs.  

You chew your lip, making a note to not get too close as you start walking. The grass almost feels like water around your ankles. It’s not wet (thank God, because having to deal with wet socks on top of a nightmare would just be needlessly cruel); it just seems to have the same weight as a creek or a pond. 

You keep your head on a swivel, miraculously alert and aware for a sleeping person. You know there’s really no point, but you’d still rather at least see the danger coming than be caught off-guard. So, of course it doesn’t take too long for you to discover the patches of flowers that are growing around the bases of the spastic trees. It takes even less time for you to realize how the aforementioned patches apparently go on as far as the eye can see. Sure, there’s enough space for you to wander without accidentally harming any of the flora, but they’re still pretty much everywhere. 

It makes you think of anatomy textbooks, of their chapters on the circulatory system, to be exact. The grass-pathways can be compared veins, which would leave the flower patches and trees in the roles of larger organs. 

Logically speaking, wouldn’t that make you a germ? A foreign, invading virus?

You’re not sure, but that doesn’t mean you want to find out.

Even with your paranoia, you just can’t help but pause to kneel down and get a closer look at the flowers. You immediately have to rethink that choice when several stems all pivot in place in order for their blossoms to look back at you. 

A mix of roses and peonies, each one coming in either a dark or pastel hue. They’re all gorgeous. The slick, rolling eyeballs in the centers where the pollen should be. . .well, they come in different colors too, along with different pupil-shapes. Some of them are welling up with tears, which drip out between the petals and plop down into the soil. 

You have to swallow a lump in your throat, but at the same time, you don’t think the eyes make their flowers look bad. Just a little strange. It could be worse: they could be shooting lasers in your face.

For whatever reason, you offer a polite nod to the flowers before standing back up and continuing your stroll. Even as you move farther and farther away, you can’t stop feeling all those little eyes on you.

You’re casting a shadow—all of the plants are as well—but it’s dim and flickering. You can see everything just fine, but the light beaming down on this environment is dull. That doesn’t take away from all the colors, but it still makes you feel like there’s a thin dusting of tarnished brass over everything. 

You look up, craning your neck. 

The sky is completely and utterly filled with clouds. Rather than white, they’re a mixture of gray and a deep shade of mottled yellow, along with a tint of otherworldly blue around the edges. They really do look just like clouds always seem to look in abstract painting: a bit jagged around the edges, still and purposefully layered. You can’t see any trace of the sun (if there even is a sun in this dream). 

You keep glancing down at all the flowers you pass. Plenty of them have teeth lining their petals, along with little tongues that waggle up at you without making a sound and uvulas in the place of their stigmas or styles or whatevers. (None of these ones burst into song, to your slight disappointment.) 

A number of the flowers actually appear normal, if not simply weird-looking all on their own with no help from ever-shifting dream rules. Orchids of the bat, monkey-faced, naked-man, et cetera variety. A plethora of chimeras, pitcher plants, voodoo lilies, sundew, swaddled babies, dancing girls, baneberries. . .Hell, you even come across a few classics: sunflowers, tulips, sweet williams. 

But they all seem to have a sort of. . .fleshy aura. Like they’re bound to become abnormal one way or another and you’ve just so happened to catch them before the changeover. You don’t know how to make sense of them. 

Sooner or later, you come across a hill. It’s a small one, but standing on it can offer a good view of all the other flora around here. It’s also topped with one tree, keeping it  sequestered from all the others. You move slowly, carefully, squinting up at this particular tree. Once you’ve scaled the hill, you realize that it isn’t twitching at all. It’s standing perfectly still, like a normal tree should. Curious, you begin to pace around it. 

Your instincts tell you there are trees just like this in the real world, but you’re still positive that you’ve never actually seen one. It seems to be about thirteen feet tall, covered in reddish-brown bark. Oblong, glossy green leaves adorn its branches, many of which end in little clusters of hanging fruit. The berries are a cheerful color, soft orange enveloped by red, perfectly spherical with rough-yet-fuzzy-looking surfaces. They look a bit similar to strawberries, but you predict they’d taste a little more tart. A mild, sweet scent is wafting off of it from all angles. 

While it doesn’t have an entire patch of smaller plants to loom over, there’s still a generous amount of black flowers growing close to its trunk. You rack your brain as they stare at them. Morning glories? Hibiscus? No. . .hollyhocks. 

You’re so proud of your memory that it takes an embarrassingly long few seconds for you to notice movement between the flowers’ stems. (It’s honestly kind of hilarious, considering how you’ve been bracing yourself for whatever is going to make this dream into a nightmare.)

But then, out of the corner of your eye like The Shining, you see a gnarled, pale hand rise from the ground.

You freeze in place. A prickly sensation crawls along your spine. 

As you watch, the hand is lifted higher and higher into the air on an unnecessarily long arm. There seems to be an elbow-esque joint every twelve inches. By the time it could easily tap you on the nose, the hand dips back down, causing the rest of the limb to arc with a series of pops and clicks. The hand hovers by one of the hollyhock blossoms. A few bony fingers reach for those dark petals; sharp nails protrude from the cuticles, but they don’t tear into the flowers. No, they’re just. . .gently probing them. Almost like a curious toddler would. 

That allegory dies a quick death as the long, low creeeaaak of a tree branch breaks the silence, as you look back up to find a ghoulish face, angled upside-down, mere inches from yours. With nostrils ever-so-slightly flaring like a raccoon and dead, milky-white eyes drilling into yours, the creature announces, “฿ØØ.”

You don’t scream, but a high-pitched, unintelligible noise still escapes your lips as you reel back. You trip over your own feet, feeling as though a bucket of icy water has been dumped over your head as you collapse onto the grass. 

The creature snickers at your shock. As it turns its head rightside-up, bangs of black hair fall into place just above its eyes, matching the stubble growing along its jaw and above its lips. Its head ever-so-slightly pushes toward you. This helps you discover how its neck looks a lot like that arm protruding from the hollyhocks. The only difference is that it’s even longer. As you get to your feet and back away, you see how the creature’s neck is poking out from behind the fruit tree.

That’s. . .not possible. 

The tree’s trunk is thin enough to wrap your arms around. There’s no way it can actually be hiding the rest of this entity’s body.

And yet, that’s exactly what it’s doing. (Or maybe this creature just doesn’t have a torso? Who’s to say? Not you, that’s for sure.)

“₳Ⱨ, ₮ⱧɆ ØⱠĐ Ø₦Ɇ-₮₩Ø ₱Ʉ₦₵Ⱨ ₮₳₵₮ł₵,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe proclaims, speaking in what you believe to be a thick Portuguese accent. “ł₮'₴ ₳Ⱡ₩₳Ɏ₴ ₣Ʉ₦₦Ɏ.”

“. . .W-where the hell did you come from?” You blurt. You know that’s not the nicest thing to say right after meeting someone, but Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe literally started this off with a jumpscare. 

“₮ⱤɄ₴₮ ₥Ɇ, ɎØɄ ĐØ₦'₮ ₩₳₦₮ ₮Ø ₭₦Ø₩. ɆVɆ₦ ł₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₴₮ØⱤɎ ₩₳₴₦'₮ ₩₳₳₳₳₳₳Ɏ ₮ØØ ⱠØ₦₲, ⱧɆ₳Ɽł₦₲ ł₮ ₩ØɄⱠĐ ₴₮łⱠⱠ ₱ⱤØ฿₳฿ⱠɎ ₥₳₭Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ ł₥₱ØⱤ₮₳₦₮ ₱₳Ɽ₮₴ Ø₣ ɎØɄⱤ ฿Ɽ₳ł₦ ₥ɆⱠ₮.” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe raises an eyebrow. “₦Ø₩ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ł ₮Ⱨł₦₭ Ø₣ ł₮. . .ł ₵ØɄⱠĐ ₱ⱤØ฿₳฿ⱠɎ ₳₴₭ ɎØɄ ₮ⱧɆ ₴₳₥Ɇ QɄɆ₴₮łØ₦.”

The way your stomach sinks feels even worse that it would in the real world. 

You realize far too late that this entity isn’t just a product of your brain. He’s not just another nightmare. 

He’s a sentient being. He’s in a weight class of his own. 

And the fact that something like him is interacting with you while you’re dreaming does not bode well.

“I don’t want any trouble,” you insist, holding up your hands defensively. “I’m literally asleep right now. If I’m trespassing—or if I did anything to disturb you, I-I swear I didn’t mean to.”

The closest section of Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe’s neck is pushed upwards, folding horizontally. Two joints bend by either side of his head, pointed toward the sky. It’s only when the arm extends further from the hollyhocks, along with a second arm that stretches around from somewhere just out of eyeshot, and glides closer to him, hands spreading in a lame gesture that you realize he’s simply shrugging without shoulders. “₮ⱧɆⱤɆ'₴ ₦Ø ₮ⱤØɄ฿ⱠɆ. ł ₲ɄɆ₴₴ ł ₴ⱧØɄⱠĐ'VɆ ₭₦Ø₩₦ ɎØɄ'Đ ₣ł₦Đ ɎØɄⱤ ₩₳Ɏ ⱧɆⱤɆ ₴ØØ₦ɆⱤ ØⱤ Ⱡ₳��ɆⱤ.”

“. . .What?” Somehow, you’re caught even more off-guard than you already were. “What do you mean by that?”

“ØⱧ, ₵Ø₥Ɇ Ø₦. ɎØɄ ₭₦Ø₩ ₩Ⱨ₳₮ ł ₥Ɇ₳₦,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe chuckles, lightly shaking his head. Even with the total lack of irises and pupils, he’s still able to give you the classic Seriously? look. “ł'₥ ₦Ø₮ ₮ⱧɆ ₣łⱤ₴₮ ₥Ø₦₴₮ɆⱤ ɎØɄ'VɆ ₥Ɇ₮. ₳₦Đ ł ₩Ø₦'₮ ฿Ɇ ₮ⱧɆ Ⱡ₳₴₮, Ɇł₮ⱧɆⱤ.”

You can practically feel the color drain from your face. You don’t try to stop yourself from nodding. You’ve been taking sleeping medication, practicing healthy bedtime rituals, yadda-yadda-yadda. 

And even if that stuff has been helping a little, it’s still pretty damn useless in the face of certain things.

Two things, to be precise. And they both start with P. (Well, as far as you know. You haven’t been able to learn their full names; apparently because you need multiple forked tongues for correct pronunciation. You’re still not sure why either of them bothered sharing this information, since you don’t exactly have faces to put those partial names to.) 

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe watches you think, his face-splitting grin becoming thoughtful. He tilts his head to the side, edging just a little closer to you. The way his neck contorts through the air almost reminds you of a caterpillar climbing a tree. 

“How do you know about that?” You wonder aloud. You’ve learned that it’s pretty common for creatures like him to just know many things without actually having the means to, but you’re still curious. Besides, if he’s content with just chatting, then maybe he’ll stay that way until you’re able to finally wake up. 

“฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ ł'VɆ ₴ɆɆ₦ ł₮,” he answers. “₴Ⱨ₳ĐØ₩₴ ₥₳₭Ɇ ₱ⱤɆ₮₮Ɏ ₲ØØĐ ₲₳₮Ɇ₩₳Ɏ₴ ł₣ ł ĐØ ₴₳Ɏ ₴Ø ₥Ɏ₴ɆⱠ₣. Ɇ₴₱Ɇ₵ł₳ⱠⱠɎ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ₮ⱧɆɎ'ⱤɆ ฿Ɇł₦₲ ₵₳₴₮ ฿Ɏ ₣ⱠØ₩ɆⱤ₴.”

Your train of thought screeches its way into a collision. “Wait—so. . .so, you’ve been in my room before?”

“ɎɆ₳Ⱨ, ₳ ₣Ɇ₩ ₮ł₥Ɇ₴. Ø₦₵Ɇ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ ₳Ⱡ₴ɆɆ₱, ₮₩ł₵Ɇ ₩ⱧɆ₦ ɎØɄ ₩ɆⱤɆ JɄ₴₮ ØɄ₮ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₳₱₳Ɽ₮₥Ɇ₦₮,” he replies, very much unbothered by the way your jaw drops. 

You blink. You blink again. You begin to pace around in a small circle, hands subconsciously rising to grasp at your head like it might fall off. 

Memories of previous nights barge their way between your ears. The red light outlining your bedroom door from the other side. . .the pair of glowing eyes on the rippling figure looming against the glass of your window. . .their respective, concerning-yet-oddly-personable voices calling out to you, going back and forth between squabbling with each other and trying to convince you to let one of them inside. . .

“Do you know them?” You finally ask. You’re not sure where that question came from, but it feels like it could be important. 

For the very first time since you saw him, Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe’s smile fades. He clicks his tongue and chews his lip.“ɎɆ₴, Ʉ₦₣ØⱤɆ₮Ʉ₦₳₮ɆⱠɎ.”

Your nights of being a literal captive audience for Plier and Pat’s disputes have been terrifying enough. You never would’ve guessed that the one classic vampire rule could apply to outer abominations, but you damn well haven’t forgotten to thank your lucky stars for it. 

. . .Except now you’ve just learned that apparently not all surreal horrors have those limitations and you’re talking to one that’s pretty much had access to more than enough blackmail material and if he’s been able to do that then how many others have been sneaking in while you’re unaware and—

“ɎØɄ Ⱨ₳VɆ ₲ØØĐ ₮₳₴₮Ɇ ł₦ ₣ⱠØ₩ɆⱤ₴, ฿Ɏ ₮ⱧɆ ₩₳Ɏ,” Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe mentions. His seemingly-unconnected arms draw closer to each other, folding across his che—uh, neck. The left hand’s palm supports the elbow of the right arm as its hand idly grasps his lower jaw. “ł ₮ØØ₭ ₴Ø₥Ɇ ₵Ⱡł₱₱ł₦₲₴ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₮ⱧɆ ₱Ø₮₴ Ø₦ ɎØɄⱤ ĐɆ₴₭. ₳ⱠØɆ VɆⱤ₳, ₲₳ⱤĐɆ₦ł₳, ₳₦Đ J₳₴₥ł₦Ɇ, Ɽł₲Ⱨ₮?”

You’re snapped out of the near anxiety-attack in a way similar to a rubber band breaking. 

“Um. . .yeah, that’s right,” you cough, thinking of the three green friends you recently purchased from that nursery downtown. You’ve personally named them Sonny, Cher, and Yasmin, but that information doesn’t really seem relevant right now. Besides, there’s a good chance the monster already knows that.

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe nods, and his grin reappears so quickly, like it never left his face to begin with. Despite his unsettling demeanor, you can still detect some genuine gratitude. “ł'VɆ ฿ɆɆ₦ ₥Ɇ₳₦ł₦₲ ₮Ø ₳ĐĐ ₮ⱧØ₴Ɇ ₮Ø ₥Ɏ ₵ØⱠⱠɆ₵₮łØ₦ ₣ØⱤ ₳ ₩ⱧłⱠɆ ₦Ø₩.”

You nod back, mind momentarily going blank. You’ve learned that there’s a slew of unsavory truths behind even the most unassuming things, but this guy’s apparent fondness for horticulture doesn’t seem too nefarious. (Read: seem. You still need to stay on your toes.)

About thirty seconds of painful awkwardness pass the two of you by.

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe lowers one arm in order to drum his nails on the fruit tree’s trunk. 

You rock back and forth on your heels, biting at the inside of your cheek. And right as you have an idea of what to say next, a long, low, gurgling sound breaks the strange silence. Several more join it.

You and Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe glance down just in time to see how the black hollyhocks are trembling. The nearest one leans forward, with a round lump in its stem that definitely wasn't there a few minutes ago. You watch with confusion and mild dread as the lump works its way up, pushing at the plant’s green skin from the inside. Then, once the lump settles at the part where the petals all gather at the base of the flower’s head. . .it retches like a drunk college student on helium. 

The hollyhock angles its blossom downward, and to the tune of a long, sickening sssqqquiii-plop! a slimy heart is pitched out, landing on the grass with a solid splat. Strands of blood cling to the black petals. The bloom quivers in a way that almost looks like heavy breathing.

A small scream tears through your throat as you stagger back, unable to take your eyes off of the new mess.

. . .Well, that last part changes once all the other hollyhocks start spitting out a variety of wet organs, the blood threatening to spray on your clothes. You know it’s just dream-blood, and you know you’re just wearing dream-clothes. But you also know that there will always, always be unpleasant side-effects to touching blood that’s just leaked out of something it shouldn’t possibly be leaking out of in the first place. 

You clamp a hand over your mouth; the wave of nausea that rolls over you feels itchy and sweaty and poisonous. 

Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe, meanwhile, heaves a sigh as he leans toward the flowers. “ⱤɆVɆⱤ₴Ɇ Ⱨ₳₦₳Ⱨ₳₭ł,” he announces in a grim tone. His smile vanishes again, this time being replaced by a guilty wince. “ł ₥Ʉ₴₮'VɆ ฿ⱤØ₭Ɇ₦ Ø₦Ɇ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ⱤɄⱠɆ₴ ₩ł₮ⱧØɄ₮ ⱤɆ₳ⱠłⱫł₦₲. . .Đ₳₥₦ ł₮, Đ₳₥₦ ł₮, Đ₳₥₦ ł₮. . .”

His neck encircles the tree, giving it some space as he examines each of the gore-spewing flowers. The worry in his features grows worse and worse. If not for your reasonable disgust, you’d probably feel sympathy. 

Eventually, he stops what you can only categorize as his method of pacing. His neck arches like that of a striking cobra as he purses his lips, obviously thinking. “₦Ø₮ Ⱡł₭Ɇ ł ₵₳₦'₮ ₮₳₭Ɇ ₵₳ⱤɆ Ø₣ ₮Ⱨł₴ Ⱡ₳₮ɆⱤ,” he murmurs. After retracing his path around the fruit tree, his milky-white eyes wander back over to you. 

Your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your eyes twitch and grow to the size of dinner plates. Your body doesn’t feel light anymore. It feels heavy, far heavier than what the scale in your bathroom suggested the last time you used it. A sensation that can only be described as pin-and-needles mixed with overwhelming heat oozes along your skin. You keep backing away. Mr. Nightmare-Humanoid-Giraffe. . .well, he doesn’t lunge at you. He doesn’t look angry enough to do that. But he’s still following you, still staring at you.

Out of nowhere, your ankle collides with something solid, and you fall back. 

You don’t topple into the grass. You don’t crash down onto anything.

Your vision swims, the world around you becoming an awful mix of spiraling colors and noise as you fall and fall and fall and—

Your ears pop as your eyes snap open. You gasp for air, sitting up with enough force that it’s a miracle you don’t trebuchet across your bedroom.  Your hands fly to your head, scrubbing at your eyes, pressing at your temples. 

And as your vision adjusts itself to the darkness, as you roll your shoulders to try and force yourself to stop shaking, you happen to peer over at the pots on your desk. 

Sonny, Cher, and Yasmin peer back, still and silent as always.

. . .Or, they are now. 

You swallow a lump in your throat, wondering if you actually just managed to catch Cher’s snow-white petals quivering.

@sammys-magical-au @inkbedos

[crowdedstranger]

the things i want to share about my granddad:

the camellias bloom through the winter,

vibrant magenta, one gentle snip,

the single flower floats alone, i watch us spin

thinking of warmth, of what should've been,

soft peeling of oranges under my fingers,

sticky zest lingers on and on

summer sun sets slowly, the 126 open,

someday I'll see it, just as forgiving as it is lonely

fish and chips by the water, delicate flakes torn apart

tartar sauce and lemon juice, so sour it's, oh, sweet-heart

early risers, sunscreen put on OUTSIDE

salty noses, in the shallow end you can be anything

mermaids circle, aviators frame your face

i wonder how long until i brave the deep

i sit in the truck bed, almost tall enough for our eyes to meet

no attempts to look ahead as tequila sunrise becomes our rearview

we hide under a stack of books tall enough to pass the afternoon

spines sit side by side, pages turning in a race not winnable

both born under the autumn sun,

then again, by a sycamore tree I can't wrap my arms around

you were here as a child, my mother too,

will my child bear the weight of this love?

inherited places, drawn to the burning orange, the blood red

my hands sticky from the gala,

apples fill my basket and belly,

cider spilling on the back seat

i will remember a childhood of love and light

of every fruit and every season,

learning to love, to let go, as it all eventually does

my need-to-grow-into-it kind of halo,

your golden sunhat in the hallway

can't leave without eyeing my reflection

wondering when i'll start to look like you,

completely unaware i already do

the things i don't want to share about my granddad:

a heart kept in overdrive, while never sure where to start

oil-stained fingers working until there's some kind of spark

double vision, misdirected, my throat will suffice

tear-stained cheeks, but you only nicked my heart

i'm still unsure it happened, the invisible engine,

they only see it after it fucking starts,

my north star a whiskey scented apology,

but you remember it too,

be careful what you wish for, she says while painting herself blue

strangers’ tears on my jacket, salt and pepper hair reduced to snow

with a name like James there's sacrilege everywhere I go

losing memory, losing trust, losing my own sense of just

drunken haze, rising to an ever-blazing son

welcome home, our favorite corpse livens the living room,

none of us brave enough to carry her to the closet

who does this body belong to?

how long until i can let go?

could i really, if i wanted?

for once, maybe i don’t need to know,

learning so far, certainly, anything goes

no one needs to be honest, silence all ghosts

if only, how much time spent trying to be alone

I'll look over my shoulder for the rest of my life,

do you really want to know what I remember?

[elabuelazo]

the mango tree, the mango cart, and me

By Seema

in another life, I would have liked to own a fruit cart. I imagine that I’m standing behind my fruit cart on a casually busy road in Hyderabad. I set up early, so the people with morning shifts and the mothers with a full day of caretaking could pick up a bag of mangos or a bag of… actually, I change my mind. I would like to own a mango cart – only mangos sold here.

in this life, I know the patterns and complexities of a growing mango tree and I know what it needs to flourish. I watch the skies to make sure there aren’t too many cloudy days – this tree needs an abundance of sunlight to grow the sweetest, most fragrant mangos. I curiously study the earth and her labors, and I tend to the soil. occasionally, I collect a fallen mango leaf or two and gently preserve them between the pages of a book. 

