#i am so sorry for the quality but this is after 2 rounds of sharpening and you could count the pixels in the original footage 😭

[malkwin]

post 2009 cup win interview

[chockfullofsecrets]

Critical Role: Embarrassing and Undignified

(Read on AO3)

Rating: Gen

Summary: Caleb doesn’t smile much. It’s something he rather likes about the man, that he prefers to save his pleasure for that which is truly worth it - but there’s nothing else he can call the expression that briefly narrows those blue eyes. “Reacting like that in front of a friendly tiefling?” he says - teasing, almost, and Essek feels his stomach flip. “I am not so sure.”

Essek's time in the hot tub goes a little awry.

Wordcount: 3.3k

A/N: Fill for this anon prompt! (i’m so sorry for taking 2+ months to write this... i love Essek so much and he needs more tk content)

---

Essek is no stranger to being - unusual. He often welcomes it, really. Achieving a status such as his for the better part of a century comes with its fair share of eccentricities, his floating among them, and at this point hovering just above the rest of the Dynasty has become something of a favored routine.

And yet, it seems, the Nein have him beaten at every turn.

He had meant to take his leave directly after dinner, unsure of his place among Yasha’s solemn questions of loneliness and Beauregard’s transparent attempts to pry information from him and Jester’s threat to invoke a Zone of Truth for idle gossip -

(and the slight jealousy, he admits, if only to himself, of seeing Caleb, ambitious and focused and loved, among them - )

But. Lonely and friendless he is, as has been quite thoroughly pointed out to him through the evening, and he’s intrigued enough by the rarity of this hot tub to clamber up awkwardly onto the enclosing stone wall and dangle his feet into the water while his hosts bustle around and shuck off various pieces of clothing.

Caleb sits next to him, rolling his own pant legs crisply to the knee and lowering his feet in. “What do you think?”

He looks over - thank the Light, Caleb’s still wearing his shirt. “It’s - nice,” he says. He drags his toe through a slow stream of bubbles rising from what he assumes must be the hottest parts of the depths. “Unfamiliar, but quite impressive that you’ve constructed it on your own.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “The hot tub, or -” He traces a small circle with his index finger, encompassing himself and his companions. “- all of this?”

Decades of court experience well up unbidden on his tongue. “The compliment extends to you either way,” he offers smoothly.

Caleb squints at him, but before he can say anything more the rest of the Nein are joining them with pleased exclamations and a thoroughly distracting amount of splashing. Essek watches, bemused, as Jester flops in belly-first before even unbuckling the last clasp of her outergarments - she wrestles them off, finally, crumpling the dripping green cloak into a ball and flinging it away, and he winces on behalf of the fine Kryn fabric.

She looks around, eyes lighting on him, and her hands fly to her round cheeks with an excited gasp. “Essek! Your legs!”

Startled, he looks down - they seem quite normal, with his boots off and his neatly pressed trousers folded at the knee, if a little more purple than anyone else’s present. “I would prefer to keep my clothes dry, yes.”

She leans in, eyes wide. “Are they re-al?”

Light be with him - she’s hardly said anything, but he struggles not to flush under the scrutiny. “Ah, yes? Why should they not be?”

Just then, something brushes lightly over the sole of his foot - he startles, and -

His seat is well made, certainly, but not enough to stand up to the Nein’s shenanigans; as he recoils, his center of gravity shifts right off the narrow ledge and he’s tumbling backwards before he can do more than blink.

Light, if this is how he dies -

He flails for a solution - it’s been years, at least, since he’s done something so pedestrian as fall, and there are spells for this, certainly, but what he’s prepared for today is more showy fare, in case the Nein asked for a demonstration, why can’t he think -

A hand closes roughly around his bicep, then another around the opposite shoulder, and then he’s dangling from Caleb’s grip with his back nearly parallel to the floor - he reaches out too, panicked, and crumples the front of Caleb’s shirt in a death grip.

“Good reflexes,” he says, breathless. Blood pounds in his ears. Caleb stares down at him, blue eyes wide and jaw tight -

“Ooh, now kiss!” Jester hoots.

The rest of the Nein burst into laughter behind them. Caleb goes bright red and hurriedly turns away, looking over his shoulder. “One of you jokers come here and help me, please,” he chides, strained, “I am not the muscle of this group.”

The tension in Caleb’s face becomes infinitely more explicable - finally capable of rational thought, Essek flicks his fingers and casts a weight-lightening cantrip just as another strong hand latches onto his knee and bodily tows him upright. Yasha nods at him, chest completely bare, and wades back to her corner as Veth pops up from nowhere with her long ears twitching maniacally. “I’m SO sorry,” she screeches, insistent far beyond the point of sincerity. “I brushed against your feet COMPLETELY ON ACCIDENT.”

“VERY ACCIDENTAL,” Jester agrees loudly. Next to her, Fjord winces.

Veth’s voice softens, then, as she pats him gingerly on the leg. “I didn’t think you would do that - are you okay?”

“It’s all right,” he says weakly. Her ears droop in what seems to be genuine relief - it is pointless to care, perhaps, but he feels better for having reassured her.

He sucks in a solid breath for what feels like the first time in minutes and turns to Caleb to thank him. There’s still a guarding hand resting warmly against his back - and worse still, he realizes belatedly that his own hand is still fisted in the buttons of Caleb’s shirt.

He snatches it hastily away, ears burning. “Ah, my apologies. I shall pay closer attention to gravity, for the rest of the night.”

Caleb doesn’t smile much. It’s something he rather likes about the man, that he prefers to save his pleasure for that which is truly worth it - but there’s nothing else he can call the expression that briefly narrows those blue eyes. “Reacting like that in front of a friendly tiefling?” he says - teasing, almost, and Essek feels his stomach flip. “I am not so sure.”

A friendly -

Surprised, he glances over at Jester and finds her wearing a smug expression that might not be out of place on Da’leth himself, if significantly sweeter. “E-ssek,” she wheedles, wide-eyed with delight, drawing every syllable to its maximum extent. “Are your feet like, super ticklish?”

Essek blinks - ticklish? But he hasn’t - really, he can’t remember the last time he might have known. As a child, perhaps, when Verin used to tempt him into playing by tackling him straight off his feet and -

Oh. Oh, dear.

At least that particular piece of evidence is decades out of date - a poor excuse to discard it, but he’s willing to compromise in the face of Jester’s ever-sharpening grin and the traitorously pleased squirm in the pit of his own stomach. “What? No, of course not, I was merely surprised-”

“You can be surprised and ticklish,” Jester corrects, skipping forward with a splash. Essek shirks back into Caleb’s hand, millimeters from tumbling off the ledge again, and she giggles. “And I’m pret-ty sure that you’re both.”

The hot tub, for all of its excellent qualities, is unfortunately not large enough to keep her at bay for longer than that. She reaches out as he’s still deciding which direction would be the best to flee in and scoops his ankle up in a grip like steel. “Ah-” he sputters. “I - Jester, wait-”

She drags a fingernail up the arch of his foot.

It feels like one of the few times while developing a lightning-based spell that he’d electrocuted himself - but the feeling doesn’t stop, shooting up his leg and tickling at his lungs too to make them shiver, and it’s silly, and he just -

He panics, jerks back against Caleb’s hand again, and in a moment of brash stupidity the animal instinct of his brain decides that the only safe place to hide is Caleb himself. He buries his face in Caleb’s side and grabs him around the waist just in time to shriek as Jester repeats the same lazy route up and down the sole of his foot, pausing only to scratch tingling patterns into his heel. “Tickle, tickle! Aw, guys, he’s so ticklish, look at how much he’s laughing!”

The fabric of Caleb’s shirt isn’t much of a barrier to Jester’s teasing - or to his own ticklish laughter, embarrassingly high-pitched and loud in a way that makes his whole face heat with shame - but at least they can’t see him blush.

Caleb jumps a little as Essek latches onto him, but his hand stays put, stabilizing, and starts to rub gentle circles on his back as Essek dissolves into cackling at another spidering assault on his arch. “Jester, please be gentle,” he says, amused. “I am not sure that is a good idea.”

Essek’s not sure how he feels either. It’s terribly embarrassing, and undignified, and if this was happening in front of any other being in the Dynasty he would have to learn some sort of memory erasure spell, but - the Nein have never cared for his layers upon layers of decorum anyway, have they, always prying for indignation and confusion and warmth that he’s not certain he even possesses.

Caught between Jester and Caleb and a vat of hot water, with the rest of the Nein making relatively amused noises behind him, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt warmer.

Jester just laughs. “I’m barely doing anything!” she teases, shaking Essek’s leg lightly. “He’s just so sensitive - oh, Essek, is it ‘cause you never walk anywhere? Is that why your feet are so soft and tickly?”

