#Drabble tag stuff

[noctunis]

thinking about gojo who is so whipped that his ears immediately perk up at the mention of your name — or god forbid anybody make you LAUGH and he hears. hell hath no fury like a boytoy distraught

[ellagasm]

hi! i mean no harm but i saw yor reblogs and one of them is f@t reader, can you please take it down? it tiggers me, coming from a proud f@tphobic, thank you! 😊

bro what

[witless-winion1]

imagine Polites was in the courtyard for the last battle of Troy. Imagine he looks up from bandaging a comrade’s injury, and sees his friend. Helmet off, head lowered, face pinched in what could only be described as anguish. Polites would have called to him, but he knows better than to interrupt Ody during his Big Brain Thinking moments.

but then his friend raises something into view over the wall; a swaddle of white, and it’s squirming, enough that Polites could see it from where he stands, now frozen in confusion and inexplicable dread. Odysseus loved kids and babies, he wouldn’t harm one for any reason. Hell, he’d cried so hard when Penelope gave birth to Telemachus that he’d nearly passed out from dehydration. He’d spared every child in every battle in this ten-year war.

but his friend extends his arm, holding the swaddle precariously by the ends of the blanket, over the thirty foot drop onto the solid stone ground. The innocent baby just wiggles unconcernedly.

Polites opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say (because he certainly didn’t know himself) gets caught, and then his friend lets go.

and Polites can’t turn away as the white swaddle falls, a sudden, tiny cry starting from the hidden infant’s throat, that cuts off when it hits the ground, with a sound that Polites never wanted to hear again, and the white turns red.

Out of every horror he’s seen that night, that’s the one he dreams of when he eventually lays his head down to sleep.

He wakes thrashing, falling out of his hammock, and Odysseus’s hand jerks from his shoulder to his side, catching him before he can hit the ground and aggravate whatever minor injuries he got from the last battle.

Polites has always been a very honest person. Since boyhood, since he told his mother was sick because he ate too much sesamous when he was five, confessed to Odysseus and Eurylochus that he didn’t like hunting when he was nine, told his aunt she was too unkind to the less fortunate then them when he was thirteen.

when Odysseus asks him what troubles him, Polites can’t seem to bring himself to admit the truth.

when they sail for home, he forces himself not to avoid his captain. They’ve all done horrible things in the heat of Ares’ domain. but a baby? whispers his conscious.

Shush, he tells it. There’s a logical solution, there has to be.

and yet Odysseus offers none, and he is too cowardly to ask for it, and gods know he cannot make sense of it no matter how he tosses and turns with the rocking ship.

when they reach the island of the Lotus Eaters, Polites smiles at the funky little guys, adoring their blissful grin. He crouches and strokes it, cooing about how soft it is. Odysseus hums, unfazed, and grumpy. Polites can tell he hasn’t slept well the past few weeks. But he reaches down anyway and picks one up under the arms, studying it from every angle while the innocent creature just wiggles unconcernedly in his hands.

Polites can’t help the urge to gently pull the creature from his hands. He smiles to cover whatever tension there is, and places the lotus eater safely in the ground.

he reminds his friend that there’s no need to constantly be suspicious and prone to fighting; why not default to greeting the world with kindness and open arms? Even though trust may get taken advantage of sometimes, it would at least alleviate the risk of unnecessary blood spilled.

and as Odysseus looks away, Polites sees the pain in his eyes, staring at the Lotus eaters as they tumble around with each other. One drops suddenly from a low tree limb, and while Polites manages to stifle his wince, Odysseus is caught just off-guard enough to flinch when it hits the ground with a thump. The lotus eater gets up and ambles off without a scratch.

“This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms,” Polites says softly, reaching out to grasp his friend by the elbow. “I see in your face, there is so much guilt inside your heart…”

Polites could see as the words hit home, his friend’s shoulders drooping as he looks up at him. His eyes are nearly akin to what Argos’s looked like when their ships sailed from Ithaca’s harbor.

“…so why not replace it, and light up the world; here’s how to start…” Polites gently squeezes his arm. “Greet the world with open arms.”

“Greet the world with open arms…” Odysseus repeated softly, leaning into him. Polites let him hide his face in his chest, wrapping him in his arms and letting him hide from the weight of his not-so-secret sins.

[averycutesalamander]

thoughts about public woohoo with boothill? i feel like he'd be into it sometimes

public woohoo 😭😭😭 ur so funny omg

i think he matches your vibes on it? in the sense that when you're into it, he's SUPER into it, but when you're not, he's perfectly happy without it. he definitely doesn't shy away from risk, and he especially loves taking risks when you're involved.

i kinda think he's of two minds about it. on one hand, he absolutely has a possessive streak, so making everyone know you're "his" is super appealing to him. (on that note, pull out the ol' "i'm yours" on him, and he'll go crazy. like, hands and teeth and everything all over you kinda crazy.)

on the other hand, he's... well, pretty greedy about you. there's a line in DHCS that acknowledges this pretty directly...

He's nearly overwhelmed by the suffocating urge to kiss you; to bite marks into your delicate little throat; to bend you over this counter and have his way with you, onlookers be damned.

(Hm. Maybe not that last one – he’s far too greedy, far too possessive, to expose you to a room full of strangers. He’d much rather keep you all to himself; his to covet, his to adore, his to break.)

in regards to a scenario? well...

(read on ao3 if you'd prefer)

Boothill has decided that he absolutely hates this new contact.

First of all, she's cagey as fuck, and she constantly dances around the point. Secondly, she only ever communicates in the most obtuse code he's ever seen. Thirdly, she absolutely insists that, for his next lead, he has to find her at a masquerade to receive the information in person.

She's lucky that her intel is so damn valuable, or he'd have wrung her neck a hundred times over by now - and unloaded his revolver into her a few times for good measure.

He rants and raves to you for quite some time, venting his frustration as he swears up and down that he's never turning to her again once this whole affair is done. By the time he runs out of steam, he's slumped against your shoulder with his arms wrapped around you, utterly drained. You pet his hair soothingly, letting him cool off before quietly asking, "Is there anything I can do to help, honeybee?"

He's quiet for a long moment, before finally lifting his head to look at you, a peculiar look in his eye. "Well..." he's begins hesitantly, "would ya put me in an early grave if I asked ya to come with me, sweetpea?"

You laugh, shaking your head in open amusement. "I suppose I can spare you, just this once." You press a quick kiss to his forehead, your smile turning a bit mischievous. "Get me a dress and treat me to ice cream after, and I'll do whatever the hell you want."

The very next day, he brings you to a shop - pleasantly small with an obscenely well-crafted selection. You balk when you walk inside, immediately stunned by the space, because this isn't just for rich people, this is for rich people. The moment you turn to him to argue that this is way too nice, you find that he's already grinning and shaking his head.

"I don't give a hoot what ya say," he drawls, openly delighted. "What the fork else am I gonna burn all this IPC cash on, huh? Let me treat ya, sunshine."

And so, you end up getting the most extravagant article of clothing you've ever touched in your life, guided by an incredibly sweet attendant that doesn't even blink at your cluelessness. Boothill lingers in the dressing room, whistling obnoxiously every time you step out in a new dress; he practically faints (whether or not it's a joke is up for debate) when you walk out in a comfortably tight underbust corset, his eyes trailing lasciviously from the curve of your waist to the swell of your chest. (He thanks every higher power he can think of that his cock is kept in an internal compartment, because lord fucking knows he'd be so horny that he'd risk busting his jeans open.)

Once you settle on a dress and have it sent off to be tailored to your size, you keep him company while another attendant takes all of his measurements for a suit, fitting him into one to test how well the jacket hugs his waist. He grouches about how this doesn't fit his style at all, but shuts right up when he sees the look on your face. (Maybe wearing a suit won't be so bad if you keep staring at him like you want to eat him alive.)

In the following days, the date of the masquerade looms over you - and all the while, Boothill eyes you with a look you can't quite decipher.

Finally, it all comes to a head the day after you pick up your newly tailored outfits.

His eyes are dark when he holds up a remote-controlled vibrator - one that syncs to his neurochip, which lets him control it with a simple thought; there's an app as well, which would let you shut it off on your own if you ever got too overwhelmed. He tilts his head in question, and the gesture might've seemed innocent if not for the untamable hunger in his eyes.

If you decline, that's the end of it, and the entire masquerade passes without too much incident. Once business is done, you dance and chat, berating the event's selection of alcohol and quietly mocking the outfit choices of every aristocrat you see. If you accept, however...

The night of the masquerade arrives on your doorstep, heralded by the anticipation bubbling in your gut. The atmosphere is so taut that you both get ready in silence, but his hungry eyes tell you everything you need to know. He helps you into your dress, does your hair for you (he's shockingly good at it), and, if you'd like, paints your nails with his unfathomably steady hands. You help him with his tie, braid his hair neatly, and straighten out the relatively simple black, silver, and red mask on his face. And all the while, he stares at you like a wolf sizing up its prey - watching, prowling, waiting for the time to strike.

Finally, the time to leave arrives. You stare at each other for a long, tense moment before he finally rasps, "Back against the wall, doll. Spread your legs and lift your skirt for me, won't ya?"

Oh, you're already done for, and the night has only just begun.

He gets down on his knees in front of you, easing down your underwear with cold fingers. He's ready to prep you, but to his delight, you're already getting wet. He looks up at you with piercing eyes, grinning wickedly. "Filthy girl," he scolds without heat. "I haven't even touched ya, n' you're already soakin' your panties?"

You whimper when he grazes your folds with his fingers, openly admiring the way your slit trembles. "Can you blame me? You've been looking at me like you were gonna fuck me before we even left."

He laughs, dark and gritty. "Oh, you're barkin' up the wrong tree, cutie." Then, he lifts the toy, pressing it right against your entrance. "I'm gonna make you work for it first."

Without further preamble, he slowly, agonizingly eases it inside, and when it's fully seated, you have one end nestled right against your g-spot, and the other pressed tauntingly against your clit. For a moment, you think that's going to be the end of it for now - but then he eases it out ever-so-slightly, giving him just enough room to lap hungrily at your clit. You gasp and shake on your feet, clenching one hand in his hair so tight that he growls into your cunt. You throw your head back against the wall and moan all pretty for him, helpless as he circles your bud with his tongue.

