#this is dumb humor and i know and accept that and it's still entertaining | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

revenant-dumpster-fire · 3 years ago

Text

Canine (Revenant x Reader)

Part 2 of 2 of the chapter “Styptic & Canine”. [AO3 Link to full chapter]

Theme: Revenant introduces the reader to his makeshift family as he turns up the spice level, but an unfortunate run in with a creep ruins most of the day.

Warnings: Graphic content, physical male dominance, threats of violence, blood, descriptions of violence, sexual references, sexual harassment, sharp objects, pain, bipolar, depression, mentions of mania, general romantic fluff.

Reader's Notes: Revenant (Apex Legends) x Reader, reader is female.

Writing Notes: This post was too big. 18K words. This is part 2 of a larger chapter that is “Styptic & Canine”. I’m posting it in halves so Tumblr doesn’t die. Also, yes, this chapter is where I start raising the heat. My intent was to boil the frog, but Tumblr made me split right where I first turn on the gas stove.

Navigation: First Chapter | Previous Part (Styptic & Canine) | Next Chapter

You regain consciousness to a mild shake, his hands around each of your cheeks and his frame vaulted over your body in a sitting position.

"Oh dear, little skinsuit, what was that about?" His voice drips with some kind of sadistic humor.

"What was what about?" The morning light was shining through the skylight. He obviously let you sleep in a bit, for which you were grateful. You couldn't remember any dreams though, it was all blank.

"Don't play stupid, you must know." He's way too into this. "I want to know if it was me."

"I really don't remember. Why, what did I do?"

He lurches back in some kind of cruel delight, pulling his hands away to cup around his own face, accentuating his joy.

"Then maybe you'll know the answer to this: who is 'daddy'?"

Your face gets hot instantly, now you know why he's so interested. He has prime material to hold over your head for days. You have one potential way out and he isn't likely to buy it.

"I never met my father, so I'm not sure..." You try.

"Oh, I guessed as much. But this wasn't that kind of daddy." He places each of his hands on the sides of your waist, making you blush harder. "Your hips were absolutely reeling. I could hear how much you were loving it. You still smell like lust. So, I must know... who is the lucky one to have the title of 'daddy'?" Your face is burning. Your attempt to get out of this has definitely and utterly failed.

"I don't know! I've never even--" You cut yourself off, realizing that saying more is only playing into his game.

"Oh please, you must tell me." He leans over to whisper in your ear, curling over you in a seductive manner. "I'll keep it a secret, I promise. I just want to know who makes you writhe like that. Clearly I could learn something." This asshole. Your face actually hurts it's so hot. You can't get out of this, and you don't even have an answer for him. You've never even called anyone that before.

"Please, can I get up?" You beg, hoping it can just be over.

"Oh no, dear," You feel yourself screaming internally as he nuzzles his mask against the side of your face, "I can't let you do that. No, no... Not until you humor me." He presses his body into you, and you audibly whimper. "Call me daddy."

You're dead. You have to be dead. This can't be real. You can't humor him, but you have to humor him. Why is he like this? If you say it really fast, maybe it'll be okay. Maybe he'll accept it.

"Can I get up...?" You choke. "...daddy..." You didn't say it fast, but you said it with zero confidence, which hopefully dampens his power trip.

He throws himself off of you, laughing something fierce. His guffaw is loud, cruel, and pure delight. He's completely overtaken by it, laying back beside you, almost twitching in hilarity. He can't control himself as he lifts his hand as if to wipe away a tear.

He shuts down again, turning limp.

You jump out of bed, giving yourself distance from his metal sarcophagus, knowing whatever comes next might not be pleasant. You make your way to the computer desk, sitting on the office chair, waiting to see what he does this time.

His chassis begins to whirr and cracks into movement, his arms grabbing at air beside him as he tests every limb in violent bends and swings. The static begins in his voice, before suddenly slipping into something audible.

"You-you moved away." His empty optics seem to stare at you from a distance as he sits up. "I wanted to hold-hold you again..." His tone was soft, but his vocals were still skipping. "Shame, daddy will get you next-next time."

His eyes come back to life, and he's aware again.

"Well, just say how you really feel then, huh?" You jab back, waiting to see how he reacts. He chuckles a little, a mere echo of the laugh that forced him to restart.

"Well, I'll make it up to you. How do you feel about making a trip to meet my little family?"

"Family? I thought--"

"Oh, not like that, of course. Just the closest thing I have." He smiles smugly at you, seeing an opportunity. "You don't need to worry, no one competes with you."

Damn blush, you're going to turn red permanently if he doesn't stop.

He vaults out of bed, making his way over to you.

"I let you sleep in, thankfully what you're wearing is ideal for the job already." He offers his hand. When you take it, he hoists you to your feet. "It should help with any sad feelings too, how are those going by the way?"

"With how things have been going, I haven't had the chance to be depressed..." You're almost embarrassed that his plan to keep throwing you off your depression is working so well.

"Good, keep showering me with all your attention then." He squeezes your hand a bit before letting go. At this rate he could make you manic again if he keeps pushing it. You're just not sure if you should let him. "I've arranged a ride for us, since I don't think you can run this far."

"Oh, alright, sure. Do I need to do anything? I feel kinda like I should take a shower..." It's very strange that you're going someplace wearing dirty clothes with no shower.

"Trust me, you'd be better off doing that after."

• • • •

Revenant can't drive, apparently. To the point in which he's actually enough of a liability that he's not allowed to drive anywhere outside of the Apex Games. He wasn't very happy with the idea of having a chauffeur, but the legal team was able to convince him to accept being driven in exchange for a vehicle that separated him from the driver. That vehicle was a limo. A giant, stretch limo. A very luxurious limo. Versus you, who is a mess: dressed in a stained shirt you slept in and you haven't washed your hair. This is embarrassing.

"This dumb thing is almost ten yards long, and you have to be right up against me, don't you?" Revenant is sitting far in the back corner, and you've wedged yourself right between him and the corner, trying your best to hide yourself from any phantom that might see you.

"I'm in a limo and I look like I belong in a garbage truck." You duck away from the windows, shoving your face up against the black leather of his waist, careful to avoid the support pistons.

"Literally no one can see you except me." He scoffs, crossing his arms. "The windows are blacked out, the driver's privacy window is closed, and nobody is here but us." His eyes glare down at you, but he seems to be moderately entertained by your distress.

"I look homeless." You pause. "Again."

Revenant laughs at that, uncurling his arms to mess up your hair in some kind of adoring but condescending gesture.

"You're fine, trust me. Nobody is going to see you." He pauses from messing with your hair. "I have a stop coming up, just stay in here and I'll be back with some supplies."

"Be fast, I need to hide behind someone and you're the only one here." You're being intentionally dramatic, but if it makes him laugh it's worth it. He sighs equally as dramatically, clearly playing along.

The vehicle hovers to a stop, and Revenant wisps out the door, closing it behind him before you even get a sense for where you are. The windows really are blacked out, you can't see anything through them.

Now alone, you shrink into the back corner of the seats going around the vehicle. There's a television and what appears to be a loaded bar, multicolored LED lights lining the whole thing, and starlights in the ceiling. The seats are all made with beautiful leather and have a triangular pattern stitched in the surface. The floor has carpeted mats that feel a bit more plush than the average car. You consider rummaging through the bar, but you're not sure if anyone is going to charge you an arm and a leg for alcohol you can get cheaper anywhere else. You sigh and lean back, shrinking further in the seat.

The door on the opposite corner as you clicks open, and Revenant crawls in, dragging a massive green bag behind him, barely managing to get it in the car.

"Is that a body bag?!" You curl up in the fetal position on your seat, recoiling away from the door.

"Yes." He gruffly huffs as he drags the apparent bagged corpse into the limo, weighing the whole vehicle down. He gets it in the middle of the floor, then drops it with a thud and throws himself down beside you. With his weight, you feel like you nearly missed being crushed. His arm rests on your opposite shoulder and you shudder, giving him a concerned stare. "Oh shush, I paid for it."

"You what?" You whimper, completely at a loss of what you're experiencing.

"It'll be fine, I can't rightly show up without any offering." He shrugs his shoulders, pulling you closer. He seems to be very pleased with himself, smugly teasing you.

"Offering?! Is this a cult?!" You whisper aloud, not necessarily expecting an answer. He laughs again, enjoying your mental wheels spinning. The limo gets moving again, handling the extra weight very easily.

"Oh, no, that's for next time." He's obviously teasing now. "I'll make sure you're in a lovely white dress to soak in the blood of our sacrifices for that occasion." He shoves you up against his chassis, growling to rattle his torso against you. "Then, when we're all done, I'll make official my new nickname."

"Oh, fuck you." You let slip under your breath, causing him to guffaw openly again. He catches his synthetic breath, rubbing his mask in the same motion a human would.

"You've gotten so comfortable with me so quickly, what happened?" His question must be rhetorical, because he doesn't leave much of a pause for an answer. He jumps right back into teasing. "I'll have to tame you by any means necessary if you're going to keep being so temptingly coy." His hands cup around your waist and you crack a sigh, turning away from him, trying to focus on anything other than how red in the face you must be.

"Do you regularly flirt in front of fresh corpses?"

"Awww..." He grabs your chin and pulls your face back to meet his, bringing his visage down close enough to feel his breath. "Are you kink-shaming me? Or are you just being a prude little tease?" He pauses before snickering to himself, losing his flirtatious composure. "You're so red, you practically match me." His loss of composure is cute enough to get to you. You giggle a little.

The car comes to a gentle stop, and Revenant immediately gets to pulling the corpse out. The body bag is way larger than makes sense, it almost looks as if it could fit someone Revenant's size. Yet the body inside still seems way too big. You're not sure what it is, but you're a bit too afraid to ask at the same time. Revenant eventually gets the bag to the edge of the vehicle before throwing it over one of his shoulders, forcing his shoulder spikes to flip downward out of the way. He nearly topples over at the shifting weight, meaning whatever is in the bag is excessively heavy.

As you crawl out of the car after him, you smell the fresh air of being nowhere near civilization. You see lots of flat lands broken up by woods with a giant abandoned warehouse in front of you. The warehouse has holes rusted throughout its sides and the door is ajar, the hinges rusted so it no longer swings. The air is fresh, and you look around, unable to find signs of other humans close by. Revenant waves away the limo. It turns around, kicking up dust off the unpaved path before zooming off into the horizon. He waits until the limo is far enough before pulling you close.

"You have to listen to everything I say, understand?" He's dead serious. You nod, suddenly concerned over his change in tone. "Don't try to protect me, I'll be okay. Scream if and only if you feel pain." You search for any joking tone in his voice, but there is none. "But above all else, listen to me. Don't play stupid, just obey." He looks to you, demanding acknowledgement. You nod, determined and concerned at this new development.

He walks over to the door, making his way inside carefully as you follow. He throws the body bag on the concrete floor of the entryway, causing a morbid slapping sound as it hits the ground. Revenant kneels down and begins ripping the bag open. You take a moment to look around.

This whole warehouse is dark beyond belief. There seems to be different rooms, but the rusted-through holes in the wall allow you to get negligible peeks into nearby rooms. The roof has not decayed at all yet, but it means no light is entering the building, making the deeper rooms be cast in an oppressive darkness. From the outside this warehouse looked massive, this room must be only one of dozens. The silence is scary, there isn't a single sound of life apart from you and Revenant, but you know better. Silence means something doesn't want to be found, and is inevitably a sign of life. Silence only happens when a hunter has scared everything else into silence. You might have learned that from Bloodhound, but you can't be sure. Either way, it's anxiety-inducing.

Revenant stands tall, pulling the scraps of the bag away from a giant bisection of a carcass. It appears to be beef, in the same state butchers will sell to grocers or restaurants. It doesn't smell bad, but it definitely smells like raw meat. Revenant grabs you around the shoulder, pulling you into a very controlling embrace. He whistles, or something like it.

"C'mere puppies!" As soon as he says it, you hear the sound of many nails skittering around the concrete flooring, making their way to the room you're in. Revenant squeezes you close as the pack comes into sight.

"Revenant! Those are not dogs!" You can't help but whisper in shock as the pack stops in your line of sight, trying to get a read on whether you're a threat or not.

Prowlers are utterly terrifying predators. They can be described as something between a wild dog and a tiger with the hide of a dinosaur. Their quadrupedal forms stand tall enough to meet you eye-to-eye at the largest, but the females and younger prowlers come up to your waist or knees instead. This subspecies has a beautiful, peacock-like furl behind their ears that stand on end when they see you, making them look as kaleidoscopic as they are scary. Their fangs could make a saber tooth tiger swoon, and their colors remind you of the legendary Birds of Paradise. Their long tails flick back and forth in concern, trying to understand who you are or if they should fight you. The largest male growls so deeply that Revenant sounds like a kitten in comparison, and it approaches both of you ahead of the rest of the pack.

"Rev..." You start to step behind him. This creature could very easily kill you in a single bite to the neck, and he was already tall enough to reach it.

"Shush, listen to me." He whispers to you, using his grip around your back to shuffle you back in place and to his side, pulling you against him in an uncomfortable grip. "Hey Six, this is mine." He addresses the massive male prowler approaching you, almost presenting you to him.

You hold your breath as Six sniffs your face, neck, and chest, trying to figure out what you are and why you're here. The other prowlers begin to enter the room, not even paying attention to the food in preference of figuring out the newcomer. Six's tail begins to rise up, flicking the tip back and forth as he finds you acceptable as a guest. You receive a lick right on the face as a final assurance, and the other prowlers swarm you to meet you.

You grab onto Revenant like your life depends on it. All of these prowlers could kill you, probably even the young ones too. It doesn't matter if they're all flicking their tails happily, or panting with smiles and tongues out, or excitedly greeting you. They can kill you and you're painfully aware of it.

"Calm down, seriously. You were fine meeting me for the first time, but a bunch of little puppies scare you?" Revenant releases his hold on you, but you don't return the favor.

"These are not puppies!" You try to whisper at him, but he might not be able to hear you over the crowd you've attracted. He pushes down on your shoulders, causing you to lose your grip on him and fall into a sitting position. Now all the prowlers can meet you eye-to-eye or tower over you. You're inundated with licks, and no amount of guarding your face with your arms will save you.

"You'll be fine. They're my pack, and they'll respect what's mine." You can barely hear him over the assault of affection.

As the excitement begins to settle, some of the larger prowlers peter off to check out the meat, leaving the younger ones to look after you. A tiny pair of kits you didn't see before bound up to your lap and hop in, cuddling against your stomach. For such scary adults, the babies are unbearably cute. You're not sure if you can touch them or not, so you simply let them roll around in your lap, slapping at each other like the siblings they are. Six comes back to you, his maw covered in blood from the beef.

"I figured he'd notice." You hear Revenant mutter as Six inspects your arm and calf, licking at the puncture wounds a little. "I guess my hypocrisy was going to catch up eventually." Six carefully sniffs the skin before shooting a glare and deep growl at Revenant. "Don't move a muscle, no matter what." He instructs you.

