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chiefdirector · 5 months

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Risking | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

One Year Ago.

March 16th.

Despite every fibre of her being screaming for her to run in the other direction, (Y/N) kept her pace steady as she approached Lamberts Coffee Shop. The place had been in operation for as long as she could remember, the owner, Reggie Lambert, was (Y/N)’s landlord at one point in time. She had always come here on weekends when the old man had been working behind the counter. If he still did, she would not have come. He was another life that she could not risk.

Pulling her hood over her head, she entered the cafe and placed an order for a plain black coffee. She would normally go for some complex, overly sugary coffee but talking was the last thing she wanted to do so the bitter taste would have to do. It came in a flimsy paper cup, resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose in disgust, (Y/N) made her way to the back of the cafe and sat down in the furthest corner.

This spot, unlike the rest of the store, did not attract many customers to sit. The lack of windows causes the area to seem unwelcoming and somewhat neglected. All of the sofas and the comfier chair were in the main section of the cafe, near the counter. If it were a normal day, she would have sat on the green sofa she had once owned. It got donated to Reggie when she moved in with Tim.

The sofa was old and worn down in all the best ways. The cushions seemed to consume anyone who sat on it. The tops of the cushions had lost some colour over the years and the cotton blend covers had gotten softer with use. Blankets were strewn over the back and there were some decorative pillows stacked up one one side.

Her favourite part was the small embroidery over top of the frontmost left foot. She had embroidered her and Tim’s initials into it just before she gave it away. The sofa had been her first purchase when she had started as a rookie Even though she had gotten it second hand herself, it had become one of her most valuable possessions. It hurt to give it away, even though she knew that she would be back in the cafe. It was like she was giving up a part of her life.

(Y/N) chuckled at the thought. Of course she thought it was one of the most tragic things, if only she could see herself now. Sitting in a cafe on the off chance she may see Tim again.

He didn’t know she was here, so he had no reason to come. They had always come together, the only time they had come alone was the day they had met. Reggie had mixed up their orders (he claimed it was accidentally but (Y/N) knew that he had been trying to get her to get back on the dating scene for a while). They sat down together and chatted. Tim left with her number. It was March 16th.

And they have spent every March 16th there since. Until now.

(Y/N) winced at the strong bitter taste of her coffee, slightly regretting not taking the extra seconds to get cream. She placed the cup back down on the table, she could bear the taste while she waited. It only took another couple of minutes, before the bell on top of the door chimed again. (Y/N) looked up at the noise and then back down at the sight of an elderly couple walking in.

It passed this way for a few hours. She would look up when the door chimed, only to look away when another stranger entered. She would take a sip of her now cold coffee and wait for another chime. By the time the clock read 4:30, she had been drinking for an empty cup for at least an hour.

Resigned to the fact that she would not see Tim today, (Y/N) binned her cup and moved in a hurry, cursing herself that she had thought that he would be there. Why would he have, he had no reason to go anymore. She was no longer in his life, she was no longer an anniversary worth remembering.

Adjusting her hood and keeping her head down, she opened the door to exit but waited for a man to enter. Swiftly, she left the premises, barely registering the all too familiar voice thanking her.

(Y/N) left the city after that. She knew the risk she had taken by coming here today, a part of her was thankful that she hadn’t seen Tim today because her selfishness hadn’t cost him anything. It took a few hours to arrive back at the dingy motel she had taken as residence.

The door was open when she arrived.

She had always gone out of her way to ensure that her accommodation was thoroughly locked and secure. There was no way that she had left it like that, it wasn’t in her nature. Nothing Has changed inside, her spare firearm was still tucked away in the bathroom cabinet, and her phone she used to call Williamson was still under the bed-side table. None of her clothes had moved from where she had strewn them across the floor.

The only difference was a polaroid on the bed.

The image was slightly blurry but it was clear what was being shown. Reggie slumped forward in a chair he was tied to. He was badly bruised, sporting a broken nose and a blackened eye. His lip was swollen up and cut from where had bitten down in pain. Blood was streaming from a wound on his head and from a single bullet wound in his chest.

As she examined the image even more, it became clear why such an atrocity had happened. At the bottom of the photograph in the white frame were two simple words.

Strike Two.

Silent, she picked up the photograph and moved to open the bedside drawer. Gently, she placed it down into the drawer on top of an nearly identical picture of her brother that read Strike One.

She knew what this meant. She had been sloppy. And she would pay the price. As she closed the door, she swore that she would not let her emotions allow her to make a decision that ended up taking a life of someone she loved.

Part Twelve | Part Fourteen

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags: @xceafh @kmc1989 @buba424 @salty0cracker @iamasimpingh0e

Tags are open :)

#tim bradford x reader #time bradford imagine #tim bradford #the rookie #bottom of the river #chiefdirector

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bonezone44 · 10 months

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Feelin’ Faint

Joel Miller x afab!Reader

Word Count: 1333

Summary: It startles you when you see Joel’s feet for the first time. You give him a foot massage. D/s relationship implied. (Dom!Joel, sub!reader)

Tags: afab!reader. Boots. Feet. brief fantasy re: D/s, bondage, degradation. (no actual smut in this one)

Author’s Note: Yesterday in the group chat, I said that a group of foot photos “upset” me. Then I figured out why. God bless.

Story Masterlist - Main Masterlist

—------------------

It’s because you’re not used to it.

That’s all.

You’re not used to seeing Joel’s feet.

Never even seen the contour of them in a pair of socks.

You’re not used to seeing men’s feet in general when you think about it. They were usually covered up by big round-toe work boots as they shuffled through the bar or trampled the dirt paths around Jackson or, in this particular case, stomped up and down the stairs. Some of the men wore cowboy boots made of fine, soft leather with pointed toes and chunky heels. Over time the material would curve to the shape of their arches and cup around their heels and the edge of their big toe.

‘Boots’ you could understand.

‘Boots’ were a symbol of power.

And you could also appreciate the fine craftsmanship of a Doc Marten or a sturdy steel-toe or goddamn, some of those cowboy boots had such delicate embroidery along the shaft and down the vamp and around the toe.

