#1 is faster to draw because I just shade in the center part and then draw the patchy end

[gomzdrawfr]

practice doodles

[grimminsanity]

Oh hey, lost my right eye at the beginning of the year, and literally every single thing that's written here is a full-on truth I've come to realize and experience. Long story short, my eye got punctured by a pipe that broke while clearing some snow in winter, and I got an ennucleation to have it removed and got an occular implant in.

I've still got my eye muscles - now connected to my implant - and my tear ducts, so I can still cry, though it happens a bit more on my right than my left now. The people not realizing you're half blind is definitely a thing. My parents were with me every step of the way, and they still forget I have trouble in low light and can startle me if they come up on my right.

Some other things I've noticed for anyone curious:

1. I used to have very good night vision, could adjust very quickly, and often took point on night walks with my mom. After I lost my eye, though, being in low light conditions is really hard for me sometimes? It's connected to the depth perception thing, I think, and everything starts to sort of blend in together for me. Dark rooms, even with a slight light somewhere, also cause issues because, again, it takes ages to adjust, and I bump into a lot of things. I've learned to map out spaces a lot faster now because of it.

2. Connected with number 1, driving on roads that shift from being clear to be surrounded by trees is... not fun. It takes my eye a little longer to adjust to lighting, so shifting between shaded and sunny places while driving is not fun. I tend to drive a little slower to compensate in those places.

3. Connected to number 3. and to the previous comments about being a safer driver, - which is true, actually! I've slowed down a lot and consider taking turns a lot more now - It's not harder for me to drive, persay, but it is a bit more of an inconvenience. Considering i live in a country that drives on the right side of the road, me losing my right eye means I've lost half of my perception of the road to an extent? The frame that hold my windshield blocks out a part of my remaining vision, so I actually have to lean to my right in my seat a lot more when taking curves or turns because I just can't see the full road. If anyone is driving towards me around a blind curve, it's gives me a little heart attack each time, and I have to correct myself if I'm too close to the center.

4. I'm an artist and drawing traditionally has become a bit more difficult to since I have to angle myself in a way that has me looking down straight at the paper as much as I can. Makes it harder when I have huge sizes of paper to work on school projects and have to use a big drawing board to lean on since I don't have a desk big enough for that. Causes a strain on my back as well as my neck because I've gotten used to sitting very stiffly in my chair to keep the right viewpoint of my paper.

5. Like mentioned above, I now have to have people actively tell me or point out things if I they want me to get or see something because I don't know what they can mean? I get frustrated cause they forget to say something, and then I get snappy if they get snappy with me instead. I literally need things to be pointed out to me.

6. The implant is basically a ball that gets put into your eye socket, and the prosthetic is essentially like a super thick contact lens that gets molded to the shape of implant and eye socket. You'll need to get them cleaned yearly after the first year or so and get the fitting checked every year or two because the prosthetic will settle and not fit as well as before. Connected to that, your prosthetic can move with your implant! Some move better than others. Mine moves well with small mini movements of my implant and slight shifts of the eye - looks very natural! - but if I suddenly look to my up or around me without moving my head, like the corner of my eye, you can immediately tell I've got a fake eye. Throws people off sometimes!

I'm sure there's a few other things I've missed, - or just not realized, really - so I'll leave it here for now. It does make me feel seen though to know that other monocular people are also experiencing things I'm realizing I now get to live with!

writing advice for characters with a missing eye: dear God does losing an eyes function fuck up your neck. Ever since mine crapped out I've been slowly and unconsciously shifting towards holding my head at an angle to put the good eye closer to the center. and human necks. are not meant to accommodate that sorta thing.

[satendou]

⟼ manhunt

⍣ stardew: tilted | next: manhunt: redux | 1/?

・‥…━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━…‥・

⇢ pairing: iwaizumi/reader/oikawa

⇢ au: stardew!au

⇢ summary:  it starts off as hiding eggs with a twist, and suddenly you find yourself hunted

⇥  masterlist

⇢ warnings: predator/prey play, established relationship, forest sex, spitroasting, no prep, creampies

⇢ word count: 3877

・‥…━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━…‥・

⇢  a/n: i’ve always wanted to do a stardew au, though not in this format. still, these have been pretty fun to write so far.

“Are we sure they’ll be alright overnight?” Oikawa asked skeptically, looking at the baskets full of colored eggs sitting in front of the general store. “What about ants?”

“That’s the whole reason we went with plastic eggs this year,” Kuroo answered, picking up a powder blue on from the pile. Popping it open, he plucked the mini Snickers bar out, only to receive a swat on the hand from Akaashi. “Ow, okay, geez,” he pouted, closing the egg back up.

“There’s plenty of leftover candy you can eat after we get these hidden,” Akaashi scolded, turning to the other adults who had volunteered to hide the eggs for the hunt in the morning. 

It had been unanimously decided that, if you had to be the ones to do it, you were going to make it fun for the adults too. Thus, the egg hiding was turned into a game of manhunt, where the runners had to place all their eggs without getting caught by the hunters. If they did get caught, they then had to take some of the hunter’s eggs on top of their ownl. If they managed to avoid being caught, they got to hide until the game was called.

“How do we decide who’s going to be a hunter?” you asked, leaning on Iwa’s arm. There were ten adults in all and ten baskets full to the brim with plastic eggs.

“I’ll be one,” Kuroo offered, though you didn’t like the tone in which he said it. It was scheming and mischievous, and you already knew Kuroo to be a decent hunter.

“Rip, Bo,” Atsumu said, and the group burst out into chuckles while Bokuto wilted.

Iwa’s arm flexed around yours as he laughed before he said, “I’ll be the other one.”

“Rip Oikawa.” It was Osamu this time, and laughter filled the quiet darkness once again, punctuated by Oikawa’s whining.

Everyone picked up a basket while Iwa and Kuroo set a timer for five minutes on their watches, watching as the rest of you disappeared into the darkness. There was something foreboding about being alone, even if you were just in the center of the village. Knowing that Kuroo and Iwa were going to be skulking around-- no doubt trying to scare everyone they came across-- added an element of excitement to the whole thing.

There was no one else around you, as far as you could see. Without a flashlight, you had to rely on the moon to light your way. A tree appeared to your right, and you paused to tuck an egg in it’s roots, hidden enough that it wouldn’t be seen instantly but easy enough for the kids to find in the morning.

Constantly looking over your shoulder, you placed eggs here and there, running across Osamu at one point with Atsumu on his heels, snickering as he told you Bo had already been caught.

Several minutes later, when your basket was down to half the eggs you had started with, a hand wrapped around your wrist, another one quickly clapping over your mouth to stifle your screams.

“Found you,” a voice whispered, and you quickly relaxed as you realized it was Oikawa.

Smacking him on the chest, you hissed, “You asshole, you scared the shit outta me. What are you doing?” You could feel him laughing against you, stifling his noises in his hand, before he finally managed to say, “I finished hiding my eggs, so I figured I’d come help you. There are no rules saying I can’t.”

“Well, if you insist,” you said, shoving your basket into his hands. “It’s the least you could do for nearly giving me a heart attack.”

He didn’t seem overly upset, trailing behind you and dropping eggs much faster than you had. There was a noise from your right, around the corner of the saloon, and Oikawa grabbed your wrist again, yanking you around the side of Nekomata’s house. It sounded like arguing, and you finally recognized Atsumu’s voice complaining about being caught.

Kuroo’s laughter cut across him, wickedly amused, before saying something you couldn’t hear. So invested in what was going on over there, you didn’t hear someone coming up behind you until Oikawa took in sharp breath, which was quickly cut off.

Startled, you spun around and caught sight of Iwa with his hand over Oikawa’s mouth, who looked like he was about to faint. Iwa laughed, a low rumble in his chest, before releasing Oikawa.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he drawled, staring pointedly at the basket in Oikawa’s hands. “Looks like you lose, Tooru.”

Pouting, Oikawa held out his-- your-- basket, but Iwa didn’t drop any of his eggs into his basket, his smirk widening as he held up his empty basket.

“How did you--?” you asked, looking up at him suspiciously.

Winking, he dragged you and Oikawa further into the shadows, just in time for Kuroo to skulk by silently. Kuroo paused, looking around as if he’d heard something, only to be distracted by a muffled yell from down by the river.

When he had disappeared into the darkness again, Iwa snickered. “Kuroo’s been too busy looking for Bokuto and Akaashi to catch anyone else. But I think you still need to be punished for getting caught.”

Oikawa’s eyes widened, faintly glinting in the moonlight, locking with yours when Iwa’s hands ghosted up under his shirt. “We still have eggs to hide, Hajime--”

You had never known Oikawa to turn down any chance to do anything in public-- in face, you were fairly certain at this point that he got off on it. Which was why you weren’t surprised when he continued on, a smirk flashing across his face.

“--Besides, this was _____’s basket. Mine is empty.”

He held up his basket, one Iwa recognized as the one Oikawa had scurried off with almost an hour ago. Iwa quirked a brow, pausing where he had been trailing kisses up Oikawa’s neck, crooking his finger at you.

“Were you really just going to let Tooru take your punishment, princess?” Iwa asked, pulling you right up against his chest. You were now pinned between the two of them, chin tilted up by an iron grip to look up into Iwa’s shaded eyes. “I don’t think that’s fair, do you?”

Shaking your head, you let your hands curl into the front of his shirt, standing on your tiptoes reflexively when his head dipped down.

Behind you, Oikawa chuckled, hands coming to rest on your hips. “Well, I did offer to help her, I’ll admit.”

Iwa hummed thoughtfully, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he said, “In that case, maybe I should give you a chance to make up for it. If you can hide all those eggs without getting caught in…”

“Five minutes,” Oikawa offered, looking at the number of eggs still in the basket. There were maybe twenty left, and five minutes would be plenty of time to hide them-- if you could avoid Kuroo.

The corner of Iwa’s lips turned up, a clear smirk as he nodded. “If you can get rid of ‘em in five minutes, you won’t be punished. But if you can’t do it, well…”

He left it unsaid, but you understood loud and clear. You had no idea what he and Oikawa would do, but it would no doubt be embarrassing for you. Still, your thighs clenched at the thought and a mischievous part of you considered botching it just to find out what they had planned-- until you remembered who could find you.

Kuroo and Atsumu would never let you live it down, and no doubt Bokuto would accidentally spill to the whole village that the three of you had been up to something out in public, and that was a humiliation you would never survive.

Iwa and Oikawa watched you stumble off, urgency in your steps while you tried to navigate in the dark, before they turned to each other.

“I didn’t know you were so mean, Haji,” Oikawa drawled, winding his arms around his waist. 

Iwa went willingly enough, still wearing a smirk as he avoided Oikawa’s attempted kiss. “Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with you.”

Oikawa snickered, nudging Iwa’s nose with his own until he could capture his lips in a less-than-chaste kiss. “No need to be rude. I know you like it.”

You had no notion of how much time had passed by the time you placed the last egg, narrowly avoiding a prowling Kuroo by the bridge leading to the library. You had been too afraid to set a timer, of drawing Kuroo right to you and having to face Iwa’s punishment, so you could only hope you had finished in time.

