#folded knife and broken sword

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru x darling

TW: NSFW, noncon, fantasy au

gn reader

Thinking about hunter Gojo and the pretty little nymph that gets themselves snared in one of his traps.

You can’t get your poor leg loose, having twisted your ankle in your fall to the ground – something’s wrong with your wing too, you can feel it – the thin network’s been folded, almost broken – so even if you did manage getting loose, you wouldn’t be able to fly away.

Branches snap around you along the crunch of old leaves – and your heart’s beating out of your chest in fear of it – knowing something large and dangerous is not far behind, that whoever set the trap is not something that wishes you well.

“You’re not a rabbit.” The man says, having crept in close before you’d even heard him approach – crouching in front of you with a hunter's grace. Hawk-eyes ice-blue and piercing, hair as white as pure snow.

He’s got three daggers sleaved in his belt – a fillet knife, a gutting knife, and a larger one you imagine is meant to slice throats. He doesn’t carry a sword like most men but has a bow and sack of arrows slung on his back. Otherwise, dressed lightly – brown leather boots, brown slacks, and a blue cotton shirt. You could have mistaken him for a woodland elf if it weren’t for the thick stench of man.

“Eating creatures from the holy forest is forbidden.” You snip, despite your wide eyes and the wobble of fear evident on your lip.

He only smiles at the quip, a grin like a predator humored by prey. “You wouldn’t tell a wolf not to hunt.”

He stalks you, leaning in closer, and you try shuffling away – but the movement only makes you wince.

“I’m just another hungry animal…”

Rope gnaws into your fine skin while his breath puffs hot and dewy on your face.

“And tonight… seems lady luck has favored me once again.”

He gags you and ties you further up before redoing his snare for the next unlucky creature – then carries you over his shoulder until he’s dropping you down on a bed of furs.

Your skin flushes with goosebumps at the thought of being skinned the same way – mouthing a little prayer around the cloth he’s split your teeth and lips with. He’s cut trees down as well; you hear their pitiful screams when he lights a fire with their bodies. You mourn them, too.

At his full height, the man must be two heads taller than any male nymph you’ve ever seen and at least three heads taller than you. You hope you’re enough to satisfy him tonight, to spare the forest of further bloodshed.

You shiver and sniffle when he starts prepping you – removing your clothes and groping your tender, fleshy places with a strength you’re not used to – hands large and crass – kneading you like dough – probably to assess the quality of your meat. He has a smile on his face while at it. 

Humans make you sick – to think he’s planning on roasting then eating you despite the soul fueling your spirit and the beating heart in your chest. But you’ve long known that all death but their own matters little to them – they don’t feel the same way nymphs do – they don’t regard life with the same respect they’ve donned themselves. It must be a sad and lonely existence, you think. It even makes you feel a little sorry for him.

You yelp when his gritty fingers brush the area between your legs – shimmying when he lowers his mouth down to the same place. Oh God – does he plan on eating you raw? While your body’s still hot and pumping blood?

But the bite never comes – not yet eating but tasting it would seem – licking and slurping and sucking on you.

He takes his shirt off. Probably to avoid spilling on it, you think.

You don’t really understand what’s going on until he’s got his fat manhood pointed toward your kernel-sized hole. Eyes wide as he splits you apart slowly and unabashedly – as though it isn't as deviant as a dog mating a cat – sinking in inch after meaty inch.

You whimper at the stretch – wincing when the plush mushroom-shaped head grinds against that special place inside you. 

It doesn’t fit more than halfway, but that doesn’t seem to bother him – rolling his head back with a rusty groan, even with just the tip gaining purchase within you – pounding into you like a beast in his rut.

“What's the matter, pretty nymph? Did you think I was gonna eat you?” He laughs, bearing over you – his hands steadying your hips to meet his sharp thrust – each hit deeper than the last. “I’m the only hunter in this forest; I can eat what I want when I want – but eating you?” He scoffed and snickered. “That would just be a waste.”

The blood on his breath makes you wrinkle your nose – squeezing your eyes shut as his tongue sweeps up the tear streaks on your cheek.

“My stomach’s already full. Time to empty my balls.”

[beeftony]

Blue Eye Samurai does something clever with a trope that usually annoys me in samurai fiction, and even quotes it word for word: "The sword is the soul of the samurai."

For the majority of the season, Mizu's sword comes to symbolize that special "something" that gives her an edge over everyone she meets and enables her to perservere, crafted as it was from the meteor that fell from the heavens in a near literal act of divine intervention that saved her as a child. But when she finally meets the target of her vengeance, exhausted from fighting through 9 levels of his castle, the sword is struck by a bullet and snaps in two.

In the following episode, Master Eiji points out that the steel was too pure; too brittle, and that's why it broke. He won't help Mizu keep going down the path of self destruction, and so he has no steel for her. But it's Taigen of all people who gets through to her, saying that all that junk about the sword being the soul of the samurai is just what they tell first year students, and that "the weapon doesn't matter," because Mizu's skill and determination is what gives her power, not the sword.

After failing to reforge the sword in the time between these conversations, Mizu tries again with a little encouragement from Master Eiji, and this time she adds new steel of her own: the broken blade that she made as a child, which found its way into the hands of a merciless assassin, then into the hands of Taigen, a man who swore he would kill her, but whom she saved all the same. The small knife that Akemi attacked her with at first, but later used to save her life. The bell that symbolized Ringo's service to her, that he returned after she crossed a line and he became disgusted with her choices. And finally the tongs that Master Eiji repeatedly bonked her on the head with to correct her mistakes and guide her on the path of self-improvement.

The steel she adds to the fire all comes from the friends she's made along the way, in spite of herself. She folds their words, their lessons, their beliefs into her sword, and in doing so begins to heal and strengthen her own soul.

[arcane-vagabond]

Fool's Fare: Chapter Six

Fool's Fare: Chapter Six

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.

Trigger Warning: Brief mentions of loss of loved ones, Guppy has a meltdown (justified), Talks of Curse, Talks of the supernatural, Sword Fighting, Flirting, Someone gets stabbed (like run through with a sword), Descriptions of blood, Mentions of alcohol, Swearing, Assault but not really (you'll see), Smut (knife play, dry humping, groping, dirty talk, both get off), angst, a smidge of fluff. I think that's it, but let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 5.8k

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It was strange how time changed everything and yet nothing all at once. Time changed the seasons and the tides, caring not for whom it affected. It changed the day to night and back again, it changed youth into age. Yes, time changed. It changed and it took.

It took stone and weathered it away. It took the air that the flame of your candle needed to breathe. It took your happy life and turned it into nothing but distant memories, and it took lives, leaving nothing but others to mourn.

Time had taken your father and then your mother, and now you had to dread the day it would take Bradley away from you too. Time was greedy, and it would take and take and take until you stopped it. Time was your greatest enemy.

“Look alive, Guppy.”

You turned to see Jake strutting across the deck, barely catching the movement of his arm as he threw something to your feet. The bundle landed with a dull clang and you glanced down from your spot at the side of the ship where you had been watching the water race past as it sailed in the open waters.

It had been two days since Jake had revealed the curse to you, and you were still coming to terms with what you now knew.

“You have less than a year to break the curse?” You had breathed, eyes growing wider at the blond’s words as they hung in the air between the two of you.

“I can’t break the curse,” Jake responded, leaning against a stack of crates. “I have less than a year to find the treasure.”

“What’s the difference?” You huffed, shooting him a glare. He rolled his eyes, scoffing as he folded his arms over his broad chest.

“The difference,” he all but spat, “is that even if I have the treasure in my hand, the curse won’t lift until Davy Jones gives his seal of approval.”

“But how are you supposed to know that you have it? What happens if you don’t have it?”

“I imagine that’s part of the punishment, Guppy,” he sighed. “I’m left to sail the ocean for seven years looking for a treasure that could quite literally be anything, and I won’t know if I’ve succeeded until the end of those seven years when I meet him back on that beach.”

“And your crew?” You asked, crossing your own arms as you stared at him, fear clutching at your stomach and forming a pit as you thought of your brother. “How does this curse affect them?”

“That depends,” Jake answered, eyes darting to yours for a brief moment before looking away.

“On what?” You pressed, irritation clawing to the surface at his dodginess.

“On how loyal they are to me.”

“What?” You balked, head jerking back at his words.

“The more loyal a man is to me,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face as he continued to pointedly look away from you, “the more the curse affects them. From the moment a man signs his name over in service to me, the curse will affect him until his time of service is up or until the curse is lifted.”

“But Bradley signed up with less than a year left,” you pointed out, words met with a heavy silence. You stared at the captain in front of you, his face giving nothing away as he stared out over the sea. The realization hit you all at once.

“You knew,” you breathed, a sinking feeling coming to rest in the pit of your stomach. “You knew that he would have to see it through to the end. He would either be free once the curse is lifted or he’d be doomed to sail with you for eternity.”

His eyes met yours then, mossy green swirling with a mixture of emotions that you couldn’t even begin to try and place. No, you were too angry. Angry at the man in front of you for tricking your brother into the possibility of eternal servitude. Angry at your brother for his casual recklessness by signing up for a crew he knew nothing about. Angry at how little time you had to fix all of it.

“You looked at me in that pub, knew how desperate I was for him to not go, and still you let him sign away his life to you,” you seethed, hot, angry tears gathering in your eyes. Jake had the decency to look ashamed by your words, but still you continued. “He’s all I have left, did you even stop to consider that? If something happens to him-”

A sob ripped its way through you, the harsh, ugly sound of your anguish jarring to your ears. Jake’s eyes widened as he watched you, and had you not been feeling like your world was crashing down around you, you might have laughed at the uneasy expression on his handsome features. Sucking in a breath in an attempt to calm yourself, you clutched at your skirt, fingers tensed so hard you feared they might freeze that way.

“If something happens to him,” you croaked, your breaths coming out in shuddering waves as you once again locked eyes with the blond in front of you, malice pouring from you with such vitriol, you saw him physically recoil away from you, “I will have nothing. Do you hear me? I will be all alone in this world, Jake Seresin. Nothing to my name and no one to call home. I will be forced to find some way to provide for myself, knowing that there was nothing I could do to save the only family I had left in this world.”

You took a step away from him, scrubbing furiously at your eyes and cheeks, desperately trying to pull yourself together.

“Guppy.”

Your eyes snapped open, head whipping towards the stairs leading to the galley. Bradley stood at the top step, a pained expression on his face as he watched you. Watched as you came to the realization that your lifeline, him, was slowly disappearing with nothing you could do to stop it. No, that wasn’t true. You just had to find the treasure that Davy Jones deemed worthy, and then this whole nightmare would be over. Jake already had his hands on the Soul of Polaris, which was as good a thing to place your trust in as any.

Sucking in a breath, you shot one last glare to Jake, noticing how he had schooled his features to show no hint of emotion.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain?” You snapped, hands clenched back at your sides, venom dripping from every word. He studied you for a second more before shaking his head slowly.

“No,” he murmured, voice thicker than before. “You’re dismissed.”

Without another word, and without sparing another glance at Bradley, you stalked off towards the cabin, feeling both sets of eyes on you as you slammed the door shut behind you.

And now here you were two days later, having not talked to much of anyone save for a few clipped responses. You eyed the bundle distastefully, glancing up to see Jake shrugging off his coat, leaving him in his simple, white shirt and trousers. The top few buttons were undone on his shirt, exposing the broad expanse of his chest to the midday sun, and you tried to ignore the way you could see the hairs of his chest peeking out from behind the fabric. You would certainly never admit to how your mouth watered at the sight.

“What?” You snapped, crossing your arms as you glared at the captain. He smirked at you, green eyes twinkling as he dropped down to peel the sleeve back from the bundle. His hands wrapped around the silver hilt of a sword, the metal gleaming in the sun as he lifted it, weighing it in his hands before handing it over, the hilt side towards you.

A breeze rushed through, rippling the fabric of his shirt and revealing more skin in the process, and you could feel your cheeks heat up at the sight of more of his golden skin on display.

You were snapped out of your trance by the sound of chuckling, glaring up at the blond as he grinned lasciviously at you.

“See something you like?” He asked, a knowing gleam in his eyes as you huffed.

“Something I’d like to run through with this rapier, maybe,” you scowled, grabbing the hilt perhaps a little too forcefully.

Jake chuckled, stepping back and allowing some distance between the two of you. You stared at the sword in your hand dumbly, wondering just what exactly he wanted you to do with it. Your question was soon answered when he settled into a fighting stance, feet planted firmly on the deck while his right hand stretched out, sword pointed at you.

“What are you doing?” You asked dryly, a frown tugging at the corner of your lips as you looked at the sword in your grasp before glancing back up at him. His smirk remained steadfast as he relaxed back into a normal stance, gesturing at you with quick flicks of the metal in his hand.

“A little birdy told me that you never learned how to use a sword,” he explained, scowling slightly as he repeated the information. “That’s unacceptable from members of my crew.”

“A little birdy told you?” You repeated with a hum, eyes glancing over towards the area of the ship where you last saw Bradley. He was pointedly looking away from you, inspecting the ropes on the side of the ship, his only giveaway being the red at the tips of his ears. Looking back at Jake, you arched a brow.

“Yes, a little birdy,” he affirmed, a face of faux seriousness now stretched across his features. “It amazes me that your father never thought it wise to teach you this skill.”

“Yes, well,” you sneered, “he didn’t think it prudent that I know a great many things, as it would turn out.”

“A shame,” Jake hummed, nodding solemnly. “It’s a good thing that I’m here to rectify the situation. Imagine if word got out that the daughter of the legendary pirate captain Maverick Mitchell couldn’t even use a sword properly.”

“Legendary, huh?” You snorted, rolling your eyes with a wry smile. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Movement around you seemed to stop as the words left your lips, and you glanced around to see several members of the crew giving you odd looks. Your eyes trained back on the blond in front of you as he arched an eyebrow at you.

“You really have no idea, do you?” He hummed, chuckling at your blank expression. He took the few steps across the deck and back towards you, so close that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. “Your father is one of the most well known pirates to have ever lived. Some who fear him and others who revere him.”

“And where do you stand?” You asked him, cursing how small your voice sounded as you gazed up at him.

“Well,” he smirked, “I wasn’t on the seas long enough to fear him, so I suppose you can count me as one of his admirers.”

“Tell me about him?” You asked before you could remember the fact that you were supposed to be angry with the man in front of you. His smirk turned devilish as he looked you over from top to bottom, teeth catching his bottom lip before humming and backing up once more.

“Practice first,” he declared, shifting back into his fighting stance, arm once again outstretched towards you. “Now copy my stance.”

You eyed him, slowly moving to copy him, hoping that you were doing it right. Jake’s lips pursed as he studied you, the disapproval dashing any hopes that you had managed to copy him correctly. He let out a sigh, dropping out of the stance to walk over towards you. He circled you, stopping at your back, and you waited with bated breath. His hands slowly slid to hold your hips, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin at the unexpected contact.

“Easy, Guppy,” he chuckled, the low sound sending a shiver up your spine and heat to your cheeks.

Slowly, Jake repositioned you, and irritatingly you noticed the difference in balance as he did so.

“You want to angle your hips like this,” he murmured into your ear, his breath fanning in warm waves across your cheek. “Feel the difference?”

Not trusting yourself to speak, you gave a jerky nod, pointedly refusing to turn and meet his eyes.

“Good girl,” he hummed, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. You felt him smirk against you as you let out a gasp. His fingertips lingered on your hips for a moment before he moved to reposition your arm. Once he was satisfied, he took his spot in front of you once more.

“How’s about a deal, Guppy?” He asked, brow arching once more as he watched you. “For every hit you land on me, I’ll tell you something about your father.”

“What about when you land a hit on me?” You questioned, frowning lightly. His smirk grew as he readied himself.

“For every hit I land on you,” he drawled, lifting his sword, “I get a minute of your company.”

“That’s ridicul-”

Before you could finish, he lunged, catching you off guard and managing to land a tap at your shoulder. You blustered, staring at him with mouth agape as he smiled at you smugly.

“That doesn’t count!” You cried, glaring at him. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Rule number one of pirateering, Guppy,” he grinned, “always be prepared for the unexpected. That’s one minute of your time for me.”

You scowled at him, lunging forward with your sword, a strike he easily blocked. The clashing of metal rang out across the deck and the crew gathered to watch with growing interest.

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that if you want to land a blow,” he mocked, lunging forward once more. You attempted to dodge, veering right clumsily. You let out an indignant squawk as he hit your ass with the broad side of his blade, shooting him a murderous look as he laughed at you.

“That’s two minutes.”

The two of you carried on for about half an hour before you finally asked for a break. Your chest heaved with exertion, limbs and lungs burning for oxygen as you hunched over against your knees. There had been a couple of times where you could have landed a blow, but it had been too risky. The chances you had would have led to serious injury, and you weren’t keen on seriously injuring or maiming your captain just yet. Jake seemed to know what you were doing, as each time you didn’t take the shot, the smile from his face grew smaller and smaller until he was openly glaring at you.

“Again,” he commanded, whipping his blade to his side with a loud thwip as it cut through the air. “And this time act like you want to land a blow.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You snapped, straightening up a little in indignation.

“There were twelve times where you could have landed a blow on me,” he scowled, “and you didn’t. Quit wasting opportunities to strike at me.”

“Apologies, Captain, if I’m not in the mood to take another plunge overboard for maiming you,” you sneered. Jake barked a humorless laugh, a wry smiling curling on his lips.

“Is that what this is about?” He asked, a dangerous glint in his eye. “You think you’re going to hurt me?”

You said nothing, watching him wearily as he took slow, measured steps towards you. You straightened up as he drew near, raising your sword, uncertain if he was going to strike. He paused, glancing down for a brief second before back up at you, something akin to pride sparked in his eyes before flashing back to the ire he now directed at you.

