#i liked drawing the wings. feathers and flesh and teeth. one of those things you usually dont find on wings.

[bengallemon]

Angelfrin exists now.

This took me a hot sec to make because I needed to draw a pose. The wings are inspired by smt iv's merkabah because I have a love/hate relationship with that freak and also the smt iv angel designs are cool to look at

(Most content for this little au WILL be writing because hell am I drawing complex designs.)

[found-wings]

Thinking of how Phil wasn’t always the Angel of Death; how the title was bestowed on SMP Earth and persisted until now.

He loved Kristin beforehand, of course, loved and married her in his constant escapes from death’s gentle harbor. She found him surviving, stubbornly, in a world where death was permanent and took to him, an eagle to an aerie (/ref)- appeared to him, in various forms at different times and, once they became eachother’s forever more, she blessed him and his wings, black as nightfall and dotted with light just the same, to be her (one and only) most beloved seraph.

Then, on SMP Earth, all the power of the Antarctic Empire at Phil’s beck and call and free, at last, to fly again… it’s with Kristin’s touch at his back. He flew as he never had before, a comet in feather and flesh, and took viciously of the lives before him and basked in the vivacity of his connection to his goddess. It lingered like an addiction, an incentive to bare his teeth and draw his weapons, to fulfill this sudden purpose and newborn desire.

Now, on the QSMP, wings destroyed- his main connection to Kristin, gone- and experience having quieted his bloodlust, he finds himself taking solace in the violence. When he fights the monsters the Island throws at them, when he fights the codes- he lets that sensation rush over him, that belonging and bond to Death unbroken by the Federation.

When he spars with Etoiles? Well, he tries to keep it under wraps- he’s gotten good at that, with time- but every now and then he slips. He slips and a swing is too vindictive, and Etoiles sees the shadow of death behind Phil- the shadow of seraphic wings, poised to block out the very sun- and even when the moment passes, Etoiles finds naught but admiration all the more for his sparring partner.

They go another round.

~ 🐝

Finally responding to this properly and I‘m so RAAAAH I AM ON THE FLOOR

I am aggressively chewing the last sentence especially, it‘s so??? QKWKQNNW

" They go another round " hits so well with all of this and I‘m so not normal about it, PLEASE

I am so in love with how you describe things, from Phils time before the Antarctic Empire, wandering a lone world of where Death was meant to be the most terrifying thing for how permanent it was meant to be and yet it was the most fascinating & beautiful thing to Phil.

Death followed him everywhere he went, even while co-leading an entire Empire where his connection to Death was more out there than ever - especially when you have a best friend who is not scared of Death, instead willingly embracing the path just the same.

All the way up to ending up on an Island that finds ways to cut his connection, but not entirely. Never entirely, because when Death isn‘t following Phil, then Phil is following Death.

Those closest to him recognise when Phils swings aim to be deadly, though it was never aimed maliciously or serious at any islander - usually only for fun with the now lack of a limited life for him.

Yet with Etoiles, he slips.

He finds comfort in his sparring sessions with Etoiles, finding himself back to his Antarctic roots, so it’s almost natural when he lets Death guide him - and Etoiles lives for it, does nothing but admire it with the slightest of hopes of seeing Phil let entirely loose like that with him.

RAAAAH THEMM

[bardicfrustration]

Your Ink Is Mine

Summary: Eddie asks you to design his next tattoo.

Word Count: ~2k (1.9 but lemme have it yeah?)

He’s watching you again.

You can tell because the pencil scratches of him writing campaign notes have stopped longer than it usually takes him to think of his next step. 

You’re both in your room, just working on your own thing in the soft ambiance of whatever vinyl Eddie deemed worthy. 

You had set up some of your books and knick knacks as an impromptu still life. He said he wanted to flesh out the next few battles the club would be fighting. 

But at some point a while ago he stopped writing and you can feel his gaze burning into the back of your neck.

It’s fine. It’s not awkward at all for your best friend who you also have a secret crush on to watch you draw. The pressure is not at all suddenly overwhelming and you don’t smudge your line the wrong way and curse just a little too loud. 

Except you do, and Eddie asks so sweetly, “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” You sigh. “Drawing with ink is just a pain.” You try to blot out the ink with a paper towel you have for this reason, but it’s too late. It’s already ruined. You sigh and put your pen down.

You turn in your chair to look back at him. He’s sitting on the floor with his back against the end of your bed, papers and books spread around him in a messy semi circle. You admire how hard he works on the campaign. Just so that the club has fun.

“I wanted to ask you something, actually.” He says, picking at the rug under him.

He’s acting weirdly nervous. You almost get your hopes up. Maybe today will be the day he bursts out with his sudden declaration of love for you, so you don’t have to. You nod, cautiously pushing down the butterflies trying to flutter in your chest. 

“I, uh. Would you-” He clears his throat. “Could I commission you?” 

You’re taken slightly aback. “For what?” 

“A tattoo?”

A tattoo.

You’ve never drawn a tattoo. It wouldn’t be much different than the ink drawings you were just working on. Just a drawing in ink.

Just something permanent. On his body. Forever. 

You want to melt and laugh and cry. 

You can’t really look him in those dark chocolate eyes, so you stare at his hands. “Uh. Of what?” 

“Huh?” Eddie looks up.

“Like, what am I drawing?”

He holds up a finger while flipping through the composition notebook he keeps all his important notes in (one time you called it his journal and he got all defensive) before landing on a page. You recognize the page. 

“Something like this, if you can?” He stands up and holds out the pages to you, even though you remember the doodles like you drew them yesterday. 

Well, no. Not like that. You can’t remember what you drew yesterday unless you go back into your sketchbook. But you can remember these doodles like they were etched behind your eyelids. 

The two of you were sitting and passing notes in his journal (sorry, notebook) while whichever teacher you had was droning on. Eventually the notes turned into doodles you made of each other. Yours was a little cartoon of Eddie with bat wings and razor teeth. His was of you with an angel’s halo and a feathered wings. 

Of course, right now, Eddie wasn’t pointing to your old bat drawing. He was pointing to his drawing. Of you.

“Me?” You had to clarify that your eyes were seeing right.

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck and flicks his eyes around the room. Looking for something, maybe his marbles, you don’t know. “I just- I really liked yours. I think it’s cute. I wanted to do you justice before I make it permanent, you know?” 

You. He wanted to do you justice. Sometimes this guy drove you crazy. 

And sometimes you think he’s just too good to be true. 

You take a deep breath and nod as you reach out for the notebook. 

“You’ll do it?” He asks as if you aren’t already opening your sketchbook to sketch out ideas. 

“Yeah. Of course. Give me a few days?”

He nods eagerly. You copy down as much detail from the notebook drawing as you can before giving it back to him. The sun was setting and the room was bathed in blue shadows and orange highlights.

Both of you take a much needed break to eat dinner. You order a pizza and eat it off the counter while trying to out burp each other with sips of soda. No matter how much Eddie could rattle your brain with his pretty hands and prettier eyes, he was your best friend first.

When you show up to his trailer a few days later with his finished commission you feel like your soul is going to slither out of your skin.

He’s not going to like it.

You know that if he doesn’t like it he will tell you. He won’t lie. He certainly won’t spend the money to get a bad tattoo. He’s told you horror stories about some of the worst he’s seen.

He’s going to laugh at you and tell you it was all a joke and you fell for-

He opens the door looking like he just woke up, still in a pair of sleep pants and a cropped band shirt. He looks so comfy and enticing. Almost like your bed after a long day you just want to snuggle into him and never let go. 

He lets out a huge yawn and rubs at his eyes, “You’re here early for movie night.”

You open your mouth but nothing can come out. You hand him the paper, slightly bent on the edge where you put it in your sketchbook, but otherwise pristine. 

He takes it gingerly as if he’s reading from God’s own bible. 

“Do…do you like it?”

He looks up with wide eyes, shocked you could even ask, “I love it. It’s perfect.” 

He insists on bringing you along to get the tattoo.

“You could get one too.” He nudges you while you wander around the parlor and he’s sitting in the chair. 

“No, I'm a huge baby about needles.” You smile awkwardly.

“What? You were so brave in Bio when we had to dissect that frog!” 

“That was a dead frog, Eddie. Not a needle punching into my living skin.” You gesture the motion of the needle.

“See, that just makes it even more metal, sweetheart.” He’s smiling like an idiot and you wish you were worthy of it.

The tattoo is small, only a few inches tall on the side of his arm. You wince when he winces at the pain, but he tells you, “It’s just like a cat scratch,” as you hop back in his van and head home. 

You don’t tell him when you snatch the number for the tattoo parlor.

A week later and his tat mostly healed. The lines are crisp and he’s been habitually rubbing lotion and sunscreen on it. You know from experience he took care of his tattoos but it still felt… intimate knowing that was your art on his skin.

He shows it off to his club and proudly tells them how you designed it just for him. You tell him to knock it off while blushing.

He grins and wears short sleeves as often as he can. He says, “It’s a crime for the world to be forbidden a peek at real art.” You push him off the bed for that one.

Another week goes by. You have been giving extremely lame excuses for the week as to why you keep wearing sweaters at his trailer even though it’s been boiling hot.

When he offers per usual to use his trailer to watch a shitty movie and make popcorn on the weekend, you ask if you can watch it at your house instead. He agrees easily. You lead him up to your room under the guise of grabbing blankets and pillows for the couch.

“Hey, I got a surprise.” You tell him as soon as he walks through your bedroom door.

His eyes light up. “Is it a puppy? Is it dice? Is it a first edition copy of The Two Towers? Is it-” He’s inching closer to you with glee.

You interrupt him with a hush while you shed your jacket. He watches patiently. 

Instead of facing him head on, you line up yourself up next to him so your arm is touching his where his new tattoo rests. So that your matching tattoos are standing next to each other, just like the two of you are. 

He looks down confused until he sees your previously unmarked skin, now inked just like his. 

He looks up at you with glassy eyes. “You-?”

“I went back about a week ago. It was just a cat scratch, like you said.” You look down, embarrassed to keep looking him in the eye. He’s looking at you like you just told him what Christmas was for the first time.

You watch his feet step in front of yours. He uses a gentle touch to your chin to pick your head up. He looks so serious you’re almost afraid.

“You are.... the

best

person. I have ever known.” He looks down at your lips, leaning down but stopping a hair’s breadth away, giving you the choice. 

You take it.

You push your lips against his and hope all the love you’ve been holding inside gushes in. 

He breathes in while leaning into the kiss and letting his hand move to softly cup your jaw. His lips are plush and slightly chapped and perfect. He tilts his head just enough to kiss you deeper and your head wants to be anxious about if you’re kissing him well but it just feels too good to care. Your brain is turning into a puddle as his palm moves to hold the side of your face and his fingers graze your hairline.

Your hands raise cautiously but he quickly places one with his free hand onto his side. You’re pulling him impossibly closer by his vest while reaching up to his neck to dig your fingers in his hair.

He groans and you pull and he groans harder.

It should be impossible how soft his hair is when you know he uses a 3 in 1 shampoo. You still relish in his hair fitting between your fingers as you grasp and pull. He moans into your mouth and you can feel the vibrations in your teeth.

He pulls you in by the neck and you would let him carry your head away into the sunset to do whatever he pleased if you got to stay in this headspace forever.

Unfortunately you have to pull away to breathe. You’re panting against his lips and his eyes find yours glossy and searching. He smiles that breathtaking smile and you can’t help but smile back.

“Can I take you on a real date?” He whispers in fear of breaking the air around you.

“Yes please.” You pull him in for another kiss and forget about whatever movie you were planning to watch.

At the next club meeting, you show off your new tattoo. Some groan, some clap, but most importantly is Eddie, who makes sure to line up your tattoos together. Standing together just as you always have. Just as you always will.

[xompliment]

Again

maleficent x female fae!reader

warnings: *gentle* biting, marking, kissing, slightly suggestive so I’m calling the 18+ warning NO MINORS. *not smut*

notes: soft morning with a biting kink is a great way to begin the middle of the week

———

The softest breath left bright, blood red, lips as the young fae perched in maleficent’s lap writhed with need. it was more than a regular day, as it turned out to be.

It was warm, it was an ache of a muscle when stretching high in bed with the prettiest arch contrasting the surrounding fabric and nesting. Maleficent could already feel it, even her own body sensing the change in tempuratre and in the climbing tension.

Her hands were gentle over your body initially, merely caressing your bare skin as you woke under the sunlight, wings cradling the both of you protectively. With a twist of the hips and the coy smile on your face, you’d already turned your head to gaze back at her. You both kissed deeply for what seemed like centuries until burning green eyes overwhelmed you and you were seated, alert and no longer drowsy, in her lap.

You caught her bright gaze in full attention, never shying away from those brilliant green eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“What a sight you are,” her low drawl almost made your ears perk up, and without a doubt increased your heart rate.

Her hands soothed down your naked back, and the sheer heat radiating off of them made you shudder violently in her hold which earned a dark giggle from the fae holding you, her head swooped down and hid itself in your neck, her just holding you, broad wings coming to wrap the two of you into a tighter embrace. “How I’ve come to love having you in my arms. It’s your rightful place, surely.”

Everything she did spurred you on, the feeling of your half naked body pressed into her and feeling the warmth of her, the softness of her feathers against your back, her arms, her mouth so close to your neck, it left you wanting, and she hadn’t done a thing yet.

You were simply enamored by everything she is and were willing to receive anything she’d give.

You shuddered again and preened into her hearing a low grunt, her inhaling against your skin deeply and exhaling with a small groan.

“There’s just something so distinct about you, sweet thing,” she paused and came to inhale again in the same affair against the left of your neck. Every time you twitched or moved she pulled you closer to her body, you were practically flush and she left no room for escape. Not that you could anyways, the large expanse of her beautiful wings enveloping you close to her. “It makes it exceedingly challenging as to not simply,”

She paused, and her eyes locked lowly onto the soft flesh of your shoulder, face smoothing over the smooth skin briefly with another brief inhale, her mouth then opening and biting playfully onto you there. She wasn’t expecting much of a jolt from you, let alone a whimper and a violent shudder once more. Her teeth were sharper at the points of her canines but she’d never pry too deeply into your skin to hurt you, but left with enough pressure to push a pretty mark into your sensitive skin, to raise the skin a light red to match the sweet blush blooming to your beautiful, naked, chest.

She almost melted at the sound, eyes flickering just a touch before, flipping you instantly, your back falling into the miscellaneous nesting of feathers and bedding that were surprisingly soft upon your naked back.

“Though, if it earns reactions from you as such, I have no qualms with biting into you like prey.”

“Maleficent. . .” it was a soft plea, your face was burning red, the blush almost moving down to your chest, but indefinitely leaving a throb between your legs and only drawing you closer to the woman. You were in great need of her, the mere sound of her voice lighting your skin ablaze and the more she talked down to you the closer you wanted her.

She gave you what you wanted, closing in on you slowly, eyes molding over your topless form and that same smirk toying at her lips again as she looked at you.

“So needy on this fine morning,” she pulled you up into her just slightly, your head hanging from between your shoulders and baring soft flesh to the mouth meeting your throat with slow but heated kisses. “Should I not take my time with eating you alive?”

Her tone was low and demeaning before taking a soft nip to your throat, grunting at the soft yelp you let out before biting down just a touch harder once more, releasing you and lathing the slight mark with open mouthed kisses and tentative licks.

“Maleficent, please. . .” it was a breathless plea now, your hands holding tightly to her shoulders as you bared your neck to her mouth that didn’t seem to want to leave there, switching between nipping at you and kissing you. “I ache for you my love. . .”

“How I love you begging,” she paused, leaving one more painfully slow kiss to the base of your throat before meeting your eyes once more. “Again.”

[ragingbookdragon]

Of Nights So Hollow, Of Legends So Great

Night Culture AU!Batfamily One-Shot

Word Count: 1.8K Warnings: Angst, Uh..Scary? I guess?

Author's Note: This is based on the wonderful @bunnvoid Night Culture AU and I felt compelled to write this at midnight because I couldn't stop thinking about it. Bunn, I hope I did your ideas justice! Honestly, I keep going back and forth between the drawings to make sure! I had fun writing it! -Thorne

**********************************************************************

It was said that at the heart of every legend there was a grain of truth. Legends are just pieces of history fabricated beyond wildest belief, built upon by centuries of retelling, each story sewing a new thread into the tapestry from whence it came. But that’s all that legends are. Threads twined together, woven greater and farther than the original fable.

***

The old castle was a legend. Perhaps not the castle itself, but what supposedly resided inside. Supernatural creatures that skirted down cobblestone alleys and between taverns, seeking out fresh blood in the night. That was one form of the legend, if you believed it. The other form was that of creatures who skirted down cobblestone alleys and between taverns, seeking out evil and destroying it where it plagued innocence.

The chateau lied in the midst of the Devilwood Wilds, just outside the City of Old Gotham. Even during the days when the sun would peek through the gray clouds, it appeared gloomy, blackened stone walls, charred shingles and shutters. The giant Devilwood and Shadow trees prevented sight of the doors of the castle; only the top could be seen, to get the real view, one would’ve had to go into the forest. There was another legend: the horrors of the Wilds.

Whispers on the school-grounds told of a creature, big and terrifying that could be summoned with ritual stones and fresh bat blood; those that summon the beast are never seen again. The adults were less convinced of the idea, though they still forbid their children from reaching even the edges of the forested area. Whilst they believed those that went in were never heard from again, it wasn’t from a creature eating them, but a lack of guidance. Starvation. Wild animals. The freezing fog that made your breath turn to frost.

Timothy remembers hearing those whispers when he passed the old schoolhouse. His mother and father didn’t let him interact with the common children, instead his lessons were taught by private tutors from the wealthiest lands, paid for with the Drake treasure of gold and gemstones.

What more so Timothy remembered was the inhuman being that appeared in his father’s manor, striking down his mother with a slash of black magic, his father following. He remembers the way his father’s eyes rolled back in his skull, fear spreading through his body as he hid in the corner of the room, whimpering and crying. And he most certainly remembered the cold hand of the demon sliding between his shoulder blades before it dug into his skin, piercing his flesh, laughing as he cried out in pain as pricks spread out along his back and down his arms.

Warmth bled down his back as black feathers pushed from his skin and Timothy panted as his fingernails grew in length, sharpening as they darkened. He remembered scrambling to his feet, darting away from the creature as he ran. Forgetting the corpses of his family and staff around him, throwing the door open, bursting into the night, and sprinting down the street, leaving a trail of bloody, black feathers in the direction of the Devilwood Wilds.

***

The first night was the least remembered but the darkest. Violent and corrupting nightmares slithering inside his head as he tossed and turned along the frigid ground in a feverish deathlike state, the wings at his back only growing in size.

The second night was less nightmare-ridden, but much more painful. Timothy had pierced a wing on a stray Devilwood tree, the syrup like poison only infecting the wound. He was hungry and cold. Exhausted and scared. He tried to remember all the books he read as a child of the knights facing the elements for a week in order to ascend knighthood; he couldn’t seem to recall a thing.

