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corazondebeskar-reads · 2 months

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of rage and ruin - chapter five

of rage and ruin series

chapter five

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werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: the moon brings about a new change for you and joel.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), depiction of injury, body horror, typical raider/hunter behavior, mention of cordyceps, angst, viewer discretion is advised, discussions of breeding but this is not a pregnancy story

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

When the moon ebbs enough for him to let go of the creature, you’ve been a frequent visitor in his cell. They never leave you overnight, and most days, you’re in your room for breakfast and dinner (though you’re slightly better fed in his).

Like clockwork, the wolf has curled around you, an ever-present inner tube to float you through the endless days. There’s not much to do here in captivity, no enrichment in your enclosure, so instead, you pet his fur and watch the way his eyes follow noises from the upper floor that you can’t hear. He knows when they’re coming far before you do, not that it matters. Not that you can do anything to protect yourselves, to prepare for them.

He doesn’t use his tongue on you again. Maybe it should be comforting, that he was just helping, or that he just had a thirst for blood, but it’s not. Cheryl’s question pecks at your brain until it weeps.

Why hasn’t he done… that? You would have said he wasn’t the type, wasn’t that out of control, wasn’t a real monster.

But she said he had done it before. Claimed, violated another omega.

And he still hasn’t taken the fucking chance to explain anything to you.

You grow tired of it near the new moon.

He’s corralled you away from the cold corner where your cage used to be, a goal you only figured out when he put his teeth on the chain between your handcuffs and began to pull you after ages of nudging had left you both frustrated at the inability to communicate.

Now you sit nestled in the embrace of his great, furry body on his mattress. It is, admittedly, more comfortable than you’ve been since they took you. The mattress sucks, but it hurts your ass less than the tile, and your back yearns to rest there instead of the locker room bench.

He curls the bulk of his body in the corner, you tucked within, but it was never meant for two humans, let alone one human and one… more than human. His elongated, thick limbs spill out over the edge, but it gets easier every day to look at him without feeling nauseated by the sheer otherness of his mutated body.

And he’s warm. It’s fucking frigid down here, and your sports bra and thin cotton panties do little to ease the shivers. But the wolf is warm and soft and mostly content to let you doze there.

You try not to think about why. Why this terrifying apex predator is treating you more like a teddy bear than a snack. Why you’re not more afraid, why you find yourself absentmindedly petting him and putting up no argument as he shuffles you around as he pleases.

“Is this all you did all day before, too?” you ask quietly one afternoon, tired of the way your brain rots and drips out from between your thighs. Sitting here in the silence, with nothing to distract you from his oaky musk, has you leaking that thin, sticky slick like a faucet. He doesn’t seem to mind that you’re dampening the mattress.

Joel huffs, a puff of hot air ruffling the fur on his arm where his head is resting. Despite your frequent naps, you don’t seem to have taken to his crepusculent nature yet. He rumbles, not quite a growl, and closes his eyes so you get the hint.

You don’t. It’s not long before he feels your pointy finger jabbing at his side. “Hey,” you say. “Why haven’t you turned back?”

This time, he does growl, a soft warning of a thing. The wolf doesn’t want the man, and the man doesn’t want you. Or, well. He does. That’s the problem, after all. His human mind stays stubbornly shut, content to let the beast deal with you instead.

It becomes impossible to ignore. He spends his days wrapped around you, trying to ease the tiny tremors. But you’re cold, so cold, and even his body heat isn’t enough.

In fact, it almost makes it worse when he has to get up, leaving you alone on the little bed with scraps to wear.

Joel doesn’t make requests. He doesn’t debase himself to beg them for anything. When he has to? Sure. He has and will again someday humiliate himself for water. But never for anything remotely unnecessary.

But you’re cold.

Now, his reticence makes this harder. He doesn’t ask for things, so they know they’ve won already when he does.

They made him care about this girl, about you, and he can’t hide it. Can’t hide from it. Can’t protect you, can’t protect himself from their manipulations.

But they’ve known since they brought you in. They knew they figured it out and had him made when he got territorial.

So not only do they make him beg, they make him work for it.

It’s only the new moon when he asks, and they make him wait.

Two weeks. He can’t take it.

The wolf doesn’t let him sleep often; he just paces. Paces and paces and paces, even though it makes you a little nervous.

Even worse? He likes you a little nervous. It makes him nauseous and giddy at the same time.

But cold? That’s just unacceptable.

Protect, the wolf whispers. Provide.

The man comes back. His graying hair is ruffled and damp; little droplets of water still cling to his chest and flatten the hair on his stomach. You keep your eyes above the waist, but not quick enough to unsee the way his heavy, flaccid cock lies thick against the plush bed of his balls. It twitches under your gaze, which you lift to find his on you, dark and full of warning.

You shouldn’t be this affected. He’s been walking around nude the whole time you’ve been here. And yet, there’s a rush of warmth flooding you, a tell-tale beat at your core.

Oh. No, it’s an actual flood of warmth. The apple blossom tang of your slick is strong enough that you can smell it, the glistening of your thighs and matted hair between betraying you.

His brows pinch, lip caught between teeth. “We need to talk.”

It’s funny—the universal dread behind those words. This is not when your mother sat you down to break the news of your dog’s passing; this is not when your high school boyfriend decided to have that conversation in a bottlenecked hallway outside the cafeteria. This is a virtual stranger, and yet, that phrase still sends your heart rate skittering and your stomach seizing.

You don’t realize you’ve frozen up until he makes a very irritating tch-tch with his tongue against his teeth.

“Did you hear me, girl? I need to talk to you. And you need to listen.”

“Hi Joel, nice to see you; it’s been a while,” you say instead.

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been here the whole damn time.”

“Incredibly convenient that when you want to talk, you can be a person, but when I’m bored and lonely in here with your furry ass, you can’t be bothered.”

“First of all,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted, “you talked plenty for the both of us. Second—” He glares as you open your mouth indignantly— “ second, this is important. And it’s important now.”

You shut your mouth.

“Oh, good, you do know how,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry, is my presence here a bother? Let me just pack up and go home. Oh, wait.”

You don’t know why you’re doing this. The residual bitterness you had scrubbed clean from your lungs is bubbling anew. How dare he have an attitude with you?

He growls. Honest to god growls, even though he’s human, because he can’t truly be, really. Not anymore. The lines between wolf and man are not as fortified as he likes to pretend.

They never really were.

That’s neither here nor there to Joel right now, though. What matters is that you knock this off and listen . “We ain’t got time for this,” he says. “I shoulda realized sooner, but I didn’t. I don’t know how much time we got, but I ain’t about to let you go into this blind.”

Your anger is snuffed by his icy tone, making way for the dread to creep back in.

He sits down with a huff, bare ass on the cold, cratered floor, putting a good half the room between you. A spike of guilt at having stolen his bed rises. At least you have underwear to put between you and the tile.

The guilt festers when he tosses you a small gray bundle.

It’s a blanket.

It’s worn and torn, certainly, and it’s thin. But it’s a blanket.

You’re actually speechless, looking up at him and opening and closing your mouth like a fish.

“Don’t make a big deal about it,” he says gruffly, so you shut your mouth and nod.

“Thanks,” is all you say, and he grunts in response.

You run your hands over the soft fleece and bite your lip. It seems less important to listen to him right now than it is to spread the blanket out on the mattress. You’re aware of his wary stare as you change the positioning over and over before uselessly fluffing the sad, flat pillow and setting it at the top of the bed.

“Shit,” he says. “We got less time than I thought.”

Once you’re satisfied with your one and only “home decoration,” you settle back on the mattress and regard him. “Before what?”

“Before your heat, baby,” he says with forced caution.

Your brain fizzles, like holding Pop Rocks in the back of your throat, when he calls you baby. You should be pissed. If it were any other man calling you something like that apropos of nothing, you’d be pissed.

But Joel says it, and you lose your train of thought.

For all that you’ve malfunctioned from it, Joel doesn’t seem to notice the slip of his tongue. He’s watching you expectantly, which brings the rest of his sentence to the surface.

“Before what?” you say, even though deep down, you know. Even if you didn’t have context for the word, you feel it. What was a low simmer is molten, now, as it churns in your abdomen, leaking from your cunt.

He grimaces. “I know how this is gonna sound. I promise I’m not tryin’ to pull anything over on ya,” he says, hands raised in supplication. “But you gotta know before it’s too late.”

His jaw ticks as he chews on the words he doesn’t want to taste before spitting them out between you. “Look, it ain’t like anyone knows a whole lot about our… conditions. But that’s what they call it.” He glances up at the ceiling, no doubt listening to the raiders stomping around above. “Best guess is a biological breeding imperative. But you’re going to get real… needy. It’s gonna hurt. And I’m not going to be able to stop myself. ”

You consider this, turning it over and over like a gas station hot dog roller. The image of his cock fits a little too well there, but that’s the long and short of it, isn’t it?

Well. There isn’t anything short about it. No, you can’t follow that path right now. You blink and notice he’s staring, waiting for some kind of— any kind of reaction, and clear your throat. “Why?”

You’re not really sure what you’re asking, just looking to take whatever semblance of an answer he can muster.

“Because it’s going to hurt you, and you’re going to beg me to help, and I’m not gonna be able to say no.”

“That seems wildly unfair to you.”

He sputters. “To-to me? Aren’t you listening? I’m telling you I’m going to lose control and violate you while you’re vulnerable, and you’re worried about what’s fair to me?”

“Well, it’s obviously unfair to me too,” you counter. “But, like. Okay, whatever, far be it for me to think you should have some say in this.”

He scrubs his hand over his face, scratches at his beard, and heaves a heavy sigh. A three-for-one in what you’re starting to understand as Joel for “Jesus fucking Christ.”

He completes the set for you.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, and then glowers when you snort a wry laugh.

He stands up and paces. It’s the first time you’ve really seen him behave like the wolf while remaining the man. It also, unfortunately, makes it very hard not to look at his cock. He catches you looking and groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry,” you say, shifting uncomfortably on the mattress.

“Ain’t your fault,” he says, resuming his figure eight.

You sit, picking at the skin around the nailbed of your left index finger until it bleeds, bringing it to your mouth to soothe the sting.

“Don’t do that,” he scolds when the blood blossoms, but you’re too lost in the realization of what’s coming to listen.

“It’s going to hurt?” you ask finally.

“Yeah, it’s going to fucking hurt,” he snaps and then sighs, shoulders slumping a little. “It’s going to make you feel like you’ll die if you don’t… if I don’t…”

“So, hold up. You get super strength, super hearing, super sharp teeth, and like mighty morphin fursuit powers, and I get… so horny it hurts?”

“What is wrong with you?” he mutters, but you ignore him.

“That’s so fucked. Is there anything cool about being an… an omega?” You don’t like the shape of the word on your tongue, spitting it out. It leaves behind a caustic taste.

“You’re more likely to carry to term successfully than human women,” he says flatly.

The caustic feeling spreads to the twitch of your lip. “Oh, come on. Fucking typical FEDRA. They accidentally created werewolves with a side dose of sexism.”

His jaw ticks. “First of all, we ain’t werewolves. ”

“Uh, you are. You, for sure, are a werewolf,” you interrupt.

The line between his brow deepens, like this conversation is taking years off his life. “Don’t say that,” he says, closing his eyes. “Do not say that again.”

“Dude. You howl at the fucking moon. You turn into a huge hairy beast, all ‘the better to eat you with’ style, like, you’re a motherfucking werewolf.”

He sits down, shaking his head. “Can you quit it?” he barks. Well, not literally. You’ve heard him literally bark. This is just rude.

Except, there’s a teeny, tiny quirk to the corner of his mouth. “Anyway,” he grunts. “It ain’t sexist. Anyone can be an omega.”

“Ok, but still. You get superpowers, and I get a super uterus.”

“I didn’t say it was fair."

You sigh.

“You’re being remarkably calm,” he notes, a little less gruffness and a little more concern in his tone.

“I can panic if you’d like,” you say with a wry grin. “It just doesn’t seem like it’ll help matters.”

“You’re getting complacent,” he counters.

“I learned it by watching you,” you say, mimicking the higher inflection.

He narrows his eyes. “You ain’t old enough to remember that commercial,” he says.

“You don’t have a clue how old I am,” you counter. There’s a surprising lightness in your chest. For all that you and Joel haven’t really spoken beyond the few tense encounters, talking to him is almost fun.

Or maybe you’re really that deep in the Stockholm Syndrome now.

Is it still Stockholm Syndrome if he’s not your captor? Because you sure aren’t warming up to Jim and Cheryl.

When you look back up at Joel, he’s watching you with furrowed brows and a deep-set scowl, the lines around his mouth like cracks in a sidewalk.

It’s haunting, his seriousness.

“What happened to your last omega?” you ask, finally letting the ghoul out from under your bed, hoping his words will disperse it.

“I killed him,” Joel says flatly.

“Oh.”

The silence settles again, less like a shawl and more like the space between the crackle of the intercom summoning you to the principal’s office and the long walk down the empty hall.

This time, though, your grandma isn’t waiting on the other side. There’s only the big bad wolf.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says after a long while. “It was different. He wasn’t mine. But that doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

“What do you mean he wasn’t yours? I’m… also not yours.”

Joel grimaces, which only serves to let the shadows twist his face further. “Yeah, ya are,” he says solemnly. “Sorry. But ya’ve been mine since they brought you in here. Or, the beast’s, anyway.”

His words settle in your stomach like the Edmund Fitzgerald, and all you can do is watch from the dry side of a glass-bottomed tour boat. You’ve been mine since they brought you in here.

There’s not much room left in you for levity, now.

“So that’s it?” you say quietly. “What, I’m going to just have to hope you don’t tear me to shreds while you… while you…”

“I don’t think it’ll hurt you,” he says of his other half. You find the way he speaks of himself so perplexing. You tend to split them, too, but for him to see himself in fragments is enlightening.

And sad.

“But…” he sighs, the burden of what he’s about to ask of you sinking its teeth in, “you can’t fight me. You gotta just… shit, you gotta just take it. If you fight, it might fight back.”

His gruff baritone and its potent words, the low hint of a twang and the undercurrent of a klaxon, put your stomach through a cotton candy machine, wrapping the tendrils of your anxiety into a nice bundle to choke on.

