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nanamiskentos · 8 months ago

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GOO GOO MUCK #3 — jujutsu kaisen x reader choose a storybook to open. aka my mythos take on jujutsu kaisen.

you've turned the page to: CHAPTER III. RYŌMEN SUKUNA go back to the table of contents.

as if he heard me, he smiled. and his face was like the sun. (the song of achilles / madeline miller)

prologue. → at first, a humble servant, now capturing the attention of the king of curses. suddenly, you're caught between fear, desire, and a really irritating demon with a bad attitude.

excerpt.. one of the guards’ brows lifted, as if you’d said something unexpected. the other, still doubtful, scowled. "and what would you know of sukuna's laws?" you privately thought sukuna's laws would be quite simple. if it moves, beat it with a stick. if it moves again, let's grab a sword and hit it twice as hard.

pairing. demon king!ryomen sukuna x villager!reader (sfw but suggestive!)

song inspiration. goo goo muck — the cramps / i can see you — taylor swift

warnings. sukuna is very much himself, rude and dubious and evil. kissing, making out, mentions of blood and injuries and war. word count. 4.6k!

a/n. im actually so happy w this one lol i was having a bit of a giggle writing it. consistent plot? what is that?

ask/comment/dm to be added to a taglist 🩵

mp3. when the sun goes down, and the moon comes up, i turn into a teenage goo goo muck!

they had bound your wrists with iron chains, biting into your skin and doing little to still the tremor of fear that seized you. the villagers around, or at least what remained of them after sukuna's merciless invasion, shuffled forward in exhausted silence, carrying that eerie pall of defeat. you dared not look at the faces of your people around you, sensing that each set of eyes held the same mute dread that coursed through your veins.

and sukuna's fortress was an ugly, wicked thing. no doubt a testament to his dominion and dark prowess. but one could only avert their gaze from the jagged black stone that tore through the depths of the earth, and iron maw of a gate that glistened with dark stains that you dare not name.

a tall and severe figure stood waiting beyond the threshold, tall and severe, draped in robes of silky onyx that swept against dead leaves. a member of sukuna's household, no doubt, and he had eyes of dying embers.

it seemed that everything in this estate was dead, or dying. you could only hope that you would not join the pile of skulls that clattered in rough-strewn piles on the pavement.

"you all belong to the king of curses now," he intoned in a voice of polished steel, "you will serve him with unwavering obedience, and if you do not..." the man trailed off, splayed his fingers against his neck — and he suddenly bared his jugular upwards and your stomach lurched at the sight. lines and rows of stitches, sickly healed, where one's throat might have been cut. a walking corpse.

"act rightly, or lose your head. he has little patience for insolence or error."

and so, you were led through winding halls, walls of dark stone and low-hanging torches. the air was thick with a strange, almost metallic scent of thick blood and burning coals.

at length, you passed a vast and open chamber, a throne room that was unlike any you could have ever imagined. granted, you came from a small village, and thus, had not seen a throne room before so the bar was already quite low.

massive pillars framed the space, rising up like trees, branching and curling towards a ceiling lost in shadows. gathered around the centre was a council of some sort, hulking and dark curses of varying forms, from towering demons with sharp, ridged spines — to giant warriors with dented armour, from the scourge of warfare.

and at the heart of them, seated upon an iron throne wreathed in dark filigree, and dazzling red stones, was sukuna himself. the king of curses. he was massive, even in respose, broad shoulders and four thick arms that were drapes across the arms of the throne. you weren't quite sure where to rest your eyes, on his shock of dusty-rose hair, or the sharp set of eyes that were the colour of dried, old blood.

you felt a shiver of terror crawl down your spine, before curling at the base in loving tendrils, freezing your limbs in place. and then, with a heart-stopping clarity (though none would believe you), his gaze seemed to fall upon you. for a single, unbearable moment, you were certain he was looking directly inti your soul, with a gaze as sharp as a blade and as hot as a forge. you felt every muscle in your body clench, a sharp ache spreading through you.

but just as quickly, you were shoved forward, and his gaze fell elsewhere — almost bored. the rest of the newly enslaved muttered and murmured nervously as they led you onwards, down yet another corridor.

devilry and villainy aside, sukuna needed to hire a new interior design team. because this many corridors and needless, steep stairs were just unacceptable.

still, you felt those eyes burning in your memory, like four brands seared into your mind and the hollow of your chest.

they finally ushered you into a small chamber, little more than an alcove carved out of stone and lined with rows of rough, wooden pallets and blankets as coarse as burlap. here, you were instructed to remain until summoned to serve, the harsh whispers of the overseers reminding you to act “rightly, obediently, silently,” words that had already begun to feel like a new set of shackles.

and so, life in the palace of the king of curses was like treading on eggshells, and you had learned early on (after losing the contents of your stomach several times, watching brutal executions) that to speak out, or draw attention was a risk. one that could end with chains, or worse.

yet today, as you walked the winding corridors, a commotion caught your ear, and you had slung your basket on one hip — peering around the corner. you had turned to see katsuro, gentle and quiet, being held roughly by two guards, his slight frame no match for the iron grip of their clawed hands. one of the guards was sneering down at him, his expression gleefully cruel. poor katsuro was only two winters younger than you, and hardly built for the life of a warrior, rather a sweet and shy scholar.

"you made a mistake, little human," one guard hissed, his fangs bared in a twisted grin that would do his reflection in the mirror no favours at all, "sukuna demands perfection, and you will learn the price of failure."

katsuro's face had gone pale, his dark eyes wide with fear and you could see his hands trembling, most likely mirroring your own at the moment. it was not fair, the 'mistake' had been minor, a missed steps in the protocol for cleaning the great hall for the evening's feast. you were certain that sukuna was too busy terrorising the weak and bathing in blood to notice that the wrong number of lanterns had been strung up.

driven by something reckless within you, you stepped forward before you could think better of it.

"wait!" your voice rang out, catching the guard’s attention. their eyes fixed on you, surprised at the audacity, and your heart pounded in your chest.

they were probably excited that instead of one human to torture, they would get two.

but you stood firm, lifting your chin to meet their gaze, ignoring how your gut was working overtime to make you nauseous. "punishing him so harshly for a minor mistake — would that truly serve sukuna's purpose?"

the first guard narrowed his eyes at you. "and who are you to question his purpose?"

"i am not questioning it,” you tried to reply smoothly, carefully choosing your words like your life depended on it (because it did), “but rather, i’m considering it from his perspective. the king of curses values loyalty and productivity in his subjects, doesn’t he?"

you didn't quite appreciate how the guards were rolling their eyes in your one moment of courage, you just couldn't have anything around here.

"if the servants are in constant terror of the slightest mistake, they won’t be able to perform their duties effectively. fear is powerful, yes — but so is loyalty. if they feel a measure of mercy, they may serve him more willingly, rather than cowering with each step."

one of the guards’ brows lifted, as if you’d said something unexpected. the other, still doubtful, scowled. "and what would you know of sukuna's laws?"

you privately thought sukuna's laws would be quite simple. if it moves, beat it with a stick. if it moves again, let's grab a sword and hit it twice as hard.

"a great deal, actually,” you replied with a steady gaze, but with a lie basically dancing on your tongue. "every decision is weighed, every outcome calculated. a punishment too severe for a minor fault? it's…," you tried not to say stupid, "...wasteful. if katsuro is punished to the point of uselessness, that is one less pair of hands, and the workload falls heavier on the rest of us." you dared a glance around, noting a few other servants lingering, listening with furtive, hopeful expressions. "wouldn’t it be better to maintain strength among his servants? for his grander plans?"

frankly, you were just pulling words out of thin air. making things up and lying to such an extent that your mother would grab a bar of bitter soap and wash your mouth out. still, one had to be an opportunist to survive.

the guard holding katsuro faltered slightly, glancing at his companion. It was clear they weren’t accustomed to reasoning, and though they looked unimpressed, they were not entirely unmoved.

"fine," the taller guard growled, loosening his grip on katsuro with a snarl. "this one’s lucky you spoke for him. but if he slips up again, no clever words will save him."

with a final warning glare, the guards stalked off, leaving katsuro visibly shaken but unharmed. relief flooded you, and you could suddenly breathe again, and you moved to steady him, as his eyes glistening with gratitude.

"thank you," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

had you turned around and paid more attention to the shadows, you may have noticed the king of curses standing with all four arms crossed, biting the inside of his cheek. he never liked those guards anyway.

the morning air had been crisp, a rare light filtering through the stone walls of the estate as you were woken by unexpected news. you were...summoned? not to some distant hall or remote chamber of, but to the throne room — sukuna's command. the message itself was terse, and impossible to interpret, but you had been wrapped in a cloak and ushered out the door.

and there you stood, among three other summoned servants. each one pale and quiet with apprehensions as you gathered at the base of the throne's towering dias.

sukuna sat sprawled across his throne, two arms flat and still against the arms of the throne, and the other two holding his head up — as if this was the most boring task in the world. but his eyes, all four of them, scanned you and the others with a look of dull interest, and he almost seemed to sigh, rolling his eyes in open exasperation.

"so," he began, and his voice was a low and raspy tone, "you four are my new...personal attendants?" the king of curses leaned back, half-amused and half-irritated.

you felt a prickle of irritation beneath your skin at his obvious disdain, it was not like any of you had been gunning for the job anyway. but you held your tongue, reminding yourself that it was better to stay silent than risk having your sliced and pickled head served on a bloody platter for sukuna's morning snack. still, he noticed your reaction, his lips quirking into a slight smirk as he arched a brow.

"something to say, little servant?" and sukuna's tone dripped with mockery, as though he were daring you to speak.

"not at all, my lord," you replied, managing to keep your voice steady. "merely… adjusting to the honour of being here."

sukuna snorted, barely containing his amusement. "honour," he repeated, as if the word were a joke. "tell me, did they threaten you to get you here on time, or did you simply decide to be obedient today?"

you did not like this bad attitude, but frankly, you lacked three major things when it came to battling sukuna. an immortal soul, an array of weapons, and a spine. so you tamped it down, a faint, thin smile tugging at your lips. "i would have come either way, my lord. threats or no threats."

you would swear that his eyes glinted with a mix of surprise and interest, though he rolled his eyes again as if unimpressed. "spare me the heroics," he muttered. "i need obedience, not gallantry." he looked you over with a critical eye, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than necessary. "and i have no use for someone who can’t keep up."

"what a shame that would be for me," you replied, the retort was sharp on your tongue before you could stop yourself. and you felt your heart coil up in fear once more, while you were certain your brain was chasing your tongue around with hammers.

sukuna's gaze narrowed, and a faint, fanged smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "careful, servant. i don’t particularly like attitude from those under me."

you dipped your head, averting your gaze just enough to keep from meeting his eyes directly, you didn't want to lose your lunch. "noted, my lord. i’ll be sure to remember that…if it pleases you."

for a moment, he merely looked at you, his expression inscrutable. then he let out a low chuckle, a sound that sent a shiver through you, something dangerous and thrilling laced in its depths. "very well, then,” he said at last, sounding almost amused. "if you’re so eager to please, you’ll start by attending me closely — very closely. i do like being pleased."

how crass.

you swallowed, catching his faint smirk as he dismissed you all with with a lazy wave of one lower hand, but not before he smiled at you. a cruel and wicked curve of his mouth, but it felt like the heat of a thousand suns. whatever game this was, he intended to play it with you — on his terms.

over the next following weeks, sukuna's summons became frequent and baffling, his demands were a tangle of trivial tasks and strange whims. he seemed to relish keeping you guessing, testing the limits of both your patience and your compliance.

he would call for you in the mornings to help arrange his robes — an affair in which you found yourself having to climb onto a small wooden box to even reach his shoulders, carefully smoothing the crimson and black fabric over the width of his frame. with his arms stretching out from every side, you had to manoeuvre and balance each fold with precise care. and sukuna just watched you intently, an amused smirk tugging at his red-wine lips as you struggled, muttering instructions that barely felt necessary.

yes, you knew how to tie a simple knot.

in the evenings, he’d request you make him tea — a task simple enough, but then he’d take his time to drink it. each sip was drawn out, his gaze occasionally sliding over to meet yours, one brow arched ever so slightly, a smug satisfaction radiating from his silence. he would take another long, slow sip, before turning back to the window, as you shifted your weight from foot to foot, wondering if it was acceptable to launch boiling water at the king of curses. just as a treat.

and then you had been summoned to his chambers to polish a set of blades that had seen their fair share of battles, surely the one that took the lives of your own village, and you shuddered. the blades were heavy, each one forged with a dark, tempered steel that seemed to drink in the dim candlelight. as you worked, your hand slipped, and the edge of one blade sliced through your skin, leaving a sharp, stinging pain and a line of red across your palm. you hissed under your breath, pressing the wound to your tunic as the blood quickly seeped through your fingers.

"stupid," came his voice from behind you, sharp and cold as steel itself. you turned to see sukuna watching, leaning against the doorway with an expression hovering between annoyance and satisfaction, as though your injury were just another way you’d managed to disappoint him, and now he could unleash his tongue upon you. "are you intent on making a mess of my things, or are you simply that clumsy?"

you opened your mouth to retort, a spark of irritation flaring, but bit it back, too exhausted to argue. "it’s just a scratch, my lord," you replied, though the blood was beginning to drip onto the rich furs sprawled across the floor. you quickly wrapped your hand in your sleeve to hide it, hoping to avoid further scorn.

but sukuna must have seen. he let out a low sigh, crossing the room in a few slow strides, and took hold of your wrist, and surprisingly, without a grip that would snap your bones. for a moment, he simply stared down at the cut, his four eyes narrowing with something that looked suspiciously like...regret.

"how ridiculous," he muttered, more to himself than to you, and with a curt wave, he pulled out a cloth from under the blades. but his hands were large, and searing with heat, as they held yours with a shocking deftness as he bandaged the cut.

you dared a glance up at sukuna, only to find his expression unreadable, his gaze focused intently on the task at hand. when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual harshness, his tone quiet, almost distant.

