#this is like the fourth time I draw that knife --

[multiashking]

Emo Korvo

Hope you like it! Short king on platforms for the win tonight

[heeseungiez]

love letter | hyung line (0)

— a teaser

your whole life, you’ve only known one thing: relaying love letters. but what happens when one of those letters is addressed to you?

— pairings! heeseung x reader; jay x reader; jake x reader; sunghoon x reader

— featuring! enhypen members, haewon from nmixx, yuna from itzy and possibly other idols

— genre! romcom, high school au, found family, fluff with a tiny bit of angst (?)

— author’s note! i’ve really been loving family by choice so far and the whole love letters plot inspired this fic, sooo 🤭

— tags! open

check out my masterlist !!

“Here,” says a girl you recognise from your year. Jang Wonyoung holds up a carefully wrapped letter with cute drawings on the outside. It also smells very sweet and fruity, like lemon and peaches.

“To whom?” you ask automatically, grabbing the letter without studying it further. To you, it’s just another one on top of many, many more. 

“Park Sunghoon,” she replies, a giggle leaving her lips at the mere mention of the boy. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. It’s not that you don’t understand— okay, you don’t understand, actually. Sunghoon never shows any interest in any girls whatsoever, and yet they keep trying to approach him or give him love letters through you, and honestly, you’re tired.

“Fine. But I can’t guarantee he will read it nor respond to it nor that he won’t simply throw it away,” you say in a monotone because it’s an automatic response that leaves your lips every time you receive a letter. You might as well be considered a customer service worker — an office worker, really — with the way you deal with them. 

“I know. But thanks anyway.” Wonyoung smiles at you because realistically, she’s nice. From what you’ve heard about her, she’s great. So you’re a bit put off by the fact she’d show any interest in Park Sunghoon, of all people.

Sighing, you put the letter in a paper bag that has a sticker of a penguin on skates on it and Park Sunghoon’s name written right underneath. The bag has been with you for years by now. You made it back in fourth grade, probably, so it’s a miracle it still holds on. Especially because it’s already overflowing with letters from this morning.

Next to it, you glance at the other three bags. One with a sticker of a golden retriever and Sim Jaeyun in glittery letters, one with a black cat holding a knife and Park Jongseong written in cursive on it, and the last being a basketball sticker with the name LEE HEESEUNG in capital letters. 

This is what you get for befriending your neighbours, you guess. But seven-year-old you wanted to have older brothers, and seven-year-old you did not know that once you grow up, something like love and crushes would exist in your world. Until you did grow up, and you learned the hard way what it meant to be the so-called little sister of four decently looking boys. 

None of which have ever shown interest in anyone, ever, as far as you can tell. Or they simply haven’t told you anything about their love lives which, honestly, you prefer. It’s enough that you have to relay love letters to them, having to hear about them actually dating someone would be far worse. But somehow you doubt they’ve dated anyone — unless they’re much better at keeping secrets than you thought. Because the whole school would be taken by storm had anyone found out. Even if it was just the old janitor who found either one of them hiding in the broom closet with a girl, the whole school would know by the next day if not within the next hour. 

To put it simply, they’re popular.

Park Sunghoon, the figure skater whose entire life has been spent mainly on ice. People at school call him the ice prince for the obvious reasons, and the less obvious ones, where he just regards everyone as if they’re beneath him unless they’re his friends or, well… you.

Sim Jaeyun or Jake, the football prodigy and team captain who moved here from Australia and therefore has an Australian accent and is bilingual which, for some reason, girls love. He’s also the nicest person anyone could ever meet, so that might also be a factor. A golden retriever in human form, people say. The only reason you like him is because he’s been bribing you with snacks since middle school, though (said jokingly… maybe). 

Park Jongseong or Jay who, on the other hand, moved here from the United States and is known for his love of music and bands and guitars and the fact he can play the instrument. He’s in a band with some other guys from school, but you’re not all that familiar with them since Jay mostly keeps them away from you, for whatever stupid reason he’s made up about protecting you and whatnot.

And lastly, the oldest of the four, Lee Heeseung who is the basketball team captain and a huge nerd which girls also love? You’re half-convinced that if he were partially blind and had to wear glasses, the whole school would fall apart with the amount of people trying to catch a single glance of him. (Yes, he wears fake glasses sometimes, so maybe you’re speaking from experience.) He’s the guy you’d go to if you need help with school but he literally does not have any time in between his so-called game time, which is punished by death if interrupted, studying, and basketball practice. The only way to receive help with studying from Lee Heeseung is to either (1) study exactly what he is studying or (2) be you. 

Someone shoves another letter right in front of your face.

“Who?” you ask without looking up. But the letter is waved in front of your face with such violence that you roll your eyes, sigh, and look up. You’re met with the sight of one of your best friends, Kim Sunoo, whose cheeks must be hurting from how big his grin is.

“It’s not for them,” he says giddily, dropping the letter on your desk.

You study it for a second, noticing one glaringly obvious thing.

To: Y/N.

It’s addressed to you.

“Who gave this to you?” Your eyes widen as you turn to Sunoo with question marks in your eyes. But the boy shrugs, clueless.

“I have no idea. It wasn’t exactly given to me, you know. There was someone who just bumped into me without saying sorry or turning around, and they dropped this. So, obviously, I had to check what they dropped and well… it turned out to be a letter addressed to you,” Sunoo recalls the story, dramatically motioning with his hands to emphasise the whole scene.

You grin, staring at the letter.

“For me?” you ask yourself, your eyes fixated on the name written in neat handwriting.

“Open it,” Sunoo encourages you.

“Open what?” A new voice joins the conversation, and your smile grows even brighter at the sight of Yang Jungwon, your other friend, and class president.

“Look!” you say, grabbing the letter to wave it in front of his face. “I got a letter. Can you believe it? Me. Not the guys, but me.”

“Are you sure it’s real?” Jungwon asks sceptically, his eyes narrowed. “What if someone’s making fun of you?”

“Why are you so pessimistic?” Sunoo frowns, looking at Jungwon. “I think someone likes Y/N. It was about time, too. Her life needs to stop revolving about those four.” It’s not that Sunoo has anything against Heeseung, Jay, Jake or Sunghoon personally, but he’s not fond of how much time you spend doing things that are seemingly just for them. Like constantly dealing with their love letters. It seems that your entire existence at school is as the girl that talks to them.

“I’m not disagreeing, but still. It’s a bit weird that the letter came out of nowhere.” Jungwon shrugs, ending his point there. He connects his lips together in a thin line, and you know that he won’t argue any further.

“Should we maybe open it with Yuna and Haewon, too?” you ask, your eyes never leaving the letter. “We need more opinions.”

“At lunch?”

“At lunch.”

“Fine. But I’d still be careful.” Jungwon sighs, shaking his head. “If the person can’t give the letter directly to you, they’re not really worth it.” It’s funny how Jungwon just managed to indirectly attack every single girl that has ever made you relay a love letter without thinking much about it.

“You sound like Jay,” you point out anyway, making a face. Sunoo hums in agreement. 

“That’s not a bad thing.” Jungwon nudges your shoulder with a soft laugh.

[grapejuicestyless]

To Love, To Love, To Love

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: You thought you were over him in every way possible, but you can never really kill feelings that strong.

His curls were soft between my fingers, knuckle deep in his hair, pulling out the tangles with each curl of my fingers.

He hummed appreciatively against my chest, his cheek pressed to my body, lips resting heavily between the valley of my breasts. I could feel each breath lingering on my skin, his lip balm smeared on my shirt, one he had bought for me the night before to match.

“They just threw away the entire plot line in the fourth movie, I don’t get it. It’s like everything that made the first three so good was completely ruined for the sake of some extra cash.” Harry mumbled tiredly, pointing at the tv with narrowed eyes.

“This company always does this, can you even be surprised? Every successful franchise always becomes a cash grab for them.”

Harry hummed, and the sound vibrated against my body. It was all so serene between us. A calm after a whirlwind of a few years.

Harry and I had been two wild dogs, chasing after each other’s tails, running in desperate circles yet we ran at the same pace, and we never figured out how to capture what we wanted.

So many nights had been spent crying over the boy, how my heart ached with affection for my best friend, how badly I needed him to want me. I began dressing better for him, and carrying around mints with the hope that maybe the next time I would see him, he would have me.

But I was a dog with a bird at his door, giving him something valuable to myself that it seemed he never wanted.

Harry did the same things. He’d been drowning in his love for his best friend for so long, aching pains in his bones from the waiting for me. He’d never wanted anything more, but the talking from strangers and advice from friends led us astray. How could the other love each other? How could our best friend develop feelings for us? It all seemed so impossible, and the tears drowned us until we flushed out, and our conversations ran dry.

Nobody tells you that even once you move on, those feelings never really leave. Even now, after years of silence that neither of us meant to keep, after we convinced ourselves we flushed away our devotion and joked about how blind we were, with his head on my chest now I feel especially warm in the familiar house.

You can fall out of love with people, but there will always be that lingering feeling of “what if.” A feeling that bubbles until the warmth returns and your situations draw you back into the storm like a riptide pulling you under. Part of me would always love Harry, only now I liked him much more to ever try and be in love with him again.

Silence is much worse than any rejection. The heartache of realizing you lost contact three months deep hurts much worse than any apology for not returning your feelings. It’s like a knife.

We’ve grown now, we’re older, we can control ourselves. We aren’t teenagers who run around kissing the people by the bars, we stay inside and don’t go looking for something that will someday find us. When I complain that I want to kiss someone, to be kissed, he raises his hand eagerly and smiles, declaring he wants to press his lips to mine. But it’s all a joke now, or that’s how I see it.

Maybe to him, it’s not. Maybe when we make jokes about being in love, about the songs he wrote for me in my wake and the tears I shed over him it’s because part of it is still true, maybe we just don’t believe it anymore. Harry once loved me just as hard and true as I once did for him. Though we may not be chasing after one another, I know that part of him still loves me too.

When we’re forty and single, we’ll get married, and we’ll laugh about how long it took us to get together, but for now he lays on my chest and makes fun of some old movies that seemed better when we were kids. He points out the bad green screen that we never caught when we were younger, and his laughter will echo through my bones.

And I’ll soak up every moment with him, because even if we never happened, at least I have him. At least we never became strangers.

[theredofoctober]

The Sand Violet: A Fallout Dark Fic

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Mute Female Reader fic

Synopisis: The Ghoul known as Cooper Howard kidnaps Reader in an attempt to sell her for medicine. When she escapes and humiliates him he has his revenge.

The Reader insert is female and mute. Other features not described

TW and CW: noncon/rape, violence, death, cannibalism

Words: 6,899

Read after the cut ✂️

It’s quiet in Filly, or as quiet as it gets, the afternoon so hot as to bake the earth dark and to drive its milling residents back indoors.

Store holders draw their shutters down against the sun and crouch, noiseless with exhaustion, over whatever toil pays their way in the world.

Dogs loll snoring in doorways, and bartenders find themselves elbowing old punters aside to serve the new and many stumbling in to wet their mouths and take refuge from the warm.

You and your husband, Gray, idle in one of several junk shops in town, having little else to do until the heatwave dwindles into night.

A thick-shouldered man sits drowsily at the front desk, squinting as you traipse about his wares for your fourth or fifth rotation of the room.

“Clear out if you ain’t tradin’,” he mutters, but as you loiter with stubborn aversion to the sucking heat beyond his doorstep the man does not rise to chase you out.

Gray lays a gentle hand on the crook of your arm.

“Let’s go pretend to be interested in that thing over there,” he murmurs. “Keep the old guy happy.”

Talking Gray’s elbow, you obey, looking at his turned, freckled cheek with a want to kiss it. You’re as in love as two people can be in such times, and though the days are hard and the nights harder still, with Gray they do not feel so.

You sleep rough in sand dunes together, eat canned fruit with one spoon between you over fires you put out before the radroaches come.

Tonight you’ll find a bar and drink with what stray caps you’ve each left in your satchels, and later lie as one until the sun scrapes the night away, still tasting the rum on one another’s breath.

Or so it would have been, had fate not cracked a backhand blow across your hopeful faces.

The junkshop door bangs open against the wall, setting its bells thrashing in an angry fairy chorus. As a mean silhouette moves into the light like an eye gouged from the face of God Gray steps ahead of you by instinct, his right hand grazing the knife at his belt.

“Ah, shit,” says the shopkeeper, half-rising from his seat. “You ain’t allowed in here.”

“Says who?” drawls the stranger, kicking the door shut behind him. “I know you ain’t about to get your ass up and stop me, Davey, else the taste of lead’s startin’ to sound mighty flavoursome to you.”

Davey sits down slowly, his broad face wincing and resigned.

The newcomer is a hairless man in an ancient cowboy hat and a coat whose tatters trail, wisp-like, at the spurs of his boots. His face is like that of a red moon, sunken and cratered, and without a nose to speak of, his skull gleaming with the scars of some ancient burn.

A ghoul.

You know of such creatures, so changed by radiation that some no longer think them men, though they are human, still, for all their deviance from that race.

The stranger’s dark eyes switch the store with a slow calculation, dismissing its contents before turning at last to Gray and to your shielded figure behind him.

“I heard there was two Vaulties in town,” says the Ghoul. “And lucky me: I just happened upon them.”