You’re just not used to seeing Joel’s feet so when you finally do see them–stepping down his staircase, fresh from the shower, exposed beneath the hem of his jeans–you feel tightness in your chest and heat in your cheeks. It feels like a violation to look at them.

He sits on the couch after grabbing a glass of whiskey and props them up on the ottoman. He sighs and throws his head back on the cushion.

And.

Well.

When you think about…

They are just feet.

And if he is going to be so casual about them…

Then there’s really no harm in looking, right?

You peek from where you sit on your side of the couch, over the pages of your book.

They’re… nice. Nicer up close. Though watching the way they planted on each stair, gripping downward and pushing up–that was nice, too.

Balanced.

Strong.

Their form makes sense with the rest of his body. His toes are long and articulated. And you love that his big toe is much shorter than the one next to it. There’s a nice separation, shaped like a teardrop, between his big toe and the rest of the toes.

You watch him rotate his right ankle along its axis and scrunch his toes to make the joints pop.

And really, it’s because you’re a curious creature.

And it’s because you want to appreciate all of him.

There is nothing untoward about it.

The heat between your legs is just because it’s him. It’s Joel.

You make an offer.

“A foot massage?” He looks up at you, surprised, an upward curl in his lips. “Really?”

“You’ve been workin’ hard all day.” You shrug casually. “And maybe it’ll make your knees feel better.” You shrug again. "Gotta start with a good foundation 'n all."

“Well, alright.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you’re offerin’.” He turns as if expecting you to stay seated on the couch to do it–but you knew you would prefer a more descended view.

You push the ottoman aside and sit on the rug with your legs crossed. You grab his right foot and bring it into your lap. His left foot is flat on the floor and you can’t help but notice it in the edge of your vision.

Now that you have your hands on it, you admire the feel of it–the strength you know is there moving him along every day.

Your face is on fire and your hands are nervous and there’s fire somewhere in your abdomen, too, and you’re really not sure as to why, though.

You press into the ball of his foot with your thumbs, massaging the thick meaty pad through the surface of his callous. You glide your fingers between the bones you feel on his forefoot, using pressure to individuate the extension of his toes.

Joel moans. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a foot massage before,” he says. He stares at the ceiling–you see his Adam's apple bob as he melts into his seat.

Pride and pleasure float your chest and chin upward. Wetness between your legs pushes your pelvis down.

You press your thumbs along his arch, like deep little footsteps. You feel a knot in his muscle, about the size of a pea, and you grind into it with the hardest part of your finger.

He groans and winces. "What the hell is that?"

You laugh. "I don't know. It's your foot. Not mine."

He grunts and adjusts in his seat. "Shit, darlin. I'm 'bout to hand 'em over to you to take care of if this is how you treat 'em."

Your face burns. The praise is overwhelming you. That’s probably why you’re so turned on–your whole body warm and buzzing. You continue to grind the knot until your thumb aches. You slot your fingers between each toe and rotate his foot around while keeping his heel in place.

"How's that?" you ask.

He looks down at you with a smirk. "I don't know what you're doin but I am enjoyin every second of it."

You love loving on Joel. You love appreciating every little piece of him that holds you and grounds you and keeps you coming, again and again. You love this new part of his body that you get to nurture and soothe and relieve.

You massage circles into his heel and along the outer edge of his midfoot–opposite his arch. He releases a long, heavy sigh. Your hands glide up and down his ankle.

“Next one, please,” you say.

He chuckles and sighs again–much lighter this time. “Alright.” His eyes and smile offer so much affection, it’s like he’s petting the very depth of your soul.

His right foot retreats and he swings his left foot over to you.

You feel that pressure again in your chest and heat prickles your cheeks.

It was one thing to grab his foot and bring it to your lap–it’s another when he does the action himself.

You feel yourself getting wetter and growing warmer. You try to focus on massaging this foot the same as you did the other. But your thoughts start to wander and you clench your jaw.

You wonder what it would feel like–this foot—if it was stamped into your chest, pressing you deep into the floor beneath you. You wonder what it would feel like if he forced his toes into your mouth, flexing and splaying them, while your arms were tied behind your back. You wonder what it would feel like if he denied you his cock and used his toes to play with your clit and tried to see how many he could fit inside of you.

“You doin okay?”

You look up with wide eyes and tight lips. Your skin crawls with embarrassment. “yeah,” you say with a quick breath.

He pulls his foot away from you and you stare at the floor. You hear the whiskey glass thud onto the side table. On the edge of your vision, you see him lean forward with his elbows on his knees.

“What are you thinkin about?” He tilts his head, studying you with a smirk on his face.

You shrug and glance to the side. “Nothin.”

“Look at me.”

You comply, but only with your eyes.

“Are you thinkin about my feet?” He asks with amusement.

“No,” you answer quickly and because you can’t fucking help yourself, you start staring at them–his feet.

He throws his head back laughing. He sits back upright and leans back into the couch cushions. With his legs spread wide, he rubs his thighs back and forth. “Oh yeah.” He nods. “That’s definitely somethin we can do.” He palms himself and looks over to his right. “Can’t right now–” He wears a shit-eating grin. “---but I think we got enough time for you to tell me what was going on in that–” He points. “--pretty lil head a’ yours.”

Your heart is beating so fast you can barely hear yourself speak. “What?”

—

God bless you if you read this far ! 🙏🤠🥾

#joel miller x reader #my writing #sacred spaces series

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wouldyoustilllovemeifiwasawyrm · 7 months

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Cleaning Up

Linktober 2023 Day 26: Overgrown This room, this castle, all of Hyrule, was her responsibility. She would dig through her own trash and find any treasures that remained. As for everything else, she would have it removed.

He’d been in this place dozens of times in this life. He blushed to imagine how often he had been here, standing on this floor, in his previous one. He wanted to imagine this room as it once was. Scraps of fabric hung from a broken bedframe, caved in by roofstones that fell through the canopy, crushing the mattress and scattering the feathers inside. He’d found little of value in this room before, other than a respite from the guidance sights of enemy Guardians. The books had long since deteriorated, only a handful of pages salvageable among the rot and decay. Animals had snuck in during the short peace following the last battle with the Calamity. Rats left chewings of fabric and paper all over the floor.

