#you see that little white line above a status condition

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Healers, Please Come Closer...

I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD IF YOU DON'T ESUNA THE DOOM I WILL BEAT YOU WITH MY MENTOR CROWN

[snoppy]

Alas, very soon everything will disappear:

the birdcalls, the delicate blooms. In the end,

even the earth itself will follow the artist’s name into oblivion.

“All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world.”

After the fairy tale, the world is hazy, blue.

The roles and faces here are unrehearsed.

The soldier sings the partisan’s laments.

The young girl plays her songs of mourning…

as the world caves in

memorial to a marriage / louise glück / mary ruefle / sylvia plath / life to the last drop, mahmoud darwish / leaving the movie theatre, wisława szymborska / gwendolyn macewen / from an old post by @librarycard / two umbrellas, heather ihn martin / howards end by e.m. forster / the conditional, ada limón / @soracities / certain days, certain hours by erik mattijssen / the hot chair by william ireland / come. and be my baby, maya angelou

[Image ID:

(1) a marble statue of two lovers lying down, embracing.

(2) text saying “I remember thinking the world ended a long time ago but no one noticed. I remember every dinner”. the first line is highlighted in green.

(3) If someone said to me again: 'Supposing you were to die tomorrow, what would you do?' I wouldn't need any time to reply. If I felt drowsy, I would sleep. If I was thirsty, I would drink. If I was writing, I might like what I was writing and ignore the question. If I was having lunch, I would add a little mustard and pepper to the slice of grilled meat. If I was shaving, I might cut my earlobe. If I was kissing my girlfriend, I would devour her lips as if they were figs. If I was reading, I would skip a few pages. If I was peeling an onion, I would shed a few tears. If I was walking, I would continue walking at a slower pace. If I existed, as I do now, then I wouldn't think about not existing. If I didn't exist, then the question wouldn't bother me. If I was listening to Mozart, I would already be close to the realms of the angels. If I was asleep, I would carry on sleeping and dream blissfully of gardenias. If I was laughing, I would cut my laughter by half out of respect for the information. What else could I do, even if I was braver than an idiot and stronger than Hercules?

(4) CROZIER:

(Speaking slowly, painfully)

We scattered our instruments behind us, and left them where they fell Like pieces of our bodies, like limbs We no longer had need for; we walked on and dropped them, compasses, tins, tools, all of them. Now we come to the end of science...

(5) a living room with a green couch and lots of ornaments.

(6) a painting of a white kitchen door with an umbrella and a pair of boots leaning against it.

(7) text saying “We know that there's poetry. We know that there's death.” the word know is italicized in both sentences.

(8) Say tomorrow doesn't come.

Say the moon becomes an icy pit.

Say the kitchen's a cow's corpse.

Say we never get to see it: bright future, stuck like a bum star, never coming close, never dazzling.

Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified. Say the sun's a foul black tire fire.

Say the owl's eyes are pinpricks.

Say the raccoon's a hot tar stain.

Say the shirt's plastic ditch-litter.

Say we never meet her. Never him. Say we spend our last moments staring at each other, hands knotted together, clutching the dog, watching the sky burn.

Say, It doesn't matter.

Say, That would be enough.

Say you'd still want this: us alive, right here, feeling lucky.

(9) a tumblr post by @/soracities, saying “maybe a lot of life really is just figuring out who you'd sit and do the dishes with even while the world ends”.

(10) a realistic painting of a bedroom. there is a desk, a bed and an open window. several baskets hang above the bed.

(11) an impressionist painting of a living room with an open door and beams of sunlight coming in. a few armchairs are seen.

(12) Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow

But others say we've got a week or two

The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror

And you sit wondering

What you're gonna do.

I got it.

Come. And be my baby.

/end ID]

[ellicler]

izzy hands is a sad and desperate little man futilely struggling against the systems he hates, yet unable to escape their conditioning. he constantly recreates the very power structures that he’s trying to destroy because a. he thinks they’re effective, b. they’re the only thing he knows and c. he’s inherently someone who likes existing inside of very ordered and familiar lines and he’s afraid of the chaos of change, of stepping into the disordered unknown. (in that way edward is very complementary and very healthy for him.)

there’s three major areas where he exhibits the same dynamic (they’re all interconnected of course). first is obviously patriarchy with its toxic masculinity, its cycles of abuse, its denial of true intimacy. a lot has been said on this point by people more eloquent than me. it’s stede who has the idea to propose an idiotic and visionary question, ‘and what if it wasn’t like that?’ (stede who has more leisure and more intellectual breathing room as a member of the privileged class. this show is so good.) other pirates (even the ones from blackbeard’s crew) accept this freedom of emotional expression, izzy vehemently rejects it.

second is the (british naval) hierarchy, and probably more generally western colonialism as a theme. it’s great we got to see how much izzy despises the british (’do you really want to lick the king’s boots?’) and yet his intransigence about the hierarchy on blackbeard’s ship is something weirdly parallel to the inhumane discipline on the british fleet. what are you even a pirate for, if you don’t have workplace democracy and a preestablished code of conduct? all right, a ship needs a certain amount of discipline to function, and you want to beat you enemies at their own game, but leaving no freedom for your crew makes you honestly indistinguishable from the system you hate. (it does make me wonder if izzy has some past background in the military fleet.) this is also a perspective that best explaines the rather odd scene of izzy as captain of Revenge lording it over the crew. he’s pointedly having dinner while they work (very much a parallel to the ep1 dining scenes with the british officers, a caste who hold themselves above the simple sailors serving them and get killed for their arrogance) and he also chooses to put to physical work the three men of color from the original crew (who doesn’t love to add a bit of racism to their classism). from the POV of the audience (and the crew) izzy is achieving precisely nothing with this show of symbolic power, but for him it’s probably the natural way to display and reinforce his new status (he wants to establish new boundaries quickly). a hilarious values dissonance. (mate just take a page out of blackbeard’s book and threaten someone with a knife through the eye, even that would’ve worked better.)

third is christianity with its ideas about love, servitude and virtue. (as @knowlesian hasn’t yet written the Weird White Jesus post, i’m forced to muddle through on my own, but i didn’t notice it before their game-changing izzy meta. unfortunately christian insanity is background noise to me, i was raised and bred on dostoyevsky.) there’s a very specifically christian emotional tone about self-sacrifice and suffering as the Greatest virtue, about self-abjection and self-negation due as service to your idol who is the quintessence of all perfection and power. the worship and unquestioning obedience due to White God Jesus and his proxies on this earth are trained into you and that's something that leaves a permanent impression on one’s sense of self. so once you rebel against the corrupt and selfish authorities you still carry that expectation of the Perfect Incarnation of Authority in you, an empty place inside your soul. you’ve learned that joy in acceptance of suffering is the highest form of love. you must not only submit willingly to the pain inflicted on you but also find happiness and fulfillment in it. ...i’m sure it’s plain to see the more extreme of izzy’s kinks have a lot of themes in common with this, but it’s also about the general psychological need to find the perfect leader and submit oneself wholly and entirely to his cause. you can’t just respect and follow a good man: you have to make a God out of him. (again, from edward’s POV being objectified in this way is just a colonisation narrative, again as @knowlesian pointed out here).

so anyway. izzy hands season 2 challenge. if your violent defiance of these systems is to be worth a damn, you have to stop letting yourself be defined by their narratives

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

The Last Chthonian

Bucky x Reader, Sam x Reader, Zemo x Reader

Part 10

A/N: I can’t believe I’m already on part 10 for this series and to be honest it’s fun to write. And in all seriousness, the tumblr mobile app needs to allow you to put a read more link. But anyways love you all and let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list! Mwah! 🖤🖤🖤

Summary: Imagine being Hekate, the Greek goddess of magic and witchcraft, the night and the moon, doorways and crossroads, creatures of the night, and ghosts and necromancy. You stumbled upon Earth many centuries ago and since then have resided on the foreign planet. During the recent years you created an alias for yourself to hide your true identity, and after the war against Thanos you chose to live out your days in the Scottish countryside, until a certain trio appear at your doorstep one day.

Warnings: language, some violence, and blood

“Im sorry, did you just say Madripoor?” You blinked at Zemo, dreading the destination ahead of you.

“What’s up with Madripoor? You talk about it like it’s Skull Island.” Sam questioned, looking between you and Zemo.

“Imagine Mos Eisley from Tatooine but without the aliens and blasters.” You tried to make an analogy. “In other words, a shithole. And to be honest, I’d rather be in Mos Eisley.”

“It’s an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago. It was a pirate sanctuary back in the 1800s.” Bucky explained to Sam.

“It’s kept its lawless ways.” Zemo added before turning to James. “But we cannot exactly walk in as ourselves. James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.”

You had a feeling Zemo would suggest all of you going in with different identities, and being the only woman in the group, you already had a wild guess you weren’t going to be ecstatic about yours. You looked to Bucky with a frown on your lips. You knew what Zemo had meant towards him, and you didn’t know how it would affect him to transition back into the person he tried so hard to deviate from. Bucky saw the sympathetic smile you gave him, and he returned it with a look that reassured you that he would be fine.

“Y/n.” Zemo now spoke to you, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “I’m sure you are aware of the conditions.”

“Zemo if you...” Bucky trailed off as he glared at him, silently warning him to watch what he says next.

Sam and Bucky kept their eyes on Zemo, waiting to hear what his suggested persona for you was and ready to beat his ass if he dared to suggest something that would be demeaning to you.

“No way in the pits of Tartarus. I am not going in as an escort.” You voiced with a clenched jaw. “And if it’s eye candy you need, you have Sam.”

Sam gave you a surprised look from your comment, flattered to have you recommend him to be the designated eye candy before going back to the topic at hand. “Hell no Zemo. You’re not having y/n pretend to be an escort.”

“I’m afraid Sam is already going as someone.” Zemo sat back with his hands folded in his lap. “And don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on having you go as an escort, it isn’t befitting of a baron like me. Plus, I figured it would be uncomfortable for you, so I was going to suggest you act as my fiancé, if you are willing of course.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, pondering on the subject. You were a bit relieved in all honesty. But to pretend to be Zemo’s fiancé and be in close and almost physical proximities with him?

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to y/n.” Sam uttered to you.

“I’ll do it.” You confirmed.

“Are you sure?” Zemo asked you again, making sure you were comfortable with acting the part.

“I thought Zemo might step out of line with this one, but we don’t want you to do something that will make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure. I’ve had to do things I wasn’t comfortable with plenty of times in the past.”

Once you had all landed, Zemo decided to stop by a place so that you all may get dressed. You had already packed a dress and a pair of heels with you just in case for situations like these, since this wasn’t the first time you had to dress up for a mission. The dress you wore was a black, burned velvet silk slip-like dress with the velvet print being dark red roses. The dress wasn’t too tight to be constricting of movement and fit perfectly around around your curves. If the situation should arise that you needed to defend yourself, you needed the freedom to be able to move. Going down, the fabric flared slightly at your hips, brushing barely against the floor with your heels on. The skirt was slightly sheer from the bottom of your thighs and down with the floral velvet print, and had a slit going up your right thigh, perfect for kicking and concealing your dagger. The top torso portion of the front of your dress was a spaghetti strap cowl neckline that stopped just above the curve of your breasts, allowing for just a bit of cleavage. Your back was left bare, stopping at your mid back with thin straps that came across in a pattern. Your dress almost had a Grecian/witchy look from the way it draped over your chest and hips. It wasn’t too formal or too scandalous, it was elegant and classy, and showed just the right amount of skin where it wouldn’t be too revealing.

Even though you completely loathed and detested heels of any kinds, your heels were fairly simple, made of black velvet with straps that came across your ankles and toes. You dreaded heaving to wear them but at the same time you’d stick out like a sore thumb if you wore your docs with these. Perhaps you should’ve brought your nicer sandals, but it was too late now. You kept on your mother’s necklace and wore a set of amethyst drop earrings, throwing on a silver cuff bracelet on each wrist. Your hair was let loose to conceal your short sword that you hid on your back underneath your dress, the hilt resting right between your shoulder blades. You prayed that having your hair down would cover the scars and the sword you had on your back. But you were mostly focused about the scars, you failed to mention them to the guys about it since it was something that was hard for you to share. The only makeup you had on was some eyeshadow and mascara to darken your eyes, very little blush, and a lip tint.

The last thing to do was to put on some perfume, so you spritzed on your favorite oil based one that you had from Olympus on your pulse points. The scent was filled with incense-like scents like dragon’s blood, sage, crushed red roses, sandalwood, ghostly white musk, absinthe, almonds, and heady gardenia. It wasn’t as harsh as the common alcohol based ones, this one was more earthy and ancient, and every time you wore it, the scent lingered and heads turned. You gave yourself a once over when you were done, taking in a deep breath before heading out to join the others.

You became nervous as you saw them gathered together, talking amongst themselves as they haven’t noticed you yet. You rarely ever wore dresses these days, especially of the kind you were wearing now which left you feeling bare and exposed even though the dress wasn’t at all much revealing. So as you approached them, you couldn’t help picking at your fingers in anxiety.

The men turned at the sound of your heels clicking against the ground, and when they laid their eyes on you, they couldn’t help but gawk with their mouths parted open, as if they had seen the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth. You chewed on the inside of your cheeks as you saw how they stared at you.

“Wow.” Sam was the first to say something. “You look like a million bucks.”

“What? Never seen a woman in a dress before?”

“No, I’ve just never seen you in a dress before.” Sam answered. “You’re always dressed like some hippie/librarian, with your bands shirts, sweaters, plaid pants and jackets.”

“Haha vary funny.”

“Also since when did you have muscles?” Sam noticed as he poked your bare arm. “And since when did you have a tattoo?” He observed the mark you had on your upper right arm, right below your shoulder. It was the mark that was given to you to signify your Olympian status and what you represented. It was about the color that henna left behind after you wiped the paste off your skin, the color of ginger and bronze. The center of your mark was a lightning bolt, which represented a child of Zeus. Below that was your symbol, the torch and the triple moons.

“Since when did you start asking so many questions? But yeah, I’ve always had muscles Sam, I was trained in combat since I was, you could say 9 years old in human years. Also, technically everyone has them, it’s what allows us to move and lift things. And that.” You pointed to your tattoo. “Is my goddess mark, not a tattoo. Every Olympian god has one and they each have their personal symbol that represents them.”

“Wait, so you’ve been trained since you were a kid?” Bucky looked at you to clarify what he heard as they all started to head out.

“Technically, everyone on Olympus starts training that young. Then, when they become of age, a tournament is held to display their skills, following a ceremony after, to celebrate their victory.” You explained as you walked beside them.

The four of you were currently walking on the bridge that led to Madripoor. You could see the city’s skyline out in the distance, the cyberpunk like buildings lighting up the night sky.

“Do you need my coat?” You heard Zemo say beside you, making you look at him.

“Sorry?”

“Do you need my coat?” He repeated himself, referring to how your arms were bare against the cool night. “I wouldn’t want you to get cold.”

You stared at him, stunned from the kind gesture as you tried to form words to say. “Oh uh.....I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine actually. I’m not that cold.” Though you didn’t want to admit it, you actually would’ve liked to try on his coat, because in all honesty it was a damn nice coat.

“We have to fix this.” You heard Sam say with irritation visible in his voice. “I’m the only one who looks like a pimp.”

“Only an American would assume a fashion-forward black man looks like a pimp. You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing.” Zemo mentioned as he pulled out his phone to show Sam. “The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger.”

“He even has a bad nickname. Hell, he does look like me, though.” Sam observed the photo.

“You smell this?”

“Yeah, what is that? Acid?” Sam sniffed the air as you did the same.

“Smells rancid.” You scrunched your nose at the smell.

“Madripoor. No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There’s no margin for error.” Zemo instructed as a black car pulled up in front of you. “High Town’s that way. Not a bad place if you wanna visit, but Low Town’s the other way.”

“Let me guess. We don’t have any friends in High Town.” Sam remarked as he opened the door for the back seat.

“Y/n. A moment please, if you will.” Zemo uttered to you.

You stopped in your tracks, seeing Bucky and Sam stand on either side of the car doors, looking between the two of you and especially Zemo, with caution. You nodded your head at them, signaling you were fine and that they can get seated. And though they sat themselves inside the car, that didn’t stop them from keeping their eyes glued to Zemo to make sure he didn’t pull anything stupid.

“What’s the issue?” You turned to Zemo, giving him your attention.

“Since you will be portraying my fiancé, there’s a certain key element you will be needing to complete the image.” You watched as he pulled out a ring from his coat pocket, displaying it in front of you. “If I may?”

You stared at Zemo blankly before nodding your head and holding out your left hand for him. You knew this was only for a show, but you couldn’t help but stiffen as he delicately held your hand with his gloved one before slipping the ring onto your ring finger.

“There.” Hi smiled softly at you, his hand still holding yours. “Now you look the part.”

The two of you stood there for a moment, his thumb brushing against your knuckles, leaving behind a trail of warmth as he gazed down at you. Zemo swore he could have gotten lost in the violet swirls and gold flecks of your eyes forever, which now sparkled against Madripoor’s lit up skyline, the neon city and the places he’s visited not even coming close to the beauty he held before him.

You tried not to blush under his gaze as you gave him a polite smile before slipping your hand out of his. “I should probably change my eyes huh.” You remembered, changing your eyes to a normal color known to earth. “Should I hide the scar?” You asked him, referring to the one on your face.

“I think you should leave it. It suits you, and besides, you never know who might recognize you without it.”

Nodding your head at him, you headed to the car and settling in beside Bucky as Zemo followed, getting in the passenger seat in front of you. In the car ride there, you glanced down at the ring Zemo slipped on your finger, it was definitely a beautiful elegant ring, with a rose gold band and a pear cut garnet in the center that had diamonds that accented the bottom. Once you arrived in the city, you walked through the neon lit streets beside Zemo while Sam and Bucky followed behind. You loosened up your body as you went, swaying your hips slightly as you tried your best not to walk like a bodyguard and look threatening as everyone’s eyes followed the four of you strolling through the streets.

“Here we are.” Zemo announced, stopping in front of a bar before speaking to Bucky in Russian. “Ready to comply… Winter Soldier?”

As you went in, Zemo leaned in to whisper in your ear, his warm breath tickling your neck and startling you as he spoke in a hushed tone. “I want to apologize in advance, forgive me.”

You looked at him with furrowed brows to question what he meant until you felt his gloved hand slide across your back before resting on your waist, pulling you closer to his side. You noticed how his hand fumbled after brushing across your sword as he gave you a questioning look. What was that on your back? Did you really conceal a full on sword on your back underneath your dress? On your way to the bar table you saw people stare as you went through, some of them gawking in surprise at Bucky, or the winter soldier as he was now portraying, while the slimy men in the area roamed their eyes over your body hungrily. Zemo noticed your uneasiness from the way your muscles tensed, though your face didn’t show a sign of it, and glared at the men who dared to lay their eyes on you, only pulling you closer to him to prove that you were with him while Bucky and Sam noticed this as well and positioned themselves where you were blocked from the view of your peers, allowing you to breathe a little better as you approached the bar.

“Hello, gentlemen.” The bartender greeted you all. “Wasn’t expecting you, Smiling Tiger.”

“His plans changed.” Zemo answered for him. “We have business to do with Selby.”

“The usual?”

Sam nodded his head.

“And for the lady?”

“Um Something fruity.” You answered with a flirtatious smile, silently hoping they had something like that on the menu and that you hadn’t blown their cover by ordering the wrong drink.

The bartender handed you what looked to be a pineapple martini and you internally thanked the gods for your sheer bit of luck, taking the drink and thanking the bartender with another smile. You watched as he went to work on Sam’s drink, pulling out of a jar what definitely was a snake. You gulped, your stomach feeling nauseous as you saw the bartender cut open the dead snake, taking out its guts and throwing it in the shot glass. You were mortified to say the least, snakes were one of your symbols and you had owned plenty of the gentle little creatures. You shot Sam a sympathetic look once you saw his expression.

“Cheers.” Zemo held up his glass while Sam stared at his before gathering the courage to drink it all in one go. If Sam wasn’t going to throw up, you were going to do it for him.

While your eyes were trained on Sam’s expression, you felt someone breathe over your neck before feeling a clammy hand graze across your ass.

“Hey baby-“

Your eyes widened before you grabbed the wrist of the man behind you in one quick motion, twisting his arm to an unnatural position as you yanked it away from your body, causing the sleazy looking individual let out a yelp of pain. You would’ve crushed his wrist like crumpled paper if Zemo hadn’t put a cautionary hand on your arm as he whispered to you. “Careful now.”

You let go of the man’s wrist before shoving him aside like a pile of garbage. If their identity wasn’t at risk of being revealed, Zemo, Sam, and Bucky would have gone over there and beat the guy up after you were done with him.

“I got word from high. You ain’t welcome here.” You watched from behind Zemo as a bearded man approached him.

“I have no business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come and talk to me…” Zemo gestured towards Bucky.

“New haircut?”

“Or bring Selby for a chat.”

The man glanced between Zemo and Bucky before leaving.

“A power broker? Really?” Sam turned to Zemo.

“Every kingdom needs its king. Let’s just pray we stay under his radar.”

“Do you know him?” You asked.

“Only by reputation. In Madripoor he is judge, jury, and executioner.”

Another man was approaching in your direction, most likely to kick you all out or worse, and after following your gaze, Zemo turned to Bucky, speaking to him in Russian just as the man laid a hand on his shoulder. “Winter Soldier. Attack.”

You stood back, watching as Bucky grabbed the dude’s arm and twisted it back. You refrained yourself from intervening as Bucky took down the men that fought against him.

“Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.” Zemo commented to you and Sam.

Bucky slammed one of the men down on the counter. And as you heard the clicking of guns being loaded, your defensive mode nearly kicked in as you almost reached for your sword before Zemo stopped you.

“Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us.” Zemo whispered to you both before turning to Bucky and speaking in Russian again. “Well done soldier.”

You let your arm drop back down to your side, not a single change in your expression as you eyed everyone around you.

“Selby will see you now.” The bartender spoke up after getting off the phone.

Zemo gave him a thanks, nodding you over and holding out his hand for you to take as you went to his side again, Bucky and Sam following after you. You went through a back door, going down a dark corridor with Zemo’s hand on your back as he guided you through.

“You should know, Baron. People don’t just come into my bar and make demands.” You heard a woman’s voice speak, turning your head to see an older woman in a suit with short white hair lounging back on the coach with her security around her.

“Not a demand. An offer.” Zemo sat down on the couch before waving you over when he saw you standing near Sam. “Come sit schatzi.”