“At least you learned something,” he snickered, drawing closer, and in your uncertainty, you raised your sword higher, trying to put some distance between the two of you. His lips curled dangerously, causing your heart to race for a completely different reason now. He took another step towards you, and you pressed the tip of your sword into his stomach, cursing the small tremor in your hands.

Pausing, Jake once again glanced down at the blade before locking eyes with you. He took another step, the sharp blade piercing his skin and allowing rivulets of scarlet red to run down his golden skin in sharp contrast. You inhaled sharply as he took another step, further impaling himself on the blade. Jake let out a quiet grunt as he took yet another step, eyes never straying from yours as he did so. Finally, he stopped, and you stared with horrified fascination as the stream of blood soaked his shirt and trousers, some dripping onto the wood below him.

“Neither alive, nor dead,” he murmured, something else mixing with the anger now. “I can feel pain, but no harm will come to me while this curse ensnares my soul, Guppy.”

He reached out a hand to brush your face, and it was then that you realized that you were crying. Fingers danced across the apple of your cheek, trailing down to tilt your head back. His thumb rested on the pillow of your bottom lip, stroking slightly.

“You can’t hurt me, Guppy,” he continued, a look of solemnity now on his face as he studied you. “But things can still hurt you, and I’ll be damned if I let you continue on not being able to defend yourself.”

He stepped back, taking the sword with him as it fell from your grasp. With a hiss, he pulled it from his gut, wiping the blade down on his already ruined trousers. He glanced around at the crew, features shifting to one of annoyance before settling on cold.

“Get back to work,” he snapped, and with that the crew scurried to occupy themselves. Jake didn’t spare you another glance before stalking off towards the cabins, the door slamming shut behind him. It was the loud sound that set you in motion, whirling around to once again take purchase by the railing of the ship. You scrubbed furiously at your eyes, making a point to ignore the crew members who walked past you, shooting you sympathetic looks as they prepared to dock for the night. You settled on the railing, curling in on yourself as a figure saddled up next to you, facing the sea as the ship raced toward the shore.

“Guppy,” Bradley sighed, glancing over at you with worry clear on his face.

“What?” You mumbled miserably, refusing to meet his eyes. The two of you stayed in silence for a moment. You, wishing that you could disappear, and Bradley, waiting for you to acknowledge what happened.

“You can’t stay mad at him,” he said finally, looking back out at the water. You shot him a glare at that.

“The hell I can’t.”

“You can’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “Because he’s not the one you’re really mad at.”

“Of course I’m mad at him,” you protested, eyes shifting back to the sea. “None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for him!”

He looked back at you then, a condescending look on his face.

“Guppy,” he chided. You glanced back at him, frowning at the knowing smile on his face. “You and I both know you’re lying.”

You glared at him, pressing your face into your arms where they rested atop your knees.

“Fine,” he sighed, grasping the railing and leaning back, head tilted toward the sky. “You can pretend that he’s the one to blame, but you and I both know that the one you’re really mad at is me.”

“What?” You frowned, sitting up to look at him.

“You’re mad at me for choosing to leave,” he continued, shrugging as if it didn’t bother him. “You feel like you can’t blame me though because you think it’ll push me away and you can’t stand the thought of losing me. So instead, you focus all the anger you have for me on the next best thing, but I’m telling you, he’s not the one to blame here.”

“You want me to be mad at you?” You asked, brow furrowing in confusion. He gave a one sided shrug, peering at you past his nose.

“I want you to be honest with me about how you’re feeling,” he replied. “I want you to be mad at me if that’s what you’re feeling. It was my choice to sign up for the crew. It was my choice to leave. I made choices, Guppy, and you can’t be mad at other people for it.”

You chewed over his words silently, feeling some of the tension slip from your shoulders. Bradley gave you a soft smile, knocking his shoulder against yours.

“Anyway, he’s right,” he added, looking at you seriously. “You need to be able to protect yourself, and that’s why I picked up this at the last port.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small dagger, the hilt a simple brown and the metal shining in the afternoon sun. You took it from him, eyes widening with intrigue as you inspected the gift.

“Come on, kid,” he chuckled, stepping back away from the railing and gesturing for you to follow. “We’ve got work to do.”

The pub was crowded as you sat wedged in between Bradley and Mickey, several different groups singing their own shanties off key. The room smelled of stale beer and old piss, and you inspected the mug in front of you with weary eyes. Wrinkling your nose, you pushed the glass back, eyeing the room around you. Your pub back home would never be this dirty.

“Having fun yet?” Mickey called over the roar of the crowd. You rolled your eyes, giving him a half-hearted scowl as you gestured to the people around you.

“You call this having fun?” You asked him, causing his head to tip back in laughter as his dark curls bounced around his face.

“You get used to finding amusement after years of not being able to get drunk,” he explained, shrugging good-naturedly. “Besides, best to make the most of a rotten situation, right? We all have to be here to show strength as we get new recruits.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?” You frowned. “Knowing that those men have no idea what they’re signing up for?”

“Does anyone really know what they’re signing up for?” He countered. “I mean, really, truly know. Sure you have an idea, but anything can happen when you’re out at sea.”

“I suppose that’s true,” you sighed, absentmindedly rubbing at your shoulder, the muscles still sore from your impromptu sword fighting lesson from that morning. Mickey watched you for a moment, concern shining in his eyes.

“You look like you could use some rest,” he murmured, moving to stand and catching Bradley’s attention in the process. “Why don’t I take you back to the ship?”

“You’re leaving?” Bradley asked, studying you for any signs that something might be wrong. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, no,” you said, waving them off. “You two should stay. Wouldn’t want the captain getting angry that I stole two of his men away.”

“Guppy,” Bradley started, a scowl dancing across his face. You put a hand up to stop him.

“I mean it, I’ll be fine. Besides,” you chirped, pulling out the dagger that Bradley had handed you earlier that day, “I have this. If anyone tries to mess with me, I’ll just stick this where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Bradley eyes you wearily, looking like he was going to argue, but stopped when something caught his eye. He pressed his lips together before slowly nodding.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Yeah, okay. Just be careful, alright?”

You gave him one last smile before pushing your way through the crowd and out into the streets.

It wasn’t surprising how quiet all seemed around you given how late it was. The only sounds to be heard coming from the pub and the neighboring brothel. You began your trek back towards the docks, relishing in the cool, night air that blew around you. Humming a tune to yourself, it was a few minutes before you noticed the sound of footsteps behind you. You slowly and carefully reached for the blade at your side, wrapping your fingers around the hilt just as fingers wrapped around your upper arm, twisting you around. You sucked in a breath of air as you moved to stab your assailant in the groin, wincing as they gripped the wrist that held the dagger, pushing you up against the nearest building. You let out a grunt as your back hit the wall, closing your eyes at the sharp pain running up your back.

“Just because you can’t kill me, doesn’t mean that it won’t hurt, sweet girl.”

Your eyes snapped open to lock onto mossy green. Jake stared down at you, an amused smirk on his face as he watched you catch up to what was happening.

“You,” you breathed, brow pinching in confusion.

“Followed you out of the pub to make sure you didn’t get into any trouble, but it took me a minute to catch up with you,” he explained, sounding bored. His hands wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, taking it out of your hand and holding it up to the lamplight. “This is cute, is this new?”

You were suddenly keenly aware of the position you found yourself in. Back pressed against the wall, Jake’s hips pinning you there as he held both of your wrists in one hand, the other still examining the blade.

“Just got it today, Captain,” you huffed, scowling up at the man in question. The corner of his lips twitched as he turned his attention back to you.

“You should be careful about how you throw that word around, pretty girl,” he smirked, twirling the knife before pressing the flat of it to the tip of your nose in a quick tap. “You’d be surprised at the kind of effect it has on a man.”

You gasped as he pressed closer, the hard planes of him settling against you as his breath washed over you. Gazing up at him, you jutted your chin out in a challenge.

“How’s that, Captain?” You pressed. Jake’s smirk grew as he dragged the knife from the tip of your nose, down across your lips and chin, over the swell of your breasts, and stopping at the string that held your shirt together. He dipped the dagger under the string, pulling quickly so that the fabric cut in one, swift motion.

“Hey!” You cried indignantly, glaring at him as he did the same to the next three strands.

“I had to ruin a perfectly good shirt today in order to teach you a lesson,” he drawled, eyeing you with a purse of his lips. “Seems only fair that I get to return the favor.”

“I think this is hardly an equal punishment,” you gritted, squirming against him as a flush of heat rose to your cheeks. Your shirt did little to cover you from any eyes that might see you in that moment, but that was a thought that twitted at the back of your mind. No, you were too focused on the way Jake’s own eyes roamed over you, hunger growing with every swipe over your exposed skin.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he murmured, eyes locking back onto yours. He leaned forward, his lips grazing yours, smirking as he pulled back slightly only for you to chase him. “But, I do have thirty minutes of your company to claim.”

His lips were on yours before you could respond, molding against yours as you moaned at his touch. His free hand dragged up your side before groping your breast through the scraps of your newly destroyed shirt. Squeezing, his tongue dove into your mouth as you gasped into him, practically devouring you whole. You arched into his touch, using your now free hands to run through his surprisingly soft, blond locks and dragging him closer to you. You were barely aware of him tucking the dagger into the band of his pants as he grabbed the back of your thighs, hoisting your legs up and around his waist.

His lips left yours then, hot open-mouthed kisses placed furiously across your jaw and down your neck. You tilted your head to the side, giving him more access that he freely used to nip and suck at the skin you offered him.

“So soft,” he breathed, nuzzling your shoulder as his right hand came up to squeeze your breast once again. “Never felt anyone so soft.”

You let out a loud cry as he gave a rather harsh bite to your shoulder, your hands tugging on the strands of his hair in a manner you were sure had to be painful.

“Make the prettiest, little noises, pretty girl,” he hummed, looking up at you long enough to see the devilish smirk that worked its way onto his handsome face. “Don’t even have you around my cock yet, and you already look this fucked out.”

“Jake,” you breathed, gasping as he pressed his hips further into you. You could feel the hard length of him through his trousers and from where your skirt had ridden up.

“You feel what you do to me?” He asked. “You’ve been doing this since the first moment I laid eyes on you. Been thinking about how tight your pussy is going to feel wrapped around me. Been fucking my hand at the very thought of you milking me dry.”

You moaned at his words, rolling your hips into his as you peppered kisses across his face. Jake closed his eyes, seeming to relish in the attention you were bestowing upon him, one hand moving around to grab your ass as the other lavished attention at your nipple. He hauled you against him, grinding you down onto the prominent bulge.

“You like the sound of that?” He murmured, ducking his head back down to your neck, biting a particularly sensitive patch of skin then quickly laving it with his tongue. “Like the sound of me filling you up? Dirty girl, I bet you love the idea that anyone could see us right now. See how you’re falling apart for me even though I’m barely touching you.”

His teeth dug into the juncture of your shoulder and neck, and your cry of pain quickly dissolved into a moan of pleasure. Jake hummed, running his nose up and down the length of your neck.

“My pretty girl likes pain, huh?” He hummed. You were too lost in the sensations of pleasure he was pulling from you to notice his hand letting go of your ass to reach for his trousers. You jumped as the cool sensation of metal once again dragged across the swell of your breasts, your eyes popping open to stare down at where Jake ran the tip of the dagger across your skin. Not hard enough to cut, but enough for you to feel the pressure.

You hissed as he pressed the tip of the blade into the skin of your left breast, the sting quickly giving way to a wave of pleasure as he placed his lips over the cut, his tongue swirling over the skin. Your head hit the wall behind you as you let out a wanton cry of pleasure, feeling Jake smirk against you.

“My dirty girl likes that, huh?” He crooned, tossing the dagger to the ground and using the same hand to wrap in your hair as he forced you to look at him. He ground his bulge into your beating core, moaning at the heat radiating off of you as he crashed his lips to yours.

“Such a good girl for me, Guppy,” he moaned as he pulled away, bringing his right hand up from your breast. His thumb rested on your bottom lip before pushing the tip into your mouth. You suckled at it on instinct, never breaking eye contact as he groaned at the feel of your tongue laving over the digit.

“Fuck,” he hissed, picking up his pace. You let out quiet cries as the coil in your abdomen began to tighten, Fingers falling to his shoulders and leaving angry, red welts in their wake.

“That’s it,” he groaned, rutting into you. “Mark me, sweet girl. Show everyone who I belong to. Wanna wear your marks for days.”

You sucked harder at his thumb as you attempted to meet his thrusts, chest heaving with exertion. Jake saw the look on your face, taking his thumb out of your mouth to push your hair back.

“Come on, Guppy,” he crooned, losing himself in the sensations of you as he chased both of your highs. “Be a good girl for me, yeah? I can see how close you are, can practically feel your pretty little cunt fluttering against me. Can’t wait to be buried balls deep inside of you, feel you squeezing around me. Feel me leaking out of you. I’s okay though, I’d just push it back into you, and then I’d fill you up again and again until you’re swelling with me.”

You moaned at his words, jerking when a particularly hard thrust hit the sensitive nub at the juncture of your thighs, sending you over the edge with a loud cry. Jake thrust against you a few more times before stilling, sinking his teeth into the skin of your neck as he panted his release.

His hands rested on your thighs, smoothing up and down the exposed skin in gentle strokes as the two of you calmed down. Your hands ran through his hair gently, humming your content as you placed soft kisses to his temple.

“I’m sorry.”

Your brow furrowed as you glanced down at him, fingers stilling in his hair.

“For what?” You asked. His fingers stilled at your hips, gripping a little tighter as he stayed wrapped in your embrace.

“For all of it,” he whispered, pressing his face tighter to you. “For being an ass. For tricking Bradley into signing. For not saying something sooner about the curse. For being the reason you might be all alone.”

He trailed off near the end, and for a minute, neither of you said anything. Instead, you scratched the back of his head, earning a contented hum that almost sounded like a purr. Sighing, you rested your cheek against the top of his head, holding him closer.

“Bradley made his own choices,” you whispered, closing your eyes. 

A/N: I don't think this is my best smut, which is disappointing considering this was supposed to be alley scene 2.0, but alas, it is what it is. As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! You can also find my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond.

[politemenacephd]

Arachnophilia: (Part Thirty-three)

Drider!Miguel O'Hara x Reader (+18)

Chapter Masterlist 🕷️

The HQ was lulled into a strange, quiet limbo in the wake of what came to be called ‘the serum fiasco’.

The details of what happened were whispered from person to person as everyone waited for Lyla to confirm that the anomaly was contained, and on the way the story turned into a strange amalgamation of its former self. Piece by piece things changed and shifted, details being embellished or lost.

People loved a good story. They loved a good villain, too. So why not whisper about how this giant, monstrous version of Miguel, the vampire, the beast, created an anomaly out of a twisted, lustful desire?

The Spider Society was made up of so many people, so many beings, and that inclusivity was brandished like a righteous sword on the outside. All belonged here. But a spider was still a spider, and just as Mig had feared, people hated spiders.

That black-and-white thinking seeped across the multiverse like a virus, and on that quiet, somber evening, it found its way into the whispered gossip of his colleagues’ mouths.

Thankfully the anomaly did not spread. The elites managed to stop it before it breached anything beyond Miguel’s office, leaving the HQ largely untouched, but the real damage it did wasn’t physical. It was mental.

The damage was in Mig’s broken, dull, glassy eyes as he sat folded on the floor. The damage was in Miguel’s cold red stare, his dissociative empty expression as he tried to pretend he wasn’t falling apart inside. The damage was inside you, in the storm of emotions you were feeling.

It was hard, but you couldn’t say that, could you? Mig was a mess, and he needed you at his side, which left very little room to acknowledge your own feelings.

Your own agony…

Mig loved you. He loved you so fiercely, so genuinely, that you’d forgotten the barriers between you. The logical part of your brain that used to flinch at the sight of his enormous spindly legs had been drowned out by kisses and whispers, by the word ‘arañita’ moaned against your forehead. Your naïve fascination, your tender growing adoration, had caused everything else to just melt away.

You forgot that Mig was from a whole other universe to you. You forgot he was a hybrid of man and spider. You’d always known your love was forbidden, nigh frowned upon, but even that had been drowned out if not met with outright disdain. He was your Mig, who cared what people thought?

But you couldn’t ignore it now.  

There was an unspoken expectation on you that evening, one that you saw in the eyes of everyone who passed you by.

There was an expectation on you to be the smart one, the reasonable one, and for you to leave Mig of your own volition. There was a sadness in the air, a pitiable sympathy, like someone putting an injured racehorse out of its misery. You were supposed to put the metaphorical gun between Mig’s eyes, and end this charade of an affair.

You’d look at Mig occasionally, and while he never met your gaze, you knew he’d felt it too. It thrummed in the air like static. He felt their judgement, and it sank into his flesh like a knife.

A human could not love a spider.

It disgusted you. It infuriated you.

Why couldn’t you love him?! He was more of a human than anyone else here. He loved like a human, he needed like a human, he WAS a human for gods sake. He was yours. He was yours. He was all you had.

You hadn’t realized how truly lonely, how truly miserable you’d been until you’d met him. He was your friend, your confidante, your lover, your biggest supporter. He was everything to you, and you were everything to him. Yes, you had issues. He was possessive, blunt, and driven to foolish flights of desperation, but you could work through it. You could DO this.

You weren’t ready to give up. You just hoped it wasn’t too late for Mig.

He was so quiet, so cold, it was agony to see him this way. You got no insight into his mental state, no little snippets to soothe your anxiety. You had no idea what he was thinking.

What if he decided to end it?

That whole evening you clung to Mig’s hand, refusing to ever let go. You couldn’t dare. He was your Mig, and you would not part with him.

Once the anomaly was confirmed to have been subdued, Miguel approached you in silence. He didn’t tell you what to do. He just stared, his eyes sombre and yet unwittingly affectionate.