I go to the mango tree on days the world feels heavy and lean my back against its sturdy trunk. I take deep breaths of relief under its inviting shade. I feel the most at home under a tree, especially this one. not only are we each other’s caretakers, this tree connects me to the people I belong to. I may not know much about Ammi Jaan, my maternal grandmother, but she certainly once reveled in the sweetness of a perfectly ripe mango. I know that she would have taught me to become familiar with the unmistakable scent of a good mango. 

this tree and the fruits of its labor remind me of love, particularly in the form of freshly cut fruit. I think about all of the times a bowl of sliced mango was placed in front of a sulking daughter or grieving father as an inaudible apology or a sincere offering of love. I am reminded of the joy and excitement of standing in the kitchen, looking up at your mom as she peels and cuts a mango, patiently waiting for her to hand you the gutli, the pit. holding the gutli with two small hands and savoring the remnants of the mango felt like being chosen for a high honor – especially when you have siblings. 

anyway, the mango tree gives me the solace I need, and I get back on my feet and I go on. I patiently wait for the harvest season to begin and I quietly worry about choosing just the right time to pluck the fruit off its branches. when the time comes to harvest, I carefully audit the mangos – I want to make sure they are of a certain quality. I hope that my customers come to trust my mangos – maybe if they trust the mangos, they’ll trust me. 

eventually, I am ready to offer my mangoes to the people walking by on this medium-busy road in Hyderabad. I speak to my customers in many tongues – Urdu, Hindi, Telugu, Punjabi, even the occasional Farsi. I surrender with ease when someone drives a hard bargain for a bag of mangos, and I am thankful when someone tells me to keep the change. I nod respectfully when elders complain about how different the world is now, I patiently help kids become familiar with that unmistakable scent, and I regularly exchange recipes and local gossip with other women. 

I ask people how they are and they ask me how I am – we may not always give each other long answers, but they’re always honest. when the line at my mango cart dwindles, I watch people walk by. I notice the colors of their clothes and wonder what kind of urgency they’re managing today. I keep bandaids with me for the kids that scrape their knees, and I keep two folding chairs and a small table in the shade of my cart — for those who need some solace and perhaps a bowl of sliced mango. when it’s time to close up my cart for the day, I savor the sweetness of my people and hope that I did some good today. 

I go home to people who love mangos just as much as I do. I go home to a house that is supported by the mango tree and the mango cart, and it’s just enough. I sit in the angan, the courtyard, of my house with a cup of chai and the worries of the world begin to weigh on me again – I let them linger, but I don’t allow them to overstay. I breathe deeply, just like I do when I sit under the mango tree, and I listen for the sounds of living. 

I hear a group of kids playing outside the front gate, I hear the clang of pots in the kitchen, I hear the azan, the call to prayer, for Maghrib from the masjid down the road, I hear someone I love call for me from another room. the worries wash away as I am reminded that I have everything I need. I am reminded that the mango tree and the mango cart sustain me, and the urgency to live a different kind of life fades. when my head hits the pillow, I sleep just like I live – peacefully. 

[prueba1993]

the mango tree, the mango cart, and me

By Seema

in another life, I would have liked to own a fruit cart. I imagine that I’m standing behind my fruit cart on a casually busy road in Hyderabad. I set up early, so the people with morning shifts and the mothers with a full day of caretaking could pick up a bag of mangos or a bag of… actually, I change my mind. I would like to own a mango cart – only mangos sold here.

in this life, I know the patterns and complexities of a growing mango tree and I know what it needs to flourish. I watch the skies to make sure there aren’t too many cloudy days – this tree needs an abundance of sunlight to grow the sweetest, most fragrant mangos. I curiously study the earth and her labors, and I tend to the soil. occasionally, I collect a fallen mango leaf or two and gently preserve them between the pages of a book. 

I go to the mango tree on days the world feels heavy and lean my back against its sturdy trunk. I take deep breaths of relief under its inviting shade. I feel the most at home under a tree, especially this one. not only are we each other’s caretakers, this tree connects me to the people I belong to. I may not know much about Ammi Jaan, my maternal grandmother, but she certainly once reveled in the sweetness of a perfectly ripe mango. I know that she would have taught me to become familiar with the unmistakable scent of a good mango. 

this tree and the fruits of its labor remind me of love, particularly in the form of freshly cut fruit. I think about all of the times a bowl of sliced mango was placed in front of a sulking daughter or grieving father as an inaudible apology or a sincere offering of love. I am reminded of the joy and excitement of standing in the kitchen, looking up at your mom as she peels and cuts a mango, patiently waiting for her to hand you the gutli, the pit. holding the gutli with two small hands and savoring the remnants of the mango felt like being chosen for a high honor – especially when you have siblings. 

anyway, the mango tree gives me the solace I need, and I get back on my feet and I go on. I patiently wait for the harvest season to begin and I quietly worry about choosing just the right time to pluck the fruit off its branches. when the time comes to harvest, I carefully audit the mangos – I want to make sure they are of a certain quality. I hope that my customers come to trust my mangos – maybe if they trust the mangos, they’ll trust me. 

eventually, I am ready to offer my mangoes to the people walking by on this medium-busy road in Hyderabad. I speak to my customers in many tongues – Urdu, Hindi, Telugu, Punjabi, even the occasional Farsi. I surrender with ease when someone drives a hard bargain for a bag of mangos, and I am thankful when someone tells me to keep the change. I nod respectfully when elders complain about how different the world is now, I patiently help kids become familiar with that unmistakable scent, and I regularly exchange recipes and local gossip with other women. 

I ask people how they are and they ask me how I am – we may not always give each other long answers, but they’re always honest. when the line at my mango cart dwindles, I watch people walk by. I notice the colors of their clothes and wonder what kind of urgency they’re managing today. I keep bandaids with me for the kids that scrape their knees, and I keep two folding chairs and a small table in the shade of my cart — for those who need some solace and perhaps a bowl of sliced mango. when it’s time to close up my cart for the day, I savor the sweetness of my people and hope that I did some good today. 

I go home to people who love mangos just as much as I do. I go home to a house that is supported by the mango tree and the mango cart, and it’s just enough. I sit in the angan, the courtyard, of my house with a cup of chai and the worries of the world begin to weigh on me again – I let them linger, but I don’t allow them to overstay. I breathe deeply, just like I do when I sit under the mango tree, and I listen for the sounds of living. 

I hear a group of kids playing outside the front gate, I hear the clang of pots in the kitchen, I hear the azan, the call to prayer, for Maghrib from the masjid down the road, I hear someone I love call for me from another room. the worries wash away as I am reminded that I have everything I need. I am reminded that the mango tree and the mango cart sustain me, and the urgency to live a different kind of life fades. when my head hits the pillow, I sleep just like I live – peacefully. 

[bluhours]

       *  @shutdwnn​  alexa  play  sweet  dreams  by  tomorrow  x  together

          *    the  holidays  are  always  stressful,  that  can  certainly  be  said  for  any  family  under  the  sun  —  but  when  you  have  a  close  knit  family  of  eight,  plus  nieces  and  nephews  and  significant  others,  the  house  in  bedford  park  can  get  cramped  rather  quickly.  matt  is  used  to  it,  and  takes  it  all  in  stride  ;  this  is  his  home,  his  family,  the  very  walls  that  raised  him,  despite  the  flames  of  chaos  him  and  august  were  engulfed  in  the  moment  they  stepped  through  the  door.

          *    he  didn’t  want  august  to  get  overwhelmed,  despite  knowing  just  how  much  his  family  truly  was,  but  he  should’ve  known  that  was  a  pipe  dream  in  of  itself.  they  were  showered  with  love  as  soon  as  they  stepped  into  the  front  door,  mary  the  first  to  greet  them  and  welcoming  them  into  the  warmth  of  matt’s  childhood  home  —  taking  august’s  coat  and  not  even  as  much  batting  an  eye  at  the  designer  fabric  in  her  hands.  she  hung  it  up  with  everything  else,  beside  the  bright  pink  puffer  jacket  that  belonged  to  matt’s  youngest  sister  —  here,  august  was  one  of  them.  before  matt  could  even  blink,  she  had  swept  august  away  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  offered  him  drinks  and  snacks  as  dinner  continued  to  sizzle  away  on  the  stove,  matt’s  oldest  brother  tending  to  whatever  was  in  the  pan.  

          *  a  tight  smile  plasters  itself  to  matt’s  face  as  he  swoops  in,  trying  to  save  august  from  the  loving  claws  of  his  mother.  she  was  full  of  warmth  more  than  matt  was,  and  he  wasn’t  going  to  let  august  be  subjected  to  that  before  they  could  even  sit  down  —  though  matthew  supposes  that  the  apple  doesn’t  fall  far  from  the  tree.  ❝  momma,  ❞  there  is  a  hint  of  warning  in  matt’s  tone,  giving  her  a  look  that  silently  tells  her  to  dial  it  back  before  august  goes  fleeing  out  the  front  door.  ❝  my  apologies,  matt  has  told  us  so  much  about  you,  august  —  it’s  nice  to  finally  put  a  name  to  the  face.  ❞  as  if  his  face  isn’t  plastered  up  everywhere.  canada’s  prince,  one  of  the  biggest  names  in  hollywood  —  and  he’s  HERE,  in  the  kitchen  where  matt  found  out  he  was  going  to  university,  where  he  broke  down  and  came  out  to  his  mom  almost  a  decade  ago,  where  all  of  his  siblings  heights  have  been  notched  into  the  doorframe  in  various  markers  ;  he’s  here  as  a  part  of  matt’s  home,  to  make  his  own  memories  in  one  of  the  most  precious  places  to  matthew’s  heart.  to  be  a  part  of  it.