He’s giddy, even with the sudden reprieve, giggling too hard to speak. “I - ha - I dohon’t - ehe-”

“Of course it is,” Beauregard says smugly from a distance that seems far too close, “waving all those secrets and magic over our heads and he’s hoisted on his own fuckin’ petard-”

“What’s that?” Caduceus asks. Essek vaguely remembers the term to describe some sort of bomb, but Jester chooses that moment to send her mischievous fingers exploring under his fucking toes and it tickles like absolute hell. He shrieks even louder than before, if such a thing were possible, and makes a solid attempt to burrow his way straight into Caleb’s ribcage as his entire leg jolts in involuntary protest. No amount of desperate attempts to flex or curl his foot make the sensation any more bearable - it’s like the sucking feeling of a Teleport spell, like everything inside him is unmoored and floating in a sea of mirth and the only way he can get any of it out is to scream.

His cheeks hurt and he realizes, suddenly, that he’s beaming.

Jester cackles. “Come get his other foot, Beau,” she urges, easing off to just pinch his big toe between two fingers and wiggle it. “He totally loves it, he’s not even kicking-”

“Uh-huh,” Beauregard says, and there’s another splash. “Maybe I will.”

Caleb’s still rubbing his back - he stops, briefly, and from his huddled position Essek feels that Beauregard has jostled his other side on her way past. “His feet might be worse than yours,” she murmurs. He can hear the grin in her voice. “Better hope Jes doesn’t remember and go after you next.”

“Don’t remind her,” Caleb says, strangled. It’s remarkably friendly for Beauregard, though, and Essek is once again caught up in the paradox of this little group - merciless but fiercely protective, reluctant but trusting. It’s hard to be regretful - or wistful, maybe, one of those feelings that twinges in his chest every time he thinks of the Nein nowadays - with Jester tickling her way up the back of his bare calf and cooing over the way it makes him wriggle. But his heart, a traitor to the last, manages. There are so many secrets between them still.

Beauregard seizes his other ankle, hauling it up from the water, and he realizes for one terrible moment that if they were to, say, force him out of hiding and keep tickling, he might be inclined to spill some of them. “Scoot over, Jes,” Beauregard says, and there’s a squeak that, for once in the evening, doesn’t come from him. She chuckles. “Good thing he’s not trying to tickle you back, huh?”

He expects Jester to sputter and redirect her, as he would, but she sounds entirely unconcerned at the prospect. “Oh, Beau, do you want to have a tickle fight? We totally could, after this-”

“No,” she says, not entirely drowning out the little panicked noise that Caleb makes. “Not the kind of wrestling I want to do when half of us aren’t wearing shirts, if you know what I mean-”

“Beau!” Jester shrieks, giggling. Fjord groans loudly from the other side of the hot tub, and Essek, still squirming, is very sure that he’s blushing enough for it to show on the back of his neck, under his high collar. “Who do you want to wrestle with? Is it Yasha-”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, moving on.” Beauregard interrupts hastily. There’s a popping noise that takes a second for Essek to place as her cracking her knuckles. “Hey, Essek - you think you’d trade another favor to get us to stop?”

Essek flails for something resembling a complete sentence as Jester’s fingers curl teasingly behind one of his knees. “Nngh - heh-”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She squeezes the back of his other knee, barks out a laugh as he jumps. “Jes, stop messing around, let’s get his feet.”

That makes him kick, but at this point his entire lower half is restrained - all he can do is take one last breath before fingertips are scribbling over both his soles and he’s cackling so forcefully that his laughter peaks into agonized wheezing with each fresh gulp of air. “Hhh - ha - ahahaaaa, hA -”

Caleb shifts a little, bending until one of the strands that always hang stubbornly loose from where he ties his hair back brushes the tip of Essek’s burning ear. Essek shivers. “You can tell them to stop, you know,” he murmurs.

Essek’s almost entirely sure that he’s crying into Caleb’s shirt, tears leaking from squeezed-shut eyes as Beauregard and Jester torment his feet, but Caleb seems - fond, oddly - as he starts to rub his back again. “They’re not trying to be cruel - I believe they’re just excited that you’ve. Ah. Lowered yourself to our level, perhaps.”

And what level is that, Essek wants to ask, suddenly conjuring a mental image of Caleb in the same throes of helpless laughter. But he’s barely capable of that, as he’s currently dying, so he just tightens his grip on Caleb and shakes his head. He can barely even register Jester and Beauregard’s teasing anymore - he doesn’t think he can speak right now without embarrassing himself even more if he tried.

“Fuck, alright,” Fjord says abruptly from somewhere miles away, “I think he’s actually crying now, the Dynasty is going to have our heads if we break him.”

“He wouldn’t let them, he’s our friend,” Jester trills, but she does stop tickling, ghosting a hand up over his heaving shoulders to pat him gently on the head. “His ears are really purple though, like magenta purple, I think he’s blushing.”

For some reason - perhaps because he can finally think - it strikes him, fighting through the warm and pleasantly tingling haze of being touched and gentled back into himself, that as much as the casual label of friend pleases him he cannot afford this kind of vulnerability.

“Or suffocating,” Beauregard says a moment later, dropping his foot unceremoniously back into the water. “Thelyss? You alive in there?”

And, a beat later, when he doesn’t reply - “Are you just, like, smelling Caleb now?”

“Gross,” Veth squawks. “Get him off, get him off!”

Caleb smells quite pleasant, actually, but that’s not the point - his self-awareness is slowly trickling back in as he remembers who and where he is, and what he’s done to the Nein, and now they’ve broken him and he would rather die than look any of them in the eye for the next year.

Caleb pats his back. “Come on, friend, chin up.”

And he’s right, Essek can’t afford to cling to this veneer of comfort any longer - but to his immediate and eternal shame, he whines and nuzzles further into Caleb’s ribs. Just a moment to gather his wits, maybe, and he’ll be able to Misty Step to the front door and don his mantle-

“No? Alright, then - I’ll go to work too, if I have to.”

The hand on his back lifts away and walks itself on two prodding fingers neatly up under Essek’s arm, gently wriggling into the hollow until he can’t bear to keep his arms up any longer. “Nnn, hnn! - eheh, thahat’s - enough, please-”

It’s. It’s not, is the problem - he tries to stir up anger, distaste, but there’s only fear. He would deal with this indignity again, suffer it gladly, even, just to have them speak to him kindly. It’s new, and terrifying, and he needs to think it over alone with a generous glass of wine in his tower.

He shrinks back in on himself, still snickering at the tickling under his arms, and Caleb takes the opportunity to grab him neatly by the shoulders and sit him back up - Essek catches a glimpse of his blue eyes shining with rare merriment and promptly swivels to look away from all of them. No one stops him as he rolls his pant legs down and shoves his feet into his boots, heedless of the damp. He can feel their curious gazes prickle on the back of his neck - shifting into an unconscious competence that’s carried him through many anxieties before, he’s already floating off the ground before he can remind himself otherwise. “I’m going to go now,” he says, rushed, still too terrified to turn his head. “Thank you, I -”

“Essek, wait!” Jester says, confused, and Beau scoffs, and he’s not going to think about how he can recognize their voices without even seeing them, he’s not -

Yasha’s voice, at last, breaks through the hubbub, and it’s only in deference to their conversation before dinner that he pauses to listen.

“Hey,” she says, quiet and certain enough to shake him. “You said that you’re lonely, right?”

The noise fades away. He inches down to the ground with it. “Recently, yes,” he replies, just above a whisper, fighting to keep his voice steady with the enormity of this, this feeling -

“I didn’t say so before,” she continues, perfectly calm, “but it’s a little scary, right? To not be so lonely, anymore.”

Essek says nothing - he knows, without the mantle, that they can all see the slight tremble of his shoulders.

“Go away, then,” she says confidently, and then, hastily, “oh, no, that’s not right -”

“Yasha,” Jester squeaks, horrified, and Essek, to his own surprise, laughs. More of a chuckle, really, but. That’s a relief, after all this.

He can place her roughly in the rightmost corner of the hot tub, turns just enough to catch her heterochromatic gaze in his periphery. Her mouth drops slightly open before she gathers herself. “I just, I meant -” She inhales nervously. “I used to leave all the time, to go do - things - and come back when I was ready. You can do that too, if you want, we won’t mind, as long as you come back. And the tickling - we’re all ticklish, you don’t have to feel bad about it - ah, maybe someone else should say something.”

Caduceus pats her shoulder. “Nah, that was pretty good.”

Essek agrees, despite his better judgment. He rolls his shoulders, forcing them loose. “No, no, that’s - helpful,” he assures, and then, taking a deep breath and praying that his cheeks have cooled, he turns to look at them all. “I am to show you my abode tomorrow, yes?”

Caleb looks extraordinarily stressed. “Ah, you don’t have to, if you would rather-”

Beau punches him in the shoulder harshly enough to make him wince. “Yes.”

“Yes, and breakfast pastries!” Jester cheers, clapping her hands together - he’ll have to talk to his staff tonight.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he says, and spares only a brief smile before casting Misty Step to take him to the door and then again to the street.

He’s not quite ready to lose all his dignity, yet.

[imagine-always-and-forever]

Flutterings & Tequila - Part 13

A Klaus Mikaelson Imagine

Pairing: Niklaus Mikaelson x Reader

Summary: you’ve decided to go clubbing with your best friend the last summer before college starts to take your mind off of the Mikaelsons who have invaded your life this summer. Specifically, you’re trying to distract yourself from Niklaus Mikaelson and the flutterings he has caused you. Tequila is your friend tonight.