“We’re not Vault Dwellers,” Gray says, curtly. “Not anymore.”

Six months ago he’d gotten into a fight with another man he’d perceived to have disrespected you, and had been turned out of the Vault on that account. You had followed, seeing no life there without your husband, though you knew little then of what lay beyond.

Quickly you and Gray had learned the way of the wastes, casting much of what softness you’d had aside but that which you held for one another.

Evidently it is not enough, for the Ghoul looks at your husband with a grin full of sly yellow teeth.

“Hell, look at you,” he says. “Those hands of yours are as tender as a new-born’s. Once a Vaultie, always a Vaultie. You ain’t built to step outside those fish tanks you lock yourselves up in.”

The Ghoul turns to peer at you, his eyes narrowed to earthen slits as Gray pushes you further behind him.

“What do you want with us, anyway?” Gray asks. “We’re just minding our business trying to live up here, same as anybody else.”

Sneering, the Ghoul says, “Yeah, well, let’s see how long that lasts. Now who’s this shrinkin' violet you’re trying so damn hard to hide from me?”

He shunts Gray aside with one rude shoulder and stands over you, eyeing you up and down as he might a saloon whore, his hands resting at his belt.

You’re glad of the cotton dress that covers you from throat to boot top, allowing him nothing of the skin that restless stare likely seeks.

“Now, ain’t you pretty,” says the Ghoul. “What’s your name, sugar?”

Trembling with anger, Gray says, “Leave her alone.”

The Ghoul shifts his jaw in an irritable motion.

“I ain’t talkin’ to you, kid. I’m askin’ her.”

“She can’t talk,” says Gray, and you nod at the Ghoul, who tips his hat back from the crenellation of his brow in mock surprise.

“That so?”

With a trembling hand you sign, yes.

“Sorry, sweetie, I don’t speak your language.”

“She’s mute,” says Gray, quietly. “Has been since she was a baby.”

You echo the statement with cradled arms, and the Ghoul’s head tilts aside like a jackal watching a man die at some lofty distance.

“So you’re tellin’ me this beautiful lady right here can’t make no noise?” he asks, slowly. “Well, ain’t that convenient. See, I’m lookin’ to make some easy money, and as it so happens there’s a whole lot of folks chompin’ at the bit to buy a woman of just that description.”

The Ghoul seizes you by the arms with a motion so sudden that you do not protest, only stumble against him, feeling a sash of bullets like some torn out length of spinal cord upon your own.

“You’re comin’ along with me, darlin’,” says the Ghoul. “Hope you don’t mind.”

His breath is hot against your ear, smelling of cigarettes and some strange chemical.

“You’re not taking her anywhere!” snaps Gray, his lean frame tense with fury. “That’s my wife!”

The Ghoul looks sideways at him, his narrow lips upturned.

“Not no more she ain’t.”

Gray pulls his knife from his belt and lunges forwards, halting only at the raised snout of a gun protruding from the Ghoul’s calm grip.

Davey stands up once more, yelling and waving one arm ineffectually.

“Hey now! Hey now!”

Caught up between two men you find yourself oddly collected, as though by desperation fear has made you the sole point of calm.

Perhaps the Ghoul feels the racket of your heart against your bones; it does not matter. You cannot allow Gray to know it beats so, nor to bound, reckless, into a bullet on your behalf

Looking into the jailhouse madness of your husband’s eyes, you sign, I’ll go with him. I’ll get away. I’ll find you. I love you.

Gray flinches, and sheathing his knife, he says hoarsely, “She says she’ll travel with you. Don’t let her get hurt.”

Davey drops to his seat in palpable relief, a single vein writhing like an albino snake along his forehead.

The Ghoul tucks his gun away with a satisfied ease, his other arm still clamping you to him.

“Oh, I won’t let a soul leave a scratch on her,” he says. “’Cause if they did she wouldn’t be worth shit to me.”

He twists you ahead of him, nudging your ankle with the toe of his boot.

“Come on, Violet,” he says, as you attempt to look back at Gray over your shoulder. “We got places to be.”

As he propels you out of the store you hear Davey half-whisper, “What hell were you thinkin' pullin' a knife on him, kid? That’s Cooper Howard, for fuck’s sake.”

The Ghoul pauses abruptly, as though jerking from the dream of some sunken childhood horror.

“Ain’t gone by that name in years,” he says, gruffly. “Don’t you go raisin’ the dead.”

Then he jostles you onwards, and the sound of his spurs and the closing door become the same funeral song.

*

The Ghoul directs you through the town into a quarter of parched woodland, his gun trained lazily at your back. He speaks little, only snapping occasionally at your unrushed pace, which through dull spite you’ve no interest to change.

The shock of your abduction morphs into a watchful cunning in which you await your moment to revolt, your silence lending greatly to the effect of submission.

Still, you are not trusted to fall behind or even aside of your ruthless captor. The Ghoul has likely walked a hundred cringing hostages to their demise at organ shops or dens of ill repute, and from those journeys knows what tricks he might expect from even so pliant a charge.

In time you’re driven on into desert terrain that goes on unbroken for miles, the afternoon heat crushing strength and moisture from you like the blood of some small animal mercy-killed beneath a stone.

That land, as you have glimpsed before, is wrought of death and casual evil.

You see one man dragging another on a leash, the latter’s knees worn through to the bone from crawling so long in the wastes.

You see ferals beheaded and lashed to sun-bleached fences, only letters marked by stones in the earth denoting what, in life, they’d been.

You see a pack of dogs eating a woman’s entrails in the remains of an old shack, one of which raises its head to watch you pass with one viscous eye like the orb of some addled sorceress.

The Ghoul observes all with the same grim cynicism, smirking occasionally, as though gleaning something blackly comic from this show of ugliness.

He only stops when the sun collides with the skyline, setting up camp in what remains of an old gas station.

You loiter by an old pump, thinking that to run or to attack the Ghoul outright would not end in your favour.

Rising from his work, The Ghoul says, “Come here, darlin’. Let’s see if you have any weapons on you.”

You shake your head, thinking of the knife in your boot and the others in your satchel as the last thread by which you might escape.

Please, you sign. I need them.

The Ghoul strides across the camp and outstretches a leather clad palm.

“Hand ‘em over or I’ll pat you down and take ‘em myself. You’ll be waitin’ for the chance to gut me in my sleep. I ain’t takin' no chances with you, sweetie. “

When you hold back he snatches a handful of your dress and begins a rough search of your body, feeling you all over from breasts to groin with a scowl on his wizened lips.

It’s only when he raises your skirt to retrieve the bowie knife from the back of your boot that something of ordinary male desire crosses his face, his stare crawling the smooth plane of your calf.

He does not touch it, though from the stillness of his observation you perceive that he would like to.

“Gimme that satchel,” says the Ghoul, gruffly. “Let’s see what you got in there.”

He rifles through tinned food and RadAway until he finds the three blades sewn into the lining of your bag.

“That’s one hell of an artillery, Violet. You know how to use all this?”

You nod shortly.

“Well, at least that’s somethin’,” says the Ghoul, and he dumps the open bag into the earth. “Pays to know how to survive in this place.”

Producing a length of rope from somewhere under his coat he takes hold of your wrists and binds them, ignoring your mouthed words of dismay.

“I’ve seen you eyein' that desert,” he says, “tryin’ to figure out if you can slip past me. You might not talk, but your face sure does a lot of yappin’ for you.”

Satisfied with the knot, The Ghoul sits on an upturned barrel and hefts a flask of water to his mouth. Your cracked tongue pushes forth in hopeless want of moisture, watching beads of it run in a careless spill upon his chin.

Catching your eye, the Ghoul says, “Want somethin', Vaultie?”

With knotted hands you gesture to the flask. Sneering, the Ghoul takes another noisy mouthful of water and pours the rest onto a grimy rag with which he wipes his face, a waste of precious contraband.

You turn away, refusing him your despair.

“Here, sweetie,” says The Ghoul, gesturing the sopping fabric. “You want water? Come get what’s left of this.”

Still you do not look at him, attempting not to think of the liquid falling drop by silver drop upon the sand.

The Ghoul scoffs.

“Think you’re too good for it, huh? Well, you ain’t gettin’ anythin’ else all night. Maybe not tomorrow, neither. So come on, Violet. Drink while you can.”

He tugs the rope cuffing your wrists until you’re forced to your knees and holds the cloth to your lips, allowing the water to drip between them. Thirst awakened, you snatch a corner of the scrap in your teeth and suck the fabric dry, aware of the Ghoul’s eyes upon you.

“Now ain’t that a pretty sight,” he says. “Just for that I’ll give you a little more.”

He takes the flask from your own bag and again soaks the filthy cloth. This time you rip it from his hand and squeeze its contents down your throat with knotted hands as though pulping some browned fruit.

“You got spirit, Vaultie,” says the Ghoul, drying his hands on his coat. “I can see you ain’t gonna be easy to tame. But I’ve had dogs before. You ain’t no different.”

Snatching the cloth back, he shoves you into the dirt with a boot squared to your chest.

“See, I told that husband of yours I wouldn’t let you get hurt, but that don’t stop me teachin’ you a lesson, sweetheart. Just as long as I don’t leave a mark on you your value won’t shift a dime.”

You lie on your side, breathless and hateful, watching through half-open eyes as the Ghoul slouches nearby to settle in for the night.

“Get some shut-eye, Violet,” he says. “We got another day or so of walkin' ahead of us.”

You keep sentinel for hours, not trusting his appearance of sleep. Once, when you inch away from the Ghoul across camp, the rope at your wrists is tugged smartly taut as he reels you in across the sand.

“Stay close,” he says, opening one eye to squint at you through the dark. “I ain’t riskin’ somethin’ eatin’ you out here. What the fuck would I sell then?”

*

You awake to the Ghoul’s hand on your shoulder, turning you onto your back as though to identify a cadaver. From the luggage draped on his shoulder you guess he’s keen to leave, compelled by some urgency not yet detailed.

“You hungry?” he asks. “I ain’t openin’ the cans till we need ‘em, but I’ve do have this.”

You glance at the strips of dehydrated meat hung from his bag and shake your head, thinking how easily it might be the flesh of a man, being that the eating of them in the wastes is not uncommon.

“Don’t say I never offered,” says the Ghoul. “I’d wager you’ll be beggin’ for it in a couple of hours.”

As he pulls you to your feet you reach towards him with your wrists, mouthing a plea to be released.

“Now, you know I can’t do that, sunshine,” says the Ghoul, not without humour. “I must have heard that one a hundred times.”

Just one. Please.

The cowboy hums under his breath, thumbing the knot that joins your arms in a display of consideration.

“What do you need a hand for, Violet?”

You shift in discomfort, and to your relief the Ghoul gets the message.

“Alright. You get two minutes to do your business. Then we’re on the road.”

Slipping your dominant hand free of the lasso he turns in the other direction, whistling as you squat in the dirt. You’re coldly surprised that he allows you this dignity.

Once both arms are unified by the rope the Ghoul nudges you before him into the desert again, uncaring of the limp you’ve developed in your fatigue.

On your way you pass a church, repaired after the bomb by some follower of that old religion, or else inherited by the new.

Beyond it lies a boneyard, brittle skeletons set up like headstones across the plane.

There are wandering salesmen naming their wares in croaking shouts as they wheel forth shopping carts before them. There are hardened men and women the Ghoul claims are bandits, firing warning shots before they get close enough to attack.

“They’d eat you up, doll,” he drawls, cleaning off his gun. “Right down to those pretty white bones.”

You cross paths with groups of whores who lift their low-cut dresses and holler at your captor, who tips his hat, but otherwise ignores their attempts to woo him. Families stagger along with children whose faces are like rotting taxidermy, mutated, or else merely warped by whatever horrors they’ve encountered on their endless walk.

At the bottom of a sloping dune you come across the remnants of a massacre, bodies cut down into gelatinous morsels afloat on a lake of blood. When you halt, trembling, at its edges the Ghoul spits at your feet.

“What’s the matter, Vaultie? Don’t you know your Great-Great-Grandpappy and Grandmamma had a hand in making the world the way it is? Your ancestors didn’t give two shits what happened to the rest of us. That blood’s on your hands, darlin’.”

You stare at him without comprehension, thinking how closely his visage resembles the dead.

Suddenly the Ghoul bends over in the throes of a coughing fit, one hand scrabbling in his bag for a vial of liquid he decants into his mouth with a feverish need. He stoops, gasping, for some time, his lashes fluttering helplessly.

As you stare on it occurs to you that you know of this illness, the thing that chars the minds of ghouls away with its dread madness.

It makes Cooper weak, and thus you know what you must watch for in him to slip his hold.

*

That night, camped out beneath a blasted tree, the Ghoul coughs again, a wheeze like that of some punctured machine at work. As he falls sideways, his hands spidering for his pack, you see the precious bottles of elixir skid across the dirt out of his reach.

Starving, half-crazed with tiredness and thirst, you drag yourself up with aid of the tree and approach the Ghoul, watching his face upturn in desolate recognition of what you mean to do.

First you snatch the bags from him, finding a knife to cut your tethers. You spread your hands, gasping at their stiffness as you roll the joints.

Being untrained in the use of firearms you carry his gun to a patch of scrub and throw it amidst the foliage, far from sight. If he turns feral he will not think of it; if he survives the fit it will at least take him time to recover.