He sees the fear in your eyes and oh, he hates it. The wolf is snapping its jaw around his neck for it. How dare he scare you like this? How dare he threaten his girl? The beast is all teeth and fury and protect protect protect and he doesn’t even notice the change start until you suddenly say, “don’t.”

Don’t.

That’s all it takes.

You watch as the claws recede along with his fur.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “You stay here and talk to me about it.”

It stings much in the same way as the time he accidently got his jaws around a porcupine. It was early days in his new life, and in the height of starving season. His desperation cost him then but he wouldn’t let it now.

He settles back down, gritting his teeth. “You’re right. It ain’t fair,” he agrees. “Ain’t nothin’ about this fair to you.”

When it comes, it bears no warning. Maybe because it’s your first heat, you don’t recognize the signs.

True to his word, the man has stayed, though he warned you he couldn’t keep the beast at bay for long. The gibbous is waxing, fattening, bloating above you each night and it’s nearly sounded its call when the fever takes you.

You’re in your room when your abdomen seizes with the first cramp. There’s no mistaking it for your period. It comes with purpose, with rage, the sole horseman of your downfall.

Okay, maybe downfall is a little dramatic.

But you have barely had time to gasp at the wrenching of your insides before he’s calling out to you from across the hall.

You don’t answer, gritting your teeth as you throb at the sound of his voice, and he calls, instead, for them.

He’s never addressed them first, never voiced a need, never invited them into your subterranean den willingly.

And you know.

“Fucking disgusting,” Jim scoffs as he unlocks the door to your room.

“Don’t touch her,” Joel snaps, pressed against the bars with both hands wrapped tightly around them.

You think Jim makes some kind of threat toward you, but there’s none needed. It doesn’t occur to you to run, which haunts you later. In the haze of your aching body, every muscle tensed and ready, you let the call of the moon draw you to Joel, grabbing for his hands through the bars as soon as you can reach.

There’s something in his eyes that you don’t want to see. Something too close to pity, so you don’t look at his face.

Jim has to snap at you both and threaten the shock collar to get you to move away from the door. Joel, still mostly sound of mind, moves obediently to the back of the cell as Jim opens it, letting you stumble past the barrier before the clang echoes.

Joel catches you before you fall, and you grasp his forearms. The room is warm, suffocatingly so, and he looks increasingly concerned with each passing second.

“Too hot,” you whine, still digging your fingernails into his roughened flesh, the gruff hair a balm to your itchy, ill-fitting skin. Your body yearns for the change, to shift and settle into something closer to him, closer to what the moon wants you to be.

“I know,” he croons, sinking to his knees and holding you with your back to his chest, legs sprawled. His hand strokes your head, brushing sweat from your clammy skin. You catch his hand in both of yours, holding it up in front of you and following the lines of his palm, letting your fingertips test the tip of his claws, stroking the hair on the back of each finger.

“So thick,” you marvel.

He sighs, hot breath skittering across the back of your neck. “How’re you so far gone already,” he mutters, not really a question.

Your head spins. “I’m right here,” you say, eliciting another sigh.

“I know,” he placates again before he does something that sends your whole body into overdrive.

He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I know,” he repeats. “I’ve got ya. It’s gonna be okay.”

It isn’t, you think, as the twitching of your shoulders and legs sets off quiet alarms. It isn’t, because there’s no coming back from this. You know this, but right now? Here, in his arms, with his quiet rumbling voice and that kiss? Well, what happens next just isn’t your problem.

He inhales deeply, his lips still pressed to your head, and it slips from you without warning, without intent.

“Alpha,” you whimper on pure instinct, and he knows.

Oh, he knows.

It’s too late for either of you, now.

(please don't hate me for leaving you hanging or for the fact that chapter six will be on a bit of a delay and will likely not be finished until mid-september to october. remember that i love you!!)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #werewolf!joel #werewolf joel miller #alpha!joel miller #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #a/b/o fic #omegaverse #dead dove fic #fic: of rage and ruin #the last of us fic #tlou fic

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legobiwan · 3 months

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So I find it a little odd that Mario shakes his brother's hand like he's trying to win political office rather than having just been rescued (again) from one of King Boo's paintings at the end of Luigi's Mansion: Dark Moon.

But then I was thinking - this might be a kind of instinctual response.

From what we can gather over the three games, being stuck in a painting isn't a passive experience, but one that is disturbing, disorientating, and mostly likely tantamount to torture.

And given King Boo's abilities, who knows what kind of environment he has dropped his victims into with these settings. The landscapes, you might say. There's no definite background in any of the trapped paintings, ghost or otherwise, but it does beg the question of what can be felt, seen, heard, or otherwise perceived by someone who is trapped in a portrait. Does the hunter create the cage, enrichment area and all, or are the trappings beyond the frame (inside the frame) more akin to being trapped within one's mind and all the pitfalls that could emerge from that?

We see three iterations of Mario being freed from the painting in each game. The first being total confusion and possible injury; the second looking like some kind of hallucination, given Luigi's concerned expression; and the third being a form of decorporalization (not a real word, but whatever), as Mario seems shocked to learn he has a body again.

The first might be attributed to King Boo's insistence of straight-up physical torture combined with E. Gadd's more medieval equipment, which had likely been less-than-tested in extracting someone from a portrait. (And if the de-portraiting process was that bad, imagine what it was like for the ghosts going in. No wonder they held a grudge. I love E. Gadd, but oh boi, is he the pinnacle morally ambiguous mad scientist).

Anyway, in the third installment, Mario definitely shows signs of having been disconnected from his physical form, perhaps meaning that his time inside the portrait reduced him to a neutered, mental representation of himself, incapable of fighting back in the real world. But this being said, he seems to recognize Luigi on-site, rushing forward to give him an enthusiastic hug, which is the reaction you'd expect after being freed from a pair of diabolical ghosts, one of whom is trying to thirst-trap the other through psychological torture.

So what's the deal with Mario's reaction in Dark Moon?

My guess is that King Boo trapped Mario in a painting that was a distorted reality, or perhaps a distorted version of Mario's own insecurities. It would account for the disorientation and the fact Mario comes out of the painting gladhanding his own brother like a stranger. (Which would also account for Luigi's concerned reaction - what the hell is my brother doing?)

And you figure, Mario, at this point, is a kind of figurehead, an idol, a hero of the Mushroom Kingdom. It's become his identity, it's who he is, it's what he does and is known for. Of course, part of this role is going around and shaking hands, being present - at least physically - at press conferences and speeches and all the like. The people need a focal point, a representation of their hopes against the violent and numerous incursions upon their land they suffer from outside forces (although in complete transparency, my personal headcanon is that Bowser's kingdom used to be comprised of at least a part of the Mushroom Kingdom, and that that land and sovereignty was stolen through a series of bad treaties by his father and some of the more malicious factions of the Toad Council, thus leading to both the enmity between the kingdoms and some serious economic and trade repercussions in the Darklands, but that's a whole other post.)

Mario must be so used to blindly shaking hands and putting up that front, that character, so much so that he doesn't even think about it anymore, and it's my theory that this is the version of Mario that emerges from the portrait in Dark Moon, perhaps having been wrested from some situation where this almost desperate attempt at approval was manifesting from Mario's own subconscious.

And poor Luigi. You have to wonder if one of his latent fears is becoming another empty face in the adoring crowd surrounding his brother. The Mario that emerges is not 100% connected to the fact he is Luigi's brother, it seems, is just putting on airs and the right words and actions as he may have been trained to do by the Toad Council. (Who, incidentally, are one of my favorite scapegoats in the series). Talk about a nightmare come to life.

It fits, in a way. Mario's first abduction results in physical harm, his second in mental, his third in more of a depersonalization - perhaps a rushed spell enacted by King Boo as he was, by the time of the whole hotel debacle, was far more preoccupied with his idea of trapping Luigi than enacting harm on anyone else beyond imprisonment. Because by the time Luigi's Manion 3 rolls around, King Boo is almost deranged in his obsession with Luigi, and I wouldn't be shocked if his non-existent heart wasn't into the nastier sides of portrait capture when it came to Luigi's friends and family. But oh boi, if he had captured Luigi in one of those paintings - good night, nurse.

#hello there #luigi #mario #king boo #dark moon #i was not planning on writing this meta this morning but here we are hahahahahhaha #oh look we're back on our bullshit #anyway enjoy my nonsense #going on a run and them finishing my FUCKING STORY ISTG

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funtheysaid · 4 months

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IWTV 2x02 Initial Thoughts (Stream Of Consciousness)

- ooh the title card changed! I’ve been wanting to see the Eiffel Tower as a “fang” since season two was announced. WE IN PARIS BABY!

- ayooo three-way (interview) incoming

- Daniel’s “Paris sucks” aka “Paris is where my ex-bf is from and he sucks (dick), but not mine anymore, and no, I’m not bitter abt that, his city just fucking stinks (literally)”

- not two minutes in and Devil’s Minion is already flirting bickering

- ALICE MENTION alice!armand truthers are gon love that shit i just know

- “I’ll tell you what a woman is” That’s my sapphic-coded queen!!! 🕯️ pls S2 give me claudeleine 🕯️

- “Gauche” well, yes.

- Loumand: 🥰🥰 Daniel: 🙄 he‘s so second-hand embarrassed for them I can’t

- I mean, it’s crazy. What? We finish each other’s- I WAS WITH HIM FOR LONGER THAN LESTAT WAS WITH HIM WRITE THAT DOWN WRITE THAT DOWN DANIEL PUT IT ON RECORD WEVE BEEN FUCKING FOR LIKE DOUBLE THE TIME …that’s what i…was….gonna say?

- Louis would be that faux-intellectual hipster who has his own darkroom full of overexposed and blurry, unfocused photos that are his “art” bc he took them on film (affectionate)

- Not claudia calling him out on it in the next scene “let me think I’m deeper than I am” okay honey you do you

- “She’s miserable but she doesn’t want to fuck with your too delusional left bank dilettante vibes” ahh the narrative foils are foiling, I see

- The show: Alice was pregnant, My dumb ass: OMEGAVERSE DEVILS MINION !?!?

- “joyfully joyless” MOOD.

- Claudia looking at Madeleine like “I don’t know if I want to be her or be with her” Dw babe it’s a rite of passage for all of us you’ll figure it out

- “Your French is ugly” 🥹👉👈 weally?

- “the dress for my body” LOOK I know what she meant, but I can’t help it that my mind is perverted

- LMFAO NOT GLORYHOLE PARK

- okay why Loumand playing with my heart “I will never harm you. And I never have” wtf wtf wtf

-Oh no the ole business card trick! we all know that’s Louis’ kryptonite he loves a man with credentials

- i like girls, but why is santiago kinda…

- Woah the Annika scene was really hard to watch which I think was the point but goddamn idk if I’ll be able to rewatch that part

- Estelle is my self-insert. I’m claiming her.

- “You both fucked Lestat!?!” HOW DID THEY KNOW WE WANTED HIM TO SAY THAT!?

- “He tasted of vermouth and annihilation” We both know you have no earthly idea what that man tastes like, Armand. Be so fucking fr right now.

- Did Armand just casually drop that he had a threesome with a father and son? I’m sorry, sir????

- “Now I know what two blood fat cocks slapping hands feel like” When I tell you my spirit left my body

- oh shit here we go. I’m a caged animal and it’s time for my weekly enrichment. give me my loustat.

- there’s a letter !?!? Wait wait I wasn’t ready for something like this wait stop stop please

- “all my love belongs to you. you are its keeper” just take me out back and shoot me at this point

- “it is a thin veil” fucking fuck why was that so romantic??

- the blood tears welling up in Lestat’s eyes I’m-

- “Rebound of my life” and in that moment, he spoke for the people

- WHAT IS HAPPENING???? Jesus Christ, they were talking about Alice and then it cuts to FUCKING ARMAND!?! This is not a drill. Everyone to your stations, this is not a drill.

- “You sold your Dad’s playboy magazines at recess” Hmmm? You’re telling me a “straight” teenage boy sold porno mags instead of keeping them for himself??? Yeah, I call gay on that one

- “she wanted to say yes” you motherfuckers.

- Oh shit Louis is pissy tonight rawr kitty got claws

- Devils minion girlies are thriving, skin glowing, hair silky, breath minty, pillow cold, stomach full, dreams sweet, and by Jove, we fucking deserve it !!!!

- daniel’s shaky “um- gulp” …….guys this is gonna sound crazy but i think there might actually be a god

- ooh the camera/photography being like a divide or barrier between Louis and his present situation. Like he wants to capture the moments, but only as if an onlooker and not a participant… interesting!

- “Who?” will never not be funny

- “Mon ami” in the same episode as “Mon Cher” FUCK ME GENTLY WITH A CHAINSAW

- “Armand for you” nah nah nah i changed my mind, you can do like Leatherface and shove that chainsaw in rough and hard

- Close up on Louis’ conflicted face, fire blazing behind him…. That’s not foreboding in any way. I’m sure they’ll all live happily ever after from now on :D

What a ride! Until next week! 🧛‍♂️🩸

#interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #iwtv season 2 #iwtv 2x02 #iwtv thoughts #iwtv musings #loustat #devils minion #claudeleine #iwtv spoilers #iwtv s2 #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #iwtv armand

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delimeful · 8 months

Text

just a little rush (3)

warnings: g/t, captivity, self sacrifice, injury/gore mention, fear

Janus still hadn’t been entirely sure what exactly he was looking for when he began picking the lock to the office of one of the richest men in town.

Logan hadn’t been very helpful in that regard, only able to echo the vague descriptions he himself had been given over the phone: small, delicate, and feathered.

“Oh goody, that’s only about every passerine in existence,” Janus had snarked at the time, but a lack of specifics wasn’t going to stop them from getting the unfortunate animals out by any means necessary.

They had to be a social breed, too, going by the sounds of things, which bumped the urgency up a little further. Improper conditions and careless owners were bad enough, but for most domesticated birds, if one of a bonded pair died, the other was almost sure to follow.

That wasn’t even getting into the more exotic species. Janus was still hanging on to the slim hope that they wouldn’t be anything too wild, and thus much easier to rehome and rehabilitate without breaking any laws.