Six lunges at Revenant's leg, catching the metal below the knee joint in his bite. Revenant buckles and hits the ground. You jump a little and whine to yourself, but you stay as reserved as you can otherwise. The kits notice and begin pawing at you, trying to understand your reaction. Six drags Revenant a few feet from you as Revenant makes stifled sounds reminiscent of excruciating pain. You want to step in, but you obey orders. You hear the moaning of the metal in his leg beginning to bend for a few moments, before Six releases him. Revenant sits up, grappling his leg before Six chomps the opposite arm near the shoulder, causing Revenant to try to reel away in shock and pain. Again, Six growls as the metal bends beneath his bite, Revenant taking the pain as best as he can. Six releases, gives a growling bark to Revenant, and returns to you to lick your wounds more.

"Oh, now aren't you just poetic." Revenant finally makes out between what sounds like heavy breaths. "You got me in the same places." He's cradling his calf and arm, in the exact same places and sides as you were hurt. "I knew I was going to pay for that, but you didn't have to be that literary about it."

Six turns to him and makes whining sounds that mimic human speech. You've heard of Siberian Huskies making these noises, but never prowlers. Either way, it sounds sassy, and Revenant seems to relax knowing he's back in good graces.

"Yes, I know I taught you the same lesson a long time ago, but still..." He talks to them like anyone would talk to their dog. "You didn't have to be that extra about it." Six flicks his head at him before returning to your wounds, the kits now back to play-fighting each other.

"So, yeah, these are my puppies." He finally addresses you again. Most of the other prowlers are now taking turns at the carcass, seemingly following a hierarchy. You want to correct him, but you don't. He's clearly going to keep insisting that they're puppies. "This is Six, he's the sixth alpha of a pack I've helped raise over the past few decades. Zero was the first prowler that accepted me, and One was his puppy--the first alpha."

Six retires from your wounds, taking the two kits from you to go eat with their mother.

"There's no way you can be depressed around these guys. If there's any creature more aware of the emotional state of other beings, I dare them to come forward. My pack is perfect." He genuinely sounds overjoyed that you're getting to meet them all, he seems very proud. "I even raised them to respect females... Even if that did bite me back today." He huffs a bit.

"So, wait, you've been raising prowlers out here for decades?" You finally make a sound, Six and a few others look over at you for a moment, surprised by your more relaxed voice.

"Yeah, although they're fairly independent. I'm more like an elder to them, rather than directly in their hierarchy. I bring them food, not that they need me to, and they come along with me when I need company or extra help." He scoots himself close to you, letting his damaged leg drag. You get a closer look and see that the metal is both punctured and buckled on both his arm and leg. "They've been a passion project of mine ever since I first met Zero. They make me feel a bit of humanity." That last sentence is spoken with a level of reverence. You let the silence fall for a moment.

"You know, this is probably a scientific breakthrough in some field that nobody has ever managed before. You have a wild pack of prowlers that accept you and the people you bring in." He seems surprised by your lavish praise. "This could change our understanding of prowlers forever."

"Well, it helps that I'm nigh unkillable," he knocks on his metal chest, making a banging sound, "and honestly you're allowed in because as far as they're concerned, you're my mate." He wraps his arm around you possessively as the kits crawl back into your lap, now well-fed and cuddly. "That's why they don't mind you around the little ones." He sees you eyeing them as they roll around, trying to get comfortable. He picks one up, holding it in his hands like it's a precious jewel. It yips at him for attention, so he scratches behind it's tiny furls with his spare hand. "I think this one will be Seven, unless the next litter has an even bigger boy."

His adoration for these predators is absolutely identical to how so many people feel about their pets. The choice to love prowlers is a bit unconventional, but he is very much a man stuck in a metal body--humanity intact--in these moments. You are growing increasingly fond of him, seeing something beautiful beyond the cruel simulacrum assassin you once knew. He catches you staring.

"Go ahead, pick her up." He gestures to the other kit in your lap, actually looking a little jealous of her brother. At first, you tremor at the thought of picking her up wrong, but a sudden wave of confidence comes from nowhere. You scoop her up in your arms, bringing her up to your chest and cradling her. She immediately begins to squirm with delight and lick at your hand as you rub her head and chin.

"Was that all instinct?" He pauses, and you tilt your head at him, confused by the question. "You were shaking, then suddenly you weren't. Is that what maternal instinct looks like?" You're a bit shocked he saw that much.

"I'm not sure. I'm not usually around babies of any kind." You confess, but now you suspect the same thing he does. The baby female prowler reaches for your face, barely managing to touch your chin before you lower your face to meet her. She reacts with tiny licks on your nose while you tickle her belly. Revenant is the one staring now.

Revenant places the baby male in your arms next to the female, allowing them to both vie for your coveted attention. Some of the females come over and snuggle up next to you, laying on and around you, while the males and Six lie next to Revenant. Revenant leans back, eventually resting his head on the flank of one of the larger males, while another rests its head on his shoulder.

"You should lie down, let the puppies run around." He instructs you, briefly pointing to the kits in your arms. "Your body isn't heavy enough to bother anyone, just lay on whoever seems the most comfortable."

You look around, seeing a lot of intimidating warm bodies around you, so you cheat and carefully lay under Revenant's arm. You hear him audibly sigh, bothered that you're still worried but unable to chide you. The kits use you to crawl up on Revenant and slide down his metal torso to the other side, Six audibly purring when they land in his vicinity. Maybe a prowler would make a better pillow than a newly busted up metal arm and the concrete floor. You shiver a bit at the sheer power of these creatures, running your fingers over the metal holes in Revenant's arm, causing him to wince away from your touch.

"Does it hurt?" You whisper, hoping not to draw any prowler's attention.

"Yeah, it hurts a lot. My body can feel pain just like you skinsuits." He inhales in distress as you pull your fingers away from the damage. "It honestly feels like the flesh and muscle is torn off, like the bone is crushed and splintered, and like I'm bleeding out on the ground. But I know it's not real. It's never real."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know this would happen." You pull yourself into more of a ball, shuddering at the thought of that level of pain.

"It's not your fault, I instilled this level of protectiveness into them." Revenant pulls his arm away as one of the female prowlers crawls over you and lays on top of you, purring as if to comfort you. "Anyone who hurts one of the girls gets it back sevenfold." You roll onto your back, the prowler readjusting to lay on your belly, purring and licking your neck. "So you can stop being sad about it. They can sense it in you. If you don't want the attention, you can't let yourself be distressed." He sits up, looking down at you smugly while a second prowler writhes across the ground to get close enough to lick your cheek. Are these creatures really this intuitive?

Six notices Revenant sitting up to watch you and meanders over to see the small commotion. Six shoves himself between you and Revenant, apparently sensing some kind of disagreement. Six positions his paws on your neck, allowing you to feel the enormous size of his claws. One flex and you're dead. These things must be three inches of blade, all with a hypodermic tip. Six turns his head to Revenant and makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a growl before shoving his snout against your ear to purr. He bares his fangs while doing so, allowing you to feel how long and menacing they are. You wince away from him, pushing your face into the other prowler's licks, but Six just shoves his snout further to reconnect with you.

"He seems to think I should be more comforting, you're way too nervous for his liking. Good luck being depressed now." He sounds like he's enjoying this, shrugging to himself before he places his hand on your free arm. "Just calm down, they're not going to hurt you."

"I could die from a single flick of the wrist." You carefully say, feeling your vocal chords vibrate against Six's massive nails.

"That doesn't stop you from getting close to me." His hand glides up and down your arm. You don't have a response for him, so you stay quiet. "Like I said, just scream at any discomfort and someone is getting a swift dose of justice." He lies back on the same prowler as before, changing his position to avoid disrupting Six.

"I can't scream if my throat is slit."

"Give it time, you'll understand."

• • • •

Three prowlers is apparently the amount it takes to bring back a stick. It can be more if the stick is longer, but this giant branch is the maximum size you can throw. They hop together, all their jaws in a line across the branch, their fangs clutched around the wood. They carefully drop it at your feet, waiting expectantly for you to try throwing it again. You do your best to throw it, but between your injured arm and the weight of it, you struggle to get it as far as you'd like. The area behind the warehouse is a small yard with enough room for fetch, surrounded by thick forests over a few small hills.

"You throw like a child." You hear Revenant mock you, and you turn around to shoot him a glare. Six is resting in his lap and he has the mother prowler at his side, accepting the belly rubs he offers while the kits sleep. "I can throw farther than you from here, without even standing." You roll your eyes, knowing he's probably right.

Two new prowlers got in on the stick this throw, bounding back to you for another throw. You have eight prowlers all fighting to be one of the three on the stick, but they all seem to be having fun. Four of the young adults are off in the woods playing tug of war by themselves, making a total of sixteen prowlers you've now met. This pack is unusually huge from what little you know. You wonder if Revenant's meddling has something to do with it.

You pick up the branch and drag it over to Revenant, curious to see if he'll back up his claim.

"Alright, go for it." You hand him the end of the branch, and he chucks it far enough to lob over the entire yard and land somewhere in the woods. He snickers as the pack disappears in the darkness after it. You watch, hearing the branch collide with the trees, making rustling and snapping sounds as it catches in them. "So, what if you just got it stuck in a tree?"

"Oh, I thought you wanted me to show off for you." Revenant coos sarcastically. "Give them a few minutes, they can climb." You sigh and shrug, waiting for any sign of them coming back. "Do you want to go home?"

"No, not yet."

"Oh, oh!? You aren't scared of my puppies anymore?" He says between chuckles.

"Shut it." You growl at him, finally getting to use his catch-phrase against him.

"Are you sure? It's getting late." It was beginning to be late in the afternoon, coming up on when you'd normally be wanting dinner. In truth you hadn't eaten in over a day, but depression made it so you never wanted to eat anyway. You'd been playing with his prowlers for hours now, fully accepted by them. You now felt pretty confident in your safety around them, but their stature was still a bit menacing.

"At least let me see if they can bring back that stick." You hear some rustling in the woods, before the eight prowlers burst out of the brush with the original branch and a second, equally massive one. Now only two are left out of being able to hold a part of a stick. They drop both at your feet.

You try to throw the first but it only makes it a short ways, all the prowlers fighting for it. You hand the second to Revenant, and he throws it back into the woods completely out of sight. They all abandon the first stick in preference for the farthest one.

"Maybe you should be doing this." You hunch over, a bit defeated and tired.

"You're doing fine. Anyways, we should wrap up soon. You probably need that shower and I have something I need to do before tomorrow." Revenant starts to get up, prompting Six to get off of him while huffing and shaking himself awake. "Also, you need food."

You sigh, wanting to argue but knowing you can't.

"I'm calling back your ride. We need to get all these guys hidden in the warehouse as to not cause any alarm." He pulls some kind of cellular device out of his pocket on his belt and presses a few buttons. He then proceeds to shuffle you back towards the warehouse, prompting Six, the mother, and the two kits to follow. As you get to the side entrance, Revenant turns around and emits another whistling sound, inundated with his usual modulated twinge. He steps inside with you and the other twelve prowlers come flooding in behind him.

He pets each of them as they make their way in, saving Six and the kits for last. He really does love these creatures. You sheepishly and carefully pet Six as you go to leave, but only because he demands it by butting his head into your hand to make it clear.

Finally, you step outside with Revenant, going towards the dirt road that got you here.

"You look like absolute hell." Revenant jabs. You pull your hair back and try to control it a bit better, but it refuses to cooperate. It's probably stuck from all the prowler saliva all over you, hair absolutely included. Not to even mention your shirt and pants look like you got tackled and ground into the dirt by an entire rugby team. Your shirt was already stained, now it's dusty, dirty, stained, and has green grass streaks. Your shoes are probably just as bad, but they're cheap sneakers so you don't really care much.

"I know, I really need a shower. Maybe two." You give up on your hair. It's just going to be a mess.

"Take as long as you need. I'll be back soon after you. I hope you don't mind riding back alone." You've made it to the dirt road, and you can see the excessively luxurious limo in the distance, kicking up dirt.

"You're not coming?"

"No, I have one last thing to do before the match tomorrow. It'll be worth it, and I think you'll like it too." Revenant seems like he won't budge on the matter.

The limo pulls up and he opens the door for you, and you crawl in alone, making sure you stay as far in the corner as possible. You don't really like the thought of being in here alone, but you have no choice in the matter. He shuts the door and you lose sight of him through the blacked-out windows. The limo starts to move, making a sharp turn and hitting high speeds over the terrain, probably kicking up tons of dust in the meantime. You have nothing to stare at, so you just curl up to yourself and wait to make it back.

"You seem a bit meek for this kind of work, kid." You hear a masculine voice with a skeezy city accent coming from the front of the limo. The privacy window is cracked, just enough so you can hear him, but thankfully not enough so you can see each other. Why was that rolled down at all? It wasn't on the way here. You turn away, refusing to answer, hoping he will leave you be.

"Heh, exactly." You hear him chuckle. You wish you had the guts to just waltz over and roll up the window on him, but you're neither that confident nor strong enough if it ends in a spat. You just let him continue. "Heck, I didn't think robots were even into that stuff, but he seems to be the 'specially fucked-up type." Your stomach sinks like an anchor as you hear what sounds like the draw of a cigarette. "Fucker practically gets off every time he guts someone on live TV. Makes perfect sense he'd get off 'tuh victimizin' some tiny doll like you."

You get the picture, and you feel sick to your stomach for it. You can't respond, every word you want to say gets caught in your throat and you're forced to swallow it. This guy might be unhinged; a lot of people are these days. If you try to argue, he might try something. If you try to play it off... who are you kidding? You could never play this one off. It sounds so bad. Is he going to try to hurt you? Or is this all some mind game?

"Does it hurt? You sure as hell look like you've been through a meat grinder." You feel your face turn red. You turn further away from the cracked window. "Oh, I bet it does. No way 'woulda giant metal psycho like that hold back on a little thing like you."

He won't stop. He's clearly only getting started, but you hope that this is the worst of it.

"Question is: are you a hostage or does he really pay you that well? You know, sweetheart, if you're in need of money, just record whatever the hell he does to 'ya and sell it on the internet." He starts laughing as you internally beg for him to shut up. "All sorts of fucked up dudes would pay for the privilege. You could make absolute bank! Even better if you let him cut you open a bit for the cameras while you scream." He's really laughing now, clearly getting off to how much he has you cornered.

"Everyone loves a good screamin' bitch. Anyone who says they don't is a liar. But you know that, don't 'ya toots?" His use of centuries-old misogynistic slang somehow makes everything worse. You feel yourself shake a bit as you hold yourself tighter. Your stomach hurts badly from the distress now, and you feel yourself spiral internally. Where is this going? Can you outrun this guy if you need to? What if he catches you? Can you squirm out of this guy's grasp? "God, what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall while that's going on. I bet your tears only make him harder."

You want to scream, but your prey instincts refuse to let you move or make a sound in hopes that he simply forgets you're there. You can't help yourself but hold your breath in intervals, hoping to be even more silent, but in turn making you more light-headed and fearful.

