#looking at you pit of feathers

[stoshasaurus]

i still cannot fucking draw feet and refuse to learn.

anyway, more work with poses and an experiment with cell shading and some half-tone brushes i have. this one actually turned out decent, the hands most of all.

[typicalcommondandelion]

YOU HAVE NOW HEARD SISYPHUS

PLEASE

FIRST REACTIONS????

Not as old as I was expecting and/or hoping for.

Honestly? Didn't like it initially. My theory for why is a combination of "Hey that's not what I was imagining in my head" (because I wasn't imagining anything) + "I HAVE HEARD THIS VOICE BEFORE IT DOESN'T BELONG HERE" (because I had played like an hour of DE a while back)

........But the voice is ultimately pleasant. I like it.

I especially like how Sisyphus sounds so violent until you get to his second phase and he lets out exactly One (1) happy line that reveals he's reveling in the fight. That's very fun.

[apatheticsunday]

Batfam Eldritch Horror

AKA "inspired by that one post about Danny being a flerken and living with the Batfam" idea! Except he looks pants-shitting, "oh dear god, what is that" terrifying.

I just love slightly feral animal-like Danny in a... shape. It's not immediately identifiable as a cat or dog, maybe he has a few too many legs that kind of look like a tail at one point? And when he skitters up walls like a particularly small dog-sized tarantula, it's terrifying enough to make seasoned criminals squeal.

Let's imagine Danny had some sort of accident with a portal and was Wizard-of-Oz'd into Gotham, a literal hellmouth of a city with so many curses that it'd make John Constantine start to sweat. And this city also has... weird Ecto. (In my brain, there's a connection between the Lazarus Pit and ectoplasm, like pit waters are the sewers of ectoplasm or something.) It's enough for Danny to still exist but he can't seem to stay human-shaped. It's better than being a Blob Ghost, but not by much. His fur-scales-feathers-skin-something look dark as the midnight sky.

And who should stumble on this weird-looking Thing aside from Damian, secret animal-whisperer and passionate Pokemon collector? Damian, who known what a scared feral animal looks like and who can coax it into his arms? It doesn't matter that Danny has maybe five or six limbs. He can make himself slightly smaller at will (not in a Magical-Girl-Transformation way, mind you. When he changes shape, there's the distinct snap of bones breaking and wet, fleshy sounds of his organs, muscles, ligaments, tendons, everything shifting).

Damian has literally been trained by the League of Assassins under the Demon Head. He's likely seen more people's insides than an ER surgeon; he's killed more than enough people in incredibly grotesque and violent ways to be totally unphased by Danny changing shapes. Maybe he'll actually be sort of touched, a bit pleased, that his new Thing pet would change itself so violently so Damian could hold it.

What would Damian name it? He's outwardly violent and aggressive towards others, but pretty passionate and heartfelt once he cares for someone. Alfred the Cat comes to mind. So maybe Damian takes one look at this supposedly scary Thing and thinks, "It looks like Father."

As in, Dark as Night? A shadow inspiring fear amongst criminals? Spoken about in whispers, sometimes laughed off as a joke but still cautiously reverent, just in case?

Danny's new name is Batman.

Of course, this causes some confusion when Damian comes home to Wayne Manor and says, "Batman and I will retire to my room." In front of Bruce, who naturally and kind-of-correctly assumes his son picked up another animal while on patrol. Bruce had a hard time explaining this to a very concerned Dick, who was holding up a wooden stake and a bible (Dick totally wasn't going to kill Bruce if he turned out to be a vampire but it's always good to be prepared!), after Damian apparently made a wayward comment that "Batman refuses to eat anything besides raw meat."

And Danny is having a great time!! Sure, Damian treats him like a pet, but he gets affectionate pats on the head, incredibly expensive steak, and a soft place to sleep. He awkwardly dragged several blankets from the living room to Damian's room to make a bed in the kid's closet. (Alfred watched from behind the couch as this six-legged hairy-ish catlike Thing determinedly waddled with three blankets in its mouth, occasionally tripping on its own legs. He went back to dusting the crown moulding silently. So, that's why Master Damian requested uncooked sirloin steak twelve times in last few days. Hm.)

So, the Batfam accept there is another Batman in the family. Except they haven't actually seen Danny (aside from Alfred and Damian).

Until Dick needs to talk to Damian and goes into the boy's room. But it's empty?? He could've sworn he heard somebody talking or something in here, but maybe not? He turns to leave and then hears it again: a soft kind of thump coming from Damian's armoire. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face as his Older Brother Instincts kick in. Jason used to hide in closets and try to scare Dick when he was little; Damian, despite being a child soldier and trained assassin, was still a little kid at heart, right? The kid's clearly hiding from Dick to scare him or something.

(Damian was in the Batcave, studiously typing "Google, what non-Earth animals reside in Gotham, please?" into the Batcomputer. I like to think that Damian uses the internet like a 85-year old man who thinks a Google employee personally replies to each question.)

So, Dick creeps forward and abruptly slams open the armoire doors!! Only to let out an unholy shriek of terror as Danny, who was taking a nap, frantically skitters out of the closet looking like a Frankenstein cat-dog with bat wings. He crawls under Damian's bed as Dick scrambles into the hallway.

The cat-dog-Thing is out of the bag now. Damian looks utterly deadpan as he explains that Batman is his pet and not to concern themselves with it; Bruce, Tim, Jason, and a white-faced Dick disagreed. They need to see it to make sure the Thing won't harm anybody, especially considering it's fucking living with them!! How do they know it won't try to eat them in their sleep??

"Batman does not eat raw human meat, Todd. Why are you concerned now? It has resided with us for two months now."

"Two months?" Dick nearly faints (again).

"Yes, Batman is very well-behaved, Master Dick." Alfred, who's been feeding Danny for the last two months and has seen all the little quirks the Thing has, offers a consoling half-smile.

Ultimately, the Batfam decide to keep Batman in exchange for scary dog privileges. They'll have to think of another name for Danny considering having two Batmans in Gotham would be pretty confusing (especially if one of them decided they did, in fact, like raw human flesh).

[ambros1an]

sunday x reader - halovian courtship

warning: no spoilers, gn! reader, pining/soft sunday, Sunday info dumping as usual

summary: where Sunday will do everything except confess, and you just think he’s emotionally stunted.

a/n: i read about birds for this

halovian courting rituals

1. Gift giving. Like their close bird companions, Halovians participate in 'nuptial gifts,' a form of gift giving to a potential partner.

You were walking into the Oak Family Headquarters, Dewlight Pavilion, sent to deliver some letters. Although, you’ve been here before, it was still a bit nerve wracking to be in such a place, undetached from your usual position as a lower end employee.

The entrance to Oak Family Head’s office was right in front of you. You bite your lip, shifting the documents to your other arm and knock.

“Nightingale Famil-“

The door swings open. The family head holding the door stands to the side.

“Ah,” Sunday says your name, “it’s you.”

Your eyes widen, blinking a couple times. He remembers me?

“Yes, it’s nice to see you again Mr. Sunday. I’ve come with documents from the Nightingale family detailing a new plan for the dreamscape.”

He looks a bit disappointed?

He chuckles, then calls out to a lone employee, “you’re dismissed for today, I’ll take care of the rest.”

The Oak employee dips his head and leaves. Watching him leave fills a pit in your stomach.

“Mr. Sunday, is something wrong?”

Sunday sits up suddenly, “Oh, no. Not at all.” It’s that movement that makes you realize that he’s been fidgeting with something in his lap…Is he always like this?

“I guess I was just a bit surprised,” he smiles, looking down to the side. You caught him.

“Surprised? To see me?” Although Sunday and you have met a few times. It was always business, just like now—well maybe he did stare a bit intently at you before, but something really was different this time!

He looks up and sheepishly slides a box across the table. “Take it as…being a good part of The Family.”

For a few moments, your eyes set upon him. What is he planning? It’s a small box. Almost nothing could fit in there. You lift the top up.

You gasp. Earrings worth more than your entire life’s salary. You slam it shut.

“M-Mr. Sunday. This really isn’t necessary. I just—“ you ramble on. Sunday places his gloved hand on yours.

“Please, take it.”

Looking into his eyes, you realize that putting up a fight with the Oak Head won’t get you anywhere. You reluctantly take the box.

2. Preening. Similar to nature, touching a Halovian's wings is an intimate gesture to show one's interest in a romantic partner. Someone should never touch a Halovian's wings without asking!

Soon after, you come across Sunday again. This time at the Nightingale Family’s institution. You were putting away blueprints, plans and documents your coworkers left laying around haphazardly. When a familiar voice calls out to you.

“Good evening. Working hard, I see.”

“Mr. Sunday?”

He approached you, then looked around the room. He seemed to realize the situation you were in and scorned your coworkers. He mumbled something about you and moving to the “Oak Family.” As he spoke his wings were fluttering. They looked smooth and soft.

“You’ve been staring at my wings. Do they interest you that much?” He chuckles.

“Well, they are very pretty but—“

“Would you like to touch them?” A light blush spreads across his face. Despite that, he seemed perfectly poised. His hands clasped behind his back, standing straight and looking right at you.

“I-is that alright?” tumbles from your lips. You hesitantly reach out.

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Upon touching them, Sunday’s wings twitched away from you before settling down. The feathers are soft and plush. Some are darker in color while others are more pale. They’re surprisingly fluffy. A bit like fur but more delicate.

The blush darkened, his gaze shifted off to the wall. His composure utterly broken, his hands fidgeted behind his back.

“Did you know that birds groom each other as a social activity? It occurs between…ma-members of a flock.” He sputters. What is he saying?

Your fingers stroking his feathers create a flutter within his stomach. He leans into the touch. Taking that as a sign to continue, you reach farther up, a light brush into the coverts of his feathers. Sunday gasps and pulls away.

“…You must take good care of them. Are all Halovian wings soft like yours?”

He wishes that moment would never end.

3. Song. During courtship rituals many birds of different species tend to sing and dance. While that is popular among Halovian people, some may chose show affection through instruments instead.

One day, a notice appears at your door. Upon examining it you realize it’s an invitation from Sunday, instructing you to his office within the Dewlight Pavilion.

Could it be about the documents you sent him last time? You wrack your brain for any possible explanation. He had been acting weirder than usual.

Heat build up in your face upon recalling Sunday’s recent appreciation for you. The earrings that are far too expensive to wear anywhere, and even worse—you bury your face into your hands. In a profound display of unprofessionalism, he let you touch his wings.

Still, every muscle in your body jittered with excitement, even though it shouldn’t.