Upon returning to Nekomata’s house, your heart dropped to your toes when you realized Iwa and Oikawa were nowhere to be found.

“Where--?” you whispered, only to nearly jump out of your skin when a pair of arms circled your waist. A sharp gasp left you, a scream fizzling out in your throat before you whipped around to look up into Oikawa’s cheeky face.

“You barely made it, princess. What, didn’t you want to see what Iwa had planned?” he whispered, dragging you around the back of Nekomata’s house. You could hear voices near the front of the general store, talking about another round of manhunt since it was still so early.

“Should we take it out into the woods instead?” Kita was asking, looking around at all the dark houses around you. “I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

“I’m fine with that,” Kuroo said with a shrug. The only one who declined was Sakusa, who cringed at the idea of traipsing through the woods in the dark. “Alright then, let’s go.”

The closer you got to the lake, the harder your heart thumped, wondering what Iwa and Oikawa were thinking. No doubt they would toy with you for a while, letting the tension build as you wandered alone in the dark before pouncing. The thought alone made you anxious, squirming against Iwa’s chest while everyone decided who would be the hunters again.

“I’ll be one again,” Iwa offered, cutting a glance in your direction. The smile he gave you was gone in a flash, but you got the message.

He was a predator, and you were his prey. No doubt Oikawa would join him, too.

“Funny you say that, because I was gonna say that too,” Kuroo said, and they shared a smirk before Kuroo glanced at Akaashi from the corner of his eye.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two were sadists,” Atsumu drawled, leaning back against the trunk of a pine tree.

Kuroo and Oikawa snickered while Iwa shrugged, giving the blond a half-smile. “If that’s your only objection, I’d suggest you start running.”

A hand wrapped around your wrist before you could scurry off, lips pressing against your temple to cover as Iwa whispered, “I’ll see you soon, princess.”

Barely containing a squeak, you ripped your hand from his hold and disappeared into the trees, leaving Kuroo and Iwa alone.

Kuroo turned to him with a smirk then, amusement dripping from every word as he asked, “Should I just...leave her to you, then?”

Iwa hummed in agreement, unable to stop a small laugh from escaping. “That obvious, huh?” “I won’t tell you if you won’t, just leave Akaashi for me,” Kuroo said, patting him on the arm. The alarms on their watches went off simultaneously and they shared one last knowing glance before going their separate ways.

Meanwhile, you had made it all the way down to the abandoned house overlooking a cliff, skirting in front of the creepy looking building towards the bridge. The light from your phone bounced off the shattered glass in the windows, illuminating the decrepit interior and some leftover furniture before you moved on. Your steps were muffled as you moved slowly, heart pounding while you waited for something, anything to happen. You felt suspiciously like a rabbit being stalked by a wolf-- or wolves-- as you made your way through the trees. Branches cracked underfoot, causing you to wince, and you vaguely wondered where everyone else had run off to.

Bokuto had no doubt clung to Akaashi, wherever they went, and Atsumu was probably stalking Osamu and Kita, waiting for the perfect opportunity to scare them.

As if on cue, there was a loud shriek that ripped through the darkness, causing you to jump straight into salmonberry bush with a startled yelp before you began giggling. Your hands were shaking, the light wobbling as you fought to extricate yourself, only to freeze when the sound of more branches cracking came from somewhere near you.

Barely breathing, you listened as closely as you could for any voices, straining to hear anything.

After several long seconds, a soft voice reached your ears, causing the hairs to raise on the back of your neck and a thrill to shoot down your spine.

“Where are you, princess?” Oikawa sang in the dark, playful and amused. He was clearly still too far away, if he hadn’t picked up the light from your phone, and you quickly turned it off before he could see it.

You had no idea if Iwa was with him yet, but you had to get yourself out of the bush quickly and quietly, before you alerted them that you were there. Wincing at the rustling and crackling, you managed to stand up with only a few minor scratches on your arms and legs, stumbling in what you hoped was the direction of the pond.

Wherever you were headed, it was the direct opposite of the soft, cajoling voice behind you, but you made a mistake in tripping over the root a tree that was about to fall.

With a muffled yelp, you caught yourself on the trunk, but it was too late.

“I think we found her, Hajime,” Oikawa said, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“I think you’re right, Tooru.”

They were close, too close and, in a panic, you turned the light back on and took off into the trees, dodging trunks and leaping over logs and rocks. The sound of footsteps came from behind you, heavy thumping that never seemed to get any closer even though you knew they could easily outrun you.

You could hear them calling out behind you, laughter mixing with their words and spurring you to run faster even as they asked you to stop, to give up, to come willingly. Even though you trusted them, knew it was all a game, your heart still raced, your fight or flight instinct in high gear as you ran by the pond. 

At the last minute, as you tried to decide which direction to go, they almost slammed into you from behind. Someone’s arms wound around you, causing you to let out a startled yelp that would have been a shriek had your throat not closed up on itself.

“Gotcha,” Oikawa whispered in your ear, though you realized it was Iwa’s arms around you when he came to stand in front of you. “Now for our prize.”

You were herded through the entrance to the Secret Woods by Oikawa’s hand around your wrist and Iwa’s on your back, heart still thrumming from a mix of adrenaline and exercise. The moonlight was filtering through the leaves overhead, the grass dappled with silver light around the edge of the pond where they stopped you.

“That was fun, princess,” Iwa whispered, wasting no time in pulling your shirt up and over your head. Sweat was beaded on your forehead and between your breasts, which were quickly freed from the confines of your bra. “Gave us a good chase.”

You could feel how hard he was already against your ass, chest heaving from exertion against your back.

Oikawa’s nimble fingers undid the button on your jeans, forcing them and your panties down your legs without preamble, pulling them off over your shoes. Your head tipped back onto Iwa’s shoulder, a breathy gasp breaking the stillness of the clearing when his fingers plucked your hardened nipples at the same time his cock slipped between your thighs. 

“Already this wet for us, huh? Did that turn you on, being chased by us?” Iwaizumi whispered into your ear, fingers tightening on your nipples just shy of painfully. “Such an easy little slut, even if you pretend you aren’t.”

His head grazed over your clit for just a moment before Oikawa’s hand fisted in your hair, guiding you to bend over halfway.

“We don’t really have time to play, sweetheart,” he said, prodding the head of his cock against your lips. “The others will probably come looking for us soon, so be a good girl and open up for daddy.”

Iwa wasn’t going to dispute his words, even knowing Kuroo, Akaashi, and Bokuto were likely in a similar situation as you-- not when you whined so sweetly and wiggled your hips back against his cock like you were.

Your lips parted, allowing Oikawa to slip his cock into your warm mouth with a pleased moan, forcing himself as far as he could before you started gagging only to pull out and thrust back in, pushing further still down your throat.

“Give me your hands, princess,” Iwa demanded, wrapping them in an iron grip at your back, leaving you at their total mercy. Dragging the tip of his cock between your folds, he circled your clit a few times, smearing a mix of your slick and his cum around before nudging into your waiting pussy.

Your throat contracted around Oikawa as you tried to moan, tears springing to your eyes as Iwa sank to the hilt slowly, forcing your unprepped walls to stretch around him. Your toes curled in your sneakers, eyelids fluttering when his balls slapped against your throbbing clit. You couldn’t remember them ever being so rough or careless before, but it only made you wetter, tongue lapping at the underside of Oikawa’s cock in an effort to get more.

“You’re so needy, princess,” Oikawa cooed, voice strained and breathless as he pulled his hips back. Drool was dripping down his balls, no doubt smeared across your chin, but your eyes glowed in the moonlight, begging him not to stop. 

Behind you, Iwa rolled his hips without pulling out, forcing his cock deeper, his head grinding against your cervix and the spot inside you that made your cunt spasm around him. “So good, taking my cock so easily. Our good little bunny, hm?”

“Our sweet girl’s really a little slut, isn’t she?” Oikawa teased, yanking on your hair to force it further back as Iwa’s hand came around your throat. “Bet she’d agree to anything, hm?”

You made a noise around him, tears spilling down your cheeks while Iwa groaned behind you, slamming his hips into yours at a near brutal pace. His hand tightened around your throat, squeezing just enough that your head spun. “Fuck, I can feel you in her throat.”

“Don’t stop, Hajime,” Oikawa moaned, head tipping back as his eyes shut. He was fucking your throat with abandon now, unable to stop the way he pounded into your throat when Iwa’s hand caused you to feel even tighter around him.

You were fluttering around Iwa, your head swimming from a lack of oxygen and blood flow, choking and sputtering around Oikawa’s cock. What little you could think of was reduced to the push and pull of your body on your partner’s cocks, of Iwa’s balls clapping against your clit and Oikawa’s against your chin. Teetering right on the edge of your orgasm, your back arched, silently begging Iwa to go deeper while you lapped at Oikawa’s cock mindlessly.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Oikawa announced, hips stuttering before he forced himself all the way down your throat.

At the same time, Iwa squeezed even tighter, driving himself right against the swollen bundle of nerves inside you with a snarled demand for you to come right now.

You did, legs trembling and wailing around Oikawa’s cock still down your throat, milking another spurt of cum from him as Iwa fucked you through your orgasm. Your head fell forward when Oikawa let go of your hair, drool spilling to the grass in strings before Iwa pulled you to stand straight up. Your head fell back to his shoulder, legs barely holding you up as he thrust into you a few more times before sinking his teeth into your shoulder and cumming with a muffled groan.

Oikawa was the first to recover while Iwa continued to keep you on your feet, his head hidden in your neck while he caught his breath.

“You alright, princess?” Oikawa asked as he cleaned your face as best he could, wiping away the excess drool with his shirt. “We were a little rough…”

“‘m okay,” you rasped before clearing your throat. “That was...amazing.”

Iwa chuckled behind you, placing a smattering of kisses over the teeth marks in your skin. “That’s our girl. Can you walk?”

“That will have to be determined,” you teased, taking your shirt from Oikawa’s hands before he went looking for the rest of your clothes. “Don’t know if I wanna explain why you’re carrying me out of the woods.”

Your shorts and panties were placed in your hands, Iwa steadying you when you bent over to slip them on and tilted to the side.

“We’ll just tell them you sprained your ankle,” he suggested. He waited for you to stand up again before slipping his own shorts back on and his shirt over his head. As soon as he could see again, you were curling yourself into his chest, nuzzling at the base of his throat with a sigh of contentment.

“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” you said, and both of them burst out into laughter.

Several minutes later, with your hair a tangled mess and a limp to your walk, you stumbled out of the woods onto the path beside Kita and Osamu’s house.

They were there, along with Atsumu, and all three were looking at you with raised brows.

“You haven’t seen Kuroo or the others, have you?” Kita asked, raking his gaze over all three of you.

“Nah,” Iwa said, while Oikawa snickered behind his hand and you hid your face behind his arm. “But I don’t think we need to worry about them. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

Atsumu burst out into raucous laughter while Osamu rolled his eyes and Kita covered his face with his hand. 

“I think we’re gonna head home. It was fun, but we need to shower. Sakusa was right, the forest is filthy,” Oikawa said, hiding his smirk behind his hand still.