"I bet there's lots of filthy bastards that would pay extra to have his sloppy seconds." You're absolutely nauseated at the thought of that, but you haven't eaten, so maybe it's just a stomach ulcer forming from the extreme stress. "I bet he's modded to absolutely ruin you, isn't he? Tear your insides up and fill you until you're overflowin', right? You look like he never gives you a day off." You pray, begging God to kill you--this is worse than death.

"So, if he's draggin' 'ya all the way out into the woods to fuck 'ya, it must be pretty messed up stuff, huh?" You lay your face in your hands. "Aww, don't cry babe, I'm not going to tell anyone. I wouldn't want a hole in my chest, anyhow." You want to disappear. You hope he crashes the car and you die in a fire. You hate everything about this. "If you're ever in need of an extra kick of cash though, I wouldn't mind a taste of 'ya. Or buyin' one of those tapes."

You break internally. It feels like the essence of every muscle snaps in your body, and the tears flow without even intending to. You suddenly have the courage to move, but only to move a few inches to cower deeper in the corner of the seats.

It's not worth it. None of this is worth it. You no longer hear anything he says, even though you can still hear his voice. It sounds like you're underwater, so you can't make out the words anymore. Maybe that's a good thing. Unfortunately, you can still make out your own thoughts, and they're all cruel. It's all cruel. Everything about this situation is cruel.

You focus on the tears hitting your hands. They're cold, and they quickly flow out of your palms and down your arms before dripping off your elbows. They leave a trail of salts down your arm so thin you can barely notice it. You don't even feel compelled to make a sound as you cry; it's not that type of sorrow. It's pure humiliation, and your lungs work calmly as your eyes drown instead.

You wish you could just be swallowed by the swell of your own pain. Death is something you think about often as a potential solution to every problem, but right now it feels like a drug you're in active withdrawal from. Like you need it, right here, right now. You want to imagine the limo crashing into an embankment wall, submerging into an ocean, or being hit by a train. You don't care if the creep dies or not, all you know is you want out. The world feels cold enough to sap every degree of heat from you, and you feel as if you're freezing both literally and figuratively.

You fester in the feelings. The only saving grace in this situation is that you're too unimportant to matter to anyone as anything other than an easy squeeze. Nobody will miss you if you die. No one will look for you if you disappear. No family will mourn you. You secretly hope this pervert doesn't know that too, otherwise you might not make it out of this unscathed. You hope he believes Revenant will run him through if he tries to abduct you. You'd rather not die like that, something faster and more violent would be preferred.

Would Revenant kill you? In any circumstance at all? He could make it quick and violent, but he might not want to at this point. He seems to like you more by the day, but now that scares you. Is he human enough to feel strongly about you? Or does he tend to fall back on his programming? Maybe he would like gutting you--then at least someone could enjoy your death. You think about it, but you cannot imagine it without there being some kind of regret thrown in on your or his end. You can only imagine goading him into it by aggressively attacking his emotional stability, which is something you'd regret. Otherwise, you cannot imagine him killing you for no reason and being regret-free afterwards. You don't want him to feel regret. You just want to be free without hurting anyone, but maybe that's unrealistic.

The vehicle comes to a gentle stop. Your brain kicks into survival mode and you immediately rush for the door, not giving the driver any chance to get out of his seat, let alone open the door for you. He is still talking but you don't care; he's only laughing at you anyway. You get the door open and thankfully you're not at some back alley motel, but the main Apex Games facility. It's the back entrance, but you'll take it. It might be a blessing anyway, since it's so close to Revenant's new room that you'll likely avoid all human contact. You get up to the door and fumble in your pocket for your ID card, finally getting it out. You hear the driver say some more heinous things, but you refuse to turn around to see his face. The card is accepted and you rush in.

• • • •

The water is as hot as you can tolerate. It burns your skin and is downright uncomfortable to wash yourself in. Even as you curl up on the shower floor, crying and tolerating the hottest water you can handle, nothing can truly wash off the overwhelming feeling of being violated. Nothing can wash off the depression, the feelings of insignificance, the intrusive suicidal ideations, or the fear of meaning nothing in the grand scheme of things while simultaneously meaning just enough to force you into living.

The floor of the shower is warm, but it's still uncomfortable to lay on. The water spray hitting your skin is the only comfort you feel, but it isn't enough to quell you. The soap slowly rinses off your body, and the lathered up shampoo slowly flows out of your hair and down the drain. You'll eventually rinse completely like this, but it will be a while longer. How long has it already been? You took a long time sitting on the shower floor to even find the energy to get the soap lathered on you, and even that process was slow. Now you've been back on the floor and letting the soap slowly come off as you sob. Revenant might be back by now, but you're not sure what his errand was exactly. Maybe it will take all night. Does it matter? Do you matter? The thoughts won't stop.

You just cry. You cry until it feels like your soul starts to leave your body. Maybe it does. Between the heat, the steam, and the exhaustion, you pass out.

• • • •

"Skinsuit!" You feel yourself being gently jostled, still on the shower floor. The water is off, but the steam is so thick you question how long it's been. Your skin is beginning to get wrinkled from all the water absorption, so it's been a while. You're facing away from him, and you don't have the energy to turn to him. You don't even have the energy to speak. You just play the corpse, hoping that faking it will cause you to make it.

Revenant withdraws, and you hear rapid shuffling behind you. It sounds like he grabs the towel you had hung for yourself, running in and out of the bathroom to grab other things. You care about how he feels--he sounds distressed--but not for yourself. Why does he care at all, though? How does he feel about all this, anyway?

"Come here, little skinsuit. Everything is fine." You feel his arms scoop under you, and your natural instinct is to resist the hard synthetics against your bare skin. You wince a little, but mostly keep your corpse-like state: eyes closed and body limp. He carries you out of the bathroom where the air is freezing, but also not inundated with enough water vapor to nearly asphyxiate you. Weirdly enough, his chest isn't cold, but actually has something like fur? You don't open your eyes, you're probably just imagining it.

He places you down on a towel on the bed, immediately throwing another equally large towel over you. You're still cold, but it's way more tolerable with something over you. You hear Revenant mumbling in some kind of panic to himself, but you still can't find the energy to console him. You hear some typing on his computer, then the chair gets shoved out from under him as he stands in a huff. You hear your duffle bag unzip and likely some of your clothes be tossed on the bed near your head.

"You better not be mad at me for this..." He sounds unsure of that himself before you feel his hands start to dry you off through the towel. It would be nice if it didn't feel so wrong. Even if it is through a towel, you're naked otherwise. The thought of what the driver said hits you, and you immediately begin to feel anxiety and shake against your will. He reacts by scooping you up and hugging you, still wrapped in a towel, trying to stop the shaking.

"Dammit, what's going on?" You hear him whisper, he doesn't seem to realize you're awake and aware.

More fur. Why is there fur? Also, why does it feel like there's something resting on your head? It's way too large to be his chin. His chest feels smaller too, and it feels like some type of plastic rather than metal. The more you feel the more questions you have, and the more you panic at the realization that you do not know this simulacrum. You reach your limit and perk up in his arms, opening your eyes, and silently gasping as you reel back from whoever the heck this is.

"Wait! Skinsuit! It's me!" He manages to hold your arms before you can fully pull away, and you meet eyesight with a chassis you do not recognize. He has a huge, artificial bovine skull with curling ram horns situated on top. Instead of his scarf, his new face is framed in a mane of deep bark-colored fur, matted into locks like a proper wild animal. The optics tucked inside his skull seem so much larger than his normal ones, and they're a brilliant blueish-white, unlike his normal yellow ones. His snout is long enough to have been what was sitting on your head. His body looks to be made much thinner, especially in the chest, and is clearly made with more plastics than metals. It looks significantly lighter. His arms are red with odd, jagged juts on them, but seem to have similar hand mechanics otherwise. His loincloth is replaced with another long patch of fur, as well as fur on his thigh plates. His legs look a lot more decorative, and his feet are scarier: detailed down to each individual talon. His feet actually look much more like the hands on his other chassis.

"Skinsuit?" You snap out of your trance at his voice. You must have been staring him up and down for a while. "Uh, here." He pulls the towels back over you, which had fallen off when you pulled away. He reaches out to touch you, but stops short in case you aren't all there yet. "It's me, I'm just in a special body for tomorrow. I didn't mean to scare you." He's speaking slowly and methodically; his fingers make contact with your hand, but don't go further. "You must have fainted in the shower. You haven't been eating enough, but don't worry, everything's okay now."

Your head starts to throb and you instinctively go to hold it, the stress of the situation is too much. Even though he's trying to be reassuring, he looks like some kind of robotic, big-horned, undead goat demon and honestly you just wanted to see a familiar face to go with the familiar voice. You're not scared now that you know it's him, but something still doesn't feel right about it. Since you don't know this new chassis, you find it hard to trust his comfort. It's weird. Any other time you'd be overjoyed to see him in something that looks so cool, but now you're looking for some semblance of normalcy.

"How do you feel?" His right hand moves again to rest on your knee, intentionally avoiding pushing any boundaries. You can't answer, you still can't speak. It gets caught in your throat despite your best intentions, and instead your words turn into a new burst of tears and sobs. Without thinking, you take his hand off your knee and pull it to your face, sobbing into it. He seems relieved at your acceptance, and tries his best to catch and wipe away the tears as they flow. He shuffles as if to hug you, but he stops, likely unsure of how you feel when you're essentially in nothing but two loosely wrapped towels.

"I'm sorry, I thought seeing my pack would help, but I should have realized you haven't been eating enough. It's not something I've had to pay attention to in centuries." Your heart hurts as he seems to take the blame himself. "I also didn't mean to scare you again... I promise I'm not planning on hurting you." You want to speak so badly, but you just cry harder instead. None of this is his fault. Literally none of it. The only reason you're so jumpy is because everything that pervert said has sent you into a spiral. You imagined Revenant hurting you for his own entertainment and pleasure, and this imaginary smoking gun has left you very gun-shy.

"I ordered food for you to be delivered to the room. I expect you to eat something, even if it's not much. I don't want you dying on me." You push his hand into your face, trying to dry the tears. "I ordered a lot. I'm not sure what you like." You nod to affirm you hear him and plan to try, even though you're too nauseous to be hungry at the moment.

He uses his free hand to grab the clothing he pulled from your bag and puts it in front of you. He probably wasn't thinking too hard when he picked things out, but an oversized tee and men's basketball shorts are as comfy as it gets, so he did fine in your book. He left out undergarments, but honestly you couldn't care less at this point. Whatever covers you is fine. You pull his hand away from your face and place it on the bed gently. You grab the shirt, and he immediately turns away to let you put it on. You're able to throw it on along with the shorts in a few seconds, and quickly retrieve his hand when done. He turns back, maintaining the boundaries he interpreted.

"Any better?" He wipes away a few trailing tears now that you've slowed down a lot. You nod, still not sure how your voice is doing.

There's a knock on the door and Revenant pulls away gently to go get it. You hear a familiar voice from the other side of the door.

"I've got enough Chinese for like, five people. Who is even in this room? Are y'all having a sleepover in the abandoned room? To be fair I'd do the sa--"

Revenant opens the door and Sherry has a long pause to look up at the recipient. She doesn't even notice you, but you see her put the bags on the floor slowly and take a step back, hands up defensively.

"Okay, so it's a demon summoning, my bad..." Her sass is ever present. "And here I made the mistake of thinking I was running into some normal kind of fun."

"Sherry!" Your voice cracks back into action and the perfect moment. She shoots a look past Revenant to see you.

"You're summoning demons now?! Did you dump the tinman and summon an incubus as a bounce back or something?!" She looks up at Revenant, still not sure who it is. "Also, do demons really like Chinese food this much?"

"Sherry, shut up! I need a hug!" The tears are coming back, and Sherry valiantly slips under Revenant's arm to run to you. Revenant seems to be in complete shock at her brazenness, but also unwilling to stop her since you invited her in. He picks up the bag of food instead and brings it in, setting it on the television stand. Sherry leaps into a hug and you accept it graciously. Sherry is the closest thing you have to a sister and you could use someone like her right now. Revenant sits in the computer chair, watching you embrace closely, but not speaking or interfering.

"Where's the Revenant guy? What happened? Did he dump you? Did you run away? Who is this guy?" She immediately starts getting to brass tacks mid-hug. Although with her the hug won't end until you stop crying anyway.

"That is Rev, Sherry. It's just a different body." You manage to get out. She shoots Revenant a discerning look before slowly recognizing the similarities.

"Oh, hey, you're right. My bad, mister murder robot... haha..." She trails off nervously, Revenant only responding with a grunt and a huff. Suddenly, she snaps back into a fiery disposition. "Wait! Did you do something to her, you doofy-lookin' Beelzebub knockoff?! You may be able to gut me, but I'll defend her honor to my grave!" Now you're hugging Sherry to hold her back from trying to start something.

"It was a complete accident. I wasn't keeping track of how much she's been eating and I didn't catch her starving herself; plus I didn't expect this body to scare her as much as it did." Revenant doesn't lose an aggressive posture, but his words are fairly soft and empathetic.

"It's not that! I promise, it's not any of that!" You hug Sherry hard enough that she winces, but sensing your desperation she holds you tighter and pulls your head into her chest with no regard for what that may look like. You're glad you don't have those kinds of feelings for Sherry, otherwise this might be a bit strange. You see Revenant cock his head to the side and his eyes sharpen at the sight.

"It was the ride back, alone. That stupid driver was--" you choke, you hate saying these words out loud, "--a perverted bastard. An absolute dog." It comes out and devolves into a half-sob, thankfully still understandable. You start to cry again, reliving the things he said, not sure how you'd ever be able to say them yourself, even just to explain what happened.

"What happened? Did he hurt you? Are you okay?!" Sherry barely contains her concerns, if at all, squeezing you as you cry.

Revenant stands very slowly and methodically out of the chair, and begins to make some kind of animalistic growl you've never heard him make in your life. He paces back and forth, slowly stifling his growl as he goes. Sherry seems a bit concerned by him, but she continues to try to comfort you, awaiting an answer.

It takes almost a full minute to catch your breath again and be able to speak again, but you do.

"He didn't touch me. He just said things that--" Back to sobbing. You thought too far ahead and started to repeat his words again to yourself.

Despite your crying, Sherry sighs in relief, significantly less tense than before. She starts to rock you in her hug and you go along with it. Revenant's intensity only seems to worsen. He paces faster for a few moments as you cry, before he calms himself down enough to approach the situation.

He sits on the edge of the bed next to you and Sherry, currently latched on to each other. He doesn't attempt to pull you apart, he simply waits patiently. He's completely calm and collected now, with no signs of previous rage apparent, but you're sure it's still there.

"What kind of things did he say?" Sherry asks kindly, no sense of urgency in her voice. She plays with your hair a bit, which might as well be one of the greatest feelings in the world. It might be just distracting enough for you to get it out.

"He said he wanted to buy tapes..." You inhale heavily trying to hold back the inevitable runny nose. "...of Revenant cutting into me and... using me." Sherry gasps through her nose in disgust, but squeezes you tighter in response.