Well. Any more laws.

The door’s lock finally twisted under his lock picks, and Janus swung the door open smoothly, appreciating the silent glide of well-maintained, squeak-free hinges. Ah, rich people.

He made sure to close the door quickly behind himself, both for appearances and noise concealment. There was a good chance that whatever birds these two were, they would kick up a fuss at the entrance of a stranger, especially considering the fact that ‘frequent disturbances’ from the animals was the alleged reason Logan’s veterinary clinic had been contacted in the first place.

All living creatures made noise and had needs; even a preschooler could grasp that much. The fact that this grown man had been asking about the costs of invasive and debilitating surgical procedures before considering any alternatives or even telling them anything about the situation was sickening, and more than enough for Janus to agree to a heist riskier than their usual fare.

The room remained shockingly quiet as he crept forward, enough so that he began to wonder if their information wasn’t accurate after all, or if the birds had been very recently moved. Janus could only hope that nothing unspeakable had been done to them in the few days since the call.

Then, finally— a sound. The barest ruffle of feathers against each other, small in a way that meant they likely were dealing with something passerine-sized, which made things easier in a lot of ways.

Janus turned towards the sound, scouring the shadows of the unlit room with narrowed eyes until he found the silhouette of a birdcage. Finally.

He slipped a few trinkets off the shelves as he approached, despite knowing it would earn him Logan’s disapproval. The more they took, the longer they’d be pursued, after all. Still, he couldn’t resist.

The cage was still extremely quiet as he got closer, though he thought he could almost make out tiny, rapid breathing. He carefully checked the angle of the nearby window before pulling a small portable lantern from his belt and flicking its bulb on.

“Let’s see what we’re working with this time,” he mused lowly to himself, and lifted the lantern up to illuminate the inside of the enclosure.

The first thing he noticed was that calling it an enclosure was an insult to properly maintained terrariums everywhere. He’d seen children’s goldfish bowls with better enrichment in them than the nearly barren space within the birdcage. No perches, no chewable toys, no well-sheltered places to hide away…

No places to hide at all, really, which meant that he spotted the bundle of feathers fluffed up on the cage floor in the very next second.

The shape of it was odd, a pair of mantled wings displayed from the back, with odd shadows and disheveled feathers making it difficult to tell where the wings ended and the bird’s body began. They were trembling with strain, so he at least knew that the little creature was still alive.

“Hey there, little guy,” he crooned, setting the lantern next to the cage on the high display table and inspecting the thin wire door. “Give me just a moment, and we’ll get you somewhere much more comfortable, alright?”

For such a simple birdcage. there were a shocking number of locks worked into the latch and surrounding bars of the door. Janus felt a little impressed despite himself, poking at each extra layer of security curiously. “A bit of an escape artist, are you? Quiet or not, I’m sure you’ll be quite a handful.”

The sound of a very small, shuddering inhale split the air, and Janus’s hands went still.

Slowly, he shifted his gaze back to the bundle of feathers, which had grown even pricklier.

He’d heard parrots, ravens, and cockatoos alike imitate human voices, sometimes uncannily well, but he’d never heard them imitate a sob before. Was he imagining things?

There were different colored feathers mixed in, he realized, looking closer. Almost as though one bird had crowded in and attempted to completely cover the other with its wings.

And there was still something about that tangled silhouette that was wrong, for a bird…

More hurriedly now, he twisted the locking mechanisms open one after the other, and finally swung the cage door open. The gap was wide enough for a bird with a wingspan that size to dart through if they were quick about it, but it didn’t seem to be enough to tempt the little guy into moving.

In fact, the only sign that his presence had been noted at all were the progressively more and more ruffled feathers of the wings before him. The birds didn’t seem particularly reactive to a clear intrusion, which was honestly a bit worrying.

Making sure his gloves were concealing every bit of skin— it wouldn’t do to leave even a shred of evidence behind, after all— Janus slid an arm inside the cage and reached for the bird.

With a guttural hiss, the wings flared wider, and the very-much-not-a-bird twisted around to screech at him, lunging forward.

Only years of experience kept Janus from yanking his arm back out the door roughly with a plethora of swears, and even with that experience, he couldn’t stop his automatic jolt and the subsequent rushing of blood in his ears. The sudden flush of adrenaline made him feel a bit faint.

Or maybe he felt a bit faint because the creature before him was absolutely, positively, most certainly not a bird.

Illuminated shallowly by the lantern’s sickly greenish glow, a miniature person stood like an undersized angel, wings spread out in the air behind them in implied threat.

“Get any closer and I’ll scoop your eyes out with a rusty spoon!” the tiny being called out in a nasally tone, adding a very blatant threat to match the implied one. A threat Janus suspected was a complete bluff, seeing as they didn’t seem to even have a way to reach his eyes at the moment, let alone a spoon to execute the promised attack with.

Still, that was no reason to frighten the creature any further. He’d read far too much about small animals and the risks that shock from improper human handling could cause, and the last thing he wanted was to accidentally make anyone keel over. If he could offer such courtesy to birds, he would certainly offer it to the impossibly small person standing rigidly before him.

(He felt a bit like descending into shock, himself, but he was far too professional to succumb in the middle of a high-stakes operation such as this one. No matter how tempting it was.)

He eased back a step, slowly withdrawing his hand until it could rest more casually on the doorway of the cage. “Well, there’s no need for that. I’ve found I rather like my eyes where they are.”

“Great!” The winged person bared tiny teeth at him, not relaxing an inch even as Janus did what he could to keep from looming. “Leave us the fuck alone, and I won’t tear ‘em out and stuff them up your—!”

There was a nervous keen from behind the winged person, and they cut off mid-vulgarity to shift to the side slightly, angling their wings to keep covering whatever was behind them.

Or, if Janus was correct, whoever was behind them. ‘Leave us alone,’ they’d said.

“Is your friend alright?” he asked, earning himself both a glare and the sort of high-pitched warning whistle he normally heard just before a bird started biting hard enough to draw blood. “Please. If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I’d have done so by now?”

The winged person scoffed, teeth still bared in a snarl that curled up at the edges, almost resembling a manic grin. “I don’t pretend to know when humans next want to hurt us or why,” they replied, words sharp as razor wire. “If you’re really feeling all kind-hearted and generous, howsabout leaving that door open and ditching this place without any living, breathing prizes? We’ll take care of the rest.”

Their tone was scornful, disbelieving that Janus could be here to do anything except take advantage of them, and looking at their current situation, he couldn’t even begin to blame them. Living in a featureless cage would have been detrimental enough for an actual bird. For a person? It was dehumanizing, isolating, tantamount to torture.

He had his suspicions, however, about the condition of the other one in there with them. They would be easy enough to confirm or deny by simply reaching in and moving the vicious one aside, but that sort of maneuver wouldn’t get him anywhere in terms of earning their trust.

Instead, he withdrew his hand completely, leaving a blank square of empty space in the doorway, ripe for escaping through. “Of course. If that’s all you need, I’m happy to oblige.”

Upping the stakes on this little gamble, Janus moved to the nearby window and shifted the window sash up along its frame, allowing cool air to billow into the room. Luckily, it seemed this one didn’t have a screen on the outside, so their theoretical way out was entirely unimpeded— so long as they were both in fit condition to fly.

The silence in the room stretched, thick with tension, and then a different voice piped up, just as small and considerably less harsh.

“If it isn’t too much trouble, could you also cut through the restraint?” the new voice asked, polite and friendly enough that Janus almost missed the tremulous note to it. “Two heads may be better than one, but four wings tend to get tangled up!”

“Patton—!” the first person hissed, only to fall quiet when Janus crossed the room to return to the cage.

They were still trying to conceal the existence of the other winged person, but it was mostly unsuccessful now that ‘Patton’ wasn’t cooperating.

Janus could make out the two different forms, now, and the thin, durable cord that connected the cuffs on their ankles. One cuff per person, chaining the two of them together.

He was surprised that they’d chosen to reveal the vulnerability— surely in such desperate times, they could manage to coordinate well enough to get away?— but obviously didn’t begrudge them the request.

Except the moment he shifted forward with a pair of wirecutters in hand, the first one puffed up even more aggressively, blocking the way.

“Nope, actually, that’s not happening,” they spat, faux-glib.

“Remus,” Patton protested, only to get lightly buffeted by a wing before they could complete the rest of their complaint.

‘Remus’ shrugged, an attempt at casual when they still looked ready to start mauling him at any moment. “Sorry, Sunshine! It turns out that where you go, I go! That includes abductions by random, well-dressed thieves, so sad, what can you do!”

“You can get out,” Patton retorted. “I’ll be fine, okay, so just let the human cut—,”

“SO SAD, NOTHING TO BE DONE,” Remus repeated over them loudly, before twisting to face Janus fully and finally letting their wings draw back in slightly from their overextended posture. The relaxation looked forced, a lesser of two evils. “Whatever you want us for, looks like you got a two-for-one deal, Jack and the Beanstalker! Better act fast before time runs out!”

Janus blinked, shifting his gaze between the two of them contemplatively, and then decided that whatever misconceptions they were inventing for him would take far too long to unravel at the moment.

Though his wings were tucked too tightly against their back to tell exactly how, Patton was clearly injured in some way, unable to fly, and Remus was equally clearly unwilling to abandon them. Just like actual songbirds, they would be in serious danger from wild animals if left grounded, so even if the injury wasn't debilitating, he couldn’t simply release them and be on his way. They needed help, which was exactly what Janus had come to offer.

And truth be told, he was still deeply curious about these two. Might as well kill two birds with one— hm. Better not to use that particular metaphor for this situation, now that he thought about it.

“If you insist,” he said, and reached for the collapsible bird transport container at his side before pausing. They weren’t actual birds, but he didn’t exactly have the luxury of a less humiliating method of travel on hand.

He was also running out of time. As unfortunate as it was, this would have to do. There would be plenty of time for explanations later.

”Excuse my reach,” he muttered out of habit as he leaned against the cage and held his hand out.

The two had automatically flinched back from a human hand in a way that made him feel ill and furious in equal measures, so he carefully reached forward and scooped the closer of the two into his gloved grasp the way he would have with an actual bird, gentle but firm.

It was Remus, and their body twitched in a way that made Janus suspect they were barely resisting the urge to inflict bodily harm on him, but they managed to limit themself to a narrow-eyed glare and an unhappy churr from deep in their chest.

He’d worried about the restraint connecting the two— he could only fit one arm through the cage door at a time, so he couldn’t exactly grab both of them— but the issue was neatly resolved by Patton immediately clambering onto his hand after Remus, reaching out and clinging to their friend’s arm like they feared they’d be torn away from each other at any minute.

Making sure to move slowly and not unbalance them, Janus withdrew his arm and two passengers from the cage, lowering them down to the display table where the carrying case waited. The two went tense in his grasp, but he made no move other than to relax his fingers into a flat surface, releasing the majority of his grip.

“I would offer to hold you all the way out, but I’m afraid I’ll need my hands free,” he said after a still moment, and this was enough to prompt them into motion.

Patton tugged at Remus’s shoulder, whispering rapidly at them about things Janus pretended not to hear, but the effort went nowhere. Remus marched into the transport case with only the ruffled feathers on their back giving away any sense of unease, and despite the agonized glance they sent toward the open window, Patton was only a half-step behind them. They huddled down in the far corner of the case, digging their fingers into the mesh like they expected it to be a harsh ride.

Discomfited, Janus zipped the entry up only most of the way and left the zippers unlocked. For someone who had been breaking through all those locks on the cage, the barrier was less than nothing, but it still didn’t feel like enough.

He knew why: Whatever attachment was keeping the two of them trapped in place now was far less tangible than any physical lock, and far more binding. Janus may not have been the one to create the trap, but he was utilizing it now, whether he liked it or not.

"Alright. I'm moving now." With careful hands, he lifted the case into the crook of one arm and strapped the lantern back onto his belt, turning towards their exit and wanting nothing more than to leave this stagnant room behind.

Hopefully, once he proved his intentions weren’t malicious, they would let him and Logan help. Hopefully, they would be able to fix whatever that monster had done.

For now, he would at least do what he knew he could, and get them far, far away from that miserable cage.

#sanders sides fic #sanders sides g/t #ts patton #ts remus #ts janus #jalr #just a little rush #my writing #writing

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bipanicoverthegravessiblings · 7 months

Note

Okok hear me out on this,

Ashley x Yandere!Reader

I'm curious as to how that one will play out

Can you tell I had fun writing from a Yandere POV?

Ashley Graves x Yandere!Reader

You’ve seen her in passing

During the quarantine of that apartment building just down the road from your own

And while walking to the nearest bus stop to take you to your dead end job, you’d pass by the fortified building

You never paid it or its tenants much mind

Until your eyes wandered….and you spotted someone

A couple people to be exact-

Both had black hair and pale skin, a man and a woman. The man was smoking, looking out uninterested

But it wasn’t him who caught your eye…

The woman. Her messy black hair tied into a low ponytail. She was sitting precariously on the balcony’s edge, her expression as unamused as the man

She was poking him, to which he kept swatting at her hand to stop her. She didn’t.

You tried to study her features from your view point on the ground

Perhaps you stared too long, as she turned her head to look down at you

You continued to the bus stop after getting caught

But the woman still plagued your mind

She was so pretty…so alluring…

Something drew her to you

Maybe it was the fact that she was out of reach from you

Locked away in the apartment like a bird in a cage

To be observed and marveled at

Whatever drew you to her…

You loved this feeling

Your life was a routine that’s grown dull: wake up, go to work, go home, sleep, repeat.

You’d run on autopilot so long you honestly were convinced you’d become a robot

An emotionless husk traversing through life

Until you saw that woman…

….you needed to keep this feeling.

You needed to see her again.

Your steps slowed as the familiar fortified building came into your view. You’d been coming back here for a few weeks now, and each time it felt like there were more precautions put up. Ambulances too.

Your eyes worriedly scanned the balcony’s, though you released the tension in your shoulders as you spotted your caged bird. A gorgeous woman with jet black hair and captivating cherry blossom eyes. Like a beautiful raven…

She was just heading inside from the balcony, making you swear under your breath that you failed to get her earlier to observe her more. Perhaps you should start getting here earlier…

It frustrated you that you couldn’t just- walk in. Move here to have a chance to bump into her naturally rather than ogling her from the ground. It was closer to the bus stop anyways, so it was practical too.