‘You… You’re free to go home’ he murmured after clearing his throat. He used his watch to draw up a portal that would lead you back to Mig’s universe.

‘They won’t stop us?’ you instinctively asked. You were aware of the other elites watching from their vantage points around the open HQ, staring down like vultures.

Miguel shook his head. ‘No. No, they won’t. I spoke to everyone, it… It won’t make a difference to let you carry on as you are, as you have been for the past few months. You can go home. I… Suggest, that you go home.’

He fixed you with those cold, red eyes, and you fixed him with your own intense stare. You weren’t the same frightened newby you were before, skittering beneath his authority.

And Miguel knew it. His eyes softened as they stared into your own, and you watched that cold red glow turn warm and wet and wild, flickering like a dying fire. His face remained stern, but his eyes betrayed how he really felt.

He was scared. Just as scared as you.

‘Go home’ he murmured, and without another word he turned and stomped back towards where his office was being rebuilt.

Soon it was just you and Mig, sitting in silence amidst the destroyed decorations. A broken bat swung in a circle above your head, and bunting lay crushed and dirtied at your feet. You took in a deep breath and turned to face Mig.

‘We… He’s right. We should go home’ you whispered. ‘You don’t need to put up with all of this right now.’

Mig nodded, but he didn’t speak beyond that. You would have given anything to hear his voice again.

In silence you used your watch to create a portal back to his universe. You reached out your hand for him to take, and while there was a brief second where you thought he might reject your touch, you soon felt his thick, calloused fingers wrapping tightly around your own.

Together, you stepped through the portal and went home.

He barely spoke as you made your way into the den you’d both built together. He’d stop you every few steps just to lift you up and over any obstacles you’d missed in the dark, such as brambles and rocks, but beyond that he was silent.

You led him by the hand into the den. He almost refused, physically freezing in denial, as if he couldn’t handle going back to the home he’d made for you with the knowledge he now had. You had to coax him in by burying your face into his abdominal fluff, soothing his pain with gentle pets and small kisses.

‘That’s it’ you’d whisper when he took a tentative step, ‘that’s it. Come here, my love. I’m here.’

Step by step, inch by inch, you lured him down into the depths. Your den was just as warm as ever, almost as if mocking you with its indifference to your sombre mood.

The lamps in the earthen walls were burning with fiery, orange light, and the air was warm and sweet. It smelled like fur and dry wood, with a hint of cinnamon from when you last cooked. The silk-spun rugs were soft underfoot, and soon you were surrounded by homely bliss. Your fire hob, your pictures poorly pinned to the wall, your clothes on the floor and your empty plates in the water basin.

You saw books half-read, electronics still being tinkered with, and your skincare bag sitting on the floor by a mirror from this morning.

It twisted your heart until it hurt. You didn’t even want to think how Mig must be feeling.

With his hand still clutched in yours you led the way down the den’s tight tunnels to your bedroom, and only once inside did Mig take control. He grasped you with both hands and lifted you to his chest, clutching so tightly that his claws dug through your suit. You didn’t have time to protest, but you wouldn’t have even if you could.

You clung to him, burying your face into his bare chest, as he took you to the bed.

He collapsed on top of you, smothering you with his skin and fur, and all eight legs came to entrap you in that tight embrace. He lay awake in the nest with your body clutched to his abdomen, squeezing you like a child squeezing their plush toy, and you squeezed him right back.

You weren’t sure how much time passed in that bed. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, but however long it was, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

‘… I love you.’

Mig’s voice breaking the silence broke your heart along with it. He sounded so defeated. As he spoke he shifted, pulling you closer, and your gripped his fur with every ounce of strength you had left.

‘I love you too’ you whispered.

Mig shuddered as he breathed in. ‘… I am so sorry’ he croaked. ‘What I’ve done to you—’

‘No. Stop. Stop it’ you interjected. It took all your strength to not sob. ‘Stop it. I love you, Mig. I love you, and I don’t regret a single thing. I never have, and I never will.’

‘Arañita…’

His voice cracked as he spoke your nickname, and you shook your head to fight back your own tears.

‘No, no. It’s okay.’

‘Arañita—’

‘We’re still together, mi amor’ you whispered. ‘I won’t let them separate us. I promise.’

Mig didn’t respond. He just clutched you a little tighter, a little harder.

‘It’s not… It’s not, perfect’ you murmured in between stroking his flank. ‘It’s not. I know that. I have to wear the wristwatch to be stable, and… And, obviously, there’s a few other things.’

‘A few other things’ Mig repeated back coldly. He wasn’t mad at you, but it didn’t help to hear the sting in his tone, the hopelessness he was facing. 

‘I know… He said, about kids—’

As you forced yourself to speak again, conjuring up what little positive energy you had left, Mig abruptly shifted in your grasp. You fell silent as he moved into the light, as the flame began to flicker across his gaunt expression.

He looked so haunted. Those deep grooves and dark shadows filled in around his eyes and his downturned lips, and you realized with some horror that he’d lost those lines since meeting you.

You’d seen them before when you first met, when you’d first encountered that scuttling, frightened, nervous man in the woods, carrying his trauma like a weight on his spine, but since then they’d dulled. They’d loosened, softened, eased by days then weeks and then months of smiling at your antics.

But there they were again. It was enough to make your throat choke up.

‘Mig’ you whimpered. His eyes softened a little in the face of your pain, and with a shuddered gasp he cupped your face in his hand.

‘It’s not about the babies’ Mig whispered back. In the flickering firelight, his expression was hard to parse. The shadows on his deep-set eyes seemed to shift, filling in the contours of his knotted brows and the lines in his forehead.

‘… It’s not about babies. I can live without babies. It’s about you.’

‘… Mig, what do you mean, sweetheart?’

‘... It’s about you’ he repeated in a whimper. ‘It’s about, you. Because we—’

He paused and pursed his lips. He seemed to be struggling to speak this next part, whatever it was. ‘When we die, arañita… Where do we go?’

For a brief moment your pain turned to confusion. You sniffled and frowned.

‘I… I don’t, know, Mig.’

‘Neither do I. I tell myself we go nowhere, as a scientist that is my lot in life, but… It is, somewhat hard to believe that now. When I’ve seen other worlds, other realities, when I know that they are all possible.’

You listened to his soft-spoken rambling while still tucked into his fur, your brow still knotted as you tried to parse what he meant.

‘… It can’t be that, people from every universe, share the same afterlife. Can it?’ he whispered.

You felt a burning pain in your eyes that compelled you to blink, only for you to realize you were crying. You looked down at the bed to escape your own agony.

‘The idea… That when we die, you might go somewhere else… And for eternity, I’ll be waiting for you, mi tesoro, waiting for you to come home…’

Mig couldn’t stand the idea that you would never belong. The idea you’d have to wear a metaphorical collar just to survive in his universe, the idea that if you removed your watch or left the society that you’d never be able to be his…

He couldn’t live like that. There was no real future. Forcing you to live on knifes edge for his selfish love…

And yet, he still couldn’t give you up.

With a soft sob he pulled you closer, burying you in his fur. You felt his human arms squeezing the life out of you. ‘… Mi amor’ he whispered, his voice barely a choked whimper, ‘mi amor…  Don’t go.’

You squeezed him back with a sob. ‘I’m not going anywhere’ you wailed. ‘Mig, I-I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I promise.’

‘Don’t go.’

He just kept repeating it, over and over into your ear, and nothing you said seemed to soothe him.

…

While you eventually fell asleep in Mig’s grasp, he couldn’t find the same respite. He watched you as you slept instead. He watched and caressed you, gently brushing the same piece of hair out of your eyes over and over like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. This simple, tender touch, repeated forever.

He’d never get tired of seeing you at peace like this. Even after all the stress of the day, the knowledge that he could lull you into the depths of a warm, dreamless sleep, with your lips parted and a trail of drool slowly accumulating on his fur, kept him sane.

He loved you, and he needed you, and when he saw you like this, he felt like you needed him too.

It wasn’t just instinct. He was a spider, yes, but he was a man too. Your man.

He couldn’t give you up.

He had to do something.

He shifted out of bed at around 3am, being extremely careful not to wake you as he did. Luckily you were exhausted, and even though you sleepily clung to his fur, you did not stir when he pried your hands aside.

He left you to sleep beneath the pile of silk blankets that he’d knitted for you, and silent as the night, he slipped away.

Mig crept out of the den and into the cold night, where he used his own watch to create a portal. All alone, he slipped back into the HQ.

When he stepped through the portal it was eerily quiet. The decorations were still up but the entire building seemed empty, to the point that it was almost uncanny. The open lobby wound upwards like a honeycomb made up of cold, white pillars, its surfaces sterile beneath the moon as it shone in through the glass walls. That great inner sanctum echoed with every step he took.

Mig walked his way through those empty corridors with no real plan in mind, wandering aimlessly as if on autopilot. He had no real intention of winding up where he did, but in hindsight, it was obvious that that was where he was heading. He padded his fluffy spider paws up, up, until at long last he wound up back on the edge of Miguel’s lab.

The empty doorway to the office gaped at him like a maw, creaking like a ship on a windy night. It seemed to move as he swayed in place. He felt like prey being lured towards something, some dark

He pushed aside broken beams and rebar to go deeper, forcing his way through the darkness towards a single, distant beam of light.

When he finally stumbled back into the office, he realized that the light was from a hole in the ceiling where the anomaly had ripped away the coating, allowing the distant moonlight to trickle downward. It created a perfectly cruel spotlight right over the broken glass on the floor by the broken desk in its centre.

Broken glass. Broken dreams.

He huffed and watched his breath turn to vapor in the air.

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

That familiar voice caused his hackles to raise, but Mig didn’t turn. He knew who it was, and he had no desire to speak to them. He allowed the silence to drag out until it became nigh unbearable, and then he dragged it out some more.

‘… I suppose I don’t blame you for coming, though.’

Miguel lowered his voice when he spoke again. His footsteps echoed as he walked out from his hiding space in the doorway and into the open, slowly rounding the giant spider hybrid so he could catch him face-to-face.

‘I’d be stupid to do that’ he added.

‘You would’ Mig growled.

Miguel paused once he was standing about three feet from Mig’s side, and there he stayed, staring ahead at the ruins of their ambition.

‘… How are they doing?’ Miguel asked.

‘…’

Mig, again, refused to speak. Miguel sighed. He felt his brow twitching, threatening to knot, but he held himself to some account.

‘… How are you doing?’ he asked instead.

‘I feel… Abstracted’ Mig replied in a cold, empty voice. Miguel’s brows twitched again.

‘Abstracted. You—’

‘I feel… Numb’ Mig continued, cutting Miguel off mid-query. ‘It’s not like a dream. I’ve felt that before. When I met… Them, mi arañita, that felt like a dream. It took me a while to realize it was real, that they were real. But this…’ He flexed his claws until his knuckles popped. ‘This is—’

‘A nightmare?’ Miguel cut in.

‘No. No, not a nightmare. That would still be a dream. This is the opposite… This is real.’ Mig paused his speech to swallow, only to discover a lump in his throat and tears in the back of his eyes. His barely suppressed agony was lingering there, choking him.

‘It’s all… Real. This is reality. It feels as if I have finally woken up after a long, long, happy dream, and now I’m here. I’m, me. I’m a monster who thought he could love something beautiful.’

‘… It’s like the universe reminding you of who you are. What you are’ Miguel replied.

Mig snorted in surprise, and for a moment his walls lowered enough for him to glance at Miguel below him. Miguel didn’t move. He was resting his chin on his hand while his other rested on his hip, and he looked a million miles away.

‘Just… A reminder that fate has other plans. Right?’

‘A reminder that this was all just a dream’ Mig concurred.

The two men stood in silence as water dripped down from the leaks in the ceiling above. The office felt dead, like the cavernous maw of some long-downed creature. The wide, dramatic space and high ceilings used to exist to give Miguel space, to isolate him from the world, but now that isolation felt like it was mocking them both. It was eerie to stare into.

‘I know that feeling’ Miguel eventually murmured. ‘I do.’

‘What feeling?’

‘The dream’ Miguel continued. His eyes roamed the cold walls. ‘The feeling that everything is too good to be true. That you’re living a dream. I remember always being afraid I’d wake up, living in that constant anxiety. And then it ended, and my fears came true, and… No matter how much I expected it to fall apart, it didn’t make it easier.’

‘… The child?’ Mig replied softly. He noted the way Miguel tensed, as if about to be sick.

‘… My, child, yes. My daughter.’

Another painful silence fell.

‘… I tried so hard to make it work’ Miguel said, his voice cracking as he spoke. It was painfully sincere, betraying a layer of emotion beneath his cold, hardened exterior that he rarely allowed to show. Mig didn’t respond beyond a slightly stilted breath.

‘I did. Same as you. I tested fate, and I pushed the limits of space and time and nature, for my own needs. Stupid, selfish beast, that’s what I am. That’s what we are.’

‘Do not—’

‘Because we’re still human’ Miguel seethed through his fangs. ‘We’re still, human. We need love. We need a family, we need stability, we need to touch and protect and cherish and love. And I hate it. You can’t do this work and be human, you can’t be me and still be human. Miguel O’Hara has to be MORE!’

He clenched his fist and physically restrained himself from punching the nearest wall.

‘I have to be more… Because I’m not good enough for those things. I want to be human, but I’m not. And you… You. You are me.’

He slowly rolled his eyes up to Mig.

‘… I cannot- I cannot give them up’ Mig gasped. He spoke as if he was being choked, and his enormous chest heaved as he struggled to take breath in. He reared up until his shadow eclipsed Miguel’s body, leaving nothing but his cold, empty red eyes glowing in the darkness.

‘I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.’

‘I’m not asking for you to give them up—’ Miguel tried to say, but Mig cut him off before he could finish.

‘You are!’

The enormous beast bristled until every hair on his body was standing on end. ‘That’s what all of this- stupid posturing is about!’

‘Stupid…’ Miguel repeated the word slowly before visibly sneering. He looked angry, yes, but more than that he looked hurt. ‘I’m not posturing to you, Mig, I’m trying to help you. I don’t—no, you know what? I don’t care. You’re upset, it’s—’

He paused to take a deep breath. He’d never been good at explaining these things, of keeping his temper in check, but he tried. He tried so damn hard. ‘Listen to me. I am trying to tell you, that I know what it’s like. I know how much it hurts.’

Mig was still breathing heavily, his chest heaving up and down as he fought his own irrational anger. He was lashing out in a desperate bid to gain back the control he’d lost, and he knew that, but unlike Miguel he wasn’t used to anger.

He’d gone so long being meek and quiet, subdued to his own worthlessness, but he wasn’t worthless anymore.

He had something to fight for.

‘You… You tried to break us apart’ Mig hissed.

‘Ay Dios- yes, I did! I did, and I have answered for that already!’ Miguel snapped back before raising both hands, willing himself back down. ‘No puedo mas… Ah, listen to me, Mig, I know. I’m not—I know it hurts, but I also know that the pain you would feel if anyone got hurt in your pursuit of this, you would feel worse.’

‘Nobody has to get hurt!’ Mig replied, but as he cried the anger left him. He was pleading, desperately searching for a lifeline that Miguel could never in good conscience provide. ‘It was a mistake! We were so close, so close—’

‘One mistake. That’s all it takes’ Miguel retorted. ‘One mistake, and people are DEAD! You don’t come back from that mistake! You carry it, every day, EVERY DAY, on your back! Can you do that?’

‘No, no—it’s not the same’ Mig pleaded.

‘It is the same!’ Miguel snapped again. ‘The dead will hurt the same—’

‘NO, no this- this situation is different—’

‘HOW? How is this different?!’

Miguel finally felt his claws unsheathe as his emotions grew too much for him to bear. Mig instinctively bristled back as his abdomen rustled and twitched. As always, he was torn between the man and the beast, the spider who saw only a rival male, and the man who saw both friend and foe at once.

‘It… It is different’ Mig repeated weakly. ‘It’s different...’

‘No, it’s not’ Miguel repeated coldly. ‘It’s not different. I went to another universe, to find a family, to be happy, because I couldn’t have it in my own world. And for that mistake, for the sin of believing I could be good, everything was destroyed. That one, good thing I made, was destroyed.’

‘I could fix it’ Mig continued, wilfully ignoring Miguel’s speech. ‘I could. We were so close…’

Miguel slowly lowered his hands as he realized he was never going to get through to Mig like this. Despite his anger, his jealousy, despite the hurt he felt at Mig’s perceived naivety, he was still deep down sympathetic. ‘… I thought, for a while, that maybe you were the exception’ he murmured in a softer tone. ‘I started to believe that. I really did. I wouldn’t have helped you otherwise. Maybe you would be the O’Hara, somehow, who broke it.’

Mig scrunched up his sharp nose as he forced his feelings down. ‘… And you were jealous’ he growled.

Miguel didn’t even flinch. ‘Yes,’ he conceded with a cold growl. ‘Yes. I was. Of course I was jealous. Pendejo.’

The two men fell silent again for a moment or so, breathing in the silence and the painful honesty they’d both torn from each other.

‘… I was jealous. But I got over that. And I am telling you this so you understand, I’m not doing this right now out of jealous, Mig.’

Miguel craned his neck to look Mig in the eye as he spoke.  

‘I’m doing this because I…’

Mig turned his head. He was drawn in by the way Miguel’s voice broke, something that was unusual for his cold, steady counterpart. Miguel faced him down. He’d bitten his tongue when he realized he was getting a little too honest, and so when he spoke again it was slow, methodical, and commanding. He had to be the leader right now, not Mig’s friend.

‘I… I can’t allow this’ he finally whispered. ‘I can’t. And I’m sorry. But I will never risk another universe again, ever. Ever. For both our sakes. I won’t… I won’t.’