Link ran his hand across the old duvet, dulled in color and damp from morning dew. The embroidery and silken fabrics must have cost a fortune, not to mention the thick stuffing inside, which stuck to his skin through the rips in the cover. He wondered if he had felt it when it was clean, when the blues and reds were vibrant, when it was whole and dry and not so gray. He had some difficulty reconciling it—the decay with the beauty. Zelda’s bedroom must have once been beautiful.

His princess knelt on the floor, sifting through scraps of paper that had fallen. A lantern sat beside her, the flickering light making her task a little easier. Some legible writing remained on the sheets, though not much. She sorted them into piles. Those in the worst state, the most chewed, stained, or ink-bled, piled the highest.

When Zelda suggested that she return to her childhood home, Purah cautioned her against it. The damage was severe. Likely, little of what remained in her room would be salvageable. She would have to face the things that she loved falling into decay, and that might trouble her greatly. ”Send someone else to dig through all that, Your Highness.” Purah urged. ”Robbie and I could do it. I know where you kept your research notes.”

But Zelda wouldn’t have it. This room, this castle, all of Hyrule, was her responsibility. She would dig through her own trash and find any treasures that remained. As for everything else, she would have it removed.

Vines and moss crept up the sides of her tower, nature growing over what Hyrule had once claimed as her own. A drizzle of rain crept in through the gaping hole in the roof, sprinkling Link’s hood. Zelda, for now, remained on the dry side of the room. She muttered something under her breath, setting another scrap into the garbage pile.

Link didn’t know what he was here for, if he was being honest. He knew nothing about Sheikah tech. He would be no help in determining what was worthwhile to keep and what could be tossed away. If nothing else, he could set to work on clearing the space, sorting through furniture, and compiling that which could be carried out and burned. He picked up an armchair, the once-pink fabric stained with mold. Zelda might get sick from being too close to it.

“That belonged to my grandmother.” Zelda stated, not looking up from her sorting.

Link set the chair back down. “I was going to toss it. There’s mold in the cushion.”

“Hm.” Zelda hummed. She glanced up at the chair, then dropped her gaze to the papers. “Toss it then.”

As instructed, Link chucked it onto the remains of the bed. It sank the soaked mattress even further into the floor. Link winced when he heard a slat crack.

Next was the vanity. The mirror had seen better days, spotted with oxidation and partially warped across the glass. A few glass bottles rested on the surface, in various shapes and sizes. Glass bottles of many colors, shaped to resemble birds, flowers, or abstract twists of a glassblower’s prowess, were filled with some sort of liquid. Link picked up a bottle out of curiosity and unstopped it. A wave of sour scent assaulted his nose. He coughed, stopping the bottle back before his stomach inverted itself at the stench.

“Those perfumes are over a hundred years old, Link.” Zelda chided. “I don’t know what you expected.”

Link coughed again, fighting back a wretch. “Not sour milk! I thought maybe they would have, I don’t know, stopped smelling at all.”

Zelda shrugged, setting a scrap of paper into the keep pile. “Some probably have. I don’t remember what that one was made with. My father gave it to me when I turned fifteen.”

The king commissioned this? Link turned the bottle over in his hands. Based on the swirling, braided design of the green glass, he thought it might have once been a floral. Certainly not now. Those flowers had long since rotted. “It’s a pretty bottle.”

Zelda heaved a sigh (easy enough on the non-stinky side of the room). “I suppose.”

It reminded him a bit of the way some women braided dried herbs together. He’d tried that once. Clavia told him that tied herb bundles made soup better. He must not have done a very good job of tying them as the leaves quickly scattered in his soup. He pulled out as many wet, limp leaves as he could, and even still, they ended up in his final bowl. “It’s in pretty good condition. We could dump it and reuse the bottle.”

Zelda glanced up, her emerald eyes resting on the glass in his hand for a moment. Some emotion he couldn’t identify flashed across her face. She went back to sorting. “If you’d like. I’m sure it will make someone else happy.”

With her permission, Link gathered up all the bottles. He’d give them to Purah later. She could repurpose them into something nice again, if she wanted. Or she could make a stink bomb horrid enough to level a village. All good options. He set the perfume bottles in a trunk that they’d emptied out earlier that day. The handles of this one hadn’t rotted off yet, so it would be good for transporting anything valuable.

He tugged at the first of the drawers on the vanity. It refused to budge. He tugged again. “It’s jammed.”

“It’s locked, Link.” Zelda corrected.

Sure enough, the drawer had a keyhole toward one side. He frowned. “Do you have a key?”

Zelda thought for a moment, looking around the room. “Check that end table.”

What Link was sure was once a lovely cherry wood end table beside Zelda’s bed now leaned against the wall, the drawer hanging lopsided and off its track. He wrenched that drawer free, pulling it out. Inside were folded pieces of paper, most in good condition, and a few silk handkerchiefs. Link brought the drawer over to Zelda, showing her the contents.

Zelda ceased her sorting for a moment, her eyes widening when she saw the folded papers within. She picked up the first, handling it gently, as if it might crumble away in her hands. As she unfolded it to read the contents, her face paled, her expression set like stone.

“Princess?” Link asked. He peeked over her shoulder at the paper but found the penmanship too close to read. “What is it?”

Zelda took a shaky breath, folding the paper back up. She set it in the keep pile. “A note. These are all notes, from various people. This one,” She tapped a finger on the small scrap. “Was written by my lady’s maid, Henrietta. It’s nothing of any importance, really. She wrote to inform me that her mother was ill and she had to go home for a week to tend to her.” Zelda shook her head. “It’s of no importance. I should probably toss it.”

“Wait.” Link sat down beside her, stopping her hand from moving the note to the trash pile. “Tell me about her.”

Zelda blinked, surprised. “About a servant?”

“About your friend.” He said. “I remember that you were friends with your maid.”