The third night seemed to be his last. He lay huddled up against a raised Shadow tree root, the ebony wood providing stability for his wounded wing. Timothy sniffled, dragging his knees to his chest as he lay his chin on his arms, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach as it ate itself in hunger.

A tree branch creaked above him, and he craned his neck up, eyes widening when he saw the glowing eyes of the masked creature. The legends were right. The creature’s head twisted sideways, reminding Timothy of an owl, then the other way, like it was observing him. It made a noise and he scrambled to the floor of the forest, curling his injured wing above his head and over his body to protect himself.

THUNK!

Timothy whimpered, ready to be torn to shreds, but when no vicious claws or snapping teeth came at him, he carefully peered between his open wing. There lie a satchel, as long as his forearm and as wide as his middle was. He looked up towards the tree branch to where the creature had sat, but there was nothing there anymore; he glanced around, it wasn’t in sight.

He blinked and shuffled towards the satchel, untying the drawstrings with fumbling clawed hands. Inside lay a pair of thick wool socks, a small blanket, and another small bag. Timothy pulled it from the satchel and opened it; half a loaf of bread and a chunk of meat the size of his hand were stowed inside.

Timothy forewent the etiquette he was taught as a child, giving into his ravenous desire as he devoured the meat. It was tender and juicy, the glaze a mixture of honey and cinnamon.

A memory flowed to his mind, the dinner after the rising of the first star, his family and staff all surrounding the dining table, a divine feast laid before them. The smiling faces of his mother and father stilled his hunger and he placed the food back in the satchel, uncurling the wool blanket. Timothy lay underneath the raised Shadow tree roots, one wing curled around him, and he fell into a restless sleep with tears frozen on his cheeks.

***

When he awoke the next morning, his wing was no longer torn and infected. A new feather had appeared where the wound had been. Timothy wanted to learn to fly. He’d owned a bird once. A Ruby Firebird, with long, crimson-colored feathers and big ruby eyes. It had been his only real friend and he’d watched it a lot. It couldn’t be that hard.

He stretched his wings out, unable to fight the urge to touch them with a single black claw. It tingled. Timothy blinked and beat them, unsure. He beat them again, this time a little harder, keeping at it until with each beat he was able to blow the long grass flat against the ground. A giddy smile came across his lips when the tips of his toes grazed the ground.

What he had not counted on was how tired he was going to get after only a few brief minutes of trying. His wings felt sore. Timothy would try again tomorrow to rise above the tall grass.

***

The creature would appear at odd times during the night and Timothy had stopped feeling the cold fear in his gut when it did. It never came near him; it just watched with the cocked head, back and forth, then would drop the satchel again and disappear. Sometimes there were scribbles inside. He didn’t know what they meant; but he knew the language. Thaatisgani. An old language his writing teacher had shown him one day. A language long died out amongst the common and even the elite folk.

Timothy wanted to know what it meant. He wanted to know what the creature was. His determination drew him to the front of the castle during the night of the harshest season storm. Lighting crackled across the sky, the thunder rolled along the clouds and the rain came down in torrents. He was freezing and soaked to the bone and the weight of his wings had him crawling up the steps, collapsing at the door.

He weakly raised a clawed hand, one nail scratching the black glazed door and he descended into darkness.

***

His mother liked to wear scented oils. They smelled of Queen’s Briar and Golden Belladonna. Before he was older, she used to let Timothy sit beside her when she would apply them to her wrist and ears. She would smile at him and tell him stories of far away lands.

Warmth spread across his eyes, and he rolled over in what he thought was his dream, only to roll onto the ground, landing awkwardly on his wings. Timothy whined and unfolded himself off the ground, rubbing his eyes, only to see the creature a hair’s breadth away from his face.

Timothy choked on his fear and scrambled away, only for the creature to grab his shoulder.

“Stay.”

He halted, looking back at it. “You speak the common tongue?”

The creature stared at him. “You are Timothy Drake. Son of Earl Drake.”

“I am,” Timothy responded, then looked at his hands. “But my family is…is dead.”

“Killed by a slithering demon from the Farstead realm.”

Tears prickled Timothy’s vision. “It killed my parents and cursed me.” He looked at the creature. “I’m a monster.”

“You’re cursed to believe what you think you are.” The creature waved a glowing hand and Timothy blinked in shock as the wings disappeared and his hands turned to normal. “It’s merely an illusion. You’ve only been tainted with cursed magic.”

It was much too complicated for Timothy to pull apart now. “Can I be healed?”

The creature blinked its glowing obs. “Cursed magic cannot be healed…but it can be trained.” They leaned forward, getting in his face. “I can teach you to control and transform.”

“You’re not going to eat me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Yes.”

“You hesitated just a bit right there.”

A bottle rolled out from the corner of the room and the creature sighed, turning its head to it. “Richard. Jason. Come here.”

Two young boys, not that much older than Timothy appeared from behind a corner, guilty looks on their faces as though they’d been caught eavesdropping.

The creature nodded to Timothy. “Take him upstairs. He is dirty and tired.”

The tallest one, Jason, crossed his arms over his chest. “Just like that, Bruce? You’re going to take the witch boy in?”

“Pot-kettle,” Richard coughed, smiling when Jason elbowed him.

The creature, now known as Bruce, sighed. “Take the boy. He is tired.”

Jason and Richard obeyed, each hauling Timothy up under the armpits, leading him to a dimly lit staircase.

“Are you two going to eat me?”

“Yes,” Jason replied without hesitation.

“Jason!” Richard barked. “Stop.” He looked down at Timothy. “We’re not going to eat you Timothy…we’re going to help you. And that includes having a warm bed to sleep in and hot food to eat.”

Tears once again gathered in Timothy’s eyes, and he lowered his head as he sniffled. For once since that night, he felt safe.

These were the legends that prowled the city streets. They were supposed to be vicious and dark, evil and bloodthirsty, not ribbing and warm.

But then again, what are legends, but threads twined together, woven greater and farther than the original fable?

[userwasredacted]

Can you do NSFW prompt? If it's possible, a drawing or short fic of Rosi "playing with himself" would be ... nice.

And a SFW prompt, just in case, something for a Devil!Rosi, evil or nice, your choice.

I really enjoy what you've done so far, keep up the good work.

I love this prompt so much, you have inspired me to write out the points for two whole different storylines that could possibly become something hahahahaha (Though idk if I have the strength and perseverance to create such a thing)

Honestly I have written out the creation of the setting and goodness I love the lore that I have created but honestly it doesn't really need to be here unless I write the full story hahhahaha

Anyway I hope you enjoy this because I definitely loved writing this

CW : SACRELIGIOUS CONTENT especially since I did talk about Lucifer.

Not beta read, I did this all in one sitting. Ignore the grammar mistakes thanks :D

-----

The first time Rocinante met Lucifer, it was on his 6th Dozen.

As it usually was, being a Royal of Hell meant that occasions that they celebrated became bigger affairs then normal. The 6th Dozen was an important milestone for all demons, especially new demons, because that was the day that they got an inkling of their demonic form that was the basis of their soul.

As they grew and developed their personalities, their demonic form would grow as well to fit their nature, as was per their miraculous origin, unlike those who migrated here from Earth who grew their demonic forms due to their surroundings as their body adapted to Hell.

It was especially important for the original settlers and builders of Hell to have their children have their demonic traits as they were born as angelic as their origins meant them to be. Their 6th Dozen would be the beginning of their pain easing. Perhaps their soft flesh would finally scab over to become simple sores. Perhaps their teeth would finally break into the perfect set that would allow them to hold and crunch the boiling food that never cooled. Perhaps, their wings would finally be free of feathers and fires, allowing them to mostly heal, at least partly. Some lucky ones would have their halo break, finally releasing them of the pain of divinity, of being so far away and outcasted by one that they were meant to love.

These were the hopes of the Donquixote Family, and all the other fallen as they stared at Rocinante in anticipation. He blinked at them through hidden eyes as he took shallow breaths, trying not to choke on the ash exhaust that had been his daily air since he was born.

He wondered if he would get his father’s beaded eyes, glassy with the sheen of mucus that protected them from the debris each time a lava bubble popped. Or maybe he would get his mother’s bone like figure from the loss of muscle mass, that allowed her steps to be lighter and not sink as deep into the gulping pools of ground. Or maybe he would be like Doffy, is bigger brother that everyone had praised for not only having broken his halo into horns, but had also grown claws to grip and stabilize himself and others on to the boiling rocks.

Personally Rocinante just wanted to be able to breathe better.

As seconds and hours ticked by, the guests became restless, picking at their food and taking sneaking glances at him. Words were softly exchanged as the excitement started to turn to nervous sorrow. His parents anticipation turning to muted despair. Rocinante, of course, fidgeted where he was, trying not to let tears fall as he hacked out another handful of black phlegm. He wasn’t sure what he could do. Was there something he was supposed to have done to make this faster? Something innate? His breaths started to quicken and he stole a panicked glance at Doffy when the guests started to take out all of the salves, bandages, medicines, and barely dirty water, things that he hoped to be free off today.

Doffy of course, started to grab the spotlight when he began showing how fast his wings were molting and that it wouldn't be long before he lost his feathers completely. He was already stronger than many boys his age and they knew that life would be easier for him, so they happily indulged him.

Rocinante let out a soft sigh of relief when that happened, and he slowly, inched his way out of the elevated chair, ignoring the scalding sensation as his hands touched the burning granite and hopped down, barely managing to avoid a sunken pit, filled with bubbling tar. Limbs heavy as always, he staggered his way to an empty room.

It was there, that he met Lucifer for the first time.

The thing that struck Rocinante most about the ruler of Hell, was how beautiful he was. Not in any of the ways he was taught was beauty of course, with the romanticized idea of smooth skin, silken hair, and all that jazz. He thought the Devil was beautiful, because of the way his deflated eyes softened at him, similar to how Mother and Father did when they thought he and Doffy were not looking. The way his ripped and split lips stretched slightly into a tiny smile, not enough to draw blood in them, but enough to be noticeable. The way he knelt to be on Roci’s level, ignoring the hissing stones that his knees were on and how the smell of boiling flesh started to permeate the air.

“Hello little one.” The Devil said

“Hello, Sire.” Rocinante answered

When a large, blackened, bloody claw was held out, Rocinante pattered over to him as if in a trance and place his small fragile, one in it. He was slowly scooped up. Face closer to the devil, he reached out a hand and placed it on the drooping, ribboned flesh of his face.

The Devil raised an eyebrow, allowing a chunk of his skin to rip away.

“Are you not scared, little one?” the Devil said.

“I am not, Sire” Rocinante answered.

Rocinante could feel the rumble in the chest of the King as he gave a raspy chuckle.

“Why are you not scared?” the Devil said.

“Because you are kind, Sire.” Rocinante answered.

For a moment there was silence as Rocinante considered the devil and the devil considered Rocinante, smile slowly disappearing, eyes drooping.

“Why are you sad, Sire?” Rocinante asked.

“Because you will be in pain, little one” The Devil said.

“Will I always be in pain, Sire?” Rocinante asked

“Those who are in Hell, will always be in pain” The Devil said.

“Will I get my demonic trait soon, Sire?” Rocinante asked.

“You already have, little one” The Devil answered.

With that, the Devil turned to the door and made his way over to where the party was, his useless lumbering wings, dragging along the floor.

Rocinante in turn reached for them and tugged on them with his tiny, trembling, soft hands.

When the Devil walked into the room, it quietened immediately, as every fallen stared at them.

He walked over to Donquixote Homing and gently as he could, deposited Rocinante in his fathers arms, slowly nudging the child away from his wings. He offered his congratulations to the family, and a warning that the road ahead of them would be tough.

Rocinante could hear none of it through his soft sobbing. He could hardly noticed the soft murmur that spread across the room, or the pitying glances thrown his way. He barely noticed when his parents placed him on his cot and activated the bubble that would help filter the air, just a little bit.

He could hardly concentrate on Doffy’s words, when he entered to talk about something or other, giving monotonous responses each time, but never letting go of the grip on his shirt.

That night, as both Rocinante and Doffy slept, the Donquixote parents made plans in hushed whispers about what had happened, desperately trying to find a way to keep their son safe, the words of the Devil echoing in their minds.

He would never have any relief from his pain in Hell.

In the morning, Doflamingo would be struck by the sight that Rocinante’s eyes were no longer blue, but a deep crimson red.

--to maybe be continued or not idk man-

As for your nsfw requests, you can head over to my twitter with the same handle and I've already drawn out some self service Roci :D maybe you'd like that hahahah

Thanks once again for the amazing prompt!

[zevlors-tail]

Febuwhump Day 8 - “Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep!”

A/N: I can’t believe I just wrote this in one sitting. I know I’m super behind on Febuwhump, yikes...but I think this turned out pretty well! This got longer than I meant it to be, but then, so did most of the prompts in my drafts that I have for this month. This is actually my first time purposefully writing whump so I hope this was okay! Unedited btw, i’ll read it over in the morning.

TW: Burning building, explosions, second degree burns, mentions/descriptions of burn wounds, life or death situation, building collapse, concussed reader.

***

The first thing Hawks notices when he comes to is the foul taste in his mouth. It causes him to gag and cough with his eyes still closed, though that doesn’t help his situation much if at all. The smell of something burning sears the inside of his nostrils and clogs his lungs, and he finds it incredibly hard to breathe as he rolls over onto his side, eyes finally fluttering open.

The second thing he becomes acutely aware of is how hot he is. No...how hot the floor is. Speaking of which, he couldn’t seem to recall what he was doing down there anyways. If only that incessantly annoying ringing in his ears would stop-

Wait. Wait a minute...

An image of you flashes behind his eyelids as he blinks them shut harshly to block out the billowing cloud of smoke filling the room, and it all comes back to him in a whirlwind.

There were villains. High class villains. Not your every day run of the mill villains, but villains who could really pack a punch when fighting back. They had been occupying a small skyscraper at the time as their headquarters, and you and Hawks had partnered up to take them down after months of steak outs and observation. But something had gone wrong...very wrong. Those details were still a bit blurry, but Hawks remembers something akin to an explosion- a loud noise, the building shaking, and a blast that knocked him unconscious.

All of the sudden he’s hyper aware of what’s going on- and he realizes he needs to move fast if he’s going to get out of here alive. He’s at least twenty stories up in the air on unstable structures, his feathers and hair are singed, and his head is foggy after inhaling too much smoke. Luckily he can still move, and it doesn’t look like he’s been burned too severely, at least not yet. But the flames licking at the bottom of the closed door in front of him cause alarm bells to scream out in his head, and he knows he doesn’t have much time to think. He needs to find you so he can grab you and-

Ohhh, shit.

As he rolls over onto his other side, he can make out the outline of a figure lying on the floor, and he’s almost certain it’s you. None of the villains stuck around after blowing the place up anyways, and he can just barely see the dulled colors of your hero suit behind the thick screen of smoke.

“Fuck! Oh god, Y/N.”

You’re lying too still for your own good, and Hawks thinks he can see the beginning of what he can only assume to be fire slowly eating at the wall next to you. He wastes no time and flattens himself on his stomach, army crawling in your general direction to avoid the worst of the putrid air. It doesn’t help much, but it’s better than nothing. He ignores the uncomfortable heat of his body and pushes onward, his movements still a little sluggish from getting knocked out cold. He’s not entirely sure if he can even use his feathers right now while they’re this singed, and furthermore, he hopes his wings aren’t completely out of commission; he’s going to need those if the both of you are going to make it out of this alive.

“Y/N!” he tries to shout, though it ends in a horrible sounding cough that comes from deep in his chest. As he draws nearer, he hears what sounds like creaking coming from above the two of you, and to his utter horror, the support beams under floor above you have burnt to a crisp and look like they’re ready to collapse any second. It had to have been a sheer miracle that the two of you weren’t already engulfed in flames yourselves. “Y/N! Come on, kid, you gotta get up! Move!”

Even as he tries to urgently get your attention his body seems to move on it’s own accord, and before he can stop himself, he sends a few feathers your way out of habit and concern that you might be crushed any second if he doesn’t move you somehow. It hurts like hell, and he’s pretty sure he’s bleeding. This is by far the worst he’s felt when using his feathers, but it does pay off, and you’re lucky that he made the split decision to move you- no sooner had he scrambled back with you had the ceiling collapsed into the floor.

He turns to you while staying low to the ground, shaking you desperately and firmly smacking the side of your face with his hand in hopes of interrupting your forced slumber. It works but just barely, and Hawks watches as you try to take a deep breath but end up choking just as he had. He gives you a once-over while you struggle to breathe, eyes flitting over your form to assess any damage you may have taken- and to his dismay, there seems to be a good amount of it. The entire left side of your hero outfit is singed, bits of the fabric even burnt into your skin in certain places where the heat must have been too strong. You hadn’t been able to move away or protect yourself in your sleep, and the burns on your arm and leg can definitely attest to that. They’re second degree, at least; some of the fire must have actually made contact with your skin.

“Oh, fuck- Hey, look at me. Y/N, focus here!”

He leans over you to look at your eyes, and he doesn’t have to shine a light in them or have you follow his finger to know that you hit your head a little too hard. They’re glossy and unfocused, and you can’t find a single place on his face to fixate on. You just keep looking all over, and Hawks can clearly tell your concussed. 

Fucking great. He’s got to get you both out, and now.

“Hey, kid. Can you hear me?” He nervously awaits an answer with eyes trained on you, and the second you start to talk he lets out a small breath of short-lived relief.

“Hawks...? Wha...” You look so out of it and dazed.

“So that’s a yes, thank god...” Before you try to ask anything else, he stops you in your tracks and shakes his head at you. “Whoa, whoa, whoa- take it easy, alright? No questions, I just need you to listen and keep talking to me. Doesn’t matter what it’s about, I just need to know you’re awake and alive-” He pauses briefly to look around for something, anything he can do to escape.

There’s the door you both came from, the one that’s barely holding back the raging heat behind it- that’s a no-go. No way in hell is he trying to brave that. His wings won’t last five seconds in that, and you don’t have the means to protect yourself while you’re concussed. Another option is to try and escape through the hole in the floor that the ceiling caused...but that’s way too risky for the both of you as is, and it looks like flames are starting to creep in from that way, too. If he is going to take that route, he needs to do it soon. Maybe he can get to a staircase, or find a-

The sound of you moaning in pain cuts through his thoughts and his head whips back in your direction to find you grimacing and trying to move. “Ah ah- Don’t do that. Just keep talking, come on. I know it hurts, but you gotta keep talkin’ to me. I’m gonna get us out of this mess, somehow...”

Panic starts to set in as he realizes his options are limited. Terror grips him in it’s icy stone-cold jaws as he comes to the conclusion that his odds of survival are even worse.

“Hawks...it hur’s...” All you can do is roll your head back and forth and try to move, but your body just won’t cooperate with your mind.

