#less stretched out vertically

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

I am like fourteen episodes into the podcast and I have been trying to figure out how to draw this guy

(more of him below the cut)

ft. little peak at my pre-horns attempt at him:

[shirecorn]

Often mistaken for the much more dangerous sea serpents, massive oarfish mermaids are peaceful but imposing mirror-skinned figures who hang vertically in the open ocean. Their red fins appear colorless and invisible in deeper water, as red light wavelengths cannot penetrate the depths at which they rest and feed.

Just like humans, mermaids come in a variety of body types, proportions, musculature, and fat distribution. In academia, documented mermaids of each species tends to match the appearance of their fish counterpart. But individuals can look like anything.

This oarfish mermaid is a gorgeous example of the principle. The humanoid torso and the start of the fish body have rolls of fatty tissue, but it diminishes as the long tail stretches downward. Inside the torso, the swim bladders will be flexed to account for the extra buoyancy.

Mundane oarfish use their flat bodies reflect the sea around them like a smooth mirror. In order to be seen by other oarfish, they hold their long pelvic fins horizontally out to their sides, forming a cross with their body.

While this individual's shape is less useful for camouflage, the behavior remains. Many modern mermaids use community to fill their needs, and wits to avoid predators. So while different body types can affect hunting fitness, it does not diminishes their functioning within society.

Nor, of course, their beauty.

[csainzoperator]

hey stranger!

summary: when you accidentally get stuck in an elevator with carlos sainz.

(fem!reader×carlossainzjr)

an: i hope you guys like this for a change. i was supposed to post this on sunday but i got busy! let me know how you like it, or if you want more of such things. also, i haven't checked the word count yet, but i'll update that soon.

trigger warnings: mentions of alcohol, exes, cheating.

read under the cut!

the elevator jolts, making her stumble a little. it's 2:04 am. the building is silent, not a single person around. she's barefoot, holding her heels in one hand, she groans. her velvety dress slightly sways as she tries to steady herself, the lights flickering inside the elevator.

he's in a crumpled white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, his forearms on show as he fixes his hair. his other hand holding onto his suit jacket. he has his tie loosened around his neck, like he couldn’t care less about how he looks.

they exchange a glance that says, well, this sucks, without needing any words. she leans back into the cold mirrored wall, sighing softly. he presses the emergency button, hoping it does something, anything.

"ofcourse." she mutters, "ofcourse this would happen tonight of all nights."

"bad night?" he questions, gazing at her from the mirror.

"you could say that." she laughs, a laugh that lacks any humour, bitter and quiet. "i just broke up with my fiancé. at our goddamn engagement party"

he whistles low, nodding slowly as he processes the information he's been given. "okay. you win."

she tilts her head, looking up at him as she raises an eyebrow "and what about you?"

"my ex is getting married. and she sent me an invite 2 hours ago." he says as he looks down at his leather shoes.

a few moments pass by in silence. but it wasn't awkward, just shared sympathy. she sits crossed leg on the ground, looking up at him. "we've got time." she says, "and honestly i couldn’t give a damn anymore."

he slides down beside her, stretching his long legs out. "fair."

she offers her hand for a handshake, giving him a sad smile that's almost invisible if you don't look closely. "i'm y/n, professional disaster."

he takes her hand, giving it a firm shake, offering her a slight smirk. "carlos, recovering simp."

she snorts, getting comfortable on the floor. "that's the most honest introduction i've ever heard"

the lights in the elevator are warm enough to make a 60 year old woman fall asleep in a second. light breeze from the elevator fan spreads across the elevator. she tries pressing the emergency button again, only for it to not respond, just like how her ex didn't respond to her texts.

"alright, carlos. are you going to your ex's wedding?"

he sighs dramatically, looking up at her like he's about to reveal victoria's secret. "i burnt the invitation" he mutters, like he's telling her a secret.

she chuckles, "well aren't you quite out of a shakespeare play?"

he turns his head, looking at her with a small smile on his face, thinking about how he made her laugh, felt like quite the achievement after her sour mood earlier. "so, did you actually breakup with your fiancé at the party or did you something shakespeare worthy, like throwing wine on him"

she rolls her eyes, looking up at him, disgust evident in her face. "to be fair, he was the one kissing my cousin in the balcony."

his gasps, his eyes widening, "no."

she nods, patting his shoulder dramatically to soothe the shock. "yes. a whole bottle of expensive champagne. worth every second."

he whistles again, clapping slowly. "you're my hero. what do they say these days? eating? yeah, you ate."

she gives him a mock bow, "thank you, i accept cash as fan mail."

they both laugh, and for a moment, none of them remember why the night was bad. she stretches her legs out beside him, nudging his shoes with hers. "since we're trapped in a vertical metal coffin that plays jazz, how about we play 21 questions?"

he quirks a brow, containing a smile. "what are you? in senior high prom?"

she stares at him, her eyes narrowing. "do you have a better option?" he sighs, shaking his head.

she nods at him, "you go first"

he hums, thinking of a question, a second later he speaks up "what's your most irrational fear?"

she groans. "you're gonna laugh at me."

he shrugs, watching her. "i will either way, so just say it"

she sighs. "peacock feathers. they're just, i can't stand them. or peacocks in general, i think they're plotting something against us."

he doesn't speak for a while, he just stares, barely containing his laughter. "mhm, you're so right. we should tell the government to hide all the secrets just in case."

she rolls her eyes as he covers his mouth, trying not to lose it. "oh no, hide your kids, there's a peacock in the forest that doesn't have access to us but its still a threat!" she gently shoves him away, now laughing with him.

"okay. my turn. have you ever ghosted someone?" she questions.

"once. only by accident. i took a nap and forgot to text back...for three months" he winces.

her jaw drops, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "that's not a nap. that's a coma."

"i texted her saying i died briefly."

"how romantic" she teases.

he grins, rolling his eyes. "question. how many people have you kissed?"

she squints, thinking hard. "depends, does my bestfriend's cat count?"

he blinks, "...i don't know how to answer that"

"i'll say four, but five if you count mochi. he was surprisingly an affectionate cat."

he nods, smiling slightly. "uh huh, i'll keep that in mind."

they go on like that for hours, laughing, teasing, opening little doors into each other's lives.

"question twenty one" she says softly, "if we don't get out of here till morning...would you still want to keep talking to me?"

he doesn't hesitate. "god, i hope we don't get out till morning."

the end.

[defectivevillain]

those who fall

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: “What’s your name?” you ask your companion. “Hannibal,” he responds. The man doesn’t look the slightest bit malnourished, despite your predicament. Either he’s new here, or he’s been able to keep his hunger satiated. “Hannibal,” you repeat, taking note of his vaguely European accent. “That’s a strange name.” Hannibal just blinks. The man looks almost expressionless, but you can see a hint of irritation at the edges of his faux smile.

word count: 3k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical blood and violence, death, suicide, cannibalism, gore, suicidal ideation/self-harm. Emphasis on the cannibalism — both willing and non-consensual cannibalism. Mentions of throwing up/vomiting.

author's notes: Happy spooky pride! (I'm being told it's also called Halloween...? Weird.) Here’s a really fucked up fic. :3

If y’all haven’t watched The Platform, here’s the trailer, which should explain things. I’ve also attempted to write an explanation, but it’s long and bad. Here it is anyways, in case you don’t want to watch the trailer:

There is a vertical prison system that stretches more than 300 levels down. Each floor houses two people, and there’s a large hole in the middle to accommodate a table. Each day, a single table starts at Floor 0 and makes a stop at each floor. The table is loaded with a ton of dishes for a large and extravagant meal. Floor 1 gets the table for a short time before it drops to Floor 2. So on and so forth. People aren’t allowed to take things from the table to save for later, so it’s a scramble to eat enough to keep them nourished until the next day. They’re all eating from the same table, so as the floors get lower, there’s less and less food left. Inhabitants stay on their floor for one month, before they’re exposed to gas and moved to a different floor for another month. Basically, the lower the floor, the less likely you’ll be to get any food. In theory, if each person ate only their own ration, the food might last. But some people are greedy, wasteful, etc... A floor below 100 is virtually a death sentence, because that means 200 people pick at the food before you get to.

heed the warnings listed above before reading!

You wake up, blinking away the traces of a gas-induced sleep. It’s the beginning of the month, which means you’ve been transported to another floor in the facility. Groaning, you blink blearily, only to find someone staring down at you. You flinch and get up, hoping he’ll move away. But he continues looming over you, looking at you with a scrutinizing gaze. 

“You must be my new roommate,” he says emotionlessly. 

“How’d you wake up so fast?” you respond, squinting at the daylight seeping through the room. Typically, the gas is strong enough to leave you knocked out for at least twelve hours. But this man is already awake, and there’s no telling how long he’s been standing before you, watching you. The thought unnerves you. 

He just shrugs in lieu of a response to your question. You take a deep breath and turn towards the far wall, dread coiling in your chest as your eyes find the number of the floor you’re on: 139. Fuck. You’ve never been this low before. You had the 76th floor last month and the 23rd the month before that, then 87, 6, and 53. You had no idea the floors went down past 100; all you knew was that you’d be getting a new roommate this month, in light of your past roommate’s death. 

Floor 139 is practically a death sentence. You’d normally be able to fast thirty days, but you spent all of last month fasting at Floor 76. (You didn’t have much of a choice, as the food never made it down to you in the first place.) You push yourself to your feet and walk near the center of the space, glancing down only to find more floors stretching down as far as the eye can see. There are dozens—maybe hundreds—of people beneath you. You want to throw up. 

“You look frightened,” your new roommate remarks, breaking you out of your spiraling thoughts. You glance at him, unable to hide your irritation. 

“Of course I am,” you snap, beginning to pace around the edge of the hole in the floor. “The food will never make it down this far.” 

“How do you know?” he hums. There’s a knowing smile on his face, as if he wants you to concede and utter the words aloud. 

“The food didn’t even make it down to level 87,” you recall, shaking your head as you try to fight off memories of an aching stomach and a debilitating weakness anchoring you to your bed. “And we’re fifty-two levels beneath that.” 

Silence. You swallow hard and try to maintain your composure. Panicking won’t do you any good.  And you definitely don’t trust this stranger enough to show him any sort of emotional vulnerability. You bite the inside of your cheek and think for several minutes. “What’s your name?” You later ask your companion. 

“Hannibal,” he responds. He takes another step backwards and light falls on his face, revealing a chiseled facial structure, brown-grey hair, and glimmering brown eyes. The man doesn’t look the slightest bit malnourished, despite your predicament. Either he’s new here, or he’s been able to keep his hunger satiated. 

“Hannibal,” you repeat, taking note of his vaguely European accent. “That’s a strange name.” Hannibal just blinks. The man looks almost expressionless, but you can see a hint of irritation at the edges of his faux smile. 

“How’d you lose your roommate?” you continue determinedly, desperate for some information on this guy. Something about him unsettles you. It must be the unbothered way with which he analyzes your surroundings, as if you hadn’t both just been given a finite expiration date.  

Hannibal studies you for a long moment. “You don’t want the answer to that question.” He eventually answers. A shiver rolls down your spine. 

“You killed them,” you realize aloud. 

“And ate them,” he confirms casually. Your heart starts thudding quickly in your chest. You pretend not to be affected by his confession. Internally, you’re scared for your life. To think that you’d survived months of starvation, only to die at the hands of another human? “What happened to your roommate?” Hannibal continues, before you can truly collect your thoughts. 

“They jumped,” you remember to say, the taste of bile climbing up your throat. There’s no need for further explanation. 

“Ah.” A tense quiet descends on the air once more, and the two of you spend the seemingly countless hours before the table’s arrival in silence. 

When you finally hear the telltale whirring of the table above, your stomach growls. You need food rather desperately—especially after not receiving any legitimate nutrition last month. Your hands are shaky; your vision is blurry; and your legs feel as if they’ll cave in at any moment. 

The glassware rattles and the table sinks down to your floor. Hannibal and you both look at the remnants of the meal from above, only to find plates licked clean and glasses entirely empty. As you expected, there is nothing left for you to eat: not even a crumb or bone. 

There is, however, a man crouched on the table. He stares ahead with blank eyes, as if he doesn’t even see either of you. You look at him for a few moments, immediately promising yourself not to get any closer. In this place, vulnerability is weakness. You’ve seen it happen before: someone will extend a helpful hand to another person, only to be stabbed through the back in the same breath. There is no saving anyone here. You are all destined for death, regardless of when it may come. 

Hannibal regards the new arrival for several seconds, before quickly reaching out and grabbing his collar, yanking him off the table and onto the pavement. You watch in disbelief as Hannibal brandishes a knife—when in the hell did he get that?—and stabs him several times. Your roommate’s ferocity ensures the man’s death. Calmly, Hannibal drags the corpse by the ankles until it’s closer to the walls. 