The Ghoul’s eyes prod your back with bleak resentment as you work.

Returning to the fallen man, you point your boot at the three glass bottles left of his supply.

You want them? You sign.

The Ghoul nods; you see that he expects nothing, and that lends you a cruel edge of power.

Taking care to look into his browless gaze you raise one boot and smash the vials beneath it, letting their contents leech away into the sand. Still the Ghoul inches forward in an attempt to lick it from the dirt, forgoing his dignity in the face of survival, as is surely his habit.

You draw back a foot and kick sand into his raddled face, burying the last of his medicine in its spray.

Fuck you, you tell him. You son of a bitch.

Then you turn and begin the long walk back to Filly, and to Gray.

*

You march, bow-legged with muscle cramp and blistered ankles, both day and night, pausing only to take your RadAway or drink from the flasks the Ghoul had filled at a well the day before. The dried meat you devour in segments, knowing that you must make your food stock last, or else starve before you reach civilisation.

You no longer care where the strips came from, or tell yourself that you do not. Guilt will inhibit your survival, and you’ve seen enough of the land to acknowledge that all men here are for themselves.

On the second day of solitary travel you are followed by a grinning stranger attracted to your stumbling vulnerability. He whispers as though to a lost love as he shadows you, licking at his mouth with his cracked tongue, one hand in his pocket, upon his cock or a blade, their end all the same to you.

You have not killed before, but from what you’ve known in your six months beyond the Vault you are sure in your knife hand as you turn on him and slit his throat. It is as though some sun burned doppelganger commits the act, so little do you feel as he stills, gargling, in the earth.

Only later, taking rest in a rundown cabin, do you look at your killing arm and wonder that it has taken you so long in the desert to have spilt your first blood. You are not sorry for the stranger, knowing from his mutterings what he would have done with you beneath him.

Still, you feel yourself altered, knighted by death as its champion.

In the morning the man’s body is gone, dragged away from the road by animals, or else by people so like them that their differences are irrelevant.

You begin to ask passers-by if they have seen your husband, all of which shake their heads, or send you on false leads that weary you to the point of sickness in their length.

There is no doubt that Gray would have followed you here; his overzealous sense of morality would not abide the notion of remaining behind. Yet there seems no trace of him in this thankless land, and through your savage tutelage in its ways you doubt that you will find him.

The miles are eaten by your splitting boots, and yet more come, as though in some sequence from nightmare they will never conclude, only expand into a formless frontier. You’re in such pain from walking that you can think of nothing but its grip upon you, raising one foot after the other only through the terror that in resting you may never rise again.

It’s afternoon when you come upon the old church once more, pale as a dead tooth in the gum of the horizon. You lope towards the double doors and knock, hankering after the cool shade within.

An elderly man answers, peering out at you without expression. There is a gun in his hand, aimed in a discreet fashion at your stomach.

Raising your palms, you mouth, Safe. I need shelter.

The old man lowers his gun without apology.

“I see. Come on in, sister. I’ll see about finding you something to drink.”

You are led through a hall in which rows of dirty wooden pews face the carved figure of a martyr nailed to a cross. His carved eyes seem to dog you as you sit and accept a cup of water as though judging you for the sin of taking a life.

You look back at him, dispassionate, untouched by He you do not worship.

The priest asks, “You’re troubled, sister. What is it you’re looking for out here?”

Taking a notepad and the worn-down stub of a pencil out of your bag you write, I’m looking for my husband. His name is Gray Freeland. He’s tall. Blue eyes. Freckles. He’s from a Vault. You’d know him.

The old man reads slowly, following the text with his finger.

“Well,” he says. “I haven’t seen many living folks pass through here in a long time. Mostly I keep my doors locked, since the only people I do see are man eaters. Wildmen.

“Just the other day I chased a few of them off a body they were dragging along, thinking to cut pieces from it whenever they were hungry, I suppose. I brought the poor man into the crypt so as I could give him a decent burial.”

Again you glance at the man on the cross and see that he is weeping. Your own eyes are dry, raw from the sand winds, a travelling cynic’s.

Take me to see the body, you write, and the old priest leads you down a narrow stairway like the coil of a shell into a cool basement of stone.

On a slab there lies a corpse, the ribs opened out and plucked clean of organs, the face half devoured, marks left on the skull from scraping teeth.

The other eye, the sloping cheekbone. These, intact, you know.

“You recognise this man?” asks the old man. “Is he your husband?”

You don’t answer, just look at the body as you did the massacre, stunned beyond grief by the cruelty of the wastes.

In the notebook you write, I want a funeral for him. A burial.

“You weren’t parted from your husband by the hand of God alone,” says the priest. “Someone came between you two.”

Yes, you say. The Ghoul. Cooper Howard. He wanted to sell me for caps, or medicine, I think. I ran away.

A twitch tugs the old man’s eye like a fishing line.

You write, you know this Ghoul.

“Yes. Everyone around these parts has heard of him. He’s a brutal man. He’s killed women, children, anyone to get what he wants. If he has any sort of code at all then it’s not one I know of.”

You stare into the eye of your dead lover and inherit from it his resolve to go on.

I should leave. If the Ghoul survived, then he may come here.

Placing a veined hand on yours, the priest asks, “What did you do to him, sister?”

Not enough.

*

You stay at the church overnight, given a meal of salted meat and hard bread, and a bath in a vast tin tub. You sleep on a palette bed in a back room with clean sheets, and drink cool water that tastes only of minerals, and not the filth of the wastes.

Yours is a slumber like that of the sick, or the long dead.

Then at first daylight you’re back on the road again, forced to leave your husband’s body to rot in its chill crypt.

With no purpose but to live you trundle forth past the grotesque landmarks that distinguish each stretch of earth from the other, walk until your boots are blood soaked and your hips ache like a crone’s.

Only when your knees give out do you resign yourself to set up camp by a defunct railroad, warming a tin of soup over a pitiful fire. You think almost of nothing as you drink, beaten flat as an ancient coin by the afternoon sun and the grinding nature of your suffering.

Slumped on an old box, you look at the fire, like some offshoot of your skyward enemy, and yearn for the cool of the Vault.

Footsteps crunch in the sand at your back, and a soft male voice says, “Now there’s my shrinkin' violet. Sittin’ out here all alone.”

Before you can dart away a weight strikes the middle of your back, pitching you into the dirt in a clumsy sideways roll. Winded, you find yourself peering up into the ravaged features of the Ghoul, and think that Death in his ragged coat could not appear so cruel.

“You’re tougher than I gave you credit for, sweetie,” he says, conversationally. “Meaner, too. Where’d that holier than fuckin’ thou Vault attitude go to?”

He must have hidden some vials amidst his clothes, enough to revive him from his lunacy. You had not thought to check his pockets, absorbed as you were in your revenge.

The Ghoul strips you of your weapons, tutting at the banality of routine. Then he looks down at how you’ve fallen, legs apart, your prairie dress gathered up like a tangled net about your knees, and notices the undergarments cupped with sweat to the cut of your cunt.

You see, then, a stain of thought spread through him like a thirst for blood, his eyes as black as the charred stumps of headless ferals you’d seen roped to fencing on the road.

“Well, now,” says the Ghoul. “Least I’ve figured out a way you can pay me back for all them vials you stomped on.”

His voice is low, a purr of heated malice.

With the nose of his gun he lifts your skirts up to your thighs and nudges the barrel against your cunt, Vault regulation underwear done away with in one taunting motion.

“Get up, doll,” says the Ghoul. “I’m gonna do something that dumbfuck husband of yours probably never did and teach you how to ride.”

He sits down on the wooden crate and gestures with his weapon for you to rise.

“Come on, Violet. Get that old dress off and take a seat.”

He pats his thigh, and you shake your head, signing with frantic hands.

No. No. Not this. I’m married.

He doesn’t yet know of your husband’s death, it seems, for when you gesture to your wedding ring the Ghoul’s expression sours.

“I had a wife like you, once,” he says. “Soft skin, and real beautiful, like a movie star. And just like you she screwed me over, so pardon me if I don’t take the sanctity of marriage too seriously no more.”

He moves the gun again, his fingers approaching the trigger.

“Now do what I said. If you make me shoot you I’ll be sure to hit you some place it’ll hurt. You want that, sweetheart?”

You glance over your shoulder at a universe of sand, contemplating how far you’d get before the Ghoul put a bullet in your back. Perhaps he’d let you run a bit for idle fun before he shot you down.

It’s as you’re thinking this that a weight falls about your neck and the Ghoul yanks you to him by a lead of rope, half throttling you in his malice.

“Damn it, Vaultie, you ain’t runnin’ out on your payment,” he says, coolly. “I ought to whip the skin off your hide for what you did.”

You’d be nose to nose with the Ghoul, if he still had one. In his irises you see your own face, still human, so unlike his. The beauty of it has taunted this man like water the many thirsting in the Wasteland, a mirage made real, and now owed to him through your slight upon his person.

It scares you, that bitter lust. He might kill you through the thing he means to do.

Stilled by one gloved fist on the lasso, you daren’t struggle as the Ghoul peels your dress up over your head, blinkering you with the fabric. His free hand trails from your quivering throat to both breasts, taking his time with the exploration.

He wants the glove off; you feel it in the labour with which he draws a path between your thighs, near awed by the delicacy of you against him.

You wrestle the dress off your head and glare with a spiteful terror into his scarred carapace.

“How’d a pure little Vault dweller like you change so fast?” asks The Ghoul, almost in admiration. “The Wasteland ain’t barely started with you yet. Maybe you loved that boy so much it drove you crazy. Used to be songs about that, as I recall. Songs about men like me, too, and what we do when we’re crossed by snakes like yourself.”

You sign you deserved what I did to you with expressions and hard gestures he understands.

“I admit I played with you a little,” says the Ghoul. “’Cause when I see a green, pretty girl like you I want to screw you into the dirt like a smoke. Just about the only way you’ll learn how things really are when you’re in a tough spot in the Wasteland.”

He spits on his gloved fingers and bars them between your folds, watching with his head inclined as you stiffen up in pain and disgust at his entry.

“Well,” he says. “Now I know what I ought to drink when I’m runnin’ low on water.”

You think to strike him, but the lasso is braided across your windpipe merely at the flash of your eye.

“Don’t be stupid now, Violet. I know you’re a smart girl. I’d hate for you to prove me wrong.”

He takes his gloves off with his teeth and spits them in the sand. With one bare palm he touches you all over, the rasp of his strange skin like grit against your own. The other hand struggles with the opening of his pants, starving to have them open.

“What’s the matter?” asks the Ghoul, as you look down at his cock, which is as coarse as the rest of him. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of.”

He tests your opening with two fingers, and you convulse with a silent agony at their insertion, and the betrayal.

“Aw, now come on now, sweetheart. It ain’t that bad. Still, I’d use that mouth of yours instead, only I know you’d bite like a mare.”

His skull-like features press close to yours. He smells of smoke, of sweat, as most men do in the Wasteland.

“Now open those legs of yours and sit,” says the Ghoul, “before I pick some other hole.”

When you merely stare in sickened mutiny he forces you up onto his lap. You cringe as he punctures your cunt with his length, twice that of your husband’s, breaking you upon him like the bones of an enemy.

The Ghoul looks at you from under half lids, his lashes as lush and beautiful as black reeds, a surprising feature amidst such ruin.

“Hurts, don’t it?” he asks. “That’s what you get for crossin’ a fella in these parts.”

He ducks down and licks the sweat off your tits up to your neck, smacking his lips with a pop.

“Salt and tequila. Makes me miss the good old days.”

You grip his tattered coat for stability as he jounces you on his cock, thinking of the sinewy flesh under his collar, wondering if your blunt little white teeth could prise out a vein. Wondering if he still bleeds like a man, or gives but dust.

“Come on, now, little lady,” says the Ghoul. “Why ain’t you puttin' in no work? Get to it.”

He slaps your flank, but you don’t move, in too much pain from walking and the girth of him to do much but wince as in the rhythm of his arms you fall and fall upon it.

“Hope you ain’t tired already,” says the Ghoul. “We’re just warmin’ up.”

You mouth ‘ugly��� into his face, emphasising the syllables.

Your attacker leers.

“That may be, but you’re still wet for me, ain’t you? Maybe you ain’t so opposed to fuckin’ a ghoul as you let on.”

Enraged, you try to spit at him, cannot rally enough moisture to defile the smirking cheek.

“Don’t waste your water, Violet,” says the Ghoul. “I sure won’t be loanin’ you any.”

He turns you on his lap, one arm across your breasts, another at your hip, squeezing the meat there with lusting appreciation. You struggle in his hold, your joints like troughs of magma, and the Ghoul laughs against your neck.

“Still want to fight, huh? Ain’t no skin off my back.”

The Ghoul shoves you forward into the earth, and you roll there together like men. With ease he could overpower you, yet he allows you your digs and attempts to inch out from under him for the sake of some bastard fairness.

His heat, his heaviness upon you incurs a panicked need to buck him from your back. You almost succeed, except the Ghoul yanks you to him through the dirt and stones like a prisoner drawn and quartered.

Then, turning you under him, he casts a palm full of sand into your face, watching you choke and fight to rub the grains from your eyes with a vindicated pleasure.

