#mostly just his parlor tricks (like the voice)

[justletmeon12]

Thing that Definitely Isn't Going to Happen That'd Be Cool to See

So, whoever Alastor's puppetmaster is (probably almost definitely Lilith) is going to attack the hotel and/or Lucifer and Charlie, which means he's going to have to fight everyone. He knows this, and Nifty and Husk know this, but all anyone else knows is that some enemy's going to attack. Nifty and Husk want to defend the hotel, but they know that if Alastor has to fight, they'll have to fight for him.

Now, Alastor doesn't like Charlie or his servants or want redemption or anything, but he does want to fuck this person over for controlling him.

So, he offers Nifty and Husk some modifications to their contracts. Specifically, he gives each of them a lot more of his power and a lot more freedom to do as they will (basically, he can't order them to fight for him), with the "catch" that he can take the extra power back whenever he wants or if their contracts are broken, plus they can't talk about the deal or why it happened. It's an obvious win for both of them, so they do it.

Leading up to the fight, Alastor lets Charlie know he'll be calling in his favor: he simply has to do his radio show on time today, and he'd appreciate it if she could make sure he makes it no matter what happens.

Cut to whatever battle happens. Alastor pops up, the villain gives some kind of dramatic monologue about how their precious little puppet will destroy them all, reveals his chain to the horror of all, and commands him to attack with all he's got... Only for him to have jack.

He politely explains that, while he knows it's rude, he's "regifted" their power.

While Charlie, Vaggie, Angel, and Lucifer are still picking their jaws off the floor, this person starts wiping the floor with him and Husk and Nifty leap into action with suspiciously-familiar powers. And because Alastor signed them away, they aren't "his," so unless his mysterious benefactor knows exactly how to make him reclaim them, he won't take them back.

Then Charlie realizes that his "little favor" was a cute way of telling her to literally save his ass and get him away from the battle back to his (presumably somehow safer) radio tower.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 58: Edgar's Pocket Watch

Prev > Masterlist > Next

tw: kidnapping, mind control, hypnosis, assault, stabbing, eye whump, rat-based horror, possessive behavior adult referred to as boy

September 1905

It had always been hard for Fitz to wake up, but usually not this hard. His eyelids felt as if they were made of concrete, and he had an uncomfortable headache to boot. As he forcibly dragged himself back to consciousness, he realized he was being moved at an alarmingly rapid pace.

He had just managed to return to reality a second before he was tossed onto a hard wooden floor, thankfully landing mostly on his backside and not hitting his head. His head was pounding quite enough already.

"Is there any need to be so rough? You'll damage the thrall," said a smooth voice.

"That little pig spit in my face, he deserves it." Shit, that was most certainly Jameson, by no means a voice that Fitz wanted to hear under the circumstances.

Fitz cracked his eyes open just enough to see a pair of expensive dress shoes. There was a cloth gag in his mouth, and ropes binding his ankles together and his hands behind him.

"If a dog bites you, do you blame the dog, for acting on its instincts?" said the first one, who Fitz now recognized as Edgar. "Or do you blame the master who trained the dog poorly and fails to control him?"

"I think they both should get what they deserve. You're going to erase him, aren't you?"

"No, I don't think I will."

"But you said --"

"Now that I have him here, I can clearly see how he's built for obedience. He'll look and smell so fine in a mindless daze, standing by my chair or kneeling at my feet, serving my every whim. A thrall like this deserves that obedience, not to be chained in some filthy pen."

Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to tremble. He should have let Lex bring hime home, instead of trying to prove… whatever it is he was trying to prove. Now, he was caught between two vampires with the worst of intentions for him. He had no doubt that Lex would rescue him, but would it be too late for his mind?

Jameson huffed. "Do what you like, then, as long as I get to see the look on Alexander's face."

"I thought you'd see reason. I won't be able to enthrall him permanently by the time his keeper arrives, of course, but I can give him a taste of how much improved his thrall would be. And then, of course, I'll have to run the poor little vampire back home. I can't have him getting ideas about taking his treasure back, not when he's treated his thrall so poorly."

Fitz heard footsteps getting closer, and then he was lifted up and sat upright on a soft chair.

"Open your eyes now, boy," said Edgar. "I know you aren't still sleeping."

He stubbornly kept his eyes closed, not foolish enough to get caught in Edgar's hypnotic gaze so easily. Ears straining for some clue as to what was happening, he heard a soft noise he couldn't place.

"Ah, so you think you're being defiant, do you?" The commanding voice whispered in his ear. "Don't worry, I'm not going to harm you. Deep down inside, you know that you want to submit to your betters. It's in your nature."

Fitz felt the gag being untied. "Alexander's going to make short work of you when he finds you, sir," he said as soon as he was free.

Edgar laughed. "Boy, do you really think I would have taken you if I feared your so-called master? I have a healthy respect for his sire, of course, but that hardly extends to Alexander. I'm not impressed by his party trick of enchanting a room of weak-minded thralls."

As much as Fitz truly did believe in Alexander, he couldn't help starting to be worried. What if he wasn't found in time? What if Edgar's confidence was warranted? Feeling that Edgar was behind him, he opened his eyes just enough to see where he was. Through blurry vision he could see an opulent drawing room. It looked like many of the parlors he had spent his youth around -- ostentatious, full of wealthy objects with no particular meaning other than bragging rights, resisting any personal touch that would make it look as if people lived there.

"I'm sure your master will like you better once I've tamed you," said Edgar. "Ah, you've opened your eyes. Are you ready to accept your place?"