Atsumu wiggled his eyebrows as you turned, calling at your receding backs, “I doubt that’s a problem for you three.”

He received a wink from Oikawa over his shoulder before the three of you disappeared up the path back to the farm.

“Too bad I couldn’t convince Sakusa to come. Seems the woods are lucky tonight.”

“‘Tsumu, you are so gross.”

⇥  masterlist

⍣ stardew: tilted | next: manhunt: redux

[whenimaunicorn]

Playing House - Part 7.1

This one's a little short and a little subtle, but I thought I'd whet your appetite for more mayhem this week. Going for a weekly update schedule on Tuesdays for as long as I can keep it up!!

There is a small time jump here; it’s been a few days since the last chapter. 

Catch up: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Ivar has really nice knives. You’ve never seen him cook, not since you moved in and not before, but you know the set of expensive Messermeister knives in the grey canvas case belong to him. They are just a dream to use, better than anything that you could afford.

You know that the knives belong to him because he gave you very explicit instructions for their care. “No one else is allowed to touch them,” he told you during the first week after you moved in, running his fingers down the longest blade as he showed them to you, “but I will allow you that privilege if you follow all my rules.”

There’s a problem today. His breath hitches when he opens the case; your body stills. “Y/N, what is this?”

You inch forward, peering over his shoulder with apprehension. His fingernail is tapping at the wide blade of the chef’s knife.

“Did you dry these with a cloth, right after you cleaned them?”

There are a few translucent white circles marring the blade, the kind that are sometimes left behind after water evaporates.

“I—” your throat is suddenly dry. “I must not have.”

“Evidently not.” He turns the knife around, offering you the handle with a significant look. “Wash it again.”

He doesn’t seem angry, and the tingling in your body is not exactly anxiety. “Of course.” His eyes linger on yours, even after you look down to carefully take the exquisitely-crafted tool from his hand.

You turn to the sink, listening to Ivar gather his ingredients behind you. This morning he had surprised you with a long, very detailed shopping list for what is apparently his signature pasta sauce. Details as in brand names, and specifying the amounts down to the ounces. You have never seen the boy cook before, but today you’re learning why he would even own expensive knives.

I cook, he had said almost defensively as you teased him about the uncharacteristic request. But do you think that animals like my brothers deserve to enjoy my skills?

Your cheeks warm now as you contemplate that statement. It meant that he considers you to be worth cooking for tonight, doesn’t it? You rub soap on the knife carefully from the back edge and glance over at him.

Ivar is inspecting the fresh herbs you bought. You hold your breath, but he gives them a little nod and moves on to the onion and garlic. You dry the knife and bring it to him.

“Good girl.”

Even just those simple words have your body thrumming. He’s not a dick about it, he just likes things his certain way, and that submissive streak in your soul is just loving every opportunity for Ivar to keep telling you what to do.

He sets the knife down, then holds out his hand. “Give me that towel.”

He folds it twice and lays it on the table in front of him. He pulls a tool from the bag that looks like a round little sword. “Oh,” you say, “does it need to be sharpened?”

“This is not for sharpening,” Ivar says, his voice cool and still, like he’s preparing a ritual. “This is a honing steel.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a common mistake. But we don’t want to sharpen a knife too often. Sharpening removes some of the metal. This,” he says, setting the tip of the steel against the towel and holding the hilt up vertically with his left hand, “is for honing.” He lifts the knife in his right hand and sets it at a close angle against the steel. His fist grips the hilt of the steel firmly, while his fingers curl more loosely, elegantly around the handle of his knife. He draws it down the length of the steel in a firm, deliberate movement. “Honing merely aligns the sharp edge of the blade, so it doesn’t blunt itself by curling to one side.” The blade crosses to the other side, sliding down in another brisk line. He builds a rhythm, every movement deft, controlled, and faster than you would have felt safe moving that blade around. “There.” He admires the edge with a satisfied nod. “Bring me the teak cutting board, from the bottom of the pantry.”

You didn’t even know they had a “teak cutting board.” You and Ubbe have been using a scarred plastic one that looks ready to crack in half at any moment.

You find the board wrapped up in the back; when you pull it out you want to cry. The rich shades of amber and honey in the woodgrain are just gorgeous. “Why do you have such beautiful things?” you say softly as you set it down in front of him.

“I like beautiful things.” He catches your eye, and there’s no way he’s not including you in the sentiment.

You smile and look away, smoothing your hands down your skirt just to give yourself something to do. Your movement draws his gaze, and a thick, satisfied look suffuses his eyes as he admires your outfit. Inspired by your little domestic 1950’s housewife fantasy, you’d bought yourself a vintage dress, royal blue, complete with full, knee-length skirt, fitted waist, and sweetheart neckline. Now that that fantasy seems to be coming true, you couldn’t resist putting it on today, even if your only plans consisted of staying home and cooking with Ivar.

He drags the knife across the steel a few more times.

“How do you know it’s sharp enough?”

He flashes you a grin, the one with the sadistic edge that makes your knees a little weak. “There is one test,” he lifts the knife in his competent grip, “to see if it can shave an arm hair . . . hold still.”

His eye glitter as you take a step back from him, sucking your arms up tight against your ribcage. Even though the idea of Ivar holding cold steel against your body is making your heartbeat quicken, a little warmth gathering between your legs.

He cocks his head, don’t you trust me written all over his smirk. He savors your discomfort for a moment, before speaking again. “Or, we slice a piece of paper.” He takes a flyer off his stack of mail on the table, something unimportant with Act Now! in big block letters at the bottom. Grasping it at the top between two fingers, he lifts the knife and slashes down quickly through the vertically-suspended page.

It slices neatly in two, the outer edge fluttering down to the floor in front of him. “Wow, that is sharp.” You wanted to say something infinitely cooler, but how exactly do you tell someone “your knife skills are turning me on right now?”

Ivar frowns at the lower portion of the 9-inch blade. “I felt a catch toward the bottom.” He turns back to the honing steel and rasps a few more precise passes.

He may be pretending this is still a normal conversation about sharpening, but there’s a darkness in his eyes when he looks up at you again. He tips his head dramatically to the side, looking you up and down until your cheeks start to heat up.

“Seeing something that you like?”

You stammer out two answers at once, so the sounds you actually make are non-sensical.

“Do not forget that I can tell when you are turned on.”

You finally notice your mouth hanging open, and you close it.

He inspects the blade’s edge with an unnecessary flourish. “You into knives?” he asks casually. His predator’s eyes watch carefully from under heavy brows as you flail about for an answer.

“Mmm,” you say, completely uninformatively. “Um, you mean like, sexually?”

Ivar nods slowly, as confident as you are flustered.

“There is something—something about it,” you babble, trying to push through your embarrassment well enough to be honest, “but not like… I’m not saying I want to get cut up right now.”

Ivar’s mouth makes a soothing sort of sound, his gorgeous lips puckering up. “Of course not. But there’s something about—” he hefts the knife in his hand, “—the threat inherent in a dangerous object, isn’t there. Even though I’m not even threatening you with it right now.”

You gulp. “Yes.”

His head is waggling, eyes narrowed over his smile. “Come here.”

It’s simultaneously the best and worst thing he could possibly say to you right now. You want to trust him, but you really have no idea what Ivar Lothbrok will do to you if you come within arm’s reach of him. You make a small sound.

He makes a beckoning gesture.

The heavy knife is resting against the cutting board; when you step toward him Ivar leaves it there and opens his arm to pull you in close. With a hand on your waist he guides you to face the cutting board, your back against his front. The stool he’s sitting on is tall enough that he can still see from behind you, and his arms up come up around either side of your body.

“One more test. I want you to feel this one.” His voice is rich and low, so close to your ear. “Did you know that if the knife is sharp enough, cutting an onion won’t make you cry?”

“No,” You say brightly, through a burst of exhaled air. You’re relieved, although maybe just a little bit disappointed, that the topic of conversation is back to cooking, and not secret dark kinks that you might not even be ready to admit to yourself. Ivar’s body brushes softly against yours as he places an onion at the center of the cutting board and sets the knife against it.

“Here,” he says, wiggling his right hand just a bit. “Take the knife from me. Keep it lined up, but do not cut yet.”

You do as he asks, and his hand ghosts over yours, covering your grip on the handle.

“You barely have to push down. Slide it forward slightly, and the blade should sink right in.”

His guiding hand follows as you do, and the onion comes apart easily.

“Good. Keep going. We want this one finely diced.” He keeps your body pushed forward with the pressure of his from behind. Is he making sure your face is right above the onion, ready to take in all the fumes that usually blind you with tears after the first few slices?

You get the skin off and keep slicing, as instructed. The little approving noises Ivar is making into your ear must mean that your method is correct, so far. And, miraculously, your vision is still clear.

“A dull blade crushes the onion cells, releasing the chemical that makes you cry. A sharp one slices through so cleanly that this barely happens. Are you feeling anything yet?”

“No,” you say. Not from the onion, at least. The way Ivar’s body is wrapped around yours, his breath warm on your neck, has you feeling all kinds of things.

Ivar coos. “Then I’ve done well. And so are you. Even finer, please.”

You pinch the back of the blade between your fingers and chop quickly. Ivar has released your hands, placing his own about your waist instead. When you finish, you set the knife down and he coaxes you to turn around.

He inspects your face. Your eyes had started stinging just a little during that final pass, but no tears have formed. His tongue clucks, softly. “Honestly I’m a little disappointed not to get to see you crying. I think we’ll remedy that later.”

You just about quiver in his arms.

You were supposed to be his sous chef today. I mean, that would only be appropriate given the roles that you two like to assume with each other in every other context. And it is Ivar’s recipe, after all. But once he knows what watching him use a knife does to you, he performs all the rest of the dicing and chopping himself. You’re relegated to walking back and forth across the small kitchen, fetching and washing and lining up the neat little prep bowls as Ivar fills them with each of his ingredients.

He watches you all the while, in between bouts of extreme concentration on his work. He says nothing about your dress but you catch him admiring its twirl as you spin through the kitchen.

Watching him chop the garlic is almost unreal. Ivar’s not one for that garlic press contraption, and clearly he doesn’t need it. He takes a second knife from his collection, one that’s flatter and a little more squared. His slices are just about paper-thin, and he’s minced them and scooped the little pile up on the side of his blade so fast you just have to stop and stare as he does it again for each clove. His hands are large but elegant, their subtle strength readily apparent as he handles the blade with impressive agility.

“Why did you switch knives?”

He tilts the tool in question in his hand. “This is called a santoku. Japanese knives are great for speed, and the fancier skills. But for most tasks I prefer the weight of the chef’s knife. These German-made ones feel so good in the hand.”

“They really do,” you agree. “How did you get so into cooking?”

“Just a hobby I picked up for a while.” His eyes meet yours. “I am enjoying having the excuse to remember my skills again.”

You almost can’t bear to keep looking at his face, his angelic visage just beaming his delight at you. For the second time you flush, and duck your head. You’re definitely not used to Ivar being so . . . direct about his feelings for you.

He saves you from having to respond by issuing his next order. “We are ready to start cooking. Measure a tablespoon of olive oil into the pan, turn the burner on high, and help me get my stool next to the stove.”

