#visage / hoist the colours

[crainiisms]

Cleo ' red handed jill ' Crain & Captain Hook - @crainiisms + @starsailingcaptain

" Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me. We pillage plunder, we rifle and loot. Drink up me 'earties, yo ho. We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot. Drink up me 'earties, yo ho. "

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Binary Sunset (AU post RotS, Beru Lars gets an unexpected visit and has to make a tough choice regarding her nephew)

“Who are you?”

Beru reared back, attempting to put as much distance as possible between herself whomever this thing was, staring her down with cold dead eyes.

“I have come for my son,” the figure said, its voice deep and monotone and distinctly male.

Glancing behind herself into the sleeping quarters of the homestead, she saw that the infant child was still asleep in his cradle. She made sure not to give away his location, but when she turned her attention back to the intruder, her heart was already sinking. He had not moved. In fact, he might have been taken for a statue, had it not been for the loud wheezing breaths of a respiratory device of some kind. The man bore a cape, as black as the uniform full body suit and armour covering him. It danced in the twilight wind, as the two suns glowed behind him like red orbs. Their intense heat seemed insignificant, compared to the burning hatred Beru could feel from the man’s covered eyes.

“I don’t know your son.”

“Is that so.”

His mask gave nothing away, stoic, resembling a human skull. His words seemed a statement, rather than a question, as if he was making a mental note of her defensiveness. Tall, broad shouldered, menacing. Beru hoped she came off as genuine, but when he took a step towards her, she felt the primal urge to run inside, grab the child and flee.

“There is a child in your sleeping quarters,” said the man, after a long, chilling silence despite the sunlight still spilling in orange hues over the sand dunes. “He is not yours.”

“He is!” Beru heard herself growl, shocked by how possessive she had become of the little one in such a short span of time. “He is mine!”

“He is not. You may have taken him in as next of kin, but he is not yours to claim.”

Beru clenched her jaw, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder at the cradle. He was still blissfully unaware, swept in a soft duvet as he cooed in his sleep. Even over the persisting hissing of the intruder’s breathing, she focused on the child. 

Luke. Precious little Luke, destined for so much more than life as a poor moisture farmer. Face set hard, Beru made sure to place herself in the middle of the doorway, just outside the threshold. She would not back down, whatever that decision would entail. The ex-Jedi who had delivered him might have grander plans, plans this stranger might be involved with, but she wanted the boy safe. On Tatooine, if he was taught to fend for himself, to steer clear of Jawas, Tusken raiders and womp rats, he might become an ordinary young man some day. Without the mystical sorcery his father had fallen prey to luring him in.

“He is mine. We have adopted him, we are his only living relatives. He has no one else.”

Beru hoped she sounded genuine to the menace, hoped she was appealing to some sort of sympathy or compassion behind the threatening visage. When he spoke, his tone was even deeper than before, a rumble rivalling that of any fully grown krayt dragon.

“Do not lie to me,” he warned, and moved so suddenly Beru couldn’t help but gasp in mixed horror and startlement.

But all he did was raise one arm, letting the open palm hover midair, facing the woman’s face. She blinked, confusion seeping in - and then her head exploded from within. She flinched, as a sharp pain ground its way into her temples. The ache travelled down her spine, a loud ringing in her ears overpowering any senses as her vision went bright white - shutting out both the mysterious visitor and the binary sunset. She whimpered, her own hands flying up to cover her ears. She wanted to scream, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes as she thought what felt like an ice pick being drilled right through her brain. 

And then, it was gone. As if it had never been there to begin with. Unable to control her sobs, her legs gave out beneath her and she sank to the ground. She panted, terrified of the man before her, of the agonizing headache returning. She could not explain it, but there was no doubt in her mind that the two were connected. The stranger had hurt her without laying a finger on her, if he was able to do that, what else was he capable of? If she had been wary before, now she was terrified.

“I - I am… not lying,” she managed to whisper, voice hoarse and unsteady.

“No. You are not.”

Surprisingly, the man agreed as he let his hand fall to his side. A wave of relief washed over Beru, but she was not prepared to build her hopes up that he may show her mercy and leave her and Luke alone. Luke needed to stay here, for his own safety. The Jedi had promised her he would keep them safe, and she had promised to love Luke as her own son. That meant defending him as if he were.

“You are not lying. You know only what Kenobi has taught you.”

Beru wiped her face with her sleeve as best she could, hoisting herself into an upright position with one hand pressed to the clay wall by her side. She clung to it for support, but through her watery eyes she saw that the stranger seemed more resolute, his stance more determined. She trembled, but stood her ground.

“I won’t speak of it. Not to you. Not to anyone. He warned us of strangers.”

“Kenobi is a liar and a traitor to the Empire, as are all Jedi. Would it be beneath an attempted murderer to lie?”

The stranger’s voice bore the same, mechanical character but it was sharper now, like a bark. Beru felt the hatred from before had returned, but didn’t seem to be directed at her. The way the man said ‘Kenobi’ revealed everything about whom the loathing was aimed at.

“I don’t understand,” the woman shook her head, cold sweat still soaking her forehead and she wiped her brow with her sleeve. 

“He told you the child has no living relatives, did he not?”

Beru’s eyes widened, before suspicion crept back in. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, willing herself to restrain herself from shedding any more tears. Even though she was still breathless, still shivering, still afraid.

“I never said it was him,” she settled for, as her retort.

“I am warning you to play along, or I may need to apply different methods to assure your complacency,” was the reply, and the man raised his hand again.

The threat was enough, and Beru shook her head vehemently, arms coming up to shield herself from another head splitting, intrusive mental assault. What she had assumed before was true, he had been controlling whatever power had tormented her senses. How? Why? Nothing made sense, but she believed him and that was enough.

“You are wiser than most. Fetch the child.”

“What?” the woman croaked, all the blood draining from her face as the intent behind the demand hit her.

“Fetch. The. Child,” he repeated, this time using his raised arm to point his finger at the doorway.

Only a sliver of pink and orange sunlight remained on the horizon. Owen wouldn’t be back in several hours. Beru hesitated, unwilling to comply, but found she could not resist. She could either obey, or protest and get herself killed. The stranger would take Luke away either way, she already knew that.

Stubborn tears welled back up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she slipped back into the primary living area of their homestead. Passing through another low doorway, she approached the cradle cautiously. She didn’t want to wake the child, didn't want to frighten him. Hushing him, or perhaps herself and her own soft sniffles, she picked the little bundle up. Beru made sure Luke was neatly wrapped in his duvet as she cradled him to her chest, rocking her arms gently when it seemed he might wake up. She breathed a sigh of relief when he settled back down, cooing and letting out a soft snore. Swallowing hard, Beru kept her head low and kept her gaze steady on the blonde tuft of hair on Luke’s head where it stuck out from underneath his pajamas. 

Not until she had crossed the threshold, relying solely on her periphery and memory, did she tear her eyes away from the infant. The intruder hadn’t moved an inch, the now chilly, crisp air biting at Beru’s tears streaked cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was soft but defiant.

“If you want him, you’ll have to go through me first.”

“It would be foolish of you to presume I wouldn’t,” he simply stated, his tone matter of fact.

“He’s my boy.”

Once again, Beru hoped he had a heart somewhere behind the exterior facade of menace. Beyond those strange, terrifying powers he had displayed. 

“He is not. The child belongs with his father,” said the man.

“The child’s father is dead. So is his mother. I and Owen are the only family he has left, he has no one else. He means nothing to you, whoever you are. He means the world to me.”

“Then, we have something in common,” stated the stranger, and it took Beru a tad too long to understand what he meant.

“I… don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Not Kenobi, not you,” she felt the weight of realization as something began to dawn on her, but refused to voice it and see it confirmed.

The man shifted then, stalking closer with a couple of long strides. As he moved closer, Beru tipped her head back, staring up at his frightening stature but unwilling to turn away, for fear of what he might do if she lost an ounce of focus. He seemed much more focused on the bundle in her arms, however, and she instinctively held the child closer to her body for protection. The man was huge, towering over her, looming like a hungering predator ready to strike. The lenses of the mask he wore were a deep, crimson red, she noticed now. The colour filled her with dread, entrancing as she watched him peer in what could have come across as stunned silence at the peacefully slumbering infant. One the man’s large, gloved hands came up to reach for the boy, and Beru almost yelped in fear.

But instead of harming Luke with just a look, Beru was shocked to see the man touch the infant’s chubby little cheek with an unearned, unexpected tenderness. It was just a simple, gentle graze of fingertips, and a smile pulled at the corners of the child’s lips. He was still asleep, but he cooed something intelligible, one tiny hand reaching for the stranger’s index finger. The stranger seemed cautious, and Beru almost believed he was concerned, maybe even scared of accidentally hurting the boy.

“Kenobi would rather have you believe the child’s parents had perished,” said the stranger, but his attention was still single handedly on the infant.

“Where else would they be? Kenobi told us the Jedi order had been executed, framed for high treason. He told us Anakin Skywalker died with the rest of his kind.”

“They were not framed, they were the instigators. But I am not here to discuss politics that may result in your immediate execution, and neither should you.”

The threatening note to the man’s voice was back, and Beru pinched her lips tightly together. She knew by now that Luke’s life had never been on the line, not given how carefully the stranger was interacting with the sleeping form. Her life, however, was still in mortal peril - and perhaps Owen’s was, too.

“The fact still stands,” Beru dared to say, bracing herself. “That Anakin is dead, and Luke has no one but us.”

“Luke…”

The name was said so gently, so softly that Beru almost thought she had imagined it. Despite the harsh diction, the flat delivery seemed so genuine and heart felt. Gaze darting between the intruder’s mask, and Luke’s pleased expression as the man let him close his little fist around his finger, the suspicion only grew stronger in its persistence.

“Yes. Luke. His mother named him before she died, Kenobi said. Unless that was another lie,” the woman trailed off.

“She did believe you were a boy,” mused the man, almost wistful as he seemed to be speaking directly to the small child.

Still, the words left an impression. A cold, gnawing sensation settled at the pit of Beru’s belly; clawing its way up into her chest cavity where it remained, desperately grinding from the inside as if attempting to force itself out. There was something eerie and uncanny about the stranger, something distinctly familiar. Familiar, yet foreign. Known, yet unknown. She peered down at the infant in her arms, the love she had developed for the little boy overpowering, overwhelming her. Then, she ignored the alarm bells at the back of her mind, the voices screaming at her to resist the urge. Instead, she slowly held the baby out in front of her, face set hard and throat tight as a lump settled at the base. The ball of tears rose, until her eyes were once more brimming with tears.

The stranger eyed her with what could only be perplexed confusion, as if he was in disbelief that she would entrust him with the child. She remained motionless, as he seemed to be weighing his options. Then, with stilted, jerky motions, he lifted both arms. He reached for the bundle, and with caution as if the boy was made of glass, as if he were so fragile he might break at the simplest touch, the stranger accepted him. The scene was ridiculous; a man looking like the reaper himself had come straight from a galactic battlefield while shielding the very icon of innocence in his grasp.

 “You said his Anakin isn’t dead. If he’s alive, then where is he?” Beru said, and the calm, collected manner in which she delivered those words surprised even her.

The stranger said nothing, but he did look at her. 

A long, pregnant silence fell as the darkness of night finally settled over the farm, and the Lars’ homestead. Beru wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, blinking back the tears pooling in her eyes. She had wanted him to say it, to verbally verify and confirm what she suspected. It was impossible to deny, as she studied the wonder and amazement with which the stranger regarded Luke. What surprised her most, though, was when he hid the child close against his chest, and held her gaze. She felt his stare burning into her soul, his presence no less imposing than it had been when he first appeared. 