“Fuck. Fuck! I know, I know...” His teeth grit together as he thinks, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. Adrenaline is starting to kick in, and he’s desperate for anything at this point.

He still has no plan in mind when he makes another split second decision to move you from where you’re currently laying. The fire is only spreading up onto the carpeted floor the two of you are on, and the smoke is getting worse by the second; this room is a hot box with no ventilation at this point. He carefully picks you up and cradles you to his chest, his wings wrapping around the both of you to both support your frame and shield you from the onslaught of unbearable heat. It forces him to take a few steps back, and he does his best to navigate through a screen of black without bumping into any furniture. He almost trips several times, but eventually he hits the opposite wall. Or, rather...

A window. Bingo.

“S’ tired...” you mumble. Your eyes are already fluttering, rolling to the back of your head as your limbs grow heavy in his arms.

“Hey, hey, this is no time to sleep! Y/N!? Come on, stay awake!”

“C’n we go...home now?”

He doesn’t like how ragged your breathing sounds.

He almost chuckles at the absurdity of the situation, but his lungs are already full of tainted air to laugh, let alone breathe properly, so he scoffs instead- and instantly regrets it. Between fits of coughs, he presses his shoulder to the glass behind you both to test the temperature, and it’s much hotter than it should be. Part of the glass is already blown out to his right, but there’s not enough space to crawl out without the jagged edges of it tearing up his flesh and wings. But if he could somehow break it...

His feathers. He’ll have to use up more of them, but if he uses the bare minimum necessary to break the glass and saves the majority, he may be able to make it out the window and fly you both to safety. 

“We can’t go home yet,” he chokes out in response to you, finally. “I’m gonna get you out of here, and then you’re on your way to the hospital, yeah? You’re gonna be fine.” 

He knows that to be true, so long as he can actually manage this. He backs up as far as he can go without subjecting either of you to the hot flames now openly invading the room, the entryway having burnt to a crisp already. From where he stands now, he hopes there’s enough distance to create the amount of force needed to shatter that damn glass. After a quick estimate of how many feathers he can get away with using, he readies them, and it all boils down this moment. If he can’t do this, you’ll both die. Both of your lives are at stake, resting on his weary shoulders. He can do this.

He has to.

“Wanna go home...wanna go...” You’re just murmuring to yourself, and it really puts Hawks on edge.

He hears the glass shatter before he sees it. He stumbles forward, wings still securely wrapped around you, and all but falls out of the edge of the window right before the rest of the floor collapses in on itself. He hears the devastation behind him, feels sparks on his back where the holes of his shirt meet the beginnings of his wings. He knows if he had hesitated or stayed any longer, neither of you would be alive right now.

Replacing his hold on you with his arms, he lets his wings drift open and prays he didn’t overdo it with the feathers, begs whatever gods may be listening that the two of you can at least slow the fall somehow. And to his pure joy and bliss, his wings, though bleeding and burnt and painful, are still very much holding up and allowing him to fly.

Now if he can manage to get you to a hospital...you’ll be just fine.

[lady-of-the-lotus]

“I’m trying,” says Xue Yang bitterly. “I’m trying, and it’s still not good enough for you.”

Xiao Xingchen sinks his fingers into the dirt. Crawling over his cheek is a beetle, moving over his lips, trailing along the curve of his nose.

Xue Yang watches the beetle’s process, the muscles in his jaw growing tighter and tighter, fixating on the insect as it nestles in the dip of Xingchen’s left eye.

“I’m trying,” he repeats, and Xingchen thinks of the tongues, of one particularly small tongue at the end of the row, and hears himself saying, “You’re not trying very hard.”

Xuexiao - E - AO3! - Read on Tumblr - Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3

Chapter 4 - Rot

Xingchen wakes to Xue Yang bending over him.

He shoves him away, scrambling backward. “Get off me!”

Xue Yang settles back against a tree. “Don’t do that again. What if I hadn’t caught you?”

Xiao Xingchen manages to roll over onto his side, getting a better look at Xue Yang. Xue Yang is stripped down to his inner robe, face streaked with blood, crimson liquid seeping through the green silk at his side.

He grins weakly down at Xiao Xingchen, teeth red. “One of those fuckers got me,” he says ruefully. “Guess I shouldn’t have shown off so low on blood.”

“You didn’t have to kill them all. And you killed some townspeople too, I saw you…”

Xue Yang’s head droops forward, as if he’s too weak to keep it upright. He doesn’t seem to have heard Xingchen at all. “Lend me a hand, will you?”

“I can’t move…”

Xue Yang groans. “Figures.” He slides over, sprawling over in the grass beside Xiao Xingchen, and lies still.

Xingchen rolls over as much as he can and laps at the blood running from the gash in Xue Yang's side. He drinks until he’s strong enough to sit up. Xue Yang is still unconscious, lying in the exact position he fell in.

With clumsy hands Xingchen cuts bandages from an extra robe in the qiankun pouch. He washes his wounds as best he can with the small amount of water left in the canteen and binds them. Finds a medicinal pellet in Xue Yang’s sleeve, makes him swallow it, places a rolled-up robe under his head.

He sits up with Xue Yang all night. He’s surprised when Xue Yang opens his eyes at dawn and begins to struggle to his feet.

“Well, that was fun,” he says. He’s on his hands and knees, as if too weak to get all the way up. “But let’s not do that again for a while, shall we?”

“How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. I’m always fine. I'll go find some water."

“Don’t strain yourself.”

Xue Yang eyes Xiao Xingchen narrowly. “Is that supposed to be sarcasm?”

“Am I ever sarcastic?” Xiao Xingchen lies down. It’s obvious they won’t be traveling today.

“Let me put down a blanket for you.”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head, inhaling the dirt beneath his cheek. There’s a blowfly crawling across his temple, just visible out of the corner of his eye. “I prefer this.”

“But—”

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes.

“I won’t be able to give you blood for a few days. Or anything else.”

Xiao Xingchen nods slightly.

Xue Yang shoos the fly off Xingchen’s face. “I’ll wake you up as soon as I can.”

Xiao Xingchen could get up and bring Xue Yang the water, if he wanted to, but it’s been too many days without yang and he has no will to stir. Besides, he likes lying on the ground and doesn't want to get up. A dead tree frog lies a foot from his face, and he spends the morning watching a trail of ants swarm the bloated carcass, mesmerized by the endless black dots as they march back and forth through the grass.

He’s asleep when Xue Yang returns, and wakes late the next day. Xue Yang is sleeping beside him, face white, chest barely rising and falling.

It’s because of me, Xiao Xingchen thinks groggily. Because of me he’s too weak to heal, to seal his meridians and stop his bleeding…

What if Xue Yang were to die...?

Oddly fitting, rotting side-by-side for eternity…

But he reaches out, lays a cold hand on Xue Yang’s throat. Either he hadn't taken enough blood the day before to return him to full strength, or the blood isn't working as well as it used to, becuase his fingers are too numb to sense a pulse.

Xue Yang stirs at his touch. “You need something, daozhang?” he murmurs.

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes again.

It’s morning when he next opens them. He’s lying on his stomach, one arm extended, something sharp digging into his back.

Pain in his ear, something tearing at his hand.

A snapping sound.

Rustling of bushes, feet thudding on the forest floor, the whistle of a blade cleaving the air.

“Get off him! I’ll fucking kill you—”

A bird-like squawk, a whirl of black feathers. The smell of blood. Something cradling his head, touching his ear, his hand. The sound of muffled cursing.

Xiao Xingchen drifts off.

It’s night when he next wakes. Xue Yang is on top of him, planting a soft kiss on his forehead as he slides out from between Xue Yang’s legs. They’re surrounded by a wall of reeds and grasses, the air heavy and sweet, a stork winging its way past the moon.

“Welcome back,” he says. “Here.” He lifts Xiao Xingchen into his lap, holding his arm to this mouth. Xiao Xingchen dutifully sucks blood from his veins, sensation flowing back into his limp body.

There’s relief on Xue Yang’s face as he lays him back down on a blanket covering the damp ground.

Xiao Xingchen sits up. His limbs feel oddly… loose at the joints. He looks around, keeping his left eye closed. A half-dozen yellow talismans are pinned to his robes.

“Every little bit helps,” says Xue Yang, reaching for them. “Or doesn’t help, in your case. Here, I’ll—”

Xiao Xingchen reaches up to brush him away, and freezes.

The little finger on his right hand is missing.

Nothing but a bandage-wrapped stump.

Raising his gloved hand, Xue Yang grins at him. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “We match now.”

Xiao Xingchen stares at his missing finger. “How...how long was I asleep?”

“Two days.”

Xingchen glances up at the moon, shining brightly down on their little clearing in the tall grasses. “There’s a full moon. It was waxing last I saw it. And—is this—we were in a forest—”

“Three days.”

“Three weeks.”

Xue Yang folds his arms defensively. “I woke you up as soon as I could. I almost thought you wouldn’t wake at all, I’ve been trying for days—”

“Were are we?” Xingchen's sounds strange, and he reaches up to touch his left ear as he speaks. There’s nothing there, just a soft, slippery ridge of missing flesh.

“Fine, so we flew a mile or two or hundred or whatever.”

Xingchen looks around. Laid out on a second blanket are rows of—

“Are those tongues?” he asks. His voice is strangely mild, emotions still deadened. Slowly he begins removing the talismans from his clothes.

Smiling to himself, Xue Yang settles back, tossing his knife in the air. “Would you like to see them?”

“Why…why are they all laid out like that?” And dozens of small animals, too. Water rats, birds, frogs.

Xue Yang nudges one of the talismans with his bare foot. There’s one pinned to the smallest of the tongues, and dozens more lining the neat rows of tongues and swamp creatures. “Do you want to hear?” he asks, and dives into an explanation without waiting for a response. He’s always animated, but he comes to life as he explains the talismans he’s created, how he devised them, and his current experiments.

“…keep them fresh, and they are fresh, except…”

Xiao Xingchen only half-hears him. He’s too busy watching him, the moonlight lighting up his far-too-pretty-for-what-he-is face, and thinking, not for the first time, about Xue Yang’s immense wasted potential.

What could Xue Yang have accomplished had he only been taught properly? Been guided down the proper path? Given a solid cultivation foundation and the opportunity to channel his genius and creativity for good?

What could he still accomplish?

Xue Yang is explaining how he fixed Xiao Xingchen’s shattered soul and channeled his qi into Xingchen’s corpse. He’s using his hands to speak, drawing shining red symbols in his own made-up alphabet as he explains what, even from the limited amount Xiao Xingchen absorbs, sounds brilliantly innovative.

Perhaps it was a good thing he had never had a formal education. From what Xingchen has seen since leaving the mountain, education, after a certain point, is just another way to enforce a set way of thinking, inhibiting free thought and encasing minds in narrow little boxes. A traditional cultivator couldn’t have accomplished half of what Xue Yang had achieved.

Xue Yang has stopped talking. He seems to be waiting for a response.

“That’s very impressive,” says Xiao Xingchen, vastly understating things.

“For a demonic cultivator.”

“For anyone.”

Xue Yang’s grin nearly wraps around his head, then winks out like a snuffed candle. “Doesn’t matter. I failed.”

“They look fresh to me.” Xiao Xingchen takes a closer look. “There are extra tongues.”

“I killed more than just the bandits, remember? You were all bent out of shape about it.”

“Do you want to pick a fight?”

“If you’re disgusted by the tongues, just say so.” There’s no trace of animation left on Xue Yang’s face. If anything, there’s an odd dead look in his eye as he sits cross-legged across from Xiao Xingchen and stares unblinkingly at him. “Don’t pretend to be interested.”

“I am interested.”

He doesn’t understand why Xue Yang throws this knife suddenly, spearing one of the tongues, or understand the sudden nasty change in Xue Yang’s tone. “Know who that one belonged to? That old man with the fucking eggplants!”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. “You needed it for your experiments.”

“How do you know he wasn’t alive when I took it?”

“I…I suppose I don’t.”

“Then stop faking it!” Xue Yang snaps. Xingchen wonders how long this has been building inside him and what spurred it to finally erupt. “Stop faking it all just because you need me right now! I knew you were a hypocrite, but I thought you were at least an honest hypocrite—”

“I’m not—”

“Liar! Were all those things you said in the inn just lies too?”

Xiao Xingchen can’t remember exactly what he said. Something about not wanting him to be hurt—

Xue Yang produces another knife from his sleeve. He seems more comfortable with a blade in his hand. “I was an idiot for believing you, I knew it at the time!”

Xiao Xingchen looks at the extra tongues. Xue Yang follows his eyes.

“I saved them all from those bandits, so if a few people got in my way, what of it! They would have been dead without me, I saved them, their lives belonged to me—”

Xiao Xingchen looks down at his hand, runs a hand over the bandage covering his finger stump. “I saved your life; does your life belong to me?”

“Had you killed me back then, think of all the lives you could have saved! For all we know that old man with those stupid eggplants would have gone crazy and poisoned half the town; they should be thanking me for killing him!”

Shaking his head, Xiao Xingchen pushes aside the blanket so he’s lying on the swampy ground and breathes in deeply. All he wants to do is sleep. Shut out Xue Yang’s voice. Sink back into oblivion, nestled in the tall sweet-scented grasses…

“I’m trying,” says Xue Yang bitterly. “I’m trying, and it’s still not good enough for you.”

Xiao Xingchen sinks his fingers into the dirt. Crawling over his cheek is a beetle, moving over his lips, trailing along the curve of his nose.

Xue Yang watches the beetle’s process, the muscles in his jaw growing tighter and tighter, fixating on the insect as it nestles in the dip of Xingchen’s left eye.

“I’m trying,” he repeats, and Xingchen thinks of the tongues, of one particularly small tongue at the end of the row, and hears himself saying, “You’re not trying very hard.”

Xue Yang hunches forward, a curtain of hair covering his face, digging his nails deep into his scalp and pulling his hair hard enough to hurt. He looks up through the curtain with red-rimmed eyes that almost glow in the eerie orange moonlight.

“Fuck if I care,” he says. “I’m going to go get some water.”

“Xue Yang—”

“Oh, just shut up! I should have left you unconscious!”

Xiao Xingchen turns over on his back. Better this way. More of his body touching the earth. “Are you coming back? Or are you going to leave me here to rot?”

“You’ll rot whether I leave you here or not—”

And suddenly Jiangzai is out, and Xue Yang is hacking at the tall grasses around them. He lays waste to the walls of reeds before falling to his knees, supporting himself with Jiangzai, teeth bared, breathing heavily.

Xiao Xingchen watches him without moving or flinching.

“Well?” he says as Xue Yang stabs the earth with his knife, raking a deep gash in the moss-covered soil. “Are you coming back?”

“Right, you need me!” Xue Yang stabs the ground, slashing it again and again with his blade as if trying to make it bleed. “How do you like it, daozhang, being bound to someone you hate?”

“I don’t hate you,” Xiao Xingchen says quietly. “Do you hate me?”

“I wish you had stayed dead, I wish I had never brought you back—”

All Xingchen can feel is pity. Xue Yang sees it in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he snaps. “You say you don’t hate me? Fucking liar!”

“I don’t hate you,” Xiao Xingchen repeats. “I don’t know why, but I don’t.”

“How about this, then? I killed your precious A-Qing!”

“I know,” Xiao Xingchen says quietly.

Xue Yang drops his knife. “You know?”

“I saw her name on the talisman. I guess you were telling the truth about needing a name, and actually learned how to write it..."

“And you don’t…you don’t care?”

Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes. “Of course I care.”

Xue Yang grabs his wrist, shaking him, forcing him to look him in the face. “And,” he grins, “whose eyes do you think are in your head?”

A chill creeps down Xingchen’s spine as he reaches up to touch his eye.

Xue Yang is laughing now, a manic laugh he doesn’t seem to be able to control. “Just giving you back what was yours! I killed him before you woke up. Tossed him in the same ditch I tossed A-Qing. I’d say he wasn’t yet cold when you opened your eyes, but he’d been cold ever since you stabbed him through the heart!”

And suddenly Xingchen needs to feel. Needs to be choked by the shock, the hate, the grief.

A-Qing and Song Lan deserve it.

He wrenches his wrist away from Xue Yang. He’s weak, but Xue Yang’s fingers slide easily off his slippery, waxy skin. He shoves Xue Yang on his back and straddles him, the mere sight of Xue Yang lying beneath him in just a thin inner robe activating his muscle memory, his cock springing to life.

“Ah, there’s the daozhang I remember! Want to go over to the marsh? You can half-drown me again—”

“Shut up shut up shut up—” Roughly, he thrusts into Xue Yang as Xue Yang continues to giggle, not bothering to take it slow. Tears slip down his face as he thrusts into him, splashes of blood on Xue Yang's chest. "Just shut up—”

“Ah, see, this is what I’ve been missing all these weeks—”

“Stop talking, for once in your life, just stop talking—”

“I’ll do you one better: I’ll do my hair up all stupid, and you can pretend I’m Song Lan.” Xue Yang laughs harder, as if this is funny, body shaking beneath Xiao Xingchen's. “You ever fuck him like you’re fucking me?”

“Be quiet!” Xiao Xingchen thrusts harder, trying to shut him up, but Xue Yang only arches his back flirtatiously, one leg raised onto Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder, a demented smile plastered over his face.

“Was that a yes, daozhang?”

He closes his hand around Xue Yang’s throat. “Stop talking about him, and stop calling me that!”

“You fuck him in your fancy free inns? Pin him down and pour filth in his lily-white ear?”

“Stop talking—”

Xue Yang pries his fingers from his throat. “Were you the one to corrupt him, or did he corrupt you first? You seduced him, didn’t you? Just look at you, you’re like a dog in heat, there’s no way you didn’t make up some perverted priest ritual just to get your di—”

Xiao Xingchen slaps him across the face.

Xue Yang reaches one hand up to splay over Xiao Xingchen’s chest. “Did Song Lan like that? Did you choke him too? Bite his lip so hard you could suck his life out through it?”

“I never so much as touched him!”

“Too bad. He wasn’t a bad fuck for a corpse; was probably a lot more fun when he was alive—though knowing him, he was just as boring when he had a tongue—”

Xiao Xingchen freezes, then turns Xue Yang onto his stomach and fucks him from behind. He doesn’t want to see his grinning face, doesn’t want to pretend this is anything other than a necessary interaction, two animals rutting in a swamp out of necessity—

Xue Yang is still laughing.

Xingchen pulls Xue Yang’s robe down over his shoulders down to his waist. Digs his nails into Xue Yang’s back, leaves long scratches in his scarred skin. Several blackened fingernails come off in Xue Yang’s flesh, and his fingers feel loose where Xue Yang pried them off his throat. He spreads his purple-red hands over Xue Yang’s wiry muscles, pressing him down into the damp, fetid soil.

“Disgusting—”

Xue Yang stops laughing and Xingchen comes abruptly, the sigil on his chest glowing brighter as he fills Xue Yang. He pulls out with a shamefully wet sound, bloody cum oozing out of Xue Yang and dripping to the grass.