Though…you were reminded as to why that option wasn’t available. The quarantine was just one obstacle, but the other showed his face…

Walking on to the balcony, lit cigarette in hand, the man you had first seen entered looking annoyed. Perhaps having been chewed out by your raven. He folded his arms over the edge, taking a drag of the cigarette as his eyes wandered and landed on to you.

If the woman was a raven…then this was the dog who guarded her cage. You hated the man, and he hated you. The glares he gave you for eyeing your raven made that clear enough.

You still didn’t know their relationship, but given the similar hair and features, you presumed they were related. Protective older brother perhaps.

Your poor raven…having to not only deal with being locked away, but her mean guard dog not letting her have any fun. Any enrichment. How was she supposed to be marveled and looked upon if he chewed out anyone who got too close.

You narrowed your eyes a final time before speeding up your pace. You needed to catch the bus anyway.

Even on your days off you visited

Eventually moving along like you’d go to work

Only to circle back the long way and avoid being seen

One of these days though, you caught an odd sight

You never moved so fast in your life. Hunched over in a bush, you moved some of the foliage to observe what you just witnessed.

Your raven had escaped! Joy!

….with her guard dog- less joy.

You had no idea what was going on. To your knowledge, the quarantine was still going. And from what little you saw before hiding, it appeared they had jumped the fence. So- they really did escape. They must have.

And now they were walking away…

Once a good distance, you emerged from your bush and followed suit. There was no way you were losing her. You wanted to see where she was going, just had to make sure you didn’t get caught. The two paused at a bus stop, sitting down and chatting- likely about their escape. You were hidden, as best as you could, behind a telephone pole- observing. Where were they heading?…

The bus soon rolled up, the two clambering on to god knows where.

And you followed.

You followed your raven, who you finally learned the name of from her dog barking it to her in frustration.

Ashley

A gorgeous name for a gorgeous woman

Oh- and the dog’s name was Andrew. Or whatever.

But it quickly became obvious you weren’t the only one following them

Some other bastard had tailed them just a week after you had

And you’d be damned if you were going to let him cause her harm

You leered from your hiding spot beside the motel, eyes narrowed as you looked out for the hooded figure that terrorized your Ashley. And appear he did.

He approached the motel, making his way up the stairs and opening the door. He disappeared inside. This was your chance…

You knew Ashley and her dog weren’t in there. No, they had gone….somewhere. Truthfully, you didn’t know. And you hated that you didn’t. But this was important. You unsheathed the knife you had purchased from your pocket, quietly making your way to the room. You readied your knife, raising it above your head, as you entered. The door was unlocked.

Scanning the room, there was no sign of the hooded figure. But you saw him go in here…so he was somewhere. Your eyes landed on the closet across the room, right in front of you. It stared at you menacingly, inviting you to come closer. You did.

With your knife readied, you stalked over to the wooden closet. Your hand hovered over the knob, and you took a quiet breath as you psyched yourself up for this. Opening the door unleashed an onslaught of knives flying at their opponents. You were stabbed. He was stabbed. You’re pretty sure some parts of the wall were too as you tussled with the hooded man. You managed to have the upper hand, as he seemed shocked to see you here. Likely expecting your raven.

That rage, the rage that stemmed from him likely wanting to cause your Ashley harm, fueled you in the fight. Allowing you to deliver a finishing blow to the bastard’s head. He stopped squirming. Stopped struggling. Stopped living. He was dead.

You sat there, blood coating your clothes- you couldn’t tell if it was his or your blood. You panted, staring down at his lifeless corpse underneath you. Your gaze lifted, and you couldn’t believe what you saw.

Standing in the doorway that you left open, was her. Your raven. Your cherry blossom eyed goddess. Ashley Graves. Her eyes were widened in shock, her guard dog close behind her with a conflicted look on his face. It was mainly shock from what you could gather though.

You smiled, a dopey- dumb smile as the sight of Ashley warmed your insides.

“Hello,” you greeted, like you hadn’t just killed a man, “How- How are you?”

#the coffin of andy and leyley #ashley graves #tcoaal #x reader #ashley graves x reader

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scribbleseas · 8 months

Text

Straight Laced, Chapter VII: To Be A Prima Ballerina (Act II)...

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

Author’s Note: Hi! I don't know what happened. I sat down thinking I'd add a scene and chill for the night...but I just let everything flow. So now it's done! Please let me know how you feel about this chapter! I'm incredibly proud of it.

Just a quick note before you read: Maman is French for Mom. There is also some explicit content in this chapter! Please make sure to double check the warnings above!

Happy Reading!!

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

Early November, 1895

Ciel’s Bedroom

“I’ve needed this,” Ciel mumbled in your ear, planting another impassioned kiss on your lips, caging you in against his bedroom door. “Je ne sais pas combien de temps j'aurais pu attendre,” he said, insinuating that he had a similar lustful desire to yours, his fingers laced in your hair, tenderly keeping your head in place as he kissed you.

Goosebumps speckled your arms, equal parts from the late autumn night and the innate sensuality that came with Ciel purring your first language into your ear. While French used to drag you back to the pain that your birth country carried, now it was an inside joke between lovers...

The Next Morning

You woke before Ciel did, peering at the sunlight that streamed in through the drapes. In your sleep, your naked bodies were tangled with one another, giving you more than a sufficient reminder of last night’s…celebration.

Not that you would ever admit it to the shrewd man, but it was the experience you had with a man until that point in your life. Ciel didn’t treat you like a plaything who was there to enrich his experience; he spoiled you— delightfully so. You had a constellation made of contusions sucked into your skin to prove it, some running down your breasts, your back, and even your backside. Ciel impressed you— especially for a man who told you to cover more skin upon your first meeting. He was too flustered to speak to you candidly at the time.

Ciel broke the kiss to start unbuttoning your nightshirt, waiting for your approval before truly continuing. You nodded your consent, more than confident in your body, and more importantly, more than willing to proceed with Ciel. The chemistry residing between the two of you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The Earl sighed, enraptured with the look of your bare breasts on display. His thumb caressed one of your nipples as he returned his attention back to your lips.

Now, Ciel was asleep next to you, his chest rising and falling. From the way the side of your head lay on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat. A glance upwards told you his regal features were relaxed— seldom for a man who tended to sneer and scowl. You felt his idle hand rest on your lower back, keeping your body close to his, even in slumber.

Your fingertips traced up his sternum, between his firm pecs and above his loosely etched abdominal muscles. He was a noble— his body wasn’t trained to be durable, and yet, it was strong and lean under your touch. Just as it performed last night.

You felt his biceps flex as he picked you up once more, only to dispense you on his bed. He pulled your drawers down and spread your legs, unwilling to allow you to focus on his pleasure. He kneeled on the ground, leveling his face with your core.

It was the first time a man’s desire to plunge you into euphoria outweighed his need for you to pleasure him.

“Ciel!” you gasped at the shock of his lips lapping at your slickness. You were wet with tipsy anticipation and desire, surprised that a nobleman of his stature was willing to be so crude in his ministrations. His tongue lapped between your folds, the tip gently stopping at your clit to lick at it slowly. Your fingers wove into his raven hair as if you needed to encourage him further.

The amusement in your voice was palpable as you coaxed the Earl out of his sleep. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper so it only took your ascending touch up his chest to rouse him. His left eye fluttered open, the right remaining closed by instinct, you imagined.

“Good morning,” you flashed a knowing smile as he rubbed at his eye, yawning to shake off the rest of his drowsiness. If you didn’t have a strict morning regime to tend to in moments, you might have opted to retreat under the sheets and wake him a different way.

“Y/n,” Ciel mumbled, hesitating to say more. He squinted at you, equal parts confusion and surprise. He looked at your hand, realizing that one of his own sat squarely on your ass. As if your skin was burning, he moved his hand.

“What…. Wait. We…?” The Earl started to ask, his eyebrows drawing together in uncertainty. He knew the answer. He didn’t like it.

Your stomach sank.

You knew this expression. Mild regret, disbelief— all of your patrons regarded you similarly after sleeping with you. It was always at the moment they remembered their real lives. Their responsibilities. Their wives. Their statures.

You were a fantasy, drawn out in the dead of night under the sweet influence of wine. They preyed on your beauty and your charm only to retreat after realizing that their greed cost them. And yet, they still returned. Night, after night, after night.

Ciel was supposed to be different.

Even after playing a pivotal role in solving the case, you were a temporary celebration. A reward. A trophy. He didn’t want you beyond the night, and now that the case was solved, he was musing the best way to rid himself of you. After all, your courtship was merely an investigative ploy. A strategy.

There was simply no evolving. No change. Conditional desire.

“Yes,” you answered, your smile melting. “We did. You remember,” you declared. He didn’t drink enough to forget. You knew he didn’t. Your wine bottle sat a little less than half full on the table to your side.

“I do,” he confirmed. There was a beat of silence.

Observing your growing hurt, he cleared his throat and spoke again, “I… enjoyed last night.” It was an ironic sentiment, given that he was in the midst of sitting up and ensuring the bed sheets covered his waist and down. He was creating distance between you, purposeful and methodical.

Why?

As Ciel’s hips sunk into yours, he pressed a long kiss against your lips. “Vous êtes une tentatrice. Je ne sais pas combien de temps j'aurais pu attendre. J'ai besoin de toi. Maintenant,” he experimented by thrusting his hips, forcing you to gasp.

“As did I,” you replied cautiously. “Though do you—” love me? wish for this to happen again? want to legitimize our courtship?

“— We should discuss how we mean to proceed with the public,” Ciel interrupted, “I think allowing our courtship to slowly burn out over the next month should suffice.”

You felt no different than him slapping you across the face. You winced.“What do you mean?”

“If we sever our public relationship immediately after William’s arrest, it would be suspicious,” Ciel explained, rolling his shoulders back in a morning stretch. He pulled the bedsheet around his waist as he stood.

“Sever our public relationship?” You repeated as if you didn’t understand his English.

“Certainly. I don’t mean to inconvenience you further, and naturally, I must resume my search for a Countess… as fruitless as it may be,” Ciel explained, blind to your hurt.

Resume his search?

You couldn’t help but recall Ciel’s words to Alexander Huntington: “That is quite enough,” he replied, as cold as a glacier. “You will not speak of her in such a manner. She may very well be the next Countess of Phantomhive.”

You also recalled Alexander’s response; it seemed to grow truer by the second: “Just because you’ve dressed her pretty, doesn’t mean she’s worth anything more than a common prostitute.”

You used a blanket for your modesty as you stepped out of the bed. You couldn’t be a countess. You were a commoner from France who grew up in a ballet school because you were an illegitimate love child between a maid and a duke. Maman did her best to raise you and your father had no desire to associate himself with you.

You were an embarrassment to Ciel, too.

You were not a Countess. You danced on a stage and entertained men in order to feed and house yourself. There was no value in you beyond celebration.

“For your assistance with this case, you will always have Phantomhive support. You’ve brought my attention to a foul practice within the theater industry. I will ensure Her Majesty abolishes it, and if there is ever anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to contact me.” Ciel affirmed. It was a kind offer. A fair one, even. He was severing your only social protection from seeing selfish patrons nightly but committed himself to end the very practice itself. Not to mention, he gave you more than a generous salary--- you could likely afford your own townhouse now without having to rely on pleasing a patron.

He cared for you. That had been his duty from the start of his investigation, after all. This wasn’t a storybook; it wasn’t Ciel’s duty to fall for you.

Your mouth was cotton dry, the rest of your face warm with embarrassment. You had never felt your heart strain in such a painful, deliberate way. It was heavy in your chest, threatening to implode right along with your pride and vulnerability.

“Thank you,” you managed to reply, gritting your teeth into an appreciative smile. It was the vacant stage smile you used during the performances that required the most technical focus. “I told you that you cared for me,” your joke was wry in your mouth, and there wasn’t enough humor in it for Ciel to engage.

Instead, he searched between your tired gaze and your false smile, hesitating because he was unsure of how he needed to reply. Ciel didn’t want to upset you; he didn’t think he was. He must have thought these encounters were meaningless to you because they were merely another facet of your career. It must have been meaningless to him because he was a high-powered man who likely had numerous sexual partners.

He was the Earl of Phantomhive. He could have anyone for his Countess. When would there ever be merit in choosing a prima ballerina?

You had to remain amicable. Your responsibilities with Lord Phantomhive were not complete— you still had to facilitate this slow end to your courtship (the one that had never been real in the first place) and lead it to a very passive and public breakup.

“As for the art gallery reveal gala tonight?” You asked. Ciel was invited to the renowned painter, Terrence Stannard’s, annual party to show off his newest body of work. He’d invited several prosperous businessmen and aristocracts known for philanthropy in the arts because he was an “avarice-infected bastard that used most art investments he receives to fill his pocket and buy lavish luxuries rather put it towards the production of any canvas of value,” according to the Earl.

Stannard was influential enough for The British Museum to readily host these galleries, but Ciel wanted to put Stannard in his place by subtly flaunting Phantomhive prosperity. You doubted he would skip the appearance, even if he was on the heels of closing a case for the Queen. There were too many high-profile guests invited— nobility, celebrities, businessmen, government officials. It was too crucial for the Lord of Phantomhive to miss.

“We will be in attendance. Natasha already canceled your rehearsal tonight to manage her husband’s affairs— we can leave ahead of schedule,” Ciel said, stepping towards his washroom meaningfully. He wanted you to leave, and he was blissfully (or purposely, knowing him) unaware of the pain he caused you.

“Fine. I should start rehearsing if we are leaving earlier this evening. Do not interrupt me for breakfast, please. I can send for Mey-Rin when I am ready,” you declared, allowing your face to fall back into somber neutrality. You fully pulled the blanket around you, tucking a corner under your arm to keep the makeshift robe fastened around your body. You didn’t meet Ciel’s gaze as you started towards his bedroom door, your eyes painfully catching the wall directly next to it.

That was the very spot he had you pinned not eight hours prior. You couldn’t stand to be in his quarters much longer, ripe with silent mortification. You twisted the doorknob —

“Y/n?” Ciel started, confusion rising in his tone. “Are—”

— and shut the door behind you.