Part Summary: Clue hunting.

Warnings: typical stuff you’d see in the show

Word count: 3,115

Tags:  elle88531,  violentmommabear42, pisicakawritesshitatfour, a-quarter-horse-called-biscuit, hoeofnjadaka, thegingerthatwaited, despressolattes, aomi-nabi, pie46733, (let me know if you want to be tagged or I missed you out on the tag list!)

Authors note: so I’ve been saying I’d get back to this for ages. I know. But truthfully I hit such a brick wall that writer’s block as a concept had to add another tier to it’s existence just for me. Thankfully, for no clear reason whatsoever, it poofed away as some strong desire to write this again came to me after work. So... tada? Also I am sorry but so so many of you asked to be tagged (I’m very flattered!!!) that I think I’m missing a bunch of people. If I missed you send me a message and I’ll add you to the list. Enjoy 😊

Part 1  |   Part 2  | Part 3  | Part 4  | Part 5  |  Part 6  | Part 7  | Part 8  | Part 9  | Part 10  | Part 11 | Part 12

You’re trembling slightly as you walk down your stairs, breath coming out shakily as you try to calm yourself down. You had 24 hours to find out at least something about what the Mikaelsons were doing here. 24 hours and no clue where to start.

  Through the back window you could see Klaus and Elijah making their way out of the guest house. Their expressions were drawn and Klaus had a small black bag clutched in his hand. Your eyes darted to the door to the house. Were you that stupid?

The fact that your feet were already moving you forward gave you a clear yes, but at least you could report back to Josie that you did, despite her belief, have some sort of self-preservation. It was just a really fucked up kind.

  The door to the guest house opened with ease. Of course the Mikaelsons didn’t think to lock it. What was the point? Who would try to get in to their home without their permission and who would live to tell the tale?

  Well, hopefully you.

The painting supplies were still right where you left them. Your eyes swept across the room in front of you, cataloging what you saw. You’d helped Josie redecorate last summer, but it looked like the Mikaelsons took it upon themselves to do some of their own renovations. It was a little bit embarrassing how little of the place you’d payed attention to when you were here with Klaus.

 They’d rearranged half the furniture for gods sake and you hadn’t noticed at all. With a frown on your face, you examined the new layout of the room. You wondered what prompted the rearrangement. The couches being moved about made sense to give Klaus extra space for his easels. But what was the purpose of switching the office area with the dining room?

  The office, which you were truthfully rather proud of last summer, looked like Elijah’s doing. Two bookcases now sandwiched in the desk against what was supposed to be the accent wall of the room. Not a single bit of the pop of color on the wall was visible now. The imposing set up didn’t even look touched. You could feel your eyebrows tense as they tried to furrow further with your deepened confusion. Dust collected across the books on their shelves. You swiped a finger through it. Coated.

It surprised you that Elijah wasn’t as much of a neat freak about his environment as he was abou his appearance. Though, you suspected if he was he’d have spent most of his millennia+ on earth cleaning up after his siblings. You snorted to yourself. Didn’t he already do that?

A blank space on one of the shelves drew your eye. Amongst a sea of books and paperweights, a patch of dustless real estate on an otherwise packed bookcase stared back at you. If those Nancy Drew books you read as a child had taught you anything, that prominent rectangle of empty space meant that something had been moved. And recently.

That, you smiled to yourself, was a lead.

A scan of the desk and the rest of the shelves confirmed that whatever it was hadn’t simply been reorganized. You pulled open the drawers of the heavy oak desk. Pens, paperclips, highlighters, sticky notes, stapler, hole punch, scissors, and more pens. No. Notebooks, empty folders, the coffee maker’s instructional guide. No. Empty space with a single pen cap rolling around. No.

A dead end.

You got down on your knees. The floor was clean. Under the couches, too. The ottoman with the lift up storage option, empty. The side tables small draw with it’s tendency to stick (a single missing screw from Ikea can really screw your building abilities), empty. You moved to the TV console, frustration building.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

You checked the shelves. You were too short to reach the top ones but the Mikaelsons weren’t. You grabbed a chair and stepped up. It was in vain. Careful to put it back as you’d found it, you moved the chair in defeat. You checked the kitchen. Drawers and cupboard were empty. The fruit salad in the fridge seemed to judge you and you sighed. You didn’t expect it to be in the fridge but it was almost eight at night and you’d torn the downstairs of this house a part.

 The Mikaelsons could be back any minute and you’d found nothing. What if there was nothing? Had you wasted hours of your short time frame on trying to find something that didn’t exist?

It dawned on you that Klaus’s little black bag just might have –

A groan escaped your lips. What a colossal waste of time. Time that to you did not have to waste. You closed the fridge, head coming down to lean on the cool stainless steel door in defeat. Maybe there was a clue you could find back in the main house. Josie’s room might have something that you could give Jess.

With a deep breath, you straightened up. No point in giving up until Jess’s voice was ordering you to kill yourself. Josie would expect nothing less from you, and in truth, so do you.

As you walked through the house to the door you passed by one of the many shelves you checked and just like in one of those long rumored witch’s intuition stories, something pulled your eye to it once again. Something pulled your eye directly to an unassuming wooden framed photo that you didn’t register as new. So, something you’d had to have seen a million times by now, surely. But why then did it feel so very important to look at it?

You walked over, cautious of this intense urge in your blood. It was often hard to tell with magical urges if something was for good intent or bad.

  The photo was in black and white. A little girl sat on a dock, one tooth missing right in the front. A man in an ornate three piece suit that had to predate the Georgian era stood by her, looking out of place but pleased with himself. Beside him was a boy that looked around your age. He was scowling in the photo. In his had he held something tightly, as if he would die if it were ever lost to him. Your eyes scanned the photo back and forth, that feeling still present. What was it? What were you supposed to see?

  The background of the photo was just water. A lake most likely. There were no lakes here. Where were they? Who were they? You leaned in to get a closer look. The photo quality was bad and it wasn’t until you looked hard that you realized it wasn’t a photo at all. A painting. A small, incredibly detailed painting.

  Klaus?

But no. How? You knew this painting wasn’t unfamiliar to you. You also knew that some how you had never noticed it. How could you go so long seeing something so often, convinced it was just a photo of something unimportant?

Almost like magic. Why would anybody spell this little painting with an unnotable spell? More specifically, why did Josie (because it had to be her) cast this spell when you were the only other person than her to see it? You didn’t have guests usually. It was why you had been so surprised when she had announced the renovation of the guest house last summer.

  The moment the skin on your fingers touched the painting’s surface, a vision clear as an actual photo slammed into your mind’s eye. Blinded by the image, nothing existed but it and you were enraptured what you saw.

  It was the exact image that had been painted, but the details were sharp. You could see the threads of the man’s suit. The pours of the little girl. The splintered wood of the old dock. Everything of the moment preserved perfectly in a snapshot.

  There was no sound. You felt nothing from the scene. This was not a vision of the past that let you experience the moment with those in it. You could see the wind sweeping through the girl’s locks but you couldn’t feel a thing. This was the scene of the painter through the painter’s very eyes.

But who’s eyes? And who were these people?

You looked focused on their faces. The little girl’s slightly downturned nose and her rounded jaw clicked in your mind as your eyes rested on her’s. Josie. A young Josie. This made sense. This was a memory Josie had that she wanted to keep private. But why? And why keep the painting if she wanted it secret? The man beside her was probably her father, right? 

As your eyes shifted to his features and they sharpened into view for you, Josie’s body blurred away. No, you realized. That was not Josie’s father. Though you had never met the man or seen his photo before, you knew this was not him. Because this was Elijah Mikaelson.

  At least it made sense now how they knew Josie. Old friends indeed. But what on earth was Elijah doing standing on a dock on some lake with a Josie when she was a child and a boy? As your eyes darted to the boy, the change of the image didn’t surprise you. Josie and Elijah blurred and he came into focus.

  Despite not having known him for as long or studying his face too much, it was clear by his eyes that you were staring at a teenage Jess.

You gasped and were ripped from the image.

  Around you, the guest house came back into view. In your hands, clutched tightly, was the photo. Your heart rate was up and you didn’t know when you had started to breath so quickly or so hard. You blinked your dry eyes. Josie, Jess, and Elijah?

  The sound of wheels pulling up on the gravel drive had your head shooting up. They were back. You didn’t have time to get to the house and though beautiful, Josie’s flower filled garden didn’t actually give you much cover to hide. Without a second thought, you dashed up the stairs.

  The bathroom door was open and from downstairs, it was easy to see. Too obvious someone was here. The bedroom beside it was locked and you didn’t have time to find the spare key somewhere on top of the door. The closet next to it was too small with the vacuum in it. It wouldn’t do. You spun around, unsure how close the Mikaelsons were and if they were listening. 

The other bedrooms had their doors open. Shit. Too suspicious. One door, directly across from the stairs remained. Could you even make it before they opened the door?

You didn’t have a choice. The handle to the room jiggled and the door clicked open. You slipped inside and went to close it as gently as possible when the front door opened. You froze. The door was still a jar. They’d notice if for sure.

“Well that was fun,” Kol sighed and you heard him flop onto the couch.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be fun,” Rebekah huffed and her heels clicked on the floor as she made her way through the house.