Then, he sinks his knife into the body’s skin. The victim, unsurprisingly, doesn’t so much as flinch. The knife pierces the skin of his chest and Hannibal sinks his hand into the cavity, gripping the entrails and pulling them out with practiced precision. He gets to his feet, holding the liver in his hand. You watch in silent horror as his head turns and his gaze finds you, his eyes trained on you even as he raises the organ to his mouth and begins eating. 

Your stomach turns in disgust and revulsion. You’ve survived months of fasting—you never ate another human, despite the earsplitting screams from above and below indicating that several other inhabitants did. Even though you know you need to eat, the thought of tearing into that corpse is enough to make your appetite disappear. You quickly turn your head and clamp a hand over your mouth, before raising it to cover both your nose and mouth. The scent is enough to make you nearly hurl. You close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere else—anywhere else, but trapped on this floor with a cannibal. 

Your ears are ringing at the confirmation that Hannibal is a seasoned killer. This was not his first kill, and it likely won’t be his last. There is a very good chance you’ll be his next meal. Fear pulsing through your veins, you manage to pull your knees close to your chest and close your eyes. The cool metal of your lighter grounds you to this horrible moment, this stiff and unfeeling air. 

If you had known just what horrors you would be subjected to, you would’ve chosen a different object to bring. Maybe you would’ve even chosen a weapon to protect yourself or a form of entertainment. But your naive self chose a lighter—not even for smoking, but just to watch the flickering flame. Your finger now twitches to bring the flame to your skin, but you resist the urge. There is enough pain and suffering here without your own self-inflicted torture. 

It is hard to sleep that night. Your thoughts are buzzing too loudly. It takes a while for your eyelids to slip shut, and once the table comes rocketing by, you shudder awake and have to fall asleep once more. When you finally succumb to slumber, your dreams are distorted and cryptic. 

The weird sensation of something in your mouth pulls you from slumber. You open your eyes to find Hannibal standing over you, the crimson light casting shadows across his face. You instinctively want to belch at the foreign material, but Hannibal’s hand is secured firmly over your mouth. You immediately catch on to what he’s doing: he’s feeding you some of the corpse’s meat. 

You try to fight back—attempting to shove him off—but his grip is too strong and you’re weakened by hunger and lack of sleep. You’re forced to chew, unless you want to choke and die. A shudder runs through your entire body as you chew, disgusted with the texture. The taste of iron and copper runs through your mouth; the smell alone is enough to make you gag. After what feels like far too long, you manage to swallow. 

Satisfied, Hannibal steps away—and you immediately fall off your bed and to the floor, stumbling to the sink to drink some water and flush the organ down. “Fuck you,” you spit at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. It comes back bloody, and you take extra effort to scrub your face clean. Hannibal doesn’t seem to be affected by the insult. Rather, he’s wearing an understanding smile on his face—and you’re growing more and more overtaken with the urge to punch that look off his face. You clench the faucet with an increasingly tight grip, until there are bolts of pain sliding through your fingers. 

“You will thank me soon,” Hannibal remarks, staring at you. You can see his heated gaze in the cracked mirror before you. It’s clear what he’s trying to say: if you don’t eat, you will die.  

“I won’t,” you say numbly, your heart roaring in your ears. “You should’ve left me alone.” Your voice breaks at the end of that sentence; if Hannibal notices, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he only looks at you imploringly. 

“You need proper nourishment,” Hannibal maintains. 

You hiss and walk back to your bed, turning to the side so you don’t have to look at him. You’re not foolish enough to turn your back on him—not when you know just what he can do. You don’t want to indulge his murderous sensibilities. You spend the rest of the day split between seething and suppressing the urge to throw up.

When night falls, Hannibal goes to sleep. You only pretend. When you hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing, you push yourself up quietly and sit on your bed. You will not fall asleep tonight. You don’t want a repeat of last night. 

Despite your quiet movements, it doesn’t take Hannibal long to notice that you’ve shifted. “You’re not sleeping,” he says aloud, admittedly startling you as the uneasy silence across the space is broken. When you comprehend his remark, you can’t stop the wry laugh that falls from your lips. 

“I don’t trust you,” you respond candidly. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.  

Hannibal lets out a strange noise. It takes you a few moments to realize that he’s just laughing. “If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already,” he then says. “You are… the least insufferable of my companions so far.”

You blink in the near darkness. “Thanks,” you say dryly. That statement isn’t reassuring in the slightest. You don’t want to wake up to find him forcing organs down your throat again. The thought sends a renewed wave of nausea through you, and it takes you several moments of measured breathing to fight it off. 

Eventually, you fall asleep. You can only fight off the exhaustion for so long, and if you’re not eating, then you definitely need to be resting to conserve energy. 

You wake the next morning breathing hard, expecting to see Hannibal looming over you. But he’s only sitting on his bed, regarding you with a blandly amused look. It appears he won’t be forcing you to consume human entrails again. 

But little do you know, Hannibal doesn’t have to force you next time. 

It’s been sixteen days since that horrible night. Sixteen days without food. Your body has grown incredibly weak. You can barely push yourself up to get to the faucet across the room. Speaking takes too much energy. Most of the time, you just lie on your bed and stare at some point in the distance, losing yourself in memories long gone. 

You can’t find the energy to waste on getting angry. Instead, you’re just… empty. The movement of the table is the only thing that helps you discern the time. The corpse Hannibal took all those days ago has since become a rotted pile. Neither of you have seen anything resembling food on the table. The people above are merciless. They eat the rations of several people; they spit on everything in reach. 

You don’t bother to look up at the table’s arrival today. There will be nothing for you to eat. And indeed, when you finally drag your eyes over, there is only glassware and silverware… scattered around a person in the center. They sit cross-legged and stare ahead with that similar unseeing expression from the man all those days ago. 

You don’t need to watch to know what happens next: Hannibal drags them onto the pavement, brandishes his knife, and kills them. He dissects them with the mercy of a disinterested scientist, before sparing you a simple look. There’s a single drop of blood carving a path down his lips. Hannibal wipes it away. 

You extend a hand wordlessly. 

Hannibal stares at you, a complex emotion passing over his face as quick as lightning. He places a bloodied chunk in your palm. The crimson stain spreads across your skin. You look down at it and feel… nothing. There’s an echo of disgust and horror, perhaps. But beyond that, you’re an empty shell. This place has changed you. Emotions do not survive here—instinct does. And your instincts tell you that you need food. 

Minutes later, the gnawing pain in your stomach has subsided and there’s the horrifically familiar taste of iron settling on your tongue. You swallow hard and slowly push yourself to your feet, mechanically walking over to the sink and getting some water to wash it all down. Your hands are shaking but you manage to satisfy your thirst. Turning the faucet off with shaking hands, you lean against the wall and sink down into a sitting position. 

There’s dried blood on your hands. It doesn’t matter that you washed it away—you can still see it. It haunts you, even when the night arrives and the floor is drenched in crimson light. You’ve since migrated to your bed, but you can’t get yourself to move from your sitting position and lie down. You can’t give yourself comfort. You don’t deserve it—not after what you’ve done. 

You’re not sure how long you sit silently, watching the darkness settle and fade into a dusky light. There’s a persistent pain in your back and your cuticles are picked open, yet these sensations fade to obscurity when you remember the meal you just willingly consumed. You had no choice seventeen days ago. You can’t say the same for yesterday.

There’s an uncomfortable wetness clinging to your cheeks and eyelashes. You’re crying, you realize. It’s been a while since you’ve cried, even with all the horrors you’ve witnessed here. You shakily wipe at your tears, but they keep falling. Falling prey to the burning in your throat, you bury your head in your bent knees and struggle for breath. 

At some point, there’s a hand on your back. You’re so exhausted that you don’t even flinch, because you can’t seem to muster up the energy. Your body is wracked with chills and phantom shivers as you try to comprehend just who is offering you comfort. The same person who kills others with ease and feasts on their remains… is wrapping an arm around your shoulders and sitting on your bed next to you. 

You don’t have the strength to push Hannibal away. You lack the strength and fortitude to do so. Hannibal is the only human contact you will have, if you continue living. You don’t have a choice—if you want to maintain your sanity, you’re forced to cave into the loneliness screaming behind the confines of your rib cage. That’s what you tell yourself as you reluctantly begin to relax in his hold. You cling to him with increasing desperation. Hannibal’s hand rises to the nape of your neck, cradling your head in what feels like an intimate gesture. 

You can’t stop the sobs crawling out of your throat. 

You want to assign Hannibal the blame. But you know it’s not that simple. He didn’t put you in this prison system; he is nothing more than another participant: one with the courage to keep themself alive, at any cost. Perhaps you should be more like him.

…It’s a chilling thought. 

You have never been so desperate for answers, inside bleak cement walls that give you nothing except more questions. The sparkling silverware; the gleaming glassware; the callous cruelty of those above; the painful plight of those below. There is no solidarity or community amongst the people in these walls: only the concepts of superior and inferior… and the fallen. Those who have been above, have savored without suffering… only fall from grace and stumble into starvation’s relentless grip once more. 

Your tongue recognizes the taste of copper; your hands the crimson stain that becomes a murky brown as time passes. You have fallen. And of one thing, you are certain: you will never rise again.

thanks for reading! <3

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[draconic-absurdism]

DESPERATE MEASURES

Story below the cut

An image of a doorway flutters in hir mind as ze shimmies upward ever further, nearing the flattening of the smooth linoleum pane, nearly teetering off the edge. And as hir vision blurs again, surely ze will fall. The wall, crisp and cold, audibly clacks, a desperate grasping with useless hooven fingers, tinged with a pulling at hir fuzzy chest as ze slides hirself up. There's no railing, nothing to grip.

Falling wouldn't be so bad, really. It never is, here in this place. Clouds roll on and on. It's comforting, almost, breaking barriers that, in a sense, are physically impossible, over and over again. To rely on something that contradicts nature. Or is it that nature itself is contradictory?

But ze's never made it quite this far before. As hir fingers crest the corner, ze pulls hirself up, slipping a final time before maneuvering one hoof onto flat land. But as ze huffs in relief, the image flickers again, and hir heart recoils into itself in horror as it realizes the door ze pictures has no stairway leading up, no clouds, no bluish tinge left to the sky. This is all wrong. How hadn't I realized?

Maybe this isn't the end of the path. But ze manages to arch hir head back far enough to get a glimpse up at the endless vertical stretch of the architecture, absurd in its scale, vanishing up into a single point in space beyond a layer of clouds so far up that they may as well have been pixels on a screen, and ze sees that this is indeed the wrong place and the wrong time.

I'm going to give up again. I'm going to stop trying again. It wasn't so bad in the water, floating around on the surface but never really breaking through. But even as ze mutters to hirself, the truth of the matter has already been decided, and bile rises in hir throat as ze realizes that an attempt at something so futile as this may not be worthwhile. Or maybe it is. Either way, in the end, you find that despite how gratingly alone you may feel, you aren't in solitude nearly as often as you think you are.

"Come up with me." The voice isn't startling. It's always a new one, but it says the same thing. It's the tone that really gets to hir. Sometimes sincere and sometimes otherwise, not like ze can ever tell the difference regardless.

"No," ze retorts, letting one hoof slip back down the slope.

The creature's slit eyes open up in what appears to be genuine surprise. "Oh."

"You can't help me. I'm in the wrong place."

"I don't think so."

'You don't get to tell me if I am or not."

"That's true...."

It's a nonsense conversation, the dragon lacking the entirety of context surrounding the boar's circumstances. Even if the discussion persisted for quite a while, it wouldn't understand beyond what is mostly universal, would it? But to say anything actually true to hirself would be to risk a level of vulnerability that ze's never quite known how to reign in. If it was called small talk, why did it always feel like hir lungs were set ablaze? A surface tension that can't be broken.

"...I can take you back down, then. So you don't have to fall, at least."

The offer almost makes hir laugh. Almost. "Frankly, I'd rather you just eat me at this point."

"Sure." It opens its maw.

The boar is genuinely surprised to have met someone who picks up on jokes even less often than hirself. Ze goes to scratch hir chin before realizing with a start that ze's still in a rather precarious situation, straightening up hir spine and smooshing her chest back up against the wall.

At some point in the moment of silence that follows, the dragon realizes its mistake and snaps its jaws shut with an audible clack. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

This time, the boar really does laugh. "You're fine."

Though the massive reptile's neck quickly disappears into a thick layer of fluffy white cumulus clouds, most of its body completely out of view, the boar gets the sense that its claws are shuffling uncomfortably in the grass so far below. The silence flows through both of their lungs on the next inhale, and the boar scoots up to stand along the edge of the flat plane, where there's a bit more room to shift around.

"I like the sound your hooves make," the dragon huffs.

"Oh, thanks. I liked the click of your teeth."

"Thanks."