"try not to stain the rest of my furs with your carelessness next time," he said, though the words lacked their usual bite.

you wondered if it had finally happened, he'd really lost his mind. there had been no threats of disemboweling, no burning, no being trampled under horses while he ate peaches in the shade of his favourite tree (yes, his threats were that specific).

you murmured a huffed response, more of a mumble, suddenly feeling quite stifled. but sukuna's hands lingered on yours for just a moment longer than necessary, his gaze distant yet searching, as though seeing something he hadn’t expected. then the king of curses drew back, the walls you’d glimpsed in that moment quickly slamming back into place as he straightened, stepping away with a curt nod.

“just go, get some rest before you inconvenience me more," he muttered, barely looking at you now, his tone cool and dismissive. but for the first time, it seemed as though he were hiding something, something even he didn’t quite know how to name.

the air in sukuna's quarters was thick with the scent of burnt incense and faintly lingering smoke, a reminder of the battles he waged just hours ago. as you moved quietly about the room, collecting and folding the strewn garments, you glanced at him, sullen and seated on the edge of his bed. a dark, odious blood was seeping through the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, three jagged wounds crossing his chest and back where the arrows had pierced. though the arrows were long removed, the gashes looked raw and angry, staining the linen with every breath he took.

sukuna noticed your stare, and with a small, reluctant grunt, he beckoned you over. "the bandages…" he muttered, voice heavy with fatigue but his tone demanding. "fix them, redress them. i don't need another healer bumbling over it."

you swallowed, nerves prickling as you gathered fresh cloth and approached him. you so hated wounds, and the sight of blood but it was better than seeing your own spilled for defying him. sukuna remained still, watching you through half-lidded red eyes, his body larger than life, his skin faintly gleaming in the dim light. but he leaned forward slightly, allowing you to reach the wound. with slow, careful hands, you unwrapped the old bandage, then pressed the clean cloth to his skin, feeling the solid warmth radiate from his chest, searing your fingertips with its intensity.

as you worked, wrapping the bandage around his vast, muscular torso, you did your best not to breathe, not with each breath of his matching the rise and fall of your own. and you tried to ignore how his eyes were flickering over you with an intensity that made your heart stammer.

when you finished, the king of curses didn’t move. instead, he brought his hand up, fingers grazing your chin as he tilted your face to meet his. and the pads of his fingers dug into the skin of your jaw.

"tell me…" he began, his voice low, each word a slow murmur. "do you see me as a monster?"

your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, the words were lost to you. his hand remained firm on your chin, holding you in place as you searched his face — the high cheekbones, the strong jaw, each line and scar a mark of the warrior he was, of the warlord who had taken everything from you. you closed your eyes briefly, feeling the ghosts of flames from your village flicker in your memory.

"it’s… hard to forget what you did," you replied, your voice a whisper, yet steady. "it’s hard to forget that you burned down my village."

a flicker of something — anger, resignation — crossed his face. sukuna let out a long, quiet exhale, a shadow of bitterness touching his voice as he said, "a tiger cannot change its stripes. being a beast is in my nature. i am what i was made to be. you cannot expect elsewise from me, nor would i try to promise it to you."

you held his gaze, your heart beating harder. "i know that now."

his thumb brushed softly against your jaw, lingering. there was something dark and magnetic in his gaze, a glint of restrained hunger that sent a thrill through you, a pulse of awareness that you were crossing an invisible line. maybe someone had hit you on the head, messing with your cognitive awareness. he leaned forward, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin as his two sets eyes dipped to your lips.

for one heart-stopping moment, you felt his mouth ghost near yours, a feather-light touch as though testing, hesitating. the world around you seemed to vanish, leaving only him, and his dangerous restraint.

but then, he drew back, jaw set as he tore his gaze away, his hand dropping from your face as though burned. he said nothing, his expression now closed, guarded, as if he, too, was reeling from whatever had just passed between you. you took a shaky step back, pulse racing, not daring to break the silence as you quickly left the room, with some false excuse of disposing of the old bandages (you were going to ask someone else to do it for you).

sukuna's attention had grown increasingly overt, his dark gaze trailing you with a possessive weight whenever you entered the throne room or crossed his path in the vast, torch-lit corridors of his palace. whispers fluttered among the other servants, the concubines, and the court. it was impossible (and almost embarrassing) to ignore the quiet looks and questioning glances they cast your way.

still, a demon could never be expected to be patient forever, and he had sought you out, appearing in the corridor as you were preparing to leave his chambers. his large hand moved to your waist in a firm, claiming gesture, pulling you to him without hesitation, as though he was unbothered by the curious stares around him. you briefly wondered at how just one arm could snap your spine in half, but his touch was almost...fragile.

"you’ve intrigued me," he murmured, his eyes blood-red, glinting as they locked onto yours. "in a way no other has. why do you deny this?" his tone was brusque, but you would have lied if you had said you did not find satisfaction in the way his voice had a snapping plea buried in it.

but sukuna's cruelty was an undeniable part of him; every scar he bore and every command he uttered reminded you of the power he wielded and the danger that simmered just beneath his surface, one that could ravish nations and empire-states. anger, fear, attraction — they were tangled so tightly together you could scarcely tell them apart.

"am i meant to be flattered?"

sukuna chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that resonated through you. "so i am a monster, am i not?" he murmured, his tone almost teasing, yet a sharp intensity flared in his eyes. he leaned close, his face inches from yours, his voice a gravelly whisper. "a monster who could crush you, break you, make you kneel if i so desired…"

you swallowed, fighting the quickening of your breath, but held his gaze, your words biting. "then why don’t you?"

for a moment, he seemed almost stunned, his eyes searching your face. slowly, sukuna reached out, and with an uncharacteristic tenderness, the king of curses had tentatively placed a hand on your cheek, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw, just as it had done all those weeks ago. "because," he murmured, "you’re the only one i’m compelled to protect."

your heart slammed in your chest, every part of you at war, caught between terror and something far more dangerous, a yearning that he, and only he, seemed able to awaken. he drew you closer, his lips brushing over your temple, voice barely a whisper, rough and unguarded.

"don’t you see?” he continued, his tone softer, aching, and you wondered if the king of curses would ever deign to beg. "it’s you i crave, you who won’t bow so easily. and i…” he exhaled, as though he had to fight against his very being to snap out the words, "find myself undone."

the intensity in his gaze was pulling you in, daring you to come closer, to test the fire you’d spent so long resisting, the fire that you had long been ghosting your fingers over, letting it lick your fingers. you could feel your pulse thrumming as sukuna drew nearer, his towering form casting a shadow that made you feel both caged and protected.

"you do realise," he murmured, voice a deep rumble, "that i’ve thought of this — of you — every night."

your breath hitched as his words sank in, and you attempted a weak laugh, faint in the air, "your enemies would kill to see you so undone."

one of his hands brushed up your back, pulling you closer, aligning your body with his in a way that left no space between you. with another arm, he tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze, his red eyes dark, "i would kill my enemies if they ever laid their eyes on you, in a way that i did not decree."

sukuna's breath was warm against your lips as he leaned down, inch by torturous inch, his mouth hovering just above yours, and you could see the light refract from his pearly fangs, "you have no idea the restraint it’s taken to hold back from this."

and his lips brushed against yours, just a whisper of contact, but enough to ignite something within you. and then, as if some unspoken barrier shattered, his mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was searing and fierce, pouring all his pent-up longing into that single moment. he moved with raw intensity, his mouth firm, demanding, yet achingly tender as he explored every inch of your lips, making you gasp with the force of it, stoking a heat lower within you.

you felt his two remaining arms circle you, anchoring you securely against his chest as he deepened the kiss, pressing you firmly to him. his fingers splayed across your back, drawing you impossibly closer, and you realised with a shiver that you liked the way he held you — possessive, unrelenting, as if he’d never let go.

and so, though you'd never admit it, you melted into him, your hands reaching up to grasp his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath his robes. his lips moved with a rhythm that left you breathless, his kiss filled with a heat that left you weak, pliant in his arms. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and half-lidded, a soft, dangerous smile curving his mouth.

"you’re mine," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and filled with an almost reverent awe. and this time, you leaned up to catch his mouth, enjoying that for the first time in written history, the king of curses had purred.

#sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #jjk sukuna #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna ryomen #works

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tempestvista · 3 months ago

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This is probably cringe I don't know its not written to be a fanfiction but instead just a very . Frilly thought-dump heyyyy the demons telling me not to post this

007n7 who is lost to a resolute grief. 007 who wanders aimlessly in a fruitless endeavor against universal laws itself. A father who constantly trudges through environment after environment, the muck and mud of a swamp that threatens to give him trench foot, never warm nor cold enough, yet still always biting. A man who soldiers through the sodden grass, colorless pastures, isolated from near-everyone and everything else. He is not intentionally pathetic or miserable, it could be argued his constant pursuit of a better life for his child speaks volumes to a veiled courage. He does not possess deep strength, and utilizes as many reserves of intellect as possible. In spite of this, it never quite seems to be enough. But that doesn't stop him, why would it?

As long as he breathes, as long as he moves, as long as the moon continues to be set in the sky by an iron-hearted extraterrestrial might, seeking entertainment above all other means, as long as his weak and weary legs (never atrophy, never strengthen, either) are able to function—and even if they weren't, he'd just claw at the ground, using every last means available—he will continue to fight and hope for a day when his son gets out. Where his son is safe, where his son could be with another family, have some sort of guaranteed devoted and providing home. One where he was safe, and away from all of this, and would never be brought back. It was a future he would tear his very latticework apart for. For him, for his son, his child, his baby.

They say the Spectre does not hold favorites, that it merely prefers the hyper-emotional. It could, however, be argued in this sense there is a vague loophole here; 007n7 is a never-ending delicious repast for something as awful as the force, a perfect combination of mournful, frustrated, tired, full of yearning, barely present hopes and desires, a flurry of tempestuous undying things that all make him filled with a deep dread on the hour. And yet, and yet, he continues to move. He continues to shamble weakly. Because he would do anything for his son. He would endure any torture to see his son again. It doesn't matter that he'd get hurt for it, doesn't mean anything if he receives any number of peoples—the whole atomic structure upholding every person's fibers could hate him, for all he cared, and it would not negate the amount of passion and pure unconditional woeful love he holds for the thing everyone else calls a monster. To him, it's always been a boy; his boy. That's his son, the strangest mail delivery of his life, the thing meant and means more than anything to him. A constant reminder in his mind that though he had past misgivings, though he wasn't on top of everything as a parent, he would not fail again, would not give in again, would not lose him ever again.

It caused arguments, but he'd worked out an arrangement, even. There was a silent agreement, and at least some were sympathetic enough to see his angle as a father. Other's were just glad they would get a sense of reprieve before their turn at the gauntlet, viewed it as him "taking one for the team," so to speak. Not that the majority was all that grateful. Let 007n7 grab c00lkidd's attention first, and however long he lasts, he lasts, and then he doesn't have to get in altercations about what he does not see, does not hear, and does not know. In the end, he'll still hate himself, but at least he can buy his poor son some time. There are the rarer events, in which he can convince the boundless child to calm down for a time, and they're able to just spend the round together. It's actually preferred by c00lkidd that they do this, he just can't help but be so energetic, so excited. He wants more friends, after all. It's hard to be in a house with a bunch of adults you don't really know, and few who ever bother to even interact with him consistently. He's not viciously isolated, parallel his father, the circumstances merely make awkwardness the default.

Once, he'd managed to spend the entire ordeal alone with his son, not bothered by other survivors, far away enough that there was no concern over him getting interested at seeing someone tinkering away at a generator nearby.

It felt kind of like a picnic, the spot on the ground they were sitting on had been covered in something. Maybe a tarp, maybe a smoothened sheet of metal, who knew. He couldn't recall every last detail of most anything, no matter how hard he tried. The moon wasn't so frightening to look at, for once, wasn't so scary to recall in the recesses of his mind that it'd been so long since he'd seen the sun, his son. They were talking about something from their former lives, also now a blurry form to his mind. To no avail could he hold onto even the apparitions of conversations, it all just slipped through his hands, not even giving him the reprieve of remembering things about his boy. He remembers the excitement on his face, at least, the muscles contorting into what he had learned was a bright smile, if the open-mouth weren't an indication. Even now he still had that sort of crinkle to his eyes, and if 007n7 looked hard enough (imagined?) he could see where his kid's dimples would be at.

C00lkidd was so happy, so very happy to at last have some free time with his father, to have his attention fully. And he wasn't running from him, and no one was hitting him, either. It was annoying that other people couldn't play nice, but he figured it might've been something like karma or whatever it was called for being too rough with the kids he grew up with. It wasn't his fault, though, he didn't know he was that strong. His dad always told him he'd been born with super-strength, though, and that was what he told himself to try and reign it in. But when he did that now, people still hurt him instead! It didn't matter, he had his dad here with him, and that was what was most important. He wished they could spend more time together.

They both ignored the clock chimes that rang throughout the sky. For once, they both knew what was happening. What it meant. 007n7 didn't bother distracting him or making up some sporadic topic to try (and fail, though c00lkidd continued to indulged him, because he hated seeing his papa sad) and distract them both from the inevitable.

It was different because he didn't even get the mercy of hearing his son finish what he was saying.

"I love," and nothing more.

Limbo, then the sound of rushing water that in the mimic-meditative state he knew indicated they were returning to the cabin and their bodies would be sat at the table, in various positions of distress.

Everyone looked at him for a moment. 007n7 guessed he was not as secluded as he thought he'd been, at least not towards the end, anyhow. Someone said something to him, and it moved through him like oil slipping past water, not a deafened statement; unable to emulsify. They tried to get his attention again, he recalls in flickering thought. Maybe someone snapped or said his name (again, if they had said it before), tapped on the table, scuffed shoes making a dull noise against the timber floor. Someone must've been tapping their leg, that part felt settled in, a part he recalled. Of course, it was always the unnecessary details in which chose to stay tenant. Anything useful or desperately wanted around would get ousted from his mental entrapment.

He stood up, he thinks his feet dragged slightly, which might've made him stumble. If he were feeling much as before, it probably would have hurt his ankles, the rolling motion and having to re-orient one's feet before twisting onto them hard enough that they sprained. Shuddering slightly, he trekked off, everything else disappeared into the fog of his mind.

All 007n7 could think about was how many little splinters made up his vascular system, every little wooden needle tearing away at his veins whenever he tried to think about his son not even being allowed to say "I love you."