Fitz screwed his eyes shut again. "My place is with Alexander, sir."

"Oh, then I suppose you'd prefer if I enthralled you like he does, with a little song." Edgar sang a lullaby into Fitz's other ear. "Go to sleep, don't resist, you will obey, sweet little thrall…"

His voice was nowhere near as enchanting as Lex's, but it held enough hypnotic power that Fitz felt his mind begin to fuzz against his will.

"Ugh, how long is this going to take? It'd be faster if you just erased him," Jameson complained.

"I'll take as long as I please mesmerizing this thrall to my standards. It's truly a shame you can't appreciate the unparalleled joy of breaking in a willful thing like this. But if you're that bored, feel free to help yourself to one of the cigars on the side table."

"Don't mind if I do."

"And as for you, boy, you're going to open your eyes while I talk to you."

"The hell I will, sir," Fitz scoffed.

"That was a command, not a request." Fingers snapped next to Fitz's ear. "Open your eyes. Focus."

His eyelids flew open, and to his momentary relief, he wasn't looking into Edgar's eyes. Instead, he was staring straight into a golden pocketwatch with ornate carvings of flowers and birds, perfectly polished glass, smooth mechanisms, and a quiet, rhythmic tick-tock.

"Focus," Edgar said again as the watch began to sway before his eyes. The movement was slow. Heavy. Fitz couldn't stop himself from following it, couldn't tear himself away. A weak protest died in his throat.

"Yes, that's it, watch the pocket watch as it swings back and forth… back and forth…" Edgar's voice seemed more mesmeric now, dangerously so. "You long for a taste of power. You crave obedience. I can see it written on your face. You'll be a good boy and focus now."

He needed to look anywhere but this, needed to ignore Edgar's words dripping into his ear like honey.

"Every slow swing of the watch draws you deeper into my control. Every slow swing of the watch draws you deeper into obedience." The watch swung to the left. "Deep." Right. "Mindless." Left. "Obedience." Right.

"No… stop…" He could feel the trance taking hold as his eyes helplessly swept back and forth.

"Deep, mindless obedience. The obedience you need, the obedience you crave. A perfect, submissive thrall, eager to serve my every whim. Everything is slipping further and further away. Your mind will sleep deeply in my will, and you will obey without question."

Fitz struggled again, trying to keep the words from sinking in. He imagined himself, blank and empty-eyed, kneeling at this vampire's feet. He imagined Lex coming to rescue him, finding him in this embarrassing, compromised state. And for a fleeting moment he imagined Lex approving of it, bringing him back home to be a handsome ornament in his library, Fitz fawning helplessly over his master --

"That's it, boy, keep watching and listening. You know very well that you're just a silly little thing who craves the guidance of a strong and dominant hand. You often make poor decisions, don't you?"

"No, sir," Fitz objected, even though he felt Edgar was more than a little correct. The watch looked so heavy as it swayed in front of his face. His eyelids felt heavy, too, and it was becoming so hard to think.

"Oh, I think you do. I think your impulsiveness and foolishness was on full display for everyone when you shamed yourself in front of Lord Jameson here," said Edgar, still swinging the watch in perfect rhythm. "Wouldn't it be so much easier to let a superior mind make those decisions for you? You can let go, and let your mind sleep, and obey without question. Don't you want to serve?"

"I… want…"

"Yes, that's it."

"I… only want… to serve… Lex," Fitz managed. Something stirred in him, a spark of defiance lighting his way before he was swallowed by the dark. He didn't want to provide for or obey anyone but Lex, he knew that for certain. That was where he truly belonged, and no mere pocket watch could change that. The realization washed over him like waves crashing against the shore, and he opened his eyes fully, forcing his gaze away from the fatal watch.

"Ha! You see, you can't even control him properly," Jameson crowed.

Edgar wasn't remotely fazed. "He's a bit stubborn. It's a good sign. Stubborn ones always fall so much harder once they're brought to heel." He stroked Fitz's cheek with his hand even as Fitz flinched away. "Tired of fighting, exhausted from making decisions. The stubborn ones only resist because they're frightened of how badly they crave the obedience. This boy is no exception."

The gentle hand suddenly grabbed Fitz's chin and wrenched his face upwards. "Focus," he hissed, and Fitz was staring into his eyes again, twin pools of darkness. "Deep into my eyes. Deep into obedience. No more resistance now, no more fighting. Your thoughts are too slow, heavy, and docile. You've already sunk too deep into trance."

Fitz tried to shake his head, to look elsewhere or close his eyes, but he was trapped in Edgar's gaze, his powers slowly but surely draining Fitz of his willpower, returning him right back to entrancement.

"Yes, that's right, no need to fight. Only obedience and submission now. You will submit to me. Say it."

The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. "I will submit to you, sir."

"You will obey me."

"…I will obey you, sir."

"You're completely under my control."

"I…"

"Say it, boy." Edgar's eyes sparkled with malicious glee.

"I'm completely under your control, sir," said Fitz, eyelids drooping and voice growing dull.

"Good, very good boy. Now repeat that as you become drowsy and docile."

"I will submit to you, sir. I will obey you, sir. I'm completely under your control, sir," said Fitz, helpless to stop himself, the words becoming more true as he spoke them. "I will submit to you, sir. I will obey you, sir. I'm completely under your control, sir…" His eyelids were closing down, down, down, as he reinforced his own hypnotized state.