There's another ten seconds or so of silence, and the shifting of the beast's claws grows slightly audible. But at least to the boar, it's not an uncomfortable silence, not really. Something about this thing in all its absurdity, its sheer size, the sharpness of its bladed face juxtaposed with its awkward expression, its fangs that jut out and give it a bit of a lisp, is really likable.

"I'm afraid that I like you." Why did I say that? What a stupid thing to say. You don't just tell people you like them. I wish you could.

"You don't have to be afraid of something like that," the dragon replies. This answer, while comforting, isn't convincing.

"I definitely do."

"You don't scare me."

"I'm not scary. I just like people a lot, but I'm not really good at showing it. I haven't had that many friends before, so I don't know how it works. I don't know how to connect with people, I don't know what I'm meant to say most of the time. Every version of myself that I've been before this very moment has been masked by some sort of complacency, some sort of veil of attempted normalcy that plagued me so deeply that I'd lost myself. And now I'm unpacking all these feelings I'd been trained to veil, and I don't know what to do with them. I'm not trying to complain or sound pathetic, it's not a self-pitying thing. I honestly like myself quite a bit, I just don't think I'm equipped for any of the situations I find myself in. I don't feel like the reality I was born into is one I can navigate so easily."

"Despite that, you've survived," says the dragon. "Though, you're kind of holding yourself back, don't you think?"

"Maybe so." I think of it just then, I think of what I have to do. It's the only way, really. Something I'd often been too stuck in my own head to ever really consider, and even on the rare occasion that I had, it didn't work out right. But the only way to find out if this time would be different is to try, and so I do. "Would you like to go sit on a rock with me somewhere?"

"A rock?"

"Yeah. Like, granite or something."

"I would love to. But um." The dragon shifts once more, this time with a bit more purpose as it leans in toward the boar. "I would still have to carry you. To get anywhere that has rocks, I mean."

"Oh." Ze hadn't really considered that, but the possibility of lounging in a dark enclosed space for a while was indeed enticing. "Yeah, that works."

"Anywhere that has rocks?"

"Anywhere that has rocks, yeah. Like a river or a forest or anything is fine, as long as we can both sit comfortably." The boar steps forward, a little cue that ze hopes might prompt the dragon, once again, to open up. Ze supposes its silly to rely on such things at this point. This, clearly, isn't someone who communicates through that muddling series of subtleties, a song and dance for which ze hadn't ever been quite able to get the footwork down, and yet would still attempt at times for the sake of acting as some sort of social chameleon.

It takes a second for the cue to click, or maybe the dragon is just unsure what to do with the near complete freedom of location. Eventually, it realizes it's time to go and opens its maw back up, and for the first time, the boar is able to see what's inside. To really see what's inside. Teal-green flesh and gums, metallic and slightly glittery in texture, accented pale minty green razor sharp teeth. A few are messy and chipped. And with that, the surface tension is broken, and the fluid of the beasts tongue engulfs hir, the wetness seeping into hir fur fully, not simply bouncing off. At first the sensation, alien and new, is unpleasant, and as ze squishes up against the beasts tongue as it closes its jaws around hir, ze shifts along the muscle and adjusts until a pattern settles. The grumbling of the great beast's throat as it lifts off. The relief of no longer teetering on that ledge as ze had so many times before. The fear that this might not last, that any expression of seeking longevity could come off as a bit too much for someone ze'd just met.

Though they hadn't just met, really, as ze recalled all the times before that the dragon had perched along that very ledge. Had it been the same one? Sometimes, probably. Not every time. This didn't really feel new, but it certainly felt more comfortable than times prior. Perhaps to credit this change to the dragon wasn't quite right. Perhaps it was hir own willingness to be vulnerable and ask the risky questions that rewarded hir with an experience that, while not new, didn't feel so scary this time. It feels stupid to admit that to myself in a way. I'd known all along that this would yield better results, so why, pray tell, was I so terrified? Why am I still so terrified?

Hir stomach drops as the beast's wings flap and it picks up speed, soaring through the endless sky, but its head stays mostly steady. And just as hir eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and the ridges along the roof of its mouth gleam a deep emerald jewel tone through the blackness, a beam of light shoots in with a gush of cold wind. The beast's teeth crack open just a bit, just enough to let the clouds enter its mouth and fill the space with dense fog, drenching hir in mist, the heat of the beast's body and the frost of the outside air swirling as one force of nature. The sensation reels through hir, and ze shudders as the beast's taste buds run along hir forearms. After it begins to run a bit cold, the teeth clack shut once again and dark warmth falls in again, that clicking sound of the sets of bones interlocking tingling in hir ears.

Something profound occurs to hir almost every day, it seems, and yet such things make progress only towards goals intangible to others. Something that lives in hir head and slams on a pane of glass and begs to be heard, but out loud it just sits there staring and waiting for an opportunity, waiting to be served something on a platter that isn't coming.

"I've known you for a long time, I think. I love you," says the boar. "I just want to tell you that, in case things go wrong somewhere down the line. I want you to know that, at least now, in this moment, I love you."

The dragon tries to respond, but finds that moving its tongue jostles the boar far too much, so it resorts simply to hugging the tiny creature with its tongue, curling each side up around hir body as a warm, wet blanket.

The silence is welcome this time.

[tgmsunmontue]

Because I was leaving comments on @jayjay-thejet-plane's work over on AO3 (when it let me stay logged in, JFC) I remembered the horrific experience of getting my tongue pierced back in the 90s and how I passed out afterwards, which I said would make a funny Meet Ugly. Referring to Tattoo artist Bradley because we need ALL the AUs.

TW: Blood.

 “How do you feel about having Mikey do it? He’s new to piercing but he’s one of our experienced tattoo artists.”

 “Got to learn somehow I guess right?” Jake asks.

 “Thanks man, appreciate it,” a guy, obviously Mikey, says, reaching out for a fist bump and Jake obliges, throws a grin over his shoulder to Javy who had bet him good money that he couldn’t and wouldn’t get his tongue pierced. Javy is in fact paying for the privilege of Jake getting his first piercing. He’s walked through the procedure, shown the instruments and he listens intently, tries to ignore the needle and clamp. Then there are the aftercare instructions and what he does and doesn’t need to do to keep it from getting infected. Okay. It’s not rocket science. He can do this.

 He’s never had anything pierced before, isn’t quite sure what it’s meant to feel like and he can’t really ask with his mouth wide open like it is, tongue pinched in the clamp and it reminds him vaguely of the dentist, when they ask you a question and you try and answer while your mouth is stretched open. Then there’s a count of three and blindingly hot pain and a flood of wetness in his mouth and he looks up to see Mikey looking at him wide-eyed. Then the hot pressure in his tongue is gone and he feels a little light headed, reaches up to wipe his chin where he can feel the wetness dribbling out of his mouth and when he sees blood the light-headedness intensifies and he swallows, tasting nothing but the sharp tang of his own blood and then his world fades to black.

 “I got him.”

 “Jesus that’s a lot of blood…”

 “Go! Get Bradley!”

 “Rooster!”

 Jake wonders woozily why they need a barnyard animal, if maybe the blood loss will help in some type of ritual. His grandma was always warning him about shit like that.

 He hears the heavy approach of boots, but his eyes feel heavy, can’t open and focus and at least the chair he’s in is comfortable.

 “Holy shit, it looks like a murder scene in here. What did you do?”

 “Uh…”

 There’s movement and rustling noises and he can feel hands on his face, then a damp cloth and he presses into the hand cupping his jaw. It’s nice and cool against the heated skin of his face and he hums appreciatively.

 “Mikey…”

 “Slipped and went through the transverse muscle on a diagonal.”

 “So not vertical.”

 “Nope.”

 “Well fuck…”

 Jake forces his eyes open and looks up, his vision a little blurry, but there’s a guy standing in front of him and the first thing he notices is the moustache, tries to reach up to pat it but the guy pulls away and Jake thinks he’s frowning.

 “Looks fuzzy…”

 “Is he on something?” the guy with the moustache asks.

 “No…” Javy answers for him.

 “Okay…”

 “It’s a caterpillar… fuzzy.”

 There’s a few snorts or what Jake thinks might be amusement, he’s starting to feel a bit more normal and the hand is still on his face and he looks to it, notices the tattoos. His eyes are now able to focus, and his gaze travels up the arm, it’s nicely muscled and notes the black tank with the bronco logo, the mosquito caught in amber on a chain around the guys neck and oh, the arm is attached to the guy with the moustache.

 “Hi…”

 “Hi there gorgeous. You back with us?”

 Jake nods, feels the hand flex a little on his face and he nods slowly.

 “Now, you want to try again?”

 Jake nods, and this time he’s sat up first, given some water to rinse out his mouth before settling back again, somehow less nervous. Moustache guy has introduced himself as Bradley, and Mikey hasn’t stopped apologising for the slip, and Jake doesn’t care, can’t really focus on much more than Bradley’s intense gaze on him as he reopens new packets of sanitised equipment.

 It goes much better this time around, not painful, well, not compared to the first time. Then Bradley’s removing his fingers from his mouth and Jake swallows, wonders if intense eye contact is part of the tongue piercing package.

 “Want to get an ice cream? I know a place. Be good for your tongue.”

 “Yeah? That your professional opinion?” Jake asks, and it feels weird, the metal bar knocking around in his mouth, tongue definitely feeling tender and swollen.

 “Sure is. And I should stay with you. Just in case you pass out again.”

 “Well, I wouldn’t want to stop you from doing your due diligence.”

 Bradley gives him a slow smirk and yeah, Jake thinks he’s going to like him.

[mbruben-stein]

I'm in love with ur Levi x Violet Evergarden!Reader >///< that was so good!!!😚👌❤❤ and I never thought they would be so perfect with each other given how reserved they both are!! Since ur request is still open, could u do a Levi x Reader with 'protective' prompt "I'll keep you safe" pls?

I wanna see him saying that lineee 😩👌❤❤

I'll keep you safe.

Levi x Fem Reader

Y/N zipped up her green Survey Corps cloak and grabbed her vertical maneuvering gear, preparing to head out on the 63rd expedition beyond the walls. As a member of the Survey Corps, venturing out into Titan territory was part of the job, but it never got any less nerve-wracking. Each mission could very well be her last.

A knock sounded on her door. "Come in," Y/N called out.

The door swung open to reveal Levi, looking stoic as ever in his uniform and cravat. His piercing gray eyes met hers. "Are you ready?" he asked quietly.

Y/N took a deep breath and nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be."

Levi stepped closer, gently taking her hands in his. "I know these expeditions are dangerous. But I'll be right by your side the whole time. I'll keep you safe," he promised, his low voice filled with conviction.

Y/N's heart fluttered at his words. She knew Levi wasn't one for grand gestures or emotional declarations. But in his own understated way, he always made her feel protected and cared for, ever since they first grew close as captain and subordinate and eventually confessed their feelings for each other.

"Thank you, Levi," she whispered. "But you have to let me keep you safe too, alright? We look out for each other."

The barest hint of a smile touched Levi's lips. "Deal." He leaned in and softly kissed her forehead. "Now let's get moving. Erwin's waiting for us."

Hand in hand, they made their way to the front of the formation where Commander Erwin was leading the charge. The massive gate opened with a groan, revealing the vast plains stretching out before them. Grasslands dotted with sparse trees and the occasional dilapidated structure. And somewhere out there, hordes of man-eating Titans lurking.

"The 63rd expedition begins now!" Erwin bellowed. "Scouts, move out!"

With a thunder of hoofbeats, the regiment surged forward through the gate and out into Titan territory. Y/N rode close alongside Levi near the front, squinting against the rushing wind. In the distance, plumes of colored smoke already started curling into the sky - green for when the path was clear, red to signal a Titan sighting.

It wasn't long before a series of red flares streaked overhead. "Titans approaching on the left flank!" a scout shouted.

"Y/N, you're with me," Levi called out, steering his horse in the direction of the flares. Y/N followed close behind as they split off from the main group to confront the Titans.

Two 7-meter class Titans lumbered into view, their grotesque faces twisted in macabre grins as they spotted the approaching humans. Y/N's stomach churned at the sight of them, fear and revulsion rising in her throat. But she pushed it down. This was what all her training had been for.

"I'll take the one on the left, you get the one on the right," Levi directed, already firing his grappling hooks into a nearby tree.

Y/N launched herself out of the saddle, swinging through the air and landing on a high branch. Below, Levi zipped between the Titan's legs, his blades flashing as he sliced through its ankles. The Titan stumbled and reached for him, but Levi was too quick. He grappled up its back and whirled through the air, closing in on the nape of its neck. With a shout, he slashed out, carving out a chunk of flesh. The Titan crashed to the ground, its body already starting to steam and disintegrate.

On the right, Y/N faced off against the other Titan. It swiped at her with a meaty hand but she dodged, firing a grappling hook into its shoulder and reeling herself in. She landed on the Titan's back and took aim at its weak spot. But just as she was about to strike, the Titan twisted, nearly throwing her off balance. Y/N yelped, barely managing to hang on.