What made you think this man would be any different?

They all wanted the same thing. Maman was right-- your father, the duke, wanted her for her body and cast her aside like trash after she told him she was with child. With you.

Later

The Rehearsal Room

The only place you could regain your control was on pointe shoes. You immediately slipped into a practice leotard, stretched on the barre, and started warming up.

You were Y/n Y//l/n, one of London’s foremost prima ballerinas. Not only that, you solved a series of murder cases and didn’t hesitate to engage in a plot to rightfully arrest the owner of your opera house.

Your skill was so prominent and breathtaking that you transformed yourself every day through practiced steps and expressions.

No one had the right to demean you so.

You weren’t Y/n Y/l/n when you danced in front of a mirror. You were The Sugar Plum Fairy, Odette, Odie… the character you were pouring your body and soul into encompassing. You were a regal fairy queen, an innocent girl trapped in a curse, a spoiled and deceptive daughter… All you needed was the choreography, the music, and a pair of pointe shoes. You could be anyone.

No one’s validation meant nearly as much as your own, and you were beautiful. A well of talent.

Your breathing came in strained exhales, your hands resting on your kneecaps to support your upper body. You didn’t notice how much time passed — as the autumn grew deeper, nights came sooner. The sun was already beginning to retreat starting the earliest stages of dusk. The sky from the small window looked orange.

Sweat rolled down your back, tracing your spine. You could feel your heart pound in your ears, thumping like a drum. White and black spots danced in your eyes, your head swimming as you leaned against the wall in an attempt to stay upright.

This was the result of practicing coupé jetés for hours without sufficient breaks and fuel. You knew this nauseous, dizzy feeling quite well. You were old acquaintances, by now.

“Miss Y/l/n, I apologize for interrupting, but I must begin preparing you for the gallery— oh dear,” Sebastian’s approaching voice sounded distant, even though his lanky figure appeared to be much closer as he stabilized you. “Mey-Rin!” he called out, taking you in your arms like a pathetic rag doll, “get water and two slices of banana bread!”

“Sebastian,” you grumbled in protest.

“You have absolutely no say in the matter,” the butler insisted, crisply admonishing you as he brought you back to your room and sat you upright on the bed. Mey-Rin came rushing in after several short moments, Sebastian thanking her for her efforts while you accepted the water like a woman deprived for years.

The cold stung your throat and cleared your head.

“The banana bread,” Sebastian reminded you.

You looked at it, tempted, but not convinced. Upon glancing back at the butler, he offered you an insistent glare, communicating that if you didn’t take a bite of the thick slice yourself, he would find a way to force you to do so. This very same attitude had to be how he forced his master to be so perfect— at everything.

You had to admit, your body settled much more once you finished the slice of bread (and swallowed down another from Mey-Rin). Of course, it was delicious, and it started to soothe the complaining in your stomach. You were so accustomed to the sharp pain of starvation, that it settled in the back of your mind.

You even accepted a cooked cut of salmon cooked in lemon juice and garlic, paired with a side of rice. Baldroy was putting his finishing touches on his master’s supper, and Sebastian ordered him to bring a plate to you. Ciel never liked to go to events on an empty stomach, as heavily grazing on a host’s offerings too much made him feel much too in their debt. (“I can afford my own meals, I’m Ciel Phantomhive.”)

Sebastian returned to your room after ensuring Ciel had everything he needed to enjoy his dinner. “I told my Lord that you are taking your meal in your quarters to save time, given how late into the day you practiced. We still must prepare you for the gala tonight. You seem up to it,” he gauged your color, given how you must have been shades paler from your previous state. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wasn’t the last.

“I am,” you started to confirm, only for Sebastian to interrupt.

“Miss, you are a professional. You should understand that your body requires energy to perform,” Sebastian chastised. “Eating less than an ascetic monk will only degrade those muscles you need so much.”

“Do not tell Ciel,” you grumbled, unwilling to hear this lecture from both the Earl and his head butler.

“Surely you are aware that I am not permitted to lie to my master,” he replied placidly, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Lying and failing to mention something are two different things,” you argued, finishing off the last of the fourth refill of water you guzzled down in the last half hour. You knew Sebastian was correct— you couldn’t push yourself to your limits without properly eating, but sometimes, it was impossible to bring yourself to do so. Ballet demanded particular physiques, and patrons favored the same. Maintaining your appearance was more than a career investment; it was part of your occupation.

“Touché, Miss,” Sebastian conceded, the corners of his mouth pulling into an affirmative smirk. You could never figure out where you stood with the enigmatic man, but to you, this treatment was a suitable show of kindness. It was uncharacteristic of Sebastian’s strict countenance, but you appreciated the gesture. He could have left you panting on the dance floor and pried you to your feet when it was time to prepare for the fundraiser “I will begin to draw your bath, now,” he turned to your washroom, only pausing when you stopped him.

“Sebastian. Do you know that Ciel and I…” you started, letting the question die on your tongue. You regretted the question the second you asked.

“It is my duty to be aware of everything that transpires in my master’s life, private or not,” Sebastian admitted. “Why do you ask?” he maintained his typically perky intonation, though he seemed to be searching your face.

“…No reason,” you looked away, your cheeks burning. There was nothing to be accomplished in that line of thought. Even if Ciel made you feel seen for anything beyond your looks and dancing prowess, that was never an indication that he felt anything more than physical attraction towards you. In the end, he wanted to sleep with you and maintain the same lukewarm relationship you had prior because it was most convenient for him given your lack of noble rank, or he simply didn’t share the same connection you had so vividly succumbed to.

And you didn’t need him to. You never needed anyone in your life; there was no need to start now.

“As you wish, Miss,” Sebastian proceeded to prepare your bath.

The long process of preparing you for these events was somehow expedited between the combined and coordinated efforts of Mey-Rin and Sebastian. In half the time it might have taken you to achieve a similar loose updo, soft makeup, and flawless, shimmering accessorization, you once again resembled a Countess’ dignity.

However, you refused to allow yourself to feel that superficial. In the floor-length mirror, you regarded your reflection.

Again, your reflected visage was never Y/n Y/l/n. Instead, you channeled the Sugar Plum Fairy — her effortless confidence, whimsy, and unfailing charisma that commanded the fairy court and the audience alike.

Your gown was a statement purple, an homage to Natasha’s surprising decision to make one of your Sugar Plum leotards a vivid lavender with darker purple and gold detailing. This gown reflected the same palette; your skirts fell in ruffled waves, intricate with golden and floral patterns down the sides. Your sleeves were long and merged with purple gloves that ended just before your elbow.

You were flawless, and you would see this role to its very end. No matter how you felt about Ciel, you had a job to complete, and you would do just that. A prima ballerina never abandoned her role, and she never allowed her personal theatrics to distract from her professional. Ever.

That Night

The British Museum

“Remember: no one knows about William’s arrest,” Ciel mumbled into your ear, causing your smile to drop for a fraction of a second. It was as brief as a flickering light, irritated by the Earl’s frequent need to remind you of aspects of your performance that you were more than cognizant of.

You were arm in arm as he led you into Stannard’s gallery, ignoring the nosy journalists snapping photographs of your backs. The displays seemed to show off a particular brand of oil paint, a brand that paid the artist to create such blunt advertisements for the company. Still, they were lovely works from your perspective, displaying different ethereal scenes in nature.

You merely hummed in response, discomfort stiffening your body. As he had for Huntington’s ball, Ciel’s tie matched your purple gown, making you both appear as a matching set. The rest of his suit was black, causing his blue eye to appear somehow more vibrant, and his pale complexion to glow. You wanted to kiss him almost as much as you wanted to kick him.

“Stannard is making his rounds. We’ll let him approach us later on,” Ciel said, gesturing to a man around his age with his chin. While there wasn’t anything particularly notable about the tall painter, you recognized the young woman at his side. Her name was… Maisie?--- She was a talented dancer, cast as The Snow Queen in your Nutcracker production. After all, she was second in the running for prima ballerina behind you. You defeated her.

Maisie’s honey blonde hair paired with her emerald gown flawlessly as she smiled boredly. Her eyes searched the room for something more gripping than her patron’s conversation. You could’ve sworn Ciel said Stannard was married--- or was it previously married?

Right. Stannard left his wife for Maisie. A proud young woman, she loved to show off her new husband. After all, it used to be the only aspect of her life that was better than yours. Before you and Ciel started this ruse, at least.

Stannard was now Maisie’s husband. No one knew where Stannard’s former wife was after she went missing.

“I know her,” you started to whisper, only for the words to die on your tongue. There was no need to point out your work acquaintance-- it was only a gala. You only needed to play the part of an adoring young woman, polite and thankful. Gracious.

Instead, you took the opportunity to observe the rest of the gala. Light dancing music played for those who danced in the greater atrium below. The gallery was situated on a balcony that ran around the perimeter.

Everyone was dressed in their best ensembles, the finest materials, their finest jewels. You wondered how much all of these accessories were worth-- how much of a difference even one of these necklaces would make to a factory worker. Even the dusty purple choker around your neck had diamond and amethyst pendants falling from it in the shapes of teardrops--- it had to be worth thousands.

The movement below made the participating women’s gowns appear like blotted paint on a distant canvas.

“Yes, thank you,” Ciel accepted two glasses of champagne from a server and offered one to you, leisurely investigating the painting closest to you both. He peered at Stannard’s signature in the lower right corner of the canvas, appearing stoic to the common acquaintance but askance to you.

“You do not believe Stannard is the artist behind these,” you claimed, turning your back to the rest of the party. Like Ciel, you faced the painting. You took a smug drink of your champagne.

“What?” he asked, pulled out of his train of thought.

You took a drink from your champagne to settle your irritation with the Earl. “You think he is lying about his talent,” you reiterated as if he didn’t understand you the first time.

Your lips pulled into a poisonous half-smile at his silence. You were right, and the realization made you chuckle to yourself.

“Don’t say such things so loud,” Ciel admonished with no real force behind it. If anything, he seemed amused, casting a barely-there grin at you. You had to make a clear effort to kill the flying butterflies in your stomach.

There was nothing between you.

But even so, the familiar exchange helped unravel a great deal of tension in your shoulders. There could be normalcy…at least for the last few days he was at your side for. Without the butterflies, there was a melancholic guilt to fill the space in your abdomen, not unlike the pain of starvation. You could push it to the back of your mind all the same. You would.

“Lord Phantomhive? Is that you?” An aged, motherly voice greeted. You both turned to meet its source.

You didn’t recognize the woman, nor the young woman at her side. They hardly resembled one another, the young woman’s fiery red hair a stark contrast to the mature woman’s graying brown hair.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Ciel bowed, the gesture causing you to lower yourself into a curtsey. Of course, their rank was higher than his; no one dared approach Lord Phantomhive without a looming stature. “And to you, Lady Caroline,” he addressed the young woman. Her black gown made her red hair and deep brown eyes all the more soulful. She blushed at him.

“Hello, Lord Phantomhive,” Caroline smiled, chuckling as if he did more than greet her properly.

“You know how I feel about Your Grace,” the elder woman joked but it was far from reaching her eyes, despite the smile lines that creased next to them. It was a quip that was intended to make her seem humble and approachable, but it was a mere reminder of her status. “I want you to call me Gwen,” she said airily, lying through her teeth. Ciel was smart enough to know that.

“I could never do such a thing, ma’am,” Ciel replied, mirroring her fake smile. His was much more convincing. Painfully so. The fact you couldn’t introduce yourself to another human being was horrifically demeaning. At least Lord Tiverton addressed you at the last ball--- Gwen and Caroline couldn’t seem to care less about your presence. In fact, they had yet to spare you a glance.

To your relief, Ciel started to introduce you. “I’m here with---”

“This is a lovely gala tonight, wouldn’t you say? I heard they had this orchestra sail from Germany,” Gwen cut in with her dazzling smile. “I wish we could have found you an accompaniment tonight, my dear.” she fixed her attention on Caroline for a moment, only to resettle her expectant gaze on Ciel. “It’s such a once-in-a-lifetime waltz.”

There was a distressing lack of courting suitor at Caroline’s side. Your mouth was dry, your eyes stinging. You didn’t want to be right. You prayed you weren’t.

“It wouldn’t be too much to ask you to go with her for a number or two, would it?” Gwen ordered. She spoke as if she was simply asking Ciel to fetch her her own flute of champagne.

Your stomach plummeted to the gates of hell.

There was a beat of silence, Caroline’s big eyes pleaded, and Gwen’s cold gaze demanded.

You were being suffocated--- socially executed. They may as well have pulled out a gun and aimed.

He wouldn’t, would he? Could he? Honestly?

“Of course,” he answered after a second too long.

Ciel pulled the trigger.

“I will only be a moment,” Ciel finally addressed you, dropping his unfinished champagne on a server’s tray. Before you could reply, Caroline was leading him down the stairs and to the bottom level. You remained at the top, an unfamiliar rage igniting in the front of your head. You could feel the stinging of lingering eyes on you, the soft hum of hushed chatter around you --- about you.

Your mind raced between unmitigated rage and desperately wondering what Sebastian might tell you to do. He never prepared you for an incredibly acerbic duchess and her entitled daughter, or a situation where you would be left adrift at one of these events without Ciel.

Do not engage in argument, do not interrupt anyone when they are speaking, do not lose temper or speak excitedly, do not speak of personal matters, you remembered Sebastian say. But there was nothing of substance there. Nothing to train you for watching the man you had butterflies for and kissed and touched simply… walk away from you and dance with a woman you’d never heard about.

From the balcony, you watched Ciel bow in front of Caroline, her black gown pooling on the floor as she curtsied. They looked striking next to one another, stately and striking. Caroline knew the etiquette expected of a young woman, she was a noble. She didn’t need hurried lessons, and she never had to lay her dignity bare for a man.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? It makes perfect sense,” Gwen’s voice returned at your side.

Your head jerked to look at her, startled. “Oh--- hello,” you couldn’t recall her title quick enough, it seemed.

“Your Grace,” Gwen prompted. All kindness aimed at Ciel was now absent from her face.

Do not lose temper. Do not argue, Sebastian reminded you.

“...Your Grace,” you finished pathetically.