"Sleep, now," said Edgar. "Sleep and submit to my will. Sleep and receive the precious gift of my command. Sleep and fall into a dream of docility. Sleep."

"I will… sleep… sir…" Fitz muttered as his eyes closed and his head pitched forward. He struggled for one more fruitless moment before his consciousness fell into an abyss.

"Very good, thrall. And now you don't need to think any more. All you need to do is listen."

Fitz felt Edgar sit down next to him and whisper into his ear, but he was too deeply hypnotized to do anything but absorb his suggestions and commands.

"…two, you will open your eyes but remain deeply entranced. And on three, open your eyes and obey."

Fitz's heavy eyes blinked open easily. He felt strange, his head foggy. It was hard to think. The room he was in looked familiar, but he couldn't remember what it was or why he was here. He stretched his wrists, which felt oddly stiff, as did his legs.

"Ahem."

Fitz looked up to see a vampire in a sharp suit, lounging imperiously on an overstuffed armchair, and he was consumed with the deep need to serve, to do anything he commanded. The small tug of wrongness in his thoughts was snuffed out as Lord Edgar beckoned him forward, and Fitz felt himself falling to his knees in front of this strong, powerful vampire. His superior.

Lord Edgar reached forward and pet his head with a condescending smile. "There you go. Don't you feel so much better?"

"Yes, sir." It would be easy and effortless to serve. There was nothing he wanted more. And those vague, nagging thoughts he had were difficult to focus on and hurt his head. This vampire would do the thinking for him, as was his right.

"Such a good little thrall. So calm and obedient. Not a scrap of fight left in you. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir," said Fitz, swallowing hard as he looked into Lord Edgar's captivating eyes.

"Do you see now, Jameson? He's so much more agreeable like this. With a little time and conditioning, he'll be a masterpiece."

Jameson scoffed. "If you say so. Of course this is an improvement, but I still think he'd be better erased."

"And that's why quality thralls are wasted on you." Lord Edgar pet Fitz with a gesture that might have seemed affectionate if not for the malice in his eyes and smile. "Hm, how shall I have you serve me? Why don't you polish my shoes?"

Lord Edgar tossed a little black bag at Fitz, who fumbled it in his dazed state. He picked it up and opening it, revealing shoe polish, a horsehair brush, and several cloths. Pleased to have been given a task by a vampire, he got straight to work brushing the dust and dirt off from every crevice of Lord Edgar's exquisite dress shoes.

"Don't you dare miss a spot," said Lord Edgar with amusement as Fitz began to rub the polish in, treating the vampire's shoes with more care than he had ever treated his own.

"I'm finished, sir," he said meekly, once the shoes were shining bright enough to show Fitz his reflection.

"Passable work," said Lord Edgar. "Now you can be my footstool. I expect your former master will be here any minute. Don't you want him to see what a good, obedient thrall you are?"

Fitz's face burned with both shame and pleasure as he got on all fours in front of Lord Edgar's chair, allowing the vampire to prop his feet on his back. The thought of Lex -- a powerful vampire, his superior, his true master -- seeing him reduced to this state…

He hoped that Lex would approve of how well he could serve.

As it turned out, Fitz didn't have to wait long. Just as his hands were becoming sore from pressing into the floor, the door to the drawing room was flung open, and a familiar feeling swept over him like a rush of water. Fitz craned his neck to see Lex standing there, ringed in fury.

"Finally, there you are. Come to collect your trash?" said Jameson.

"Now, now, this thrall certainly isn't trash. He just needed some fixing." Lord Edgar bent down and pet Fitz's head as he would a dog. "Do you like what I've done to him, Alexander?"

"Get your hands off of my thrall immediately. This is your only warning." Lex's voice was a low rumble of thunder, a storm brewing over the ocean.

"Oh, dear, I don't think I can do that. I've already become quite fond of him. I don't think I could in good conscience release this thrall to someone who doesn't take proper care of him."

Lord Edgar lifted his feet off of Fitz and beckoned him upwards. As if floating, Fitz found himself rising back into a kneel. "In my lap, thrall." Fitz helplessly rested his head on Lord Edgar's lap, allowing the vampire to caress him gently.

"What have you done to him?" Lex demanded. "Fitz, are you all right? What has he done to you?"

"I --" Fitz started.

"I molded him into a better thrall, as you can very well see," said Edgar. "Of course, this is just the beginning of his necessary conditioning, but you can see how well he's already taken to it. All of this time, you've been depriving this poor thrall of the control he truly needs. I'm doing both of you a favor."

"I did warn you." Lex pulled out a silver knife that gleamed in the flickering gaslight.

"Come now, even you're smarter than that. I have your precious thrall entirely in my grasp. If you even consider attacking me -- well, you wouldn't want something to happen to Fitz here, would you?" Lord Edgar tilted Fitz's chin up to look at him. "You don't want Alexander to do something he'll regret, do you?"

"No, sir."

"So I thought. Now why don't you put the knife down and --"

There was a flash of light and a horrible wet sound, and cold, inky blood was gushing down Edgar's front and soaking his shirt, dripping onto Fitz. Fitz looked up to see the silver knife sticking out of Edgar's right eye, as the vampire gasped and choked. Lex was still on the other side of the room, and Fitz realized that he must have thrown the knife with pinpoint precision.

"Hell!" Jameson cried, leaping from his seat, a second silver knife narrowly missing him.