"I'm sorry, that's terri--"

"He said I should sell myself afterwards, that people would like me better if I still had... stuff... inside me." You cut her off but you're not done. Sherry is starting to get tense, but more notably, so is a particular simulacrum only a few feet away. "He said he wanted to watch it all! And try me for himself, too." That's all you needed to say, you're back to sobbing and Sherry starts to cry with you, unable to help her empathy. You're latched on to each other trying to comfort one another, but instead both of you are just a sobbing mess.

Revenant sits, lifeless for a moment, before standing up and limping towards the door.

"Revenant!" You call out to him through tears, and he stops and turns towards you, revealing his eyes are voids. He's in reboot. "Don't kill anyone." You try to sound confident, but you're not sure how it comes out. He turns away again, and limps out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He didn't acknowledge what you said, but you hope he heard you.

Sherry perks up, wiping away her own tears and pulling away for a moment.

"Do you think he'll listen?" Sherry seems stressed.

"I hope so."

• • • •

"So, he's actually an average person, stuck in a body that drives him to be a bloodthirsty assassin via software?" Sherry asks, taking another bite of the sweet and sour chicken.

"As far as I can tell, yeah... Wait, did you not know what a simulacrum was before now?"

"I meant to look it up but I never did. I figured it was like a brand-name or something." She giggles at herself, but you sense there's a chance she may be joking. "So, you actually do really like this spindly metal guy, after all? And he's so much older! You have mature tastes." She goes straight to teasing, now that you're feeling a bit better.

"I didn't say anything about that, ma'am." You stare at the General Tso's chicken in front of you, not sure if you can eat a third piece. You still feel wrong somehow.

"You don't have to. I think he likes you too. I mean, he isn't wearing your innards as a scarf. For him, that's something." She prods.

"He's not as bad as you think, you know." You don't know how to convince her without potentially telling her something Revenant wouldn't want you to.

"Sure, he just kills people on live TV for the paycheck." She shrugs. "Oh! And maybe killing some pervert who sexually harassed you right now."

"I didn't tell him to do that!" You snap, you legitimately don't want to have even a drop of that blood on your hands. Sure, this guy was an absolute creep, but he didn't lay hands on you. That's your limit, and he didn't cross it. He isn't as bad as Forge. That guy did cross the line. He crossed a lot of lines.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you upset." Sherry sounds genuine. You sigh.

"It's okay, I really hope he's just running off some steam. I hope he knows most of my distress was just depression winning." You poke the chicken.

"That's not true, I would have been so scared too. I mean, you were in real danger. It's a miracle you held it together at all, I'm not sure I could have. I still can't believe--"

The door swings open and Revenant walks in, stopping all conversation in its tracks. He's hunched forward, looking somewhat disappointed.

"I hope you're happy. He'll live." He looks you dead in the eyes, waiting for your reaction.

You smile openly, glad he heeded your request.

"Everyone in his contacts now has a copy of the encrypted files on his computer, all decrypted for their viewing pleasure." He breaks eye contact with you. "At least one of them is sure to call the feds when they see their inbox tomorrow."

"Oh geeze, he was that kind of creep?" Sherry exclaims out loud, still eating chicken.

"Oh yeah, he's been collecting a lot of really rare porn. Honestly, I wish you'd have just let me kill him so I didn't have to expose myself to that." You feel a little guilty that he had to dig through it, it explains why he looks so dejected.

"I'm sorry..." You can't help yourself, you feel bad when he seems upset about anything.

"How much have you eaten?" He seems to have noticed how full your box of chicken still is.

"Two pieces of chicken, and maybe one piece of broccoli." Sherry rats you out with a cruel grin on her face.

"Snitch!" You shoot back at her. She closes her box with a mischievous smirk, hops up, and starts to leave.

"Nice to meet 'ya, you synthetic Wendigo! Have fun and be safe, you two!" She slips past Revenant quickly and is out of the door, skipping down the hallway as the door slowly shuts behind her. Revenant watches her leave with some mix of confusion and concern. You turn to reassure him.

"She's fine. She won't say anything. She--"

"Clearly is some kind of competition for me. I mean, she held you like you two were bonded for life." He's immediately free to tease you with her gone. Thank goodness Revenant seems too shy to gang up on you with her; that would be untenable. He throws himself down next to you where Sherry once was. "I want that same kind of bond." He barely touches your chin with his claws, being sure to growl the last bit out loud.

You emit a whining noise, paralyzed by the thought. You're a bit more sensitive to it all at the moment, considering the events of the day. Revenant notices your struggle and pulls back, reverting to his demanding style.

"Eat your food. I didn't intend for your girlfriend to run off with a free meal and you not eat anything." It still feels weird coming from his new body, but you're getting used to it.

"She's just a good friend, that's all. And I was just too busy talking to eat, I still don't feel great though." You poke at the food, it's lukewarm by now but that isn't your main objection to it. You just don't feel like eating.

"Oh, so we aren't close enough yet for that kind of affection? I'll fix that soon enough." His voice hums. You sigh.

"Oh please," You pet his snout and he seems to enjoy it, getting him off your case for a bit, "Not right now, harass me later. If you want me to eat anything, you can't be doing this." He really seems to enjoy the snout rubs.

"Alright, fine, you eat, I'll talk." You pull your hand away and focus more on the food. "I have quite a number of these special chassis to myself, all kinds of designs and colors and other nonsense. These are my special occasion outfits, per sé." You nod, it makes sense. "This one, as well as many others, are modded to the brim with all sorts of fun additions." He touches his snout, noting where you pet it. "I can feel every single aspect of this suit, even those that don't conform to the human shape. Even better, it's neural processors are exponentially faster, meaning everything feels much more vivid and vibrant." He pulls his fingers to the nasal cavity. "I have an entire set of cores that do nothing but olfactory processing, so I get to be the better Bloodhound while I wear it." His fingers fall to his jaw. "This luxurious suit even gets a jaw with clamping power, canine teeth to snag whatever I want, and a synthetic tongue to taste the blood I spill." He starts to snarl his words as he pulls open his jaw to show you his mouth. He points to his horns next. "These things? Silicone carbide sections with rubber impulse reducers between." You stare at him with a look of minor confusion, so he clarifies. "I can headbutt a skull into fragments without even leaving a dent in my own." You wince at the thought. "Not to even mention the use of polyethylenes instead of metals in the body with support weights in the limbs makes it so I can move faster than ever but still hit just as hard. Not to even mention all the modifications below the neck. You'll see how much I destroy in tomorrow's match. I will win, I promise you that."

"Wanna bet?" You're happy with how confident he is, but you can't help but want to start something.

"And what do I have that you could possibly want?" Revenant asks the opposite of what you expect him to. Isn't the question usually posed the opposite way? You close up your leftovers and start going over to the kitchenette to put it in the fridge.

"Well, I wouldn't mind money or just hanging out with the prowlers again. I could put money on it too, just not enough to make it worth your while. Did you have something in mind?" The fridge is nearly empty, spare for that water bottle and liquor. You throw the box down on a shelf, close the door, and plop down on the couch in a lying position.

"So, if I don't win, I have to take you to see my puppies again, or give you money. Neither of those are objectionable to me, but when I win I get to take something instead?"

"Yeah, that's how I'm framing it. The extra motivation can't hurt. I just don't know what you'd want. I have some savings, but--"

"Forget the money, I don't exactly have much need for it and I have tons anyway. What I want..." He pauses for a moment as his voice turns sinister. "...is to hear you call me 'daddy' again while I take a piece of you." He seethes with a sadistically erotic tone.

You stare into space, your face must be red again.

"C'mon skinsuit, it's not every day I'm in one of my few suits with the proper equipment for it." He's loving the look on your face, undoubtedly. He's acting like this is a cruel joke, but... How far would he take this joke, though? Better yet, how far will you force him to take it? You still feel ill at ease about the idea, but you're suddenly angry enough to buck off the shame.

"Alright, fuck you but sure." Probably the ballsiest thing you've ever said in your life.

Revenant is caught off guard for a moment, his eyes dimming until they're nearly off, freezing in a somewhat shocked motion. After a few moments, you hear him slowly return as he laughs out loud. He has trouble containing himself, and goes to rub his mask again.

"You're insane, but I love that." He finally contains his laughter. "Your friend, what's her name?"

"Sherry." Weird change in subject but okay.

"Who's her favorite?"

"Wattson."

"Oh, perfect. I'll send a special request for her to keep you company during the match. I want you both to watch. I got my assigned team not long ago." He stands up from the edge of the bed and meanders over to the couch you're on, looming over you.

"Oh, are you with Wattson?"

"And Wraith. It's perfect for what I have planned." He never did explain what his plan was that day he dragged you all over the arena. "Loba's little triumph will pale in comparison to my massacre."

"Try not to make it too--"

"It will be bloody, gory, and brutal. Sorry little skinsuit, but you used up your pardon." He chides you from above before reaching down to help you up. "Now come, I need to warm something."

You stand up, a bit confused by his request, until he pulls you into a hug and you feel how strangely warm his body is. You're a bit taken aback at first, but you slowly ease into him and the warmth he offers.

"Luxurious, isn't it?" You feel his chest rattle into a purring sound as he cradles your head against his warm chest. "I like it too." He gently pulls you away from the couch before leading you to the bed.

You don't protest, you just crawl into bed and shuffle to the middle, making plenty of room for him to follow. You see the lights flick off, then feel his warmth press up against your back, cradling you completely. His snout rests on your shoulder, breathing into your ear. It's comforting, something you really needed after today.

"Thanks, Rev." You barely manage to whisper. He huffs in your ear as affirmation before you fall asleep.

126 notes · View notes

lordmushroomkat · 2 years ago

Text

I think all of the joy drained out of my body. I'm not sure what happened.

I just... I feel so very alone.

I guess I just ran out of steam? I had so many ideas but now I have nobody to talk to about it and... it's just me rambling into a Google doc again and with no one to tell my thoughts to it just feels so isolating.

And it's like, does this thing I've been working on even need to exist? Will anyone appreciate it? Will anyone benefit from it? Does anyone care about this? Is my effort worth it?

Shouldn't I just leave this fandom behind and find something else? I've finally run out of joy and now it's like I'm in the limbo between fandoms again but this time I'm refusing to let go of the previous one.

I just... I can stave off the boredom of No More Content if I have people to talk to but... now I'm alone again.

And I can't talk to my sister because she has no interest in it and I've already bothered her too much with this. And I can't talk to my dad because he's passionate about the franchise but sees it completely differently. And I really can't talk to my mom because she doesn't do fandom. And I can't talk to my partner because I'm not sure where he stands with it and I kinda don't want to embarrass myself by telling him about my dumb little AU when he does, like, actual frequent writing.

And I just. It's so isolating to be in a fandom that I can't talk to my family about when I have nobody else to talk to about it. I dunno, fandom is incredibly personal to me because it's been my lifeblood through every difficult thing I've ever faced. It's the thing that keeps me going and keeps my brain entertained. And for me a fandom only really comes to life when I can talk to people directly about it. Having fandom friends is how I keep from driving my sister insane with my 24/7 fandom brain.

But it can be hard to make new friends, fandom or otherwise, because I'm kinda afraid of people? Because I know what happens when I exist amongst other people long enough to get comfortable; inevitable rejection. I always push slightly too far and that's it. Just a slip-up when I'm having a rotten day and I lose everything. I always lose everything.

Maybe the problem is that I'm never quite domesticated enough, once I get comfy the feral unhinged energy comes out, and unless that's already the base energy of the group, things fall apart fast. It's why the only groups I'm still on good terms with are incredibly feral people with deeply weird senses of humor. Everyone else seems to misinterpret me. I'm not mean by nature, but I am sarcastic and very intense. But even in scenarios where the vibe is feral, sometimes I'll just have opinions that are a little too off-brand. There are things we don't talk about as a society and sometimes I want to talk about them and other people decide that's not okay.

And I've learned to do that less. I've learned to keep my challenging thoughts to myself and accept a "shut up" with grace and try not to take criticism to heart but man is it hard. And at this point I'm not even sure it's worth it. Because even at this point in my evolution, where I have more grace than I've ever had and take criticism at face value and stick it out in awkward situations, somehow still it's not enough. Somehow I'm still not enough. How much more will I have to twist myself in knots to be good enough? How much more of myself will I erode just for the pleasure of having a friend group? How many more rejections is it worth just to stave off the creeping loneliness? Is any of this even worth it?

My life has been one long, complicated domestication from the deeply confused little autistic kid I was, and I wonder sometimes how much of me is even real anymore. How much of me is a construction my desperate mind forged in a mad scramble to appeal to anyone at all? Am I real? Are my thoughts my own? Are my tastes my own? Is anything of me truly mine? I mean I know we are all a collection of experiences and influences but... there's nurture and then there's... becoming what you think people want to see just so they might tolerate you. Autistic masking is so complicated because after a while you're not even sure who you are anymore.

Maybe that's why I go feral when I get comfortable, because I get tired of playing a part, because it's the only way I know how to find out what I am behind all of the facades. Or maybe even the feral is just a comedy defense mechanism and even that is something I adopted to fit in. Maybe if you strip off all of the masks there's just nothing behind them. Maybe if you remove the parts of me I made myself to fit in there's just nothing left. Maybe none of me is real. Well, perhaps a few things.

I know a few things that are real, things that I did not create, things that I just am.

Like, here are some real things; I love my family, I am non-binary, my complicated orientation is my own, I feel lonely, I am autistic, I have depression, I like to draw, I like to write, animation is my favorite type of media, found family is one of my favorite tropes, character is my favorite aspect of narrative, I hate summer, my favorite season(s) is Autumn and Spring, I like many many kinds of music, art is an essential aspect of my identity as a person.

None of these things exist for anyone but me. And there are more. Most of my likes and dislikes are entirely my own, even if someone else introduced me to it.

Perhaps these are the things to focus on. The things that I like, the things that are mine. Maybe it shouldn't matter if anyone else sees what I make and likes it, maybe it's enough to make something because I think it's fun. It would be cathartic to finish something for once.

I can make something for me and then let the world have it. The world can have as many pieces of me as it wants, but those pieces still belong to me. Everything I am is still my own.

#kat rambles #kat rants #personal post #I suppose you can reblog this or respond to it but I'm not sure why you would want to #is this a glorified diary entry? perhaps. but it feels better to shout it into the void than keep it with me #serious post #introspection #sometimes I feel sad about things that are out of my control #sometimes I get tired of losing

4 notes · View notes

i-dont-want-your-hysteria · 3 years ago

Text

Bloody Hell (Phil x Reader)

(this is a dumb little thing I came up with based off a stupid headcannon that popped into my head ages ago. Joe said he used to get seasick, so what if Phil used to have a similar problem...? Also based off of what Phil said about Sav being accident prone with a knife)

(illustration by @paper-sxn)

Words: 812

Prompt: You're Phil's girlfriend, pre-Hysteria, in the Dublin house. Headcannon? Phil faints at the sight of blood.

aaaand action!

-----

Phil woke up with the feeling of something cold and wet caressing his forehead. His body that he knew was motionless was teetering at the same time. The feeling of his heavy head and limbs almost mirrored a hangover- but Phil also knew he hadn't been drinking.

In fact, he didn't know what he'd been doing. He didn't even remember why he was asleep.