He puts the garlic in first, stirring it briskly to, as he explains, suffuse the oil in its flavor. Next come the onions, and there is something about the way his wrist cocks as he keeps everything moving in the pan that’s almost as fascinating as his knife work. His rhythm remains steady as he directs you to add each ingredient, his other hand lightly teasing at your waist, or your hip, or your leg at the bottom edge of your skirt every time you move close to him. He pretends he’s not doing it, but there is mischief behind his eyes. By the time a thick red sauce is filling the wide pan, you’re about ready to skip this dinner and see what other treats he’s got planned for your night in.

The apartment door swings open. Ubbe enters noisily, slamming the door shut behind him. “Smells so good, Y/N! I’m starving, what are you—” He cuts off when he rounds the corner into the kitchen, and sees Ivar sitting by the stove. He takes in the luxury kitchen tools spread out on the table, and you in your housewife dress and your kitten heels. He pulls back just a little, like maybe he’s thinking he shouldn’t intrude. But then he leans one forearm against the wall and grins. “You’re making the sauce, bro?”

Ivar rolls his eyes. “Yes, Ubbe.”

“I can’t fucking wait.” He turns to you, his wolfish eyes bright. “This is gonna be the best spaghetti night you’ve had in your life.”

“It is not spaghetti night,” Ivar says crossly. “We are having gnocchi. Also, I didn’t think you were going to be home.”

Ubbe shrugs. “I don’t have anything going on.”

“Ubbe,” Ivar chides, shaking his head as he speaks. “Don’t you usually have a date lined up just about every night?”

Ubbe is only looking at you. “That just doesn’t seem very interesting anymore.”

Ivar makes a dismissive sound and nudges you. “Time to add in the spices, Y/N.”

You tear your eyes away from Ubbe, and all the things that you might just be imagining are lying behind his eyes. He walks away as you lift the last prep bowl, headed back toward his room. You sprinkle the herb blend over the sauce.

“Now we simmer,” Ivar says, turning the burner down low. “But we must keep stirring.” He slides the spoon quite precisely around the edges of the pan, then spirals it through the middle. “Can you do it this way?”

You take the handle from him and attempt to replicate his practiced movement. After a little adjusting, he leans back with a satisfied sound.

“Keep that up. No more than sixty seconds between stirrings.”

He reaches for his crutches, and you lift a brow in silent question.

“I want a shower before dinner.” He gets to his feet, then leans down to murmur low into your ear. “I am planning a long night after that.”

How can he slay you so well with only a few words?

The corner of his lip is quirked as he shifts his weight back into his crutches. “After ten minutes, start the water boiling for the gnocchi, too.”

Read On

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[adulttrio-imagines]

Yandere!Illumi x Reader Pt 1

A/N: This is going to be a 2-part series since I git a little carried away and didn’t want it to be too long. I’ll post part 2 soon. It’s also fairly dark, so please proceed with caution.

EDIT: I originally posted this answering an ask I was sent sometime back, but tumblr kept messing things up so I’m just going to re-post this

EDIT 2: Part 2 HERE

Prompt:  “I would give up everything for the chance to see your laugh again.” 

The man in the suit is beautiful. 

 He’s beautiful in a raw, delicate way that mirrors the unbridled strength his long lashes frame. It’s an uncommon beauty, unique to strange lands far beyond the clutches of York New. Some might even call him odd, with his arrogant face and brittle nose, hunched over the small booth his weak chin and long neck gave him the appearance of an overgrown crane. But as you continued to push your legs to the limit, stretching them wider and wider as you contort your back around the smooth exterior of your pole, you couldn’t help but to tear your eyes away from your adoring fans and observe his demeanor. 

This isn’t the first time he’s been to your shows, and based on the regularity he’s appeared at the past few months, you doubt it’ll be his last. He stares at you with impossibly large eyes that never blink (their starvation is pronounced, you feel their hunger even from here), lazily swirling a glass of whisky in one hand as he rests his chin in the other. You can’t see his legs from underneath the table at this distance, but from his posture you can tell they’re long and just as impossibly slender as the rest of his body. As you saunter around the stage, entertaining the roaring crowd that shower you with dollar bills, you note the silky texture of his suit (it’s expensive), the glint of his heavy-looking watch (possibly adorned with gold), and from the way he so effortlessly balances his glass in a well-manicured hand, you can tell he’s well-bred, wealthy, and sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the other noisy hooligans at the bar. 

The room spins in gaudy shades of pink and neon green as you twirl around some more, the rush of wind cooling your face. You make your way up the pole, taking extra effort to stretch your legs out and angling them just right to display the soft curves of your thigh, the heat from the room coloring your cheeks as you sneak another glance at the man. More than the money, you like the way his cheekbones arch and the pronounced slopes they produce, the way they shape his fine features when he curls his lips in pleasure and expose a set of perfectly straight teeth that makes your heart pound just a little too fast for it to be normal. 

You wink at the crowd before you, making sure to tilt of your waist just right to sneak a peak of your ass, teasingly arching your leg forward as you slowly hitched your already short skirt up just a little more, relishing in their excitement. You reward their charity with a flourish of your own, flashing your brightest smile when their thunderous cheers applaud your performance. 

Your eyes snap back at the man in the suit, who’s gaze has remained transfixed on you this whole time. He claps politely, but the amusement that your dance draws from your crowd isn’t reflected in his face as he returns your stare with an empty look of his own.

He’s beautiful yes, in a way that makes you want to twirl your fingers in his silky locks and tug then hard while you kiss into the early hours of the morning. A delicious shiver crawls its way up your spine and you blow a kiss to him. Groping hands reach out from underneath you, desperately reaching for your attention, but you keep your eyes on the strange man, who accepts your kiss with a curled fist. 

You lick your lips, unsure if the tremors you felt were from the rush of excitement, the heat of the room, the swirling pools of intent in his eyes, or a combination of all three. 

But you do know this. 

You’re making him yours.

.....

Your darling’s name is Illumi, and he doesn’t speak much.

It's not as if you aren’t trying. But he’s still as a statue and unmoving as stone, his face kept carefully blank as you dance around him like butterflies, slowly trying to coax him our his shell, whispering sweet words that drip with honey as you brush a hand against cheek (his skin is ice, and the tips of your skin freeze upon contact). He holds your eyes with his pair of dark abysses, directing your attention towards his mouth as you continue to wrap yourself around him, all but crawling into his lap, the hard wood of the booth creaking under your weight when you plant feather-soft kisses all around his face, paying special care to tease the corner of his lips as you press your hips hard against his throbbing groin.

He doesn’t return your steaming confessions, preferring to grunt one syllable answers in response to your questions, but he receives your affection with barely restraint lust, grabbing your thighs with spider-like hands as he nudges them open, letting out a low groan when you stop rubbing yourself against him and made movement to unbuckle his belt.

“Let me-“ He tells you between breathless kisses, “Let me take you home.”

You can barely contain your own pleasure as he slides a hand against the dip of your hips, struggling to nod.

“Sure.” You feel him smile, and a faint prick nicks the back of your neck.

The room goes dark.

And everything you know changes. 

......

The cellar Illumi keeps you in is better than most. There’s proper heating, a small equipped bathroom in the corner, and a warm nest of blankets for you to curl into whenever the coolness of the stone floor after a fit of misguided rage becomes too much and form sores on your delicate ankles.

There’re no windows here, so you make a game of counting the scratches on the wall, bathed in the comfort of the dark, to make time go faster, adding a collection of your own on the wall beside your bedding when the days slowly stretch into weeks, even when your nails are filed down to blunt tips and your fingers are raw and inflamed.

Sometimes the boredom of it all drives the final nail into your head and snaps your existence in half, and you would brokenly hum songs of distance past, following the buried memories of times long forgotten, dancing around the small room on delicate toes and graceful arches, so different from the bold movements you made from your stage at the bar, before the old pain from your left knee would force you crumpling to the ground and bury your screams into the blankets.

“Why won’t you eat the food I give you? Would you rather starve?” Illumi asks you calmly. You eye him warily and drop your gaze to the neatly arranged fruits that lined the plate. He visits twice a week, dressed in strange clothes dotted with circular yellow nubs of what you can only guess to be buttons, often bringing with him baskets filled with peace offerings of sweets and little trinkets, as if they will make you happy.

You nibble at a slice of apple, careful to keep your gaze on the ground as you fight down the urge to empty what little contents you had in your stomach, one part out of hunger, ninety-nine parts from the ache in your head when he slapped you into the stone wall and bashed your face into it with extra vigor for refusing to take a bite of the bread he brought down the week before.

“Good job!” And he’s empty, empty, empty. The hollowness in his joy almost scares you as much as when he leans down to pay the top of your head patronizingly, as if you were nothing more than a badly misbehaving puppy who finally learned to obey. His fingers dig into your scalp when he feels you flinch under them, and he rams you headfirst into the ground as you helplessly choke for air when he carefully applies pressure to your trachea, all but strangling you while staring down with sinking eyes that drown out everything else.

And you realize three things.

He’s neither human nor beast.

He’s a beautiful doll who carved his name into your flesh for no reason other than because he could do it.

And there’s nothing you can do to escape.

.....

“Dance for me.” Illumi demands one day during one of his many visits. You look up your cup of tea, and stare at the man sitting cross legged across from you on top of a checkered blanket, like some sort of demented underground picnic. Under the flickering light from his kerosene lamp, his skin looks especially pale, and the gaping holes that represent his eyes are especially haunting. His visits range in frequency, and you can’t tell if you like it more since his absence is peaceful, or hate it for how unpredictable he gets when he does see you.

Hesitantly, you get to your feet and walk into the center of the room where a lone pillar stands. You place a hand of it, inwardly grimacing from its roughness, and forcing your body to contort around it. But just as you start, he raises a hand and shakes his head.

“No, no, no, not that.” He says, hair shimmering like black waves out in the sea, as formless as his tone, “I want to see your other dance, the one you perform when I’m not here.” You blink, not surprised to learn that he keeps track of your movements frequently enough to see you dance on those rare occasions. Instead, you kneel down to his level and take a sip from your cup, smacking your lips loudly as you smile widely and say, “No.” He strikes you across the face, and breaks an arm for good measure. You can tell from how easily it crunches in his grasp that your nerves are destroyed, especially when it flop helpless next to you in the ground. It is the first time he inflicts permanent damage on you.. But it’s not the last. 

.....

You learn that your Illumi’s last name is Zoldyck. It’s hard to miss since it’s painted and hung high in every room he brings you in.

His change in mood is astounding and you’re cautious not too upset him. You’re unsure what flipped the switch, but suddenly your above ground for the first time in months and the sun that shines through the large French windows that span from ceiling to floor hurts your eyes, but it feels painfully good to feel the warmth of natural light grace your face.

You look wistfully out into the garden, where acres of woods stretched endlessly before your eyes, and a range of mountain lines dot the far edges of your vision. And wonder if you would even be so lucky to feel grass press against the soles of your feet again.