Edgar slumped over almost on top of Fitz, and Fitz felt his mind begin to clear a bit. As he tried to shake himself free, he felt something tickle his ankles, and let out an undignified scream as he saw a swarm of rats swirling around him. Rats were filling the room, almost thick enough on the ground that he couldn't see the carpet, climbing his pant legs. They were everywhere, squirming and chittering, climbing Edgar's legs and up the chair. The gaslight was reflected in their beady eyes as they crawled closer to Fitz's face.

"Fitz!" Lex cried out. "You --"

"Come any closer to me," said Jameson, "and my rats are going to eat your thrall's eyes."

Any bravery Fitz had mustered was out the window as he tried to scramble away from the rats to no avail. They were clinging to his shirt, clawing steadily upward.

Lex hesitated, and that was enough for Jameson to kick him square in the chest, sending him reeling backwards into a curio. Ceramic ornaments shattered against Lex's body, covering him in shards. Before he could get back to his feet, Jameson had grabbed him by the front of his shirt, delivering blow upon blow to his face.

Fitz tried to get up and help, but he was still dizzy from enthrallment and adrenaline and the rats were all over him. He couldn't see what was happening. He could only hear awful noises, catch a flash of movement out of the side of his eye. The rats were everywhere, and he couldn't help but shut his eyes in a futile attempt to protect himself. There was a shout, and then an eerie silence, and Fitz thought his heart would burst from anticipation.

"Shoo! Get away!" It was Lex, drawing closer. The sound and smell of rats began to recede, and Fitz cautiously opened his eyes again. He was hauled upright into strong arms, and there was Lex, his handsome face a bruised and bloody mess. "Fitz, are you hurt?"

Fitz couldn't help but laugh to keep himself from crying. "How can you even ask me that, when you're…"

"I've had worse. It will heal."

Fitz could see Jameson on the ground, bleeding from multiple wounds including a nasty gash across his stomach. He grew lightheaded, and thought he might faint or vomit or both.

"Easy, I've got you," said Lex, gathering Fitz up into his arms and letting him rest his head on his shoulder. His grip was too tight. "They took you, I can't believe they took you and touched you and --"

"Did you kill them?"

"No. I'd have to put the silver knife in their hearts for that," he said. "A certain amount of violence is accepted in vampire society. This incident will blow over, particularly since neither Edgar nor Jameson will want the story to circulate. But killing other vampires, particularly powerful ones… Edgar's friends and allies would never rest until I'd been taken out."

"I see," Fitz said shakily, ashamed that he was so weak, that Lex had seen him happily serving as the footrest of a different vampire. "Lex, I…"

"He got in your head," said Lex, furiously. "What did he do to you?"

"Lord -- I mean Edgar mesmerized me. He made me obey him, and… well, you saw the results. I should have fought it harder, I should have --"

"No, it isn't your fault. As conditioned as you are, I wouldn't expect you to be able to hold out against Edgar's power. You did the best you could. I have no doubt." Lex's eyes were terrifying. "Stabbing him in the eye is too good for him. I should teach him a lesson he'll never forget. I should…"

The tension in Fitz's chest was rising. "…We should have left the ball when I got myself into trouble the first time. I thought I could handle it, and now you're…"

"I'm not upset with you, Fitz. I'm upset with myself. I should have kept closer watch on you. I didn't expect them to steal you in the middle of the crowd, during the dance… the sheer audacity of it."

"I should have been able to take care of myself!"

"You can't fully protect yourself against vampires, no matter how clever you are. No human can. That's why I'm the one who is meant to protect you, and I failed," said Lex, drawing Fitz even closer, so that he could hardly even breathe. Fitz could smell Lex's blood, but also his familiar scent of woodsmoke and book bindings, and he was suddenly so exhausted. He couldn't keep himself from collapsing into Lex's embrace, kissing him softly on his neck.

"Fitz. My Fitz," Lex murmured into his ear. "I should've never allowed anyone but me to lay hands on you."

Fitz felt so utterly vulnerable. He'd been so easily subdued by Edgar's spell, his mind so willing to go along with the idea of a strong vampire taking over his difficult decisions. Was that truly all mesmerism, or something deep within him?

If it had been Lex coaxing him into his lap and caressing him like a pampered dog…

"Ugh, my sire is surely going to hear about this," Lex was muttering to himself. "Edgar won't want it spread around, but my sire find out anyway, with so many partygoers. I'm going to need to speed up my acquisition of hunters, possibly take a risk…"

Fitz no longer felt comfortable with himself. He'd been fooling himself to think that he and Lex were equals, that Fitz could easily handle whatever the supernatural world had to throw at him. Now he knew that he'd been nothing more but a naive lamb among the wolves, only allowed to frolic at their mercy. Edgar could have taken his entire mind so easily, had Lex not intervened; Lex could take his mind whenever he wanted, and Fitz might not even realize it.

The words of the first strange vampire he danced with bubbled up in his mind. It's just the cutest thing when vampires let their thralls think they're so independent.

He hadn't tried to escape since arriving at the manor. He spent his evenings fawning over Lex, trying to get his master's attention, and anticipating feedings. He slept soundly in his master's bed each day. He rarely even thought of the stage.

He was losing himself among the vampires.

"Are you still under his spell? You have a strange look on your face," said Lex. "Even if you weren't enthralled long, it still may take some time to wear off. I'll make sure it's all washed out of your head when we get home."

More enthrallment, more control, and Fitz did crave it, just as Edgar had said. Exhausted as he was, he craved the peace and bliss of Lex's song more than anything. He knew as soon as Lex opened his mouth to sing, he'd fall completely for its spell, floating in a deep trance where Lex's words were the only thing that mattered, and he wanted it.