♫ ♬ ♩

Suddenly, the closer you got, the more the hallway echoed with the sound of a violin. Slowly, you carefully stepped towards the sound, till you found its source.

Sunday was playing the violin. You couldn’t help but freeze where you were and watch him. He truly did look like angel. As he drew his bow across the strings, the light from the window shined down on him. His hair reflected the light appearing almost white. Was he always this beautiful?

Abruptly, he stands up, “You’re early. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” you closed the door behind you, “I didn’t know you could play. What song was it?”

He places the violin down on his table and approached you, “It’s ‘Salut d’amor,’ one of the first pieces I learned how to play,” Sunday put his hand behind his back, “the dream master was the one that taught me.”

“It was very pretty, I can tell you’ve been playing for a long time.”

“Thank you.” A light blush spreads onto his cheeks, but it’s gone before you can realize it.

A loud silence sweeps the room. The two of you avert your eyes. This side of Sunday feels so different from what you’ve been told. He always maintains a professional barrier. But if so, what was this?

Sunday calls your name, “how do you feel about me?”

“What?” The question is so out of the blue, you must’ve heard wrong, “I think you’re a nice guy—“

“I meant as a partner, I thought you knew. Was I not obvious enough?” He mumbles over the last sentence.

“I—well—“ you stumble over your words. He was serious. The earrings, the wing touching, the invitation. You dismissed it as him buttering you up. The ‘most handsome man in Penacony’ as delegated by the latest magazines, had feelings for you?

Your face felt so hot, you felt as if you could combust into flames at any moment, “I feel the same.”

His expression softened. “That’s a relief, I don’t have to cancel those reservations then.”

“Reservations?! Mr. Sunday-“

“Just Sunday. I’ll pick you up later then,” he smiled, then placed his hand near your ear, as if looking for something, “Oh, but this time remember to wear those earrings.”

a/n #2: soft Sunday is real, did u see how protective he was of Robin in the quest? i need more hoyo. feed my delusion

[inu-mxki]

treasure / luffy x fem!reader

“pretty.”

luffy’s rough, callous finger tips traced over your cheek bone and down across your jaw. his big, grey eyes flicking across your features as if he was memorising each freckle, scar and crevice. a soft but entranced expression on his handsome face, as he ran the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip.

“so pretty.”

the captain was a forward man. he left little to the imagination when it came to what he was thinking. and he may not have recognised his emotions towards you as romantic feelings right away, but he sure knew that you were special, and in a way that was different to the others. so when you returned from the two year break, more mature and stronger than before, seeing you again ignited something in him that felt like a fire at the very pit of his stomach, and luffy realised something:

he’d missed you. really, really missed you. like a limb.

and he simply had to make sure you knew that.

“my pretty, though. right?” he mumbled, his loving eyes seeking reassurance. luffy was never someone who particularly needed it, but love was new and different for him. he’d paid it no mind before, and he was still navigating how it worked and felt now these feelings had a name. so he did ask for reassurance, but only from you.

“of course,” you whisper to him, a genuine smile curling at his soft, pink lips, “always, luff.”

“good.” he sighs, his fingertips now travelling down your neck to you bare shoulder, leaning in to press a kiss at the corner of your mouth. “want to look at you forever. so beautiful.”

you relax against him, his warm skin against yours, keeping your body from the cold of the sea air at night. the room was lit by the dimming lights of candles, the rest of the ship sound asleep by now, feeling like it was just the two of you.

“luff,” you whisper, and his eyes meet yours again, his large hand now at the small of your back, holding you as close as possible, legs intertwined. he hums, the same, lovesick look in his eyes as he watches you say his name. “i love you. you know that?”

he chuckles deeply, breathlessly, and you feel the vibration in his broad chest. you look away from his intense gaze for a moment, and begin tracing the scar on his chest with your finger. the muscles beneath his skin are solid, the scar rough and deep as you lightly trace along it. then two fingers, with a feather like touch, press against the bottom of your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his once more. luffy almost looks drunk, completely obsessed with your existence. and he truly was; until you, he didn’t think this kind of thing was important.

but he’d be damned if he lost it now. just having you there, wrapped in his arms, the boat drifting calmly along whilst his loyal crew slept safe and sound, was a feeling he wouldn’t trade for anything.

“look at me, pretty.” he whispered, his voice much lower and gruff with tiredness. luffy was so undeniably handsome, and you honestly became so lost in him that it scared you sometimes. he ghosts his lips over yours, only touching the slightest bit, teasing, until you feel him smile. “stupid question. course i know that.” then his hand snakes around your jaw to hold you gently, fingers threading in the hair at the nape of your neck, and he finally presses his lips to yours. with a sigh you melt into him, and allow him to take the lead, as he kisses you with such intensity and yet it’s soft, warm and loving.

“love you more.” he then mutters against your lips, just hovering there, enjoying the way your breathing quickens as you patiently wait for more. then he grins again, before whispering, so deep and gritty you feel it right at your core. “let me show you what a precious treasure you are to me, yeah?”

[stealingyourbones]

A side effect of Danny’s death by the ghost portal was his wings. They were beautiful in his human form, a sparrow's wings with feathers of light blue matching with patches of white, reminiscent of a cloudy day. In his ghost form they were horrifying. The feathers forever smoking and lightly smoldering, wings blackened with soot that couldn’t be removed no matter how hard you tried. The feather’s shafts and barbs glow a toxic green that dim and brighten at random intervals. The smell of electrical fire and burning flesh permanently lingering on the charred wings. Danny covers up his wings sudden appearance as a metagene making itself present after a traumatic event. It makes sense. He got shocked by the portal so he acquired an ability similar to Ghosts. Normally metagenes adapt to strengthen oneself in a way that relates to the incident that activates them so this isn’t unusual. After all, all ghosts had wings. Wings that displayed how they died or one’s obsession.  Ember's wings were perpetually burning, her feathers wreathed in blue flames. Lunch Lady’s feathers made of meaty flesh, Skulker's armor had tactical metal wings that could shoot their feathers with deadly precision while his actual body had small bat wings that looked as if they were made of stitched together pelts. — Jason doesn’t know how he got wings after being dipped in the Lazarus Pit but apparently it happens in rare cases when the deceased was dead for a prolonged period of time before revival by the Pits. His beautiful giant hawklike wings were a brilliant intimidation tactic when spread to their full wingspan, the dark red plumage speckled with brown, looking like his wings were dipped in blood. They were as beautiful as they were useful. The wings were capable of flight and made no sound while in the air, perfect for traversing Gotham and for stealth missions. The one thing that confused both Jason and the LoA was that his wings would sometimes change.  Whenever the pits clouded his mind you could see his wings appear to bend and twist, looking like they broke in several places and didn’t heal correctly. The brown fading away and the dark red of his wings lightening to a cherry color and the lower feathers changing to an ombre of yellow and green. The beautiful plumage now tarnished with scorch marks and concrete dust, the glow of embers scattered around his feathers burning brighter and brighter a bright toxic green the more the pits overwhelmed him.

[sunsburns]

i couldn't help myself and wrote a quick blurb for my girlfriend vi with one eye open (allusions to smut, no explicit smut.)

vi could’ve sworn she had something good going on for her. something consistent. she was so sure she had found it in the pit.

it was there, hidden somewhere in those fights. the way her whole body felt hot when her chest was freezing over. that heat was what she was searching for, the warmth. whether it be the ache in her fists, the blood soaking her bandages, the sweat on her skin or the black paint that's started to stain it.

the ache was consistent, it kept her stable.

besides, the drinks were strong enough to numb it. vi liked the drinks. loved them, really. the drinks weren't going to leave her, drinks weren't going to change.

drink. fight. drink. sleep. drink. fight. drink. sleep.

see? consistent.

the drinks brought a warmth to her, a burning, but warm enough to keep her sane. warm like the way the sun would beat down on her skin in those few weeks she spent in piltover. she liked the sun. vi missed it sometimes. but warm, warm like the way her old cell used to get if she beat that old punching back enough times. warm, similar to the way the tears run down her cheeks. warm, the way your hands used to feel against her skin.

those feather-like touches, tender, as if you were afraid you'd hurt her if you pressed too hard. you couldn't hurt her, you could never hurt violet, no matter how hard you tried. but you still tried not to, even if you knew you couldn't even take her a in fight, it was just your way of nature. you were tender, like a bruise. you were warm, like the sun.

and you used to kiss her the same way. soft lips, warm breath, and how it used to tremble when you got nervous or flustered. the way you used to press your lips on her cheek, smiling at the way you watched the pale skin grow rosy when you pulled away. she'd grin at you, a little dazed, a little giggly, before reaching for you, pulling you close and kissing you deeply.

again. and then again. and again.

she used to kiss you.

fuck yeah, she used to kiss you and that used to cause a fire to roar in her chest. and she loved to kiss you. she loved the ache you put in her chest, the way her heart used to beat too fast. holy shit, she loved to kiss you.

and she used to kiss you over and over again. kissed you sweetly, kissed you with fever. and she'd kiss you until the both of you were breathless. until you're squirming on her lap, gripping her shoulders, nails barely biting the skin but she loved the faint sting nonetheless. she loved the way you were too flustered to ask for what you wanted.

vi loved the way you looked at her whenever she asked you: "what do you need?"

she loved the way the corners of your lips would twitch in annoyance, a scoff puffing from between your lips as your skin warmed up even more. "c'mon, vi."

she used to laugh.

she used to laugh at you, at they way you got shy sometimes, but still bold enough to bring a hand to her face. bold enough to press your thumb against her lower lip, parting it, running it over her teeth before you mumbled, "want you to touch me. please."

she used to never say no to you. vi could never find it in herself because you used to ask so damn nicely.

you were warm, like the way a fire would burn in the winter, glowing embers. she loved your moans, the little cries you made, the faces you pulled, the salty tears she used to kiss away.

you made her feel warm. a warmth she'd been looking for since it was taken from her all those years ago. that similar warmth she used to feel whenever vander closed the bar for a few hours so he could take her, powder, mylo, claggor and ekko to the edge of zaun so they could watch the sun set behind the buildings of piltover.

you made her cheeks warm, her blood burn, and her heart used to ache for you. she used to ache for you.

she used to call your name in low groans, in your ear, just for you to hear. just so you and no one else could hear the way she yearns for you, shaky breaths against your burning skin. no one else needed to hear how she used to say your name like some kind of prayer under your tender touches.

and how tender they were, delicate. you used to treat her that way, when vi was used to punches, blood and broken bones, you treated her delicately, kissed her delicately, lips soft and pillowy, tongue slipping past her parted lips, mouth swallowing her sighs.

vi's hands, rough to the touch, scarred, blood-stained and permanently bruised at the knuckles, used to find a home in your hair, used to curl against strands and tug hard enough to make you whine against her mouth. she loved that sound.

she loved how you were nothing like her.

how even with her unworthiest hand, her lips ready to smooth that ache with a tender kiss, you never hesitated. and you loved her.

and you found a way to keep her warm. you kept her warm.

so warm. so loved.

and to be warm is what vi aches for.

so god be damned if she drinks until that dying fire in the pits of her stomach reignites. because at least those drinks burn. they burn and they blister, and she thinks they might be turning her to ashes but it's the closest comfort to warmth she's gotten since you'd left.