"Y/N!" Levi swooped toward her, concern etched on his normally stoic features.

"I'm okay!" Y/N rallied herself and launched off the Titan's back, swinging around to slice open its neck in one clean stroke. The Titan fell with an earth-shaking thud.

Y/N touched down on the grass next to Levi, breathing hard. He reached out to cup her face, scanning her for any sign of injury. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine. Thanks to our teamwork." She managed a shaky smile.

Levi exhaled, pulling her into a quick, tight embrace. "Don't scare me like that," he murmured into her hair before pulling back. "Let's regroup with the formation."

They summoned their horses with a whistle and took off in the direction the regiment had headed. More red flares shot into the sky ahead - the expedition group kept encountering Titans. It was going to be a long day fighting their way through this Titan-infested territory.

As they rode, Y/N's thoughts drifted to her fallen comrades, those who had lost their lives on missions just like this one. Each expedition exacted a heavy toll. She glanced over at Levi, remembering the pain in his eyes after they had recovered the bodies of his special operations squad, brutally killed by the Female Titan. She knew their deaths still weighed on him, even if he rarely showed it outwardly.

Levi caught her looking at him with concern. "What's on your mind?" he asked.

"I was just thinking about...everyone we've lost," Y/N admitted softly. "How many more soldiers are we going to have to say goodbye to before this is all over?"

Levi was silent for a long moment. "Too many," he said at last, his voice heavy. "But that's why we have to keep fighting. So their sacrifices aren't in vain. We have to end this someday."

Y/N nodded solemnly. "You're right. I won't give up. No matter how many expeditions it takes, or how many close calls we have. If we just keep moving forward, it has to get better someday."

"That's the spirit." The corner of Levi's mouth quirked up.

Just then, the ground rumbled beneath them. Over the pounding of hoofbeats, a terrible groaning sound reached their ears. Y/N's blood ran cold. She knew that sound.

An Abnormal Titan burst out from a copse of trees, barreling straight toward them. This one was easily 15 meters tall, its disproportionately long arms windmilling as it ran.

"Damn!" Levi snarled, swerving his horse. The Titan lunged, its grasping fingers missing them by inches.

Y/N fired a grappling hook into the Titan's bicep, swinging up to get above it. She released the cables to arc over its head, aiming for the nape. But the Titan suddenly veered sideways, moving erratically. Y/N's blades slashed through empty air.

The Titan spun, backhanding Y/N with stunning force. She cried out as she went flying, slamming into an oak tree trunk and crumpling to the ground, momentarily stunned. Her vertical maneuvering gear had been knocked askew, the cables tangled.

"Y/N! NO!" Levi's anguished shout jolted her back to her senses. Y/N looked up to see the Abnormal Titan looming over her, its mouth stretching open hideously wide, ready to chomp down and devour her.

Ignoring the screaming protest of her battered body, Y/N forced herself to move. She desperately tried to free her tangled cables, but she was too slow. The Titan's jaws were descending, about to close around her-

A blur of green and silver flashed in front of her. Levi dove between Y/N and the Titan, his blades singing through the air as he sliced into the Titan's reaching fingers, severing them clean off. The Titan reeled back with an enraged roar.

"Get back!" Levi shouted at Y/N, placing himself squarely in front of her like a human shield. "I won't let this bastard touch you!"

With the precision and speed that had earned him the title of Humanity's Strongest Soldier, Levi attacked, his movements almost too fast for the eye to follow. He grappled onto the Titan's arm and raced up to its shoulder, then vaulted into the air. Blades flashing in the sun, Levi whirled down and carved out the Titan's nape in one devastating blow.

Black blood sprayed as the Abnormal Titan fell, its body crushing several trees as it hit the ground with an impact that made the earth tremble. Steam billowed up from its carcass.

Levi landed nimbly beside Y/N. In an instant, he was kneeling at her side, his hands moving over her, checking for broken bones. "Y/N! Are you alright? Please tell me you're not hurt badly," he pleaded, his normally composed voice shaking.

"I'm okay," Y/N managed, pushing herself upright with a wince. "Just bruised and a bit shaken up. You saved me, Levi. If you hadn't been there..." She swallowed hard, not wanting to finish that thought.

Levi pulled her into his arms, holding her close as if to reassure himself that she was really here, alive and whole. "I told you I would keep you safe, didn't I?" His words were muffled against her hair. "I won't let anything happen to you. Not ever."

Tears pricked Y/N's eyes as she clung to Levi, her heart still pounding from the close call. She didn't know what she would do if she ever lost him. "I love you so much," she whispered. " Thank you for always protecting me."

"I love you too," Levi murmured, tightening his hold on her. "More than anything."

For a long moment, they simply held each other, taking comfort in the fact that they were both still here, still fighting side by side.

No matter what horrors they faced outside the walls, Y/N knew that Levi would always be there for her, ready to keep his promise. He would stay by her side through every battle, every challenge. Together, they would keep moving forward, holding onto the hope of a future free from the Titans. A future where they could live in peace, safety and love.

As long as they had each other, Y/N believed they could make it through anything. Levi's strength gave her courage. And she would use every ounce of her own strength to protect him in return and stand with him until the end.

Levi gently pulled back to look into her eyes, his hand coming up to caress her cheek. "We should get back to the formation," he said quietly. "But no matter what else this expedition throws at us, remember that I'm right here. We'll get through it together."

Y/N nodded, managing a small smile. "Together. Always."

Hand in hand, they stood up and rejoined their waiting horses. With one last squeeze of her fingers, Levi released Y/N's hand so they could both grip their reins.

Then, side by side, they rode onward to face whatever challenges lay ahead. Two hearts bound as one, determined to survive and forge a brighter tomorrow for humanity. No matter how long it took.

[seancekitsch]

Can’t Stand Me Now; a modern Aegon x Stark! reader fic

CHAPTER TWO: Everything is Embarrassing

Y/N Stark and Aegon Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen and Y/N Stark. Inseparable since both eldest children met at Kings Landing University, until they weren’t. One night of drunken passion ruins it all.

Five years later, Aegon is coming off a broken engagement to Larissa Lannister and sends a risky Instagram DM to none other than Y/n Stark.

series masterlist here

warnings for the series: smut, smoking, drinking, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, fluff, more to come as needed

You wake up at dawn, shades nonexistent over the large window that covers most of the wall in Aegon’s living room. It’s warm, cozy, and genuinely you consider going back to sleep. The hangover has yet to hit you, but you know it will as soon as you’re vertical, so you stretch from your spot laying sprawled across the couch. Only, a disgruntled meow stops you from raising your arms too much. 

“Oh, Sunfyre!” you whisper, “I’m so sorry, little man, I wake you?”

The massive orange furball responds with his own stretching, but then very quickly gets himself comfortable again, purring next to your face as he settles back in to sleep. You reach for him to wrap an arm around him, kissing his little kitty shoulder blade as he relaxes on the pillow. It breaks your heart, knowing he still settles in with you after all this. He had barely been a year when it all went down, and yet he still snuggled up to you as if just yesterday you were calling yourself his mum and carrying him around Aegon’s flat like a baby to show him things on the high shelves he had never seen. You wish you had seen his terrible twos, wish you had seen the slow transition from the still kitten shaped thing he was to this adult long-haired house lion. 

A snore from the other room breaks the spell. It’s then that you remember the full gravity of where you are. Where the hell even were you? Where was Aegon living these days?

You’re extremely careful in untangling yourself from Sunfyre, who makes displeased little noises but does not lift his head up again. You roll yourself off of the couch, thankful of socks hitting carpet not making a noise. Sunfyre looks so cute, you cannot help but press another kiss to his forehead as you shove your feet into your shoes from last night. Your discarded jacket gets slung over your shoulder as you very carefully undo the lock on the door and slip through it with as little noise possible.

Success. Avoidance at its finest. You all but run down to the street below, happy to meet the bright sun, despite the fact that it makes you feel like your eyeballs are about to pop like warm grapes. There’s that hangover, immediately in full swing as the street air hits you. You almost curl inward on yourself, your jacket and purse clutched tight to your ribcage as you survey your surroundings in the daylight. Right, you remember looking for the stop last night. Four stops north of yours, easy peasy. Your feet guide you down to the track, and your body autopilots you home.

Unfortunately, you realize as you look at a dying phone, you’re going to have to miss class with Sara. She’ll no doubt be bitching about it later when you’re both working at the shop. She works there, more or less, as a way to just spend time with you. Sara doesn’t need the money, as your father still pays her credit card. He’s always done that for Sara, whether it be out of love for the baby of the family or guilt, he’ll never say.

You don’t know if you should even say it, but the parentage of yourself and your siblings has been a long speculated question. Yourself, the eldest, looks a lot like Dad’s secretary, but you are Mother’s favorite. Cregan is definitely Mother’s, because she spent your entire childhood complaining about his pregnancy. Sara you both knew was from an affair, Mom having moved into the ski cabin when Dad brought her home, but still she opened her arms to your baby sister and that was that. Aegon’s family is maybe the only one you’ve met that’s more dysfunctional than yours. Maybe money breeds it, you have to think, and maybe that’s why the thought of taking any of the Stark family fortune after university makes you feel sick and exhausted. Maybe that’s why you won’t go home, even though the past five years despite all of your successes have had you running from a southern ghost.

Your shop opens on Saturday’s around noon, which means that you have plenty of time.

You shower, shave, grab a sugar free redbull from the rack you have dedicated for them in your fridge, you water plants. Everything to mimic the behavior of someone who doesn’t have a raging hangover.

And as eleven rolls around, you almost forget the circumstances of your morning, as if it never happened. Today could be salvaged, and everything could seem normal.

You can tell the exact moment that he wakes up, though, because your phone practically becomes a bomb in your palm. He calls, incessantly, unrelentingly, constantly. You let the call miss six times, a tiny act of revenge against him. It feels petty, but you don’t owe him the twinge of guilt. If anything, he owes you everything.

“What?” you finally answer on the seventh call, hoping that if he hears you’re awake and angry, he can finally stop calling.

“You’re gone!” he exclaims, strain evident in his voice, “You’ve gone… where?”

You roll your eyes. Did he really expect you to stay?

“I went home, Targaryen,” you spit his name like a curse, “You made sure I was safe and I thank you for that but really whatever game you’re playing I don’t want to play.”

You sigh, putting it on speaker phone so you can rest your face in your hands, leaning against the counter as frustration brings back your headache. A dull throbbing that Aegon has created within you.

“I’m not playing any game.”

“You text me like a fuckboy.”

“I text everyone like a fuckboy.”

Ugh, he’s impossible.

“I really really want to talk to you.”

“Speak!” you nearly shout, growing increasingly annoyed.

“It’s not something that we should do over the phone, it’s important. I don’t want us to stay apart,” he says, his voice sounding watery and stressed on the other end. Is he fucking kidding? The ache turns red, until it’s all you can see in your anger. His family may say they are fire made flesh, but they are nothing compared to you in this moment.

“I’ve had to get along without you for five years now,” You seethe into the phone, frustration making your face hot, “I think I can continue the trend.”

“But I can’t —“ you hang up while he’s mid response, and tears flow instantaneously. You wipe tears away, breathe deeply, and decide that you will not let the backslide happen, you will not let Aegon in just to abandon you again. You will not be vulnerable, not if you can help it. You feel as if you’ve already let enough show. Between last night and today, you’ve given too much away. If you were smart and unfeeling, you would have easily blocked his message without reading it and you would not have been too hungover to go to barre class this morning.

However, you are probably only smart, and very often feelings cloud your judgement. If your father, or Cregan were here, they’d say it was because of the south’s influence on you. Far and few Weirwood trees grow down here, and they’d claim it’s your lack of connection to the Old Gods that makes you so brash and conflicted. And maybe they’re right, you think for a brief second. Aegon has always clouded your mind and judgement, though you always liked it that way. Any ‘me’ became ‘we’, and that’s went for professional as well as personal endeavors; from internships to party hosting to a very long string of failed relationships. He would get fired, his parents would attempt to cut him off, he would fight (sometimes even physically) with his siblings and cousins, he’d get dumped, and you’d be there patching him up and helping him dress for interviews. He’d accidentally scare away suitors, you’d get turned down for loans, complain endlessly about your flat, and he’d come over and hold you and help you think of business strategies and help you take your mind off guys while ordering take out on his own dad’s card. You never saw anything as a failure, though, because you and Aegon were always cleaning up after each other.

You sigh as you throw your phone down on the counter, shoving your hands in your jackets pockets to retrieve your keys and wallet so you can transfer them to your purse for work. Only, your left hand touches something that is very much not either thing you need.

You pull it out slowly, a polaroid picture, one thats been bent up.