Xue Yang rolls over onto his back and Xiao Xingchen, suddenly weak with exertion and the flood of new emotion, falls forward on his hands, framing Xue Yang.

As his palms hit the earth, his head snaps forward slightly, and suddenly one eye goes dark.

Xue Yang scrambles out from under him. A look of shock has frozen his face. He cups his hands, staring.

An eyeball lies nestled in his palms.

Xingchen reaches up to touch his left eye.

It’s empty.

Xue Yang’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “I—I should have sewn it in better—”

Xiao Xingchen pulls his robe closed and holds out his hand.

Xue Yang drops the eyeball into his cupped palm.

“What’s happening to me?” Xingchen asks quietly.

His emotions are in full bloom, but somehow instead of anger, or horror, or shock, all he feels is resignation over what's happening to him and regret over what he'd just done. Knowingly done, unlike that time in the stream...

Silence, just the rustle of the tall grasses in the warm evening breeze, a distant splashing in the nearby marsh, a trill of a night bird.

“I think you already know,” says Xue Yang finally. Slowly he reaches into his sleeve, pulls out a long white bandage, and ties it at an angle over Xingchen’s eye socket.

“Now you look almost like your old self again,” he says.

Xiao Xingchen holds him at arm’s length, swallowing hard. “Xue Yang, how—how long have you known?”

“Rather roguish, your new look. I like it.”

“Xue Yang…”

“I can try sewing the eye back in, if you’d like, but I don’t think it would take…”

“Is that what you were doing these past few weeks? Trying to stop me from rotting?”

Xue Yang winces at the word “rot.” He squirms away from Xiao Xingchen, sitting facing the swamp. Xiao Xingchen wonders if Xue Yang chose this spot to hide the smell of his decaying flesh.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Xiao Xingchen can hardly hear him. “Didn’t work, clearly…”

He lies down, his back to Xingchen.

Xingchen lays beside him, resting a hand on his arm, his eyeball still enclosed in his other hand. The skin over his knuckles is very thin, with small gas bubbles rising under the delicate bones along the backs of his hands and soft purple lines running up towards his wrist. Blackened lesions mottle his skin, eating down to the bone in some places, and his remaining nails are brownish gray.

He starts to remove his hand, but Xue Yang reaches up, closing his gloved hand around it.

“I didn’t mean to kill A-Qing,” he says, so low that Xingchen has to strain to hear him. “She just bled out so quickly after I cut her tongue out—she was trying to bring cultivators—I tried using a talisman, but it…it clotted the wrong blood…”

“There’s no excuse you could possibly give to make me forgive you for what you did.”

“I turned her into a sentient fierce corpse.” Xue Yang turns, mangled hand still on Xiao Xingchen’s rotting one, and looks at him. “She’s out there somewhere. That was the truth. Practically alive…”

Xiao Xingchen closes his remaining eye. He hates how that does make a slight difference. “Did you truly abuse Zichen?”

“I cut his eyes and tongue out, if that's what you mean.”

“You know it’s not.”

Xue Yang wrinkles his nose, gazing up at the scraps of cloud drifting past the full moon. “I never laid a finger on him. He’s not my type.”

“And was that the only reason?”

“What are you getting at?”

Xiao Xingchen is suddenly tired. So very, very tired. Dealing with Xue Yang is like dealing with a pet fox who keeps killing his chickens. “You understood what that man in Tanzhou did to his wife was wrong,” he says, "at least on some instinctive level. Unless you were simply guessing at how I’d feel on the subject and using it to excuse yourself.”

“Right, wrong, it’s all the sa—”

“Don’t start that again. You knew it was wrong despite the fact that many people wouldn’t think so. You—”

“I’ve killed children.”

“I know.”

“I’ve made you kill children.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care?”

“Of course I care.”

“Then say something better than ‘I know’!”

“There is nothing I can possibly say to that that would express how I feel.”

“Why is killing children worse than killing any other person?” Xue Yang bursts out. “They would have died in another fifty years, at most. So I sped it along a little!”

“Is that truly how you feel?”

“Why isn’t it how you feel? If you think about it, early death is a mercy! And once they’re dead, it makes no difference to them.”

“Their family—”

“I killed the rest of the family, too. The Changs, all dead. Villagers, all dead. Nobody to mourn them. And it’s not like I would have cared either way, but it wasn’t like I went around killing random children for fun.”

“I never said you did.”

“Entire families, gone, just like that!” Xue Yang snaps his fingers. “As if they never existed, so what difference does any of it make? Some of them should be thanking me. Dying of gout at sixty is worse than being killed quickly at twenty.”

"Gout isn't fatal."

“Missing the point, as usual. So they would have died of something peasanty like plague or gangrene. Really, dead is dead. I don’t understand why you care. I really don’t.” Xue Yang looks legitimately puzzled. “It doesn't affect you. It barely affects them.”

Xiao Xingchen shakes his head. Xue Yang is gazing at him intently, eyes burning with frustration, as if he doesn’t understand why Xingchen is just lying there calmly and listening to his poison.

“You knew what that man did to his wife was wrong,” Xingchen repeats, “meaning you do have something in you that points in the right direction, telling you right from wrong, something not reliant on law or social customs. And you simply choose to ignore it.”

“You think too highly of me. A first.”

“ ‘Highly’! Meaning you know it’s something desirable!”

“I’m just using your own shitty rhetoric. Are we done? I’m tired…” Xue Yang looks up at the moon again, filling his lungs with the fetid swamp air that, to Xingchen, smells sweet.

“No. Xue Yang, why did you hold onto A-Qing’s tongue all this time, and turn her into a sentient fierce corpse?”

“Because I—” He stops. “Getting sneaky, daozhang, throwing in these questions.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?”

Xingchen shakes his head. “Never mind. Why did you spend six years trying to bring me back, and the past three weeks camped out here on a swamp trying to stop me from rotting?”

“Stop saying ‘rot’!”

“Xue Yang, I am trying to understand you.”

Xue Yang is playing with the long tendrils of hair framing his face, not so much as looking in Xiao Xingchen’s direction. “Are we done?”

“Why did you leave Song Lan alone?”

“I didn’t leave him alone. Are you deaf? I cut out his tongue—”

“Xue Yang.”

“Well, he wasn’t you!” Xue Yang explodes. “Is that what you want to hear? You were coming back soon, I just…” I only wanted you. Perhaps even, I couldn’t betray you like that. “I kill people. I don’t hurt them. It’s not like I enjoyed hurting A-Qing.”

Xiao Xingchen can’t let such a blatant lie slip past. “You enjoy killing people. I have every reason to believe you enjoy hurting them as well.”

“That’s not what I meant by that.”

Xiao Xingchen wonders what Xue Yang went through while living on the streets, to make someone like him not want to “hurt” people in that way. He can imagine some of it. Xue Yang had practically told him, that night in the inn...

There’s an odd quivery look on Xue Yang’s face. As if realizing this, he gets to his feet. “Are we done? I’m thirsty.”

“Xue Yang…”

Xue Yang takes a step, wincing. “Be more careful next time, won’t you? I’ll be walking with a limp for a week.”

“Don’t do that, don’t turn everything into a joke or vulgarism—”

Xue Yang flies off through the grass.

Xingchen picks up A-Qing’s tongue and follows him. His legs are weak, but he pushes his way through the chest-high grasses, finding Xue Yang sitting on the edge of the water, arms wrapped around his knees.

Xingchen kneels at the edge of the water and buries his eye and A-Qing’s tongue in the soft sweet-smelling mud. It’s a beautiful warm night, the dazzling gold moonlight glimmering off the wide stretch of marshland. Dark clumps of tall, graceful reeds grow from the rippling water, with the hushed sounds of the night creatures carrying clearly over the water. The song of the crickets, the chirping of frogs. A stork strides through the water not a stone’s-throw away, gleaming white in the moonlight, and stars speckle the deep purple sky, brilliant and clear, here at the edge of the earth.

Xingchen imagines stepping into the shining gold water, letting it close over his head, envelope him, embrace him.

One more dead rotting thing…

“Does it hurt?” Xue Yang’s voice breaks the stillness. “Your eye.”

Xiao Xingchen touches the blindfold. He wonders if it’s the same one he used to wear, kept by Xue Yang all these years. “No.”

“Maggots hurt.” Xue Yang glances down at his gloved hand. “I know.”

Xiao Xingchen swallows. “I’m fine.”

“And your hand and ear?”

“Not much.”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone. Those vultures—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Xue Yang rests his chin on his knees. He looks more worn-out than Xiao Xingchen has ever seen him, as if the gamut of the night’s emotions have wrung him out and left him empty. “I don’t know how to fix you,” he confesses, his voice almost inaudible.

Xiao Xingchen sits down beside him. He doesn’t think those words have ever passed Xue Yang’s lips before.

“I tried,” says Xue Yang. “I really tried…"

Xingchen looks down at his black-mottled hands. Even in the moonlight he can detect their soft, half-slimy, half-waxy coat.

As he watches, a fly lands on his hand, and another, and another. Or perhaps they had been there all along. He can hear the buzzing of the nearby insect life feasting on the swamp’s rot, drawing life from death, and he’s suddenly reminded of the fungus growing on the dead fox in the Coffin House courtyard, the writhing white maggots making a home in its carcass.

Creating something new.

“You’ve carried this too long on your own,” he says. “Let me take it from here.”

Xue Yang tilts his head slightly, eyeing Xingchen with dark-circled eyes. “You know how to stop the rot?”

“No. But Shifu will.” And she might be able to fix you, too, he wants to add, but doesn’t dare.

“And you know how to find her mountain again?”

“Promise me you won’t bring up your past grievances with her when you meet.”

“I promise, I promise!...” Xue Yang rests his head on Xingchen’s shoulder. He looks very young, small and almost fragile. “I promise, Xingchen…”

It’s the first time Xue Yang has used his proper name since he’s woken. It’s strangely nice to hear. Xingchen, the person, decaying as he is, instead of Xiao Xingchen, the daozhang.

They sit in the stillness, watching the golden moonlight reflected in the water as it moves along with the moon. Listening to the splash of the frogs, the rustle of grass, the call of the night birds.

Surrounded by the sweet scent of rot.

Xue Yang falls asleep with his head in Xingchen’s lap. Xingchen trails his withered purple fingers through his hair, along his jaw, letting his hand rest on his head.

He does not sleep.

He’s at home here, among the decay…

One more dead rotting thing.

They leave the swamp the next morning and travel across the open countryside. Xingchen is too weak to fly, but Xue Yang holds him when he can despite his own growing weakness. Xingchen needs more and more blood just to stay upright, needs Xue Yang’s yang every night, every morning, needs to rid himself of tainted yin, just to keep his mind half clear.

One night he forgets where he is, rises, wanders off, trips, falls.

“Xingchen!” Xue Yang helps him to his feet. “Be careful—”

Xiao Xingchen’s hand comes off in his.

The same hand Xue Yang had pulled him by back in the bandit village what seems like a lifetime ago, he remembers the next morning, after Xue Yang pulls out of him and settles back on Xingchen’s legs.

Xue Yang is staring down at him with a hazy look in his eye.

“I shouldn’t have grabbed on your hand like that,” he says, reaching out to touch Xiao Xingchen’s wrist stump. He'd bandaged it during the night, but dark brown juices have seeped into the still-damp material, staining it with sweet-smelling liquid. "I keep pulling at your hand—”

Xingchen closes his eyes. “It’s not your fault, and I can’t feel anything…”

Xue Yang presses his forehead to Xingchen’s. Xingchen’s skin is still slippery to the touch, still covered in rancid black spots where the reddened flesh has necrotized. “We’ll be there soon,” he says, “won’t we?”

Xingchen nods.

Xue Yang kisses him. He doesn’t seem to notice the blowfly eggs hatching in Xingchen’s mouth, the rice-like maggots living in his empty eye socket, the beetles in his nostrils, the flies that swarm his body and lay eggs on his oozing wrist stump.

Flies that settle on Xue Yang’s own face, attracted by the slimy rot rubbed off on his skin.

It’s late afternoon when they arrive at Baoshan Sanren’s mountain, days later, weeks later.

Xue Yang collapses to his knees at the foot of the mountain. He’s been too weak to fly these past few days, with deep purple circles under his sunken eyes and white hands that tremble as he fixes Xiao Xingchen’s hair every morning.

“Is that it?” Xue Yang asks, looking up at the mountain. “It’s nice and all, but—”

“Wait.” It’s grown harder and harder to speak, Xingchen’s tongue swelling in his mouth, his throat muscles growing soft and loose under the hot sun. “Here.” He fumbles with his white jade hairpiece, but can’t get it out. "I—this—”

Silently Xue Yang gets to his feet, slides the hairpiece out of Xingchen’s topknot, sets it in Xingchen’s hand. Xingchen covers his hand with his fingers before he can remove it, nodding at him.

“Magic hairpiece? I like it. I used to have a gold one that—”

“Shh.”

Xiao Xingchen nods again, stepping forward on legs held together with gauze. Holding the hairpiece, they step through the invisible barrier.

All around them the mountain bursts into sudden radiance, the tall spirit gathering grasses around them sparkling with gold light. The air is thick with curling mists, catching the golden radiance and diffusing it, surrounding them with a warm yellow glow.

Xue Yang opens his mouth as if it speak, then closes it.

“Come,” says Xingchen.

They walk up the mountain, wrapped in the glowing mists.

Just a little farther now to the spot he remembers so well.

A pretty forest glade, gently shaded from the sun. Tall spirit-gathering sparkling with gold light, soft green moss carpeting the bank of a small stream, tiny white mushrooms growing on the fallen logs. Slender trees bent to trail their leaves in the water, the air sweet and warm and lightly perfumed.

Just a little longer...

He stops when they reach the stream that flows up the mountain, flows up past that secluded forest glade.

He turns and touches Xue Yang’s arm, doing his best to articulate. “One last time, before things are set right.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to…”

“I want to.” Xingchen slips his robes off as they settle down in the grass. Xue Yang kisses him, heedless of the fact that his lower lip has been half eaten away by insects, showing a row of teeth in shriveled gums. The kiss is long and slow and deep, his hand slipping down between Xingchen’s legs.

Xingchen gently presses him down into the shining gold grass and lowers himself onto Xue Yang. They don’t need oil, his insides smooth and slippery with decay.

“Soon,” he says. “Soon...”

Xue Yang gazes up at him, one hand on his arm, breathing in deeply, as if he wants to fix Xingchen’s scent in his mind, remember the way he looks now, rotting and desiccated with maggots in his mouth, his eyes, nestling in the soft skin under his cock and under his arms. The tip of his nose eaten away, the bones of his jaw visible through the decomposing flesh.

Xingchen leans forward, sinks his teeth into the curve of Xue Yang's throat, and drinks.

The sigils on their chests glow brighter as he rocks forward, the blue and red spirit light mixing with the golden radiance around them.

He drinks deeply, taking more blood than he has in weeks, filling his throat with Xue Yang’s lifeblood as Xue Yang comes, filling him with his yang. He remains locked in place on top of Xue Yang, arms around him, lapping at the blood trickling from his throat. Xue Yang’s hand is buried in his loose hair, lips brushing the rotting purple skin of his throat, breath warm on his ear stump,

He can feel Xue Yang now, more clearly than he ever has till now. Feel his desperation, his fear, his desire to be—consumed—

He drinks until Xue Yang’s hand falls limply to the grass, his pulse slowing. Drinks until he knows Xue Yang is too weak to follow him.

He can drink him to death, if he wishes. Absorb all of him, the good, the bad. Take him into himself...

"Xingchen." Xue Yang moves slightly beneath him. “Take it all. Find her…”

Xingchen raises his head. He rises, draping his robes over the shivering Xue Yang.

“Don’t leave me here!” Xue Yang grasps at him, bloodless fingers clutching at his arms, crushing the small white mushrooms sprouting along Xingchen’s limbs. “Take me with you,” he says weakly. His eyes are bleary and sunken, lips gray. “I can carry you to Baoshan Sanren—”

“Shhh.” Xingchen kneels beside him, raises him up. It’s like maneuvering a large limp doll. “I’ll always be on the mountain.”

For the first time since he’s woken, he fixes Xue Yang’s hair, braiding the sides, looping it around the topknot, using his mouth as a second hand. He slides his white jade hairpiece into the topknot and lays Xue Yang back in the grass.

“She’ll find you, now,” he says. “She’ll know I sent you.”

Xue Yang tries to move, can’t. “Don’t—don’t—”

“Let her help you.” Xingchen kisses his forehead softly, leaving a smear of red on the ivory. “Don’t forget me, Chengmei.”

“Xingchen...I…” Xue Yang makes one last struggle, but the exertion is too much. His eyes slip shut and he lies stretched out in the spirit gathering grass, covered in Xingchen’s white robes, the jade hairpiece gleaming gold.

Xiao Xingchen removes the jade flute from the qiankun pouch and, naked, drifts along the stream, up the mountain, towards the glen. He’s feeling weightless, almost as if he’s floating. The light around him grows brighter as he nears the clearing, surrounding him, filling him as his legs give out and he collapses to the earth.

He lies on the mossy bank, green and black flute resting beside him, sunlight streaming through the trees. The wildflowers are in bloom all around him, their perfume mixing with the sweet smell of decay. The damp of the soil, the song of the trees, the deep roots spreading through the earth, all surround him. Flowers he’ll soon nourish, trees he will slowly feed, fungus he’ll one day nurture.

Consuming him slowly.

The earth hums beneath him, around him. Embracing him, enveloping him.

Welcoming him home.

The breeze has picked up, rippling through the grasses, rustling the trees, caressing his bare skin, soft and warm.

In the distance, he thinks he hears a familiar voice on the wind, calling his name.

Xingchen! Xingchen…

Smiling to himself, Xingchen sinks deeper into the earth.

*

The inherent eroticism of losing an eyeball atop your lover

*

liked it? AO3...or even spare a reblog?

[finnified]

a list of things i absolutely love about / kind of analysis on hog hunt, compiled as i watch it for the second time:

(under the cut cos this got really long)

right near the beginning when they’re raising the anvil, she does this really cool transition from the light on the anvil to the light on the curtain in tubbo’s first few frames. it’s incredibly smooth and it works rlly well. the pattern is also continued to the shine on tubbo’s axe when he twists it to see his face in it which is also rlly neat.

i’ll probably point this out several times, but the use of perspective in this animatic is amazing. we first see it from phil standing on his balcony looking at the raised anvil, but the use of perspective is absolutely INCREDIBLE all throughout this animatic.

we see it right after this, actually, with the trees and the crow flying over it. not only is the perspective so cool here, but the motion with the feathers is also amazing.

i also love how whenever ghostbur shows up, the screen gets a little glitchy. i’m not sure what i like about it but it’s just kinda fitting with his static-y eyes and such.

PHILS CROWS!!