He didn't deserve it.

hey so whatif like 007n7 kinned homura akemi i rhink that'dbe really . GO MY GRIEF-RIDDEN YET DETERMINED SORROWFUL MAN!!! SHAMBLE YOUR WAY THROUGH THE KILLER RIDDEN LANDS FOR YOUR ILL-BEGOTTEN SON!!!!

i should actually learn how to write helpp,….. i have little to no ideas for my fanfiction(s) ((at least executable ones.. urgk))

if there are spelling mistakes umm in my defense i just wrote this on the spot and didnt look back so </3

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lustnhim · 8 months ago

Text

“goo goo muck.” — vamp! elvis x reader

note: happy halloween y'all! / warning: elvis is a…vampire! religious themes, mentions of the occult, death, violence, blood and biting (obvi), dub-con, p in v sex, no protection, fingering, mirror sex (you can see elvis though!). / summary: his bloodlust is getting harder to control, especially when he sees you late one night.

October 31st, 1970.

“Well when the sun goes down and the moon comes up.”

Vampires. Such a childish thing to believe in Dracula and Nosferatu, even that Vampira gal, foolish and inaccurate depictions. Hellish, bloodthirsty creatures, kings and queens of the night, seductive and sinful. How perfect that Elvis Presley was a vampire.

Halloween was a day that went by with little recognition, Elvis had never celebrated it when he was a kid course’ if any kids decided to make their way to Graceland he’d give em’ candy and had taken Lisa trick or treating a few times before the divorce- but other than that nothing. It was a particularly lonely day, nothing going on, no plans, but he had hoped for that. Certain days were better than others, he could contain his thirst for long periods of time- raw meat did him wonders, but every now and then he’d get that feeling that he couldn’t quite push away- that urge to just pull someone off the street and drink them dry. He hated it with every ounce of his being, he knew that if he were to die, a fate worse than eternal damnation would follow him- still, he prayed to God every night for forgiveness, begging for any kind of comfort from his savior.

As the hours ticked by and the night grew darker, Elvis found himself restless. The hunger gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his cursed existence. He paced the halls of Graceland, his footsteps echoing through the empty rooms when a loud ringing filled his ears, the phone. Picking it up he cleared his throat, “Hello?”-- “EP! It’s Red, you oughta come out tonight with us, you can’t stay cooped up in there forever!” Red complained, before Elvis could even say anything more. “I ain’t feelin’ too well tonight-” Elvis started before being interrupted, ��C’mon! Look, we’ll be down at the bar on Elm- me and the rest of the boys. It ain’t as fun without you.” Red said, the sound of loud drunken laughter coming from the background as Elvis let out a groan, his arm clutching his stomach gently as he looked outside, the sky deep shades of blue and purple, “Fine. I’ll be down in a few.” Elvis hung up the phone with a sigh, his stomach churning with the familiar pangs of hunger. He knew he should stay home, lock himself away until the cravings passed. But Red's insistence wore him down, and the prospect of a night out with his old friends was too tempting to resist.

He threw on a long black and red jacket and headed out into the cool October night. The streets were alive with Halloween revelers, their costumes a riot of colors and creativity. Elvis walked briskly, trying to hurry and get down there- which took a bit longer than usual since the amount of people on the street stopping and getting what they could from him. He regretted this immensely. He could smell it, hear the sound of their hearts beating in his ears- his stomach growling widely. Eventually he made it to the bar and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of cigarette smoke and the clamor of raucous laughter. Red and the boys were already several drinks deep, their faces flushed and eyes glossy. They greeted Elvis with hoots and hollers, slapping him on the back and pressing bottles of beer into his hands to which he only took one, he didn’t like drinking too much. Elvis forced a smile and took a seat at the table, his eyes scanning the room. That's when he saw you, sitting alone at the bar, nursing a whiskey sour. He could smell you. So strong. A deep floral scent, your heartbeat steady, he could even hear the blood coursing through your veins. Elvis' mouth watered, and he felt his fangs elongate in his mouth, pricking his tongue gently. Shit. He usually could control when and where they came out, but not right now, he couldn’t- “Whatcha’ lookin at EP?” Red asked, and Elvis jerked his head forward but he knew Red had seen him staring. “Ohh, I see. Go talk to her man, get some.” He nudged and Elvis’ jaw clenched, his gaze lingered on you, his eyes darkening with hunger and desire. He could see the way your pulse raced beneath your delicate skin, the way your breath quickened as he stared. He felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch you, to feel the warmth of your flesh beneath his fingers. But he hesitated, knowing the danger he posed to you. Instead, he downed his beer in one long gulp, hoping the alcohol might dull his senses and quiet his thirst. "Think I'll take a walk, clear my head," he muttered, rising from his seat. Red and the boys nodded, too caught up in their own drunken revelry to pay him much mind. Elvis made his way towards the exit, his steps purposeful and determined. He knew he should leave, put as much distance between himself and temptation as possible. But his feet carried him past the bar and straight to you instead. You could feel eyes on you and when you heard footsteps coming towards you you turned around to see him behind you. “Nice Elvis costume.” You smiled, studying the man that had approached you. Elvis laughed nervously, careful to try not to reveal too much of his mouth. “Ain’t a costume darlin’...” He shook his head, trying to ignore the way your hair fell, your pretty neck on full display. Letting out a choked sound you looked over him a few more times, “Holy shit.” You muttered under your breath but of course, Elvis heard it. “Mind if I sit with ya, honey?” He asks, knowing that he shouldn’t, knowing that the feeling in his stomach is only growing more noticeable and how horridly his fangs were pressing into his tongue. “Yeah, of course– Sorry, I just..” You stammered, wholeheartedly shocked that he would talk to you- or the fact that he was even out of the house, you hadn’t seen much of him in the papers since his divorce but he seemed to be doing fine despite looking a bit…tired? His eyes twinkled behind his sunglasses as they raked over you, drinking every bit of you in.

He sat down, moving gracefully. A smile plastered on his face as he motioned for the waiter to bring him a drink. “Lone on halloween?” He asks, making you snap back into what’s happening. “Huh? Oh, yeah- unfortunately.” You respond, moving your glass around in your hand, the ice clinking gently. Elvis' eyes gleamed in the dim light of the bar, his gaze intense and unwavering as he studied your face. "Well, that's a shame. A pretty little thing like you shouldn't be all alone on a night like this." He leaned in closer, his warmth radiating through the cool air between you. His voice was low and honeyed, sending a shiver down your spine despite the chill of the October night. You swallowed hard, suddenly acutely aware of how close he was, of the way his fingers tapped against the table. "I-I'm not usually alone, just this year it worked out that way..." You stuttered, trying to ignore the way your pulse raced at his proximity, at the way his eyes seemed to bore into your very soul, and he- he was hungry. It was getting much worse, your heartbeat was loud enough for him to hear it, and your smell. God. He couldn't get enough of it. Elvis breathed deeply, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of your blood singing in his veins. ‘Holy hell, what am I doing?’ he thought, desperately trying to control his raging thirst. His eyes flicked to your neck, transfixed by the pulsing rush of blood just beneath the surface. “Well that’s no good…I’m be more than happy ta’ give you some company. “ He smiles and you really can’t believe your ears. “I-I’d really like that ...thank you Mr.Presley.” You respond, dumbfounded. Elvis struggles not to smirk too wide, his fangs pressing into his tongue. His stomach growls unreasonably loud and he clears his throat, finding it impossible to ignore any longer. Maybe if he can just find someone real quick...”Scuse’ me honey…I’ll be right back.” Elvis got up abruptly, looking around the bar before making his way to the bathroom, leaving you at the table to babysit the drinks.

Elvis swung open the bathroom door, lunging himself at the sink and splashing a bit of water on his face before opening his mouth. His fangs had caused his mouth to bleed, the taste of iron filling his mouth, only aiding to his hunger. “Goddammit.” he whispered under his breath as the door flung open, a young man in a cheap werewolf costume stumbling in, his body swaying as he maneuvered his way to the sink beside Elvis. Elvis' fingers dug into the porcelain sink, his nails scraping against the smooth surface. He could see the way the man's blood vessels pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin. The man stumbled, his hand coming up to grip the edge of the sink as he swayed on his feet, his werewolf mask slipping slightly to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes. Elvis' fangs ached, his gums throbbing with the need to sink them into warm, pulsing flesh. The man laughed, a slurred, drunken sound that sent shivers down Elvis' spine. "Man... you're freakin' the hell outta me!" The man stammered, his voice muffled by his mask. He reached up, tugging the mask off to reveal a face flushed with alcohol and sweat, his eyes wild and slightly crazed. Elvis swallowed hard, his throat clicking as he tried to force down the rising tide of thirst that threatened to consume him. “S-sorry my boy.” Elvis said, and the man almost fell down- Elvis caught him and helped him stand a little better but the man was obviously too drunk to even know where he was. “Here man, lets…lets sit ya’ down for a moment.” Elvis said, sitting down the man on the floor, he looked over to the bathroom door and thanked God there was a lock on it. Turning it he looked back at the man who was still giggling idiotically. “Man- You look stupid with those fuckin’ teeth in!” The man exclaimed and Elvis let out a low growl. God, this guy was insufferable. “Yeah, well I can get em’ to go away soon.” He said and the man shook his head letting out small hics before Elvis took a deep breath. Fuck, this guy didn’t smell half as good as you had, a pitiful drink this guy was gonna be. Elvis's nostrils flared as he leaned closer to the drunk man, inhaling deeply. The scent of cheap beer and cigarettes assaulted his senses, far less enticing than the sweet, floral aroma of the woman waiting for him back at the bar. But desperation was setting in, his hunger becoming more insistent with each passing second. "Shhh, it's alright son..." Elvis murmured, his hand coming to rest on the man's shoulder, feeling the prominent pulse point beneath his fingers. "Just relax now." The man's eyes were glazed and unfocused, too inebriated to comprehend the danger he was in. "Wh-what are you... ohh fuck..." He slurred, his words trailing off as Elvis's fingers dug into his shoulders, pinning him against the wall. Elvis's breathing became shallower, his chest constricting as the thirst raged within him.

With a low growl, he buried his face in the crook of the man's neck, his sharp teeth grazing the smooth skin. The drunk man let out a strangled gasp, his eyes widening in fear and confusion. "Wait... what... stop..." He choked out, struggling weakly against Elvis's iron grip. But it was no use. Elvis was far too strong, driven by a primal instinct that superseded all reason. With a swift, violent motion, he sank his fangs deep into the man's throat, piercing the delicate skin and plunging into the warm, pulsing blood beneath. The man screamed, a high-pitched, agonized sound that was cut short by the rush of blood filling his mouth. Elvis drank greedily, the coppery taste of the man's essence flooding his senses and momentarily quenching the fires of his thirst. The drunk man's struggles grew weaker, his body going limp in Elvis’ arms slowly draining him. Elvis had gotten good at this, drinking enough to keep him satisfied but not enough to kill them– do doubt the guy would be sick n’ sore but not dead. Elvis drank until there was nothing left, until the man's heartbeat faded to a distant, barely audible rhythm. Then, with a shudder, he pulled away, licking the crimson stain from his lips. The bathroom was eerily silent, the only sound the slow, rasping breathing of the dying man at his feet. Elvis stood up on shaky legs, his vision swimming as he stumbled towards the sink. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to clear the haze of bloodlust that clouded his mind. "Dear God..." He whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of horror and satisfaction. "Forgive me..." But even as he uttered the prayer, Elvis knew that there was no true repentance, no absolution for the monster he had become. He looked at the man, at the bruises forming around his neck, the eyes staring accusingly at him and he walked over to the man, placing a hand on his head and prayed that he would make a quick recovery.

The blood had left, but that pestilent feeling was still there- it always would be. With a shake of his head, he threw away the remnants of his impromptu bathroom sink cleanup and stepped back into the bar, his eyes immediately finding you still sitting at the table. God, you’re so beautiful he thought as he felt his eyes widen at the sight. His lips spread into a grin and he shook his head slightly, making his way back over to you- you had waited for him. “Sorry bout’ that, honey.” He says, sitting back down, noticing that you had already drunk your drink. “You wantin’ another?” He asks, pointing at your empty glass. “Ah, no I’m all good now– Actually, I think you should finish your drink and you give me that company you so kindly offered earlier.” Bold. He could tell that you were nervous, your heart was beating so fast…like a scared little lamb. “Well, I spose’ we can- I'll take ya to Graceland, how's that sound honey?” Elvis cood, taking his whiskey and drinking it in one quick gulp before sitting the glass down with a soft clink. “Sounds perfect.” You responded, standing up- Elvis hesitated for a moment studying you, how small. He towered over you. Smiling down at you Elvis motioned for you to follow him, the two of you starting out of the bar when Red drunkenly, “You be careful with that one, EP!” Which made the other boys laugh, Elvis promptly flipped them off and the two of you stepped outside. Elvis had not realized how late it had gotten, the streets were practically empty apart from the few teenagers who still roamed the streets. “You drive or walk, honey?” He asked, looking over at you. The wind had blown your hair, exposing your neck and he swallowed hard. His stomach wasn’t growling, his fangs not stabbing his lips, why did he feel so…hungry? “I walked– I don’t live far from here.” You said, looking over at him, he still looked so tired– his eyes masked behind those sunglasses. Why was he wearing them at night…just a quirk of his, you guessed. ”Alright honey, Graceland ain’t far either…let’s get goin.” Elvis guided you through the quiet streets of Memphis, the moon casting an eerie glow on the sidewalks. Despite the late hour, the air was still thick with the lingering humidity of a Southern October night. Your shoes clicked softly against the pavement as you walked beside him, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant sounds of late-night revelry in the distance. As you walked, Elvis's hand brushed against yours, sending a spark of electricity through your body. You jumped slightly, startled by the contact, but his touch lingered, warm and reassuring. He gave you a sideways glance, his sunglasses hiding his eyes but his smile evident even in the darkness."Cold?" he asked, his drawl more pronounced in the quiet of the night. “Just a bit…” You responded, holding your arms together, your cheap ass ‘costume’ which really was just a flimsy sparkly dress did very little to keep you warm. “Here honey.” He said, stopping and pulling off his coat, handing it to you. Hesitating you looked up at him, he looked…really good. His arms looked nice and strong, and that white undershirt fit him perfectly. “You gonna take it?” He drawled, shaking the coat in front of your face before you took it, marveling at how heavy it was. “Thanks…” You replied and Elvis nodded. He seemed a bit distant, like something was bothering him, did he not want to take you back to his place anymore? Had he already lost interest?