You straightened up, plastering a smile on your face as you went over to him. Selby’s eyes followed you curiously as you placed your hand in his, your eyes rapidly moving in nervousness for what area would be the most appropriate area to sit. Were you......were you supposed to sit on his lap? Is that how couples work? No, that would be inappropriate. Before things got awkward, you quickly plopped down on the empty spot next to him, crossing over your leg in a way so that it draped over his, leaving your thigh completely exposed from the slit in your dress, save for the dagger that still remained hidden. Sam and Bucky widened their eyes at what you just did, while Zemo stiffened at this sudden movement from you as you also draped one arm around his shoulders, bringing yourself closer to him. Were you even doing this right?

“A lot has changed since you were here last.” Selby observed the two of you before her eyes landed on your ring. “Who’s this pretty little thing?”

“This.” Zemo looked at you with a loving look, throwing an arm around your waist to draw circles on your bare back, while his other hand rested on your thigh, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps on your skin as you felt shivers go down your spine. “Is my fiancé. Gorgeous isn’t she?”

How long has it been since you were this close and personal to someone? The last you could remember, women still wore corsets and people still rode carriages. You felt your body heat up from being this close to him, and from the way he stroked your back. How was a mortal man able to leave you feeling like this? If he was able to send shivers down your spine with the mere touch on your back with his gloved hand, you wondered how it would feel to have his bare hands on you, just skin to skin. And if you were being honest, you never really were a fan of cologne but his smelled of a deeper earthy tones with hints of musk, and you were surprised and almost ashamed to say you liked how he smelled. You returned the same loving look to Zemo, trying to make it as believable as possible as you ran your fingers through the hair on the back of his head before placing a kiss on his jaw close to his ear. Sam and Bucky couldn’t believe their eyes at the scene before them, the same you who preferred to be a hermit and didn’t go on dates because it involved human interaction, was cuddling up to none other than Helmut Zemo himself. Zemo’s breath faltered a bit from from your touch as he swallowed the lump in his throat, struggling not to break character. Being this close to you, he was able to get a whiff of your perfume and my goodness, Zemo felt as if he could drown in your scent, you smelled like the heavens, not overbearingly sweet, but dark and luxurious and even seductive. Is this what vampires and sirens smelled like when they lured people to their deaths? You raised a brow at Zemo, your heightened senses were picking up on his breathing patterns and heartbeat. Was he getting nervous?

“Extremely.” Selby commented, smirking at the two of you before roaming her eyes over your body. You could feel her taking you in but you kept your eyes trained on the side of Zemo’s face. “Where did you pick this one up? She looks like a fighter.”

“As they say, why not get a woman who can do both. She was part of the Sokovian armed forces, I met her through there.”

“By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?” Selby added after finally taking her eyes off you.

“People like us always find a way, don’t we? I’m sure you’ve already figured out what I’m here for.”

“You’re taller than I’d heard, Smiling Tiger.” Selby turned to Sam with a flirtatious grin, using her hand in a claw like manner as she let out a purr. “What’s the offer?”

“Tell us what you know about the super-soldier serum.” Zemo got up off the couch, going over to Bucky and holding his chin between his fingers. “And I give you him, along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want.”

“Now that’s the Zemo I remember. I’m glad I decided not to kill you immediately. Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right. The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor. Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you wanna thank. Or… condemn, depending on what side of this you’re on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum, but… things didn’t go as planned.”

“Is Nagel still in Madripoor?”

“Oh. The bread crumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is gonna cost you, Baron. And before you get all cute, don’t think you can find Nagel without me. But.....” She turned you with a sly smile which made your insides turn. “Throw her in with the package and you have yourself a deal.”

Zemo, Sam, and Bucky turned to look at you with dread upon hearing her words. This wasn’t at all part of the plan.

“No, no no. That wasn’t the deal.” Zemo stepped over to where you sat, blocking you from her. “She’s not for sale.”

“Why not?” Selby raised her brow at Zemo. “I’m pretty sure a man like you could pick up someone else to be your plaything or fiancé or whatever. I like this one in particular.” She turned to you again.

“That’s not-“ Zemo started before he was cut off by Sam’s cellphone vibrating.

You breath was caught in your throat and it felt as if the room had dropped in temperature. You could feel the tension floating around the air as everyone’s eyes were trained on Sam now, making you sit up straight and uncross your legs so that they were planted firmly on the ground. Your hand rested on your thigh just above where the hilt of your dagger was as your eyes darted around the room, watching each and every person like a hawk about to swoop down on its prey. You had a feeling this wasn’t going to end well.

Tag List: @girl-obsessed-with-things @aerynchromie @sunshinepower17 @viviace @kakimakiloh @thebivirgin @gambitsqueen @spookycereal-s @lulu-yuming @mochminnie @gabitanaka47 @s00nhi @vanteguccir @tomhollandsslilslut @dracoxxyoflam @suchababie @uhhhcrypticbastard @on-my-way-to-erebor @thewinterrbucky @mylifeispainandiloveit @fillechatoyante @padmoonyfeorge @montypythonsholysnail

[awintersrose]

I’m late but for kinkoctober but ur writing is so flawless, this suggestion will be an odd pair, little to no fanbase but Kabuto x Sasori. 🥺

Pairing: Kabuto/Sasori

Prompt: Anal Play/Coercion (originally Day 18 from this list of prompts) AND Dirty Little Secret for @naruto-smut-monday

Obvious warnings are obvious with the prompts above, also includes D/s play, biting/scratching, and rimming.

All Kinktober fills should be considered explicit unless stated otherwise!

AO3 LINK

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Waiting for an assignation is never a simple matter. Punctual to the point of arriving early at everything, Kabuto looks at his watch for perhaps the fifth time, and he counts down the minutes. His date was very specific in their instructions, and he prefers to make a good impression. Kabuto can respect a desire for punctuality, for exacting details intended to ensure obedience.

He knows himself to be just as exacting in his preferences when exerting control, and based on this similarity alone, he has high hopes for this meeting. The contact came highly recommended by his own current favorite - precisely because said favorite was known to turn Kabuto’s own reality on its very head and make him question which end was up and which was down.

If only it weren't so painfully obvious to his partner when such a feat was possible - but Obito had the uncanny ability to read him as quickly as a cheap novel, and just as easily. Obito, his switch of a partner who was meant to be and still mostly acts as Kabuto’s own submissive.

Secret needs will out, however, and these roles are now flipped with surprising regularity, which is what led him here in the first place. The fact still remains that Kabuto doesn't bend for just anyone, and he still gets tetchy about the prospect and process of exploring the depths of his own submission with a new Dominant. Obito, however, seems certain that this match will be the right fit.

And so Kabuto waits.

His new contact’s profile is sparse, with photographs that only display a slight figure masked in black, with brilliantly crimson hair that drew the eye at once. An artist by trade, 'Exploring', their status said, which leaves even more to the imagination.

It often only takes one strikingly unique feature to catch Kabuto's visual interest, to make him wonder; to call to his analytical side, which loves to break down each solitary detail of a play partner until the origin of its nature is revealed. Until their true nature is revealed right along with it.

Whether it is skin like a bleach-splashed canvas, or cat-like golden eyes, his long-term partners have always been unique. Both of the latter possessed features that were the result of rare conditions, or genetic mutations that made said partners even more captivating, whether under the lash... or wielding it.

With the prospect of a new connection, all Kabuto knows for sure is that his date has hair like spun garnets, a certain cruel twist to a delicate mouth, and eyes like a fine umeshu. Not exactly unique, but there is still something there that captures his imagination.

Perhaps the artist is merely very good at their trade, taking a skilled hand to the composition of their photographs. Looks can certainly be deceiving—he should have predicted that his expectations would be turned on their head.

Which is how Kabuto finds himself trussed and stripped and poised on his knees before said artist once their negotiations are dispensed with.

Finely manicured fingertips caress the line of his spine before nails scratch, three at once, raising lines of glowing sensation across his shoulder blades. And they don’t stop their downward trek, marking Kabuto, making him gasp. The air makes a sharp sound passing through his teeth.

“You’ll do, but for more reasons than you think. Reasons you may not expect.” Sasori says, “And for exactly those reasons, you’ll give me everything I want.”

“Will I?”

That hand takes hold of a generous handful of his hair and steadily pulls him back, forcing him to arch his spine. Those cruel lips brush Kabuto’s ear as Sasori speaks, his soft voice bright with amusement, “You will, or this little kingdom you’ve built for yourself will be winnowed away into dust and thrust into the wind for anyone to take. Admit it… you want me anyway.”

The words are smug even in their gentle tone, accented by soft puffs of humid breath against Kabuto’s neck, his loosened hair. He cannot see Sasori’s eyes, and a small, creeping desperation begins in the pit of his belly. Sasori pulls harder, making him twist, rubied lips nipping Kabuto’s own briefly, roughly.

“You should have known better than to seek me out when you’re entirely that snake’s creature… he did have rather delightful tastes though. Did you kneel for him too? Recount all your dirty little secrets for him?”

“You know I did,” Kabuto grits his teeth as Sasori’s dainty fist tightens harder in his hair.

“I know you did, which is why I’ll make sure he sees every lurid moment of this if you don’t do exactly as I like. And then you know he’ll cast you away for dallying with me, faithless boy...”

The threat feels real, so damn real that goosebumps chase the lengths of his limbs, and Kabuto shivers, allowing fear to catapult him closer to compliance. His pulse notches higher and his mouth runs dry. Sasori releases him as if throwing him back down again, but it’s only the effective toppling of his own weight. Every new touch is feather light, even as the artist’s hands explore his body, shoving him onto all fours, undignified, yet perfectly on display.

Sasori’s breath ripples down his spine, the wet heat of his tongue drifting along the lines his own nails followed in the moments prior. Blood rushes in Kabuto’s ears, and his pale hair falls forward, obscuring his burning cheeks as he sinks lower on his elbows, allowing Sasori full access to his body.

“Shameless and pretty all at once, just look at you, ready for anything,” Sasori muses, “I’d hate to keep you waiting.”

Sasori’s questing, tormenting hands begin to part him wide, exposing him further, nails digging into the softer flesh of his buttocks. Kabuto grits his teeth as Sasori’s wicked tongue plies at his hole, two deft fingers moving to spread wetness around the orifice before one of them dips inside him with ease.

“Ready for anything, indeed.”

A bottle clicks and cool slick drips over his skin, making Sasori’s next movements nearly effortless. He dips in and out with shallow strokes, toying at the edges of Kabuto’s passage, As Sasori bends to bite the curve of his hip, sharp and hot like a brand. He knows without knowing that the artist has marked him, and Kabuto gasps, placing a fist beneath his lips to muffle any noises which might come unbidden.

He fails, of course, when Sasori laughs against his skin, finding his prostate with near expert precision.

The pressure inside him shifts wider, deeper as digits spread and curl, scraping against nerves suddenly sensitized beyond compare. Kabuto’s sight wavers as if plunged underwater, his cock hard and already dripping, too much, too soon. Sasori’s methodical exploration only continues, with another finger wedging in place beside the others.

“You’re so needy that I’m almost thinking you could take my whole hand. You would if I wanted you too, wouldn’t you, greedy boy?” Sasori’s fingers drag and exploit every new bit of knowledge he’s gained until Kabuto is unable to stem the pleading noises that are not quite muffled by his fist.

“Use your words.”

“I--I can but it’s-it’s-too-much!” He blurts, his voice arching higher on the last few words. Kabuto’s face burns and his head swims, and he squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the urge to shove back anyway and chase the high that is just outside of his capability.

Sasori gives a chuffing little laugh, teasing his pinky finger just along the rim of him until Kabuto whines, and with a twist of his hand, all four enter to press and tease.

“Oh, good boy… you’re going to come just like this, only accepting what I give you for as long as it takes…”

It doesn’t take long at all for his voice to break the silence, for sticky heat to spatter his belly and the floor beneath him. For oblivion to cloud his mind and numb his awareness.

But it’s only the first part of their night.

Later, after Kabuto has been wrung out in every way he might have imagined, he is treated to a massage and a short rest wrapped in a warm blanket. His pretty new play partner fetches his things and offers him a drink. White tea, hot and perfect.

“So tell me, did we explore everything you wanted to?” Sasori appraises him from head to toe, searching for unease. The artist is more attentive than Kabuto had imagined, leaving no detail unexamined. It’s no wonder that he has connections with individuals that Kabuto respects among their circles.

“Ahh… yes, thank you for following the plan.”

"Any Dominant worth their salt would do no less. Your illustrious mentor failed you if he didn't set that expectation." Sasori sniffs, still maintaining physical contact.

Kabuto hazards a wry smile. "He did. I'd have stopped everything in its tracks if you'd been lacking. But as it stands I'd like to see you again."

Sasori gives a curt nod, but the softening of his mouth gives away his satisfaction. "So long as you never leave me waiting, we’ll have much to explore."

Perhaps it's a good thing that Kabuto's punctuality is a personal guarantee.

[kyouxa]

Chaos Lineage: Game Prologue

This particular game is described as 'a painful vampire love story that takes place in a “what-if” parallel world.' Meanwhile, this game actually takes place between Dark Fate and Lost Eden. Enjoy!

Place: Secret room — Interior lights

Karlheinz: Checkmate.

Socrates: … !? Why is it that you win again… ?

Karlheinz: I have triumphed once again.

Socrates: Kch...

Karlheinz: I truly enjoyed myself tonight. It was an intense match until the very end.

Socrates: Are you leaving now?

Karlheinz: I most certainly still have to carry my plan forward.

Socrates: So you are quitting while we are still ahead?

Karlheinz: I do wish to continue this game of ours.

But I know you are aware of me being unable to do so, my friend.

Socrates: Yes, I do know that. And that is why it makes me impatient.

Karlheinz: Do not say that, my friend. My long-cherished desire is to create a new life…

And in order for me to achieve this, Adam and Eve are necessary.

Socrates: I know…

You have been keeping your eyes on finding Eve for a very long time already. She might just be a normal girl, but she does carry a special heart inside her.

Her role was to fall in love with a demon, and she fulfilled it.

Karlheinz: And after this, the vampire chosen and loved by Eve… will become Adam.

And this said moment is finally about to finally arrive.

I rewind time this many times and I have been trying all possible varieties…

And now success is finally before my eyes.

My friend, I knew having you as my conversation companion would not make me feel bored in the slightest.

Socrates: How reluctant…

Karlheinz: What, I am sure we will see each other in our next lives again.

Socrates: ...You are right. We will see each other in our next lives.

Karlheinz: I will now start arranging the final preparations… therefore, I will excuse myself.

*Karlheinz disappears*

Socrates: Karlheinz… we will no longer see each other in this life… hm?

Monologue

A vampire called Adam. And a human girl called Eve.

If the two of them unite in marriage and give birth to a new life, Karlheinz’ plan will, without a doubt, finally be fulfilled.

...But the price of fulfilling this, will be losing my friend.

After this, I will be awfully desolate. Yes, I will be very lonely indeed…

Suddenly, I turned my eyes back to the table.

On the chessboard, the white and black chess pieces were still aligned. Those are traces of the game I enjoyed with my friend just a moment ago.

Place: Secret room — Interior lights

Socrates: My friend, I wonder if that man, who has been chosen as Adam, is certainly worthy of his role?

Monologue

There must have been a lot of candidates to be Adam. But was it truly inevitable to choose him?

If everyone knew Eve under equal conditions… would we not be able to deduce the true Adam in doing so?

...In the end, I am still not convinced that he should become Adam.

Therefore, I should experiment on my own, in order to convince myself.

Place: Secret room — Interior lights

Socrates: This should become a fighting game, in order for them to get the piece called Eve. The chess board will then become their world, which I will create with my magic—

I will confine the candidates for Adam as the chess pieces with Eve together.

Adam might have been chosen already, but it is more than easy to alter their memories.

Their memories, abilities and positions — why do I not try and put them under equal circumstances as well?

An experiment to see which piece will end up truly obtaining Eve at the very end…

In this fabricated miniature garden, they shall fight until only one piece remains.

Now, let the game begin. Until they may reach a checkmate.

Or… until someone deviates from the rules of this game.

Until only one last piece remains standing, or until someone ends up breaking the rules…

There is no other way to get out of this experiment—

Monologue

I wonder where this place is? The only thing I know is that I’m laying in complete darkness.

It’s as if my mind is blank, even if I try to trace my memories, I can’t remember anything.

And then, all of the sudden, someone’s shadow appears in front of me. This person, who appears to be a beloved and nostalgic one, is watching me with tender eyes.

But I don’t know who they are. Just who are you?

And even more importantly, who am I?

As if responding to my question, a man’s voice resonates from nowhere—

Place: ???

???: Good morning, Eve. Do you know who you are?

*enter MC’s name*

???: No, that is not your name, Eve. That is your real name.

Yui: Eve… so that’s my name…

Monologue

“Eve”… that name sounds somehow awfully familiar to me. As I moved my mouth, I repeated the name with each breath I took.

Place: ???

Yui: Eve… Eve… Eve…

Monologue

As I repeated the name, which is supposed to be mine, it gradually ingrained itself in my mind.

Place: ???

???: It is about time for you to wake up.

The story, you are taking place in, starts after the supreme ruler dies.

And soon, three different families will start a battle for you.

Monologue

Those prophetic words of wisdom he just said… I will cherish them as if they’re from the man I don’t remember the name of...

I will never doubt his words. After all, I still don’t know what this so-called “battle” will be about to begin with.

Which means, this said indestructible fiction has to eventually become true.

Place: ???

???: Let there be light...

Monologue

The same moment he said that, a ray of light appeared above my head. It might’ve been a weak one, but it wasn’t an illusion.

I tried reaching for that light.

And when I did so, I heard the beginning of a new game.

Place: Church — Inside

Yui: Nn...

(Ah, wait… where am I...?)

(There are huge statues lined up… they have the shapes of horses and towers, they actually look a lot chess pieces)

(And there are some beautiful stained glass windows in front of me too…)

(This building appears to be quite old, but it's not in bad conditions, it seems to be rather well maintained)

It gives off some kind of sacred atmosphere…

(If that’s so, could this place be… a church… ?)

(And if it is, was I sleeping on the… altar just now?)

But why am I even in this place to begin with… ?

*church bell rings*

Yui: Kyaaa!?

Was that the church bell… ? That really scared me…

???: It appears as if the seal has finally been broken. You made me wait quite a long time for your arrival.

Yui: Pardon… ?

Man with glasses: It was just as the folklore said, although your timing is quite inappropriate, but this does not matter.

As long as you were here in this church, there should be no mistake.

Yui: W-Who are you… ?

Yui: (He has a good appearance and he acts very polite, but the sharp look in his eyes is really scary)

Man with glasses: I will be leaving my introductions for later. Unfortunately, there is no time for me to do so now. You will have to come with me to our mansion first.

Yui: What do you mean by “mansion”... ? No, where even is this place anyway? And for what reason am I here—

Man with glasses: I see, it appears… as if “you do not know anything”.

*Reiji comes closer*

Yui: Kyaa!? L-Let me go!

Man with glasses: For now, I am unaware of you either acting or you speaking the truth.

But no matter what it is, that does not change the fact that you will be coming with me.

Yui: (Is he kidnapping me!? If so, I have to run away! But, the strength of his arm is so strong that I can’t seem to escape… ngh)

???: I can’t believe you’d ever do something this cruel to a girl.

*throws dagger*

Man with glasses: — Ngh!?

Man with fedora: You ended up narrowly dodging it just now. As expected from you, Reiji.

Yui: (Did a dagger just fly past me!? And the person who threw it was him… ?)

Reiji: Haa… as expected, there obviously are others who thought about the same thing as I did.

Not only did Laito, the messenger of the Violets, come here… but you also brought Kou along with you.

Kou: Ahha, so you did discover me. And here I thought I did a great job hiding my presence.

Yui: (Now there’s another person holding a dagger in front of me…)

(So the one currently holding my arm is called Reiji-san… and if I understood it correctly, those next to me are Laito-san and Kou-san?)

Kou: Say, can’t you simply give Eve to us? Carla-kun really wants her, you know.

Reiji: I refuse to do so. That is most certainly because I will be the next successor to become the supreme ruler.

Laito: Scarlet’s eldest son is really stingy, hm? Eve-chan’s surely thinking so too, right?

Yui: Eve…

(Oh, yeah, that’s my name… how come I forget that just now?)

(These people are the ones who are going to fight for Eve… for me, to be precise)

Reiji: If possible, I would have liked to finish this peacefully, but it cannot be helped if you are going to obstruct my way…

You should step back a little.

Yui: Ah…

*Reiji draws swords*

Reiji: Then I will be your opponent.

Laito: Oh? Now, isn’t that something? You’re behaving like a knight wanting to protect the princess.

Kou: True, true. After all, it’s already been decided that Eve will come to our mansion.

Say, Eve. That’s correct, right?

Yui: E-Even if you tell me that, I still don’t know anything about you…

Kou: You could learn plenty of us if you’d come with us then. With us, to our mansion, what do you think?

Yui: (This can’t be real, just what did I get myself into…)

*someone grabs Yui*

Yui: Ouch… !?

(Did someone just pull my arm!?)

???: The only one you’re going with is Yours Truly himself. You’ve got no other option than that anyway.

I’ll promise to treat you tenderly if you come with me. At least until I get bored, of course.

Yui: (Now there’s another person I don’t know… !)

Laito: Eh, you’ve come here too, Ayato?

Reiji: The third son of the Orange family… so in the end, it appears as if all of you invited themselves here, hm?

Eve has merely awakened, and the three families have already come here.

Yui: (Three families… ?)

Ayato: The seal of the church has been broken, so it’s obvious that I’d come to check out the situation.

And it was the right choice to come in here after all. It’s just exactly as the tradition says.

Yui: (Tradition, he says…)

Kou: “After the death of the supreme ruler, the seal of the church will be broken.”

“And if the sleeping Eve is woken up by a kiss, a new way will be open for a new supreme ruler”... isn’t that right?

Laito: It’s at least as the tradition of the sleeping princess says.

Yui: (A seal… tradition… and a supreme leader? I don’t understand, what are they talking about… ?)

Reiji: Apparently, you seem as if you do not understand any of what we are discussing indeed.

Kou: You’re acting as if you weren’t even aware of being Eve.

Ayato: Eh? Gimme a break already. Just how long do you think I’ve been waiting for you to come here!?

Laito: Well, she has been sleeping all this time, so it can’t be helped, right?

Seems as if we have to slowly fill you in with what’s necessary to know after this.

But in order for us to do that, we first of all have to get you out of this place.

Yui: Nn... !

(Did the atmosphere between those four just change… ?)

(They’re glaring at each other, and it almost feels as if their eyes are glowing. It might just be my imagination, but I feel as if their eyes are shining bright red…)

(No, more importantly, don’t tell me that the weapons they’re holding are real…)

Reiji: Shall we begin then?