  “Drink?” Elijah asked nobody in particular.

“I’m going to bed,” Rebekah said with a short tone and you almost squeaked in fear as you realized she was starting up the stairs.

  “Don’t be so dramatic, sister!” Kol called after her.

  “You’re a reckless idiot without a scrap of self-control,” she seethed back.

“It’s not like he actually liked you,” Kol scoffed.

Something expensive sounding shattered followed by Kol’s laugh.

  “May I remind you that this is not our home?” Elijah’s calm voice of reason came.

  You waited with baited breath for something to happen next. If Kol could get one more quip in to make Rebekah break something else you could use the distraction to close the door properly.  

“What happened?” Klaus said, evidently just entering the house.

  “I’m going to bed,” Rebekah stated and you closed your eyes as a curse tried to come out of your lips.

  “Sister,” Klaus stopped her and his voice was much closer now. He was on the stairs with her, you guessed. “You cannot get angry every time one of your many suitors gets eaten by our brother. You know how he is,” he explained in a hushed voice with a taunt.

Something smashed against the wall again.

“KOL,” Elijah reprimanded.

  A thud sounded against the wall and you reached for the door, ready to close it if another opportunity struck.

  “Enough property damage,” Klaus told his brother.

  “It was her fault anyway. You know it,” Kol argued.

“I was getting him to trust me,” Rebekah’s voice was further away. She must have joined her brothers down stairs again.

“And that involved opening your legs for him, did it?”

You knew it was coming so as Rebekah jumped to attack her brother, you ceased the moment to shut the door. The soft click would be lost to them as they tried to pull their sister and brother apart.

  The room you were in hadn’t been touched since the renovation. You walked over to the window to see if there was any feasible way down.

  “Deal with it,” Klaus’s voice came from just outside the door. 

You whipped around, eyes wide, as you realized they solved the little dispute far faster than you thought they would. You dropped to the ground as you heard Elijah reply to his brother. The door clicked open as you lifted the duvet and scooted yourself as quietly as possible under the bed.

  Luckily, Klaus’s instructions invoked a lot of opinions from his siblings. He stood in the doorway and barked out orders at them. Something else was thrown. As you spelled your breath silent, you spared a thought for all the things you’d have to replace by the time the Mikaelsons moved out.

Klaus shut the door with a harsh thud and switched on the light by the bed. You squeezed your eyes shut at the sheer bad luck you had that this of all the rooms was his.

  Klaus moved around the room, silent except for his steady breathing. Something was placed delicately on a surface in his room. Then, he moved to the window and you heard it slide open. He breathed deeply. The rustling sound of fabric peaked your interest. Something landed on the bed. The unmistakable sound of a zip had a flush come to your face. Oh no.

  Another thing was thrown on the bed. You imagined Klaus’s shirt and jeans piled on his sheets. This was bad. He was going to bed. You were going to be stuck down here for the night.

Klaus opened his door. Huh? And then he left. Wait what?

Cautiously, you lifted the duvet and peeked out. Nothing. You scooted to the other side of the double bed, wincing as the underneath spring of the bed caught your hair and it pulled. The other side confirmed that he had definitely left and shut the door behind him.

  Apparently the plus side of hiding under the bed of a paranoid hybrid with even his siblings at times out to get him was that he kept his room strictly closed off to everyone else.

  You scooted out from under the bed. The window, now open, was your best bet. Who was to say if the path to the door was empty or if you could open the front door without alerting anyone. A well timed cushioning spell would make the rose bush you’d land on hurt a little less. The thorns would still be a bitch though.

  A sudden realization hit you that you forgot the painting at some point in your scooting. You rushed back to the bed and had to scoot back under a bit to reach it. As your hand touched it, you were once again rushed into the snapshot of the scene.

This time you knew you weren’t the painter. You looked down to your right at the top of Josie’s head. To your left was Jess. This was Elijah’s view. Which meant, if you looked straight ahead you’d most likely see –

It wasn’t Klaus.

  You frowned. You were sure it would be Klaus. But you didn’t recognize the man painting on the tiny canvas in front of him with a concentrated look on his face. He had brown thinning hair and a sullen face with cupid bow lips and a nose people would pay good money for. He was an odd man that was handsome and not. You wondered who he was and tried to get the image to focus in further to find some distinguishing feature of some sort.

You were once again ripped back into reality as you registered the sound of footsteps outside the door. The window would have to wait and you dived back down and rolled under the bed, hitting you head as you did so. You bit your lip in pain as the door opened.

Klaus was back.

  You couldn’t say if he was gone long or not as you had no idea how much time you had been lost to that vision. It didn’t seem long, but then again they never did.

  Klaus sighed. The distinct sound of a towel rubbing against hair was the only sound in the room for a while as you put together that he just came from a shower. So, he was probably naked. You bit your lip for a different reason. You listened as Klaus toweled himself dry. He pulled a drawer open and assumingly put on some kind of clothing. You hopped it was at least a pair of underwear.

The bed dipped as Klaus sat. The lamp was clicked off. Shuffling from above. The bed dipped in different places as Klaus got comfortable. As luck was not your fan, he settled directly above you. You didn’t dare scoot one way or another. He’d surely hear it.

So you were spending the night here then. Great.

Klaus fidgeted above you again, having the gal to not find a comfortable position for the night. You stared at the springs and mattress centimeters from your face in annoyance. To be fair, this could have been the comfiest floor in the world and you still wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Not with Klaus above you and the rest of the Mikaelsons scattered about the house. No hope of escape until morning.

  A sharp inhale cut through your self pity. Another one. Was he…?

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW Flashback: Little Bird (Part Two)

Previous:  Teaser 1 / Teaser 2 / Presentable / The Lion’s Mane  / To Bid You All Welcome: Part One / Part 2 / Part 3 / A Single Bed, A Door With No Lock / Sword Of My Fathers / Little Bird Part One

TW for: knifeplay, torture, violence against a minor, drugging/poisoning, carved marks, target practice, gaslighting, dehumanizing language.

@faewhump @procrastinatingsab (sorry I forgot to tag you last time by the way!! I have an irredeemably bad memory. read part one first!)

----

Thorne, as far as Raven is concerned, has exactly two redeeming qualities: he is funny, and he is easy to find.

The sound of crashing equipment in the training room can only be the sound of an untrained dog; if any of the Falconers trained as loudly or clumsily as that, the others would fall upon them and eat them alive.

Raven gives herself five minutes before the fun starts to watch Thorne practicing his footwork, swearing at himself in a whisper every time the tip of his practice foil wavers, before she lets out any of the giggles building in her throat.

“I could fit a herd of ponies through the gaps in your stance, little wolf,” she says, when he’s spun wildly to face her laughter, dropping the foil with a clang. “Perhaps you should stick to making sparks in your fingers, or whatever else it is you do all day.”

Thorne flushes— again— and snaps to a clumsy attention. “R-Raven! I— that is— did you need the training room?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Wolfie,” Raven says, sighing dramatically as she picks her way over to the equipment cupboard. “I’ve been forbidden to teach you anything.” She looks at him out of the corner of your eyes. “He says I play too rough.” The cupboard is beside a waist-high shelf, and she hops up to sit on it, resting her chin on her hand and her hand on her knee. “He doesn’t think you’re strong enough.”

Thorne absorbs those words like a blow, hunching in on himself, and Raven can actually see his little fangs sink into his bottom lip. Then he takes in a deep breath like he needs to reinflate himself. “I am,” he says, trying for defiant and coming out desperate. “I— I am strong enough.” He balls up his hands into fists at the ends of his too-long arms, glaring down at the ground. “I know I can’t— I can’t lift heavy weapons and my footwork isn’t fast enough and I’m not picking up magic like Master thought I would, but— but I know I can do this if you teach me.” At the end there he looks up at her, gold eyes wide. 

Raven laughs once. “My knives are you last resort, eh? Here I was about to be flattered to be asked, but this just the last trick you haven’t tried, isn’t it?”

Thorne flushes and shakes his head quickly. “No, I— No! I actually really...” He looks away, red-faced. “I really... admire it,” he says, with quiet embarrassed sincerity. “I’d be really honored if you would teach me, L— Lady Raven.”

Raven watches him, holding back her smile, as he bows his head and waits for her answer. 

Perhaps the little wolf won’t be so bad to have around, after all.

“Oh, alright,” she says, hopping down from the shelf and pulling the equipment cupboard open. “Since you’ve begged so prettily.”

Thorne’s head darts up, his mouth open and his little fangs visible. “Really? You’ll teach me?”

“Spit spot, Wolfie, don’t make me change my mind,” she says, and he jumps to attention, like she knew he would. “Stand over there, won’t you,” she says, nodding to the far wall, “so we’ll know how far we are apart.”

Thorne scrambles to obey. Raven smiles broadly, rolling open the satin bag where she keeps her array of blades, from small and wicked to large and serrated. Raven hasn’t needed to train in years. Needless to say, she does not carry blunted blades.

“Now, little Wolf,” she says, flicking the tip of a blade unnecessarily with her finger, so he will know how sharp it is. “Watch my stance, won’t you?”