Aegon's smiling at you in the picture again, this one a subdued, almost thoughtful smile. You're holding a bottle of champagne next to him, winking at the camera. The two of you are surrounded by boxes and candles; The night he helped you move into your first flat you had saved money for. Mr. Cole had taken the picture, a quick snap after a long day of unloading one of the Targaryen vans. Aegon had slept over that night, despite the face that you only had a mattress with no bed frame.

There’s marker on the back, faded pink sharpie that says, in Aegon’s sloppy scrawl:

FAVORITE ONE

When you turn it over again, you finally let yourself feel the emotion you’ve been trying to avoid. You let yourself do what you never wanted to do again.

You admit to yourself that you miss Aegon, more than anything, and sob.

“Guess what I’ve got!” 

Aegon’s voice booms across the apartment, still echoing from the lack of rugs or furniture, no where for the sound to go but bounce off the walls and ceiling. Your head jerks up from where you’re digging in a box, only to find him in the doorway blocking your exit. He’s clad in short green velvet shorts, a grey sweater vest with nothing underneath, and the disgustingly dirty Converse you’d tried to throw out multiple times. And in his hand… fuck. Two squirt guns, shaped like penises. Right, you should have known that instead of helping his butler with your boxes that were in a van, he was going into the sex shop below your flat. It wasn’t an idea set up, but it’s the biggest flat that fits your budget, and at this point in college you rather die than call up dear old dad for some money. Hell, maybe you’ll even apply to the shop below for some extra throw around. 

“No,” you gasp, already knowing what he’s doing. He tosses one of them your way, and by the way it clatters next to you, it’s clear that it’s full. Oh, it’s on. Aegon shoots, cold water hitting you between the eyes. 

“First blood!” he shouts, and you spring into action giving chase behind him. The two of you tear through the small flat, jumping over boxes and behind chairs to dodge the attacks.  Aegon tries to think ahead, bolting down the hallway to where your bedroom and bathroom are, still not set up minus a shower curtain and a bare mattress. You grab him by his vest, trying to slam him into the wall to slow him down.

You fully intend to take him out execution style. He falls sideways, catching himself against the door frame to your bathroom, taking one knee down as you move to the opposite door way. You stand there, penis gun gripped in both hands. Aegon holds both of his hands up in mock defeat, the trigger of the water gun hanging on his pinky. He smiles up at you sheepishly, his hair a mess and water running down the side of his cheek. You lower your gun, right between his eyes.

“Do you admit defeat to the northern forces, M’Lord?” you ask him, putting on a voice you think one of your warrior ancestors would have. 

“I…. I…” he draws out, and then springs, leaping at you. His arms circle around your middle as he pushes you back through your bedroom door. You land hard on the mattress, the springs squeaking as you bounce onto it. Aegon jumps on top of you, messing up your hair and play wrestling you as if you were one of his brothers.

“You fucking asshole!” you shout, but you’re giggling as you play slap at his back and relax into the grip. He stops only when he gets comfy on the mattress, slumping against it and bringing you with him in a weird half cuddle pile of a position. 

He drops his head against your chest and squeezes you, sighing as he does. 

“Promise me nothing changes, yeah?” he asks, sadness seeping into his tone. 

“Age, I’m only gonna be two stops away now, its not like I’m moving back to Winterfell,” you laugh, but your hand comes up to comfort him, caressing his damp hair. Neither of you move until his stomach grumbles, and you push him off you. 

“Pub?” you ask.

“Pub.” he confirms, water guns and boxes already forgotten as he helps you back up. 

Everything was that easy with Aegon.

An hour later, you find yourself in the back office of your shop, Sara up front and tending to customers. Your eyes are still a little puffy and red, but it’s nothing that a little incense and eyeliner cannot make an excuse for. When Sara had seen your face, she decided not to bitch at you for ditching her this morning, instead opting for the normal Saturday routine. You owe her at least two coffees and a bottle of wine for not making you talk about it.

Saturday is always a fun day, bustling sidewalks and people stopping in big groups, the brunchers making large purchases fueled by mimosas and bloody mary’s that help keep the lights on. You always take the post-brunch rush to review and pack online purchases, as Sara is lovely with the trendy college crowd and makes astronomical sales. You swear that she should go the influencer route, her charm and poise her strongest suit and clearly endearing her to everyone. 

Order packaging is much more your speed. It’s a methodical, almost mindless task. You have all of your designs organized perfectly, so each order is simply pulling items from their designated little slot on the wall. Everything lined up like an old school mail organizer, custom dark wood shelves holding every piece arranged by size and color in specific labeled slots. You've taught yourself to love monotony.

You pull and package seven orders before one of them gives you pause.

First off, it’s over eight hundred golden dragons. Thats more than half of your flat’s rent. Its all men’s clothing: a black tunic, a bespoke blazer with a gold chain slipped through the lapel and connecting into the pocket, multiple pairs of chino pants, and your favorite thing you’ve designed, a gold duster that goes over the middle and ring finger designed to look like the snapping upper jaw of a dragon’s mouth. 

This’ll be a fun one, you think, grabbing your basket and kicking over your step stool to get started.

It’s the special instructions memo on the order that makes you freeze, and you read it once, two times, three times. 

“You won’t let me talk, so let the money talk instead.”

This is Aegon’s order. Aegon will be wearing these clothes. Your designs, some of which he had even watched you draft. 

You can’t help but laugh as you shake your head at that. Same old Aegon, same old humor. His charms always worked on you. You could never say no to each other, no matter what. You keep staring at the message, wanting to reply with something snarky, wanting to do something to egg him on like old times. You realize now how large of a hole his departure left in you. It was cavernous, really, and you’d never noticed it until now. You click on his email address, fingers hovering over the keyboard.The shaking of your hands stops you, though. 

It really is too easy to fall into old habits. 

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

fiber observations (knitting edition): peduncle silk

[plain text: fiber observations (knitting edition): peduncle silk]

peduncle silk from type of wild tussah silk worm. what typically think of as tussah silk, is from cocoon. but peduncle silk from stem part. n like stem, peduncle silk processed from it very stiff apparently because “glue” that bind it together.

it so called “rare fiber,” but not sure if it rare because actual few in number, or like. time consuming process for fiber that not very useful beyond niche fiber artist “ooo new thing let’s try.”

anyway. got some peduncle silk yarn some time ago to do exactly that “ooo new thing let’s try” thingie.

[id: hank of peduncle silk yarn that functionally described below. end id]

in real life it dark yellowish brown color that have these “inclusions” of lighter stuff that almost look like tweed. not sure if it just how yarn processed or how peduncle silk. it DK weight n each hank said have 200 yards. n have 5 hank of it, if careful, can make small adult sweater for me. it not my usual color by any means (pastel & bright rainbow), but again “ooo new thing let’s try,” & rarely wear/make anything other than sweater, so, sweater 👍

people (primarily spinners) online said it feel more like wool than silk, n think that pretty accurate—though me would say feel more like cotton than silk. am big avid cotton not-enjoyer, so don’t knit or spin with it to able compare actual properties, but avid not enjoyer mean can feel yarn n immediately tell it cotton/cotton majority. n. this feel more similar to cotton than wool. but mentally less barrier to it because “ooo new thing let’s try.”

it shipped to me damp n dried since then, but in hank form there still feeling of. like. damp. but it dry. but feel damp.

definitely not something would use regularly (or again after this project) though (tho same seller also had lace version so maybe will make shawl from it just for fart fun of it. don’t think will have very good drape bc stiff but funny rare experiment). harder get + only one color (natural/unbleached) + feel.

[id: two picture of same knitted rectangle from yarn. there centimeter ruler on it horizontal and vertical. there also US 6 bamboo needle near by. end id]

knit swatch with US 6 bamboo needle. pre wet blocking. cast on 20 st & it about 9.25 cm wide. knit about 19 st / 21 st if count cast on bind off (unconventional number but got lazy), n it about 7 cm long.

way yarn itself made is… think like 10 ply or something. anyway many lace singles loosely together into yarn. not enjoy that as much… come undone on needle.

it not very slippery, opposite of slippery, so may move to metal needles when do real thing n see. as someone who primarily knit wool & never knit cotton, this yarn idea of what “wool-y cotton” think would feel like to me. if make any sense. but not wool.

immediately after wash, still wet:

[id: first picture hold knitted rectangle in hand against light wood background. next two picture measure rectangle with ruler again. knitted rectangle not look much different. end id]

basically, not much different. with some stretch n shape n put back together, width grew a little to 10 cm, but length not change. not sure why didn’t expect it (prob because last project superwash merino…), but make sense, because stiff.

keep forget this animal/protein fiber not plant fiber.

when wet, have smell. like wet wool have wet sheep smell, this have… wet peduncle silk smell? what associate with damp corners. oh and WET DIRT. really smell like wet dirt.

n. stiffness no joke

[id: first picture of rectangle scrunched up & remaining it shape. second picture of it be stretched very long length wise n remain shape. end id]

like scrunch it up n put it on table not so carefully n take time for photo, still very remain shape, no sign of move. same for pull stretch really out n still mostly stay there.

second picture visually remind me of superwash merino. except in reality opposite of it—superwash merino feel floppy. uncontrollable growth. once it stretch you need accept fate. (until say fuck you n throwing dryer for few minutes that is). this more… stiff n rigid. you need be one to stretch it. n then put it back in shape n it measurement not change much at all.

anyway. it still wet on table. gonna see if any different when dry, but doubt any. hard imagine what it like to wear it with just swatch (wet swatch at that), but would imagine it not spiky but more heavy. curious about warmth. it look quite thick for dk but measured n indeed dk.

thinking about knit field sweater on ravelry (feel like right vibe for color). scared about it bc people say pattern poorly written/translated. but there lots notes online so hoping go okay.

[op nonverbal autistic with communication impairment disability. do not comment about how talk. still english not need “translate.” do not rephrase into “proper” english without ask.]

[neon-kazoo]

A Very Special Lighting

The hero awoke with a groan. Their head was pounding, their body was freezing, and something was very, very wrong.

The first thing they noticed was an offensively loud countdown from what sounded like a cacophony of voices.

They(?) yelled excitedly, “THREE!…TWO!…”

The second thing that they noticed was that they were not horizontal—how one would typically wake up in the morning. Instead, they were vertical, and something was now insultingly bright for what they presumed to be dawn.

“ONE!!!”

Roaring cheers followed closely with the end of the suspicious countdown. Hero had barely had time to consider covering their ears before another one of their senses was assaulted, this time by the onslaught of light. They automatically blinked the blurs out of their eyes and were met with starbursts of twinkling yellow.

Were those…Christmas lights?

All their limbs were lost in the glow. They tried to move but found that they couldn’t. With what little sensation they held, they surmised there were some kind of restraints keeping their legs and arms spread like a starfish.

No, not a starfish.

A star.

Below them laid hundreds of green branches that stretched out to the edges of the square in the city’s center. Hundreds more dots (people?) lined around the ginormous skirt.

They were stuck on top of a giant Christmas tree.

And, if they weren’t mistaken,…they were the topper.

As if their day(…night?) couldn’t get any better, one aforementioned dot started to enlarge, making the flight up several stories to their level. They groaned in realization as the figure approached.

Hero only knew one dastardly mastermind who could fly.

Villain stopped to float only a few feet in front of them, greeting gleefully, “Hero! I’m so glad you could make it to the lighting ceremony! This is a very special day for lots of children, you know.”

Hero gaped, though they doubted their face could be seen with the intensity of the light source behind and around them.

Since when did Villain care about children?

And more importantly, since when did Villain have a beard?!

Fluffy white hair flowed down from their chin, and it took Hero a moment to connect the cherry red suit and matching floppy hat, not to mention the extra padding surrounding their midsection that looked far too impractical to be used as protection in a fight.

Villain was dressed as Santa.

Villain was dressed as Santa.

Their head pulsed again with pain. Feelings of confliction flooded their thoughts as they watched the joy swim below them.

They knew they should be focusing on taking down Villain but…would that…(and they couldn’t believe they were thinking this) ruin it?

They asked the only question they could think of, muttering the words through ridiculously chapped lips and chattering teeth, “What- what time is it?”

“Midnight, silly!”

Right. They were supposed to be watching this on TV right now, from the warmth of their heated blanket with a homemade mug of hot chocolate. As much as they would have loved to participate in the ceremony, this was…definitely not what they would have had in mind. A plan of their own would have involved a lot more marshmallows, and a lot less Villain.

“Are you…gonna let me down?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing that particular request on your Christmas list. Send me another letter, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Villain bellowed a rolling laugh that sounded suspiciously close to a classic ‘ho-ho-ho’. Before Hero could even begin to think of a retort to what they had suggested, Villain was already moving far enough away for them to deem the effort futile.

A bewildered Hero could only watch as they took off, having mounted a sled-looking contraption that they carried with them into the sky, led by several floating deer-looking animals, the nose of one of which was adorned with a small glowing red dot. The unmistakable sound of jingling bells followed.