“Do you know who Caroline and I are, Y/n?” Gwen asked, showing that she did know who you were.

“No,” you replied breathlessly, keeping your gaze steady on Ciel and Caroline as they moved with one another.

“I am the Duchess of Norfolk. Caroline’s father is the Duke of Norfolk, Henry Fitzaland-Howard. The new Postmaster General--- he was just appointed this year, isn’t that amazing?” She over pronounced her words for you, making a joke out of your first language being foreign. The same one Ciel whispered in your ear and kissed into your lips just last night. You hated the language, once again. “Caroline is our only child. We need a Duke of Norfolk. You understand.”

You wished you didn’t understand. Unfortunately, you recalled hearing of the Howard line, carelessly skimming an article that traced their lineage back to 1425. Your line traced back to a beautiful maid and an enamored--- yet embarrassed--- Duke. You were his secret shame.

Caroline was her father’s pride.

You felt hollow.

“We cannot have Ciel distracted with you any longer,” Gwen said, regaining some of the sick kindness she spoke with, now that individuals were passing behind you. By now, most of the gala attendees were dancing below you. “And it’s clear that he no longer wishes to be distracted.”

Despite your silence, Gwen continued. “But perhaps we might see you on your way out of the estate; Lord Phantomhive invited us for tea next week,” she added pleasantly. “Be sure to start packing. I’m not sure he’ll allow you to keep all of this.”

“I need to go to the washroom. Excuse me,” you snapped, finishing off your champagne. You shoved the glass into the duchess’s hand, storming down the staircase and through the onlookers as they watched couples dance. Tears blurred in your eyes, threatening to fall, but not quite doing so.

You pushed past attendees, walking as quickly as you could in the heels Sebastian put you in. They were short, but your feet ached from your vehement rehearsing. They were probably bleeding.

“Y/n!” You heard someone call. You continued.

You had no obligation to let yourself fall to the back of Ciel’s agenda. You solved his murder case. You thought you could love him. You thought he could love you. That wasn’t something he could simply erase by scheduling afternoon tea with Her Highness. No matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much you embarrassed him.

You could exit his life on your own. You didn’t need help. You weren’t Maman--- you had more to offer than wiping windows and dusting bookshelves. Maman made sure of that. She put you in a ballet academy so you were assured to have a career. To ensure that you would never have to sweep after the wealthy or beg for their scraps on the street. You were her kindness, her smile, her patience. You were the best of her, and she used her final breath to tell you just that.

You owed it to her to stand with pride as Y/n Y/l/n, prima ballerina. To stand as a star; a brilliant supernova on stage and en pointe.

And now, you had the financial freedom to rebuff any man who tried to change that.

“Y/n! Stop!”

You took to a run, pushing past the security guards near the museum’s entrance, ignoring their confused shouts. Surely you were moving too fast for them to recognize you, but that wasn’t what informed them of your identity. You held up your gown the best you could as you navigated the front stairway. The front of the museum was barren, reporters bored with being on the wrong side of the armed guard, and all gala attendees successfully captured in the throes of revelry and opulence.

“Y/n!” Ciel shouted, catching your hand in yours.

“What?” you demanded, the tears welling in your eyes finally falling down your cheeks. “What is it, Ciel?”

“Just let go of me,” your voice broke with a sob, your tears warm against your cold cheeks. “Please, just let me go.”

Ciel was never at a loss for words. His grip was still iron around your hand as he regarded you, panting from the exertion you put him through. His exhales came out in puffs of condensation from the frigid evening.

“I know what this was,” you continued. “I know what it was supposed to be, but what was here between us was real. And you- all you want to do is…throw it away. And why? Because I’m not h-her! Maybe I’ve never met my father, and I only have a small closet of a townhouse --- that you had no desire to even sit in! --- to my name, but I---.... we…were---” you were at a loss for words.

There was no putting this into words.

Not the stolen touches last night, not your intuitive knowledge of one another, and certainly not the euphoria of waking up entangled with one another.

You wiped your eyes and pulled your hostage hand from his. Swallowing deeply, you put all of your emotion into six words: “You are a coward, Lord Phantomhive.” You turned to continue on your way. You didn’t know where. All you needed was away.

“That’s not! Y/n, stop!” This was the most frenzied you’d heard the Earl’s posh accent get. You didn’t care.

“Stop!” He followed. “You don’t understand!”

“What is there to understand?” You turned on your heel.

Before Ciel could reply, a distant gunshot rang out, accompanied by a choir of shrill, terrified screams from the far side of the street. The back of the museum. The security that had been at the museum doors --- now a sizable distance from you --- ran towards the source.

In an instant, Sebastian was poised both in front of you and Ciel. Ciel brandished himself in front of you, as instinctive as his butler’s desire to protect him. You hadn’t even seen Sebastian nearby at all--- but then again, you were more than a little distracted.

“Call the Yard! She’s bleeding! Fast!” A man called out.

“Come, Y/n. Sebastian, watch for gunfire. Let no one within an arm’s length from us,” Ciel ordered, separating his personal distress with ease. He was trained for this. The man guiding you to the source of the calamity wasn’t the man you were berating across the street from the museum. This was The Queen’s Guard Dog, and he needed his partner.

Someone was shot. Not even you were selfish enough to continue your tirade. “Fine,” you mumbled, drying the last of your tears. You let Ciel guide you, Sebastian trailing behind your back.

Within moments, you were staring at the dead body of Maisie Stannard.

83 notes · View notes

bigsoftmarshmallow · 2 months

Note

Honestly, I'm trying to find a very specific sort of shipping dynamic picture that I just eat up like, yum.

It's kinda like this:

Only, in a:

Sort of way.

Like, dude's yandere af, but & this totally befuddles him beyond imagination, but she basically just sort of *deep heavy sigh* "Okay, I can see that there's no getting outta this & I am legitimately concerned for your mental health, so I'm gonna just accept that this is my new lot in life & do my best to try to get some therapy into your ill-socialized head."

But also, "Damnit, you call me your Darling/girlfriend/fiancée/wife & keep me locked up?!?! Bitch, you better start treating me like a damn Darling or I will make sure you regret it!!!"

Like, she gets so flipping pissed that he's trying to keep her inside like a dang housepet & will make this fact known!

He gets upset about her trying to escape & she just looks at him like, "TO TOUCH GRASS & FEEL THE SUNSHINE ON MY SKIN!!! Where exactly do you think I'm going??? You have miles of monsters out there!!!"

And, if he insists on keeping her inside, she's just very passive-aggressive about telling him how his "prisoner" needs enrichment. Ya know, books, art supplies, cards, SOMETHING to hold off the slow encroachment of insanity. But in that jilted lover sort of way.

So, like, she's intelligent & perceptive & cunning & even manipulative & is receptive to his advances, but she basically says, "Listen, man, you wanna relationship with me, then fine. But I'm gonna make this the healthiest freaking relationship you've ever had, if it kills us both."

Like, she takes no bs & demands the respect due a wife/girlfriend/queen/whatever.

And I just have no clue what one would call that ship, but I wanna read a dang fiction about it with Ganondorf or Vlad Masters as the yandere.

Like, just imagine all the typical yandere tropes, but the victim is just sort of approaching it the way one might socializing a spicy kitten.

And... I just desperately want this relationship. Even just a scene would do! 😭

I have this daydream all the time, so I am so happy to hear you love this plotline too! I have trust issues, so having a man that is obsessed with me and only me? I can fix everything else, just don't betray me, dearest <3

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Wind Waker Ganondorf

Setting: A grand, dimly lit chamber within Ganondorf's fortress. His lover, defiant and resolute, faces him.

Lover: (sighing heavily) "Alright, I see there's no getting out of this. But if I'm going to be stuck here, I expect to be treated like the precious Darling you claim I am."

Ganondorf: (frowning, confused) "You think you can make demands of me, woman?"

Lover: (crossing her arms) "Yes, I do. You want me to be your queen? Then treat me with the respect a queen deserves. I'm not a pet to be caged."

Ganondorf: (grudgingly) "And what do you propose?"

Lover: "For starters, I need books, art supplies, something to keep my mind sharp. If you want a sane queen, you'll give me the means to stay sane."

Ganondorf: (muttering) "Very well. But do not think this makes you free."

Lover: (smirking) "I wouldn't dream of it. But you'll see, Ganondorf. This will be the healthiest relationship you've ever had, even if it kills us both."

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf

Setting: The throne room of Ganondorf's dark castle. His lover stands before him, determined.

Lover: (sighing) "Okay, Ganondorf, if I'm stuck here, we're doing this my way. You call me your fiancée, but keep me locked up like a prisoner. That ends now."

Ganondorf: (scowling) "You dare speak to me this way?"

Lover: "Yes, I dare. I need sunlight, fresh air, and mental stimulation. You have an army of monsters outside. Where do you think I'm going to run off to?"

Ganondorf: (pausing) "What do you want?"

Lover: "Books, art supplies, something to keep me from going insane. And if you ever truly cared for me, you’ll respect my needs."

Ganondorf: (reluctantly) "Fine. But do not test my patience."

Lover: (smiling) "Deal. Now, let’s work on making this the best relationship you’ve ever had."

Twilight Princess Ganondorf

Setting: A dark, foreboding hall in Ganondorf's castle. His lover confronts him with fierce determination.

Lover: (deep sigh) "Alright, Ganondorf, you win. But if I’m your wife, I demand to be treated like one. Not a housepet."

Ganondorf: (smirking) "You think you have the power to demand anything from me?"

Lover: "Yes, because if you don't, you'll regret it. I need books, art supplies, anything to keep me mentally stimulated. I won’t be a passive prisoner."

Ganondorf: (intrigued) "You are bold. Very well, you shall have what you need."

Lover: "Good. And if you really care about me, you’ll start treating me with respect. This relationship will be healthy, or it will be hell."

Ganondorf: (chuckling) "You amuse me. Perhaps this will be interesting after all."

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf

Setting: The war room of Ganondorf’s fortress, filled with maps and strategy plans. His lover stands resolutely before him.

Lover: (sighing) "Ganondorf, if I’m going to be your queen, then start treating me like one. Keeping me locked up is not how you treat someone you care about."

Ganondorf: (raising an eyebrow) "And what do you propose?"

Lover: "I need books, art supplies, something to keep me sane. I’m not running away. Your army of monsters ensures that."

Ganondorf: (nodding slowly) "Very well. You shall have your distractions."

Lover: "And start respecting me. If you want a relationship, we’re doing this right."

Ganondorf: (grinning) "You are a fierce one. This will be... enjoyable."

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf

Setting: A grand hall with windows overlooking the vast landscape. His lover faces him with determination.

Lover: (deep sigh) "Okay, Ganondorf, if I’m going to be your queen, then treat me like one. I’m not a prisoner."

Ganondorf: (thoughtfully) "What do you want?"

Lover: "Books, art supplies, anything to keep me sane. I’m not trying to escape; I just need mental stimulation."

Ganondorf: (nodding) "You shall have what you need."

Lover: "And respect me. This relationship will be healthy, or it will be nothing."

Ganondorf: (smiling) "You have spirit. Very well, let us see where this leads."

Demise

Setting: A dark and foreboding throne room, filled with the aura of darkness. His lover stands defiantly before him.

Lover: (sighing) "Alright, Demise, if I’m stuck here, then treat me like the queen you say I am. Not a prisoner."

Demise: (glaring) "You dare demand anything of me?"

Lover: "Yes, because if you don’t, you’ll regret it. I need books, art supplies, something to keep me from going insane. Your minions outside ensure I’m not escaping."

Demise: (considering) "Very well. You shall have your distractions."

Lover: "And start respecting me. If you want a relationship, we’re doing this right."

Demise: (grudgingly) "You are bold. Perhaps you are worthy of being my queen."

In each scenario, the Ganondorfs and Demise are initially taken aback by their lover’s demands but ultimately agree, intrigued by her spirit and determination. This dynamic creates an interesting and unique take on the yandere trope, where the captive actively works to make the relationship healthier and more respectful.

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BONUS:

Title: "The Gilded Cage"

Scene: The Castle of Twilight

The sun set beyond the horizon, casting long shadows through the tall windows of the castle. Within its imposing stone walls, Ganondorf paced restlessly, his fiery eyes occasionally flicking towards the grand oak door at the end of the hall. His “darling,” as he fondly referred to her, was beyond that door, where he kept her safe from the dangers of the outside world. The very thought of her escaping or being harmed filled him with a primal rage.

Inside the room, the atmosphere was markedly different. She sat by the window, the cool evening breeze rustling her hair. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she looked out at the world she once freely roamed. Turning back to the room, her eyes narrowed at the sight of the gilded cage she now called home.

The door creaked open, and Ganondorf entered, his presence commanding and filled with dark energy.

"My darling," he greeted, his voice a mix of adoration and possessiveness. "Why do you sigh so? Are you not happy here, with me?"

She turned to face him, her eyes sharp and unyielding. "Happy? You call this happiness, Ganondorf? You keep me locked up like a prized possession, but refuse to treat me with the respect and care you claim I deserve."

His brow furrowed in confusion. "I keep you safe. The world outside is filled with monsters and dangers that you cannot even imagine. I protect you because I love you."

She took a step forward, her stance defiant. "And in doing so, you’ve made me your prisoner. If you truly loved me, you’d understand that I need more than just protection. I need freedom, sunshine, and the feel of grass beneath my feet. I need books, art supplies, something to keep my mind from withering away in this cage."

Ganondorf’s expression softened, but his resolve did not waver. "You think I can simply let you roam free? The risk is too great. I cannot bear the thought of losing you."

Her eyes flashed with determination. "Then meet me halfway. You call me your darling, your fiancée, your wife. Treat me as such. Provide me with what I need to keep my sanity, to feel human. If I am to be yours, then you must learn to respect my needs and desires."

He stared at her, his mind racing. The idea of compromising, of bending to her will, was foreign to him. Yet, her words struck a chord deep within. She was not just any captive; she was intelligent, perceptive, and strong-willed. She demanded more from him than he had ever been willing to give.

"Very well," he finally said, his voice low and measured. "I will provide you with what you need. Books, art supplies, whatever you desire. But remember, you are still mine, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "I accept your terms, for now. But understand this, Ganondorf: I will continue to push for more. I will make this relationship as healthy as possible, even if it means challenging you every step of the way."