“You know, Violet,” he says, “I may not speak your signs, but I can read some. There was a deaf fella out in Truth or Consequences I used to have dealings with, and I picked up plenty from him. I know you’ve been cussin’ and cursin’ me since the day we met. Makes it all the better knowing I can fuck you.”

Again he fills you with the rot of his existence, growling as he does so, a gleeful torturer at work. You kick at him with your boot heels as you might some mad horse, but he keeps at you, unrelenting, his grinning teeth like the cracked plains of soil after drought.

The friction of the Ghoul within you, rough skin to the soft, builds a cave there in which pain shambles out as something else.

He groans as he feels that change around him, wetness in a land so absent of it. Not once in this attack had he intended your desire, had expected only your abjection on the pumice of his want. His hands go back to your body then, to your breasts, your outstretched neck, and he touches you as a husband might, as he did his own bride, long ago.

You bury your fingers into the burning sand and pray to what God, if any, rules the wastes. By now you know Him as a man, not the weeping idol of crucifixion but one of greed and brutal caprice.

Climax—yours and the Ghoul’s—ride together like two prey animals grown to hunt in symbiosis, his just ahead of yours. He fucks you with his half-hard cock until you cease motion around him, and still does not pull loose.

The way he looks at you no man ever has, not even the rough ilk of Filly.

The Ghoul’s eyes are hellfire and tenderness; he had loved a woman like you, and hasn’t forgotten who he’d been when he’d done so. But he can love like that no longer, and though there’s something nearly gentle in the way he moves to cup your face in his hand you are only appalled by the radiance of his desire.

The fight snaps free of you in a bracing instant, and the Ghoul watches it go. Watches your face in all the motions of defeat.

“Those lips of yours,” he croons. “Even cherry pie ain’t sweeter. Now I’ve got to have me a taste.”

Then he kisses you, softly, at first, after the ripping winds of his fucking, and then with a grunt like some rooting boar he sets at you with the aggression of before, consuming you with tongue and borderless mouth until what thought there was of past romance is chipped from the gravestone of him.

The Ghoul’s hat fell off sometime in the scuffle; as he rises again you see that the weird planes of his skull are beautiful, as the rest of him must once have been.

Like some Martian fiend he appears as he crouches over your quivering nakedness, tugging your gown back on over your head as though dressing a stiff little corn doll.

“Now we’re just about even,” says the Ghoul. “And if you put even a foot wrong I’ll keep on evenin' that score.”

He sets about tying the lasso about your neck to a stake of wood in the dirt. That done, he sits back on the box and looks at you again, dusting his hat off absently with one hand.

You stare through him and up at the bile of deities that is the golden afternoon sky.

“Now you’re gettin’ it, Violet,” says the Ghoul. “The Wasteland ain’t no place for a Vaultie housewife like yourself.”

Later, one of your hands outstretches to pen letters in the sand.

I-A-M-A-W-I-D-O-W.

The Ghoul blinks.

“Well, shit. And there I was thinkin’ I’d wrecked a decent home.”

S-H-O-O-T-M-E.

“After all the fussin’ I’ve been through to get you back you ain’t goin’ nowhere. And don’t try to kill yourself, neither. I sleep with one eye open. You’re worth more to me alive, and I ain’t about to forget it.”

The Ghoul lies down beside you, arms folded under his head, content in the desert’s justice.

Only when the night slaps like a dripping cloth over you both does he speak to you again.

“I ain’t gonna sell you, Violet. You better learn to earn your keep.”

[harpersdragons]

New Fic!

Theft in the Family...By Jason Todd

Talia tasks Jason with taking Damian to his father, and a few things change

Primary Tags: jason and damian met in the league, mainly fluff

I've written through half of chapter 4, i'm expecting 5-6 chapters

Chapter 1 under the cut:

word count: 1327

Jason’s life changed (for the third—fourth? Fifth? Fuck Jason’s lost count—time) the day Talia burst into his room in the league headquarters.

Jason snaps to attention, drawing the knife from under his pillow.

Talia may be like a mother to him, and he may love her little boy more than anything, but this is still the league. If you’re not hypervigilant, you’re dead. Threats are everywhere, even where you don’t expect them.

“The clown is dead.” She announces.

Jason relaxes, then tenses up again once the words register.

“You’re not kidding.”

“No. I have personally ensured it.”

“What…what about the plan?”

“It has been changed. You will still go to Gotham, but you must take Damian with you.”

“What.” He didn’t mind Damian coming with him, but taking him from Ra’s was declaring war on the league.

“I need you to deliver him to his father. It is not safe for him here.”

When Jason agrees, she hands over a letter.

“Give this to my Beloved. Come, you leave now.”

“I’m—I’m not packed.” He didn’t want to see Bruce, maybe he could keep Damian for himself?

As soon as the thought pops in his head, he dismisses it. He wouldn’t be able to give Damian a fulfilling life, he’s barely 17 for fuck’s sake. (He thinks, anyway, the whole being dead thing makes knowing his age difficult).

“You will find everything you need on the plane.”

They weave through the labyrinth of corridors, eventually reaching the plane Talia’s arranged.

Damian is already there, sitting primly in one of the chairs in the cargo hold.

Talia exchanges a tearful goodbye (on Damian’s side, Talia is as immovable as ever) with her 6 year old, and Jason readies for takeoff.

When they arrive in Gotham, Jason lands at a private airstrip just outside of Gotham. Bruce would probably find out about it, since he seems to know fuckin’ everything, but that’s really not Jason’s problem right now. Talia had provided a small car, so he packs Damian into the backseat and drove off towards Bristol.

“Alright, Princeling, the rules are different here. Your father has two other kids, and you need to get along with them. No killing, no maiming, no trying to assert yourself as the rightful heir.”

“But I am the rightful heir, am I not?”

It still shocked him how formal Damian was. No matter how many times he heard it, hearing a six year old talk like he’s an old monarch or some shit is something you never get used to.

“It doesn’t work like that here. Bruce…Bruce loves his children equally,” Jason may not believe it—the Old Man has favorites, and you can never convince him otherwise—but Damian needs to. Bruce needs to accept Damian, and that won’t happen if the kid is trying to kill his siblings. “No killing and no maiming are the main rules, but make sure you listen to whatever Bruce and Alfred say, alrigh’?”

“Ok, Akhi.” Damian’s voice is sleepy, and Jason can practically hear him drifting off.

He smiles softly, having Damian around helped tremendously with getting the Pit Rage under control, and he’s sure that’s what Talia’s plan was. The rage is useful for some things, but if she wanted to get Damian out of Nanda Parbat for his safety, she had to make sure he wouldn’t be overcome with pit rage and kill the kid.

The drive passes pretty quickly, though he does catch a few glimpses of Bats on rooftops on his way to the manor. He makes sure they haven’t followed him, and then parks in the woods about a mile from the manor.

“C’mon, Habibi.” He grabs Damian out of the backseat and settles him on his hip.

“I can walk, I am not a child!” His voice is still sleepy, but the exclamation is still there.

Jason couldn’t help but snort.

“Actually, by definition, you are a child. I’m not making you walk a mile, I can carry you.”

“I can walk, Todd!”

“Quiet, Habibi. You’re not walking.”

“Tt.” Damian huffs but settles down.

The walk passes quickly, if you ignore Damian’s annoyed grumbling, and then they’re standing before the gates of the manor.

Well, kind of.

They’re standing off to the side and in one of the camera blind spots.

Jason takes a second to analyze the fence line, and finds a shorter tree they could climb and hop over.

Hopefully Bruce didn’t drastically change the security measures on the grounds.

He carries Damian over to the tree and prompts him to grab the lowest branch. Once he is safely sitting in the tree, Jason climbs up after him.

”Can you jump over the fence and land safely?”

Damian tosses a scathing glare (well…as scathing as a six year old can be) at Jason and prepares to jump.

”That wasn’t an answer, and I really need one. The ‘safely’ was the most important part of that.”

”Tt.” Damian throws himself off the branch, flipping in the air and lands softly on the ground.

”You’re gonna get along so great with Golden Boy…” Jason mutters before following. He doesn’t flip, but he does manage to land almost as softly as Damian. He eyes the yard for a few seconds, trying to spot the security triggers.

He scoops Damian up again and picks his way across the yard, heading for the Manor.

He stops a little ways away, within view of the driveway and front door. “Ok, I’ll stay here until you’re inside.”

Damian furrows his brow and turns his inquisitive gaze on Jason. “You are not coming with me?”

”This isn’t my home anymore, Princeling.” He smiles sadly, “Your father won’t want me around, this is somewhere you have to go alone.”

”I do not want to live there without you! Why can’t I stay with you?”

”You need to stay with your father. He can keep you safe.” Jason crouches to be eye level with him, and runs a hand through Damian’s soft hair. “I will always come if you call, Habibi. I promise you.” He tugs two letters out of his jacket, one for Bruce and one for Alfred.

He wrote the one for Alfred specifically. Damian needs to know how to contact Jason, and therefore someone in the family will too.

“Give these to Alfred Pennyworth when he opens the door.” He hands them to Damian, “Go on now.”

”No! You can’t leave me.”

”Damian.”

”Why do you have to leave me?” Damian’s eyes started watering.

”I don’t belong here, ok? I can’t stay.”

Damian huffs and glares at him, tears still leaking out of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, but you need to go.” Jason pulls him in for a quick hug. “I love you, Habibi. If you need me, tell Alfred, alrigh’? He’ll be able to contact me.”

Damian doesn’t respond, just buries his face in Jason’s chest, in an uncharacteristic show of affection.

Eventually, Damian pulls away and wipes his eyes. “I do not want you to go, Akhi.”

If Jason stays any longer he just might stay, damn Damian’s convincing.

“I can’t, Dami. Bruce doesn’t want me!”

”How do you know?”

I’m not your father. I don’t have to deal with your teenage rebellion.

I’m not your father

I’m not your father

”Because he fuckin’ told me so, kid.”

”Tt.”

”Dami…” Jason sighs, “I’ll visit, how ‘bout that? I’m sure we can figure it out.”

”That is acceptable, I suppose,” Damian’s tone is sullen, and he refuses to meet Jason’s eyes.

”Good. Now go on, the bats will probably be back from patrol soon.”

Damian darts in for another quick hug, then makes his way towards the door.

Jason watches as he knocks, then a few seconds later Alfred opens the door. Damian hands over the letters and is ushered inside.

Time for Jason to head out, then.

“Bye, Habibi.” He murmurs, then leaves the way he came.

[citizensun]

Mary Magdalene

insp.

A few notes:

• yes to Mary Magdalene/Satin parallels! generally I don't like Christ allegories but this is my exception. Satin you are a major character in my heart.

• it took me trying to trace the original painting to really realize wow Jon's a kid. he is not a 33-years-old guy who spent most of his life as a carpenter he is a twig of child. sure this is feudalism and he has martial training but wow. they really elected a 15/16 yr old as their leader and then killed him huh.

• if you want to be pedantic, I GUESS Jon theoretically shouldn't have these many stab marks but if he didn't feel the fourth knife he also didn't feel the seventh. rip.

• once again I decided to draw Ghost without looking at a reference not even once literally what's wrong with me.

• overall I'm not really satisfied with how this one came out but eh. already did the time might as well do the crime.

[gefionne]

These Hands, If Not Gods

Solavellan | E | pre-DAI eluvian time travel feat. hot blooded and cocky young wolf and clan mage apprentice Lavellan | [read here]

Ellana Lavellan is one of two apprentices to her clan’s Keeper, and not the most skillful of the pair. She expects to be sent away after failing to earn a place as First, but when she stumbles upon an ancient shrine to Fen’Harel and inadvertently summons the Dread Wolf himself, she finds in him a wealth of powerful, forgotten magics. He’ll teach her, if she makes a suitable offering: herself. Ellana returns to the shrine again and again, summoning Fen’Harel to teach her more, but time works differently on the other side of the eluvian; centuries pass for him while only weeks go by for her. As she grows to know him as Solas, she discovers that the Creators are not the benevolent deities she believed them to be, and that the Dread Wolf is a man she can love. What comfort can a mere Dalish mage offer a rebel god? More than either of them ever expected.

Excerpt below the cut...

The Veil undulated, bringing Ellana up short. Two more droplets spattered the altar and, as she watched, reflected a wavering light that emanated from the surface of the tall mirror. It rippled silver and blue, overpowering the fire in the brazier. Fear gripped Ellana’s throat as a shadow filled the mirror, black against its luminosity. When it stepped out of the mirror and into the chamber, the brightness cut off, leaving Ellana to face whatever had come through it with a broken bow, a stolen knife, and her meager skill with spellcraft.

The brazier’s light caught small shining points set against pale skin: a delicate golden cuff at the top of a knife-sharp ear; a round stud in one nostril of a strong nose; a delicate ring in a full lower lip. Confusion knitted a stern brow over storm sea eyes—gray irises edged with deep blue, oddly like Ellana’s own, yet without any suggestion of her timidity. No, the elf who had come through the mirror had a dauntless bearing and wore fabrics so fine he might’ve walked out of the shrine’s mosaics.

Glancing around the chamber and then back at Ellana, he advanced two steps, speaking in quick, liquid words it took her altogether too long to identify as the ancient elvhen tongue. While most Dalish spoke little more than a few phrases, Keeper Deshanna had studied what remained of their predecessors’ language extensively. She had passed that knowledge on to both her apprentices, and in a rare show of savvy, Ellana had picked it up best.