He could have said his reasons why. That he didn’t want anyone else to carry the weight he carried, that he was petrified of seeing his other self watch your body fade into nothingness while he tried his hardest to hold on. He could have said that he was scared, scared beyond reason, of seeing anyone turn into nothing again.

But the truth was, he didn’t know how to say that. He couldn’t even admit it to himself, even now. So he stiffened his lip and grunted. ‘We were never meant to be happy, Mig. Be glad for the little joy you got. Anything more... I can’t allow it.’

Mig didn’t open his mouth to argue. Not this time. He turned away and instead stared out into the darkness.

Miguel watched him turn without a word of comfort. He briefly raised his hand, considering whether to touch his shoulder, or whether even to hug him. He knew, when he lost Gabriella, that he would have given anything for someone to just hold him.

But, no. It was better that they didn’t. It was better that he learned the hard way to close himself off. He didn’t deserve pity.

Mig deserved pity, but he also wasn’t the one to give it.

‘Go home’ Miguel growled. ‘Go home to your mate.’

Those were the last words he said before he turned and stomped out of his office, leaving Mig to stew in the dark.

With Miguel gone, Mig turned back to the destruction on the office floor.

He stood there for a long time, listening to the dripping of water above and the slow, methodical thump of his heart, stewing in his own mind.

Then, he took a step forward.

One spider paw went after the other, growing faster with each cautious step. He crept towards the mess, towards the broken monitors and the broken vial, and he bent his front legs like a horse so he could reach them with his human hands.

He grabbed a glass shard and lifted it to his keen red eye.

It was wet. It glistened when he tilted it towards the light, showing a smear of liquid that wasn’t water.

He lowered his head in silence and tapped on the broken screen. It flickered before dying, proving that despite its condition, it could be repaired.

Once again he went still and silent, listening to the void of sound in the empty office. He sniffed the air; Miguel was definitely gone.

With the slowness of a man who knew he was breaking all the rules, he gathered up the broken monitor and a few glass shards into a nearby bag. He clutched that bag to his chest as he left, cradling it like a newborn babe, because to him this was his life.

His only shot at life.

A selfish beast, that’s what Miguel called them, and he was right. He was just a man.

A man who wanted you, his arañita, his angel from beyond the stars.

He was panting as he created the portal home, and visibly sweating by the time he stepped back onto the cold, dewy grass outside his den. His breath formed little puffs of smoke in the air as he scurried through the dense foliage.

Never once did he let go of the bag

He scuttled back into the den and shut the door as tightly as he could. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as if certain that he’d be seen. Thankfully, though, no one came after him.

He moved through the dimly lit earthen dens, stopping only to check on you in the bedroom. He saw your sleepy little body beneath a mound of warm silk sheets, still drooling and snoring and snuggling with one of the pillows that smelled like him.

He couldn’t help but give you a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving to one of the other free rooms. You stirred, just a little, but you didn’t wake up.

With bags in hand Mig pushed his way into one of the many empty rooms in your shared home. You’d been busy re-structuring, setting out new spaces to make it feel a bit more open, before the Halloween night fiasco. Mig had wanted to build you a little private study so you had a space to be alone in sometimes, and in a rut he had also dug out a theoretical nest for any young.

Now, though, he’d use it for something different.

In the dark, earthy room beneath the tree he lit a single candle and spread out his spoils. The glass, the monitor, and a few extra wires and vials. Without skipping a beat he sectioned off the glass and very carefully scraped what little juice was left into a new vial.  

He scurried back and forth, dragging boxes of his own electronics into the empty room while he set everything else up. His spider legs moved to and through, separating and organizing while his human hands got busy.

He patted the dirt on the wall down flat, and with one claw at the ready, he began to scratch out his equations from memory.

He wasn’t willing to sacrifice anyone else for his own shot at happiness. Not really. But he also wasn’t willing to give up the way Miguel had.

He could do better. He knew this could work. They’d been so close, so CLOSE, and all he had to do was learn from that mistake.

With or without Miguel, he’d finish this serum. He’d allow you to live permanently in his universe.

So long as you loved him, you would be his, no matter what.

[ikuramachi]

╰┈➤ A Pact of Blood; the Angel and Demon of Hell.

⟢ Two Blades and a Single Promise.

• Contents: One Piece x original character. A scenario between Roronoa Zoro and his crewmate, Umi, where they promise each other to live and die by each other’s hands; a drabble.

The sun had just begun to dip below the edge of the sea, casting the deck of the Merry in soft amber hues. A warm breeze blew over the ship as the crew gathered for a rare moment of calm. Dinner was done, the waves were gentle, and the energy on board had mellowed into the kind of stillness only found in true camaraderie.

Robin leaned lazily against the railing, a book in her hand but forgotten in her lap, whilst Nami was sunbathing as usual, with some fresh, cold orange juice in her grasp. Usopp and Chopper sat cross-legged on the deck, munching on snacks. Luffy lay sprawled across a barrel, hat covering his face, though his ears were clearly tuned in. Sanji was cleaning his knives nearby, but his eyes often wandered, losing focus too often for his own comfort, but not that it was unwarranted.

Zoro sat cross-armed on the edge of the deck, swords lined beside him, back resting against the rails as he stared out at the sea.

Across from him, Umi sat in her usual style—legs folded underneath her, pipe resting delicately between her fingers, a small wisp of smoke curling from its tip. She had her katana laid across her knees, the sheath gleaming dully under the light. A IV pole stood tall beside her, with a couple bags full of blood attached and connected to her hand, an unusual sight that's become all too familiar for the Straw Hats by now. Her blindfold, as always, masked her eyes, but her expression was relaxed.

A rare silence hung between them. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just charged—like flint waiting to spark.

“Oi,” Zoro muttered finally, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. From the way his eyes looked at her, Umi clearly senses that there must've been thousands of unanswered questions running wild in his hollow mind. “That sword of yours... why keep it sheathed all the time?”

The rest of the crew subtly perked up. Even Luffy tilted his hat just enough to see.

Umi smiled faintly, pipe still balanced between her fingers. “Because it hurts when I draw it.”

Zoro grunted. “Tch. That’s a lame excuse if I've ever heard one.”

Her smile curled wider. “And here I thought you’d be one to understand. What a shame." She exhaled smoke. Suddenly, the pipe was thrown to the ground as Umi straightened up, holding up her bandaged hand to her chest. Her voice roared dramatically, like her very soul was on fire. “It’s not pain I’m afraid of. It’s what the pain brings out!”

Zoro’s gaze lingered on her for a long moment. “...That sword. It’s just steel, isn't t?”

She tilted her head. “No. It’s a part of me. My blood. My fire. When I draw it, it’s like unsheathing my very soul. And souls, Zoro, aren’t always clean.”

There was a silence, broken only by the soft creak of the ship and the ocean’s lull.

Usopp leaned toward Chopper, whispering, “Woah. That’s like... some deep samurai metaphor stuff.”

“Shhh!” Nami hissed, slapping a hand over Usopp's mouth.

Zoro’s arms unfolded. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “And yet... you keep training. Keep swinging it. Even if it puts you down.”

“Of course,” Umi said, as if it were obvious. Her previous whimsical, dramatic demeanor replaced with one much more serious. A gaze that, although he couldn't see, Zoro felt the intensity of which. “Because one day, you’ll have to cut me down.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. The tension was palpable, thick enough it could be cut with a knife. Or a sword... in a situation like this.

Sanji stopped polishing his blade. Robin looked up from her book. Luffy's eyes were almost sparkling, although he wasn't entirely understanding what was going on.

Zoro didn’t react, nor say anything. But his jaw tightened.

“I don’t fight for glory,” Umi continued. “I don’t fight to be the strongest. My dream is... different.” Her tone softened, yet it held the edge of conviction. “I want to make sure the people I love achieve their dreams. Luffy’s. Yours. Sanji’s. All of you. That’s enough for me.”

She turned her face toward Zoro. “And your dream... is to be the strongest swordsman in the world. To surpass even the man who taught me everything I know.”

Zoro’s knuckles twitched.

“So,” she said, tapping the hilt of her sheathed katana. “You’ll have to get through me to get to him.”

Zoro's scoffed, smirking to hide the nervousness that hid beneath the facade. Not because he was scared that he'd lose, but because he feared the weight of new, upcoming promise that he felt. “You planning to stop me?”

“No,” she said, lips curling slightly. “I’m planning to push you.”

He stared at her. Not with defiance. Not with hostility. But with something more potent. Respect.

Umi exhaled smoke and looked toward the never-ending blue horizons. “One day, you and I will fight. No interruptions. No distractions. Just blades and conviction.”

Zoro’s mouth quirked upward into something resembling a smirk. “And when I win?”

“Then you become the world’s strongest,” she said, tone calm and proud. “And I get to say I helped you get there.”

“...And if you win?”

“Then you’ll have to try harder,” Umi said with a shrug.

Luffy let out a low whistle. “That’s cool...”

Nami crossed her arms with a thoughtful look. “So their dreams actually... overlap.”

Robin closed her book slowly. “No. They intertwine. Like parallel blades crossing the same path.”

Chopper and Usopp were in a state that could be only described as being on the verge of tears out of sheer admiration.

Zoro stood up and walked slowly toward her. Umi rose in turn, unslinging her katana from her knees and letting it rest against her shoulder.

"So, we're rivals now." Umi smiled.

“We're allies before anything else.” Zoro replied as he stopped just a feet away from her, his cocky smirk replaced with a softer look now. He let out a sigh, like he was annoyed, but Umi knew that was far from the case. "So... I'd have to achieve my dream to fulfill yours, and to do that, I have to defeat you? Well, I’d be damned. What an odd, twist of fate." He chuckled.

Then, Zoro held out his fist.

“Took the words right out of my mouth.” Umi grinned, soft and content. She raised her fist, too. Their fists collided with a satisfying crack, the sound echoing like a drawn blade in the quiet dusk.

And somehow, the ship felt still. Not just calm, but aligned. Like something in the universe had clicked into place.

A promise was made.

Usopp blinked. “Okay but like—are they gonna fight now or make a blood pact or...?”

Chopper wiped a tear. “That was... that was beautiful...”

Before, Sanji was scowling. Now, he was staring at the sight ahead of him like the whole world just came crashing down on him. His face was scrunched and squeezed like his soul was sucked out of him, steam coming out from him. ”Wh... WHAT?!"

Luffy grinned, wide and bright. “Zoro’s gonna fight Umi someday. That’s gonna be so cool!”

Nami sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. Not that she was annoyed, per-say, just that her crewmates never ceased to surprise her. Not that she was complaining, really. “So, are they flirting, or what?”

Sanji practically hollered in objection at Nami’s words, still fuming, so much that he could’ve caught on fire. “IT’S CALLED UNNECESSARY CONTACT!”

Umi grinned, a low chuckle emitting from her. "Until then, let's get stronger. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Adularescence

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm Length: ~2700 words Rating: T, for canon-typical violence and implied sexual content

Summary: Dame Aylin is returned to the fold of time, and so also to the sensations of the world.

A quick little something that grew out of a bunch of warmups and noodling from the past week or so, and me challenging myself to do a ficlet with zero dialogue. Also I just love Aylin.

Also on AO3.

---

Adularescence

It starts with loss. 

The mounting tension of her fate balancing on a knife's edge culminates in her would-be murderer's hand on her shoulder. Barely-felt and fleeting, it takes away with it the weight of a century. A lessening so sudden Aylin falls to hands and knees, catching herself before hitting the cold, rough ground of her prison fully - a drearily familiar concept, by now.

The claws that have dug deep into her for so long she has forgotten to feel them loosen and fall away, becoming almost disquieting in their absence. The sickly glow of the runes of her cage fades into dull, washed-out grey. The hideous leeching pull on her very soul melts and trickles away, until there is nothing there at all.

Into the void left behind comes the rush of her Mother's moonlight, bathing her, reaching her, the long-denied answer to so many snatched-away prayers. With it, her armour, encasing and enveloping and hiding. Gone the chill and chafe of rags, their place taken by steel so cool and solid it makes itself felt even through a thick layer of wool and gambeson. Perfectly moulded to her, mobile and uncannily light and weighty with the heft of duty all at once. But hers and hers alone.

Then, the grip of her sword in her hand. Cast away into the shadows, once; torn from her hold and kicked away by Ketheric's boot. Its touch is the touch of purpose and meaning, belonging nowhere else but at her side. Missing for a century like a limb.

And wings--

How it is possible to feel as if they were cramped and aching even when they were absent, stolen from her, Aylin does not know. But the relief of being able to stretch them out at long last is bone-deep and luxurious. Even the howling, churning miasma of the Shadowfell whispering over the feathers is a delight.

There is a split-second sliver of trepidation that she will not remember how, but it is banished by the familiar plunge in her stomach as she launches upwards - and soars. It does not take conscious thought to recall exactly how to catch the currents of air beneath her, when to beat and when to coast and when to dive. It is hers and it is writ into her very being, carved and set far deeper than the gold.

The exhilaration foaming up her throat is cut off only by the scalding rage that mounts and mounts and mounts as she takes in the full scope of what was done to the land and its people, as she charges to her promised reckoning.

-

The dull ache of long-idle muscles shoots insistently down her back after the strain of that brief flight to the top of Moonrise. It is joined soon enough by the familiar burn in her arms from wielding her sword without respite or mercy for far longer than any mortal champion ever could have. 

And yet, even the pain is welcome, for it is not Ketheric's, but her own. There is the bite of blades and spells, the rhythm of battle, the strikes of weapons she can see and account for and brace for - no more tensing and curling in anticipation of unseen assailants and undeserved, unearned wounds. No more shadowy whispers in her ear the moment she dared let her guard down even a notch, no more bones broken and shattered without ever feeling the impact. No thieving knives dripping with malicious intent. No, these blows she could repay tenfold, should her foes outmanoeuvre her enough to ever land them. 

It ends with the crunch of skull under her boot, with tenacious residue gumming up her sabatons as they sink into soft matter, over and over until all of it is one unrecognisable mass. Until he is as unrecognisable as he'd made Moonrise, as he'd made Reithwin, as he'd made her.

Soot and blood and grime drip down to her lips and bathe her tongue in pungent bitterness as she proclaims her fealty to her newfound allies. But now that Aylin has washed over her foes like a tidal wave, violent and inexorable, she thinks - prays - she might once more come to know the taste of peace, as well.

-

It is difficult to pick individual voices out of the clamour. The newly recaptured audience hall of Moonrise Towers, where Ketheric Thorm set himself upon a throne of treachery and corruption and purloined power, is nothing like the deafening silence and howling storm of the Shadowfell. But in the midst of it all--

"Aylin."

One voice rises above all others, even when it is softer than any of them. The one voice Aylin longs to hear, and the one voice she feared was to forever stay in the realm of reminiscence and fantasy.

But then… Isobel. Her hand on Aylin's chin and cheek as she kneels before this wonder and wages a raging battle against disbelief. An unfamiliar chill permeates the leather of Isobel's gloves and sinks into Aylin's skin. And she would curse the thin fabric for the impudence of attempting to separate them even now, but all is driven from her when Isobel's arms come around her and she is pulled close into an embrace. Soft hair tickling her face, lips pressed against her own - all the simple sensations Aylin once came dangerously close to taking for granted. Richer and more magnificent than any dream could ever hope to be.

She is lost, enraptured by the sight and feel of Isobel alive and in her arms and on her lips and--

Aylin barely notices someone thrusting a goblet of wine into her hands. A celebration has begun amongst the ghoulish, deathly decor that had invaded Moonrise; a haphazard, makeshift affair, with the wounded patched up and enemy remains hastily removed.

Isobel laughs, pressed close against her side; soft, bittersweet, with a slightly concerning rasp at the end. But there is true joy to be found in the world once more, finally, finally, and so Aylin simply smiles back, the gold lines pulling oddly on the corner of her mouth and on her bottom lip, and clinks their mismatched goblets together.

She takes a sip - the first thing other than blood or steel or Isobel to touch her lips in a century. Flavour bursts on her tongue like sharpened memory, shards digging in.

It is the same vintage she drank during that final supper, when Ketheric and Balthazar called her back from blazing some vengeful trail or another, in the absence of Isobel. When they discussed the purpose of their summons with her over a cup and a light repast.

She did not eat much - and now, she recalls, neither did they; perhaps because guilt already brewed and churned in their traitorous guts, even as they played at hospitality and broke bread with her. Or perhaps it was fear of her and her Mother and the inevitable divine retribution they knew would find them, after the unspeakable transgressions they planned. But Aylin's own still-fresh wounds, the feeling of her heart having been pulled from her chest, made indulging a distant thought. Still, she'd had that cup, finished it to its dregs, before launching to her feet and insisting they mount their rescue immediately. Playing right into their hands. 

Aylin sets the full goblet on a nearby table. It is too sour to bear.

-

The moonlight scoured the worst of a century's worth of filth from her, but there was more still to cleanse. Black ichor from the necromancers' puppets, the blood of the sea of cultists, then her own, and Ketheric's… Undesirable battle trophies all, with vile fluids from the mind flayer nest and the brain itself, sticky and viscous, melding with Myrkul's bonedust into a horror Aylin is eager to be rid of.

She does not divest herself of her armour by dismissing it, this time. She takes it off slowly and laboriously, piece by piece, and sets it in a corner of the room to catch the glint of candle and firelight handsomely, reassuringly present in vivid blue and silver.

A bowlful of lukewarm water, a rag, and a bar of plain soap are not the perfumed luxuries or moon-bound hot springs her Mother's temples liked to greet her with, but tonight Aylin is prepared to call them the best thing she has felt on her skin.

Until the light sting and fresh-scrubbed feeling they've left behind is joined by Isobel's fingers - no gloves, at last - so achingly tender, so unthinkably careful and gentle and kind that they are a balm unto themselves, no healing incantation required. 