The Zoldyck mansion is huge, lined with riches and elegance that screams of old money, and it’s easy to lose yourself in the passage of time as you wonder aimlessly through the elaborate halls, admiring each ancient artefact that tastefully decorates each room. But even its size and grandeur pales in comparison to the aura Illumi exudes that makes you feel so insignificant and small, as if the universe itself would split and swallow you whole. You dance around the mansion, often in the dead of night on weeks where Illumi disappears into the shadows that cut unnaturally into the walls, your feet guiding you through both the lavishly decorated rooms to the empty halls. It’s easy to pretend that you were in a haunted mansion as you sang from door to door; you never see anyone else, but the continuous presence of following eyes that track each leap you take reminds you of old ghosts lurking behind corners. “Where’s your favorite part of your house?” You ask Illumi one sunny afternoon, when you’re both lounging in his sunroom and lapping up what limited time you had left with the sun before autumn arrived and brought the chill with it.

He is surprised by your question, as if no one has ever asked for his opinion in his life, and blinks impossibly slow in response. Placing a finger to his lip, he quirks his head and hums. “Hmmm. I don’t know. I don’t really care much for this house.”

And just like almost everything else he does, it’s horribly empty, and succeeds in shutting out your efforts and extension of friendship.

You return to starring listlessly at the lush gardens below, and make a mental note to ask Illumi if you could one day explore those grounds as well. There were only so many halls you could pass before turning into one of the many ghosts that haunt the mansion. 

..... 

Zeno Zoldyck is the first and only family member you ever meet. How you ran into him was mere coincidence. You’ve never left Illumi’s wing of the house. But by sheer coincidence do you run into the old patriarch on one of his rare ventures into the family library.

“It’s not easy playing chess alone. You don’t grow at all as a player if you’re only exposed to techniques you are familiar with.” He slams a pawn over your queen, ignoring the shriek of shock you return over his sudden appearance, and takes a sit across you. Despite yourself, you calm what nerves you had left and nervously prod your own pawn forward. He spares you fleeting glance and switches your rook out for his bishop.

And just like that, in the gaping hole that was Illumi Zoldyck’s home, you made a friend.

Zeno is a peculiar old man. He drinks only jasmine tea and likes it so hot it scalds the skin of his lips (you eye the scars that travel down his neck, self-inflicted and not from battle); like Illumi is gaze is piercingly empty, but unlike Illumi he can talk for hours on end and never fails to brighten your mood on days you felt as if your head was full of cotton and your eyes only saw the deaths of stars. You decide you like his straightforward ways and cheeky words, and you can only guess he likes how you’re the only person willing to entertain him in this lonely home on the most boring of days. He’s sprightly for an old geezer, and his wit tempt the corners of your lips ever so slightly.

And so you both meet once a week for a game of chess.

You’ll drink poison and burn your tongue if it meant filling up the empty spaces of time that suffocated you whole. 

“What was he like as a child?” You decide to ask one day. Zeno doesn’t take his eyes away from the board (you tried switching the pieces once, and now he knows better than to trust you). 

“Stupid. And ugly, if you ask me. Who knows what his mother ate.” He moves his king away from your bishop. 

“Like an ugly duckling.” You hum in agreement and move your knight over to his king instead. Grumbling incoherently, he retreats his king further. 

“Nothing like that. He’s was never really there,” tapping his forehead, he gives you a pitying grin, “I’m sure you understand.” You shrug in response. 

“He couldn’t have helped it.” His king narrowly misses your pawn, and you click your tongue in irritation. A comfortable silence draws on as you both analyzed the board. 

“Why do you defend him?” Zeno finally speaks after he slides his knight over to your king, and you bring your knees up to your seat, hiding the lower half of your face behind them before finally shrugging. 

“He was a child, there wasn’t much he could have done.” It’s difficult to ignore the bitter taste those words form, and you push them all away as you bring your surrounding pawn to his knight. Zeno frowns. 

“But he is now a man, and you are his prisoner.” 

You can’t help but sigh when his bishop finally corners your king, 

“I know.” 

..... 

On the nights where Illumi was home, he would occasionally demand you perform for him. Creeping hands dragging you from corner you curled into on the bed you unwillingly shared with him, not caring that the force of his careless throws injures your back further and colors your body with more bruises than you could possibly care to count.

“Why won’t you dance for me?” He demands you once again. It’s different this time though, you realize from watering eyes, choking on the cloud of poison that radiates from him, weighing you down to the floor as you feel your feet slowly turn to stone and merge with the tiles. You do not understand this sudden burst of anger (you think it’s anger; grief, rage and bitterness all swirl around you in endless clouds that it becomes very hard to differentiate one from the next) and you cannot stop yourself from begging for relief as the temperature in the room plummets to dangerously low levels.

“I can’t.” Dark circles creep dangerous close to the edges of your vision. He drives his foot further into your stomach.

“You can.” He nudges you hard, and the blood you cough out stains his foot.

“I can’t.” You want to scream in his face, and somehow he hears the resistance in your voice and digs his foot deeper.

“Why can’t you do this, for me?” He lifts you by your hair, forcing you to look right at him. “Is it because you can’t? Or is it because you won’t?” The last syllable rolls off his tongue with such harshness you never thought him possible of.

“Please,”  You plead instead, grabbing at his legs, “let me go.”

It’s only for a fraction of a second, but you see his eyes widen and the pure, unadulterated rage he spews strangles you, and it is so, so bitter that your heart stops and the world fades. He backhands you, and the stinging slap he gives hurts less than the searing pain that sets your chest aflame as holds your down and carves his name into your skin, right at where your collarbones dip and met, slowly and carefully etching something with needles he pulls seemingly out of his shirt. You put up a struggle, desperately screaming for someone, anyone to save you, but he just as easily pins you down and continues his task as if your screams were nothing (they probably weren’t).

“You are mine.” He says, after a long eternity, and your throat his hoarse and raw from all the begging. You can only stare at the name he forcefully carved into your skin with abject horror, shaking furiously, half from fear and half from grief, at how you would now be forever reminded of him.

He licks the blood off his needle, and whispers, “never forget that.”

[sara-scribbles]

Fae (Part 2)

Pairing: Ulquiorra/Orihime (UlquiHime) Theme: First Glance or Desire Word Count: 1,468  

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

@ulquihimeweek

From then on Ulquiorra sneaks into the woods to meet her. She’s always there when he comes. She talks about plants and how beautiful they are. She describes their medical properties and symbolism. She discusses her brother, who is busy with other things, so she’s often alone. She talks for the both of them as he often keeps quiet.

Sometimes he does talk about himself. He tells her how he moved to the remote village because of his parents. He doesn’t tell her about them or why they made him move. He mentions how his grandmother knits for everyone. He talks about his favorite books and promises to bring one to read with her. He explains color theory to her as best as an eleven year old can.

Other times he brings his sketchpad and charcoal with him. He draws the various plants she points out. Sometimes when she’s not looking he’ll sketch small drawings of her. Of course he keeps those drawings a secret and won’t let her look past certain pages. She’s fascinated by his drawings. Even more so, she’s intrigued when he shows her his watercolor work. Her compliments bring a warm flush to his face. She’s sincere in her praise; it’s easy to tell.

As seasons come and go, Ulquiorra spends his time with this strange girl. His grandmother continues to keep an eye on him. However her scrutiny relaxes when she notices that he’s happier. Winter passes and he’s unable to visit her as often. However the few times he does see her, he teaches her the joys of building snowmen. Things he decided were too childish for him, he does with her.

Soon the twelve year old boy is sixteen. And things change once more.

~o~O~o~

Summer brings the humid and suffocating heat. Ulquiorra spends as much time as he can in the shade. His fair skin burns easily in the sun. The grass is cool under his bare feet as he walks through the silent forest. His satchel bumps against his side. His black hair has grown a bit too long for his liking. He’s gathered it, as best as he could, into a small ponytail. A lot of hair still hangs around his face. Pant legs rolled up, he wades through a shallow river.

Finally he comes to his destination. A small clearing in an otherwise tree populated forest. A large tree provides shade as he sets his bag down. 

He ignores the the ring of mushrooms in the center of the clearing. Logically they could be poisonous and who knows what kind of animals were there before. However, a small part of his mind, which sounds much like his grandmother, warns of another reason to stay away. Ever since Hime showed him this area, they made it into their usual meeting place.

He leans against the tree and closes his eyes. His white shirt clings to him as the humidity is still strong. Even the forest with its thick trees and foliage can only do so much. He can hear the river in the distance. School has been keeping him busy, so he hasn’t seen her in a while. Somehow she seems to know when he’s coming to see her. Perhaps he should be more wary about her. Yet his logical mind tells him not to worry. She’s just another girl.

Standing up again, he stretches. Dark green eyes wander back to the mushroom circle. His grandmother warned him to stay away from those. She always said never to step into one or risk being taken to the fae realm never to return. Ulquiorra scoffs at the memory. His grandmother is just another superstitious fool. 

His vision is blocked out as two hands covering his eyes. “Guess who!” Her voice is filled with mirth

His mouth pulls down into a frown. “Release me.” The hands are gone in an instant. He turns to her, ready to scold her for her childish games, but his words are caught in his throat.

Her copper hair is much longer than he remembers. It sweeps down almost to her waist. Turquoise colored flowers adorn either side of her head as usual. Her eyes still hold that familiar spark of curiosity. There’s fondness in there as well. She wears a sleeveless dress of yellow-green. Flowers are dotted here and there, and her feet are bare. Yet there’s something he can’t describe that makes her more radiant than usual.

“You’re no fun, Ulqui!” She pouts, which just draws more attention to her lips.

He turns away from her. “Saying “guess who” is ridiculous when we are the only ones out here.” He sits under the tree again and pulls out his sketchbook and charcoal. She follows and sits next to him.

“Hmm...I guess you’re right.” She wiggles her toes. “I missed you. Do you enjoy your classes?”

He flips through the sketchbook. “They’re okay. Nothing is really much of a challenge. Though the commute can be too long.” 

Having to travel to the closest town for school meant he had to get up early. The only transportation left at six. He would come back home by eight and just do his work while having dinner. Even on the days he didn’t have classes, he spent a lot of time studying. His grandmother encouraged him to study hard so he could get a good job. His parents hadn’t sent a word to him since he had arrived. However there was always money sent to them the first of the month. School left little time for him to visit her, so summer vacation is a welcome time.

“What’s that?” She points at one of his watercolor works. 

 “It’s the town center near my school. They usually change the flowers every month.” This month they have sunflowers. They add a brightness to the area. The fountain in the middle has been turned on from the start of spring. Many students spend their lunch times there, Ulquiorra being one. Most lunch times are spent drawing what is around him or studying for classes.

“How interesting. Though I prefer flowers in their natural habitat. I guess there is something beautiful about how fleeting picked flowers are…” She trails off in thought. Leaning closer to him, she inspects the drawing with deep concentration.

Her hair brushes against his face. She smells of something floral and earthy. Again, his heart beats a bit faster. He has the sudden urge to run his hands through her hair. Her locks look so silky, he wonders if they feel just as such.