What had happened?

When he lifted his head in alarm and opened his eyes, he was immediately pushed back down by a hand at his chest.

"No, don't you dare sit up so fast," your voice was directly to his left. Phil let his eyes close again and allowed you to force him back into a resting position. Your touch had instantly relaxed him (as it had a tendency to do). It also made him realize how heavenly it felt to lay back down- even after only a second of being partially upright. That was enough for Phil to sense that you were right about him sitting up too fast.

"I don't know what happened..." Phil tiredly uttered, "What am I doing here..."

Your voice (and Sav's voice, apparently) chuckled loudly next to where he lay.

The cold, wet washcloth over his forehead was flipped by you, "Oh, honey."

The icy blue eyes opened again, accusingly staring at you, "What? What's so funny? I didn't do something god-awfully stupid, did I?"

He propped himself up on one elbow slightly, "And where the hell did you come from?"

Sav was sitting near you with an entertained look. He told Phil as frankly as possible, "Calm down, mate. It wasn't your fault."

"What wasn't?"

Phil ripped the cloth of his forehead, but you pressed him back down into laying and replaced it over him again.

"I cut my hand while making supper," you held up the slightly bandaged limb, "And I asked you to get me a paper towel, but you took one look at the blood and-"

You made a motion that represented the action of falling, "Boom. Down you went."

The man laying down groaned upon recalling, "Oh fucking hell- again?"

"But not before hollering at me to take over," Sav corrected your narrative, "I wasn't even in the bloody door ten seconds."

Phil rubbed his hands over his face, "We've been dating for how long- and I still faint even when it's you?"

You patted his shoulder in reassurance; there was almost a protocol for this type of scenario.

"You can't help it, honey- it's just your nature!"

"Nature that I fucking hate!"

"Oh, quit your whining. You don't faint every time, and you'll get over it someday."

Your bold declaration was met with a huff. Much like a child, Phil crossed his arms and looked away.

"Well if you're lookin' after the baby," Sav chuckled when he stood up, "I'll go finish makin' dinner, since your hand is out of commission."

A sarcastic pout formed on your lips when Sav ruffled your hair, "Thank you. Try not to cut yourself! I'm surprised you're not the one in bandages for once..."

"I'll try to keep it less bloody than before," he quipped, leaving the room.

Phil muttered under his breath and rubbed his temples, "I swear, if you say 'bloody' one more fucking time..."

You only giggled at him. It was too funny to see him grumpy, and that grumpy humor was exactly what made you smile quite often.

"You know," your voice turned into a tone of teasing, "I initially thought of trying to wake you via Sleeping Beauty style."

"You're telling me I need to faint again in order to get that sort of treatment?" his romantic curiosity made his eyebrows go upwards.

"If that were the case, then all I'd have to do is remove my bandage, now wouldn't I?"

It was clear that Phil went pale all over again at the thought of it.

"Ugh... please don't..."

After a giggle, you softly assured him when you leaned down to his lips, "Don't worry, sweetie- I won't. You'll get that sort of treatment anytime."

"Lucky to have my own Princess Charming, aren't I?" he accepted your kiss with much satisfaction.

"And don't you forget it," you poked his nose before smoothing out his washcloth again, "Now rest, and don't dream of anything bloody."

Just then, a loud hiss and a curse came from the kitchen. You and Phil looked out for the source of it, only for Sav to announce from the next room Sav, "Don't let Phil back in here unless you want him to go into a bloody coma again..."

"You cut yourself again, Sav?!" you scolded him.

"Well it's not like I try to!"

Phil's head flopped back as his eyes glazed over, "I'm getting rid of all the cutlery, I swear. None of you know how to fucking use it."

#this is one of those extremely rare fics where I DON'T have ANY SONG ASSOCIATED WITH IT WHATSOEVER #def leppard #original content #def leppard fanfic #def leppard fanfiction #def leppard x reader #phil collen x reader #rick savage

28 notes · View notes

comradeacerbus · 3 years ago

Text

Miraak Headcannons (for fanfic)

Okay, so, I’ve been planning a Skyrim fic for some time now. I started one, but it fell through due to a lack of proper planning. Now that I know what I’m doing, I’m gonna try again! I’m just posting some notes on everyone’s favorite jackass here because I needed something to post. Obviously, since this is my fic, I’ll be referencing my granola-crunching pacifist Dragonborn, Haldis Ragnardottir.

Bethesda didn’t give us much to work with but that just makes it more interesting. I’m just getting a feel for his personality now so I can keep him consistent.

* Miraak was already getting up there in age by the time his revolt against Alduin fell through, so he’s a bit old and grey now. Maybe in his sixties physically, though he looks more past his use by date because of how Oblivion has affected his outward appearance.

* Stupidly tall because, yknow, Atmorans.

* He’s a dirty old man. He doesn’t come off that way initially, but internally, Miraak is a pervert. While he won’t get physical with women, he won’t hesitate to say something pervy.

* Just because he’s a bit pervy doesn’t mean he’s promiscuous. He certainly has game, I imagine, but he feels he’s too old to go throwing his weight around. It’s mostly for his own entertainment

* He loves to make people uncomfortable, especially our little baby Dwagonbown. Constantly picking on her, saying weird pervy shit, just constantly flustering her for his own amusement.

* A really good talker, can worm his way out of any bad situation with his words. He’s also a natural politician. He can make any insane remark and easily justify it to anyone who’s willing to listen to him.

* He’s no liar though. Not unlike Odahviing, he might not tell the whole truth, but he won’t tell much in the way of lies. He’ll just manipulate the truth. It’s no wonder he was so able to lead a cult, really.

* Literate in multiple languages. Obviously the Imperial language spoke in Tamriel and Dovahzul, but he is also fluent in Daedric and has dabbled in Falmer and Dwemer dialects as well, though he dislikes the cultures themselves as an Atmoran. He probably started looking into them out of sheer boredom in Apocrypha.

* He’s definitely looked into more than just languages in his time in Oblivion. He’s looked into various magics, histories of ancient civilizations, Aedra, Daedra, trades, and everything in between. In other words, Miraak knows his shit about a lot of things.

* In spite of how much he knows about a wide range of subjects, a jack of all trades is a master of none. He’s not talented in all the fields he’s studied, but he’s honed his main skills to a fine point. Namely the art of shouting, various styles of swordplay, and the main schools of magic.

* He frowns very strongly upon thieving and sneaking about. Subtly is one thing, but being sneaky and deceitful is a whole nother ball game to him. He dislikes the idea of assassinations, especially the use of poison. He much prefers the ancient Atmoran-Nordic tradition of openly challenging an authority figure for his seat.

* Under all the arrogance, Miraak actually does have some wisdom to him, and he does learn from his and others’ mistakes. He likes to pretend that he didn’t change after narrowly escaping Apocrypha, simply because he doesn’t want to admit that what he did was wrong, but he certainly has changed some of his views.

* Simply speaking of Oblivion’s Princes makes him uncomfortable because he wants nothing to do with them now, though he’d never admit that he’s afraid. He might be garbage in a lot of ways, but he’s definitely still human.

* Apocrypha has most certainly disfigured him, as well as the night Vahlok and his legion of Dragons burned his temple to the ground. He has some burns scars on his chest and some smaller ones on his face. They no doubt would have been worse, were it not for the metal of his mask. Apocrypha has made his skin pasty and his hair white and nasty looking no matter how much he cleans himself or walks around in the daylight. His sclera are also darkened permanently. He doesn’t wear his mask anymore, and instead prefers his hood when he returns to Tamriel, but he won’t usually show his face to anyone, aside from the Dragonborn, because he’s ashamed of what his choices have done to his body.

* He’s of an ectomorph body type. He’s super tall and towers over Haldis, but he’s not especially muscular. He’s got the broad shoulders of an early Nord, but he’s actually quite skinny. I imagine he tries his best to bulk up with his robes. The other cult leaders most certainly poked fun at him for him.

* After he and Haldis bury the hatchet and accept that they’re stuck together, I imagine he starts to see her as a niece/granddaughter/little sister figure. She doesn’t know much about shouting combatively, and he knows that her overall lack of fighting experience is likely to get her killed, so he begins teaching her from the ground up. It’s initially a thing out of necessity, but he later grows to enjoy it. Not like he’d admit it.

* He may have changed a little since his imprisonment, but he’ll still keep his pride forever. It’s what got him stuck with Herma-Mora, and it’s what got him through so much time in Oblivion.

* The main thing he was worried about for the time of his imprisonment was that he’d turn into a Seeker, but his will as a Dragonborn is likely what kept him from turning, so he’ll cling to his arrogance and his stubbornness till death does him part from Mundus.

* Yeah, he’s old fashioned and very stubborn, but he’s not unreasonable. He’ll listen to one’s argument, but with how well-spoken he is, he usually “wins” the debate, ultimately.

* Even if he is reasonable in the realm of debate, he will stop at nothing to get what he wants, even if it means using or hurting people to do so. This is a result of his inner Dovah. Haldis finds this rather insufferable and it’s one of the main reasons as to why they fight.

* When he gets drunk, he’ll sort of “forget” it’s not the Merithic Era anymore and will start speaking to people in Dovahzul and then get pissy when only Haldis can understand him. He doesn’t normally like to drink in his ripe old age, though, so it’s not something that happens often.

* A similar thing will also happen when he gets angry. He never loses his temper, but when he gets frustrated, he’ll start belting out Dovahzul rapidly.

* He may also speak Dovahzul to Haldis when trying to be subtle. For example, Haldis has to deal a lot in Skyrim’s politics as a diplomat, so if Miraak needs to tell her something or remind her to say something, he’ll tell her in Dovahzul so she doesn’t look dumb.

* The Dovahzul he speaks is a different dialect, though, given their difference in age, so things have been lost in translation from time time, resulting in small, humorous mishaps. He also finds Haldis’s accent when speaking Dovahzul to be very irritating, and mocks her for it quite a bit, usually saying that she sounds like she has a speech impediment.

* As her accent gets better, in his almighty opinion, they’ll have entire conversations together in Dovahzul when they’re alone, like out on the road or something.

I might reblog and take on some more here later. This is just some basic junk that’s not really organized. Also I did not proofread but shhhh

#ao3 fanfic #planning #character notes #Miraak #headcannons #Skyrim #I don’t understand why I have a thing for Peter Jessop’s characters but that’s okay whatever #Dragonborn #yayyyy

31 notes · View notes

aelin-queen-of-terrasen · 4 years ago

Text

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐎𝐧𝐞

full masterlist - fic masterlist

Rowan glanced at his pocket watch and attempted to swallow his irritation.

How was it only nine-o-clock still? He had already suffered through enough social niceties to last a lifetime.

Now, he listened with but half a mind to his cousin drone on about the night's guests. His head was filled with all the tasks he needed to see to, including searching for a new governess for his sons. His boys kept chasing away every woman he employed and he was hesitant to hire a tutor, because he believed they needed a woman's influence too, now that his own wife was too ill. The physician had done all he could but there was not much hope she would wake, loathe as he was to admit it. Perhaps he should have accepted his mother-in-law's offer and send the boys to their her after all?

"--and Arobynn's here too—"

That caught his attention. "He is?"

"Mhmm. Look, over there, no, no, to the left—besides the pretty redhead, yes, just so."

A man stood by the entrance with a red-haired woman on his arm, tall and muscular, with a fine-boned face. His auburn hair were pulled back into a bun, offsetting his pale skin and the fine cut of his suit was a stark reminder of his prominent position in society, despite the whole stigma around tradesmen.

"I knew he was fond of flaunting convention but escorting his mistress to a ball?"

"You haven't heard?" James approached them with a drink in his hand. "She is not his mistress but an adoptive daughter of sorts and his apparent heir."

Fenrys choked on his drink.

"He named a girl heir to his trade empire—and not even his own blood—stupid!"

"Spoken like a man," said the gentleman and shook his head. "He raised her himself, is introducing her to all his associates and she doesn't look dumb either."

James nodded towards the redhead he had seen earlier, dressed in the finest black silk with a neckline low enough, it bordered on scandalous. Her copperish-red hair were pinned into an elegant coiffure with pretty, gold hair combs and a simple, pearl necklace completed the striking picture she made. Her sharp, defined features were barely beautiful until she laughed—a musical sound in itself—and he wondered whether he had seen anyone prettier.

"If hers was the last face I ever saw, I'd die a happy man." Fenrys sighed and walked off.

James rolled his eyes. "He's about to seek an introduction to her, isn't he?"

Rowan's lips twitched up.

He had always liked James. The man was completely without artifice and his enthusiasm for everything was so infectious, no one could remain angry with him. He had spent a few summers with the Galathynius children, until their youngest daughter was abducted and the visits stopped.

"I say you must frown a little less, sir, unless you wish to give offense."

Rowan looked up, startled at being addressed by the object of his thoughts. She looks even lovelier up close, thought he.

"I detest these events."

"So do half the people in this room and yet, appearances must be maintained."

"Deceit is not in my nature."

The lady frowned. "It is not deceitful to pretend you are interested in an event in order to spare your host's feelings."

"Your motive may be charitable but it is no excuse for dishonesty."

The lady looked amused but did not pursue the topic further. "I hope you will forgive me for speaking without a proper introduction, sir. I am not a fan of convention."

Rowan smiled.

An unmarried woman, not even of age, and already a heiress to a trade empire—by all accounts, she did not seem like one.

"I will, if you allow me to remedy the situation now." He bowed with exaggerated formality. "I am Mr. Rowan Whitethorn of Harcomb, in Doranelle."

Her cheek dimpled. "Miss Celaena Sardothein—my father—"

"Mr. Hamel, yes, I know." He almost cringed at how rude he sounded. "He and I, we are—"

"—business associates, yes, I know," she teased with an impish grin, replying in a poor imitation of his own deep voice.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement, filled with laughter and mirth—turquoise orbs, ringed with brilliant gold.

All of his resolve flew out of the window. "Miss Sardothein, will you allow me the pleasure of leading you into the first set? The dancing is about to commence."

"The pleasure will be all mine."

In hopes of starting a conversation, he said, "You are a fine dancer."

"I would have believed you to be a liar if we hadn't already established that deceit of any sort is your abhorrence."

He smiled. "And if I were being insincere?"

"I would take it as a compliment to myself, for it will mean that you are acting on my advice from earlier about lying for the sake of appearances."

They fell silent again.

"We must talk some, you know," said Rowan. "For someone who claims to be concerned with appearances, do you not think it would look odd for us to spend a half hour together but in silence."

She startled at the sudden statement. "Introduce a topic then and I will do my poor best to maintain the conversation."

Rowan complied and was pleasantly surprised to find her lively and good-humored and well-informed on most subject from current fashion disasters to books to political bills and movements. Her arguements were passionate and far from taking offense at his dry humor, she matched it with witty quips of her own; and to top it alll off, she was as skilled a dancer as a conversationalist.

Rowan was almost annoyed when the song came to an end. He could not recall the last time he had been half as well entertained.

"You will be the death of me, you foolish, foolish chit!" screeched the old matron.