Villain exclaimed merrily as they flew away into the night, “Merry Christmas, City!”

Apparently, even villains could enjoy the holidays.

Though, if you asked Hero, Villain was enjoying this one a little too much.

[regallibellbright]

He's done! And took less time than I was fearing when I started this project. Between the fact that I can really crochet again and the fact that I'm a lot BETTER at crocheting than when I was starting out, a project that was probably about as complex as Roxas takes substantially less time.

Plus I knitted that cowl vertically last night. It slouches JUST enough you can see his mouth by default, but can easily stretch up to cover it entirely. Perfect length!

Partners, reunited.

[heavywithourbabies]

Going Feral

The wooden chair beneath Abby creaked softly. She couldn’t see her feet, but she felt their width, expanding over the past several days, radiating with soft pain. Her tank top, having given up its pursuit, hung limply over her engorged breasts, large circles of moisture encompassing each nipple. Having forgone panties that morning, she slid the hem up over her monstrous belly, noticing the convex line stretching vertically, dissecting her belly into two hemispheres.

“That’s what I am now - a globe.” She thought sadly to herself. She was a world containing two, wriggling baby boys who refused to emerge. She remembered her hunger for cum. Back when her stomach was flat and untouched, she yearned for that stickiness deep within her womb. But She didn’t realize this would be the result: a body foreign to her, blown up to caricature proportions, working against her. And the ceaseless hunger between her thighs.

She had met David online through a forum about breeding and the pair instantly shared a connection. It wasn’t long before messages over Reddit turned into texts and phone calls. When he finally revealed where he lived she was almost in shock. He was less than an hour’s drive away from her. She was apprehensive about this but couldn’t deny the fact she was more than just drawn to him. She ached for him. He would make her laugh and was refreshingly earnest and empathetic. A kind and gentle man that had a biting sarcastic tongue and was just as intelligent as she was. All of these factors made her attracted to him. But it was his other side that made her desperate for him to fill her. When he was aroused he became an almost completely different person. His voice would go deeper and when he was excited he couldn’t help but growl with excitement. Driven by desire he would whisper the filthiest things she had ever longed to hear and she was reduced to knee shaking orgasms when she heard him cum. There really wasn’t any way to fight the eventuality. She gave in and agreed to see him. She told herself that she wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date. She swore up and down that she wouldn’t give in to her own libido. That she wouldn’t dare tempt her want to be taken and claimed by this man.

5 hours later after they first met face to face, she was on the edge of the bed with her legs up and over his shoulders as he mercilessly drove into her. The sheets beneath her drenched in sweat and her own cum. She begged and pleaded with him to fill her, an endless mantra in her head kept saying “cuminmecuminmeohpleaseohpleasecuminmecuminmeeeee”.

As she felt his cock twitch inside of her and his pace quickened she couldn’t believe how loud her orgasm was when he snarled “Do you want to be my swollen pregnant cum dumpster?”

She was silently ashamed of that. That something so crude and misogynistic would bring her such pleasure. Little did she know that was exactly what he would reduce her to in the following nine months.

Her life completely turned upside down. First there were the positive test results she cried over. The doctor’s appointment that confirmed the news. Having to tell her parents who seemed so disappointed. And then telling him. He could barely contain his joy or how eager he was to take care of her. Abby tried to tell herself that she could do this mostly on her own and that she would handle the hardships but once she found out it was twins she began to panic. As she swelled larger and heavier with David’s babies she lost more and more control over her life and her body. It was if carrying his sons only made her want him more. To give in to him. To let him own her. She couldn’t resist or deny his want for her and that also seemed to get worse the larger she grew. One time during the 6th month she found herself crying as she was unable to fit into a former favorite dress. She turned to him and whimpered “I’m so pregnant” and the next thing she knew she could barely catch her breath after three straight hours of the most intense sex she had ever had. It didn’t matter to him that she was tender and sensitive all over or that she was the mother of his children. It didn’t matter to her either. They both just gave in more and more to their basic instincts and became two wild animals fucking each other with abandon. It was at the start of her third trimester that she quit her job and moved into the secluded house with him. And that’s where she stayed, growing bigger every day and waiting for his return.

It was late in the day, and she knew he would be home soon. She was a week overdue with the boys and she was more desperate than ever. She literally hoped he would fuck the babies out of her. That his thrusts would be so hard that her water break over both of them. All she wanted was to safely play at breeding. Now she would give anything to finally have the babies out of her. She would cry over the cumbersome weight of her belly that taxed her hips so. She wanted them out. She wanted her libido under control. She wanted to think straight and to have her light body back. She wanted herself back and to try and forget the swollen sex crazed creature she had allowed herself to devolve into.

A wave of exhaustion washed over her like a heat wave, and she didn’t want to move. But she knew she needed to be ready. She had promised him that today she would finally start getting things together and the house would be cleaned. They had made a pact last night as they finally calmed down on their soaked sheets that they would do better and have more control over themselves.They were even going to get the nursery ready on Saturday. She leaned forward bending her knees to stand, and the edge of her chair softly clipped her exposed and engorged clit. There was no pain, but she cringed before she even felt the bolt rush between her legs. Suddenly she was leaking down her aching thighs. She could feel the moisture coating her lips, her legs moving easily against each other as her natural lubrication entered overdrive.

Pressing both palms against the oak table, she tried to steady herself, one breeze away from collapsing with the hunger in her sex. Her knees bent as she pushed back against the desire she felt.

“I can’t be like this. I can’t let myself react this way.” She thought for the millionth time.

Remembering the rough, delicious romp that brought her here, running over the memory of him pumping his cum into her unprotected cunt, she dropped a hand to her clit. Her arm circles around the globe, stretching, stretching a little more. Slowly, She rotated two fingers in circles. Her belly bumped up against the table edge gently. Her head droped back as her lips parted with a gasp. Her other hand caressing the top of her stomach. “Your daddy do this to me,” She thought. “Your daddy made me this way. And I like-“

She heard his car pulling up and parking outside. She turned quickly as she could and began slowly waddling her way across the room to retrieve some pants, shorts, a skirt - anything. The engine turns off. A door opens, slams. And the softer sound of gravel under boots. She is still bottomless, her chest heaving with desire, her face flushed, and her pussy drenched. She had wasted another day going from one extreme to another. Moping and feeling sorry for herself or unable to keep her hands off of her own body.

David entered and saw her there. Without realizing what he was doing he took in a deep breath, smelling her pheromones permeating the air. His hand instinctively went to the crotch of his jeans and he had to fight himself to pull it away. “God that smell” he thought. It was everywhere now. That deep earthy musky scent that made it hard to think. It had gotten steadily worse as Abby entered the third trimester and it seeped off of her in waves. “She’s just started her ninth month. What will it be like in a week? Two?” David thought as he silently put down the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. “Will we be nothing more than animals fucking each other raw?”. He began to put away the items he purchased for the two of them. Soon to be four. “And what about the twins if we keep up like this? What if I can’t help myself and hurt her or send her into labor when she’s not ready?” David looked towards Abby who was stretching as best she could with her hands on the small of her back. The massive dome of her belly shot out into the air. New angry red stretch marks had appeared and he could see the veins in the taut firm skin. “What if she begs me to stop but I won’t because I can literally feel her contracting around my cock?” David groaned at the idea as he felt himself twitch in his pants. It was almost like he could feel the weight of his full testicles sitting on his warm thigh. It was starting to hurt. David tried to focus by looking at their home and any hopes he had for normalcy were put out. Half of the clothes which he had washed were still sitting in the basket while the rest had been thrown all over in a frenzy. “She couldn’t find anything comfortable to wear” he noted. Dishes still sat untouched and stacked on the kitchen counter and sink. The kitchen floor was covered in crumbs and take out boxes sat untouched by the mounting garbage bags. Random “debris” was everywhere. Items they had knocked over and slammed into when they tore into each other were still strewn about. She hadn’t done anything all day.

He sighed as felt useless frustration rise up inside of himself. We just - we talked about this -"He stopped dead in his tracks when he looked at her. She had tears welling up in her eyes as she stood there, feet aching from the weight. “I’m sorry” she trembled as her left hand caressed her massive belly. The other hand was below her belly with a mind of its own. Her fingers running through the dark thicket that grown wild and taken over. “I don’t want to be like this” She whimpered as a tear ran down her cheek. Her dark nipples were rock hard and poking through the soggy material of her tank top.

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: -

Words: 2.1k

[A/N: I'm alive, alas. Slowly getting back into writing, so bear with me as this one is a bit clunky. (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

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IV. 

The unadorned walls were bare , save for a few peeling patches of paint, and the hanging crucifix was now slightly askew, the squashing emptiness swallowing him as the corners of the room seemed to stretch into infinity. The moonlight shifted, casting a new set of shadows that seemed to twist and writhe like the memories of her that haunted him, and in the quiet of the night, dawn approaching, he drifted asleep, his dreams hollow, bereft, and yearning for something that was no longer. 

The pale gray hue of the morning filtered through Viktor’s eyelashes, painfully morphing into colorful blobs of light inside his eyelids. He lay still, dreading the image of his enclosure in fear of what he might see. When he shifted slightly on the mattress, fully expecting that—now familiar—stinging pain, it was the absence of it that startled him into opening his eyes.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there, head in his hands, trying to piece together the fragments of his shattered memories of the previous night. The crucifix on the wall was as perfectly symmetrical as it had been. His clothes from the previous day lay neatly folded, not discarded in a moment of despair but meticulously placed. 

Viktor forced himself to stand, each movement sluggish and weighed down by the heaviness in his chest. He wandered to the window, looking out at the city below. The world outside continued to move, indifferent to his confusion. He turned back to the room, and the vertical rays of sunlight reflected over the wooden door were a cruel mirror of the oppressive feeling inside him.

"It was just a dream. Heavens above, a nightmare rather," he whispered to himself, desperate to cling to that hope. 

He sank to the floor, his back against the wall and his good knee drawn up to his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to remember her voice, her touch, and the way she spoke to him. But the images were already starting to blur into oneiric shards of memory, delusory scenes that he had made up to cope with whatever bizarre day he had experienced. He had open arms to accept this as fact, but then he looked askance for what should have been less than a second—a hand’s distance away from him, on the floor—and something reflected a small flicker of light in his direction. 

A frail little piece of copper, with a symbol etched on it, was no stranger to him. 

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

The coin was left there, untouched, and Viktor quickly stood up, got dressed, and made his way to the chapel with the intention of seeking confession. Ignoring something has never been proven to make it disappear, but he believed in so many things that had no proof. What's one more day to a life sentence? As he approached the vestry, he heard voices—a gruff, authoritative one and another, softer and more submissive.

Pushing open the door quietly, Viktor saw Father Isidore standing on a small platform, his arms outstretched as a tiny, stooped old man adjusted the fit of a new set of robes. 

"Careful, you fool," Father Isidore snapped, glaring down at the old man who fumbled with the hem. 

The old man mumbled an apology, his hands trembling as he continued his work. Father Isidore's mitre rose high, a stately crown of pristine white, adorned with intricate gold embroidery that glinted with each subtle movement. The patterns weaved a tapestry of reverence and power, a fitting halo for one chosen to serve the divine, at the cost of what could probably feed a family for an entire year. Below, his chasuble cascaded in folds of rich golden yellow, a hue that caught the light and transformed it into a soft glow. This garment, heavy with the weight of the vows of poverty they had both made, bore elaborate designs that told false stories of faith and sanctity. 

The bitter taste of resentment came back to Viktor’s throat. He had come here to confess his own misgivings, but now he was confronted with a deeper, more troubling disquiet. And as acrimony poisoned his heart once more, he felt a small, cold hand resting on his shoulder. His skin prickled, and a cold sweat began to form on his brow. He felt her presence—an unnerving familiarity that made his heart pound in his chest. The air around him seemed to grow colder, the light dimmer. He tried to shake off the feeling, attributing it to his own inner turmoil, but it clung to him, persistent and insidious.

A whisper, soft yet piercing, curled into his ear like a serpent. 

“What a despotic panoply of gold and moral deviance—so much for humility and sacrifice,” her voice whispered in his ear. "I, too, would feel betrayed.” 

Viktor’s eyes darted to his left and right, noting the people before him. He couldn't afford to alarm them; he couldn't let them see his fear. His heart pounded in his chest as he forced himself to remain still. A bead of sweat trickled down Viktor’s temple. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. He knew she sought to unnerve him and break his spirit. Summoning every ounce of his will, he started to pray in his mind, each word a lifeline in the gathering darkness.

“ Júdica Dómine nocéntes me; expúgna impugnántes me. Confundántur et revereántur… ” he started, pulling the string of words from a distant memory. 

“Haven’t we established that your god does not listen to your prayers, Viktor?”