THE TRANSITION SCENE FROM TUBBO WALKING DOWN THE HALL OF THE WHITE HOUSE TO HIM PULLING OUT THE AXE AND SUDDENLY THE BUTCHER ARMY IS ALL THERE. that was so absolutely satisfying, with the sound effect of quackity’s torch and all. also ranboo is there which is <3

the transitions in this animatic really might be my favorite part. we get the bit with techno suiting up with his cape and his crown and then the really cool fog that allows him to appear outside with the butcher army, and we can see someone level their axe in front of them and BOOM techno appears out of the smoke, pulling the axe back and swinging. it’s AMAZING.

the swinging motion from that last scene allows a little bit of a still waving transition into the butcher army room, which is STUNNING by the way (and also ranboo) which then flawlessly pulls into phil and then the scene in phil’s house with the shattered glass visual and audio combination it’s AMAZING. the frame with phil’s chest in white on the black background with the only color being ghostbur’s blue is also really neat here as well.

i absolutely ADORE the frames where tubbo finds the compass, because you can hear and see the smirk in his voice and i love how the compass drops down on the little string and it’s just. so poggers. love that. the part directly after that where it zooms in on phil and you get the opportunity to see the weight of the situation from his perspective is AMAZING.

and the collection of frames after that that go in the flashes of light? quackity with his back to the screen, techno reading the letter (TECHNOGLASSES POG) phil’s compass slowly pointing forward to the viewer? the flash of phil standing on his balcony, and then the butcher army which gets cut off of view by one of phil’s crows, with the feathers in the background that morph into his wings? this sequence is so powerful, for a reason i can’t quite place, but i absolutely adore it.

THEN WE GET THAT PHIL SCENE THAT EVERYONE’S FAWNING OVER, AND RIGHTFULLY SO. the camera slowly pans down to phil’s face, and then his hat tips forward so the shadow can grow on his face, and then we get that really cool glitch effect where he turns all black with the white eyes and such. it’s so cool.

then we get the ‘i choose blood’ scene, which in all honesty i had to replay several times to properly get my thoughts down on. this whole bit is so incredibly smooth and flows so well, with techno’s cape and the butcher army readying their axes and then techno pulling the potions from seemingly nowhere and then the colored smoke again from earlier- which i quite literally can’t get enough of, sad-ist do your shoes need shinin ma’am, and then the whole sequence where tubbo is pinned by techno and screaming at quackity to do something, which transitions FLAWLESSLY into big q and carl. you can see techno’s shock even before he realizes quackity actually has carl, and i applaud sad-ist for being able to convey that much emotion even without techno’s eyes.

the spinning from the camera being right next to techno to right behind quackity is also amazing. i think the color of the background shifts slightly? which i think might represent something, but it sort of just stood out to me in the moment. the perspective when quack is talking and holding carl’s reigns is amazing, because it’s slightly below quack’s eye level, which gives us the impression of looking up at him, and also really allows us to see how much danger carl is actually in.

once again i applaud sad-ist for her ability to convey so much emotion in techno even with half of his face covered. his resignation of his own safety for carl’s is aggressively clear as he drops the cape and the crown away.

and then we get the phil sneaking out sequence, which i had to slow down to properly appreciate, but it’s REALLY cool. the blue handprint on the tree? the entire skull motif? (which my friend mysso pointed out) it ties back into The phil scene from this animatic earlier and i really love it.

then we have literally what might be my favorite scene in this animatic!! which is stupid maybe because it’s one of the less important scenes, but i love it nonetheless. it’s the scene where they’re walking techno into lmanburg and phil is on his balcony and says “you actually got him” which transitions into tubbo reminding him that he’s on house arrest and then techno running forward with the chains (which have their own noise, which i think is such a poggers detail) and demanding to know what they did to phil. i love absolutely everything about this scene, from (once again) the extreme amount of expression that techno has even with the mask to the fact that it takes both quackity and fundy to restrain him once he’s pissed off to once again the absolutely FLAWLESS motion in that bit. you can see the struggle happening perfectly with techno’s flailing and quackity reaching forward to grab his arm and all, and i love it.

the little short scene we get with techno shifting slightly side to side to imply walking slowly in time with the music is also really cool. detail in sad-ist’s animatics my beloved.

THEN WE HAVE THE PUNZ SCENE!!! i absolutely love this one because of the use of perspective as well. it flips from tubbo doing his speech to the rooftop with punz and dream, and dream slowly raises his hand and punz flips the ender pearl and then APPEARS on the ground, sheds the cape in a single movement (might honestly be my favorite singular motion in this animatic) tosses the potions, we see the beloved colored smoke again, and when it clears punz and ranboo are going at it. you get the amazing panic in tubbo’s voice with him screaming at big q to pull the lever, and techno’s iconic little ‘heh??’ and then-

anvil drops. here comes the best scene in this animatic.

we get a few seconds of techno staring up at the anvil in shock, holding the totem, and it’s super cool actually because at the very end of that you see the bottom of the anvil come into super sharp detail in the reflection of techno’s eye. it flashes to ghostbur on the outside, watching the anvil fall, and when the sound of impact comes the totem explodes. that frame on its own is amazing and i might make that my background just because of how dynamic it is, with the light exploding and everything, and THEN. THEN WE GET TECHNO’S ABSOLUTELY STUNNING REANIMATION SEQUENCE with the flesh wrapping back around him, being stitched together it’s the green totem threads, his skull underneath and the blood, it’s amazing. he jumps through the bars of the cage with the chains mostly broken except for one on his hand, and he runs off after dream who has carl. WHILE THIS IS HAPPENING, (and someone on tumblr just pointed it out,) techno is still actually reforming. one of his legs is only fully solid once he’s outside the cage and one of his arms is still reforming when he swings it through the bars- thats why he’s able to get out so easily, and that’s why it’s bleeding in the next few scenes.

dream in this animatic is terrifying, by the way. he’s the most inhuman we’ve ever seen him, with the hood always up and the shadow covering half the mask so there’s no way to see under it. i know a few people on tumblr have pointed out sad-ist’s design progression with dream (from very very human with the mask on the side to the mask on to the mask and the cape) but it’s so wonderful that i felt the need to say it again.

and then dream is gone and quackity is here. time for the most banger fight scene to ever be animated in the history of animated fight scenes!

the motion in this fight scene is amazing. techno never stops moving. he’s darting under quackity’s legs, twirling the pickaxe (he’s fighting with a pickaxe!) JUMPING OVER QUACKITY’S HEAD AND YANKING HIS AXE OUT FROM HIS GRASP WHICH IS HONESTLY THE COOLES THING, and that motion continues smoothly when you see the axe get imbedded in the wall, and then you get the ‘put it through your teeth’ which is AMAZING.

and then it slowly fades back to techno’s cabin, and then TOMMY!! he looks so soft in these few seconds when he’s here, and i love that for him, mostly because it shows how much he’s changed. the sound effects when the wither wall is dropping are flawless as well, and i know everyone is saying this as well but i literally cannot, CANNOT get over how techno does the spreading-his-arms-curling-his-fists thing in front of the wither vault like he did in the dawn of the sixteenth animatic in the revolutionary’s vault. we get those two frames- one with techno suddenly splashed in blood, and then the one where that blood turns green and we’re left with only the blood, techno’s eyes and tusks, and the very barest outline of the wither vault, all in the same bright green. techno’s laughter also draws out even through the closing scene, which is another nice touch.

overall? absolutely amazing animatic, so many things to point out and pick apart, and i am definitely going to watch it like eight hundred more times.

[fairyreaper22345]

Bokuto Being A Happy Owl, 5 Times in a Row

❤ ao3 link in reblogs ❤

ship: bokuto koutarou/akaashi keiji

words: 2625

tags: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Mentioned Kuroo Tetsurou, Kuroo Thirdwheels BokuAka, One Shot, Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Owl Bokuto Koutarou, Owl Akaashi Keiji, Akaashi Keiji is Soft for Bokuto Koutarou, Non-Sexual Shower Sharing

summary:

5 times Bokuto was a happy owl, and 1 time Akaashi was too.

---

1 - Taking Food Without Feeling the Need to Hide or Show Aggression

“Akaashi! Akaashi!” Bokuto sang, like a bird repeating a tune - it hardly still sounded like a name. He said it so often, crowing it repetitively like a chick in the nest, that it felt more like a gust of wind or a poem in a foreign language.

“Mmm?” Akaashi hummed, indicating he was listening to his boyfriend, but his eyes were still trained down on the paper plate in his lap as he sliced the yakiniku into edible strips of pure, thick, barbecued meat. Kou’s favourite. Kou had a lot of favourites, he was frankly very opinionated - he had a favourite multiple of 7, even (49) - but his favourite person, favourite teammate, favourite thing in the whole wide world, was Akaashi Keiji, and he made sure Akaashi knew it.

“Did you see that AWESOME cut shot I did the other day? Didya? Didya Akaashi?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” he continued, still not looking up, stabbing a piece of meat with his plastic fork and lifting it up to Bokuto’s mouth. Bokuto took it between his teeth eagerly, chewing, continuing to talk, “it was a fluke! I bet I could do it again though Akaashi. You gotta let me try again!”

Akaashi nodded, sort of listening and sort of not, still slicing meat to feed to his overactive boyfriend.

“Come here,” he said, positioning the meat in front of Kou’s face, staring subconsciously into his golden eyes. With a bright, beaming, 24-karat smile, Bokuto opened his mouth as wide as he could.

“Really guys? There are first years here,” muttered Kuroo, tired of third-wheeling their overly wholesome relationship. He was slightly jealous of how easily they displayed affection in public, but mostly he was just… so, so tired. Like, c’mon guys. We get it, you love each other. Jesus.

Through chewing, Bokuto somehow managed to reply, “you wish you had what we have.”

Kuroo really, really didn’t.

Okay, maybe a little, but that was a whole other thing.

2 - Gently Using Beak, Feet and Talons

Bokuto liked being little spoon. He felt safe, with Akaashi's arms wrapped around him like a mother goose protecting a gosling. He liked when Akaashi nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck.

But he liked being big spoon, too - he was a big guy, 6'1", 78 kilos of pure muscle - and he felt so powerful when his huge, muscular arms cradled Akaashi, a nest of blankets above them, his face breathing warmly into Akaashi’s space. When Akaashi’s feathery locks brushed his nose, he felt so safe, and felt like Kaashi was safe too.

He wasn’t the most… immobile cuddler. Something about the way Bokuto was meant that he really struggled to stay still - so when he snuggled with Akaashi, his boyfriend, light of his life, protagonist of his world, he couldn’t help but fidget, his feet twitching occasionally, his fingernails running lightly over Akaashi’s tummy and drawing shapes and writing names gently on his skin. His nails weren’t sharp, exactly, but they were pointed, and when he would slightly scratch how much he cared into Kaashi’s flesh, the marks would stay a little while, even though they never hurt.

Kaashi’s skin was fragile, see. He bruised easily, often ending up with bruised legs and no idea how the bruises even got there (turns out Bo kicked calmly when he dreamed). Keiji having such sensitive skin was both a joy and a pain in the butt - Bokuto loved it when he could see his biting kisses still on his setter’s shoulders from the night before, but more than once it had led to uncomfortable confrontations in the clubroom.

Kotarou was always very placid with his angel; he feared harming this delicate, not frail exactly but certainly not robust, beautiful dove of a man. Akaashi was a clear, ripple-less lake, a cloudless sky, a gliding bird, a swan in flight, and Bokuto treasured every raindrop of time they spent together.

When they huddled together, on a couch or in Akaashi’s too-small bed, Bokuto always was so, so patient with Akaashi, so gentle, his hands roaming less like jeeps and more like kingfishers searching for a flower to drink from. His feather-light kisses trailed from Akaashi’s cheeks, to his neck, to his forearms, all the way up his long, talon-like fingers, where they rested ever so carefully against the pads of Akaashi’s fingertips.

With Bokuto curled so meticulously, so caringly around his spine, Bo’s arms like powerful wings extending from his body and curled flush around his torso, Akaashi felt safe. He felt loved. He felt, as Kotarou’s biceps pressed just a little too heavily against him, that he belonged with those dull nails against his tummy, and the bouncing feet against his calves, and the kisses lighting sparks in his heart. He belonged there, with Bokuto. And there he planned on staying.

3 - Allopreening

Another practise match against Nekoma. Another narrow victory.

The team captain squatted on the gym floor, his body so low to the ground, but just high enough for him to tuck his feet underneath himself. Sweat stained through his uniform - it was lucky they wore black, or the marks would be more than obvious - and his hair gel was slipping, horns deflating with exhaustion rather than emotion.

Akaashi couldn’t help but stare at him. He was only sitting two or so feet away, on the bench, chugging water from his bottle, admiring the glistening of Bokuto’s arms, the way his broad chest heaved with hard breaths, the way his slick hair started to fall from it’s heavy-sprayed position.

Keiji loved Bokuto’s hair. Sure, it was pretty when it was down, but Bokuto never felt more like himself than when his locks were shaped into a crown, with his face like a bird's nest settled comfortably in the crook between branches. It was more genuine, like that - he just wasn’t himself when his hair was down. He even slept with the horns, for goodness’ sake - it can’t have been good for his hair, but he liked it that way. With his hair up like that, he was just so unapologetically Bokuto , and that was all that Keiji wanted, and all that Keiji loved.

Kotarou’s golden eyes looked up to find Akaashi, not glaring exactly, but he always had that harsh face. In reality, he was looking with infatuation, obsession, a love so overwhelming it consumed his every moment. Bokuto had gotten used to this. At first he thought the looks were aggressive, or reproachful, but he learned with time that those hard, expressionless looks simply meant that Akaashi valued him above everything else. Above volleyball, above gold, above the future and the world - to Akaashi, Bokuto was worth all of it and more. His heart was pure, and it belonged to Bo, and to him alone.

“Hey,” he offered, still attempting to catch his breath, his hair elevating ever so slightly as his eyes locked with his setter’s.

“Hey.”

His hand reached out, gentle as water on a lake, to close the distance between them. His nails landed just above Akaashi’s hairline, wiping sweat away from his face haphazardly, trying not to mess up his fringe.

“You had some sweat there.”

“I’ve got sweat everywhere, Bokuto-san.”

Kotarou smiled, just a little, lifting himself so his face was in Keiji’s, and he started using the hem of his shirt to mop at Keiji’s pinking face.

When he lifted the cloth, his abdomen poked out, his belly button searing itself into Kaashi’s vision, the chiseled and tight muscle - born from hours upon hours of workout routines - seeming to reflect the artificial golden light from the gym’s strip lights and making him look a little more blessed than usual. With a body like that, Kotarou could do whatever he wanted, seduce anyone he wanted, play any sport or perform any role (that was, assuming said role was of a member of the Greek pantheon). He was just- he was- that torso- if the gods have ever visited Earth, then Bokuto, with his wings and his horns and his claws and his abs (oh man, his abs) was their last true descendant. His swan-like grace as he flew up to spike, and that eagle’s eye precision… he was a tengu , for sure.

And then the shirt lowered, and Akaashi snapped back into focus, and now he was sweating more, only this time it wasn’t from the game.

4 - Preening, Feaking and Bathing

Was it unusual for Kotarou to sing in the shower?

No.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to leave the door unlocked when he showered?

Also no - apparently he was paranoid about slipping in the tub and ending up dead on the tile.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to attempt to write songs as he showered, the door wide open, cawing loudly about Akaashi’s eyes?

Yes.

He stood in Akaashi’s bathroom (he was staying with him for the weekend - Keiji’s parents were thrilled to see Bokuto again, and he was allowed to use their shower whenever he pleased), soap suds all over his body, massaging his pecs with moisturising body wash. He wasn’t wearing clothes, and Akaashi knew he shouldn’t stare, but with the way he was smiling and singing- “and his EEEEEEEYES, they’re like… uh, hold on, what rhymes with eyes-” and his body was covered with bubbles, Akaashi couldn’t really help it.

“Akaashi!”

Keiji took a second, and then realised Bokuto - oh, beautiful, handsome, magical Bokuto, Bokuto who moved like the wind, Bokuto who smiled like the sun and kissed like flower petals and laughed like birdsong - was talking to him, gesturing, flapping his hand and suggesting Akaashi joined him.

“C’mon! Can you help me with my hair?”

Keiji felt his cheeks flare up - Bokuto asked him to share a bathroom, to stand together with nothing but hot water and steam between them, and- and he asked him to touch-

Letting out a strangled hum of agreement, sounding like a chick that hadn’t yet found its song, Akaashi pushed himself forward, stripping down and filling his hands with shampoo. As Bokuto knelt down, so Keiji could better massage the shampoo into his hair, Akaashi couldn't stop himself from dwelling on the stretch marks on his biceps and thighs, where he'd gained so much muscle in so little time that his body just couldn't keep up. The slightly purple, pulled skin just made his wingspan look larger, the muscle more toned and defined  (not that he needed it), the strong body even more beautiful and unique and Bokuto .

Bokuto played enthusiastically with the bubbles as Akaashi’s long fingers ran through his iridescent silver-black hair, using them to make it look as if he had the world’s fluffiest beard, and then covering his hands in bubbles and pretending they were some form of water magic.

It was so endearing. He was so at ease, and the world seemed to follow - the shower water wasn’t as harsh and biting as it was when Akaashi was alone, and the sunshine from the small frosted window kept making a dappled spotlight flicker on and off Bokuto’s statuesque arms.

Massaging lotion into his boyfriend’s shoulders, Akaashi thought to himself.

Hm, he thought. When Michelangelo sculpted his masterpiece, this must’ve been what drove him.

5 - Content Vocalisations and Standing on One Foot

The whistling of the kettle filled Bokuto’s small kitchen, the high pitch interrupted as Keiji lifted it and poured his and his boyfriend’s morning tea - calming chamomile for him, berry for Bokuto - and the placid tune of the radio drifted hazily through the room like a mating tune for dawn-rising birds. The windows were open, and the dew that rested in the air felt clean as the slight breeze from outside dusted it on Akaashi’s face. Sipping from his favourite mug (novelty - huge, shaped like an owl, with black and gold glittery eyes), Bokuto hummed lightly to himself, bouncing on the tips of his toes. The music felt comforting to him, and occasionally between sips he’d try and whistle along, or sing a couple of the words if he remembered them - every time he did, Akaashi gave him one of those special smiles, the ones where his ice-eyes melted from sub-zero to a warm bath, and his mouth tugged up into a crescent moon.

Akaashi’s smile was the moon, and Bokuto was nocturnal.

Soon enough, a song came on that Bokuto knew, and his grin stopped for just a moment; and then it was back, wider than ever, as he haphazardly placed his mug on the counter, his heart in Akaashi’s hands, and the lyrics in his throat. Kaashi was in his arms as he pranced through his kitchen, caroling to a song Akaashi would treasure, throwing his legs into the air and doing clumsy pirouettes on his linoleum floor. The chorus felt like a love spell - or perhaps a curse of passion - and Akaashi was under it, with the way he tried to swerve underneath Bokuto’s impressive wingspan as they made up a dance as they went.