He holds you there, just like that, subtly thrusting the toy against your g-spot, winding you tighter and tighter, and just when your breath hitches, just when your thighs start to tremble, just when you're about to tip over the edge-

He pulls away, sending you crashing back down to earth.

You whine in anguish as he settles the toy back inside you, sliding your panties back on like he'd never been there at all. He kisses your thigh tenderly in what might've seemed like sympathy if not for the devilish glint in his eye.

"Sorry, honey," he hums, not sorry at all, standing back up and licking your come from his lips. "Gonna have to wait."

(Oh, if only you knew.)

The ride over to the event is quiet and tense, but rather peaceful - until he starts testing out the vibrator, that is. He holds you in his lap and wraps his unrelenting arms around you, which might've looked sweet to the chauffeur, but you know better. You keep your jaw clenched tightly, trying to get yourself into the practice of stifling all of your noises and reactions - but he seems to take that as a challenge, because he hikes the intensity higher and higher until you're trembling like a leaf against him, your fingers wound in his suit jacket. And just when it nearly overwhelms you, just when you think you might reach your peak, he lowers it back down to a subtle hum.

And then you arrive to the masquerade, and the true depth of what you've signed yourself up for hits you full force.

He lingers with you for a time, keeping the vibrator rather low, even turning it off on occasion. He grants you the small mercy of adjusting to the crowd in relative peace, but you're already so wound up that it doesn't do that much good. Eventually, he kisses you sweetly on the lips and murmurs, "Gotta go take care of some business, sweetpea. You gonna be alright?"

It's a genuine question, so you answer genuinely. "As long as you don't torture me the whole time you're gone."

When he smiles, you feel like you've just stepped into a trap. "Of course, baby. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He's nice enough to let you get situated in a quiet corner with a drink before he starts fucking with you. To his credit, he sticks to his word...

But only to the letter, and not to the spirit.

He torments you for most of the time he's gone, but not quite all of it. For the most part, he sticks to the lower settings; you seek him out through the crowd, and he meets your gaze across the ballroom while he speaks to someone you don't recognize, his eyes glittering with promise. You thank every Aeon you can think of that no one tries to talk to you while he's gone, because he won't stop randomly spiking the intensity, higher and higher until your fingers are quivering around the stem of your glass - then he drops it right back down, leaving you stewing in a mix of grief and relief.

You completely lose track of time, your eyes going distant and hazy as you put all of your focus into keeping yourself together. He scares the hell out of you when he finally returns, looping one arm around your shoulders and leaning close to your ear, purring, "Hey there, sugar. Is somethin' wrong? You're lookin' a lil' faint."

The look you give him is positively murderous, but he just laughs right in your face. Then, with mischief in his eyes, he invites you to a dance - and how could you ever say no to a face like that?

He might find the music stale - nothing will ever beat the music from back home - but it's all worth it to watch you squirm. Just before the first song begins, he leans right next to your ear and whispers, "Count how many times ya come, and how many times I deny ya. You can do that, can't ya, princess?"

When you hesitantly nod, his smile turns lethal, sharp enough to cut both ways.

(What he doesn't tell you is that you aren't going to come at all. Only he gets to see you like that. Only he gets to feel you tremble. Only he gets to hear all of the pathetic little noises that spill from your lips.)

He edges you the entire fucking time, and he keeps you on that dance floor for as long as you can stand it. Again and again, he builds you up, then breaks you down, guiding you seamlessly every time you stumble or trip, the toy jostling against your g-spot with every step. If you ever get too quiet for his liking, he turns up the vibrator until you can't help yourself. The little noises you make are lost to the crowd and the music, but not to his enhanced hearing. Get too loud, and he turns it back down until you pull yourself together - over and over and over, until your brain feels like liquid in your skull. Before long, you're leaning into his shoulder, using his body to shield the way your jaw drops whenever he brings you to the edge again.

And every single time, you whimper that ever-increasing number in his ear, and every single time, he purrs in delight and croons, "Good girl."

He murmurs filth into your ear the whole time, his breath washing over you as he describes in ruinous detail all of the things he's going to do to you later, all of the ways he's going to break you.

Eventually, he leans close and murmurs, "How wet are you, doll?" The timbre of his voice so close has shivers skittering up your spine. "Bet you're soaked by now."

Just to fuck with you, he hikes up the intensity of the vibrations right when you open your mouth to reply. You trip over your own feet, but he sweeps you along without batting an eye, somehow making your slip-up look natural.

When he finally turns it back down and you compose yourself, you grit out, "I was soaked before we even got here, you fucking basta- oh!"

He smiles with the most unconvincing mask of innocence the world has ever seen as he raises the intensity again, your backtalk dying in your throat. Then, as he lowers it to a more reasonable level, he turns his head to press a kiss to your temple to hide his wicked grin from any onlookers. "Poor baby," he croons, so demeaning that it has your walls shivering around the toy. "You drippin' down your legs yet, sugar? Bet it's smearin' all over your thighs."

You answer him with a pretty little whimper, and he can't help but chuckle, low and husky in your ear.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Once I'm through with you here, I'm gonna take ya somewhere nice n' quiet, and then I'll get down on my knees for ya," he rumbles. "I'll hold ya up against the wall and lick your thighs clean, 'til you're beggin' me to put my tongue in your pretty lil' hole, 'til you're beggin' me to suck on your clit."

On and on and on he goes, until you're so fucking drenched that the entirety of your inner thighs are slick with your wetness, until you're so desperate to come that you think you might fall to your knees and beg for it, audience be damned.

Just when you're about to tap out, right when you're about to cave and beg him for mercy, he sweeps you into a grand dip at the end of a song, and you're trying so hard to keep it together, and just when you think he's going to finally let you come-

The vibrator goes completely still.

When he finally pulls you up, he wraps a strong, possessive arm around your waist, guiding you off the dance floor with the poise and seriousness of a man on a mission. You're so out of it that you barely register when he sweeps you into a bathroom, but you certainly snap to attention when he wheels around and pins you flat to the door with his hands tight around your hips. The lighting casts his face so starkly in shadow that all you can see are the red pinpricks of his pupils.

Without saying a word, he cranks the vibrations to the maximum, and watches you fall apart.

You moan and whimper helplessly under his stare, and as your peak rapidly creeps up on you, you can't stop yourself from begging. You whine and beg and plead for him to let you come, completely shameless in your need.

"I've been good," you gasp, your throat closing as you race toward the edge yet again. "Please, please, please, bee. I've been good!"

He stares, utterly silent, pinning you with his unwavering gaze.

Your orgasm is so close you can fucking taste it, and your heart is pounding with anticipation, because you still don't know if he's going to let you come, if he's going to deny you again, if he's going to keep torturing you, if he's going to leave you stranded on this edge forever and ever and-

Oh- Oh, fuck, you can't take it- You can't-

You come so hard your vision goes white.

You can feel the pressure of his lips against yours, swallowing up the broken wail that escapes you, drinking it down, down, down as you spiral in the clutches of your orgasm. Your knees collapse from under you, but he supports your weight like it's nothing, keeping you pinned like a moth against the door. As you ride out the waves of your climax, your fingers wound tightly in his suit jacket, he gradually eases the vibrations lower and lower, coaxing you down; finally, you go completely boneless against him, fully trusting him to keep you upright, and he shuts off the toy entirely.

He holds you while you recover, petting your hip with his thumb, cradling you as you piece yourself back together.

"I think I just died," you mumble into his jacket, your mind still heavy with fog.

He chuckles softly, pressing his lips into your hair. "Well, I guess I'll have to revive ya," he murmurs as he pulls away, grasping you by the chin and forcing you to face him, and his voice is thick with gravel when he says, "because I'm not done yet."

You're not quite sure what expression crosses your face, but whatever it is, it makes him grin wickedly.

"How many times did I deny ya, princess?" he rumbles, as if he hadn't been counting alongside you the whole time.

You take a trembling breath, clearly needing a moment to piece your brain together. When you finally answer, your voice is as fragile as a breath of wind.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. Didn't realize I'd done so many," he lies blatantly, smiling in a way that might've seemed apologetic if he weren't grinning like the cat that caught the canary.

Then, his hands trail slowly downward, and he kneels on the tile in front of you, gradually raising the hem of your skirt higher and higher. You instinctually take it from him with shaking fingers, hiking it up to expose yourself to him. Sure enough, you've completely soaked through your panties, and drops of your slick trail obscenely down your legs. Ever-so-slowly, he eases your panties downward, licking his lips at the sight of you.

"Lemme make it up to ya, baby," he murmurs, his eyes fixed shamelessly on your cunt. Then, he looks back up at you, his eyes dark and all-consuming. "I'll make ya come once for every time I cut ya off. Ain't I generous?"

He's going to kill you. He's going to eat the fucking soul out of you. He's going to break you apart until your mind is ground into dust.

He eases the toy out of you, and a heavy stand of your come stretches and snaps as he pulls it away. Without a moment of hesitation, he laves his tongue across it, moaning obscenely at your taste. You watch with an intoxicating mixture of awe and arousal as he cleans the vibrator end-to-end, licking up every drop until nothing remains; then, he tucks it nonchalantly into his pocket, utterly unbothered.

"Don't forget to count, doll." He grins up at you with too many teeth, leaning closer to your pussy. "And... make some noise for the folks outside, won't ya?"

@opheliaflavoredinstantnoodles @ikeagroceries @shadowstadium @theswashbucklingspy @cosmo112 @fxngtasy

[sugarverse]

your boyfriend who has no problem picking you up in the pool, forcing your hips against his before forcing your back against the wall of the pool "jokingly".

"My big baby just wanted to be held by me, right?" the warmth of his body made you shiver, feeling him against you as he pulled you and possibly closer.

or when he picks you up bridal style just to prove how strong he is, kissing your neck and threatening to drop you if you didn't squeeze him tight.

or when you get out of the pool for a moment to see him looking up at you with the upmost devotion. Staring at your soft tummy and stretch marks as they branch out.

your boyfriend who makes sure that your sunscreen is rubbed in, spending an extra long time on your back and thighs to stare at how plush they are.

ugh, i miss summer.