[hot-patootiee]

Flowers of Contempt

Pre-series - Don’t worry, Robin is still there.

Welder Eddie X ‘King’ Steve

To show his hatred for one King Steve, Eddie begins to weld beautiful flowers with insults imbued into them to gift Steve. Steve does not know flower language.

Misunderstandings, Falling in love, etc.

Will be on AO3 soon.

<Part1>Part 2

Steve was having a pretty shit day. Sure he had a party later and it would be great, but he had failed another test and was unsure if he would pass his classes. Maybe if he went to Nancy she’d help him study, but he didn’t feel the best about running to the cute girl he wanted to date about how stupid he was. Tommy assured him that a few drinks would cheer him up and he had reluctantly agreed to go to Emma’s party.

The shrill bell invaded his ears and made him wince, it reverberated in his ears and he could almost feel the first inklings of a headache. He was frustrated and annoyed and just generally wanted to punch something. All these little things accumulated under his skin and itched fiercely.

He walked to the bathroom just trying to do something with his legs to sort through the mess of adrenaline filled emotions invading his head. He opened the door and went to the sink, turning on the faucet and using his hands to splash his face. His hands lingered, fingertips pressing at the hard line of his brow. The cold water had done little more than soothe the tense muscles in his face.

He patted his face with a paper towel and tossed it in the trash. Steve reentered the busy hall with a straight back and hard steps that spoke to years of not only belonging but dominating every space he entered. People generally avoided knocking into him because wherever Steve lingered his lapdog Tommy always seemed to be present.

When a purposeful, unfamiliar hand landed on his shoulder Steve’s lips immediately prepared to curl in distaste. He followed the hand and found soot smeared skin with grease lines making veins down his arm. He wore a dirty wife beater that clung to his sweat slicked skin. A fluffy and wild halo of curls shrouded his face and hung just above his shoulders. His face was similarly soot streaked which contrasted sharply with the pale skin but maintained a cohesive aesthetic with the hard lines of his face. His wide, coal pit eyes pierced into Steve.

His demeanor made Steve pause and the strange boy gave him a wolf-ish grin that flashed blinding white. Before Steve could get a word out from his parted lips, the boy was on one knee, head tilted defiantly at Steve as he knelt at his feet. He presented a flower, with an oil slick iridescence a twisted hunk of metal gave the form of a sunflower.

The flower was a dark opalescent with swirls of color that reflected in the light. There was a faint gradient of yellow on the edges that subtly blended with the shining grey of the metal. The petals were finely crafted and looked soft. They lacked the hard edges that welded objects always seemed to have. If not for the fact it didn’t yield to the boy’s movement Steve would have assumed it was spray painted.

“My liege, please accept my humble offering.” The boy said it with a tightness in his body and a goading glint in his eyes.

Steve took it, admiring the delicate handiwork. All Steve could do was gawk at it. All the previous tension and frustration Steve held melted from his body. But, The boy was already up on his feet though, pushing past Steve.

“Thank you.” Steve barely managed to get out, but the boy gave no indication of hearing him.

There were many shocked onlookers, but Steve ignored them. He made his way to his next class in a daze, ignoring the way his fingers became similarly tainted with soot left over from the strange boy’s hand. He traced over the grooves in the flower and the subtle feathering of yellow along the ends of the petals. Tommy soon fell into step beside him, his hushed criticisms falling on deaf ears.

“How could Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson have the goddamn audacity to pull that shit? I should beat the shit out of him.” Tommy smiled with a tense jaw, bumping shoulders with Steve.

“Don’t” Steve interrupted quietly.

“What?” Tommy’s sneer dropped as he barked out in surprise.

“I said don’t.” Steve repeated in a stronger tone.

“Fine, your fucking funeral when that fag comes back around.” A jealous sneer emerged on Tommy’s face, but none of its ire was actually directed at Steve.

Steve got to his next class, quickly checking in for attendance before heading to the office with a pep in his step.

“Hello, I was wondering if the school was still running that tutoring program?” Steve asked, nervously tapping the ornate flower he had been unable to put down.

“Yes, we are. Sessions are after school and we can match you to a tutor based on the classes you’re having trouble in.”

“Uh, I’m having trouble in History.” Steve supplied quietly.

“You’ll be with Robin Buckley then.” The receptionist supplied.

“Oh okay, that’s it?” Steve questioned.

“You’ll meet in the library after the last bell.” The woman replied in a flat tone.

With the ghost of another ok on his lips, he left. He couldn’t help but trace the name of that strange boy in his mind.

“Eddie Munson”

He was like a curly haired spector. Steve couldn’t help but have his attention drawn to the little whispers of information about Eddie he was given. The flower was the fruition of what had to be hours of hot and heavy labor. Each petal was painstakingly crafted, which left Steve a little dizzy at the thought.

He twirled and twisted his fingers about the flower, feeling every subtle contour. He privately wondered if he would ever be able to put the thing down.

Steve had never received a better gift and he wasn’t sure if he ever would unless another artist expressed their love for him in a large mural.

No.

Not even that would be enough.

Because he could see the pain of burnt fingers and sweat imbued into this gift. It was a labor of intense emotion and determination to see its fruition.

He knew it was wrong, but Eddie had endeared himself to Steve in a way nobody ever had before.

Steve was giddy for the remainder of his classes, he was unsure if he could even go to the party tonight because he couldn’t imagine spending his evening any other way than admiring this flower.

When he arrived at the library after school, he spoke to the librarian who directed him to an empty table. It was maybe 5 minutes later that there was a girl with a pale, freckled face and wavy bob. Her hair was either half highlighted or the result of too much time spent at a pool. She glared at him as she moved towards him. She dropped herself into the seat across from him.

Steve could tell that she was waiting for an opportunity to sneer.

“Hi, I’m Steve.”

The air between them seemed to tense and strain, her lack of a response creating a malicious silence.

“I’m curious Steve, What are you going to do to Eddie?” She asked, the sneer finally blooming on her face and rage embedded itself between his brows.

“What?” Steve jolted back, shocked at the accusation.

“I mean he’s another one of us freaks, what are you going to do to him for daring to speak to royalty such as yourself?” She leaned forward, her voice lowering dangerously.

“Why would I do anything?” Steve shrunk into his seat when faced with her ire.

“Because all your fucking cronies are going to jump him once he leaves Hellfire tonight.” Her hands planted on the table, raising herself and staring furiously into his eyes.

“What?” Steve asked, but she revealed no answer.

She instead continued to glare at him, righteous fury pouring off her in waves. Steve sputtered.

“I- I know you’re angry, but I swear I had nothing to do with this. I can explain but you have to promise not to tell anyone.” Steve begged as he pulled the flower from his bag, clenching the stem as he prepared to impart his shameful feelings to a stranger.

“Fine, it’s not like anyone would believe me anyway.” She sneered.

“It’s the best gift I’ve ever received, it’s beautiful, just look at it.” Steve offered the flower to her for her inspection with shaking fingers.

She seemed similarly bewitched by the beauty and detail of the flowers. Her eyes and posture softened and she collapsed back into her seat.

“Wow, I heard about it, but I never saw it.” She breathed out.

Suddenly skittish she said “Sorry about that, I’m Robin.” She winced a bit at her misplaced anger.

“Hellfire ends at 4 if you want to do something about it.” Robin said quietly. “If it’s the best gift you’ve ever gotten, then maybe it’s worth doing something about.”

Steve nodded, fingers beginning to move restlessly.

“If they’re going after him, then they’d probably wait by his car.” Steve recounted, shameful at his admission of knowing what his cronies got up to.

“Okay, so we just need to pick them up.” Robin suggested with a smile. “I’ll get him to come with me. Then I’ll bring him out to your car. Wait at the entrance by the gym, it’s on the opposite side of the building from where Hellfire is held.”

“You’re not a tutor for no reason, you’re really smart.” Steve stated, in mild awe of how easily the plan came to her.

“Well, I’ve never had the power and confidence of King Steve behind me.” Steve wasn’t sure what it was, but when she said that nickname there was still a sort of resentment in her eyes, despite the fact she was smiling.

“Now!” Robin clapped, drawing the attention of the librarian who shushed her. “We can get some studying, we’ll need to be done around 3:45, so we have about an hour and a half.”

“Great, um I suck at the unification of Germany and Italy. I can never remember the wars.”

“Well they both used France. Bismarck used France as a way to threaten the German States to run into his arms for Prussian Protection.”

…

Robin waved goodbye to Steve as he left to get his car. Steve jumped in his car and drove around, uneased by a group of his friends hidden behind a van. It was one of the last cars left in the lot.

Steve waited by the gym entrance. Tapping the steering wheel as a shouting Eddie Munson left the building.

“Of course, He’d pull some shit like this, nothing without his goddamn mongrels!” Eddie sneered, manic laughter emerging from his throat. Robin seemed uncomfortable next to him, a sharp contrast with her earlier furious defense of him.

Robin wordlessly tapped Eddie’s shoulder and gestured at Steve’s beemer.

Eddie looked up, his brows furrowing and the beginnings of furious anger tickling at his tensed jaw. Before Eddie could speak, Robin interrupted.

“The King liked your gift.” Robin said sharply. “Decided he didn’t want to see you beat to shit.”

“Then why doesn’t he call off his fucking dogs?!” Eddie asks in an accusatory, rage filled tone.

“I didn’t know what they were doing. Tommy said something earlier, but I told him no.” Steve said with a mouselike tilt to his voice.

Robin opened the passenger’s side door and ushered Eddie inside.

“Now, fair lady it is time to get in your carriage.” Robin says mockingly, pushing Eddie towards the seat.

Eddie gets in, he’s still tense. Steve’s eyes trace the lines of his arms which unexpectedly bulge with more muscle then Eddie seems to have at first glance.

Robin crumples into the backseat, looking fatigued.

“Address?”

“Forest Hills, the trailer park.” Eddie spat with a sneer on his face.

They drove in silence, Eddie departing as quickly as possible once they stopped at the trailer park. Robin seemed tired from dealing with Eddie, social fatigue rolling off of her in waves. Steve dropped Robin off too, she smiled at him wearily before departing to her house.