The tune finished, but Kotarou continued, fingers darting up Akaashi’s arms, then to his hips, then twisting him around like a ribbon in a traditional Chinese dance. He’d laugh, and whistle, and just make little noises as Akaashi played along, and when he put him down Keiji all but jumped into Bokuto’s arms.

“It’s like I was flying,” he said, tucking his arms in as close as they could get to Kotarou’s strong back muscles, trying to not to let Bokuto stand on his feet as they twisted in patient harmony.

Bokuto saw that smile again, that crescent-moon smile that he thrived under, and couldn’t restrain himself from kissing it like that was all he had.

Akaashi tasted like chamomile - a chamomile crescent.

+1 - Comfortable Playfulness

Bokuto was his own brand of chaos - uncontrolled, unpredictable - and in a way, Akaashi was too. Akaashi was controlled, and patient, but had a way of making the weird seem normal and the normal seem weird. When Kaashi relaxed, stopped overthinking, put his heart before his head and pushed all his responsibility aside, he was a handful, playful, an exhibit of unrestrained joy.

It was no mystery that this version of him existed only when Bokuto sat beside him.

“Kaashi,” started Bokuto.

“Bo.”

Bokuto stopped, knowing he’d just been interrupted.

“Akaashi-” he tried, starting again.

“Bokuto.”

Squinting, Bokuto smiled, and tried a third time.

“Keiji-”

“Kotarou.”

“You’re playing a game! You’re messing with me, aren’t you!”

Restraining a polite snort, Akaashi looked up, his eyes intense and humoured, his brows furrowed in a way that was almost avian. “Me? Never.”

Bokuto, ever so gently, pushed Akaashi, just to see if he’d comply.

Akaashi damn-near grinned, before shoving Bokuto as hard as he could.

“Oh, it is so on,” Bokuto said, jumping out of his position on the couch and running after Kaashi as he dashed to the door.

“Catch me first!”

Akaashi might tease Bokuto, and he might pretend to be cold and empty and he might sigh with discontent as Kou fell into one of his slumps, but as they chased each other around the house, taking chips from the fridge and eating a few before throwing them at each other, politely tapping each other to say who was “it”, fixing each others’ hair after messing it up with kisses, adjusting their shirts and laughing to each other as they fell in a heap on the floor, Kaashi knew there’s not a single person on Earth he’d rather hold.

In this life, and every one following, in every reality, Akaashi and Bokuto were in love.

Akaashi and Bokuto were both handfuls - but that’s why they held each others’ hands.

[softmothprince]

Pet

Two for one special on Obey Me! fics this month, I still wanted to writer after posting my Mammon one.

---------------------------------

“You know I’m busy right now.” Lucifer sighs, glancing at the pouting girl standing over him. “I will join you later, sweet girl. But do not test my patience.”

Instead of taking his warning, she pushes his chair back and grabs his face in her hands, pressing their lips together softly. MC’s lips taste like cherry candy, most likely from the chapstick Asmo gave her not that long ago. His fingers curl into those soft locks and tugs her head back as he stands, allowing him to press more against her.

His other hand grabs around her waist and squeezes tightly, pulling her against his front. Their tongues flick and tangle against each other, and when they part a small string of spit is connecting their lips still.

“I may be able to forgive you for this interruption, sweet thing. Hands together, in front of you.” He hums when she does so, untying the knot at his neck and pulls the slim fabric from its place.

He ties her hands together with the red silk, keeping the knot tight but comfortable. He sits down and reaches under her skirt to pull down her panties, then proceeding to tug her into his lap. Her tied hands loop around his neck and rest at his nape, fingers playing with his hair.

Lucifer holds her in place by a hand on her hip while the other undoes his slacks and pulls out his cock, slowly stroking it until it is erect and pulsing. He then slips his hand up to her pussy, thumb finding her clit and rubbing in smooth circles until he feels the wet heat trickling against his fingertips.

“Up you go.”

MC’s knees dig into the plush material of the arm chair as she sits up on them, before slowly sinking down onto the head of his cock. She gasps and wiggles, arms straining against the tie.

“Easy, pet. Take only what you can.” He purrs, rubbing his hand over her thigh. “It won’t do either of us any good if you break yourself too quickly.”

She whines and rolls her head onto her shoulder, staring at the smug demon with watery eyes. Taking a deep breath, she sinks down all the way and tosses her head back, letting out a soft cry as her thighs quiver on either side of his hips. Though her head is forced back forward and she finds herself staring into deep red eyes.

“Look at me, sweetheart. Look me in the eye as you take my cock.” He orders, tugging on the tie when she twitched. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Be a good girl and look into your master’s eyes.” That does it, and she stares eagerly into his eyes as he manages to push her down harder.

Lucifer hums in approval, leaning forward to place a kiss to her forehead. “Now, you are going to sit there and be silent until this is completed, alright?” He says, bumping his hips up when she takes too long to respond and gets a choked ‘yes sir!’ in response. “Good girl.”

Keeping one hand on her back, he lets her lean against his chest as he slides his chair closer to the desk and reaches around to continue his paperwork. MC sighs and nuzzles into his shoulder, letting her eyes close as the warmth from Lucifer’s body seeps into hers.

In what feels like hours later, only twenty minutes, the demon sets his pen down and turns his attention completely to his pet. He gently grabs the nape of her neck and squeezes, waking her from her daze and making her sit up.

“Lucifer…?” She asks, whimpering when he squeezes her thighs around his waist and stands up. He walks over to the couch and drops them both down. “What are you-”

“I’m going to do as you wish, sweet thing.” His hand tightens around her neck and she gasps. “I’m going to fuck you until you’re nothing but a mess that only knows my name.” He wastes no time in thrusting back into her pussy, grunting and moaning into her ear.

Their skin makes loud, wet sounds as it slaps together, only being drowned out by MC’s loud moans and squeals. Her moans break off into weak pleads, voice cracking and rising in pitch.

“M-master ple-please, please I ca-AN’T!” She sobs, tugging at the silk still around her wrists.

He growls, scraping his teeth over her marked up throat and pulls her thighs tighter around his waist. “That’s it, my pet. Beg. Beg for me to let you cum. Scream until you’re hoarse.” He pushes himself faster, watching her struggle more against her restraints.

In a split second decision, he swiftly undoes the tie and purrs when her hands latch onto his back, nails digging into the skin and marking the pale skin. It happens so fast that she doesn’t realize exactly when, but her fingers snag onto the dark feathers of his wings and whatever she did next caused Lucifer to sink his teeth into her shoulder.

Blood bubbles up and out, staining both of their skin red. The taste and feeling of her blood on his tongue causes an almost animalistic sound to build in his chest. He doesn’t stop when he feels her cum around his cock, her velvety walls spasming and trying to milk him. He has to force himself to not just cum inside her warm cunt.

There would be a time for that. Once he feels that familiar edge, he pulls out and strokes his cock until it shoots white all over her heaving stomach. Lucifer quickly gains control of his breathing, finding his pet still blissed out and locked into subspace. Humming softly, he carefully strokes her cheek before moving to lift her off the couch.

He moves to his bathroom and draws up a bath, which he sits both of them in once it is full. He runs a cloth gently over her sensitive flesh, shushing her when she flinches and whimpers. He presses a kiss to her temple, muttering sweet words until he is finished with those spots and then continues quietly.

He then tilts her head back, taking the shower head to wet her hair before washing the strands and tenderly running his fingers through it. Once he determines it clean, he nestles her against his chest and places soft kisses over her face, trying to bring her back. After a few seconds, he notices her eyes are in focus and looking at him.

“Have you come back to me, sweet thing?” He whispers, cupping her face in his hand and stroking his thumb under her eye.

She nods slowly, grabbing his hand in hers and leans into it with a sigh. The steam from the water fills her lungs and relaxes her further, causing her to lean even more into the demon.

“You can sleep, pet. I will get you to bed.”

Is the last thing she hears before she falls asleep against Lucifer, the deep rumbling in his chest curling around her lovingly.

[fanfictionisusuallylife]

Bokuto Being A Happy Owl, 5 Times In A Row

❤ ao3 link in reblogs ❤

ship: bokuto koutarou/akaashi keiji

words: 2625

tags: 5+1 Things, Established Relationship, Mentioned Kuroo Tetsurou, Kuroo Thirdwheels BokuAka, One Shot, Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Owl Bokuto Koutarou, Owl Akaashi Keiji, Akaashi Keiji is Soft for Bokuto Koutarou, Non-Sexual Shower Sharing

summary:

5 times Bokuto was a happy owl, and 1 time Akaashi was too.

---

1 - Taking Food Without Feeling the Need to Hide or Show Aggression

“Akaashi! Akaashi!” Bokuto sang, like a bird repeating a tune - it hardly still sounded like a name. He said it so often, crowing it repetitively like a chick in the nest, that it felt more like a gust of wind or a poem in a foreign language.

“Mmm?” Akaashi hummed, indicating he was listening to his boyfriend, but his eyes were still trained down on the paper plate in his lap as he sliced the yakiniku into edible strips of pure, thick, barbecued meat. Kou’s favourite. Kou had a lot of favourites, he was frankly very opinionated - he had a favourite multiple of 7, even (49) - but his favourite person, favourite teammate, favourite thing in the whole wide world, was Akaashi Keiji, and he made sure Akaashi knew it. 

“Did you see that AWESOME cut shot I did the other day? Didya? Didya Akaashi?”

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” he continued, still not looking up, stabbing a piece of meat with his plastic fork and lifting it up to Bokuto’s mouth. Bokuto took it between his teeth eagerly, chewing, continuing to talk, “it was a fluke! I bet I could do it again though Akaashi. You gotta let me try again!”

Akaashi nodded, sort of listening and sort of not, still slicing meat to feed to his overactive boyfriend.

“Come here,” he said, positioning the meat in front of Kou’s face, staring subconsciously into his golden eyes. With a bright, beaming, 24-karat smile, Bokuto opened his mouth as wide as he could. 

“Really guys? There are first years here,” muttered Kuroo, tired of third-wheeling their overly wholesome relationship. He was slightly jealous of how easily they displayed affection in public, but mostly he was just… so, so tired. Like, c’mon guys. We get it, you love each other. Jesus.

Through chewing, Bokuto somehow managed to reply, “you wish you had what we have.”

Kuroo really, really didn’t.

Okay, maybe a little, but that was a whole other thing.

2 - Gently Using Beak, Feet and Talons 

Bokuto liked being little spoon. He felt safe, with Akaashi's arms wrapped around him like a mother goose protecting a gosling. He liked when Akaashi nuzzled his nose into the crook of his neck.

But he liked being big spoon, too - he was a big guy, 6'1", 78 kilos of pure muscle - and he felt so powerful when his huge, muscular arms cradled Akaashi, a nest of blankets above them, his face breathing warmly into Akaashi’s space. When Akaashi’s feathery locks brushed his nose, he felt so safe, and felt like Kaashi was safe too.

He wasn’t the most… immobile cuddler. Something about the way Bokuto was meant that he really struggled to stay still - so when he snuggled with Akaashi, his boyfriend, light of his life, protagonist of his world, he couldn’t help but fidget, his feet twitching occasionally, his fingernails running lightly over Akaashi’s tummy and drawing shapes and writing names gently on his skin. His nails weren’t sharp, exactly, but they were pointed, and when he would slightly scratch how much he cared into Kaashi’s flesh, the marks would stay a little while, even though they never hurt. 

Kaashi’s skin was fragile, see. He bruised easily, often ending up with bruised legs and no idea how the bruises even got there (turns out Bo kicked calmly when he dreamed). Keiji having such sensitive skin was both a joy and a pain in the butt - Bokuto loved it when he could see his biting kisses still on his setter’s shoulders from the night before, but more than once it had led to uncomfortable confrontations in the clubroom.

Kotarou was always very placid with his angel; he feared harming this delicate, not frail exactly but certainly not robust, beautiful dove of a man. Akaashi was a clear, ripple-less lake, a cloudless sky, a gliding bird, a swan in flight, and Bokuto treasured every raindrop of time they spent together.

When they huddled together, on a couch or in Akaashi’s too-small bed, Bokuto always was so, so patient with Akaashi, so gentle, his hands roaming less like jeeps and more like kingfishers searching for a flower to drink from. His feather-light kisses trailed from Akaashi’s cheeks, to his neck, to his forearms, all the way up his long, talon-like fingers, where they rested ever so carefully against the pads of Akaashi’s fingertips.

With Bokuto curled so meticulously, so caringly around his spine, Bo’s arms like powerful wings extending from his body and curled flush around his torso, Akaashi felt safe. He felt loved. He felt, as Kotarou’s biceps pressed just a little too heavily against him, that he belonged with those dull nails against his tummy, and the bouncing feet against his calves, and the kisses lighting sparks in his heart. He belonged there, with Bokuto. And there he planned on staying. 

3 - Allopreening 

Another practise match against Nekoma. Another narrow victory.

The team captain squatted on the gym floor, his body so low to the ground, but just high enough for him to tuck his feet underneath himself. Sweat stained through his uniform - it was lucky they wore black, or the marks would be more than obvious - and his hair gel was slipping, horns deflating with exhaustion rather than emotion.

Akaashi couldn’t help but stare at him. He was only sitting two or so feet away, on the bench, chugging water from his bottle, admiring the glistening of Bokuto’s arms, the way his broad chest heaved with hard breaths, the way his slick hair started to fall from it’s heavy-sprayed position.

Keiji loved Bokuto’s hair. Sure, it was pretty when it was down, but Bokuto never felt more like himself than when his locks were shaped into a crown, with his face like a bird's nest settled comfortably in the crook between branches. It was more genuine, like that - he just wasn’t himself when his hair was down. He even slept with the horns, for goodness’ sake - it can’t have been good for his hair, but he liked it that way. With his hair up like that, he was just so unapologetically Bokuto, and that was all that Keiji wanted, and all that Keiji loved.

Kotarou’s golden eyes looked up to find Akaashi, not glaring exactly, but he always had that harsh face. In reality, he was looking with infatuation, obsession, a love so overwhelming it consumed his every moment. Bokuto had gotten used to this. At first he thought the looks were aggressive, or reproachful, but he learned with time that those hard, expressionless looks simply meant that Akaashi valued him above everything else. Above volleyball, above gold, above the future and the world - to Akaashi, Bokuto was worth all of it and more. His heart was pure, and it belonged to Bo, and to him alone.

“Hey,” he offered, still attempting to catch his breath, his hair elevating ever so slightly as his eyes locked with his setter’s.

“Hey.”

His hand reached out, gentle as water on a lake, to close the distance between them. His nails landed just above Akaashi’s hairline, wiping sweat away from his face haphazardly, trying not to mess up his fringe.

“You had some sweat there.”

“I’ve got sweat everywhere, Bokuto-san.”

Kotarou smiled, just a little, lifting himself so his face was in Keiji’s, and he started using the hem of his shirt to mop at Keiji’s pinking face. 

When he lifted the cloth, his abdomen poked out, his belly button searing itself into Kaashi’s vision, the chiseled and tight muscle - born from hours upon hours of workout routines - seeming to reflect the artificial golden light from the gym’s strip lights and making him look a little more blessed than usual. With a body like that, Kotarou could do whatever he wanted, seduce anyone he wanted, play any sport or perform any role (that was, assuming said role was of a member of the Greek pantheon). He was just- he was- that torso- if the gods have ever visited Earth, then Bokuto, with his wings and his horns and his claws and his abs (oh man, his abs) was their last true descendant. His swan-like grace as he flew up to spike, and that eagle’s eye precision… he was a tengu, for sure.

And then the shirt lowered, and Akaashi snapped back into focus, and now he was sweating more, only this time it wasn’t from the game. 

4 - Preening, Feaking and Bathing

Was it unusual for Kotarou to sing in the shower?

No.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to leave the door unlocked when he showered?

Also no - apparently he was paranoid about slipping in the tub and ending up dead on the tile.

Was it unusual for Kotarou to attempt to write songs as he showered, the door wide open, cawing loudly about Akaashi’s eyes?

Yes.

He stood in Akaashi’s bathroom (he was staying with him for the weekend - Keiji’s parents were thrilled to see Bokuto again, and he was allowed to use their shower whenever he pleased), soap suds all over his body, massaging his pecs with moisturising body wash. He wasn’t wearing clothes, and Akaashi knew he shouldn’t stare, but with the way he was smiling and singing- “and his EEEEEEEYES, they’re like… uh, hold on, what rhymes with eyes-” and his body was covered with bubbles, Akaashi couldn’t really help it.

“Akaashi!”

Keiji took a second, and then realised Bokuto - oh, beautiful, handsome, magical Bokuto, Bokuto who moved like the wind, Bokuto who smiled like the sun and kissed like flower petals and laughed like birdsong - was talking to him, gesturing, flapping his hand and suggesting Akaashi joined him.

“C’mon! Can you help me with my hair?”

Keiji felt his cheeks flare up - Bokuto asked him to share a bathroom, to stand together with nothing but hot water and steam between them, and- and he asked him to touch-

Letting out a strangled hum of agreement, sounding like a chick that hadn’t yet found its song, Akaashi pushed himself forward, stripping down and filling his hands with shampoo. As Bokuto knelt down, so Keiji could better massage the shampoo into his hair, Akaashi couldn't stop himself from dwelling on the stretch marks on his biceps and thighs, where he'd gained so much muscle in so little time that his body just couldn't keep up. The slightly purple, pulled skin just made his wingspan look larger, the muscle more toned and defined  (not that he needed it), the strong body even more beautiful and unique and Bokuto.

Bokuto played enthusiastically with the bubbles as Akaashi’s long fingers ran through his iridescent silver-black hair, using them to make it look as if he had the world’s fluffiest beard, and then covering his hands in bubbles and pretending they were some form of water magic.

It was so endearing. He was so at ease, and the world seemed to follow - the shower water wasn’t as harsh and biting as it was when Akaashi was alone, and the sunshine from the small frosted window kept making a dappled spotlight flicker on and off Bokuto’s statuesque arms.

Massaging lotion into his boyfriend’s shoulders, Akaashi thought to himself.

Hm, he thought. When Michelangelo sculpted his masterpiece, this must’ve been what drove him.

5 - Content Vocalisations and Standing on One Foot

The whistling of the kettle filled Bokuto’s small kitchen, the high pitch interrupted as Keiji lifted it and poured his and his boyfriend’s morning tea - calming chamomile for him, berry for Bokuto - and the placid tune of the radio drifted hazily through the room like a mating tune for dawn-rising birds. The windows were open, and the dew that rested in the air felt clean as the slight breeze from outside dusted it on Akaashi’s face. Sipping from his favourite mug (novelty - huge, shaped like an owl, with black and gold glittery eyes), Bokuto hummed lightly to himself, bouncing on the tips of his toes. The music felt comforting to him, and occasionally between sips he’d try and whistle along, or sing a couple of the words if he remembered them - every time he did, Akaashi gave him one of those special smiles, the ones where his ice-eyes melted from sub-zero to a warm bath, and his mouth tugged up into a crescent moon.