Beru found she couldn’t speak. She had nothing to say, and even if she did, it would have made no difference. She understood, and took a step back as she nodded at him, encouraging him with a mournful smile. He was dangerous, that much she could tell. The stranger was vicious, ruthless, and cruel. But he held a tremendous fondness for this child, and in that, Beru could see herself. In that, Beru found the strength to acknowledge that the stranger was, in fact, no stranger at all. Even as he turned his back, cape billowing behind him while he began to trudge through the sand in a direction only he knew where it might lead, Beru was certain that the man would keep Luke safe.

As the man grew smaller in the distance, Beru allowed herself to weep again, watching her nephew disappear into the ice cold desert night. Still, something nagged at her compelled her to make a bargain in turn. Not that she had anything to offer, but she was convinced the man who was not a stranger would be inclined to agree.

“Promise me Luke will be safe with you!”

The intruder halted. Sand whirled around his boots, starlight bouncing off the man’s domed helmet as a gleaming beacon of hope in the darkness. She sensed an odd, reluctant sort of foreboding but stood her ground. He did not speak, but he didn’t have to. She knew the answer and she knew he would not have come this far if he didn’t have the intention to keep the boy out of harm’s way. She didn’t know the man well, never had, but she knew Luke. Shutting her eyes, Beru accepted the silence as the confirmation she had been looking for. She had been left alive, living to tell the tale. She knew he had come to kill her, she didn’t understand how, but somehow it was clear. Somehow, Luke would be okay. The man needed the infant, more than the infant needed him. It was the next right thing to do.

“Thank you, Anakin.”

Beru couldn’t be certain, but something told her Luke had a better chance at the kind of life he was meant for in the hands of his father.

-----------

You all knew where this was going, haha. I did intend to post this as another installment of Mask of Death but I’m not sure I should throw a non-canon compliant chapter in there as all others have been as compliant as fanfics can be. Let me know whether I should make an exception for this one or not!

I’m a sucker for dad!Vader and baby!Luke.

[du0tine]

𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 | 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1,803 | 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: below the line!

angst. self-intoxication, use of alcohol. hallucinations. unrequited love. dark best friends to lovers au. mentions of murder. drowning. light description of blood and gore. mentions of rigor mortis and rotting flesh. viewer descretion is advised!

“Remember when we were young? Too innocent for this world with simply no fucks to give?” You say, your voice is painfully hoarse as you take a long and painful swig from your whiskey. Cringing you whine from the burning sensation that ripped at your throat, you didn’t even like whiskey and yet here you were drinking your sorrows away. This wasn’t anything new though, it was routinely for you to rip yourself apart on this night every year. The night he left you. 

There wasn’t anything special between you besides the fact that you’d grown up together and were best friends. Having such a bond made it inevitable for feelings to arise. Whether it come from one of you or both, it seemed to have happened and unfortunately it only came from you. Your feelings for the boy were strong, you loved him with everything you had. At one point you were even willing to die for him and you did. Not physically but mentally a large chunk of your heart dispersed, your soul died having sacrificed itself for him. He fell in love with someone else and you lost a part of yourself in acceptance of that. 

“Would it be that hard for you to return my feelings?” You ask out, your voice echoing into the void. It was always silent, every night was simply like the next. You gave your heart to him and in return you were met with an eternal silence. You’d never learn to love again, not after him. 

Silently you expected there to be another voice, his voice. You knew there would be no reply and yet you wanted one. All you wanted was to hear his voice one more time and yet you’d come far enough in life to simply end up alone without him. Surely at the age of 26, graduated with a degree in business and running your empire up the stock market, you’d become successful. You were living the life you always wanted but what was it without him? At moments like these all the money in the world meant nothing without Jaemin by your side. 

Sighing to yourself you kick off your shoes, your feet slapping against the marbled floors. The coldness making you shiver lightly as you take another swing from your drink. The bitterness of the alcohol warming you up, you could feel yourself sweating up as your vision become hazy. You could feel yourself getting drunk in memory of him. 

Holding the glass bottle in front of yourself you slush the liquid around. You felt confined like this as if you were the liquid contents inside this beautiful glass bottle of poison. Self intoxication of alcohol being your only escape during times like these. You were simply drowning yourself in your own issues, swimming around in your problems. At this rate you were slowly killing yourself. The mix of loneliness and the harshness you suffocated yourself with was draining you of life. There was simply no future for you like this. 

Pushing past the balcony doors you hoist yourself onto the balcony railings, the coldness of the night air blowing roughly past you. Whipping at your skin as goosebumps arose, littering your skin. Bringing the bottle up towards the sky you hold it next to the moon, watching as it slowly disappears behind the cluster of dark clouds. It was almost as if everything and anything wanted to disappear in plain sight of you, just like him. 

“Jaemin, tonight we toast to you,” Raising the bottle up higher in salutation to the night sky before bringing it to your lips and emptying it’s contents. The empty bottle feels much lighter in your hands as you feel your head spin. The world seems to be speeding up as your body slows down. Sauntering back and forth on the railing you struggle to keep your balance. 

Once, twice you stagger back and forth. A cluster of hysterical laughs bursting past your lips as you through your head back in amusement. Finally, you felt like you were letting yourself go. 

“Honestly, maybe life will be better without you,” You ponder to yourself as you playfully stick one foot off the railing. “Either way if I were to fall you wouldn’t catch me would you? You didn’t have my back in the past so it’s a good thing you aren’t here now too. You wouldn’t dedicate yourself to me the way I did to you.” 

Momentarily you stand still, your chest heaving heavily as you gaze out at your backyard from above. Its calm and serene, the pool that lay directly below is still. The water reflecting the dark skies colours showcasing a murky, dark blue and black. It was almost like an abyss. Your mind strays off and you mentally note to yourself to have the contractor come and install pool lights. Maybe that would clear up your life, you couldn’t swim in your problems anymore. If you found some sort of light in your life perhaps then you could finally be free and instead of drowning, you’d be floating on the surface calmly. 

“Everything is just too dark, maybe that’s why I’m so clouded up.” 

“No it’s not, you have me here,” Replies a voice.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck raise up in fear as you whip your head in the direction of the voice. Turning around you see a dark silhouette, his silhouette. He’s standing there in the dark and yet somehow you can just tell by his tall, slim figure and broad shoulders that it’s him. But how? There was no way he could’ve entered your home without you letting him and certainly without the security alarm going off. Overall though, he was gone. So how was it that he was back?

“Who are you?!” You confront the figure, your voice is rather shrill, laced in fear.

“You already forgot? No— you definitely know who I am. You’d never forget me,” He replies, his voice is different from the usual soft tone he once used with you. This time it just sounds much more menacing and much more evil. 

Then you finally see his face as he steps out from the shadows. Shrouded in darkness you see his visage, his features are still the same except for the painfully discomforting smile plastered on his face. His eyes are glassy and cold, no longer sparkling with warmth. The black tufts of his hair blow in the wind, brushing past his forehead and flying up into the air. There you see it, the small circular hole in the middle of his forehead. The wound seems fresh as the dark crimson blood slowly begins to seep out. Drifting down his t-zone and past his nose bridge. 

“There’s just…no way you could’ve forgotten,” He continues as he slowly inches his way towards you, “I mean after all you did this to me, remember?” 

You can’t breath, your chest feels tight and your throat simply won’t budge. You can’t even bring yourself to scream, simply just standing there in fear. Your eyes wide displaying all the emotions of fear you had deep inside of you. Within moments he’s standing in front of you, looking up at you. His skin is pale, as the blood continues to seep out of his forehead splashing him with the only colour of life he had. 

Reaching forward slowly his arms snake towards you as he wraps them around your waist and hugs you tightly. He feels like cement, his skin is hard and freezing and he simply just won’t let go. You snap out of your trance, your fight or flight kicking in as you try and get him off of you but no, he won’t let you go. Not now but isn’t that what you wanted? 

“I didn’t leave you silly,” He says, his breath is cold against your skin. The smell of death omitting from him as it feels like his aura is making the world around you feel polluted. “After all you killed me in fear of losing the one you loved most, me,” He continues as his places his head against your chest, you feel the blood pour onto your skin. It feels wet and damp as you start to hyperventilate squirming in his arms as you struggle to pry him off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! You left me for her!” You scream in frustration as he simply hugs you tighter. It feels like you are being molded into place within his arms as he leans against you, pushing harder and harder making you feel heavy. 

“Well I’m here now, isn’t that what you wanted? You’ve always been greedy haven’t you,” He says once more as you drag your finger nails against his skin, peeling his skin off as a result. His flesh is rotting as he shows no reaction simply holding you tighter. Screaming in fear you feel his skin caught up within your finger nails. You try to push him off once more but this time he fights back. Hoisting you up onto his shoulder as he pushes you off the edge of the balcony. The two of you falling into the dark pool. The water feels suffocating as it pulls you both towards the bottom. His figure floats over you, his hands on your waist as he helps push you down. 

“Remember when we were young?” He asks, the bubbles blowing past his lips as he speaks out loud to you, his voice echoes slowly inside the water. “You promised that we would die together, in order to spend the rest of eternity with each other. You know? Best friends forever?” 

Your gaze feels hazy as you struggle to breath, your vision is cloudy. All your sense draining from your body except for the feeling of his touch against your skin. 

“You couldn’t let me live in happiness couldn’t you? So I’ll take you with me and now, we can be happy together.” He says as he closes the distance between you both, engulfing you in a hug. Suddenly the coldness doesn’t bother you anymore. The life is slowly leaving you as he presses his forehead against you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he kisses you tightly. “With your death, I’ll accept your feelings since you couldn’t bare me loving someone else,” He says as your eyes shut once and for all, the water has long filled up your lungs and you are no longer alive and now Jaemin feels like both you and him can rest peacefully. 

Your unrequited love being accepted by him, once and for all. The only price you had to pay was with your life since you’d so greedily stole his. 

𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑽𝑬𝑫 ©︎𝑫𝑼0𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑬

[missingartist]

Fated Destiny

anonymous asked:

Hi can i request geralt x reader soulmate unwilling to find each other, you can do whatever you want for the story. I know this sentence mean a lot in the tv show ''people linked by destiny will always find each other''

Rating Mature- You have been warned

People linked by destiny will always find each other

The words etched into your skin since your birth. It burnt at first, even after a lifetime you could still remember the searing, the burning, the begging for it to end. The priestess had told you that it meant your bond was strong, the strongest they had ever seen. That had not been very comforting in your heats, with no lover or soulmate to pull you through; those times were harrowing and hard. Still, the priestess had been proud of a Valkyrie to have a soulmate, the stuff of dreams you were told. It made you almost laugh; you were never a romantic, a realist if anything, the scowled you received at the hands of the High Priestess herself were legendary. So few Valkryie receive such an honour and those who kept them after were few and far between. The High Priestess would repeat time and time again that destiny would prevail. Even now, you could clearly recall the sound of her voice as she bared down at you from her throne in the temple. When you ascended from Swan Maiden to Valkyrie, she had been destroyed that you chose to stay at the temple as advisor and teacher.