Sunflower: False Riches, Haughtiness

Part 2

AN: I’m using Victorian Flower language.

[dreamydrifts]

feather: oscar piastri

| pairing: oscar piastri x reader

| genre: f1driver!oscar, raceengineer!reader

| warning: no warnings <3

| stefy's note: this is my first time ever describing the race so if i suck at it, tell me. plus this is also my first ever oscar ff, so enjoy :)

| word count: 0.9k

[ BACK TO MASTERLIST ]

"Oscar, radio check?" You say over the radio as you waited for his answer. It's been the first time when you had a good feeling about the race and that was weird to say the least. Ever since winning his first race, which came with a controversial decision from pit wall and Landos eagerness to prove himself, Oscar has been talking about winning races almost on a daily basis.

"Yep. Radio check." He answes with in thick australian accent. He sounded so calm, like he always does. Being his race engineer could be sometimes a blessing and a curse, because of the tensions that have been arising ever since the win at the Hungaroring.

Checking the tyre information to be as much as accurate when telling Oscar over the radio. "Ok Oscar tire info. Everyone on medium apart from Ricciardo, Lando, Zhou, Gasly and Ocon, who's starting on hard." Knowing that he's starting from the front row, the chances of overtaking are high and you were more than sure that he'd take every chance he gets.

"Thank you." Smiling wide for a second after hearing his voice in your headphones you look around not wanting to seem unserious. It hasn't been long since you've been trying hide your crush on him for some time now.

Checking once again the screen panel about the tire information realizing you forgot to mention on what kind of tires will Alex be starting on hard tires. "Correction. Albon also starting on hard." Finishing the sentence you look at the panel that showed the race, taking a deep breath start the countdown for Oscar.

"Thirty seconds." You begin the countdown, knowing that this time everything had to be perfect. He was on first row you knew he could do it. "Twenty seconds." You continue on the same low tone as before. Taking a deep breath once again you say. "Ten seconds."

"It's lights out and away we go." Was heard from speakers next to the pitwall, facing the screen panel you see him get a good start.

Oscar was managing the tyres beautifully from what you could see on the screen panel showing the state of the car. Looking at the lap times and number of laps being done. Fifteen. You sight for a moment before letting him know that it was time to pit. "Now box this lap." You tell him on a calm voice.

Looking back at the Mclaren pitwall, you check to see if he's finally coming in. And there he was. Lando was being a good team player. He was playing the team game just how it was discussed before. None of the team members wanted a repeat of that awful strategy in Hungary. Not this time. This could have been different. It would be different.

By lap eighteen, he had climed his way up to second. Charles still leading. Considering that now was the time to let Oscar know that Leclerc wasn't managing his tyres, you say on a hopeful voice. "The tires are damaging. Time to be smart here."

You knew what you meant when you said the word "smart". And he knew. Time to overtake. "Leclerc. 0.6." With DRS he could get him. He should be able to.

Come on Oscar. Come on. Whispering lightly as you had your arms holding each other as you looked at the screen. Taking a deep breath, you gaze at the screen panel showing the race, looking at the overtake that Oscar managed to pull. He was now leading the Azerbaijan Grand Prix.

"Fuck yeah. Let's go Oscar." You smile, checking to see if you were still having the radio button on, hoping that he didn't hear you congratulate him. Calming yourself, you realize that there's thirty more laps in which he has to keep Charles at bay. Not letting him pass. This was his time to show who he is. And that he shouldn't be seen as a second driver.

Glacing at the screen panel showing the time differences between the twentieth cars, you tell Oscar over the radio the distance between himself and the second place. "Leclerc. 0.8." Come on Oscar. Come on. You can do it.

If there's one thing that you were confident about was that Oscar knows how to defend. And that's exactly what he should and was doing. Defending his first place. For thrity laps.

Sooner than expected you could hear from the speakers right next to the pitwall. "Oscar Piastri wins the Azerbaijan Grand Prix. The australian is a grand prix winner." Clapping your hands lightly as you were still in shock of what had just happened. He won. He won his second grand prix.

Standing by the pitwall as everyone, the mechanics ans the rest of the engineers were still sitting down. Smiling happier than ever you tell him over the radio. "Lovely job Oscar, great afternoon. Fantastic."

Wanting to give him the moment he needed to process the fact that he won, you hear a small "yes" coming from your speakers. He was happy, you could tell.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Drenched in champagne, you could see Oscar coming into your direction. Holding the thropy in his hand, he smiles at you. "I think i would see you on the podium." He says in a teasing voice.

"It wasn't my time to shine." You explain yourself to him, knowing that he overtook Charles, you were just there to support him. After all, you were just his race engineer.

Coming closer to you, Oscar wraps his left arm around your waist pulling you closer. Breathing heavily, he whispers slowly. "Now it is." Leaning in as you also do so, letting his lips touch yours.

© DREAMYDRIFTS — do not translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

[byhees]

thinking about boyfriend jungwon; it’d be such a minute and simple action— him zipping up the back of your dress— and yet it’d have a kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering about the pit of your stomach.

“let me”, he’d mumble softly, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your back, the touch being feather-light, almost gingerly; his fingers would find the metal of the zipper, the cool material sliding upward, inch by inch, his knuckles lightly brushing against your spine in a way that made your heart thump.

he’d be so close— so close, you could practically feel the warmth of his chest against your back, despite the small distance between your bodies. and as you’d glance up, eyes meeting the mirror before you, you’d notice the look plastered across his face— his plump lips would be slightly parted in concentration, his hair falling softly over his forehead, ending by his pretty eyes.

“there”, he’d say, his voice barely above a whisper, as he fastens the clasp at the top of the zipper; instead of stepping back, however, his hands would linger over the curve of your shoulders, his thumbs tracing small, absentminded circles against your skin, which now burns ever so slightly with the warmth emanating from his touch.

“you look..” he’d start, before pausing, as if to search for the right words; “you look beautiful, baby”— and his voice would be so sincere and soft, it’d make your heart ache.

[tang3r1n]

ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ ʙᴀʙʏ

cw; 18+, heavy topics ngl, refrences to poverty and starvation, angst, GAY LESBIAN SEX, slight cannibalism symbolism if you squint rly hard, refrences to sex work and/or sexual assault

A/N: abt 900 words and literally cranked this bitch out in lile half an hour. jesus fuck how in the hell did Sevika bring me out of my fucking writing dry spell. what the actual fuck. i haven’t written in a year and ofc when i do it’s fucked up analogies and lesbian sex.

To be born of the cursed flesh is a cruel fate worse than death.

To be born as a tainted babe, cast out from the womb with vile stares and scornful words, is the most unlucky a child could be.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just. She’d lived her life good, honest, she deserved the fruits of her labor, a young life filled with pain and struggle. But she was that of the unfavored, not the blessed ones of Piltover, not the nobles with their mansions or the Council with their riches. She was impoverished, born starved, raised hungry, grown into a ravenous woman who begged for the moresles of candied love the scum around her shoved down her throat or inside her.

She lived to survive, didn’t have time for anything outside of the coins thrown her way and the scraps she fed from. Ironic how she never looked the part; plump and soft, malleable and pliable, her hunger hidden beneath that syrupy, sugary smile that oh-so softly graced her cherub cheeks. She pranced around in fine silks and soft feathers, smoke and shimmer stinging her nose and eyes, ears never without the soft whines and moans that fluttered through the halls of the brothel.

Men were somehow more starved than she, their oafish bodies sweaty and fetid as they grabbed her with rough hands, uncaring of the bruises and marks that grew, staining her already tainted body. She loathed them, pushing her brain to the clouds of smoke circling overhead as she rode out whatever sick ride they put her on. The rides were never long, thankfully, mercifully, their essence all that remained once they stepped off with little more than a sideways glance and those same scornful words she learned years ago. Her bed was a sanctuary, a soft, pillowy escape where she could let her mind drift and fly away, she dreamed of soft touches and sweeter kisses, honeyed words and gentle smiles against her plush skin.

This woman above her, her tan skin and dark lips, soft breasts and firm muscles, rough hands caressing her like she was made of porcelain, felt like heaven. Her touch was better than shimmer, a rush incomparable to any human emotion, a religious awakening, it was invigorating. Men were hurtful, slapping and choking all while they shared the same blood and flesh that she had— but this woman, with her metal arm and scars, was slow and sybaritic, gluttonous how she sucked and kissed at her skin.

Long fingers pumped inside her, working choked gasps and impossibly soft moans from the cursed one’s mouth, curling inside her cunt to almost lazily press against that spot that made her dizzy, stomach twisting as her eyes fluttered shut. The woman’s voice was low and deep, chiding her for looking away, for her hips trying to worm away from this pleasure, “look at me,” the woman whispered, licking a stripe up her neck littered in hickeys. The other keened, hazy eyes half lidded as she looked up to her savior, the older woman grinned, wolfish and possessed, yet she didn’t feel fear. Not like she had before, the woman was all-consuming, dominating her very soul and suffocating her under that strong body built by the gods, yet she could only cry and cling to her skin, begging for more and more.

She was starved, and this woman, bringing her to climax, the sinfully delicious sounds of her own cunt squelching clashing with her pitiful cries, was feeding her. Feeding that bottomless pit she had been build with, feeding her with lips sloppily meshed together in a fucked up display of power and perversion. Feeding her with those dangerous fingers circling her pearl and filling her up. Feeding her with praise and love like a false prayer, flooding her mind with devotion and compassion she so desperately craved.

With the burst of her orgasm, she wailed, tugging on her savior’s messy hair as her body shook in pleasure. White blinded her as her glassy eyes rolled back, devilish smile fading away with a dark chuckle. The woman gently slipped her fingers from her cunt, a dull ‘pop!’ making her ears burn as she watched the woman suck on the soaked fingers. The woman’s eyes rolled back, a delicious moan rumbling from her chest and in that moment she wondered if this woman was starving too. If her savior craved just like she did, if this woman watched her with the same kind of hungry eyes as she did.

She was pulled into another sultry kiss, lips smooshed and smacking as they stole each other’s breath, wrapped up in each other’s arms. The woman pulled away first, keeping her close with a firm hand around her thick neck, string fingers ever so gently cutting off her oxygen, “such a pretty girl,” the woman whispered, a secret for just the two of them, “my new favorite treat.”

Born damned, she scavenged for love and life, but staring into those dark eyes, she saw the same hunger, the same damned flesh tangled up in her’s in a macabre display.