The rain drizzled on. Zelda fiddled with the note in her hands, tracing the folds with her fingertips. “She…she was very nice. She would sing a little song every morning as she helped me dress. I don’t remember all the words anymore. It’s been so long…” She trailed off. Link remained silent, sitting with her in the quiet. “Something about bluebirds, I believe. Bluebirds chirping sweetly in the trees.” She took a slow breath. “She poured my tea, too. She always set a lump of sugar in the cup and poured the tea over it. No one else did it that way. She said it dissolved faster. And she would brush my hair and braid it into a crown.” She pointed to the vanity. “There used to be a little stool that matched that. I haven’t seen it yet. I sat on that and took my tea while she brushed my hair.”

Link followed her gaze, imagining the scene. He could see it so clearly. She liked her tea first thing in the morning. He could see her setting a cup on a delicate saucer, a smiling maid combing through Zelda’s golden hair, them laughing together at a song about bluebirds. He could see it. It was beautiful.

Zelda let out a small, bitter laugh beside him. “You probably think I’m spoiled rotten, having someone else do everything for me.”

“No.” Link said quickly, directing his attention back to her. “You’re a princess. That’s just how you grew up.”

“Hm.” Zelda hummed, her lips pressed into a thin line. She let the note fall into her lap, digging into the drawer for the next. “Let’s see, this one…” She unfolded the next note. “Ah. This one is from the high priestess. It’s a letter summoning me to the temple to try some new style of prayer that she’d found in the annals.” She flipped the note over, showing Link a very unflattering drawing of a woman in a long dress with ears and fangs like a bokoblin. “This is what I thought of her after she made me pray on that hard stone floor for hours. Awful woman.”

The lines of the drawing were faded, the ink bleeding out just a little, making the priestess appear almost bloody. “How old were you?”

“The first time?” Zelda asked. She chewed her lower lip, thinking. “Eight, I think.”

”Eight?!” Link gasped. “You were eight years old, and this crabby lady made you pray for hours?!”

Zelda shrugged. This note, too, fell into her lap. “Lot of good it did, too. Hand me another.”

“Wait,” Link pushed her hand away. “Why did you keep that one?”

“Hm?” Zelda blushed, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Oh. Because Henrietta found it later, among a bunch of other stuff. She said, ‘When you do unlock your powers, you’re going to look back on this drawing and laugh. You’ll laugh at how they doubted you.’” Her smile wavered, the corners of her mouth twitching downward again. “I…I’m waiting to laugh.”

Link didn’t stop her from taking the next note. As she unfolded it, her previous downcast vanished, replaced with a laugh and a blush that reached the tips of her ears. “Oh, this one is from you!”

“What?” Link asked, taking the offered note. “From me?”

Sure enough, his own handwriting, though slightly neater, stared back at him. His writing strung together a poem, so clumsy, so raunchy, that he immediately folded it again and handed it back, his face burning. “You can trash that one.”

“Oh no, I’m keeping this one!” Zelda giggled. She stood up, unfolded the note, and, to his mortification, began to read aloud. “Princess of my waking dreams, your smile in my night does gleam.” She darted to the other side of the room as Link got up, trying to grab the paper back. “As we lay alone in bed, I wish that we may one day wed!” She squeaked as Link got closer, twirling away from him as she read on. “As pillows lay my head to rest, I dream of your soft and supple- eek!” Zelda yelped as Link grabbed her around the waist, finally catching up and pinning her against the wall between the broken bed frame and the bookshelf. She let him take the note, not trying to fight again. “You know, I recall something similar happening the first time I read that poem, too.”

Heat burned all the way up Link’s ears and down to his neck. And though he tried to keep his composure, Zelda’s body pinned against his made forming any coherent thoughts extremely difficult. He tried to glare at her, to feign annoyance and disdain, but found his resolve crumbling with every moment that Zelda stared up at him with those lovely emerald eyes. “Don’t you dare show it to anyone else.”

“I would never.” Zelda teased. She pecked a kiss to his nose, grinning broadly. “That my thighs are soft as Rito down will remain our secret.”

Just when he thought his mortification would never end, Zelda slipped under his arm, returning to the abandoned drawer. She riffled through the remainder of the notes. “All of these I’ll keep. They were all written by those who are long dead.” She nodded to Link. “Excepting you, of course.” She picked up one of the handkerchiefs and unwrapped it, revealing a brass key.

Click.

The drawer on the vanity slid open. Zelda’s hand hovered over the knob, her smile disappearing once again.

“What’s in there?” Link asked, joining her side. Inside the drawer laid a necklace, carefully set on red silk. The golden chain, thin as a spider’s silk, looped through a triangle pendant. Three golden triangles joined together formed a larger structure, each with a gem set in the center. At the top point of this triangle laid a small ruby, barely bigger than the nail on Zelda’s pinky, cut into a diamond. To the left, three sapphires. And to the right, an emerald, round as a pea. Link stared at the necklace, finer than anything he’d ever seen in this lifetime, and so well-preserved that he wondered whether the decay of malice had ever reached the walls of that box. “It’s beautiful.”

Zelda swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “It was my mother’s.” She took a shaky breath, steeling herself as she reached into the drawer and took hold of the chain. As she lifted it up, the gleam of the gold and gems seemed to glow in the firelight. “Not that I remember her ever wearing it. Father said it was hers.”

The pendant spun as she held it aloft. It spun toward Zelda, then away, and back again, catching the glint of the lantern’s glow as it turned. To say that the stones and the pendant were beautiful would be the understatement of a lifetime. It almost looked…magical. Like it called to his spirit.

Zelda set it back in the silk, wrapping it up and tucking it into her pocket. “Whether she wore it or not, it’s too fine a piece to leave here in all this decay.” She picked up small keep pile, tapping the papers until they were straight and laying them into the trunk they’d designated for transport earlier. “We’d better get these back to Purah before sundown. I don’t want to know what sort of creatures have made their home here.” She shuddered, giving her room one final look-over before she picked up her end of the trunk. “They can have it.”