Staying in Valhalla was practical, there were so few of them remaining that they need sturdy teachers, who else could teach the old ways, then who would carry the slaughtered through to the next world, guard the weak and vulnerable, help the unfortunate. There were times you regretted it; you were not above the idea of love and a family, only a soul bond could grant that for a Valkyrie to free of her duties and allow the gods to grant fertility. Yet, sacrifices had to be made, and you would never had made a good soulmate, too much of a reader, too bookish, too dull. Those were the taunts that were whispered behind your back, the jeers and isolation who received at the hand of your so-called friends in arms, the other swan-maidens. So you remained in the temple bound to your duty, honouring the dying and the fallen.

But in saying that, sometimes you would fantasise. He would be a fierce warrior, skilled in his craft, bathed in blood and at the same time kind with a loving smile and warm arms that would encircle you. Your dreams kept you company in the lonely nights in the library, and that was enough because you knew, no matter what the books said about soulmate, it was romanticised, no one could love another like that, not even your parents, too afraid of her daughters mark to keep her, so instead offer her to the Temple of the Valkyrie.

‘Y/N…’ A voice called you back into the present as your friend, and mentor Edda entered the vast library, gliding across the marble in her white silk dress. Elegant and poised as ever, she had ascended when she was nearing 40, but she was easily one of the most beautiful maidens in the temple, graceful and slim bodied.

‘We have been called to the throne room; it’s the High Priestess, she has called an emergency meeting.’

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

‘Ahhhh Edda and Y/N so glad you could finally honour us with your presence.’ The High Priestess chirped, standing in the middle of the throne room.

Including you, 27 Valkyrie’s stood silently around the edge of the circular hall, some in temple dress of white silk and bright gold metal, hair twisted in place immaculately. Others, in armour, battle dress, plated metal and hardened leather, adorned with the finest steel swords and bows, glittered shield strapped to there backs. Both sides of the Valkyrie were so different. Light and dark. Life and death. Contrasting, but the different sides of the same coin.

‘My children…I fear our age is coming to an end. We have become less and less, humans kill us, haunt us when all we have done is serve them. Till we are the few that remain, if we perish then the Valkyrie is no more. I cannot allow this to happen. The humans have turned, just as they did with the Elfs. Kings mad with power deem themselves beyond us. Some have outlawed magic altogether, train witch hunters to track and kill all things magic. Our temple can stand no longer silent when our brother and sisters are tortured and burnt at the stake. Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza, has pleaded for our help and we can no longer linger at the side of the battlefield. We are Valkyries, shield maidens, defenders, and we do not hide. WE WILL fight. If any of you do not agree, go forth from my halls, I will hold no ill will. But daughters, I beseech you. Fight with me.’

Your eyes did not move from her, her golden hair shining in the light, creating a hallow around her as she moved. No one moved, no one breath till the High Priestess has a sharp nod and ascended the throne.

‘Men have forgotten what it is to be afraid. We will bring fear. Shall we begin?’ The voice of the High Priestess run out deadly across the room as you received your orders.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

With that you found yourself posted to the mortal lands, you still found yourself standing in awe as you past some wonder or another. Skellige had a savage beauty to it, dark greens and blues, mix with the earthy tones of browns and greys. The people for all their ferocious talk and gruff nature were warm and welcoming; few knew your true visage, but that didn’t seem to matter. They welcomed your help with open arms, clothed and feed you.

Your Pegasus, a pure white mare, its wings tucked secretly away at her side as she trotted merrily through the worn path. You had picked her personally from a litter, the runt; you had nursed it yourself, fed it day and night for weeks, will it was strong enough to train and since then you were inseparable. You had flown into battle with her, sprinted through meadows, guarded Kings with your faithful Pegasus at your side.

You had been travelling for days, across Skellige to reach here, the gates of Crach an Craite’s castle, Kaer Tolde. It stood tall and imposing above the sea and waves broke violently against the cliff wall. The stone was a dark grey, but vibrant green ivy climbed the stone, giving it an almost picturesque quality. You hated to admit it but coming to earth had made you realise how much you hate the pristine halls and celestial keeps, you like the imperfect, the grim and the grotesque. Nothing had to be perfect to be beautiful.

A tall, powerful man in traditional garb stood in the middle of the keep, a band of gold surrounded his head, making him almost King-like, a powerful Jarl to be sure.

‘Hail Virtuous Valkyrie, my home is yours for as long as you need.’ The Jarl stepped forward bowing nearly in respect.

‘I thank you, noble Jarl, but just Y/N is fine. My High Priestess thanks you for you tributes. I am at your service.’ You grinned as you stepped forward, clunch his forearm in a Northan handshake.

‘Ahhhhh you with your pretty words. Come I have had the maids prepare a room for you. There is someone I think you have been waiting a long time to meat ’ The jarl laughed as he gestured you into the castle.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The room was comfy, autumn colours warmed the room, while a fire softly roared by the hearth. It was not as grand as the rooms at the Temple, but in its rustic charms, it felt more homely than any rooms you had ever slept it. You made your way, thought the larges corridors to the feasting hall, it wasn’t hard to figure out where you were going, just follow the noise of roaring cheers that reverberated across the castle. The hall was full of merry people, laughing and cheering, songs rude enough to make a sailor blush. It was outrageous, and you loved it. Weiving you way through the crowd you pitched a flagon from a pasting steward toward your host, who stood in conversation with a group of white-haired men and a woman.

‘Ahhhh Geralt, Vesemir, Ciri this is Y/N, the Valkyrie I have the honour of hosting’ Crach beamed as he hoisted his horn aloft draining the vessel in one gulp, droplets of mead, gathering in his beard.

‘Greetings fair warrior maiden, humble Witchers are ever given such an honour’ the oldest man, bowed, revealing two swords strapped to his back, ever ready it would seem.

‘I have never met a Valkyrie before, is it true you ride a flying horse?’ The women Ciri grinned across at you, amused.

A laugh formed in your belly and escaped from your lip before you could fight it back, ‘It is, mine is called Slugger, he often has to roll with the punches, if you want you could come on a ride. She loves to show off. But the honour is mine; Witcher’s are famed throughout the hall of the temple they are very coveted, I believe many of my sisters have a favourite Witcher they protect and guard against harm.’ You teased, taking a sip of the honeyed mead, savouring the taste on your tongue.

‘Hmmm,’ the last Witcher hummed but remained silent, looking boredly at the floor.

‘I never realised you all had different coloured irises.’ You beamed before turned your attention to the silent man's eyes; they were a stunning amber, flecks of gold run through them, along with burnt oranges and saffrons.’ You smiled ‘Your eyes are beautiful.’

The group smiles vanished, replaced by shocked stares. You blinked quickly, eyes snapping from Witcher to Witcher. You had never meant a Witcher before; it had never occurred to you that they may have some kind of etiquette to them. From the tales that spread across the temple, they fought hard and played harder, any coined they earnt was spent on wine and women, they didn’t seem the kind of people easily offended.

Pursuing your lips in a quick apology they stopped as the Witcher’s lips twitched into something resembling a strained smile, it looked neither happy or unhappy just impassive.

‘People linked by destiny will always find each other.’ The man grunted, his bulky form vibrating at the sound.

A shiver through her body and to her core at the sound of his gruff tone. Immediately, your hand flew to cover your forearm, where your mark was held, just above the artery to her heart, in fear that your gauntlet had come off. The gauntlet that had covered your arm the last 50 years, shielding the mark from the world and you. The man's eyes didn’t leave yours as your thoughts raced a thousand miles a minute. The feeling you felt were conflicted, guilt for not find him sooner, for finding him and shattering what he had already made of his life. Happiness at not being alone, soulmates were meant to compliment the other physically and mentally, to meld into one to create the most potent force, unstoppable. A magnetism pulled you to him, powerful and commanding.

‘By the gods…. I never thought you would hear your word Geralt. You have no idea how much shit I used to give him about those words. Beautiful eyes….huh this grumpy bastard.’ The drunken Jarl boomed.

The other Witchers laughed and raised their drink; however, the ashen haired women observed you curiously, through light green eyes, cat-like, only distracted when behind you a couple of warriors began to brawl causing a chain reaction. Within seconds the whole room erupted in chaos, beer and mead splashed against the walls, teeth spilt out across the floor and the sound of flesh against flesh cracked across the room. Blade where unsheathed and the clash of metal pierced the air. By the time Ciri’s eyes came back to find you, you were gone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The roar of the fight had long ago since died down and the roar of laughed was once again back. Your feet aimlessly wandered the castle for the last hour; you weren’t really sure where or what you were doing, the only thing you could hear was his voice repeating your words over and over, like honeyed silk in your head. You never thought he would be this attractive, tanned marble skin paired with white hair pinned back revealing chiselled features. His body was 6ft5 of honed muscle, and in his armour, he was more than impressive, no wonder he was a favourite among the Valkyrie’s.

‘You know I’m not going to let you leave. Not till you let me ride Slugger. I don’t think Geralt would either, but I think he has a rather different idea of riding.’ Ciri’s voice cut through the chilly night air.

The young women sat cross-legged on a bench at the end of the hall. You stood hesitantly lingering in the middle of the hall observing her; she was expressive and kind, her face told everything. It was a gorgeous face, but her eyes were the main feature, framed in thick charcoal, with a smoky eye effect.

‘I never believed it when Crach said a Valkyrie had Geralt words. Apparently, your High Priestess is important to get you bonded.  Had to see it myself, never thought you would be so cool. Is that really a G'valchir sword- I heard they penetrated anything.’

‘It is, and it does. I'll let you practice with it later…perhaps we can spare tomorrow morning.’ You smiled tightly, coming closer.

‘I don’t think Geralt going to be letting you leave that room anytime soon. Don’t worry Crach removed everyone from this wing. I don’t think he wanted a raging Witcher roaming the halls. It's going to fun having you to hang around with.’ Ciri giggled, hopping off the bench and out the window.

The world had lost all normality. This morning you where a wandering Valkyrie, burden with aiding an uneven war and now you were confused. It couldn't be real, just some surreal daydream, fueled by a bad reaction to mead, you just need to sleep and tomorrow would back to normal. Soulbond forgotten. Pushing your way into your room, you fell against the back of the door and let out a puff of breath, as you removed your breastplate and threw it onto the bed, rolling your neck, groaning as you felt the stratifying clicks and began to unbuttoning your undershirt. Only stopping when you saw a mans armour on the dresser.

‘I thought you were going to run away, though I was going to have to track you down….I am a little disappointed not to have a hunt. I think that would start my rut off.’

Geralt of Rivia was lounging on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, shirt half-open, chest hair teasingly peaking out from a rock hard chest, just as tanned as his face. Why was he in your room?

‘What…What are you doing here? These are my rooms.’

‘Hmmm,’ The Witcher grunted.

You stood in silence for several more minutes, his eyes hungrily devouring you, his predator eyes taking in every inch of you, his head tilted to the side, giving you a beautiful view of his neck. Perfect to bite, to suck, to mark. You could feel a familiar tingle travel through her body; wetness pooled between your thighs as gazed down at him. You wanted to say something, anything, but every time you opened your mouth, no words would form.

Swallowing hard, you spoke. ‘What are you doing in my room.’

‘Our rooms. Crach had my things moved in while we were at the feast. Think he thought it was more…. convenient.’ The Witcher smirked as he raised himself up on one arm.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I stopped running. You can’t outrun destiny just because you’re terrified of it. I was coming for you. I have always been coming for you.’ Geralt purred, standing elegantly, his full height was impressive and intimidating, he crossed the room in two long strides.

You scrabbled across the bed and darted across to the fireplace. Now the light was to the back of you; his features were more prominent, highlighted by the flickering flames, that licked up the fireplace. Geralt’s shirt was now fully open, revealing the sheer power of his chest, perfectly toned by battles and training, the odd scar decorated his body. No wonder he was so converted, your sisters were going to be green with envy when they found out he was yours.

‘I…. We…You’

Before you mouth could catch up with your mind, you found yourself pin to the furs that laid across the floor in front of the blazing fire. The Witcher hovered over you, eyes searching your face, his large hands gripping your hips as the rest of his length held your body in place. Without hesitation, you curled your legs across his thighs and twisted, switching your position, your knees stretched to pin his hips to the floor, it was an easy advantage, from here you could place pressure on his weak point and for a brief moment escape. As you moved back, though the flimsiness of your riding pants you could fill his hardness pressing against your wet core. You had never felt anything close to this pleasure  from the briefest contact. You had tried to bring your self through the heats, the touches where only enough to stave off the pain for a short while, necessary but not pleasurable.

Biting your soft plush lip, you attempted to hold back a groan, as you moved again. Your grip loosened as you caught yourself gentle grinding against the Witcher. His hands slowly travelled up your thighs to rest on your round bottom, pushing his chest up and once against resting above her. You stared nervously up at him, all thoughts lost, he smelt like mint and spice, it overwhelms your senses. Geralt pulled back, peeling off his black undershirt and tossing it clear across the room. Your eyes following the masterpiece of his muscles as they moved. Tentatively, you let your hands brush across his skin with feathered touches, feeling his muscles tighten and relax under your fingertips.

‘I have never been with a man.’ Y/N gasped.

What sounded like a growl feel from his lips, as he kissed his way down your body ‘You are mine’ Kiss. ‘You are only ever gonna be mine’ Kiss. ‘ To kiss, to make love to, to fuck, suck,’ Kiss ‘to finger and touch’ Kiss ‘to tease and bring to the brink of ruination.’Kiss ‘Just like I am yours.’

The sight of the golden skin man between your legs was too much as sight to believe, his amber eyes pinned you to the plush fur as his rough fingers tore into the weak fabric of your cotton trousers. The sounds of ripping fabric were deafening and you couldn’t help but let a bright red blush as he caressed your features. No mortal man had ever seen you this bare, the only thing that covered you modestly was a pare of heeled riding boot and a half-opened shirt. Geralt made quick work of the boots, sliding them off your calf letting his fingers massage them and he removed them one by one, throwing them over his shoulder.

The Witcher shifted slowly pulling himself up your body; his eyes were dark with desire, he looked prima. The intensity of his look made you shift away, backwards, into the mound of pillows, the ashen haired man did not climb all the way up to you; instead his torso pinned your hips to the mattress, his strong hands shooting out to encircle your forearms pushing the down onto the bed, totally disabling any chance you had of escaping him. Geralt amber irises completely consumed black with lust eyes turned away from her a began to mouth any piece of skin he could, his hot tongue gliding across her flesh, teeth nipping and gnarling as he went. It was so gentle yet possessive; he groaned as he sucked the plump flesh of her stomach. Geralt nuzzled at you stomach before looking at her, directly into your eyes. You held his gaze, staring into the depths, of the emotion swirling in his honeyed orbs. Angry. Passion. Fear…Love. The outburst of raw emotion was unexpected; it made him look…vulnerable. Something you neer thought a Witcher to be.

Your lump pink lips parted to speak but instead he pulled hoarse cry from your throat instead. His free hand found your most sensitive area, your clit, swirling in the wetness that had already pooled between her legs. It was slow and playful as the tip of your finger mischievously teased your opening. It was a curious feeling, the need for something, anything was unfamiliar and terrifying, to yearn for something this badly. His middle finger sank down into your core. Bliss. It was a totally new sensation; a moan escaped your lips as his mouth suckling on your breast as his thumb teased your clit. Breathy moans escaped your mouth as he withdraw his finger almost entirely before plunging it back in, it was frantic, you felt raw with the to sensation it has made you slick and pliant to him, something he took complete advantage of. After a few more thrusts another finger curled within you, almost hitting the spot within you, the spot you knew he could feel. The stretch felt strange at; first; his fingers were large and thick, almost too much but still, you wanted more, something to build the burning arch that roared inside you. He shifted a little so he was on his side, still pinning you down with his body, angling his hand for better thrusts, his other hand still gripping your forearm, as your hand searched for anything to hold, something to ground you from the feeling bubbling under your skin. Finally, after what seemed like an age, her slender fingers found his muscly shoulders, she could feel his muscles flex beneath her fingertips as they dug into him.

‘Geralt!’ The tension in your stomach was close to breaking; you could feel it splintering at the force of his actions.

The Witcher rose on his knees taking in your flustered form, a panting mess beneath him. He shed his leather pants so quickly your eyes could not follow his movements. Now he was bare, a true warrior, all muscles and scars. You wanted to spend day upon days worships his body in the old ways, to guide him to the peak of divine pleasure but now his body caged you to the floor, as his black orbs swirled with lust.

His hard member rested heavily against you, thick and throbbing, he said nothing but slowly sank it deep into you with a swift and strong thrust. A feral groaned grunted through clenched teeth as his eyes fell closed, basking in the tight warmth that surrounded him. The pain was pierced through you; he was so thick you though he had split you in half, instinctively you tried to move away, to shift away from the dull pain but his hips kept you in place.

‘Breath…’ Geralt gritted out through clenched teeth. ‘Tell me to stop and I will’ The rough voice of the Witcher broke out in heavy puff, as he rested his forehead against you.

The pain subsided quickly to an ache, a need for you to move. Raising your hips, you felt Geralt shift, pulling back slightly and pushing back in, shallow thrusts hitting the sweetest spots. Wanton moans spurred Geralt, his hips picking up pace and force, withdrawing fully before slamming into you again.

A thin sheen of sweat covered your bodies, moans and grunts filled the room as the fire illuminated them, glancing down you watched with fascination as his cock pushed its way into her tight walls, it was the single most erotic thing you had ever seen. Geralt's thrusts became stronger and stronger, more iritic and with each movement inched you closer and closer to your release.

‘Geralt….’ Your eyes found his as you pleaded.

The Witcher shifted his weight on his elbow as he sank close, his cock grinding against your sweet spot, his free hand moving between your bodies to frantically play with your clit. His pace increased, desperate and needy as he chased their release. Your moans turned into screams as you felt the warmth fizzle in your stomach.

‘Yesssss, Gods, please….Geralt’ Your voice released a hoarse scream as your orgasm rolled through you. Above you, you felt his hips stutter into you, as his teeth bite down into you shoulder and his cock slammed into you once last time as he poured his seed into you.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

You awoke sometime later to find Geralt tracing the word on your arm, lazily. Contented eyes smiled up at you; his hair ruffled up in pleasant bed head.

‘Mmmmm this is nice’ you hummed and snuggled into him. ‘Things are going to get complicated now aren’t they.’ You sighed tucking you head onto his chest.

‘Hmmmmm’ Geralt grunted wrapping his arms around you, tightly.

Requests are open!

[ofthedarkestlight]

1日 - prompt #1: voracious

it can be short, they said. I`ll keep it short, she says four pages later, as always. 

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast music

rating: PG

warnings: none spoilers post DRK 50

“You`ve always got your nose in a book.” The blank look that Sid receives over the spine of a dusty tome revives one too many memories of the same visage against different backdrops. Of pale yellow eyes that could see right through him, disarming his senses until the tiniest of smiles cracked across that stoic mask.

But in the present, the pale simulacrum is replaced with vivid colour. Eyes like a polished amber stone with hair thin cracks running through it, the only shimmer being that of the flame threatening to flicker over the low wick of the candle. Kaoru didn`t have time to waste. Precious moments that could be spent better himself, making muscles taught and tear, flesh to rend and bleed.

It helped distract him from the ghosts that threatened to creep under his skin.

And after all, he wanted to become more like his late mentor. The one he was being silently compared to this whole time, even if everyone liked to pretend otherwise. Kaoru Lightheart.

A useless Dark Knight.

Even his own birth name tried to mock him for even attempting to harness the abyss. On top of that, attempting to emulate Fray Myste, the brave warrior who died fighting for what he believed in? 

A laughable endeavour. Somehow, the more hopeless it was, the more he felt the itch under his skin, the mania to drive himself right into the trap he was laying out for himself. Kaorus sighs, a gasp catching in his throat, forming a stitch in his side from how shallow his breathing had been until Sid decided to come knocking. 

Another turn of the page. Another piece of information devoured. 

Another step closer to being anyone but himself.

Sid can only shake his head. Another thing he can`t help but notice they have - had - in common. When something was wrong, just pretend it didn`t exist but forcing your way through over something you actually had control over. On occasion, if his vision blurs, Sid sees a reflection, and has to remind himself that Kaoru was simply a boy. There are many things it wouldn`t be fair for him to do, least of all force him to pretend he was someone else. 

Sid wishes he could do something more. Just as he wished he could do something more back then.

What holds him back is a simple thought: what gives him the gall to think he deserves to even take up such a space? What role does he play in this boy`s life? Was he a replacement for a mentor, as Kaoru was a replacement for a companion?

He shakes his head before these thoughts could devour him even further. He leaves Kaoru to it, knocking twice against the wood of the door of the Cloud Nine Innroom, letting him know he would be back. It was part of their little unspoken code that had developed over the scant few weeks they had known one another. Once was goodnight, and ten times was for the love of Halone, do you plan to sleep in until the Eighth Umbral Calamity, Kaoru?!

He passes by well after Rielle had gone to sleep only to see another book in Kaoru’s hands, his previous tome and yet another stacked haphazardly on the nightstand. The words catch in his throat as he thinks to say something, anything.

But instead he offers the single knock as his missive of goodnight.

--

“I told you we would be training today.” Sid scowls, watching Kaoru`s knees buckle as he trudges through the snow. His chainmail was skewed across the hip and his hair was tousled. “You stayed up to all hours again, didn’t you?” Kaoru had been avoiding getting any proper sleep, and the gods only knew for what reason; at any pressing, Kaoru would simply scowl like your organs were his next meal. “I have an insatiable appetite for reading.” Kaoru deadpans, a quiet nip at the heels that challenges Sid to bite back if he dared “More like you`re a glutton for punishment.” Sid grunts. Kaoru looks at him with that same steady gaze he`d been wearing since they met on that snow covered hill. A hyur boy who`s diminutive size betrayed how he was covered in blood, fixing Sid with a cold gaze. A scene he had seen many times before, but of a man with a slightly different face. 

The worst difference of all were the eyes. Despite being the cooler, calmer one of the two, Fray`s eyes always had a deeper fire burning within. Kaoru`s were so devoid of light, of anything even remotely resembling happiness. It stirs something within the knight, an emotion he thought has been long since buried.

Sometimes I wonder, am I a dark knight, or a babysitter? Kaoru quirks an eyebrow as Sid remains still for an uncomfortably long beat. It`s when he strolls over that Kaoru flinches instinctively, raising his arms to cover his face in fear. All the better for Sid, who loops an arm through and right around him, hoisting the hyur over his shoulder like a sack of popotos. “Wha-- hey! Put me down right now!” For the first time in a week does he hear a sense of urgency, a sense of any emotion in Kaoru`s voice. He feels the spark rumbling in Kaoru`s throat, and imagines what it looks like in his eyes.

He hopes to see it firsthand very soon. “I`m throwing you back in bed and chaining you to the bedpost if you so much as get up.” Sid proclaims matter of factly as he makes his way back up the steps to the Forgotten Knight. “I`d like to see you try.” Kaoru growls, weakly attempting to fight back. But with no sleep, he can barely budge a hair on the Xaela`s head. It`s clear that he`s fighting a losing battle, and with a huff, Kaoru gives up the ghost before letting his weary body droop against the broad shoulders of his new mentor. He`s far too tired to feel awkward about being tucked in for the first time in his life. It`s a strange, alien notion, but none too unwelcome as Sid fluffs the pillow behind him once before covering Kaoru with a blanket right up to his chin. “I`ll ask the innkeep for a glass of warm milk.” Sid scoffs as Kaoru`s eyes flutter closed. He waits for a few minutes, the five longest minutes of his whole life, before testing the waters.

Kaoru opens one eye, surprised to see that Sid is still there despite all of the protests and scowls he`d delivered since they`d met. He`s lucky he didn`t blink, else he would have missed Kaoru`s lips forming the most inaudible “thank you” that Sid has ever heard in his life.

[watolocke]

Watolock Royalty AU

This isn't a fanfic but more of a plot dump which I'm so fond of writing. Fair warning that it is very European/British-centric because I have zero knowledge of old Japanese royalty and wouldn't trust myself to write it with only a google search.  

There's homophobia and characterisation is WACK except not because they are being ROMANTIC. Not proofread lmao.

Wato Tachibana, timid & reluctant heir who has either been disinterested or completely put off by the men courting her.

Sherlock Futaba, royal gardener as well as a snarky perfectionist who is often spotted stalking the grounds, trimming hedges or caring for the flowers.

Sherlock used to be from a wealthy household but after the unexpected death of her parents, there was not much left behind for them. However, they were well-known high-class nobility and were offered occupation in the royal household.

While Kento is still following a prosperous career in government and politics, Sherlock prefers the atmosphere and lack of communication required in her job. Having a gorgeous princess around just sweetens the deal. There's also a level of freedom to it because as long as the plants don't become unruly Sherlock can plan her own work hours.

Wato loves the rose garden and manages to talk to Sherlock for short periods of time before being dragged off for more courting and royal duties. They always wave at each other from afar when Wato spots her through a window or in the palace halls.

Sherlock presents a beautiful rose to Wato each time they meet. Each time the colour grows more and more romantic.

When Wato somehow manages to sneak off for extended periods of time to spend with Sherlock, they talk and barely notice the time passing. Sherlock is able to tell Wato exactly what she did that day purely from her appearance, she also reveals some gossip she's picked up on the grounds and is endlessly funny whether she explicitly knows it or not. They explore the more secluded spots and Wato compliments Sherlock over and over on her garden work. A blind man can see how enamoured they are with each other.

Mrs Hatano is Wato's lady-in-waiting and close family friend to Sherlock. She's constantly on the end of both their pining and has to relay information back and forth for them both. She thinks they're cute though so she doesn't mind that much.

Wato finds out that Sherlock is particularly skilled in the cello and it is one of the only items she treasures after the death of her parents, though she has not played much since their untimely passing.

Sherlock promises to play for her in private but insists she sneak to her quarters before sunrise and so Sherlock plays a calm waking call at the crack of dawn and Wato leans against her bedframe, eyes half-lidded and expression soft. Sherlock plays with all the fervour she had pushed down over the years and they both kind of fall in love at that moment. (I love being cheesy because I'm gay and I make the rules!!!) Wato enveloped in all the emotion of Sherlock's music and Sherlock taking occasional glances of Wato's serene visage.

The tranquillity is soon broken by Wato remembering she has etiquette and language lessons first thing that morning and she rushes off frazzled and frustrated but sincerely thanks Sherlock for their calm morning spent together. Sherlock, of course, invites her back.

Visiting out of work hours soon becomes a regular event.

Sherlock and Wato have a shared love of knowledge. Soon Wato is visiting for secret, shared lessons in language proficiency. Wato has zero knowledge of French so Sherlock often drops in little pet names in passing and never tells Wato the actual translation.

One day Wato is complaining about her aching feet and how much of a klutz she is during her dance lessons. She's convinced that she and her partner just don't click whatsoever and he is incredibly imperious. Sherlock offhandedly mentions that she knows how to dance and would be happy to offer her services. In fact, it's probably the politest Sherlock has ever been to anyone in the royal household and Wato almost laughs.

Wato: You'd have to lead, don't be ridiculous!

Sherlock: What makes you think I can't lead?

Wato just shoots her this deadpan look and Sherlock steps forward hesitantly going to take Wato by the waist. Wato nods in agreement and although it gets off to a shaky start they are soon swaying elegantly in the small space they have. Wato looks up from the feet she's been glaring at, attempting to correctly count her steps. The moment she looks up she sees that Sherlock's eyes are locked on hers and there is a Moment (a big gay one too) where they are just so caught up in each other and a peaceful silence settles around them. Soon the faint sound of a maidservant calling for Miss Wato is heard and sounding more and more distressed the longer Sherlock and Wato ignore her.

Sherlock lets out a light laugh and slowly releases Wato from their stance, bowing deeply and remarking "Duty calls, Miss Wato."

At the crack of dawn on one of Wato's rare days off, she dresses and pulls back her hair hastily before any handmaids could appear. She manages to tear her stockings and throws an old gown over her undergarments before finally wrapping a long, worn coat around herself.

In the true manner of a temporary Royal Runaway, she hoists herself out of one of the lower windows following a practised path through the palace halls so as not to be interrupted. She almost slips on the final foothold but is caught by strong hands on her waist that place her gently on the ground. She flips around to see who it is while already knowing exactly who it would be.

Wato: [Raising her hand to her head in a mock swoon] Wow, my knight in shining armour!

Sherlock bows to her, as was habit when she came into contact with the princess but there was one difference this time. Sherlock takes a hold of Wato's hand and briefly brushes her lips across the back. Wato stands stunned for a moment before bursting into a quiet giggle. She playfully slaps Sherlock's hand off and grabbing her arm as Sherlock leads the way.

The absence of the princess is brushed off as it has become a regular occurrence for her to completely disappear on her days off only to reappear at supper to dine with her parents.

Through a flurry of trees, Wato is welcomed to a blanket and a small array of foods that Sherlock managed to put together from the kitchens.

Sherlock takes her hand helping her sit down and the two do mocking pompous accents. Sherlock pretends to be a suitor courting the young princess and the two play a blushing couple on a midnight tryst. Amidst their charade the facade slowly becomes truth. There are even moments when the two playfully feed each other and giggle, forcing down genuine blushes each time.

They spend the morning and late afternoon enjoying each other's company, laughing and straying into darker topics before edging back. Their hands brush on occasion and Sherlock finally covers Wato's hands with hers. This time Wato doesn't pull away.

Tracing her fingers softly against Wato's hand, they remain side by side, leaning into each other and breathing each other in. Both of them sat wishing it could be like this forever.

That evening Wato is particularly agreeable even if she does slip up on her table manners once or twice.

There are particularly perceptive members of staff that soon become suspicious of the shared glances between the two and how tired Wato appears during her lessons.

Mariko Irikawa, one of the main royal advisors, notices a change immediately and puts two and two together after hearing from Wato's learning assistants: "Her dancing is remarkable!" "Her language studies have improved greatly!"

She notices how joyful Wato has become and how she is now immersing herself in her studies (to impress and keep up with Sherlock who is a few years older than her) when she had been so reluctant beforehand. She's willfully participating in all her lessons and has apparently given up the "ridiculous" notion of joining a medical profession which is clearly a "man's profession". From a young age, she couldn't help being intrigued by the medical texts her father kept around.

Months into Wato's training as an heir, Mariko grows restless and is soon marching to the head of the household insisting that Wato finally accepts someone's hand in marriage, singing her praises and how she is fully prepped for marriage now. In fact, she knows the perfect man for the job!: Toru Moriya. An esteemed nobleman with a fine, renowned military past and passion in the arts. Highly recommended by all that know him.

The plan to wed Wato and Moriya has been in the making since the birth of the princess. If she hadn't been born the Irikawa family would have had the claim to the throne. That's why Moriya must win her heart or better yet, the throne next to her. At that point, a feebleminded girl like that shouldn't be hard to manipulate into doing Mariko's bidding.

Wato agrees to meet Moriya if only to placate her parents' ceaseless demands.

He's exceedingly charming in a way that is almost unsettling but for a naive royal, it's easy to overlook this. Wato even finds herself enjoying his company. For the sake of fairness, she resists the urge think of the person she knows she'd much rather be spending her time with.

At the insistence of Mariko, Wato's parents have multiple engagements organised so the two can continue to get to know each other.

Moriya attempts to impress Wato any way she can, breaching topics concerning art and his past. He prides himself on all the military achievements he's received at such a young age and hopes the shine of the celebratory metal will capture Wato's attention. 

Wato can only find it in her heart to halfheartedly listen and nod, not that he gives her all that much time to speak herself.

She is caught daydreaming one too many times to be considered coincidental but blames a bad night's sleep each time.

Mariko attempts to encourage and coerce Wato to accept Moriya's proposal, singing his praises and expressing all the benefits he would have on the kingdom but she can tell that Wato's interest is somewhere else altogether.

Falling victim to impatience, Mariko warns Wato's parents of the rapport that has been growing between the two women. She spreads rumours about Sherlock's previous indecent relations and how she will affect their daughter's eligibility. How it is "unheard of and unladylike!" 

Wato is confronted by her furious parents, demanding that she explain her actions. Her parents threaten to have Sherlock sent away to seek a different job, regardless of whether or not she is a friend of the family. Wato, unable to imagine Sherlock anywhere but within these palace walls, forgets any lessons she's learned concerning self-restraint and loses grip on her crumbling composure. 

She vehemently denies any accusations that imply they're more than friends. She lies in order to protect Sherlock and herself. She cries and begs her parents to allow Sherlock to remain. She's banned from conversing with Sherlock ever again. She accepts Moriya's proposal.

Sherlock waits up late every night and into the early hours, just hoping that Wato would come and see her again. Trying to decipher just where she has gone wrong this time. Wato has been virtually invisible on the grounds and there are adornments and preparations being made in front of Sherlock's very eyes.

Sherlock quickly takes in the reality of the situation and she is enraged and engulfed by heartache. She admits to herself that Wato never truly felt anything for her, that she was just a pastime. During an unplanned confrontation in a secluded courtyard, Wato can't find it in her to admit her sacrifices, knowing that Sherlock is volatile at best when it comes to overwhelming emotions. She can't risk her losing her occupation so Wato does the only thing she can think of: Yells in the face of Sherlock's and her own anguish.

Wato: Stop being so-- so JEALOUS!

Sherlock, quietly: [There's a smile on her face but her glassy eyes suggest she's anything but amused] Jealous? What's there to be jealous of? Him? [She lets out a rough laugh] You?

Wato: [Punching weakly at Sherlock's chest] You're insensitive! You're a brat! You're a... An insensitive brat! 

Sherlock, cruelly: How eloquent.

Wato: [Holding back tears badly] ...How could anyone ever love you?

Both of the women take a sharp intake breath and Wato quickly looks up at Sherlock with wide, apologetic eyes. Without a second thought, Sherlock takes off as quickly as possible and Wato can't find the strength, amid her anguish and frustration, to run after her.

Wato, yelling: So that's it? This is over?!

Sherlock: [Turning abruptly on her heels and walking back until her face is mere inches from Wato's] There was clearly nothing to end. [Giving a dramatic, mocking bow, taking a hold of Wato's left hand. She runs her fingertips lightly across before being interrupted and dropping the hand as if it burned] Goodbye, Miss Wato. Oh, and congratulations on the marriage.

The words spit off her tongue like poison and she runs as fast as she can in the opposite direction, even with the heels of her boots sinking in the wet grass caused by the surrounding downpour. (Yes, the confrontation happened in rain, this is a romantic drama!!!). Wato stands soaking through in the rain hoping that the mist of water will cleanse this feeling out of her.

That night a swarm of handmaids make a bold effort to console Wato between her heaving sobs. That night Sherlock silently lays too absorbed in her own dejection, holding everything back the way she always has. Mrs Hatano holds them both separately, remaining their one existing thread in such a harsh world.

So I'm leaving this on angst because it's long and I'm not sure there's any interest at all for me to post my brain dumps. I can guarantee you there’s a happy ending regardless. 

Feel free to let me know your thoughts or questions and if you want me to actually give up my (admittedly cheesy) ending lmao.

[hilariously-infuriating]

So here’s a small piece of shit writing I’ve been working on since 34829 BC and finished hastily just now. It’s about my rwby OC Alice and his sort-of-backstory. He’s a lot younger in this than he’ll be in present-time canon. If this is somehow interesting to someone lmk I might write/post more

disclaimer: a lot of the lore in this is not canon and I really hope rt doesn’t ever publish lore that completely contradicts my fanon hhghghh

Alice sat on the countertop, fiddling absentmindedly with a bullet casing he’d found in the streets during midday. The dim lamplight above reflected against its scratched, brass surface, giving off an amber glow. It was growing dark out, and the streets were being emptied of carts and stands, people eagerly returning to their homes and families after a long day of work. In the lower levels, however, the nightly routines of Mistral’s less reputable were just about to commence. The bars and clubs would soon open their pearly gates, marking the start of a night of carousing and merriment with loud music and bright, radiant lights. Though cleverly hidden behind that veil of debauchery and delight was the real point of interest of Mistral’s nightlife: The underground. A nocturnal hub of for gangs, black market merchants and other less savoury types. The door to the shop opened with a creak, letting in a chilly breeze. Alice looked up, forgetting the casing as he put it down on the counter. It was past closing time, and the shop owner said he wasn’t expecting anyone else for tonight. Unease started brewing in Alice’s gut as he looked to the unexpected visitor who had barged in without greeting nor invitation. He was high in stature, yet far from lanky. His rugged features and worn, dark attire gave Alice the impression that the man wasn’t from the higher levels, more so resembling an outlaw than an honest citizen. With heavy footfalls thumping across the wooden floorboards he neared, the amber lamplight illuminating his aged visage. He did no more than glower at Alice, who subconsciously withdrew into himself in response. “Shop’s closed,” Alice uttered, putting on an assertive tone despite his uneasiness. The man didn’t seem fazed at first, but then two aureate eyes widened in surprise. A burst of gruff laughter suddenly escaped him as he hunched forward slightly, holding a gloved hand to his stomach. His laughter withered as hurried footsteps neared the two, and Alice turned to see Everett emerging from the back room with a stark face that shifted as soon as he recognised the stranger. “Auric! What a surprise,” he smiled warmly at the newcomer, settling behind the counter close to Alice. Without a word of warning he carefully grabbed Alice under his shoulders, hoisting him from the countertop to beside him. Though he put up a neighbourly expression, Alice couldn’t help but feel the other felt as unsettled as he did. Auric returned the gesture with a smarmy grin on his patchy bearded face as he leaned against the counter. “What brings you here?” Everett inquired. “I just thought I’d drop by and see if the rumours were true,” Auric responded, leaning over slightly to gawk at Alice, “The most respected and respectable weapons manufacturer of the underground taking in some lowly street rat. Never imagined you’d be a family man.” Everett’s face fell slightly at the man’s crudeness, but Auric evidently ignored his discomfort. “So,” he started jovially, “What’s her name?” Alice stepped forward just as Everett’s warning hand came to rest against his chest, effectively silencing him before he could protest. “His name is Alice,” Everett answered evenly, not paying any mind to Alice’s inward bristling. “Hah! Even his name sounds like a girl’s,” Auric laughed with a mischievous glint in his serpentine eyes, “Are you sure he isn’t one? Did you check?” Everett was entirely unamused by the other’s jest as he dropped his friendly façade, crossing his arms defensively. Auric stilled, then sighed as his shoulder sagged slightly. “Always so serious, Fox,” he grumbled, reaching into his coat. As the fabric creased, Alice caught a glimpse of shiny gunmetal holstered at the man’s belt, and he abruptly grabbed onto Everett’s apron as fear shot up his throat. Everett shot him a concerned look as the man across the counter merely pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket, giving Alice a playful smile as if he’d noticed his short-lived panic. A lighter as golden as the man’s eerie eyes chimed as a small flame lit up Auric’s shadowed face. He then offered a cigarette to Everett, but the man refused, pulling a face. “Say, Fox,” his tone changed as he pocketed the packet, smoke wafting up lazily from the lit end of his cigarette, “Are you serious about this?” “What do you mean?” Auric took a drag, his expression turning solemn. “The kid,” he replied, “He’s not going to last out here, with you. You’d be better off giving him to the madam; at least then he’ll have a chance to get by.” The very air seemed to grow heavy as Everett tensed visibly, a strange silence filling the shop. It seemed to bounce off the walls, permeating the ever-present buzzing of the lamp above. “…Don’t say such things,” Everett uttered, barely audible. “Face it,” Auric chided, pulling back, “If he stays here, one day he’ll be swiped from under your nose and sold all the same. That, or he runs in with a bad crowd and gets himself addicted, imprisoned or killed.” Alice had never seen Everett in such a state of silent fury, and it was almost terrifying as he saw the man’s fist curl without a sound, knuckles a stark white colour. “I won’t let that happen,” Everett stated, as if pure conviction could make it so. Alice didn’t dare say a word, holding onto the dirtied fabric of Everett’s apron like a lifeline. He wanted to believe it was the truth, but Auric’s unchanged, annoyed expression told him otherwise. Auric relented, a tired sigh torn from his throat. He held up a hand as if to signal his defeat, smoke swaying in the air. “You’ve always been a stubborn piece of shit, Fox.” The scathing remark bore no aggression, but rather an almost affectionate tone that Everett wasn’t used to hearing from the other. Nevertheless, he stood his ground. He wasn’t going to hand Alice over to anyone. After taking another drag from his cigarette, Auric reached for his belt, unholstering the sizeable handgun from before and placing it on the countertop, along with a few bills. “The damn thing’s been jamming on me, that’s all. I’ll stop by later to pick it up.” After fruitlessly waiting for a reply that never came, Auric rolled his eyes, turning and walking with thumping footsteps towards the exit. Everett followed him with a steely gaze, unresponsive when Alice tugged at his apron. Just before the door, Auric halted, giving a sideways glance to the two behind the counter. “One last word of advice,” he said, “While these streets are safer than most places, one of my men told me the traffickers seem to be on the rise again. Watch yourself, and Alice, too.” The door opened and closed, a faint chill creeping up Alice’s spine from the nightly air. Everett seemed to snap out of a trance as he turned to him, crouching down and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. The shop owner looked somehow older than normal, a tiredness visible behind his dark eyes. “I’m… Sorry about that. Auric means well, but he can be kind of uncivilised.” He uttered apologetically. Alice shook his head in response. “That’s okay. He’s kind of mean, though.” The other smiled lightly at him, giving his shoulder an assuring squeeze. “Agreed. There’s lots of people like him here, but he’s one of the better ones. Now, it’s high time for bed, young man.” Alice pouted, but complied anyway, stepping in to give Everett a hug before pulling back and walking towards the back room. “Alice,” Everett called out to him before the other exited the room. He turned with curious, doe-like eyes directed at the shop owner. “I’m sorry, but you can’t go outside for the time being,” he said with a face that contorted at his own words, “Not on your own, at least. I hope you understand.” Although he didn’t, Alice hummed in compliance, giving Everett a smile that he hoped would comfort him. “Good night, Everett.” “...’Night, Alice.”

[otak-me]

CONSTELLATIONS CHAPTER 4: AQUARIUS

CONSTELLATIONS INDEX

CHAPTER 3: APUS

THE SOUND OF RAIN was echoing throughout the house, the pleasant scent of wet pine needles staining the corridors.

Large droplets of water cascaded down the windows in glimmering streaks of grey, reflecting the light and casting shadows on the furniture within the forest cottage.

In the fireplace dancing orange flames sat, eating away at the chunks of dead wood, warming the room considerably, and casting a yellow hue on the man who laid asleep on the couch.

Green eyes not unlike emeralds cracked open sleepily, the cause of such a stir being a loud POP from the embers that danced with the flames within the fireplace.

A short, shuddering breath outwards drew the man’s mind to wake, his chest aching with the exhalation of air. His emerald green eyes suddenly shot widely open, darting around to gaze at the room in alarm.

This was not a familiar sight at all, and he does not remember ever moving from his place by the tree.

He cursed in his mind.

He had fallen asleep at the base of the tree.

If that was so, then where the Hel was he?

Attempting to sit up, his body screamed in protest, pain lining every fibre of his being. He hell back on his elbows, his shoulders creaking in agony.

“Ah, I see Mr. I Fall Asleep In The Middle Of The Night, Outside In The Freezing Cold has awoken. Did you sleep well?”

The velvety voice caused the man to snap his head to face the source of the sound, a shrieking pain tearing up his neck, to the centre of his head.

His eyes slammed closed, preventing any tears from escaping his eyes, and the person that the voice belonged to walked into his line of sight, looking down on his pain stricken face. Her facial features contorted into an expression of concern, her eyebrows knitting together and rising on her forehead.

The man’s eyes cracked open after a moment of deep breathing, and he surveyed the woman that was standing in front of him’s features.

Her skin was a pale, almost grey colour, the exceptions being her rosy lips and pink fingertips.

She was donned in loose-fitting garments, the knitted wear hanging from her petite frame, and losing her form.

She was wearing tight-fitted black pants, and was barefoot.

Her toes were tinged the same pink as her fingertips.

Her eyes were a startling silver, framed by thick, dark lashes.

Her hair contradicted her visible age, surprisingly grey in value, with a silver sheen that reflected in the light. It was tied up into a messy bun at the top of her head, locks falling out here and there.

The man’s emerald eyes narrowed, “Where am I?”, completely ignoring the question that the woman had posed to him.

The pale woman’s face relaxed, and fell into a deadpan. Leaning back onto her left foot -some hair falling out of the bun- and crossing her arms, the woman licked her lips, “My loungeroom.”

The man growled, “Which realm?” He spat out, gritting his teeth and flexing his jaw in irritation, his eyebrows knitting together frustratedly.

The woman’s head cocked to the side slightly, the light streaming in from the window catching her silver irises, giving them a glowing look, her face softening slightly in curiosity. His eyes scanned her pale skin for a moment, then flashed back to her eyes, growling under his breath when she didn’t reply immediately, “TELL ME!”

The woman’s lips contorted into a tiny smirk, “Tonantzin, Pachamama, Hou Tu, Erda, Terra Mater, Bhuma, Dìqiú, jörðin, υφήλιος, Talamh, Mi��garðr, Earth.” She twitched her fingers on her arm in a wave formation, her face twitching in amusement, “Although I may verbalise many more forms for it if you so wish.”

The man’s face dropped into a slightly dumbfounded, slightly horrified expression, his eyes widened, face slack, “Miðgarðr.” He breathed out in astonishment, his eyes glazing over, no longer looking at the woman standing in front of him, “Miðgarðr of all places.” His mind wandered to his last time on Miðgarðr, and how terribly it had affected him for the future to come.