"Fitz? Let's go home, okay?"

Fitz nodded. "Yes, sir."

Prev > Masterlist > Next

Next week: the vampire hunter who defies all vampires.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

@whumpyourdamnpears @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are @pressedpenn @pigeonwhumps @amusedmuralist

@xx-adam-xx @vampiresprite @irregular-book @whumpsoda @mj-or-say10 @pokemaniacgemini

@sowhumpshaped @whumpsday @morning-star-whump @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @pirefyrelight @theauthorintraining @whump-me-all-night-long @anonfromcanada

@typewrittenfangs @tessellated-sunl1ght @cleverinsidejoke @abirbable @ichorousambrosia

@a-formless-entity @gobbo-king @writinggremlin @the-agency-archives @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

@enigmawriteswhump @foresttheblep @bottlecapreader @whump-on-a-string @whumpinthepot

@cinnamoncandycanes @avvail-whumps @tauntedoctopuses @secret-vampkissers-soiree @whatamidoingherehelpme

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@fuckcapitalismasshole @slightlydisturbedbeans @paperprinxe @demetercabingreen-thumb @the-broken-pen

[atomic-insomnia]

Find The Word game

Thank you so much for tagging me, @dotr-rose-love!

Words:  Belt, Happy, Wrong, No, Morning

Belt

Something felt strange, as well--Russia was a strong country, to be sure; the might of the Soviet Socialist Republic rested with him (as with his comrades-in-arms, of course.  Just, mostly with him).  It was the safest option for him to be the one holding America, because America could snap a rope or belt or even most chains--Russia had seen him do it, casually, a parlor trick.  It wasn’t safe to assume the limits of America’s strength if Russia didn’t want to give him a chance to escape. --Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

Happy

"Someone's trying to kill me.  Someone's after me," she said, trying to force him through mental strain to believe her, to take it seriously for once.  Seriousness never crossed her voice; couldn't he tell she meant it this time? "Yeah, sugar, I believe you," he said, quiet and flat.  "I believe you.  Head to the Carnation.  We'll - we'll get you out of town for a while, just until the heat dies down.  You follow?" The unwinding in her spine could be called relief.  "Yeah, baby.  I follow.  I'll be there.  I'll race ya; be happy to see me, yeah?  I can't handle another long face, it's all I been seeing in the mirror lately." --Beg, Borrow or Steal

Wrong

“White man.  Kinda tall.  Had a funny look on his face." "How so?" Nash shrugged again.  "I dunno.  Just, kind of a funny look.  Like a bad actor, or something.  Kinda smirky; it rubbed me the wrong way but hell, maybe that's just his face." --Beg, Borrow or Steal

No (this was the hardest one, because it’s everywhere but needs context to make sense...this WIP is one I’m never going to share, but I titled it anyway...with the name of a font I like)

The cemetery means nothing to him except the way the company of the dead always suits him better than the living.  But the smell of cigarette smoke hits him before he’s so much as taken the pack out of his tracksuit’s pocket, and there’s a presence that certainly isn’t a ghost yet no matter how haggard and vengeful he looks in the streetlight. --A Cold Night for Alligators

Morning

“Nothing’s gonna be better in the morning,” Alfred grumbled. So cynical.  So unlike his usual obnoxious optimism.  Ivan found himself grinning. --Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

Thank you again!  I’ll tag anyone who sees this, and your words are:  Nervous, Shine, Question, Tooth, and Heard

[solomonish]

i want to be where your gaze falls. (Solomon x Reader)

Solomon's eyes captivate you like nobody else's.

(Or: I'm hopelessly in love with Solomon and I think you should be, too.)

ao3 link: here!

His eyes were dark - except for when he was working with magic.

The first time you saw him, you hadn't much time to memorize the exact hue that held you in an inquisitive gaze. You were still finding your footing in a strange, dangerous realm and found yourself before a mysterious man who held your phone out to you when you couldn't even remember dropping it. Such a gesture was fine, casual even, but there was something about him that had you feeling uneasy, as if his whole appearance was made to catch you off guard, as if his smile was artfully crafted to just barely conceal sharp canine teeth that could rip you to shreds. You took the phone, exchanged a few pleasantries, and barely made it ten steps before Lucifer approached you to confirm what you had already figured out.

Stay away from Solomon, MC. He is not to be trusted.

It was as if Solomon had heard the warnings, and they instead summoned him with their silent spell. Or maybe he was a moth drawn to a flame, going to where he should definitely not be simply because he had long since discovered how to become fireproof and the only thing left to do with this power was abuse it. Since that day, you could see him skirting the corners of your vision, waving when he was caught but observing when he was not. If you approached him, the conversation felt easy, but it was never about him and never the conversation you intended to have. Solomon knew how to occupy your mind with nonsense riddles, so he made himself the toughest riddle of all and placed himself directly in your hands. Each time you twisted him and found yourself with a solid color row, he would only grin at you and force himself in three different directions so you were more lost than when you began.

That was when you noticed his eyes.

You would come to learn that he had spent much time knowing the ocean so intimately that he had to throw his love away before it cracked his brittle heart. At least, that’s what you had assumed - Solomon gave an impression that perhaps his heart loved too easily and shattered too spectacularly, but none of those impressions ever lasted too long. It seemed just his brand of tragic that the ocean he now hated was the first thing to come to mind when his eyes met yours. The gold laced at the bottom of those deep, smothering blues reminded you of something regal, something kingly - and the more you thought you learned about his past, the more you realized the windows to his soul were reflections of that which he hated most.