#linktober 2023 #zelink #loz link #tears of the kingdom #loz zelda #loz fanfic #loz fic

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syncopein3d · 1 month

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The Warm One 7: Wrath

Part 6: Spring Campaign

CW/tropes: living weapon, nonhuman caretaker, female whumpee, intimate/nonsexual touch, servant caretaker, traumatic restraints, nonsexual nudity mention, gore, blood, slaughter, extraplanar abomination/monster. Fair warning, this one's going to be gory and gross and weird. After all, what good is a living weapon story if you don't get to see the weapon being deployed?

The Field of Thearn has never been tilled. Boulders lie scattered across a knee-deep growth of bracken and heather. The crows and ravens that follow the army circle above it now, more immanent than the distant hawks. The winter heather is still in flower when the army starts pulling it up in organized squares. Space is cleared for tents and latrines, and now there is fuel for the campfires.

The camp of the Elves lies some distance away, fireless, lit by little glowing spheres that hover above it. Their snow-white faces flit across the twilight above their mail. They’re not pink-skinned, like the Ifrits, but their ears are just as pointed.

Aldo the Orc helps pile up heather, and then goes to wash up in the stream with the maids. He recognizes a tiny gnome girl called Gella crouching beside him.

“Why are you so afraid of her, all of you?” he asks, nodding toward the black wagon with the gilded bars across the back. “Has she hurt you? I’ve never heard her be harsh.”

“Not me,” Gella says. “But we all know what happened to Merrly.”

“What happened?” Aldo asks, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“The Wrath of the King slipped out of one of her bracers and tore her into pieces. The biggest thing they found was a hand,” Gella says, glancing sidelong back at the wagon as one fingertip surreptitiously shapes the holy sickle for protection, curve across and curve down. “If the Master hadn’t stopped her she would have killed everyone. I didn’t see it, but he told Merrly’s family when they gave them the ashes. I heard him because I was dusting.”

“Terrible,” Aldo said.

“Terrible,” Gella agrees. The look she gives Aldo before she scuttles away is one of intense pity.

That night, as he brushes out the weapon’s thin hair in the cushion pile in her tent, he thinks about it for a while. Then eventually he asks,

“Do you remember a maid called Merrly?”

“Oh, yes. Human,” the Wrath of the King murmurs sleepily. She sits on Aldo’s thigh with her face resting against his chest, facing outward so he can brush with one hand and hold her steady with the other. A bony elbow digs slightly into his big soft belly. His liniment seems to be helping. She can actually tie the soft robe closed over the scar that covers much of the front of her.

“She died from falling into one of the arcane fires, the Master said. Odd thing. They only had ashes to give the family. Why?” It’s not often the Orc asks questions.

“He told the maids something different,” Aldo says.

“How strange,” she says. “Why would he bother? He doesn’t care what the servants think…” She is nodding off. Aldo doesn’t think she is lying. He’s never known her to make the mental effort to be circumspect, let alone to try and deceive him.

The next day, the maids dress her in a plain linen robe dyed the color of old blood. The kingdom’s sword and sickle is not embroidered, it is smeared in black paint on the front and back panels. Aldo wonders at this as he helps hold her up. Usually she is swathed in layers of buckram, wooden stays, heavy brocades with elaborate embroidery. Usually her hair is piled in pins and gold combs and sticks. Today it’s a simple braid with a black ribbon. She has always been weak and listless, but today she trembles with a strange nervous energy he has never seen. A fervid spot of color mounts each pale cheek. She seems to blink less often, brown eyes held wide.

“What happens today, Milady?” he asks her.

“You’ll see,” she says, voice raw and stretched. “Until you look away. I won’t blame you. No one watches but him. Just be there when it’s over, all right?”

“I will, Milady.”

“And bring the gray robe.” “I will, Milady.”

Aldo’s voice is deep and clear and firm, like always. The weapon grieves that that must change today. When he sees what is really inside her, he will never wish to see or speak to her again. And he will not able to go. He will hate her and be stuck here with her forever. But that grief is a painful, twanging tune beneath the symphony of hunger and want. She knows what’s coming. No amount of shame or disgust can change that she was made for this.

The general and his captains have their last diplomatic parlay with the Elves early in the morning. By the time the Master comes to get her, the military men are back again, stepping over the white chalk line poured onto the dirt as a corporal furls the white flag.

“Well, gentlemen?” the Master says. “Have they elected to surrender?”

“No. Send the weapon,” says General Izath, a rose-skinned Ifrit. Butterfly-wing ears curve back beneath his red-plumed casque. He doesn’t look at her. He only makes the sign of the sickle as he passes.

The Master smiles. His blue eyes are unblinking and intent as he steps behind the weapon and lays his hands on her shoulders. Aldo can see him all but inflate with pride in his own work, in the power he is about to wield. The two of them begin a strange litany, one voice oratorical and measured, the other high and trembling.

“In the name of Malacien, Hearth and Huntress, She Who Wieldeth the Sickle, hear thou the Word of Retribution.”

“In the Name of Malacien, She Who Chooseth the Slain, I hear.”

“In the name of the Eight Good Gods, in the name of the Kings now and past, I abjure thee. Thou shalt harm none who dwell behind this line, but all who lie in front of it are thy prey. Avenge thyself upon the foe and return to thy form of birth. Swear thine obedience.”

“By Morith, He Who Keepeth the Slain, I swear it.”

“Shouldst thou disobey, the bonds of thy keeping shall slay thee. Swear again thy fealty.”

“By Mighty Serne, King of Gods, Hunted and Risen, I swear it.”

“Before this line, before all assembled, I loose the Wrath of the Kings. Return when nothing of his enemies draws breath.”

“I am loosed,” the weapon practically screams, and the Master takes his hands away. It’s the first time Aldo has ever seen her run, stumbling barefoot through the heather, heedless of thorns or sharp stones. He winces for her feet. Across the field, the Elves are forming up lines of battle, spreading the two wings of cavalry that have proved so deadly to the armies of other would-be conquerors of these isles.

They don’t even see her at first. She has a long distance to cover for a small, sick woman past her first youth. Aldo half expects her to be slain by an arrow when they do spot her, but it is now evident to him that they don’t know what is about to happen. Spycraft has failed them, or previous encounters have left no sane survivors. There is no real disturbance in their lines as they begin their slow movement forward toward what appears to be a foolishly disordered foe behind this one little sacrifice.