He stepped closer, his eyes locked onto hers. "You are a peculiar woman, my darling. Most would cower, yet you stand and fight. Perhaps that is why I find myself so drawn to you."

She met his gaze unflinchingly. "And perhaps that is why I will never give up on making you see reason. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a request for a library to make."

As she walked past him, Ganondorf couldn’t help but feel a mix of admiration and frustration. This was not the dynamic he had envisioned, but it was one he found himself reluctantly respecting. His darling was not a mere possession; she was a force to be reckoned with, and he would have to learn to navigate this new reality.

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BONUS BONUS: The room was opulent, furnished with the finest antiques and draped in luxurious fabrics. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the scene. Vlad Masters, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, paced back and forth, his usually confident demeanor faltering as he glanced nervously towards the locked door. Behind it was his "darling," the woman who had unexpectedly turned his life upside down.

Inside the room, she sat on the edge of an overstuffed armchair, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Her expression was a mixture of frustration and determination. She had been in this gilded cage for too long, and her patience was wearing thin.

Vlad finally gathered the courage to enter, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of longing and apprehension. "My dear," he began, his voice soft and almost pleading, "you must understand, I only want to keep you safe."

She let out a deep, heavy sigh, her gaze unwavering. "Safe? You call this safe, Vlad? You keep me locked up like a prisoner. I can't even step outside to feel the sun on my skin or touch the grass. What do you think is going to happen to me out there? There are miles of monsters, yes, but I'm not planning an escape. I just want a semblance of normalcy."

Vlad's face twisted in confusion and hurt. "But you are my precious darling. I can't bear the thought of anything happening to you."

She stood up, her posture strong and defiant. "If I'm so precious, then start treating me like it. You want to call me your girlfriend, your fiancée, your wife? Fine. But I'm going to make this the healthiest relationship you've ever had, even if it kills us both. You want me to stay? Then I need books, art supplies, something to keep my mind occupied. You can’t expect me to sit here and go insane."

He was taken aback by her boldness, but there was something about her strength that only made his obsession grow deeper. "I... I didn't realize how much this was affecting you," he admitted, his voice trembling slightly. "I'll get you whatever you need."

Her eyes softened just a fraction, seeing the cracks in his otherwise impenetrable facade. "Vlad, I understand that you're... different. But if you want this to work, you have to trust me. I won’t run away, but I need my space, my freedom within these walls. Treat me with the respect I deserve, and maybe, just maybe, we can make this work."

He stepped closer, reaching out to take her hand. She didn't pull away, but her eyes were still hard, watching him carefully. "I promise," he whispered, "I'll do better."

She gave a small nod, squeezing his hand slightly. "Good. Because I won't settle for anything less."

#mallowresponse #legend of zelda #ganondorf #ganon #demise #ocarina of time #hyrule warriors #twilight princess #wind waker #tears of the kingdom #skyward sword #ai use #use of chatgpt #danny phantom #Vlad Masters #Bonus #Bonus Bonus

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mothercetrion · 1 year

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sending you another extension ask for your enjoyment sir for enrichment during rough times

i think that kenshi would be delighted that his touches and kisses elicit laughter and smiles in response. kenshi would be heartbroken if it were anything but, because he's dealt with all those unfortunate events in his life one after another. He's not much of a PDA guy but in private he's very satisfied to have his touches reciprocated in romantic embraces or even johnny swinging a leg over him when he's sleeping. every time johnny smiles, kenshi knows he does. kenshi's lips and teeth between johnny's shoulder and neck, johnny feeling tickled and a laugh growls from his chest and also when johnny attempts to nudge him away (no effort on his part) kenshi gets to feel johnny's wide, toothy smile against his own cheek. it's very close and relaxing, he could fall asleep. esp because kenny over here has never really had the full hug experience so when he realizes it's so warm and he feels coddled and safe aaaahh. but anyways!! johnny ruins the moment of romance to be snarky "hmmm if i didn't know any better, i'd think you loooooove my smile kendoll" and kenshi kicks back "and what are you going to do about it, cage" johnny flabbergasted! and kenshi finishes him off like "yeah. don't think i do not know you taunt me on purpose, loverboy" (a term he learns from watching lame movies with his bf)

(all those hcs together same anon 👍 enjoy)

Kenshi has never known what "good" physical contact is like. he has to keep himself safe in the Yakuza, and romantic relationships are likely out of the question entirely. physical affection is foreign to him. physical contact that doesn't make him flinch is just as foreign to him. and then he meets Johnny, and then he loses his eyes, and then he starts dating Johnny, and all of those things that he's never had become a very big part of his life.

Johnny is very physically affectionate, and it shows when they're cuddling in any sense. he always makes sure that he's touching Kenshi somehow so he's fully aware of what he's doing, and he's always kissing him or resting with his head on him somewhere. Johnny cannot hide his smile when he's with Kenshi, and he can feel it whenever they're kissing or cuddling or anything. Kenshi can feel its permanence when he holds his face, the smile lines beneath his thumbs and the warmth of his skin. there's little better than Johnny's infectious joy and love, and Kenshi just feels good. he feels happy.

Johnny is such a tease, but Kenshi can tease back. he is not one to use pet names too often, so if he does, it's a shock. calling Johnny "loverboy" might actually make him short-circuit, his smile turning shocked and his skin growing hot with an intense blush. he's caught by surprise, and he's clearly flustered by it. Kenshi can only laugh and kiss his cheek and tell himself he'll do it again soon.

#johnshi #johnny cage #kenshi takahashi #mortal kombat #mortal kombat 1 #asks #anonymous #anon this ask has added ten years to my life

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eri-pl · 17 days

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But what about the Silmaril's rights?

Or "the erason why the Feanorians shouldn't get them, which may be somwhat compelling even to the more pro-feanorian of you (because it's not about the Sindar)" (to be clear: my goal is not to invalidate the Sindar)

So, the Silmarils are alive. They do have feelings: they enjoy the light (I will not give quotes because my book is in Polish, but it's in their description). This may be a hyperbole or something, like Balrog's wings of shadow, but I'm not sure it is. Elves, with their ability to perceive other minds, would probably not attribute feelings to something that doesn't have them. Not in a serious text like the Annals of Aman.

How did Feanor make them, you ask? He cannot create life. Yes. He didn't create them in the strict sens, or even in the typical artistic sub-creation sense. He bred them. He created them like an artisan gardener creates a living chair from a willow. He bred them from the light of the Trees, and they are offspring of the Trees.

Does it mean they belong to Yavanna? No, I don't think so. In the logic of modernday agricultural corporation or dog breeder they would, but I don't think she would see them as more hers than every plant is hers. More beloved by her, maybe. Maybe not. She has no problem with the idea of them dying, so probably less.

I'm not going to make claims on who they legally belong to under this or that law, that's not the point of the post.

The point is that they are creatures with feelings. And they love light, they metabolize light, they probably need light to thrive. And Feanor in his later days keeps them closed in a dark treasury. And Melkor keeps them on his evil face (considering their nature I would be very unsurprised if the burning of the evil caused them as much pain as the burned person) in a dark fortress.

That's animal magical jewel abuse.

And the sons of Feanor who want to claim them, would also all cause pain to them. Sure, ok, maybe they would keep the gems in a bright, uncovered place where they could see their cousins (sun and moon) and shine for all to see and not be closed like a pupy in a cage. Maybe they would not touch them.

Both of those seem extremely unlikely, considering all facts. SoF are reasonable, and the reasonable thing to do with the Silmarils is to keep them secret, keep them safe in a dark, closed place. (And if you think they would give the jewels proper enrichment, look into my eyes and say: "Yes, I think that the sons of Feanor would put empathy for other living being over their oath".)

(Yes, I know thay have trauma. This post is not about hating them. It is about whether they are fit to take good care of magical jewels. Unprocessed trauma doesn't help in that. they need emotional support jewels, and the Silmarils are not trained for that, they do have a trauma of their own.)

And the Silmaril loved Luthien, oh how itloved her, she shone so bright and the gem drank it and gave it back and it was wonderful it was killing her but she loved this little creature too much to care.

It's complicated. You have a (magical and somewhat holy puppy) who one guy bred and abused (because he didn't know how to care for it and was made distrustful of the people who could teach him, and he had unprocessed trauma), then he died and now his sons believe they'd all go to hell if they don't get the puppy and keep it safe in a tiny cage, and there's the girl who stole the puppy from a terrible guy who abused it (because he's Like That), and it's so happy with her and then there's all that mess.

(I imagine them as some weird thing between animal, plant and magic... they don't talk or move, but they do feel a lot.)

So, as I asked in the title: what about their rights?

#silm #silmarillion #tolkien legendarium #the silm #the silmarillion #silmarils #silm crack #sort of #the waqy of explaining it is cracky #but the actual concept?#not very supported by canon but fits with the world I think #tw animal abuse mention #yes from not on I shall imagine the legendary jewels that thousands have died for as cute

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aggro-my-beloved · 2 months

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₍ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ₎ Redacted Characters If They Owned Hamsters ₍ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ₎

note: based on my son, my lil bean, the loml (pictured below). if he is ever harmed not out of his own volition i WILL throw hands. mkay enjoy :)

Huxley: possibly the biggest animal lover out of all the other redacted characters. he’s an earth elemental after all, therefore he’s most in tune with flora and fauna. however, only two days after owning his first pet, a hamster, he hugged him so hard that the lil guy suffocated.

Sam: at twelve years old, Sam almost couldn’t believe the news of his local pet store being broken into and all the animals being set free by the perpetrator. until one day after school, he found a hawk circling a hamster in his backyard. he wasted no time scooping the almost-meal into his hands and bringing it inside to nurse it back to health. in just days, the shoebox filled with cotton balls and newspaper shreds turned into a habitat he begged his parents for, equipped with the highest-quality food, water bottle, and silent running wheel.

Asher: as anybody loathing animosity would do, asher tried introducing his cat and hamster to each other one day in hopes that they would become friends. perhaps he wasn’t supervising as well as he could’ve been. fifteen minutes after booting up Halo, mittens returns with the fluffball in her mouth, presenting it to him as a gift. he curses the family’s cat to this day.

David: after the passing of his mother, gabe thought an animal would help his son with the mourning process. david’s hamster was smarter than most—as in, she could sense David’s predatorial stance the moment they locked eyes. anytime he tried feeding her a treat or handling her, she would bite him out of instinct. this would result in david supplying her with double the treats and enrichment toys as if to earn her trust. eventually, she did come to trust him but kept "disliking" him for the extra food.

Lasko: upon receiving the pet as a birthday present, they couldn’t be seen more than a day apart. He’d get one of those mini harnesses to walk him every day after school, and even snuck the animal in class one day for show and tell. ten years later, lasko still has a photo of the two of them framed in his closet.

Milo: after witnessing several children’s films with talking animals, Milo became convinced his furry friend was hiding something. every day, he’d creep inside his room and peer into the cage, only to be met with the sight of them scurrying underneath the bedding. he’d bribe the thing with treats to just say his name. one day, he got a bit too impatient and dismembered the shade from his desk lamp. Aiming it at the rodent, he demanded through clenched teeth to “fess up.” the light blinded them, and they died of shock.

Geordi: being awkward and an introvert left geordi slim pickings of friends if any at all. his hamster became his outlet, his micro-sized therapist who had an obsession with carrots. every bad day at school, or club he didn’t get accepted to, or commentary on star trek’s latest episode would be reported to her. though she never talked back, it kept geordi out of his head most of the time, and that was the best kind of relationship anybody could share.

Damien: uncomfortable moments with his magic source weren’t an issue for damien as a child. the boy was so cold natured a ninety-degree day to Venice beach felt like the perfect temperature. without a second thought, he brought his hamster along for the road trip so he could show him the world and all it had to offer. the day ended with a sunburnt damien and a buried hamster in his backyard. cause of death: heat exhaustion.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted shaw pack #redacted headcanons #redacted shitpost #redacted asher #redacted david #redacted milo #redacted damn crew #redacted au #redacted huxley #redacted lasko #redacted damien #redacted geordi #redacted sam

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catboybiologist · 11 months

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Minor Grumpus update!

I had the little guy on AstroTurf for a while. This is not a good long term arrangement for a tortoise like him- they need to have something to shovel through and burrow. But, in the wild, these tortoises hibernate. It's very difficult to manually trigger full hibernation in a pet setting, but periods of pseudo-hibernation and extremely low activity are common without interference. The sentient rock pictured here had clearly entered one of those periods of time, essentially sleeping for almost the entire day, unless disturbed when he was fed. I THOUGHT that the lil reptilian borgir would be like that until spring, so admittedly, his enclosure got a bit bare bones and sloppy. I took out his permanent dry feed because he wasn't touching it and I didn't want to attract nasty growth, reduced the frequency of his fresh feed, kept him on AstroTurf, stopped taking him outside and started vitamin D supplementing him instead, and generally just left him alone to sleep the winter away in his unlit area (the dark part behind the arch in the picture). Until I woke up one day to his food dish flipped and scattered across the enclosure, water spilled over the AstroTurf, rock dislodged and being pushed across his cage, and the lil tank puppy looking at me with the tortoise equivalent of a shit eating grin, scratching happily away at the wooden frame of his enclosure as a way of complaining about the lack of digging substrate. He's been like that for several days and doesn't seem like he's gonna stop.

His previous owners used rabbit feed pellets as a substrate, which works very well for him, so he's on that now. His dry feed is back, and he's on a full time fresh food schedule. I'm also going to gather more pebbles and possibly another climbing rock for enrichment, which I was planning to do closer to when I expected him to be more active- but guess I gotta do it now! If anyone has any suggestions for cute tortoise enrichment, I'm all ears, but I'm mostly going to try buried food, pebbles for pushing/stacking, and maybe another climbing rock.

The smol criminal in question

#196 #r196 #r/196 #rule #/r/196 #tort #tortoise #russian tortoise #herpblr

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fishhuo · 4 months

Text

⚠️🔞

Deafblind pet AU

Warning: Abuse, starvation, pet whump, burns, mentions of waste

Short thing where Saejima is assigned to look after deafblind amputee Majima. They don’t know each other in this AU and Saejima is not in prison.