“Wh-what?” Thorne says; she gives him enough time for his yellow eyes to go very round. “W-wait. Wait, I—”

The knife buries itself in the knife beside Thorne’s head. There is an even three inches between Thorne’s cheek and where the handle juts from the wall, quivering.

Thorne turns his head to stare at it, wide-eyed. “R— Raven,” he says. “I— I don’t want—”

“Wolfie,” Raven says, and a second knife thunks into the softwood next to his moving arm. Then she relaxes out of her throwing posture and softens her voice, smiling at him. “Do you really think Morden would have me in his club if didn’t hit what I was aiming at?” He still looks poised to run, so she adds a sweet-voiced, “I won’t hurt you, little Wolf.”

Thorne looks at her with wide, guileless golden eyes, and stays where he is.

“Very good,” Raven says warmly. “This is your first lesson: choosing your materials.” She bends to pick up three small curved blades, shaped to sit comfortably between her fingers. “It depends on your mood, you see,” she says mildly, giving the tips each a little flick with her opposite finger. “Do I want time to play?” She flicks her wrist, and the blades thunk into a line directly above Thorne’s head, showering him in sawdust. “Or am I in a hurry?” The sixth blade is one of the large ones, like a miniature harpoon, and when Thorne sees it coming he makes a trapped-animal noise and drops to shield his face with his arms; the knife hits where the tip of his left pointed ear should have been, and Raven huffs.

“Honestly,” she says impatiently. “Jerk around like that and I really will hit you, Wolfie.”

Thorne straightens quickly, breathing hard but still embarrassed to have been caught flinching, and he still doesn’t run from her. Raven’s smile widens.

“Then, of course,” she says, her voice still light and casual, “there are blades for special occasions.”

Raven throws the seventh blade exactly like the sixth, straight-armed, shooting from the shoulder, and this time Thorne doesn’t move.

His scream when it sinks into his shoulder is fuller than she expects, not a tinny child-scream, and she immediately knows she needs to hear another.

“Like that one,” she says, watching Thorne fall to his knees, clutching his shoulder, his mouth open, not in anger but in surprised offended hurt.

“You— you hit me!” he says, clutching at the blade but making no attempt to pull it out. “You said— you said you wouldn’t—”

“Yes, Wolfie, sometimes grown-ups lie,” she says on her way over to him. “Let’s call that your real first lesson.”

It’s really in there quite deep. She plants her foot on his collarbone for enough leverage to pull it out, and he screams again, just like she hoped he would.

“If you were hoping for a bonding experience, it’s really going better than I thought it would, Wolfie,” she says, holding the blade up so the blood catches the torchlight. She’d been hoping it would be some funny color, since he isn’t human, but it’s only normal red. Now that she’s actually having fun, her voice grows warm for real. “You really scream very prettily.”

Thorne gasps, clutching at his shoulder, and scrambles to his feet; he stumbles into her to push her away and she lets him, surprised.

“You— you meant to do that,” he says, apparently realizing it in real time; Raven can’t help shaking her head and smiling at him. “I’m—” He backs toward the door. “I’ll— tell my master—”

When he turns away, she says, “I thought you said you were strong, little wolf,” and he grinds to a stop, staggering—and then he crumples to the floor with a surprised gasp.

“There it is,” Raven says. “Your faery blood must be good for something; I’ve never seen it take so long.”

“I’m,” she hears him say, his voice rising in panic, “I can’t— why can’t I—” She ignores him for long enough to pull each of her throwing knives out of the wall before she saunters over. He’s lying in an unnatural position, half on his side and half on his belly, like a doll dropped by a careless child. Raven nudges him in the side with the toe of her shoe. “You— what did you—”

“Well obviously I’ve given you poison,” she says impatiently. “Gods you’re stupid. It’s fucking exhausting.” Raven squats next to Thorne, balancing carefully on her heels, and turns his face toward her a bit, squeezing his pointed chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I hope Morden gets tired of you soon. I’m tired of having a wolf in our nest.”

To Raven’s genuine surprise, Thorne has exactly the strength left to dart his chin down and sink his sharpened teeth into her hand.

“Fuck!” She draws back. “Fucking horrible little beast—”

“Don’t call me that!” Thorne cries, tearfully, and Raven stops the hand she had been raising to strike him with.

“That’s right,” she said slowly, tipping her head to look with curiosity at his wet eyes and shame-reddened cheeks. “You don’t like that, do you?” she says thoughtfully. “You don’t want to be a wolf.” Then she laughs, delighted; it’s a brilliant little joke. “God, you wish he’d given you a bird name, don’t you? You want to be part of the team! You want to be a Falconer!” Raven leans down, resting her chin on her fist and meeting Thorne’s furious yellow eyes. “Well, you’re not a bird, are you, poor little thing? And you’re not a wolf, either. You’re not even a dog. You’re just a scared little boy with nowhere to go, and no one who misses him.” She shakes her head, though she can’t quite keep a straight face. “It’s very sad, really.” Then she sits up, excited. “Perhaps I should help you!” she says, and she grabs a fistful of Thorne’s silver hair to drop him more fully onto his stomach. “If you want so badly to be a bird, you need a set of wings!”

Thorne flails slightly— it’s more than he should be able to, but not nearly enough to worry about; Raven swings a leg over him and sits on his knees.

“No,” Thorne whispers, his voice muffled by the dirt floor of the training room. “N-n-n— you, you can’t—”

Raven taps the hilt of her knife thoughtfully against her chin. “Now, I should think. What haven’t we used? They all have different kinds of wings, you know.” Before she decides, Raven picks a different, larger blade, and splits the back seam of Thorne’s shirt easily down to the waist, pulling it open to expose his shoulder blades. She wouldn’t mind leaving it, but Morden really will be angry if she lets him get an infection from cloth in a wound, probably. Thorne makes a very satisfying sound in his throat when she pulls the fabric open, a high petrified whine in the back of his throat. “I know,” she says with immense satisfaction. “You’re a swallow, aren’t you? Let’s see.” She braces one hand against the back of his head, pressing the side of his face into the dust. “Here’s one wing—” She sinks just the tip of the tiny blade into the skin between his shoulder blades, and draws a great swooping curve over and down toward his waist. Thorne’s whine rises into a high keening cry and Raven feels a swell of genuine affection for him. “And here’s the other w—”

“RAVEN.”

The tip of Raven’s blade is halfway down Thorne’s shoulder blade when the wall of magic sends her flying sideways into the wall, and it tears a line out to his arm before it clatters to the floor.

Morden enters the room with wings of his own, hovering huge over his shoulders as twin clouds of foggy mist shot through with sparks. He drops immediately to his knees beside Thorne, gathering the boy’s limp body into his arms, taking care to avoid his bloody back and making soft soothing noises. When he’s gathered the boy carefully in, Thorne’s face hidden against his chest, he looks over at Raven over the top of Thorne’s head and gives her an annoyed pout. 

Raven is struggling back up to her feet against the wall, still; Morden’s magic really knocked the wind out of her, but she raises her head enough to drop him an exaggerated wink.

——

The crackle of magic at his back, searing against the cuts, then bandages. Grimly, “It will scar. Perhaps next time you will remember—”

“You really must—”

“—is very dangerous. Promise me you won’t antagonize—”

“—exactly did you expect? My Falconers are not a—”

Softening. A cold hand cupping his cheek.

“No, darling, of course I could never get tired of you.”

——

Raven is on stroke eighty-seven when she sees Morden appear over her reflection’s shoulder, her hair shining, and she doesn’t pause, smiling at herself in the mirror.

“And?” she says, a touch smug.

Morden narrows his eyes at her, then rolls his eyes and gestures dismissively with a gloved hand. “All right, all right,” he says. “It was a good idea.”

“Happy to be of service, boss,” Raven says, running the brush through her hair. Ninety-three, now. Almost done.

“Yes, yes, don’t be so insufferable,” Morden says ruefully, shaking his head. “And Raven?”

Raven sets the brush down, turns to look at him, meeting his black eyes.

“Next time, ask first,” Morden says.

[heavywingedcherubim]

Toviyah: Chapter 2

I hear the music of strange birds that sound familiar but carry the ephemeral quality of plucked strings. The more I listen to these birds, the clearer their sounds become and more unlike the pizzicato of stringed instruments, they carry more decay of a mellow bell being struck with a soft mallet. Musical sounds become strengthened with the accompanying shrill notes that portamento into fast trill; either ascending or descending. Never have I heard such things until now and I open my eyes to the surprise of being in someone's bed. All around me are the luxuries that a noble would enjoy, in the distance is an old phonograph player, a built in shelving unit with records; beside that are more shelves lined with books with strange symbols on the bindings; to my left, a desk by the wall covered in gear pieces and rods. Above me there is a lofty ceiling with a large scene of golden clouds and strange winged creatures that move on occasion. Whoever owns this mansion must be an eccentric because in the corner of the room is also a funky sculpture of one of these strange creatures. Good thing that hasn't moved yet.