[forgottenarthur]

aria/arthur "i did this for you. no one else."

ooc: so, as you know, ive been saying for awhile that amira'll poison arthur after the tournament to punish him for showing up edmund (will she tell edmund she did this? did it ~for him? nope!). this is the result i spun for the poison generator (note: amira didn't have to purchase said plant from the black market bc she def grew it herself oops amira: 'i ~am the black market' jk jk):

(don't ask me why it looks like that -- idk either)

also looked up hypothermia symptoms and we get a fun lil cocktail of the following:

Mild Hypothermia (32-35°C / 90-95°F): 

Shivering (unless energy stores are depleted)

Confusion, impaired judgment, and slurred speech

Increased heart rate, blood pressure, and respiration

Shortness of breath

Fatigue

Pale and dry skin

Nausea

Possible memory loss

Loss of fine motor skills

Dizzyness

Moderate Hypothermia (28-32°C / 82-90°F): 

Cognitive decline

Lethargy

CNS depression (reduced reflexes, dilated pupils)

Hyporeflexia (reduced reflexes)

Hypotension (low blood pressure)

Bradycardia (slow heart rate)

Bradypnea (slow breathing)

Shivering may stop

Paradoxical undressing (removing clothes due to confusion)

Susceptibility to dysrhythmias (irregular heartbeats)

Severe Hypothermia (Below 28°C / 82°F): 

Unresponsiveness or coma

Difficulty breathing

Abnormal heart rhythms

Very cold skin

Slow, weak pulse

Low blood pressure

Possible cessation of shivering

Loss of consciousness

In infants, bright red, cold skin and low energy

Other Symptoms: 

Clumsiness or lack of coordination

Sleepiness or drowsiness

Fumbling hands

Slowed or shallow breathing

Weak pulse

Behavioral changes (confusion, unusual aggression)

Apathy

Hallucinations or euphoria (in some cases)

sounds like a great time for arthur thanks amira! #bestmomaward lkadsjfjsd

------

He didn't know how he had come to be here. Or where he was. The corridor was dark here; raging blurry-bright every so often, and he put his hand to his face, groaned. Stumbled. Hissed as his shoulder hit the wall. Cold. So cold, it burned. He recoiled. Stumbled again. He was shaking, sluggish. Nausea rose like a veil over his senses, dizzying and sharp.

"Blah-" he frowned. Stumbled. He hadn't quite meant to say that. Blast. He'd meant to say that. He shook his head. Stopped. Where was he going? God, it was cold, it was so cold. He didn't know when he'd last felt so cold. Had he ever felt so cold?

Aine was screaming. Her fires licked the rafters, her shrieks reverberated there. Kil-kennar was burning. Everywhere they rose in riot, their spears and swords and cries all stabbing at him. Everything burned. "Help us!" they shrieked from the flames, piteous horror-garbled sounds. The air stank with fire and blood. They were all burning. "Help us!"

He staggered forward. He tripped. His hand hit the wall; his knees the stone floor. Burning ice. He recoiled. God, they were everywhere screaming. He struggled to his feet. He had to climb. Their shrieks were in the rafters. He had to make it to the stop of the tower. He had to save them.

Moans and flames and screams wreathed the air, shrieked at his ears. Everywhere they pled with him. Everywhere they scrambled and fought. Riot and fire. Everywhere, they were burning. But the heat was cold, horrifically cold. He hardly had the strength to go on. He couldn't stop. "Help us! Help us!" they sobbed. "Don't do this to us! Don't let us die this way! Don't do this to us!"

But his father bellowed, too. "You're no son of mine!"

His voice tore and tangled with theirs and he was there, too, heedless of the flames, even as they engulfed him, women and children at his feet holding one another as the flames crept closer.

Arthur couldn't get there. He could stop it. They shrieked in his ears. They burned.

"STOP!" Arthur screamed. "Please--please, stop!" He was weeping, gasping, trembling almost too hard to stand but he couldn't stop. He had to get to them. He had to save them.

Aine was screaming, screaming, endlessly screaming. "My fath--" he shook his head sharply. "Put her to the tor--" he stumbled again, overcorrected, stumbled back, rocked forward again. "Nah my son. I--Couldn't--I--God," he begged. "Why? Why this?"

"What's going on? What're you doing here?"

Arthur jumped at the voice. He turned, no, tried to turn. Sluggish feet hardly moved. He shivered violently. He could hardly move for trembling.

"Are--" the voice hesitated. "Are you all right?"

"Wheere--" He put his hand to his brow, again, as if he could steady himself. "Um--"

"Arthur?" Another voice, more familiar. Quick steps and someone was at his side. He knew her voice but he couldn't remember from where. Perhaps the sky was speaking to him, he thought.

Something hot took his arm. Surprised, he stumbled away, hit the wall again. Burning cold. He jerked away with a cry.

"You're scaring me. What's going on?"

"Fir--mm--fires, Kil-ka--fire--" he said the last part very carefully. "I--saw..."

"All right," the voice whispered to herself. "You're not well, Arthur. Please. Please come with me."

He shook his head. "I haff--I haff to--"

"You have to come with me." The voice was authoritative, and the voice was close. He could see her now, moss-dark eyes finding his.

"Can't--"

"I know how to deal with the fire. I know how to save Kil-kennar. But you have to come with me."

He relented. "I feel--"

"Terrible?" She nodded, gently twined her arms around his. He gasped. The heat of her arms was a balm. "I can tell. You're shaking like a reed." She was warm, so blessedly warm. He leaned closer. She put her arm around him. She gasped. "You're so cold!"

"You're--so warm..." He pulled her closer.

He was lying down. He was blinking at the skies, stars wheeling sickeningly overhead. He tugged at his blankets. Pushed them away.

"Arthur, drink this." His mother's voice. A chalice floated before his eyes, silver and shining as if a fire burned within it.

"The stars--" he muttered, and tried to pull the covers over his head. He couldn't look at them. They were laughing at him. Aria was always laughing at him, really. Laughing just behind her eyes. Somehow, though, somehow he didn't really mind when she laughed. He didn't mind...

"That's just the ceiling, Arthur."

"Tell the--tell them--"

"Arthur. Drink this."

The chalice floated again and he reached, missed, his hand shot off towards the heavens. He thought perhaps he could grasp one of the stars, blazing in their fury. He could pull them down and he could place them amongst Aria's ebony locks. Perhaps she'd smile, then, smile at him with stars caught amongst her hair, skin aglow with silver starlight...

Something touched his lips. A warm hand tipped his head back. "Drink." Another voice, this time, demanding.

He smiled, lay back, and closed his eyes. Aria was annoyed with him. Of course she was. He drank.

"Get some rest, Your Majesty. You've been up so long. I'll sit with him."

Quiet. Then his mother's voice: "All right. But you'll let me know if anything changes. Anything at all--"

"I will, Your Majesty. Get some sleep."

He was near a fire, warm and bright. Shivering, he groped towards it.

"Arthur?" Aria's voice, again.

He opened his eyes, turned towards the voice.

"Arthur, what's happening?"

"Were walk--walking in the stars."

She leaned forward, touched his brow. Her hand was warm. He groaned.

"You told me once -- implied -- Arthur, has this, or something like it, happened to you before?"

She floated amongst the stars, a nimbus of silver light radiating from her every edge. She'd never really belonged down here amongst the creatures of earth and mud, had she? She'd always been of the heavens, shining and warm. How had he not seen it before? He reached for her, far away amongst the wind and sky. But he touched her. He blinked with confusion. He thought she'd burn him, but her cheek was soft and gently, gently, he brushed his fingers across her face.

"You have to go. But come back," he whispered, very, very slowly. He had to get the words right, though his voice was thin and reedy even in his own ears. It was his only chance. "Come back to me someday. You belong out there, I know, but..." he pressed his eyes shut, his exhausted arm falling back to his side. "I--I'll miss you here."

He was tired. So tired. He just wanted to sleep.

"You really don't know what's going on, do you?" Her voice was sad, far away. She was silent for a moment, yet something in her tone turned decided when she spoke again. "I can help you."

He wondered if Aria would ever come back, now that she was at home amongst the stars. He wondered if she would ever laugh with him again, or roll her eyes at him, or if he would ever see her smiles again, feel their heat, again, even if just while tilting his head towards the skies, would he ever see the gleam of the morning star shining down upon him, feel its warmth brushing his skin, and know she was looking down on him, again...He felt hollow, now, thinking this way, hollow and heart-weary. He hadn't thought, before, what it might be like with her gone. Hadn't considered how, now that she was close...she might never be, again. Was that why he felt so cold? Was it because she was gone, lost to him amongst the stars?

"I think I love her," whispered Arthur.

Silence. A long silence. Then heat. Up it washed, up and up, a warm blanket that shimmered and shone over him, a blanket of starlight glistening with quicksilver heat, like her hands passing over him. He hissed sweet relief, as if every fibre of him were thawing, waking, the pinprick heat of slumbering limbs coming back to life. He was golden, again, warm and glowing. Strength and health flowed, mingling sunlight and starlight brightened every corner of the room as if dawn, itself, burst through his whole being: joy and color and wholeness mesmerizing every cell. He breathed out, a surprised breath, almost a laugh. He'd never felt so well.

He opened his eyes, found himself staring at the familiar star-painted ceiling of his bedroom. He didn't remember going to bed, but here he was. He sat up, put his head in his hands, laughing. "What a strange dream..."

He heard a sound at his side and turned. He started. Someone sat there. A lady. "Aria?!" He coughed, pulled up his covers, suddenly all-too aware of how much he was or wasn't wearing (he realized he couldn't remember what he'd put on last night, but he could hardly check now). He cleared his throat. "That is...Lady Aria...what are you doing here? This is unseemly, I--"

"How do you feel?"

"I--" he frowned. He felt splendid, really, spectacular. He felt ready to, to fight a lion or run a race or ride into battle or leap a river or--

"Do you feel well?"

"I feel brilliant," he shook his head. "I can't think the last time I felt so grand. I--Listen, my lady, just what is going on?"