Breaking from his straying thoughts, he looked back at the woman who stood above him, and hissed, “Why are you smiling, mortal?” The woman’s smirk twitched a tad higher, and her eyelids drooped in amusement, “Miðgarðr, eh? It’s not often that you meet someone more familiar with the term than Earth.” The woman leaned forward, leering over the man slightly intimidatingly, making him visibly tense,

“Which realm are you from, sir?”

The man’s slightly frizzy hair shifted as she breathed the last word over his face heavily.

His eyes narrowed in anger, blazing in fury.

How dare this puny mortal stand above him with such a smug expression?! Trust, she did not know of his identity or social standing, and his body was in such a vulnerable state, but did she not at least feel a little bit intimidated by his tone of voice?

He calmed himself, he would not be angered by her. He was better than to disrespect a woman in such a way, even if she was but a mere mortal.

Calming his heart rate, and softening his features, he tilted his chin up, looking down his nose at her in an authoritative way, “I am Loki of Asgarðr, and you will respect me, mortal woman."

The woman's eyebrows slowly lifted on her forehead, and she stepped away, her facial features contorting into a visage of surprise.

After a few moments of her scanning him up and down, she met his eyes again, her head tilting slightly to the left, “…Then that would make you a god, would it not?”

A narcissistic smirk lilted onto his lips, “Indeed, mortal. I am a God. So, therefore, I am of higher status than you, and you must bend to my will.” His face slightly mirrored the glee that bubbled within his chest.

Yes! He would finally be able to be of higher social status-

His thoughts were cut off by the woman staring at him with a disinterested expression, “In Asgarðr you may have been classified as a Prince, but be reminded of where you are currently resting. I am the owner and ruler of this estate, and if you think that you hold any authority what so ever whilst housing here, you are going to be sorely disappointed.”

The green eyes of the man narrowed in contempt, returning his irritated sneer to his features, “Now listen here, mortal woman-”

But the woman cut his impending speech off, “No, you listen here, your highness. I am the one who brought you to safety. I am the one who provided you with a dry, warm residence. I am the one who protected you, the person who attempted to steal the world to rule no more than a year ago, from TWO packs of wolves that so easily could have torn you apart whilst you were asleep against that tree,”

The man’s face contorted into a slightly confused expression, but the woman continued, “So I do believe that you owe me at least some respect, because if I had not carried you back here, then you would either be dead, or worse. Now, are you hungry?"

Her tone did not shift from scolding, which made Loki have to do a double take.

Stammering slightly he replied, taken off guard by her sudden change of conversation topic, "U-uh, yes. I am famished."

The woman nodded sharply, then turned and walked to the kitchen, "Good," she called from the room connected to the lounge, "Because I was just in the middle of making a double batch of pancakes."

Quiet sizzling could be heard from the kitchen, and now that his other senses had been awoken, he could smell the delicious waft of frying batter that emanated from the kitchen. His stomach gurgled loudly in enthusiasm to the mouth-watering scent off the sweet breakfast food, and his eyes closed in reply to the pain that ached from his stomach.

A few minutes later, the woman’s figure approached him with a tray of food. A white plate sat in the centre, a pile of five pancakes on it.

Beside the pancakes were a set of shiny silver cutlery, and along them laid three small cups of what looked to be different fruit juices. On the left were eight small bowls of various toppings, the contents of each bowl being: Butter, Lemon juice, Nutella, Sliced strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, raspberry jam, maple syrup, and a scoop of icecream.

The woman placed the tray down on the coffee table in the centre of the room, and approached the man, bending over and moving to slip a hand behind his back.

Loki’s body tensed up, and he hissed, swatting her hand away, “What do you think you’re doing!?” His voice raised into a yell, causing her to roll her eyes at his dramatics.

She licked her lips subconsciously, “I’m helping you sit up.” His eyes narrowed into a sneer, “I can sit up by myself, woman.”

Said woman’s face fell slack, completely disbelieving his statement, “Please. Spare me your lies, Loki. Your pain is more than debilitating. You are barely able to lay as you are without breathing causing you pain.”

His eyebrows twitched at her knowing what she did, and she continued, “Let me help you.”

He begrudgingly obliged to her wishes, and allowed her to slip her arm behind his back, her fingertips dancing lightly across his side, causing unsettling goosebumps to raise on his flesh underneath the shirt. Hoisting him up softly, yet swiftly, a surprisingly easy task for her thin arms to achieve.

His torso became straight as he groaned softly at the movement, his legs bending to accommodate for his position unhappily.

Once Loki was in a satisfactory position, the woman slid her arm out from behind him, and walked back over to the tray on the coffee table, picking it up carefully, as to not spill any of the liquids, and brought it over the main sitting on the couch. She bent over evenly, softly kneeling, laying the tray on the lap of the man.

Pointing to each of the toppings she explained, “Each of these go on top of the pancakes. Those,” She pointed to the juices, “Are fruit juices. Tell me if you want more of them, because I have three large jugs of them in the fridge.”

She then stood up, and smiled softly, “Hopefully this quells the pain in your stomach.”

The black-haired man nodded his head shortly, not really knowing what to say in reply.

CHAPTER 5: AQUILA

Word count: 1785

[crainiisms]

@defextivelernaean & @crainiisms / cleo + finn

"take my hand ... take my whole life too .. .. for I can't help, falling in love, with you"

[metalpiratequeen]

Headcanon: Smiling Lazarette

All Pirate Captains are given some sort of moniker on their wanted posters. These nicknames are usually generated by the public and best describe the characteristics of the pirate in question. Lazarette’s title, ‘Smiling Lazarette’ is a very unusual monkier because anyone who has met Lazarette knows she rarely, if ever, smiles (unless she is courting some sweet thing at a bar).

Her moniker has some interesting origins. When she denounced all previous ties to the Autobots and instead pledged her allegiance to the Star Seekers in their fight against the capital, she wasn’t really well known outside of being just another traitor. After their failed assault on the Capital where her Captain, Lady Auxiliary, was killed in battle, something snapped in Lazarette that day. 

The black flag is the most common colour for a pirate ship, but there are different colours and each one has a different meaning. Hoisting the black flag (or transmission in this case) simply means danger. The enemy ship intends to cause harm to any passing vessel, but as long as the passengers do not fight back or get in their way then they will not come to any harm.

Red means death.

After inheriting the Damned Doradus, Lazarette went on a killing spree, ambushing any military Autobot vessel and butchering the crew who begged for their life’s. Her designation became infamous, as did the video feed of her cutting down high ranking officers, her frame soaked in freshly spilt energon and her visage wearing a twisted smile as she broadcasted a warning to all spaceships to never invade Star Seeker territory, or she would gut them just like the rest. This single act forever labelled her as Smiling Lazarette.

Stellarcycles have gone by since that day and Lazarette is unable to escape the reputation she built for herself. She is ashamed of how she acted so poorly in her youth, behaving like a madman, killing without honour or respect for her opponents, and sullying the name of Lady Auxiliary when she should have been honouring it.

Lazarette still cringes at the sight of her old wanted poster, even to this day, and has never risen the red flag since. She refuses to kill without reason, and will always give someone the chance to surrender, but even her many attempts to move on from her bloody history and instead be viewed as a fair and just Captain, she still cannot escape that twisted smile.

[artificialqueens]

Trixie and Katya reenact classic movie scenes ~ Hobnob

A/N: Heres some Ruveiws from my avid readers!

“Bit shit but not unbearable” -The Times “Id just go watch the movies honestly” -Daily Mail

“I just came to buy some hobnob biscuits but i ended up here. whats a Rupaul?” -Dorris ~

Blade runner (1982)

Trixie’s slipping. Her fingertips clasp at an iron bar slick with rainwater and she’s slipping. Her knuckles go white as she strains her throat, but only breathless cries can escape.

She looks below momentarily. Through the darkness specks of everyday life are still moving. Corner store signs surge with light as they flicker enticing colours, contrasting with the cold concrete below. Trixie looks back towards her saboteur. The one who put her in this predicament.

Katya towers over Trixie, her eyes flared. The lighting Ruveals half of her face as two cold pupils pierce through the darkness. Her face is pasted with blood, dripping down her nose and chin. The steady beat of rainwater lashing down is mimicking Trixie’s heartbeat as her grip loosens.

“Quite an experience to live in fear isn’t it.” Katya says, eyes fixated. Her expression is deadpan. Trixie lets out yet another cry, a mix between pleading and sheer exhaustion. “Thats what it is to be a drag queen.” She continues.

Trixie strains. The rain feels heavy as droplets seep into her clothes. Her hand slips and flails to the side of her, giving way to aching muscles. Katya widens her mouth into a grin, yet there’s no emotion behind her expression. That awful smile. There was no hope in that smile.

A single hand claws at the iron for any kind of leverage in pure desperation. Trixie grits her teeth and lets out a sob. Her body spasms and her fingers slip as the only thing keeping her from death gives way to weakness.

She falls. Her eyes are scrunched shut. A few moments pass and Trixie doesn’t feel her stomach drop.

Looking back up she notices a hand wrapped around her wrist. It stings as the clasp tightens. Trixie lets out broken sobs as she feels herself being slowly hoisted up to the roof. Her breathing is erratic. She wheezes, the effects of the adrenaline subsiding.

Was this just the continuation of some sick game? Prolonging the inevitable? Katya is clenching her teeth, She inhales, hand shaking whilst she lifts the entirety of Trixie’s weight.

Trixie is thrown to the floor of the roof, fully in tact. Rationality kicks in and she looks over to Katya, who is closing in now. Her movements are slow. Trixie finds herself shuffling her back into a wall, completely slumped over. She tries to lean up but finds herself slipping on the surface, breathing still shallow.

Katya paused. She took a moment before sitting down in front of the blonde. The neon sign behind her casted a silhouette over Trixie as she found herself face to face with the person that had just put her on the ledge of a roof.

No. Trixie didn’t see any desire for killing behind Katya’s eyes. She looked contented. Her expression was soft as the rainwater ran along her face in a steady stream, mixing with the blood seeping from her body. She was sat cross-legged, fixing a gaze with the breathless queen.

There was a moment of silence before Katya spoke.

“I’ve seen things…things you people wouldn’t believe.” She began, letting out a small chuckle. Her voice was soft.

“Lip syncs on fire off the shoulder of Brighton. I watched fierce drag jewels glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser pub…” She continued, never breaking eye contact. Trixie was still mid writhe, frozen in position as she hunched over the wall, mesmerised by the sincerity of Katya’s words.

“All those moments will be lost in time, like tears…in rain.” Katya spoke. She had to choke out the last part. Her gaze turned to the floor and she allowed a small smile to part her lips.

Trixie scanned Katya’s face. She felt comfort. Her eyes we’re being held like she were some sort of hypnotist. Katya’s body begins to sway, delirious.

“Time to die”

Katya hung her head. She went silent.

Trainspotting (1996)

Trixie lay in bed, experiencing the junky limbo. Too tired to sleep. Too ill to stay awake.

She tossed under the sheets for any shred of comfort she could find, but the cold sweat kept pouring. The room began to crack and distort, elongating its structure and walls. The withdrawals were setting in, putting her in a indescribable state of nausea and agony. Yet, she was going through this in the most mundane of places. Her bed.

Trixie paused for a moment. She inhaled deeply and looked to the ceiling. This was only the beginning, and it was already near unbearable. She kept hold of the bedsheets tightly for some tie to reality.