I now notice the lighting of the room flickers and is full of static; my eyes feel like they burn and my head feels wishy washy. Undoubtedly, I am in a different place, the energy here is different, whether or not if I am still on earth is unknown to me at this time. For now, I force myself to sit up while my body protests by creating aches that radiate from all of the joints and striking the nerve endings. My forehead is hot, I must have a fever. Why else would my body ache like this? There is a strange smell in the room the comes and goes, something like a flower in full bloom, but it travels. Am I still dreaming?

“Is there a bathroom?” I say as I force myself out of the lush bed. The covers are soft, the pillows feel like pieces of heaven were stuffed within each of them. I let my legs drop over the side of the bed and I notice that my feet are not the same, that I also notice that my legs were bent in a strange way. They are furry and my toes have claws at the end, like broad and pointed in shape—not completely like the spade of a shovel. The fur my legs are covered in thick plush carpet of black fluff. So soft, like a chinchilla. I stand up and walk about the room to a door that I see near the desk. The color of it matches the cherry red of the walls and the frame around it is a mahogany color with a slight golden sheen. I slide the door open, pleased to see that there is a bathroom, a very immaculate bathroom . . .

I look into the mirror the first thing. My features are not clearly discernible but I do see the shapes behind the fogginess of the light around myself. The bathroom begins to embody that similar ethereal glow and I squint to sharpen the image of my face. I have small horns on my head and instead of human ears, I have the ears of a lop rabbit, my face though is very human looking, save for the teeth, which are pointed. My eyes come into focus and I see they are a golden color mixed with a sort of violet hue to comes in and out. My hair is short and messy, like how it is normally after waking up. I need to use the toilet. That's a must. I finish up. Wash my hands. While I look like a wild animal, I'm not uncouth.

“This is interesting.” I say as check the rest of myself out. My vision is clearing up, thank goodness. I see that I have a fluffy tail too. It looks like a very fluffy fox tail. What kind of amalgamation is this? “Where am I?”

“You are on Lundruh.” The flat tone voice speaks from outside the bathroom and when I turn around, I see a fair skinned man with intense indigo eyes, messy brown hair, and a perpetual frown of his eye brows. He is wearing a simple white uniform with blue trimming around the cuffs, the collar, and the button holes going straight down the front.

“You speak English?”

“Of course I do, I needed to be able to communicate with you since you have no base understanding of our spoken languages.”

“How did I get here?” I ask the man and he does not respond right away. “What do I call you?”

“Adam. My uncle brought you here. That body is the result of your genetics adapting to the conditions of our planet. An interesting phenomena that we do not fully understand.”

“So . . . are you saying that my genetics altered based on my previous experiences and the demands of this planet's physics?”

Adam nods. “I was told you were highly intelligent. I was being vague, but it seems you are already beginning to makes sense of things.”

“Why bring me here?”

Adam does not answer. Rather, he shrugs his shoulders and walks away. I follow him, he does not turn around to meet me face to face, and he just lets me follow him out into the hallway, which by gosh, is mighty fine! I'm so enamored by the luxurious and yet intelligent use of space, the ceilings are arched and there is light reflecting off the soft golden color to light up the halls. The air feels just right. The carpet is soft and Adam doesn't seem to mind having me walk around bare hoofed? Bare pawed? I'm just amazed that my feet are permitted to tread upon these floors. Along the walls are paintings, separated by an occasional bust or sculpture of some sort. These paintings look to be done by the same artist that painted the ceiling in the room I woke up in.

“Who painted these?”

“My uncle.”

“Wow, he's really talented.” I comment, hoping he would provide more of a conversation.

“I suppose,” is all that Adam says and for a while longer he quality walks down the hall, rounding a corner and with me following him, “he has to keep busy somehow. Living several generations at a time can be difficult if you don't have enough to do.”

“How old is he?”

“I cannot say. I do not even know,” Adam looks over at a cleaner who is busying herself with dusting off a tall sculpture of a faceless creature with shredded wings. She looks up at us and nods. “I see you are hard at work, Miss Agatha.”

“You know the master of the manor likes it when we work.”

Adam nods. “Perhaps I should suggest allowing the workers a break from menial tasks to spend time with their families.”

Agatha smiles broadly, her brown eyes glisten and she pinches his cheek. “You are so thoughtful, Adam.”

“Miss Agatha, how many times do I need to remind you that I do not like having my cheeks pinched?”

She laughs at him. “Who is this fellow?”

“Toviyah, our special guest. I'm escorting him to the library to meet with Urbanus.”

Agatha smiles wolfishly at me. “Enjoy your stay.”

We walk away and I look back at her, she waves at me with her fingers and immediately look back ahead. When we enter a large forier, Adam whispers to me. “She's been recently widowed, and ever since that point onward, she has her sights set on any man that fits her standards.”

“What standards?”

“Attractive, slightly babyfaced, and well endowed.”

I look down at myself. “Oh shit, I don't have any pants on.”

Adam clears his throat. “That's fine, we're getting pants tailored for you to wear. Your animal like characteristics make up for the lack of clothing. Though, you could have worn that breech cloth I had set on the chair beside the bed.”

“Oh, I didn't see that,” I admit that I didn't see it, I was busy taking in the sights around me and waiting for my eyes to adjust, “my eyes have taken a little while to adjust to this light.”

Adam doesn't answer and he continues walking. We arrive at a set of doors, formidable in size with two statues of a headless winged creature on either side, Adam pushes the doors open. “I brought our guest, as you requested.”

The library is so—huge and amazing as it spans a good couple of stories in height with books along the walls. There are rows of book shelves at the center, the second level goes around the perimeter, supported by large columns that curve upward to cathedral style ceilings. I gape at the entirety of it all.

“Toviyah, do you like to read?”

I just now realize that the man sitting at the large executive desk was trying to get my attention. His image is just as haunting as those creatures; alabaster skin, silvery-white hair that drapes well below his shoulders, and the same intense eyes that Adam has, only he also has pointed ears. He smiles at me and I feel my heart pound in my chest. “Sorry, I was impressed by the size of this library.”

“I've been here since this manor was built. The building itself is a little over five-hundred years old. It took a while to fill this entire library with books.”

I nod. Urbanus stands up from the desk, he is dressed in a renaissance styled tunic with the strings in front, a deep v-neck baring his chest devoid of hair. He stands at about six feet and seven inches by the looks of it. Even Adam stands a little taller than myself. The question on my mind regarding the entire situation is something Adam would not answer. I look directly at Urbanus. “Why am I here?”

Urbanus walks to the front of the desk and sits upon it, with his hands in front of himself; fingers laced and resting upon his lap, he continues to grin at me. I feel his presence like a heavy weight and the air around him is charged with some sort of electrical current and I feel the hairs stand up on my body. “Do you recognize the energy?”

I reflect upon my dream. “The tree had that sort of energy.”

“My father has anchored some of his light into that tree, and the fact that you found it has earned you my attention,” Urbanus speaks with the booming voice of a mighty deity, though soft, it sounds like it could bring down the entire manor, “I am his son, I brought you here to help us. The planet's Ambassador and Galactic Judge is on a decline with poor health, my father requires a powerful conduit to channel his wisdom.”

“So . . . that astral realm I went into isn't normally accessible and the tree came to life only because I entered the caves?”

“Yes,” Urbanus says in agreement, “he needed someone with angelic DNA, I cannot do it as I'm currently serving time for giving into temptations. Anyway, our current ambassador and judge, Seth Grainger will be working with you soon. He's currently held up at Eloria for judiciary duties. He is projected to be back some time next week.”

I nod again. “So . . . shall I go put on pants then? I feel weird for standing here naked and such.”

Urbanus nods. “I may ask you to model for figure drawing, would you be opposed to that?”

“Hmm,” I begin to say and I see the look on his face harden slightly, “sure.”

“Excellent, it's not everyday that you see a creature such as yourself. Off you go,” Urbanus stands up and waves me off, “I have work to do.”

Adam leads me out of the library and we stand in the hall. He closes the library doors. “You could have declined, you do not need to let him have his way, Mr. Toviyah.”

“Eh . . . he had that look on his face.”

Adam's face remains unchanged, he only blinks at me. “Or you could be more assertive. You are the guest and he needs to know there are boundaries.”

I feel more hurt from what Adam is saying to me than having a man press me to volunteer body for the sake of art. I have a feeling that adjusting to the ways of things here would take some time and I hope there wouldn't been anymore awkward moments like that in the future, but my intuition is telling me otherwise. Well, I just have handle things as the come. I run from Adam back to my room. Doing all that I can to avoid any more prying eyes. I couldn't be quiet if I wanted to, my heavy hoofs pound the floor with every step and I avoid all floors that lack carpeting, I wouldn't want to do a split while turning a corner or leave unsightly scratch marks.

By the time I make it back to my room, I am in a hurry to throw on the breech cloth and once I had it tied, it did little to provide me with any comfort. I still feel just as naked as I started out, but at least the cloth would hide my gift from anyone eyeballing me. Just as long as that cleaner keeps her hands to herself, things should be okay. I'll just avoid her, and now I am worried that Urbanus would make advances on me. He seems like a playboy, with the way he sat upon the desk, looking down at me with hungry eyes. The thought of it sends shivers up my spine and I shake my head to rid myself of the thoughts.

“I should start a journal. This would be a story worth telling if I ever make it back to earth.”