Elvis watched as you slipped on his coat, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The fabric enveloped you like a warm embrace, the collar engulfing your delicate neck. You looked so small and fragile wrapped up in his coat, the sleeves drowning your tiny hands. Like a little doll he could just pick up and carry away. In a way, he was. Taking you to his home, knowing that the gnaw in his stomach was starting to come back, knowing that your smell was enough to drive him insane. How irresponsible he was. As Graceland came into view Elvis watched you longneck to see more of it– he chuckled to himself as the gates opened allowing the two of you in. The grand gates of Graceland creaked open as Elvis led you onto the sprawling estate grounds. Elvis placed a hand on your lower back, guiding you up the long, winding driveway. The warm glow of the mansion's exterior lights cast eerie shadows across the lawn. As you reached the front door, Elvis turned to face you, his shades reflecting your wide-eyed expression. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "Welcome to my little slice of paradise, darlin'," he murmured. "Something tells me you're gonna fit right in here." His hand left your back and grabbed the doorknob, the heavy wooden door swinging open to reveal the lavish interior. Plush carpets and ornate furnishings greeted you. Elvis gestured for you to enter before following behind. The door slammed shut, making you jump and the air seemed to press down on you from all sides. Elvis watched you intently, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Now, I’d say it’s warm enough for me ta’ take that coat back from ya honey.” Elvis coos, sliding his coat off of you and placing it on the rack, looking around the house you feel a bit tense, it's quiet but comfortable– but being alone with Elvis still makes you a bit uneasy. “How about…you an’ I head upstairs huh?” He asks, taking off his sunglasses and placing them on a small table beside the stairs, his baby blues hiding something dark. "Upstairs?" you ask hesitantly, sudden butterflies swarming in your belly. Upstairs meant privacy, intimacy. Away from prying eyes and judging ears. Away from any chance of rescue or interruption.

Elvis took your hand, leading you up the stairs. He began to feel a bit dizzy, the scent coming off of you much stronger now, clearing his throat he stopped at the top of the stairs and motioned for you to go on. “You go on ta’ my room, honey. I’ll be there in a second.” Elvis' heart races as he watches you disappear down the opulent hallway, the sway of your hips hypnotic. He leans heavily against the banister, fingers curling into the polished wood. This is madness. He knows it. But the hunger, the craving, it consumes him. The scent trailing from your skin is like a siren's song, luring him ever closer to the rocks. "Dammit." He curses under his breath, voice strangled. He runs a hand through his slicked back hair, black locks falling over his forehead. Sweat trickles down his neck despite the cool air. He straightens up, square shoulders back, determination set in his jaw. Elvis strides down the hallway, the click of his shoes echoing off the hardwood floors.At his bedroom door, he pauses, hand hovering over the golden doorknob. He takes a deep breath, centering himself. He couldn’t help it. Not anymore. As he opened the door he saw you facing away, your gaze fixated on what was on the vanity in his room. He had entered quietly, whether he meant too or not. He walked slowly towards you, his heart pounding, his stomach growling and his fangs drawing blood from his own lips. Moving with gentle swiftness he was right behind you and you didn’t even know. You didn't even know. Elvis took a moment to appreciate the view before him. Your delicate frame, small in comparison to his own imposing figure. The way your dark hair tumbled down your back, framing your pale neck. The way your dress hugged your curves perfectly.. His mouth watered at the sight, his fangs elongating, staining his bottom lip with crimson drops of blood. He reached out a trembling hand, running his fingers along your shoulder. Your skin was so soft, so warm. Like silk caressing his worn, calloused flesh. Slowly, almost reverently, he trailed his fingers down your arm, feeling you shiver beneath his touch. “E-Elvis…you scared me.” You breathed, something was wrong, you felt…scared. His other hand gripped your hip, pulling you flush against him. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, seeping into his own cold, dead flesh. It was intoxicating, addictive, and he wanted more. Oh, how he wanted more. Elvis' head dipped, his nose brushing along the shell of your ear. "Ya smell so good, darlin'. So sweet." he whispered hoarsely, his breath ghosting over your skin. His fangs grazed your earlobe, nipping gently and drawing a gasp from you. “Elvis…?” You whimpered, and he let out a moan. What was he doing? Elvis didn’t even know. You could feel his heart beating against your back, his mouth slowly opening then shutting against your flesh, small pricks of something sharp threatening to break through your skin. Elvis’ mouth moved along your neck and you shivered, his grip on you was strong enough to leave bruises you were sure. “Gonna be okay honey..” Elvis groaned, finding the sweet spot on your neck making your knees buckle but he kept holding you up. His hands moved from your hips roughly to cup your breasts, that flimsy dress doing very little to conceive them. He could hear you breathing much heavier now, your heart beating so fast, your smell getting stronger. Just…a …little…more…

Your body involuntarily thrashed against him, but your arms stayed pushed against the side of vanity, unable to let go, unable to move– it was like you were frozen. Elvis moved quickly, his face still nuzzled into your neck, his lips trailing feverous kisses along your skin. You felt yourself melting into his touch, his hands groping you and rolling your nipples between his fingers. The mirror in front of you showing it all. His hand moved to the top, taking a hold of the straps in his hand he tore them, the dress falling down with ease. You were shaking, shaking so badly. Elvis loved it, as you began to speak he moved his hands to grip your hair, jerking your head back real hard so that your neck was on full display. Looking at him from the mirror your chest heaved as you caught sight of his face, eyes blown and wide, muscles strained and mouth hanging opening, pearly white fangs protruding from his mouth and just inches from your skin. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the mirror, how foolish you felt– stripped naked only in your panties from one motion, hair jerked back and body frozen in place. “Only gonna hurt for a second honey…” Elvis groans before kissing your neck softly, his mouth opening as his teeth slowly pricked through your skin, small drops of blood already forming. Elvis shuddered violently as the first coppery taste of your blood flooded his mouth. His eyes rolled back in ecstasy, sharp fangs slicing deeper into your tender flesh. The pain made you cry out, struggling weakly against his iron hold. "Shhh, it's alright darlin'," Elvis purred thickly around a mouthful of your essence, "Just relax 'n let it happen. Let me in." One hand released your hair to stroke soothingly down your side, trying to placate your panicked thrashing. The other remained wrapped around you, keeping that perfect bite aligned. He swallowed deeply, savoring your unique flavor before finally pulling back. Crimson drops welled from the punctures, spilling down the graceful column of your throat to dampen your heaving breasts. It was the most delicious sight Elvis had ever beheld. His body vibrated with pure primal lust. With a growl, he spun you around to face him. You felt weak, your head was dizzy and you struggled to breath– but something felt…odd. Your heart was beating alarmingly fast and you could feel something flowing through your veins. Suddenly, almost in an instant your body collected itself, the dizziness fading and you felt more alive than you ever had been, your neck stung as you placed a hand on it, feeling a sizzling pain as the wound faded away. Elvis grabbed you by your shoulder with a growl, forcing you forward, bending you over the vanity. “F-fuck…” He whimpered as he pulled down your painties to your ankles, your puffy cunt on full display. “So…perfect…” He whispered as two fingers plunged their way inside of you before you could begin to protest.

Your breath caught in your throat as Elvis' moved inside of you. Shockwaves of pleasure coursed through you, making your knees buckle and vision swim. It was almost too much to handle at once. Elvis seemed to sense your overwhelmed state. "Easy darling, breathe through it," he coaxed roughly, fingers still pumping steadily. "Gonna get this tight little cunt ready for my cock." Each press and curl made the fire building in your core flash higher. Your eyes squeezed shut, lower lip caught between your teeth as you fought to stay upright against the vanity. The scent of arousal mixed with your blood hung heavy in the air, making Elvis' nostrils flare. He knew you were close already. "Look at yourself, honey," Elvis demanded darkly, head nodding to the mirror. "Watch me finger fuck this sweet pussy 'til it's drippin' for me." Wide eyes fluttered open, locking with your reflection. Bright red cheeks, hazy eyes, and a dazed expression - you'd never looked so debauched before. Seeing yourself in such a compromising position sent another bolt of pleasure through you, only worse that he was still fully clothed. "That's it baby," Elvis purred, relentlessly working you through it. Your legs shook like crazy, barely supporting you. The newfound intensity of your body's reaction left you sprawled bonelessly against the vanity. Elvis withdrew his coated fingers, bringing them to his lips for a leisurely lick. "Gonne be mine forever." he promised as you stayed bent over the vanity, breathing heavily, you raised your head to see him holding his shirt up as he fumbled with his belt before quickly pulling it off, his pants soon to follow. His erection sprang free, slapping lewdly against his stomach with a shiny sheen of pre-cum dripping from the tip. He stroked it lazily, smearing the clear fluid up and down his length. "Gonna fucking wreck this pussy," Elvis growled possessively, fisting his cock in clear anticipation. You could only whimper, gaze transfixed on his hardness. It was so large, easily more than seven inches long and thicker than your wrist, uncut and pooling. Watching him touch himself with such obvious enjoyment only served to stoke your own growing need. Elvis gripped your hips again, thumbs digging into your already bruised flesh. The vanity creaked ominously under the added weight as he pressed against you, his substantial girth a searing line against your sensitive folds. You gasped sharply at the promise of what was to come. "Mmmm, look how wet you are," Elvis rumbled appreciatively. "Soaked and swollen for me already. Such an eager yittle thing." The tip of his cock kissed your entrance, spreading your juices as it went. Your whole body trembled with pent up tension, every nerve on fire and begging for relief. Common sense screamed at you to struggle, to get away before this went too far...but your body craved more. Burned for something only he could give you. "Please," you heard yourself whisper brokenly, sounding distant even to your own ears. "I need..." "Shhh, I know darlin'," Elvis soothed, his voice a sinful caress. "Gonna give this greedy cunt exactly what it wants. Gonna fuck you 'til you scream." Then he was pushing in, hilting himself inside you with one brutal thrust. The sensation of being so completely stretched and filled snapped you out of your daze, a scream tearing from your throat. It was too much all at once, the pleasure and pain blending together until you couldn't tell them apart. Muscles clamped down hard, fluttering wildly as your body fought to adjust. "Fuuuuck yes," Elvis snarled, not giving you a moment to recover before he started moving. Each snap of his hips drove him impossibly deeper, thrusts short and powerful as he claimed your mouth in a brutal, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue dominated yours, mimicking the actions below. Nipping and sucking at your lips until they were puffy and swollen.

Your cries were muffled against his mouth, breath ragged as he kissed you through your first orgasm. It crashed over you with devastating force, back arching and toes curling as your inner walls spasmed rhythmically. Elvis groaned gutturally, hips stuttering as your muscles rippled around him. "Fuck, you're milkin’ my cock so good," he gasped, dragging his lips along your jaw. "Wanna fill this cunt up… wanna have you be all mine forever, no one else's.” He was delirious with lust, all primal need and animalistic intent. Your blood bonding had triggered something deep within him, pounding into you mercilessly as his balls drew up tight to his body. It was too much stimulation, the excessive pleasure edged with pain pushing you quickly towards a second peak. Pressure coiled in your lower belly, egged on by the obscene squelch of his cock plunging in and out of your cunt. Building, building...you teetered right on the cusp. "Elvis!" you sobbed wildly, knowing he was close too. He redoubled his efforts, angling just right to peg your g-spot dead on. "Come for me baby, come on my fuckin’ cock." And with those words, you shattered. Pleasure detonated behind your eyes, every nerve ending singing in blissful release as Elvis followed right after. His final thrusts grew erratic as his orgasm overtook him. Thick ropes of seed painted your inner walls, you could feel everything. The sensation of Elvis' hot cum flooding your insides sent you spiraling into another mind-blowing orgasm. Your pussy clenched greedily around his spurting cock, milking him for every last drop as he grunted and cursed, emptying the last of his release deep in your womb. "Holy shit," Elvis panted, hips twitching with the aftershocks. "Never came harder in my life." He collapsed against you. Slick flesh still joined intimately together, you both struggled to catch your breath. Your thighs trembled with exhaustion. Elvis' softening length slipped free from your well-used hole with a wet squelch. Cum began seeping out to trickle down the insides of your quivering thighs.Slowly, unsteadily, you straightened on weak knees. Every muscle protested and screamed in protest. It felt like you'd been fucked for hours instead of minutes. Arousal still buzzed along your nerve endings, your clit throbbing between your legs. Elvis' seed coated your inner walls, cock sliding out slick and shiny.Elvis grasped your hips, turning you around briskly. He pushed you down into a sitting position on the vanity bench, “What…what did you do to me..?” You whispered to him, looking at him was heavenly– you felt so close to him.

“Made sure you wouldn’t be lone’ on Halloween again.”

A/N: HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE!!! this is 9 pages long on my google doc making it my longest fic to date 😓 i rlly hope y’all like this i’m sorry if some doesn’t make sense or if there’s grammar or spelling issues i tried sooo hard 😭🖤 also i had it scheduled for midnight n’ it didn’t post m’ so so sorry 😢

taglist: @hooked-on-elvis @atleastpleasetelephone @lola-1013 @indiatuck @eptodaytommorowforever @suspiciousmindsxo @tupelomiss @myradiaz @i-r-i-n-a-a @elvispresley1956 @sisssygirl @your-nanas-house @callieselvisobsessed @eapep @auntbee22 @elvisiana @ladelinee @jhoneybees @elviswhore69 @sissylittlefeather @dontfeedthebigbadwolf @louisejoy86 @cherrycolaride @sloppyzengarden @faeolwen @slayingjd @iloveelvisss @theelvisprincess @fairybloodsucker

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wynnyfryd · 2 years ago

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Trailer park Steve AU part 37

part 1 | part 36 | ao3

cw: depression, ptsd, references to canonical death and horror

Chapter 9

December

The smudged feeling comes back.

Which sucks, if he's being honest.

Despite the new thing with Eddie and the breathing room in his budget; despite everything going fine with Robin and work and the kids, his good moods never seem to hold. They keep getting muddied up, can't shine through the grubby handprints that threaten to blot them out.

And sure, it's not like he expected one great make out session to change his life (and it was a great one, to be clear; a great make out session and an even better handy later that night in Eddie’s van), but he just…

Shit.