[captain-hawks]

— YOUR EX SHOWS UP AT A PARTY

choose your fighter ; sakura haruka, kaji ren, hayato suo, umemiya hajime, togame jo

c: fluff, slightly suggestive content, all characters 18+ implied

SAKURA HARUKA —

sakura straightens up considerably as you squeeze yourself into the last remaining bit of space left on the couch—which happens to be directly beside him. he looks between your flush thighs and innocent face several times, brows knit together as he stares at you in confusion.

you roll your eyes at the slight dusting of pink caressing his cheekbones before nodding toward where your ex is currently standing across the room. an annoyed sound makes its way up sakura’s throat as his eyes narrow, and he mutters something under his breath before unceremoniously grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together.

a visible shudder wracks through him as you lean your head on his shoulder, and you briefly consider letting your lips draw near his jaw—but the cups and cans sitting dangerously close to where one of his feet rests propped up on the coffee table beg otherwise.

“can I just punch him?” he exhales lowly through gritted teeth.

your nose feathers against the side of his neck, and he sputters and chokes.

“i think this will be far more effective,” you laugh.

KAJI REN —

“i’ll trade you for a mint.”

kaji levels you with an unimpressed look as he continues to peel off the wrapper to the lollipop clutched between his fingers, making a show of popping the small red ball into his mouth while you continue to wiggle the green and white striped candy in his direction.

“no thanks,” he replies, teeth clinking against the lollipop.

peeling yourself up off of the couch with a huff, you nudge his foot before getting up to go and find something to drink. in turn, he hooks his ankle on yours and nearly trips you, but he’s already turned away and talking to hiragi when you whip back around to glare at him.

shortly after, you find yourself clutching a plastic cup in the kitchen trying to avoid the newly-arrived presence of your ex in the living room. you nearly jump at the feeling of a hand grasping your shoulder and spinning you around, a warm body gently easing you back against the counter.

out of the corner of your eye, you can see your ex striding toward the fridge. but kaji’s hand cups the side of your face as he turns your head back to meet his gaze.

he doesn’t say anything as his thumb feathers over your bottom lip, stopping in the middle and applying just enough pressure to beckon them to part. you swear you hear someone call out your name, but you’re too distracted by the way kaji pulls the lollipop out of his mouth and slides it into yours.

SUO HAYATO —

“truth or dare?”

the crowd gathered around the fire pit in the backyard laughs as nirei nervously downs half of his drink in one gulp while kiryu mulls over what scandalous truth he’s going to make him spill. ten minutes ago, you were rolling your eyes and laughing, too, when tsugeura drunkenly suggested the game in the first place. but now all you can focus on is the last face you want to see sitting across from you in the glow of the flames.

a shoulder knocks into yours eventually, and suo’s mouth hovers hear the shell of your ear as he leans in close from where he’s sitting beside you in the grass and murmurs, “i dare you to stop looking over at him every two seconds.”

you let out a quiet, undignified noise and try to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine at the feeling of his warm breath against the side of your neck. and then his voice is a little louder for everyone to hear as you belatedly realize it’s now his turn when he looks at you and asks, “truth or dare?”

there’s a challenge in his eyes, a spark that has nothing to do with the dancing flames reflecting in his pupils.

“dare,” you breathe out, well aware of the weight of your ex’s stare.

suo smiles, tilting his head to the side slightly. “kiss me.”

it’s tentative at first, the way you press a soft, careful kiss against your friend’s lips, lingering for a beat before slowing beginning to pull away. he lets out an amused sound as his hand slides up to cup the back of your head, and he murmurs, “look at me,” before bringing his mouth back to yours.

UMEMIYA HAJIME —

leave it to your ex to ruin one of your favorite songs, you think bitterly to yourself as couples and groups of people dance in the grass illuminated under the glow of string lights. there’s a girl laughing and giggling as he tugs her into his arms, moving to the steady beat pouring out of the bluetooth speaker propped up nearby.

“may i have this dance?”

glancing up, you meet a familiar pair of eyes—ones that shouldn’t set your heart racing the way they always do, not when they belong to your brother’s best friend. umemiya’s hair is loose and messy, his expression soft as he holds a hand out to you.

“i can’t dance,” you mutter as he tugs you out into the grass.

“me either,” he shrugs, eyes glittering with amusement while he puts his arms around you. “but i’m pretty sure you love this song.”

your heart does a somersault.

it’s embarrassing, the way your legs threaten to give out beneath you at the feeling of his warm palms against your hips through the light fabric of your sundress. (it’s embarrassing, how long you’ve been in love with him.)

“did you see who’s here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“there’s only one thing i’m looking at right now,” umemiya smiles, not missing a beat when you stumble and he steadies you by pulling you closer.

TOGAME JO —

water drips down your chin as you repeatedly glance up and down between your soaked front and togame, who’s currently standing in front of you with his arms crossed and a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. the yellow scrap of rubber lying in the grass is the only evidence that remains of the water balloon that came careening in your direction moments ago.

“i’m wearing a white shirt,” you deadpan, slowly pulling at the dripping, nearly translucent material now clinging to your front.

“shame,” he nods, though he doesn’t look even the least bit sorry as he shrugs off his shishitoren jacket and holds it out to you.

you bite your lip to control your urge to inhale the warm, spicy scent that clings to the material. there’s something you can’t quite read in togame’s expression as he watches you, going still as you slide your arms into the sleeves.

“you look good in yellow,” he murmurs, shoulder brushing yours as he goes to walk past you, heading toward where someone is calling his name. “and by the way, your ex is here.”

[yandere-wishes]

｡ ₊°༺Meet me at our spot༻°₊ ｡

｡ ₊°༺Meet Me At Our Spot By The Anxiety༻°₊ ｡

જ⁀➴ Lost the ask for this but hopefully the Anon sees this and knows it's for them: excitedly chewing on legos OMG NO cause this is so juicy, like let me just rip out Jason's heart for a sec. Let me fill him with rage and break his heart a little.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ When Jason dies, he leaves a hole in your heart. One that you're certain the Red Hood can mend.

ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=ᗢ=♡=♡=ᗢ=♡

Your sister doesn't appreciate the little bird that follows her like a shadow.

She says his presence is like an eclipse, an eerie, tiring thing.

Some day she'll miss the repartee, the attention, the "friend" she made along the way, someday when the boy lays in a coffin six feet deep, as little birds tend to do. She'll realize that he took a part of her with him. Buried beneath the earth, left to rot and waste.

Of course, she only grows more frustrated when you say such things.

When you remind her how fleeting and fragile this life is.

He was the happiest of them all. Cheerful little bird following his father through the shadows, chirping in joy as he skipped to echolocation. Playing with a naive kitty who never fully understood that they were meant to be enemies.

It's funny looking back, realizing how fickle children truly are. How you used to joke so earnestly about eating him whole and plucking his feathers from between your teeth. As you both sat on a skyscraper's edge sharing a juice box. Jason would laugh, would throw his head back, and kick his legs.

"That'll just mean we'd be together forever. I can haunt you from the inside."

You do truly wish it had been you that had killed him. That you had gotten the chance to peel the meat from his bones and savor their flavor upon your tongue. You would have enjoyed the crunch and pop of the cobalt between your teeth. Enjoyed finally, finally being able to crack open his skull and unburden him of his terrors.

But in the end, the kitty cat never reached the robin.

No, it was in fact the clown that gobbled him whole.

There's a part of depression that's relatively saccharine. The isolation and the silver of worry you feel, sweating off people when they note the vibrations of melancholy you emit. You see your mother's concern and your sister's vexation. You like how it makes you feel powerful. Like a divine decree to burn and kill. But you never do go after the clown. Your mother had forbidden such fruitless endeavors.

"I don't need you in a coffin as well".

Still, you long to wring the Joker's neck between your claws.

You had met him in the dark of an alley almost three months ago.

Requiem is held here often, in the shadow of your skyscraper. The armistice sanctuary where the two of you had spent the final quarter of your nights. No war, no fighting, just two kids in masks lying in the moon's gentle rays.

Your bag of jewels slumps over your shoulder. It feels like the weight of the world.

In the dark, a red thing moves. The ground shakes under his steps as the gloom slips off his body. He is rejected by the dark and unwanted by the light. "What you got in the bag Kitty Cat?" his voice is distorted, like an echo escaping a pit.

You jump, clawing for his arm upon descent, but the fabric he wears is too thick, the attack never reaches his skin. He uses your confusion to land a kick between your ribs. You slid over the concrete street, friction slivering the side of your uniform and the flesh beneath. When you look up again, he's seized the jewels and is halfway through scaling a nearby building. He turns to you, the white eyes of his mask sink into the crevasses of your soul. His fingers touch the side of his masked head in a mock salute.

"Haven't lost your touch sweetheart"

You spend most of the day sleeping in the sun, the only bearable thing left to do. You dream in shades of sugar plums and lilies. Sweet things that keep the bitter nightmares away.

It's gotten so hard to wake up lately.

So hard to stay awake.

Batman once told you that time heals all wounds. Maybe when you're older you'll forget the frantic patter of your heart when Jason smiled at you.  

A shadow blocks the sun, making you stir. Red menace that bears death like a perfume. When you look at him, your body chills. You choke on foreign nostalgia. Deja vu pricks at your bones trying to engrave itself upon the marrow. Why does the Red Hood feel like a forgotten memory? Like a lullaby, your mother used to sing.

He doesn't leave, he just stares. Unblinking white lights instead of eyeballs. Trained on your body. You feel naked under his gaze. It's almost as if he's torn you apart and memorized every little detail about you. Refusing to sew you up again. He leaves you an open cadaver for his cruel entertainment.

Hours pass, he only ever stares.

You've stopped sleeping since that day.

His ghost haunts you. Flickering in the moonlight as you sink beside an alley wall. When you look up, Jason is there beaming down at you. Jejune, unscarred in every way. You feel phantom kisses across your knuckles.

Just a street cat and her dead birdie.

When did depression and insomnia become such good friends?

"I miss you" you whispered, as tears slid down your cheeks. You blink, trying to relieve the irritation in your eyes. When something blunt and cold presses against your forehead. He's there, the red menace, the annoying thorn that wedged too deeply into your flesh. Pointing his favorite handgun at your head. You almost wish he would shoot.

When the light hits his helmet just right, it's like an open head wound.

"You look so ethereal in the moonlight, like a corpse bleeding out."

He's taken aback by your statement, he tenses, his fingers twitch. In anger or shock, you aren't quite sure. "You're really disturbed, you know that kitty?" His tragicomic lilt tastes so irritably sweet. You can't help but laugh like a madman.

Maybe Batman was right, maybe time does heal all wounds.

Maybe you've finally found your eschar.