Her voice rang loud and clear to him, but the unmoving expressions of the two men before him made it apparent that they could not hear her. “. ..quaeréntes ánimam meam. Avertántur retrórsum et confundántur, cogitántes míhi mála.” He continued, now fearing he had gone insane.

“Never you mind, my sweet. I’ll be gone again soon, but first, I thought you should know the delightsome old lady you lied for yesterday has been excommunicated for ‘transferring her tithe to another person’” 

She stayed long enough to delight in the sudden indignation Viktor felt, gently brushing her hand over the rosary he had tightened his grip around before melting into thin air from where she came from quickly, as there was no one when he turned back to express his anger. His breath came in shallow, controlled measures, and the men were unaware of the silent battle that had taken place but now aware of Viktor’s presence as he stepped inside the room completely. 

“Viktor, come in, come in, feeling refreshed this morning?” He said, clearly an excoriation made to mock Viktor’s clearly tired presence. 

The anger Viktor had been holding in check surged to the surface. "Is it true?" he demanded, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "Did you excommunicate her?"

Father Isidore did not seem grieved by his accusation; if anything, he stood dignified in his decision. 

“It’s certainly interesting that you feel wronged by it, considering it was your fraudulent lies that caused this.”

“My— “ Viktor had to stop himself from saying anything more, and he left the room hurriedly before his resolve to stay quiet betrayed him. 

This was it—the drop that contained the sea. 

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

As he walked back to his quarters, his thoughts drifted back to the market, where he had often seen the old woman. Her face, lined with age and hardship, right next to the rubicund face of plump arrogance, seemed frail. She wore a threadbare shawl over her hunched shoulders, and he wore gold tread and rich velvets. Her fingers gnarled and trembled as she sold her meager wares—simple trinkets and worn fabrics. Viktor recalled the way her eyes had sparkled with gratitude when he had offered her a few coins for a trinket he didn’t need, insignificant next to the bishop’s half-a-dozen golden rings and precious jewelled rosary beads. 

The church itself was a monument to grandeur, with its towering spires, stained glass windows, and intricate carvings. It was a place where wealth was displayed in every corner, from the gilded altar to the finely wrought candelabras. Viktor had always taken pride in the beauty of his church, believing it reflected the glory of God. One step outside of it, though, would transport him to the cobblestone roads lined with the destitute, families huddled in the cold, and children with hollow eyes and empty stomachs. 

The market would be bustling with activity, but it was a scene of struggle and survival. People bartered and begged, their faces etched with the desperation of poverty, but their eyes still smiled when they saw him, hopeful that his presence—to them, divine—would at least save their souls. 

His cup was overflowing. 

With a determined stride, Viktor crossed the room and pulled the book from the shelf. He ran his fingers over the cover, feeling a surge of excitement and defiance. The prohibition that had once held him back now seemed an affront to the pursuit of truth and knowledge. The anger within him had crystallized into a clear resolve: if the church could betray its principles, then he no longer felt bound by its restrictions.

Viktor sat at his desk, opening the white-covered book with reverent hands. The pages were filled with meticulous diagrams and elegant prose, and as he began to read, the words seemed to leap off the page, igniting a passion that had been suppressed. The theories and observations weren’t groundbreaking to him, but they challenged the very foundations of the geocentric worldview that the Church so adamantly defended.

The elegant simplicity of the heretic’s heliocentric model resonated so deeply with Viktor, aligning with the sense of order and reason he had always believed in, that it almost brought genuine laughter out of him. He continued with his studies, not quite hiding it anymore but not eager for Father Isidore to find out either. Viktor turned, already sensing her presence before he saw her. She materialized from the shadows, her form unmistakable. Her eyes, burning with a white light, fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

"Hanging up the cassock, are we?” This time, her voice resonated clearly in the room instead of in his head.

There was no fear in Viktor this time; he stood his ground, meeting her gaze with a calm intensity. “No, but I’ve confronted a reality I was blind to.”

She smiled. “Is that gratitude I sense in your voice?” 

It was, but he did not answer. 

“You walk a dangerous path, Viktor; it is casuistic and intellectually dishonest of you to keep pretending you hold the same values as you did before.” 

“Many people have done it before; many have conciliated science and faith.”

“And all of them have been either branded as heretic and excommunicated or executed. Take a guess at where they are now.”

“Purgatory?” He said with a defeated but somehow playfully sarcastic tone. 

“What an extraordinary hoax purgatory is; at least have the guts to commit to the inferno.” She chuckled. 

Viktor had to quickly catch himself before he shared a laugh with her, immediately reverting into a pessimistic tone as he turned back around, away from the good-humored environment. 

“I can’t leave; this community needs me.”

“They do. It is far from me to express antagonism against that.” 

“You are trying to convince me to.”

“No. But you will see that you do not need organized religion to help those people. Eventually you will.”

“Perchance.” He said, Pensive. 

She circled him slowly. "You intrigue me. There is strength in you, a strength that few possess. I will watch your journey with great interest." 

Viktor’s resolve wavered slightly under her gaze. There was an intensity in her eyes that unnerved him, a predatory gleam that spoke of desires beyond his understanding. 

"Watch if you will," he said, his voice steady. "I will not be swayed by you again.”

Her smile widened with a knowing, almost lascivious grin. "So sure of yourself," she purred, her voice dripping with seduction. She stepped closer, the air around her growing colder. “Why are you so ready to defy the dogma when it comes to science but so hesitant when it comes to your own indulgence?”

“It’s selfish,” he answered almost immediately. “Hedonistic.” 

“It would be, if you were seeking pleasure at someone’s expense. The idea that seeking self-gratification is selfish is merely puritan ideology; I trust you are now beyond that, after what I showed you last time.” 

Her fingers trailed down his arm, and Viktor fought to suppress the shiver that followed. He met her gaze, his eyes filled with defiance. 

"I will not yield."

“And I will not make you. You will call for me; you will yearn .”

[cripplecharacters]

hi there!! i love this blog and it's helped a lot in my self acceptance pursuit and drive to properly differentiate my characters.

i have an oc with facial scars that are left over from his first design and would like some pointers for redesigning to properly implement this facial difference. he has a scar over the bridge of his nose and one on his lip, both are from accidents related to his story, but i recognize these specific locations (and way to drawing) are overdone and not well implemented.

he does not hide his scars as he has a lot of love for himself, just not a lot of social confidence. so i'd like some help giving him a more realistic facial difference/scarring. thank you in advance! here's a pic of him for reference

Hi!

First of all, I always appreciate a fat, self loving disabled character! Very nice to see. Great drawing too, I love the flowers!

My main advice for making those scars more realistic would be by starting to think how your character moves his face (or moved it while his scars were forming and healing). The thing with scars is that they rarely grow linear, because everything around them moves. And the human face moves a ton.

For a scar on the mouth, it would probably end up following a similar pattern to aging wrinkles. That's how you can think of them here; healing scars are kind of speedrunning the same process. If your character smiles a lot they will form differently than if they frown. If his mouth opens a lot when he talks it will be stretched more than if it doesn't. I know that this is hyperspecific, but it's an interesting thing to consider I think. So, if for example he is someone who smiles a lot and smiles big - his mouth scar would be stretched horizontally on his lips to accommodate that motion, and the whole scar would follow a pattern that's closer to the nostril-corner of the mouth wrinkle rather than a straight line. And if he does the opposite, it will be tighter and more vertical.

In terms of the mouth, it is somewhat possible that he would have problem fully moving his mouth where the scar is formed. Either because of the scar itself or because of the injury affecting some nerves here. It could give him a somewhat lopsided smile (kinda what I have lol) where it's easier to move the half without the scar. But I don't think it would affect his speech or things like that.

For a nose scar, more or less the same stuff applies. If he smiles a lot or wrinkles his nose, the scar will be more stretched, especially on the sides. If he furrows his eyebrows, the scar would be more "wavy" there as well from the motion happening over and over. (Apologies, I don't have the best sight and can't tell if this is the case or not? If the scar is too low for that then ignore this lol.)

Another suggestion here: if he has a scar on his nose, then the rest of the structure felt it as well. If it was done with something sharp; soft and potentially hard tissue would be missing here and there. The area around the scar would be more "tightened", i. e. skin would be tightening around the scar because the tissue that used to be there would be lost or too damaged (or infected. But that's more complicated) to keep. I have scars like this myself, although not on my face. The scar is bumpy and sticks out, but the whole area they're in is depressed when compared to the rest of the skin. In my case this comes with nerve damage (I have no sensation around my scars, nor can I move muscles there voluntarily) but I'm not sure if that's universal.

If it was blunt trauma, his nose would probably have a different shape - presumably asymmetric, maybe bent to the side from the impact. Possibly indented. Depends on where the hit came from, really. But it's unlikely that only the skin would be affected. Potentially even some sort of skull fracture, if we're talking major force.

A few more things; if this is a result of an accident, it's not very common (although can absolutely happen!) that a scar will be this thin and flat (aka a flat-line scar). Those are generally a result of careful surgery. For an accident it's possible that it would be a hypertrophic, keloid, or contracted one as mentioned earlier. I'll say that atrophic scarring would be rather strange here but all other types are fair game. Your choice here, really.

Of course you don't have to implement everything I said here; just treat these as suggestions. As I said a lot of it will depend on other factors, so tailor it to your character!

I hope that this helped a bit!!

Mod Sasza

[relia-robot-writes]

I was watching the trailer for Crescent County and thinking about witches, changelings, and lesbians, and, well, here we are.

Ivy hopped off her broom and leaned it against the outer wall of Kina's apartment. She tucked her goggles into the pocket of her leather jacket, held her pointed hat in both hands, and took a deep breath as she ascended the stairs.

"I should have come sooner..." Too melodramatic. "Hey, Kina, can we talk?" Too anxiety inducing. "Kina! Hey! Listen..." No. "I apologize for my actions..." Ugh, She sounded like a corporate stooge. Ivy felt the envelope in her pocket. She'd tried to write out how she felt, in case she chickened out and couldn't say anything. But that'd be almost worse.

Kina's door. Ivy closed her eyes, straightened her back, and knocked on the door.

No response. Ivy opened one eye.

The door was open.

She pushed her way inside. "Kina?" She called. The apartment was nearly empty, save for a small envelope with Kina's delicate handwriting on top - "to Ivy."

Ivy picked it up and started to read it. Her eyes went wide as she scanned down the page. Phrases jumped out at her; "by the time you read this," "I can't be here anymore," "back where I belong." Ivy dropped the letter and bolted out the door and down the stairs, as the fading sunlight fell on the last words - "goodbye, Ivy."

No way. She got to her broom and ran alongside it, trying to kickstart it. The thaumic engine caught, and she jumped on, hands rigid on the handle. No way! The engine roared as she channeled magic into it and she barreled into the street, forcing a car to swerve and stomp on the brakes and horn as she skidded through the air out onto the road. No WAY! She couldn't let it end like this!

She wove in and out of traffic, pushing the broom's engine to its limits. Her eyes streamed until she risked a hand off the controls, plunging into her pocket and stretching the goggles over her head, barely holding onto her hat as she sped down the highway to the Hedge.

Sirens sounded behind her. The cops were the last thing she needed right now. She checked her mirrors, licked her lips, and kicked the broom nearly vertical. The engine roared, and she gave the red-and-blue lights a cheeky salute as she boosted upwards, barely skipping off the concrete divide and onto the freeway.

Going the wrong way, but what can you do?

She landed heavily, boots skidding along the asphalt for a moment, knuckles inches from being sanded away. Gradually, she lifted up from the ground and made her way across the freeway, only to be cut off by a speeding Ferrari. She didn't have time to go around, so she went over, close enough to see the driver's irate face as she planted a boot right on the hood to help her gain altitude. She landed on the correct side of the freeway this time, her leg feeling like it had tried to kick a brick wall that hated her.

The sun broke through the glass and steel of the downtown skyscrapers. It was almost completely down, painting the sky in brilliant colors. She gritted her teeth and gunned the engine even harder, stretching her magic for every ounce of speed available to her, throwing herself flat against the broom for less resistance. She sped past trucks, skimmed over cars already going 30 over the limit, wove between deadlocked traffic. Anything to get there before Kina left. She couldn't let her go without saying her piece.

The last few months flashed through her mind like the faces in the cars she passed. Meeting Kina for the first time. Introducing her to her motorbroom friends. Kina's constant insecurity. Her feeling that she didn't belong in the human world. The late night talks, gazing up at the stars. The broom rides, with Kina holding on tightly as Ivy whooped, the wind in their hair. Kina's growing fears and anxieties. Hands held tight, warm and soft.

The argument.

Ivy had stormed out, kicked her broom on and flown away. She hadn't checked in on Kina for a week. She'd meant to, but the things she'd said... she hadn't known how to take them back. Her friends had told her Kina was getting worse, but this...