He doesn’t know.

He thought it might feel easier. Life, adulthood; everything. Like the lightness and warmth he felt that night might carry over, might drift through to fill the cracks in him like a blanket of fresh snow.

But they don't, because they can't.

They can't touch the fact that he has no clue what he’s doing. That Steve Harrington's got no purpose, no direction and no point.

Most mornings he's got nothing but his creeping paranoia and a bone deep sense of dread.

The new year closes in like a wet tongue up the back of his neck; hot breath of a drooling grizzly getting ready to take a bite, and the long winter shadows around his house are growing fangs, rows upon rows of razor teeth in petal mouths.

His nightmares tastes like rot and lilac. Something heavy in the air.

And in the mornings he feels stupid when he wakes up shivering in cold sweat, foolish and young and alone. He clutches at his nail bat and peers through the cracks in the blinds, and he feels like a lunatic because there’s nothing out there. Nothing abnormal. Nothing wrong-side up. Just the shadows and the strays; the scurrying of house mice and the skitter of dead leaves.

It’s over now, they told him. It’s over, kid. We won.

They said it all three times.

—

"Uh...”

Eddie's standing in Steve's doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms loosely folded over his chest, a weird smile on his face like he's deeply fucking confused by what he's seeing but is trying so hard to be cool about it.

Which, like. Fair.

It's mid-morning on a Sunday and Steve is crawling on hands and knees in his gutted disaster of a living room — ripping up the edges of his terrible burnt orange carpet without even pausing to say hello — and the kids will be here any minute to help put up the Christmas tree, and he hadn't meant to do this; knows he looks completely manic, sweat dripping into his eyes, knuckles bleeding from the tack strips, but he woke up trembling from another nightmare and decided that everything had to go.

The nightmare felt too real. Long claws and sharp teeth, squelching muck and snaking vines; a flash of Chief Hopper bloody and shorn in a frozen wasteland, but the chief is dead and everyone's dead and Steve is so tired of being haunted by their ghosts, and in his shaken, post-dream haze he convinces himself that it's this place.

This place is the fucking problem.

This godforsaken tin can with spirits crawling in the walls.

They're clinging on like static just before a thunderstorm. In the floorboards, in the rug. Steve can feel them with each step. How many footprints buried themselves in these worn fibers? How many exhausted treks to the fridge and frenzied rushes to the phone; how many angry late-night pacers and visitors overstaying a welcome?

"Stevie?" Eddie clears his throat.

Steve just wants them all gone. The whole haunted circus — wants to strip it to the bones, start fresh with something new.

So far all he’s done is make the place smell like his nightmares. Like dust and death and lilac as he pulls the carpet up. There’s an oily stain on the subfloor from where he smashed his mom’s perfume, and a green-black mystery splotch by the kitchen that could be water damage, or it could be the remnants of a liquified rat. Or a person; so many people, melted meat monster smashing through the city blood and gore in a demodog's jowls the walls pulsing with membranes like some fucked up rotten womb and—

"Hey." Eddie's boots come into view. Calm commandment in his tone, stepping right into Steve's space. "Look at me," he sighs.

Steve sits back and wipes his brow. The sweat stings his cut-up hands, and he wishes he weren't so busy being a nutcase, because Eddie looks good like this. Standing over him, petting a hand through his damp hair. Making him kneel down at his feet. It’s hot. They could do something with this. Steve could—

"You want to tell me what you're doing?"

Tears prick up in Steve's dumb eyes.

What's he supposed to say? There were ghosts in the fucking carpet?

He shakes his head and sniffs, and Eddie steps in a little closer; moves his hand to cup Steve's jaw. "No?" he lifts a brow.

Outside, tires crunch over the gravel, the kids making a racket as they pour out of the Wheelers’ car. Goddammit.

Steve huffs and gets to his feet; lets Eddie steady him. They share a look. The kids are shouting on the lawn. "Can you take us to Home Depot?"

—

part 38

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic

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anderii · 9 months ago

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🎃 Halloween princess 🎃

Will you stop going through my wardrobe? It's the 3rd time recently. I have found my outfits in a jumble , just leave my clothes alone, ok? Lisa was really cross with her sister Tasha.

It's not me. Why would I want to touch your stuff it's so boring, and while we're on the topic of other people's things, have you been using my makeup?

Dave listened and laughed to himself, his sisters would never expect it was him who was trying on their clothes and makeup it had started off innocently enough. They had teased him about his effeminate size and look, not in a bad way but enough to hurt, so he was going to muck up their things so as to get back at them but when he was in Lisa's bedroom he took out some of her clothes to damage, he found himself wanting to try them on instead.

After that first time, he took every chance he could, even grew his hair out and started using some of Tashas makeup. He was getting good, but they were getting suspicious, and he would have to be more careful.

Lisa couldn't believe it. She had set up her laptop to record Tasha touching her belongings, but this was not what she expected to record. She grabbed Tasha, and together, they watched Dave put on Lisa's old prom dress and then disappear and return with makeup on.

He literally stood in front of the laptop as he looked at himself in the mirror. Both girls were shocked. What were they to do? They had teased their brother a bit but never suspected this.

The girls thought long and hard, they could confront him, but they teased him first, so was this their own fault? They could tell their parents, but again, it could come back to bite them too. A decision was made, and Halloween was just around the corner. They had a plan.

The dress was just an explosion of pink and frills, Lisa left it on her bed, she and Tasha announced they were going out till later. Their parents were out visiting relatives for the weekend. Dave would almost certainly fall for the trap and would be all theirs.

It only took minutes for Dave to take the bate. Walking into Lisa's room, he saw her supposed Halloween princess dress and just had to try it. Everything was out ready, bra panties stockings, shoes, even a tiara it took about 30 minutes to dress and put on some makeup but when he looked in the mirror he felt so happy with the result and figured he had about an hour to enjoy it before he had to take it off, he figured wrong.

Lisa and Tasha had watched and recorded everything, and as their little brother posed once more in front of the mirror, unaware that the dress once done up wouldn't come off.

They had to admit he did look very cute as a princess , this was all going perfectly. All they had to do was confront him, finish his outfit and take him out trick or treating, and their day would be complete

Dave meanwhile smiled into the mirror, unaware of his impending fate.

His sisters had only driven round the road then returned to the house entering through the back and changing into their own costumes, if Dave was going to be the princess then in true fairy tale style they would be the wicked step sisters. Bursting into Lisa's room phones in hand they recorded everything, Dave was in a state of shock unable to fight back as they finished his makeup and gave him the long heavy wig that was with the outfit.

Now you are our Halloween Princess little brother, we have a deal for you, we know about the makeup and dressing up, we have films and pictures and if you want to keep them secret then come out trick or treating with us, and we can forget about the whole thing, or if you want, once you have made up for causing us to get into unnecessary arguments we can let you borrow some of our stuff, we can have girly night's in when mum and dad are out, teach you make-up and do your nails, all the girly stuff you want. Do we have a deal?

The trick or treating went on till late, Lisa and Tasha introduced their cousin Davina to lots of their friends, at first Dave was nervous that he would be outed but everyone was having so much fun, no one cared, he got lots of complements on his costume and loads of candy, in fact Davina had an absolute ball and was definitely the fairest one of all.

#ai art #halloween #cute crossdreser #cross dressing #sissy crossdresser #forced feminized #sissi femboi #princess fashion #fairytale princess

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sky-scribbles · 4 months ago

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The Archdemon is calling him again.

Curled into a knot on the safehouse floor, Ashur winds his arms tight around himself and tries to remember that he is human. This is not an easy task. The blight-song is burning through his skull, splitting his awareness into a thousand points. He is Ashur, shuddering on the cold stone; he is the darkspawn moving in concert, feeling his (no, not his) taloned feet scraping through the muck of far-off battlefields. He is everyone else with this curse in their blood. He is the archdemon, wings rippling as she (no, he – he, Ashur, a human) unfurls them. Fire waiting in his belly. Power in every scale.

No. Ashur bites down on his tongue, dragging his awareness onto the pain. His pain; his blood in his own mouth.

The song is so loud. His heart is beating in time to the Archdemon’s (how does he know that? He shouldn’t know that), an unchanging rhythmic drum beneath the tune. A harrowing cry of unspeakable loss ringing in every body. So many bodies. He is legion. He is infinite.

Stop. Ashur coughs a string of black blood onto the floor. He cannot surrender to this. He’s Ashur. He fights for Minrathous. He is human. He is human, and individual, and –

Individual. The irony of the thought snags in his mind, bitter and sharp. How can he call himself that, after all the years spent living a triple life? Always obscured by the black leather of the Viper, by the black silk of the Divine. So many names, always changing: Viper. Aequitas. Ashur. He is fragmented, a man in too many pieces, and within the song he would be whole. Surrounded and enfolded and part of something eternal.

‘Don’t,’ Ashur tells himself, but his voice scrapes and the song drowns it out –

All those nights in the Argent Spire, raised high above the city and the people. Alone, or else spoken to only by people who call him Most Holy and avoid his eyes. All those empty rooms, their silence suffocating.

(There is no separation in the song, no silence. There is no alone, because there are no individuals to be apart from each other –)

The world is blurring black and red. Then just black. Another sound has joined the song: a voice, his voice, moaning a drawn-out, haunted sound. He is alone. He has always been alone. He is nothing. He is empty –

A scraping sound (a door opening?) Footsteps. A voice: ‘Ashur?’ Then – ‘Shit. Ashur!’

Quin.

Keep reading on AO3 (nsfw)

#someday I'll write smut that isn't a mechanism for getting characters who can't express their needs #to finally accept that someone loves them and is going to take care of them. but it is not this day apparently #viperquin #tashur #ashur #tarquin #tarquin x ashur #da:tv spoilers #datv

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godsfavouritedog · 3 months ago

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can I get trisarmy/military dog board? LUB YUR WORK!!

TRISARMY DOG TIPS!

ooohh, I absolutely adore identities like this!! I'm something of a dogkin, so I've got a lot to say on this!

01 :

dogtags! and unfortunately, no, not the rectangular ones :(

depending on where you live, most pet stores or key stores will engrave tags for you!

you can get a bone, or a traditional rectangle or round tag. ask for your name or a code name (for example - skully instead of my real name), address, and phone number!

military dogs will have codes and serial numbers, so having identification on your tag may help!

if you're real sneaky? pick a serial number and ask the engraver to put that on the tag. if they ask, say it's a foreign phone number. most of the time they don't question it, though!

02 :

maybe the most obvious - snag yourself a collar! try to stick to greens, oranges, yellows, and any colours along those lines.

if you can't get one for whatever reason, a small trick of mine - get a choker with a buckle! for example, something like this on etsy!

most people tend to see it as a choker so you won't really get looked at for it. that being said, kemonomimis are on the rise, so you may as well embrace it and go the full length!

03 :

get good at fighting. like, real good.

my permasoldier tips post might help on this! join cadets, fitness, or martial arts groups to help train to be strong.

speed training might also help! military dogs are extremely fast. be very fit, maybe get into running!

04 :

one of my favourites - play about in the woods.

make sure you know where you are. that being said, don't be shy to muck about off the path.

to be honest, most people in small woods are usually dog walkers or older hikers who don't really care. I've gone climbing hills on all fours before and didn't get a single second look.

collars neither, surprisingly! people care far less than you think.

don't be shy to get muddy or dig around! collect sticks, chase after balls, play around in the trees. honestly very therapeutic.

05 :

ooouhh, one my favourites - kibble adjacent foods!

"puppy chow" is a fantastic sweet treat! it's melted chocolate chips, peanut better, cereal chunks and powdered sugar. you can keep it as a sweet treat for behaving well at training!

that being said, most army dogs won't really get the luxury of sweet treats. so instead, use nuts or dried corn as a kibble adjacent food!

eat it in a flat bowl for that extra doggy vibe :)

06 :

mentioned before - make paw print shoes! using foam, cut out paw print shapes and glue them to the bottom of your trainers!

07 :

sorry, we're going back to food again...

I believe you can get dog bone molds! if you'd like, you can make gingerbread biscuits and place them into the molds for a doggy treat type snack!

08 :

back onto personality and such.

be very firm! don't be mean, but when you want something, make sure you mean it. don't let people play with you, be very affirmative in what you do.

like how army dogs won't just let someone hit them. bite back.

09 :

also mentioned in my permasoldier post... wear camo! maybe the easiest, but wear simple camo and similar colours where you can.

10 :

clicker train yourself!

you can get these pretty easily at the store. whenever you do something good, like run a certain distance or lift a certain weight, click it and give yourself something tasty!

honestly, may just be a placebo, but that shit works.

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neminomnom · 5 months ago

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Pets I think arcane characters would have

Includes- Mel, Caitlyn, Viktor, Jinx, Vi, Sevika, Ekko and Silco

this is set in season one, sorry if I got anything wrong, I hope you enjoyyyy!!!!

Mel

- Mel would have a tabby maine coon cat named Diantha.

- Daintha would be a very cuddly cat, quite lazy and spends most its time sleeping in the most random places, but loves outdoors and gets spoiled ROTTEN.

-That cat gets everything she meows for, Mel gives her those cat vitamins what makes her coat nice and soft, she also has a specific time each night when Mel gets home from work and she brushed Diantha.

Caitlyn

- It’s not a household pet, but Caitlyn would own a horse, a fresian named Domino, her father named it.

- Domino was a dressage horse, Caitlyn got him as a birthday present when she was younger, her parents would make her go to the stables every weekend to muck him out and take riding lessons

- Once Caitlyn was riding domino and kicked her off, after that Cassandra wasn’t so sure about keeping him.

Viktor

- I don’t know if this counts, but in his bedroom viktor has a huge fishtank, in said fishtank, he has a bunch of star fish, specifically the Patiria miniata type, he finds the colours of them cool.

- Viktor finds them somewhat easy to look after, of course you have to clean the tank out every now and again, but when he’s in really bad pain due to his illness, viktor will just sit and watch them, even though they don’t do much. His favourite is called Robert.

Jinx

- She found two ferrets on the street in a bin, one she named bubbles and the other jinx named bandit, they just roam around her hideout and follow her around.

-bubbles has a cinnamon coloured coat, and is the more playful and social one out of the two, meanwhile Bandit has a chocolate brown coat and is more cuddly and affectionate, yet they are both have the same level of mischief, of course.