When Red Hood punches you, hard enough to fracture bone, you can't help but relish in sickly-sweet sentimentality.

He's so familiar but you just don't know why.

Osteonic, pneumonic your body remembers while you do not.

"Keep throwing punches like that and I might think you hate me, darling." You blow him a fake kiss before he sweeps your feet, making you fall back.

He straddles your hips, pinning you to the ground. You gave him a fake pout before his hand is on your throat. Squeezing, harder and harder. It's like he's trying to push stars inside you, making you connect them and form constellations to say everything he never can.

Spots dance across your vision as you offer him a final giggle.

"Come on kitty, I thought you could take a little roughhousing."

It happens again.

He's so haunting in the daylight. Like a ghost twice dead.

He's staring

He's always staring

You didn't need to see his open casket

You would have thought him sleeping

He's dead he's dead he's dead

You say it so often these days it's like a mantra.

Jason, Red Hood.

Where does one begin and the other end?

You can't keep pushing the ghost of your childhood friend into the first new vigilante in town. But you can't help it.

It's like Jason's been reincarnated.

Like he's finally returned.

You've taken to reading Hamlet.

Not because you want to.

But because you feel like the answer to these phantoms lies between the ivory pages.

Or maybe it's because you wish to study Ophelia's madness. In hopes of finding a cure for your own.

You feel like Ophelia drowning in the river creek.

You feel like Hamlet arguing with apparitions.  

"I hate you." He screams one night, he's been chasing you for the better part of an hour after your recent heist at the museum. You laugh and throw him a kiss as you jump to the next building. But midair Red Hood tackles you, using your body to cushion his fall. Your bodies rest entwined atop that familiar skyscraper. "I love this place" you mutter from underneath him. "I used to come here with my best friend when we were young. It was..."

"...Our spot" he finishes. He lets out a bitter chuckle that sounds more like a profanity aimed straight at you. He stands again, knees keeping you pinned down, digging into your hips. His fist collides with your face again. He does it so often now you've come to almost love them.

"Jason" you murmur as the blood trickles down your nose, you feel something in your eye pop as you laugh. "You remind me so much of him".

Red Hood stands taller. For a second the world stills. He reaches behind and pulls up his helmet...

There's a popped blood vessel in your eye. Or many a concussion has bloomed within your skull. Regardless the vision flickering before you can't be real.

"I've got you under my skin" he murmurs as he lays a chaste kiss upon your cheek. "No matter what I do, I just can't get rid of the thoughts of you." He pulls your body up and embraces you so tightly. You only whisper his name like a scared prayer. Inhale his scent like ichore. He's too solid to be a ghost. Or maybe you're finally dead.

Jason buries his face in your neck. Muffling his sobs as he bites into your shoulder, letting your taste erupt inside his mouth. He's missed you, he's missed you more than anything else. It hurts knowing you'd be willing to replace him with someone else. Hurts that you fell for the first wise-cracking man in a mask that you met. But it's okay, it's fine, he can punish you later. For now, all that matters is that you're right where you belong.

At your spot, with him.

"I'll never leave you again kitty, I promise"

[just-some-random-blogger]

The Cage Of My Rib

"Aegon?" "Mmm." "They say twins come from a split rib... do you think it is true?" "Pfft, no. If it were, I'd be short and ugly like you!"

Aegon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader x Aemond Targaryen | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, targcest, twin!reader, wife!reader, pregnancy, motherhood, post-rook's rest, angst, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: this is a fic I wrote for my lovely luna. im going to be completely honest with you. i had a vision then i didnt... i dont know if this has a happy ending im so sorry T_T HAHAHAHAHA @vhagar-balerion-meraxes I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!

His skin was scalding as he stormed into the dragon pit. His nostrils flared at the sight of the dragon about to exit and take flight. He clenches his fists, "keligon."

My mount rumbles at the sound of the command. I, at first, do not realize the command was given and pat my dragon's skin, encouraging her to continue.

"KELIGON!"

Both my dragon and I turn, seeing Aemond march towards us with a face painted in fury. He screams again, "STOP!"

I furrow my brows and hush my ride when she grows restless. She screeches at Aemond to show her displeasure, and so in turn, I have to calm her down as he approaches. I pull on my reins and scowl at him. I quip in High Valyrian, "you dare command Rhovior while I am mounted?"

Aemond looks up at me, pulse raging in anger. He screams again at her, commanding my dragon to obey him with such severity that she forgets her own predatory inclination and submits. Rhovior then cranes her long neck to the side and looks up at me. Her violet eyes reflect my own and I rub her pinkish scales before turning back to the man.

"Get down," he commands me in High Valyrian, reaching a hand out to me.

I clench my jaw and tilt my head at him, "I do not wish to."

His nostrils flare, "you truly think it wise to fly on dragonback in the middle of a war?"

"I am not flying into war, brother."

"You are not flying anywhere," he snaps, "wife."

Rhovior was getting restless again. She begins to shake her head and shift towards Aemond. I have to calm her down, lest the one-eyed prince be left one-armed or worse. He at least has the mind to step away from her at this point, his hands coming to his side.

Aemond clenches his jaw as I calm Rhovior. I grunt when part of the saddle digs into my belly. My husband flinches, boot skidding forward on instinct. He hisses in the High Valyrian once more, "you are in no state to be flying."

I make sure my ride is completely calm before finally dismounting. Once I do, Aemond comes upon me, glaring down with a furious eye.

"I am her rider," I repeat in the same tongue, "she would not cause me harm."

"She does not need to cause you harm for harm to come to our child."

I step forward. My protruded belly barely brushes against him, "she would not harm my child."

"Our child," he corrects, "I have as much say on what happens to the babe as you do."

I sigh and close my eyes. I hear Aemond command the dragon keepers to bring Rhovior back into the pit. I rub my belly and ignore my husband, walking past him.

"Do you think you would be spared simply because you are a woman with child? Rhaenyra will spare none in King's Landing to have her way."

I remove my gloves while he follows after me. I respond by the time I feel him beside me, "as I said, I was not flying into w-"

"Flying at all is an act of war," he grabs my arm, forcing me to face him, "you are my wife."

I whip my head, pulling my arm out of his clutch, my silver hair flipping behind me.

"You carry my seed."

"Trust me, Prince Regent, I know what I carry inside me better than you."

Aemond's jaw sets. The muscles on his face feather. I can practically feel the anger radiating off him. My stomach begins to churn. I look down and sigh. I step forward and grab his bicep. I can feel his muscles are tense. I whisper, "I would not have flown far."

He does not reply.

I look up at him. His face is bound in anger. I reach for his cheek, but he pulls away and steps back before I touch him.

I gulp. I allow my hands to drop.

His silence held the violence of a storm, and his stoic expression held something searing beneath it. His voice held a false serenity as he whispered, "you'll have to kill me before you forfeit so much to a dead man walking."

I stare at him. I do not argue with his distasteful comment nor do I correct his belief that I meant to fly out to do something for the said man.

I simply walk away after he's said his piece and head for my chambers.

I change out of my riding clothes and go to the nursery. I dismiss the wet nurse and tell her I will continue breast feeding my son.

I immediately take my child onto my hip and rub his back as I make my way down the hall. Aenar sighs into my shoulder, his soft cheek pressed against my neck. I make it to the King's quarters and nod at the Kingsguard stationed outside his room as he opens the doors for me.

I stop just as I enter; the sight and the smell never gets easier to palate. I shift my boy in my arm when he begins to fuss. A mewl from across the room makes my heart twinge.

I walk towards the bed, the sound of my heels on the tiles reverberate in the otherwise silent chamber. By the time I sit down on the chair beside the bed, Aenar is restless, and so I undo the ribbons on my chest and allow my baby to feed.

I stroke my son's head, rocking him in my arms slightly, but my eyes are on the man before me and his are on mine. Aegon's lilac gaze is watery. His lips are dry as he speaks, "you shouldn't be here."

I adjust my son in my arms so his weight doesn't put so much pressure on my belly. I rub the boy's bald head, "and where should I be, my king?"

He scoffs but regrets it when he breaks into a ragged cough. I huff when it doesn't seem to stop and reach for the glass of water on his bedside table. I manage to keep a firm grip on son as I help him drink. Liquid spills from the corner of his lips and soon he shakes his head, making me pull away.

"There is no king here."

I simply wipe his skin, careful not to irritate him. Aegon watches me, or rather, he watches Aenar. I freeze when he grabs my wrist weakly before I pull away.

His voice is soft and strangled, "you misunderstand."

He releases his hold. I put the cloth down.

"I don't want you here."

We stare at each other. I am unfazed because I knew he did not mean it. I adjust Aenar in my arms. He stops suckling after this, and so I move him to my other shoulder and lace up the ties on my chest. I rub his back and gently pat him, "shall I move to the other side of the bed then?"

Aegon does not reply.

Aenar burps softly. I lean into him and kiss his head, "good boy."

His eyes water. He screws them shut, "do not insult me further-" his nostrils flare, "-and fucking leave."

My brows knit, "I've not yet helped you ea-"

"I DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" he snaps, spit flying out his mouth as he screams.

I jolt at the severity of his tone. Aemond, even with his display prior, was never one to shout at me, not even as a child. Aegon, however, always did. It did not make it any bearable. Aenar too was affected by the shout. He promptly begins to sob.

I immediately begin to rock him and shush him. When he does calm, I cradle him in my arms and sing to him. It was my favorite High Valyrian lullaby, one that our father sung to us in but a few instances or less.

Aegon's face twitches at the sound. The act causes his tender injuries to flair. Tears stream down his face.

It takes two repetitions of the song for my baby finally find peace again. By the time he does, I feel out of breath. I sit back down but do not stop rocking him. Aenar coos and I do not dare to cease my singing.

That is, until, Aegon calls my name.

Not only do I stop singing, I stop moving altogether.

His eyes are closed and his voice is shaky, "your being swells with life while mine wastes away."

"No, you get better everyda-"

"I am a dead man walking," he chuckles dryly, "I cannot even walk-"

"And did Aemond tell you this?"

His eyes slowly open. A tear drips into his mouth, "I know what I carry inside me better than he."

Aenar begins to fuss again, and so I bring him to my shoulder and pat his back.

Our silence is broken by the sound of my brother and I saying each other's names at once. I pull my chair close to him. He slowly shakes his head in disagreement, screwing his eyes shut.

"I am here," I tell him.

He chuckles, "I pray you were not."

"I will always be here, Aegon. Your woes are mine and my joy is yours."

He slowly opens his eyes. He sniffles and mumbles, "you are not my wife."