          *  fingers  entwine  gently  through  august’s  as  he  leads  him  into  the  living  room,  dodging  the  wrestling  match  that  surely  would’ve  ensued  if  he  lingered  any  longer  with  his  brother.  ❝  i’m  sorry,  everybody’s  really  excited  to  finally  meet  you  in  person.  ❞  stopping  in  front  of  the  tree  and  inspecting  his  mother’s  work  on  the  decorations,  matt  smiles  as  he  looks  at  hand - made  ornaments  from  each  of  the  choi  siblings  from  various  years.  ❝  you’re  the,  uh . . .  you’re  the  first  person  i’ve  brought  back  to  meet  my  family  in  a  long  time.  ❞  since  malcolm,  is  what  remains  unsaid.  ❝  they  can  all  be  a  bit  much  but,  this  is  home.  i  know  it’s  not  giselle  calabrese’s  christmas  party  or  anything  like  that,  but  my  dad  makes  a  mean  bulgogi.  and  the  company  is  always  nice.  i  don’t  get  to  be  home  as  much  as  i  used  to  anymore,  so  i’m  really  glad  you  came  with  me.  ❞  bumping  his  shoulder  against  august’s,  a  warm  smile  has  teased  the  corner’s  of  matthew’s  lips.  ❝  i  hope  it  holds  up  in  your  eyes.  ❞

[swordduels]

How kind of them to give such a promise. Fyodor would be a guiding light to lead Clarimonde on the right path towards salvation. Together they would bring everyone to a bright future without sin. How noble and beautiful. It reminded them of the scriptures that had been spoon fed to them since birth. While running off they didn’t exactly look around but things would probably be familiar once getting out of the abandoned building. While walking they moved their hands around in tiny circling movements. The urge to dance was strong but it was too early to celebrate. There could be more cops looking around after the runaway nudist. Though thanks to the police’s interference Clarimonde wasn’t naked anymore and their knife had been confiscated. Being nude was more freeing and it was certainly a way to catch people off guard but it was hard to keep personal belongings around. Maybe it would have been better to carry a backpack with a set of clothes, keys and a cellphone next time around. Though, considering they had caught the attention of authorities it was better to lay low instead of running around naked with a knife. “Yes, clothes feel restricting and uncomfortable. I like to feel air against my skin and the ground under my feet. I usually don’t walk around nude in public but I felt this urge, this calling to do a ritual on my own. I wanted to spill a little of my life force to Blood Father and I wanted to find a beautiful place with trees.” Clarimonde’s voice was so soft while they started to tiptoe forward in zig zag through the dark corridor. They passed trashed rooms with graffiti, cigarette stumps, bottles and broken windows. “I must have scared someone since the cops caught me before I could do my ritual. They took my knife and a female officer dressed me in these clothes.” When mentioning the clothes Clarimonde turned to Fyodor before making a gesture towards the knee sized shirt and the shorts that were barely showing. “There was an emergency call so everyone was caught off guard. Then I ran off before they had time to close the door and lock the police car.” They turned quiet when Fyodor spoke. It was only proper to listen when a messenger spoke since there could be something of importance to memorize. Words of wisdom or orders to fulfill. “I’ll memorize the number and destroy the card. You can have my number too and I’ll make sure to keep my phone around.” @clown-demon

Hearing the messenger speaking in such a way was curious but also comforting. Humans are imperfect and only God himself was without faults. They had a hard time grasping that Fyodor was a flawed being. A human who was holding God’s gifts and blessings. How precious to be given such things. Weren't they also blessed for meeting them in such a way? Why would they deny the blessings? If Fyodor saw them as worthy, then it had to be true. “Ah, you are right. I never thought such a thing would happen but I wished for it. I wanted a sign.” Clarimonde dried their eyes slowly. “I felt so lost.” Crying was awful. It stung in their eyes and of course the red marks that followed. Even so it felt a bit easier inside their chest. It took a moment of drying tears and blinking before Clarimonde could see properly again. “My home?” Would it be safe to go home since the cops had snatched them earlier? “I live by the harbor.” It came out in a mumble while they stood up. “I’m renting it from Deidamia. She works as a medium.” He picked up the handcuffs with a faint smile and put them in their pocket before walking towards the door. Not at all bothered that their bare feet came in contact with shards of glass. “I left home naked so everything is left at home.” While saying it they let out a laugh. “Except the knife of course.”

@clown-demon

[heyiwrotesomethings]

Not All Is as It Appears

Ghost Tamayo x They/Them Reader Modern AU

A/N: Eeked out another one before spooky month is over. Of course I don’t need the excuse of it being October to write something spooky, but it feels extra special then. I guessed that Tamayo is from maybe the mid Muromachi Period because she’s about 500 years old during the Taisho Period. If I’m off, in my defense I’m bad at math. Sad story for Tamayo but happy and hopeful ending. Word Count: 2,585

(Y/n) couldn’t believe their luck! A beautiful, traditionally styled home and it was all theirs! When the realtor shared the asking price, (Y/n) was sure she was pulling their leg because it was ridiculously cheap for how well kept the historical home was. It history dated back to the mid Muromachi Period, and it had gone through many renovations over the years of course, but it still looked like you were walking right into the past. Yes, a house this special should really be worth much more.

“Why is it so cheap?” (Y/n) had asked, thinking there had to be some kind of underlying issue, such as an unstable foundation.

The realtor fidgeted though she expected the question. She shared a story that was nearly as old as the house itself. It was said that a deranged woman had killed her husband and children within their home as they slept. In the morning, she was found by her neighbors covered in their blood, holding their corpses tightly to herself.

The neighbors had left screaming, alerting the rest of the village of the heinous act. As punishment for her sick deeds, the woman was dragged from her home to face judgment for her crime and was subsequently hung in a form of upside-down crucifixion until she died some hours later.

The realtor pointed a shaky finger towards the dead sakura tree that stood not too far from them.

“They hung her right there. They say that tree died right along with her to serve as a reminder of what had happened, that this house was tainted. They’ve tried to have it torn down many times over the centuries, but something would always come up. Rain to stop the fire, faulty demolition equipment… nothing else in the area has survived as long as this house. It was taken under control of the local historical society for a time until they didn’t have the funding to keep it any longer. Now it’s simply back on the market, but given its history, no one wants it. It’s cursed or haunted to say the least.”

A movement in the window caught (Y/n)’s eye, but when they turned to get a better look they saw nothing.

“That’s quite the story.” They chuckled awkwardly.

“Yes, I assume you would like to look elsewhere?”

“Oh no, I’ll take it.” (Y/n) stated definitively.

“R-really? Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

The history was a little unnerving, but that had happened insanely long ago! The home itself and the surrounding property was breathtaking. They’d be crazy not to take the deal of a life time. If there was such things as ghosts or curses, they would take their chances. They had been searching for a place like this for too long.

And so, (Y/n) moved in just a few days later. It was like the realty business expedited the process so (Y/n) wouldn’t have time to have any second thoughts, which was more than fine to them because they had no second thoughts to be had. This was all simply perfect to them.

They spent the whole day arranging their belongings and doing some house keeping. They had their phone playing a mix of today’s hits as they worked and that’s when the first strange incident occurred.

There was a pause after one pop song played that was particularly long, long enough for (Y/n) to look in the direction of their phone to see what was up. Then the phone crackled to life with a very old recording of an even older traditional enka, beautiful and haunting and more than a little freaky considering (Y/n) was a thousand percent certain this was certainly not a hit of today.

However they didn’t let their discontent show, instead choosing to let the song play out like it was a completely normal thing. When the song ended, it was quiet for a few beats before the same song started playing again.

And again (Y/n) pretended that was a completely normal thing… until the song played a third time.

“You know, there’s plenty of other songs to choose from… here,” (Y/n) pulled up a playlist of the oldest traditional Japanese songs they could find before setting the phone back down, “pick whatever you like.”

Did they actually think they were communicating with a ghost? Hard to say. They thought maybe there was just a new trend going into hey weren’t aware of, maybe that’s why that song had played. They were probably being influenced by that realtor’s story is all, but on the off chance that there was a ghost, best to stay on its good side, right?

An opening clunk clunk of a shishi-odoshi accompanied by a few plucks of a biwa played and a new song began without (Y/n) choosing it.

Maybe it was just set to automatically play…

The rest of (Y/n)’s unpacking was serenaded with old folk songs. When they finished they were hesitant to stop the music so they waited for the song to finish before closing the app.

“Maybe you can listen to some more later.” They were definitely just talking to themself. That was a more normal explanation than talking to a possible ghost was.

Then they went to take a bath before they would make some food and settle down for the night. The in-ground bath was one of the neatest features of the house. The tub filled up fast and the insulation kept the water warm for quite awhile. After a day of pushing a bunch of heavy things around, it felt especially nice.

The room soon fogged up from the warm steam and (Y/n) closed their eyes as they soaked. Their eyes shot back open when they heard something clatter against the ground. They looked over to see their shampoo had fell over near the shower station. Perhaps they had set it down a little too close to the edge.

Their eyes then differed upward and they held back the desire to scramble out of the tub and run out of the house naked as the day they were born.

Upon the foggy mirror, was a kanji character written clear as day.

“Help…?” (Y/n) whispered under their breath. They slowly turned their head away, pretending they didn’t see it.

After a few agonizingly long minutes, they decided it was time to get out of the bath and go eat something and go to bed. Maybe they were just seeing things because they were tired.

Their dinner and tv viewing went uninterrupted and when they finished washing the dishes they turned off the tv and went to their new bedroom. When they pulled the covers over them they kind of wished they had camped out on the couch instead to let some baking show lull them to sleep because the quiet of the room felt eerie, especially after the bathroom incident.

At some point they did manage to drift off until their dreams took a dark turn.

A woman in a blood stained, floral-patterned kimono stood hauntingly before them, they were surrounded by the mutilated dead as angry voices shouted from outside, growing louder, the walls slammed into with force.

“My heart, my reason for living,” the woman spoke in a soft tremor, a single tear slipped down her blood stained cheek, “I didn’t know that man, that demon, would go to such lengths.”

Arms leapt from the darkness, grabbing the woman and (Y/n) from behind.

(Y/n) leapt from their bed with a sharp gasp. Safe to say they didn’t go back to sleep that night. They stared blankly at the tv while they sat on their couch instead, flinching at any unexpected noise.

***

The next several days went much the same. (Y/n) was already regretting their purchase, but they refused to give up. Whatever spirit haunted this house had it for well over seven hundred years. As far as (Y/n) was concerned, they thought the spirit had long overstayed it’s time.

The dreams, the ominous one-word messages, the music, they weren’t a single night occurrence. They drove (Y/n) to further look into the story the realtor told them, but they were going crazy trying to find any more information.

The details in the dreams they had weren’t something any old record of the centuries old mass murder would disclose.

As days turned into weeks, the strange and troubling phenomenon seemed to grow more persistent. Then there were introductions to the foot steps and disembodied sobs. The crying was the worst, bone chilling and so mournful.

Finally (Y/n) couldn’t take it anymore and they searched something new on their laptop.

How to communicate with a ghost.

“This is so stupid, what am I thinking?” (Y/n) berated themself as they set the scene in the middle of their bathroom as the cleanup would be easiest there.

They checked the time, it was nearly three in the morning. As the shady internet page they had found stated, this ritual worked only during the witching hour.

When the clock struck three, they lit the final candle and waited. And waited, and waited and…

“I knew this was stupid.” They muttered, they leaned forward to start blowing out the candles when the flickering flames suddenly blazed stronger, the orange light became a vibrant lilac color and the smell of flowers and something metallic overtook the room.

(Y/n) fell backward away from the flames. When the fire died down, a woman, the one who haunted their dreams, stood in the middle of the crudely drawn glyph.

“Oh my god!” (Y/n) yelled, running from the room.

What did they expect, really? They had set out to communicate with a ghost, and a ghost is what they got. Yet they still hightailed it out of there, sprinting to their bedroom and shutting the door behind them. When they turned to get something to barricade the door, they screamed.

Ice cold hands grabbed their wrists, stopping them from trashing or running away.

“Shhh, stop struggling, please,” a haunting, melancholic voice pleaded, “I mean you no harm.”

(Y/n)’s voice stuck in their throat, but they did stop struggling against the woman, the ghost, the whatever she was at the moment.

“I am sorry that I frightened you. It’s been so terribly long since I’ve had company. I’ve been trying to talk to you for awhile, but after you started covering up the mirrors, it’s been difficult.”

“W- well, what do you expect when you write things like help, trapped and death?” (Y/n) protested weakly, trying to slow their racing heart.

“… I can see how that would be alarming.” The woman pursed her lips then apologized, “I’m sorry, it takes a lot of energy to write.”