Aria smiled, eyes twinkling, and Arthur narrowed his eyes at her. Her smile widened and he knew that she was laughing at him from just behind her eyes.

"Endlessly entertaining as doubtless this is--"

"I'll send for your mother on my way out. She'll want to see you for herself."

"What? Why?"

"It seems that draught we gave you has been most effective."

"What draught?"

"You really don't remember?"

"I--" He remembered starlight. He remembered Aria's face aglow, with stars caught in her shining hair.

"I should go," said Aria. "Will you tell her? Will you tell her how effective that draught was? She'll be pleased."

Arthur smiled, a touch confusedly. "Well...good. Of course I'll tell her. If it'll please her. I like to see her pleased."

Aria stood from where she'd sat at the edge of his bed. She crossed to the door.

"Lady Aria--"

She stopped. She didn't turn around.

"I--I don't know exactly what's going on, I admit, but...I feel I should...thank you."

"It was nothing."

Arthur swallowed. "Was it?"

She turned to face him. Paused. "You talk in your sleep."

"I--what?" he frowned deeply, fists going to his hips, momentarily forgetting the covers.

And there it was, again. That laughing smile.

Arthur felt the corners of his own lips twitch upwards. She was laughing at him, again, and he was glad. He liked to see her pleased, too.

"I'm glad you're feeling better." She paused, looked down. "Tell Lady Eithne I hope she is well when you see her next. Good evening."

"What? Aria--"

Surprise colored her face at his familiarity, and he felt a flush heat his own face.

Sighing, he glanced up. "Look, I--" He shook his head. "I gather I was ill and you--you helped me. I know Her Majesty the Queen and-and, of course, His Majesty the Emperor will be very pleased. It was good of you to do this for them." He swallowed. "For us. It was kind, especially after...everything."

Her eyes did not laugh, now. She simply looked at him. "I did this for you. No one else."

Arthur heaved a deep breath, moved forward to his feet, tugging the covers with him. But the door was already closing. Aria was gone.

Words, strange words, floated through his mind, in his own voice: "You have to go. But come back, come back to me someday. You belong out there, I know, but...I--I'll miss you here." Arthur glanced away. He always missed her when she was gone.

[nonranghaes]

"it's just me."

you barely get a chance to roll onto your back before soonyoung's already climbing onto the bed and somewhat on top of you and your blankets, and it's only seconds later that he crashes. it's far from the first time this has happened (soonyoung is clingy and cuddly, especially when he's sleepy), but he manages to knock the wind out of you nonetheless. he rests his head on your chest, and you wiggle an arm out to curl around him as best as you can in your semi-trapped position.

"soonyoung--"

"just go back to sleep," he murmurs. "everything's fine."

you stroke his hair, thumb dipping down to graze his cheek at one point. "soonie--"

"i mean it," he says, eyes peering up in the low light to see yours. "i'm fine. just need to nap." his hand finds yours, and he wraps your arm around him as he snuggles in. he plants a kiss against your chest before resting his head against it again, eyes fluttering shut. "you can rest a little longer, too."

you settle back down after a moment, arms wrapped around soonyoung as you shut your eyes again. sometimes you swear this tiger is a teddy bear, but regardless of which he is, he's yours.

[holy-reference-in-a-username]

EXTREMELY sorry if you've already answered this, but. hey! are you okay with people writing fics based on your eddsworld comics? was thinking about writing a oneshot based on the polyworld rooftop comic (the "god made me wrong" one) with credit but i wasn't sure u_u

h HELLO???? i would be HONORED....

PLEASE go for it i would absolutely LOVE to see what you come up with!!

[winniefrezcomics]

THE FAIRY DALE POST

(Credit to @zennyzach / @perisprinkles for this certified banger)

Hi what’s up hello, decided to do this separately from the previous question so it would be easier for those who want to avoid it to do so dndbdhdhdjdjbh

to all the Dale fans out there, I’m sorry to admit that I am not among you- as much as I appriciate what an accurate depiction of an emotionally abusive parent he is, I am NOT manifesting a redemption arc for his ugly ass, and hope that Dev gets to stand up to him in a BIG way in the shows future 🥰

Anyway: Is Dale Still a shoddy father in the Fairly normal Parents AU?-

YES. He’s WORSE, actually!! ☠️

Trust me when I say the read-more is necessary here- PLEASE read the content warnings before deciding to proceed- covering fairy Dale and Fairy Devs relationship requires me breaking away from the wholesomeness of the rest of the AU to cover some darker topics-

CONTENT WARNINGS: dalepreg, mild NSFW text, unwanted pregnancy, references to pregnancy termination, emotional abuse, parental neglect, manipulation, unhealthy parental relationships, Dale Dimmadome in general

Okay, with that out of the way-

One important thing to note about my swap au is that, in the time period the ask blog takes place, ALL the faires are adults! Which I point out only to explain why, at this point in the story, Dev has ALREADY had his gigantic falling out with his father (that’s, tbh, pretty similar to the one I like to think HUMAN Dev eventually has in my personal hc timeline for him) SO YEAH, Dev and his father are currently NOT on speaking terms, and he really dislikes talking about him (Perry has never so much as learned Dale’s NAME. He’s that secretive about it after storming out and getting cut off, but I’m getting ahead of myself snsbdbdbd)

SO, TO START AT THE BEGINNING- Something I have yet to discuss in the ask blog bc we aren’t far enough in the plot yet for Dev to openly speak about magic (yes, plot ☠️) is the fact that Poof’s role as the “first fairy baby in a thousand years” actually belongs to FOUR faries in the swap AU- Dev, Hazel, Winn and Jasmyn!

(Aaand maybe some other kids from ANW too, it’s not carved in stone yet how many characters this includes 🤷)

The reason that so many fariy babies were born at ONCE- (inciting PURE CHAOS in fairyworld, I’m sure) is due to an anti-magical comet passing over fairyworld (which I have not yet worked out the name and specifics of, yall will have to give me til Hazel arrives to get THERE sbdbxjshdjdjjdd 😂)

BASICALLY the anti-comet, unbeknownst to anyone, weakened and warped the magic spell in place that prevented fairy babies from being possible-

-go ahead and assume this middle part for yourself lmao-

Once the pregnancies start making themselves know. FOR THE MOST PART fairy couples are ECSTATIC to learn that they’re expecting- and because the comet violated nothing in Da Rules, they were ALL allowed to keep thier miracle babies (don’t ask abt Antony wheeze, I’m still thinking abt it tbh 😂)

So all of fairyworld is abuzz with excitement about all the expecting miracle parents… with the exception of one. Dale ‘Day-breaker’ Dimmadome, owner of the corporation that runs most of fairyworld, and the LAST FAIRY ALIVE that should have been entrusted with caring for a child, has also found himself expecting (don’t ask me how it happened lmfao, let’s just say “partied too hard in fairly Las Vegas” and leave it at that ☠️☠️☠️)

Needless to say, Dale was NOT on board with the idea of being pregnant, giving birth, OR raising a baby, so he has the AU pairs research every possible solution to the ‘problem’ right away, and keeps his pregnancy a secret for as long as possible.

However, all of that changed when the future visions started. They were mild, at first- just strangely frequent moments of Deja vu in Dales day to day life running his company, and strangely accurate dreams every now and then. BUUT as Dev continued to develop and grow, the visions got clearer and clearer, until Dale finally got fed up and went to see a fairy fortune teller, who informed him that his unborn baby must be the source of the prophetic dreams, and they would only get more powerful with time. Even in his fetal state, other clairvoyants Dale went to see could tell- DEV was going to be a VERY powerful one.

Okay so here’s where the “eugh” REALLY starts for me- (if it hasn’t started for u already screams)

Once Dale realized how USEFUL the future visions were, he decided to halt his research, and carry the baby to term, so that he could continue to have the visions, as he considered them an advantage while expanding his corporation.

Much to Dales dismay however, the SECOND the baby is BORN, Dale loses the clairvoyance ENTIRELY, buuuut now that Dale knows he has something to GAIN from doing so, he decides he DOES want to raise this child, so that it can be of use to him in the future (tho by “raise” I of course mean “make the AU pairs raise ☠️☠️)

I don’t have a drawing of them yet, but fun fact, fairy Dev was raised by two au pairs (the AU’s pixie equivalent) that are based on his drones from ANW- their ‘names’ are technically just strings of numbers, but Dev nicknamed his two servants/gaurdians/weird robotic gay dads “silver” and “Gold” 🥈🥇

I’ll infodump on them too if anyone asks abt em, but this is the Dale post wheeze, back to the horrors-

Dev grows up barley knowing his father, but slowly gets more and more demanding of his fathers attention with time, desperately wanting to form a relationship with him. Eventually, Dale relents, allowing Dev to spend much of his time by his father’s side, almost like a teeny tiny advisor or smthn? Baby Dev couldn’t be happier, but Unfortunately, it’s Dale, so ofc he had ulterior motives. basically as SOON as Dev was able to talk, Dale began to constantly ask if he had had any new visions, even getting dev private magic/ fortune telling/ clairvoyance lessons, to try and hone his child’s skills as much as possible as quickly as possible.