A few desultory arrows flit into the bracken around her. She stops, swaying, and raises her arms in their golden bracers, spread wide as if inviting an embrace.

Even at this distance, Aldo hears the sound of flesh tearing. He knows it must be the scar, the one that never really heals. He doesn’t expect the snap of bones breaking as she folds backward practically in half. Her arms dangle, eyes rolled up into her head. Aldo is aware of everyone but the Master turning away, making signs, murmuring prayers. Only he and the Master see the arms unfurl, tendrils like a polyp starting at the width of a hand but widening as they lengthen until they are bigger than tree trunks. The weapon’s body simply shreds, crushed beneath the weight of the ever-growing knot of slimy black branches. Only the two little arms in their bracers remain, flat and dead-looking on either side of the thing’s base until they, too, are covered and crushed by the mass.

As the horror expands, Aldo can see suckers on one side of each tendril, discs as big as his head. Every one has a barbed hook in the center of it. There the resemblance to anything in nature ends, for now the arms are sprouting more arms yet, and now some have horns and eyes. He can tell they’re eyes because they are Human, round-pupiled, brown. Brown like hers. They ARE hers, he realizes, as one looks directly at him and a pupil the size of his fist expands with recognition. Wet, glistening lashes flutter, and then the thing twists away from him in its eagerness to get at the enemy.

“I think it recognized you,” the Master says beside him, his voice amused. “You should be grateful for the line. It’s come within a hair of reaching me before the pain stopped it before.”

“She would eat us, Milord?” Aldo asks. His tone is dull. It’s hard to imagine any more horror than what is now happening among the Elven lines. Aldo has seen war, lost someone precious to it, been forever marked by it. He’s never seen an Elf and a horse torn into gobbets of gore and stuffed into the toothy circle of a black maw. There are now innumerable mouths among the coils, lipless, silent.

“Oh, yes. Did you think you were the first in your preset position, Goodman Aldo?”

Aldo is silent. He can’t tell if this is another lie, or what the purpose of such a deception could be. The screaming is too loud now. He sees a single Elf on a horse try to flee up the hill behind the camp, to carry word of what is happening here, or perhaps just fleeing in panic. A tendril snaps out like a whip-crack hundreds of yards long. The Elf falls from the saddle in two directions, top half and bottom, and the horse is snatched into the air to be torn and engulfed with the pieces of the rider.

The Wrath of the Kings rolls over the distant camp. Aldo prays silently that there were no children there. He now understands that the reason this tactic keeps working is that there will be no bodies. The thing does not discriminate between flesh and armor. It’s far away now, but he can see it ripping up tents, too. Everything goes into its horrid jawless orifices.

It’s only minutes before it’s over. The sun has scarcely moved overhead. When at last there is silence, the nest of arms and eyes and mouths slithers back toward the line. It’s bigger than a house. It’s almost bigger than a castle. It fills much of the distance between the two camps. When it comes close to the line it is a writhing wall that fills Aldo’s world, towering into the orange sky. People in the camp move farther away from the shadow that has fallen over them. They cover their heads and whisper more prayers. Many brown eyes fix upon him. Some look at the Master, too. The mouth that opens in front of the sorcerer is taller than he is, drooling blood, stinking of charnel. As Aldo watches, it pulses open and shut, edging further from himself and nearer to the Master. This close, he can see into a throat of incomprehensible, impossible depth, lined with rows of teeth like a hagfish that stretch down endlessly into the darkness.

The Wrath of the Kings is still voiceless. The only sound is the glutinous slither of its movement and the awful click of many, many teeth. From the corner of his eye, Aldo sees the man’s shoulders heaving, face empty of color.

A tiny tendril, as thin as a finger, quests right up to the line, waving to and fro in front of Aldo’s face. Up close, it isn’t really slimy. It’s covered in tiny armored scales, black and shining. He can see the little hooked barb on the tip. It might be white bone like the sucker-hooks, when it isn’t bloody.

The whole mass of the thing shudders. It ripples and twists and begins to curl inward on itself, little arms folding into bigger arms, horns and teeth shrinking and withdrawing into flesh. As Aldo watches, still unable to look away, it gets smaller and smaller. Now it does make noise. There are many hissing exhalations as air is expelled from its vanishing mouths. He is half surprised that the thing actually breathes. He can’t imagine how the form of woman can re-emerge after he watched it so thoroughly destroyed. He watches with a kind of sick curiosity, hands clasped behind his back in an unconscious parade rest that hasn’t been meaningful in his life in a decade or more. The tendrils twist and twist and shrink, and as they fold around each other they sculpt one another into a human shape, at first writhing in all its components, then slick and black, then suddenly blending and fading into lighter flesh, scales smoothing away as if they were never there. At the last, the thinnest of them fold away into a jagged mouth lined with more teeth, and then that shrivels crookedly away and becomes a red scar branching over a naked woman’s breast and belly and thighs. It’s a slightly different shape than before. Of course it is, Aldo thinks. It's a new body.

The golden bracers are the same. She could not, it seems, remake herself into a form without them, however much she must have wished it. They’re not so loose as before. Her body is still thin, but less thin than before now, pink and blushing as she lies gasping in the flattened heather. The battlefield is crushed down flat over all of its width. Black steam rises and sublimes away as the moments pass. Over the fading stench of blood and death there’s a strange and unearthly smell of something Aldo can only describe as perfume, but it’s no perfume of any plant he has ever smelled. It doesn’t smell real or right. The ravens are descending, but there won’t be much for them to find.

“Well, go on and get her,” The Master says. “Be careful. She’ll be heavier.” He turns away to stalk back to his tent. He’s still smiling slightly in Aldo’s last sideways glimpse of him, but the Orc is already kneeling with the robe in his hands.

“Milady,” he says. She opens her eyes, still panting. Her hair is dry and braided. That detail bothers him more than a lot of it, for some reason.

“Oh, the robe. Yes. Thank you.” Her voice is almost normal. It’s stronger than usual, in fact. He helps her into it and then picks her up carefully in his arms. She’s heavier than usual, but not by much. She turns her face into his shoulder in the familiar way.