[pinknerdpanda]

Bad Blood - Part 4

Characters: Reader,Benny, Dean, Sam

Series Summary: You stop at a small cafe in Louisiana on your way home from hunting with the Winchesters. There is something about the man behind the counter that makes you hungry for more than just the pie.

Warnings for this chapter: A smidge angsty, with like possibly something almost, but not quite, entirely unlike smut.

Word Count: 2,102

A/N: This is Part 4. Thank you to Lee aka @wheresthekillswitch for being my amazing beta - love you!! :) Your feedback is so appreciated!

Behind? You can catch up here:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tags are below the cut - please send me an ask if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list! :)

Bad Blood

Part 4

Highway 61 between Carencro LA and Baton Rouge LA

“Excuse me? Who died and made you boss, Dean? I am fully capable of driving myself.” You take a few steps toward Dean and the floor starts to tilt beneath you as your head begins to swim again. You fall forward and Dean reaches out to catch you, grabbing your waist. The feel of his hands on you sends a shockwave throughout your body and you look up at him. His face is a mask of indifference, but you can’t help but notice the way his pupils are threatening to overtake the green of his eyes and how his nostrils flare. He releases you quickly, taking a step backward.

“I think you just answered your own question. But for the record I think you’ve more than proven that you’re not exactly the poster child for sound judgement, so for the rest of this hunt, I will be calling the shots. You gotta problem with that? Tough shit.”  Dean turns on his heel and storms outside.

“I’ll be in the car, please try to hurry.” Sam looks between you and the vampire, before following his brother out the door.

“Well, cher. Looks like things just got interesting.”

-----

You would never admit it to Dean, but you are grateful the bastard made Sam drive your car back to Baton Rouge. You sure as hell have no desire to be in the car with him after his hyper-macho shit show at the cafe. Between the dark, sparse rural highway and the rumble of the car, exhaustion gets the better of you quickly, lulling you into a restless sleep.

Distantly the muffled sound of a phone ringing rouses you from your slumber. You curse silently, refusing to open your eyes, hoping you will be able to slip back out of consciousness soon.

“Yeah Dean, I know.” Sam’s deep voice is low, trying not to disturb you. The younger Winchester had always seemed to be more considerate than his brother. “Y/n? She fell asleep before we even hit the city limits sign.”

The sound of your name peaks your interest, and you crack your eyes open the tiniest bit and listen carefully, making sure not to draw attention to yourself.

“You know Dean, I really think you need to talk to her.” He paused, and you hear a faint muffled voice coming through the small speaker of his cell. “No, man. You need to tell her how you...” Sam’s words are cut off by more muffled mumbles. He slams down his phone, scrubbing his palm down his face and sighing.

You clench your eyes shut again and attempt to fall back to sleep. Your thoughts drift back to Dean and the way your body responded to his touch when he’d caught you. Even now, nowhere near the man, a pulse of heat flares in your core as his face flashes through your mind. He’d never had an effect like this on you before. Maybe you really are concussed.

You feel the car turning and you blink your eyes open as the car comes to a stop, stretching your sore limbs.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Sam’s voice is warm and edged with concern.

“I’m ok. Where are we?” You sit up straighter in your seat glancing out the window.

“Gas station about 30 minutes outside of Baton Rouge. Thought it would be a good time to regroup. Dean says they have a plan.”

Sam pumps the gas while you go inside, grabbing 2 bottles of water and a package of Twizzlers before stepping up to the counter to pay for your snacks and the gas. Tucking the change into the pocket of your jeans and grabbing your purchase, you turn around to walk out but a large wall of muscle and plaid blocks your path. The anger in Dean’s eyes has dulled a little and they search your face. You smile weakly, not trusting yourself to speak, and step around him, heading for the car.

Sam is perched on the trunk of your car and his head snaps up as you approach and toss him one of the bottles of water. He catches it easily with one hand, nodding appreciatively. You rip open the candy, offering some to Sam. You are just ripping off a piece of the sugary red rope with your teeth when you feel a presence at your back and you know without looking that it’s Benny, his now familiar scent filling your nose.

“How was your trip, darlin’?” The sound of his voice sends sparks through your body as you turn to face him. His hand brushes hesitantly across your lower back before dropping to his side.

“Fine. I slept the whole time.”

“Alright people.” Dean’s voice is firm and controlled, all traces of emotion he displayed earlier seemingly gone. “So this is how this is going to play out.”

You, Sam and Benny all turn your attention as Dean quickly lays out his plan.

“Everyone clear? Benny you drop y/n off at the hotel before you go to find the daddy Cullen. Sammy and I will head to the sheriff’s station to check in and we will meet up with you when we are done.”

“So wait, I am just sidelined?” Irritation sharpens your tone and you jab a fist into your hip, looking up at Dean.

“For the moment, yes. You are injured and probably have a concussion. We don’t need you getting in the way.” Dean meets your gaze, not flinching as your eyes burn with anger.

“Listen Winchester, I am getting tired of you ordering me around.”

“Cher, he’s right.” You turn slowly toward the sound of Benny’s voice, your mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ shape as you stare at him in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

“Not that you’ll be in the way, but you are hurt. I’d rather not have nothin’ happen to you.” His brows furrow in concern as the corner of his mouth inches upwards. His hand tenses slightly, as if he wants to reach out and touch you, but stretches his fingers instead before crossing his muscular forearms across his broad chest.

“Well, while I appreciate your concern, I have no intention of sitting on my ass while you three do all the work. What if I go with Benny?”

“I bet you would like that wouldn’t you.” Dean huffs, rolling his eyes. You choose to ignore his childish behavior this time. You don’t feel like going for round two right now.

“I mean, what if I go with Benny, act as his blood slave or something as part of the decoy. Or maybe I can be a hostage. Might make it easier to get in to see the head honcho.”

“Yeah, and then what happens if they decide to kill you, you being one of the hunters that took out a chunk of their nest.” Sam’s tone is reasonable, though it is obvious he’s not thrilled with the idea.

Dean’s eyes bore into yours, his expression unreadable, the muscles in his jaw twitching.

“Benny will be there. And I am still capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much. Concussed or otherwise.”

“She does have a point, chief. ‘Sides, I won’t let anything happen to her.” Benny’s words are directed at Dean, but his gaze is fixed on you.

Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Fine, but she better come back in one piece, you understand me, Benny?” The two men share a look before Benny nods curtly and Dean turns to walk towards the Impala.

“I still don’t think you should be driving, y/n. Be careful. Please don’t do anything stupid?” Sam’s words are gentle, his dimples peaking out as the corners of his lips lift slightly and he wraps his arms around you. You breathe deeply and hug him back, appreciating the warm gesture and then stepping back. He tosses the keys to Benny, giving him a pointed look, but says nothing before sliding into the passenger seat of the shiny black car and slamming the door behind him.

Benny cocks an eyebrow at you, his blue eyes glittering under the lights overhead, before slipping into the car and starting the engine.

-----

“Benny? What brings you here? I thought you were mainstreaming these days?” Dark eyes roam hungrily over your body, making Benny’s grip on your shoulder tighten and he pulls you back, growling possessively.

“Don’t even think about it. She’s mine. Where’s the big man?”

The vampire turns, leading you through a dimly lit maze of hallways. Benny drags you roughly along, his hand now wrapped around your left wrist, both of you knowing you have to sell it. A large wooden door is at the end of the hallway, and Benny shoves the vamp aside before plowing through unannounced.

A small, dark haired man is seated behind a large desk, the polished wood a stark contrast to the rest of the room. Candlelight dances across the peeling wallpaper that covers the wall in large patches. A bare mattress sits on the floor to your right, trash and debris scattered around it. Dark reddish brown patches dot the ground and a sickening realization makes your stomach churn.

The man’s head snaps up, eyes darting between you and Benny.

“Well, well, well! What do we have here?” His voice is higher than you imagined and has a sing-song quality about it that annoys you immediately.

“Well, Charles I thought long and hard ‘bout what you said and I thought what the hell? Found this one lurking about, so I thought I would bring her along.” Benny thrusts you forward, his grip never loosening on your wrist, and your shoulder pops loudly, making you wince in pain.

Charles stands, stepping around the desk, his fingers prodding at the open wound on your neck, making you cry out. Benny jerks your arm back, placing himself between you and the other vampire. Charles’ tongue darts out, lapping the blood from his fingers and humming lightly.

“Sorry chief, but she’s mine.” Benny’s chest swells and he looks down at the smaller man, daring him to test his luck.

“I see why you would want to keep that one all to yourself. She is delicious.” Charles leans back against the front of the desk, crossing his arms across his polo clad chest. “But you see, your little bitch here wiped out half of my nest along with a couple of other hunters. You understand my predicament, don’t you Benjamin?”

Benny’s voice is rough, his teeth clenched as he leans down into the vamp’s face. “I said. She’s. Mine.”

Charles tips his head from side to side in thought, lips pursed, before putting his hands up, palms out.

“Ok, fine. So What? You have decided to join our ranks here? Decided mainstreaming isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be?” His tone is patronizing, his face drawn up in mock concern.