Violet

- Violet owns a big friendly giant as a pet, a German Shepard named stevie to be exact, she’s just like Vi, energetic, fights a lot and is extremely loyal, but with Vi she’s a big softie.

- Vi takes stevie everywhere with her, they are attached by the hip, Violet would make sure stevie is decently trained, knowing the basic stuff like sit and to go to the toilet outside, but vi lets her eat from her plates and things like that.

- When vi met Caitlyn, Stevie tried to bite her on multiple occasions

Sevika

-Sevika has two Russian tortoises, one named Shelley and the other called Sheldon, basic but cute, since they can be left alone a lot and only need cleaning out once a week, but she finds them pathetic since how they just kinda walk around and go back into there shells.

-Sevika has a great set up for them, a nice basking area for them but overall a really good set up, and she lets them roam around wherever she lives when she is home.

Ekko

- Ekko has a bunch of birds, all different types of them, they all just roam around the firelight tree thing, they are all mostly owls and pigeons.

- His favourite bird out of the group is called Freya, she’s a fantail pigeon, mostly because she’s the only one what doesn’t try to snatch peoples food out of their hands.

- At night he adores staying up, watching the tree from a distance and loves staring at all the owls.

Silco

-If you go into his office at the right time, you’ll see a ratty looking sphinx cat probably sitting on his desk.

- he named it Fiona, he didn’t even buy/ adopt it, the hairless thing just roamed around the last drop long enough for him to feel a bit sorry for it,

- Fiona is a skinny thing, always scraping around for scraps even if she’s just been fed, so lo finds her annoying but loves the cat really.

—————————————————————————

I HOPE YOU LIKE ITTTT

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bwat5-blog · 6 months ago

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My Hero: Arcane Fanfic

(Rough attempt at a scene I like to imagine went down in 2x05 behind the scenes)

The dim light shifted lazily with the creaking and groaning of the squalid little apartment. Jinx moved softly, not daring to risk waking Vi in this state. She had been coming to the pits for weeks since she found her… trying to work up the nerve, trying to figure out how to approach her. But she was afraid. Their last meeting hadn’t exactly gone well.

At first, she had been able to pretend there was some sick amusement to be found. Cast out by her trigger-happy Piltie girlfriend, left all alone after putting on the uniform, Violet was back where she belonged. In the muck with her people, covered in blood and sweat… but it wasn’t that simple. Jinx knew that after only the first fight.

She’s giving up…

She had watched Vi decline over the last few weeks, getting slower, not protecting herself. She went down. Hard. Almost every night. She was only making enough to fund her next drink and barely eating. She was killing herself… and all the Zaunites around her didn’t lift a fucking finger to help. Jinx had been planning on revealing herself the next time she came down anyway… and now Vander…

We have a chance… maybe we can… we can fix this…

So it was that she found herself holding her breath… until she had crept close enough to see Vi fully. Her stomach dropped, and she forced a hand into her mouth, biting down to keep from crying so hard that she drew blood.

Vi looked like a corpse. She was pale and drawn, still muscular but… not healthy. Her hair was crusted with thick black grease paint and what Jinx could only assume was dried blood. Her face, disturbed even in sleep, was a mess of white and black grease paint and bruising. She wore only black leather pants that were fraying and dirty white wraps around her chest.

“I’m sorry, Vi… I should have come for you sooner,” Jinx whispered, wiping tears away.

She looked around at the trash and empty bottles of booze and shook her head, kneeling down. She took a deep breath and started to move to gently touch Vi but stopped. This was the first time she’d really been this close to Vi without a fight or something else happening… the first time in years. She looked down at her older sister’s body clothed only in the wraps and leathers and had to choke down a sob of horror.

Vi’s body was covered in scars. She had taken plenty of licks as a kid, sure, but… her flesh was a tapestry of abuse and pain. Years of torment played out over every inch of her worn but still muscular frame. Far beyond the wear and tear of Vi’s childhood or even the meat grinder of the Undercity fighting pits. Vi had been tortured.

Jinx scrambled back quietly into a corner of the room, hugging her knees to her chest and biting down hard on a strip of leather from her cloak to keep from sobbing out loud. She shuddered, trying not to wake Violet, as she heard her voice from that day they first saw each other again:

“I tried to come back, I promise I did, but… I got arrested.”

Vi’s voice echoed in her mind.

Seven years… seven years in that goddamn place. Jinx gritted her teeth and tried not to scream. She thought back to Vi begging her to come with her, to just pick up and go. Telling her she loved her and how sorry she was. Sorry for what?! Getting kidnapped and thrown in a place where they did that?!

Jinx curled up tight and bit down on the leather so hard she was afraid her teeth would shatter. She remembered Vi’s hand on her cheek when they were little. Telling her how strong she was, how she couldn’t lose her…

Finally, she was able to stand slowly, wiping her eyes. She walked forward carefully, making sure not to step on anything that would wake Vi before she was ready. She looked to the dingy little cracked mirror on the wall and saw a black stick of grease paint, smiling sadly as she picked it up and whispered:

“Well… if you choke me out when I wake you, at least I get to go out looking like my hero,” she whispered, leaning down and gently blowing across Vi’s hair before going to the mirror and marking her name on her cheek.

#arcane #arcane season 2 spoilers #vi arcane #jinx arcane #vi and jinx #powder #arcane vi

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bower-quinn · 15 days ago

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Dolly

Eddie hasn't thought about her in a long time, had completely forgotten her. But a visit from the past awakens not only old memories but also completely new feelings. From friends to lovers, a story from Eddie's perspective, nicknames, lots of flirting, sexual innuendo, very fluffy, lots of emotions Watch out! There are several chapters.

<- chapter one

Later. I’m lying on my bed, the blanket half over me, the fan buzzing like a stunned mosquito. My left foot taps along to Master of Puppets playing softly on my old cassette deck. In my right hand is a half-finished joint. I take a deep drag, close my eyes, let the smoke fill my lungs.

Her. She won’t get out of my head. The way she sat there, alone. How she blushed. How she brushed those curls from her face like it was nothing—and yet it was… something. That feeling that I knew her, that there was something hidden in my head, tucked underneath a dusty drawer full of childhood memories.

I exhale smoke toward the ceiling and mutter, “Who are you?” Knock knock. I jump. Quickly I stub the joint out in the ashtray, frantically wave an old Metallica shirt like a sacred fan against the smell of doom. Wayne’s on the late shift, but you never know—maybe some nosy neighbor thinks I’m into Satanism. Not entirely wrong, but, damn people, let me just smoke weed like everyone else, okay?

I head to the door, open it… and there she is. Her. Curls, leather jacket, those damn eyes. “Hey,” she says, her smile a bit crooked and nervous. “I thought you probably still live here.”

I blink. “Uh… yeah. Welcome… to my kingdom.” She grins. “Remember now, or do you need a hint?”

Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, trying to play it cool… and I have no clue what to say.

“I kinda thought,” she continues, “that you wouldn’t remember. But I’ll never forget little Eddie Munson, making mud cakes with me and hunting monsters in the woods.” She looks me over. “But little Eddie’s grown up big.”

Suddenly a switch flips in my brain. The fog clears, and there she is—barefoot, muddy, with a watering can full of muck, deep in Hawkins woods. Me. Her. A fallen tree root that was our hideout. And I called her… Dolly. “Dolly…” I murmur.

She nods, her eyes shining. “You called me that because I was small and round like a dolly.” I laugh—real laughter. The first all day. “You were cute like a doll.” “Were?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are,” I correct, biting my tongue.

She laughs, and her laughter… god, it’s like sunlight on a rusted tin roof. Strange. But beautiful. Real. “Dang, Dolly!” A wave of happiness hits me. I can’t control the goofy grin on my face—and, Jesus, she’s grinning back. She reaches out, steps closer, and hugs me tight. Feels like reuniting after far too long. At that moment, I realize exactly that’s what it is.

She wraps her arms around my waist, clasps her hands behind my back, and I knot my arms around her shoulders. We just stand there, me sure she can feel my heart pounding—but hell, I can’t do anything about it.

After a while she pulls away, her eyes shining, grinning wide. It’s strange: in an instant, the image of that tooth-gap little girl flickers before her face—past Dolly and present Dolly merging into one person. Did she have this experience earlier in school when she looked at me?

Dolly sits in the grass in front of my trailer, blinking at me expectantly. “You gonna stand there or sit with me?”

Of course that wasn’t really a question— as if I had any other choice than to sit next to her. The grass is damp; the moisture seeps through my jeans. I wonder if Dolly notices—or just doesn’t care.

I light a cigarette to busy my hands; her presence makes me crazy-nervous. “So,” I say, “what brought you back to Hawkins, Dolly from Germany?”

She pulls a blade of grass from the ground. “Remember why I moved away in the first place?”

Honestly, no. Until just now I couldn’t even remember I had a close friend as a kid. I shake my head, and she sees I’m in the dark.

“My parents split before I was born. I just lived with my mom.”

Ah—something clicks in me. A little crowded living room—didn’t we play orphanage there? Switching roles, me or her being the child adopted or rejected. Strange. She giggles and I focus on her again.

“I can see how the memories come flooding back. Your eyes go all glassy.”

I laugh—more in surprise than anything. Dolly really sees me, notices my reactions. That’s… not what I’m used to.

“Anyway,” she continues, “my mom met my stepdad. A German guy. And surprise… eventually she decided to move there. We were in fifth grade. Then it was Stuttgart.”

“And how was the move for you?” I ask.

She laughs, but bitterly this time. “Moving from a small town to a big city sucks. Everything’s highways, noise, and piss. Jesus, Eddie,” she sighs, looks at me dead serious, “it all smells like sausage and piss!”

Her serious face combined with her word choice makes me laugh so hard I almost cry. I lie back flat in the grass to endure my own laughing fit. When did I last laugh that hard? I hear her laugh too—almost scream. Quickly I turn toward her; I want to see her laughing. Tears stream down her cheeks, and she rocks forward and back.

“That’s not funny,” she pants. “But your laughter!”

That makes me laugh even more. We sit there—or I lay there—and laugh up at the sky. Eventually she takes my hand and squeezes it. “My stomach,” she pants. “Ouch.”

Honestly, my abs hurt too—my muscles aren’t used to that kind of laughing. The last few years have been seriously short on joy.

We calm down, but Dolly’s hand remains on mine. Her skin is warm and soft. I’d love to brush my thumb over the back of her hand, to see if it’s soft there too. But I don’t—she’ll figure out soon enough I’m the “freak.” No need to rip that Band-Aid off.

I frown. “So now? Why are you back?”

She shrugs. “My mom and I… we’ve been fighting. A lot. Loud. About everything. About nothing. So I moved in with my dad.”

I nod. “Welcome back to the hell.”

She laughs again—and I want to bottle that sound, store it somewhere safe.

But then I notice it. The accent. The way she’s careful with her words, like every syllable might betray her.

“You sound… kinda…” I start.

“Like someone with German accent, who not speaks English since long time?” she says, sighing.

I raise my eyebrows, amused. “Who hasn’t spoken English in a long time,” I correct gently.

She groans and covers her face. “Ugh, yes. That. See? I sound like a stupid child.”

“Hey, no,” I say, touching her hand briefly. “It’s cute. Kind of charming, honestly.”

She looks at me, doubtful. “Yeah, until I try say ‘squirrel’ in class and everybody laughs.” She frowns. “That word is evil.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You mean… skwrrrlll?”

She attempts it. “Squrlle.”

I chuckle. “Close. Try again.”

“Squirr-luh?”

“Better,” I grin. “You’ll get it.”

She smirks. “I can say ‘Dragon’, but not ‘squirrel’. Is unfair.”

“That’s life. Weird and unfair,” I say, still smiling. Then, softly: “But you’re doing great, you know?”

She snorts, but there’s a tiny blush rising on her cheeks. “My teacher says I talk too quiet. Like I hide.”

“You do,” I say. “But here… with me… you talk more.”

She pauses. Then: “Because you make me feel… like no need to hide.”

I blink. That hits harder than it should.

And suddenly the air feels warmer. Softer. Like a memory you thought was lost but somehow found its way back.

It goes quiet for a moment. I feel my heart jumping in my chest. Not like after a jump scare, but like… when you rediscover an old song you haven’t heard in ages.

“And why did you guys argue?” I ask curiously. “You and your mom.”

She suddenly grins. Crooked. Mischievous. “She caught me smoking a few times. A few times too many.”

I widen my eyes. “Really?”

She leans toward me, sniffs in my direction. “By the way, I can smell what you did in there.”

I act offended. “I’m a good citizen, Dolly. That was… uh… sage. Medicinal.”

“Sure,” she says, winking.

And suddenly that feeling from back then comes back — when we sat together under the tree root and believed dragons could live in the woods. A thought arises in me, a thought I’ve never had before. I wonder if I should invite her inside. Not because of any dirty thoughts, God no, but because… medicinal purposes. Smoking alone is nice, but in company, it’s much better.

She looks at me, her eyes a little tired, a little curious. I clear my throat. Now or never, Munson.

“So… if you want,” I say, pretending it’s no big deal even though my pulse is already racing, “you can come in. I mean… smoke a bit, chill a bit. Only if you want.”

Her lips curl into a smile. Not the sweet, insecure one from school — more like a “I know you’re trying to be cool” smile. And then she just says: “Gladly.”

I try not to stumble as I open the door. Inside, of course, it smells exactly as expected: incense sticks, old vinyl, a slightly burnt cable somewhere in the wall, and a hint of… sin.

She steps in, takes off her jacket, and looks around. My room is, well… my room. Posters of Dio, Sabbath, Judas Priest. Action figures on the shelf. DnD dice scattered on the floor like they’d just had a fight and scattered. My bed’s unmade. Of course. An empty bag of chips wobbles on the amplifier.

“Sorry, it’s a bit…” I search for a word that doesn’t sound like total self-loathing. “…chaotic.”

She slowly turns around, takes it all in, takes her time. Then she simply says: “I like it. It looks like you.”

I’m silent for a moment. Like me, my mind thinks. No one’s ever said that to me. Not like that. Not… nice.

I clear my throat, reach into my little drawer under the window and pull out my stash. I roll the joint with the precision of an alchemist, light it, and hand it to her.

She takes it with a casualness that surprises me. Draws deeply, blows the smoke toward the ceiling. Then she looks at me.

“Not your first time, huh?” I ask, grinning.

“In Germany, it feels like there are more people with their own garden than with a driver’s license. Trust me, every other guy grows something in his garden shed.”

I laugh. We take turns smoking, and slowly that warm, fuzzy feeling settles over us. Not just from the weed. Also from… her. The way she just is. Without expectations. Without a mask.

Then she turns to me, her voice soft, a bit muffled: “So, Munson… now that I’m back… will you help me navigate this madhouse called Hawkins High? Who’s who? Who’s dangerous? Who’s dumb? Who’s nice?”

I sit up, rubbing my hands like a shady gnome about to sell a treasure map. “Oh, Dolly, you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

She laughs. “I want names. Stories. And at least one warning.”

“Okay, so… there’s Jason Carver. Basketball player. Cheerleader boyfriend. Vain as a peacock and hollow as a door. If stupidity was currency, he’d be the richest man in Hawkins.”

“I remember. The one who annoyed you in history class this morning.”

“Exactly. Then there’s Chrissy, his girlfriend — cheerleader, but somehow… sad. I don’t know, something about her feels off. Like she’s wearing a smile that’s not really hers.”

She nods. “I saw that. She seems like a porcelain doll about to break.”

“Poetic, Dolly. I’m impressed.”

She grins broadly, takes another drag.

“Then there’s Hellfire — my club. We play DnD, so socially we’re somewhere between dust mites and athlete’s foot. But the guys are great. Dustin, Jeff, Gareth, Mike… outcasts, but loyal.”

“And the teachers?”

I roll my eyes. “Mrs. Harrison? I think she hasn’t felt anything since the Korean War. Mr. Thorne, our math teacher, definitely has dark secrets. Probably buries bodies. And Mrs. King from the cafeteria is running a conspiracy. At least, if you ask me.”

She laughs again, longer this time. Then suddenly she’s very quiet. Her eyes shimmer, half from the smoke, half from something else. And she says: “Thanks, Eddie.”

“For what?”

“For still sounding like you used to. Everything here is strange… but you’re still you.” She studies me so intensely again, “only your hair’s a lot longer.”

Automatically, I grab a strand and hold it between my mouth and nose — a desperate attempt to hide. But not from Dolly. She immediately reaches out, gently presses my hand down.

“Na ah,” she says, shaking her head, “that was a compliment, Munson!”

I feel myself flush. Goddamn it, I’m really blushing.

“Don’t hear that often,” I mutter, way too honestly.

“Well, get used to it.” She takes one last drag, then puts out the joint.

I smile. And for a moment, everything is quiet. No Jason, no chatter, no hallway with sideways glances. Just her, and me — and this strange peace I never expected.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson pov #eddie munson fluff #Noch

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fishermcn · 6 months ago

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There was a woman among Sam's fellow Fishermen with too green eyes that glittered like gemstones and a head shaved to show of the scars of the beast that nearly bit clean through her skull. A lean, mean thing with a fire in her belly that roared twice as tall as she, they called her Carrion not only for being the best baiter among their so-called guild but likewise for how easily she handled their ornery messenger birds.

(Was Carrion that first called him Crow. Told him hearing him croak out a sentence was twice as fine as smelling the smoke and gun oil wafting off of him, and just laughed and laughed when Sam asked if the bärgeist had eaten her good looks along with her common sense with that bite it took.)

Maybe that's why they fell in so easily afterwards, always trading barbs and jostling blows where with anyone else they'd draw steel or let their fists fly if they so dared. Might've been just knowing their own worth within the Fishermen; that no one with any lick of sense would ever want to take her spot as the next to draw a wasserwulf pack into a trap, nor would they ever want to try and muck about with the man that made their blackpowder bombs for their own peace of mind.

Wouldn't explain the long evenings talking about nonsense things, though. Things like owning a little house in Saltpier, where the thrum of people and endless lanternlight kept the lurkers at bay; things like him muttering lowly about a mother whose face he can't recall no more or her about a sister she always meant to go and see. Didn't explain them saving a bullet for one another when the hunts went on too long and the promise of escape wore too thin, nor the way she'd tilt her head towards him and doze a while to the sounds of his tinkering.

Couldn't explain it any other way when they staggered back to the Fells after seeing a dozen men dragged beneath waves and set aflame without ever coming back up, coated up to their necks in stinking mud and black blood yet still reaching for one another. Desperate, hungry, grateful as they ran roughshod over one another to forget for even a few hours what all they'd done and seen that night, and the chance to leave it all in that evening lost when they woke tangled up together and didn't so much as move.

("Carline," she'd muttered into his collar bone, trailing her fingers along the press of his ribs. "My sister called me Carline. Ain't no family name though."

"Samuel Whist." He'd croaked back, settling his chin over her head and counting the teeth marks etched into her skin. "Can have mine, I reckon.")

She gave him a tinderbox with their names etched into the inside, promising with a grin on her scarred lips and another in those emerald eyes she'd teach him to read it whenever he got around to taking a knee. He answered with a gold ring slipped around her finger and a chuckled drawl, asking if she were too impatient to wait the year he'd need to get one of his own.

Didn't have a year, though. Not when the Great Hunt finally came to pass, and not when the Daughters joined together in a dread choir to rouse their mother, the Queen Below rising to drag the isle into the depths as once She swore to. There weren't time for anything more than gunfire and bloodshed, for watching the dead sink only to swim back to the surface with the faces of friends or foes but speaking as Her voice... and when Saltpier burned and the sky and sea alike splintered like shards of glass before Her approach, there wasn't any time left at all.

("Don't." Never once has she ever heard him beg, not for anything. Never once had she seen the grey slate of his eyes so alive, so warm as they are now here at the end of everything they'd ever known. Struggling to stand, to so much as speak over the press of Her against reality, Sam shakes. "Please.")

("I'd have liked it." Carline grins, yet the fire of her is snuffed out by the furious storm and howling winds. Her gaze is cold, afraid for the first time he's ever seen as the axe in her hand slips from her grasp. "Carline Whist. It sounded like a good thing.")

Her tinderbox is enough to wound a thing they could've called a god, a cannon set alight to scar the Queen Below and send Her reeling back into the depths. Her pained, enraged throes are enough though, and the isle and all that'd endured for centuries is dragged down in Her wake, leaving behind only a man with a croak in his throat and too-stained hands... for the body of Carrion, of Carline, was likewise dragged into the abyss.

#drabble tag.#v. hook and harry and hunt they cry / doomed as we are to falter and die ( fisherman. )#// a summary of certain events #// bri if you're reading this you convinced me lmao

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evolutionsvoid · 1 year ago

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I think it is safe to say that swamps, to most people, are one of the "spookiest" ecosystems out there. You very rarely hear any happy tales set in one, and any legends attached to them tend to be dark and grim. It's a place that outsiders never want to visit, and if you tried inviting them to a swamp, they would instantly assume the worst. Don't you know what lives in those things?! Ghosts, eerie lights, shapeless mud creatures, foul witches, alluring voices spoken from slimy throats, the clawing rotting arms of the drowned! The stories and monstrosities are endless! Which I find kind of funny for a few reasons. One is that swamps are like any other biome, but gets a bad reputation because it is slightly soggier and the vegetation doesn't look as pretty. The other reason I find this all amusing is because swamps do hold dangers and beasts, yet the scary stories don't bother with them! You have real living breathing creatures that could star in many a cautionary tale, but instead we shove them aside to make up our own monsters! It's almost insulting! The wompogo work hard to be stealthy haunting predators of the cypress swamps, only to be ignored in favor of imaginary spirits and seductive leech women! If you want some real scary encounters in the swamps, then talk to folk who live in them. They will tell you of places in the muck and weeds where few dare travel. Is it because of strange disappearances? Odd lights and whispering voices? No, it is because of the hulking mud-covered beasts who are capable of biting a canoe in half.

Is this dangerous brute I speak of some kind of swamp dragon, or magic-born monstrosity weaved from mud, reeds and corpses? No, it's a mammal, but one that is big and very irritable. The creature I am talking about is the hippalus, a relative of the hippopotamus who lives exclusively in swamps and marshes. They like it wet and muddy, where they are surrounding by soggy vegetation and soft earth. Though they share their love of water with their hippo cousins, one can clearly see that there are some physical differences between the two. One that really stands out is a long flattened tail, often announcing its presence with a loud slap against the water and muck. Then there is the massive hump on their back, which is pure muscle meant to help power its large head. The hippalus has the same impressive maw as other hippos, but its teeth jut out in different ways. Its lower incisors emerge straight out of the jaw, while a curved set of tusks are brandished like deadly blades. There is a pair of hardened growths upon their snout, which some like to call "horns" (even though they are very much not). Their head also has a bowed part on the upper jaw, almost like a horse saddle. Take all this, and then consider their sheer size! A height of over seven feet at the hump, and a length of eighteen to twenty! There is no denying who the powerhouse of the swamp is!

The hippalus are absolute behemoths, and their power is openly flaunted. While other creatures of the swamp may swim or slither through the water and muck, the hippalus plows through anything in its path. When it comes to identifying their tracks, you aren't looking for footprints, but rather deep ruts carving straight through the whole ecosystem. Their sheer size and weight is part of the reason, because you can't exactly walk on top of mud when you weigh over four thousand pounds. So they sink in deep and simply tear their way through the swampy gunk in front of them. Their strangely shaped head and powerful muscles is what comes into play here! Their whole skull is like an organic shovel and plow, designed for cutting through the mud and flinging it away with a whip of their neck. Their lower teeth help dig through and move earth, while their scooped skull is able to collect a whole load of mud and reeds and send it all flying! The muscular flat tail behind them also aids in propelling them forward, undulating as their powerful legs push them forwards. It should be mentioned that while it looks like hippalus swim through the swamps, they can't actually swim. They don't float, they sink. What you see is instead them walking or "galloping" underwater, only sticking their snouts out to breathe from time to time. What helps with the illusion of them floating or swimming is the fact that they are so big, that they tend to stick out of the water without any real effort. They just stand there in the swampy gunk, and it looks like they are floating with ease.

All of these powerful adaptations, however, are not just for traveling! As any local would know, hippalus are famed for their construction work (and a lot of destruction work as well). This species is a solitary one, not living in herds or "bloats" like their cousins. A single hippalus will claim a large chunk of territory and make sure no one ever forgets it. Their powerful jaws and scooping heads tear up mud and vegetation, dropping dead trees and ripping sunken stumps from the murky bottom. Tangles of torn weeds and branches are left near the edges of their territory and given a musky coating of urine and feces to let people know who lives here. In the heart of their realm is their home, a lair built from mud, vegetation and woody parts, like the world's biggest beaver lodge. This construction is possible with the help of their strong jaws and head to carry materials, while their flattened tail pats it all into place. The lodges of these beasts are half sunken, and less like a roomy mud cave and more like a sopping wet burrow for them to park their massive bodies. Part of the support for these dwellings is their own bodies, wedging themselves inside and holding it all upon their backs. These lairs are important for when they have young, as it is where their babies hide during their vulnerable stages. If their mother has to leave them behind to forage or defend her territory, they will remain hidden in this den. When they venture outside to learn the ropes, she will be close by to make sure no predators get any funny ideas. Young hippalus can indeed be on the menu for the likes of wompogo or swamp basilisks, but a full grown adult is avoided by all. I don't think you need me to explain why. Lets just say that a healthy adult hippalus is a creature that does what it wants wherever it wants, and woe be to any who try to say different.

As for diet, hippalus are herbivores, dining upon the various water-logged plants found in the swamp. Like many plant eaters, they won't say no to a free meal if they find a random carcass. While others may nibble upon bones or pick at scraps, a hippalus will take the body in a single bite, crushing it to a bloody, ruined pulp. When it comes to plants, their horned nose is good for digging up ones buried in the muck, and their teeth scrap away at bark and hardened exteriors. When they aren't eating or building, they are resting, as such a huge body uses a lot of energy to work. Best to spend some hours lazing about and grazing upon the weeds.

I mentioned before that locals steer clear of areas where hippalus are active, and hopefully now you see why! It should be said that this species has a temper and are quite territorial. One can be seen sleeping in the muck without a worry in the world, but a split second later they are barreling towards you with jaws agape. Another thing to be said is that they are faster than they look! Yes, they are hulking and huge while stuck in deep mud, but when they want to move THEY MOVE. You would think a mudslide is headed your way, with their massive weight charging through the muck and sending gunk flying everywhere. With this speed and their sheer power, hippalus tend to be avoided at all costs. Locals don't even try hunting them, because it is way too dangerous. What weapons they carry when entering hippalus territory is meant to slow the beasts down, not kill them. Their thick muscles make it difficult to do any real damage, thus resulting in most attacks being annoying rather than dangerous to them. In areas where civilization and hippalus territory overlap, you will find specimens with various weapons poking out of their hide. These are reminders of run ins they had with people, and trophies from failed hunts. "But wait, Chlora" you may ask. "I thought you said people don't hunt them?" That is correct, I said locals don't hunt them, as it is simply not worth it. So if the natives of the region don't do it, then there can only be one other answer of who! You all know it, so say it with me: Rich Idiots With Dumb Hobbies!

Yes indeed, the wealthy nobility love showing off by killing large dangerous beasts and sticking them in their parlors. With their sheer size and power, any person with too much money and a poor definition of confidence gets the idea that they would make a fetching trophy. They take a whole hunting party out to try and down one of these behemoths, so that their head may be hung above the fireplace. Needless to say, plenty of people get killed trying to do this, and sadly the rich idiot isn't always the one. Turns out when you are the first to flee at the sight of danger and you use your guides like meat shields, you tend to survive. Then they go home and craft fanciful stories about their bravery and perilous escape, while the poor folk they hired for chump change to carry their bags are left dead in the mud. I swear, can't these people find better hobbies? Why do you have to kill things for showmanship and bragging points? Bird watching lets you see the wildlife without any harm, and it is just as rewarding! And if you have to just kill something for a trophy, why not bug collecting? There are plenty of those and it isn't nearly as dangerous! But then again, I am sure dumb nobles would find a way to make that hobby absolutely destructive. Only choose to pin endangered species or something. I don't think there is a winning option here. Like so much of their ill gotten gains, they thrive on misery! Aaaaaand this part is getting cut! I already know it, so don't bother writing it, Eucella!