"I am your twin-"

"I am glad of it," he reaches out a hand. I perk and lean in, knowing exactly what he wanted instinctively. I maneuver Aenar until he was laid back in my arms. Aegon's curled hand comes to my son's leg. His breathing is heavy, "he would have been Jaehaerys."

I clench my jaw and place my hand atop his.

He huffs slowly through his mouth, "I cannot feel you anymore."

I rub his burnt hand, "perhaps not in flesh, but always in heart."

Aegon slowly pulls his hand away.

"I wanted to pick you flowers, but Aemond did not let me."

"I would not have either if I were him."

"But you are not."

"I wish sometimes I was," he looks away, "how content I would have been to be born the second son... to have you."

"You have me."

He chuckles, mumbling under his breath, "do not tell him that. My injuries are suffice."

I cradle Aenar as he snuggles into my breast.

"Do you remember what you asked me when we were children?"

I nod, immediately knowing what he meant, "if twins are split from the rib?"

He hums, "if we were, I am glad that you are rid of me."

"I am glad we are not joined at the rib, but I do not wish to be rid of you."

He mumbles my name. No one but himself hears.

I adjust my baby's collar, "I should put him down. I will return before your supper is served."

He does not reply. I give him one last look before heading back.

I enter the nursery. I stop in my tracks when I see the figure looming over the cot. Aemond turns over his shoulder. I blink at the sight of his distraught expression before walking over to him.

I stop beside him, debating where I should place my son. I decide to hand him to Aemond, who graciously takes him into his arms. Aenar mewls before settling against him. A line forms between Aemond's brows as he gazes at the boy. He mutters, "how is he?"

His words hold double meaning and yet I could feel like it was a trick, to see if I would talk about Aegon.

I step closer, gazing at the infant who was blissfully unware of all that was around him. I stroke his cheek with my finger, "he is tired," I pull away, "not unlike his father."

Aemond turns to me as I rub my belly. He clenches his jaw but says nothing.

I cautiously reach out for his cheek. He does not pull away from me this time, "I will return to join you for supper."

I wait for him to respond. I walk out when he does not. He watches as the door close. He turns away after the click.

"Keligon, muña," Aemond mutters as though it was his son speaking. He then shushes him, "muña kessa daor henujagon īlva..."

Mother will not leave us.

"... my son."

[oohhohhvv]

Forsaken: Redo Repent Repeat AU

Doubt

Summary; Coming back to life was not without consequences. Builderman finds an oddity on Shedletsky and he brushes it off, leaving Builderman to his thoughts of frustration and doubt in this implementation of the Second Life ability.

Note:

I want to write a little bit of the small stuff for this au!! Maybe a bit of character study too? I dunno really... Though I know that I struggled so bad in writing Dusekkar's dialogue

Word count: 2901

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

The night still hummed with the remnants of battle.  

Shedletsky exhaled sharply, rolling out the stiffness in his shoulders as the group was taken back in the lobby. 

The rush of adrenaline from the last round still clung to him, but it wasn’t the kind that burned—it was the kind that settled, that reminded him they had won  

Or at least, they should have.  

“Damn shame, huh?” Noob muttered, slumping onto one of the cabin’s worn-out chairs. “We could’ve had it.”  

Elliot scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. If c00lkid hadn’t pulled that minion stunt at the last second.” He huffed, shaking his head. 

“Tch. Cheap.”  

Shedletsky let out a dry chuckle. “Can’t blame you guys for that one.” He turned toward Chance and Guest 1337, nodding. 

“You two held up better than expected. Guess that Second Life is working out for you.”  

Chance flashed a grin, flipping his gun in his hand before holstering it. “Yeah. Though it Feels weird getting back up after getting shot, but I can’t say I hate it.”  

Guest 1337 gave a small nod. “It’s useful.” His tone was short, but approving.  

Shedletsky smirked. 

This was what he wanted—what they needed. With this ability, their team wasn’t just surviving anymore. They were formulating better plans.

As Elliot and Noob continued to bicker about how exactly the last round went wrong, Shedletsky’s gaze flicked toward the cabin’s exit.  

007n7.  

He was walking out, arms wrapped around himself, steps slow and stiff.  

Shedletsky’s brow twitched, He considered saying something.  

But the moment passed andHe brushed it off.  

Didn’t matter.  

They had other things to focus on.  

Shedletsky let out a slow breath, stepping away from the main group and making his way to the tables of the cabin. 

The energy from the last round was still buzzing in the air. Elliot and Noob’s bickering, Chance’s casual boasting, Guest’s quiet nods of approval.

But for now, he wanted to sit.

He slid into one of the creaky chairs, resting an elbow on the table, then patted the empty seat next to him without looking up.

“C’mon, take a break before we get thrown into the pit again,” he said.

Builderman glanced over.

He had been standing near the edge of the room, arms crossed, taking in the brief moment of stillness before the next inevitable battle. 

But after a beat of consideration, he exhaled and stepped forward, setting his hard hat down on the table as he sat beside Shedletsky.

The two sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, letting the distant sounds of the others fill the space.

“Not a bad run,” Builderman finally said, adjusting his goggles. “Your plan worked.”

Shedletsky smirked. “Course it did.”

Builderman huffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky.” He reached for his hard hat again, fingers brushing the brim before pausing.

His gaze flicked downward at Shedletsky’s arm.

His eyes squinted at the feathers—There were more of them now.

More than before.

A noticeable change—one that hadn’t been there the last time he remembers.

His fingers hovered over the edge of the table.

Builderman frowned, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. “Shed, your arm.”  

Shedletsky blinked, then followed Builderman’s gaze. 

His feathers, once a sparse, almost decorative feature, had grown thicker, spreading further up his arm. 

He hummed, brushing a hand over them. His fingers ran through the feathers, ruffling them slightly before smoothing them back down.  

Nothing felt wrong.  

No odd sensations, no discomfort. 

Just normal.  

“Huh.” He tilted his head. “Didn’t really notice.”  

Builderman’s frown deepened. “You didn’t notice this?”  

Shedletsky let out a light chuckle. “Guess not.”  

“Your feathers weren’t like this before.” Builderman’s voice was steadier now, his concern pushing through the usual calm exterior. 

“This isn’t just a little change, Shed. It’s noticeable.”  

Shedletsky simply shrugged, rolling his shoulders as if that would shake off the conversation. 

“Yeah, well, just to you it looks different. I doubt the others would notice. Besides, we’ve been going through a lot. Maybe it’s just a little side effect.”  

Builderman stared at him. “A side effect of what?”  

Shedletsky leaned back in his chair, “Of almost winning.”  

Builderman didn’t return the amusement. 

He kept staring, watching for any crack in Shedletsky’s laid-back demeanor, any sign that he found this as strange as he did.  

But Shedletsky’s confidence didn’t waver.  

If anything, he looked more at ease than before.  

And that… That.. was what unsettled Builderman the most.  

————————————

The next round had begun.  

Builderman stood at the highest point of the castle, his hands steady as he tightened the last piece of his sentry. 

The machine whirred to life easily, its sensors flickering in the dim light, locking onto any threats near by.  

He exhaled. The sentry was ready.  

Now he just had to—  

A flicker of movement caught his eye.  

He looked down.  

Below, the area was chaos. The ground was a ruined mess of stone and corrupted spikes, twisting unnaturally underfoot. 

In the middle of it all, the one facing John Doe and his corrupted, writhing form, was Shedletsky.  

He was throwing himself into the fight, and he was confident.

Builderman’s breath hitched as he watched the familiar glint of Shedletsky’s blade flash out.

Shedletsky didn’t hesitate. He plunged his sword into himself, piercing through flesh and armor alike, the force of it staggering even John Doe for a brief moment.  

Builderman winced. His grip on the ledge tightened.  

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Shedletsky do something reckless. 

But now, after everything, watching him impale himself without so much as a second thought sent a gnawing discomfort through Builderman’s gut.  

His mind wandered—

The Second Life.

Back then, Shedletsky had told him—tell the others, let them know we’re doing this.

And he hadn’t.  

Not because he didn’t want to. But because he hadn’t been sure.

Because he’d heard about Two Time being hesitant. Because something about it felt like stepping into uncharted ground, into something they couldn’t reverse.  

So he waited. And by the time he finally told them, it was already done.  

By the time the Sentinels knew, Shedletsky had already made the announcement. 

Had already taken that step forward. Had already committed.

Now, watching him from above, watching him fight like he didn’t care about the wounds, like dying was just another step in the battle…

Builderman felt that weight settle on his chest again.  

He didn’t know if he had been right to wait.  

But he also didn’t know if they had been right to go through with it at all.  

Builderman turned away, exhaling slowly as he sat down beside his sentry, resting his arm on one of his knees as he forced himself to look away from the battlefield below. 

The sentry’s quiet hum filled the space beside him, a steady contrast to the chaos happening beneath the castle walls.  

He knew they were gaining the upper hand.  

Their attempt to fight back was actually working. 

That was good.  

That was what they needed.  

And yet…

Builderman felt sick.  

His fingers curled into fists as he shut his eyes for a brief moment, trying to push past the unease that sat heavy in his stomach. 

He had seen injuries. He had seen worse.  

But This was different.  

This wasn’t an enemy landing a fatal blow.  

This was Shedletsky, a man he had worked alongside for years, inflicting harm on himself without hesitation because it made him stronger and benefited the whole group.

He knew that was how Second Life worked.  

Builderman swallowed hard.  

It was good they were winning… So why did it feel so wrong?  

Builderman exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around his knee.  

It wasn’t fair.  

Shedletsky didn’t have to do all of this.  

Not for them—not for the people who were just as trapped in this nightmare as he was. People who had no way out, who had long since accepted that survival was temporary.  

And yet, Shedletsky kept pushing himself beyond his limits.  

Throwing himself into battle with reckless abandon.  

Bleeding, breaking, piercing his own body—all for the sake of getting back up again, of making sure the others didn’t have to take the same risks he did.  

As if he could carry the burden for everyone. 

It made something ugly settle in Builderman’s chest, a slow-burning frustration that he couldn’t shake.  

Shedletsky had always been reckless, always the one to take risks that no one else would. But this—this wasn’t just him being bold or fearless.  

This was different. 

This was wrong.  

And the worst part was that Shedletsky didn’t even seem to notice.  

Didn’t even seem to care.  

He had taken on this power, this unnatural gift, and he was using it to its full extent without hesitation. 

Without fear.  

And that terrified Builderman more than he wanted to admit.  

Shedletsky had been his coworker for years. He still was. No amount of rounds, no amount of death and revival, could change that.  

But watching him now… watching him treat his own life like nothing more than a resource to be spent—it made Builderman feel sick.  