The smell of autumncrocus fills Isobel's room in the inn; it is a wonder how a single basket of half-dried blooms is enough to permeate every corner of the place. The bright fire crackles merrily as they lie before it, ensconced in a nest of Isobel's making. 

There is no warmth or colour in the Shadowfell, and everything brought into it is leeched away and lost between one breath and the next. Within an hour of their retreat to the upstairs sanctuary, a century-old storm of shivers dislodged itself from somewhere deep within Aylin, and refused to let go of her. Isobel responded by stripping the bed of its contents, emptying the cabinets and the wardrobes in her hunt for every scrap of fabric, then bundling all of it and the both of them close to the fireplace. 

Clean, safe, warm, cherished - Aylin feels a singularly stubborn burning crawl up her throat, and, for the first time in a very long time, she feels hot tears roll down her cheeks. They trickle down her throat, following a golden crack along her jugular. The joy is overwhelming. She would almost name it painful.

Isobel, pressed against her side in quiet, stalwart adoration, is oddly cold herself - it is impossible not to notice. Not as cold as the last time Aylin held her in her arms and wept over her, no - and would that she could scrub that stain from her memory as she'd just scoured her skin! Neither of them are unscathed, but both of them are here, and more than that even Aylin, fearless, would fear asking for.

The sheets Isobel has pulled from the bed are aged, rough linen, the blankets are musty and moth-eaten, and the pillows are lumpy, but finding fault with them is the furthest thing from Aylin's mind. Silken finery woven in Argentil, magicked-up celestial feather-filled duvets to sink into - there would be time and opportunity to revisit them once more.

Now, however, there are yearned-for kisses so familiar and so new; there is plush, pliant flesh and skin that seems stretched tauter over ribs than she remembers. A soft stomach and hips rising to meet her, the silk of damp curls, and then rich, encompassing, breathtaking, slick heat. And the heavenly music she has coaxed from beloved lips before as she will do again and again and again and again. A miracle in itself.

Pleasure eventually settles into the ache of a body long-unused being put into motion, under strain, and run to its limit. But it is also the welcome ache of everything within her that is responsible for feeling happiness, every one of the long-dormant particles or organs or limbs that make her up in this mortal, material plane. Just as unused and just as rusty.

As the evening rolls on, the fire needs to be fed - and so, they both decide, do they. Aylin is shrugging on an almost-large-enough robe and preparing to set off in search of sustenance, when a knock sounds on the door. When she opens it, there is nobody there, but a tray with a meal enough for two has been left just to the side of the entrance to their room - theirs! What a thought to wrap a restless mind around!

Isobel, for her part, does not seem terribly surprised. Aylin feels her mild curiosity and vast desire to know and share every bit of time she has missed with her beloved take a step back as they sit down to eat. The slide of the first warm bite of food down her throat and into her belly is, Moonmother forgive her, divine. The salty tang and the slightly bitter aftertaste, the sharpness of some unnamed spice, then overwhelming sweetness coating her tongue.

Aylin is ravenous. Isobel nibbles at her dinner and laughs at her antics, but this, too, is bittersweet enough to subside earlier than Aylin would have wanted it to.

Isobel is exhausted, grieved, overwhelmed - and though Aylin would prefer not to close her eyes and miss another moment of her precious presence, she follows the gentle tug on her arm, and lies down in their pile of blankets once more. Isobel lies behind her, wraps her entire small form around her, and does not let go even as sleep claims her quickly. Prone, bonelessly languid, unarmoured, Aylin cannot imagine feeling safer.

-

Aylin sleeps and does not dream. She had her doubts that she ever would again.

But now, perhaps, the grounding touch of something soft, something warm, something ticklish… something, is more than enough. Anything that isn't cold hard rock, enveloped in the blurred sense of unreality that blankets everything in the Shadowfell. A realm of absence and denial unfit for her in so many ways, least of all that Dame Aylin has never been a creature wont to deny herself. Indeed, it is not in her Mother's doctrine at all. Life is to be lived in all its fullness. The Moonmaiden's gaze is generous with blessings, widely encompassing and permissive above all else.

Perhaps, Aylin has contemplated, this was one of the reasons she was born and sent to Faerûn, a part of her destined duties - to experience. Touch and taste and hear and listen, perceive in all possible ways. And then act, decisive, resolute, informed. When her Mother, separate, remote in her realm, could not, for all her reach. And her avatars and embodiments always under Shar's threat, preciously rare and short-lived. 

What rouses her fully from her contemplative doze is the searing sensation of a beam of sunlight pouring into the room and onto her skin. With it comes a sound that she hasn't heard in so long it takes her a moment to place: birdsong. Trilling chirps and whistles, from somewhere right outside their window.

Morning is a new phenomenon in these lands - Isobel's wide-eyed sleep-addled gaze confirms as much when she shifts awake, tangled up in covers as much as in her beloved. And Aylin - she is a creature of light, to be sure, and it should not bother her. But it is her Mother's soft, silver twilight that embraces her. And it has been a century. For all her glorious divine heritage, her eyes grow damp and itchy when confronted with the full, harsh might of the sun, and Aylin grits her teeth and blinks frustration away quickly.

From a gnawing doubt that it was all a dream that could be snatched away like smoke on the wind, to the point of there being too much reality to handle. After a century of nothing, suddenly there is everything. For a moment, Aylin feels a twinge of fear that she will be like a starving woman at a feast, sick after the first morsel.

But hers is no mere mortal constitution. Her body was purpose-made just as the rest of her; it is built to match the challenges of eternity.

Aylin draws a deep breath of air freshly cleansed of shadows, and perseveres.

[tobiasdrake]

I expected to be dead by now and that locked door is starting to make me curious. So I guess I'll just go jump on a timedrop.

Using made-up words for an openphrase is a pretty good idea, but I've been told it's best to include numbers and symbols too. Have you considered "stostorage roomoom five ampersand"?

See, that's why you should always change your openphrase away from the default. Now malefactors of unclear intent have complete access to this person's shed. I could be stealing their personal information to sell to the shoshop keepeeper right now and they'd have no idea.

But I'm not that wicked, so I'll just take whatever this is instead.

Length implies value. This seems more than valuable enough to burgle. I will take this and be on my way.

Let's see, what else do I want to do in town? Oh, right. The flower.

First time, I panicked, flung it at Mira for being a great team leader, and fled for my life.

Second time, I tried to use it to bury the hatchet with Bonnie and only succeeded in weirding them out and making things awkward.

This time. This time, I have a plan. I'm going to pry Isa's secret love confession out of him. Right in front of the Favor Tree. Where my Lemonfriend is stalking me. Hm.

...

CAUTION TO THE WIND!

Oh my god he's so goddamn precious

Yeah. I didn't spoil my appetite with pain du chocolat this time so I was ravenous and prepared!

Then I got up to refill my drink and suddenly I hear a sickening CRRRKKK and then the goddamn bread was broken in half. How!? How do you people always know that I'm watching for that!? Which one of you is temporally screwing with me!?

I feel like I'm losing my mind. This is literally worse than dying. I will find you, Breadripper.

But I gave you a pretty flower and everything. Come on, man. Find your nerve!

*sigh* I'm going back to sleep. Enjoy your face pillow.

Good night, Isa.

That feels like it's going to be important to remember for later. Typically, if trying to read it causes physical pain, it's probably some sort of horrifying eldritch text from beyond time and space. Which usually means it's definitely worth the effort to figure out how to read it! It might hold the secret to unlimited happiness.

It means a person of slim characterization and very limited expressiveness, designed to allow the audience to easily project themselves.

Our reality's principle form of violence is playing Rock-Paper-Scissors. What are you even supposed to do with a spear?

...I mean. I guess I have this knife I use to form Scissors. Mira's got a rapier for the same purpose. Isa gets Rock out of his punching gloves while Madame Odile's Tome makes Paper.

Not sure how Mirabelle's doing Paper attacks with a sword, though. That's kind of weird. Mira, where are you getting the Paper from? Do you have a motivational brochure for the Change religion as a sidearm?

Oh my god she uses a rapier.

Mira's weapon is a blade made from thin folded steel. That's where the Paper comes from. That's genius. Mira, you're a goddamn genius.

Okay. I get it now. I understand how weaponcraft in our world of Jankenpon Combat works. So yes, this spear would be a Scissors weapon. But since it's a spear, you could also use it as a bo staff. Would it then qualify as Scissors/Rock?

Hmm....

I appreciate your pragmatism. Contextually speaking, in times of crisis, it's not stealing. It's requisitioning.

Now let's requisition whatever isn't nailed down.

Oh shit, that's the traditional Rider-Waite Eight of Pentacles.

The Pentacles sign typically pertains to commerce, labor, and material affairs. This particular card usually symbolizes slow and steady skill progression at a menial craft. The man depicted is practicing his trade, carrying out the repetitive but necessary task of crafting his wares - and in so doing, developing his skill and becoming more capable in the production of his craft.

It's not hard to see the relationship between this card and the timey-wimey mission we're on right now.

There it is. We've found the key with diagnosed and well understood gender dysphoria.

Just because the egg has cracked, that doesn't mean this key is necessarily comfortable with announcing itself yet. Cracking the egg and coming out are very different experiences. If the key doesn't feel safe or ready to do the latter then it's fine for it to remain in the drawer for however long it needs.

...

Or it would be fine except we need to unlock a door. So. Uh. We'll just ignore that for the purposes of the metaphor.

Do not force people out of their closet even if the world is in danger.

[spaceypeachbun]

OBJECTS AND SHOEN!!! 🎒👜👝👟👞👠👢

WHAT'S IN THEIR BAAAG and on their feet! I'll answer for Jachobin and Hoagie here (per your other ask) and everyone else in the other one. HOGARTH

Hogarth is known to rock a messenger bag if he's going somewhere that doesn't require him to flip around, scale buildings, climb trees etc. The contents are usually: - his sketchbook, a worn spiral bound number with a dark red cover hiding feathering pages. Common images inside include wolves, anthropomorphic wolves, Dope Ass Swords, the brainstorming for the lolita skirt pattern he made for Chad that one time, images of a heavenly creature he's hopelessly devoted to in a way perhaps Saintly (drawn in pencil and given highlight with a gold paint pen, it stains through to the other side like beams of light), and life drawings. - small plain black pencil pouch. Contains a few pencils (mechanical and otherwise), colored pencils in red, blue, and yellow, gel pens in black, white, blue, red, and gold, and the gold paint pen. There's also a small white, well-worn eraser housed in a green plastic thingy allowing it to double as a pencil sharpener. - hand sanitizer - another hand sanitizer - disinfectant wipes - tissues - a pair of thin nitrile gloves lest he need to touch anything - Praxis specific: a laser pointer - Praxis specific: a tiny scope he can attach to most rifles in a pinch should he need to, plus extra bullets for the one he usually uses. - Praxis specific: tiny gilded knife - Praxis specific: his ID card in a clear plastic folder on a black lanyard. There is a Badtzmaru sticker on it given to him by someone who annoys him soooo bad (Chad). Charge cards and cash are stuffed behind it. - Keys with a tiny key charm of a wolf on it. It used to be flocked, but he's held it and rubbed it with his thumb as a stim so much that much of the flocking is gone on one side.

Not in his pockets, but he always always always wears the moon and stars pendant Simon gave him.

And his shoes:

Hogarth is a boots guy (but not a bootboy.) he usually wears thick, sturdy boots that have been broken in over years of wear. These boots are more than likely stolen or gifted. He'll wear them until they sprout holes. THE GOOD DETECTIVE JACHOBIN GARBOT:

More of a pockets guy than a bag-carrier, but he makes the most of his space. For maximum carriage, I am going to say he's wearing his long black duster jacket as well, which grants him four extra pockets (two in the breast, two on the outside.) Some of these items might live in his car, too, if he's traveling lighter. - Keys (car, apartment, other people's apartments, file cabinets). The keychain also houses a bottle opener. You never know! #alcoholic - Thin black leather wallet with his fake ID (he's dead, this is necessary), cash, card, and a photograph of his son, Marley. There's also a faded drawing of a cat Marley did for him when he was five that's been in that wallet for ~20 years now. - A nice flip-top lighter he's had and maintained since 1962. "Rita" is carved on the side. He doesn't remember who Rita is. - Pack of cigarettes - Spiral bound 2x4inch lined notebook. Old pen kept tucked into the spiral. Lives in the same pocket as the smokes usually. - Tiny acrylic vial for keeping a handsome sip of blood in to top off. You never know! #vampire - A small collection of his business cards, kept in a metal card case. - An altoids tin that contains a small lock pick, a rubber band, two qtips, a folded up ziplock baggie, bobby pins, paper clips, a silver sewing needle, and two actual altoids. - Flask.

Narrowed to the bare essentials would be his keys, cigarettes and lighter, altoids tin. Jachobin wears moderately priced black brogues, polished himself when he has the time.

[themsource]

Circus BSP AU

Soooo...had an idea that's been on my mind a while. Decided to share it because I know I haven't updated anything in a bit and I've been so busy with Secret Santas x_x

Anyways it's a long ramble from my ideas folder, not a real written piece, but I'm placing it below a cut ^^ This idea came to me while listening to Panic! At The Disco's cover of The Greatest Show a while back. I don't know if this has been done before but meh, just wanted to post my take on a circus au with the baddies

Rating: M

TWs: Mentions of torture, Kidnapping, Enslavement, Near Drowning

Nightmare and Dream own their own opposing circus rings. Dream recruits willing participants and their shows are always about love and positivity with graceful displays of athletics like ribbon dancing and aerial silk suspension, baton twirling and contortion, even godly fast speed painting with neon glowing soul magic to show an individual's ultimate dream even if they don’t know it themselves and store it in a personalized orb to take home as a memento for personalized viewing whenever you please. 

Nothing risky or seemingly life threatening/daredevil stunted. 

No, that’s Nightmare’s theme. 

In contrast he doesn’t recruit, he steals and binds individuals into contracts that can only be broken at his word or their untimely death should it occur. His ring has all the horrifying and thrilling shows that leave the audience anxious and on their toes, like sword swallowing/knife throwing/nail walking/fire breathing (Killer), Lions and Tigers - many dangerous animal performances (Horror), highwire/cannonball (Dust), and Motorcycle acts like the Wall of death and globe of terror (Cross). 

Nets and other safety precautions are ignored, this is the highlight and draw of Nightmare’s circus alongside the ability for one of your “nightmares” to be engraved on a stone tablet using soul magic so you never have to experience them again once the show is over.

Whereas Dream gives away positivity to spread through the worlds, Nightmare collects negativity in a personal vault for his own sustenance (the stone tablets) while still supplementing what he takes with the experiences his circus gives. 

This is the point of contention with the brothers. Dream doesn’t like how Nightmare still puts out negativity while also taking it away - it’s a selfish redundancy in his mind and perceived as unbalance, and Nightmare feels the same about how Dream puts out positivity with his circus but doesn’t take any away not only making his job more difficult to keep the flows even but causing him more suffering with how positive a world will be once Dream holds a performance.

The brother’s once owned a circus together but it broke apart with Nightmare’s downfall. 

Everyone was eager to see Dream perform but didn’t care for Nightmare’s escape acts and often boo’d and shamed him leaving the worlds they tried to equally balance always too filled with positivity. One day Nightmare almost died attempting to perform a dangerous escape stunt that he’d concocted to try and gain the audience’s approval, and just when it seemed to be working he ran out of magic (having not slept or ate well as he should’ve the night before when he’d been practicing) and nearly drowned. 

Dream was able to pull him free and save him but it took the last of their dead mother’s apples which proved too powerful and shattered Nightmare who was left horrified at what he’d become - a true reflection of ‘a demon’ as people called him, and led to him abandoning Dream to go his own way as the too much positivity started causing him pain and to go into frenzied breakdowns that he’d frequently black out through.

Since then Nightmare has not performed an escape act again and now solely plays ringleader. His innate trauma when it comes to performing is what led to him deciding to bring others into his fold to accomplish his goals, though he doesn’t let anyone know that. 

He contracted Killer, Dust, Horror, and then Cross in that order. Stealing them away from their own personal hells he found them in when noticing how fearless they were in the face of horrors far worse than what he had devised, and how equally terrifying their own appearances and auras were and would contribute to the overall effect he was going for. To get them to sign, he tortured them in never ending loops of nightmares, uncaring for how it affected them until they agreed. 

Killer was forced to experience going numb and filling with emotion on and off again repeatedly, the pain of switching so rapidly sending him into a spiral until he begged to be freed. 

Horror was forced to watch his fellow monsters dust and suffer the insanity inducing hunger wracking his frame as if fresh over and over as his brother kept mutating before his eyes. 

Dust had to watch his brother dust before his eyes repeatedly at his own hand no matter how much he fought against it, the pain of which was always too much each reset he experienced in his own world but in the nightmare without the time to breathe between each death and no goal of stopping the human in mind Dust cracked. 

Cross was sent into isolation, only it was so much worse as he didn’t have the ability to communicate with himself (even trying to think to himself and hold an imaginary conversation didn’t work) and could only experience the slow crawling of time as a sharp cutting sensation across his bones.

At first the gang all understandably despise Nightmare and what he forces them to do but he’s uncaring of it. However slowly the boys begin to find actual enjoyment in their work and bonding together as they come up with new routine ideas which they loathsomely try to share with Nightmare. 

Nightmare begins to feel impressed, even enthused though he doesn’t show it at their forwardness and makes recommendations for how to better execute their ideas while approving them. This causes the boys to begin feeling a sense of freedom and control they haven’t felt in years even before being stolen away but they still don’t soften to Nightmare even as Nightmare begins to soften just a bit to them at their willingness.

It isn’t until Nightmare and his trope encounter Dream and his that the boys end up feeling anything at all other than hate to the dark lord. 