Fenrys had allowed himself to be dragged into a bookstore, which happened to be one of his least favourite places, by his cousin, James—the second son to his uncle, Lord Rhoe, the Earl of Narrowcreek—and was now eager for any sort of amusement. He turned towards the high-pitched shriek with interest.

A young lady stood near the shelves, tall and proud, even in the face of her mother's ill-bred manners.

Her blonde hair fell down in waves, half pinned by dragonfly-shaped hair combs. The fabric of her dress was fine enough for her to belong to the first circles and yet, he could not recall seeing her—or her mother—anywhere.

"Ungrateful child! Wait until I tell your father what you did; he will be most displeased."

She bit her lip to contain her mirth, though her cheeks flushed with embarassment. Her eyes flitted to the door and back, as if she was looking for some escape.

"Poor girl," the bookshop owner murmured.

The following words had the unfortunate attention of drawing the mother's attention towards the owner.

Lord Fenrys almost laughed at the alarmed look on the owner's face when she began lamenting to him instead and then looked over at the lady who was staring at the door with a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether or not to attempt an escape.

She must have decided in it's favour because she gathered her skirts and made a mad dash towards the door.

Fenrys realised he was standing in her way and hastened to move but it was too late—

"Darn!" cried she.

The commotion drew her mother's attention and upon spotting her wayward daughter lying on the floor with a grimace, she rushed over with a whole new litany of complaints.

Fenrys could have sworn the lady cursed under her breath.

"Stubborn, stubborn child! I told you not to run off without me but oh, how you love vexing me," shouted her mother in her high-pitched voice. "And what are you doing, bothering this fine gentleman over here? You had better not to talk to anyone if you are determined to refuse them all. You broke that poor man's heart—"

Fenrys quirked an eyebrow in interest, looking thoroughly entertained.

Her cheeks flushed further.

He frowned.

Up close, her face looked awfully familiar. He searched his brain for an answer.

A memory flashed in front of his mind. A highly unconventional black dress, a tinkling laugh and a ballroom.

Realisation dawned.

"Miss Sardothein! Fancy seeing you here," said he. "I almost didn't recognise you because of the hair."

"The hair? Oh, yes, I am very fond of dyes, but you have caught me in my natural state."

"I find you lovelier than ever. If you will forgive me for prying, I could not help but observe you haven't bought a thing yet, even though I know you to be a great reader! Is the reading material not to your taste, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena answered wryly, "As a matter of fact, the books here suit my tastes very well—It is only that I am not allowed to buy books for a month—as punishment."

"No books! And what awful crime did you commit to merit that?"

"I rejected a marriage offer."

"A capital offense!"

Celaena smiled, "Indeed."

"I hope you are appropriately ashamed of yourself!"

"Horrified at my own audacity, really."

The lady looked up at him and grinned; Fenrys' own face turned pale and his mouth fell open in surprise. Ashryver eyes! She had ashryver eyes—like James, Aedion, and their mothers Helen and Evalin and—gods. The little poem his cousins had made up in childhood came to the forefront of his mind.

"The fairest eyes, from legends old,

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold."

But how...?

He looked at the woman again: her eyes bright and mirthful and thick eyelashes resting on her cheek, the face tugged at his memory; and she smiled so impishly, he had seen that smile before—

"Aelin," he blurted out.

He was startled when her smile dropped and recognition flickered in her eyes.

Fenrys shot an alarmed look towards the shelf behind which James had disappeared. Aelin was here! But how could this be? His heart thumped loudly inside his chest.

"Aelin?" She inclined her head in question.

He smiled uncertainly.

Was she really his little cousin? Aelin had been five year old when he last saw her.

But if he was wrong about this, could this come to bite him in the ass? She was certainly as old as his cousin would have been, had she been alive and she had the same unruly blonde curls and those ashryver eyes, teeming with life.

It couldn't be...

Arobynn's adoptive daughter.

"Yes, Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her."

"If she is your favourite, then I am inclined to take that as a compliment." Celaena—Aelin?—smiled again, though her eyebrows remained drawn still. "The name does sound familiar. Perhaps I would have heard of her in the newspaper? The society column is a great source of amusement to my father. He reads it aloud to us from time to time."

Father? He wondered if she was talking of Arobynn or Mrs. Rhunn's husband.

Fenrys smiled sadly. "That is not possible for you see, my cousin died when she was five."

At least I thought she died.

"I am sorry for your loss." Then, with an arch look on her face, she asked, "If she was like me as you say, she must have been delightful."

He chuckled. "An absolute troublemaker."

"Definitely like me then," said she, sparing a look towards her mother. "I should leave now, before my mother lists you off as yet another suitor!"

And before he could think to stop her, she curtsied and scurried off.

Fenrys stared at the door, somewhat dumbfounded. Aelin is alive. He marvelled at the thought and then wondered how on earth he would inform her family—James would be ecstatic and his father would have to be informed, and Edward would have to be called to London, gods. Edward!

Aelin had been missed by all but no one grieved her as the poor man had.

Edward would be ecstatic; everyone would.

Fenrys ran towards his cousin out of breath, who was still examining titles in one corner.

"Fenrys, god, slow down, man! Whatever happened? You look like you saw a ghost."

He blinked.

Then, without any attempt at tact or discretion, he blurted out: "Aelin is alive."

"Aelin, Aelin, stop that—no, look at your frock, mother will be so angry, no, Aelin! You will hurt yourself like that."

The man watched, concealed behind the ridge as a little girl skipped from one mud puddle to another, blonde curls bouncing up and down as she moved. Her elder brother followed at a more sedate place, calling out admonishments and threats, not that they had an effect on her.

Aelin grinned over her shoulder and ran, leading her brother on a merry chase.

The man was still debating how to go about abducting the girl when fortune smiled upon him; she twisted her leg and fell down, prompting the boy to run towards her.

"It hurts," she whimpered, refusing to stand.

The man smiled maliciously and waited as the boy looked around. "Very well," he said finally. "If you promise not to go anywhere, I will fetch papa. Do not move, Aelin."

The boy rushed towards the manor house, ignoring the twisted knots in his stomach and burst into his father's private study. In his panicked state of mind, it took a few attempts for Rhoe to make sense of his garbled words.

A foreboding feeling rose in his stomach.

She will be fine, he tried to reassure himself. Aelin, troublemaker that she was, had had a lot worse than a twisted ankle.

But his alarm grew the nearer they came to where she was supposed to be and his heart pounded inside his chest. All colour drained from his face when they didn't find Aelin where she was supposed to be.

"Are you certain this is where you left her?"

Edward nodded.

Rhoe suddenly felt dizzy, his knees buckled and bile rose up in his throat.

He reined himself in and with admirable composure, organised search parties to search around the estate and the neighbourhood.

The search carried on until late that night, when an express rider from the nearby magistrate arrived with a letter: a nearby warehouse had burned down earlier that day and two bodies were found: a man in his forties, who could not be identified and a seven year old girl who had on a silver anklet bearing the word fireheart and requested Mr. Galathynius' presence tomorrow at the warehouse to confirm the girl's identity.

Rhoe folded the letter, excused himself from company and sent his sons to their beds.

Then he entered his study: the study no one was allowed to enter without permission—except his Aelin—slumped into the armchair by the fireplace and wept.

note: ...and it's here. I have so many drafts of this chapter lying around, I'm surprised I actually finally posted it lmao.

@thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@little-crow-corvere // @the-dark-swan-writes // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass // @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @flowersinvegas // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @hizqueen4life // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 //@aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @curlyredqueen06 // @curlyredqueen06 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein //@jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @miihlovesnoone // @sanakapoor // @abookishfreak // @maddymelv // @ireallyshouldsleeprn // @morganofthewildfire // @bellamyblakru // @theilliumbluebell10 // @jesstargaryenqueen // @woollycat22 // @chieflemming

if you'd like to be tagged, let me know.

#throne of glass #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfiction #tog fanfic #throne of glass fanfiction #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #sarah j maas #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fluff #rowaelin regency fic #valiant #aelin-queen-of-terrasen

153 notes · View notes

evolutionsvoid · 3 years ago

Photo

When you see the flamboyant duo walking through the door, you begin to count the seconds before you throw them out. Of all the folk to enter your tavern, be it thugs, drunks or beggars, none are as miserable to deal with than musicians. Minstrels and songwriters, the absolute bane of your existence. Full of pride and empty of coin, they stroll into your bar like they own the place and then think their talent can pay for food and drink. You learned your lesson the first few times, letting them fill their bellies then finding they don't have a cent to pay for it. But of course they can sing and dance, isn't that enough? To fill your tavern with that wretched caterwauling, driving you and your paying customers crazy and then pretend that is just as good as gold. As fun as it is to let your regulars rough them up after failing to pay up, it still doesn't gain you a single coin. They aren't joking about being penniless, most of those awful prancing fools have nothing in their pockets or head. You would put out a sign banning them from your premises, but you just know they would ignore it. Surely, that is meant for the bad musicians, and not for perfect little me. So when they walk in now, you lay down the rules right then and there. Money up front, and not a drop of drink or speck of food til coins are on the table. They will give the same sorry excuse each time, and then offer to entertain in order to pay their bill. And the answer to that, every time, is an absolute "no." Pay now or you'll be eating your instruments instead. A threat like that and a few mean looks from your regulars is usually enough to shoo them away. Usually. Of course the pair that prances through your door have a bit more spine to them. They pay no mind to the threat or the nasty looks. They instead choose to insist that they could play to fix their money woes, but you aren't having it. So instead they go a different route. They decide to challenge you and everyone in the bar to a bet, which already piques your curiosity. These fancy folk rarely have such courage, so you humor them and hear them out. They offer to play a single song for the crowd and then let your patrons decide their fate. They believe their music is so good, that your customers will happily pay for their meal and mead. If the song ends and the audience isn't wooed, though, then they will hand over their instruments and lend their bodies as punching bags. It is a bizarre bet, one that seems impossible to win for them, but they insist. They speak highly of their talent and music, on how everyone is enraptured when they strike their chords. In fact, they were just in La'Frel just last week and the entire town fell in love with their song! Their performance was legendary, it shook that town to its very core and every soul alive went crazy just hearing their melody! They hype themselves up just like every other jester that walks in here, but their bet leaves you intrigued. They have set out a deal they couldn't possibly win, so why do they think things will swing in their favor? You know your regulars, and you know what they like to hear. Surely these fools couldn't win them over, so a beat down is inevitable! And if they do win, then there is still money to be made, just out of someone else's pocket. Thankfully it won't be yours, so you give in and accept this strange bet. Your customers swear and jeer at the fancy fools as they get into position and ready their instruments. The hoots, hollers and flying mugs seem to signal your inevitable victory, as this crowd would never give into these kind of folk. All you have to do is wait, and victory will surely be yours. When the music starts, it hits like a lightening bolt. As much as you hate their grinning faces and goofy getup, they sure know how to start a show. The first note strikes your heart like a hammer to an anvil, and your veins practically pulse to the melody. You never heard a tune like this, and it feels like one you'll never forget. It is pretty good, and rather catchy too. Even your rowdy customers are showing interest in this performance. Their yelling and mockery has fallen silent, replaced with stomping boots and clapping hands. They sure seem to be enjoying it, and you have to admit you are starting to really like it too. The music feels like it is flowing through your body, and your heart is following along with the rhythm. Before you know it, you are clapping along too and getting caught up in the fun. The beat is getting louder and louder, but it only makes it more exciting. Your customers are now out of their seats and on their feet, dancing and thrashing to the song as the two musicians wail and writhe onstage. You feel like you are about to leap over your own bar to join them, but something briefly flashes in the back of your mind. La'Frel, that town that is a couple leagues down the way. You didn't think about it when they first brought it up, but now something in your brain itches at the sound of it. One of your suppliers is based in La'Frel, and they were the ones who were late on the delivery. You haven't heard from them about the missing drop off, which is a bit odd. Now that you think of it, some of your usual customers are from that town and you haven't seen them in a bit. When was the last time? Over a week ago? The memory slips from your mind as the music grows louder in your skull. No time to worry about those details now. The music is flowing, the party is going and you are ready to dive right in. The crowd screams and flails as the melody reaches a fevered pitch. These musicians have earned their meal tonight, that is for sure... ------------------------------------------------------- “Two Completely Normal Musicians” Just a dumb doodle here. Was thinking about the demonic band, mainly the goofball duo of Miserel and Agored. Obviously the two go on their own from time to time to hunt for prey, getting a lot of fun from the whole bloody song and dance, and thought how they would disguise themselves. Of course Miserel is already human-shaped with human-like features, but what of Agored? This was just a fun "what-if?" As well as the confirmation that I am really bad at drawing humans.

#monster #musician #art #drawing #demonic band

20 notes · View notes

angelic-serenade · 5 years ago

Text

Alastor + disaster cook! S/O

headcanons

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

gif, original work and characters do not belong to me

you could not cook to save your life

any attempt at cooking would result in certain failure in the best case scenario and 5.4 magnitude earthquake damage in the worst

sure, you could make edible pasta and if you really put your best efforts into it, acceptable omelette too

but anything past that level of complexity was simply out of your league, a lost cause to put it mildly

don't you even think about making a cake, that shit's dangerous

as they say: as above so below

when you landed in Hell and found yourself joining the Happy Hotel soon after, you came to find out your culinary skills had not magically improved

which is quite ironic since Charlie had made you head chef of the hotel

the string of curses which had left your lips upon hearing the news had been legendary, even for Hell

you adored the demon princess with your whole heart (or whatever was left of it anyway), bUT REALLY CHARLIE? YOU DO NOT GIVE A GUN TO A CHILD AND EXPECT CASUALTIES NOT TO HAPPEN

at this point you were certain she was subconsciously auto-sabotaging

either way, you didn't have the heart to tell her no, so you decided to put your heart and soul into trying to learn how to properly cook, which didn't turn out to be the ideal choice of words since you were in Hell and your soul was probably rotten to the core

at least, nobody could say you hadn't tried your damn best

and hey! some days your cooking hadn't even been completely sickening

you decided to stick to easy, “safe” dishes though, you know, just to be sure

so pasta and eggs were definitely a thing

a constant and repetitive thing to be precise

you were trying your best, okay? nobody in your place with your limited set of skills would have taken the job, but you did and you deserved recognition for that feat alone

or a fucking donkey hat for your skyrocketing dumbness levels

things were not so bad at first

both Charlie and Vaggie were very supportive, each one of them in their own way - even though you had totally seen Charlie trying to swallow pure unadulterated fear that one time you had announced you wanted to try to cook something more elaborate

Angel Dust on the other hand... hadn't been as considerate as to lie to your face about what he thought of your cooking

"fuck me doll, this shit's disgusting"

*insert the I don't have friends they disappoint me vine here*

Vaggie had proceeded to give Angel quite the earful while Charlie tried her best to cheer you up

you went full hermit mode on them for two days after that

you were proud of yourself, handling criticism so well

anyway, the cycle kept repeating, with the only difference that most days Angel would grab something to eat outside of the hotel and join you during meals only to blankly stare at the plates and silvery

Charlie had tried to shield you from the truth, but you weren't that stupid

you respected Angel's choice, really, you did, and you had decided to be the bigger person among the two

that's why you began to put a lil bit of laxative into his portions whenever he decided to grace your efforts and actually eat your "disgusting cooking"

y’know just to spicy things up a little

at least now he had a valid reason to complain

with the whole fiasco on live TV and the sudden and suspicious appearence of the one and only Radio Demon at your doorstep, however, things started going haywire

Alastor's presence was eeirly demanding and unsettlingly charmimg at the same time

so it was only natural for you to gravitate the fuck away from him whenever you could

you always acted politely, greeting him whenever you bumped into him through the corridors of the hotel, but you only went as far as to appear courteous because you didn't want for him to go Hannibal Lecter on you. thanks, no thanks

“and what can you do my feminine fellow?”