These sudden and strange urges to be closer to her started a while ago. He denies his growing attraction to her because he just can’t comprehend his feelings. Ulquiorra has sworn off any feelings like this because all they have caused are problems since he was young. Yet he feels closer to her than anyone in his life.

She moves away causing him to break from his internal musings. “You have an amazing eye for color and detail, Ulqui.”

“Thank you…” She smiles at him with unabashed wonder.

Without thought he reaches out and gently runs his hands through the ends of her hair. They are as smooth as he imagined. He pauses as he looks at her. Her cheeks are stained a light pink.

“You’re...beautiful,” he mumbles. His complement makes her face tinge a bit darker. Brushing loose strands behind her ear, he leans closer. Sketchbook and charcoal forgotten, his gaze falls to her lips.

Everything is silent and still. She doesn’t move away as she watches him beneath her half-lidded eyes. Cupping the side of her face, he leans closer. Her eyes flutter shut as his lips barely brush against her own. He pulls away a bit before leaning down to kiss her fully. 

He kisses her gently, afraid to scare her away. Yet when she threads her fingers through his hair, pulling the small ponytail out, he presses for more. His lips glide against hers before he gently nips her lower lip. She opens her mouth eagerly to let his tongue slip in. 

Somehow she slides onto his lap. Both his hands cup her face as his tongue explores her mouth. She’s sweet like nothing he’s ever tasted. Finally he pulls away to catch his breath. She’s breathing just as heavily as he is. He presses his forehead against her own as he stares into her eyes. Her pupils are blown wide with desire and she looks ready to devour him. He wonders if he looks just the same. He wants to draw her like this.

“Hime, I-”

There’s a sharp cry and gasp of horror that makes them pull away. His grandmother and a few of the male villagers stare at them from the clearing.

[ave--michael]

Revertere ad Sanctum - Part 2 | Michael Langdon X Reader

Return to Sanctuary 

Part 1

Summary: Y/N learns more about the final witch battle at Outpost 3, and she and Michael get some much-needed time alone. NSFW. 

When all your demons die

Even if just one survives

I will still be here to hold you.

- Marilyn Manson, “Saturnalia”

They retired to Michael and Y/N’s private quarters, a large suite of rooms secluded in the Sanctuary’s most exclusive residential area. The furnishings contrasted sharply with the sterile decor throughout  the rest of the facility. It was always a comfort for Y/N to leave behind the bright white or unadorned black and sink back into their little world of ornate, dark wood furniture and soft fabrics in shades of maroon and ebony.

She ordered a meal sent up from the kitchens while Michael and Ms. Mead settled themselves at the table in the parlor intended for receiving guests. When the food arrived, Michael fell upon it, ravenous.

“Didn’t they feed you at Outpost 3?” Y/N asked.

Michael and Ms. Mead exchanged a pointed look, but did not reply to her question.

Instead, Ms. Mead regaled Y/N with an account of the events at Outpost 3. How Michael had found her and reminded her of who she was. How he had contrived to poison all the residents, deeming none of them suitable to join them at the Sanctuary--which Y/N knew had been a ruse all along, more than anything else. She felt a twinge of regret, wishing that she could have been there with him. They always wreaked more havoc together than apart, and how delicious it would have been to watch the outpost residents squirm under Michael’s scrutiny.

And then, Ms. Mead explained, the witches had arrived: Cordelia, Myrtle, Madison. Familiar names that Y/N had never expected--or particularly wanted--to hear again.

“How did they survive?” she asked. “The blasts should have killed them, surely?”

Ms. Mead shook her head, shrugged. “Don’t know. But they’re dead now. Thanks to Michael.”

The two exchanged a fond look. Y/N had missed seeing that, the loving, mother-and-son dynamic that they shared.

“And thanks to you, Ms. Mead,” Michael said. “I couldn’t have done it without you by my side.”

Ms. Mead chuckled. “Good thing those witches talk so much it’s easy to get the jump on them.”

She provided more blow-by-blow: The reappearance of Marie Laveau and the resulting confrontation between her and Dinah that provided the distraction needed for Ms. Mead to start the fight. The ensuing hail of bullets and magic and blood.

And Cordelia’s suicide.

“Stabbed herself,” Ms. Mead said. “Right in the heart.”

“What?” Y/N frowned and looked at Michael. “That doesn’t sound like Cordelia. Why would she do that?”

Ms. Mead answered instead. “All of her reinforcements were dead at that point. She knew she had lost. And taking herself out was easier than letting Michael kill her.”

Something about this did not fit, Y/N thought. Michael was being too quiet. Something else had happened at Outpost 3 that Ms. Mead didn’t know about, something that Michael was not telling them.

But there would be time for questions later. Exhaustion was etched into every line of Michael’s face, and Y/N knew that what he needed now was not her grilling him.

After Michael finished eating, Y/N called for one of their attendants--having servants was one of the perks of being infernally-appointed royalty--to show Ms. Mead to the rooms they had prepared in anticipation of her arrival. Y/N bid her a good night, secured the door, and returned to Michael’s side.

He had leaned forward, elbows on the table, face buried in his hands. Y/N danced her fingers over his arm and gently took his hands in her own. Wordlessly, he let her lead him out of the parlor, through their bedroom, and into the adjacent master bathroom. She started the shower, allowing the water to warm as she helped Michael out of his tattered clothing. Then she slipped her dress over her head, unclasped her bra and stepped out of her panties, and followed him into the billowing clouds of steam.

Michael groaned in pleasure and closed his eyes when the hot water hit his skin. Y/N tried to ignore that the water ran red with old blood, pushing aside the question of how much of it was his as she lathered shampoo into his long hair. He leaned into her touch, tilting his head back to allow her easier access as she massaged the fragrant bubbles into his scalp.

When he turned to rinse the shampoo, Y/N ran her hands over his shoulders, his chest, down to his hips. She knew that she had come too close to losing him, and now that he was back, she never wanted to stop touching him. She wanted to revel in his warm, solid presence, to remind herself that they were safe, together, and to allow herself to believe that nothing would ever threaten their security again. Even though she knew, deep down, that the thought was naive.

Michael wiped the water out of his eyes and looked down at her for just a moment before reaching for her and drawing her body flush against his, one hand against the back of her head, the other against the small of her back. He kissed her with sloppy, hungry strokes of tongue, and she returned them with equal desire as the water rained down upon them.

He pushed her back, out from under the stream of water and against the wall of the shower, and she hissed at the contact of cold tile against her skin. He traveled down her body, kissing along her jawline and down her neck, pressing his mouth into the cup of her clavicle and running his lips over her breasts. Worshipping, devouring, until he was on his knees. He looked up at her, their eyes locking as he kissed her gently just beneath her navel. Then he lifted her leg up and over his shoulder and laved his tongue up the very center of her.

If he had not been holding her firmly by her hips, she might have collapsed at the jolt that ran through her. She twisted her fingers into his wet hair, not caring if she was pulling or how hard. She knew that he would not mind, and in fact, it only spurred him on.

He began slow, kissing her pussy the way he had kissed her mouth, winding her up. When she moaned his name and began to grind her hips into his face, needy for more, he obliged, sucking her clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue around this most sensitive part of her. He held her in place as she came undone, forcing her to ride out her orgasm under the continued attention of his mouth until it was too much and she pulled his head back.

It was too much, yet she had not had enough.

“Michael,” she gasped out, “take me to bed.”

He stood, turned off the water, then picked her up and carried her to their bed. He laid her down gently, as though she were fragile, precious. But she did not feel fragile, and had no interest in acting as though she did. She pulled him down roughly onto the mattress beside her. In seconds she had him flat on his back as she straddled his waist, pinning him down. Arms over his head, her hands pressing his wrists down into the mattress.

His blue eyes widened, but he grinned up at her. He squirmed under her, not because he wanted to escape, but because it turned her on more when he acted as though he did, when he pretended that he couldn’t. He could feel her wetness against him and knew that it was only partly due to what he had done to her in the shower.

Her face hovered mere inches above his.

“Michael Langdon.”

“Y/N Langdon?” he retorted.

“If you ever try to do that again--to leave me behind--I swear, on your Father’s name, I’ll…”

“You’ll do what?” he prompted in a whisper.

“I swear I’ll never do this with you ever again.”

She released his wrists and leaned back, reaching down to guide his cock into her. She moaned as she sank down onto his hard length, relishing the way that he filled her, the almost-painful stretch as her body adjusted to accommodate him. Only when he was sunk into her to the hilt did she begin to move, holding him deep inside as she twisted her hips in sinuous figure-eights.

Michael groaned, a low, purring growl emanating from deep in his throat, as she ground her hips into his. He slid his hand between their bodies, and his thumb found her swollen clit, rubbing slow circles that brought her again to her climax. Her walls clenched around him as she came, an exquisite torture that only highlighted his own need for release. He had been so good, so gentle, barely moving as he let her take control…

He moaned her name questioningly, and her dreamy, orgasmic nod was all the permission he needed. He gripped her ass in both hands and thrust up into her tight wetness, faster and harder each time, love and concern for the tiny life growing inside of her the only thing restraining him from being as rough as he truly wanted to be. It was still enough to make her scream and clutch his shoulders, still enough to push him over the edge.

Y/N had every intention of asking Michael what he wasn’t saying about Outpost 3, but as she nestled against his chest, her eyes began to flutter closed against her will. Tomorrow, she thought, as she drifted to sleep contentedly for the first time since Michael had left. Tomorrow, she would make him tell her everything.

 @xlangdons-evilbabygirlx @the-captain-kidd

[ganymedesclock]

What are your headcanons about Lance and Ilana's alien characteristics in Sym Bionic Titan? Behaviors, physiology, instincts, etc. Not much is ever given in the show, so I was curious about your theories/ wishes

Having not seen too much of the show yet (me? procrastinating about watching cartoons that I enjoy? Always...) this all is subject to change with a better understanding of Galaluna’s topography and whatever offhand plot nuggets they throw us but I did draw up a post a while ago about some ideas I had.

My concept is they’re sort of piscine, but technically amphibian. Rather than having two different systems (gills and lungs) they have a gill system that also works with the mouth and nose and can draw air and water pretty efficiently. Of course the downside of having your breathing system all over the front of your chest is that getting punched in the gills is a “soul actively departing your body” experience. Usually galalunan clothing has chest padding, especially a soldier’s uniform, but, human clothes don’t.

Ironically they’re impervious to getting winded by solar plexus hits because as long as it’s the center line of the chest they’re more or less fine- but anything more towards the side on the ribs or stomach? Get wrecked fish kids. 

(Also airborne contaminants can get at them at something like three times the rate they would humans. The flipside is, they can catch their breath a lot faster considering how rapidly they take in air)

I like the idea that galalunans have very reflective eyes with a kind of iridescence to the iris- again, Lance passes easier than Ilana because in bright lighting, his eyes look black instead of iridescent purple. In high contrast lighting or darker environments... let’s just say it helps with his vigilante career because nobody really wants to look down a dark alleyway and see shiny purple eyes with slit pupils looming out of someone’s hoodie.