They were dark, not just in color, but in emotion, too. Any light behind his eyes that you would expect to see was gone, perhaps blown out by the winds of time. Even when he was not being unkind, they refused to give any indication of sweetness or authenticity. You did not know what you expected from him, but it was not for him to be so blatantly hollow that even his most overjoyed laugh seemed to ring without credibility.

There was a time, however, when all that seemed to change- and what better a time for the greatest sorcerer than when he was doing magic?

When the glitter rose from his palm, when small shapes hovered and swirled in a purple mist so expertly, so naturally that you wondered if his veins were made to fill with electricity and not mundane, human blood, his eyes would shine. At first, you assumed that it was just the reflection of the light his spells emitted as he watched intently, but no - there was something else there. As if peering out from behind a corner, the light you thought should be in his eyes reappeared, shining with an honest interest that naturally pulled you in. If there were rumors of his deceitful charm floating around him before you saw him like this, now he was downright devilish, able to pull you in however deep he wanted with hardly more than a few words and a smile. It was the magic in how genuine it all seemed - a magic so powerful, it rivaled every spell in his worn leather book.

Perhaps that idea played more into your decision to become his apprentice than you thought.

It didn't seem to matter which spell was cast, or even who cast it; when Solomon was surrounded by magic, by floating books as he sorted through spells and potion recipes, by glittering objects as you tried to enchant them, by anything, he was lighting up like a star. His intelligent eyes examined what looked to you like a jumbled cloud of glitter, and he murmured to himself little imperfections and discrepancies from your spell. Once all of his notes had been taken, he looked to you and congratulated you on your improvement, and oh when he looked at you like that - maybe he was a star, or maybe he was every star, or maybe he was an exceptionally sly black hole pulling you into his orbit with nothing but his facade of light spiraling around him. It didn't matter, after all - he was sucking you in, and you were too awestruck to want to fight him off.

Your days were spent with him and magic, learning new spells and finding magic ingredients. Tucked away in the corner of a dim library, his eyes stayed bright as he gently ran a finger over a book's old spine. You asked if he hadn't read that one yet.

"It was one of the first books I completed where each spell was new to me," he admitted, fondness lacing in his voice so it would send a chill down your spine. "We'll get to it eventually, but you're not quite at that level, I'm afraid."

Of course. Of course he had read it already, and of course one of his first spellbooks was far beyond your comprehension. You couldn't find it within you to feel slighted - not when you were convincing yourself to refrain from stealing the book just so you could see that expression every day.

Your hours away from RAD were spent mostly with Solomon wherever he tended to stray, a fact bemoaned by the brothers every chance they got. You couldn't help but wonder when that light would burn out, because clearly it had done so at least once before. But his eyes didn't seem so dark anymore, and you caught him in the halls giving you a dizzying light-eyed grin more often than you didn't, yet no magic pranks had been played to explain them away.

You had gotten paranoid. You had had enough. So you went up to him one day and asked him what had him so happy, preparing to be the reason the light drained from his eyes slowly - but at least then, you would know.

That didn't happen, though. Instead, he gave you a blank look, a good-natured once over, and he flashed you the prettiest smile you'd ever seen grace anyone's lips. "What, is it suddenly suspicious to be happy around my sweet apprentice?"

There was no smell of static and sulfur, no parlor tricks to impress you, no spell for him to get his way. It was just you, and Solomon, and the hall that seemed empty but definitely was not, and his eyes, oh, his eyes-

His eyes were dark. Usually, they were dark...except for when he was working with magic, and when he was looking at you.

[rivka-kopelman]

Delivery Lemur Logbook : 9-B

<view full logbook>

To his credit, he does manage to calm her down a bit. She watches him lift the lid off, unfold the board, and turn it on. I hastily finish my dinner.

Hmmmm it looks like the gamma emissions from my engine ruined the projector diodes or something. Regular electronics degrade in space without radiation protection. Oh well, I'm sure it's fine. The hologram character Mostly Mouse appeared and declared the game had begun.

"I'm mostly mouse, go in the ghostly house," she says. The modulated voice is jarringly out of tune. "It's the house of death. You will completely die..."

"Do you have any other games?" Lopcorn asks uncomfortably.

"Nope just this."

“Get inside!” insisted Mostly Mouse. “There are killers in this house!”

I go first and roll zero. Lopcorn rolls a five – his pawn thing slides down the path, stopping on the front step.

"Your turn drywowl" I say, offering the dice to her.

"αίμα mučení, रगत, not me," she babbled, glaring at me and shuddering.

"I'll just do it for you." I roll her a 7 and her yellow pawn slides past Lopcorn and disappears inside the ghostly house. Mostly Mouse popped up and said "You will never see the light ever again. You go into the horrible horrible and evil horrible house: Ghostly House."

Drywowl looked at the shabby holographic mouse and spoke fluently in mouse-squeak, saying something like "I been to worse places than that."

A whole sentence, that's some progress! Maybe this is a therapeutic game.

"Ok my turn" I roll zero again. Mostly Mouse doesn't have anything to say about that. Lopcorn gets 12 and goes into the haunted house, stopping at an intersection. It prompts him to pick left (kitchen murder area) or right (bathroom murder area). He looks at me expectantly.

“You want me to pick?”

“I'm not in charge, this is your game,” he said.

Ok fine. “It must be a trick, go straight instead.”

“Ok, I go straight.”