“I can suck your dick!”

you had snorted a bit at that which immediately shifted the strawberry pimp's attention to yourself

“and what about you, pretty dame? I take it you're in charge of the kitchens around here?”

dressed in your chef attire, you were going to meekly answer him, but before you could, roaring laughter erupted in the room. it belonged to the one and only slutty spider you found oh so irritating

in the fraction of seconds, Alastor snapped his neck at an unnatural angle to stare at the spider with a strained smile on his face

needless to say, the cursed image would forever haunt your traumatized psyche

“hasn't your mother taught you it is rude to interrupt a conversation which you have no part in? that just won't do!”

static filled the air and you feared you were going to implode if the heavy pressure didn't lift off soon enough, so you decided to take action

“ugh... yes, I'm the head chef! but, well, I... could actually use some practice and proper training?”

you hated how uncertain you sounded, but Angel's comments and your own dissatisfaction with your culinary products made you quite self-conscious about your skills

“don't fret your pretty little head about it, my dear! I, for one, am a culinary connaisseur and wonderful chef, if I do say so myself. I'll be ecstatic to guide you through your training!”

how you'd be able to handle his booming voice during hours and hours of practice was your first and main concern, but you had never been one to refuse the chance to finally prove the people who had criticized you wrong *cough cough* Angel Dust

since that day, Alastor began to personally give you cooking lessons

he was exuberant and pretty sly when it came to veiled jabs about your dreadful cooking, but he really took his time to help you out

which you had been both grateful and suspicious about

“now, we can't have our future patrons starving to death, can we?”

he was strangely patient and an overall good teacher too (emphasis on overall)

he guided you step by step through each dish, simultaneously showing off his own flawless culinary skills

you hated that you daily found yourself boosting his already GIGANTIC ego, but you couldn't help it. you could only dream about reaching that level of artistry in cooking

he always came up with creative recipes to test your limits and cooked for you in order to make you more familiar with different tastes. his mother’s were your favorites, jambalaya being his one true specialty

he had blindfolded you once and proceeded to present you with various samples of spices, oilments and all kinds of food so that you could acquaint yourself with the smells and flavors of the ingredients and figure out yourself which ones would best suit a certain dish

saying you were hesitant at first was an understatement, because you know? being completely at the mercy of a sadistic serial killer who had terrorized the seven circles of hell? not even being able to see him? not on your bucket list

he had tried to ease your nervousness with the whole “if I wanted to hurt anyone here, I would have done so already” thing, but it was getting kind of old pretty fast

“if I had been one to play with fire, I'd have joined a circus”

he found your sense of humor as endearing your sheer presence

(when he rolled up his sleeves to cook, you felt like you could catch fire any minute, you were a slut for strong skinny arms)

yes, Alastor had always loved to show off his own impeccable skills but he unexpectedly found himself enjoying the moments spent in your company too

he relished in seeing you fail again and again, but he also admired the way you always managed to bring yourself back up to your feet each time

he had yet to fully understand if it was foolishness or stubbornness to guide your steps

either way, you turned out to be his favorite form of entertainment in the hotel!

no matter how many slights would he send your way, you'd always manage to find an appropriate remark that made his permanent smile stretch a little more in sheer amusement

“oh dear, this beef is so undercooked one could still hear the poor beast’s lament”

“the only noise I hear is the obnoxious ramblings of an arrogant boomer”

he wasn't technically a boomer but it was always so satisfying to irk him with terms he had no knowledge of

during your cooking lessons, when the only thing left to do with a dish was wait and pray for the best, you'd come to talk about everything and anything

he'd talk to you about his precious New Orleans as he remembered it and you'd fill him in on recent historical/social developments of your time

he always looked so taken when you shared with him that modern knowledge and it made you feel useful for a change

it was, dare you say it, almost adorable how he'd ask you countless questions about your home town, the catastrophes of the last century and had there been any other war since his death?

the topic switches almost made you dizzy though

once or twice, when the timing allowed, he'd even indulge in a musical show to pass time

on the days your mood soured because of a particularly complicated recipe or bad result, he'd drag you along and dance until you were so distracted by the absurdness of the circumstances that you forgot about your previous sadness

with time, his musical shows became more frequent as he realized you'd always offer him a genuine smile after his flashy performances

it was out of personal indulgence, not because he liked the way his music always seemed to cheer you up

he'd not been vocal about the way he tried to comfort you, but you were grateful nonetheless

the first time you managed to succesfully complete one of his complicated recipes, you had almost cried

“now, now deary, under my watchful eye, it was only a matter of time until you'd finally blossom into a fine cook!”

“Alastor can I... can I hug you?”

and how could he say no to such an adorable expression? he found himself stunned into silence, not being able to tell you yes either, therefore you slowly came closer as if trying not to scare a wild animal away

when Alastor passively stood before you, not moving away, you wrapped your arms around him

he really was such a dorky noodle

he didn't relax into the hug, but he kept still as you relished in the moment and let the pressure you had hoarded for months now loose

Alastor proceeded to show off your dish during dinner and even Angel Dust could do nothing but shut up and dig in

The all powerful Radio Demon was simply so proud of your progress - not that he doubted you'd prevail in the end, thanks to his expertise and guidance

from that moment onward things only got better and even if you didn't necessarily need Alastor's help anymore, neither of you ever mentioned going your separate ways

you were both secretly glad for the silent agreement

friendly banter and dad jokes were a daily occurrence and with your new-found confidence in the field, you'd always bite back showing off new delicious dishes instead than words

you still had trouble every now and then, but Alastor was always there to help you out

not that you'd ever hear the end of it if you actually asked him for help

“what was that, my darling? is the mightiest chef in Hell having trouble in Paradise?”

you had noticed however that he'd started sneaking glances your way more than usual lately and he also started following you around wherever you went in the hotel. he became your shadow both inside and outside of the kitchen

the attention soon became unnerving, even more so when you'd go in the kitchen only find a different flower on the counter each morning

you came to realize that Alastor's advances were rather old fashioned, but you would amuse the dork and yourself for a while before taking charge

gifts became an ordinary occurrence as well as praise and you preferred not to think about what praise could do to you when it came from Alastor

he enjoyed your reactions to his flattering words a little too much, he had to admit

you had had enough of his childish antics one day and you decided to finally put your plan into action

“Al, can you come here for one sec?”

he wasn't particularly fond of the nickname, but you just loved to get under his skin as much as he did when it came to you

“what can I do for you, my darling chef?”

“here, I have a gift for you”

he looked uncharacteristically unsure of what to do but slightly amused as well. in the end curiosity took the best of him and he finally decided to open the box you had handed to him rather unceremoniously

“what is this dear?”

the apron you had chosen was a perfect fit for your long boi

“read it, please”

“kiss the cook? well, if you ask me so nicely, I just might have to”

he then proceeded to peck your cheek and you swore you could have fainted right there and then by the sheer sweetness of the gesture

it hadn't exactly been what you had planned, but you weren't going to complain

your relationship was bound to be full of surprises apparently

1K notes · View notes

unrcpentant · 3 years ago

Text

i came embarrasingly unprepared to this and i have no excuse…well…c’est la vie. i’m ac, 24, she/her and i hail from the unholy gmt+1 timezone. this is my boi julian, he’s an oldie but goldie. okay, this intro is just gonna be very short and basic because first of all…unprepared and second of all, i’m dumb ya know?

XAVIER SERRANO, CIS MALE, TWENTY FIVE, HE/HIM ⟨ ✽ ⟩ hey, you haven’t bumped into julian blake lately, have you? they have been living here for the past twenty-five years and during that time, locals have gotten to know them as charismatic & clever. a little birdie told me they can be quite cunning & arrogant though. explains why they’re a masters student in political science at whitby university. they really remind me of abnormally high standards, the burning feeling after taking a shot and smirks that infuriate. if you’re ever looking for them, i bet you can find them around conan & sons.

BACKGROUND & PERSONALITY:

to keep it short and sweet. julian was born in spain... his parents were young and broke and they already had one child to take care of. julian wasn’t exactly planned and so they gave him up for adoption.. and that’s how he ended up with the blake’s. they’ve been living in port briar for ages, well on the outskirts in some over the top mansion. both of his dad’s succesfull in their respective fields, a politician and a lawyer. which would explain his compromised moral compass....

he was definitely an easy child growing up, he didn’t get in much trouble and just kinda took care of himself, very independent from the get go. could easily find entertainment when bored, generally dealt very well with boredom tbh. it’s supposedly very healthy and all that.

around his teenage years he started becoming more influenced by his peers and although he still mostly steered clear of scandals and drama….you could always kind of find him adding fuel to the fire. man the guy loves gossip and watching people fight each other as long as they’re not fighting him.

anyway, from a young age he was playing soccer, sort of a homage to his birthplace. he was good and he only got better with age but he also grew a lot more distracted. see he’s not really that good at fully applying himself to things he’s kind of the master of half-assing things and getting away with it. king of bullshitting. truly he’s just lazy but he’s great at putting others to work.

it’s kind of how he’s gotten through college so far as well. with a major in political science, and honestly a weirdly good business sense, he could probably sell sand in sahara. he’s arrogant but just charming enough to get away with it, even if he’s lying through his teeth, he has a certain way of sarcasm that most people don’t catch on.

he’s on the whitby soccer team, has gotten offers to play professionally but it’s like...a lot of work and he’s just extremely indecisive. so when whitby approached him about doing his masters there, he kinda accepted without even really thinking about it. kind of just an insane excuse to put off making a decision for another two years. he somehow ��gets away with half-assing soccer as well - despite actually loving it - showing up late to practice or with hangovers or not showing at all.

likes to be the smartest person in the room, albeit he’s most likely not, but don’t get me wrong he’s definitely smarter than he looks, and it won’t stop him from acting like it. very business savvy, knows how to charm a crowd even if that crowd is simply a bunch of rich old men gathered around a table in a conference room. twisting people’s words and actions to his benefit is also kind of a specialty of his. — tbh he’s fairly easy to deal with when you know him, he may think he’s super clever and mysterious but he’s just kind of a fool. his humor is very specific and yet, you’ll find him with a smile on his lips like most of the time, even if it is one you kinda wanna smack off of his face. has a tendency to laugh at the wrong times though, don’t take it ill…it’s not you. it’s him.

drives an aston martin vantage f1 edition because he’s got expensive taste okay, although he obviously has several choices including his beloved motercycle. the aston martin is his preferred though.

he lives in a nice apartment on high street, with his two year old dobermann called zeus. it’s his most used phrase “ can’t, gotta take zeus for a walk ”

#briar.intro #crawls back into my cave

7 notes · View notes

unironicduncanstan · 4 years ago

Photo

@alenoah and @icedancerhell did this and ik im definitely going to be cancelled for my taste but explanations below

prince of egypt: oh my gfucking god . bro the music. the ANIMATION. the story too like obviously its based on a religious tale but i mean the way its portrayed and interpreted and how it all comes across was so on point. and did i mention THE FUCKGIN MUSIC dude i would try to sing every song when i was a kid and i think attempting that literally improved my range growing up

shrek: ok when ur a kid literally all u want is to feel mature and cool. shrek was that in an hour and 30 minutes. all the adult humor. and even the shit that would fly over your head somehow still always registered as so funny. every line is burned into my brain bc i watched it so much it was so fuckgin funny and entertaining and the storyline was so depthful and important. shrek for president

sinbad: oh yeah he makes me wanna sin. Bad

rise of the guardians: oooohhg the plot was so cool and intriguing,,, the designs were so unique,,,, also i actually used to. cosplay jack frost when i was a teen osfkjskjfhksdjf i might have like One picture around here somewhere,

over the hedge: every character is perfectly designed and perfectly voiced and the humor was so good. me at like 8 years old watching hammy the squirrel drink coffee and frolic around in a slowed down world was the peak of comedy

madagascar: its just such a classic. another movie where every line is burned into my cerebellum bc i had it on dvd. id say out of this whole list this close to number one. idk where to even begin with how stupidly hilarious it was to me

httyd: lbr who didnt just do a full [lisa simpson face] when you got to the end and hiccup had lost part of a leg. the whole movie had this aura that it was like not tethered down somehow while still being great family friendly media. also im ace sexual and UHH big dragon

antz: unironically i think it deserves so much more than it gets. the anti war messages are great the designs are cool and it goes back into the shrek maturity territory where they get to say CUSS WORDS. p much my only qualm is that woody allen had to be there 😔😔😔

shark tale: ok dont cancel me but i really love the plot actually. i mostly love the mafia shark boy that dresses as a dolphin but even the will smith fish crash-and-burn fame hubris thing while annoying at times was rly intriguing. and the designs are the kind of thing that as a kid i loved but as an adult i do. struggle , w ith, a bit, but overall funny and entertaining story

el dorado: the music slaps so fuckgin hard thats another example of me tryna sing cartoon music to an embarrassing degree. also the Colorse . the designs . and the humor osjfsjdf the only downside is just a personal vibe bc the best friend conflict storylines make me anxious sometimes lol

flushed away: oh my god dont at me. some of the characters are so fuckgin annoying and some of the humor is just so much but i rly did like the worldbuilding and storyline. stupid posh ass rat was rly cool actually. also yet another mafia/gang violence plot in childrens media why is that so funny when ur a kid god

spirit: GREAT MUSIC GREAT STORY! i think the way the story goes like, its Better to be told with regular horses and narration rather than talking horses,,,, but my dumb whimsical child ass just didnt latch onto that style as much as the talking animal movies

shrek 2: rly good tbh all the new characters introduced are interesting and entertaining to watch, but i mostly remember it for i need a hero and human shrek. didnt rly hit the same mark as the first :/

httyd 2: another great movie with another great twist but it almost felt like too much at once for my little brain to handle. overloaded me with gay emotion

megamind: i love everything it stands for i just never saw it until like a year ago so its not that dear to my heart

kung fu panda: not my style of humor, i saw it once and can hardly remember it but i feel like the plot was wholesome and cute

the croods: so funny and good, ive seen it many times actually. but some of the humor just isnt my thing (its, well, crude, which also took me like 5 yrs to get that joke,)

bee movie: was pleasantly surprised the first time i watched it??? it was pretty good and it did kinda make fun of itself so idk why its so cringe to ppl. barry b benson entertained me unironically

chicken run: i saw it once when i was very young and it just didnt resonate with me also claymation most of my childhood terrified me

wallace and gromit: same as chicken run

entire never saw it tier: dotn hate me i just dont have a lot of time on my hands. i know i will be oppressed into watching peabody and sherman within the week and i accept the charges

monsters vs. aliens: someone got it for me on dvd and i hated it so much. its not even that bad its just a me thing like for some reason the part where the lady becomes a giant during her wedding or w/e was just like. the worst nightmare i could imagine i hated it and it made me scared to get married bc i thought that could happen to me. also none of the main cast is charming to me one of thems a bug and i have a bug phobia so i could never rly get thru it im sorry but i coudltn do it

madagascar 2: alex backstory was kinda good but the rest was forgettable for me

madagascar 3: visually kinda cool but. :/// felt really off compared to the previous movies, like an obvious cash grab. i mean who could forget the constant polka dot afro circus song advertisements

shrek 3: again mostly just remember it for the frog dad dying ,,,

shrek 4: i only saw it like 5 months ago for the first time. fiona being a warrior in an alternate timeline or w/e (if that was real and not a fever dream) was the only semi tolerable part for me

penguins of madagascar: the first few minutes with them as babies was cute the rest i physically could not keep my attention on. i dont remember anything else im sorry

#long post/ /#very long #original

30 notes · View notes

hargrove-mayfields · 4 years ago

Text

You’ve Set my Soul to Dreaming Pt. 2

Billy can’t believe he’s doing this.