Ayato: Tch, you’re finally speaking my language.

Kou: I wonder who’ll be the one obtaining Eve?

Laito: I guess this is the beginning of our battle—

Yui: Battle… !? Don’t tell me you’re seriously going—

*swords clash*

Yui: (The four of them are really clashing their swords with each other… no, I’m wrong—)

(I can only see three people fighting. Which means, one of them is missing… !)

*someone grabs Yui*

Yui: Kyaa!? W-Who is it? Please… let me go!

Monologue

Before I even became aware of it, there was a shadow approaching me.

I tried my very best to resist, but “his” arm wouldn’t let go of me for even a second.

I knew I got herewith captured by somebody.

And the one who caught me was—

[whumpinggrounds]

Trouble

uh oh :/

tagging @killtheprotagonist and @shapeshiftersandfire

CW: pet whump, lady whump, choking, hitting, dehumanization, aftermath of conditioning,

Miss Mara comes into the apartment with her eyes too bright, and Isabella knows something is wrong. She knows it in her body before her mind even processes what the problem could be - suddenly every muscle is tense, her skin is prickling with adrenaline overload. Miss Mara smells like alcohol, like sweat from the bar, but she’s not drunk. She’s too contained for that, too much in control. Her movements are still sharp and precise but they’re fast enough to mean she’s angry. Isabella’s heart sinks straight through to her toes. The dread in her chest yawns like an abyss, bottomless and sucking. “Isabella,” Miss Mara calls as she slips off her shoes, though she knows that as always, Isabella is waiting right there by the door. “We need to talk. Couch.”

The words fill Isabella with a fear so cold and deep that for a moment she can’t move. The moment passes, though, and she stands, ignoring the static feeling in her legs from kneeling too long. Trying not to show her apprehension on her face, Isabella crosses toward her owner, but Miss Mara shakes her head and points toward the couch. Isabella kneels before it, muscles burning as they’re forced back into the position she’s already held too long. It hurts, but maybe Miss Mara wants to sit on the couch while Isabella kneels on the floor.

No. Miss Mara stays standing, and Isabella has to tip her head up, up, up to keep her eyes on her owner. She doesn’t look Miss Mara in the eye - keeps her gaze soft, unfocused - but Isabella can still see the harsh hard line of Miss Mara’s mouth, the darkness in her eyes. The quiet between them stretches on, and Isabella badly wants to squirm. Her legs sting with blood that’s been forced through her veins and now pressed out again by the weight of her kneeling. Her owner’s gaze is angry. Isabella knows something is coming, and it makes her chest tight, so that she wants to gasp for breath, plead before she knows what she’s pleading for, anything to end the tension here. She’s too well-trained for that, so instead she just waits, statue-still and stone patient.

“I need you to be honest with me about Jamie,” Miss Mara begins, and Isabella’s heart sinks like a stone in her chest. She wonders if she should fake surprise, if she can fool her clever owner. Then she wonders why she’s so bad when Miss Mara’s so good to her, why she wants to lie to skip the punishment, why she even needs to lie at all. Oblivious, her owner keeps talking above her. “She won’t stop fucking texting me and I just need to know, okay? What is it with her? Is she…?”

That mistrustful, calculating look that Miss Mara gives her makes Isabella’s skin crawl, though she keeps the misery off her face. She knows what Miss Mara is asking, and it makes her feel small, disgusting, humiliated. Isabella hates when Miss Mara looks at her like that, like she might be dirty. Besides, it’s not like that, with Jamie. Isabella knows it’s not. So why, when Miss Mara asks her, does she always feel ashamed?

Her owner is looking at her for an answer, and so Isabella clears her throat. “Jamie is a pet-sitter.” She chooses her words carefully. “I…I do not perform any Romantic duties with her.”

She thinks that’s right – she thinks so, but then Miss Mara tips her head, eyes glittering, and Isabella knows she’s stepped wrong in a minefield. “Is that what it is, to you? Romantic duties? Is that what you do for me?”

“N-no,” Isabella stumbles, sensing the weakness in her own voice, the uncertainty that’s going to condemn her. She’s not supposed to be uncertain, Miss Mara’s never uncertain; there’s a right answer here that Isabella doesn’t know. The anxiety makes Isabella’s fingers twitch, the knowledge that she’s doing it wrong, she’s making it worse. When she licks her lips and tries to answer, her voice comes out small. “No…or, yes? Those are Romantic duties, but they aren’t…I’m happy to, to…perform with you, for you, I…” she’s slipping, faltering, failing. “You’re my owner, Miss Mara.” Her words are bare and desperately sincere, and Miss Mara’s eyes are cold, cold, cold on hers. Isabella gives up and lays the words out bald and shaking, desperate for anything that might save her, that might fix this. “You’re my owner, Miss Mara. I love you.”

“Can you love someone, do you think?”

It’s a fair question, so Isabella doesn’t know why it makes her want to flinch. Miss Mara’s voice is cold, cold, icily curious, and the question itself…well, Miss Mara has been past treating her like a person for a long time. That’s good. That’s correct. Isabella herself said that’s what she wanted, and questions like this come with the territory. It doesn’t matter that it winds her, makes tears prickle in the corners of her eyes.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “But I love you.”

It’s true, or as true as it can be. If love is devotion, if love is attention, if love is needing someone’s approval to even feel like they can live, then Isabella can and does love Miss Mara – desperately, with everything in her. If love is something more than that, then maybe they dragged the ability out of her and killed it on the floor of a white-walled room. Either way, Isabella finds herself hanging in the silence before Miss Mara’s next words, wanting nothing more than to be released, absolved, found worthy. 

“Do you love Jamie?”

Oh. Isabella’s cheeks go pink without her permission and she can’t regret it, even when she sees Miss Mara’s eyes go flat and angry. There’s a feeling in her stomach – a weird, tentative, hopeful feeling, something that makes her feel squirmy and soft. “No,” she says, far too late, and it’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. There’s something there. Something old and stretching and new, that has the potential to grow.

And Isabella’s spoken far too late, with far too little conviction. Lips tightening into a hard, unhappy line, Miss Mara slaps her pet, right across the mouth, hard enough to whip Isabella’s head around. She’s had far worse pain than this but tears still spring to her eyes as she turns her head back and gazes mutely up at her owner, her owner who she loves, her owner who she’s thoroughly betrayed. The promised bad thing, the bad thing that was coming, it’s here, in Miss Mara’s tense towering body and flinty angry eyes. The fear in Isabella is high and gasping. She grits her teeth and keeps looking up at Miss Mara’s shadowed, furious eyes. 

“She doesn’t love you.” Miss Mara pronounces it clearly, carefully, not shouting, but loud enough to hurt. Isabella swallows hard and tries to duck her head, but Miss Mara tips her chin insistently up. “She might still love Jude” – Isabella flinches, hard – “but she doesn’t love you. And she’s not going to, okay?” Now there are tears running down Isabella’s face, and she doesn’t know if it’s the words or the fear or the stinging pain across her face, but the sight of it pulls Miss Mara’s face into a frown. She slaps Isabella again, harder. The feel of it jars her teeth in her mouth, sparks hot pain across the skin of her cheeks. “Don’t fucking cry about it. You hear me? Don’t fucking cry! She doesn’t matter! Why does she matter so much to you?”

Isabella’s hand has flown to her mouth, a reflex she couldn’t suppress in time, guarding the spot that Miss Mara keeps hitting. Carefully, Isabella tucks it back down by her side and answers. “It doesn’t,” she says, and they both know she’s lying. “She doesn’t matter, you’re the only one who matters.” She’s trying to convince both of them, and it’s not working.

“Then why’d you fucking leave me?” The blow lands hard on the side of Isabella’s face, knocking her head to the side, clearing her brain of every thought except calm her owner down. “Why’d you fucking leave? Why?”

“I’m sorry,” Isabella manages, flinching hard as another blow lands in her ribs. It’s a kick this time, delivered so sharp and hard that it knocks Isabella’s breath away. Thank god for that, because the pain blooms so big Isabella wants to wail - she can’t wail, she’s a good girl, but the breath escapes her in a huge and heavy gasp.

Miss Mara keeps hitting her. Miss Mara keeps kicking her. Isabella keeps her arms down by her sides like a good pet, good pet, good girl. Her arms shake with the desire to protect herself but Isabella doesn’t. She wants to be good for Miss Mara – she believes, like an idiot, that she can still be good for Miss Mara. “I’m s-s-sorry.” She wants to defend herself, wants to protect herself from the blows, but she’s good, she’s good, and in her head there’s still her training, screaming at her that if she just keeps being good it’ll help.

It doesn’t help. It doesn’t help because Miss Mara keeps asking questions that Isabella can’t answer. “Why’d you leave?” she demands, throat thickening, and as her voice climbs to a shout, the tears pour faster and faster down Isabella’s cheeks. She hates being yelled at, hates it, she’s scared, and Miss Mara keeps hitting her – sharp hard blows to her cheekbones and her jawbones and across her upper body. “Why’d you leave?!” Miss Mara screams it, and Isabella wails her answer over and over again, not knowing any better, not knowing any different, simply not knowing.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! Miss Mara, Miss Mara, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t leave you, it wasn’t me, I don’t know-”

Miss Mara must be tired of hearing Isabella’s voice, because she leans down over Isabella, kneels down over Isabella, hair messy and wild around her head, and she puts her hands around Isabella’s throat and squeezes tight enough to cut off all of Isabella’s air. There’s no more begging now, only choking, gasping, desperate unhinged fighting, the kind that has long been trained out of Isabella and is only brought to the surface by the unconscious need to breathe. She claws at Miss Mara’s hands but her owner can’t be moved; she kicks her legs out but can’t seem to make contact. Miss Mara’s face is the last thing she sees before her vision clouds to black.

_

Isabella wakes up alone on the floor, sucking air raggedly through a bruised throat. It hurts to breathe, and even when she focuses on hauling in air, her lungs feel half-empty, ineffective. For a few long minutes, she just lies there, trying to breathe as her memories come back to her. She’s still draped awkwardly across the floor, limbs in disarray, so Miss Mara must’ve left her where she lay. Speaking of Miss Mara – Isabella pushes herself up with no small effort, glances around frantically, but the room is empty. Dark. Her owner must be sleeping off her anger in bed. Good. That’s good.

Alone on the couch, Isabella’s hands creep up to frame her neck, to stroke the lurid purple bruises she envisions darkening her skin. She imagines she’s covered in bruises, buried in them, after all the blows Miss Mara rained on her face, on her neck, on the softness of her belly. Isabella almost wants it to be true, wants there to be evidence of her owner’s hysterical anger, of the fact that she’s been punished for her disobedience. She’s repented. She’s sorry. She’s sorry.

In the room, all alone, tears spring to Isabella’s eyes. She’s so, so sorry. The bruises will show that, won’t they? She’ll be happy to wear them, grateful to, if only it makes Miss Mara feel better.

And yet the blows weren’t that hard, and Isabella’s weak, weak, weak. Maybe there are no bruises at all. There’s no way to be sure until she gets a mirror and some light on her skin, but to go into the bathroom, to turn on the light…it wouldn’t just be disobedient, it would risk waking Miss Mara, further provoking her wrath. Isabella settles back on the couch, fingers stroking over her own skin in a feeble attempt to soothe her racing heart.

Her eyes are distant, thoughts detached, fingers running repetitively over the forming bruises, even though it’s not making anything better. She wants to sleep, but she doesn’t have permission, so she just sits up on the couch and thinks about the way that each breath rasps in and out of her damaged throat. Her mind drifts from her owner, from her guilt, and her thoughts grow stranger, colder.

It’s hard, choking a person – Isabella knows that personally, from fuzzy distant memories of times she tried to fight off the guards in the facility. She knows it takes more strength and more effort than she ever thought, and Miss Mara had gotten it right, leaning in and using the weight of her whole body to press down with both hands. Her breathing picks up, despite the pain, and her thoughts stutter, as Isabella follows that thread to its logical conclusion. Miss Mara must’ve – Miss Mara must’ve – Miss Mara must’ve done this to someone before.

[wirewitchviolet]

A Little Horrifying Primer on Transphobes

Some time ago, I put together a Little Fact Checking Primer on Trans People, as a basic resource for disabusing people of some of the many completely ridiculous yet absurdly widespread beliefs about trans people that simply have no basis whatsoever in reality. And wouldn’t you know it, every single lie exposed in that primer is not only still widely believed, but is presently being used as a basis to sign some absolutely horrific human rights abuses into law. So it’s high time I follow that up, in this case focused more on who keeps actively spreading these lies and why. I’m going to try and keep things as light as I can here, but we’re going to be looking at the most monstrous side of human nature, so apologies in advance if this is a dark read.

First, let me just note that there are two things I don’t plan to do in this piece. I’m not going to waste time debunking the arguments of the people I’m highlighting (much of this is already covered in my earlier primer, others have done the work in cases where I haven’t, and frankly these people’s claims should be self-evidently utter nonsense to begin with). I am also going to be very selective in what I link to, or even share related images of, as I would frankly not like to fill a post on a blog I generally try to keep safe for all audiences with media directly dealing with, for instance, child sexual assault, and much of the relevant information also involves stochastic terrorism against innocent people, and I would prefer not to throw more fuel onto such fires.

Transphobes lie constantly, about everything.

To some degree this is obvious. We’re talking about people who scaremonger about the possibilities of trans women dominating competitive sports and assaulting people in restrooms, despite the status quo already reflecting the conditions they insist would make these inevitibilities for decades and centuries respectively, and their grim visions never once having come to pass, and also constantly insisting that the woman in the photo below is actually a man, going further to say this is evident to anyone giving her the merest glance.

It goes beyond that though. There’s at least a little plausible deniablity in claims like this, or that “science is on their side” if they were simply uninformed about the world they live in, never actually looking into what laws exist, what science actually says, and never actually meeting a trans person or even seeing a picture of one of us. I’m talking really bold lies here. Like wholecloth fabricating a story that a convicted murder was trans, including anecdotes about wigs dresses and a planned name change, in a major newspaper. Or to cite an old favorite of mine, the time a pack of bigots walked up to a crowd of people peacefully picketing a transphobic legal proposal, started roughing them up and taking closeup photos of members of the crowd to stalk online when they got home, got sufficiently riled up for one to straight up assault an innocent person half her size, filmed the whole thing, uploaded it to youtube, and used stills of that assault as acomanying photos when they went home to write articles about the assailant being a “grandmother” attacked by rowdy trans women. And yes, they did monkey’s paw my wish to see that specific image on newspapers. Interesting side note, when it came to real public light that J.K. Rowling endorsed this sort of hatred, it was because she accidentally pasted some profanity laden rambling about how the imagined moral character of the other party in that incident, years after the fact, into a post praising a child’s fan art of her work.

To be a little less niche, transphobes can’t get enough of spreading the lie that the young fellow in this photo is a girl. Specifically a trans girl, providing proof that all their scaremongering about the dastardly threat of trans girls in competitive sports has finally come to pass.

To be fully clear, that’s a man (or a boy if you want to split hairs about him being 17 in that photo). Mack Beggs. A rather insidious choice for this sort of story, considering the actual context for that photo. See, Beggs attended high school in Texas, during a (still ongoing as I write this) period wherein that particular state had caved to this exact sort of propaganda, and in order to head off a wholly imagined wave of trans girls competing on girls’ sports teams, and enacted a law mandating that in all such competitions must compete under whatever gender is stated on their birth certificates. And as it happens, the first, and to my knowledge ONLY time this has come up was with Beggs here, who again, is a man, as no one with a grip on reality could argue against, has “female” on his birth certificate. Which is another way of saying he is a trans man. The guys in the same boat as trans women who we talk about a whole hell of a lot less because their existence is extremely inconvenient to the majority of transphobic propaganda. Case in point. And this is all information it is really impossible to come across if you’re coming across this photo in any sort of respectable source. Take this story, which is as unambiguous about this as you can get. And yet, in the very comments section of that story, there they are. Carrying on like this story about a trans guy, forced by a transphobic law to compete as a girl, which he absolutely did not want, and received horrific threats over, using phrases like “female to male” and bringing up that he was assigned female at birth and is on testosterone-based HRT, is about a trans woman cheating the system. Or to quote word for word, “Now also transgender female want to be male also compete in female sport. biological born“ That’s not “being confused,” that’s standing next to you in a white desert and complaining about being adrift in a black ocean, bald-faced, not even trying to be convincing just make a power play, lying through one’s teeth.

I could spend this whole article on just this point. Lying about who they are, various people’s falsified credentials, whole websites full of “anonymous parents of children who think they’re trans” turning out to be one single woman documenting the abuse of her very much trans son, or of course the people behind the whole “bathroom bill” panic candidly admitting it was all based on utter fiction. I do have other points to cover though.

Transphobes are firmly entrenched in the media.

It is extremely difficult to find oneself in a position of having to explain to people that a particular group of people is effectively in control of press outlets, as that is rather classically a claim conspiracy theorists absolutely love to toss around at various marginalized groups (including trans people hilariously enough, but of course the most common and lingering version of this is the antisemitic variant). I really can’t get around it here though. Specifically in the U.K., you honestly can say that transphobes control the media. I already touched on this with the assault case I mentioned above and the fabricated story about the murderer, but this is a pretty well-documented situation. I mean, even The Guardian calls out The Guardian on this, and that’s the outlet that gets the most attention because it’s the one with the most otherwise respected name, but every paper in the country has been running transphobic propaganda pieces on a weekly if not daily basis for years now, and while they do get reprimanded by watchdog groups and have mass walk-outs over the worst of it, it’s not like there’s some governing body with the authority to step in about it. Meanwhile the BBC is constantly inviting diehard zealots like Graham Linehan to news programs where he compares being trans to being a nazi, and hosting debates where someone just sits down and repeatedly chants the word “penis” at a trans woman.

Things are better in the rest of the world, but we still have right-wing creeps like Jesse Singal both writing horrific propaganda pieces (we’ll get back to that one) and blackballing trans writers out of covering trans issues ourselves (and personally stalking the hell out of those of us who try). We’ve got our Joe Rogans and Tucker Carlsons out there (no way in hell I’m linking videos here, have a real information link and a still).

The line between diehard transphobes and straight-up nazis basically does not exist.

What even is there to say here? You can easily poke around havens for nazi activity for yourself and compare the particular unique vocabulary used there to the primary bastion of anti-trans hate speech on the internet (the “feminism” section of what was originally a site for parenting tips before violent fascists took the forums over) or just peruse the follows of the thousands of people I’ve blocked on social media and see if you can sort out a clear division in the networks of channers with frog avatars and the accounts with names like GoodieXXrealwoman, or you can read up on Gab and Spinster, the two twitter alternatives that are just different portals to the same server, set up by the same guy. Maybe do some research into “the LGB Alliance,” or WoLF but any way you slice it the only real difference to be found is the general purpose nazis take a little time off now and then to watch borderline pedophilic anime and the really dedicated transphobes think to use language that sounds vaguely well-educated and left-leaning. I mean, this came from the “feminist” side of the fence:

And not to belabor the point here, but the ones claiming to be a bunch of “feminist mums” sure do let the mask slip any time they’re confronted with the fact that “women” includes black women, and oh just have a whole thread about all the weird conspiratory theories these people have about how trans people’s whole existence is some sort of Jewish plot for world domination. I swear a few months ago they were all passing around a story about some bank having an above average number of trans employees and they were all just “and we all know who controls the banks, right?” about it.

Transphobes endorse an awful lot of people who are openly pro-pedophila.

This is the part where I am really loath to link the many many specific examples I have on hand. Or to talk about this at all for reasons of good taste. Or, for that matter, to talk about this in a tumblr post when there’s an ongoing problem of people with backgrounds strongly tied to this site making baseless accusations of pedophilia against every queer person they can find, so let me be very clear just what I’m talking about while avoiding anything too graphic.

That’s James Cantor. Transphobes love him for being one of the closest things they have to a scientist on their side. And I am featuring him in a screenshot here showing that he is followed by current queen of the transphobes J.K. Rowling, while speaking to both another big name in transphobic circles, Debra Soh, and based on their names, what I’m guessing is at least one straight-up nazi. And in case you think “the P” he’s talking about adding to LGBT (or “GLBT” as weird anti-queer bigots who also have issues with women often write it) might stand for “poly” or “pan” he’s all too happy to clarify that.

This is the entire thrust of Cantor’s work and life. He is the world’s biggest pedophile rights advocate. He wants it declassified as a mental disorder, all stigma on it removed, and tirelessly pushes forward the idea that the majority of.. people who feel compelled to sexually assault children are good people who present no potential harm to anyone and should in fact be lauded.

I am not generally one to claim that someone with a PhD is spewing out questionable garbage with regard to their field, but the reason I am aware of Cantor at all is that other transphobes keep trying to hold up a particular post on his blog as "a study” (which it is not) that offers “proof” (in the form of a blurry jpeg of basically some random numbers) of some ridiculous quackery about how trans kids will “grow out of it” if exposed to conversion therapy (another way of saying torture), which Cantor himself seems to be pushing, so I am somewhat skeptical of his academic chops. And I am, of course, REALLY suspicious that all these other bigots gravitate to him purely because they’re that desperate to find anyone with a PhD in anything that backs them up against literally every scientist in a relative field, to the point that they merely forgive his particular advocacy they are plainly all aware of, particularly when such a common fig leaf used by transphobes is “keeping children safe from sexual deviants.”

And of course, Cantor is most often invoked when coming to the defense of Kenneth Zucker. This Kenneth Zucker.

Those are separate papers. Zucker isn’t controversial though for organizing panels to discuss how attractive people agree small children are (at least not exclusively). Mostly, he’s known for running a conversion therapy center which subjected gay and trans children to various sorts of torture in an effort to “fix” them, which at least for those trans "patients” I have spoken with involved a fair amount of having them strip completely naked and talking a lot about their genitals.

Zucker is something of a controversial figure with the transphobic scene, as they are extremely on board with his sexual torture of queer children, but he does actual work (for some value of the term) involving trans people and thus is not able to commit as fully as they would prefer to making life horrible for trans people, due to a professional obligation to acknowledge reality now and then. As an aside, the similarly positioned Ray Blanchard, while not to my knowledge particularly interested in the attractiveness of children, lives in a similar purgatory of trying to reconcile his career, bigotry, and sexual hangups, yielding compromises like this:

Of course, that’s just looking at the straws transphobes grasp at when looking for scientific credibility. Real leaders of the movement include Germaine Greer, author of The Beautiful Boy, which is about what you are afraid it might be, and features a very young child in a cover feature he did not consent to posing for. Or Julie Bindel, who among other things is rather infamous for writing whole articles on subjects like whether a teenage girl she came across maybe has a huge penis you can totally see if you really squint at her skirt. Again, I will not share a link to go along with that one.