“You walked into the wall and got a concussion! Skip your next turn!” chirped Mostly Mouse.

“Thanks.”

"πεινάωງ not me, 指恨指恨指,” whimpered Drywowl. “I rem月mber but it's nöt...”

I roll for Drywowl's turn. She lands on a special square in the parlor and opens a secret passage into the cellar. I shake the dice really good and throw them with gusto, achieving a third zero. Lopcorn is concussed in the hallway so it's Drywowl's go again already. She gets a lucky 13 and skips over the Scythe-Mouth-Man in the boiler room.

“My fins hurt, my hoofs hurt, no me hagas ir mamá.” she stared at her wingtips like she'd never seen them before. “Кайда tentacles?”

Continuous zeroes for me, but Lopcorn is up.

“You stumble into the billiards room of Ghostly House. AaaAA AaaAaaa, the Billiards Knife or the Dreaded Key?” demands Mostly Mouse.

Lopcorn does not ruminate at all on this – He just wants me to pick for him.

“I'd go for the key,” I advise. Knives do not bode well.

“I'll take the key.”

“The key is cursed by ancient spirits,” Mostly Mouse reveals. “Cursed Cursed by by ancient ancient spirits spirits. Skip two turns.”

He takes this blow stoically. I ask our owl if I should still handle the dice for her. She nods and heaves a shrill sigh.

“Yes, y-yes please,” she stutters.

She's watching closely. I roll five. She counts out loud. Her pawn halts just short of the sub-cellar door.

“Ah yes, it's the room you die in! the cellar under the cellar under the cellar, the Ghost Room under your house.” squeaked Mostly Mouse happily. “You are certain to die on your next turn!”

“So the mouse is like... The bad guy?” Lopcorn wondered aloud. “How do you win this?”

“I'm not sure,” I say thoughtfully.

I crack my knuckles and stretch my wrists and throw the dice with lots of backspin and roll 2, finally leaving the first square. I land on a ghost that says go back 1. I go back and land on a ghost that says go forward 1. Back, forward, back, forward, back, forward, okay I broke it.

We watch the game struggle with itself for a while.

“We weñt to check a distress call. It was a trick. Psys got into our ship,” whispered Drywowl. “They messed up our brains so much. Voices and nightmares. Lots. And long memories. Their worst. My head can't take it. Those drifters broke our controls and left us to die. You should kill me. Please and – and thankyou. It's real bad. Yoùcan do that, right? הCan yoर? שִׂტკიנ neზ მnávზ მrუ tლнი夢c”

Her speech dissolved into a mish-mash, then into hoarse little gasps.

A loud grinding noise right behind me made me jump and I bit my tongue. Even Lopcorn was startled. It was just my fax machine turning on to print out an ad. Lopcorn looked ready to shoot the thing.

I grabbed the page and read it. I rubbed my eyes and read it again.

“You're not gonna believe this,” I said.

Lopcorn was bracing himself, his every muscle rippling with energy. “What is it?”

“There's a huge sale on blubber drinks. Yeah! A sale. A sale on fat.”

He deflated. “What? Oh.” Then, “Ohh. What?”

Missing a bargain like this is out of the question. I change course for the nearest station with a blubber outlet: a little rest-stop called Braehall in the upper orbit of Devilry.

We dock ten minutes later. I expected the vendors to be besieged by chaotic throngs of people, but every machine is fully stocked and the lines are orderly. I saw a rake-thin buffalo with one eye and a broken colostomy bag chugging a keg of liquid fat, smiling like he didn't have a care in the world. I pick up 8 cases of Midnight Muktuk and Lopcorn gets 3 Matcha Minke, 3 Peanutblubber-n-Jam, and 3 Garlic Dolphin. We leave, but... Every step I take away from such an unbelievable supply of food makes me imagine getting stuck without calories somewhere down the line, and wishing so hard I had just bought a little bit more in this moment. I tell Lopcorn I want to get twice as much. He admits it would be sensible, and we go and re-double our order. We get it all aboard and decide to have lunch before takeoff. Drywowl is beak-deep in the Peanutblubber-n-Jam Lopcorn gave her, holding it steady with both wings. The hare watched her eat for a moment, then turned and stared off into space. I took a long sip of Midnight Muktuk. “Damn, that is good.”

“Mmhm.”

“And the price is unbelievable,” I gush. “In the middle of a universal famine. Funny decision for a business, right? An act of altruism, I guess.”

“Hmmmm...”

I glance idly up my autographed It's Bullshit: Forever Countdown poster.

Psys... I'm reminded of what Drywowl said happened to her. Was that real?

Actually. Rather than wonder, I'm gonna find out. I put down my drink and focus hard on the Forever Countdown logo. I think about the host and say her name in my head. She'll hear me eventually.

After a minute my mind swells with a second presence. Mocha Menosky's voice is in my brain.

“Hey Lemur ~ Lookin for me?”

“Hi Miss Menosky. Um yes, if you've got a minute. Just read my memories from today. I, uh, consent.”

Very quickly she digests it all, then I feel her comprehension and grim resolve.

“Lemur. Thank-you for letting me know ~ don't worry, I'm going to make this right.”

Drywowl blinked and sat up straight. She looked at us with no recognition.

“Oh, excuse me,” she spoke clearly. “I must have dozed off. Sorry.” She got up and flew away. Lopcorn watched her go out the hatch.

“She's herself again. I took out all the waste,” Mocha explained.

“It's true then, what she said? Psys gave her nightmares on purpose?”