Can’t believe that he’s pulled up outside of 8253 Loch Nora, a gift box in his passenger seat, unwrapped because that would look like he cared too much, a lit cigarette fogging up his windows, and a sense of dread settled heavy in his heart.

Just because Harrington bought him the fanciest thing he’d ever had the pleasure to own didn’t mean he had to return the favor, right?

Wrong. Because it wasn’t just your typical, ‘I’m loaded, and you’re dirt poor, so let me get you this novelty that costs more than you have in the bank because I'm better than you’ from Steve, but something more like a peace offering.

A peace offering from the loser of the fight, which made Billy look like even bigger an asshole than he already was.

Like, it was bad enough that he’d even beat Steve up in the first place, but then to just ignore his attempt at reconciliation and keep up the machismo shtick? Even he was better than that.

So he’d fretted for a week about what a rich boy would want, and shoveled sidewalks for old people and flirtatious mothers to be able to afford it. Not that the Hargroves didn’t have enough money for a dinky little gift, Billy just wasn’t allowed to spend his father’s wages on anything less than necessity.

Christmas presents for some boy definitely didn’t fall under that category.

In the end he decides on giving him a flask, decorated with similar filigree to that on the zippo, only it’s much more cheaply made. He hopes the sentiment is still there, because he knows Steve can put alcohol away faster than you can say chemically dependent teenaged washup. After all, just a few nights ago at Jenny’s Christmas Party, he saw him drink a whole bottle of vodka in under a minute.

Besides, regardless of whether or not it’s something he needs or cares about or is just going to throw away, it’s just to get even, this isn’t some life changing gift exchange. No sweat.

Maybe Billy has that all worked out in his head, but then he’s got another problem. He can’t decide on how the present is going to get to Steve.

If he should just leave it on the porch and bolt, if he was going to ring the doorbell and hand it right to him, or if he would just drive right on down back to Cherry Lane and keep the stupid hip flask for himself, and pretend the whole thing never happened so he could move on with his life.

He loses the chance to choose when the double doors to the house are pulled open, and the silhouette of the one and only Steve Harrington appears.

It would be more than weird to drive away now when he was obviously already parked outside, and even weirder to just sit in his car until Steve goes back inside, so he sucks it up, grabs the box off his passenger seat, and steps out of the Camaro.

Rounding the front of his car and taking a few steps toward the porch, Billy decides to toss Steve the box without so much as a muttered ‘heads up.’ They’ve been playing basketball together for two months now, and he knows from experience that Steve’s surprisingly good at dodging fists, so he’s pretty sure he’ll catch it.

And he does, if not a little clumsily, with a stupid, shocked look on his face. Billy might even say he almost looks as dumb as the sweater he was wearing, which had a Christmas tree crocheted into the center and was at least fifty percent tinsel.

If his head was screwed on straight, maybe Billy would’ve even said ‘Merry Christmas Steve, thanks for the beautiful fucking zippo I use it every day, sorry ‘bout the face’ but it wasn’t, so instead, what he said was actually more along the lines of,

“Save your donations for the red kettle Harrington.”

And then he thinks he’s out of the woods, thinks the lack of an answer is the symbol he needs to put this drama behind him and pick a new pretty boy to pick on, but just as he pops the Camaro’s door, Steve finally lets his response tumble out of his mouth.

“Why don’t you come in, Hargrove?” Steve turns the box over and over in his hands, nervous as he tries to get out what he’s going to say. “Nobody’s home, and I made a bunch of cookies. Got some spiked eggnog too.”

And, it wasn’t like Billy’d rather be back at his own house right now, that was actually the last place on earth he wanted to be, so he wasn’t beyond entertaining the notion.

He isn’t easy though, he’s not the type to just, waltz on in to some McMansion looming over him just because he’d been asked so politely. Especially not when the circumstances of this specific circumstance were the way they were.

“Whatd’ya put in it, the eggnog?” It’s a stupid question, just a way to stall until he can come up with an excuse to go in the mansion by his accord, but the answer, well, it’s not much better.

“Chicken Cock.” Steve says it with such an air of nonchalance that Billy isn’t sure he’s heard that right, but then again, the people down in the Midwest referred everything with weird nicknames that he’d never even heard of. What was puppy chow anyways?

He can tell there’s a bewildered look on his face, though it gets overtaken by a slightly humored smile as he asks. “‘Scuse me?”

Blame it on the bitter cold if you please, but a flush appears on Steve’s cheeks at the realization of what his words might sound like to somebody who had no idea what he’s talking about. “I-It’s a spirit, it’s really strong and- why don’t you just come try it, yeah?”

Its cute, but Billy needs one last attempt at casting out the line before he gives in and accepts Steve’s offer. “Real smooth, Harrington, but I gotta get back to the festivities at home.”

“Sure, ‘cause you're totally the type for that.” Steve rolls his eyes in a sort of false annoyance before he starts on his mockery. “Bet you sing carols, and bake cookies with your little sister and tell stories of your favorite Christmas memories around the Yule log and-“

“Alright, Harrington. Since you asked so nicely.” He couldn’t keep saying no with Steve practically begging him to come inside, so, stepping up onto the stoop, Billy scrapes his boots against the porch rug to knock off the snow so he can go inside. “But I’m outta here by midnight, alright?”

With a smile, Steve steps aside to let Billy through the door. “Deal.”

Ornate woodworking and fancy wallpaper goes unnoticed, because the first thing Billy notices about the Harrington mansion is that it is an absolute disaster. although he would expect a cleaning lady to have come through and kept the place all nice and pristine like you see in the magazines, there was shit everywhere.

Piles of bubble wrap and newspaper stuffed into plastic containers, wires and strings and tape all over, a power strips and thumbtacks, and suddenly Billy realizes something.

“This your attempt at Yuletide cheer, Harrington?”

For a moment he looks at Billy confused, but follows his line of sight to the heaping boxes of decorations scattered throughout his living space. “Oh, no, I just didn’t finish yet.”

Billy can’t help it when he blurts out, “It’s Christmas Eve.”

Steve nods dumbly, something that should at this point be his registered trademark. “Uh-huh.”

“And all your decorations are in a pile in your living room?” Even Billy knew better than to wait until the last minute to get things done, and Harrington always seemed so on top of everything, regardless of if he was doing it right, so it was kind of jarring to see him in such a disheveled mess the night of Christmas Eve.

Steve says, in a tone so casually condescending, “Seems that way, yeah.”

“Didn’t leave enough time between your panty raids to get it done?” Snark is met with snark, but, because of the circumstances, there’s not the typical edge to it that would be expected from the two of them.

“I manage my escapades perfectly fine, thank you.” Steve toes at a box heaping with ornaments and labeled with the words ‘to throw out’ written in cursive on the side. “My parents just think decorating is too undistinguished, so I’m only allowed to have them up for a few days.”

“Right.” Billy agrees like he understands, but he really doesn’t. How can sprucing up your house with a bunch of fancy and expensive trinkets and decorations be any worse than leaving it empty and barren? Rich people. “And how, exactly, would they know if you put them up early?”

Tossing a strand of garland that had previously been draped over the back of the chaise, because of course they have a chaise in their first living room, Steve says, “Shut up and help me put them up then.”

So he does. He untangles giant knots of tinsel, of lights and of icicles, and unwraps all of the Harringtons’ precious glass ornaments for Steve to put on the artificial trees (he’s allergic to pine) in the entrance hall and the dining room.

He puts up the glass stocking holder and hangs the silky, designer stockings, which, judging from the faded fabric and the peeling letters written in red glitter glue to spell out STEVEn, are from a time when Ruthie and Stephen Sr. still darkened these doors. Alongside them on the mantelpiece, he hangs a handful of Christmas cards from Steve’s random relatives up on a thin piece of ribbon.

The banister of the grand staircase is wrapped in miles of scratchy garland, enough that they can hardly see the wooden finish underneath, and matching wreaths are hung in the windows and on the doors.

Just to prove how rich they were, the Harringtons also have a rather extensive collection of those ceramic trees, not the type you make yourself, but the expensive ones you can order from Avon and other designers Billy can’t even pronounce the name of, and they’ve put one on just about every surface that is close enough to an outlet for a plug to reach.

There are so many extension cords run through every room, Billy’s worried that Steve might end up burning up in a house fire, but it’s worth it to see the twinkling lights reflecting on blank white walls, the soothing colors brightening up a space he could imagine was typically devoid of life.

And in the end, having wrestled with dusty old decorations to transform Steve’s house into something so, so pleasant? spirited? entirely unfamiliar to someone like him? he thinks he’s earned the hard whiskey he was promised at the door.

Hours go by, and the two of them are sitting in the center of the giant French Country rug, a cotton and silk substitute for the Persian Steve turned out to be allergic to, backs against the coffee table and more than a little tipsy.

Leaning back on his elbows, Billy lets his head fall back, his sprayed curls fanning out over the mahogany surface, where they have a bayberry candle burning out of the top of an empty bottle of Stephen Sr's liquor of choice.

Blinking slowly up at the ceiling, the blur of the colorful lights making him dizzy, he asks, “So, how does this work, without your parents here, d’ya just, buy your own presents and put ‘em under the tree yourself?”

“Nah. They mail them to Miss Hetty the help, and she brings ‘em to me in the mornin’. 7 a.m. sharp.” He pops the p on the “sharp” like he’s proud to admit he has a nanny at almost 19 years old.

“The help. Think that’s somehow more depressing.” Billy ignores the way Steve’s eyebrows furrow together and his quiet, mumbled out, “Rude.”

“Don’t think I have much room to talk though.” He sits up again so he can look at Steve. “Your zippo’s the only thing I’m gettin’ this year, ‘cept for maybe a-a good backhand or two after Susan gets her family photos.”

A smile cracks across the other boy's face as he lowers his voice, sounding all too excited to say, “Guess that makes us a couple-a misfits then, huh?”

And Billy can’t help the laugh he lets out at that god awful reference, true as it may be, and it's with a smile on his face that he says, “God, you are such a cheeseball, man.”

“Hey! I saw an opportunity, and I had to take it.” There’s a smile equal to his own on Steve’s face, as he laughs at what he said with Billy, and the moment passes.

In the silence that follows, they sit just like that, appreciating their moment of camaraderie that they know is going to come to an end soon, as the grandfather clock chimes for another hour gone by, the bayberry burns down another few centimeters, and the headachy feeling of too much alcohol starts to set in.

It was nice to not be surrounded by faux affection and suffocated by the fear of stepping out of line, but like all good things, Christmas Eve must come to an end at some point, and so it was that, around quarter to twelve, Billy makes his first attempt to stand on drunken feet.

Based on the fact that he doesn’t immediately fall on his ass, he’ll probably be alright to drive, not that he really has much of a choice, so he grabs his keys off the coffee table and announces his departure.

“It’s been real Harrington, but duty calls.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks man.” Steve waves Billy off and leans forward, letting his forehead come to rest against the surface of the laminated hardwood, obviously more affected by the whiskey than the other boy.

But Billy finds himself cemented to the spot, fingers fiddling with the buttons on his denim jacket as he tries to get together what he wants to say, because he still hasn’t properly apologized.

Not that it’s something he’d normally do, but some things can’t be fixed with Christmas Decorations and cinnamon spirits. “Look, I’m sorry, about the, the fight and everything Harrington, I just-“

“S’okay.” Steve tries to look at him, but he's barely able to sit up anymore. He’s got an arm slung over the top of the coffee table to keep himself upright, and his words slur to be almost unintelligible as he tells Billy, “Already forgave ya.”

“But, I don’t- you shouldn’t-“ Taking a deep breath through his nose to collect himself, Billy continues, “How did you know I deserved that?”

“Chalk it up to the Christmas spirit.” Accenting his words with the slightest shrug of his shoulders, Steve smiles a knowing little grin and says, “Go on home, Billy.”

“Right, I’ll, see ya round then.” He starts to walk away, taking steps made shaky from the alcohol in his system, but from behind him he hears Steve say softly, “Wait.”

Turning around, he raises his eyebrows to show Steve he’s at his attention, and Steve, eyes glossy and cheeks as red as the big man’s suit, looks him right in the eye (and the heart) to tell him. “Merry Christmas, Billy.”

“Yeah, you too, Harrington.” The softness in his tone feels like a betrayal to himself, and he thanks the lord above that Steve is too drunk to hold it against him.

One last look over his shoulder, and he sees Steve face down on the coffee table again. Chuckling to nobody but himself, he thinks that maybe the flask wasn’t such a bright idea after all.

Shutting those heavy double doors behind himself and getting back in the Camaro, while his hands shake and his heart races, is a strange feeling to say the least.

Just up and walking away from the most genuine expression of compassion he’d ever experienced, knowing that, with what’s waiting for him back at home, he’s not going to ever let something like this happen again, makes him feel like he should just go running back in there, forget about curfews and abusive fathers so he can pursue this, this whatever with Harrington, but he knows that isn’t really an option.

Knows he’ll get too attached if he doesn't leave now, that nipping that growing feeling of acceptance, of forgiveness, of warmth in his heart three sizes too small, right in the bud before it turns into something more wicked and ruins a perfectly good Christmas Eve, is the best possible thing for the both of them.

This was just an apology, righting the obvious wrongs that had taken place in November, and nothing more.

Because having Steve Harrington three sheets to the wind and showing him the slightest bit of compassion wouldn’t be enough to break him down, no sir. This was Billy Hargrove after all, he didn’t let trivial things like throwing away potential friendships bring tears to his eyes, not in a million years.

Or that’s at least what he’d like to think, but in all reality he does, shows up back at his own, completely average house back on Cherry with red rimmed eyes and it doesn’t go unnoticed when he walks through the front door.

So Billy spends the night just as he expected he would; a bruise forming on his cheek, wide awake in his bed, while visions of Steve Harrington danced in his head.