It's her choice, thought Ivy, the sun reflecting off her goggles onto the metal freeway fence flickering beside her, but I'll be damned if I let her go without at least trying to talk to her. The Hedge came into view, and Ivy gunned it for the exit.

---

Kina hopped off Birch's bike, and untied her small suitcase from the back. Birch popped her bubblegum. "You sure about this? It's not too late to turn around."

Kina felt so small beneath her gaze, the witch's black hat and fishnet shirt over a ratty metal band shirt and black jeans contrasting sharply with Kina's simple earth-toned outfit. She looked elsewhere, at the great wooden edifice of the Hedge, the sunlight almost right for the portal to open. "I'm sure," she said, in a small voice. "Nobody here cares about me anyway."

Birch's face twisted into an unreadable expression. "I wouldn't have given you a ride here if I didn't care about you, girl."

"That's not..."

Birch sighed. "Guess I can't talk you out of it." She checked her phone, tapped out a message on it, and stuck it back in her pocket. "Come back and visit sometime, huh?"

Kina mumbled something noncommittal, grabbed her suitcase, and walked towards the portal. It wouldn't be too long before it activated, and she'd be free of this world.

Birch checked her phone again. "Goddamn it, Ivy, where are you?"

---

Ivy could see the living wood portal off the road to the right, and the sun was almost set - she could see the shimmers of magic, the world on the other side struggling to make itself present.

She saw Kina.

She skidded off the ramp and rammed the gates, breaking through the magical wood with a flaming boot. She sped past another broom-user - Birch? No time to worry about that, although she whooped and waved her hat at Ivy as she passed.

Kina stood in front of the portal, on a simple dirt pathway through the grass. The sun sank, and suddenly the portal sparked into place, the eternal twilight of the fey lands matching the twilight on Ivy's side. Kina hesitated, then began to step through.

"No!!" Ivy reached for more reserves, and suddenly found them empty. Her broom hit the ground at speed, flinging Ivy off it. Sky and ground intermixed, her goggles shattered on an unseen rock, and she felt a snap in her left arm. She found herself on the ground, the air knocked out of her lungs, as Kina reached towards the barrier between worlds.

And a familiar-looking envelope flew into her hands. One labeled "To Kina."

Ivy frantically patted the pocket of her jacket, finding it empty as Kina opened the envelope and began to read, one foot through the portal. Ivy tried to push herself up, but just collapsed again. She gritted her teeth and heaved, finally making it to her feet. Just in time for Kina to finish reading, to turn and stare at Ivy.

A million things flashed through Ivy's head to say, as Kina held her gaze, but the only thing she was able to blurt out was, "Don't go!"

Kina startled at that, holding the letter close to her chest.

"Don't go. Please." Ivy held her broken arm and pretended the tears on her face were from pain. "I'd miss you."

Kina broke eye contact. "I'm... a mess. I don't belong here. I can't do anything right." She began to cry in earnest. "I don't... I don't deserve to be here!"

"Screw that!" Shouted Ivy, limping closer. "Fuck deserving anything! I never should have said any of that! I'll miss you! I want you to stay! I know that's selfish, and I don't care!!" she took a breath, only a few feet away now. "Please. Stay." She couldn't look at Kina's eyes, focusing on her chin instead, watching tears fall from it.

They stood there for a moment. The portal behind Kina shimmered. She turned to go, and Ivy suppressed a sob, squeezing her eyes shut.

And then a moment later found herself tackled by the small changeling. The portal behind her closed, and Ivy encircled Kina with her good arm, both of them holding each other close.

---

Birch dropped the magic that had guided Ivy's letter to Kina's hand, and went to go pick up Ivy's broom. She flicked a tear from the corner of her eye. Those gay idiots.

[contentloadingandstuff]

How To Fight - Male!Reader x Ningguang & Yelan

Ningguang

"Yes. I am ready."

You eye Ningguang curiously. She has a confident smirk on her lips, her arms crossed over her chest. She's missing her usual dress, wearing light armor instead. You shoot her an amused look. 

"Someone's feeling daring today." You shrug. "Alright then."

You walk up to the weapon stand, grabbing two dull training swords. You spin around, throwing her one of them. She barely catches it, but quickly places it in her hands. You stretch your neck and approach her as Ningguang assumes the default stance you taught her. 

"I'll show you just how much I learned." She says, brandishing her weapon. "Three hits. Come at me."

"Hah! And make things easy for you, dear? You started this, so you come at me." You spin your sword in your hands, and ready it. 

Ningguang skips up to you and swings sideways. You hold your weapon firmly, taking the blow wholly on the handguard. You push against her sword and retaliate with an upwards slash, but she dodges. A hard downwards slash tries to break your guard, but your parry and stab forward. Using both hands Ningguang manages to force the sword away, but you reposition and strike her with your shoulder. She staggers backwards and you finish with a trained top down hit to her shoulder. 

You withdraw. “Clumsy and slow. Again.”

She exhales heavily, steadying herself and returning to position. “Ready.”

This time you open with a barrage of quick cuts, all of them blocked with little effort. You tease her with a stronger hit, catching her retaliation on your hand guard. You step back, just in time to block another downwards attack, followed by a quick stab. You managed to deflect it and riposte, using your strength to break her weakened guard. She blocks the would-be killing blow just in time, forcing you to jump back. 

“Great.” You praise, but before she can react, you charge again. An upwards slash to the left, followed by a vertical combo is ineffective, but your stance nullifies her counter. Having used her acceleration to attack, Ningguang’s frame lowers, rendering her unable to stop a slash straight down on her back. She yelps, and you retreat, giving her space.

“Ow. That’s going to hurt tomorrow.” She groans, but retakes her stance once again, a frown of focus on her lips. 

“Focus. Last chance.”

She moves in without warning, forcing you into stance. Amongst her quick side-to-side attacks stabs are mixed in, forcing you to respond quickly. You find a moment to wind up a stronger riposte, resulting in her weapon being deflected upwards, giving you enough space to close the distance. You try to follow up with a low blow, but she manages to stop you. Before you can react, Ningguang elbows you across the face with her left arm, breaking your lip and sending you stumbling backwards. You send a sloppy, heavy blow at her, knowing she’ll dodge and step back. Now a few feet meters apart, you both resume the default positions. You wipe the blood from your face with your sleeve. 

She moves forward, delivering a variety of high strikes mixed in with various pushes. You keep your distance, making her attack faster and with less accuracy. You once again use your strength advantage and strike right at her weapon’s chappe. Ningguang, exhausted, agitated and unfocused, fails to recover, giving you enough space to slash at her chest. Feeling frisky, you twirl around and, before she can turn around, place a firm slap on her butt. She yelps in surprise.

“W-what was that for?!” You jog back to her, snickering under your breath. Ningguang’s face is red, partly from exhaustion and partly from embarrassment. 

You send her a teasing smile. “Let’s see. For… arrogance, for slacking off in training, and for being so hot.”

Ningguang takes off her helmet, and lets out an exhausted sigh, the expression of embarrassment changing into a smirk. “Understood."

You approach her. Suddenly, but gently, you grab her chin, and place a brief kiss on her forehead, earning a soft smile from her. 

"You'll get it eventually. Patience, Ningguang, patience."

Yelan

Warm sunlight pours through the windows of the gym, reflecting off of the bright, lacquered wood. The day outside is peaceful, but the situation within the hall is anything but.

Sounds of moans and grunts of extortion echo, as do the sounds of hits and the swishing of blades. Sweat pours from your bodies, but neither you nor Yelan lose focus. Your minds are occupied on the deadly exchange of slashes and pushes, always seeking for an opening in each other's guard. One stabs, the other stops the stab, and retaliates, only to have their attack blocked and returned. Locked in a seemingly endless, intense cycle of combat. Action and reaction. Only that exists in your minds. 

Your eyes are cold on Yelan's. Your movements are calculated, backed up with years of grueling training and countless combat scenarios. Every muscle tenses and relaxes on effortless demand, perfectly aligned with your mind, coming across as instinctual. Yelan, in the meantime, grits her teeth. Her body aches, longs for, pleads, demands rest, even if just for a moment. Though she had been dueling you for just over six minutes, her adrenaline-filled brain processes time faster. It feels like she's been fighting forever, exchanging blows, pushes, slashes and stabs with you. 

Some part of her regrets ever asking you to teach her close quarters combat these two weeks ago. The other reprimands her for backing out, in your voice. She knows she has to. For her own safety. She won't always have a better weapon on her, nor will she have backup. The majority of spontaneous encounters end within the first 10 minutes, you said. She knows she has to last. 

Her body screams for mercy. It bleeds from the numerous small cuts, mainly on her bruised and battered forearms. Just as you suggested, she had been using them as a guard and a shoving  tool, and they work. She just never expected it to hurt like the Abyss. Just barely managing it, Yelan inflicted several wounds on your body too. The ones you inflicted are shallow, but deep enough to draw dark, crimson blood, while hers are deeper, sloppier. Her eyes constantly steal brief glances of the nasty gash on your cheek. Despite your hand being almost covered in blood from the slash on your thumb, you don't frown, let alone flinch. Your hands somehow remain steady, while hers have been trembling for some time now. 

Yelan's body is drenched in sweat, both from the intensive activity, and something never before felt by her during these sessions. 

Stress. 

It's her first exam. It will decide whether she will continue on to learn more advanced combat, or spend the next week revising and training, both under your watchful eye. But that's not what worries her, and neither is the fact that it's just the second time you fight with real, sharp blades. It's you, not as her instructor, but as her lover. The sight of your blood bothers her, especially that it was she who inflicted the wounds it comes from. She understands, she really does, that training has to be rigorous, as real combat will be unforgiving. Yet at the same time she doesn't want to hurt you. She knows that neither do you, but you're skilled enough to keep the damage minimal, while she isn't. And then there's the chill in your eyes. No warmth, none of the familiar feeling of security and comfort - just merciless instruction. Yelan knows that it's only temporary, that you'll return to normal after the session ends, but that on top of the former is becoming too much for her. 

She feels like it's real. That she really needs to harm and kill you, else you would do the same. Her eyes feel the prickle of tears in the corners, of both exhaustion and discomfort. She waits for a good opportunity, blocks your attack, and hops back swiftly. You instinctually move to engage her again, but she raises her open hands slightly. 

"Stop, stop. I concede. I concede. Please, no more."

You stay in stance for a moment, but soon relax and stand down. After sheathing the knife, you wipe your bloody hands with your shirt. 

"Alright."

Without another word, you move to the bench. Yelan watches on as you grab a water bottle and press it against your lips, proceeding to down almost all of it in one go. She sighs and closes her eyes. 

"Heh, just don't fall asleep over there." You smile and turn to face her, but stop when you see her. "Yelan, is everything okay?" 

"Yes, yes, I just… Ugh. I'm tired." She tries an evasive answer as she joins you on the bench, her own hydration in her hand. 

"Don't lie to me. I know something’s bothering you.”

She covers her face with her hands, and sighs. “I don’t want to do this.”

You hum in response. “Wasn’t it you who suggested these lessons?”

“I did, but I didn’t expect you to make me do this.” 

You scoff, your thoughts still deep in training mode. “Getting injured is just a part of the training. Besides, Yelan, you aren’t seriously hurt. Are you?”

She rubs her eyes, wiping small tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Her voice comes out nearly as a growl. “I don’t want to hurt you, is this so hard to understand? And you’re so cold, and so… foreign today. I just… You…” Her voice drops to a near whisper. “You’re scaring me.”

You stay silent, taken aback by this statement. She glances up at you and continues. 

“It’s just that you’re so emotionless, and different from the man I know. I l-love you, and you’re making me treat and hurt you like an enemy? You even act as one. I feel like you’re… a stranger with my husband’s face.”

Taking a deep breath, you try to ease her worries, but she cuts you off before you can speak. 

“I don’t care, do you understand? I don’t care that I need training, o-or that real enemies won’t go easy on me! You’re not one of them! I don’t want to treat you as one, please! We can train, really, but I don’t want to do this. Anything but this, please.” A few stray tears slip through her fingers. Her tone is now more hushed, sounding broken. “Please…”

You scoot over closer to her, and place your right hand on her elbow. “Yelan. Please, look at me.”

She looks up, her blue eyes almost pleading. “Y/N…”

You pull her into a hug. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I went too far. I should have asked first, been more gentle and empathetic. I… Have no excuse.”

Her slender arms snake around you, securing comfortably around your chest. She lets out a very quiet, muffled sob. “I don’t want to do this ever again, p-please. I don’t want to hurt you, Y/N.” 

You gently stroke her hair, getting a little blood on the dark blue strands from the injury she inflicted. “You won’t have to. I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”

Eventually, in your arms, Yelan is able to steady her emotions. She parts with you, a sad look still present on her face. She moves her hand to your bloody cheek, fingers carefully avoiding touching the injury. She smiles at you.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

Thanks for reading!