Akaashi’s smile was the moon, and Bokuto was nocturnal.

Soon enough, a song came on that Bokuto knew, and his grin stopped for just a moment; and then it was back, wider than ever, as he haphazardly placed his mug on the counter, his heart in Akaashi’s hands, and the lyrics in his throat. Kaashi was in his arms as he pranced through his kitchen, caroling to a song Akaashi would treasure, throwing his legs into the air and doing clumsy pirouettes on his linoleum floor. The chorus felt like a love spell - or perhaps a curse of passion - and Akaashi was under it, with the way he tried to swerve underneath Bokuto’s impressive wingspan as they made up a dance as they went.

The tune finished, but Kotarou continued, fingers darting up Akaashi’s arms, then to his hips, then twisting him around like a ribbon in a traditional Chinese dance. He’d laugh, and whistle, and just make little noises as Akaashi played along, and when he put him down Keiji all but jumped into Bokuto’s arms.

“It’s like I was flying,” he said, tucking his arms in as close as they could get to Kotarou’s strong back muscles, trying to not to let Bokuto stand on his feet as they twisted in patient harmony.

Bokuto saw that smile again, that crescent-moon smile that he thrived under, and couldn’t restrain himself from kissing it like that was all he had.

Akaashi tasted like chamomile - a chamomile crescent.

+1 - Comfortable Playfulness

Bokuto was his own brand of chaos - uncontrolled, unpredictable - and in a way, Akaashi was too. Akaashi was controlled, and patient, but had a way of making the weird seem normal and the normal seem weird. When Kaashi relaxed, stopped overthinking, put his heart before his head and pushed all his responsibility aside, he was a handful, playful, an exhibit of unrestrained joy.

It was no mystery that this version of him existed only when Bokuto sat beside him.

“Kaashi,” started Bokuto.

“Bo.”

Bokuto stopped, knowing he’d just been interrupted.

“Akaashi-” he tried, starting again.

“Bokuto.”

Squinting, Bokuto smiled, and tried a third time.

“Keiji-”

“Kotarou.”

“You’re playing a game! You’re messing with me, aren’t you!”

Restraining a polite snort, Akaashi looked up, his eyes intense and humoured, his brows furrowed in a way that was almost avian. “Me? Never.”

Bokuto, ever so gently, pushed Akaashi, just to see if he’d comply.

Akaashi damn-near grinned, before shoving Bokuto as hard as he could.

“Oh, it is so on,” Bokuto said, jumping out of his position on the couch and running after Kaashi as he dashed to the door.

“Catch me first!”

Akaashi might tease Bokuto, and he might pretend to be cold and empty and he might sigh with discontent as Kou fell into one of his slumps, but as they chased each other around the house, taking chips from the fridge and eating a few before throwing them at each other, politely tapping each other to say who was “it”, fixing each others’ hair after messing it up with kisses, adjusting their shirts and laughing to each other as they fell in a heap on the floor, Kaashi knew there’s not a single person on Earth he’d rather hold.

In this life, and every one following, in every reality, Akaashi and Bokuto were in love.

Akaashi and Bokuto were both handfuls - but that’s why they held each others’ hands.

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

Cloudwalker Series Part 12

Protective Avizon anyone? COMFORTING Avizon? CUDDLE GIVING AVIZON? I hath delivered.

Warnings: References to previous torture, noncon, and humiliation in a character’s past. (Erix shows up at the castle for Dyan who taunts and says some nasty things to Dyan while he’s there).

Master-list Here

Approx WC: 2200

Avizon gave Ihuka almost two weeks of bedrest and steady care until he was ready to start working again. He left him and Dyan alone as much as he could, only seeing them to feed them and check on them for the time being. He didn’t train them. He let them wander some of the grounds, and Ihuka liked sneaking out of bed to look out of the big windows for hours and hours, always lost in thought, hugging his knees and mumbling to himself. Dyan said that he was upset, grieving even, for the freedom and the brother he had lost. Avizon usually just put a blanket over him and left him to it. He was behaving, so it didn’t matter, especially if it was helping him process it all.

But Avizon hated waiting, but this time had to be the exception if he was to win back both of their trusts. He wanted them to be looked after, but he also had so many questions about their powers which he was determined to find the answers to. Just how did their magic work? Was the power confined to their feathers? He didn't know, but he intended to learn as all good sorcerers should. He needed to go to the great library, but that was a few days away and he didn’t want to travel just yet. Perhaps he could speak to his old mentor, Orrien, but he wasn’t sure how pleased he’d be to see him.

For now, that would have to wait. He worked with Dyan where he could, doing harmless tests, asking him questions, getting him to ask Ihuka questions, which most of the time was more fruitful since he was wild. Avizon took it all in, he wrote it all down. 

Once Ihuka was more healed,�� he'd set Dyan off cleaning a massive ballroom with Ihuka's help. Ihuka was rough and unskilled, which came in handy for catching rats and scrubbing the floors whereas Dyan's gentle nature was much more valuable in cleaning the chandeliers and everything else that was fragile. They had a few days to finish the task, but he was confident that by the end this room would practically glow. Ihuka seemed to appreciate the exercise for the most part.

But that day was different, as he sat he felt the presence of another in his castle. He glowered, produced an orb with a wave of his hand which went to seek out whoever was there and guide them to him. He summoned his cloudwalkers to his side like mastiffs. But when the presence found them, Dyan paled. 

There stood Erix, Dyan's previous owner, though calling him that made Avizon feel sick. His yellow/orange eyes were piercing compared to his black hair and dark clothes. His skin was sickly pale and he’d let the hair on his chin grow out into a goatee of sorts. Avizon could see the earrings he wore were actually teeth, not any teeth- fangs. Cloudwalker fangs no doubt. Avizon could only just make out a tattoo on his neck, the tips of wings he guessed. Diid he even have a tattoo of one of these poor creatures.

"What are you doing here?" Avizon scowled, stroking Dyan's hair to soothe him.

"I heard you found a lost toy of mine," Erix answered, wiping his snotty nose on his forearm and glaring at Dyan. He shrugged and took out a roll of paper filled with tobacco. Dyan whimpered. Seeing a few faint burns on his shoulders made it clear as to why. Erix lit in with magic by flicking the end of it. "I want him back, he's mine."

Dyan managed a groan, but he was too afraid to shuffle away. He was tense under Avizon's soft touch, as solid as rock but trembling like he was going to crumble into dust. He wouldn't budge, he couldn't stop staring, panicking inside. “M.master, p.please...” he whispered, look up at Avizon’s face.

“Get here, you traitorous little runt- now!” Erix demanded, pointing at his feet. Dyan let out a mercy squeak, and Avizon was surprised to find Dyan quickly began inching towards Erix.

Avizon reached a little further down, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Stay,” he said softly.

Avizon turned to look up at Erix. "I think you'll find he is mine," Avizon purred, running his fingers through his hair, hoping it helped calm him while it also looked possessive. He’d never liked Erix, he was powerful, enough to be a threat at least, but now he loathed him, and he wanted nothing more than to kill him. "I don't like to share, especially not with scum like you."

“I had that little slut first,” Erix snapped. “You still would have one. Give me back what is rightfully mine! I need him!”

“Mind your words,” Avizon glowered, clenching his other fist. “Or you’ll be needing a coffin.”

Erix forced a clearly fake smile. “Payment, then?” Erix placed three bags on the table. "I'm offering you seventy five of the finest diamonds from the Northern Mountains."

"No."

Another bag. "A hundred then, here and now."

"No!" Avizon shot to his feet, hands clenched. Dyan squeaked. "Dyan is not falling back into your slimy hands ever again. He is mine! If you want him, you go through me."

Ihuka fluffed up his black feathers and snarled, focusing on Erix. Erix widened his stance, ready to fight. “Don’t underestimate me-” “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Ihuka growled again, he was all too ready to lash out. “Tell your flea-bitten mutt to stand down before someone gets hurt.” "You'd best be careful Erix, or else you might end up missing a leg, he has quite the bite to him. You have had the gall to ask for the cloudwalker, and I have said no, now leave."

Ihuka moved in front of Dyan without hesitation, without waiting for an order. He seemed to understand the situation.

"Get your stinking slimy body out of my castle before I freeze you and give Ihuka his orders. Ten-"

"He belongs to me!" Erix roared, slamming a fist on the desk, drawing another cry from Dyan. Avizon could hear him sobbing. He brought glowing white power to his hands, ready to attack or defend if necessary. Erix was not getting his little bird!

"Three, two, o-"

"Fine!” Erix spat, and Avizon struggled not to sigh in relief. “I'm going, keep the little rat. I hope you have fun with him. I wouldn’t treat him too nicely, he’ll just escape if you give him nice things and free you’re other cloudwalker as he did with me. I'll find a new one. Oh, and Dyan," he sampled the name on his tongue and smirked coldly, “I hope you can sleep at night knowing what you’ve forced upon some poor innocent bird because you’ve betrayed me.” Dyan whined, dipping his head down. Erix flicked his roll at Dyan, but Avizon quickly deflected it.

But when Erix reached for the bags Avizon slammed his hands down on the desk, the thud echoed across the room. Both cloudwalkers jumped in fright. 

"I'll keep the diamonds too. Get. Out. I will be watching you, and if you ever buy or use one of those poor creatures again, I will personally see to it that they eat you alive. Hopefully, your foul flesh won't poison them. Really, I should kill you where you stand!"

"And risk the wrath of the entire city? The evil Avizon kills a man who simply wants to buy his property back?" Erix snorted. “That’s if I don’t kill you first, you’re nothing but a lame and sulking shadow.”

"You think I fear that city? That I could ever fear you?" Avizon brought power to his hands, oh so ready to act.

Dyan whimpered with fear, stopping Avizon's trail of thought but Erix was already storming away.

"Stay, Ihuka. Good bird," Avizon said softly.

He turned to look at Dyan who was leaning against the throne, hugging the corner of it and trying to breathe. He was hyperventilating, with panic so clear in his eyes. He was trying to hide behind his wings, his eyes just peeking over the top. 

"Oh, little bird," he murmured. "It's alright, shhh. You're safe. He's gone."

"H.he won't stop until he has me," Dyan cried.

"Do you want me to kill him?"

Dyan couldn't find an answer. "I… I'm not allowed to want anything?" His eyes were red, sore, and carried so much confusion, doubt; fear.

"Answer me, Dyan. You are allowed."

"Then…No, master… you'll get in trouble. O.or you could get hurt."

"I've been in far more trouble than this before. I’ve killed royalty. If he's gone you don't need to fear him anymore, you'll be free and the world will be a better place for it…" Avizon studied his expression. "But… you don't want to run that risk of losing me, do you?.. Well, if you are sure, I will let him live and I'll watch him as best I can to make sure he hurts no one else. Either way, you're safe."

Dyan couldn’t stop crying, he couldn’t calm himself after such a close encounter. Avizon knelt beside him and slowly reached up to rub his back, to hush him and wait for him to calm. Ihuka inched closer and rubbed his head against Dyan's shoulder like a cat until Dyan reached up to hold onto him as he trembled.

"You were very brave, Dyan. I know that was hard for you… You can have the rest of the day off if you wish?" Dyan shook his head. "I. I can't. I have to clean. I'm being bad- I.I can't be bad-" Avizon cupped his cheek. "Look at me, little one."

Dyan did so, but he gulped. Avizon stroked his cheek, hoping it would calm him more. "You are not bad. You are a little treasure and your loyalty astounds me in the best of ways. You've been cleaning for six hours. The ballroom is practically finished, and you both deserve the rest. If you want to stop, to go and lie down or go for a walk with me then that is allowed, I understand cleaning might also make you feel better, but the choice is yours. What do you want to do so you can feel better?"

"I… t.the walk sounds nice…" he managed, nervously wringing out his hands.

Avizon nodded and smoothed the hair out of Dyan's face. "Good boy. Stay here until you've calmed down. I need Ihuka to put everything away, but if you need comfort you can sit on my knee or by my chair and I'll do what I can."

Dyan inched closer once Avizon sat back down, he eased his head into Avizon's lap, his arms reaching around to hug his leg. Avizon stroked his head, doing his best to avoid his damaged horn until Dyan's head flopped against him as he got more exhausted. He was struggling to keep his eyes open the longer Avizon played with his hair. Avizon waited to see if he'd fall asleep but every time he got close he'd startle awake.

Avizon gently picked him up using his powers and eased him onto his lap, putting an arm around him, letting Dyan snuggle against him. Dyan was unsure at first, but he leaned against his chest tucking a wing around himself.

"Sleep, little bird. I'll protect you."

Avizon played with his hair again, helping him to drift off. He eased a little bit of sleep magic into him to help. As he did, he looked down at his broken horn. He could see fragments of power within it, like seams of ore in a freshly mined rock. So there was power in their horns after all… perhaps that did explain why he had less power. 

Ihuka returned once everything was put away that needed to be. He looked at Dyan with concerned curiosity, but Avizon smiled softly. "He's alright." He pointed to the bed beside him, inviting Ihuka over. He did so and curled up. Avizon waited until Dyan was in a deep sleep until he used his powers to pick him up, supporting all of his body, and then settled him down in the bed beside Ihuka, who was getting drowsy. Ihuka cuddled into him and settled a little more. Avizon nodded to himself and left them to sleep while he continued his work. He focused on Erix's presence. Its unique feeling. Part of him knew it wouldn't be the last he'd see of him.

He reached forward, took one of the bags and opened it up, letting the content pour onto the table. Sure enough, there were twenty-five stunning gems. He scrutinised them carefully, and true enough they were real, but also familiar. He’d seen the king with these gems before… Had Erix really just tried to buy a cloudwalker from him with his own money? And yet this was so much more than what a typical white winged cloudwalker with a broken horn should be worth. He could have bought at least twenty cloudwalkers with this much money. He really wanted Dyan. Avizon feared it was an obsession. Whether the diamonds had belonged to him or not. He would be back, that much was true. 

And Avizon the Terrible would be ready, with all his wrath ready to rain upon anyone who dared try to take his cloudwalkers from him.

[loserholland]

𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧

𝟎𝟎𝟏 ➺ 𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

Pairing ➺ QOH!Reader x Prince!Angel!Tom

Warning ➺  Flashbacks (italicized) 

Word Count ➺ 1,265

Summary ➺ What happen’s when the Prince of heaven end’s up in hell?

A/N ➺ Send me an ask if you want to apart of the series taglist! I am so sorry this took so long to update! I wanted to get this up by today because I won’t have my laptop from thursday-sunday since I’m going camping! 

✿ 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ✿ - @loveyathreethousand @killerqueen-gunpowdergelatine @spideyyypeter @lou-la-lou​@babebenhardy @rivervixenbaby @acklesholland @zabdisamor @keepingupwiththehollands @sweet666pea @sspider-parker @jackiehollanderr @caro0512 @thewinchesterchronicles @cporter003 @kisses-holland @spideysnugget @cryszus @sunflowerharrystyles @peterunderoos @ohbabycal @laucontrerasv​ @spider-mendes​ @jessybellsworld​ @quaksonhehe​

*unable to tag @iloveyou3000morgan* @random-things-i-love*

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ - @beepbeep-ice @adayasgeorgia @hellomadamebutterfly @babebenhardy @cloudynoirtimes @killbillls @deadlyaffairs @sweet666pea @first-jumper-tris46* @vsmiscellany* 

☞  Masterlist  ☜

Tom sat in the cold bath sighing in relief, hell was scorching hot. Sure he’s heard stories about how your body felt as if it was on fire the second you step into hell. But he didn’t think it would be this hot. He thought it would be hot like the summer’s on earth. Sometimes he’d go down walk amongst the mortals, always finding ways to help those in need before returning home. He thought hell just experienced summer heat.

Well, he was wrong. 

(Y/N) had given him a room in the west wing, a few door away from her chambers. Heavens she was beautiful, he’s heard stories about the devil but never in a million years did he think it was a woman. A beautiful woman. 

The way her eyes glowed red, sparks of fire dances behind them. The way she smiled showing off her pearly white teeth. To the way she spoke, her voice so velvet and smooth yet held such authority. Her beauty, her bo-

“Stop with the sinful thoughts!” he mumbled  splashing some of the cold water in his face. It felt so wrong, yet so right. He was taught if an angel were to have any sort of sinful thoughts, they were to be punished. He’s seen what’s happen to those angels, they were burned, stripped of their halo, or wings. 

And sent to hell.

He got up and out of the tub drying himself off before walking back over to his bed, there was a white suit along with a black tie with gold patterning a small note sitting atop of the clothes.

Join me for dinner, 6PM sharp. - (Y/N)

Tom’s eyes widened, turning on his heels he head back into the bathroom for a proper shower. He couldn’t deny what the queen requested.

(Y/N) stood in front of the mirror examining her wings. ever since she saw Tom’s beautiful wings all she could think about was how much pain and disgust she felt whenever she looked at her wings. The once soft snow white wings with hints gold specks were now a charcoal grey rough around the edges. 

They were hideous.

Wrapping her wings around herself she lifted her hand to touch the feathers. Screams filled her head, causing her to shut her eyes tightly. Whenever she looked at her wings, all she could think about was the pain and agony.

Screams of when she fell from the silver city, screams of fear and confusion. Screams from the pain of her beautiful wings burning. Screams as she felt betrayed, watching those she called her friends, those she called her family watch as she fell.

And didn’t try to defend her, didn’t try to save her.

A soft knock brought her back to the present, her vision blurred by the tears that brimmed to trail down her cheeks. She blinked a few times, wiping away the salty liquid moving to splash some water on her face.

“One moment!” Exiting her bathroom she moved to sit on her bed, “Come in!” the door slowly creaked open shuffling in was her hand maiden carrying in a beautiful satin red spaghetti strap dress, with a split front. (Y/N) clasped her hands together, standing from her bed to run her fingers over the silky fabric.

“Alessandra! It’s beautiful! Thank you!” 

Alessandra was her first ever friend in hell. She was friendly, kind. The angels back up in heaven talked about how demons were hideous, cruel, and flesh-eaters. 

Oh how they were wrong.

(Y/N) sobbed loudly, her head was pounding. The ground beneath her scorching hot, but that was the least of her worries. She had just been casted out of the silver city, and now she was in hell. No one to turn to. 

“Miss?” a voice spoke causing her to jump slightly backing herself up into the corner, “They will eat you alive if you ever come across a demon. They are the most atrocious beings.” her mother once told her.

“Miss it’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” the demon spoke again extending it’s hand out to her, slowly (Y/N) looked up to see a lady who looked to be in her mid-forties who wore a warm smile on her face. Hesitantly she took the hand of her woman, slowly getting up from the ground. 

“What’s your name dear?” 