Transphobes terrorize and attempt to defund charities and other unambiguously good organizations.

Graham Linehan, previously best known for cowriting some sitcoms and possibly spending a year angling to get into my pants so awkwardly I didn’t pick up on it is now best known for trying to pull the plug on a children’s charity, in a story that somehow also involves Donkey Kong. Well, and the interview about nazis. And possibly the other interview about “defending me from nazis” until it got into his head that I might not be as young and hot as he imagined. Rather not link to a far right extremist youtube channel though.

There’s also a current effort to replace Stonewall (an organization named after the location where a pair of trans women kicked off a riot which is generally agreed to be the start of the LGBT+ rights movement) as the UK’s primary LGBT+ rights organization with the “LGB Alliance.” The hate group mentioned above, with the skull face and the rifle. Closest I can find to an article on that effort on short notice that isn’t propaganda.

Transphobes paper areas in truly disgusting propaganda.

I don’t want to directly link to grown adults skulking around children’s playgrounds and bathrooms plastering surfaces with mass printed stickers of crudely drawn penises, but would encourage you to read this very long post, being sure to load all the images, to really understand how deeply strange this behavior gets.

Finally, I cannot stress this enough, this really extreme behavior I’m citing, and the specific people involved in the examples I’m giving, these aren’t random cranks on the fringe of things. The people going on televised panel discussions, writing up news stories, and testifying before lawmakers in efforts to pass horrifically discriminatory if not literally life-endangering laws (there is a major ongoing effort to legally end all medical care for trans people, and I don’t just mean care directly relating to being trans) are literally the same people involved in the sexualization of children, nazi collaborations, and roving gangs assaulting people in the street. At a bare minimum I urge people, when booking guests and handing out writing contracts, to do background checks and see if they’re platforming actual terrorists. If we could actually bring legal consequences to bear against the worst of this, that would be great too. As things stand though, the whole world is just consistently citing a bunch of racist, woman-hating, serial liars with no real credentials, and questionable attitudes towards the sexual abuse of children, as “trusted experts” and refusing to seat actual trans people or people who have legitimately committed lifetimes to academic and practical work with trans people any seats at the table.

[eligos-venator]

Legacy

[Word count: 1416]

Tap, tap, tap. The clinking of the occasional tap of metal clicking to metal could be heard throughout the white-walled room. Rather than a cluttered workshop one might have come to expect from engineers, the room itself was kept in pristine condition, almost surgically so with how little it had in it beyond the occasional soft glow of the storage tanks lining the wall, each with a different purpose. In the center of the room sat an oak stool, upon which was perched a hyur-like figure clad in a black suit. Within his left claw’s grasp was a small, oblong device, the front plate of it held in place by the black claw tip of his thumb as he screwed it into place. Each time he needed a new screw, he let his arm lower and the screwdriver dangle into the open toolbox at his side, dipping it into one of the compartments so that the magnetized tip would draw the screws to it, with just a little wriggling to ensure one would manage to fit itself onto the tip of the screwdriver and thus be secure. With a tap at the side of the box to drop any extra screws that were attached as well, the right hand would withdraw the screwdriver from the container, and the man moved on to putting in that next screw.

There was no humming of machinery to be had. No hissing or groans, or the creaking of metal. All had already been manufactured, fitted, and drilled out ahead of time, with every component tested separately. All that was left was to assemble it and put it to the test. Occasionally, the slit pupils glanced up from what was a monotonous task, the gil-hued gaze fixing on the thing beside his monitor that rested to his left, and that was the only piece in this antiseptic room that gave it any sort of character.

Hued from granite and shined to a fine polish, the statue towered over the small being, ever looming as the downcast eyes peered lifelessly, even as an eternal stone snarl set the tone as claws stretched out, as if to grasp those that dared approach it. The man’s own lips would curl up in a small, slight smile as he regarded it, and how every detail save for the actual breath of life had been taken into account. It might have been made to horrify its original owner, but to him, it stood for something else. Even as he looked up at it, it sometimes seemed as though it were real, with how the soft blue light above it would shine on it and highlight the carefully-sculpted features, painstakingly crafted to capture every last minute detail. “Right. I’ll get back to it. I owe you that much.” He hummed to himself as he would avert his eyes, forcing himself back to the ever-joyless task of assembling the small device. It was just a stone block, but the thought that he might somehow be heard gave the slightest of comforts, even if he knew it achieved nothing. It served as a constant reminder of what he had to aspire to, and just having it there brought a measure of comfort, as if there was still someone whom he could aspire to make proud of his accomplishments.

As he worked, the lights started to flicker overhead. A minor irritation, to be certain, as the man let out a low, annoyed grumble. After the third time they had done so, he set the device down on the toolbox, leaving the screwdriver beside it as he rose to his feet and crossed over to the entry of the room, to check a hidden console that displayed all relevant power information for the room. Yet he didn’t make it there. Halfway across, the lights went off completely for what felt as if a mere moment, before coming back to life with a low hum. Yet as the power returned completely, a low growl could be heard, putting the small, golden-eyed individual on immediate alert as he glanced around warily, trying to find what was out of place and had just invited itself into what should have been a secure facility. Was it in one of the tanks? No, nothing there was out of place. Nothing had seemingly changed. At least, nothing that was noticed until an unfamiliar voice spoke with a deep, dark timbre.

"Hey, kid. Been a while." White flesh, smooth as marble and with that same polished sheen flexed before as the hulking gargoyle sat down on the pedestal it had stood atop up till moments prior. Baleful silver eyes that had no pupil glared at the gold ones of the counterpart. The very corners of its ragged jaw twitched upwards in the smallest of sneers as blue fire seemingly flickered within that gaze as the creature flexed its wings, then curled them around the broad shoulders as if they were a cloak. One elongated arm hung down between its legs, claw loose and open, as the other reached to rest upon its knee as the creature stared down at the far smaller being before it. "Always so hard at work. You'd move the mountains themselves if you thought it meant you'd finally get the acknowledgement you crave from those you look up to. My acknowledgement." 

The voidsent peered around the room as it settled itself in, the index claw idly tapping away on the knee upon which it rested as the man before him blinked and stared, clearly lost and taking a moment to process what had just happened. The first instinct of that man was to back away, the second was to guess this was some mere illusion, and the third was to complain about how his statue that had cost a fortune had come to life and there would be no way anyone would believe him if he asked for a refund. Torn between these three, it took the smaller one several moments before he finally managed to speak up, his voice soft as he regarded it. “Your.. acknowledgement? Wait, so you’re-”

At this, the gargoyle cut him off, the creature lifting its claw from its knee to point at him. "You can never do it. There's too much failure for you to ever hope of doing anything more than sullying my grand name. Relinquish it before you further embarrass us both.” The accusatory claw clenched into a balled fist before relaxing as the arm dropped down to join the other in hanging between the creature’s legs as it leaned forward, eyeing the smaller of the pair. Those blank eyes contained nothing but disdain for what stood before it that stained its view, seeing the lesser as just that: truly its lesser in all aspects. “You'll never achieve anything that might earn my approval, and I tire of watching you struggle. It was only ever amusing for so long."

With that said, both wings unfurled, sweeping back to send a gust that pushed the man back, forcing him to shield his eyes for a mere moment. When he was able to lower them again to see, the pedestal was empty, the creature gone. But even as he rushed to pedestal to inspect it, the lights once again fritzed out, flickering thrice before the room plunged into pitch black once more. In the dark, the voice of the creature spoke once again. “Next we speak, you’d best have claimed another throne, wearer of false mantles.”

With that, Eligos jolted back to reality, his eyes quickly opening as he jerked upright in his chair. The lights were on, the device was still in his lap, and the screwdriver had fallen into the container of screws, which were all wrapped around it and clinging, courtesy of the magnet it contained. With a slow glance upwards, those yellow eyes were once again greeted by gray stone as the statue stared back, the same as it always had. With an annoyed sigh, the figure slowly reached down to pick up the screwdriver, tapping it particularly aggressively against the side of the container to dislodge any extra screws as he picked the device up off his lap and returned to work. It had only been a dream. Just a dream, and nothing more.

And yet upon that stand, that perch which the demon in the dream had sat, a thin layer of ash rested where it hadn’t been before, darkening the stone.

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Last Dragon | The Witcher

Chapter 16 | Steel for Humans

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Targaryen!OC

Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.

Warnings: Skeevy bandits being Skeevy bandits

Word Count: 7.5k

Note:  Click here to read the previous chapters ♡ Also! My tag list is open!

He's looking at her again. 

She can feel it; a shiver up her spine, the prickling feeling in the back of her mind to be alert for something, all telltale signs of his eyes on her. Every time she turns to meet his gaze, to try and decipher the whys and what's in his eyes, he looks away. And in the midst of all of her uncertainty, she's sure of at least one thing, he's still reeling from her confession, despite it being weeks since her name, her real name slipped from her lips. He doesn't say that he's still trying to piece together the puzzle, but he doesn't need to. She can see it in the way he carries himself around her, his lingering eyes and stumbling words. 

More than a few times he's called her Jane, instinctively, if she were to have to guess. And each time she just simply raises a brow at him before he swiftly corrects himself, eyes wild and uncertain, unable to directly look into hers. She never gets mad or annoyed, the exact opposite, in fact. She's never seen this side of Geralt that resembles a fumbling boy who still isn't a man yet; all rosy cheeks and shy conversation. Normally Geralt is so put together, constantly in control of the situation, and yet, something as simple as a name change is all it takes to throw him off. 

Another thing she's certain of is just how much she enjoys the way he says her name, the smooth Valyrian name effortlessly slipping past his lips. It's like a symphony, a sound not even the most renowned of bards could replicate. But she'd never tell him that. 

She continues staring at her face in the old mirror, dust and cracks speckling across her reflection. But she looks past it, staring at her eyes that are like liquid gold, and her fair skin, nearly glowing in the dim light. She frowns, lines appearing around her mouth - lines that weren't always there. Under her eyes are small wrinkles, hidden by the dark circles from countless sleepless nights in the least ideal spots, but she can pick them out a mile away.

She's older, that much is obvious, but how much older is not.

She used to count each day, the wall near the bed in her old room in Blaviken covered in small little lines meant to represent every time she fell asleep. She stopped keeping track after the town burned to the ground. At first, it was too painful to think of anything beyond the basic necessities of her survival. But then time drifted away, things grew easier the longer she spent with Jaskier. She smiled more, laughed more, and felt lighter than she had in a long time. And now she finds herself in an odd position, unsure of how much older she is. 

"Geralt." She doesn't remove her eyes from her reflection. He grunts, a sign that he's listening. Always a man of few words. 

"How long has it been since Blaviken?" She hears a sharp intake of breath before it's released back into the air. It's silent a moment longer.

"You don't know?" Geralt asks, skepticism and disbelief abundant in his voice. 

"No." She reaches a hand up, tracing the new scars that mare her face, they're faint, nothing more than a whisper on her face. To everyone else, they're only visible in the flicker of a candle at the right angle, but she's always aware of them.

"Fifteen years." 

Her hand drops, limp at her side. She turns a flurry of hair and wind, facing Geralt with an odd expression on her face. She can't discern how to feel with that revelation. How is one supposed to react upon figuring out the fifteen years have passed, and they don't even know it? She wants to protest, to scream that he's lying to her, and demand that he tell her the truth, the real truth and not some practical joke. But the longer she thinks on it, her eyes resting on Geralt's stone face, the more it makes sense. 

She thinks back to Winterfell, trying to remember the smells of her previous home. To remember how everything felt under her fingertips - whether it be in the warm castle or the icy cold. She tries to recall how everyone looked the last time she saw them, tried to visualize their exact heights in comparison to hers, to recall small imperfections that made them not smooth porcelain dolls. Only then, when she focuses so hard on doing just that, does she realize she can't even remember their faces. She can see their general shapes, her mind recognizing them as either Jon, Robb, or anyone else important enough to remember. But when she tries to zoom in and make their faces clearer, they're nothing but humanoid-like blurs. 

Her face twitches, in discomfort or shock, she's not sure. 

"Huh." It's the only thing she manages to say, unable to force her mind to think of another response or to form the words with her mouth. She's utterly frozen in place. 

She almost allows her mind to wander, thinking of what may have happened to the rest of the Stark children. Would they have found peace and safety, or would they have blown away like leaves in the wind, desolated by monsters and grief? But she banishes the thoughts before they could form. What would be the point? All it would do is pull her into another bout of melancholy, the same suffering she was drowning in whilst hiding away in Blaviken. So she does what she's best at; she takes all unpleasant thoughts and ghosts and locks them into a little box in the back of her mind. Leaving it to collect dust until it's long forgotten. 

"You didn't know that?" Geralt asks, breaking his statue-like posture to step closer to Visenya. She doesn't answer, she simply shakes her head, her breathing shaky and unsteady. 

'Fifteen years.'

The number echoes in her mind, it's on repeat and she finds herself unable to escape it. He's silent, Geralt is always silent. But she welcomes it, more so now than ever. 

Her fingers begin to count down as she counts up, the numbers hardly above the breaths she takes. She looks down at the ground, counting the grain in the wooden floors. 

"21, 22, 23, 24…" 

She pauses, finishing the math in her mind. She opens her mouth, cautiously.

"Thirty-five… I'm thirty-five years old now." It makes sense, her face appears much older than when she first arrived, the lines and crow's feet not just a result of poor living conditions and battle scars. 

"Is that a bad thing?" Geralt asks. Visenya looks up at him. His facial expression remains much the same as before, but his eyes glow with a hint of curiosity. Not that he would ever admit to it if she ever called him out on it. 

"No, I just-- never thought I'd make it this far," Visenya says, a sardonic grin pulling at her lips that looks more like a grimace than anything. 

"With the life, you've had--" Geralt starts, his voice low and raspy, but Visenya cuts him off with a bout of laughter that sounds more like knives than bells. He closes his mouth, simply raising a brow at Visenya. 

"You have no idea, Geralt of Rivia." She shakes her head, the grin-grimace hybrid still on her face, yet her eyes tell a different story. They're despondent and regretful, and Geralt can't understand why.

"Then perhaps you should tell me." Suddenly Visenya is no longer laughing. She stares at Geralt with a type of intensity he's never seen in her eyes before. And before he can bring himself to get used to it, to allow himself to sink in the new atmosphere that surrounds them, she dissolves it, eyes turning warm and mischievous once more.

"Give it another fifteen years, and maybe then," she says, feather-light laughter following her words. She turns once more, hair whipping behind her as she continues to stare at her reflection. Her hair is longer, reaching a few inches below her breasts. Her roots are slightly grown out, allowing a little bit of shining silver to peek through the mud brown. She still can't decide if she wants to continue dying it or not. But she tucks that thought away, not wanting to unpack everything that comes with those thoughts. Not after she just packed away unpleasant thoughts that are of a similar vein. 

"Plus, I've told you more things than I've told anyone else, and still I feel as though I know nothing of you," Visenya says, turning around once more, moving away from the dingy mirror. This causes Geralt to laugh - it's rough and dark, the complete opposite of Visenya's. It causes shivers to rush up her spine and a fluttering sensation to form in her stomach. 

She passes by him, a hand ghosting over his shoulder. She exits the room and Geralt swiftly follows. His footsteps are much heavier than hers; she's like a soft summer breeze while he's the terrifying winter winds that threaten to blow everything down. 

They walk the length of the hall, down the winding staircase, and out of the inn where Roach is patiently waiting for them. Throughout their small journey, they maintained not only the same distance between one another but the same space. 

She only pauses upon reaching Roach, a hand resting on the mare's side as she gently pets her. Visenya looks at Geralt, who now stands precisely two paces away from her - one pace closer than he had been five seconds ago. 

"Fair is fair," she says, raising her brows. A grumble of a laugh escapes his mouth, so quiet it could almost be mistaken for the world itself shaking. His laughter causes his eyes to close for a brief second before he opens them once more.

"I can't argue with that. In exchange for what you've told me, I'll tell you about my first hunt. Does that sound like a fair bargain?" he asks, a certain lightness in his eyes that quickly disappears in the time it takes for her to blink and open her eyes again. She holds a hand out, and he places his own in it. They shake their hands, two times to be exact. 

"Sounds like a deal to me."

oOo

"I'd only just left Kaer Morhen, a new Witcher who was naive enough to think I could save the world. I came across a gang of men who were about to rape a young girl, a few of them holding back the girl's father." Geralt says, his voice quiet and somber, but she could hear each word perfectly. They're both riding on Roach, with Visenya in front and Geralt's arms slung loosely around her as he holds Roach's reins. The mare doesn't need much guidance though, she just follows the winding road ahead of them, and neither Geralt nor Visenya corrects her. 

"And then what happened," Visenya asks, resisting the urge to turn around and look at Geralt. He's so good at obscuring any emotion or feelings when he speaks, often opting to talk with a monotonous voice. While hilarious when dealing witty one-liners, it makes it near impossible to discern how he feels. His eyes on the other hand are a completely different story. 

To most, they may seem as empty and dead as a poorly done painting, but Visenya can read him like an open book - spotting small flickers of different emotions. After all, Visenya often employs the same tactic to appear as cold and unfeeling as possible, it's only natural she sees through when others try to do it to her.  

"I killed them, the bald man with the rotted teeth and all his friends. The girl's father fled right after--" Geralt says.

"And the girl?" Visenya says, unable to stop herself from interrupting him. When he promised her a tale of his first hunt, this isn't exactly what she expected, yet she finds herself enthralled none-the-less. A part of her wonders how different her history might've been if Geralt lived in Westeros. What would be different, if anything at all. She knows with complete certainty that the Geralt she knows would have no problem defeating the Mountain. But if Geralt lived in Westeros instead of here, he wouldn't be a Witcher. Which means he'd have none of the capabilities that make him superior to mortals. So her train of thought is moot and pointless. 

But she can't help the twitch of a smirk on her lips as she imagines Geralt slicing the Mountain's head off his body; the cut clean and precise. And instead of a girl about to be raped by a slimy bandit, she sees the Mountain looming over her mother, and Geralt saving her just in time. 

"What happened to the girl?" This time she doesn't fight the urge to turn and look at Geralt. She turns her head just enough to see the right side of his face. His eyes are far away, recalling memories that are probably lifetimes away. The mid-day sunlight aggressively shines onto his face, but it's deceiving in its harshness for it provides no warmth. The air is cold and icy, freezing dead leaves and small twigs into timeless statues that will melt when summer comes again. 

"She was covered in the bald man's blood, but unharmed, not that you'd know that with how she reacted. When I approached her, she screamed, vomited, and then passed out," Geralt says. His tone remains even, not portraying any feelings. 

She turns her head to face the road once more, her lips pursing in concentration. 

Would her mother have reacted the same if Geralt swept into her chamber like an angel of death, white hair his halo, and the blade strapped to his back his judgment? Or would she have thanked him, tears streaming down her face as she held her screaming children? 

"And how did that make you feel?" she asks, not daring to turn and look at him once more. She fears if he takes one look at her eyes, he'll see all the thoughts furiously swimming in the flames that dance in them. She can feel him shrug more than see it, the movement of his shoulders causing his arm to brush against her back. 

"Like shit," he simply replies. Visenya scoffs, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips. 

She opens her mouth, a witty quip on the tip of her tongue when she's cut off by a scream. It comes from her right, in the forest, but not so deeply hidden that the dying trees and frostbitten leaves muffle the noises. Her posture turns stiff like a board, the hairs on her body standing up straight. 

"Did you--" she begins, only to be cut off by another scream, this one more guttural than the last, yet not beast-like in nature. Visenya turns, catching Geralt's eyes. He nods, acknowledging that the shouts aren't just in her head, the manifestation of deeply hidden thoughts resurfacing. He hears it too. 

Without allowing a moment of hesitation or for her mind to catch up with her actions, she jumps off of Roach, unsheathing her blade. The dragon hilt is cold as ice, but soothing to the heat slowly rising in Visenya. 

A loud thud follows only a moment later, signaling that Geralt is following her lead. She'd feel touched by his lack of protest when it comes to her charging headfirst into the unknown, but the situation is far too dangerous for any distractions, even if only for a brief second. 

Blood rushing and heart pounding, she turns to ice as another scream echoes in their ears. It's closer this time, sounding as if someone is shouting while choking on their blood. Visenya's pace quickens, her heart racing faster as adrenaline floods her body in preparation for the potential fight that seems more likely than not as each second passes. The grip on her sword tightens as she clenches her jaw. Dozens of battle maneuvers and tactics fly through her mind, all the years of training; both in Winterfell and with Geralt blaring in her mind. 

Another scream, this one deeper than the previous. Visenya picks up her pace again, eager for this confrontation to be over before it even begins. She glances behind and Geralt is right behind her, sword unsheathed and face battle-hardened. 

For the fifth time, another scream rips through the trees, but now that they're closer, Visenya hears the rustling of what sounds like people running. The muffled noise of jeers and mocking voices trickle into her ears.

People, they're dealing with people, and not literal monsters. Though most times, people can be the worst type of monster there is.

With a deep breath that she quickly releases, Visenya reaches a handout, pushing away the branches that separate her and Geralt from the apparent attackers. 

'The blood of the dragon is not afraid.'

The phrase enters her mind without thought. But instead of banishing it away, she embraces it. She imagines Queen Visenya beside her, a stern expression on her beautiful face, lips curling into a snarl that would perfectly mimic Vhaegar. 

When she opens her eyes, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. A group of six or so humans wielding various types of weapons that were dripping with blood stand in the small clearing. The source of the screams quickly became clear; a small family of elves with blood dripping from various wounds. A male elf lays on his stomach, unmoving; meanwhile, a woman cowers in a corner, pressing her body against a tree, three children with her. The smallest of the three were huddled on either side of her as she attempted to soothe them, tears streaming down her bloodied face. Meanwhile, the oldest, only looking to be seven at the most, stands in front of her, the branch from a tree between his unsteady hands. He holds it as if it's a blade, determined to protect what remains of his family. 

The humans are bandits and not very successful ones; with worn mismatched leather armor and blades that look seconds away from rusting. But they wear sneers on the face, showing rotted teeth and foul words. They snap their attention toward Visenya who enters first and watch her for a moment as she watches them, taking in the scene before her.

She expected the worst, but nothing could've prepared her for this. It's too familiar, too close to home. She feels her vision go red, blood pumping in her veins, and skin nearly burning.

"Look at this boys, no need to find a nearby brothel. Looks like our entertainment found us," one of the men says, a twisted smirk curling on his cracked and bleeding lips. Visenya's face contorts into a look of disgust. The other men around them laugh, cackles that sound more like screams than sounds of delight. 