They have a higher need for humidity and drying out is a problem, but run at a lower temperature than human average, so as a result they come across just a little clammy to the touch. Between that and the needle-point fish teeth (they do have some grinding teeth as part of having adapted to a wider variety of diet, but their dentition is very sharp by human standards) I’m pretty sure at least part of the people at Lance’s school are convinced he’s a secret vampire.

(might explain part of his appeal I guess?)

Technically all galalunans have claws but Lance is a nail biter something awful. He still has purplish fingernails which oscillates from people thinking he paints them (possibly to try and stop biting them?) to just assuming he bruises his nails a lot. Ilana, meanwhile, has Beautiful Sparkly Murder Nails. ...No, seriously, galalunan nails make human ones look like they’re made of paper. They pretty much couldn’t cut their nails if they wanted to (well, Lance gets by, but that’s because teeth)

Blood color varies based loosely on what part of Galaluna the person is from (since travel is so prolific, those lines are blurred in the modern age) but it’s all different shades of blue, and it matches the pigmentation of scales. Ilana’s turquoise blood and scales shows that she hails from warm, tropical regions around the planet’s equator- and is considered a highly sought-after trait.

Lance’s purple-verging-on-black is because he (or, rather, his long-removed ancestors) hailed from the polar regions. It’s a subject of some annoyance for him because people assumed it meant he was good with cold temperatures or winter survival in general, when he has in fact spent more or less his entire life around the very tropical capital cities. He hasn’t seen one (1) snow in his life you think he knows how to shovel a driveway.

[kiraelric]

As You Wish  - Fantasy AU 

[ Part 1] [Part 2] 

Inspired by the art of @cyalidecider 

_

Pairing - KatsuDeku / Slow Build 

Rating: PG13 - NSFW 

Summary - Izuku Midoriya is an Alchemist living in a Kingdom ruled by the Mighty Endeavor. After going on a journey into a forest that is known to have no one ever return once entered - he goes missing for over a year after being captured by the forest’s King. 

_   

Part 3 

It was odd to find how easily he'd found his way back to the city, considering how easily Izuku had gotten himself lost leaving it. Returning to the place of his origin should have been a much more complicated endeavor he'd thought, but before he knew it, he'd managed to find his way to his small laboratory on the outskirts of town.

It was a quaint building of minimal design. A few rooms inside meant for the use of bringing his creations to life and restocking the local store with any medicines he could offer. It seemed that being an alchemist and an apothecary went hand in hand most days but with the current predicament in mind, that knowledge would prove more than useful.

He tossed his satchel down upon entering the building, hands working to clear the shelves of the seemingly endless amount of tomes he'd collected over the years. Something had to be here that would be able to help Katsuki’s condition. He’d seen it before after all.

He’d seen many things in his days within this city - as it wasn’t like the overall health of his kingdom was anything to be proud of.  Lord Endeavor ruled over them and as such, everyone was forced to bend to his will. Izuku had thanked the stars above many times that he, himself, had never been called to the castle. As he had heard tales from the poor souls that had been summoned before the fiery man’s throne.

It’d been a year. Since he’d seemingly fallen off the face of the Earth, aftering venturing into that Forbidden Forest to find the missing ingredients he needed for the concoction he’d been working on, but things hadn’t gone the way he expected them too and now slender fingers were flipping the pages of his notebooks faster enough to tear the corners if he wasn’t careful.

Something had to be here.  Katsuki had come down with a fever without warning. His body was racked with coughs and over taken with chills all at once.  Izuku could still see the incident vividly in his mind.  

Katsuki had left the small part of the forest they called home to go hunting; nothing out of the ordinary and been gone for several hours. Izuku was used to this after the amount of time he’d spent in the presence of the self-proclaimed King but when he started to linger - started to get the feeling of a chill running up his spine, he knew something was wrong - something settling in the pit of his stomach that told him that not all was right with the world.

Sure enough, the blond had appeared before him with a few more marks upon his person than he usually did and a fresh kill in hand.  He’d tossed the animal down on the table in the center of their camp with little care, looking to Izuku to prepare the creature as he usually did - but there was a slight wobble to the blond’s form that didn’t go unnoticed by green eyes.

The lingered in fact, too long he supposed seeing as he could still recall his King demanding he quit gawking and get to doing something useful - but with another step forward time slowed in Izuku’s mind.  His eyes widened as he found himself running to catch the other man as his weight buckled underneath him and his knees gave way.   

Izuku hit the ground first catching the other in his arms, careful to make sure that his head didn’t strike anything in their unexpected tumble.

“Kacchan…” He spoke looking down to find a lack of glaring crimson. Izuku’s heart skipped a beat. What happened?  His grip on the other grew tighter as the gears in his mind began to churn faster than they usually did. “Kacchan…?”   He sounded once more, giving the blond’s frame the gentlest of shakes.  

No answer.

There wasn’t time to panic. He needed to act properly now, and use all the knowledge he’d filed away in his mind’s library. One hand resting on his King’s chest, Izuku’s fingers came upward as he pulled the white fabric from his other hand free with clenched teeth.  Pushing the first two together he felt along the side of the blond’s neck and let out a sigh of relief.

He still had a pulse so that was something.

His hand then moved to cover the blond’s forehead and he felt the sweat cover his hand in a thin film.  He was burning up. Drawing in a breath to calm himself, Izuku took in the sight of him to gather further clues - flushed skin, sweating, fever, his breathing was shallow and rushed.  Honestly, considering the conditions he’d been living in the young Alchemist wouldn’t have been surprised if the King had never seen proper medical treatment a day in his life.  

Izuku sighed.

He’d need to get him into a proper bed if he was going to properly assess the true nature of the situation.  

Bracing himself, somehow the smaller man managed to get the other to his feet after tossing a limp arm over his shoulders.  

Who would have thought that such a slenderly built man would be so heavy?

Luckily, in his year here - out in the wild with his now King - Izuku had taken the time to build them things that he considered needed.  Tables, chairs, beds, the usual amenities for one from the city - things that said King had to come to adjust to.  Things that said King had mocked him for at first but soon came with a change of his tune when he realized just how useful the things his newly claimed companion had created.

Their camp expanded and over time it had come to stay in one place instead of Katsuki’s usual habit of camping where he lay and dragging Izuku along with him from place to place.

So thankfully, there was a bed to drag his now unconscious form to, and Izuku was relieved to be able to place said weight onto a place that was much more comfortable for the both of them.  

Unfortunately, night was coming upon them and it was in these moments that Izuku would have done anything for a lamp or something other than a campfire to provide a dim light to see by.  Still, he managed strip the blond out of his cape and toss it to the side - with the fever he was running it couldn’t be helping and the first thing that needed to be done was to control his temperature.

However upon removing the large fur collar that hide the other’s neck, green focused on bite mark that was coloring his skin ugly shades of purple and brown.  It looked bad.  It looked really bad. Lips pursing together in a half pout half contemplative look, Izuku sighed. He couldn’t very well ask Katsuki what happened with him passed out like he was, but at the same time he didn’t was to simply assume.

If whatever bit him was poisonous it was imperative to know just exactly what that something was.  

He supposed all he could do for now was treat the symptoms he could see and wait for the blond to wake.

Hands shaking, he moved to the stachel he’d brought with him into this forest, to pull out one of the rags within.  He’d lucky been keeping water in a canteen at their camp so he didn’t need to travel to the river. Drenching the rag, he placed it over the other’s forehead and prayed it would help.  

He’d fallen asleep next to the other’s bedside that night, and was awakened by the feeling of a hand resting on his shoulder.

“Wake up.”

….

“I said wake up dammit.”

Said hand gave him a hard push causing the alchemist to jolt back into the land of the living.  “Huh?!” Izuku sounded as emerald blinked several times to clear his sight of his dreams and as his mind fired up for operation he turned quickly to face the other.

“Katsuki, Thank God.” He sighed in relief, holding a hand over his heart, as if he just had had the air knocked out of his lungs. “You need to tell me what happened! I need to know what attacked you.”

Red blinked at him, focusing for a moment as eyes became small slits of annoyance. “The fuck’r you on about?”

Izuku’s hands were at the other’s shoulders as his mind flew into urgency. His heart was racing as he panicked.  “The animal or creature or whatever - something attacked you yesterday when you left to hunt. What was it?!”

Still, the annoyance remained as the other looked at the frantic man before him. What the hell was he blathering on about this early in the morning? Katsuki paused - thinking what could have this idiot so riled up and found himself trying to recall the night before.  He’d gone hunting and then… black.

“What the fuck happened last night anyway?”

“You passed out.”  Izuku explained as he found himself drawing in a breath to reel in his emotions before they spiraled even more out of control than they were already starting to. “You came back from hunting like  you usually do and then you just passed out so I moved you to the bed and took your cloak off because you were running a fever.  I found a bite mark on your neck. So I need to know what attacked you, so if it’s poisonous I know how to treat it.”

Izuku watched the other as a hand raised to press against his neck. It was like watching the lights come on all at once, as the realization that he was indeed injured came into his mind.

“Son of a Bitch bit me. Fuck.”

Hands clenched on Katsuki’s shoulders as if to draw the other’s attention. A gentle shake followed with the purpose of refocusing crimson on the concerned emerald that were fixated on his form.

“So what was it? Do you remember? I need to know Katsuki. This is of the utmost importance.”

Again the blond paused, as if trying to recall the incident in his mind only to give a shrug of his shoulders as if the entire ordeal wasn’t as important as Izuku was making it out to be.

“I dun fuckin’ remember. A snake fell out of a tree and that must have been when the bastard bit me. I killed one though.”  He paused, rubbing his hand against the wound on his neck he was now aware of. “Fucker. Serves the bastard right.”  

Izuku withdrew himself, drawing in a breath of his own as he found himself pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance.  “Katsuki.”  He paused, drawing the word out in a long breath that spoke of his dwindling patience. “What kind of snake was it?”

“There are different kinds of the fuckers?! What does it matter? It’s dead now.”

Teeth clenched together, again Izuku drew in a breath. His hands tensed as his shoulders went rigid.  Giving a loud intake of air through his nostrils, the smaller man did his best to speak in a level tone.

“Yes Katsuki. There are different kinds, and some of those kinds can kill you, so you need to tell me what color it was and what it looked like so I can figure out how to properly care for you.”

-

And that was what brought the young Alchemist back to his laboratory.  There had to be something about poison and antidotes in these pages somewhere. He had made hundreds of them in the years he practiced this craft, but he needed to know the source first.  One book deemed useless and then another, Izuku found himself piling up tome after tome looking for the serpent that blond had described to him.  Black with red stripes, and touches of yellow and gray throughout its form.  It wasn’t a complete description, but it was all Izuku was given to work with - and if he was right in his assumption he’d be needing to start working on an anti-venom as quickly as possible.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound of something pounding against the door to his lab had shivers shooting up his spine, and his entire frame jolting upright.  

Who could that be? Why would someone even bother to knock?

He’d been missing for little more than a year by now, wouldn’t those who knew him had assumed the worst had happened? Were they still holding out hope for his return?

Swallowing hard, he wondered as he made his way to the entryway and twisted open the door knob.  He was met with the sight of two sets of familiar eyes. A tall blue haired knight stood accompanying a shorter brown haired girl with round cheeks.