Her throat burned from all the screaming, “(Y/N).” she answered her voice was a bit hoarsed but still audible. The woman’s face lit up in pure joy, “The prophecy!” she shouted bringing confusion to (Y/N) face.

Prophecy? 

“The queen is here! The angel has fallen!” the woman shouted in such glee drawing attention to the two of them. (Y/N) didn’t understand what was happening, she watched as demons drew closer wondering what this woman was going on about.

“I-I’m sorry prophecy?”

The woman nodded eagerly, “The prophecy said, if an angel by the name of (Y/N) fell from the silver city. She to be the one to rule hell. She to be the queen.”

That woman was Alessandra. Ever since then, she had stuck by (Y/N). It’s crazy to think she has now lived in hell for three years, it seemed longer than that. Alessandra placed her hand atop of (Y/N), she would always say (Y/N) was the daughter she never had. Alessandra was a better mother than her own mother ever could be.

“Now, I think you should get ready my dear. I dropped off the suit to Thomas’ chambers.” 

(Y/N) stood on the balcony of the dining room looking over her kingdom. During the day it was always scorching hot, but at night it was cold and brittle. She had grown use to it though, it never really bothered her all that much. 

People can say what they want about hell, but it was as beautiful as heaven. Even better in (Y/N) opinion, the demons were friendly and not cruel. She couldn’t have been more thankful to be here.

Her gaze fell to what was below her involuntarily her hands gripped the edge of the railing. The screams from earlier were back, her breathing became shallow this little fear would be laughed at but ever since she was casted out. She had been afraid of heights. Afraid of falling again. 

“Banish her!” voices shouted “A disgrace to the silver city!” more angels joined in. The true demons were the angels who sat up in heaven, thinking they’re all too proper, all too full of themselves. Just because you have a sit in heaven doesn’t mean you’re a good person. 

“Mom! No please!” (Y/N) attempted to reach forward for her mother who turned a blind eye, the guards continued to drag her closer and closer to the edge. She shot daggers at her closes childhood friends who didn’t try to save her.

They held her close to the edge slowly loosening their grip on her before pushing her over.

“No!” 

“Your grace?” a voice spoke causing (Y/N) eyes to snap back open, her knuckles were white, the some of the tips of her fingers were bleeding but nothing too serious. She spun on her heels to see Tom standing a few feet away from her. 

“Are you alright your grace?” Tom questioned again, noticing her watery eyes. He didn’t want to push her to answer the question truthfully, they had only just met. 

“Y-yes! Thank you for joining me Thomas, let’s eat shall we?” (Y/N) pushed past him wiping the tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

Now those memories come back to haunt me. They haunt me like a curse.

[angst-art-writing]

Prince of the Playground-The Island(9)

TW: abuse, burn wounds.

Magic had always been a hard thing to do. Sure, it had gotten easier over the years, but it was still always difficult. Especially big things, but Zaina could never say no. Not to Victor when he asked. She learned her lesson with that one. Whenever the word tried to cross her tongue, she was reminded of the scar going down her spine, jagged and pink. The memory itself was fuzzy but she remembered the fear she felt as clear as day.

So now she stood, in the middle of a dried-out clearing. She looked up at Victor who was watching from a small distance. His expression was smooth, unreadable. There was not a wrinkle in his face.

“It might-It might take me a while,” she said to him. “The portal to Kiliana hasn’t been open for years... I don’t know how much it’ll take to open it up.”

“Well, hurry it up. We don’t have a lot of time.”

She nodded quickly. Kiliana was a realm, only accessible through portals- Ever since its fall, it had never been opened again. Legend says the last time it opened it was to save a child. The only chance of there being more Kiliani’s, is that child. But it is likely dead now. She had read it in old books.

‘Kiliana ripped down in the flames. The air tore and a spark left Kiliana; A gift, a memory, a chance. From the demon’s veins. The mix of life, death and ash.’

Zaina knelt down carefully and put her hands on the floor. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. As she let the breath go, shapes and symbols began to appear in her mind, flashing green and blue. She began to draw them.

The tips of her fingers began to burn, a slow sting at first. Still, she drew the shapes. She couldn’t stop even if she dared to.

The symbols appeared, black as ash with a bright green halo of color around them. She turned in a circle, drawing the shapes. The burning worsened, and she bit down on her tongue to keep herself from crying out. The only thing that burned worse was Victor’s gaze that she felt on her.

At last, she could hear the sound of something tearing behind her. The burning crawled its way to the top of her arms, past her elbows.

At last, she had turned all the way around. A small tear in the air had formed, glowing green and blue. Like the strip of a blue fire opal.

Zaina moved her hands up from the ground and placed them at the edges of the tear, before she forced them open with a gasp.

At last, the portal opened with a shrill cry, and it emitted a small blast, throwing Zaina back. The witch rolled on the ground before she sat up, staring at her work. There was no pride she felt.

The portal was open in the clearing, sizzling and crackling at the edges. But inside, she could see the remains of Kiliana, though the image was warped like a reflection in the water. The burning from her arms faded and she looked down at them. They were red, bleeding. It had burnt her.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped, turning back. Victor was there. His face hadn't changed much besides a look of satisfaction. Part of her felt relieved. He was happy.

"Get up, Zaina. Let's go." He let go of her shoulder then, beginning to walk.

"My arms-" Zaina stared for a moment, sitting on the ground.

"Your legs aren't hurt, are they? Get up, and let's go. We'll fix them later."

Zaina bit her lip and stood then, hands quivering. She followed him, and together, they stepped through the portal.

Kiliana had been destroyed long ago. In the poems Zaina read about them, she figured out that they had fought amongst themselves, fighting against ‘scaly demons’.  They had been fighting for ages, but on the day the two eggs touched, war coursed through the veins of all. This was the outcome.

Reading about the damage was different than seeing it.

Ruins of stone and building littered the place, ash floated in the air like feathers. The sky was dark and rumbling, almost growling at the two intruders. They stood at the edge of the village. Straight ahead was the castle, a few of its towers ripped down. Behind them, was the forest. Or, what used to be it. It was burnt to a crisp, corpses of trees barely standing.

"What a pathetic place," Victor spat, his nose wrinkling slightly. "No matter. You'll fix this place up for me, won't you, Zaina?" He didn't wait for a response. He began to walk. "Come, now."

Zaina trailed behind him. They stepped over ruin and rubble, heading up to the castle. She kept close to him, eyes surveying around. Something was off here. Someone’s presence was sensed, but perhaps that was just the death trapped under all this ash.

Soon, they reached the end of the village. A bridge separated the village from the castle, and fog surrounded the castle in a thin veil.

"Be careful. I read somewhere that there is no bottom if you fall," Zaina murmured.

‘And if those who dared, their clothes were ripped, the rope cut, and they fell. Fell into the mist. Falling forever, flightless.’

"Mhm.”

Victor began to walk, striding up the bridge with his shoulders back and his stride full of pride. She followed him still, coming up to the entrance. Her whole body was shaking now, and all she wanted to do was pass out or throw up. The death here was overwhelming and her arms hurt even worse. Finally, they paused, right before the castle. It loomed over them.

The castle was covered in tangles of vines, dead and stiff. Thorns faced them menacingly, and dead petals of flowers littered the ground.

The beauty of destruction is devastating, Zaina thought.

"Zaina!"

Her head snapped up and she turned around at Victor's hiss, following his gaze. Behind them, she looked.  Only to be faced with a set of snarling teeth and bright blue eyes. Scales shone all over the beast and the horns were twisted towards the back of its head.

Dragons. Demons.

Before she knew it, she was conducting her magic.

There were no thoughts, nothing. Only her hands moving.  The dragon lifted up its head and snaked out it's tongue when she moved. Her heart pounded faster than ever, and the bridge crackled behind the dragon as her fingers curled. Large chunks of it came up at her command, before they began to melt. Her arms burned again, but still, she persisted.

The dragon sat back on its legs and flared out its wings. It let out a shrill shriek into the air. As it opened its mouth, Zaina could see blue inside- charging up a blast of flames. Her hands moved through, controlling the new liquid. It shot over, in front of the dragon, covering around its mouth and shutting it with a snap. The eyes glowed brighter in cold fury, and it tossed its head, smoke flaring out of its slitted nostrils in harsh clouds.

At Zaina’s control, the liquid began to spread, coating the whole dragon’s body. Her hands were swirling with black mist with yellow sparks, burning her whole skin. Though she imagined dragon flame would burn a million times worse.

The dragon thrashed, rearing up as the liquid coated it. As it settled, the liquid hardened into stone again. Soon enough, the dragon was frozen there- still as a statue. But her work wasn’t done.

“It called for its-”

Friends.

Two more dragons came shooting from the forest, but Zaina was already taking from the bridge and melting the material. She shot a sphere at one, a dragon as black as ash with grey wings, as it flew over.

The other sphere soared to the left; her arms outstretched. Both dragons let out high-pitched roars as they were hit, almost like a whine. They began to fall into the fog, but Zaina’s yellow glow surrounded both. She swung her hands towards the village, sending the newly formed statues crashing into the village.

Silence settled over them just as the dust did.

Zaina collapsed to her knees, her breathing ragged. She cradled her arms and sunk forward, wanting nothing more than to lie down. The sleeves of her dress had burnt off, too, leaving her arms exposed; Bleeding and bright red. Victor was still there.

She sat up then and turned back to face him. He headed over slowly and grabbed her shoulder. She jerked slightly and bit back her cry, his fingers digging into tender flesh, but Victor only tightened his hold and wrenched her back onto her feet. Zaina choked back her tears and wail.

“Sorry,” she breathed. He took her wrists then, looking over her arms. Her eyes welled with tears but didn’t dare spill.

“As soon as you fix this place up, we’ll take care of your arms.” He let go and turned, looking up at the castle. “Fucking dragons...” He barely seemed fazed by it all.

“But they burn wherever I use my magic- I can’t-”

He looked back at her, his red eyes more piercing than an icicle and Zaina lost her words.

He spoke again with a threatening voice. “You can and you will.” He looked away again. “I want this place fixed up to the best. It’s mine now. And take those dragons to a cave. I don’t want those fucking things near me again.” He began to walk back to his castle. “Hurry with it, Zaina. I don’t want my people waiting too long.”

Zaina stared at his back. She nodded quickly, before following him up the steps to fix the castle.

His castle, she corrected herself.

His.

[blue-honeycomb]

Quiet Devotion 2 [Hawks x Reader]

Since so many people enjoyed the first and asked for a continuation, I decided to make one since I have the day off today. Be warned though, you know what they say about sequels. Also, beware of a possible (most likely going to happen) trilogy.

Summary: Continuation of 'Quiet Devotion'...

Reader Details: Emotional, humble, loyal, introspective.

Quirk: Unbreakable Silk.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

---

The soft whisper of thread soothed your frantic heart, made calm that which should be a deafening roar. Too soon though, the sharp snip of your delicate pattern work unraveling under your unfocused touch roused you from your thoughts. Too late though, for three hours of work now lie ruined in your grasp, a reminder of your uncharacteristic distraction.

Beside you a crisply folded paper sits unmoving upon your desk, untouched since first you read its contents. Within its perfectly straight creases exists the reason for your distraction, your distress. You'd scold yourself had you the heart to, for though you knew this day would come you still felt overwhelmed by it.

You look around your workshop, taking it in with steady eyes despite the pain searing into the depths of your heart. Silk, cotton and wool creations from generations passed hang proudly along the walls, beautiful and ancient in a way few things are. On their surfaces stories great and small are immortalized, the deeds of heros born before the dawn of quirks, the labors of the common folk. All present, all important, a silent history captured by a weaver's guiding hand.

You look to the paper again, silent. You are not ready, but you doubt you ever will be. There is still so much you do not know, so many things your elders and peers have yet to teach you. Here, you have a life you've just started to live, a place you've begun to make your own: A quiet heaven.

Life moves forward though, as it always has. You know that. You learned that truth years ago in that dark and hopeless place that when life moves forward so must you for there is only one other option. Only one.

Setting your ruined work aside you reach out for the letter and take it carefully in your hands, as though it would burn you if provoked unduly. The first thing to draw you attention is the number sitting unchangingly at the top of the paper, neat and bold against the stark white of the lease notice. Your heart quakes at the sight, but you take a fortifying breath and continue on.

Life holds still for no one after all.

---

Hawk's half-lidded gaze scans lazily over the video footage as it plays mutely before him, head tilting slightly as the object of his attention moves ever closer to the security camera overhead. He'd expected that you'd linger for a while near the mail slot, as most do, but to his surprise you'd merely shoved the package into the slot and walked away without a backwards glace. He'd almost think you felt put upon by how quickly you left, but the smile on your face was more than enough to disprove those thoughts.

His rests his chin in his newly re-gloved palm, enjoying the silken feel of it resting against his skin and stubble. He takes a moment to regret not being able to wear the whole set, but the persistent chill and distracting vibrations that would ensue from it soundly nipped that impulse. Instead, he makes note to be a particularly troublesome nuisance for his support department to encourage them to make his soon-to-be newest outfit their top priority once they receive it.

He replays the video again for perhaps the fourth time that hour because there's something familiar about you he should remember. He's sure of this in a way that strikes him as unusual, concerning even, as he doesn't recognize your face despite his near perfect vision and excellent memory. In his hand he holds a single feather, letting it rest fulling against the glove and watching as it quivers softly against the smooth surface.

That subtle interaction is familiar too, but only distantly so as though feeling a shift of movement underwater or experiencing a phantom ache. It's one of the main reasons he knows he should recognize you from somewhere despite the lack of recognition though, because the sensory input from his wings is not something he's prone to forget or misidentify. Lives literally depend on him being able to control and interpret his quirk.

Leaning back into his chair he props his feet onto his table and smirks, dismissing the concern for now. He'd just have to meet with you in person, simple as that. No better way to get the ball rolling than by just getting it done. He didn't get this far up the rankings by thinking about it after all.

A large, cunning smile crossed his lips, maybe with a bit more teeth than was strictly necessary. Surely, making sure the creator of his newest hero uniform was on hand is what any good hero would do. It's a tough job. You never know when you'll need a patch job. Can't have the Number Two flying around in a tattered costume after all. Wouldn't fit his image.

And so a few calls later and a couple favors shorter, he had your file in hand, flipping through it nonchalantly between bouts of paperwork that never seemed to stop coming.

About halfway through the file he finally comes across what he's looking for, and this time the smile that crosses his expression is fond.

'You really are as pretty as I'd thought you'd be.'

---

Seven Years Ago

---

The feather in your hand has been trying to escape your gasp, likely to return to its originator, but for the life of you you cannot unfurl your fingers from around it. It is your lifeline, your only assurance that there is someone out there, a Hero, who is coming for you even if you cannot see them yet.

The feather tugs in your grasp again and you keen softly, bringing it to your chest to clutch it as tightly as possible in your weakened state.

It could hurt you, you know, slice through your flesh and bone like warm butter with just as much effort. You may not remember the name of the young hero it belongs to but you've seen enough glimpses of him over the news to know that the only reason the feather has not escaped yet is because it doesn't want to hurt you. That the only reason it's stayed this long is because you cannot let go of it. That as selfish as it may seem to an outsider, the trauma and desperation that'd once overtaken you was still there, stayed only by the tangible piece of hope trapped tightly in your hand.

You just cannot let go.

Time passes and the feather still vibrates, soothing your frayed nerves as they try to fill your mind with scenerio after scenerio as to what could have gone wrong up top, each one more convoluted than the last.

Then it happens. The vibrations are no longer just in your hand but all around you, low and quiet as though done with the utmost care. You realize very quickly that it sounds that way because that's exactly what's happening. It takes mere moments for the first ray of light to pierce through the darkness to your far right, followed promptly by the emergence of a helmet cover head you can just make out with your limited sight.

"Is anyone down here?" The voice of the man speaking was rough like gravel and just as grating, but it was one of the most beautiful sounds you'd even heard in all your years of existing.

Once more, for what was beginning to feel like a never ending cycle in your life, you begun to cry.

---

Your extraction was quick, though not nearly quick enough for your liking. Mostly you stayed quiet after your initial outburst of tears, not from embarrassment as some may be lead to believe, but from the sheer exhaustion that overcame you the moment large, warm hands came to help you stand.

After adjusting to the change in lighting you looked to the man helping you and found him dressed in something that looked suspiciously like a onesie/jumper hybrid. Though you suppose such an outfit made sense in his line of work in terms of functionality. Besides, not too many people care about what a person's wearing when they're literally plucking them out of the weckage of what could be the worst day of their lives. You certainly don't.

"Damn. We thought you were a goner. It's a good thing that Hawks kid showed up when he did. Awesome quirk, that one." The strangely dressed hero exclaims with a friendly grin while he supports your back and upper torso, perhaps trying to be assuring or funny but missing the mark on both accounts. "I mean, you were so far down even Radar couldn't sense you! That you survived at all is incredible! You must be a super strong person, no doubt about that!" He smiled even wider, eyes kind and genuinely happy for your survival, but the implications of his words stay with you even as he hands you over to the medics to continue his own hero duties.

'They thought I was dead,' You think numbly as the medic gives you a thorough check up. 'They weren't going to come for me.' Something like panic wanted to crawl up your throat, but you were too tired for it to truly spiral. 'They always recover the bodies last. It could have taken days before they got to that stage.' The implications were not lost on you.

It made sense, really. Why waste effort recovering dead bodies when there were people that needed rescuing and reassuring. Why waste precious life-saving hours looking for corpses that no longer had a time limit when the living had so much more to lose.

It was the right thing to do, you knew. Prioritizing the living was always the right thing to do, but it didn't stop the quiet hurt that settled in your heart. The living have worth, a corpse does not. It stung to think that even if you'd died down there you would have been a low priority issue. That for a while there, you were a low priority.

The feather tugged again and you startled- having forgotten about it in your daze- startling the medic in turn. When they turned to ask you what was wrong you merely shook your head, murmuring softly in reassurance. You knew that had the circumstances been different the medic would have pried, but as it was there was no time for a full Psych evaluation. There were still lives that needed saving and only so much time to do so. In the light of day you could see that well enough on your own, despite both your eyes being nearly swollen shut from the bruising and irritation.

What had started off as a small hero vs. villian battle had somehow devolved into a five block catastrophe of sinkholes and fires. Entire sections of road was missing, likely buried under the untold amount of sand scattered as far as your limited vision would allow you to see. No less than six buildings were near collapsed, some even gone entirely. It was mind boggling just to look at, let alone begin to make sense of.

Still, despite the devastation, one thought remained prevalent above all others.

'They thought I was dead but he checked anyway. He checked because they didn't know for sure and there was still a chance someone had survived the fall. He came when no one else would bother.'

The feather tugged again, and this time you let it go, watching as it dashed away into the chaos.

'I was his number one priority. Not because he knew I was alive, but because there was a chance of it.'

You took a deep breath, and despite the numbing pain all long your body and the hurt that still echoed in your heart, you were lighter for it.

'I'm alive. Thank you.'