(Y/n) took in the woman’s despondent look and relaxed a bit further, “It’s okay. I’m uh, sorry for screaming at you.”

“It’s fine. I seem to often have that effect on people. Unnerving them by simply existing.” She let (Y/n) go and glided around the room, “Especially when they think they know my story…”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” (Y/n) said, a bit bolder now, “Who are you, why are you here, what really happened all those years ago because the dreams I have seem to paint you so differently.”

“You want to hear my story? Would you even believe me from what history has already told you?”

“History doesn’t always get things right. Especially if certain people control the narrative to show only what they want people to see. I want to hear what happened from you. I want to hear your side.”

The woman wrung hand hands, though (Y/n) saw a glimmer of hope arise in her expression. She lifted her head to meet (Y/n)’s eyes.

“My name is Tamayo,”

(Y/n) listened to Tamayo’s tale with rapt attention. Long ago, Tamayo lived happily with her family, a well respected healer in her village. All was perfect until she had noticed that she was growing weaker and weaker by the day. She had discovered that she was dying from an ailment she could not treat. She spent a lot of time searching for a cure.

One night, she met a man who promised her a cure so long as she stayed by his side. However, his condition included leaving behind her family, something she simply could not imagine. The only reason she desired a cure was to spend more time with them. If she could not do that, then the cure would be useless to her, so, she declined.

This enraged the man. It was as if Tamayo betrayed him to the highest degree. He told her she would regret this dismissal of his miracles before storming away. Tamayo didn’t realize what that would mean until a week later.

The man and his followers came into her home under the cloak of darkness and slaughtered her family. Tamayo tried to stop them, but she was held back. She expected them to slaughter her too, but they didn’t. No, that would have been too simple. They left her to cry over her family until sunrise.

The misinterpretation of the neighbors and the following crucifixion, that much was true. It had been pure agony, but still not as painful as watching her family die before her eyes.

“And then, I was here again and have been since.”

“You’ve been here alone all this time? What about your family?” (Y/n) asked.

“Not here. I’ve searched, but I cannot go far. To a certain point, I just end up back where I started.”

“That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

“You needn’t apologize. It’s cathartic to finally share this… oh,”

“What?” (Y/n) then noticed that Tamayo was becoming translucent.

“The witching hour is nearly over is all…” Tamayo smiled sadly, “Thank you for listening…”

(Y/n) bit their lip, hating to see the lonely look on Tamayo’s face.

“We can talk some more tomorrow night! And, and I won’t cover the mirrors anymore, I’ll leave the radio or the tv on for you when I leave the house! I- I’ll get a cat! You wont have to be alone anymore, okay?”

Tamayo’s mouth fell open in surprise, then it became a small, more honest smile. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. She put her hand over (Y/n)’s they could barely feel it.

“I’d like that, I’d like that a lot.” Her voice seemed to fade as she did until she was gone.

(Y/n) took a deep breath and rubbed at their eyes to dissuade any tears from falling. Then they cleared their throat, slapping their hands on their thighs with finality before standing up from their bed.

“I’m gonna watch a movie in the living room. You are more than welcome to come along.” They spoke out to the seemingly empty room before awkwardly making their way out.

They sat on the couch and turned on the tv, pulling up a list of light-hearted movies.

“I’m gonna slowly scroll through and if you see something you like, ummm, can you knock that pencil off of the table?”

It took a moment, but the pencil did clatter to the ground.

“Okay. Great.” (Y/n) set the pencil back into place and begun slowly scrolling through the movies until the pencil fell again.

They began the movie and put the pencil back on the side table and sat down again. They didn’t really know what it was like to be a ghost without any spells attached, but they made sure to leave room on the couch just to be safe.

[hansensgirl]

put me in a movie.

summary. | He knows you can’t make it on your own, so he’ll put you in his movie.

warnings. | Dubcon (reader doesn’t know what he’s doing but consents to it), smut, drinking, age gap (reader is legal), virginity loss, choking, spanking, dirty talk, degradation, corruption kink, innocence kink, cream pie kink, penetration, teasing, praise, filming, voyeurism, porn (the industry), fluff, yearning, Daddy kink, humiliation, overstimulation, dumbification kink, and more. SMUT, 18+ MINORS DNI.

word count. | 6.5k.

pairing. | Grey!Pornstar!Helmut Zemo x Innocent!Reader.

a/n. | please enjoy and don’t forget to reblog! if you take ANY inspiration from my fics (and i’ll know, trust me) and you don’t give credit, you will be blocked and i’ll let others know. inspired by wet, written by the talented @thewritingdoll! do not translate or repost my fics at all.

You don’t like the heat, but you love the summer. The way the days are seldom cold and cloudy, with that occasional breeze that your skin gracefully soaks up in the same way your beach towel soaks up the water on your bathing suit. Popsicles of different flavours dripping down your skin and onto the hot sidewalk. The sticky residue makes you cringe, and you’d use the damp side of your towel to wipe it away. It would work for a few seconds, maybe even a minute or two, before the feeling returns.

You hate the heat, but you love to see him. Those swim trunks of his sticking to his wet skin. They’re a blue colour that seems easy to describe at first glance, but you’ll soon realize just how many shades of navy blue there are, and suddenly you don't even know what colour they are. Maybe it’s the colour of the jeans the cameramen wear, or perhaps it’s the colour of the night sky at around six in the evening during the summertime.

They lug heavy equipment, and you just wonder if they’re filming a movie. If your friends and family members got word, they’d probably lose their minds before begging you to get them a part. Vying for fame runs through the family tree branches, and even you would want a small part in it as well. You give them empty promises, forgetting their words after a few minutes until the following text message or phone call.

You don’t spend much time at the beach anymore. Heck, you haven’t been there since June. Your friends have left with their boyfriends and girlfriends on a trip to Bali, and all you have are your family members to keep you company. Your white fence, magazine and lawn chair are all you know of now. You spend your days outdoors, knowing each one will be filled with the same things. The sunlight, bees buzzing, and seagulls having unwarranted ferociousness.

Your parents spend their days at work, and you stay home to hold your small fort down. You don’t water the grass or touch the garden because your father does it better than anyone. You don’t touch the paint meant for the walls or the furniture boxes that are strewn across the floors because your mother knows where to put them and how to paint. You just relax, and you don’t mind it at all.

That was until you saw him.

Curiosity is your closest friend other than the blue raspberry flavoured popsicles that take up more space in your freezer than anything else. So when the empty house next door suddenly filled up with around half a dozen people, you just couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing. So you peer over the fence, standing on the small two-step ladder that your dad stole from his previous job. Women and a few men are laughing, dressed down in both swimsuits and t-shirts. Their bodies are lovely, the pinnacle of beauty that you sometimes envy. Other times, you’d feel as though you’re the prettiest girl in the world, and that’s not far from the truth. They’ve got different brands of alcohol in their hands, White Claw cans littered on the ground, and you cringe at the mess.

They must be mentally younger than you’ll ever be again because no person older than you can act like this. Heavy, black cameras are resting nearby briefcases, and you hope to god that nothing illegal is going on. The last thing you need is the police questioning you at 1 in the morning. Some of the men ogle at the younger ladies, and they bask in the attention. You watch as their eyes rake up and down their shiny, sweaty bodies.

“Oh, please, the least you all can do is wait for me before you start the party,” a man snickers, stepping out of the house. You look over to him, and your breath is taken away. Water drips down his face, cascading down to his neck and onto his slightly hairy chest—a navy bluish-purple robe and those blue swim shorts that peek through underneath the cloth. The colour of the fabric goes oh so well with the blue of his eyes. They all laugh until they’re sighing and already cracking open another bottle of beer.

You admire him from afar, and you can’t help but be mesmerized by the way he moves: such grace, such elusiveness. The glass in his hand isn’t cheap beer or tequila; it’s whiskey that looks rich as fuck, and he swigs it back like it’s water. You remember the first time your father and mother brought whiskey home from the local liquor store. Your father didn’t enjoy it, and neither did your mother. It sat in a random cupboard until a year ago when your mother decided to throw it out.

He lets out an exhale as the amber liquid flows down his throat, and you watch in awe as he handles the burn like a champion. God, you can’t even handle beer if you try hard enough. He gently places the glass onto the table, far away from the men’s feet, as he knows that they can be quite clumsy. There must be a proper name for all feelings; you believe. Like that feeling when it dawns on you that you’ll never experience something like this ever again.

Or maybe the feeling that Helmut has right now. Not the excitement of finishing this film, and not the tiredness that is a result of working too hard. No, the feeling that he knows you’re watching him from over the fence. He sans his hand towards you, and you quickly duck down, letting out a whimper. You nearly fall from the small ladder, but it wouldn’t be so graceful if it did happen. “What’s wrong, Baron?” one of his co-stars teasingly asks.

“Nothing... Must’ve been the whiskey…”

You don’t hate the summer; you just don’t like the boredom. Even relaxation is something you can tire of, believe it or not. You’ve got nothing to do. Your friends are still out of town, and your parents are at work. You’ve cleaned the house not once, not twice, but three times. Your closet is as clean as it’ll ever be, and the pantry is now organized by most used to least used. The plants have been properly watered, even though it wasn’t necessary since the forecast said there’d be light rain.

You love the rain, especially during the summertime. The sky makes the surrounding world have an almost orange tone to it. The after smell––an earthy, oceanic scent that is so unique––is something you’ll forever look forward to. You’re excited for the day it’ll rain, but even meteorologists tend to be wrong, and Mother Nature has a thing for keeping her children on their toes. It’s one of the many reasons why you love her. So with your little red dress on, you spin around in the backyard.

You’re sensible. You know what creepy crawlers lie underneath the dirt, between the fluffy grass. So instead of being barefoot (just like in those Sofia Loren movies) and playing around, you grab that little latter once again. You’ve scrubbed the grooves and cleaned them of their plant stains––sloppily, of course. Your oversized slippers belong to your dad, and they struggle to stay on your feet, but it doesn’t matter.

You’re not going to be moving around much, anyway. You move the latter closer to where you last saw the group of men and women. You truly hope you don’t get caught and get into any trouble; the last thing you want is your parents scolding you and embarrassing you. You step up on the ladder carefully, grasping onto the wooden fence for support. The surface is hot to the touch, and you really want to let go, but you really shouldn’t. You whisper affirmations along the lines of ‘I won’t fall…’ over and over again, under your breath.

And you hope to God they work.

Admittedly, you also hope he’s wearing those blue swim shorts of his again. The look (and he) resides in your heart, amongst other tubes and canals that have learned to make room for friends, family and passions. But he’s not a friend, he’s not family, and he’s most certainly not a passion. ...He’s something else, that’s for sure. An enigma, really. He reminds you of that feeling––the one that has a name, temptation. Someone tells you not to do something you weren’t going to do in the first place, and now you want to do it.

Except the case is different. You shouldn’t be perving on strangers like this––sneaking up on them, spying on them––all because you just can’t help it. Your mind tells you to stop, but it’s just giving you all the more reason to continue doing it. So, until you nearly get caught one more time, you’ll continue to watch him. Desperate to figure out who he is and what he’s doing.