Yet, for all her lessons, she could barely keep up with the flourishes of this elf’s pronunciation and cadence. His vocabulary far exceeded hers, every syllable fluid and spoken in a deep baritone. He gesticulated for emphasis, Ellana catching every fourth or fifth word—where, expected, misled. She strained to focus, but it was all too much, too fast.

Raising her hands in what she hoped was a universal gesture of stop, she said in the ancient tongue, “Please. Please speak slowly and with, ah”—she sought the correct translation—“short words.”

He cut his tirade blessedly off, eyebrows drawing in again. Ellana despaired for a heartbeat that he hadn’t understood her, but then he said, slowly and in short words, “What is this place? It is not where I expected to be when I came through the eluvian.”

[yatsurinamikaze]

Wager (first) - (second) - (third) - (fourth) - (fifth) - (sixth)

tw// shit show, cringe, word vomit, objectification, shitty writing, grammatical errors, curse words.

Oikawa Tooru x Reader, Ushijima Wakatoshi x Reader

Summary: They strike a bet. The Wager? You.

The night is unnervingly quiet, the only sound coming from the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of leaves outside your window. You lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, your thoughts tangled in the aftermath of the evening with Ushijima.

A soft knock at your window jolts you, your heart skipping a beat. You know that knock—it’s Tooru. He’s done this so many times before, sneaking over late at night when he couldn’t sleep, when he needed to talk, when he just wanted to be near you. But tonight, that familiar sound fills you with a sense of dread.

Reluctantly, you get out of bed and draw back the curtains, revealing his face, pale and tense in the dim light. His eyes are wide, filled with a desperation that makes your chest tighten. He motions for you to open the window, his movements urgent.

With a deep breath, you unlatch the window and slide it open, stepping back as he climbs inside. His presence is overwhelming, filling the small space of your room with a suffocating intensity.

“Y/N,” he breathes, his voice thick with emotion. “Why haven’t you been answering my calls? I’ve been losing my mind over here.”

You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes fixed on the floor. “Tooru, it’s late… What are you doing here?”

He steps closer, the scent of his cologne, once comforting, now only heightens your anxiety. “I had to see you,” he says, his voice trembling. “I needed to… I’m so sorry, Y/N. I messed up, I know I did. But I can’t lose you. Please, please talk to me.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into his arms, his head resting on your shoulder as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I never should’ve made that bet. It was stupid, reckless, and I don’t know what I was thinking. I should’ve protected you, not put you in the middle of my own insecurities.”

His words are like a knife twisting in your chest, the pain sharp and unrelenting. You want to believe him, want to forgive him like you’ve done so many times before, but something inside you resists. The memory of that day, of him betting on you like you were something to be won, flashes through your mind, reigniting the anger that you’ve been trying to suppress.

You stand there, stiff in his embrace, the warmth of his body doing nothing to melt the ice that has settled in your veins. His apologies, once so comforting, now feel like empty words, and the realization stings more than anything else.

As he pulls back slightly, his hands still gripping your arms, his eyes search your face, desperate for any sign of forgiveness. But then, his gaze drifts over your shoulder, and you feel him tense. You follow his line of sight and realize what he’s looking at—Ushijima’s team jacket, casually draped over your chair. The air between you thickens with tension as he pulls back, his expression hardening.

“What’s that doing here?” His voice, low and trembling with barely contained anger, sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “It’s Ushijima’s. He… he left it when he dropped me off.”

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating. Tooru’s eyes widen, his disbelief quickly morphing into something darker, more dangerous. “Dropped you off?” he repeats, his voice a mixture of confusion and fury. “From our date..”, you speak, your voice low.

"Date?" his voice cracks, the raw hurt in it cutting through you like glass. You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat. He takes a step back, his hands dropping to his sides, fists clenching and unclenching as he tries to control his emotions.

“I told you I was going to talk to him,” he says, his voice rising with every word. “Why… why did you go?”

The intensity in his eyes, makes you want to shrink away, but you stand your ground, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I went because I wanted to, Tooru,” you say, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and sorrow. “At first, it was just to spite you, because of that stupid, reckless bet you made. But then… I actually ended up having a good time.”

Your words hang in the air, each one a blow to his already fragile composure. He stares at you, disbelief etched into every line of his face. “You had a good time?” he echoes, his voice barely above a whisper, the words laced with pain. “What do you mean you had a good time? I said I would fix this, Y/N! I was going to make it right, and you—what? You went on a date with him just to ‘keep my end of the bargain’? Is that it?”

You can see the cracks forming in his carefully constructed walls, the anguish seeping through as his shoulders slump, his expression one of betrayal. But the anger inside you, the anger that has been simmering since that night in the gym, refuses to let you back down.

“That’s exactly it, Tooru,” you snap, your voice sharper than you intended. “You made the bet, and I was just fulfilling it. ” You didn't mean to say all that, but a part of you wants to hurt him back.

His face contorts with a mixture of fury and despair, his eyes locking onto yours with a look that makes your heart twist painfully in your chest. “This isn’t you, Y/N,” he says, his voice cracking. “You’re not like this. How did we get here?”

“We got here because you put us here!” you shout, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “You treated me like something you could gamble away, like I was just a piece on a chessboard in your stupid rivalry with Ushijima. You broke us, Tooru. You broke us when you made that bet.”

The silence that follows is deafening, both of you standing there, the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid crushing down on you. He takes a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to touch you, but you pull away, the hurt and betrayal too fresh, too raw.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But I love you. I’ve loved you since the first moment we met, and I can’t— I can’t lose you over this. Please, don’t shut me out. We can work through this. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Anything.”

You close your eyes, the tears finally spilling over as you shake your head. “I don’t know if I can trust you anymore, Tooru. You hurt me in a way that I never thought you could.”

His breath hitches, and you can hear the pain in his voice as he pleads, “… don’t give up on us.”

But something inside you has already shifted. The connection that once felt unbreakable now feels fragile, like it’s teetering on the edge of collapse. And maybe… maybe it’s already too late to save it.

“I need time to think,” you say, your voice breaking with the weight of the words. “And you do too.”

His shoulders sag in defeat, his hand falling to his side as he nods slowly.

He lingers for a moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hope, but when he finds none, he turns away, climbing back out the window. You watch as he disappears into the night, the sound of his footsteps fading away into the distance.

As you close the window behind him, the sobs that you’ve been holding back finally break free, the tears streaming down your face as you collapse onto your bed.

Ding!

Ushijima:

I had a good time. Thanks. Good night.

Masterlist

[le-trash-prince]

Can we talk about Kenta’s visible stress levels in episode 11? This is a man who keeps his mask locked down so tight that the only time we’ve seen it crack where someone else could see is when Tony hit him hard enough to draw blood.

Here we see him SMOKING INSIDE LIKE A MADMAN?? I will say that I think Kenta smokes the most out of the cast (understandable) in proportion to his screentime, since this is at least the fourth time I recall seeing him smoke. But this is definitely the first it’s happened indoors, and he’s not even in the privacy of his own room.

But he IS in the same spot where Pete left him behind, which to me implies he’s stressed enough to be desperate for a smoke but cannot get himself to leave this stairwell. If he leaves, he won’t stop until he reaches Pete.

Then, after the first flashback, his bangs are visibly mussed, when they were fine a moment earlier. So he ran a hand through his hair before pulling out the knife. This is the first time we’ve seen him this unkempt.

The biggest thing to me though is just how red-faced and sweaty he is during the fight with Pete, when Pete’s face is perfectly dry. I do think Pete was likely going easy on him, whereas Kenta was putting in his entire effort, but jesus he looks like he just ran 5k.

This is him not even two minutes earlier, and he looks fine. Either Pete’s ability has done something to make him start sweating buckets (insert heat jokes here oh god what if that’s what it actually is I’ve just derailed my entire train of thought Pete’s enigma powers made Kenta all flushed and sweaty what the FUCK) or it’s like his entire body is rejecting what he’s trying to force himself to do OR HE’S GOING INTO HEAT ABDJFJF

[diejager]

evil! reader x makarov/power ‘couple’ would be the type to make out and fuck as they torture someone

(hope you don’t mind, love your writing!!!!! i give you a shiny rock)

Bloody Love Cw: smut,DARKFIC, torture, kissing, blood and gore, interrogation, creampie, riding, thigh riding, wall sex, sex marathon, sadism, reader is evil, tell me if I missed any.

Makarov doesn’t usually do the torturing, he prefers to leave it to his henchmen and allies, but, on occasion, he wouldn’t mind participating in some good, old fashioned, romantic torture with you. If it fits your fancy and that you’re feeling it, he’d willingly bend back to make your dream come true. While he has other ways of showing you off and letting you control the moment, he finds a certain joy in pleasing you while in the throes of pleasure and making a man slowly bleed to death.

And despite being a man of class, the sight of you covered in blood, manic grin stretched across your face and eyes gleaming darkly, he can’t help himself from falling deeper into this obsession of his. The vulgar and violent appearance of yours only drives him up the wall, his cock tenting his pants, pushing uncomfortably against his briefs. He knows it disturbs the others and his little captive, the show of viciousness and narcissism that you both show, laughing and taunting the poor man while you kissed. 

You bleed the man, running a rusted knife - tetanus is a bastard once it’s in your bloodstream - along the curve of his collar, your tongue peeking out to lick at your bottom lip with a crazed gleam. Red had always been a pretty colour, crimson being a passionate and powerful shade to paint your world. Carmine is a fitting colour for you, he liked to see you bathed in it, lips, eyes, cheeks, nails, skin and clothes.

He kisses you like he hungers for you, devouring and hungry, tongue curling around yours and pulling moan and groans from your throat. He sits you on his lap while you make out, pawing at his chest and sinking your teeth into his lip, bleeding him like you bled the other man turned a whimpering and crying mess. He grips and ruts against you, finding ways to fuck you without undressing, to make you come twice as often as he does, helping you grind against his thigh until you gush all over his black pants, soaking the fabric with slick. 

You take turn cutting and interrogating your captive, switching between a plier to a saw to rough up the man and drive your arousal higher and higher, to the point that you can’t help shrugging your pants off and riding Makarov. You sink onto him, throwing your head back and bucking against his sloppy thrusts, lost to your own world while your audience sobs, eyes bleary and body in so much pain that the last thing that would bother him is watching you and Makarov fuck.

You’d torture him again after your first session, still hanging on that post orgasm haze of pure happiness and giggles, landing the fess blows that would usually bring them to their knees and spill their secrets —so close, yet so far. Then Makarov ploughes your against the wall, pants sliding down to his ankles as he rolls his hips and thrust upwards, ramming home to fill you up a second time. He makes sure you clench around him, gripping him like a vice and nails drawing your mark on him - marking your territory - before he comes, his cock spurting thick, white cum from the tip.

Only after a third of fourth session do you and Makarov let the man go, on the brink of death and delirious from blood loss. You’re satisfied and happy, which means he’s satisfied and happy, and has all the information he first wanted with the man —it was the best of both worlds.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah

[tanked-up]

*Konig is painting on a canvas while Soap is the poser*

Konig: Okay, now move a bit to the left please

Soap sighs: This is the fourth time and it’s been 2 hours, now can I please Leave

Konig: You are going to love it; now, stand still, or else the painting will get ruined

Soap: How the heck is it going to get rui-

*Ghost now entering swaying a knife on his hands while walking, he suddenly stops*

Ghost: Wha-

Konig: Oh hey Ghost, how nice of you to join us

*Soap still in position even tho he’s sweating like crazy*

*Ghost now walking up to Konig where he’s painting in the canvas*

Ghost: Care to explain why there’s a half naked Soap in the room?

Konig: Oh well-

Soap now interrupting: He’s painting me, Ghost

Soap now moves to the other side: Make sure to catch this side too König

*Ghost now observing a naked Soap drawn on the canvas*

Ghost mumbles: You forgot a little tiny mole on his left hip

Konig now stops drawing and looks up at Ghost that seems to have a slight grin on his face: What?

Ghost now clearing his throat: I said you forgot-

Konig: No no, I heard it the first time.

[ghost-runner]

“Useless” and “Troubled” until the End: Pt. 1

Sully Family x “Useless” Fourth Child male reader

Summary: Y/N is the fourth child of the Sully family after Lo’ak and before Tuk, however, things don’t always seem to be great about being a Sully child when you are forgotten about a lot of the time. It doesn’t help when you also don’t get the normal training or bonds your siblings did so you tend to get into trouble a lot for trying to prove yourself doing the things your siblings can do.

Warnings: Gore, blood, cursing, family arguments….

Note: I’m not too well versed in the language of the Na’vi so I’m not going to try doing it, just in case I end up completely butchering it without meaning to.

— Y/N POV

I knew better than to be out by myself at these hours against my father’s orders. Even after already being grounded once for disobeying dad’s orders a few days ago for secretly following my brothers on a hunt, I don’t care if I get into more trouble for being out here right now. I’m the “black sheep” of the Sully family as some Sky-people would say from what I know of my dad’s home planet of Earth. I never had much training from my parents as I grew up so this caused me to learn from my siblings and train myself in secret behind everyone’s back. This has strained my relationship with my parents and it doesn’t help that dad has been harsh on Neteyam, Lo’ak, and I with raising us, further straining said relationship with him and mom.