Chlora Myron

Dryad Natural Historian

---------------------

"Hippalus"

#monster #creature #hippo #hippopotamus #swamp monster #art #drawing

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kangaracha · 1 month ago

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white hyacinth + lee know

white hyacinth: 'meddlesome angels and the people they save'

written by @keepswingin

tw/cw: near death experiences, suicide attempts, unspecified eating disorder, references to child abuse, drowning, self-harm.

---

"I never should've saved you," Minho all but hisses as he throws himself into the closest chair, wringing out the bottom of his shirt. "I don't even like you." There's already a small puddle forming beneath his feet as water drips from his clothes. Seaweed is caught behind his ear. "Were you trying to drown yourself?"

Hyunjin hangs over the kitchen sink, equally drenched. Water droplets slip from his hair and onto the dirty dishes he couldn't bring himself to clean. His fingers are pruned. He's surprised his legs can hold his own weight. His throat is sore and his teeth ache. He coughs to try and relieve some of the lingering pressure in his chest only to hack up more salt water, burning on its way up and out. He groans, slumping against the counter. "And if I say yes?" he counters quietly, voice rasping across the kitchen.

"Then I should've let you," Minho spits, and a heavy splat of water hitting the tile punctuates his words. Hyunjin isn't sure how to feel when his tone of voice is like this, lingering in the space between biting and sharp. Oddly enough, he doesn't feel guilty for taking Minho's time. "Millions of people die everyday and I save the one person trying to kill himself?"

"I didn't ask you to," Hyunjin says, quieter. "You could've saved someone else."

The silence that comes after prickles uncomfortably at Hyunjin's skin. The chair scrapes against the floor when Minho finally stands. Hyunjin doesn't bother to turn, barely bothers to breathe. "No," Minho grumbles, and it sounds like the fight has suddenly been drained from his very body. "I saved you."

"Lose some weight," Minho snarks to the body he drags away from the edge, barely able to budge him any further than a few feet. "You're too heavy." The mud hinders his progress and he spits a curse as he lets go of him, glaring. His arm falls into the muck, splaying across his skin. "Unbelievable."

Changbin lifts his mud-covered arm and stares at for a long moment before dropping it against his chest. His heart is still racing from the adrenaline of it all. He can still feel how weightless he was as he teetered, one foot in the air, his weight tipping forward into near oblivion. Minho's painful grip as his fingers had latched around his forearm, yanking him backwards.

Minho huffs, still glaring. "What were you thinking? That you'd get a free pass and catch yourself in time?"

Changbin almost laughs. "I wasn't thinking," he says, voice strangely detached. He doesn't know where to go from here. This was his final step. "Were you?" he dares to ask Minho, turning his head so he can watch him. "Thinking?" He's sure there's better people out there to save. He wonders if Minho even bothers when it comes to people that deserve it. He knows he definitely doesn't deserve it and yet Minho pulled him back.

"I was thinking about how stupid you are," he replies easily, not bothering to soften the words in an attempt to get them through his thick skull. "The movie you've been waiting for comes out on Friday. Your gym just got new weights. You told me you wanted to try new food." He reaches over and grabs at his arm, mud slipping from his skin onto Minho's palm. "I thought you were saving yourself."

"There's nothing left of me to save," he whispers, digging the words out from where they've been buried.

Minho lets go of his arm. A spot of mud lands on Changbin's cheek.

"There's plenty of you left," he says. "I'll find it again even if you can't."

"You're insane," is all Minho can bring himself to say as he stares down at the gun in his hands. He's never held one before and it's heavy in his palms, heavier still with the weight of being able to end a life faster than Minho can save it. He looks up and wants to yell, for the first time in a long time. It pushes and pushes at his chest, but he swallows the words before they can make it anywhere.

Chan is emotionless as he stares back at Minho, dark bags under his eyes, cheeks sunken with something more than stress. He stands still and numb in the center of the room. His fingers are shaking. Pale. "I was using that," he says, and it could be a joke if this was anything else than what it is, even if his tone is just as empty as the rest of him.

"Not anymore," Minho throws back, pocketing the pistol and hoping that he was successful in flicking the safety on. "I'm surprised. You're usually smarter than this. Did you expect me to clean up after?"

Chan winces at the barb. His eyes drift down to his shoes. The abandoned warehouse around them creaks with the next flick of wind. He feels unlike himself. He feels exhausted. He feels like a terrible person as Minho stares him down with eyes that are never as cold as the rest of him. He wonders if there's a limit to how many times one can save him. He wonders if he can find that limit himself or with some help.

"I'm sorry." He doesn't think he means the words, not in the way he should. His mind keeps replaying the motions. He can still feel Minho's grip, can still hear the shuffle of his feet on the concrete as he had moved toward him.

Minho rolls his eyes. "Save your apology for when you mean it," he says. Chan gives a small nod. He doesn't know if he should stay here or go home, or find somewhere completely new. He doesn't know where he belongs. "And pick up a new hobby. Guns don't suit you anymore than this does."

"Do you even care anymore?" Minho asks from outside the bathroom stall, arms crossed as he leans against the medium. "From the sound of it, I don't think that you do. Which is ridiculous when I've never met someone who cares more." The toilet flushes in response and there's a moment where he simply listens to the other's heavy breathing, and then the door opens.

Felix doesn't spare him a glance as he moves past him to the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looks worse than the last time Minho saw him, smaller, unhealthy. His hair is struggling, and the foundation smeared under his eyes looks out of place on such a thin face. His lips tremble and he can barely hold himself up, let alone walk. Minho isn't surprised that he ended up here. It looks like he's on the brink of something much worse than death.

"I do care," Felix finally says, eyes sliding to meet Minho's in the mirror.

"Not about yourself," Minho spits, all sharp edges. "You haven't cared about yourself in a long time."

His stomach barely exists. If Minho reached out to grab his arm, he would be afraid that his grip alone would break the limb in two. The designer clothes he's wearing don't fit right even in the smallest size the company can offer. Minho wonders just how much editing they do to his final photos and then tries not to think any further.

"I'll be fine," Felix dismisses, turning towards the door. But he turns too fast and grows dizzy, nearly stumbling into the wall. Minho darts forward and catches him by the shoulder, keeping him steady. "I'm fine," he murmurs, pulling himself from the other's hold.

"Stop acting like it," Minho all but growls, reaching out again, shaking his head. His fingers bruise paper-thin skin. "Don't say it again until it's actually true."

"You did it on purpose, didn't you?" Minho whispers as he picks himself up from the ground, dusting off the sides of his pants before spitting a curse. He's not sure he's allowed to curse. He doesn't really care, something hot and angry bubbling up inside of him. He's always annoyed but this kind of anger is new, especially as he frowns at the young boy curling into himself on the sidewalk in front of him. "There are better ways to die," he continues, almost as a dare. "Don't you know them?"

Jeongin slowly shakes his head. He's made himself so tiny that Minho nearly forgets that he's lived through more things than people twice his age have. The highway before them doesn't stop with them, another thing Minho hates. No one stops to check anymore. No one cares. No one ever cares. If they had hit him like he wanted, they probably would've kept going without looking back.

"Are you planning to stay like that the rest of the night?" he asks. When Jeongin doesn't answer him he sighs and takes a step toward him, shoe poking at his skinny shoulder. "Your shelter is down the road. Go back home."

"I don't have a home," Jeongin says, still unmoving. "I don't have anything."

Minho has half a mind to pick him up himself and carry him back. Instead he pokes him with his foot again, harder this time. Jeongin tries to move away from him but Minho follows, unrelenting. "Neither do I," he grouses, ignoring the way that Jeongin peeks at him, eyes wet. "But there's still things to do. Get up and figure out what you do have."

"Can't take a punch?" Minho sarcastically asks as he approaches, immediately going to untie the rope wrapped around and around. "I thought you were used to being a punching bag." The rope tumbles to the ground, leaving the other to slump forward, bucket kicking out from beneath him. Minho catches him around the shoulders and lowers him carefully to the ground, gently leaning his back against the wall.

Seungmin grimaces and lifts a hand to the still bleeding gash in his side. His face is a mess of purples and blues, his left arm hanging limp. Minho thinks it might be broken and glares at the rope like that will change how he found him. His head lolls before finding the wall alongside the rest of him, hitting it with a soft thump. Maybe Minho's too late and he's already gone, an addition to the sea of lost souls he isn't allowed to touch.

"You're not done, are you?" he asks, shaking him. "Your father finally decides to get rid of you and you just lay down and take it?" He exhales against the prickle in his chest. "You used to fight back."

"I...used to," Seungmin breathes, the words out of place as they tumble from a mouth that doesn't quite know how to work anymore. Minho shifts closer, party surprised that he's still conscious. "Can't." Another pause as he struggles to form the word he's looking for. "Anymore."

Minho scoffs. "You were never scared to die."

Seungmin's chest stutters on his next inhale and the wheeze that comes after sounds like something that nearly chokes him. Minho worries that his presence enough won't be enough. Sometimes it isn't. He reaches out and grabs his shoulder, ignoring the pang in his chest when Seungmin flinches. His sight lingers on the red line around his neck, on the rope that had kept him between life and death.

"You didn't die," he says, Seungmin's breath hitching. "Start acting like you deserve to be."

"You're bleeding," Minho says as he stands in the doorway, taking in the precarious state of the bathroom. Water drips from the sides of the tub with every breath, and there's blood slipping down the porcelain. His sight lingers on the amount of red on both his wrists, held slightly above the water. "I thought you said you were sick of bleeding."

Jisung huffs. His chest is barely moving up and down like it should. The rest of him is beginning to shake, but Minho's not sure if it's from the shock or blood loss. He figures he should probably learn the difference if every time he sees him, there's always a scene that looks like something from a horror movie.

"I'm sick of a lot of things," Jisung whispers, voice barely louder than a whisper. His eyes are locked on his wrists, watching as blood rolls and rolls and rolls. Minho moves into the room. He takes a seat beside the bathtub Jisung rests in, leaning his head back. The water tickles his hair.

"Are you sick of me?" he asks quietly, possibly the softest he's ever spoken. Minho always feels a tug, whenever he's needed. It tugs at him now, reminding him how little time is truly left for the other if he doesn't do something. "If you're sick of me, tell me."

Jisung stays silent. For moment, Minho worries that he's died. He turns his head to glance at him, only to find that he's still watching the blood, almost like he's trapped in a trance. Minho sighs and slides closer, grabbing the wrist he can reach and wrapping his hand around the wound before lifting the limb into the air. Jisung's eyes flicker to his. There's still life in them, Minho thinks, before squeezing tighter at his arm.

"Are you sick of me?" he repeats. He doesn't know why he feels as though he needs the answer. Usually he holds them all, but this one feels far out of reach.

"You've saved me more times than I can count," Jisung replies, tone painfully netural. There's a part of Minho that hates how calm he is, how resigned he is to die everytime he slices another line into his skin. "Pretty soon I'm going to be in your debt."

"You already are," Minho is quick to jab, falling back to what he knows.

Jisung doesn't flinch, barely reacts. Blood sticks to Minho's palm. His tight hold is barely clotting the cut. Jisung's other arm isn't fairing any better on its own, blood slipping against the water. Soon the everything around Jisung will run red and his fate will be sealed. Minho isn't sure he wants to be here for that, if that's what the other truly wants this time. For as many times as he scolds, or spits jokes that bite, he's never been one to clean up the messes that are left behind. That's for the being that comes after him, the one Minho is sure hates him for all he doesn't do. He's never had the gall to attempt to meet them. There's a part of him that thinks he doesn't ever want to because all it will do is remind him of his failures.

"If you keep it up you'll owe me a house, you know," Minho continues, nearly chiding. "Then a car. Maybe the rest of your savings."

Jisung's skin is cold. Minho almost shivers.

"Okay," he whispers, resigned. Minho doesn't like it, eyes sliding back to Jisung's face. He never had a problem rising to the challenge, throwing something just as equally scalding back.

"Do you still want to be saved?" Minho finally brings himself to ask, and for some reason the words hammer against his ribcage, stick to the inside of his chest like they don't want to come out.

A shaky exhale slips from Jisung's lips. For a long heartbreaking moment, Minho thinks he's going to say no, but before that moment can come, sirens echo from outside. A soft smile crosses his lips. Curse Jisung's downstairs neighbor for better or for worse, but the water must've found a crevice that happened to be in the old woman's sight. He nearly blesses the apartment right then and there too, something close to relief flooding him when he hears the sound of car doors slamming shut. The pounding of fists on the door a few moments later.

Jisung's eyes flicker. They have trouble finding Minho's own, but when they do, a tear finds its way down his cheek. Minho squeezes tighter and tighter, and tighter still. Blood rolls down his own wrist, mimicking the wounds that brought him here in the first place. "You owe me," he says, like it means something. Jisung's chest shudders. "I don't go around saving just anyone."

Voices growing louder, the crack of wood splintering. Minho thinks it's an attempt at a laugh, the noise that leaves Jisung then. "You save us," he mumbles, barely audible. "Every time. We must mean something."

Minho's mouth runs dry. His heart beats faster. He can hear it in his ears.

"Yeah," he says simply. "You do."

---

permanent taglist

@amyyscorner @kokinu09 @rainfallingfromthesky @keepswingin @rylea08 @puppysmileseungmin

@thatonedemigodfromseoul @atinyniki

#to be honest i could've kept going like there could have been one more scene #but like this is already so long already and took me forever so we'll just end it there #umm if this is too heavy for your blog i can post it on mine because #this fic is also known as 'the shittest angel in history' fic #i guess i'll throw the warnings at the top to save you a possible future headache #stray kids #skz fic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #bang chan #lee minho #lee know #han jisung #kim seungmin #yang jeongin #skz #seo changbin #lee felix #did i miss a tag idk #you were wrong on the other one this is the one that i have an original fic for #the weird angel one #interesting that we both picked minho for this #though for very different scenes #i'll level with you this doesn't rate anywhere on my scale of favourite keeps fics #like it's good and it all makes sense but this is so not my taste #just my personal gripey opinion #especially since this is following up minsung ghost and the fantasy au #if i'd started with this one i would have been more impressed #but alas xD

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