The cameras are no longer on the ground; a smart decision, given that there’s a pool that takes up more space than anything. The blue water of pools has always fooled you. You grew up believing that it was the true colour of water, not even knowing that it was, in fact, the tiles and not the water. There’s no mess there either, clean and tidy. Maybe professionally done, because the concrete has but not one dark spot or crease where grass grows out of it.

Laid perfectly, you know your mother and father would admire it for a few minutes. You squint your eyes and gaze at the glass sliding door. Inside is him. You let out one of those dreamy, love-filled sighs that only main characters do in romance movies. You watch him as he pours himself a cup of coffee, two spoonfuls of sugar, and a dash of what seems to be almond milk.

You wonder if he likes iced coffees, as they can be so nice during the summertime. He wears those lovely blue swim shorts once again, hair slightly damp (with a pretty curliness to a few strands) and a navy bathrobe. It’s that same outfit as the other time you saw him, and you realize that they’re probably filming a movie. He moves around the counter, putting away certain little ingredients and whatnot.

The most mundane actions ever, ones that even you did just this morning. But god, he just makes it all seem so unique. He cards his fingers through his brown, almost dirty blond hair. There are clumps of strands that stick together, wetness that’ll dry probably as soon as he steps outside. He faces the window, staring out towards the fence that has been freshly painted, and sighs.

His head lulls back, and his neck is exposed. He’s probably both an actor and a model, you think to yourself. His chest hair has grown a bit more, and you can’t find yourself complaining. Tingles run through your body and even down to your pussy. You rub your thighs together, trying to make the feeling go away, while still being careful about holding onto the fence. You hope that he doesn’t know you’re watching him because you’ll never be able to live that down.

And it’s just so unfortunate that Helmut is such a clever man. Heightened senses from when he used to camp a lot when he was younger; he just knows practically everything. He knows you’re watching him, squinting your eyes until they’re nearly shut close. The skin around them wrinkles in the most adorable way, just like the way your nose scrunches up out of instinct. God, he could kiss every crevice of your body, even if you don’t know who he is.

“Hey, Helmut, we have a few re-shoots to do. Do you want to start now?” one of the cameramen asks him, holding a microphone in his hand. “No… I’m tired; we’ll do it all tomorrow,” Helmut says, waving his hand. He’s no longer looking outside and instead at the man who he’s addressing. He nods and walks off before Helmut follows him. Common courtesy is to always escort your guests out, and Helmut was raised with manners. With a hand on the man’s lower back, and a smile on his face, Helmut gently pushes him out the door and locks it.

You watch him as he disappears, seemingly leading someone out of his home, and you think all is fine. That is until that little voice in your mind decides to be obnoxious. The slight possibility that you’ve been caught and he’s mad haunts you, and your breath hitches. Your eyeballs are wide open, as big as the eyes of an owl, and your hands shake a bit out of fear. They dampen up a bit, not enough to the point where you’d be disgusted, but they’re clammy nonetheless.

You make a move to jump off the latter, not caring about the possible risk of falling and scraping your pretty legs. Your hands begin to let go of the fence, but they’re stopped by someone grabbing you by your wrists. You let out a squeal of shock as they hold you tightly from over the barrier, and you’re screwed. “I’m sorry!” you quickly yell, squinting your eyes out of fear. You’re not sure what to expect, whether he would yell at you or threaten to call the cops.

“No, it’s okay. Calm down, I’m not mad. Come back,” Helmut tells you, and you calm down. Yet you’re still nervous, scared that he’s a liar and that you’ll be in deep shit with the law. You step back onto the latter and are wary of looking over the wood. His eyes meet yours, and you swallow thickly. “I’m not mad, okay? I think it’s kind of cute. You’re like a curious little bunny,” he smiles, and you giggle.

“Never been called that before, usually just a curious cat,” you share with him, and he laughs. “Well, that’s not wrong,” he adds. A brief silence intrudes, and you just stare at one another. Helmut’s eyes jump from feature to feature on your face, relishing in that unique gorgeousness of yours. Someone like you will never be found amongst models because you’re an absolute angel. You’re like a pretty rose amongst other flowers; all are beautiful in their own ways, but you always manage to stand out.

You wonder if Helmut is the wolf to your bunny. That dark look in his eyes that compliments his features and overall attitude. He carries himself in such a way that old Hollywood actors wish they were so graceful. He’s the polar opposite of you––seemingly. But from the few words you’ve exchanged with each other, he just might be a bunny friend to yours. “I- I saw that there were cameras and I heard people talking… Are you filming a movie?” you ask him.

“...Yes, we are, bunny. I apologize for being so loud. Do you forgive me?” Helmut questions with a smile on his face. You nod your head and bite on your bottom lip, watching as his eyes brighten up a bit. “What’s it about? Can I know? Are you the main protagonist? Or the antagonist? What genre is it?” you interrogate, flooding him with questions. “Shh, one at a time, bunny. It’s very, very special and secretive. I can’t tell you much. But I’m the main protagonist, and it’s a bit of a naughty movie, so I don’t think a little girl like you should know much,” he whispers to you.

You nod your head as you listen to him, so intrigued about the work of art being filmed next door. “I’ve always wanted to be in a movie! Especially in one of those old Hollywood ones, they’re so good,” you admit to him shyly, with a coy smirk on your face. “Really? I think you’d be an amazing actress. You’d be even more popular than Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe,” Helmut praises, and you giggle once again.

“T- Thank you so much! ...Can I be in your movie?” you politely request him, but he shakes his head. You frown, your bottom lip jutted out. “You wouldn’t want to be in this movie, bunny. Remember what I said? It’s a naughty movie, and you’re just a little girl,” he reminds you, but you’re still pouting. “Is it a violent movie? One with curse words and lots of scary stuff?” you innocently ask, not sure as to what he means.

Helmut laughs quite loudly. “No,” he stifles a chuckle, “but one day I’ll shoot a movie with you, and I’ll show you how it’s all done.” He promises, and you can just tell he’s honest. You’re elated, hoping that the day he’s talking about will come soon. “What is your name, bunny?” Helmut asks, and you tell him. He nods before repeating it, giving you a smile. He brings both of your hands close to his face. You go on the tip of your toes to properly watch him once more. He presses his lips to the back of your hands, kisses them one by one.

“Go get some rest, bunny, and come by my place tomorrow,” he tells you before letting go of your wrists. He walks off before you do anything else. Sliding the glass door behind him, he disappears somewhere, and you’re left all by yourself. You’re still standing there, sighing dreamily as you replay the moments that will surely turn into a broken record. You hope that he’ll wear those blue swim shorts again, even though he’s already worn them twice.

There’s a skip in your step—nothing new and nothing unusual. Your shoes scratch against the concrete of the sidewalk that connects to Helmut’s front door. The sun only rose an hour and a half ago. The sky is a bright blue, filled with a few clouds that compliment the colour. The sun beats down onto your skin, and you haven’t forgotten to put on sunscreen once you finish twirling around in your little sundress.

You’ve got a miniature backpack that is slung over both of your shoulders. It’s orange, a bright one, in fact. It reminds you of the tangerines you love to peel, and those creamsicle treats that can be quite rare to find at this time of the year. You climb up the two steps that lead to his grey door, and you rap the wood a few times. There’s a doorbell too, one of those high-tech ones that record everything in its view.

Nothing but silence echoes back. No cars driving by, no birds chirping, no insects buzzing. Nothing. You wonder if he’s woken up yet, or if he’s even home. But as the door suddenly swings open––without a squeak, mind you––you’re met with the smiling face that belongs to Helmut. “Good morning, early-bird, is everything alright?” he questions, not one ounce of sleep tainting his look.

“Good morning! Everything is alright… D- Do you remember what you told me yesterday? About coming by?” you ask him, almost thinking to yourself that you’re just insane and that conversation never really happened. “Oh, right! Sorry, I've been a bit forgetful lately. But come in, have you eaten already?” Helmut asks as he moves to the side for you to enter.

Hesitatingly, you step inside his home. You kick off your shoes and look around. It seems sleek and modern at first, quite… different from the familiar feel of your house. Now, there are no wild polygons or geometric shapes that make you feel like you’ve been placed on a spaceship. No, it’s something that even your mind can’t come up with. The walls are a cream colour, engraved with different patterns that make it resemble marble. The chairs and couches have clear plastic legs on them, adding to that newfound era feel.

The floors are a light brown colour; wood in the shape of long, skinny parallelograms fitting against each other perfectly. The lights hang down a bit, high ceilings that you can’t even fathom reaching. You spin around and look up at them as they shine down brightly on you. They stem down from a pretty grey bronze appliqué that is attached to the ceiling. It’s practically art, just like the portraits of half-naked ladies that hang on his walls. There’s a specific piece that is above the fireplace.

It’s a mirror, and your reflection is in it. So is Helmut’s. You’re in front of him, looking at him through the mirror. He’s behind you, staring at your reflection. You both stay like that for a bit before you look away and admire the windows. He has such a lovely view; you can’t help but envy him for it. “Now, bunny, I have to be honest with you. We wrapped the movie up last night, and it was very late. I didn’t call you over because of that, and I’m really sorry about that. Do you forgive me?” Helmut questions.

You nod your head eagerly, just sensing that he’ll lead on with some sort of good news. Your parents have done that far too many times for you not to know better. “But, if you want, I’ll put you in a movie. It’ll be just between you and me because it won’t be too professional, okay?” Helmut grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes, waiting for your answer. “Oh, yes, please! That sounds amazing. Thank you so much!” you cheer, wrapping your arms around him.

You hug him tightly, and he eventually hugs you back. “Now, I want to finish it as soon as possible. So set your bag right on this couch, and go sit on that one,” Helmut instructs, pointing at the biggest couch in the living room. You nod and do exactly as he tells you. He walks away, possibly to set something up or to get ready, but either way, you still sit on his couch, filled with pure excitement. You cross one leg over the other, your pretty white dress covering the upper half of your thighs.

Lace that is on top of the cotton, both the same colour, and you realize how much you love this dress. Helmut saunters back into the living room, holding a giant tripod in one hand and a small camera in the other. You gasp at the sight, and he chuckles. Setting them up from the other side of the small coffee table, you watch him in awe. “This is going to be… a big girl movie, okay? Just like the one I was in. But I don't think it will be visible to the public eye, might just be between you and I,” Helmut tells you.

You nod in understanding. “Are you fine with that, little bunny?” he asks you just for reassurance. “Mhm, you can do anything you want; I don’t mind!” you reassure him, with a giant smile on your face. He swallows thickly as blood rushes downwards to his cock from your words. You still grin gleefully, such innocence on your features that he almost feels bad for having feelings for you.

He presses the little power button on the camera and waits for a green light to come on. With a smirk, Helmut walks around the table and stands in front of you. You look up at him, waiting for him to do something. He bends down and grabs both sides of your face––gently, of course––and he makes you stand up. He tilts his head and leans forward, slotting his lips against yours.

Now, you’ve kissed someone before. His name started with something along the lines of ‘J’ or ‘L,’ but that doesn’t matter. But that kiss was nothing like Helmut’s kiss. His kiss is soft and passionate, something you struggle to match. His lips stay locked with yours before moving to push his tongue into your mouth. You’re not sure what to do, so you just give up and let him kiss you until you both run out of breath. His tongue runs against the wet skin of your mouth, and you gasp at the feeling.