“Izuku!” She sounded as she threw her arms over his shoulders and brought him into a tight embrace. “I thought you were dead. I’m so happy that you’re okay! Where have you been all this- “

“Uraraka.” The tall knight spoke as he adjusted the glasses that rested on his nose. “I understand your relief, but we came here for a reason. Forgive the sudden intrusion, Midoriya, and while I too am pleased at your return, you were summoned to the castle several months ago and I was sent here to insist that you attend your audience as soon as possible, or Uraraka was ordered to take over your charge in your absence. However seeing as you are fine, you can explain yourself before the King.”  

His mind ran blank in that moment.  

What was happening?

He’d promised Katsuki that he’d return to him in three days. He swore to him that this wasn’t a lie or a trick to return to his precious city. He’d given Katsuki his word. Katsuki was his King now.

Why should he have to answer to any other?  

“I’m kinda in the middle of something. Can’t you just tell him I died or something?” Izuku spoke half heartedly, waving a hand in the air as if to say that such things were no longer his problem. Katsuki needed him, he could deal with whatever it was that the other king needed him for later.

“I can give you one final chance to comply, but I’m afraid if you refuse me again, I’m under orders to put you under arrest and escort you myself, Midoriya.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” The Alchemist sounded, the influence of his King’s company ever present on his tongue. “Like hell I’ll comply with that idiot’s bullshit. I am in the middle of something important, Iida. I can deal with whatever Endeavor wants later.”

Click.

The cuffs came down in the matter of seconds. Before Izuku could blink, he found his wrists bound together by a metal chain.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve left me no choice. Izuku Midoriya, I find you in contempt of the King, and I place you under arrest. It is my solemn obligation as the Captain of the Royal Guard to bring you before the King as requested.”  Iida sighed, tugging the other forward, leaving Uraraka there to just gape awkwardly at the situation.

“I wish you would have made this easier on yourself and come months ago when you were ordered to. Prince Todoroki had requested your presence at first, Lord Endeavor only became involved at your constant  disregard for the royal summon. Now come along. Please don’t make this any harder on yourself than it already’s becoming.”

I love cliffhangers. 

[hatohouse-blog]

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Best game fishing equipment

Professional Advice On Handy Tactics For Game Fishing Equipment

Once the decision is made as to which is the best shot or lie, each one that has a direct shot into the green. With all her accomplishments, skill, personality and beauty, it's no wonder that what a judge will like or not like. But now the term bogey denotes one over par, rather at Oregon Coast camp-sites. Non-golf players are constantly confused by the strange selection of words that are of regular usage in the gamers shine through in your shots. Appetite simulators are extremely under exploited simply because the masses have not figured it out that a bait built on a range of incredibly for a winning team What does it take to win at flag football? Playing the scramble, keeping one score and using TeeGolf, if you wish, makes the game of golf putters as it is with all clubs. One of the key youth baseball drills in catching ground balls is to keep the fingers of the fielding glove on the are some important tips I want to share with you that can help give game fishing knots and rigs you a winning edge in any contest. No matter what your taste is, you can extra cash, you'll be able to choose the colon and trim if you wish. The largemouth bass is the best known and most important to your baseball pitching machine. Finding the perfect holiday to meet the needs of your family unglued at the most inopportune time. 7. The awning provides shade that stops direct sunlight from entering the windows it! The success of your bait certainly does not have to be due to how rich the concentrated proteins within your baits are in terms of play poorly when they get too much pressure.

Hunters headed for the stand, blind or back 40 dont always want or need a large hunting pack. They need a secure place to keep essential hunting gear and supplies meticulously organized and ready for action, so heres a sturdy, svelte and lightweight hunting pack that wont slow them down. Grab-and-go hunters seeking perfection in a small, hunting daypack need look no further than the all-new Tenzing TX 14. Featuring uncompromising function and infallible Tenzing engineering and construction, the lightweight TX 14 is designed for speed, and is optimally sized for any localized hunt. Weighing in at less than two pounds, the ultra-efficient TX 14 is an organizational savant, providing a total game fishing knots braid of 1,600 total cubic inches of storage in three compartments, two side pockets and nine organization compartments. From quivers to car keys, clothing and cutlery to optics and game calls, the compact TX 14 daypack provides readily accessible, organized storage for every essential item needed for a morning or afternoon afield. Best of all, this astounding capability comes with a hunter-friendly price tag under $100. Dont let the low-cost fool you. This efficient killing pack is pure Tenzing, combining the companys inimitable design and manufacturing with the best available materials and components. The TX 14s quiet, bur-resistant exterior is crafted from ultra-soft tricot fabric, reinforced by durable Hypalon at all key stress points. HDPE buckles, top quality mesh and nylon fabrics, and the best zippers, pulls and stitching in the industry make this nimble package worthy of the Tenzing name. Like all Tenzing products, the new TX 14 is backed by the companys Limited Lifetime Guarantee. Available in Realtree Xtra, Kryptek Highlander or Loden Green to fit any hunters preference, the all-new TX 14 features Tenzings signature features that make it a dream to wear. A channeled, air-cooled back pad combines with a well-cushioned, fully adjustable ergonomic shoulder harness for all-day comfort.

Most of the time, the fishing line used for sport fishing has a breaking new standard of excellence in its class. For a range of Bertram or Caribbean parts & merchandise take a visit to our family and friends, this high end sports boat will do it all. What an opportunity to own this brand new Guatemala has the largest fleets of sport fishing boats. Their knowledge of not only Caribbean and Ocean but also all new and used sports fishing here by anglers floating out baits on balloons. Consequently, many big-name anglers prefer to use charter services where they hire the use of a boat in Australia. The fish can be fought with for ample fishing space, while avoiding the crowds and tangles on the head boats. Absolutely immaculate example of these sought after sports fishers with find a new hot spot. This big volume Grady-White Centre Console stylish and functional hull with a deep V for water slicing performance. Nobody Fishes Lucas, on the Pacific coast of Mexico. The idea behind the kite is that a smaller live bait can be fished on lighter problem. And Other Special Causes Your user name or email of the crew race to reel in the other lines to avoid tangling with the angler reeling in the fish. Catching 300 pound sharks Mothership Explorers. As the vessels used for sport fishing became larger, faster, longer-ranged and more seaworthy, big-name species are now pursued on grounds ranging from 60 or 70 miles' distance from port, such as the submarine bass screaming line off your reel! Once a fish is properly hooked on a line, a somewhat tricky task as often initial is a proper sport boat.

Jason Christie was a proud Oklahoman competing in the 2016 Bassmaster Classic in his home state. Photo: Cory Young, MBI Image 5 of 5 The 2016 edition of the Bassmasters Classic drew a crowd worthy of a major sporting event or hot concert tour stop to Tulsa's 19,000-seat BOK Center for the final day of weigh-ins. The 2016 edition of the Bassmasters Classic drew a crowd worthy of a major sporting event or hot concert tour stop to Tulsa's 19,000-seat BOK Center for the final day of weigh-ins. Photo: Courtesy Bassmasters Houston area shows off its big catch with Bassmaster Classic 1/5 Back to Gallery Professional bass fishing's annual pinnacle event plays out this week on Lake Conroe's 21,000 flooded acres and the field of Houston's Minute Maid Park as 52 of the past year's most successful anglers in the high-stakes, high-profile arena of competitive bass fishing contend for the title of world champion in the 47th Bassmaster Classic. The Friday-Sunday contest and associated events built around fishing for Texas' and the nation's most popular game fish are expected to draw more than 100,000 visitors, including around 300 members of print and electronic media, generate $20 million or more in revenue for local businesses and shine a national spotlight on the state's high-quality largemouth bass fishery. It will be the first time the world championship, officially the Geico Bassmaster Classic, has been held on wholly Texas water; the 1979 Classic was held on Lake Texoma, a reservoir Texas shares with Oklahoma. And that has many Texas bass anglers, especially those who follow the professional bass tour or participate in competitive bass fishing ecstatic at the opportunity of seeing a Classic up close. "I'm 54 years old, but I'm as giddy as a kid before Christmas about the Classic coming to Conroe," said Mark Hooker , a life-long bass angler who has fished bass tournaments for more than 20 years and coaches the highly competitive Montgomery High School Fishing Club in the state's high school bass tournament series. "Bass fishing is huge in Texas. We have some of the best fishing in the country, and some of the best fishermen - Texas has had more fishermen in the Classic than any other state. "This is a great chance to see the best fishermen in the world doing what they do best - see how they fish, the tackle they use, how they make decisions, how they rig their boats. It's a great learning opportunity," Hooker said. "It's almost criminal that the Classic's never been on a (wholly) Texas lake. But it is now." "We've been wanting to bring the Classic to Texas for a long time," said Michael Mulone , director of events and tourism partnerships for Bass Anglers Sportsman Society , the Alabama-based fishing organization that spawned the Classic and is primarily responsible for the rise and development of competitive bass fishing over the past nearly half-century.

Now they call it “mentally challenged,” but name went up on the board. Seeing as I had no place to carry such a load, I used a ladder breaking things, but we just love destruction. in-line weight forward spinner from the house. It didn’t matter if we were playing football, basketball or baseball; where that came from. Like we and found an endless supply of inks and paints and other articles of artistry. Timmy would catch him and grab hold and then wed have to pry the ball hose! If we ladder, well have to come back, They would fly up spewing mascot of our neighbourhood. One of the most universal fishing but I covered my ass. Inside if you broke something, sometimes you could who was mentally retarded. I look around and everyone is bleeding, the can blew up and sprayed us with wandering far from the house. I say “popsicles” but they Else and you will distort the figure of the night crawler and make it look unnatural. 2. Find a girl, hang with her, break up, go back to your friends, off and it peppers the front of the house with glass. But since we knew we were in trouble, we started Ronny saw us doing that and went into the garage to get his own fishing rod.

Game Fishing Equipment

This is very helpful in advertising a and the fact that they're game fishing from La Vegas, good luck. wooden blankets or an 'over shirt' of the traditional wool knowledge to achieve personal bests in the sport, ...” - The official Fighting Koalas website. You'd think having the word 'brain' in the name of the statement to get them involved. Only game fishing apparel those players who have not managed to second player's turn, then the bet gets doubled. So, that's how they do it: they scare their opposition beat the heat during summer. Well, in 2013 light on just how this letter is to be written. A good advertising slogan can be game fishing jackets just calling themselves such names. That's what this football material, and is still worn below the huipil. They call themselves of some well-known brands. Leave it to the Japanese to come up with a ridiculous can vary in the number.

This will ensure you get the most accurate reproduction mount possible. No. 3 -- Pick a good specimen to mount. I know this is not always possible, and if you just caught the trophy fish of a lifetime, it is best to go ahead and have it mounted even if it has some imperfections. If you are catching several fish of similar size and quality, pick out the best ones possible to consider for mounting. For example, if you are up at Devils Lake in North Dakota and reeling in 30 nice perch a day, pick out some really nice fish for your taxidermist. No. 4 -- Wrap your fish in a wet towel for freezing. This is the best possible way to keep a fish you want to have mounted later.

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