“Somethin’ like that.” You feel Benny relax slightly, his voice returning to it’s usual warm, charming drawl.

“Prove it.” Charles says flatly.

“‘’Scuse me?”

“I said, ‘prove it.’ Show me you mean what you say.”

“And just how do you propose I go about that?” Benny’s voice is tight. A flicker of movement from the back of the room catches your attention and you glance up as four dark figures emerge. You have no idea where the other vampires have been hiding, but dread quickly floods through your veins as you realize you are now very outnumbered.

Charles gestures toward you before waving his fingers vaguely in the direction of the stained mattress. “Prove it.”

Benny drags you the short distance to the mattress, throwing you down on top of it. His face is hard, but his eyes are sad, almost apologetic. He kneels down on the mattress, jerking your arm to pull you to a sitting position, your back pressed up against his firm chest. His fingers fist in your hair as he yanks your head to one side and lowers his nose to the curve of your neck and inhales. You feel him grow hard against your lower back as your scent fills his nostrils. Despite the circumstances, you imagine memories of your encounter earlier this evening are flooding his brain as much as they are yours.

A groan escapes his lips as his mouth hovers over your pulse, his breath warm against your skin.

“Stop.” Charles’ high pitched voice pierces the silence and Benny stills, lips still ghosting over your neck. “Not there.”

Benny’s gaze snaps up, tilting his head in confusion.

“The femoral artery, please.” Charles smiles sweetly and your fear and lust fogged brain struggles to make sense of what he is saying.

You feel Benny’s cock twitch against your back, as his grip in your hair tightens painfully. His breath comes out in a rush and he releases his hold on you before shoving you down onto the mattress, and savagely yanking your pants down your legs before you can stop him. He forces your knees apart before settling between your thighs.

His eyes meet yours briefly, shame and guilt twisting his handsome features, before he dips his head between your legs. This whole situation should be terrifying, but all you can think about is the delicious burn of his beard against the inside of your thighs, and the way his warm tongue dances across your skin. Every nerve in your body is alive and you fight the urge to claw at his head, wanting him to press his talented lips against your now soaking core.

Every thought of pleasure is ripped from your mind as his razor sharp teeth clamp down on your thigh, and you cry out his name for the third time that night; this time for a very different reason.

Read Part 5 Here

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[mysticsparklewings]

Crayola Artist Colored Pencils Test

Disclaimer: I would not have purchased these pencils even out of curiosity had they not been on clearance for around $9 at my local Michaels. Even before I bought them I was convinced they were not worth the $20-$30 retail price tag, based on other reviews I had already seen. I've had this set of the Crayola Signature Blend & Shade/Artist colored pencils for a couple of weeks now, and I put off addressing them in favor of some other art supplies I'd been salivating to get my hands on. But now that I've taken care of those, I finally sat down and decided to see what these were like for myself. I went in with very low expectations. First, let's talk about the name and a little background on the pencils themselves. For starters, there are at least two if not three kinds of "premium" colored pencils currently listed on Crayola's website, the Blend & Shade pencils (24 count, retail $20), the Artist pencils (24 count, retail $20), and the Color Escapes (72 count, retail $25). Based on the name on the packaging, I have the "Blend & Shade" pencils, but a quick look at the details of the packaging and on the website, you cannot convince me that the Blend & Shade and the Artist pencils aren't the bloody exact same pencils, just with a different name and in different tins. The Color Escapes might not be the same as them, if only because their barrels appear to be hexagonal (hexagon shaped/six-sided), and the other two are circular/round. But based on the specifications, it wouldn't surprise me to learn that they're otherwise identical. The other thing I want to point out are two very specific claims for these pencils; Crayola claims that they have soft, gel-based cores. The soft claim isn't very special, as most any colored pencil trying to lay stake in the same market as Prismacolor will say that, whether it's actually true or not. (For the record, I didn't find them that soft, but we'll get to that later.) The gel-based cores, on the other hand, are what initially caught my attention the first time I encountered these pencils. If you Google "gel core pencils" or some variation, you'll find listings for these pencils, and articles comparing colored pencils and gel pens, and not much else. Usually, colored pencils are either wax (Prismacolor, classic Crayola, etc.) or oil (Faber Castell Polychromos, Schpirerr Farben, etc.) based, so these are an interesting case, and I think this is a lot more important than most people that have taken a look at these realize. The first 1-2 layers, which for me was a white base to neutralize the tan paper, and the base for the lighter areas of color, went down feeling okay, but they looked pretty scratchy. Once I got to about the third layer though, things started to smooth out. After that, they layered and blended much better than I expected. Not perfectly, but well enough I would dare to call both good. The pigmentation was...interesting. The colors are bright, but they just don't get very dark or rich, including the black, which looks more like a very very dark gray and not a true black. So they took a bit of extra force to get the payoff I wanted, but they were by no means a total nightmare to get color out of. The thing is, I think the wonky pigmentation lends itself to blending and layering with these. Although I will say I was impressed with how easily the other colors "read" when layered over black. Usually, once you put a heavy layer of black down, you can't do much else with it. But here, you could sort of see the color "bleeding" over it, and that was actually pretty useful to me. The only truly bothersome issue I had was that I had the black pencil tip break three times back to back while trying to sharpen it (and eventually had to resort to using the fat side of an eyeliner sharpener to get it to actually sharpen and stay that way), and the purple/violet broke once. I think the pencils sharpen much quicker and much more sensitively than the average pencil user would be used to since when you're coloring with them the cores seem pretty sturdy and didn't give me any breaking issues there. If anything, the cores seem much harder than one would expect a "soft, gel" core to be. (And I am 100% sure it wasn't my normal sharpener that was the problem because it sharpens all my other pencils [including my softcore Prismacolors] just fine and has a high quality, sharp blade.) I have a theory on how a lot of what I observed might relate to the gel cores, but I'll be putting it in small text so that if you're really not interested you can just skip down to my final verdict. And just one other disclaimer here that I'm not an art-scientist of any kind so this is all nothing more than speculation based on prior knowledge: So, I don't know about you guys, but the idea of "gel" cores draws me almost immediately to gel pens. You'll notice if you look at the barrel of a gel pen that you can usually see the ink and a clear liquid pocket seeming to sit on top of it, but if you tilt the pen that stuff doesn't usually visibly move at all, leading me to believe if probably adjusted it could be used as a solid not unlikely these pencils. Now, the reason that wax and oil based pencils still have similar behaviors is that by virtue of being pencils they both still have a lot of similar fillers and additives that make up a pencil-core formula. (Hence why oil-based pencils do not feel oily to the touch, etc.) My theory is that the gel in the cores behaves/is treated largely the same way. And this makes sense considering that in my experience with oil-based pencils, even the expensive Faber-Castell Polychromos, their pigmentation just can't seem to go quite as dark as something like the wax-based Prismacolors (specifically when looking at the black, though other colors can portray this too), and as I've already mentioned the gel cores didn't impress me with their pigmentation, either. But they did layer fairly well after giving them a base to work on, dare I say feeling somewhat like oil-based pencils would after that. Also, my theory for the sharpening issues is where things really get iffy on how accurate my ideas might be. If the gel cores contain that same unknown clear substance as part of their chemical make up, I'm left to wonder if it might be in the same family as liquid silicone or glycerin (since glycerin is often used by colorists to get more mileage out of gel pens in various ways) and thus can form "cells" in the gel, which could cause it to have natural cleavage like certain gemstones. (Cleavage in this case being points where it naturally breaks very easily). If all that is correct, and the cleavage points are in the right place, the sharpener blade could be naturally hitting them as it or the pencil is turned and causing the breaking issues. And if I am completely wrong, then I haven't the foggiest idea what's going on. Anyway. Ultimately, I do think these are at least a slight step up from the classic Crayola colored pencils, but for 24 pencils at $17.99 on Crayola's website...I'm sorry, but I can't in good conscience recommend these when the 24 set of Prismacolor pencils is currently $16.42 on Amazon, and the quality of those overall is much better. (At least if you ask me). At the very least, I'd say get the Crayola off of Amazon, as they're only $12.39 under the "Blend & Shade" name there. But even so...the June Gold mechanical pencils that I've tested before are also currently $9.97 for a set of 36... Look, Crayola, I'm sorry, and I really wanted to like these as much as I liked the Blending Markers, but from where I'm standing it looks like the gel cores were an experiment, and it shows pretty badly. It was an interesting concept, but I think some perfecting needs to be done before I can really get behind these pencils. That said, based on what I'd seen other people saying, I was expecting garbage. They aren't garbage, but I would make at least two other recommendations before I came to these when it comes to pencils. Although I am curious about what other colors you get in the 50 set...but I really sincerely don't need any more colored pencils  (For now...) As for the piece itself, I got the funky shape from using a stencil to draw several overlapping squares and then erasing the inner lines, and then accented with gel pens as usual (and it didn't really look that special before I took the pens to it). Oh, and a side note: these are the pencils my white Gelly Roll had the least issues trying to go over, likely because of the gel cores, but I'm not certain. Hopefully, my next supply test/review will be more positive. (It really should be; I've got two kinds of watercolor supplies and some water-based markers and all these things have left pretty positive impressions on others already). ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble |   Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram