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forwhump · 3 months ago

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a/n; I have to say, I’ve been fleshing out this little universe of mine for years & years and I genuinely forget how much content I have or what half of it is LIKE THIS ONE !!!!!!!!! I FORGOT ALL ABOUT THIS ONE & this is such a good one they were just little babies :’) awww my little babies

more early stuff & @ chi finally some caretaking 👀 better late than never 😚

word count: 4k, it’s long as hell

tw/cw: mentions of vivisection, grievous bodily harm, accidental grievous self harm, canon typical gore

living weapon whumpee, caretaking, the sort of blood and guts that come w taking care of a living weapon

Something Wren is starting to find almost helplessly endearing about Silas is just how intimidated he seems to be by the rest of them.

He cuts the figure of an old Hollywood movie monster, something that brings the word fearsome to mind. He has to turn sideways to fit through doorways because of the bulk of him, and all of it is muscle, genetically engineered or otherwise. Hal insists he has to be ten feet tall; Wren thinks, practically, he’s probably somewhere between eight and nine. His hair is long, almost unnaturally inky in colour, and there’s something sort of feral about the way he always lets it hang in his face, limp. His voice is just unnatural in pitch, a rumble, bass, but he doesn’t speak all that much, instead angling his head, grunting on a good day. He isn’t very expressive, but he makes a lot of eye contact. An intimidating amount of eye contact.

Frightful. And not just in bulk, but in what he’s capable of; if Silas decided he wanted to use the unit as his personal slaughterhouse, there isn’t a thing any or all of them could do to stop him. He’s frightful. But some reason, frightful as he may be, it really seems like the rest of them make him nervous. After weeks of trying to coerce him, like trying to befriend a stray dog, he’d started joining them in the common room but he’d never get too close, only ever just watching them. Wren’s always found something really wary about the way he’ll watch them, something nervous. It makes it hard to be frightened by him.

Robin’s the exception. For whatever reason, Silas is properly shit scared of Robin, and Wren can’t even begin to guess why but it makes him laugh. He tries not to, he doesn’t want to embarrass Silas, not when he’s already so skittish, but watching him full body react to something as innocuous as Robin turning his head is amusing in an almost painfully endearing way, and he just can’t help it, try as he might. The first thing that’s made him laugh, actually, since he got here.

The second is that Robin is weirded out by it. It creeps him out that Silas is creeped out by him. Their relationship is built on a foundation of very tense symbiosis and Wren couldn’t say what it is about it that tugs so firmly at his chest, but it does. It makes him smile if he thinks about it too hard.

He would dare say he’s charmed by it, but he has a sneaking suspicion it’s why Silas isn’t more tempted to spend time in the common room, time around the rest of them. Usually, though, he lurks more than he doesn’t, and he’s becoming a somewhat comforting fixture, so Wren notices, pretty immediately, that Silas isn’t his usual shadow in the common room. Even if he always just sits outside, watching, he always sits outside. Wren notices pretty immediately that he isn’t there; Silas is kind of a hard guy to miss. And Wren would be lying again if he said that, selfishly, he didn’t prefer having Silas around. Wren feels better in his company, even if he’s just a shadow. The soldiers are all afraid of him, so afraid of him, and they have less attention to focus on Wren when they’re scared.

June and Robin are having some kind of heated competition — push ups — and Hal is lying on the floor beside them, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. He looks like he’s napping.

Wren doesn’t even bother to ask them. He crosses through the common room, mostly unnoticed, and peeks first into Silas’ room, where he’s usually hiding, where Wren has to track him down before coercing him out. Except Silas isn’t there, and his bedroom is empty.

And Wren is pretty certain Silas doesn’t have any of his field tests or his treatments, because it was always pretty obvious when Silas was being taken away for a field test or treatment — Wren got left alone, because Silas needed an escort of just about every armed soldier in the place. But Wren had been with Point, and Point had been his usual, deranged self, not the tense, colder version that impending Silas exposure seems to bring out in him.

He checks the common room again, just in case, but he isn’t there. He isn’t in the kitchen, either. The door to the bathrooms is closed. It usually isn’t.

Wren cracks it open, and he doesn’t know what he was expecting.

The smell is so overwhelming that for a second, he goes blind. It’s bitter, a sharp pain in his sinuses he hadn’t anticipated, the tang of raw meat. It makes him dizzy.

He takes two steps into the bathroom and has to brace a hand on the wall to keep himself from slipping. Looking down, the red mist had cleared from his vision but he doesn’t realize it for a second, because everything is still red. Redness is pooling on the floor.

Blood.

There’s so much blood.

He thinks first, stricken, that Silas must have died in the bathroom because he’s smeared on every wall and pooling on the floor. It’s an impossible amount of blood, so much of it in some spots it doesn’t even look like blood, but black paint.

But Wren rounds the corner, and the bathroom has been flooded, blood soaking through the canvas of his shoes, but Silas, somehow, is still alive, and he’s still standing. He’s shirtless, standing over a drain, and he’s been vivisected. His chest and his stomach had both been opened, a Y of a wound that yawns open, pulled wider with each of Silas’ breaths. It looks like it had been stitched together at some point, staples that tear chunks out of the already frayed tissue as they’re pulled, threads that tear ribbons out of his flesh.

Wren can really see it in him then, the widowmaker, the juggernaut. He can see why the soldiers are all so scared, so edgy around him; why they talk about him the way they do; why Point, in particular, is so weird about him. The rest of the unit, until Silas, save for Wren, had all been super soldiers — Silas is their weapon. Wren can really see it in him for the very first time.

But there’s something in the way he looks up, caught, the closest he’s ever looked to embarrassed, and the absurdity of it makes Wren forget to be scared of him at all.

“What?” is what he says. He doesn’t mean to. He feels lightheaded, like he’s started losing blood, too. Like the blood loss is contagious. “Are you okay?”

It’s a stupid question, because of course he’s not. Silas lifts his chin, sort of a nod, anyway.

“Um,” Wren says, because he’s is lying. He’s very visibly not okay. “What. Um,” he says, and even he’s surprised by how normal his voice sounds. A side effect of blood loss by proxy. “What happened?”

Silas just barely angles his head at him, dismissive. Nothing.

Wren’s a little irritated by it. Deflecting, probably, but he’s irritated nonetheless. “What happened?” He repeats firmly.

Silas heaves a broad shoulder, and Wren doesn’t mean to, but he watches as it pulls at his skin and the staple of a stitch tears a chunk out of his sternum. “S’fine.”

“Fine?” Wren says, and it comes out a little weak. He looks up — up, up, up — into Silas’ face. “You’re bleeding to death.”

Silas finally lifts his head, looks at him properly, and he looks for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is its usual, flat bass, a rumble Wren would swear he can feel in his chest. “I won’t die.”

“What?” He repeats. It’s a little surreal, this whole thing. “Silas,” he tries. “What did you do?”

“Pulled my stitches,” Silas says.

“Yeah,” Wren agrees. He tries not to look at Silas’ chest, at the way flesh had been pulled back over meat and was starting to come apart again, like frayed ribbon. “Why?”

Silas rubs the back of his head and Wren doesn’t think he’s going to answer him. But he admits, after a beat of silence, “I didn’t mean to.” Another beat, and his voice is a little more tense when he says, “I was trying to change my bandages.”

Wren blinks, and then he’s overcome with a wave of sadness so heavy it almost knocks him on his ass. He was just trying to change his bandages. He was trying to change the bandages from his autopsy by himself, and he was going to bleed to death in the bathroom by himself.

Wren takes a step forward and Silas eyes him suspiciously. “Do you need a hand?” He offers softly. He shouldn’t have to bleed to death alone, not a few feet from a unit full of people that would help him.

Silas looks at him blankly. “My hands are fine.”

Wren cracks a smile, despite himself. Despite the blood loss. “Would you like some help?” He tries again.

Silas looks at him again, and he hesitates. He looks at him for another long time. Finally, he says, “no.”

Wren tilts his head. “I don’t mind.”

It’s impossible to tell what Silas is thinking. “Why?”

“Why don’t I mind?” Wren asks, angling his head again, curious. “Because you need help, Silas. You’re bleeding. A lot.”

Silas studies him intently. “You’d touch me?”

He says it with a skepticism that tugs at Wren’s heartstrings. “Of course.”

Silas looks at him with that same flat sort of skepticism, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Wren offers him a smile and holds a hand, expectant.

Silas angles his head, towards a bench mounted into the far wall. There are grey towels piled on top, knocked askew, blackened with blood splatter and a single handprint. Beside the towels, industrial rolls of gauze and strip bandages. On the cracked linoleum in front of the bench, an unwound pile of fraying, blood soaked bandages and gauze with chunks of meat woven through the mesh. Wren actually can’t look at them as he steps over them, and it has nothing to do with the gore — it makes him sad in a way he can’t articulate, in a way that makes him feel heavy.

He considers asking Silas to the bench but Silas is standing over the drain and that’s probably the best — the safest — place for him to be. The water in the district doesn’t run hot, but it runs lukewarm, so Wren wets a towel with lukewarm water and sidles into Silas’ personal space. He smells like a butcher shop, but Wren had expected that. The skin of his opened autopsy wound is threadbare, ruined, like whoever had cut him open had taken a cheese grater to the incision to keep him from ever being stitched back together again. It looks raw, and it looks so painful that it actually makes Wren’s skin hurt, which he hadn’t expected.

Exhaling softly, he twists his hair up tightly, out of the way, and tries his very best not to hurt Silas worse than he’s already been hurt. He can feel Silas’ eyes on him the whole time, watching him with a kind of intensity that Wren can handle from beneath his eyelashes all of one time, and then he can’t look at him again.

Soon enough, anyway, he forgets all about it, almost forgets that Silas is there with him at all. He’s meticulous, so careful that he keeps finding himself holding his breath, so focused he forgets about anything else. He picks all the most damaging staples and pulls all the most mutilating threads.

It isn’t easy work, by any means. It’s gory and it’s slippery and Wren’s always had a pretty strong stomach. He’d grown up in the south, and he’d done his time on a farm. His brother had been a cowboy once. There isn’t a lot Wren can’t handle, but there’s a lot of raw, bleeding meat before he covers it with bandages, and every so often his brain likes to remind him that it’s Silas, and it makes him sort of squeamish.

He cleans the wound as best, as gently as he can, and Silas is still bleeding when he finally starts to wrap his bandages. He isn’t quite sure how it was bandaged before, but he thinks mummifying most of his torso is probably the way to go, right?

Silas doesn’t complain or even twitch the whole time. Wren chances a look up at him as he winds a bandage around his waist; he’d forgotten how intently Silas was watching him, and it almost makes him jump. “I’m not hurting you?”

One of Silas’ eyebrows twitches. “You couldn’t hurt me.”

“Given my vantage point, I probably could,” Wren points out.

Silas doesn’t say anything, and it makes Wren just a tad uneasy. He knows his silence means it’s cute that you think so, and that’s a little unsettling. But when Wren says, “can you come down here?”, because Silas is pretty big and Wren can’t wrap all the way to his shoulders without contortion and strain, Silas kneels in front of him willingly, easy. He’s still taller than him.

It makes Wren smile. “Thank you.”

Silas bows his head, kind of a nod, and angles his head to watch him again as Wren more or less mummifies him in gauze and a wasteful number of bandages.

He swaddles him until blood stops seeping through the gauze and then he swaddles him still. He can’t look at him again, not as Silas watches him, not with so much less distance between them. Up close, he has really black eyes, the same unnatural inky colour as his hair, not dark, not really, but an absence of colour or light at all. Wren accidentally catches his eye and holds it for a beat too long, hands on Silas’ slick, bare skin.

When he looks away again, he can feel heat in his face and he isn’t quite sure what to do with that. Flustered, he flattens a bandage against Silas’ sternum and asks, softer than he means to, “what happened to you?”

Silas doesn’t answer him for such a long time that Wren has no choice but to look at him again, curious. Silas is still watching him, and when Wren looks up he raises his eyebrows, curious.

“What happened?” Wren repeats, trying to meet his eye. “What did they do to you?” He knows there are treatments and therapies and medications the super soldiers needed and need to make them and keep them super soldiers. It’s nothing like this. It’s never anything like this.

But Silas heaves his massive shoulders, a tense sort of shrug. “Surgery.”

He says it with a simplicity that makes Wren all too aware of the thickest, most raised scars — the inside of his arms, armpit to wrist; down his sides, from armpit to hip; the Y shaped scar of his torso, shoulders to groin. “Surgery,” he repeats softly. “Do you have a lot of surgeries?”

“Yes,” Silas says.

“Why?”

“Improvement,” he says flatly.

“Improvement,” Wren repeats.

“Mm,” he agrees.

Hidden behind the oil spill of his hair, there’s a ridged scar along the bit of Silas’ hairline that Wren can see and he can’t help but wonder how much of Silas’ hairline it spans. How much of himself he was allowed to keep and how much the district has taken away.

It kind of stuns him into silence, and he finds himself looking really hard at Silas’ bandages.

Silence stretches and Wren isn’t sure how to break it. He keeps busy; once his torso is mummified, Wren takes the lukewarm towel to the cover of gore on his skin. Tries to, anyway — Silas catches him quickly around the wrist. His hand spans most of Wren’s forearm.

He looks up at Silas, who looks back and doesn’t say anything, dark and intense. They look at each other so long Wren is kind of startled out of it. He says, “did I hurt you?”

His eyebrow twitches. Amusement, maybe? “No.”

“Then let me clean you up,” Wren chides gently.

Silas looks down at Wren’s hand, caught in his own. “You don’t have to do this,” he says.

He tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Touch me,” Silas says.

Wren frowns and gently pulls his hand from Silas’ grip. Silas doesn’t stop him, so Wren takes the towel to his skin again, carefully, carefully, carefully wiping away the carnage. He’s as gentle as he can with the burlap they get for towels, and he’s careful not to pull too hard at Silas’ skin. He cleans his shoulders, his arms, hands, under his nails. His throat and his collarbones. The line of his jaw before he finally asks, “why do you think I wouldn’t want to touch you?”

Silas answers him like it should be obvious. “I’m a freak.” I’m disgusting.

Wren stills. The flippancy of it actually upsets him, probably a bit more than it should. He looks up with a frown and says, “you’re not a freak.”

Silas angles his head down towards him slowly. It would probably be intimidating if Wren weren’t a little irritated with him, even if he doesn’t quite know why he’s irritated with him. Then Silas gives him this look, and he doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to — it’s the most expressive Wren’s ever seen him, and his expression says you’re an idiot.

He breathes out a laugh, despite himself. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not a freak, Silas.”

Silas raises his eyebrows and doesn’t say anything.

Wren raises his eyebrows right back. “You’re not a freak.”

Silas angles his head, relenting, but there’s something Wren finds kind of condescending about it. Washcloth to Silas’ cheek, he uses it to tilt Silas’ face so he’ll look at him. “Stop it. You’re not a freak.” His eyebrow twitches and Wren’s starting to think it’s definitely amusement. “You should be kinder to you,” he tells him.

Silas snorts and there’s nothing amused in it at all. “I don’t deserve kindness.”

Wren can’t keep himself from recoiling. “That’s a horrible thing to say,” he tells him, and he’s mad at Silas on Silas’ behalf. The guy could stand to be a lot kinder to somebody that was bleeding to death in a dirty bathroom by himself. “Why not?”

Silas looks at him critically. “What do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Wren says. “What are you?”

“I’m a weapon,” he tells him.

Wren already knew that. “And?”

Silas looks only just barely baffled, but it’s obvious on his otherwise marble face. “You’re a soldier. You don’t know what weapons do?”

There’s something incredibly condescending in his tone but that’s not why Wren prickles. “I’m not a soldier.”

Silas angles his head back to look down at him, and Wren can see it in his face, that he’s really looking at him for the very first time. How much smaller he is than Silas, how much smaller he is than all the rest of them. “What are you?” He asks.

Wren’s shoulders tense. “That’s none of your business.” Silas studies him closely, all dark and intense, but he doesn’t say anything else, he doesn’t push, he doesn’t pry. Wren tries to roll the tension out of his shoulders and huffs out a breath, wiping the last of the blood splatter from his face.

“Wren?” Silas says.

Wren almost wrings out the towel, then thinks better of it. He looks at Silas, very close to eye level. “Silas?”

“Thank you,” he says, and there’s something sort of awkward about how he says it, tense, out of practice.

Like a surprising number of other things about Silas, Wren finds himself kind of endeared by it. He takes a hand to his chin and tips his face down. It surprises him again, how willingly Silas moves, and Wren smiles against the ridged scar of his hairline as he presses a kiss there. “You’re welcome.”

Silas looks at him, and he’s as unexpressive as he usually is but he touches his hand to his forehead, to the spot Wren had kissed. “What was that?”

“What?” Wren says, because it’s not what he was expecting. He has to stop expecting things from Silas, he thinks. “A kiss?”

“A kiss?” Silas repeats, and Wren can’t tell if it’s another question or if he’s just mimicking his inflection. He says it with Wren’s accent.

It kind of feels like a lightbulb going off, like a bunch of odd puzzle pieces finally forming a bigger, odd picture. Maybe Silas isn’t what Wren thought he was at all.

“Silas,” he says slowly. “Where were you before this? Before you were here.”

“I wasn’t,” Silas says.

And that can’t possibly be true, but it opens this yawning chasm in Wren’s chest that sucks all the air from his lungs. He feels so guilty for ever likening Silas to a stray dog that it actually might make him flush. It isn’t that he’s intimidated by them, it’s that he doesn’t understand them. Silas is their only weapon — has he known anything before this but violence? Is that all he can remember?

“You weren’t,” Wren says softly.

The corner of Silas’ mouth lifts and it’s the very first time Wren has ever seen him smile. It makes him smile, despite himself. “Freak,” he explains, and there’s something almost challenging in the way he says it.

“Stop that,” Wren tells him, and it makes Silas smile properly.

Silas has a very handsome smile.

Silas has dimples.

It almost makes Wren recoil again, but that would be rude, so he doesn’t. It’s close, though. There’s a particular scar on Silas’ face, thin and shiny, angled across his jaw and the corner of his mouth so when he smiles, it’s lopsided. It’s uncomfortably charming, and the dimples that carve out of his cheeks make it almost overwhelming. He also has great teeth, which is jarring, a stark contrast to all the rest of him, raised scars and messy stitches. He thinks Silas might actually be really handsome, and that feels jarring, too.

He smiles anyway. He can’t help it and he doesn’t know why.

Silas looks away, but he still has a dimple carved out of his cheek on one side and Wren presses the washcloth to it, an impulse he can’t quite control. “There you go,” he tells him. “Good as new.”

“Thank you,” he says again, and it’s still awkward, and he still won’t still look at him.

Wren smiles a bit wider. “Anytime,” he says, and Silas grunts. “I’m serious. Anytime. You’re gonna start being kinder to yourself and you’re gonna start by asking for help.” Silas grunts again and he adds, “don’t be shy. I don’t bite.”

“I do,” Silas says, and he doesn’t say it like a joke but he says it like a warning and Wren doesn’t think he’s kidding.

He isn’t quite sure why it makes him smile again. “I don’t mind.”

Silas looks at him, angling his head. Wren can’t tell what he’s thinking and it should be intimidating, daunting, but Wren’s been having a really hard time being afraid of him. His full body fear of Robin had started it, but having him kneel patiently in front of him while Wren swaddled him in bandages may have been the thing to cement it. “Okay,” he says finally.

Wren surprises himself with how pleased he is. His smile is bright. “Okay,” he agrees. “Good.”

Silas dimples on one side, just barely, and angles his head down towards Wren.

For a second, Wren doesn’t get it. Then he breathes out a laugh and leans up to press another obedient kiss to Silas’ hairline.

When they get back to the common room, Silas sits beside him, and a mountain has been moved. Wren isn’t sure why it feels so much like a win, but he preens, anyway.

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gothsuguru · 8 days ago

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first draft of “premonition of love” has officially begun <3

#it’s Been beginning for months but i made an outline for the plot that i think actually makes sense now 😭#this is very bare bones & is subject to change esp in terms of adding descriptive imagery & atmosphere & dialogue #but it’s a starting point!!!!! and i’m proud of starting it :’)#BLACK IS THE COLOR!SUGURU X READER MY ULTIMATE BELOVEDS THIS ONE IS FOR YOU ☝🏼🫂#i’m happy w the calligraphy canvas line 🙂‍↕️ need to fix it up a bit but :3 #also i’d like to thank my haikuuu!! playlist in advance… the summer love of it will hopefully inspire a lot of the story #suguru smelling good is canon and reader sniffing the air like an aardvark is also canon #just wanna put that out there………. reader is the realest ☝🏼#snippets #personal

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magistralucis · 6 months ago

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it's not like I really needed to visit you anyway ( ˶•̀ _•́ ˶) [Trazyn/Orikan snippet]

(Excerpt from the second chapter of Viridian. Set during a past sequence, the major turning point of their relationship - Trazyn invites Orikan to his home for the first time, and Orikan agrees hesitantly, not knowing what wonders await him in Solemnace. At this time he's running hot and cold towards Trazyn, about 90% tsun and 10% dere, though this will change soon. 😌

This is one of the only SFW passages I could quote from the chapter fhhghghg)

————

Orikan gazed at him warily under the veil as he approached, noting the lord was dressed more ceremonially than the usual. "What do you want?"

Trazyn beamed back at him, manifestly joyful. "I am soon to be the Overlord of Solemnace."

"Congratulations?" Trazyn had not previously spent time at Solemnace, as far as the Diviner knew, nor was Solemnace especially known among the Nihilakh. Orikan had no idea what he was going to do there, nor what kind of demesne he would shape. "About time you acted your age. Became responsible."

Whatever he was up to, it was about a decade overdue. Trazyn's two older brothers had ruled their own realms almost as soon as they'd come of age, yet the lord archivist had waited close to his thirtieth year to take up his inheritance; an act of supreme sloth, or perhaps hubris, since merely surviving to that age was a privilege denied to many necrontyr. "You'll miss my whimsy when it's gone, I'll warrant." The overlord chuckled, and Orikan gave him an incredulous look. "The man I am will not be so affected by material differences, as hard as it may be to believe. But why not see for yourself? My palace is still being built, but would you care to visit me at Solemnace when it's done?"

"I neither care nor care not!" Orikan huffed - but deep down, he was intrigued. It helped that around that time he had moved up significantly within the Sautekh court, and his anxiety had increased alongside the honour, as if he'd been forced to creep above thin ice. Suddenly going abroad for a while seemed like a fair idea, even just for a breather, for his dynasty was a vicious one and he liked to plan ahead.

But for that to happen Solemnace must be finished, and moreover, Trazyn had to be serious about wanting him there. And while he'd softened towards Trazyn, he did not fully trust him, not half as far as he could throw the overlord. For two seasons Orikan's lack of faith persisted - until one clear day in the heart of springtime, he was greeted by a messenger at the temple gates. Not a cryptek, but a Nihilakh groundskeeper, who walked with undaunted pleasure at the new grounds he'd been given to keep. In his hands he bore a small golden box, and as soon as Orikan saw it he knew the promise was kept, for engraved on top of it was none other than Trazyn's sigil.

Inside it he found two scrolls, a map of Solemnace and an invitation in the lord's own hand. The palace was finished and Trazyn's household had moved in, it said, and if Orikan could spare a decan to visit the overlord would be most honoured. The letter specified nothing else about the nature of Solemnace, which Orikan's heart tried to spin into distrust: it was never for no reason when a noble requested a cryptek's attention. Perhaps, under the guise of leisure, Trazyn wanted his advice. Wanted to sweeten Orikan up for a favour, or simply to show off his riches. Perhaps Trazyn wanted his fortunes read, or that of his people - which Orikan would not be able to do, and would rather die than to admit it and be humiliated. But then again, maybe Trazyn didn't care about those things. It hurt his pride to acknowledge it, but Orikan had little appeal as a true seer in Gheden, for the Nihilakh already had one of those. They might want to see how I measure up against the Yyth Seer, he thought, and heaved a sigh. The Nihilakh never seemed short of anything, not in wealth nor their chronomancer sects, nor the grim head of the Yyth Seer spinning prophecies unknown to outsiders.

He was exhausting himself. If existing next to Trazyn was a headache, he could not even fathom how hard being in Solemnace might be.

But Orikan was no coward. He mulled over it for one day then responded yes. Whatever awaited him might be bad or good, but rejecting a good-faith invitation would definitely not help his standing with the overlord. Besides, Trazyn had made his efforts hard to ignore: the letter itself was beautiful, handwritten on peach-tinted parchment and gilded at the edges. (Trazyn only happened to be the finest scribe among the Eastern dynasties, after all, and perhaps among all necrontyr.) If Orikan was to refuse the intrigue he'd have to write back, and he really did not want to do that, good penmanship had not been a priority at the temple and his handwriting was genuinely very terrible and he did not wish to be mocked. And so, with great reluctance, Orikan gathered together his finest attires and left the following week for Solemnace.

It turned out to be the best decision he'd ever made for himself.

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #trazyn the infinite #orikan the diviner #orizyn #necrontyr #snippet #viridian #fanfiction #necrons #necron #huntmaster always so got damn happy to run an orizyn errand....... went all in on this pairing from the beginning cool cool 👍#part of my headcanon for why trazyn behaves so erratically is that as necrontyr he was not in a position to show ambitions freely #i.e. he was probably not a firstborn and/or he did not come from a stable noble family #since the nihilakh dynasty have that whole hermit kingdom deal going on their society is likely to rely heavily on kinship ties #but also over time resulting in resentment between families as they compete for better titles better resources and greater honour #while trazyn IS childish and irresponsible he is very observant. could've have adopted that as a mask to take the heat off his back #playing the fool and laying low isn't a trope for no reason after all... he probably blossomed late in life because of this #tl;dr stupid sexy older man at solemnace what gives 🤪

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charleslelurk · 16 days ago

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Trick or treat! 🍬🦇

Just spent like 10 minutes searching through my WIPs trying to decide how depraved of a snippet I could post. Happy Halloween! You get a snippet from the fic I have been referring to as "The Palm Springs AU"

NSFW below the cut

They take a shuddering breath together as Carlos slowly fucks his finger into Lando. He doesn't wait long to add a second. Lando grips at Carlos's other arm still around him, moaning when he drags the pads of his fingers over Lando's prostate. Lando feels when Carlos mouths at the skin of Lando's shoulder with open lips. Lando turns his head, asking for those lips to be on his own. Carlos shifts forwards, giving Lando exactly what he wants. The angle of his wrist turns brutal for Carlos, and he slips his fingers out. Lando wants to whine, but Carlos's lips on his keep him silent. He teases his tongue at Carlos's lips and Carlos parts them for Lando's tongue. He runs it over the smart line of Carlos's teeth slowly, savoring.

Carlos's hips jump against Lando's when he nips at Carlos's bottom lip, and Lando presses his hips back again, giving Carlos something solid to rut against. He moves Carlos's hand splayed over his side down to his hardened cock, and Carlos takes the suggestion. He thumbs at the head of Lando's cock, earning a little noise from between his lips. They finally break the heated but slow kiss for Carlos to lean back and fetch the lube from where they left it on the nightstand last night. When Carlos removes his hand from Lando's cock to open the bottle and slick up his own, Lando replaces it with his hand and slowly strokes over himself.

Carlos buries his face into Lando's neck again and hums slightly before lining himself up and pressing into Lando. He easily slides in, Lando so open from the combination of last night, Carlos's fingers, and sleepy-morning relaxation. Lando's mouth opens with no noise as Carlos bottoms out in one long, slow motion. Carlos is still nuzzling at Lando's neck, lips against his skin. Carlos is not really kissing but brushing his lips up and down the muscle running along the side of his neck. The tickling, feather-light touch of it makes Lando shiver. He reaches up and back to grip Carlos's own neck and hold him closer. Carlos slowly and shallowly rocks his hips into Lando as he finally does kiss openly at Lando's neck, no sucking or bruising, just wet lips and tongue laving at the skin and taking Lando quickly from light sighs to moans.

The room is filled with Lando's growing noises, and the heady skin-on-skin of Carlos fucking slowly into Lando. The mattress barely even makes noise, the movements so slow and controlled it doesn't disturb the springs. Lando reaches for his own cock, jerking himself off slowly to match the speed of Carlos's hips.

Lando presses back, tilts his hips just so, and Carlos's cock drags along his prostate. Lando gasps, body tensing, and Carlos moans into his skin. Lando picks up the pace of his own hand, and Carlos presses deep into Lando, breath shaking where Lando can feel the air against his neck. Lando thumbs at the head of his cock and cries out.

"Come for me, Lando," Carlos says quietly near Lando's ear, and the gravel of Carlos's morning voice, of that being the first words they have exchanged in the soft morning glow of their hotel room, has Lando spilling over his own fist and stomach. Carlos fucks him through it, cock dragging deliciously inside Lando until Carlos comes too. As Lando shivers through an aftershock, he is filled with the sensation of Carlos's come, and can feel Carlos's panting breath between his shoulder blades as Carlos buries his face against Lando's back. One of Carlos's arms snakes across Lando's stomach to hold him close, ignoring the mess on Lando's abs. Lando, even as he's still half in the clouds, grips Carlos's wrist and holds that arm tight around him. Carlos's fingers flex against Lando's skin, almost like he's bunching Lando up, grabbing his skin to crumple it like paper. He's going to fold Lando in on himself, bundle him into smaller and smaller bits until he's made Lando the size of the folded bills in his money clip, small enough to carry with him, to constantly keep on his person. Lando would let him, Lando would let his skin and body be creased by Carlos's fingers until he was nothing but a pin prick of existence.

The thought almost startles Lando from his post-coital bliss, but sleep is quickly overtaking him instead. Together, they fall back asleep, ignoring the mess between them and the drying come on their skin. The world will wait for them, and later Carlos's alarm will bring them back to reality just in time to shower and get breakfast at the hotel.

#how do people decide how long to make a snippet #like i changed my mind three times on where to begin and end #should i have started at the beginning of the scene instead?#but then its like giving yall blue balls to not post the end #but i dont want to post EVERYTHING #this fic is very special to me so i know i will finish and post it eventually #carlando #carlando fic #my fic #ask game

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starheirxero · 1 year ago

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Hello Lunar angst enjoyers. Places this here

#xero creations #xero snippets #no this is not part of a full fic 💔#a month or so ago i just had a very clear idea of this line in my head and i had 2 write it out or i’d forget #lunar is just a very sad character at their core 2 me.#feeling angry that eclipse is the way he is but feeling sad that he was never the older brother he should’ve been #wishing that he could be someone he inherently cannot be no matter what. wanting to destroy him. wanting to sob in his arms.#feeling robbed of things they never even had to begin with.#SORRY im rambling i love angsting this guy LMAO #sun and moon show #tsams #sams lunar #lunar #angst

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aroaessidhe · 5 months ago

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2024 reads / storygraph

The Principle of Moments

start of a scifi space opera series

a teen girl in the far future where humans are oppressed learns she has a destiny & a lost sister and escapes

and a young time traveler who’s given up trying to find his father through time, and is about to settle in 1812 with the prince he loves, but is unwillingly thrust into the future

they both learn their fates are entangled by a prophecy, and have to race across the galaxy, followed by a galactic emperor and the legacy of heroes from an ancient religion

#The Principle of Moments #aroaessidhe 2024 reads #this started off pretty good - interesting characters and worldbuilding; easy to read #but it felt like a bit too much was going on and I kinda checked out from the last third and didn’t care anymore.#It felt very much like the plot was just happening to the characters and they didn’t have much effect on it all.#It’s very classic space opera chosen one story! it’s fun and ambitious! a lot of doctor who vibes -#but also like if you tried to fit the entirety of timelord lore into one or two episodes haha.#It also had a couple classic space opera pitfalls.. like how this evil alien race was described as looking evil (in various ways). hm.#I actually really loved the writing style of the excerpt snippets in the beginning and would have been keen for most of it to be like that.#but also probably with the book being shorter.#there’s humor thrown in there that was sometimes funny but also sometimes awkward.#The time travelers speak very modern (despite none of it being set in the present) which like - obviously anachronism is gonna be inherent #to time travelers but sometimes it felt awkward. or like.. the other characters didn’t comment on it?#There were a couple moments that felt like a tv script gag that just came across badly on the page #gay prince romance was cute but kinda was thrown in the deep end then it’s barely relevant for most of the story.#The whole london subplot felt unneccesary. The random romance subplot the girl gets felt out of nowhere.#anyway it's decent! just fell apart a bit and didn't live up to my expectations

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victorluvsalice · 2 months ago

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WIP Word Game

I was tagged in this by @dont-offend-the-bees in this post -- thanks for thinking of me, Newt!

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your WIP(s) that start with each letter of that word. Word assigned by Newt: BITES

Because I'm a rebel, I'm going to do a bit from both my current WIP "Londerland Bloodlines: Downtown Queensland" and my just-finished-posting-today Valicer In The Dark story "Start At The Beginning...Sort Of" --

LB:DQ -- Briefcase Guy nodded, trembling. “What – what if their case is full of newspaper?” he got out after a second.

“Then at least we get to watch your illiterate ass try to read it later for laughs,” the leader spat, giving him a shove. “I know they got the goods. Just don’t ass it up, or they’re gonna kill the lot of us. Now get ready, it’s going down soon.”

SATBSO -- “By practicing my v-vows down the wrong alley,” Victor replied, worrying his bottom lip. “I – oh dear…” He grabbed his spoon and had a couple of fortifying sips of soup. “It’s like this – I’m due to be w-wed to the daughter of Lord and Lady Everglot, courtesy of my parents. We had the r-rehearsal today, and I was such a n-nervous wreck I couldn’t recall my lines at all. Pastor Galswells, our officiant, finally lost all patience with me after one too many mistakes, and b-banished me until I’d learned my vows. D-desperate to get them right, I ended up roaming Brightstone at random, repeating them to myself to try and get them straight in my head. I finally said them perfectly in an old forgotten side street overlooking one of the canals…and the moment I finished, a g-glowing blue figure in a w-wedding dress burst from the water, declaring ‘I do.’ I s-screamed and ran, but she managed to c-corner me on a nearby bridge and tried to k-kiss me. I fainted when her lips touched mine, and w-when I woke up, I was…” He waved his spoon in the air, as if trying to capture the enormity of the experience. “On the w-wrong side of the veil.”

LB:DQ -- “Indeed – or you could avoid the issue entirely,” Cheshire said, floating his smile over to another ladder on the wall in the darkened bay, just barely visible in the gloom. “I’m sure Rabbit would approve of you taking a shortcut, especially in order to avoid detection by anything that might try to stomp you.”

“I’ve apologized for that!” Hatter put in. “And made him that new watch!”

“It was the least you could do,” Rabbit said, paws on hips.

SATBSO -- “I don’t know – I don’t think so,” Victor said, letting his hands drop. “But you’re right, it is very hard to tell time in the ghost field…I’m sorry too, Emily,” he continued in a quieter voice. “I – I shouldn’t have lied to you about w-wanting to see my parents. I should have tried to explain better what was really wrong. But I – I didn’t have the words, and I was so scared and hungry and cold, and…” He sighed heavily, pressing his fingers against his forehead. “And absolutely nothing today has gone according to plan.”

“I know the feeling.” Emily perked up, a hesitant smile tugging at her lips. “But – but we can still make this work, right? We can alternate which side of the field we’re on day by day, so you can still eat and drink and not have to worry! We can even find a nice place to set up house together – one that’s in good shape in both my world and yours!”

“I think anyone who sees you two house-shopping is going to call the Spirit Wardens on you,” Alice couldn’t help saying.

LB:DQ -- “True,” Alice nodded. “Which reminds me – at some point tonight, I need to drop in on a certain Sean Milton. I don’t know how much honor there really is among thieves, but hopefully he has very little and will be willing to give up Muddy without a fight.”

“We’ll see on that front – and back, come to think of it,” Cheshire remarked, tail swaying as he kept pace. “But one side-quest at a time.”

SATBSO -- The gondolier gave Emily, floating near the prow, a significant look. “They always go up when the dead are involved.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Emily said, tone sulky and sparks crackling along the edge of her veil.

“And don’t start now,” the gondolier warned, frowning. “I may not be a Warden, but every one of us has got a bit of the Whisper about us. I know how to handle you lot.”

LB:DQ -- “Even better – they’re real robots! Well, sort of. . .” Victor popped open a bin and picked out a blue butterfly at random, showing her a block with some buttons on the – thorax, she believed it was called. “They each come with a ‘brain block’ like this where you can input simple commands. Obviously I can’t get any of them to fly – though I’ve always hoped – but I can get them to flap their wings if I shine a light on them, or follow a light being held in front of them – even play with a ball.”

“Neat,” Alice said, grinning. “You’ll have to show me later.”

SATBSO -- Emily went still, a frozen figure in tattered blue. Then she rushed forward at a speed no living human could have ever managed, face contorted in pure fury. Barkis yelped and tried to get out of the way, but she managed to clamp one spectral hand around his arm –

And, suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore. A split-second later, Barkis bent double, shrieking. “What – stop! No!”

“Yes!” came Emily’s voice – from Barkis’s own lips. Alice stared as he straightened up, wobbling like he was unused to controlling his own body. “The knife dropped from his fingers with a clatter. “You’re mine now, Eddie!”

LB:DQ -- She got to the bottom of the slope and looked around. While the layout was roughly the same, the entrance to level two was noticeably darker, thanks to a busted light fixture in the nearest “compact” bay. It also had different guards – two fellows who looked to be Chinese, dressed in matching burgundy jackets and wielding machine guns. One jerked his head around as she snuck closer, causing her to freeze out of habit. “It’s too quiet,” he said after a moment, shaking his head. “I-I don’t like this – this place. At night it seems so – haunted.”

SATBSO -- Smiler sorted and pointed at their eyes, brilliant yellow in their pale face. “What, do you think I was born with these?”

“...actually, it has genuinely never occurred to me to question why your eyes are bright glowing yellow before now,” Alice confessed, cheeks heating up with embarrassment. “They just seemed – completely natural on you.”

“I – I mean, I noticed, but – given everything else that was going on, they – didn’t really register as that weird?” Victor admitted, also going pink. “Alice is right, they do suit you...I sort of thought they might be a side effect of that Joy Serum you showed me before, since you said you make it yourself.”

Tagging: @nebbychan, @thesatiricaldemon, @anonymoose-au, @ace-of-tales -- the word I'm picking is TIMES!

#wip word game #tag game #londerland bloodlines #valicer in the dark au #fanfic #vtmb #blades in the dark #alice madness returns #corpse bride #the smiler #look Start At The Beginning...Sort Of just went up #I think I can use it for this #the Downtown Queensland stuff is all from chapter 3 which is the one I'm currently working on #as you have probably guessed by a couple of those snippets it covers Fat Larry's quest #and Venus's too #the thing with Victor's butterfly robots is from the very beginning #he's very proud of them and very unused to other people being interested in them #the SATBSO quotes are from all over the fic #though the last one is explicitly from the posted-earlier-today final chapter #the exchange just amused me #as did me finding a section in both fics where I had three paragraphs all starting with 'I'#fun stuff XD

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