Have a doodle of Saejima for flavor 🥺

When he was ordered to take care of a deceased Tojo member’s pet, he had no choice but to obey. It wouldn’t be too hard. Feed it a few times a day, refill its water. Give it some enrichment. Clean up after its shit.

It was odd they didn’t offer the pet up for the animal shelter. Plus, the owner died two days ago. Who’d been taking care of it since?

He was given a name for it: Majima-chan. Strange for an animal.

His task was to keep watch over the old house for a week, then figure out a way to transport the pet into his own home permanently. Stranger and stranger.

Saejima turned the key. The house was dark and cold as he stepped in.

“Majima-chan?” He called out, voice soft. He looked around the floor for any furry creature that might spawn from the shadows. Nothing. Damn, where was the light? He felt around the walls for any light switch with no luck.

As he moved deeper into the house, something on a string hit his head. He pulled at it. On came the light. The room became awash in dim yellow lighting. How old-fashioned.

There weren’t any family pictures or personalized decorations. It was like the owner mainly used this house as a place to sleep, spending most of his day out and about. How then did he manage to keep a pet all this time, and to cherish it so much that his subordinates thought to assign someone to care for it?

He called out the pet’s name again, louder this time. His footsteps made creaks along the wooden floor. No toys strewn about. No food or water bowls in sight. Maybe Majima-chan was actually a bird or small rodent, confined in one area.

He tried the first door he saw. A small bedroom. This might’ve been where the owner slept each night. The window was still slightly ajar, letting in the cool breeze. Saejima shut it. Seeing no pet, he stepped out and continued down the short hallway. A closet, a small bathroom, then…

The last door was stuck. He rustled the doorknob in his meaty hand and pushed. Then pushed again.

Thump!

It fell open, barely on its hinges.

Immediately, Saejima’s nose was hit with the stench of waste. His combat boots crunched against the ground as he stepped in. A boarded-up window prevented most sunlight from entering the room, but he could see clear as day a large cage in the center of the room. Inside was…

“Majima… chan?”

A naked figure was curled up in a fetal position inside the cage. Its skin was pallid with purple bruises tracking down its limbs. Its back faced him: a sneering, hannya tattoo sprawling all the way from its shoulders to the back of its thighs. The form laid still even at his loud entrance. Saejima steeled himself.

They brought him here to clean up a dead yakuza. The corpse was so frail-looking, it must’ve starved to death.

But as soon as he stepped onto a broken floorboard by the cage, he heard a low noise. The “body” in the cage slowly rose up and looked at him—no, toward him. It—Majima-chan—shuffled onto his elbows and knees like a newborn fawn on stick-thin limbs. He had no hands or feet, each limb ending in a scarred, bony nub. In his mouth was a black ball gag with straps tight around his head. He drooled uncontrollably and groaned questioningly through his gag. Long, matted black hair obscured much of his face from view, but Saejima could make out a nasty burn scar that seared across his upper face. Majima-chan couldn’t see.

Saejima tried his best to calm his heavy breathing and heartbeat. This… man had been here for who knows how long.

“Majima-chan?” He called out shakily.

Majima-chan didn’t acknowledge his words, continuing to sniff at him through the bars of his cage. Shit, nearly each of his ribs and vertebrae showed through taut skin. The door to the cage was cracked open, but Majima-chan chose to stay inside. The gag looked uncomfortable.

“I’m gonna take that gag off of ya now, okay?” No response. Saejima slowly reached a hand through the bars for the straps. The moment his fingers brushed against Majima-chan’s face, he made a muffled yell, startled. But he remained in place for Saejima to undo the buckle at the back of his head. He pulled the ball out with no resistance. It was completely covered in a sheen of drool. Before he could pull his hands away, Majima-chan latched onto his thick fingers.

“H-hey, what are you doing?”

The man suckled deeply, rolling his wet tongue around his knuckles, eyelids closed shut. He moaned, the vibrations and wet sensation making Saejima deeply uncomfortable. Saejima worried that if he pulled away too fast, he’d hurt Majima-chan. So he hesitantly patted him on the head with his free hand and pulled out his fingers centimeter by centimeter. Majima-chan didn’t resist. His lips left Saejima’s fingers with a pop and he seemed satisfied.

He moved onto a dispenser-looking thing attached to the side of his cage and placed his mouth on the tip. His gaunt cheeks hollowed. He was suckling again. The dispenser was empty. Was that where water’s supposed to go?

Saejima scanned the room for something, anything. There was a bathroom he hadn’t noticed before. It had no door. The closer he came to it, the stronger the scent of piss and shit got. Inside was a squat toilet where a small pile of feces lay unflushed. Saejima pressed the flush button, getting rid of most of the shit.

The sink still worked. He tasted the running water himself. No rust or anything. He went back to retrieve the dispenser, gently pulling the bottom of it out of Majima-chan’s mouth. The man didn’t make any noise of protest. He waited patiently, seeming to understand what Saejima was doing with the dispenser. After filling it, he put back in its place and watched as Majima-chan thirstily sucked at the water. Some of it dribbled down his chin. He made each gulp loudly.

Saejima sat down, tension and uncertainty dissipating. He ran a hand through his hair. What the hell. His new “pet” couldn’t see or walk. The burns stretched from his right ear to the bridge of his nose. His left eyelids were unscathed, but the socket was empty. One eye gouged out, the other burned to blindness. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. He had a long, angular nose. The area of his upper lip bore a few dark hairs, the rest of his face clean shaven.

It was odd he never responded to Saejima’s words.

“Majima-chan? …Can you hear me?” He tested out. He snapped his fingers. Majima-chan continued drinking. “Majima-chan!” He yelled out. Nothing. The man finished all of the water. He burped and laid back down, residual arms cushioning his head as best they could.

Fuck…

Saejima buried his head in his hands. What an awful existence this man was living through.

What was he going to do?

Part 2

Art 1

Art 2

#my writing #whumblr #pet whump #tw starvation #whump

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theramseyloft · 4 months

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Hello, I'm developing an enrichment guide for small animals in my shelter and your blog was very helpful with grimace scales, I was wondering if you had found any more for animals like reptiles, birds, and hedgehogs?

I'm afraid not, but I can go through the rescue folder to show some expressions of discomfort and unwellness.

We'll use Ankhou (May he rest in peace) as our baseline for a comfortable, healthy pigeon.

Like most birds, pigeon eyes are nearly frozen in their sockets.

They have neither whiskers, lips, nor external ears to grimace with.

So their expressions are mostly in the position of their heads, necks, and tails, and which groupings of feathers are raised or flattened.

This is an expression of supreme comfort.

Just a little squinty. Forehead and neck feathers fluffed up.

Everything else smooth and relaxed.

This was Passenger's arrival photo. (Some of you may have remembered her having been in the news.)

Note the curve of her neck, the low dip of her tail, sunken eyes and thin, drawn beak.

The half lidded eyes are an extreme expression of pained exhaustion.

Pigeons, even when hurt, are hypervigilant, and will be wide eyed more often than not.

She is extremely dehydrated and malnourished in this photo, barely able to stand.

Look at the difference, post recovery.

Especially at her stance (keenly alert), eyes (bright and clear), and beak (much more fleshed out).

In her case, the sunken eyes and thin beak in particular warned that she was extremely dehydrated.

Archie, on arrival, is scared and in pain, having suffered a broken wing from a vehicle strike.

Note the ruffled throat and tightly tucked head.

Same young bird, having healed.

Bridget, on arrival, had a broken wing and leg on the same side. (Also a vehicle strike.)

A little older than Archie, keenly interested in the food in front of her, and absolutely ravenous, but you still see the neck folded and head tucked.

This was when she first started putting weight on her healing foot.

She's terrified of me: note the huge pupils and ruffling of her shield feathers.

She's threatening to box me with her broken wing.

Note the almost angular ruffling of her neck feathers and how far between her shoulders her little head is tucked.

That defensive posture hurts.

Here she is, still terrified of me, but now fully healed.

Look how her head is positioned.

Yes, this is still Bridget.

She does have a neck! XD

In the loft, she's curious. Still scared of me, but I am more familiar than the flock of strange pigeons.

She's trying to figure out what perch to aim for.

Pete suffered a cat bite to the wrist of the wing facing the camera and an injury to his eyelid.

It's in a bad spot, right between the joints, and the inflammation response is so intensely painful that she can't flex her little wing.

Notice the tightly tucked head, ruffled throat, and over all hunched appearance.

Here, she is no longer in any pain; just scared.

Being in the pigeon hospital is terrifying for ferals.

It's bad enough being confined to a tiny cage, but vaccines, worming, weekly louse dips, and in this case daily antibiotics are an absolute hell of an introduction to living in human care!

Pete just has a very long skinny neck and tiny head with a fine featured face.

But, fully healed, despite the god awful molt, you can see the difference in her posture and even the wideness of her eyes.

Pierce was an extremely lucky hawk strike survivor.

It's a minor miracle that no vital organs were damaged!

But there is the extreme pain hunch in a bird whose injuries are fresh.

Note the set of the head between the shoulders, forward lean, and ruffling at the throat with feathers flattened very tightly otherwise.

This is the same bird, after all three talon holes healed.

Licorice was an interesting case!

Tied by zip tie and string to a steak in the ground for dog bait and suffering a teratoma in her breast muscle.

This is defensive posture.

She is not injured or in any pain, but she is scared, and looking for an opportunity to escape the carrier.

The teratoma (A bizarre tumor made of, in her case, random feather material in a keratin capsule) has no nerves, and her skin formed a neat little pocket around it.

Here she is after the teratoma was removed.

Not by any stretch thrilled to have me so close for pictures, but bright eyes and alert, confident I am not going to attack her.

Orion was a sad malnourished mess.

Note the lack of tail feathers, the baldness of his face, skinny toes, and shrunken beak.

Once again, head sunk down between his hunched shoulders, neck folded under it in a tight S curve that pushes the throat feathers out.

Very slight squint to eyes that would be wide with alarm were he not just exhausted from his state of starvation.

Poor little vulture child!

He's very excited for food in this photo, but since you can see his skin so well, look how much less pinched it is around the base of his beak now that he is no longer suffering severe dehydration.

Coal had the very good fortune to come in healthy and old enough to self feed.

He was just separated from his flock weeks before he'd have been able to fly.

He isn't in pain or ill.

Being dipped and wormed sucked!

So coal is NOT happy to see me a week after that last photo!

But note that his shoulders are not hunched.

While his neck is folded and his head is low, it isn't sunk down in between his shoulders.

The nape of his neck is fluffed up.

This is defensive threat posture.

He's scared, but warning me that he'll box and bite me if I get any closer.

Coal has been here a few weeks at this point.

He's not happy to see me. Dips and meds still suck.

But they don't hurt, and I get them done with pretty quick.

So he's nervous on this photo.

He's not looking forward to what ever I am about to have to do, but it's sunk in that he's not going to die or be injured.

Bug free and ready for adoption, Coal was not happy about having his pigeon business interrupted for a photo, but he's only mildly annoyed, not nervous or overtly afraid.

Now, let's look at the second most commonly rescued breed: Racing homers.

This is Grayson: Who was found crashed out hungry in 2016.

This bird failed a race.

Because they were bred to be wartime messengers, and their messages were of absolutely vital importance, the impulse to stop mid return flight to forage has been bred out of Racing Homers.

When released away from their loft, they only stop when they get home, or if it's gotten too dark to fly.

Once the food in their crop runs out (usually something extremely fatty like peanuts, for the highest possible density of fuel), their body starts digesting their muscle.

The flight muscles of a pigeon are roughly 1/4 of their overall weight.

Once they lose enough of that, they can't get off the ground anymore.

It takes about three days of non stop flight for this to happen, and a good two to four solid weeks of rebuilding condition before they can physically fly again.

Note Greyson's hunch and drooping tail, but the keen alertness in his eyes compared to the ferals.

He is not injured or sick.

He is suffering exclusively from the rapid muscle atrophy unique to racing homers who have failed a race or training toss.

This is the same bird, post recovery.

Just doesn't like being asked to pose.

Meat much more evenly surrounds his keel, and his wings no longer look to be too big for him.

Look at the way his cere has filled out compared to the previous photo.

Mark most likely got lost on a training flight.

You can tell by his poorly developed cere that this is a very young bird; not quite sexually mature.

Note the weird, flat angle of the chest and downward tilt of the head.

He trapped into a chicken coop in desperation to escape a bad storm, and unfortunately picked up worms from the chickens, and giardia likely from dirty puddle water.

This photo was taken just a little before he became severely symptomatic, while he was still able to hide being sick.

He almost died from the giardia.

He was so exhausted and dehydrated from constant diarrhea by which his body tried to expel the protozoan parasite that he didn't have energy to eat and had to be force fed several small meals a day for a few weeks until he had the strength to feed himself.

Here he is the last week of quarantine, anxious about being handled for his update photo, but no longer sick.

And here he is fully recovered and showing off his very full crop, but having the worst molt!

I hope this meander through a small percentage of my rescue folder has been enough to help you see the pattern.

It's more in the overall posture than the facial expression, as pigeons largely lack the facial muscles and features that give mammals such expressive faces.

Look for a head sunken between hunched shoulders and a drooping tail.

The more hunchy the bird, the tighter tucked head, and the further the tail droops, the more severe the discomfort.

A dramatically bobbing tail signifies a struggle breathing, the causes of which can range from anxiety to pain to physical obstruction of the air ways.

Partly lidded, sunken eyes and a shrunken beak along with a slight wobble or tremor should signify an emergency; severe dehydration.

The extremely drab, brown tinged feathers that Orion displays are a symptom of nestling malnutrition.

Most likely, his mother was malnourished when she laid the egg, and his parents could not find enough food to support the rapid growth of a baby pigeon.

Ankhou came in years later from the same area; the parking lot of a strip mall where feral pigeons are trapped and eradicated.

He's four or five weeks old in this photo, by the length of his flights, which were the only feathers he had, because his body did not get enough to grow both bones and feathers.

It took him six months to feather out fully.

And almost a year to molt into his full adult plumage.

Well, that went a little off topic. >.<

But I hope it helped.

#birds #pigeon #grimace scale

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