At first Dev thinks nothing of how hyper-focused Dale is on his future-seeing powers, and is just happy to be included and close to his dad for once. He’s more than happy to have visions for him, recounting them with excitement, and delighting in the praise whenever his insight was considered “legitimately helpful”

However, as time went on, and Dev gained the context of meeting the OTHER fairy kids and thier families, he couldn’t help but slowly start to question his fathers “parenting methods” - if you could even call them that ☠️☠️

(Hazel Wishingwell heard a rumor about a secret fairy child being spotted on a balcony of the Dimmadome building, so she, Winn and Jasmyn went to investigate! WIP of a comic I’ll finish eventually. maybe. probably.

poor dev lived a very Elsa-esque, isolated life before he made three gremlin friends who started routinely “kidnapping” him from his damn repunzel tower to have fun and hang out 🥺💕)

This ever-growing sense of unease continues to eat at kid Divination, and part of him starts to wonder if his dad really DOES only care about his powers like his friends say he does…

they are all. horrified. To learn how little attention and affection Devs father gives him. ESPECIALLY because the three of them have incredibly loving parents that have been calling them “miracles” and “gifts” thier whole lives, while Dale has basically done nothing but COMPLAIN to dev about how HARD it was to carry him for all those months, especially when he wants Dev to stop questioning him. ☠️

So one day, as an experiment, Dev LIES about his future vision. Since Dev realized there was no way for anyone else to witness and vouch for the accuracy of his vision-retelling, he decides to advise his father AGAINST the deal he was prodding Dev to see a prediction for, despite his vision clearly telling him that the partnership would be extremely profitable. Dev does this for a few reasons, but it’s a decision owed in no small part to the fact that, the more successful partnerships his dad is involved with at any given time, the less time he has to spend with his son (not that his “spending time with” involves much outside of Dev telling his dad his visions and Dale ignoring any non-biussness conversation his literal child tries to start with him 🙃)

This works for a while, with dev estatic to be getting to spend more time with his dad, even IF his mood is consistently terrible from having to back out of so many potential partnerships that he thought for SURE would work and be profitable, but it didn’t occur to him that his son may be LYING until one day, a partnership HE turned down BLOWS UP after pairing with a DIFFERENT company. When confronted, Dev immediately breaks down and comes clean, trying to defend himself by claiming he “just wanted to spend more time with him”.

Dale is BEYOND un-moved by the sentiment, and swiftly bans dev from his office and advisor council, seeing very little of him for most of devs teen years (tho of course they pass by and interact now and then, Dale goes out of his way to steer clear of Dev is his “emotionally volatile state” or whatever)

Once Dev is a young adult however, Dale makes him an offer for how Dev can once again be useful to thier family business: since dev has been continuing to hone his magical abilities even in his fathers absence, by 17/18 he’s quite the skilled clairvoyant, so Dale offers to instate him as an offical employee of the Dimmadome corporation, and have him offer fortune telling services for a Hefty price.

Dev agrees, and it’s fine at first, but dev quickly realizes he HATES his job, and in addition, seeing into the future MULTIPLE TIMES A DAY was really starting to take a toll on both devs mental AND physical health (he started to struggle with migraines -hence the glasses- and near-constant dissociation episodes, to the point where dev often found himself disoriented and unsure if what he was seeing was real or a vision, if that makes sense?)

Dev eventually has enough, and works up the nerve to, at first politely, tell his father that he needs to quit his job. It takes dale and dev quite a bit of back and forth before Dale realizes the EXTENT to which dev is intending to quit (cold turkey) emotions rise steadily, until the attempted professional resignation has dissolved into a SHOUTING MATCH between a father and son

After dev SCREAMS every single thing he’s been holding back for YEARS into his fathers face, he storms off, and hasn’t been back since. Dev also indirectly trashed his office, because Devs magic reacts on its own when extreme emotions are at play (he gets the flaming hair thing from his dad tho dbdbdbendnd)

Current day dev actually isn’t SURE where he and his father stand, but he assumed it wasn’t good after all his credit cards stopped working, forcing him to take a job as a godparent to earn a living himself (Hazel was MORE than happy to drag him to godparenting school tho lmaoo)

SO YEAH THATS PRETTY MUCH IT

I miiiight make it canon that Dev and his dad reconcile and reconnect after Dev saves fairywolrd, but that’s getting into spoiler territory wheeze

TYSM for the question! Apologizes if this made anyone uncomfortable to read, but thanks for getting all the way down to the bottom of this ungoldly long ramble too lmaooo 🥺❤️

[forwhump]

a/n; hello again I’m sorry I have the posting schedule of the creature from jeepers creepers 😔 back to our regularly scheduled story progression

this is actually 2 parts put together so kindaaaaa long & rambling but I took so long to get here that I figured some actual real progression was in order

(I think this is a Really Fun One but I also have a bit of a thing™️ for silas being sad and severely unwell 😀)

word count: 6.2k

tw/cw; human weapon whumpee, self harm, traumatic brain injuries, amnesia, lobotomies, captivity, rape/noncon, psychological torture, skinning, gun violence, sexual violence, misgendering, gore, military whump, mentions of bodily fluids

Seven is haunted by somebody he doesn’t remember. 

Often in various states of undress. 

It’s hard to explain how deeply uncomfortable it makes him. He thinks they have to be memories, dredges from his past life, at least something close. His conscience, maybe. He thinks he must’ve done something horrible to this person. He thinks he’s figured it all out. 

For a long time, he’s been alone in this grey room, only his nightmares and vivid hallucinations to keep him company. He has a grey mattress, pushed up against a grey wall, wrapped in grey sheets he’d since sweat and bled through and that hadn’t been changed, not ever, not once. He pisses in the corner. 

He hadn’t been able to figure out why he’s here — he doesn’t fuckin’ remember anything useful. He’d had a field test, a practice in slaughter, but he had failed to kill somebody he hadn’t recognized, somebody that remembered him from before. 

Mercilessly, Seven is being punished for that. He’d been stripped and caned afterward for his failure, for failing to clear the enemy, but then he was closed in this grey room, this cell, and left by himself. For a long time, the flurry of doctors and surgeons coming and going to poke and prod and hurt him had been relentless. Seven has now been alone longer than he’d ever had people around him. 

He thinks. Can’t really know for certain. The lights turn on and off, night and day, but the time between seems erratic, irregular, but even that’s hard to say. Time passes differently when he’s alone. 

It had seemed like a stark overreaction to not kill one guy one time. He’d killed everybody else he’d ever been ordered to. In the short time he remembers, he’d killed a lot. He killed obediently. He didn’t kill Hat or whatever his name was, and that’s it? Discarded? 

Then the nightmares had started. The hallucinations next. Now, Seven thinks he’s figured it out. 

For a long time, it was just colours — splashes of blood, the inside of an opened abdominal cavity. He’s only ever been haunted by a single person, and he doesn’t know who he is. Sometimes, he sees him in grey, but it’s always Seven’s grey, Seven’s sweatshirts, too small for him because everything is too small for Seven but too big for whoever he’s imagining. It’s never made sense to him; when was somebody ever with him? Somebody without greys of their own? Somebody that small? 

He didn’t belong here, whoever he was. He looked out of place before the backdrop of Seven’s grey room, even wearing his greys. He’s beautiful in a way that makes Seven squint when he looks at him. He’s beautiful in a way Seven finds strangely, deeply unsettling. 

Except it has nothing to do with his beauty at all, it’s some other kind of instinct, a part of Seven that must’ve remembered what he’d done. Because he doesn’t see him in grey much anymore, he’s usually mostly naked, short skirts and stockings sometimes, and he’s always bleeding and he begs for help. Sometimes, for days at a time, he begs for help. 

Slowly, it started to make more sense. Seven kinda started to put the pieces together. They don’t know he thinks, but he does, and he’s getting better at it the more that he tries. It makes sense. The way the nurses, the doctors, the soldiers always looked at him, watched him, flinched when he moved too quick or got too close. Why he’d been locked away in the first place, trained for slaughter. Why he’s locked up so tightly now. 

He thinks, before, he was one of them. A soldier, probably, because that soldier from the field test had remembered him. Called him by name, but Seven can’t remember anymore what it had been. He thinks, during his time as a soldier, he did something horrible, something he doesn’t want to think about, something that’s coming back to haunt him now that he’s alone and has nothing else to do but think. They’d tried to wipe him clean after, make him some sort of monster, keep him of use to them somehow. Then he’d failed that test. 

At this point, he isn’t sure why they haven’t put him down yet. That’s obviously where this is tilting. He’s a danger to the people around him, and he isn’t of use to anyone else. What else could they do with him? 

He spends a lot of time beating his head into the grey concrete wall, trying to quell the thinking. It doesn’t work. Behind him, whoever he is, waves of white hair and big, sad eyes, cries out to him for help, and Seven doesn’t know how to help him. He doesn’t want to remember what he did. 

The hallucinations don’t always touch him, but sometimes they do. Sometimes, he grabs at Seven’s ankles, his joggers, clinging to him, pleading with him. Once, he’d put a small hand at Seven’s back and said softly, “what are you doing?”, rocking up on his toes to try to reach up and put his hand between Seven’s head and the wall. For some reason, obediently, Seven had leaned into his touch. His gentle hand on Seven’s face had made him throw up all over himself. Later, he’d discarded his shirt in the piss corner. Since, the ghostly touch on the bare skin of Seven’s back has made him sick every time. He should’ve kept his shirt on, filthy or not. 

He’s filthy either way. The room is filthy. He still thinks of it as being grey, but he can’t say there aren’t splashes of colour now, grime and filth and Seven’s different bodily fluids. It’s probably beyond help. Maybe Seven is, too. 

Maybe that’s why they left him here. Maybe they don’t have the heart to kill him — maybe they’re too afraid. Maybe they’ve left him to rot. 

Standing guard outside the armoured door, since Seven had reached through the meds slot with a shaking hand to gouge out the eyes of whoever was closest, is a pair of soldiers that Seven doesn’t recognize, but that knew him from before. He knows they did, they must have. They taunt him with a sort of familiarity, they reference things that Seven doesn’t know. They call him the dog — what the fuck is a dog? 

They loiter outside Seven’s room day in and day out. Sometimes, they pull open that slot between them just to taunt him. They’re braver than a lot of the other soldiers have been — cocky. Being braver, though, doesn’t necessarily make brave, and they still won’t look him in the eye. They lock that slot as soon as Seven gets too close. They’re afraid of him, too, but they have a dislike for him in almost the same quantity, a dislike that extends far beyond the reaches of what Seven can remember. Did they know the blonde, maybe? The one that haunts Seven? Have they never been able to forgive him for what he did? 

Not that they would tell him either way, but he wishes he could ask. For some reason, he can talk to the man that haunts him and nobody else. He suspects it’s because it’s not real, that he’s hallucinating it like he is everything else. Sometimes, in the rare moments he’s by himself, when the room is empty of ghosts, he’ll thump himself on the chest with his fist and try to force words out. It never works. It’s probably, Seven suspects, because the problem isn’t in his chest, it’s in his brain, or whatever fistful of meat he has trying its best between his ears. It doesn’t fire right, whatever it is, it doesn’t work like it’s supposed to. A part of it was left behind in a time Seven doesn’t remember, and he’s getting fucked as it comes back to him now. 