Clearing my head, I let out a deep breath as I enjoy the very early morning Pandora air. I love how it’s always peaceful which is my favorite time of day to be by myself and where I can enjoy being me. Although, I’m not here to just enjoy the peace and quiet…i’m here to prove myself. I silently watch as a Thanator passes through the Pandora jungle brush while I slowly follow it from the treetops above the ground. The carnivorous beast stops for a moment as I ready my bow from my back and grab three arrows before readying them on the bow’s bowstring. The beast then jumps at a direhorse, killing it and began eating some of the meat from the direhorse. I readied the three arrow shot before I let the arrows fly. I grinned as they all met their target. The first two arrows went into the beasts legs, throwing it off balance before the third arrows pierced the side of the beast’s hide, throwing it to the ground on its side as it let out a roar of pain. I smile at the sight of my self-training paying off after needing to teach myself my skill set. I put my bow away onto my back as I approached the Thanator before drawing a knife I made years ago when I was 10 years old.

(The knife)

I came face to face with the beast and gave it a sign of respect before I grabbed its head to keep it still as I stabbed the Thonator in the top of the skull. I then used my knife to cut chunks of meat from the body of the dead carnivorous beast for food for my family and I also pulled out a few of the creature’s teeth to put on some bracelets I’m making for my siblings and parents. I love my family, even if they may not give me much attention. I only now realized that my family probably doesn’t even know that I’m out on my own without supervision or someone to watch my back. I sigh at the fact I’m so used to being in the background, I’m used to my family forgetting about me, not asking about me, or worrying about me too much unless I’m actually noticed. I’m usually the one babysitting Tuk while everyone else is busy, I sigh at knowing I’m just the one to be held back and not prepared. I quickly grab hold on the necklace my grandmother gave to me in secret that once belonged to my grandfather before he passed away and let a few tears roll down my face. Whenever I wear it, I always feel the presence of someone watching over me wherever I am which I like to believe is Grandpa watching over me with a smile on his face.

I wipe my face of my tears and shake my head to clear my mind as I finish up with the beast, leaving me with three full bags of meat and a pouch full of Thanator teeth. I’m happy with my work and I then whistle for my Ikran, Ro’nea or “Ghost” as I sometimes call her due to her fully pale white color. When I was young, Dad told me about things from when he was on Earth, these white things called “ghosts” were one of my favorite things he told me about and that’s where I gave her the nickname from. Ro’nea finds me and lands next to me as I attach the bags of meat to the harness I made for her. I rub her head and look at her left eye which still bears a red patchy scar going across it. I still remember the day when we crash landed after we bonded, resulting in that very scar on her eye and leaving me with a scar going from my right ear across my cheek to the side of my mouth. I still remember that day also because I had to tame my Ikran myself because my parents were too busy to help me at the time and I didn’t bond with her until only a few weeks ago which is why Ro’nea and I crash landed in the first place. I sigh when I realize that my family just doesn’t seem to care much for me. I get onto Ro’nea and we begin our journey home.

When I got back to the family Hometree, I saw my parents, Jake Sully and Neytiri; my brothers, Lo’ak and Neteyam; my sisters, Tuk and Kiri; were all still asleep. I looked out at the horizon and saw that the sun was halfway of coming up. I got to work on cooking breakfast for everyone using the meat I gathered earlier and put together a decent looking meal to me at least. I finished the preparations on the meals for everyone when I felt a wave of exhaustion hit me from everything in the last few hours. I’d rather get some sleep over facing the family questioning me about what I was doing up early and alone when I’m supposedly “inexperienced” and “incapable”. I went back outside the Hometree and I began to climb up the trunk to where I have a small area carved out that is a perfect secluded area for me to sleep. I got comfy in my spot and I drifted off to sleep. However, I failed to realize I still had drops of blood on my face and blood spots on my arms and torso from cutting the meat off the Thanator.

— 3rd Person POV

A few minutes after Y/N fell asleep, the rest of his family stirred awake from their night of sleep. Kiri and Neteyam were the first ones to wake up to the smelly aura of food in the home. After getting up from bed and reaching the table, the two oldest children were shocked at the spread of food of meat, fruit, soup, and drinks that were prepared to perfection in front of them. The noise of a crackle made them turn to outside where a small fire pit was smoldering after being used by Y/N to cook the meat. Out of the corner of their eyes, they spotted Y/N’s bloodied knife on a table to their left next to Y/N’s bow and the pouch of teeth. Lo’ak and Tuk were the next of the Sully family to wake up to the sweet smell of food, the two now excited to eat something delicious and yummy. Once they saw the food, the two looked to the oldest children to ask if they made the food.

Lo’ak: Morning Kiri. Morning, Nete. Who prepared breakfast?

Kiri and Neteyam both look at each other.

Kiri: I don’t know, however, I saw something over there.

Kiri gestures over to where the table with the bloody knife is. Lo’ak went over and spotted it immediately before grabbing it and inspecting it. He has never saw the knife before today and was amazed at the craftsmanship of said blade.

Lo’ak; Who’s knife is this? It’s still covered in blood.

Neteyam: I’ve only seen that blade one other time. I think it’s Y/N’s knife. So it was him that made breakfast. But…what was he doing up so early and why is his knife bloody? He knows he needs someone with him as he’s inexperienced and he doesn’t even have an Ikran yet!

Tuk: Where is Y/N?

The four siblings looked around the Hometree and didn’t find him. They looked towards their parents who were just waking up from their deep sleep. Jake was rubbing his eyes as he opened them and was greeted by the smell of food. Neytiri got up slowly and stretched her back before blinking a few times to clear her eyes.

Jake: What’s that smell? Who cooked breakfast?

Neytiri: -sniffs the aroma in the air- It smells like smoked Thanator meat, Yovo fruit, Fungus Soup, and milk. (I’m not sure what they have to drink in the Avatar universe so I’m going with milk as it seems like something they’d have.) Who made it?

Neteyam: We believe Y/N prepared it. However, there is something we need to talk about. Lo’ak, show Mom and Dad what we found.

Lo’ak turned around to reveal the bloodied knife was certainly a surprise to Jake and Neytiri. They quickly got up and rushed over to Lo’ak who still had the bloody knife in hand.

Jake: What the hell happened?! Is anyone hurt?!

Neytiri quickly checked all present children with zero results of finding injuries.

Kiri: Dad! Mom! We’re all fine. But that blade…That’s Y/N’s knife.

Jake and Neytiri both freeze at this revelation.

Neytiri: It’s Y/N’s!?! Where is he?!?

Neteyam says that he doesn’t know where the middle child of the Sully family is at. Both parents look at each other worriedly and ran out of the Hometree to find their missing son. Once outside, the children followed to find their brother. The family searches around when Tuk notices a small nook in the upper parts of the Hometree above them with what looked like a Na’vi tail poking out and she shows Kiri what she saw. Kiri sees what Tuk saw and climbed up to see what it was. She reached Y/N’s small carved out nook and frowned at the sight in front of her. It was her youngest brother alone in the nook as he was curled up in a ball and shaking. The fresh blood on his body that surprised Kiri a lot.

Kiri: I found him! He’s up here!

Y/N slowly stirs tiredly before rubbing his eye and blindly the sleepiness from his eyes only to be met with his older sister looking at him worriedly. He got up in shock which resulted in him banging his head on the roof of his small nook area.

Y/N: Ow.

Kiri: Y/N… Is everything all right?

Y/N: Yeah.. why do you ask?

Kiri: Well, Dad and Mom want to have a talk with you. I think it’s pretty serious considering we found your knife covered in blood and you still have blood on your body….

Y/N: Shit… I thought I washed it all off. -sighs- Let’s go see what they have in store for me.

The two siblings climb down from Y/N’s little nook in the upper branches and he is face to face with his mother and father. Jake is royally pissed at his son for disobeying orders for a second time while Neytiri is looking at her third oldest child with worry about what happened earlier in the morning. Jake turns around to the rest of Y/N’s siblings and tells them to go eat.

— Y/N POV

My siblings turned around to head back inside our home before Dad turned back to me with anger written all over his face. I honestly couldn’t give two shits about what he thinks when I barely get the time of day from him without needing to disobey his stupid orders to get his attention.

Jake: You got anything to say for yourself, soldier?

Y/N: What is there for me to say? I went out against your orders because I’m apparently “not experienced enough” to hunt or do anything besides help Kiri and watch Tuk when I need to. Apparently, I need to prove myself to you.

Jake: Watch your tone with me, Y/N! I am your father!!Why did you disobey direct orders?!

Y/N: Since have you even cared about how I feel with that shit?!? I’m practically fucking useless because of the limitations I’ve had throughout my life!! I have had zero training at all with hunting or being resourceful, the only experience I have that is being even remotely useful is helping as being a healer with Kiri when we go to learn from our grandmother! I’ve had to train myself how to handle my own shit which still is not good and is not enough around here at all!!!

I’m practically shaking with anger from my small outburst as my tail curled up im anger. Dad is taken aback at my outburst with how I felt. He then sighed at the sign that I had inherited his hot-headed temper and stubbornness as well at the fact that he knows I’m right. He hasn’t been there for me when I needed him most.

Jake: -sighs- I know, Y/N. But your time will come, I promise. In the mean time, you’re double-grounded because of your disobedience.

I roll my eyes angrily in annoyance at my father’s words of being grounded again even after already being grounded once and turn away from my parents as some tears form in my eyes. Mom hadn’t said a single word the whole time that Dad and I were arguing. She turned to Dad and squeezed his hand to signal to let her take over now and Jake nods to her. Mom then walks over to me as I now have a few tears going down my cheeks as she kneels down to my height. She pulls me into a hug as she shushed me to calm me down and whispers calming words into my ear. I let my tears fall for a few seconds before I turn around and hug her back as I silently lets the waterworks flow down. Dad looked absolutely heartbroken at the sight of me like this. He knows he messed up badly with how he brought me up, but he also knows that I am stronger than I look and better than what I let on. Mom is speechless at how broken I am from feeling practically useless.

Neytiri: Y/N, we love you and your brothers and sisters more than anything in life itself. We never meant for you to feel like this. We’re sorry.

Y/N: I-I know, Mom. I k-know.

Neytiri: Come on. Let’s just go eat the amazing breakfast you prepared.

Y/N: Alright, I just w-want to have a word with D-dad before I go in.

Neytiri: Of course, my son.

Mom let go of me and went inside our home before I look back up to Dad after I quickly composed myself.

Y/N: Dad.

Jake: Yes, son?

Y/N: You do know that I love you regardless of whatever happens, right?

Jake: I do, Y/N. I want you to know that no matter what I still love you too. I know I don’t say it enough.

Y/N: But…..you need to think about how you treat your children. You treat Neteyam, Lo’ak, and I like we’re soldiers in a military squad. I can’t do anything like in a squad and I don’t deserve the stupid treatment you give me. The same goes for the shitty way you go with Neteyam and Lo’ak. This is a family, not a squad. And you’re our father, not our drill instructor. This will end up with consequences that you won’t want to happen if it continues. You could end up driving one of us away from the family.

Dad gives me a look of shock and a bit of fear from what I just said to him. I know how much he cares about all of us and he doesn’t want to lose any of us. I really didn’t want to have to say something like that, but things have gotten to the breaking point that I just let it slip without any thought. I just stare at my father while he sees that I’m serious about what I said and I walk past him without a second thought back into our home. I walk towards the table where the rest of my family is sitting down and talking about whatever when I feel something grab my leg making me look down. I look down and see Tuk giving me a hug around my right leg.

Tuk: Thank you for the breakfast, Y/N.

I laugh at her cuteness and rub her head.

Y/N: Of course, Tuk.

She pulls away from my leg and opens her arms which makes me laugh. I nod to what she wants me to do. and get down on one knee to give her a full hug. I continue to hug her as i pick her up and jokingly spin around with Tuk still in my in my arms as she giggles at my antics. This is one of her favorite things to do with me. I always treasure the bond I share with my youngest sibling, Tuk. She’s a ray of sunshine in my dark times while I’m her rock in her troublesome times. I put her down with both of us laughing and she runs back to the table of food. I get up from my knee and see the rest of my family smiling at me. I smile back at them and go to sit at the table with them. I grab the lone empty seat that was between Kiri and Neteyam and grabbed a plate of meat and fruit as well as a bowl of the soup. My three older siblings give me different looks written on their faces because they heard what I said to Dad, with Lo’ak looking at me with face of surprise at what I said to Dad, Kiri giving me a look saying “I’m here for you if you need someone to talk with, little brother.” and Neteyam gave me a look of understanding as he understood how I felt from Dad being harsh on us. I shrug it off as I know things will probably just stay the same and I’m at my point where I just don’t give a single fuck about it anymore. I start to eat some Yovo fruit as I quietly look around at the family talking with one another without anyone paying me any mind while we all are and talked.