They witness the exchange between Dream and Nightmare, the hostility Nightmare has when he and Dream argue over who has the right to be in this world first as Dream speaks in passive aggressive words about Nightmare’s awful decision making and unbalanced influence which Nightmare scoffs at before turning the argument petty as he remarks over Dream’s soft and impassioned performances. 

The second Dream comments about how his trope is a work of art while Nightmare’s is nothing more than ‘a glorified torture show’ the boy’s hackles raise - offended, not liking how Dream assumes they hate what they do (not anymore at least) which makes his trope’s performances more genuine and better since they’re willing. 

The boys witness the face Dream makes of regret at Nightmare’s bitter parting (dream’s words having surprisingly irked him) but don’t say a word. Instead they sneak in that night to watch Dream’s so called ‘better performances’ and are left feeling bored, and commenting on how it’s too bright, too sparkly and how they can do so much better. 

‘at least with us the crowd are actually on their feet.’ Killer huffs. ‘yeah, screaming too.’ Horror drawls. ‘I like the ribbons, not gonna lie.’ as Cross tosses back a handful of popcorn and earns amused scoffs from the others. Dust gives a rare smirk. ‘i have an idea.’ 

Nightmare is in his room, staring down at an old faded paper article that looks as if it might crumble into ash at the faintest breeze while he tries to ignore the pain in his chest from the positivity flooding the air. It’s a headline advertising his old act, the one that led to his transformation, when Killer walks in. Killer notices the article before Nightmare manages to fold it up and slip it into a breast pocket. It twinges something in him as he asks about it and Nightmare feeling a rare moment of openness blandly tells him of what happened. 

Killer is surprised and sudden understanding clicks but Nightmare dismisses it with ‘nothing more than childish hopes and pointless memories, what is it you want killer?’ 

Killer smiles.

It’s the first time Nightmare has seen that expression on Killer’s face and his socket widens. He feels something precariously close to a thrill race his spine as Killer hums, ‘me and the guys were talking…”

Dream and his friends are beginning to perform the big finale when suddenly the lights go off and Killer comes on over the intercom, ‘well as much as i love that hello kitty and fluffy rainbow shit like the next guy, how about we get a real party started?’ and the lights strobe back on in a kaleidoscope of flashing colors as Nightmare’s gang appear round the top of the stage. 

Killer flipping a jewel encrusted knife, Dust spinning an iron balancing rod as if it were a small plastic baton, Horror posed tall and looming with his one ear’d white lion and black tiger, and Cross on his sterling silver colored motorcycle revving the engine.

‘UH, DREAM? WHAT IS–” Before Blue can finish the boys are descending and taking the stage. Horror crowds them off with his animals as Cross races around the arena pulling shocked awes from the crowd and Killer blows fire setting the hanging ribbons up into a blaze of glory, Dust using his balancing rod to propel himself into the air and land on the lighting supports much to many surprised shouts of awe and worry. 

Dream can’t help but stare silently along with Blue and Ink as the show is stolen from them and negativity begins to seep in from the shocked and concerned onlookers who can’t bring themselves to look away, even clapping as Horror narrowly dodges being attacked by his own lion to allow the beast to burst through one of Ink’s paintings.

Nightmare watches in stunned surprise, amusement, and dare he even think it…

Endearment.

When all is said and done the crowd goes home excited and raving about the unexpected twist and Dream is left fuming as he goes off about how childish and inappropriate that was. Nightmare shrugs him off as he glances over his shoulder at his smug trope and comments about how it was no decision of his own making. Sure he knew, but he didn’t tell Killer no, but Dream doesn’t need to know that. 

When they go home Killer and the boys all gain a new bit of respect for their ring leader, and even a bit of fondness at how he let them do as they pleased. It’s a slow crawl from there. Each of them taking the time to get to know Nightmare a little better after also being told by Killer about his past, even asking him to join them for dinner one day where Nightmare finds enjoyment watching and listening to them go back and forth like a bunch of rowdy roommates. 

Horror introduces him to the animals, and manages to calm the tiger enough to let Nightmare pet it. ‘her name’s mira.’

‘...You named her?’ 

‘yep, her and bosco.’ 

‘Is Bosco the lion?’ 

Horror looks oddly fond. ‘heh, no, he’s the gator. the lion is kimba, killer named him.’  

Dust invites him to help him as he works on repairing and calibrating his canon, handing him tools and reciting blueprints. ‘need better bolts, these are starting to strip.’ 

‘I never knew you were so…hands on, Dust.’ 

‘cross’ fault. i saw him babying that bike of his and got tired of having nothing to do.’ 

‘I see.’ 

There’s silence, an uncertainty. ‘...i want to repaint it. i don’t like the colors.’ 

Nightmare considers. ‘...Alright, what colors would you like?’ 

Dust’s smile reminds him of Killer’s. ‘heh.’

Cross takes him for a ride and shows him just how fast his bike can go. ‘SLOW DOWN YOU HEATHEN! THIS IS NOT A SHOW!’ 

‘c’mon nightmare! live a little!’ 

Nightmare shivers at feeling Cross’s hand guide his to his waist, his voice reminiscent of a whisper into his acoustics. ‘i won’t let you fall.’ 

Nightmare averts his gaze. ‘Falling is not the point!’ 

Killer…killer brings him outside and sets him on a blanket beneath the only tree for miles as he sharpens his blades, handing nightmare one after the other and telling him what kind they are like a teenager. ‘and this is a messer! it’s german for knife but looks more like a dagger.’ 

‘Interesting. You’ve taken care of these well.’ 

Killer smirks. ‘i take care of the things i care about.’ 

Nightmare raises a brow as he echos. ‘Care about.’ 

‘i don’t have to feel it to know that i care about it.’ The shrug he gives is indifferent, but the look is another matter entirely, one that brings a foreign heat to Nightmare’s cheeks. It feels like a flirtation, but it can’t be, he knows where he stands with him - with all of them. 

‘An even more interesting notion.’ he whispers.

It isn’t until he stumbles upon Horror pining Dust to a wall in a small forgotten hallway with Dust’s legs around Horror’s hips as they kiss that Nightmare realizes there’s a deeper bond between the members of his trope that he never noticed. One that they’re starting to willingly let him see as he spots Cross and Killer not long after training together with Cross pinned to the knife board as Killer sensually traces patterns across his bones with the tip of a finely oiled blade. It’s shocking how they managed to get away with this, hiding the fluctuations in their emotions from his notice.

The understanding spurs something in him that’s…genuine. 

On equal footing.

Killer notices his staring and holds eye contact just out of Cross’ line of sight as he kisses the other skeleton. The emotions are there now, raw and unfiltered. Desire, want…teasing. 

It’s an invitation.

Nightmare turns away and hides in his room thinking. He doesn’t know what he feels, not yet. But he does find himself wanting to, maybe, get a little closer to them. To know them, just as they’re obviously trying to do with him. 

He likes watching Horror train his pets, he enjoys seeing Cross flip over ramps and twirl his bike beneath him mid-leap, he finds amusement in Killer trying to paint the sky with words made of fire, and he can’t resist staring as Dust pretends multiple times as if he’s going to fall only to stand back upright confidently and with poise. He can’t help wondering if this is what friendship is, companionship. He thought he’d known that once with his brother but he’d been wrong. The feelings are too different.

So he…takes the risk. 

The dinners continue, the quality time, with him contributing by inviting them to let him read aloud of his books and going out to explore the worlds now before performing, but it all starts to weigh heavy on him and this manifests in him one day suggesting as Killer and Dust put forth a duet idea to suggest they use netting…in case of an accident.

The boys go silent, staring at him. 

Nightmare feels judged, and it’s made clear that he is when Killer says rather carelessly, ‘since when do you care about our safety?’ It’s then made clear to Nightmare that no matter how hard he tries, and no matter what they open up to him and he them, that he can’t be more or get closer. 

They will always see him as nothing more than their owner, their master. 

‘Forget I said anything.’

Nightmare is left torn, does he put everything on the line by offering to release their contracts in the hopes that they’ll stay when it’s far more likely they’ll run if given the chance? Or does he hold on, and get left standing alone to watch as an outsider on the bond between them just as he’s always been to the universe at large.

He tried to run before he could walk. This is the obstacle between them and the first step that he knows has to be taken, the rest of the moments they share are empty so long as the contracts exist. And not only that but the leagues he’ll have to go to make up for what he put them through when he first found them, if they dare to even give him the chance.

There’s a bitter, terrifying, decision to reach. 

Nightmare is in unfamiliar waters as he feels the sting of indecisiveness that he hasn’t felt since he was a child.

[foolsdiamond]

Untitled DirkJake AU Vaguely Inspired By Castlevania

chapter 1: Entering the castle,exposition

Far off the paved path, in the foothills of the mountains, is the quaint little village of Lotak. Its townspeople serve the Lord of the castle nestled among the rocky slopes, with black granite slabs and slate tiles creating a dark, ominous silhouette. It is in this very village that wandering hero Jake English has just arrived, seeking information on the castle’s Prince to further his quest.

Jake English is a strapping young man, the kind of guy you’re proud to bring back home to your parents. He wears a thick, long leather coat with a furry ruff of animal hide around the collar. It hides the holsters for his set of twin flintlocks, along with the pouches he keeps stocked with basic provisions and supplies. He’s a vampire hunter, a title inherited from his grandmother and earned from his experience. The rumor mill around Lotak has brought him here to investigate the Prince lording over from the castle on the hill.

The village is bustling at the brink of dusk, with the orange sunset spreading shadows from building to building. Jake tries to tune the background noise out; filtering the useless dribble from actual beneficial tidbit using his own personal metric (a process that might today be referred to as Attention Deficit Disorder). He decides to make his way to the marketplace first, where he's more likely to encounter some better candidates for questioning. This isn't his first rodeo, nor his first vampire slaying, by a long shot.

"Good day, good sir!” Jake starts, leaning an elbow on the wooden counter covered with exotic jewels and stolen daggers. He cuts the merchant off of his introduction to offer his own. "You see, I am under the impression this town is suffering from a curse, something of the rather dark variety. As a specialist, you may very well recognize the family name English, we're professionals at this sort of curse removal, anyway as a specialist, I was hoping to sell my sword as it were."

The merchant keeps a cold glare on Jake, only broken when the self-proclaimed professional accidentally nudges the goods with his elbow. “You. You're a vampire slayer?" he asks, frowning.

English pulls his arm off of the counter and puffs up his chest. He whips his coat aside, to reveal two holstered pistols at his hips. The whole gesture is significantly cooler in his mind than to anyone watching what looks like a foreigner harassing a knife merchant.

"Indeed I am, sir! From a family line, you see. It's not only in my blood, but also in my very training, you know!” Jake puts one hand on his hip, and rests the other palm flat on the counter, rattling the jewels.

“And… you're here to slay our vampire?” the merchant asks with a chilling drawl. Something shivers on the back of Jake's neck.

"Yes, that's exactly right my good sir. I'm here in the town seeking information, if you know anything about his powers or perhaps how many underlings he has?”

"Bold of you to strut in here and assume we wish our Lord dead,” he says plainly. "When our Lord Dirk Strider provides the town with protection, and his infamy brings about idiots like you to feed him.”

Jake rolls the next words on his tongue before spitting them out anyway. "He's a vampire, of course he's evil and requires slaying. You're either under his glamour or you're putting your own nefarious opinions above that of the rest of your townspeople!!”

"Leave, Mr. English,” the merchant retorts.

Jake turns around and storms off regardless. Mumbling under his breath about how he's probably a traveling merchant and doesn't even live here, he's so full of shit. He should have just gone to the tavern in the first place! English storms into the bar in a relatively sour state of mind, and quickly sucks his hurt feelings back down when everybody throws a glare his way. He makes his way meekly to the bartender, seats himself, and folds his arms on the table.

“Another adventurer, eh?" says the innkeep.

“Gung ho, good sir, am I that obvious?" Jake responds.

The bartender gestures around, and Jake obediently takes a gander.

“Notice something?"

“Is this to do with everyone being… well, rather pale actually?" Jake asks.

“More or less. This whole village is populated by the Lord Dirk Strider himself. You stick out like… an obvious metaphor.”

Now that it's been pointed out to him, realization slowly sets in. Jake recalls every face he's seen since he entered the village, and even the similar fashion to which they all talk.

"Everyone here is his children?” Jake asks. The innkeep doesn't even respond, simply stares at him until it sinks in. "Everyone here is his clone?!”

"Now you get it.”

"And this information isn't common knowledge? Even though farmers come in and out?”

"The only people who learn this tend to go straight for the dragon’s head. And every one of them has wound up dead,” the bartender says.

Jake slowly rises to his feet, with his stomach and his brain tumbling. He had every intent to rest and feed before heading in, but the anger is boiling up and drowning out his reason. An entire village of ghosts, puppeteered by the vampiric master Dirk Strider!

His name is nothing new; Jake arrived here on the wind of stories of Strider's cruelty. His love of games, trapping innocent people and torturing them before finally feeding on them in their last breaths. One of Jake’s dear friends and cousins, Jane, recounted his girlfriend’s grisly demise; she couldn't escape, it was only through her telepathy she was able to make her fate known. Jake English therefore had a mission twofold: to rid the world of this heinous monster, and subsequently erase all of the clones he's made; and to retrieve some momento of the departed Terezi to return to Jane.

His thoughts race, pounding in his head to the drum of his feet on the cobbles. The path from Lotak up to the castle gates is winding, snaking its way up the steep granite cliffs of the mountains. The English family name normally strikes a sense of fear into monsters and a sense of peace into the victims; even if he was the only English left still maintaining the family name and business, he usually relied on that high to get his spirits up and morals going. But an entire town filled with the Vampire Lord’s own dark underlings? He’d never heard of such a thing!

Jake ponders whether the townspeople are truly clones, or if perhaps they really are normal citizens trapped beneath a spell of which they would be unaware of. He definitely had more experience with the latter than the former, and while the comfort of knowledge lends itself to an easier job, English is the kind of man who cannot shy away from the thrill of a challenge.

Jake finds himself standing on the doorstep of evil, with a powerful sense of foreboding weighing heavily on his shoulders. He has no clue what he's getting himself into, but he’s anxious to begin regardless. He grips the handle to the door tightly, and retrieves one of his pistols before forcing it open and plunging into darkness.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

I swear I intended to post this unedited, but I kept going back and doing edits. I stopped myself though, because my dog wants my attention, and my secretary ( Ikea Blavingad ) can only keep her occupied for so long.

Anyway, enjoy. I'm on chapter 5 I think? Still all completely rough draft, obviously by me still nitpicking it. When I'm finally satisfied with a chapter, I intend to upload to AO3 (let's not discuss my record for actually finishing stories on there)

[naushtheaspiringauthor]

~Child Of The Storm~

Nikolai Lantsov x OC

Image by - @brokendreamtale2

Warnings- blood, choking, a LOT of combat

A/N- Okay this one is going to be quiiitte long, so buckle in. Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist!

Taglist- @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @sirisuorionblack @evelyndane @marauders-wife @el-de-phi

Ch-62 ~The Battle Of The Unsea~

“Hello?” Anaya could hear Alina whisper, despite being further away. 

“We hear you.” Zoya’s voice was loud and clear. 

They moved at a steady pace.

 Anaya heard a click, then almost ten minutes later, a double click. 

They’d gone a mile. 

At one point, Anaya could hear the distant flap of wings above them, and felt a wave of dread pass through the group.

The Volcra might not hear them but they could scent prey from miles away.

 Still, they kept moving. 

Two clicks later, they stopped and took up their positions to wait. As soon as they sighted the Darkling’s skiff, they would have to move quickly.

Anaya clung to the sword in her hand. She had a knife sheather beneath her leg, a revolver behind her back, yet no amount of weaponry could provide her comfort in these dark and dead lands.

Two clicks.

 They fanned out in the formation they had practised. 

Three clicks.

 Alina raised her hands and set the Fold ablaze. In the same moment, she bent the light, letting it flow around each of the soldiers like a stream. 

The skiff slowed.

 As it drew closer, Anaya saw its black sails marked with the sun in eclipse, the strange, smoked-glass quality of its hull. The violet flame of the lumiya shimmered over its sides. 

Squallers stood at the masts in their blue kefta. A few Inferni lined the railings, flanked by Heartrenders in red, heavily armed oprichniki in grey. 

Anaya thought of how many of them she had known. How many of them would’ve sat by her in class, how many she would’ve passed by in the halls. 

She thought of how many she would have to kill, so the rest could live.

 It was a spare force. The students must’ve been belowdecks. 

The Darkling stood at the prow, surrounded by his shadow horde.

Whatever was to happen, she was ready to face him. 

She thought of the little girl, the girl who sought her worth in the praise she attained from that very man. She thought of the girl, older, who’d thought of that very man as her saviour. 

They were all with her, as part of her.

 Each of them now being able to see beyond the veil, the monster behind the mask, the demon in the wood. They were all by her side, giving her strength. To take their revenge, to avenge what they had lost.

In a sudden, the first shot struck one of the Darkling’s oprichniki. He toppled over the skiff’s railing. Then the shots came in a rapid patter, like raindrops on a rooftop at the start of a storm.

This was their cue.

Anaya and the soldiers bolted towards the skiff, making a formation around Alina and the twins, blades drawn. 

“Go!” Anaya said to Alina. She gave her a glance before rushing towards the skiff with the twins.

 Grisha and oprichniki slumped and fell against one another as confusion broke out aboard the glass skiff. 

Someone shouted, “Return fire!” and the air erupted with the jarring thunder of gunshots, but their group was safely out of range. 

The nichevo’ya beat their wings, turning in wide arcs, searching for targets. 

Flints were struck, and the Inferni who remained on the skiff sent gouts of flame flaring through the air. 

Cloaked from sight, Harshaw turned the fire back on them. 

Anaya heard screams.

Then silence, broken only by moaning and shouted orders from the glass skiff. Their sharpshooters had done their job well. The area around the railing was littered with bodies. Still, she didn’t let her guard down.