“How do you feel?” he asks, as he carries her into her tent. He can’t completely keep emotion out of his voice. Is this the same person that he has served and held and warmed with his body? Is it a new one every time?

“Good,” she murmurs. “It’ll be good for a little while, except for the mark. Aldo, do you – can you - ”

That note of worried self-loathing is certainly familiar. Aldo relaxes.

That note of worried self-loathing is certainly familiar. Aldo relaxes. He has his balance now. Nothing he saw will ever leave him as long as he lives, but here, now, in this tent, he is with the same person he has been with for months. Nothing that happened out there has changed that. Nothing about her has changed at all. He just understands her better now.

“Of course,” he says softly, no more “Milady” now that they’re alone. “I have my liniment still. Be easy.” He lays her in the pillow pile and turns to get it. When he turns back, she reaches for his arm. Her hand is as cold as he remembers. He lets her hold onto him, looking down in puzzlement for a moment until he realizes she is testing to see if he flinches, eyes unblinking on his face. Her hand holds him so tightly that she shakes.

He sets down the liniment for a second so that he can sit down beside her and lean over and pull her into his lap. He is still very careful. He will always be careful. He lays his arms around her and holds her face against his shoulder again, lightly, so that he doesn’t press hard on the scar.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re still you. That’s enough.”

“How could it ever be enough?” she asks lowly.

“He said there were others before me,” Aldo said. “Is that true?”

“No,” she says. “What a strange thing to say. He never even offered before you. I never asked.” He feels her sigh. “Aldo - ”

“You knew me,” he said. “You wanted to eat him, but just him. I don’t think he realized.”

She snorts into his tunic. “Of course.” There’s a silence in which he gently strokes her back over the robe for a little while. Eventually she says, “I remember everything. None of it is outside of my control, do you understand that, Aldo? I can’t disobey him because he’ll kill me, but – I know that I choose to obey. That’s important for you to know.”

“I think I understand that,” Aldo said. “You’re not really able to eat properly in this form, are you? This is only part of you.”

“Yes. All of me is – well. You’ve seen,” she whispers. “You didn’t look away. But I won’t be hungry for a while after the campaign is over. Then – the winter becomes long. He likes that, watching me get hungrier and hungrier.”

“It’s not right,” Aldo says very quietly. “Nothing about it has ever been right,” she says. Her voice is fading now in a familiar way. She might be a little better fed, but it’s still been a busy and exhausting day, flailing about annihilating an entire army and destroying and remaking her own entire body. Perhaps this way of thinking about it is a little mad. Perhaps Aldo is a little mad now, too. He can’t examine that too closely. There’s work to be done.

“You’ll feel better for a rest,” he says. “Let me take care of everything. It’ll be all right.” She sighs deeply. After a moment she kisses his shoulder over his tunic very lightly. “I might fall asleep while you’re applying the liniment,” she says. “That’s all right, dear.” “You won’t leave me tonight, will you?” “I will never leave you,” Aldo says. He probably wouldn’t be allowed to. But right now, he doesn’t care about that part. He means what he says.

#living weapon #living weapon whump #lady whump #whumpblr #nonhuman caretaker #syncopein3d future reference #monster #lovecraftian abomination #transformation #monster transformation

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artcraftuzbekistan · 27 days

Text

Fabulous pillows Available for sale

#crafts #crochet #handcrafted #my art #my sewing #needlework #sewing #uzbek suzani #knitting #fiber art

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carpisuns · 2 years

Text

Or, five times Hunter didn’t tell his friends he’s a Grimwalker, and one time he didn’t have a choice.

A/N: this is my first toh fic pls be nice to me fjdjdk

1/6

1. Luz

The house was quiet today. Camila was still at work, and the others had gone to get ice cream. The only sound was the click-click-click of the sewing needle at Hunter’s fingertips. He passed the fabric under it carefully, just like Camila had taught him, while Flapjack nestled against his neck.

The stairs creaked, and Luz peeked her head over the railing. “Hunter? You’re still here? I thought you’d be with everyone else.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not lactose intolerant too, are you?”

“Um, no. I would’ve gone! I just got”—he blinked down at the wolf t-shirt on the desk—“caught up, I guess.”

“I get it. That happens to me all the time.” Luz pattered down the steps. “Sooooo … can I see?”

“Not yet. When I’m done.”

“Aw. Fine.” She plopped onto the couch. “Man, who would’ve thought that the Golden Guard would become a sewing master?”

Hunter chuckled as he pressed the pedal again. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m a master.”

“Pffft. Come on. This? Masterpiece.” Luz held up his latest project—a sweater he pieced together from a box of old clothes Camila had given him.

He sat up a little straighter. “I did work really hard on that one.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Luz examined it more closely, running her fingers over the embroidery patches that covered the front. He’d picked one for each one of his friends. A dinosaur for Gus. A rainbow for Luz. Pizza for Amity—her favorite human food. Mountains for Vee, because she said she hoped to see them someday. And a smiley face for Willow, because she was always smiling, and she made him smile too. (He also added a wolf, but that was just because wolves were really cool.)

“Wait … you know this is the Japanese flag, right?” Luz asked.

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.”

Luz settled back against the cushions, and for a while, neither of them spoke. But Hunter didn’t mind. He was used to quiet. Back when he was in the Emperor’s Coven, he was alone all the time, poring over thick, dusty books in his room for hours. It was nice to be quiet with someone else for a change. He never would’ve guessed it in the beginning, with how much she used to annoy him, but Luz was really good at quiet sometimes. More than once, when he had a nightmare and couldn’t get back to sleep, he’d crept outside to get some air, and she was already sitting on the porch. On those nights, they sat side by side, saying nothing, just gazing at the stars until their eyelids got heavy enough to sleep again.

“Hey,” Luz said, “did I ever tell you that I like the haircut? Willow did it, right?”

His hand slipped on the fabric, making his stitches go crooked. He tried very hard not to remember Willow’s fingers in his hair, but goosebumps still sprung up on his neck, and he felt his cheeks go warm.