He eventually pulls away, and he looks at you with his eyes blown out. Helmut sighs and smiles at you. “You gotta trust me, okay?” he tells you once more, and you nod. “Ok…” you trail off, not knowing what to follow up with. “You gotta call me by a nickname, bunny… Hmm, how about Daddy?” he exclaims, his accent becoming more prominent. You love it and how unique it is. “Okay! I like that one a lot, my friend calls her boyfriend that sometimes,” you share with him, and he laughs.

He sits you down on the couch again, and his hand inches up your dress, making you giddy. He smiles at you, and you can see from the corner of your eye how the camera is filming you both. Helmut just knows you’re wet already, but you probably don’t know it. And he’s not wrong. You feel slightly tingly, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Your panties slide down your legs, a wet patch on them, and Helmut throws them to the side. He lifts your dress over your head and tosses the fabric away, too.

He takes a step back and admires you. You still have your ankle socks on, but God, you’re so gorgeous he thinks he’s in heaven. “You’re so pretty, bunny. The prettiest bunny I’ve ever seen,” he compliments. You grow shy and smile before whispering a thank you. You smile at the camera, and he begins to undress. The first thing that goes is the robe, and his chest is now exposed.

Helmut hasn’t shaved his chest hair, and you’re glad. It looks nice on him––but to be fair––anything does. All he has on is those swim shorts. God, you love those shorts so much. They’re no longer wet, and yet they still cling to his thighs. He slowly pulls them down––and you feel as though you should look away and give him privacy––but you just can’t. His cock is hard, and it shows through the fabric, but you’re too busy staring at his hands to notice it.

His Adonis belt is slowly exposed, along with his pelvic bone, as he pulls down his boxers as well. There’s a small bush of hair right above his cock, and you find yourself wanting to tangle your fingers between the strands. Helmut’s cock bounces up––hard, red, and leaking––and the tip slaps right below his belly button. You let out a gasp, and he chuckles. His swim shorts lie on the floor, and you’re suddenly being urged to lay back.

Helmut climbs on top of you, caging you beneath his well-built body. Soft abs that are just perfect enough for you, and big hands that hold you so lovingly. He wants to feel his rough palms against your delicate skin, falling into every groove and curve there is. Like an artist admiring their artwork, he runs his hands along your body. From your thighs to your hips, over your stomach, between your breasts, all the way up to your neck. His hard cock is between your legs, nearly touching your sensitive little pussy.

You swallow nervously at the feeling. Helmut’s left hand wraps around your throat, and his right hand moves downwards to your legs. Gripping your calf, he places your right leg on the head of the couch and moves to position your left leg so that it hangs off the edge of the seat. You’re spread wide open for Helmut, not able to hide your naked body or close your legs. Your hands rest above your head, almost as though you’re pathetically shielding your hair from the rain.

Helmut’s hand still rests on your neck, but he doesn’t squeeze your throat or anything like that. You’re not sure if he’s playing the antagonist or not, but you decide to just go along with what he does. “You’re okay, right, bunny? You’re fine, I’m gonna treat you so good,” he promises, and you give him your best superstar smile. You have to admit that you’re nervous, but you trust him completely. Helmut would never do anything wrong to you.

“Has anyone ever touched you down here, bunny? Have you ever touched down here?” he questions you, walking his fingers up to your soaking wet pussy. “Hmm, uh, I touched it once, but I didn’t know what was happening, so I stopped,” you shyly explain to him, and he nods. “That’s okay, bunny. Can I touch you here? I won’t hurt you too badly, I promise,” Helmut assures you, and you nod. His index finger sticks out, and he watches as slick drips from your hole and coats the silky skin around it.

The digit becomes a bit shiny and quite sticky, and he traces your slit lightly. You shiver lightly from his touch, and sensitivity blooms in your core. “Uhm… Daddy?” you call out to him, a bit worried. “What’s wrong, bunny?” he asks, bringing his finger up to your clit. It throbs with want, just like the veins on his cock. “It feels very sensitive, almost too sensitive…” you admit to him, even though he continues to touch your clit.

“That’s okay, bunny, that’s how it’s supposed to feel. But if you want to stop, just tell me,” Helmut urges you. “Okay, Daddy.” He rubs your little nub in small, light circles. The muscles in your legs twitch, and you bite down on your bottom lip. He continues to touch your clit, and you begin to writhe from the overwhelming feeling. You let out a few whines, and Helmut watches as your cunt just gets wetter and wetter.

You try to shift his hands away from you in your weird position. It’s just too much at once, and you’re scared of what will happen next. The pornstar’s finger slips off your cunt, and he lets out a small gasp. The sound is mixed with displeasure, and you look him in the eyes with innocence. “Don’t do that again, bunny,” he warns, squeezing your neck a bit just to add to his threat. His index finger returns to your clit, and this time, he rubs your little pearl even harder. You see stars, ones that are dark and would be hidden in the blackness of outer space. Your eyes roll back into your skull, and you’ve never felt such pleasure in your life. Helmut’s digit touches the most sensitive part of your clit, and you jerk in response. Your legs try to shut close, but his body stops you from doing so.

When you open your eyes, you’re faced with a displeased superstar. Helmut lets out a shaky exhale, trying to compose himself. He knows he shouldn’t get mad at you, but he just doesn’t like it when he doesn’t have his way. His hand leaves your cunt and moves downwards. Suddenly, a harsh slap lands on your ass, making you cry out in pain. The skin stings and prickles, and you can feel slight tears beginning to form in your eyes.

Instead of staring at your pretty little face, Helmut squeezes your neck even tighter and watches as your little hole begins to leak with even more wetness. “Aww, bunny, did you enjoy Daddy hitting you? Hm? I bet you did; that’s you’re so wet,” he chuckles, and you grow shy. He’s not wrong, though. You enjoyed the pain quite a bit, even though you tend to avoid any and all activities that could leave you with a minor injury.

“Such a little slut for pain. But I bet you don’t like it when Daddy gets mean with you, right? Yeah, because you’re just a sensitive little bunny,” he coos, and you smile. You nod to him, and he grins down at you. Helmut’s cock is a furious red, almost purple if you really look closely. Beads of precum run down the sides of his cock, all the way to his thick base. He slaps your ass once more, enjoying the way you flinch and then smile from delight.

“I guess I’ve been a bit mean, just touching your little button without even letting you come…” he sighs before shifting onto his knees. Helmut looks over to the camera, just to make sure it’s still recording. And it is, so he smiles. He towers over you even more now, a few strands on his hair dangling downwards, and you find yourself wanting to play with them. The hand that was on your ass grasps the base of his cock, and he runs the head through your folds.

A quiet squelching sound echoes between the both of you, and you giggle. Your laughter is cut short when he bumps up against your clit, and you let out a moan. The sound is unexpected on your behalf, but Helmut just smirks. Your moans turn into a string of shallow pants, and he curses under his breath at the feeling. Dragging his head away from your clit, he brings himself down to your hole, and you let out an even louder gasp.

“Shh, just let Daddy in, okay? I know it’s your first time, but it’s okay. You’re fine, don’t worry,” Helmut reassures. You nod your head and let out a pained cry as he pushes into you slowly. You feel as though you’re being torn apart, split into two. He grips your throat even tighter, and you wrap your hand around his wrist in a panicked, fleeting moment.

Helmut sheathes himself inside you, with your mouth parted open in a silent scream and his eyebrows knitted together. He eventually bottoms out, and the stretch of his cock goes from a harsh burn to a pleasurable feeling. His swollen balls touch your aching ass, and he bends down to kiss your forehead lightly. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he questions. “Y- Yes, it feels really good, Daddy. Just a li’l uncomfortable, but it feels really good,” you tell him.

Your cunt squeezes him in a tight hug, your silky wet walls welcoming him in hesitantly. He wishes to stay inside you his whole life, and he would if he could convince you. Helmut pulls out until his head is the only thing inside you before roughly thrusting back inside. You cry out, and his hand loosens around your throat. “Such a good girl, letting me use your pussy for my pleasure. You like being recorded while I fuck you, right? Say it,” he demands, fucking into you roughly.

Your tits bounce with each and every movement. Helmut’s cock gets closer and closer to your sweet spot, and you moan loudly. “I- I like being recorded while you fuck me, Daddy,” you repeat to him. Helmut groans loudly, and you clench down on his cock tightly. “You feel so good, bunny, better than anyone else,” he compliments, feeling slick sweat beginning to build upon his back. “Uhm, Daddy? S- Something’s happening,” you whisper to him through your desperate cries of pleasure.

Searing heat grows hotter and hotter in your stomach, right above your pussy. You’ve never felt like this before, other than when Helmut was touching your pussy a few moments ago. “Let it happen, bunny, it’s okay, come all over Daddy’s big cock. I know you can do it, squeeze me, bunny,” Helmut urges, and you listen to him. The powerful feeling grows and grows, and so do your moans. And the elastic cord breaks eventually. It always does.

You cry out ‘Daddy’ as you come undone around his cock for the very first time. He continues to fuck you through your orgasm, even though you’re gripping him so tightly. You gush all over him, wetness coating his cock, and it makes him fuck you even quicker. The sound of skin on skin and loud moans fill the room, and Helmut hopes to God that the microphone is picking up on it all. The feeling in your body makes you lose all sense of reality, and you’re babbling like a little baby.

“Daddy- It’s too much,” you sob to him, digging your nails into your palms. “Shh, it’s okay, bunny,” he shushes gently, keeping his hand wrapped lazily around your neck. Helmut’s cock slams into your cunt, pounding into you ruthlessly, yet he’s somehow oh so gentle. Your eyes roll into the back of your head again, and you moan gently as you feel another climax being built up. Back to back, and you’re not sure how your body is going to handle it.

He’s close, too. He’s never had this happen before, and he’s not sure what to think of it.

“Awe, you’re going to come again, bunny? That’s okay, shh, Daddy’s here, bunny. We’ll do it together, and it’ll b- be good,” he tells you, and you nod. Helmut bends down and places his shiny forehead against yours. He stares you into your glassy eyes––they’re hazy––and he can tell you’re gone. You’ve gotten all stupid and dumb for his cock, and he loves the idea so much.

You both pant as he sloppily fucks into your cunt, his heavy balls slapping against your ass. “Fuck, I can’t wait to fill up your tight little pussy with my cum. Gonna watch it leak out, and I’m just gonna fill you up over and over again. Make you all mine because you belong to me. Right? Say it,” he growls, fucking you even faster. “I’m all yours, Daddy, I’m all yours,” you say to him, and you’re both pushed off the edge after one specific thrust.

“O- Oh my…” you choke out, squeezing your eyes shut. Helmut curses loudly, saying all kinds of sinful things that a nun would faint if she hears him. His cock twitches as he comes inside you, and your pussy squeezes him as you let go. Streaks of cum shoot out his tip and paint your inner walls, and it all begins to leak out already. Your cum mixes with his, and he can’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy the sight of it.

He presses a kiss on your nose before slowly pulling out. Helmut’s cock is still hard, and he just knows the afternoon won’t end until he says so. You wince loudly at the feeling of emptiness and overwhelming sensitivity. “Sorry, bunny,” he frowns, reaching over for the camera. You watch him through droopy eyelids as he focuses it on your cunt, then to your body, and then to your face.