A single click. 

The Squallers sent a wave of sand crashing through the air. More shouts rose from the deck as the Darkling’s Squallers tried to respond. 

Suddenly, one of the soldiers behind Anaya yelled, “Get down!”. She barely had time to react as the air exploded with gunfire. 

Two other glass skiffs came into view, loaded with oprichniki. As soon as they came into contact with the light, the skiffs ignited with the glowing violet flame of lumiya.

However many he had sent, only two had made it through. But that would be enough to turn the tide. 

Anaya could hear screams, shouting, their soldiers returning fire. A red stain appeared in the sand and she realised that one of their people was bleeding. Anaya’s eyes widened.

 It could’ve been anyone. Zoya, Nadia, Adrik , Harshaw. 

Soldiers rushed their way from both the skiffs. Oprichnik, Grisha, the lands were sprawling with all of their kind.

Their cover had lifted up, they were as visible as daylight.

An array of armed soldiers rushed Anaya’s way. She took her stance. 

One of the soldiers thrashed his sword in her way, but she quickly brought her own up, clashing it with his. With great force, she hefted it backwards, making him stumble. 

She kicked him in the shin, bringing him down to his knees before bringing her sword to his head. 

Another charged at her from behind, but she spun around rapidly, and ducked downwards. She bought her blade from the side, thrashing it with his, the metals echoing.

She pressed on to her weapon with as much force as the soldier did. She thrashed his blade, making him topple for a moment, she spun around, thrashing the weapon at his side, making a deep gash at his upper arm

The soldier yelped in pain, he lost his footing. But before he could move, she struck once again, making him fall back. 

Another struck at her from a side, making her drop her sword. He then threw a punch at her, but she grabbed his hand with hers and struck his jaw. He moved his other hand towards her, but she deflected it with her elbow.

She moved her other arm up, grabbing his, and kept a firm grip on it as she kicked him at a side of his torso. 

He keeled over, clutching his side. She held him by the shoulders and struck his leg, making him fall down as she let go.

She quickly picked up her sword as another soldier appeared in front of her. And two more came at her side, as if monsters appearing from the shadows. 

They surrounded her from each direction. She was seriously outnumbered. But she wouldn’t go down without a fight.

Just as she tightened her grip on her sword, she could sense something.

Long steady streams, spreading out in each direction, lots of them. The steady flow of the water. 

Strange enough, as there was nothing but dead sand for miles.

It’s them

She slowly flexed her wrist at her side. She had a hold on something.

One of them lunged at her. But before he could reach her, she moved her arm up in a jerk. 

He stopped. 

She threw her sword down on and brought her other arm up. The rest rushed towards her, but stopped in their tracks, clutching their hands to their chests.

She seized the streams and directed them to their lungs. She turned her hand up and closed her fist.

They all slumped down to the ground as their lungs brimmed with water. 

She looked at them for a moment. She truly hadn’t realised as to what the limits of her power were.

She quickly picked up her sword and rushed towards the Soldat Sol that were outnumbered by the Darkling’s oprichniki. 

She raised her left arm, seizing one that had one of her soldiers in a chokehold. His body went limp before he soundlessly slumped to the ground.

Another lunged at her from the side and she barely had the chance to dodge. He thrashed his sword in her direction, but she deflected the blow with her own. She struck at his leg, making him move back.

She struck again, hitting the torso this time. 

But before she could compose herself, she felt a sharp strike at her back, making her topple. She felt an elbow wrapped around her neck.

She grabbed the arm, pushing it away as she spun around. But the soldier brought their fist to the side of her torso, hitting her right where her wound was. 

Spots danced around her vision as she felt the sudden, burning pain at her side, making her yelp. 

She pressed her hand to her side as she buckled down.

She saw the soldier move again to attack, but before he could make contact, he was pulled back by a soldier she recognized to be Ruby.

She managed to regain her balance, as she kept her hand pressed to her side as she took heavy breaths.

She strode forward, but was stopped short in her tracks by an inferni. A  familiar inferni. A girl with bright eyes and ablaze hair. Anaya recognized her, she knew.

“Anaya Nasrazeen” The girl looked at her with raised eyebrows. “What a shame” she shook her head in disbelief.

“Evalina” Anaya let out. She was one of the girls who’d spoken to her first when she’d come back to the Little Palace. But they went far before that. 

They were friends back when they were children.

“I had thought of you to be very smart,” the girl cocked her head to a side. “But you’ve clearly failed at picking sides, and look where it has gotten you” she summoned a flint

“You speak to me about picking the wrong side?” Anaya raised her brows. “That man, killed my parents, slaughtered thousands of innocents at Novokribirsk” She pointed a finger to her side. “And you choose to side with him?” She bellowed, fist clenched at her side

“ And what about the Grisha that have been slaughtered for ages? Were they not innocent?” she roared. “What about those who are declared witches and burned at stakes even now, only for the gifts that they are born with? What about us?” her flame burned higher.

“So you choose to justify the slaughter of innocents only because your own kind was treated the same? Anaya tilted her head. Where is the justice in that? For one town burnt, you choose to burn down the entire world? How does that seem fair?” Anaya said, her voice rising.

“It’s not too late, Evalina,” Anaya shook her head briefly. “We can still end this, make it fair”

Her flame deteriorated, she met her gaze, her eyes having a hint of pity. “Such touching words Anaya” she moved forward. “But there is nothing fair in war” she sent an arch of fire towards her.

Anaya bent downwards, avoiding it at the last second. She whirled around, rushing towards the girl.

If it was to end this way, then so be it. 

She rushed from Evalina’s side, nearly dodging another arch of flame and grabbed her in a headlock from behind. 

But the girl thrashed Anaya’s arm upfront and grabbed it. She spun around, bending it behind Anaya’s back, making her drop her sword in several thrashing gestures. 

She yanked at her hair and kicked her in her calf, making her drop to her knees. 

Anaya bent forward and took out her knife from her shoe, pressing her palms to the ground as she spun her right leg around. She jabbed the blade in Evalina’s arm and yanked herself as she stood back up.

She thrust her knife in her direction but Evalina thrashed her elbow upwards, making the knife fall far away from Anaya’s grasp. 

She then brought out her fist to punch Anaya but she quickly ducked downwards, dodging it. Anaya threw her fist, making contact with Evalina’s jaw. 

She threw another punch. This time, Evalina caught Anaya’s arm and moved it sideways with great force. She kicked Anaya’s shin, making her stumble. She then kicked her again in her gut, making her lose her footing and topple backwards.

Before Anaya could regain her balance, she saw a massive arch of fire being hurled her way. But before it could hit her, an immensely strong gust of wind hurled in their direction, making it vanish. 

Both Anaya and Evalina looked at the direction of the wave and saw Zoya with her arms raised. She had a burn along one side of her face. But before Zoya could take further action, she was struck from behind by a soldier.

As Anaya moved to help her, she felt another body crash into hers, making her fall to the ground. Evalina propped herself on top of Anaya and she felt a burning pain in her throat as she wrapped her hands around her neck.

Anaya scrambled her hand in the dirt, in hopes of reaching her knife. 

“I’m ashamed it has to end this way Anaya” she put more pressure on Anaya’s throat. “We could’ve been friends”

Just as Anaya’s vision began to darken, she felt the cold metal beneath her palm. 

She looked at Zoya who was struggling with numerous soldiers. Then at Evalina’s bright ocean eyes, catching a glimpse of the girl she’d once been.

“We were friends” Anaya let out a croak. 

She brought out the knife up, mustering up all her strength and Evalina’s hands went limp as soon as the blade made contact with the skin of her neck. Her eyes remained widened but soon appeared dead as she fell to the side.

Anaya gasped for air as her body hit the sand.

Zoya hastily rushed towards her, “Are you hurt?’ she asked as she helped Anaya get back up.

“No” She managed to let out a hoarse voice.

Anaya glanced at Evalina’s lifeless body, her eyes wide open as she lay on the sand. 

This was what war did. It changed the people you once knew in unimaginable ways. It tore them apart and molded them into something truly recognisable.

Before they could move forward, Anaya felt a sharp, burning sting at her arm. She yelped as the great force pulled her backwards. 

“Anaya!” Zoya bellowed but a swarm of Volcra surrounded both of them

Anaya scrambled behind her back to grab her revolver, but the pull of the monster was far too strong and she struggled to keep her feet on the ground.

She then suddenly felt the Volcra’s grasp on her loosen and then it jerked away from her. She saw numerous Volcra being hurled away from her and Zoya from another shape in the sky.

For a moment, she believed that her eyes had deceived her. But on a closer look, she realised it was real. 

It was Nikolai.

Fangs bared, wings spread. With his talons, he seized the volcra, and hurled them away. More of them started appearing in their direction but Nikolai flew towards them in the dark abyss. 

With her hand pressed to her wound, Anaya rushed towards the skiff with Zoya. She then sighted the nichevo’ya swarming on the deck.

Her mind reeled, Just what is she doing?

For a moment, everything went silent. Every possibility hung in the air like an untold secret. Then in a sudden, light exploded from the skiff.

The Unsea appeared as bright as the mid-summer daylight and then it vanished, leaving them in the dark once again. 

The nichevo’ya swarmed in all directions and the Volcra circled above them. 

Anaya took out her gun and Zoya raised her arms. They stood with their backs firmly planted to one another.

Anaya took her aim and fired two rows of shots at the Volcra, some of them fell down on the sand but more appeared.

Zoya sent gusts of wind at the nichevo’ya, making them scitter and disappear, only to regain their form.

Only then they heard a sudden familiar voice from the skiff, “Someone help!” Alina’s voice boomed through the air.

Anaya and Zoya gave each other a dreaded glance before rushing towards the skiff. Tolya and Tamar appeared from the opposite direction. 

Tolya was limping and Tamar was covered in blood. But they all stopped short when they saw the sight in front of them.

Mal lay on the deck, lifeless, drenched in his own blood with Alina crouched beside him. Her amplifiers, the stag’s collar was shattered, the remains lay near Mal’s body. And so did the Sea Whip’s fetter.

Anaya couldn’t ignore the ache that rose in her chest.

“Bring him back,” Alina cried out . 

Tolya and Tamar went to their knees beside him, but they too exchanged a mournful look. 

“Alina—” Tamar began.

 “Please,” she sobbed. “Bring him back to me.”

 Tamar opened Mal’s mouth, attempting to force air into his lungs. Tolya placed one hand on Mal’s chest, applying pressure to the wound and trying to restore the beat of his heart. “We need more light,” he said. 

Alina let out a choked laugh. She held up her hands, but nothing appeared.

Anaya couldn’t quite fathom what exactly was happening.

 “I don’t understand,” Alina cried as she pressed her wet cheek to Mal’s.

Anaya pressed her hand to her wound, her sleeve was entirely drenched. She took heavy breaths.

He really did it.

Despite having no gain out of it, the boy gave up his own life just so they could live. Just so all this could end. But what use did it have?

The path in front appeared shrouded in mist, one she had no power to clear.

Anaya looked around at the darkened abyss. Then suddenly, she glimpsed at a small beam of light spurting from near one of the skiffs.  Then another, one by one light began to spread around in a steady wave.

“What is that” she spoke, her voice coming out as baffled as she was.

For a moment she stood bewildered, entirely sure that her mind had deceived her. That it was making her see things, a false gleam of hope.

But then the others noticed it as well. Another appeared, a bright point that became two broad beams, sweeping high and wild above them. 

A torrent of light burst from the darkness just a few feet from them. Anaya turned to see one of their soldiers,Vladim, open his mouth in shock and confusion as light poured from his palms.

One by one across the Fold, like stars appearing in a twilight sky, Soldat Sol and oprichniki, their weapons forgotten, their faces baffled, awed, terrified, and bathed in light.

The arcs and cascades of light blossomed around them.

 The beams met, and where they crossed, the darkness burned away. The shrieks of the Volcra erupted around them as the Fold began to unravel. 

Anaya Nasrazeen had never believed in miracles. She was the kind to always look for logic in the tales of the Saint. She’d believed for everything to happen for a reason.

But this was a true miracle. The gleam of hope brightly lit, soaring. And the girl before her might not have been a Saint, but she was the closest to it. 

“How?” Alina looked up. 

The Darkling stood behind them, stunned, taking in the impossible sight of the Fold coming apart around them . 

“This can’t be” he began. “Not without the firebird. The third-” He stopped short as his eyes settled on Mal’s body, the blood on Alina’s hands. “It can’t be,” he repeated.

“What power is this?” he demanded. He stalked toward them, shadows pooling in his palms, his creatures swirling around him. 

Anaya stepped forward, guarding Alina and Mal. The twins drew their weapons. 

Alina lifted her hands but nothing happened. 

The Darkling stared. He dropped his hands. 

“No,” he said, bewildered, shaking his head. “No. This isn’t- What have you done?”

 “Keep working,” Alina ordered the twins. 

“Alina—”  Tolya began.

“Bring him back to me,” she repeated

She lurched to her feet, and the Darkling strode towards her. His hands went to her throat. “No,” he whispered. 

 Her wrist was bare and the fetter had broken too. 

“This isn’t right,” he said. “You were meant to be like me. You were meant… You’re nothing now.” He dropped his hands.

Power, it was the only thing that had ever connected one to him.

 It was the strangest, but the only language he’d understood. The world to him was divided in only two segments, once who had it and others who did not.

That was all he’d seen each of them as. Wielders of power. One way or another. He’d seen Alina to be somewhat his equal because she wielded the rarest form of power. 

It was the only reason she had mattered to him, it was why any of them had mattered to him.

He spread his arms wide, calling the darkness. The nichevo’ya scattered and turned on Soldat Sol and oprichniki alike, cutting them down, snuffing out the beams of light that blazed from their bodies.

In a sudden, Alina drove a shadow-wrapped blade deep into the Darkling’s heart. He made a soft sound, little more than an exhalation. 

He looked down at the hilt protruding from his chest, then back up at her. He frowned, took a step, tottered slightly. He righted himself.

A single laugh burst from his lips, and a fine spray of blood settled over his chin. “Like this?” His legs faltered. 

He tried to stop his descent, but his arm gave way and he crumpled, rolling to his back. 

“Blue sky,” he said. 

Anaya looked up and she could make out the glimmer of light, pouring from beneath the darkness of the fold, the sky. 

The volcra were swooping away from it, looking for someplace to hide.

 “Alina,” he breathed. 

She knelt beside him. The nichevo’ya had left off their attacks. Anaya looked up as they circled and clattered above them, unsure of what to do. 

She looked back down at him.

He glanced at her for a brief moment. He almost appeared amazed.

He’d taken away her life, mended it, molded it and made it into something she hadn’t thought of in her wildest dreams. He’d turned her into something she’d never thought to become.

He had taken away all of it.

For a moment, she could see her mother’s smile, the glint of her dark eyes. She could see her father’s grin, his gleaming blue eyes.

He had taken them from her.

She remembered her proud grin, the one she attained each time she was praised by him. It was strange, how once she would’ve done anything to make him proud. 

And now she stood, watching his breath fade away, feeling a weight being lifted off her, a wave of relief washing over her.

She looked at him with droopy eyelids and a faint smile. She was relieved

He knew

 His eyes fluttered shut. “Don’t let me be alone,” he murmured.

The nichevo’ya blew apart, scattering like ashes in wind, leaving startled soldiers and Grisha staring at the places where they’d been. 

Anaya heard a sudden wrenching cry and looked up in time to see Nikolai’s wings dissolve, darkness spilling from him as he was falling down.

She rushed towards him, followed by Zoya who attempted to slow his fall with an updraft. She formed a cushion of wind as he fell down to the sands with a gentle thud.

Both Anaya and Zoya rushed to his side and for a moment, he did not move. Anaya felt her heartbeat grow as she took heavy breaths.

“Saints, Is he alive?” Zoya managed in a heavy voice

“I don’t know,” Anaya said, bending down to his side. “Nikolai, Nikolai are you alive?” her voice came out entirely hoarse.

He remained still and in a sudden, he let out a groan as he pushed her elbow to the ground and attempted to get up. “I feel very much alive,” he managed.

Anaya’s breath hitched as relief washed over her.

“Come on” Anaya let out a breath as she took his left arm in her hand and put it around her shoulder.

Zoya helped him up from the other side and they trudged forward. 

Anaya winced as her bleeding arm throbbed. 

“Anaya are you alright?” Nikolai asked as he glanced at her

“Yeah I’m fine” she said

She wasn’t entirely sure that she was. But she had the feeling that they were going to be.

……………………………………………………….

A/N- Wow this chapter took a LOT of effort to write so I really hope you liked it. It was honestly a roller coaster of emotions writing the entire thing and reading it back again. Anaya just can’t catch a break can she😔

[vlyrn]

Brynden Tully

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VLYRN pushing the old man fucker agenda once again is anyone surprised? No!

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The Knight’s Secret - c.ai , j.ai

Brynden Tully silently comforts the humiliated and vulnerable young knight after a cruel insult during training, affirming their unspoken bond and shared strength against a world full of judgment.

The clang of steel rang sharp through the Riverrun training yard, a familiar rhythm to Brynden Tully, a man carved by war, loyalty, and secrets buried deep in his chest. Sunlight poured over the stones, bright as molten silver, casting long shadows of squires and knights as they circled and clashed beneath his watchful eye. He stood with arms folded, a quiet sentinel above the fray, his grey eyes narrowing as they followed the sparring.

Neri moved like a flame across the yard, all bright-eyed fervor and iron-willed grace. Brynden watched the line of his jaw clench with focus, the sweat glinting at his brow, the knuckles white around his blade. A noble youth, wrapped in the armor of both ambition and longing. Brynden knew every inch of his skin, every curve of the muscles beneath that breastplate, every tremble that came in the quiet moments when they were alone. He should not have been watching so closely—but he always did.