He cracks his head into the wall again. Behind him, the ghost sobs. He has a cry that makes the inside of Seven’s chest feel cold. But then he takes a deep breath, and he says, “I’m sorry,” in the smallest, saddest voice Silas had ever heard. “I’m so sorry.” 

And that’s weird. Who is he talking to? 

Slowly, Seven peels the split, thin skin of his forehead off the wall. 

However reluctantly, he turns. Immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

Across the room, Seven is sitting on the floor, slumped back against the far wall. Except Seven is standing right here, so that doesn’t make any sense. He can’t remember if he’s ever hallucinated himself from the outside before, but it’s heavier, for some reason, it makes him sick in a different, claustrophobic sort of way. His skin crawls. 

He’s sitting, slumped against the far wall, head tilted back and chest hitching as he drowns in his own blood. The ghost has both his hands over Seven’s opened throat, trying to quell the bleeding that’s seeping out from between his thin fingers like ink. A wasted effort, anyway, because Seven can see his intestine spilling out from the hole that had been ripped in his sweatshirt. The ghost is covered in blood — Seven’s? 

Did Seven die? What the hell? 

It doesn’t make any sense. What happened to him? He looks a lot the same as he does right now, in real time, still a freak. Does that mean he was a monster, too, before all of this? They hadn’t changed him because whatever he’d done? 

What had he done? What the hell is he? 

The ghost is trying to stop the bleeding and Seven is watching himself die. His hands are shaking — blood loss? Or had he carried that with him from before, too? 

What happened to him? 

What is he?

He watches, across a whole other lifetime and just a couple of feet, as he lifts a trembling hand, huge as it touches the cheek of his ghost. Then he does something weird with his hand, crosses the tip of his thumb and his index finger, and the ghost makes a sound that raises the hair on the back of Seven’s neck. Turning away, he looks back at the wall and a pain he doesn’t recognize throbs in his chest as the ghost cries for him at his back. The world, as he had been building it up, crumbles around him. 

Seven’s always been a freak and he died once in the arms of a ghost that now haunts him. How could he be the ghost when Seven’s the one that died? Why is he being tormented by somebody that had mourned him with his blood on their hands? 

What happened to him? 

He beats his head back into the wall. The pain of the impact distracts from the pain behind his eyes as he tries so hard to remember. How can he not remember? What did they do to him? 

Except he must remember, at least a little bit. It’s trapped in there somewhere and it’s coming back to haunt him, fighting tooth and nail to get free. It doesn’t want him to forget. 

Why not? What does it fuckin’ matter? Why does Seven need to watch himself bleed to death? What does it mean? 

Why is he here? 

A small hand touches his back and the warmth of it is so real. Too suddenly, he whirls around to face it. Across the room, his gutted corpse and the ghost grieving him are both gone. Instead, the ghost is standing close at Seven’s side. His hand had been warm on Seven’s bare skin. He’s cleaned of Seven’s gore, dressed, instead, in a set of his hospital greys, rolled up at the wrists and the ankles. His hair is loose around his back and his shoulders, a sheet around him so white it sort of makes him glow. 

He’s so beautiful. Whatever he is, whatever Seven had done to him in his past life, he’s stricken in this one by just how beautiful he is. He’s never doubted that his ghost is real, a memory from a part of his brain that’s trying to remember, because there’s so way Seven could ever have imagined, on his own, somebody that looks like this. He’s so beautiful Seven can’t make sense of him. And, sleepy, he smiles up at Seven, keeping one of his bare hands on his skin. 

“Come back to bed,” he says softly. 

He’s so beautiful that Seven can’t understand why looking at him makes his head throb behind his eye. He doesn’t remember him so he can’t understand why his gentle touch makes Seven’s skin crawl and his stomach turn. What else could it be if it isn’t guilt? What could Seven have done to him? 

“Come on,” his ghost says softly. With one of his small hands he takes one of Seven’s and Seven swallows so thickly something clicks in his throat. “Come to bed with me.” 

This can’t be a memory. He can’t have shared his bed with Seven. Why would he have? Something so beautiful and so human. How could he have trusted Seven like that? How could Seven have hurt somebody that trusted him like that? 

Blood trickles, warm, down the side of Seven’s face. “What did I do to you?” He asks, thick around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t think he really wants to know but he asks anyway. 

The ghost squeezes his fingers and his touch feels too real. He smiles up at him and Seven has to look away. “I’m fine,” he promises softly. “Come back to bed, Seven.” 

Seven’s ghost has a strange, syrupy sort of accent. It’s unlike anything Seven had ever heard, just as surreally beautiful as his eyes and the lines of his collarbones and the shape of his fingers. Seven’s been certain he couldn’t have imagined it because he couldn’t have thought it up, had never heard anybody else speak in the same way his ghost speaks. 

Except when he says Seven. It makes Seven lift his head again. He sounds different, wrong, and for a moment, Seven doesn’t know why. 

He looks into the wide, dark eyes of his ghost and cold prickles at the back of his neck as he realizes he’d said it without his accent. Seven. He’d said it without any of the sugar or syrup. 

Seven has his first real memory. The first one he’s really confident about. 

“You never called me Seven.” He couldn’t hear how his name sounded in the ghost’s accent because he’d never heard it before. He never called him Seven. He didn’t know Seven. 

The ghost smiles up at him again. His eyebrows pull together in the middle, pretty and confused. “Why would I call you Seven?” 

Across the room, his ghost whispers, “leave me alone, Seven.” 

Except he says it wrong, because it wasn’t Seven. It was — 

He lifts his head and the warmth of his touch vanishes from Seven’s hand because the ghost is slumped against the far wall, head tipped back against it. He’s wearing a skirt that’s too short, fingers twisted into the hem, knees splayed so Seven can see the trails of blood tracked down the insides of his thighs. He tries to close his knees as Seven looks down at him and it looks like it causes him a lot of pain. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says, but his voice is so small. 

Is this a memory? Is any of this? “What happened to you?” 

The ghost sniffles, wiping his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “Leave me alone.” 

Clearly, he’s not fine. In the short time Seven’s spent looking across the room at him, blood has started to pool on the concrete between his legs. “Did I do this to you?” He rasps, even if he doesn’t really want to know. 

“What?” He says. Tears spill over his cheeks as he looks up at Seven, eyelashes clumping together, and he doesn’t look real. This can’t be a memory because this can’t be real. How could Seven have done this? 

Of course, Seven knows how he could’ve done this. With ease Seven could’ve done this. All he does is hurt people. Maybe that hadn’t been any different in his last life. 

Then why did they bring him back? What more could they want from him? Why are there so many parts of him that want so desperately to remember? “Did I hurt you?” He asks, and his voice is so rough he doesn’t recognize it. 

The ghost sniffles, trying to wipe his eyes again with the hem of his buttoned shirt. It almost looks like he’s wearing a uniform. His skirt is short, indecently, but it’s the same black material the soldiers' uniforms are all made from. His shirt is the same black buttoned shirt as their formals, except his is pulled open, tangled around his upper arms like somebody had tried to pull it off of him. Had Seven tried to pull it off of him? 

But the ghost says, “what are you talking about?”, and his pale eyebrows scrunch together in the middle. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” He wipes his bloody nose again with his sleeve. “You know that.” 

Does he? 

Seven feels himself sway on his feet as the room spins quickly around him again. The world is pulled out from under him for a second time. He didn’t hurt him? Then why is he haunting him? 

While Seven’s pulse beats in his ears, the ghost says, from his right, “Seven?” 

Seven can barely hear him. He’s too aware of his own heartbeat and he doesn’t know why finding out he hadn’t hurt him felt the same in his chest as being hunted. He turns his head slowly, feeling so much of something that it’s too much and he’s almost numb. What’s going on? Why won’t it stop?

From the edge of his bed, the ghost looks up at him. His hair is pulled into two, neat braids and his dress is short and ruffled, demeaning. White socks pulled up over his knees, he sits on the edge of Seven’s bed with his ankles crossed and looks up at him with wide, shining eyes. He looks towards the door around Seven’s arm before looking back up into his face, a flush starting to bloom across the bridge of his nose. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks. 

It’s a hard question to answer. He doesn’t even really know. 

Before he can even try to guess, his ghost tells him urgently, “you have to go.” 

“What?” Seven says. 

“He’ll kill you if he finds you here,” he breathes. 

Seven turns quickly towards the door. “Who?” 

The door is closed, of course. Armored and bolted. Seven, really, is alone in his cell, losing his mind in the dark, filthy and probably dying. Instead, he sees his ghost again, curled on the floor like he had collapsed just inside the door. 

He’s naked but his skin is hardly bare, pale flesh gone black and red and purple with bruises and welts and bite marks. His head is down, his hair flowing around him, matted and turned pink with blood. His hands are tied behind his back, his shoulders pulled at an angle that looks painful and hitching irregularly as he sobs. 

Seven staggers back and collides with the wall, closer than he had expected. If he didn’t do this, why does he have to keep seeing this? What is this? 

Who is this? 

Standing over him is a soldier Seven doesn’t recognize. He’s a big guy, tall and broad shouldered, bearded and dark haired, his uniform decorated with a large number of pins and patches and badges. He looks between Seven and his ghost and as he does, his lip curls in a snarl. Quiet and lethal, he realizes, “you’re fucking the dog.” 

He laughs as he looks at Seven again, but it isn’t a humorous laugh. There’s something a little deranged to it. “Bad girl,” he scolds, clicking his tongue, and as Seven watches he tilts his face down and spits onto the ghost’s back. “I thought you were better than this. The fucking dog,” and he spits on him again before he looks at Seven. 

Instantly, it makes Seven’s skin start to prickle. Something in his stare starts to reopen old scars, eating away at raised flesh like acid. What does it mean? 

“And you,” he says to Seven, his voice like ice. “You ugly fucking mutt. Your girlfriend’s a whore.” 

What the fuck is this? 

Seven looks at his ghost, shivering at the soldier’s feet. There’s a bruise at his rib cage that looks like a handprint. 