It made him feel—  

Selfish.  

Because he didn’t want to watch his friend throw himself away like this.  

He didn’t want to see him become something unrecognizable.  

He didn’t want him to think this was normal.  

Builderman ran a hand down his face, forcing himself to exhale slowly.  

Before he could spiral further, a noise caught his attention—a scuff of movement against the stone.  

His head lifted just in time to see a figure making their way up the slope leading to the castle’s peak. Their steps were light, deliberate, almost graceful despite the battlefield raging below.  

Builderman already knew who it was before they even spoke.  

“Ah, Builderman, wise and grand,” Dusekkar greeted, his voice carrying its usual poetic cadence. “A gift of metal, by your hand?”

 

Builderman blinked. His frustration dulled, momentarily interrupted by the usual confusion that came with trying to decipher Dusekkar’s way of speaking.  

“...You need a heal dispenser?” he asked, already knowing the answer.  

Dusekkar nodded, stepping closer with an air of casual ease, as if this weren’t the middle of a warzone. 

“A wound sustained, a fight well fought—yet strength restored, must not be sought.”  

Builderman let out a long breath, shaking his head as he reached for his tools. “Right. One sec.”  

Builderman worked in silence, his hands moving with practiced precision as he constructed the heal dispenser. 

The familiar mechanical clicks and hums filled the air, a steady rhythm that kept his mind focused.. at least, that was what he told himself.  

Dusekkar watched him, his expression unreadable beneath his ever-present grin. He was still for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, the edges of his hat shifting with the movement.  

“You build with ease, your hands well-trained,” Dusekkar mused, his voice carrying its usual poetic lilt. “And yet your soul seems far less tamed.”  

Builderman didn’t stop working. He only glanced up for a second, meeting Dusekkar’s hollow, glowing eyes before returning his attention to the dispenser.  

“I’m fine,” he said, tone even. “Just focused.”  

Dusekkar said nothing at first. Then, in a softer voice, he replied, “A claim untrue, yet well-prepared, your heart is burdened, mind ensnared.”  

Builderman’s hands hesitated for just a second before tightening the last bolt in place. 

He let out a slow breath, then finally turned to fully face the support.  

Dusekkar stood calmly, his hands resting over the hilt of his staff. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t prying, but his knowing gaze lingered.  

Builderman sighed. “It’s nothing.”  

Dusekkar didn’t need to say anything this time. He simply looked at him.  

And that was enough.  

Builderman exhaled, rubbing his temple. He wasn’t in the mood to put this into words, but even he could tell Dusekkar wasn’t going to drop it.  

Before he could speak again, movement below caught his eye.  

Both of them turned their attention to the battle unfolding beneath the castle.  

Shedletsky, Chance, and Guest 1337 had formed up against John Doe, moving in near-perfect sync as they fought.  

Guest landed the first strike, his fists slamming into John Doe’s corrupted form with enough force to send him stumbling.  

Chance moved in next, sliding into position and taking a shot with pinpoint accuracy.  

Shedletsky followed up immediately, twin swords flashing as he struck with relentless speed.  

John Doe reeled, but he wasn’t down yet. His twisted presence pulsed, shadows curling at his feet, preparing to lash out—  

A faint glow shimmered in the air.  

Builderman glanced at Dusekkar just in time to see the support lift his staff, A shimmering shield flared to life around Guest just as John Doe struck back, absorbing the impact.  

Guest took the opening and delivered another crushing blow.  

The fight continued, but Builderman’s focus drifted.  

His unease hadn’t faded.  

If anything, it had settled even heavier in his chest.  

He felt Dusekkar’s gaze on him again.  

“…I’m having second thoughts about the Second Life ability,” Builderman admitted, his voice quieter than before.  

Dusekkar’s expression didn’t change, but the weight of his stare felt heavier now. He didn’t speak right away.  

And for the first time since this whole thing started, Builderman wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.  

Dusekkar tilted his head, the air around him still as he considered Builderman’s words. 

His ever-present grin didn’t waver, but his voice was quieter this time—less playful, more thoughtful. 

“A gift, a curse, a borrowed breath,  

Is life still life if shaped by death?”  

His words lingered, sinking into the air between them. Builderman’s hands clenched slightly at his sides.  

Dusekkar studied him for a moment before he spoke again, softer now. “You do not trust the path they take?”  

Builderman sighed, shaking his head. 

“It’s not that.” He rubbed his temple, frustration creeping into his voice. 

“I know why they wanted it. I get it. Second Life makes them stronger, makes it easier to keep pushing forward. But…”  

He trailed off, staring down at the battle still raging below. 

Shedletsky moved like a force of nature, weaving through attacks, blades flashing in perfect rhythm. Chance and Guest weren’t far behind, their movements sharp and coordinated.  

And yet, Builderman’s stomach twisted watching them.  

“But it doesn’t change the fact that they have to die for it,” he finished, voice tense. “And not just die, but kill themselves to trigger it.”  

Dusekkar hummed, thoughtful.

 “A cost quite steep, a heavy toll,  

And heavier yet upon the soul.”  

Builderman exhaled, resting his arms on his knees. 

“Chance and Guest—hell, even Shed—they act like it’s just another tool in the arsenal. But I can’t stop thinking about what it actually means.” He shook his head. “They have to force themselves to die. Every single time.”  

He swallowed hard. “I’ve seen Shed do it more than once now. He doesn’t even hesitate.” His grip tightened. “And that’s what worries me.”  

Dusekkar nodded, his gaze unreadable. 

“You fear the cost is one unseen,  

That more is lost than what they glean.”  

Builderman let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”  

For a moment, neither of them spoke.  

The battle below raged on.  

Dusekkar turned his gaze downward, watching as Shedletsky cut through another wave of shadowed figures. 

He watched as Guest 1337 took a hit that should have been fatal, only to rise again, movements sharper than before. He watched as Chance spun, dodging an attack with fluid ease, a cocky grin still present even in the chaos.  

Then he looked back at Builderman.  

“And tell me, friend, what would you do?” he asked. His voice remained steady, his rhyme as effortless as ever. “If it were yours to undo?”  

Builderman didn’t answer right away.  

Because, truthfully, he didn’t know.  

Dusekkar seemed to wait for Builderman’s answer, but before he could even attempt one, a sharp crack echoed through the battlefield below.  

Both of them turned their heads just in time to see a burst of smoke and sparks erupt from Chance’s flintlock. 

The gun misfired violently, backfiring straight into his grip.

Chance barely had time to react before a clawed hand ripped through him. His body crumpled, a final huff of laughter escaping him before he went limp.  

“Out of luck for this round.”  

Builderman sighed through his nose, shaking his head. It was only a matter of time. They could only hold on for so long before things started tilting against them again.  

“We’re gonna lose this one,” he muttered, watching as Guest 1337 tensed up at Chance’s fall, adjusting his stance as if readying himself for an inevitable collapse of their strategy.  

Dusekkar exhaled, tipping his head slightly as he observed the field. 

“Fickle fate and shifting tides,  

Fortune falls and luck divides.”  

Builderman let out a tired chuckle. “Yeah. Something like that.”  

He leaned back against his sentry, finally allowing himself to ease the tension in his shoulders. 

This conversation hadn’t given him any real answers, but it had let him say what had been clawing at his mind. And that was something.  

He exhaled. “Thanks for hearing me out, Dusekkar.”  

The pumpkin-headed mage simply gave a knowing hum, tipping his hat slightly. 

“A burden shared, a weight made light,  

No need for thanks. Only insight.”  

Builderman nodded, letting himself take the moment of peace while it lasted.

Because soon enough, he knew he’d meet the spikes of John Doe sooner or later.

[moineauz]

જ⁀ 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 , hsr men !

side comments: i love old jazzy tunes or old songs in general. i usually don't do this kind of fic but i wanted to try something new.

extra: gn reader, fluff, all hsr men except yanqing & misha word count: 434

Other arms reach out to me Other eyes smile tenderly Still in peaceful dreams I see The road leads back to you. 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐀 𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 / Ray Charles

Despite age the two of you bustle about; committing your duties be it work or another passion. Perhaps either of you transverse the cosmos. However, when Twilight's wings gingerly take you under its folds, the two of you melt into one like candle wax dripping down its holder. No matter what path each of you treads- you are bound no matter the state. Thus, under the duvet covers and the unspoken lullabies of the night, he presses kisses on your wrinkled eyes like gemstones while slowly caressing your furrowed hand with a gentleness only matched by the lightness of a feather and the warmth of a beating heart. It is instinctive like blinking, like drawing air into the lungs. Rest now in silence for neither of you needed to say a word, another day will come and nights of blossoming devotion will echo into eternity.

𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐑 . Dan Heng . 𝐃𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎 . 𝐋𝐔𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐀 . Gepard . 𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍 . 𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈 . Blade . 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐓 . + any of your favourites

Just one look at you My heart grew tipsy in me You and you alone Bring out the Gypsy in me I love all the many charms about you Above all, I want my arms about you 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 / Judy Garland

Your limbs might not take you far now, but he'll twirl you in the air like a star and tease you until your cheeks ache from laughter. The glimmer and shine of that first date still trails behind the two of you: stardust in the wind, wings that seldom break. You two still share that hidden kiss in public and search for treasures amongst a sea of rust. Giddy and unfettered, the two of you are like birds spinning in the air; chasing each other in fits of uncontrolled laughter. Blush still brushing against your sagging cheeks and the tipsyness of a night still young, his own heart enthralled as the first time he met you. The throng can stare if they want; asking why not sit down? Would you like some help? That's fine, he'll still banter and pursue adoration as if it's not already tucked in his arms. Because despite his gradually wilting eyes and worn-out knees, he'll still bow down and press his head against your stomach, whispering, "mine."

𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 . Argenti . 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍 . 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐎 . 𝐋𝐔𝐊𝐀 . Gallager . 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 . + any of your favourites

At last My love has come along My lonely days are over And life is like a song 𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 / Etta James

The two of you have mellowed over the years, lost some hair and found comfort in blue skies, the pit pat of rain and sand between your toes. Perhaps the two of you find a house in the countryside or build a home on a distant planet found in cup boards and the warmth of an oven. Perhaps you settle under the blanket of the universe; allowing your eyes to trace the sun inching down the walls of your shared home. The two of you spend your days lying languidly on the couch, days drifting into melodies spent well and arms entangled as one. He never would've thought that his heart could slow and his soul mellow like a distant breeze. His eyes drifted towards your figure, a pleasant smile reaching his lips.

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄 . Welt . Gepard . 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 . Dr. Ratio . 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 . 𝐃𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐆 . Jing Yuan . Luocha . + any of your favourites

masterlist.