It began to set in.

Hallucinations right at the foot of her bed as she poured buckets of sweat. Her head rolled from side to side, eyes red. Everything she was burnt and she wanted to eject her stomach straight through her mouth.

Trixie saw Tammie brown sat at the end of her bed, chanting old verses from songs she used to listen to. She took the opportunity to try and sleep to the sound of her own mind-forged nostalgia. She was still convulsing and spasming under the weight of her own breath.

The queen at the end of her bed was replaced by a knock at the door. Trixie jerked her head upwards. The room was short again, less winding. Her parents walked in, tray of food in hand. Wether this was still part of the hallucinations was unbeknownst to Trixie.

They looked over her sadly, eyes half lidded. They looked tired too as her mother popped the tray beside Trixie. She continued to roll in agony clasping at her flesh as they left the room and bolted up the doors.

The convulsions were getting violent. She threw herself under the sheets in an attempt to escape anything else she might see. Instead she was greeted by Tatianna as her mind played sick tricks on her.

“Well, this is a good laugh, you fucking useless bastard. Go on, sweat that shite out of your system, because if I come back and it’s still there, I’ll fucking kick it out.” Tatianna said flashing a smile, taunting Trixie.

She yelled, yanking her covers over the visage of Tatianna. She began to sob broken cries as she buried her face in the sheets, spitting and clawing herself into the fabric. She bit her teeth into the pillowcase.

Trixie knew if she turned around now, all she’d see was more hallucinations, but temptation got the better of her.

On the roof Katya was crawling directly above her. She was babbling in nonsense as she crawled closer and closer. Trixie was shaking her head and scrambling through the bedsheets. Katya made her way towards her. The sheets clung to Trixie like an extra later of skin, constricting her movements.

She let out a scream. Katya began twisting her head. She was above her now. Trixie kept her eyes scrunched shut as she continued to bawl.

Katya’s head had fully rotated, and stared right into her subconscious. Fucking acrobats.

Toy story (1996)

“According to my navi-computer, the–”

“Shut up!” Katya hushed with an angry tone, flailing her arms. “Just shut up, you idiot!”

“Katya, this is no time to panic.” Trixie spoke calmly, furrowing her brow at katya.

“This is the perfect time to panic! I’m lost!” Katya retorted, taken back by the other’s words. “and it’s all your fault!”

“My– My fault? If you hadn’t pushed me out of the window in the first place!” Trixie yelled, reciprocating Katyas anger and pointing a finger at her.

“Oh, yeah? Well, if you hadn’t shown up in your stupid little sunglasses…and taken away everything that was important to me-”

“Don’t talk to me about importance.” Trixie said, clearly insulted. “Because of you, the security of this entire Ru-niverse is in jeopardy!”

“What? What are you talking about?” Katya spoke in sheer confusion, raising her arms.

Trixie began to walk, turning her gaze towards the full moon dramatically. “Right now, poised at the edge of the galaxy, Santino Rice has been secretly building…” She began reaching her hand towards the sky. “a weapon with the destructive capacity to annihilate an entire planet.”

Katya waked over to where she was stood. Astounded at the others stupidity.

“I alone have information that Ruveals this weapon’s only weakness. And you, my friend, are responsible for delaying my rendezvous with Rupaul!”

Katya paused for a moment before completely loosing it.

“You are a toy! You aren’t the real Trixie mattel! You’re a–Uh, you’re a doll!”

“You are a sad, strange little man, and you have my pity. Farewell.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, good riddance, ya loony.”

[makerof150papermasks]

Hamlet Mariofied Act 3 Scene 4

Bolded names refer to the Mario characters playing the roles. The character role names remain the same in the context of the play and its dialogue.

Peach = Gertrude

Kamek = Polonius

Mario = Hamlet

Donkey Kong = Ghost

Act III, Scene 4

The Queen’s closet.

Enter Peach and Kamek Tune of Mushroomy Kingdom.

Kamek. He will come straight. Look you lay home to him.

Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with,

And that your Grace hath screen'd and stood between

 Much heat and him. I'll silence me even here.

Pray you be round with him.

Mario. [within] Mother, mother, mother!

Peach. I'll warrant you; fear me not. Withdraw; I hear him coming.

[Kamek hides behind the arras.]

Enter Mario. Play Castle Theme from Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island.

Mario. Now, mother, what's the matter?

Peach. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

Mario. Mother, you have my father much offended.

Peach. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

 Mario. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

Peach. Why, how now, Hamlet?

Mario. What's the matter now?

Peach. Have you forgot me?

Mario. No, by the rood, not so!

  You are the Queen, your husband's brother's wife,

And (would it were not so!) you are my mother.

Peach. Nay, then I'll set those to you that can speak.

Mario. Come, come, and sit you down. You shall not budge;

You go not till I set you up a glass

 Where you may see the inmost part of you.

Peach. What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murther me?

Help, help, ho!

Kamek. [behind] What, ho! help, help, help!

Mario. [draws] How now? a rat? Dead for a ducat, dead!

 Makes a pass through the arras and kills Kamek. 

Kamek. [behind] O, I am slain! Game over music from Super Mario World 2: Yoshi’s Island commences as Kamek dies.

Peach. O me, what hast thou done?

Mario. Nay, I know not. Is it the King?

Peach. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!

 Mario. A bloody deed- almost as bad, good mother,

As kill a king, and marry with his brother.

Peach. As kill a king?

Mario. Ay, lady, it was my word.

Lifts up the arras and sees Kamek. Cue Castle Music from New Super Mario Bros.

 Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!

I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune.

Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger.

Leave wringing of your hands. Peace! sit you down

And let me wring your heart; for so I shall

 If it be made of penetrable stuff;

If damned custom have not braz'd it so

That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

Peach. What have I done that thou dar'st wag thy tongue

In noise so rude against me?

 Mario. Such an act

That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;

Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose

From the fair forehead of an innocent love,

And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows

 As false as dicers' oaths. O, such a deed

As from the body of contraction plucks

The very soul, and sweet religion makes

A rhapsody of words! Heaven's face doth glow;

Yea, this solidity and compound mass,

 With tristful visage, as against the doom,

Is thought-sick at the act.

Peach. Ah me, what act,

That roars so loud and thunders in the index?

Mario. Look here upon th's picture, and on this,

 The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.

See what a grace was seated on this brow;

Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;

An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;

A station like the herald Mercury

 New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill:

A combination and a form indeed

Where every god did seem to set his seal

To give the world assurance of a man.

This was your husband. Look you now what follows.

 Here is your husband, like a mildew'd ear

Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?

Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,

And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes

You cannot call it love; for at your age

 The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,

And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment

Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have,

Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense

Is apoplex'd; for madness would not err,

 Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thrall'd

But it reserv'd some quantity of choice

To serve in such a difference. What devil was't

That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind?

Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,

 Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all,

Or but a sickly part of one true sense

Could not so mope.

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,

If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones,

 To flaming youth let virtue be as wax

And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame

When the compulsive ardour gives the charge,

Since frost itself as actively doth burn,

And reason panders will.

 Peach. O Hamlet, speak no more!

Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul,

And there I see such black and grained spots

As will not leave their tinct.

Mario. Nay, but to live

  In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,

Stew'd in corruption, honeying and making love

Over the nasty sty!

Peach. O, speak to me no more!

These words like daggers enter in mine ears.

No more, sweet Hamlet!

Mario. A murtherer and a villain!

A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe

Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings;

A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,

 That from a shelf the precious diadem stole

And put it in his pocket!

Peach. No more!

Enter Donkey Kong in his nightgown. Initiate Gangplank Galleon. 

Mario. A king of shreds and patches!-

 Save me and hover o'er me with your wings,

You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?

Peach. Alas, he's mad!

Mario. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,

That, laps'd in time and passion, lets go by

 Th' important acting of your dread command?

O, say!

DK. Do not forget. This visitation

Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.

But look, amazement on thy mother sits.

 O, step between her and her fighting soul

Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works.

Speak to her, Hamlet.

Mario. How is it with you, lady?

Peach. Alas, how is't with you,

 That you do bend your eye on vacancy,

And with th' encorporal air do hold discourse?

Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;

And, as the sleeping soldiers in th' alarm,

Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements,

 Start up and stand an end. O gentle son,

Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper

Sprinkle cool patience! Whereon do you look?

Mario. On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares!

His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to stones,

 Would make them capable.- Do not look upon me,

Lest with this piteous action you convert

My stern effects. Then what I have to do

Will want true colour- tears perchance for blood.

Peach. To whom do you speak this?

 Mario. Do you see nothing there?

Peach. Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

Mario. Nor did you nothing hear?

Peach. No, nothing but ourselves.

Mario. Why, look you there! Look how it steals away!

My father, in his habit as he liv'd!

Look where he goes even now out at the portal!

Exit Donkey Kong. Composition of the boss theme from Super Mario Bros 2.

Peach. This is the very coinage of your brain.

This bodiless creation ecstasy

 Is very cunning in.

Mario. Ecstasy?

My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time

And makes as healthful music. It is not madness

That I have utt'red. Bring me to the test,

 And I the matter will reword; which madness

Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul

That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

It will but skin and film the ulcerous place,

 Whiles rank corruption, mining all within,

Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;

Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;

And do not spread the compost on the weeds

To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue;

 For in the fatness of these pursy times

Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg-

Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.

Peach. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

Mario. O, throw away the worser part of it,

 And live the purer with the other half,

Good night- but go not to my uncle's bed.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not.

That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat

Of habits evil, is angel yet in this,

 That to the use of actions fair and good

He likewise gives a frock or livery,

That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night,

And that shall lend a kind of easiness

To the next abstinence; the next more easy;

 For use almost can change the stamp of nature,

And either (master) the devil, or throw him out

With wondrous potency. Once more, good night;

And when you are desirous to be blest,

I'll blessing beg of you.- For this same lord,

 I do repent; but heaven hath pleas'd it so,

To punish me with this, and this with me,

That I must be their scourge and minister.

I will bestow him, and will answer well

The death I gave him. So again, good night.

  I must be cruel, only to be kind;

Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

One word more, good lady.

Peach. What shall I do?

Mario. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:

 Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed;

Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;

And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,

Or paddling in your neck with his damn'd fingers,

Make you to ravel all this matter out,

 That I essentially am not in madness,

But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know;

For who that's but a queen, fair, sober, wise,

Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib

Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so?

 No, in despite of sense and secrecy,

Unpeg the basket on the house's top,

Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape,

To try conclusions, in the basket creep

And break your own neck down.

 Peach. Be thou assur'd, if words be made of breath,

And breath of life, I have no life to breathe

What thou hast said to me.

Mario. I must to England; you know that?

Peach. Alack,

 I had forgot! 'Tis so concluded on.

Mario. There's letters seal'd; and my two schoolfellows,

Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,

They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way

And marshal me to knavery. Let it work;

 For 'tis the sport to have the enginer

Hoist with his own petar; and 't shall go hard

But I will delve one yard below their mines

And blow them at the moon. O, 'tis most sweet

When in one line two crafts directly meet.

 This man shall set me packing.

I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room.-

Mother, good night.- Indeed, this counsellor

Is now most still, most secret, and most grave,

Who was in life a foolish peating knave.

 Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.

Good night, mother.

Exit Peach. Then exit Mario, tugging in

Kamek.

[crainiisms]

Finn & Cleo / @defextivelernaean + @crainiisms (1/?) " not all treasure is silver and gold "

[crainiisms]

endless edits / cleo crain 1 / ?

[crainiisms]

tag dump 1/?