Visenya tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword, teeth grinding as she clenches her jaw tighter. She takes a single step forward. 

"Pretty thing you are, and you look like a fighter. Good, I like it when they fight," the man continues, undisturbed or intimidated by Visenya.

"And I like it when bastards like you are six feet under. Lucky for me you will be, soon," Visenya says, her voice gravelly and harsh like a growl. She smiles, her mouth looking more like the snarl of a wolf that's moments away from attacking. 

The man doesn't falter, instead, he barks out a laugh, pointing his finger at Visenya as he does. 

"Funny," he says. He nods his head at a few of the men, turning his attention back to the elf and her children. "But be a dear and be quiet. I have some business to attend to." He lifts his blade and begins approaching the woman. The child holds his stick up high, about to try and defend his mother when the bandit just shoves him aside, knocking the kid on the ground. A loud crack resounds in the clearing as his small head collides with a protruding rock. 

The elven woman screams, crawling to try and get as far away as possible, clutching her kids tighter against her. Tears stream down her face as vigorous as a waterfall. Dread fills Visenya, all her thoughts consumed by panic. 

"No!" Visenya screams. She moves to charge him, but a grimy hand holds onto her, keeping her from running. She turns towards the man, and wildly swings her blade. It misses, but in dodging it, he loses enough of his footing that he lets go of her.  

He goes to grab her again, but before he can try, a blade slices into his neck, causing blood to gush out of the wound before he drops to the ground. Visenya doesn't have to look to know it's Geralt, but she does anyway. A deep scowl is set on his face, eyes blazing in a way that's eerily similar to Visenya's. He growls, eyes assessing the scene before them. He glances at Visenya, then moves his eyes to the leader. Visenya nods, understanding the nonverbal cue. 

Save the girl.

"A fucking Witcher!" The man spits out. He spits turning away from the elf, no longer able to ignore the threat right in front of him. "Just kill them both, I hear Witchers make good coin."

Then everything descends into chaos. The rest of the bandits charge Visenya and Geralt, but she pays them no mind. She nimbly dodges each one of their attacks, leaving them to Geralt. Her eyes stay on the leader, who's eyes rest solely on her as well. He grabs a second blade from the ground, ripping it from the hands of the dead elf. He strides towards her and she meets him halfway in a clash of blades and fury. 

Their blades meet in a cross, the clang of metal ringing in her ears. She scowls as he snarls, spittle flying into her face. 

She jumps back and pivots to his side. His gaze follows her, body turning as she does. Like a butcher cutting a pig, he hacks down at her. She parries it with her blade, pushing it away as if it's nothing more than an annoyance. His second one comes down a moment later and she dodges to the other side, the blade slicing through empty air. A third swing, his other hand comes down, this time towards her face. She crouches low to the ground as she brings her blade up to block the hit, using her lower position to steady her body as she pushes against him, both hands holding onto the hilt. 

He presses down and she pushes upward, arms shaking from the exertion.  She screams, the sound eerily similar to the roar of a dragon, moments before it decimates its enemies with its fiery wrath. With a burst of power, she shoots up, causing him to stumble back. 

Right and left, she slashes her blade at him. His leather armor takes the brunt of the first hit, but the second one manages to piece into flesh. She snarls as he screeches in pain. Clammy hands begin to shakily smack against his belt, desperately looking for a blade to try and stick her with, but she doesn't give him the chance. 

She kicks him in the abdomen. The force of it slamming his already weak body against a tree. There's a loud crack as his body makes contact, another howl of pain escaping his mouth. 

"Stupid bit--" 

Her blade stabs into his neck, stopping him mid-sentence. Blood pours out of his mouth, a gurgling sound replacing his scratchy voice. 

"Fuck you," Visenya says. She then spits at him, the saliva landing on his chest and disappearing into the blood. 

She sighs, the sounds of fighting die down, and she turns around. Geralt is standing in the center of the clearing, blood speckling his armor and dripping off his blades, but luckily none of the blood is his. Her tense shoulder loosens slightly, the adrenaline leaving with the threats. She tosses her blade to the side, making a mental note to clean it later. 

Turning to her right, she sees the elven woman with her children still cowering in the corner, all three of her children around her, the eldest of them knocked out cold. Now that no threats are looming over them, Visenya allows herself a moment to inspect the three of them. 

The mother looks to be middle age, with wheat blonde hair and pallid skin, her bones protruding in a way that the bones of someone well-nourished wouldn't. Her eyes are down and as large as a doe, the sparkle in them enhanced by salty tears. 

The small girl looks nearly identical to her, her wheat hair in a messy braid that's falling apart. She clutches her mother's hand tighter, moving further into her the longer Visenya looks at her. The other boy is the complete opposite, with dark disheveled hair and blue eyes. His face is blotchy and wet from tears, but he doesn't seem to fully understand why. Staring at Visenya with blank curiosity rather than fear.

"Are you hurt?" Visenya asks, making a conscious effort to make her voice as light and harmless as possible. She takes a step forward, a branch breaking under her foot. The woman gasps, pressing herself further against the tree. 

Visenya stops, holding her arms up, a nonverbal sign that she means peace. The woman doesn't relax, not that Visenya expects her to.

"You--you--you," the woman stutters, tears still streaming down her face, but not as frantically as they were moments ago. 

"Saved you, yes," Visenya says, taking another step forward. The woman doesn't cower, but her fear doesn't lessen. 

"I don't have coin," she says, her voice wavering in between her sobs. Visenya shrugs, a small smile curling on her lips.

"And I have more than enough," Visenya says. The woman continues to stare at her, not uttering a single word. It's like they're frozen in place, only the tears running down her cheeks and their shaking forms giving away that they're in fact real. Visenya feels her stomach twist itself into knots. 

She should grab her blade and leave the clearing behind, get back on Roach with Geralt and ride off to the next destination. At the very least her conscience would be eased by the fact that they kept these band of idiots from hurting the woman and her children. 

And yet…

A voice whispers in her ear to not, that she'd never stop thinking about this moment, wondering what became of them. Did they save them from these bandits only to get robbed and left for dead by the next group of pricks with pointy swords? She couldn't live with it, she realizes. Not if she doesn't do everything in her power to ensure they arrive home safely and alive… wherever home is. A sigh escapes her mouth, so quiet it could be mistaken for the wind. 

"You have no reason to trust me, I get that, but at the very least I saved you from those pricks, so I can't be that bad, right?" Visenya asks, voice rougher and blunter than she intended for it to be. Internally she winces as the woman cowers for a brief second, but then slowly she nods her head.

"Right. Your son is injured, how serious, I'm not sure. I don't know, maybe you have some training in the art of healing, but if you're not, at the very least, I'm no stranger to minor injuries. I can help him," Visenya continues. The elven woman doesn't cower anymore, her rapid tears dwindling to a light drizzle rather than a heavy pour. She nods once more, and Visenya finds herself sighing in relief. 

Without wasting another moment she takes a step forward, turning towards the child on the ground. She crouches beside him, his mother moving to be on his other side. Her shining eyes are sharp, watching Visenya with the likeness of a hawk watching its prey. 

He looks to be a mixture of his mother and presumably his father. His hair is a dirty blonde, freckles dotting his tan skin. He's not nearly as frail as his other siblings, similar to how Jon, Robb, and Theon looked when they first started training in Winterfell. But he seems to have much less meat on his bones. 

Visenya places her warm hands on his face, lifting his head and moving a hand to gently cradle his head. There's a large bruise blossoming on the right side of his forehead, but there's no blood or any other signs of injury. She places a hand on his heart, feeling it beat against her hand, then slides it to the side of his neck, feeling a pulse there as well. 

"He didn't get hit with a weapon," the woman says, whether convincing herself of his safety or trying to feed Visenya information she isn't sure. Or it could be a mixture of both. 

"No, but he took a hard fall, I've seen men twice his size get knocked on their heads and never get back up, and if they do, they're never the same. There's bleeding, but that doesn't mean he's completely safe," Visenya says, removing her hands from his body. 

"Is there anything to be done?" she asks, picking his up and gently cradling his head in her lap. 

"Other than wait and see when he wakes? No. As I said, I'm no healer, but I have a tea that can help ease his pain. He'll have a bad headache and sore body, that much is certain," Visenay says. She looks over at the two other children; a girl and a boy. They're young, that for certain, younger than the boy on the ground. 

"How much?" the woman asks, not removing her eyes from her son. Visenya's brows furrow in confusion.

"How much what?"

"How much will I owe you for the herbs?" the woman asks again, looking Visenya directly in the eyes. Her tears are dry, but her eyes still shine from the residual dampness. 

"Nothing. He needs it now more than I do. I can buy more when I reach the next town," Visenya says, keeping her face as pleasant as possible. The woman purses her lips, clearly in thought. Silence washes over them until it's broken by the woman. 

"Thank you. Not many humans would show kindness to elves, much less two so well trained in fighting." 

Visenya snorts, a smirk appearing on her face. 

"One human and a mutant, actually. But you're welcome. What good is all the fighting talent in the world if you don't use it well," Visenya says, slowly standing from the ground? The woman's eyes follow her form as she stands to her full height. "Our horse is near the road. We can take you wherever home is, and make sure you get there safe."

The woman nods, adjusting her son in her arms so that he is lying across her lap. With Visenya's help, she stands from the ground, holding her son's bridal style. Her two other children stay close, hiding a bit behind her, each one with a hand attached to her dress. Visenya turns, eager to leave the clearing and forget any of this happened, but the woman stopped her. 

"I've already lost Aldon, my husband. I could not lose my son too, I truly appreciate what you have and are doing for us."

"I wouldn't speak so soon," Geralt's gravelly voice enters the conversation. They both turn to see him kneeling beside the body, two fingers against his neck. "He's fading, but he hasn't died yet." 

Visenya strides towards Geralt, the woman, still holding her son, hot on her trail while her two children stay in place, silently watching with wide eyes. Visenya sits beside Geralt as the woman nearly collapses on the other side of Aldon's body. She takes a hold of his hand, her grip so tight her fingers begin to turn white.

"Can we save him?" Visenya asks. Geralt grunts, gesturing with his head in the direction behind them. She nods, knowing what he's saying without having to physically say it. She stands and runs the way they came in. Her feet are heavy, beating into the soil and breaking any twigs or crunchy leaves. The world is a blur around her, wind rushing against her skin. They can save him, but only if Visenya can get the supplies back to Geralt in time. 

Either by sheer dumb luck, or the gods truly have shown them favor, Roach is right where they left him. Visenya releases a heavy sigh as she beelines straight for her pack that hangs off of Roach. 

"Good horse. I'm going to give you so many apples once we reach civilization," Visenya breathes out, untying her pack from his saddle. He neighs, happily it would seem. She smiles, patting his side a few times before turning and rushing into the forest once more. 

Everyone is in the exact spots as when she left. Geralt is leaning over Aldon with his wife sitting on the other side of his body. She clutches his hand in hers, knuckles turning white from the tightness of her grip. Her lips are quivering with large eyes, her body shaking every few minutes, the stark contrast of Geralt. With thin lips, hard eyes, and unwavering hands as he cleans the wound to the best of his ability; he's the epitome of stone. Visenya runs towards them, tossing the bag at Geralt once she crosses halfway through the clearing. He catches it in his hand, flipping it open and rummaging through it. He pulls out various bottles; some with powders, liquids, herbs: both brushed and whole, and bandages. 

Visenya slows her pace, moving around Aldon to sit beside his wife. She glances at Visenya for a moment before looking back at her husband. She;'s breathing heavily, the sharp intakes of breath sporadic. A hiccup escapes her mouth every few seconds, eyes on her husband, waiting and hoping for any signs of recovering. Hand on the grass, it moves over until it brushes against her free hand. She doesn't look away from her husband, but she takes Visenya's hand, her cold body instantly feeling warmer from Visenya's proximity. It provides comfort, a sense of reassurance that Geralt knows what he's doing. That her husband will make it out of the mess, and this day won't become a travesty that's burned in her mind. 

Geralt works quickly, each minute passing in a blur. He tears strips of bandages off with his teeth, the tearing sound from it enough to keep Visenya from getting lost in her thoughts. He wipes away the blood with a cloth, pouring a liquid that smells suspiciously like alcohol over the wound. It hisses upon contact but the noise swiftly dissipates. He then grabs one of the vials that contain a thick liquid. It's amber, with various herbs and other ingredients slightly discoloring it. He packs it into the wound, laying down multiple thick layers of the poultice. He then lifts the torso of the man just enough to wrap his torso in bandages. With her only free hand, Visenya helps him keep the body off the ground, mutely watching Geralt work. 

Finally, Geralt sighs, removing his hands from the body, the two of them gently lowering him to once again lay on the ground. Blood is no longer gushing from the wound on the side of his body, unable to seep through the dense layers above it. 

"They were pricks, but luckily they weren't skilled pricks. He would've bled out, but it wasn't a fatal blow. When he wakes he'll be weak, but alive," Geralt mutters. Visenya sighs, eyes moving to the elven woman. She removes her hand from Visenya's grip, moving her child off of her lap. Visenya immediately places hands on the small boy, taking him from his mother and cradling him. The woman cries out in relief, hovering over Aldon's body and placing a hand on his cheek. 

She looks down at the boy in her arms, noticing the way his eyes twitch under his lids. He's dreaming, it seems. And from the small grin on his face, it's a good one. A soft smile forms on Visenya's face, wide eyes watching the boy, her breathing matching his. A familiar tingling sensation runs up her spine. She glances up, seeing Geralt's gaze firmly on her. She smiles, and he returns it. They've done it, managed to save an innocent family, keeping them from being torn apart by stick bastards with pointy sticks. It's...nice.

"We probably shouldn't move him too much in fear of disturbing his wounds. How far are you from here?" Visenya asks, turning her attention back to the woman. She lifts her head, eyes moving from her husband to Visenya. They're wet with tears again, but not tears of sorrow or fear. This time they're from an overwhelming feeling of joy and hope she didn't have moments ago.

"It's a short distance, we live just on the outskirts of Brunwich," she says. Visenya nods, opening her mouth but Geralt speaks before her.

"We just left," Geralt says.

"And we can turn back around," Visenya interjects, looking at Geralt with a stony expression; lips in a firm line and eyes daring him to contradict her. She clutches the child closer to her, not willing to let them go just yet. They need to be safe and back home, and Visenya needs to see it with her own eyes. Otherwise, her consciousness will never be sated. And Geralt gleans this, causing a sigh to leave his lips, not bothering to start an argument he knows he wouldn't win. 

"We can," he concedes, voice lacking any form of enthusiasm or conviction in his words.

"Excellent." Visenya returns her attention to the woman. "Since his injuries are the most delicate, your husband can ride on Roach, and you can ride with him. I can hold your son, but would your two other children be okay to walk? I'm not sure they'd fit on Roach." 

"They won't. We should camp here for the day until he's conscious and well enough to ride," Geralt says. Visenya nods and looks at the woman for confirmation, who nods as well. 

"In that case, I will get Roach," Visenya says. She begins to adjust the boy in her lap to give him back to his mother, but she stands from the ground. 

"I'll come with you," she says. Visenya nods, standing from the ground as well. She walks around Aldon, to stand beside Geralt. She gestures with her chin down at the child. Geralt opens his arms, reluctantly. She places the boy in his arms, and turns, dusting off any dirt that clings to her armor. Visenya nods at her and the two of them exit the clearing. 

The air around them is quiet. They neither speak nor acknowledge each other. Occasionally Visenya glances at her out of the corner of her eyes, and she catches the woman doing the same thing. It's almost like two wolves dancing around each other, trying to figure out how to approach the other. It isn't hostile, neither of them having any obvious tension. It's just….silent. 

The woods are as gloomy as before; a cold chill sweeping through the air with dead trees and crunching leaves in shades of brown coloring their world. Yet everything somehow feels lighter, less dull, and grey. Visenya feels weightless, the adrenaline from the battle still lingering in her veins and the rush from saving innocent lives giving a small skip in her step. 

"I am Amaria," the woman -- Amaria says, making the first move. Visenya nods, continuing to look straight ahead. 

"I am Amaria," the woman, Amaria, says. Her voice is louder than she's heard it, yet the only other times she spoke was during great distress. There's a melodic tone to it, each word slightly flowing together like the lyrics of a song. Visenya nods her head, staring straight ahead. 

"Visenya." Leaves crunch under her boots, matching the pace of her heart, and the distant song that lingers in the back of her mind. It's been too long since she's heard music - and not just the drunken yodeling of tavern goers. She misses music and singing that are enjoyable to listen to. She misses the small tunes and fumbling lyrics that Jaskier always sang throughout the days. Everything is too silent now, and she finds herself trying to fill the silence the way he did. 

"That's a beautiful name," Amaria remarks, stepping over an overly large root. Visenya smiles, glancing over at her. She's only the second person to call her Visenya. It's relieving...finally able to take ownership of her own name once again. 

"Thank you, it's a family name." Amaria nods, falling silent once more, and unlike moments prior, this silence is not an easy one. Nerves fill Visenya, the uncertainty of what to say - if she should say anything at all overwhelming. She mulls over it for another moment, before just opening her mouth and hoping to not offend. 

"What are your children named?" Visenya asks. 

"Rohir is my oldest at seven, he's the one you helped. Then there's Elana, she's only four and my youngest is Vyron, he's only two," Amaria says, a wide smile appearing on her face as she thinks about her children. Visenya watches her with keen eyes, a pang of envy stabbing into her, a piece of her longing to know the feeling of having a family that's all your own. 

"They're beautiful," Visenya says, tightly nodding her head. She drums her fingers against the side of her leg. 

"Do you have any?" Amaria asks. She's seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the awkward air that surrounds Visenya. But it's nothing new, she's never been the best with people. Constantly being around such loud people like Jaskier, or quiet and reclusive people like Geralt, she never notices. But now, walking in the forest alone with Amaria, she can't help but notice how extremely difficult something as simple as conversation is. 

"No," Visenya says, crouching to avoid smacking into a low hanging group of branches. Amaria nods, and then sighs. Her face scrunches into discomfort; pursuing her lips with eyes that are narrowed slightly. 

"Sorry, I should not have asked. I'm sure Witcher mutations make conceiving a child near impossible," she says, her voice sympathetic and apologetic. Absentmindedly Visenya nods, only a moment later, fully processing the words. 

"Wait what?" Visenya stops in her tracks, turning to face Amaria. Her mouth is agape and eyes wide, ashen brows furrow in confusion with lines on her forehead. She continues a few steps before realizing Visenya is no longer walking with her. She stops as well, turning around and facing Visenya.

"You and the Witcher. Aren't you two..." Amaria trails off. Visenya's cheeks are bombarded with heat that makes her skin bright red. There's a funny feeling in her stomach, tingles rushing up her spine. The thought of her and Geralt together isn't unpleasant, and that's the worst part. She almost enjoys the idea. But she quickly sweeps that away, her and Geralt having children would be disastrous, not that he probably could. 

"Geralt and I are not...together," Visenya says, tone more frantic than she intended. 

"Oh, I just thought maybe…"

"Well, you thought wrong," Visenya says, the words harsher than she intended for it to be. She releases a sigh of frustration, watching Amaria jump, slowly taking one step back from Visenya. Quickly, she crumbles back into the scared rabbit she was when Visenya first saw her. The familiar look in her eyes quickly snaps Visenya out of her frustration. Guild replaces her bubbling temper, immediately dousing out any annoyance in her voice. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be so harsh," Visenya says. Amaria nods, frown curling into a small smile. "Please, forgive me."

"You are forgiven. I should not have made such assumptions," Amaria says. She steps closer towards Visenya, a non-verbal sign that she doesn't hold any fear for her. Visenya smiles at her, and the two of them continue walking once more. Silence cloaking them in its aura for the rest of their walk, neither speaking even upon reaching Roach and bringing his back to Geralt and her family. 

oOo

Tags: If your name is crossed out, it means I wasn’t able to tag you.

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[vecnawrites]

Futa Pyrrha and Futa Nora have been doing well in NNN so far getting 3 and a half weeks into the month and fairly backed up, until they walk in on their crushes making out with each other, causing them to cum right through their clothes and onto each other as a result.

“Unnnhhh...is the month over yet, Pyrrha?” Nora whined, sitting on her rear in the locker room, bottomless and legs spread wide open, revealing her swollen sack to anyone who glanced her way. Fortunately, only Pyrrha was there, and she wouldn’t complain about ‘decency’ when she was in the same condition!

Pyrrha hissed as she gently rubbed her aching balls, attempting to soothe the churning ache as best she could. “Just...just three more days, Nora...then we...then we-” she was cut off by Nora barking a harsh laugh. “Then we’re going to grab Joan and Renny, confess, and after that we’re going to throw them down and fuck them senseless!”

Pyrrha closed her eyes, clenching her hands into fists and taking deep breaths to try and calm herself as she imagined her incredibly busty crush writhing and whining beneath her, begging for more, to be pounded harder by her thick cock, to be filled to the brim with her cum...such thoughts were dangerous at the current moment.

Finally managing to keep herself calm, she gave Nora a side glare. “Nora, now is not the time to get our imaginations going! We only have a little bit left, then the reward will be worth it!” she growled, uncharacteristic anger in her voice. “I’m in as much discomfort as you!”

Nora glared back, before softening. “...sorry, Pyrrha...I just...I want this so badly…” she moaned. Anger leaving her, Pyrrha nodded with a sigh. “I’m sorry too...and I do as well.” she had longed to hold and love Joan for months, and this stupid challenge was only making her reach the end of her rope! “Come on, let’s get dressed and head back to the dorms, okay? We can rest, and tomorrow will come pretty quickly!”

Nora snorted. “Yeah, but we’ll also be trapped with what we desire most…” she lamented, cock twitching as she imagined her Renny’s slender form, and how her pussy would look wrapped around her thick cock. She shook her head violently. No! She couldn’t afford to get hard! She knew her self-control wasn’t as good as Pyrrha’s!

“Do I need to use the bracelets, Nora?” Pyrrha asked, gesturing to the metal bracelets on Nora’s wrists, ones she had given her so she could help if she started to lose focus. Seeing the orangette nod tersely, Pyrrha held her hand out, glowing black as she activated her semblance.

At once, Nora’s arms moved, grabbing her pink panties and sliding them up her legs, cradling her balls and hiding her cock. Her shorts followed, keeping them locked in place. The glow faded, and Nora sighed, reaching out and grabbing her shirt and putting it on, grumbling as she did so.

Finally dressed, the pair left the locker rooms and made their way back to their dorms, walking gingerly, wincing every time their balls shifted, rubbing against one another or smacking against their inner thighs.

They both focused on their goal, the dorm room. Once they got there, they could relax with their partners and crushes and pray for the next three days to end fast. Their balls needed to be emptied! Taking a deep breath as they finally reached their dorm room, Pyrrha opened it, her and Nora stepping inside, happy to finally be able to enter and re-they froze.

Joan and Lian were on Joan’s bed, kissing. No, not just kissing, making out. Quite heavily, in fact, since both their shirts were off and they were only wearing their bras, a lace-lined cotton one for Lian and a large silk one for Joan.

Apparently not hearing them, both continued, bras becoming undone and falling to their laps, baring their chests, both moaning into each other’s mouths as their breasts rubbed together, nipples brushing one another.

An explosive noise made both freeze, along with a weak croak, one that Pyrrha recognized came from her own throat. Both snapped towards her and Nora, both ending up pulling apart, their breasts bouncing and jiggling, their lips swollen and pink.

Pyrrha felt her knees buckle, her balls churning and tingling, cock twitching as it started spraying her cum, coating the inside of her panties and pants with her cum, making a massive wet stain in the center as she collapsed. Next to her, she heard Nora releasing dark curses between her heavy moans.

She closed her eyes, shame filling her for losing so close to the end, mixed with lust and pain at seeing Joan and Ren making out with one another. Was that why they had never seemed to notice her and Nora’s feelings?

Her eyes snapped open as she felt fingers curl into her pants and panties and peel them down, exposing her cum covered cock and balls. Said cock twitched as the first things she locked sight with were massive breasts, before they drifted upwards to see Joan’s beautiful face with a very uncharacteristic smirk on her face. “Lian and I hoped that would get you two to pop.”

Pyrrha’s confusion must have been visible on her face, because Joan continued, elaborating. “You two have been so focused on your little challenge you didn’t notice the fact that Lian and I were planning to talk to you about us.” she spread Pyrrha’s unresisting thighs as she spoke, sinking down further.

“T-Talk?!” Pyrrha hated the fact that her voice came out in such a strangled squeak, but the person of her desires was kneeling between her spread legs and only going lower, so she could be forgiven for that!

Joan hummed, hovering just above where she wanted her to be. Moans and whimpers told her that Nora was being pleased, but she didn’t dare look away, in fear of Joan vanishing and her waking up in bed with a wet lap.

“We were speaking about making our family a family…all of us together.” before Pyrrha could say anything, her eyes rolled back and fingers and toes curled as Joan liked a stripe along her sensitive balls, cleaning up some of the cum. She began to swiftly and eagerly clean her cock and balls of her cum, leaving the redhead trembling on the floor.

Her eyes locked on Joan to see her white-coated tongue enter her mouth and she swallowed, humming. “Tasty...I can’t wait to taste it from the source.” Pyrrha’s eyes widened as Joan lowered her head again, this time capturing her cock in her mouth.

The room was filled with the moans and cries of the futa pair, both of the powerful women being utterly outmatched by the seductive powers of their partners.

As their balls emptied again, the redhead and the orangette shared an almost disbelieving look, before they quickly focused back on their partners as Joan and Lian mounted their thick cocks and began to ride them.

They may have lost the battle, but Pyrrha and Nora could take comfort in the fact that they won the war! Even if it was unorthodox, they got their loved ones!

Pyrrha Nikos, Nora Valkyrie:

Status: FAILED

Time Survived: 27 Days

Reason/Method For Failure: Walking In On Partners Making Out

[ashintheairlikesnow]

No Matter What

CW: Hungover whumpee – headache, nausea, etc all mentioned. Alcohol use referenced. References to throwing up, nothing graphic or descriptive. References to conditioning, past noncon and its effect on a whumpee and their view of themselves years later, trauma responses, and trauma recovery. VERY brief transphobia reference. References to domestic violence and child abuse, including verbal abuse and abandonment. 

I… promise I was going for fluff.

Set post this drabble where Chris is drinking and this one where Laken gets him back to Jake’s house. 

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @stxckfxck, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions

Oh, he hurts.

His head is one giant throbbing ache, like someone wrapped a hammer in wool and smacked around his brain until it bounced against his skull. The worst pain is just behind his eyes and he can barely crack them open before he has to squinch them shut again, pulling a pillow over his head with a groan to hide from the hint of morning sunlight cutting lines through the blinds.

He knows enough to know he’s in his own room at home, not his dorm, but he’s not entirely sure how he got here and why he’d come here, anyway. 

One hand presses the pillow down - the pressure against the top of his head feels so good, cool from the pillowcase but firm, soothing some of the ache - and the other moves to find the feather around his neck, rubbing at the little carved vanes in the gray plastic. Did he take the feather last night? He must have, but he can’t remember anything past throwing up Sir’s favorite martini in the bar’s bathroom, rinsing his mouth out, drinking water straight from the bathroom sink and then going back out to order a gin and tonic and do it all again.

He hurts.

Did the bartender refuse to give him the gin and tonic? He might have, he knows Kauri, all the ones who know Kauri - and it feels like every bar in town knows Kauri and half the men in them - seem to know who Chris is, too, the second he walks in the door.

He hopes the bartender refused him.

He hopes he didn’t offer the bartender anything more than money.

There’s a shifting weight in the bed next to him and Chris freezes, for just a second the breath catches in his throat, but then he relaxes with the knowledge that it can only be Jake or Antoni, there aren’t anymore silk sheets, there aren’t anymore nights with his hands gripping the headboard to hold back the scream inside his head, there won’t ever be again.

Dead in the ground, rotting away, his Sir can’t hurt him anymore.

Chris swallows - there’s a pain in his throat, too, probably from throwing up, and his mouth tastes awful, his tongue is a dry dead weight - and dares peek out from under the pillow.

Laken lays next to him in the bed on their stomach, naked except for their underwear, a pair of black boxer briefs that look like bike shorts, lying on their stomach and Chris would love the way the light hits their shoulder blades if he wasn’t hurting too badly to focus his eyes.

Their hair is a riot of thick black curls across the pillow their head rests on, lips curled in the slightest half-smile. Chris just watches their back rise and fall as they breathe for a few seconds, wondering what happened after his last memory - stumbling out of the bathroom at the bar, shoving Will away, going back to the bar for another drink.

Hating himself for being glad his Sir is gone, hating his Sir for what he had done to Chris’s life, loving his Sir for all the times he was the only good thing in the world, loving him so much he couldn’t bear the loss.

Laken is beautiful, their mouth slightly open, parted just enough to show a hint of the bottom of their top teeth, maybe the slightest bit of pink tongue. Black eyelashes lay so lightly along their skin, eyeliner from the night before still there with the little swoop at the ends smudged into something closer to smoke than kohl.

Laken is a lightning bolt that walks the earth near him, and Chris is a bit of copper tarnished, turning green, a penny rubbed to shiny nothingness with all the hands that have touched him when he had no voice to refuse their attention.

Laken is worth everything there is, and Chris feels like money no one will take because too many hands have already held it.

Chris’s fumbles blindly off the bed, searching for the side table he knows is right there, finding his phone facedown next to the lamp and pulling it under the pillow with him. The lockscreen is a photo of he and Laken together down by the campus lake, Laken in their usual black-and-slightly-less-black with a slight knowing smile and Chris laughing at whatever Dill was saying when he took the picture. He winces at the brightness, the light and the looks on their faces, and unlocks it with the pincode, 5-2-5-3. 

The homescreen is he and Jake and Antoni standing outside the house the day it belonged to Jake for real, Jake holding the deed in one hand and his arm around Chris’s shoulders, all of them smiling. Chris kind of hates that photo, too, right now. 

He scrolls through text messages, wincing as he sees his own words garbled, letters switched, eventually nearly nonsensical. He wants to sink into the ground and disappear when he sees seven calls, three to Laken, two to Jake, one to Antoni, a final call to Laken again. He must have called them to come get him, but he can’t remember any of these calls, not one.

There’s a soft sound from near the door and Chris pulls the pillow off his head, wincing as the pounding headache suddenly worsens, making him close his eyes against it and whimper, lowin his throat. Oh, last night was a mistake. Through his eventual hesitant squint, he can see Jake framed in the open doorway, holding two steaming mugs of coffee, with the white childproof cap to a bottle of tylenol visible just above the rounded shape of the pill bottle stuck in his front pocket. 

Chris blinks at him - once, twice, three times - and then slowly nods, watching Jake come in. He’s so tall, full of muscle and there’s so much to him. Jake is sunlight and a warm touch and Chris should have known Jake would be the second thing he saw when he woke up here, that he would have coffee ready.

Jake’s eyes flicker to where Laken is still sleeping, then back to Chris, and he carefully gestures at them with his coffee. It takes Chris’s hurting, slow-moving brain a minute to realize Jake wants him to cover Laken up more, give them some privacy so Jake can’t see their back, see them topless, see them without the ever-present binder that Chris pictures even when he thinks of Laken naked.

Laken seems so vulnerable, without it. Lightning brought lower, closer to earth. Chris pulls the covers up on their side until only their head and hair is showing and then slowly pushes himself up to seated, rubbing at his forehead, swallowing over and over even though his mouth is dry. 

“G-... g’mornin’, Jake,” He whispers. His throat hurts. How much did he throw up last night? Did he throw up here, too, not just in the bar?

“Hey, kiddo.” The scrape of the ceramic against the side table as Jake sets down the mugs is so loud. Chris whines and drops his head back down, looking pitiful and he knows it. His hair is a dirty blue mess around his head, from sweating and dancing and holding it back with one hand as he bent over a barroom toilet, crying all his grief out.

He wants to cut all his hair off, suddenly. Shave it short, as short as the hair on the sides of Laken’s head. Let it grow in strawberry blond all over again, back how he used to be, when his hair was the thing Sir loved most about him. Would sit and rub it between thumb and forefinger while Chris hid under his desk, perfectly still and silent, statue boy to decorate a man’s days nd nights. 

Laken shifts but doesn’t wake, and Chris is too dirty, too gross to be anywhere near someone so good and clean and without all the things Chris has had to learn, to do. Did he and Laken talk last night? He has memories, he thinks, of taking his shirt off - of Laken leaning over him - of maybe saying things he knows he should regret, but he can’t remember what exactly he said.

The pain and the cotton-brain want him to stay lying down but the feeling of how dirty he is, inside and out, drives Chris up. The grime on his skin, left by his handler and his Sir and everything that hurt him inside and out, pulls him out of the bed to stand on trembling legs in just his boxers - when had his pants come off? How had his pants come off? Laken maybe? He picks up one of the coffees and leaves the other for if Laken wakes up and moves, one hand holding the feather bumping against his bare chest, the other clutching the coffee as a lifeline. 

It’s not until they’re in the hallway with the door closed behind them that Jake says, in a low voice, “How you feeling?”

“Like I, I, I-I-I ate a live ostrich and, and threw it back up and then ate another one,” Chris mutters, and Jake’s lips twitch in a smile he tries to hide underneath genuine sympathy.

“I’m sorry, man.” Jake pushes a bit of hair out of his eyes for him as Chris takes a sip, and the coffee doesn’t taste like anything but hot but that’s still better than the taste that was in his mouth before. 

“Sorry for, for, for what?” 

“That I forgot the day. I’ve been really busy with work shit and I let it slip that it was going to be the anniversary yesterday. I should’ve called you, been there for you, and I wasn’t. I knew it would be hard.” Jake’s blue eyes are full of utter sincere regret, and Chris moves to him with all the instinctive trust and need he’s always had for his big brother to fold his arms around him, hold him, chase away the lingering need to be good.

Some of the pain fades, in Jake’s arms, like it always has. 

“You don’t have to, to… to babysit me just because he’s dead a year,” Chris mumbles against the fabric of Jake’s t-shirt. Same smell as always - same laundry detergent, same Jake-skin, same deodorant, same same same. The smell of safe. “I, I shouldn’t have gone out, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve all gone out and gotten blackout over stupid shit before, in this house,” Jake says gently, resting his chin lightly on Chris’s head. “I once got drunk and called an ex-boyfriend and cried about how much I missed him when I was the one who dumped him. For cheating on me. Six times. So… no judgement here. Recovery’s a process, not a straight line, man.”

“You, you, you you you sound like Nat.”

“Yeah, well, my whole career plan is to turn into her, isn’t it? Might as well start there.” 

There’s a silence for a second, and Chris sighs, keeping his eyes closed, not willing to face the light and the pain in his head again just yet. “I think I, I, I said something stupid to Laken last night.”

“Couldn’t have been too stupid, they came downstairs after you fell asleep talking about how great you are.” Jake shrugs, the movement shifting him where he holds Chris. 

“They did not.” Chris feels blood rush to his face, the flush in his cheeks making him dizzy. His stomach lurches and spins with nausea but sipping the coffee, held so carefully between his body and Jake’s, helps. “They, they, they they-they did not.”

“Yep. They got you to bed around 2 and we were up ‘til almost 4 just talking about how fucking great you are. Accept it, kiddo, you’re stuck with both of us even on your bad nights.”

Chris is quiet for a long moment and then whispers, “He didn’t even-... even have me that, that, that-that that… that long.”

It takes Jake a second to change gears when Chris does, and then he takes in a breath. “It’s not about time, Chris. This shit doesn’t work that way.”

“I, I didn’t want to be good, Jake. I always… I, I always wanted to scream.”

“I know, man.” Jake presses a kiss to dirty blue hair, without hesitating, without caring what Chris looks like, how everything about him feels gross now. Layered over with what was taken away, what he can’t get back. “I know you did.”

“I… think I tried, to, to get Laken to… have sex with me last night.” The words tremble, they’re miserable. He’s ashamed of himself for trying to make something happen he didn’t even want, just because it would have felt familiar. Reliving the memories he has, forgetting for a while about the ones he wasn’t allowed to keep.

“They wouldn’t have,” Jake says. There’s a pause, and then he adds, “And I’d slaughter them myself if they did. Just… I could probably google how to hide a body, right?”

Chris can’t help the way he shakes in silent laughter, but it makes his head hurt worse and he buries himself back against Jake’s collarbone, sipping the coffee in the safety of Jake’s arms. “Probably, sh-... shouldn’t. Get on a, a, a list.”

“Oh, Chris. I’ve been on a government fucking watchlist since I got arrested at my first pet lib protest. I like being on all their lists. Makes me feel important. C’mon, let’s go downstairs, I’ll make some eggs and hash browns to soak up all that alcohol you poisoned yourself with.” Jake moves, and Chris goes with him, secure in the arm that stays around his shoulders, in the slight rattle of the painkillers in Jake’s pocket as they head down the hall. He can hear Antoni’s light snoring from behind his bedroom door and smiles, just a little. It’s nice, having Laken come here, be part of the other half of his life, the one where he can be safely known.

Jake gets him settled at the table, keeping the lights off and the kitchen dim, pulling the curtains closed. In the slightly surreal half-light Chris feels more relaxed, pulls his feet up to sit cross-legged on the kitchen chair, feeling at the feather hanging around his neck, letting the shift of air through the kitchen make his skin feel less sticky and gross, less dirtied by last night and the years before.

“More coffee?”

Somehow Chris had had the whole cup. He frowns down into it and then looks back up at Jake. “Is, is, is is is it okay for me to have, um, more?”

“More caffeine? Yeah, Chris. Trust me, everyone in this house needs more sleep than what we got last night. Three cups of coffee’ll knock you right out, and here we are at two.” Jake pours him more, even adds milk and sugar for him, and Chris hums and takes more sips, finally tasting the coffee’s flavor and not just its temperature. Something in him soothes, as his thumb rubs at the rough ridges in the feather necklace again and again and again. 

“I, I… I think I should, uh, break up with Laken.”

Jake stills, at the cutting board where he’s grating potatoes for the hashbrowns. He doesn’t look back at Chris, but there’s a tension in his shoulders when he asks, “Now why would you need to do that?”

Chris swallows another mouthful of coffee, and answers in a low voice. “They shouldn’t have to, to, to-to deal with this, Jake. With…” He pauses, and the words bottleneck in his mind, three separate tracks of thought colliding in a terrible wreck of with someone this dirty with someone who was used like this with someone who misses the man who hurt them with someone like me 

with someone like me 

with someone like me

“Chris… I’m the last person to lecture on trust issues, or pushing people away, but…” Jake takes a breath and looks over at him. Chris’s lower lip trembles, just a little, at the wealth of love in his eyes. “Have you considered that it’s Laken’s decision to make? That they’ve already had the chance to say it’s too much - when they found out what you had to heal from - and instead they chose to stay?”

“But-”

“Ask them if they want to handle it, but I know that if you were my boyfriend, I’d want to stay.” Jake goes back to grating the potatoes, his hand moving in sure strokes to press the flat-cut end of the rounded potato and Chris watches the thin grated bits create a small pile under the grater, like a rounded pyramid. 

“Even though-”

“Even though.” Jake says it firmly, strong as every stone they pulled out of the backyard to make the new garden and moved to the front to look like landscaping. “I talked to your partner for two hours last night, Chris, and all they talked about that whole time was how great you are and how much they fucking love you.”

There are tears in Chris’s eyes that run down his face when he ducks his chin to hide them. His stomach roils, his throat aches, his head throbs and the coffee is only barely holding off the bad taste in his mouth. He doesn’t know what he said or did after the bar bathroom except he kind of thinks he came on to Laken in ways he didn’t want to, because lying in the bed screaming in his mind underneath someone who didn’t care had felt, for just a while, like it might be closer to who he really is than all the things he’d worked so hard to build after.

“When you love somebody,” Jake says, talking as though he doesn’t know that Chris is sniffling but really he does and he’s giving him the space to calm. Chris feels gratitude cut him apart into ribbons for the moments Jake will give him to breathe. “You do what you have to do. Sometimes that means being there when they fall apart.” Jake pauses, staring into space, then starts grating the next potato. “Sometimes it means… other things, going with them or letting them go or forgiving them for stupid shit they did a long time ago-”

Chris smiles, wondering what Nat’s up to today, anyway.

“-but last night Laken saw you fall to pieces and said, that one, that’s the one I want, that boy who lived through hell and came out smiling, that’s the Chris for me. Let that count, man. Let that mean something. They fucking love you. Shit run of luck and all.”

“I… I know.”

“Bigger than that, they think you deserve the love, just like Ant and I think you deserve it. Just like Nat thinks so, just like Kauri, just like everybody loves you, Chris, even on the days you don’t love yourself. I know everybody in this house absolutely fucking sucks at remembering to care as much for ourselves as we do for other people, but…”

Jake sighs and steps over to the table, opens up the painkiller bottle, lays two small blue pills in front of Chris. Chris fights back the residual fear and takes them, swallowing them dry. He’s never lost the ability to take pills whenever they are given to him, only lost the requirement.

“These will help your hangover. I can’t give you anything to fix feeling down on yourself except tell you that we’re all here, and I’m sorry, again, for forgetting about yesterday.”

“It’s b-been… it’s been almost f-five years since you saved me. I sh-shouldn’t… shouldn’t ever-... I shouldn’t, um, shouldn’t care any, anymore, right?”

Jake spreads the potatoes out on a baking pan, shakes salt and pepper over the top, slides them into the oven and sets the timer. A faint blast of heat from the oven hits Chris just before the door closes again.

Jake pours himself a cup of coffee, then, and sits across the table from Chris, holding the cup in both hands and looking him right in the eyes. 

“My dad sent me fucking packing when I was fourteen years old,” Jake says, quietly, holding Chris’s gaze with his own. “With a black eye and my backpack still packed. The last thing my dad ever said to me was that I wasn’t worth loving, wasn’t his son anymore, my mom’s life and his would’ve been better if I never existed. The very last thing he said before I got on that bus was Jacob Collins Stanton, you are the worst mistake I wish I never made.”

His voice never wavers as he speaks, and Chris stares at him, his hangover forgotten in the wake of the horrified cold that washes through him at how casually Jake speaks, describing abandonment in the same tones he might talk about his least favorite topping for pizza.

“I haven’t seen him since then. I’m almost thirty, Chris. I haven’t seen my dad for half my fucking life and sometimes I still hear his voice in my head, telling me that shit. You were a mistake, no one’s going to love you, all that shit. It still makes it hard for me to trust anyone because if I couldn’t-...” Jake’s voice hitches only slightly then, but his face is impassive, hard to read. 

His face tells Chris nothing, and the simple act of removing his usual open expressions tells Chris everything, too.

“-... if I couldn’t be good enough for the people who made me, who can I be good enough for? More than half my life, man, and I still… still live the way I do because of what that asshole tried to make me believe about myself and my mom. It built my whole life, that last conversation, because I thought to myself that I was going to be a better person than he was in every fucking way. And... here we are. So… yeah, it’s been five years, but you also do a lot of not letting yourself think about it, and… I think it caught up with you, man. The way it catches up with me sometimes, too.”

Chris keeps his hands curved around his coffee mug, then, and says softly, “I love you.”

“Yeah, I know. I love you, too.” Jake takes a drink of his coffee, gives Chris a half-smile. “It’s normal to have stuff come back like this. Especially when you do so much pretending it’s not there. Trust me, I know. Next time, though… call us before you need a ride home from a bar, huh? I’d rather be the one that goes with you, and I know Laken would have gone with you last night, too, if you’d asked. We… everyone in this house right now, including Laken… knows what it means to be told you’re too fucked up to deserve the love that you should never have been denied. But it’s a fucking lie.”

“The love?”

“The idea that you don’t deserve it. You deserved the life you had before they took it from you, you deserve the life you’re living now. You deserve Laken, and more importantly - Laken wants to be here. They’re choosing you, every time. Let them choose you. You’re not dirtied, I’m not a mistake, Antoni’s not responsible for all the pain he went through. Promise to remember that, if I do?”

Chris pauses, then reaches his hand out across the table for Jake to take, closing his eyes at the feeling of Jake’s thumb rubbing back and forth across his knuckles. “Promise. I, I, I’m not dirty.”

“I’m not a mistake.”

“An, Antoni isn’t a, um, a a a a bad person.”

“Laken’s a fucking deity and no asshole hiding behind his bigotry gets to tell them whether or not they’re worth loving unconditionally.”

Chris snorts laughter and opens his eyes to see Jake grinning at him, head tilted, coffee mug in hand. “You really did talk to them last night.”

“Yeah, I probably know more about their life story than you do by now. We bonded over shitty dads.”

Chris hesitates, then says again, “I’m, I’m not… dirty.”

Jake holds his eyes. “I’m not a mistake.”

“I’m good… good enough for Laken to, to, to-to love me. Even when, when I’m drunk and, and do stupid things.”

“Even when you’re drunk and do stupid things.”

“Even though I used to be-... to do-...” He can’t finish the sentence. He lets the silence hang between them, full of all the words he won’t say. 

“Even then.” Jake squeezes his hand, and Chris squeezes back. “You can’t do anything, or have anything done to you, that takes away what you deserve. We love you, Chris, whether you like it or not. You’re stuck with a couple of fucked-up brothers and Laken, too. We’re all choosing you.”

Chris feels the tears again, barely holds them off, and smiles through blurry vision at Jake, who won’t let him fall too far into the cold horror of the light, who always pulls him back to the dark.

Upstairs, Laken sleeps, another person in this house who saw Chris fall apart and still said that one, that’s my Chris, the boy who went to hell and back, that’s the one I won’t let go of.

No matter what.

[inkandpen22]

Time is Irrelevant (3/?): The Beauty of a Perfect Rose

Pairing: Eleventh Doctor x Female!Reader 

Warnings: so much fluff

Word Count: 3k 

Part Summary: Y/N finds herself alone amongst the French Court and she’s panicking. Then, she meets a charming young gentleman who becomes quite fond by her. 

Masterlist

The Doctor ran off who-knows-where, so I decided to go on my own little adventure outside for some air. In truth, it’s hotter than the Sahara inside and I was feeling claustrophobic. A major flaw of mine, it doesn’t take much to get me to feel claustrophobic. Large crowds, small cars, closets, elevators, I can’t stand to be in any of them.

I take a breather on the grand terrace that overlooks the massive estate. Everything is so immaculate here. I’m amazed when I stare up at the night sky, in the future stars are too faint to see with all the lights. In 1778, the sky is lit up like a Christmas tree. Hundreds of bright tiny lights scatter the sky and they’re indescribably beautiful. The people who live in this time must take them for granted, unaware of their ancestors won’t have the pleasure of seeing them each night.

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves… ”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man appear beside me. He admires the starry night.

“You know Shakespeare, impressive," I compliment without thinking.

I swallow hard, I don't know French, at least not well. If we're counting a high school education, I'm an amateur. Wait, how could I understand him? How can he understand me? I spoke in English.

The man chuckles lightly, “what is more impressive is you could identify the words as Shakespeare, shows you know him well.”

I sway my head from side to side. “I suppose you could say I know a lot about English literature.”

“Do you visit England often?”

Aware of the everlasting feud amongst the nations, I deny the chance. Better safe than sorry, right? Especially since there's the American Revolution happening this moment and I’m meant to be a French lady of a higher social status. I must be loyal to France whole-heartedly.

“Not as much as I used to when I was a child. I simply enjoy the art and literature the English produce among other foreign creators," I answer rather diplomatically.

The gentleman snickers lightly, seemingly impressed by my reply. “I take it you travel often? You appear well-aware and educated on world matters.”

I suppress my laughter, the irony doesn't go over my head. I've traveled further in the last twenty-four hours than I have my whole life.

“Yes, traveling is one of my many passions!" I enthuse. "Experiencing other cultures of the world is fascinating to me and I almost need traveling to survive I feel.”

The stranger nods in agreement, “France is home but when there’s an entire world to be discovered, I never feel content settling here when I could be out there. Especially now with the new world across the sea. One day I wish to see them for myself.”

I turn to the gentleman and without a second thought, I encourage him to do so. I may be giving him the chance to survive the French Revolution.

“I’ve heard they’re incredible! Of course, I suggest you plan a visit for the colonies after the war.”

He meets my eyes with a smile. He's young, just a few years older than me maybe. “Definitely, speaking of, what is your opinion on the war between the so-called “patriots” and England?”

In my mind, I’m thinking the revolution was the best thing to happen to the world. America exists because of the revolution and my era wouldn’t be the same without it. However, this is 1778 and I’m supposed to be a French aristocratic woman, so my answer can’t be so blunt.

“My belief is our alliance with the colonists was a wise political move. Economically, the alliance with benefit us greatly, and by being allies we’re hitting England directly where they’ll feel the effects. In addition, the war is not on our land, so the people of France ultimately go untouched. It’s the perfect situation.”

The man smiles brightly, "You know Madame are-"

"You're Majesty," a man interrupts us. He bows to the stranger and I see the smile falter from the young man's face. "You're needed, Sire."

My eyes nearly pop out of my head once I comprehend what's happening. I stare at the gentleman wide-eyed. I've been speaking with King Louis XVI this entire time!

I quickly snap out of my state of shock to curtsy properly. "Your Majesty."

King Louis scoops up my hand as I rise from my curtsy. He kisses the back of it softly.

“Excuse me, Madame,” he requests calmly. “I promise to find you again tonight to further our conversation. It has truly been a pleasure.”

Swiftly, King Louis follows the man back into the palace without another word. He doesn't acknowledge that he never announced that he was the king. This entire time I’ve been speaking with King Louis and had no idea! I thought he was just another noble or something.

“Holy-” I gasp, into the air, covering my mouth in shock. King Louis XVI just kissed my hand, this is unreal! _________________________

I’ve found that if I act as though I know what I’m doing, I blend in and they assume I’m one of them. I've also learned that they think I'm speaking French. I open my mouth and I hear English, but for some reason, they hear my words in French. I'm going to have to ask the Doctor about this whenever he decides to come back.

Look at me go, The Doctor was so worried I would stand out amongst the French court for nothing. Well, pish-posh to that! For a young woman of the 21st century, I'm killing it! I made friends with some of the women attending the party, especially Thérèse-Lucy de Dillon. Everyone here is mainly interested in palace gossip. Having grown up in a somewhat small town where everyone knows everyone else's business, I know how to gossip and make it interesting.

Thérèse is one of Marie Antoinette's closest friends and one of her ladies-in-waiting. The most interesting part, she married her second cousin.

“Yes, quite lovely indeed.” I agree with Lady Thérèse about summers in Paris. I've never been to Paris, but I've watched enough TV and movies to fake it.

Thérèse fans herself, I must agree the room is undoubtedly hot. The idea of air conditioning hasn’t even been considered yet and it’s August according to the women. I hope The Doctor finds whatever he’s looking for so we can leave sooner rather than later. Acting this posh is draining!

A man clears his throat behind me, interrupting the circle from our conversation. I turn around and am met with a familiar face. I find myself frozen for a moment until out of the corner of my eye I see Thérèse curtsying and I do the same.

“Your Majesty,” we greet in unison

“Madames,” he smiles kindly to each of us. “Pleasure to see you again Madame de Dillon," he addresses Thérèse.

"Pleasure is all mine, Sir," she smirks.

King Louis then directs his attention to me with a grin. He scoops up my hand as he did before and plants a kiss there. “I don’t believe we have met Lady…”

I play along. “Benoit,” I reply with the first name I could conjure up.

“Madame de Dillon, would you mind if I stole Madame Benoit for a moment?” He asks.

“Not at all,” she complies, sending me a mischievous look. “If you would excuse us,” she curtsies to the King.

He grants his permission with a slight nod of his head. Once they're gone, King Louis gestures toward the doors leading out to the hall. I stroll with him into the hallway, leaving behind the lively atmosphere and the security of others' presence. Now, it’s just him and I, excluding two of his guards following us.

I admire the art hanging on the walls as we pass stroll. The time it must’ve taken to paint such detail is beyond me. I also think of how priceless these pieces will be in the future.

“Would you like to see the gardens?” He offers.

I jump at the opportunity eagerly, "oh could we?!"

The King chuckles lightly at my enthusiasm. I’m sure he isn’t used to receiving such a genuine reaction from someone. Everyone has to be so uptight around him.

"I'm sorry I-"

"No, no, don't apologize," he waves his hands to ease my nerves. "I'm glad to see your interest." He places a hand on my upper back gently. "They're right this way."

King Lous guides me through two glasses doors leading outside to the gardens. The area outside is lit with tall torches lining the paths throughout the entire estate. If I let myself overthink the fact that I’m strolling in a garden with King Louis XVI then I’ll geek out and ruin the chance of speaking with him truthfully. Thus, I must remain calm and try to not think about the circumstances. After all, I spent almost five minutes with him before without any slip-ups. Then again, I didn’t know I was speaking with the King of France.

“Madame Benoit, tell me,” he implores. “How is it we have yet to meet before tonight? Unless we have, but I believe I would have remembered the pleasure and your beauty would be quite memorable.”

My cheeks become warm, though I think the excessive amount of white powder Joséphine plastered on my face may mask my blushing.

“I’ve been away in Italy.” I make up a story as I go. “My father sent me away from my education. He wanted it to be only myself and my tutor constantly.”

King Louis seems impressed, even fascinated by my tale. The secret to a good cover-up is to lie as little as possible, to basically sugarcoat the truth. That way it’s easy to remember but also simple to discuss.

He glances up from the pebble-covered path to me. He raises his brow slightly. “What are you favorite subjects?”

I notice his body language, his interlocked behind his back. It’s very informal. He must be becoming comfortable around me. I first noticed the shift in his demeanor when we left the crowded party. He almost instantly relaxed once when we were out of everyone’s view.

“I enjoy literature and history above all. Yet, I also find learning to speak other languages such as English, Latin, and Italian all very fascinating.”

I make it a point to name the languages I’m positive His Majesty is fluent in. If this works to gain his approval, perhaps I could use my knowledge on him to gain earn his good graces.

He halts and I immediately dread that I may have said something wrong. Reluctantly, I meet his eye.

“You are quite the fascinating lady, Madam,” he states as if it’s fact.

He’s dropping compliments like candy from a Piñata. Granted, he’s French, they’re known for their romance. Plus, I’m sure Louis is used to charming women in his court. He is a politician after all.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I manage to say though I feel very exposed under his gaze. I mean, he is iconic after all, for good and bad reasons.

The two of us continue through the paths, exchanging facts about one another. I find similarities between us, genuine ones too! Everything I say about my interests and background is practically true, just altered a little, so there’s an honesty in our conversation.

“What are some of your favorite pieces of literature?” King Louis asks as we stop in front of the Fountain of Apollo.

I hum, pretending to be thinking over my favorite when in reality I’m rushing to remember work from before the Colonial Era. I can’t exactly say A Farewell to Arms, it doesn't exist yet.

“I don’t have a favorite piece per se because I prefer to read all sorts of work. Authors, philosophers, playwrights, I will read them all. Including the essays written by Rousseau or Voltaire in particular. Though they challenge the essence of our beloved country's system, I believe it is important to be well-read and educated on all points-of-view to form a legitimate opinion.”

In reality, Rousseau and Voltaire were geniuses with the An Essay on Tolerance and The Social Contract. Yet, I’m a women currently in a male dominated world. I shouldn’t be speaking of philosophers or politics.

He picks up my hand and holds it in both of his gently. My heart starts beating rapidly as my breathing catches in my throat. I’ve spoken out of turn for sure. I suppose my modern views can’t be so easily suppressed despite my efforts. I prepare for any insults he could say.

“You, Lady Benoit, are by far the most alluring woman I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

Taken aback, I was expecting the polar opposite reaction. I bow my head in gratitude. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

He grins charmingly, “please, call me Louis.”

His request flatters me more than his compliments. It means far more to me that we share a bond rather than his appreciation of my appearance or words. Now, I know he respects which this time is rare to earn from a man.

This entire experience is so unreal and I feel as though I’m on cloud nine. In history books, these figures seems so far away, almost like fictional character. Yet, here I am, speaking to King Louis XVI and he just asked me to call him Louis.

“In that case Louis, please call me Y/N," I request in return.

In exchange for his respect, though I already did, I give him my real name. He is trusting in me by opening up, so the least I can do is give him my real name.

“Y/N,” he repeats to himself.

Boy, it sounds so beautiful with his perfect French accent. I could listen to him speak all day.

“So unique! Exquisite, the same could be said for the woman who possesses it," he smirks.

My gaze falls to the pebbles beneath us as we start to move again. I can feel Louis’s eye on me, but I can’t form the courage to meet his focus. In history, it’s said he is very shy and kept to himself. He certainly isn’t shy at the moment.

Unexpectedly, Louis jogs ahead a few feet and leans over the short perimeter of a small edge. I watch as he picks a flawless red rose from the massive bush.

He hurries back to me, gleaming. “For the girl who's beauty is unparalleled, even by that of the most perfect rose.”

Wow, he’s good, and he just came up with that? Smooth.

I accept the flower with a soft smile. “You’re too sweet.”

The back of his hand rises to my cheek and gently brushes against my skin.

“I see the world in your eyes,” he mutters under his breath, mere inches from my face.

My heart is pounding in my chest from both excitement and mere shock that this moment is occurring. King Louis is totally hitting on me right now. What am I supposed to do? This isn’t just some creep in a bar I can dismiss!

“You’re not what I expected… ” I blurt out in a whisper

It could never be more true. The history books don’t do him justice. Considering many of them were written off the accounts of people who were not close to him the lack of fact makes sense.

He laughs breathlessly, unfazed by my words. “‘expectation is the root of all heartache,’ as Shakespeare once said. What were you expecting?”

I shake my head, unsure in all honesty. Deciding to put a stop to his advances while things aren’t too complicated, I create some distance between us.

“I guess I was prepared to meet the person subject to the rumors and gossip. I was told to expect one person and was met with someone completely different,” I answer honestly.

“If it means anything, you’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You don’t treat me like the King, you treat me as you do anyone else and for that, I’m eternally grateful to you. It was that very fact that drew me to you! When we met you didn’t know who I was and I took advantage of that. Yet, hereafter you continue to treat me like the average man.”

“At the end of the day, we’re all human," I reason with a shrug. "Each of us play a role in life and yours happens to be King. You were born into your position, you didn’t choose it. The least I can do is treat you normally for all you do. When I look at you, I don’t see the King, I see Louis. The man who enjoys intellectual conversations, loves to travel, who one day will see the colonies for himself.”

I know the last part not to be true, but I can at least hope that he may listen to my advice and go.

Louis smiles softly, leaning in closer to me. I prepare to turn my cheek and dodge his lips when suddenly the rapid clicking of heels on the pebbles cause both of us to whip our heads toward the castle.

The same man before jogs up to us. He halts and bows to Louis, struggling to catch his breath.

“Your Majesty, you're requested by Her Majesty the Queen to give a toast and begin a dance."

Louis signs deeply, clearly not wanting to return to his duties. “Yes, very well, let us get it over with.” He starts to the palace in a brisk march.

I debate whether to follow Louis as I watch the man frantically tries to keep up with him. Suddenly stops in his tracks and the man nearly runs into him but skids to a halt. Louis turns on his heels and walks back to me, shaking his head.

“My apologizes, Y/N.” He offers me his hand, “accompany me please?”

If I do choose to return to the party hand-in-hand with him then it will be evident that we were alone together. People would have a field day for gossip. That wouldn't exactly count as 'laying-low.' Against my better judgement, I slip my hand into his. Louis kisses the back of it, then interlocks our arms. I place my free hand over his arm as well. Finally, he escorts me inside at a much slower pace than before, evidently not caring if he’s late. 

“Tell me about your family,” he requests, glancing at me with a joyful grin. 

_____________________

Masterlist

[zaph1337]

Monster Hunter Rating 23: Plesioth, the Water Wyvern

Hey, guys. Sorry for not posting yesterday, but that day was stressful for a couple of reasons I’d rather not get into, and I couldn’t start writing this until close to midnight, so I decided to finish it today (which is why I’m going off the Monster List order rather than the Quest List, as an anon suggested). But don’t worry, ‘cause a shark dragon’s worth the wait. Let’s see what Plesioth has to offer!

(How it appears in Monster Hunter 1)

(How it appears in Monster Hunter Generations)

Appearance: Plesioth is an interesting take on the “shark dragon” concept; unlike Cephalos/drome, which had a clear divide between head and neck, the head of Plesioth, which is more in line with sharks like the great white, is the same width as the neck, which has the same width as most of the body. This gives Plesioth a body type closer to a fish like some kinds of koi or carp than a dragon. Speaking of carps, despite being a shark dragon, Plesioth has carp-like scales and even colors, which seems weird, but according to Wang Fu, a Chinese scholar from the Han dynasty, Chinese dragons, which influenced descriptions of dragons in Japan, had features reminiscent of several animals, including scales like those of a carp. Now, this could be a coincidence, but even if it is, it’s a pretty cool detail.

Plesioth also have a lot of spiny fins, which are similar to those of several species of bass, though the Plesioth’s have spines which extend beyond their membranes. Their wings are also modeled after these fins, but their greater size means that it’s easier to see the gradient on the membranes, which, by the way, looks really nice and complements the colors on the main body really well. I really like this design! It nails the water dragon look really well and has some nice touches that accentuate that. It’s definitely my favorite design out of all the monsters I’ve talked about so far, so y’know what? 10/10.

Behavior: Plesioth are ambush hunters that feed on both under- and above-water prey; for the latter, they prefer to wait until the landlubbers get too close to the water’s edge, just like a crocodile. Their sensitive hearing means that they’re likely to hear the footsteps of anything coming for a drink, but it also means that really loud sounds can frighten them and cause them to flail wildly. They’re territorial enough to regularly patrol their “turf,” but they also fear confrontation due to having weak defenses, and will avoid picking fights if at all possible. Once a Plesioth decides to fight, though, it can be rather persistent, even coming out of the water to attack its target.

Now, that’s not to say they’re uncomfortable on land; they may not be the apex predators that they are underwater, but they’re still a force to be reckoned with. Not many predators will try to feed on something that’s 65 feet long at its smallest and 127 feet long at its largest. Oh, yeah, did I not mention that this thing’s the largest monster I’ve talked about so far? My bad. There are larger monsters that pose a threat to Plesioth, though, which is why these wyverns never like to be far from a body of water. They have to surface at some point, though, because for some reason, they don’t have gills, meaning that they can’t breathe underwater. This a dragon that’s so devoted to an underwater life, it gave up wings that could be used to fly for wings that act as fins, and it still needs to breathe air!? Get your act together, evolution! Okay, it kinda did; they can breathe air both through their mouths and, like amphibians, through their skin, but I don’t see how considering they have scales.

Finally, I should probably point out that like real sharks, Plesioth are viviparous, meaning that they have wombs, rather than lay eggs. And also like real sharks, the babies in the womb will fight and eat each other. Ah, the majesty of nature can be so nauseating at times. The concept of a monster that’s the top of the food chain underwater and still formidable on land is pretty cool, but the fact that Plesioth can’t breathe water is ridiculous. I guess they needed an explanation for why it would ever spend time out of the water? Well, whatever the reason, it’s not like Plesioth are likely to be in danger of something attacking them when they stick their heads out to breathe, so it’s not that big of a deal. 7/10.

Abilities: Those spines aren’t for show; they contain a sleep-inducing neurotoxin that’ll put you to sleep after a single scratch. The wiki also says that Plesioth can inject the toxin through bites, but it only specifies the neurotoxin being in their fins, so I dunno what’s going on here. Speaking of biting, Plesioth have powerful jaws that can crush the armor of some monsters, such as Carapaceon, so you know that getting bit by it has got to suck. They also utilize their size for attacks such as tail swipes, hip checks, and charges. The most notable attack Plesioth have, however, is their ability to fire a stream of highly pressurized water that they previously swallowed while swimming. In real life, pressurized water is used industrially to cut and shape steel, so that tells you what kind of pain you’re in for if you get hit by that. Plus, if it’s anything like the stream fired by Mizutsune, it inflicts Waterblight, a status condition which temporarily decreases the speed at which your stamina recharges, and take it from an Insect Glaive main, that’s not fun. 8/10.

Equipment: So, several Plesioth weapons have Cephalos parts in them, and the weapons as a whole have a similar aesthetic, but they’re still distinct, at least in my opinion. Let’s start off with the Great Sword called the Finblade:

I like how the membrane has the gradient on it to show that it’s from the edge of the fin. I also like the handguard next to the handle; the curve makes it fit the water aesthetic. Next, we have a Lance called the Aqua Spear:

Hey, gotta have a trident in here somewhere, right? Having a membrane between the trident’s points and the shield’s spikes is a nice touch, and I like how the shield looks with that ring of green surrounding its core. But I gotta have a weird weapon somewhere in here, so here’s a Bow called the Dragonhead Harp:

Yes, this is a Plesioth weapon. No, there are no other monster materials used in it that could say otherwise. I honestly don’t know why it looks like this, but it has the Outset Island aesthetic from LoZ: Wind Waker. It even looks like it could be a cannon for your ship in Phantom Hourglass. There is one thing linking this with Plesioth, though: the “feathers” on the arrows in the quiver are made from Plesioth fins. It’s a small detail that really brings the weapon together. As for the armor, there’s unfortunately not any pictures of normal Plesioth armor on its equipment page, and I don’t wanna scrounge around the wiki, so here’s the Gunner version of the “G” armor from MHFG:

I mean, I get it; it’s a diver’s wetsuit with Plesioth fins. The problem I have with it is that there’s not much Plesioth there; the only things here that I can confirm to be from Plesioth are the fins that serve as details, not the main makeup. But there’s another armor set that...look, I had to show it, all right? It’s called the “Apukaru” armor, and while it’s made from both Plesioth and Hermitaur parts, I think there’s enough Plesioth there to warrant showing it here:

Is this armor for hunting monsters or going for a leisurely dive in the Bahamas? Okay, the diving suit the female set is based off of is most certainly not used for leisure, but you get my point, right? This is straight up diving gear made for war! The red parts match up with Hermitaur, but the fins and scales are all Plesioth, and they’ve done some really clever things with the former. First, both suits have the fin membranes as the membranes on their flippers, which is to be expected, but then you look at the female set and realize that the crown on top of the diving helmet is made of the fin membrane. That’s kinda gross, but also hilarious. Also, why is there a princess crown on top of the diving helmet!? It’s such an unnecessary detail, but it adds so much. This equipment gets a 9/10 for being both aesthetically pleasing and goofy as all get-out.

Final Thoughts and Tally: I knew I was gonna like this monster as long as they did it right, and they did it so well that it’s probably my favorite monster in the series (not that I know of many, but semantics). The little details in its design, the fact that it’s dangerous on land and king in the water, the battle prowess, the equipment, and the fact that it’s a freaking shark dragon all make Plesioth the biggest fish in the pond. I’d say that it’s probably gonna go downhill from here, but oh, don’t worry. We’ve got some special guests coming soon. 8/10.