I roll my eyes at the usual occurrence that I’ve become accustomed to and shake my head dismissively with my ears going flat against my head. I stop eating as I lost my appetite at the shitshow that happened last between me and Dad before I get up and leave the table without anyone noticing. I head to the hammocks that all of the family members sleep in before I climb into the one that’s mine and pull out a small journal out of my pillow where I hide said journal. I found this old journal while I was out scavenging alone one day and stumbled upon an old Sky-people base that had not been raided. Anyways, I open my journal and grab the pencil I keep with it before I start writing into my journal. I write down how well my training is going to myself and what I can improve on. I fail to notice Lo’ak look over to see me in my hammock when he was going to ask me how I learned to expertly make the food when he saw I was no longer at the table.

— 3RD PERSON POV

Neteyam went to ask Lo’ak something when he saw his younger brother looking away from the table. Neteyam then looks over to where Lo’ak is looking to see Y/N writing in a small journal before the alone Na’vi boy closed the journal and put it back into his pillow. Y/N then fluffed the pillow before rolling over and trying to go to back to sleep due to being very tired and overwhelmed from what happened earlier. The two Na’vi boys at the table just frown at the sight of their brother looking sad and miserable. Kiri had tried asking Neteyam about something when she saw her brother looking away from the table. Kiri then saw her younger brother in his hammock. She frowns at the sight and just looks down at the table sadly at the sight of her brother being broken. Jake and Neytiri silently watched the whole thing that happened with their son going to his hammock. Jake knows that he fucked up big time with Y/N while Neytiri just wondered where they went wrong with their son.

To be continued…

This is my first time posting onto Tumblr so I hope people enjoyed this small post I created with the thought I came up with for it. I plan on making more parts, but this is part one. Like I said, I hope whoever read this enjoyed the post.

[08melancholie]

Honeysuckle and Whiskey. — Micah Bell/OC

tags: Mid-Canon, Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Chapter 1: Colter (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 3: Clemens Point (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 5: Guarma (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), How Do I Tag, Fluff, Angst, Smut, Angst and Fluff and Smut, just a dash of smut, mainly fluff and angst, Abuse, Past Abuse, Abusive Relationships, past abusive relationships, Grooming, Implied/Referenced Grooming, Pedophilia, Implied/Referenced Pedophilia, Colm O'Driscoll Being an Asshole, Torture, Burning, Stockholm Syndrome, descriptive torture, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, or a secret fourth thing, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Attempted Sexual Assault

summary: Closed-off and rough; mean and unforgiving, uncaring and simply horrible. The apathetic cowboy draws himself no attention, usually. He's always sat around camp, slumped over a table or bent down, elbows on his knees as he cleans his guns or sharpens his knife, carving the one same piece of wood for days. He didn't talk much; he felt himself way too high above the others to even converse—exception being Dutch.

That's who Micah Bell was, simply. She couldn't change it.

Micah Bell is a threat to anyone that crosses his path, and Melody knows it. So why has she gotten herself so involved with the outlaw? She tried to keep to herself countless of times; he hated her, she wasn't a pure American and that alone should have been enough to draw her away—and yet it simply never did.

Maybe it was just a rebound, wanting to feel something after feeling nothing from her horrible, previous partner—similar in many ways to the blonde cowboy—for years. Maybe it was his careless and cocky demeanor she never failed to give a chuckle to. And maybe, it was something more. She was going to figure it out, one way or another. They would; together.

a/n: ive had this cooking for months and this is the first of it im posting so im VERY nervous... :( it was going to be a long oneshot at first BUT im forcing myself to do it in chapters so that i have to continue writing it because ive neglected it for months now. also tags are going to change a lot probably

words: 2,658 | AO3 LINK I. — MASTERLIST

The wind picked up quicker than before as Melody rode along Colm through the storm. She could feel her body shivering no matter how many layers of coats and undershirts she put on before riding out. She gently brushed her horse's nose, trying to comfort her through the storm. "You reckon we're gonna find it soon? Joey said it's nearby.." She spoke up, looking to the man to her left.

"Surely. Hold on a bit longer." He replied coldly, riding his horse through the piles of snow effortlessly. She picked up her pace too, riding alongside his steed. "We gotta push a bit more." He added, his gloved hand rested on his lap.

She continued riding until the blizzard started clearing off, and they had a better view of the landscape before themselves. That's when he and Melody both noticed it; an abandoned outpost, exactly what Joey found before parting with the gang to seek it out. "Is that it?" She asked, hand hovering over her forehead to get a better view and block out the snow falling from above. "It sure looks like it."

He halted his horse next to her. "Must be it, c'mon." He ordered, and she followed him down the mountain.

They hitched their horses outside, and she followed close behind Colm. With her hand on her holstered revolver, Melody snuck around behind Colm, checking rooms with caution. "Clear!" He yelled to the rest of the gang, who moved their carriages in and hitched their horses next to their own. "Good job spottin' this gem. I'm sure Joey will be here soon." He says to Melody, taking a cigarette out of his box and offering her one. She nods, taking the offered cigarette and popping it into her mouth.

He manages to light a match on the denim of his jeans, holding it up to the tip of his cigarette "I sure hope so. We ain't seen him a few days." Melody comments, letting him light her cigarette soon after his own. "We already been losin' too much folk." She adds.

"Don't you worry. I've got it under control; those were necessary sacrifices, child." He says, his words not as reassuring as she'd hoped. Still, she nods with a small smile at him and watches him return it.

She moved her few things into the cabin closest to Colm's—by his command. Melody huffed as she finished setting everything, walking out to check everyone else's progress. She observed them with another cigarette hanging from her mouth. "You done unpackin', kid?" Colm came up behind her, hands rested on his hips as he watched everyone work alongside Melody. "How quick you are." He adds.

Melody just chuckled, blowing smoke into the cold air above. "Yes, I'm done. Do you need any help? Anything I could do for you?" She asks him, awkwardly fiddling with the cigarette between her fingers.

"Maybe." He replies, placing his hand on her shoulder as he continues watching. "Got a train 'round here that needs robbin'. Buncha snobby, rich nobodies." He explains. "We need dynamite. I got a plan on how to rob 'em."

"I'm sure I can find myself a general store nearby, I'll buy some." Melody replies, puffing a cloud of tobacco into the air.

He firmed his grip on her shoulder, his grip tight. "Attagirl." He whispered into her ear, and she just exhaled with a weak smile. "That's why you're my favourite." His breath brushed against her ear, and it made a chill travel along Melody's spine.

First night in her own cabin was weird, everything about it—from the cold temperature swearing to kill her of frostbite, to insomnia from fear they were occupying someone's outpost and would be shot in their sleep—just felt off, and Melody found herself tossing in her restless state on the mildly uncomfortable bedroll.

So much has happened in the last few weeks; from having to move camp a dozen times, losing a few weaker members in the process—to Colm's weird obsession with a rival gang rising again after he swore they were done with it.

Melody got up and stretched her legs out, anxiously lighting her fourth cigarette today for any sense of warmth it'll offer. "Fuck this damned storm." She looked out of the window as the specks of snow danced around the air, covering more ground and raising the snow level, little by little.

She finished the cigarette in a few minuscule minutes, and climbed back under the thin covers, trying to get some shuteye before tomorrow.

"You sure you ain't wanna come, Melody? It'll do you good to go out'a bit." Colm straddled his horse, looking down at her before him as Melody stroked his horse's nose.

"I'm far too tired, Colm. Plus, I need to get started on some chores and.. fixing this place up a bit." She replied, looking around at the buried outpost grounds, covered with thick layers of snow.

He chuckled, a sense of lust in his eyes as he looked down. "That's my girl; always so hard workin' for old Colm." He praised. "Someone's gonna have to reward you nicely for your contributions." He chuckled slyly, making Melody scrunch up her nose briefly. "Well then, I'll leave you to it." He urged his horse forward with a swift kick in the ribs, leaving the camp grounds.

Melody sighed, turning to make a mental note of all that needs to be done around camp before starting her round of chores, running on one cup of warm coffee and two hours of rest. Just great.

Colm returned in a few hours, a crate of province and some dynamite on his horse's back. She walked over to him, grabbing the province to put it away. "Hey. You got the dynamite?" She questioned him.

He hitched his horse, taking the dynamite and walking close by Melody, towards his cabin. "Yeah.. Figured I'd get it off your hands since I knew you'd be workin' hard by the time I was back," He responded, chuckling. "and I see that I was right, my good girl's being very productive, ain't ya?" He opened his cabin door with his elbow, placing the dynamite in the corner.

Melody chuckled nervously; his words leaving a distaste in her mouth, per usual. "Well, thank you Colm." She replied simply.

"Anything for you, child." He walked up to her, placing a firm grasp on her shoulders again. "I saw someone all too familiar while ridin' to the store." He announces, releasing his hands and placing them behind his back.

"Do tell." She answered, sitting down on his desk, swaying her feet off the edge slowly as she hunched over and placed her forearms on her knees. He turned, a mischievous grin on his lips.

He paces around the room. "Little ole Hosea Matthews, saw him on my way there." He answers, and Melody is taken aback by his words; which Colm just chuckles at. "Yeah, I'm surprised he ain't seen me."

She cocks her head at him. "You reckon he ain't recognised you?" She asked. "All them years of conflict, you sure he ain't just ignored you in hopes of gettin' out in one piece?" She chuckled briefly.

He stops abruptly, laughing. "Oh, sweet child. You're quite funny." He walks over in her direction. "You could be right." He says, placing each hand on one side of her body, which stiffens at the contact; now trapped on the table. "You know, you're such a smart girl, I could lis-"

A not-so-distant gunshot goes off, scaring both people in the process. "The hell..?" Melody mutters, awkwardly slipping away from his entrapment to a window. "I reckon my theory was right.. except he also snitched." Colm walked up behind Melody, looking out of the window.

Outside stood a fraction of Dutch Van der Linde's gang; Arthur Morgan, Micah Bell, Hosea Matthews and—of course—Dutch himself.

"Ah, fuck." he cursed under his breath. "Okay, girl. You go cover me while I.. I need to move away from the area." He explains frantically.

"Yeah.. Yeah I can do that." Melody says—already used to this by now—and, taking her revolver out of its holster swiftly, walks up to the door. She opens it slowly, leaving it ajar for Colm to slip out as she starts shooting back, catching the leader's glimpse.

His accuracy is almost perfect as he glazed both a strand of her hair just above her ear and immediately catches on to start shooting at the door she finds shelter behind. She takes a shot of her own, missing the first but taking his hat off just above his forehead as he ducks.

The shootout was brutal; only a few of Colm's members survived it, with some successfully hiding away from the area as they searched the outpost. Melody watched them take the train plans, along with their dynamite, and hurry off while boasting about it all, feeling victorious.

"How is it my fault, Colm? I did my best to protect you, I managed to shoot one in the arm, too!" Melody defended herself against Colm's usual outburst when things go wrong; where he blames every soul but himself, no matter if it's nobody's or everybody's fault.

He grunted angrily. "I don't care! They took the plans, and we have to move again!" He complains. Melody opens her mouth to protest, but is met with his hand high in the air before her—threatening to strike; something she's all too used to. "Don't. I don't wanna see you talkin' back to me." He ordered firmly.

And yet she still attempts to speak—like the fool she is. "Colm, I'm just trying to-"

And there it is. She's met with a hard, rough slap of the back of his hand, knocking her to the floor as Melody clenches her rosy red cheek, already teary-eyed. She opens her mouth to apologise, but decides against it as she notices that look in his eyes. He shakes his head in disapproval at her on the floor, choking up a silent sob. And so, she just gets up and walks out to pack her things.

Packing didn't take nearly as long as expected; calming herself did. She had everything in one crate, and was sitting on the bedroll in the cabin with a burning sensation on her left cheek, and a few slow tears trailing her cheekbones and falling into her lap. This was like routine, really; he'd get mad and take it out on her, leave her alone to sulk and then-

The door opens slowly, and Colm's body slowly steps inside—like clockwork. "Hey.. don't be cryin' on me, my sweet Melody. You know.." He sits down on the bedroll next to her. "You know I do it out of love. You know I sometimes lose my temper, don'tcha?" He asked, interwinding his hand into Melody's, rubbing the back of her hand.

"Yes, Colm." She replies simply, looking down at the floor.

Another teardrop meets her lap and she quickly brushes her face with her sleeves.

"Look at me." He commands, placing a uncharacteristically gentle yet firm hand on Melody's chin. "I love you. You know I do." His voice is as firm as his touch, and she just silently nods. She can't help wondering if it's even close to true sometimes. You don't treat someone you love like this, she's well aware of that much. "Good. Good... And you love me too." It's less of a question, and more of a fact to him.

Melody chokes up a response to break the silence. "I do, Colm." She holds his hand just as firmly as he stands up. "Let me get your things, child." He takes the crate off of the nearby table. She just smiles downwards, walking beside him. And that's how the routine ends, every time.

"We'll drive the wagon, girl." He calls out as Melody start straddling her horse. She looks at him with protest, opening her mouth to talk. "Ah Ah.. C'mon, you're with me. Cassidy'll take good care of your horse." He taps the seat on the coach next to him-and she can't not-oblige, leaving the reins in Cassidy's hands reluctantly. "Attagirl." He watches Melody sit down next to him.

The ride to a new spot is painfully long, and Melody is shivering throughout the whole thing-despite having multiple layers of shirts and jackets and putting gloves on her hands this time. "Where're we goin'?" She asks him, breaking the tense silence among us.