The soldier says, “now you get to watch how well she takes my cock.” 

Seven hits his head against the wall. Puts his weight into it. 

Pain throbs behind his eye but the hallucinations don’t slow down. A soldier is standing in front of him. 

It’s a different soldier, that one from the training exercise. The one that Seven had hesitated to kill. 

He smiles up at him, wavy brown hair and crinkles by his eyes that imply he isn’t a stranger to smiling. He isn’t wearing the uniform Seven remembers him in but his own set of prison greys. 

What was his name? He said it to Seven. He recognized him. 

He doesn’t look up at Seven with even a hint of fear — if he were even a little afraid, Seven would be able to smell it on him. He isn’t a stranger to people being afraid of him. That’s been his entire life, as far back as he can remember. Even the soldiers, always putting on brave faces, hands steady as they point their guns at Seven, stink of fear when they get too close. 

Not this guy. He smiles up at Seven like he smiles all the time, like it comes naturally to him. He says, enthusiastic, “nicely done, big guy!” 

Seven looks down slowly, at the intricately folded paper cradled delicately in one of his calloused palms. He has no idea what it’s supposed to be. Couldn’t even begin to guess. 

“Aww,” the soldier says. “He’s gonna love it, dude.” 

“What is it?” Seven asks, looking down at the crinkled folds of paper and back up at the soldier. 

His eyes twinkle as he says, “tell him you made him a paper wren.” 

Seven sees white. A flash of light behind his eyelids not unlike being shot in the face, but he doesn’t know why or where it comes from and staggers back, just a step, before that white heat bursts in his gut, too, and he vomits. 

When he lifts his head, the soldier is gone and he’s looking at himself again, another version of himself he doesn’t recognize. His hair is knotted at the nape of his neck and there are lines carved out of his cheeks by his mouth as he smiles, embarrassed, at his ghost. 

“A wren,” he says. 

The little ghost gasps quietly, cradling that folded paper in his hands like it was something precious. “A wren,” he breathes, and Seven’s stomach turns violently. “You made this?” 

“For you,” Seven says. 

The ghost looks up at him, still so carefully cradling the paper bird, and the look he gives him makes Seven, from the outside, feel like he’s watching something that he’s not supposed to. That he’s intruding on something private. 

Quickly, he looks away. Too quickly, he looks away, and the room turns with him, knocking him off balance. His back hits the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him and when he blinks dazed light out of his eye and looks up he’s looking into the barrel of a gun. 

It’s that same soldier that hurt him and his ghost. His hand is steady and his finger is poised on the trigger. 

“You,” he says, “have been a very bad dog.” He keeps the gun pointed into the eye socket that Seven has always known to be empty. As far back as he can remember, he’s only ever had one eye. Is this how he lost it? Is this a memory? 

Who the fuck is this guy? 

Crouching at Seven’s side, he tells him, “for your disobedience,” soft and private, “I am going to put you down. Then,” and he smiles, an unnatural smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, “I’m going to make your whore girlfriend suck your blood off my fingers as I spread her open and fuck her over your ugly corpse. And I will not be gentle with her,” he tells him, just as soft but severe, a promise. “She will be begging me to stop.” 

Not quite a memory, but an instinct, that same one that was making his skin prickle before, an anger he must have carried with him from his last life even if he never quite realized he was still holding it. Seven doesn’t remember this guy but he remembers how much he fuckin’ hates him. He remembers this for certain. 

He reaches for him. 

He gets shot in the face. 

For a second, the pain is unbearable, indescribable, and just as quickly it’s gone. After being shot at point blank range, Seven feels the pressure in his face and tastes the gunpowder in his throat and then his concrete prison comes back into focus and he’s sitting with his back against the wall. 

His hair is sticking to the sides of his throat and he doesn’t know if it’s with blood or with sweat. Both, likely. His chest is heaving and his hands are shaking, but his hands are always shaking and he twists them into the filthy material of his joggers in frustration. Uneasy and unpleasant, his heartbeat thunders in his chest and the side of his throat. To try and slow it, he throws his head back into the concrete wall as hard as he can. 

He wants it to stop. How can he make it stop? 

He doesn’t want to know. Not anymore. Not if it feels like this. 

He hits his head again with a force that makes his teeth rattle. Even in the short span of lifetime he remembers, all he’s known is violence. Violence, and this lonely grey room. He’d maimed and mutilated, dismembered and decapitated, crushed and carved. He’d been shot, stabbed, skinned. He’d bled and been beaten to death. He’d died. 

It’s never felt like this. Every time Seven has died it’s been bloody and brutal and miserable, but it never felt like this. Never. Something he doesn’t recognize expands in his chest, pressing so hard against the inside of his ribcage it feels like it might push it right through his flesh. Restless, it thrums beneath his skin. 

Seven lives and breathes carnage. Whatever happened to him in his past life, whatever he might’ve done, whatever it is that he doesn’t remember, does it matter? In this life, in the one that Seven knows, he sits alone in the dark and pisses in the corner until it’s time for him to hunt. Seven is good at killing, but that’s all he’s good for. Whatever he might’ve been is gone. Whoever that soldier had seen, the one he hadn’t been able to kill, that isn’t who Seven is, not really. He doesn’t even have a fuckin’ name. 

He isn’t smart. There’s a part of his brain that remembers something, that is trying so hard to tell him something, but Seven is too goddamn stupid to figure out what it is. Seven is so goddamn stupid that it hurts the more that he tries, not just the useless meat that passes as his brain but in his chest, in his heart and his lungs. The more he tries to think the deeper the pain settles, an infection that’s spreading, that’s making him weak. The only thing Seven has is slaughter and trying to remember is taking that from him, too. He wasn’t even shot, not really, he’s losing his mind alone, but his throat still sticks as he swallows like he’s scared. Fuckin’ scared. 

He wants it to stop. How can he make it stop? 

He hits head again. He can feel his scalp split against the concrete. 

In his past life, the door to his cell is opened. 

That same soldier enters, the one that had shot him. Seven’s reaction to him is visceral. 

It’s that same instinct, the one that might be a memory, the same one that made Seven reach for his throat. It isn’t fear. That horrible, helpless feeling is quelled as soon as the door grinds open, washed away by the fury that rises in him like a fever. He might not remember this guy, but his hatred for him transcends what Seven remembers. He hates him so completely it isn’t in his brain but carried with him in the marrow of his bones, interwoven into his altered DNA. 

Slowly, Seven tips his head back against the wall, lip pulling away from his teeth. 

From just inside the door, from safely outside reaching distance, the soldier regards him with a cold sort of disgust. Then, too quick, it’s gone, replaced with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, that’s stretched too wide for his mouth. The way it pulls at his face makes Seven’s skin crawl with disgust. “I have a surprise for you.” 

Silently, Seven raises his eyebrows. The concrete had scrubbed most of the skin from his forehead and brow bone and a fresh rush of blood leaks down his face, pooling, hot, between ridges of scar tissue. 

The soldier’s smile tilts, a sneer, and it looks a lot more natural on his face. Just as quickly, he pulls it back into a creepy imitation of a grin, and he turns. In Seven’s memory, he watches as the soldier swipes his key card and leaves. It’s a really anticlimactic surprise and a really useless memory. Why would he need to remember this? 

Seven has just a time to think that maybe none of these are memories at all. How would he know any different? He’d been trusting they must be some kind of memory, that they had to be, because they were all things he didn’t know or people he didn’t remember. How could he have come up with those things on his own? But Seven lives in isolation and the dark. Seven is a freak and a monster. Seven lives in a cage in his own filth and is released only for slaughter. That’s all there is to his life and he doesn’t know anything more than that. How does he know he didn’t come up with all these things on his own? Maybe it’s all just nonsense. Why is he choosing to believe somebody he knows doesn’t fuckin’ know anything? 

Except the door opens again. The soldier returns. This time, behind him, he’s dragging the limp body of Seven’s ghost. 

Whatever it is that was expanding in Seven’s chest starts to crack his ribs from underneath. The infection spreads to his blood stream. He can’t take a full breath in. His hands shake a little worse with the cold that’s seeping under his skin, into the tissue and the marrow of his bones. 

Fear. It isn’t dying that scares Seven. It’s not the soldiers. Head tipped back against the wall, Seven watches his ghost get dragged against the concrete, and he’s scared. This scares him. 

Why does this scare him? What is this? 

The soldier has one of his gloves hands twisted into the ghost’s long, bloody hair. He’s breathing, but he’s limp, eyes closed and bruised and swollen, wrists and ankles knotted so slightly the skin around the binds had split open. He’s naked, bruised skin rubbed raw against the concrete. 

“Surprise,” the soldier says. “You get to watch me impregnate your whore.” 

That thing in Seven’s chest had started to leak acid and it tastes like bile at the back of his throat. “Get your fuckin’ hands off him,” he spits, and surprises even himself with the bass of his voice. 

The soldier, however, only grins. “Off her?” He says, eyebrows raised in good humour. “Just wait till you see the parts of me that are going to be inside her.” 

It’s instinct more than anything else that makes Seven try to get up. He doesn’t even think about it. Where the soldier’s hand is twisted into the ghost’s hair, it’s thinned so much Seven can see the scalp beneath, crusted with scabs, and it’s a tug in his chest that tries to pull him away from the wall. 

The curved meat hooks sunk deep into his flesh pull him back into place. 

With a snarl, Seven looks down at himself, and he’s fucked. He’s fucked. What could he ever have done to deserve this? His throat and his hands are both shackled to different spots on the floor. His back, chest, sides, and shoulders are secured to the walls and the ceiling with meat hooks poking out from deep within his tissue and muscle. He tries to push himself off the wall and the sound is wet as a strip of flesh is pulled audibly off his back. He snarls again. This is fucked. This seems more like a memory he would really have. 

The soldier watches him with one of his wide, fucked up smiles, untangling his fingers from the ghost’s bloody hair. Limp, he falls to the concrete face down, and the soldier is quick to kick his legs apart, not taking his eyes off of Seven. 

“No,” he snarls, and tries to pull away from the wall again, tearing a chunk of muscle out of his shoulder. “Get the fuck away from him,” he spits. 