[redcrownedcrane]

Biography

__ Basics 

Name: Danzō Takahashi. Age: 32 (03/02/1990) Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Male (he/his); bisexual but prefers women Hometown: Kyoto Affiliation: Civilian Job position: Martial Arts Studio Owner Education: Homeschooled Relationship status: Single Children: / Positive traits: Pragmatic, loyal, crafty, wise, composed Negative traits: Ruthless, stubborn, secretive, proud, mistrusting

__ Biography

Danzō was born in Kyoto 1990 in a family of businessmen. Because their blood line could be traced back to several hundreds of years back to the golden age of the samurai and beyond that the Takahashi’s deemed their family and their traditions highly – or at least that’s what Grandfather Hayashi claimed. Nobody dared to contest it to this day, though that wasn’t to say there was no doubt. Hayashi most notably was the father figure of Danzō and his older brother Sen. Their biological father left when Danzo was only 4 years old and nobody spoke of him since –– as if he never existed. That was to be expected for those who betrayed the family. Whether he escaped, ran away or whether one of Hayashi’s men assassinated him was a question he was afraid to know the answer to. His mother would not speak of it, anyway, no matter how often Danzo inquired. Over the years, his anger became a mere ache, one he could never shake but background noise, nonetheless. He had not forgiven her silence. He had only learned to live with it.

Anyone will betray you. Anyone.

These were not the words of his mother, not even the words of Hayashi. No, his brother of all people was the one to share this wisdom with him. Danzo did not grasp the meaning of the words until much later. Their relationship was an odd one. Danzo and Sen were opposites it seemed. Sen was obedient if not a little shy, docile almost but quick to read Grandfather Hayashi’s lips which, of course, fed Hayashi’s pride even further. He read often and painted, both with near-supernatural talent. Danzo was wilder and more boyish, always outside knee-deep in dirt. Hayashi had to punish him more often for sneaking away, for observing the workers at the factories after daytime or for  simply being too rude. But they were inseparable for the bond they shared. Sen trusted him –– I thought. If his word was to be believed, Danzo was the only one who knew just how cunning his brother could be. He still remembered the day when he saw Sen stood against the window like he was expecting him, and he looked even more confident, even more vain than Hayashi himself. Danzo never quite understood why he felt he had to pretend in front of the others, but he enjoyed being close to his brother, feeling like he was special and, of course, he enjoyed the gossip of the house and the secret hideouts and all the trouble they got up to. Most of all, Danzo felt safe, because Sen needed him. If Hayashi found out that he had been lied to for so long, that would be the end of him, there was no doubt about it. No, surely, he could not lose Danzo as a brother and an ally. The way this family worked, this bond was exploited one time or another for rather mundane things – to get away with a girl, to lie about work, to do all the things boys did when they were young. But Sen was two-faced. The racoon dog was his favourite animal and that perhaps was the perfect depiction of his true nature – a trickster at heart.

Grandfather Hayashi was a businessman more than anything. He owned two big factories in Kyoto where he employed hundreds of workers to work textiles into luxurious shirts and suits. Business started to boom again in Japan in general so there was no lack of demand for business attire and hip gadgets. The workers often were provided rooms and meals on site to allow them work for longer and cut their wages. Their families were allowed for free too which made many of them want to come voluntarily. We say workers now because the rules have gotten stricter over the years. Hayashi always thought the hypocrisy amusing. They changed the language but all it did was to make conditions worse. Now, many hundreds of people were tricked into slavery because that was really all it was. Hayashi made sure they could not escape because there was nowhere else for them to go. Hayashi thought himself above them and so did everybody else in the house. The best thing? It made him look good in public. People thought he was doing them all a favour by employing them and giving them shelter. Laughable! That said, his main business came from the drug plantation he operated and his connections to the local mafia. Methamphetamine was the drug of choice and especially with the yakuza on their side, Hayashi had no trouble distributing white crystals to the paying man. People needed suits for sure, but they were fucking desperate for meth. And contrary to public perception, there was no such thing as dirty money.

The dream started to crumble when Danzo turned 25 years old. He learned to watch his brother every so often. He used to joke he had some sort of sixth sense, that he would get this feeling whenever Sen was up to no good. This time, the older Takahashi had taken things to the extreme, taking one of the slaves to bed in the factory. Danzo knew he occasionally lusted after the girls. He didn’t understand why for that he lacked neither looks nor reputation to get intimate with a real woman but that itself was only of little concern. Sen had gotten away with it a few times, fucking the whores in their rooms. This time, however, it was different. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The girl knew about the assassins the Takahashi family had sent to put an end to a local rivalry and there was only one sentence for that. He understood the need for privacy, but Sen very much must have known about the guards. Sen usually disposed of the girls or silenced them after and Danzo hoped this would be no different, though it never came to this. One of Hayashi’s men had spotted them and was about to bring news to Hayashi. It happened so quickly, Danzo did not realize his blade cutting through the man’s chest until it happened – until the guard sank to the ground lifelessly and he was faced with the scared eyes of the girl and the shocked expression of his brother. He had never seen him like this before. Shit!  But this only would bring them both down. The workers were docile people. They never complained, they knew better than that, and they certainly would not rebel in such abrupt fashion. So, he had to make them. Danzo and Sen that night killed every man guarding the plantation and piled their bodies into the fabric. The workers not understanding what happened very much knew what fate would await them if they stayed. So, most of them left before Hayashi found out, some of them were tortured until they gave out. This was a close shot. Sen would joke that he made him a man later on. It was the first time he had blood on his hands. His demeanour had changed since, he had gone quieter, more distant but they got away, nonetheless. There was no reason to suspect any of the brothers. Besides, Hayashi managed to make a profit out of the whole ordeal by launching an investigation and graciously accepting the reimbursements of the government.

It was a 3 years later that life fell apart completely. It’s the only way you learn. Anyone will betray you. So, he did. Long story short, Sen told Hayashi the truth. Of course, he did not do it openly but something, one day, led Hayashi to believe that Danzo was to be suspected to have triggered the bloodshed. He was called into the room and he swore he could see the unwillingness in his grandfather’s eyes. That only made it worse. Yet it was when quiet, docile and obedient Sen spoke up to tell the others what he saw. Sen rarely spoke unless he was spoken to and this only made it more believable. But it was the sword he cut the first man with that was matched against the wound they located and that served as proof enough. It was the truth – that was the biggest tragedy of it all. Danzo felt like his breath was taken away and his flesh was pierced by a thousand swords all at once. What was he going to do? Danzo was sure Hayashi would have him killed for this. And it was fucking Sen who spoke up once more, begging to leave his life. To say he was confused was a massive understatement. But he had to take it. Hayashi let him go but not without atoning for his crime. He felt the blade against his arm, then his skin. Hayashi nearly skinned him alive, allowing one cut for every man that fell that night. Everyone betrays everyone. Danzo’s arm was lined with layers and layers of thin scars. They covered his skin lengthwise.

Danzo had spent the next years travelling from one place to the other – mostly America and Europe, as far away from Japan and Hayashi’s men as he possibly could. There was too much grief and anger still to move on and build a life of his own. Besides, there would be no place safe for him. Sen made sure of that. If there was one thing he had learned about his brother was that what you thought would be his end game, never was his end game. There was always another move to make, another trick up his sleeve.

[ericsonclan]

A Moment Frozen in the Rain

Summary: Louis and Violet have a friendly competition that ends with one getting sick leaving New York with one less Spiderperson temporarily.

Word Count: 3387

Read on AO3:

Violet’s eyes stared up at the sky, watching the few clouds of the day roll on by. The bright white clouds complemented the orange hue of the sky above as the blonde let herself drop her guard. Her hands rested behind her head as the cool breeze of New York blew through her hair along with the smells of the city. Some were nice and others not so much but it wasn’t anything that Violet wasn’t used to.

The wind quickly picked up for a brief moment, causing the webs beneath Violet to shake lightly. It didn’t bother her and soon the wind had settled down when suddenly a familiar, carefree tune appeared nearby. Glancing over to her right, Violet noticed the familiar glint of a pair of reflective black shield sunglasses and the usual warm smile that rested on the lips underneath.

“Pizza delivery!” Louis flashed a grin as he landed on the large web that connected between two buildings. The platform of webs bounced up and down from the movement, causing Violet’s mask to slip off of her chest and towards the alley below. With a frantic lunge and her fast reflexes Violet managed to grab the mask before rolling back over to glare up at her best friend.

“Hahaha, oops! Sorry, but I did get back here in under half an hour so the pizza isn’t free,” Louis teased as he collapsed on the web with his legs criss crossed. The little action he had made created another series of web bounces making Louis’ dreads shake for a moment. Violet grabbed the pizza box and flicked up the cover. Immediately she was hit with the smells of cheese, tomato and pepperoni. Nabbing up the first slice and folding it in half, Violet was about to scarf down the first slice when Louis spoke again.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Louis tutted as he wagged his finger. “You have to pay for the pizza first. You know the price,” A playful smile pulled on his lips as he looked over at his best friend.

Violet groaned and rolled her eyes before giving a big smile.

“Whoa! The power of your smile! The bad guys of New York better watch out, they might be blinded by Recluse’s beaming grin!”

“Shut up,” Violet lightly jabbed Louis’ side, causing him to laugh as he snatched up his first slice.

Soon the two of them put their full attention on the pizza, both inhaling the slices at a rapid pace. After a few minutes the pizza was decimated and Louis gave a loud burp as he fell backwards, making the web bounce once more. “Man. Reggie’s Pies and Fries really is the best!” Louis gave a happy sigh and looked up at the lazy clouds.

“Yeah,” Violet lay down and stared up at the orange sky.

The two were silent for a few seconds before Louis spoke up again.

“Alright, so you want the usual bet or something else for today’s race?” Louis grinned over at Violet who tilted her head to the side to see him.

Her eyes studied him for a second; something about his smile seemed more mischievous than usual. “Why the hell are you smiling like that?”

“Hmm, oh, this smile?” Louis gestured to his smile which grew. “Nothing, just that I happen to have two Broadway tickets for a musical that I’m sure a certain someone’s girlfriend would love,”

Violet’s eyes grew large before her skepticism took over. “Bullshit, the tickets sold out weeks ago,”

“Oh yeah? Then I guess these are fake.” Louis held up two tickets between his pointer and middle finger, playfulness dancing in his eyes when he saw Violet’s shock.

The blonde stared at the tickets for a moment, processing what she was seeing. After a few seconds she spoke up. “What do you get if you win?” Violet crossed her arms and waited to see what Louis had up his sleeve for his winnings.

“Hmmm, I think I should get two ‘no questions asked’ and I get to choose the activities for our next two hangout times,” Louis smiled and displayed the tickets again so that Violet would be reminded of what she could win.

Violet thought about the bet. She was sure if Louis won he’d drag her ass to karaoke and some other places she would tend to avoid. That along with the ‘no questions asked’ which could vary on how awkward or annoying they turned out to be made this bet a heavy loss if Louis won. Then again, seeing Prisha’s eyes light up when she heard that Violet had two tickets to a musical she adored and on Broadway no less… that felt worth the risk.

“Okay, deal,” Violet rose up and slowly placed her mask back onto her head.

Louis beamed at her words and hopped up as well, quickly picking up the empty pizza box. “Alright, on the count of three we’ll start our race to Marsh Park. One, two, three!”

The two spider heroes sprinted forward. Recluse immediately went to the right. Her suit of gray, white and blue shone in the light of the setting sun as she sent out a web. The web immediately attached the side of a building and with a mighty swing she set out towards the finish line.

Meanwhile Wolf had run off towards a spot in between two air conditioning vents on a rooftop. With a flick of his wrist a web zipped out and attached to one air vent. Moving his other wrist, another web flew out and stuck to the other air vent. With a grin Wolf began to step back and pull on both web strings. The webs began to stretch and tighten due to the tension Wolf was placing on them. “Just a little bit more,” Wolf whispered to himself as he took a few more steps back. Once he had reached the spot he wanted he made his move, causing the webs to snap back and send him launching into the sky. Soon he was flying right beside Recluse. “This just in! New York’s first flying spider!”

Wolf’s loud declaration made Recluse look over and give a loud groan. “I’m winning today!” Recluse shot out another web and attached it to a small rooftop building. With a harsh pull she flung herself forward towards the corner of the building. Placing her hands on the corner Recluse pushed off, launching herself forward and towards a large metal pipe on a construction site.

“Recluse! Wait, be careful!” Wolf called out towards his best friend and flung his body forward to try to catch up to her.

Recluse seemed completely lost in the competition though and didn’t dodge the large pipe. Instead she tucked her arms to her side and compacted her body as much as she could as she flew through the pipe. Spinning near the end, Recluse shot another web and twirled up into the air. “Heh, you see that, Wolf?” Recluse glanced but she didn’t see her friend. Did he get ahead?

“Well played, my spidey friend!” Wolf’s voice appeared below Recluse who looked down to see her friend flying towards a traffic light. Wrapping his arms around the metal he spun around it a few times, picking up speed before shooting himself up into the sky right beside Recluse. “Pretty cool, huh?” Wolf grinned. “I really am the greatest spider-”

Wolf’s boast was cut short when his face collided with a pigeon. With an awkward squeaking sound Wolf began to wrestle with the pigeon to get it out of his mouth. After a few seconds the bird was free and flapped its wings as fast as it could to get away. Wolf shook his head and sputtered out a plethora of feathers. The sight made Recluse crack a smile and begin to laugh.

“Oh, so you think this is funny?” Wolf swung high in the air to get the upper hand in the race.

“Yeah, its pretty fucking funny,” Recluse replied as she landed on a rooftop to use as a launching pad to send herelf airborne again.

“Well we’ll see who’s laughing when I win this!” Wolf shot out another web and continued forward. Recluse immediately returned her attention to the race.

After minutes of well-timed moves and strategic tactics the pair of spider heroes was almost at the park and with the knowledge that civilians would be nearby Wolf made sure his mask was securely on his face again. Recluse was nearly at the finish line when all of a sudden a web shot out right by her face and thunked against the statue in the park. A moment later Wolf flew by her, giving a smug chuckle and a mock two fingered salute. Wolf spun around the arm of the statue then stuck the landing with a dramatic pose.

The nearby civilians looked up in awe, some of them taking out their phones to snap pictures of the evergreen-suited spider person. Wolf gave winks and waves to the civilians as Recluse landed beside him.

“Fine, you win,” Recluse turned her body away from the civilians, not wanting to deal with people right now.

“I do indeed and with this win I gained priceless prizes!” Wolf beamed over at his friend before placing a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Recluse, you can always win the tickets in the next race. Afterall the musical isn’t for another month or so.”

Recluse was about to respond to that when all of a sudden Wolf’s nose twitched oddly and his body tensed up. With a loud sneeze Wolf fell backwards but since his feet were firmly planted on the statue he simply fell back then flung back up, swaying back and forth slightly.

“Are you getting sick?” Recluse took a step away from her friend.

“What? Nah, I’m-” Wolf paused as he did a small series of sneezes. “I’m not sick at all! That pigeon must’ve just tickled my nose weird,”

The pigeon hadn’t tickled Louis’ nose weird. Instead he had ended up with a cold. One that took him out of commission for a few days and made him go back to his theatrical roots by being dramatic as ever as he recuperated.

The days slowly rolled by and soon Friday classes had finished up. One by one all of the students left, going about their daily lives and taking advantage that it was the weekend now.

“Got any fun plans this weekend, Vi?” Marlon jogged forward to catch up with his friend. Violet glanced over at him then focused her sight ahead.

“Prisha and I have a date,” Violet smiled softly for a moment then double checked that she had everything before resuming her walk towards the front door.

“Ooo! Nice! Well, have fun - I’m gonna go check on Lou today,” Marlon gave a small goodbye wave. “I’m sure she’ll like the bouquet.”

Marlon’s words made Violet nerves grow as she glanced down at the small bouquet of baby’s breath and forget-me-nots that she had in her hand. She was sure Prisha would like the bouquet but still she had wished she had the Broadway tickets to offer instead. Violet’s mind remained stuck on that thought as she walked down the front stairs. It was only when she spotted Prisha waiting for her by the steps that Violet was pulled away from her thoughts.

“Hey there, Bright Eyes,” Prisha strolled over and stole a quick kiss. “Ready for our date?”

“Yeah,” Violet looked into Prisha’s eyes and felt herself getting lost in the warmth of them before she remembered the bouquet. “I got you this,” She held out the flowers and noticed Prisha’s eyes sparkled with surprise and happiness.

“They’re lovely! Thank you, Violet,” Prisha pressed a kiss to Violet’s cheek which made the blonde’s heart pound widely in her chest.

“It’s no big deal. Just something I picked up from gardening club,” Violet’s hand slipped into Prisha’s and the two began to walk off campus.

“Oh, how is that club going?” Prisha casually swayed their joined hands while she smiled softly at Violet.

“Good, it's a pretty chill club. Just me, Ruby, Brody and Nurgul. We meet whenever we can and grow whatever the hell we want. I decided to grow flowers and made those so yeah,”

Violet’s statement made Prisha pause. “You grew these flowers yourself? Violet, that's amazing!” Prisha smiled over at Violet who felt overwhelmed by the brightness of it.

“Like I said, it's no big deal,” Violet awkwardly scratched the back of her head. “So, where are we heading today?”

“I heard of this lovely tea shop that I thought we could try. It's only a few blocks away.” The excitement in Prisha’s eyes made Violet’s own excitement grow.

“Okay, sounds great,” Violet leaned over and gave a soft kiss on Prisha’s cheek then continued forward.

The two talked casually as they walked together, chatting about school and anything else of interest that popped up. They were nearly at the tea shop when suddenly Violet froze. The low whispers of some thugs had piqued her interest as they spoke of potentially robbing a nearby mom and pop shop.

“Violet?” Prisha glanced over at her girlfriend with concern before she noticed the thugs.

“They’re talking about a robbery,” Violet mumbled and looked back at her girlfriend.

“Alright, then let’s deal with them,” Prisha gave Violet’s hand a quick squeeze then guided her over to a secluded spot where they could change into their spider suits. After a few moments Recluse and Wanderer were hidden on one of the rooftops overhead where the thugs were conspiring. Recluse and Wanderer were silent as they listened to the thug’s plan to rob the nearby shop, threatening to use their guns on the owners of the place if need be.

“I shall take care of the four on the right. That would leave the other three to you. Is that alright?’ Wanderer looked over at Recluse who gave a short nod. Taking a deep breath, Wanderer reached over to the utility belt on her dark purple webbed body suit. Her hand hovered between two options: a trip web wire and a web bomb. After careful consideration she unclipped the trip wire. With a quick flick Wanderer attached the device to the side of the wall then took out one more and placed it in a spot on the opposite wall.

Recluse watched quietly, wondering what Wanderer’s full plan was here but she fully trusted her. Whatever plan Wanderer concocted would work.

After both traps were set Wanderer took out the web bomb. She rolled it around her hand for a moment and waited. Her eyes were trained on a specific thug who was beginning to walk off on his own. Luckily he didn’t run into either of the trip wires and was in the ideal spot. With a sharp toss the web bomb collided with the thug’s gut before exploding with a surplus of webs, causing him to go flying back and become trapped on the alleyway ground in a blob of sticky web.

The sudden attack made the other thugs panic. “What the fuck!” one yelled as he ran to check on his friend but was immediately stopped when he ran into the thin blue light of the tripwire. A web lunged forward, wrapping around his waist then snapped him towards the wal,l making him stick to it.

“One of those fucking spiderpeople is here!” a thug cried out as she searched the rooftops. Her eyes quickly spotted Recluse who rose up and leapt gracefully into the air.

With a thwick she sent a web out and swung down. Her feet soon connected with the thug’s gut, sending her into the air. Recluse didn’t stop her attack there. Her fists curled and she sent a quick series of punches to the thug’s face and gut. With a quick web attack she flung the thug back towards the wall.

“You stupid bug!” another thug yelled and aimed his gun.

Recluse dodged the bullet and landed on the side of the wall. Flicking her wrist she used a web to snatch the gun that let out a shot into the sky then proceeded to spin it around and pistol whip the thug.

The remaining thugs’ panic grew; one suddenly sprinted off to try and escape when the other tripwire snagged him and stuck him to the wall.

With a quick flip in the air Wanderer landed in front of the last two thugs. Her aggressive aura made beads of sweat appear on their faces as she slowly strode forward. The cloudy sky above began to coalesce and drops of rain started splattering to the ground.

“Wait, please-”

Wanderer shot out a web from the web attachment on her wrist. “Be silent. You wished harm on the innocent, you don’t get to plead to escape.” Holding out both of her wrists Wanderer began to coat the thug in an overwhelming amount of webs, forcing their arms to their sides. With a swift kick she sent them crashing against the wall beside the other thugs that had been dealt with.

Recluse charged at the other thug, using a harsh uppercut to send them up in the air before she used her webs to pull them back to the ground and knock them out.

The two spider heroes took a moment to catch their breaths. Wanderer strolled forward and gathered her used gadgets and tucked them back onto her utility belt. Within seconds rain started to pour down harshly on them.

“We should find some shelter,” Wanderer suggested as she looked over at Recluse.

Recluse gave a short nod and used her webs to write a short message for the police that were surely already on their way: “Free thugs here”. With a small smile at her own message, Recluse followed Wanderer towards a nearby alleyway that was poorly lit and empty.

Landing heavily, Prisha took off her mask and gave a deep breath. Her eyes wandered over to the wall in front of her where Violet was dangling upside down on a web, her mask still covering her face. “Well, I’d say we make quite the team,” Prisha leaned against the wall and smiled over at Violet.

“Yeah,” Violet was silent for a moment. “You were really badass back there,”

Prisha felt her heart warm at those words. Kicking off the wall, she slowly moved forward. “Says the hero who sent not one but two thugs high into the sky and dodged gunfire,” She paused for a moment, concern becoming the prominent emotion in her eyes. “You didn’t get hurt, right?” Prisha stood in front of Violet and began to examine her for any injuries.

Violet’s face grew hot behind the mask. “I’m fine. Promise,”

“Alright,” A relieved smile pulled on Prisha’s lips as the rain continued to shower down on her and Violet. “You know, Violet, I think you are extraordinary,”

Violet’s eyes grew large and her head turned away. “I don’t know about that. You’re the special one,”

Prisha’s face heated up at the compliment. “That's very sweet of you to say. What I was saying though was simply the truth. I continue to find more and more wonderful things about you the longer I’ve known you and with each new discovery my feelings for you grow,”

Violet turned back to look at Prisha and was surprised when Prisha cupped her face. Violet gulped, her voice a whisper. “I feel the same way about you,”

The two looked at each other for a moment before Prisha’s hands traveled up to the end of Violet’s mask. Slowly she began to pull down the mask, stopping when Violet’s lips were exposed. Prisha’s hands returned to the sides of Violet’s head and leaning forward she captured Violet’s lips in a warm, tender kiss.

The kiss turned into many as Prisha’s lips met Violet’s again and again. Violet felt her heart soar, the world around her melting into the background. Prisha hummed happily as she gave Violet another kiss, her heart beating uncontrollably with the happiness that Violet brought her. As the two held onto the kiss everything else seemed to stop and all that remained was this unforgettable moment in the rain.