"Off the mountain; there's a spot I scouted out." He replies, hands gripping the coaches reins firmly. "It'll be better for all of us to get out of the cold." He looks at her shivering quickly, snaking his hand around Melody's shoulder and pulling her closer to him.

She obliges and scoots closer, resting her head on his shoulder. "Thank the Lord, then." She snickers, and he exhales with a smirk. "I'll be more than glad to be off that damned mountain.

"Oh, I know; you're shaking like a leaf, girl." He chuckles. "It's a nicer spot too, you'll love it," He snuggles her body closer, pressing her up to his side. "all the best for my best girl." His gloved hand rubs her shoulder, gentle—not like Colm at all.

She soon feels herself—restless from the night before along with the shootout and what followed—start to drift off on his shoulder, and he lets Melody sleep for a little while. She hated how easily she could forgive him for doing what he does, but he might really just have a temper. He's trying. He's trying. That's all she knows, and it's just how he is. Right.

The stage stops at a nice, slightly open area with a few smaller huts and barriers around it. Colm nudges Melody awake slowly, rubbing rough circles on her shoulder. "We're here, girl." He whispers into her ear as she lifts her head off his shoulder and rubs her eyes awake. The warmth of the new location can be immediately recognized, nice and actually comfortable. "C'mon. You'll be in my cabin. With me." He reveals, jumping off the coach as she follows.

"I'll be in the same cabin as you?" Melody repeats his words, puzzled, as she takes her crate with a grunt before following him. He nods his head, stopping before—obviously the biggest cabin—their spot.

"Of course, child." He simply replies, taking the crate she held off of her hands and walking inside. "Ain't it great?" Melody silently nods to answer, almost reluctantly. "Go get the rest of the things from the coach and meet me here." Melody quickly turns on her heels and walks out back to the coach.

They both finish unpacking around the same time, and Melody patiently waits for him to finish whatever on the edge of a cot. "Okay, girl." He firmly taps his thighs and stands up, beckoning her to follow him outside. She obliges quickly, walking right behind him. He calls everyone in a circle, explaining a new score he's gotten information for. Melody can feel herself distracted and spacing out, knowing she won't be invited to the job—per usual, Colm just doesn't trust her enough to let her go with him. As infuriating as it is, her hands are tied.

Maybe she'll get that luxury one day.

Kudos on AO3 always appreciated! I'm honestly so glad to have even just the first chapter of this fic out, as it's been collecting dust in my drafts until the one month deadline—literally the last possible day.

[sorinethemastermind]

Snake Boi Callum Week 3.0 | Prompt: I Did It For You / Necessary

Callum had imagined this a million times. Dreamed it waking and sleeping; an eternal nightmare, custom made to torment him. Sometimes it was him holding the knife, other times it was Viren or Claudia. Often it was Aaravos. But even though he’d imagined it a million times, nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing could have.

 The hand that held the knife - Rayla’s knife - was purple, skin shimmering with a thousand tiny stars. He didn’t need a blade. He'd made that clear enough when he fought them; tore their plan to shreds and sent them flying with a mere flick of his hand. Callum had faced cursed army’s, corrupted banthers, dark mages, and more. Yet nothing had prepared him for this. Not even Claudia’s inside knowledge of the elf’s plans and most powerful spells had been able to turn the tide in their favor. Aaravos hadn’t even needed to try.

 Callum tried not to think about Claudia and where she lay crumpled next to her brother. Or his own brother, and what might have happened to him. Because now it was just them. The way he’d somehow always known it would end up being.

 “So, what will it be?” The elf’s voice was syrupy, relaxed. He was already basking in his triumph. The blade’s tip wiggled where it hovered over Rayla’s chest. His mouth curved into a cruel smile. “Do the right thing.”

 Callum’s hands tightened around the staff as he held it out before him. He had never believed in destiny, but maybe that was because he’d known all along what his was. One hand drifted into his satchel, and Aaravos extended a hand expectantly. 

 “Good choice.”

 Callum’s fingers grazed the cube, went past it, grasped something small and flat and cold. 

 “I love you, Rayla.” His voice broke on her name, and her eyes widened for a moment, but she took a deep breath and smiled what she thought was a goodbye. She’d known this was a possibility. She was ready. She was always ready to sacrifice.

 “I love you too, Callum.”

 He supposed this was goodbye.

 “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” The words burned in his throat the first time he said them. 

 “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” The second time, Aaravos’ eyes widened, the blade dropping from his hand as he rushed to draw a protective rune in the air. 

 “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” The third time the air crackled with strands of color, and Aaravos staggered forward, what seemed to be his very essence bleeding into the air. Rayla screamed his name, but her voice was lost to the torrenting stream of magic caught between the two of them. The mage and his prey.

 “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” By the fourth time she was at his side, having staggered over despite her injured leg, hands trying desperately to pull the staff out of his hands. But it was like they had been fused together, his hands adhered to the cold metal of the Staff of Xiard. Like they had always belonged together. Always been destined for this.

 “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” After the fifth time, he could tell the spell was working. Aaravos was trying to return to his titan form, to flee, to squirm out of the siphoning spell’s grasp. But it was too late, too much of him had already been pulled in. The coin began to feel unnaturally heavy in Callum’s grip.

 “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” The sixth time the words came easily, naturally. As though he’d said them a thousand times before. He felt the familiar waves swelling up inside his mind, trying to swallow him. He fought towards the shore and the flicker of light that was still shining there. It opened it’s arms for him, voice calling his name. 

 “Callum! Callum! Callum, please!”

 “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” By the seventh time his mouth was filling with water as he tried to speak the words, struggling to get them out. He staggered forward with leaden arms, lungs heavy with water, chest burning. The light flickered. But that was okay, he wasn’t going to reach it. He just needed to finish the spell. 

 The final verse came out of his mouth in a stream of bubbles as he sank beneath the water. “𝔈𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔶𝔪 𝔰𝔦 𝔩𝔲𝔬𝔰 𝔯𝔲𝔬𝔶.” 

 And then, with them spoken, silence descended. The light shone from the shore one last time before it snuffed out.

 I love you, Rayla. He thought one final time. I know you think this is a betrayal, but it isn't. You'll realize that. I know you will. I kept my promise; I did the right thing. And I did it for you. Because I love you, Rayla. And then the seafloor greeted him, and everything was still.

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Chapter 23

And now we finally move on to the final battle with the Red Dragon.

The chapter opens up by narrating the sensation the castle town gives. It's been sealed away for 1,000 years, yet it feels as if the town had been inhabited until only recently.

Thinking back, this floor and the third floor both were in excellent condition. There was no vegetation growth or plant roots in them. This floor is under a water level, so that means something is containing the water in that level.

More of those winged lion statues.

For a moment, I thought the party split up to investigate the town because there were a few panels wit only Marcille and Senshi in shots and other panels with only Laios and Chilchuck.

No. Laios and Chilchuck were just covered by a text box. Their formation is Laios in the front, followed by Chilchuck, then Marcille, then Senshi.

The larder was most likely raided by wargs which ate only the meat in the larder. They seem to have knocked over some cheese while at it.

It's not really possible to tell the passage of time since the dungeon is underground but I can estimate a few things based on long rests.

After meeting the orcs in chapter 9, the next time the party sleeps is chapter 13, so I'd guess chapters 10-13 are all one "day". The next time the party sleeps is chapter 16. The incident with the undine likely set them back by a day and Chilchuck said it would take two days to reach the dragon back in chapter 18.

All of this is me trying to guess how old that blood stain in the larder might be. The orcs would have evacuated at least a week ago so I guess it's a reasonable amount of time for any meat the orcs were storing to not rot and for wargs to eat and leave bloodstains.

Now that I think about it, how did Senshi do business with the orcs beofrehand? He said he mostly travels between the second and fourth floors and the passage to the orc village is through a stairwell covered in tentacles and requires traveling through a lake.

Eyeballs will boil and melt under extreme heat. That's why the warg corpses don't have eyes.

Everything building up to the dragon encounter keeps reinforcing that the party is not ready to face this dragon. It really doesn't help that their previous strategies relied heavily on Falin and Shuro.

Shuro is blushing when Falin casts a ward on Laios. Meanwhile, Marcille seems annoyed at him crushing on Falin.

Namari always seems to get into the most danger and is the most gung-ho to fight monsters in every flashback. That encounter with the red dragon really changed her outlook things. Her chat with Kiki and Kaka last chapter was her speaking about her own of recklessness and near-permanent-death experience.

My guess on the inverse scale: It's where the dragon expels gas for its fire breath. It doesn't have scales at that point because it needs to expand when gas builds up.

How did Laios not connect that the damage to the corridor was likely from the dragon? He even pointed out that the dragon was about as tall as it.

Laios is tossing around some good questions about the dragon's behavior. It's very active and it's on a floor with a geometry it doesn't like. It's probably related to all the talks about how the dungeon is starting to change. Worst case, there's something even stronger below that has forced the dragon to a higher level.

Namari said adamantine can stop dragon FANGS, not fire. This will be a problem for sure.

I'm honestly surprised Senshi didn't protest them using his pot as a shield. But he did draw the line at them suggesting they use his knife.

Marcille was annoyed at Senshi's excitement to make bread earlier but it all turned around excellently by the end. It's not Senshi having a spur-of-the-moment excitement. He wanted to do his part to prepare for their fight.

The party is at a net negative when it comes to power and defense compared to last time they fought the dragon. The only thing they can say they've done better is this time they're not struggling with hunger and fatigue.

He was chewing food at the moment, but I kind of think Senshi was also smiling as Laios thanked him for all the help he's given. Just look at his cheeks. He's grinning from ear to ear.

The red dragon appears and is sniffing the air. He's probably all "Hey something smells good! Is someone cooking cutlets? I hope they saved some for me."

Just before they head out, Marcille casts a spell on Laios but she's reading a book while doing it. Marcille is not a support caster so she doesn't know how to do this without a reference.

back

[yanderepuck]

Kinktober Day 17

AND WE'RE BACK FOR A FOURTH TIME. It's that lovely time of the year where I write mediocre smut with no plot for a whole month. So sit your ass down and take a few minutes to read some smut.

As always, kinktober is held by our local Napoleon simp, @xxsycamore

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Knife Play | Impact Play

"You wouldn't make a very good pirate," he chuckles.

"If you just gave me a chance to learn my way around I'm sure I'd catch on quickly."

Drake circles around you. He has your hands tied behind the chair you sit in, along with your feet. As he walks behind you, the tip of a sharp blade runs down your arm.

"A pretty little fawn like you on a ship? You'd cause me too much bad luck."

A shiver runs down your spine. You can't tell if the blade cut you or not. The blade runs up your arm and to your shoulder.

"A little fawn such as yourself would be eaten up."

He comes to the front of you. With the knife in his mouth he sits on your lap. The blade is so clean and polished that you can see the reflection of his teeth in it.

It's the knife he carries with him all the time, the one that he says can even kill a pureblood. Any knife could harm you, yes. But something about a knife with that much power being used on you turns you on.

One hand drapes over your shoulder while the other takes the knife. He immediately starts playing with your hair, as if he's ready to pull it at any moment.

The tip of the knife grazes against your cheek. He doesn't even break skin, just teases.

"So what are you going to do little fawn?"

The knife against you is too distracting. The hot pirate in front of you is even more distracting. You aren't too sure what to say.

"I could be a lot of use to you on your ship. Just be sure to keep me hidden away in your room, captain."

Eyes filled with lust, he tugs your hair and puts the knife to your throat.

"Sounds like to me that you're offering up your body," he leans closer and kisses your exposed neck. "I'm sure you do that with every man on the docks."

The hair pulling got you moaning, but the cool blade to your neck got you wet. "Only to hot captains like yourself."

"Then tell me what you'd do," he smirks and tugs your head back not so you are looking at the ceiling. The knife drags down to your chest. You pant softly, getting flustered. "Tell me how eager you would be to have my cock in your mouth."

You bite your lip and try to stop from moaning. "You would wake up every morning to the feeling of me warming your cock."

"Mmm. Keep going," the knife gets lower. Without letting you go, her opens your shirt more, popping the buttons with the knife.

"I-I," you try thinking, including what he's doing. "I'll be ready in your room for you anytime your crew upsets you. Use me as your stress relief."

In one quick motion the knife slices through the front of your bra, your boobs immediately spilling out. He lets your hair go to grope one while the blade circles around the other.

"Mmm. I don't think you could handle how upset I get. But that would be part of breaking you in," he purrs.

The blade presses harder against you, finally drawing blood.

"Ungh.."

"You'd have to keep me fed, of course," he licks the blood trail. First it's just one long drag across your skin, but then he starts lapping up what is coming out after.

He cuts your chest again. He is careful not to go too deep, but also deep enough to get blood.

The red liquid pools in his tongue and he moans. "I can't bite you. Others might find out. But they won't question little cuts."

His tongue laps at your chest again.

"You're going to learn to love when this blade cuts you," his squeezes your boob harder. "You'll finally have all my attention."

Drake makes a cut between your boobs. It's deeper than the other two, but not deep enough to cause damage.

His icy blue eyes stare up at you as he licks up the blood. You bite your lip trying to hold back the moan.

"With how good you taste I might just keep you around. That look on your face is telling me that you'll cum just from a bite of mine."

"D-Drake."

"That's captain to you, fawn. You better remember."