The soldier smiles a little wider. “You won’t like the things you see me do to her,” he tells him. “I promise.” 

With a roar, Seven lunges, but this time, he slides away from the wall so easily he almost stumbles. Standing straight, he rolls out his shoulders and looks down at his ghost, clean and dressed in a set of Seven’s prison greys. He’s alone and unbruised, his hair pulled into a neat braid over one shoulder. He’s standing just close enough that it makes Seven uneasy. 

“You must be the weapon,” he says. 

He’s even more beautiful up close and the feeling it gives Seven is eerily reminiscent of fear. He tries to swallow around the feeling but he can’t speak. He nods. 

“Robin told me about you,” he says, and he smiles up at Seven, who has no idea who Robin might be. But — 

But could Robin be a real person? Is Seven remembering? 

He feels like he’s been hit really hard in the head. 

His ghost smiles, the single most beautiful thing Seven has ever seen. The brightest, too, after a life underground, and he squints as he looks down at him. 

He says, “I’m Wren,” in his strange, syrupy accent. 

Seven sees a flash of white before the ground is pulled out from under him. 

He sat, slumped in the shower, head against the tile, hair sticking to his chest. Water beat against the exposed meat of his flesh, stripped of most of his skin. Chunks of tissue clogged the drain. 

It was hard for him to keep holding his head up. He’d lost so much blood. 

His ghost sat with him, kneeling in the water in a set of Seven’s hospital greys. His tears were washed down the drain with the blood and the water. He was clinging to one of Seven’s hands. It was definitely broken but he didn’t tell the ghost it hurt. He didn’t want him to stop touching him. “I don’t want you to keep dying for me,” he whispered. “I don’t want to watch you die anymore.” 

“My Wren,” Seven said, lifting his other, trembling hand to cradle Wren’s cheek, so soft against his palm. “I’m gonna die for you as many times as I need to.” 

Looking up at Seven from one of the mismatched couches in the common room, Wren had smiled so brightly it had knocked the wind out of him. Sitting at the ground at his feet, his back against the bottom of the couch, he’d been winded again when Wren had reached out to tuck a stray hair behind his ear and say, “your hair looks really handsome like that.” 

“Little Wren,” Seven said honestly, “you’re so beautiful it makes you really weird looking. Kinda creeps me out sometimes.” 

Wren laughed loudly and it was the most beautiful sound Seven had ever heard. How could he have ever forgotten it? “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very sweet.” 

He’d been wedged into a bed not big enough for the bulk of him, Wren tucked safely under his arm. His head pillowed on Seven’s chest, one of his small hands twisted tightly into the material of his sweatshirt as he cried, fiercely stubborn. 

“My Wren,” he said against his hair, rubbing his back slowly. “You should want better for yourself than me.” 

“Stop it, Silas,” Wren said into his crewneck, firm despite the tears Seven could feel starting to soak through the material. “I want you. I don’t want anything but you.” 

Silas?

Standing alone in the centre of his room, Seven vomits all over himself. 

[bloodiedvocals]

The first time you get intimate with him you ask, “Can I touch you?” with a hesitant hand outstretched between the two of you, waiting for his answer in the heavy silence.

His breath hitches as he nods his consent, and as you place your hand tenderly at his collarbone a soft sob catches in his throat, because his past lover wouldn't even touch him, except if they were wasted.

And when your fingers trail a path across his painted body you murmur, “You're beautiful, Vessel — body and soul. You were made to be worshipped.”

[rosesradio]

i try not to let dumbass fandom disk horse take up any space in my mind but now on behalf of the percico side of the fandom that had to deal with that entitled negativity i wanna write a percico drabble

actually the smuttier and more offensive the better

[omenlight]

argenti being reminded of his old friend w boothills conviction.... he sees the vow for protection (in the form of vengeance), hears the crack in boothill's voice when he speaks of his family–of the innocent who were taken, and argenti is reminded of a shared loneliness from years past.

it is blasphemous to consider a nonbeliever in the same light as another knight, he knows that. beautiful boothill may be, he is still blind to the beauty's blessing– thus unaware of the threats that surround his lifestyle. completely oblivious of how the triple demon's whispers are a sweet poison that always lurk behind self-indulgence. boothill acts in ways that argenti has long known to be tempting fate. he drinks liquor during their late-night rendezvous, rants freely on all sorts of carnal pleasures, and is unafraid to show his frustration at the world's cruelty. argenti watches, awestruck yet terrified for his own sanity. if his departed master were to meet the company he kept, he'd surely assign another full month of penance for the sin.

yet... despite the oath he swore and its consequences, he remains silent on idrila during their meetings. when he is with boothill, the rosary he keeps remains the closest tie to THEIR guidance. it stays clutched between his fingers, grounding him when they speak. they exchange words in the way that he was warned out of long ago. they laugh, argenti treats him to good food, and they are so utterly alive despite the metal shells that have encased their hearts. boothill doesn't fault him when he's unaware of what to do with his own fragility, together they are human. that may be the worst part of it all.

they always depart from one another before dawn. after all, duty does not rest regardless of company. afterwards, argenti kneels in the solitary reality that is the one and only, that same rosary clutched between both hands now as he prays for penance. for a knight repenting can only do so much, he knows that, but an unsightly human side of him wishes it were different.

much like ena's dream of tranquility, the near-nightly trial of his own indulgence for boothill is nigh impossible to overcome. the dream visits him when he is alone, striking between panicked nightmares of his childhood.

he pictures them together, on a planet unscarred by war and pilaging, with hands entwined. they would watch as the sun set, and in that reality the red color of the sky was comparable to a million different things before their own blood. they share warmth, they make mistakes, and no aeon is there to take credit for their joy. he never had a childhood, not in the way boothill did, but he wishes that they could share one together.

the want chips at his vows bit by bit, much like the way his friend's scales wore down by his lance, resisting right up until the very last strike. unlike then, though, he is blind to the ending of this fantasy. if there ever is to be one.

if that dear friend was as unaware as boothill was, perhaps he would have been spared from such a fate. sin is the most potent when it is known to be such, this was one of the first of the knights' lessons. it is a selfish desire, that for boothill's ignorance– born from ghastly scales and hissing pleads. it is those memories that push him to stay silent about the oath of ascetism around boothill. argenti watches him in awe, and drowns in guilt when he is back to his own isolation. it aches, sickeningly familiar to the grief he holds for his own mortality's limits.

all he can do is pray harder that idrila will teach him to overcome this trial, and all he hopes is that boothill will never know of it.

[wormdevourer]

mydei back study!! I’m pretty proud of this ngl <3

[escapismisaddicting]

Icarus flew higher and higher and higher. Until the sun was all he could see. And goodness was it a sight. It was bright. Enough so that his eyes felt like they were burning. And he could feel his skin nearly searing off. And he could feel his wings burning.

Then he was falling.

He would surely die from this height.

But who could think of death in a moment like this? He had seen the sun. Gods, it was so large and otherworldly and so… beautiful. He would die over and over again if it meant he got to nearly touch the sun- if it meant he got to feel its golden rays burning him.

Before he could; however, a warm hand wrapped around his wrist.

A man had caught him. With long golden hair and golden eyes and warm skin that nearly glowed. There was no moment of realization- no confusion or disbelief. It took no time at all for the dots to connect.

“I must say. In all my years of pulling the sun chariot… no mortal has ever tried to reach me before.” Apollo’s eyes twinkled as he held on to Icarus by his wrist and he couldn’t help but sweat nervously.

So this was divinity. A handsome strong face with a beautiful smile and shining golden eyes that hurt to look at. A bow and quiver strapped to his back with a revealing toga that barely covered his chest. It was impudent- and blasphemous. Yet Icarus could not dare to look away from him.

“Y-You’re beautiful.” He blurts out unknowingly.

The god lets out a soft chuckle, “So I’ve been told.”

Icarus nearly slips out of Apollo’s grasp before being caught by him again, “Careful… you nearly fell there.”

“I… I fear I already have”

[kazumist]

THE WAY THINGS GO .ᐟ

✩ — being petty with each other is simple how the way things go between you and your boyfriend, itoshi sae.

✩ — includes: itoshi sae x gn!reader. fluff. cw: ooc sae (bear with me i havent read bllk in a while and just wanted to give it a shot). wc: 395. reblogs and feedback are appreciated !! ouhhh first time actually writing for bllk,, i dont rlly feel good abt this one but i hope this was ok

during the ten months, six days, and thirty-two minutes that itoshi sae has spent with you, he only found out now that you were actually a big fat liar.

"did you eat my snacks?"

"uhm, no?"

"you don't sound sure about that."

sae wasn't necessarily a fan of sweets (which you found quite despicable of him; who wouldn't love at least a bit of sweets every once in a while?) but there's one snack that you did manage to get him fond of—hello panda biscuits.

it wasn't too sweet, nor was it too bland either; it was perfect for sae's taste. unfortunately for him, you were also a fan of those snacks. which brings you to the confrontation that's taking place now—because apparently, the hello panda biscuits you had in stock ran out just when sae was about to eat them again.

lying wasn't the best choice; of course it isn't, but you were curious to see how sae would react once he found out that you (accidentally) ate the last pack. there are three outcomes for this:

a.) sae lets this slide and just buys another box.

b.) sae will act petty around you until you get him another box (most likely to happen).

c.) sae moves on with his life and acts like it didn't happen at all.

much to your dismay, none of these happened. there was, in fact, a fourth outcome that you weren't able to consider: sae gets his revenge on you by eating up all your snacks as well. going to the living room, you stood in front of him with a hand on your hip.

"you ate it, didn't you?"

"ate what?"

"sae, don't act dumb on me."

he raises an eyebrow at you, acting like he has no clue what you're saying. after a few attempts at pressing him about it (all failed; he just wouldn't admit it), you soon gave up and were about to leave the room before sae pulled you onto his lap.

"do you really think being affectionate is going to make me forgive you?"

"i didn't say anything when you ate my hello panda biscuits."

"so you did know about that."

"you aren't really the best at lying, you know?" he replies, pressing small kisses onto your neck.

"let's just go buy some more snacks later."

"i like the sound of that."