“Did I do good, Daddy?” you ask him excitedly.

“So good, bunny. You’re going to be sweeping up at the awards next year.”

[sdartistries]

could you tell us more about the fronted confident/real confidence pose thing? as someone who loves details-- it sounds really interesting! how do you read a character's body language like that?

For sure!

For the sake of continuity of this discussion, I'll just go ahead and use the base poses of the TPOF trio as examples. (Characters belong to the wonderfully talented @gatobob)

Body Language = Observable Behavior + Context

Before I go into a deeper explanation of posing characters, let’s explore what body language actually says about a character. In particular:

Body language says very little about a character’s actual personality; 

Body language is reactionary to circumstance (people, places, events, experience); and

Body language does not portray universally across persons of differing ability or culture.

That being said, when you are observing a character’s body language in a story then you are likely only getting as much context to their behavior as the creator has intended to share with you. I’ll include examples of circumstance below to show how it changes the meaning of a base pose. 

Let’s begin!

Posing Plain Confidence

Confidence as a character does not necessarily mean that a character is the best of the best (Ah yes, I am a chef of so many years’ experience that my hands are basically knives and my burps are basically seasoning), it simply means that a character is transparently calm given the circumstance that they are reacting to (Well, I can certainly give dinner a good try and if there’s room for improvement then there’s always next time. No big deal.) which oftentimes can be interpreted as a result of experience. They are fully prepared to deal with a situation as it comes along whether they’ve done it before or not. 

Visually, a confident character does not necessarily have to stand or sit with a ram-rod straight back. That's a trained habit, not a confident habit. Instead, their posture is more than likely going to come off as relaxed and open. Think unhunched shoulders, head resting evenly on neck, legs and arms placed loosely, and feet in resting position. Another visual note to make about confident characters is that they don’t partake in what I like to call “comfort gestures”. They do not distance their gaze. They do not cradle their bodies. They do not have to be touching or grasping something. They do not turn themselves away from an audience when directly addressing them. They are untensed and unbothered. 

Confidence Illustrated: Mason

Circumstance #1: Confidence You Can Trust

Getting back country-certified wasn’t a part of your original job description. There are BEARS in the back country! BEARS and WOLVES and BADGERS and you’re just an events coordinator for a non-profit! And let’s be real... it shows in the nervous jitter of your legs but then your instructor steps out of their truck and their presence immediately puts you at ease.

Here you are, surrounded by endless trees miles away from a proper town groaning under the weight of your company-supplied camp pack, and there they are walking effortlessly over to you on uneven ground with just as much gear if not more. In that small moment between them leaving their truck and closing the gap to reach you, you notice how their eyes scan the surrounding wilderness while they take a lazy swig out of their water jug before turning their eyes towards you on the last step. Their gaze is as even as their breath and they extend a steady hand out for a handshake. You nervously take their hand and they give you a light but firm squeeze in return. You’re locked into their expression - how calm they are - and they break a small smile at you in return.

Circumstance #2: Confidence You Should Fear

So... it wasn’t the bears you should have worried about. Your instructor watched you eat lunch and you KNOW you saw them take a few bites of the same ration. You SHARED lunch, you told them about how excited you were to be out in the woods for the first time especially with such an experienced guide like them, and now what?! They had you strung up by your wrists, that’s what! 

You swivel left and right trying to get a better bearing of your surroundings and that’s when you see them and your blood runs cold. They’ve unloaded their pack somewhere but that only serves to give you a better look at the knife strapped to their hip. It’s definitely not a utility knife. They don’t even skip a beat once they notice you’re awake and walk towards you with that same even stride that had earlier put you at ease. Their gaze meets you straight on and you flinch as they close the distance. They break that now familiar small smile at your reaction and place that familiar light but firm grip on your chin. 

Reading The Next Move of Plain Confidence

Just like their baseline posture, plain confidence doesn’t put on any airs when it comes to their next move. Even if you’ve provoked them, you generally have a clear view of exactly how they’re reacting as it happens. 

Posing A Defensive Front

Where a plainly confident character does not necessarily need to be the best of the best, the defensive character NEEDS their audience to believe that they’re better than thou in the context of perceived confidence. A defensive front comes with a few tells however that points to a more honest need for this character: distancing and self-soothing. Plain confidence plays on an unbothered field but a defensive character plays a clear competition when observed by an audience. If you have ever done a “power pose” to inspire yourself before a meeting, game, or social situation then congratulations, you were building up confidence by building up a defensive front.

Defensive fronts actually start at the feet, or whatever base of the character is in direct contact with a solid surface.  Defensive characters are PLANTED to their position and aren’t likely to make sweeping gestures or postures (unless provoked but we’ll get to that later). Their poses generally live within an elbow-length bubble. Besides being grounded and contained in their postures, defensive characters also showcase a lot of comfort gestures. They look down at their audience. They move their head and torso away from their audience. They try to make themselves look bigger by hunching up their shoulders and/or they create a barrier between themselves and the audience by crossing their arms or holding an object in between them. Defensive characters prefer not to address others or be addressed in a position that puts them at a disadvantage or on equal footing. Imagine this character walking alongside another character in a hallway except you’re already wrong by assuming that they’d walk alongside anyone and not half a step ahead or behind the other person and at least two feet away. Defensive characters are on edge and that edge helps them stay ahead... but it also makes them fragile.  

Defensive Front Illustrated: Celia

Circumstance #1: Defense That Helps

You made it out of bear country... you don’t want to remember how you did it, but you’ve got some serious complaints for HR, that’s for sure. You send an email to their department and you receive a calendar invite in return. You accept and wait for the appointed meeting time before approaching their office. Their door is always closed so you knock and are promptly called into the office. They’re sitting at their desk when you open the door but immediately stand up and close the door behind you before walking you to a chair in front of their desk. They don’t return to their seat and instead choose to lean against the front of their desk while you hand them your report of the incident. They scan the report with their arms folded over their chest. Every once in a while, they look over to you with a gaze obscured by lowered lashes. You can’t tell if they’re taking you seriously or not. You had a lot to say before you came into the office but now you’re just... uncomfortable. Finally, they put down the report and fold both arms over their chest. They tell you that they’ll look into this incident and inform you of any further action needed on your part. They smile at you which puts you at ease and, again, they personally walk you out of their office closing the door behind you. You return to your cubicle and your office computer pings with a very prompt email detailing the submission of your report and immediate action items needed going forward. 

Circumstance #2: Defense That Harms

This is not the settlement you hoped for. Sure, you were excited when your communications with HR started pointing towards something that felt like real closure and, sure, a work lunch with HR to go over settlement details sounded like a good idea at the time but now... now you think you all of this was just a huge mistake. Though... admittedly, you can’t help but think this might be an overreaction on the part of HR. 

You met them in their office to leave together for lunch and they brushed past you after gathering a few of their things, clutching their paperwork in a vice grip. You followed them to their vehicle in what seemed like a hushed, unspoken race. You sat shotgun and for a moment you thought you caught a glimpse of a scowl on their face but it vanished before you could really place it. They started driving in silence to what you assumed was going to be a nice company-funded meal but when you started asking about the details of the settlement, they laughed at you. They didn’t even turn to look at you but they shifted from laughter to badgering pretty quickly. Something was wrong and you felt it strongly enough in your gut to pull on their emergency break while unclipping your seatbelt. You could tell by the sudden flush in their cheeks and a rustling through their briefcase that this was not going to end well for you. 

Reading The Next Move of The Defensive Front

Defensive characters are build-up characters. They have a baseline that they strive to protect which is normally never an issue for their audience until they’ve been provoked in some way. That’s where the beauty of a defensive character lies because if circumstances poke them in a way that consistently topples their base then they will act in a way where it is made clear that the circumstance needs to change in order to conform to their level of comfort or else some unstable behavior is definitely going to happen.

Posing A Poker Face (Bluster)

The poker face is the cousin of plain confidence but rather than being built on a base of unbothered calm, the poker face is built on a foundation of bluster. Bluster is an art form. Bluster is unearned while also being a consistent practice. Bluster applies for the position of executive chef on the basis of having added garlic powder to a grilled cheese once and claiming that it was a work of art despite being incredibly dry and subjective to individual taste and food tolerance. The character that poses in base poker face does, in fact, personally believe that they’re confident as a base line but they have little tells in their posture that attempt to redirect their audience away from the also true fact that they are insecure in their standing. 

In plain confidence posturing, we talked about the fact that standing upright is a trained habit rather than an actual sign of confidence. Well, in a character displaying bluster, they are more likely to be posed in trained positions that they have been told convey a certain air rather than defaulting to a position that they actually feel. Remember this: bluster is largely deceptive in posturing. Confidence posturing is a reflection of the character themselves being at ease, but bluster posturing is meant to put the intended audience at ease.  That generally means that they’ll meet the audience gaze very directly. They’ll even lower their heads and bodies to the level of the audience. Their movement posturing is a massive tell, though. A confident character will assess and redirect as necessary, but a poker face character will move under the assumption that they already have the upper hand. 

Bluster Illustrated: Derek

Circumstance #1: Poker Played Fairly

Working for non-profits has been a... poor experience to say the least and you’ve decided to move on. You swore you would never give in but here you are interviewing for a position in a corporate conglomerate. You’re seated in front of a fairly cozy conference table and you’ve got your list of very oddly specific conditions for employment listed in your cover letter to present to your mystery interviewer. No camping. No undocumented work meetings. Just a desk and duties. You sweat over some other details in your head until you hear a door open and swivel around to see the mystery entering the room. 

They lock eyes with you immediately and you are struck with how widely they smile and stride straight up to you without giving you a moment to rise from your seat. They take your hand and deliver a firm handshake that lasts just long enough for you to notice how warm and soft their palms are. They assure you that you can stay seated while they move to occupy the seat in front of you. They keep their hands in plain sight on top of the meeting table though you notice that they occasionally tap your resume while they talk to you. You feel so acknowledged! Their shoulders inch closer to you throughout your conversation and you can’t help but feel completely at ease as they stand up and shake your hand once again to welcome you to the company. 

Circumstance #2: Poker Played Poorly

“Naivete strikes once again!” You scream internally as you crawl silently out of the bed to collect your clothing off the floor. You’re just about to slip off to change discreetly in the bathroom when you steal a glance back at your... boss, dammit... laying in the bed facing away from you and that’s when you notice it. They were awake this entire time. You can see their reflection in the window and you can see that they’ve noticed you. They lock eyes with your reflection first before casually rolling over and smile widely at your distressed expression. You’re frozen for a moment when you realize that everything they had ever told you, everything that they had ever said to assure you, was a lie. They look you up and down and smile wider before lazily calling you back to bed. You burst and start screaming at them. Their expression empties for just a moment and then you see something in them darken. Your stomach sinks as they start to laugh. 

Reading the Next Move of the Poker Face

Unfortunately, the poker face character is a character of deception as previously stated. Characters that use bluster as a primary source of posturing do not react well to provocation. That means the audience has figured them out and they no longer have the upper hand. Their actions after this realization is largely dependent on their personality which can’t be predicted by body language. 

Thank you for the ask! I had a lot of fun writing out this reply!