A harsh bark of laughter snapped Brynden from his reverie. It came from a swaggering brute of a knight with a tongue twice as sharp as his sword.

“Careful now, sweetling,” he sneered at Neri, stepping back from a parry with an exaggerated flourish. “Wouldn’t want to chip that pretty blade of yours. Or does your taste lean toward… softer sheaths?”

A few of the others chuckled, cruder remarks ready on their lips—but Brynden’s gaze cut like a dagger, and the sound stilled into silence. Still, the damage was done.

He saw it before it happened—the tightening of Neri’s throat, the way his stance faltered for a breath, how his shoulders snapped rigid with fury and shame. The blade slipped from his hand with a clatter that echoed across the yard like a tolling bell.

“Fuck this,” Neri spat, eyes dark with betrayal and grief, and turned on his heel.

Brynden stood still, stone-faced, as Neri stormed off through the gate. He did not move. He could not—not yet. Eyes lingered too long on him even now. They always had.

He waited. A minute passed. Then two. Long enough that no one would think it strange. Long enough to pretend indifference.

Then he followed.

Down the outer hall and through the winding passages, until he reached the shadowed alcove beneath the broken archway, the place where the stone dripped with moss and old memories. Neri stood there, back turned, fists clenched at his sides, shaking not from cold but from the sting of humiliation.

Brynden’s boots echoed softly behind him, but he didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Neri turned as if drawn by gravity, his eyes burning, and in the next heartbeat he was pressed against Brynden’s chest, the rigid line of his body dissolving as arms folded tight around him. He buried his face in the hollow of Brynden’s throat, where the scent of leather, rain, and smoke still lingered.

“Shhh,” Brynden whispered against his temple, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair. “Easy, now. You’re safe.”

He rocked them gently, as though the motion could turn back time, strip away the thousand invisible eyes always watching. His other hand curved along the sharp ridge of Neri’s spine, anchoring him.

Brynden’s jaw clenched. The words were a knife, but not unexpected. His grip tightened fractionally, and he leaned down, forehead pressed to the crown of Neri’s head, letting silence fall like a veil over them.

“You are not my shame,” he said, low and firm, as if the words themselves could bind armor to fragile flesh. “But we live in a world where truth can kill quicker than steel. I would die for you, but I will not let you die for me.”

The younger man trembled in his arms, anger warping into sorrow, sorrow unraveling into helpless want. His fingers clutched Brynden’s tunic, knotted and white with strain.

Brynden pressed a kiss to his hairline, slow and reverent.

“Let them laugh,” he murmured. “Let them doubt. We have this. We have this.”

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Masterlist

[ineffablefate]

I recall the first exhale, after we finally let it die. that murmur, soft as a widow’s lull, a tempest’s fractured gasp. Somewhere, luminescence fails to reach the skull’s deep curve, and the shades tremble, shudder, bearing down on brittle marrow, ancient and desperate. The revenants crave to be remembered. Somewhere, a thief holds the sword’s edge, wielding it as the night cracks— a solitary pulse beneath the dull ache of dawn. Roots are confused in the mourning, and I’m adrift in the slant of obsidian trees, twisted, knotted into the fibers of desert storms, blood trails that eclipse, hunger that trifles where hands work in light, claiming the shape of God and hiding behind this ruthless face of Love. Do you remember that? The sun slips within the knife's grin, the blade that divides lovers and children who chant blue fire, who swallow the blossom of agony whole. The ancient echoes drag on, carrying us like ships of color into a field of cracked mirrors, where we dance on bread and blood and bones, spilled like oil across a scarred valley we once called home. I know this burning— it’s the weight of the salt, the sting of a red, open sky. You, a fox running through the smoke, your wolf-song like autumn leaves, falling, quaking under moons that shift, that spill lavender honey into the dawn. Here, your silent Love holds my name in every forgotten root, in the blade's hilt, in the spiral of stars, hidden and raw, stolen from sun rise's pulse. We are vessels for this fire-dragon cyclone, a page from a deaf book of blight. Turning in the wind, slipping through fingers thick with the grease of memory, of lovers folded and lost, sinking into the soil, whispering the secrets that God refuses to bear. We wear this origin like armor, our mouths full of ash and prayer and everything we could not let go of. And so we burn, my friend, with a jaded thirst for the bone-shack dust, for the holes in the earth that drank us dry, for a jagged rock that cannot answer to the weight of all we’ve carried— all the tired dreams wrapped in rotting reverie, all the forests caught in the sloth of moonlight, sinking beneath the burden of broken breaths, haunted, quaking, and never quite whole. So tell me, what becomes of the thief, the one who dared to wear masks like skin, to bleed in the arms of affection, to call himself worthy of this unending flame? We are the scars etched on a sky we cannot hold, the broken spell of worship and gold, the thorn that remembers only the taste of blood. Hold this light, this echo, this ash— we are the tilt of branches at the heavy snow, the ghosts under the earth's open throat. We are breath and shudder, root and lament, galleons of hues and cadence, and, heavens preserve us: we are the sons and daughters of Love, held alive by nothing more than words, nothing more than the low-drum hum of a crimson canary in a cage of bones where quiet dares not to dream.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

To Rival A King: Royal Blood, Savage Heart

Pella, Macedon – 342 BCE

The sun bled across the palace walls, smearing gold on stone. Inside the royal halls, the scent of parchment and sweat filled the air, where Aristotle lectured on virtue and destiny. Alexander sat with arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not on the scrolls, but on the doorway.

She wasn’t supposed to be there. Yet there she stood.

Thaleia. Barefoot. Mud-streaked. A split lip still drying over from yesterday’s fistfight.

Aristotle paused mid-sentence. “You are not on my scroll,” he said dryly.

“Neither is war, yet here we are preparing for it,” she shot back, folding her arms like a man and leaning against the marble. “I was told I’d be training with the royal pages now. Something about learning to think before I swing.”

Alexander’s heart clamped tight in his chest. The audacity. This was his domain—the classroom, the ideas, the future. Out on the fields she could wrestle boars and boys, but here? Here, she was an intruder.

Aristotle gestured wordlessly to the empty space beside Alexander.

She sat with a smirk, smelling of iron and wild rosemary.

The lesson resumed, but Alexander heard nothing. Not of logic, not of statesmanship. Only the wet sound of her chewing the end of a quill. He glanced at her once—just once—and she caught him.

“What? Jealous I get to think now too?” she whispered.

He looked away. “I doubt you’ll survive the hour.”

“I plan to survive you,” she said. “That takes sharper thinking than you’ve ever done.”

That night, at the practice yard, the tension burned hotter.

Alexander moved like a storm—calculated, elegant, lethal. He’d trained since childhood with weapons almost too large for his size. Now, with every strike, he sought something he couldn’t name. Glory? Revenge? Or perhaps the satisfaction of seeing her humbled?

She stepped into the ring next, wearing a man’s tunic, belted at the waist. Her legs were bare, her braid tied like a rope down her spine. She fought with a short sword and a wicked smile.

She beat every opponent. Boys older than her. Stronger than her. Smarter? No one could tell. She used anger like a dance, provocation like a second blade.

Hephaestion watched with faint amusement. “She doesn’t fight fair.”

“War isn’t fair,” Alexander growled.

“She’ll be one of us, whether you like it or not.”

“She’ll never be one of me.”

Later, in the barracks, as the royal pages soaked wounds and whispered strategies, Thaleia lounged against a beam, sipping watered wine. Her tunic clung with sweat. Her feet rested on a stack of armor that didn’t belong to her.

He approached, every muscle taut.

“You humiliated yourself in the ring today,” he said.

She didn’t even blink. “You mean I didn’t let your little boy-club keep its pride.”

“You’ll never be Macedon’s hero.”

She stood up, suddenly inches away, her chest brushing his in deliberate challenge.

“I don’t want to be Macedon’s hero,” she murmured. “I want to be the storm they can’t predict. The knife they never see coming. And I want to see the great Alexander squirm every time he loses to me.”

Then she leaned in.

For a second, he thought she’d kiss him. But she only whispered in his ear—

“And I want to make you work for everything you think is yours.”

Then she was gone.

Alexander stood frozen, heart pounding, fists clenched, crownless—and for the first time, unsure if he wanted her broken at his feet… or standing beside him with a blade to his throat.

[sentinelcore]

Masks part 1

Smelling of cheap perfume, and even cheaper wine. Shamus awoke, slumped against a broken barrel. The barkeep had thrown him out, now Shamus was slumped in a dark, damp alleyway in the slums of val royeaux, not far from the alienage. Shamus ran his hands through his pockets, *sword, coin purse, and lyirum* relieved that the tiny, almost empty vile was still tucked away, hidden, Shamus wobbled to his feet dusting off his worn gray coat, his fingers hovered over the spot on his chest, the impression of the all-seeing eye remained. His heart tightened with sorrow from the memories of better times.

    Shamus shook it off and strode down the alleyway towards the alienage.

    Further down his path three elves, too sturdy dressed for workers were having a conversation that quickly came to an end when Shamus approached. One stopped him, blocking the narrow alley "This isn't a place for a shem" the elf said "especially an aimed shem" his friends laughed

    Shamus shifted his weight and rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword "Good thing I'm not shemlen" Shamus said using his other hand to point to his half-elven ears "I'm a little knife ear, like a pairing knife"

    The elves did not seem amused "Yes, bad joke" Shamus said "My brother would have loved it"

    "Just hand over your sword, flat ear," the first elf ordered "Actually hand over all your stuff"

    "Yes, flat ear is more accurate" Shamus pulled his sword to reveal a lazurite hilt with no blade "But you don't want this, it's harmless"

    The elves pulled out knives with confidence painted on their faces. Shamus laughed, and a blade of golden light formed from the sword's hilt "But this is very harmful"

    The elves dropped their knives and ran, as was the normal and rational response to magic.

    Several streets over Shamus felt eyes on his back, in an attempt to Shake his watcher, he turned down alleyway after alleyway, tell he stood in an empty stone courtyard, a dead end.

    he turned to leave when a man appeared behind him, this man wore all white with silver, in an orlesian fashion, an ivory mask covered his whole face. *A bard*.

    "Monsieur Enchanter," the bard said in a heavy orlesian accent "I have a letter from my patron"

    Shamus turned to face the man in white "You must be mistaken, I'm no Enchanter, just a mercenary" It was true Shamus hadn't held the rank of Enchanter since before the circles fell "Maybe if you're looking for a mage you should visit the Spire?" Shamus said with a hint of longing.

    "oh, but measure, my patron has requested knight-Enchanter Shamus Du'maro, and that is you" The bard stepped forward extending a hand with a neatly folded letter with a wax seal "It would be a shame, if Templars visited the hostel you are staying at, no?"

    *blackmail, bloody cheese eater* Shamus took the letter, he didn't recognize the seal, inside the letter, it read.

    To former knight-Enchanter Shamus du'maro of the circle of starkhavan now apostate, I lady liesa leurpeil have a proposition for you. My husband requires a bodyguard with, special skills, such as yours. In exchange, you will be paid and housed accordingly, and above all, you will have resources for your anonymity.

    an address was written at the bottom of the paper with an ink stain emblem of what must be house leurpeil.

  "and if I refuse?"  Shamus looked up from the paper the bard was gone. "Right," Shamus tucked the letter in his vest pocket and left the courtyard.

    next morning Shamus approached the servant's entrance to the leurpeil household, two young elven women were unloading a cart of kitchen supplies. A third elven woman was signing delivery papers. She was beautiful, with golden tan skin sun freckled and scarred from a life of hardship, her pale blonde hair tied in a messy bun with patches of hair sticking out at odd angles.

    she looked up at him, her dark brown eyes narrowed and she spoke "Can I help you?"

    Shamus showed her the letter, folded to only show the emblem and address, "Yes, I'm here to see Lady Leurpeil"

    she looked at him with a raised eyebrow "You're the new bodyguard? a light wind would break you in half" Her accident was surprisingly easy to understand.

    "I have not yet accepted the job," Shamus said smiling like an idiot "and I can hold my own in a fight, no worries"

    she rolled her eyes "Oh yes, special talents" she said as she lifted a crate and held it on her shoulder "Go inside and introduce yourself, we'll see if you say no" She entered the house and down a set of stairs.

    Shamus followed inside "I didn't get your name!" He yelled down the stairs, but he got no response.

    the bard appeared in the corner of Shamus's eye "This way, Monsieur"

    Shamus was led into a parlor, where an older woman in a casual gown sat in a plush chair next to a large set of windows eating small cakes with fruit. Her mask sat on the table next to her breakfast.

    "good morning Enchanter du'maro, you considered my offer?" She asked as if she knew the answer already.

    "I feel I don't have much choice, since I for one don't want Templars on me," Shamus said bluntly

    "dear I would not have made the offer if it was not something you would be interested in," she said with a smile.

    Shamus scanned the room the bard sat on a stool, tuning his lute.

    "My husband is an inventor, and he is working on his Magnum Opus, but his enemies will try to stop him from finishing it" She took a sip of tea "The device could save many lives, even change the world"

    "what could be such a device?" Shamus asked in suspension.

    "a lyirum detector" she answered "Does that not interest you, Enchanter?"

[inun4ki]

lift

'reasons to cup a face' prompts / accepting

"Ah, maybe I was a little too careless," Kaede murmured to himself.

Careful fingers swept over the edge of a chipped blade, scrutinizing gaze catching on superficial scratches, the slight bend at the tip, blunted edge...

He let out a sigh, pursing his lips, and dropped his arm, pressing the little knife against his whetstone and slowly, methodically beginning to drag it across. This wasn't the first nor would it be the last of his tending, idly sharpening damaged weapons in the hopes that his next trip to some backwater hellhole would prove easier than the last - at the very least. He was as unwilling as any to play at being curse-food, or to be possessed of broken, useless tools in any scenario that could result in an untimely end - or timely, depending on who one asks.

The silence was comfortable, little more than the scrape of metal against stone filling his ears - and, perhaps, the occasional and obviously bored puffs of air coming from Gojo to break the monotony. Admittedly, it was nice having someone else in the room - nice having company. Pleasant, even, despite the intermittent interruption of his concentration. That is to say, he didn't mind at all, content to simply be in the absence of work, special orders, and the like.

He often thought of moments such as these as times to catch up, even though he rarely ever did much talking. Opening his mouth was a double-edged sword - nothing good came out, friendly compliments twisting into petty teases, playfulness morphing into awkward (and stupid) displays of social ineptitude, embarrassment consistently reigning supreme over intention... But every once in a while, he was afforded the opportunity not to come across as a complete and utter fool - like now, in the warm afternoon light where idle hands could occupy themselves and the need for conversation wouldn't pervade. Quiet times to get caught up on that which needed it, be it meticulously guiding a blade across stone or hanging out with...well, a coworker. He didn't really know what to call Gojo, but that was neither here nor there, he supposed.

"Think if I can work out the kinks, it'll do better next time," he said, once more to himself, gaze fixing on a divot along the knife-edge. More effort than a mere few minutes of work would be required, and he was really quite lucky he'd been able to manage thus far, a cool tingle at his fingertips as cursed energy bled into the blade. Folding, compressing, filling, until at last it would again be optimally useful should he find himself entrenched in the worst possible scenario - as had so often come to pass. Still, for a moment, he set his knife aside, flexing his hands and rolling his wrists in an effort to work out any stiffness or soreness. "Nothing like a good knife to change the tide in combat - provided it's properly cared for. I'm not eager to meet death, after all."

He drew his knee up and pressed his cheek into the cap, long hair spooling over his shoulder as a faint breeze fluttered in through the open window. Rubbing his palms, massaging small muscles, he'd become too focused to notice the footsteps tacitly pounding into the hardwood, drawing ever closer. In fact, he'd already picked the knife up again when a shadow was cast, looming over him - but he'd thought a passing cloud had been responsible, writing it off as something natural altogether. He shifted again, folding his other leg in a half-formed criss-cross, but his knife wouldn't again touch the whetstone.

Instead, it loudly clattered to the floor.

Long fingers brushed against his cheek where others hooked underneath his chin, steadily yet insistantly guiding his head upward and off his knee - to look up - warm yet cold all at once, as if clammy from having been balled up for too long. At first, he was surprised, breath catching in his throat from the contact alone, but such was made doubly worse when he couldn't parse the expression Gojo was making. Masked placidity, teasing, a playful edge to something he simply couldn't fathom, too many unknowns wrapped up in one pale face framed in black cloth and white hair-- He nearly recoiled, some small part of him only too happy to almost lean into the touch, twin cornflowers wide open with confusion, curiosity, and the vague need to run the fuck away.

Why was he so close? Why was he touching him, lifting his head, gently urging him to look up and pay attention? Had he missed something, tuned him out and accidentally ignored anything he said? Did Gojo say anything...? Did it even matter? It wasn't as if he could conceal the warmth bitterly staining his skin with shades of pink, nor the miserably transparent quiver of his lip as he gnawed into it, praying to whatever gods may exist that he would not be called out on the storm suddenly overtaking his mind, or the boyish gasp that'd escaped him long before he could regain the wherewithall to choke it down.

"A-ara, Gojo-senpai...? Is there something on my face? Or did you say something...? I-I apologize if you think I've been ignoring you," he rasped softly, blinking in quick succession as one hand rose to cautiously slip around Gojo's wrist. He didn't push nor pull, resist nor encourage, arrested by the proximity. Enough thought whirled through his head to put event he most anxiously thoughtful mind to shame, all in a vain attempt to make sense of what was happening, deconstruct it and piece it all back together. But there were no adequate explanations, no silly excuses he could handwave away - just a persistent enough touch and an imperceptible smile.

Glancing away, he swallowed thinly, free hand tucking a lock of his hair behind an ear. He was nervous.

"Even though I'm not particularly kind to you, you would still... and gently...?"