Flapjack stirred on his shoulder, and Hunter knew he was giving him That Look again. He cleared his throat and kept sewing.

“Yeah,” he said, keeping his voice light. “She helped me out.”

“It looks nice,” Luz said. “But I can’t believe how shaggy it’s gotten in the back already.”

Hunter shrugged. “My hair’s always grown fast.”

“Huh. I wonder if that’s a Grimwalker thing.”

His fingers slipped again, and this time, they ended up under the needle. Hunter sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Stop that!” he hissed.

Luz frowned. “You okay? That didn’t sound good.”

“I’m fine.” He yanked his hands back, cradling his throbbing fingers. “But why do you keep just— saying that?”

“That you’re a Grimwalker?”

“Shut up! You don’t …” He sighed. “We don’t know that.”

Luz’s eyebrows lifted. “Why would Belos lie about that?”

“Belos lies all the time!” Hunter said, voice rising. “He lied to me my whole life!”

Luz was watching him carefully now, like she was studying his expression. Trying to figure out what he was thinking. It reminded him of the way he used to watch Belos whenever he and the scouts came back with bad news. Even when Belos had his mask on, Hunter learned how to read the curve of his shoulders, the twitch of his fingers, the pauses between his words.

Or at least, he thought he did. Because even after years of watching, the one thing Hunter had never learned to recognize … was when Belos was lying.

His stomach lurched, and he bowed his head. “I guess I was just hoping this was one last lie,” he said quietly. “But I know it’s not.”

Luz shifted to face him. “Hunter, you know it’s okay, right? That you’re … different? I mean, I’m a human! I’m different too.”

“Well, now we’re in the human realm, and I’m the freak in a group of outsiders.” He slumped over the desk, burying his face in his hands.

“You’re not a freak.”

“Yes, I am. After I found out, I read every book I could find about it. I know exactly how much of a freak I am.”

“Come on. You can’t talk about yourself like that.”

His head snapped up. “I was grown in the ground! Did you know that? I’m made of palistrom wood. And selkidomus scales. My heart is a galdorstone. I have stonesleeper lungs. I was made from the bones of a dead guy to be a clone to do Belos’s will. And I did it. For years and years I clung to every one of his lies. I let him trick me and use me. I served him. I practically worshiped him. Exactly like he created me to do.” He paused, breathing hard. Then his eyes sank to the floor, voice sinking with them. “You’re wrong, Luz. I’m the worst freak of them all.”

Luz didn’t answer. He heard a rustling sound, and then a shadow fell over his desk. He looked up to see her standing beside him.

“Is that really how you think of yourself?” she asked softly.

His shoulder twitched in a sort of half-shrug. “It’s true.”

“No, it isn’t.” She perched on the edge of the desk. “Look, yeah, maybe you popped out of the ground. Whatever. The rest of us popped out of somewhere way grosser than that.”

“Ew, Luz—”

“And does it matter? Does it matter where you came from, as long as you choose where to go?”

She looked at him earnestly, hopefully. He hadn’t seen her look like that in a long time. Like a kid who still believed in fairytales. He’d thought that was naive, at first. He thought she was stupid for trusting him when they first met, when he’d been planning to betray her all along. But she was right, in the end. It was her trust that made him choose to help her. Somehow, from the very beginning, she’d believed he’d end up on her side. And now, here they were—more than just allies. More than friends, even. He’d never said it, but he was pretty sure that Luz was the closest thing he’d ever had to family.

His gaze slipped sideways. “But I’m not—I’m not like the rest of you. I’m, like … fake.”

To his surprise, Luz laughed. “Fake? Fake? There is nothing more real than your newfound passion for sewing, potato boy.”

In spite of himself, he laughed too. “Potato boy?”

“Yeah. ’Cause potatoes grow in the ground.”

“Right.”

Luz grinned. “Listen. Maybe your heart is a galdorstone, but it’s full of all the good stuff. The best stuff. The stuff that makes you Hunter—who is nothing like Belos. And nothing like Caleb Wittebane, either.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She point to the wolf pattern still pinned under the sewing machine. “There’s no way Caleb Wittebane was as cringe as you.”

Hunter frowned. “What’s cringe?”

“It’s what you are.”

“And that’s … good?”

“It is indeed, my friend. Embrace it.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Embrace the Hunter.”

Flapjack twittered, butting his head gently against Hunter’s cheek.

He smiled. “Okay.”

“Good. I’ll let you finish your project, okay? I’m gonna go embrace the Luz.” She yawned. “The Luz that could really go for a nap right now.”

She pushed off the desk and made her way back to the stairs. He stood, eyes trailing after her.

“Um, Luz?”

She paused on the bottom step. “Yeah?”

“Do you think—do you think the others would think the same thing? Like, that I’m … I don’t know—”

“The same Hunter they already know and love?” She smiled. “Of course.”

Hunter lifted Flapjack from his shoulder, cradling him in his hands. Flapjack looked back up at him, brown eyes warm and bright.

“Well, then, maybe I should tell them,” Hunter said.

“You definitely could.”

He bit his lip. “But I’m not sure I’m ready yet.”

“That’s okay,” Luz said. “You can take as much time as you need.”

He looked up at her. “And you still won’t tell anyone, right?”

“I won’t tell. Trust me—I get it.” Her expression darkened. “I have a secret too, remember?”

“That won’t make them hate you either,” Hunter said. “You know that, right?”

Her lips lifted, but the smile didn’t seem to reach her eyes. “Right. Well, good luck with your sewing thing.” She climbed back up the stairs and shut the door behind her.

Hunter sank back onto the stool, placing Flapjack gently on the desk.

“What do you think, Flap? Should I tell them?”

Flapjack chirped, tilting his head.

“Yeah, you’re right. There’s no rush. I can tell them when I’m ready.”

He eyes caught on the sweater Luz had left on the couch. The patches were bright against the dark fabric. He counted off each of them. Luz. Amity. Vee. Willow. Gus. Something tightened in his gut, warm and waiting.

“When I’m ready,” he whispered.

#the owl house #toh #toh s3 #the owl house season 3 #Hunter #luz noceda #toh fanfic #mine #my fics #toh fics

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