“See, my people ~ it is so difficult ~ normies are afraid of us. It's hard to survive outside the sanctuary. Some psys will take on people's worst feelings ~ they pay a lot for this ~ special help. They think the nightmares just vanish ~ but we have to carry them.”

“I didn't know that.”

“It's not known ~ I'm... ~ working on putting a stop to it. Some drifters do ~ very bad crimes. They find someone to pour their built-up brainwaste into and murder them. I caught most of them but ~ the universe is so big and so noisy. But I swear I'll put an end to it, I promise ~ I know you don't think we're all that way ~ I would hate that! You don't, do you?”

I'm eager to reassure her. “No, Miss. Read my mind.”

Her smile through my brain came out on my face.

“What are you so happy about?” Lopcorn asked.

End of log 9

[meabd]

Tricks of the Trade

Chapter 3: Casting the Net

New Directive;

Recruit Codename Lily at all cost. Hold on Qixing Bang & Burn until further notice.

Funds available, find her Nugget. If needed Raven Operative available for backup.

Do not reply.

Childe crumpled the note up before tossing it into the roaring fire. He bristled at the mention of bringing in a Raven. Sure, he knew it was mostly to spare someone of his ranking from the normally distasteful task… but he really didn’t find it that distasteful in this instance.

[Y/n] was obviously a covert operative of some kind. He was relatively sure of your allegiances, and of your reasons, but nothing was ever certain in the cloak and dagger world of espionage. Childe had minimal contact with the Intelligence division of the Fatui. The Harbingers, as a rule, did not work in the shadows. Their title, their prestige was just as much a weapon as the ones they carried in their hands.

That being said, he’d be an idiot to let an opportunity like this one pass him by. You were obviously in over your head if that laughable excuse for a cover you used the night the two of you had met was anything to go by. He felt bad for you; he knew what it was like to have family held against you. Which, he was loathed to admit, really kind of left a sour taste in his mouth if he thought on his deception for too long.

He’d promised you asylum, but knew that he couldn’t guarantee your safety. He assured you that the Fatui could help, but knew they’d only grant amnesty if you turned (which would more likely than not put you in even more danger than you were already in). He couldn’t shake the image of your hysterics from the night before. The way you had crumpled in front of your friend, how you’d nearly gotten yourself killed when you reached for the body. Zhongli had confirmed the poison; it was all over the girl’s hands, smudged on her stomach and thighs, anywhere she’d touched the frame was covered in the deadly poison.

He recalled vividly the way your fingers trembled as you moved to take the girl’s hand. How very, very close you were to the same fate. If he were being honest seeing your reaction in that moment is what had confirmed your innocence to him. You’d looked utterly broken , and he was more than a little impressed with how you pulled yourself together. Childe had pulled aside several of the dancers to ask about your relationship with the dead girl.

“Ming was like a sister to her. She’s only been with the company for a year but… well she didn’t have any family,” one girl said to him. “[Y/n] looks out for all of us, but she’s especially protective of us if we have no one else,” she’d continued, and Childe could tell from her inflection she was in a similar position.

“And [y/n] was with the dancers the entire time?” Childe pressed the girl, who’s look of sadness morphed quickly into one of anger.

“The whole time,” she confirmed with a hard glare.

All the other dancers had similar opinions; [y/n] was kind, a hard worker, you gave more of yourself to the dance company than anyone ever expected. More than that, you was a friend to each and every one of them. Childe wanted to be suspicious of your intentions—friendliness is essential to information gathering—but then he’d recall the feel of your slim shoulders shuddering violently under his hands as sobs wracked your body. You weren’t a good enough actress to fake that.

Childe was on his way to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to speak to Zhongli. He was hoping to find out more about the poison that had done the poor thing in. On his arrival he found not Zhongli tending to the body, but you . All his suspicions came rushing back.

“What are you doing?” Childe’s voice startled you so badly you dropped the rag in your hand. You whipped around to face him and—oh you looked like shit . You were still wearing the formal gown from the night before, your hair was a limp mess and there were dark circles under your red-rimmed eyes. It was very obvious you hadn’t slept at all.

“She doesn’t have anyone else,” you sighed, bending over to retrieve the rag you’d dropped. Childe noticed then that your hands were gloved (thank Archons).

“I… don’t understand. Why are you here?” He wasn’t familiar with Liyue funeral customs, but was fairly certain you shouldn’t be the one preparing her body.

“Someone had to wash and dress her,” you returned to your task and Childe approached cautiously, gaze lingering on the face of the dead girl. “And… I’m the—I… I need to do it. That’s all,” you stumbled over your words, voice thick with unshed tears.

"You seriously didn't even change clothes? [y/n] I didn't drop you off at your front door for nothing. It's dangerous for you to be out by yourself." Childe tried to reign in his frustration, but was doing a poor job of it.

"I was her friend. Whoever she really was doesn't matter. I owe her this," your voice was solid, but the Harbinger saw the tremor in your hands.

“It’s not your fault,” Childe reached out to touch your arm, but thought better of the contact when he saw how you flinched away from him.

“Not my fault?” You laughed, and it was a terrible, hollow sound. “I think you and I both know that to be false,” you paused to dip the cloth in a nearby bowl of sweetly scented oil. Childe frowned but did not refute your statement.

“Then what was she doing in that room? Why was she removing the painting? [Y/n], she was an Agent,” his voice was soothing, but the facts were undeniable. He’d yet to uncover the girl’s true identity or the Country she worked for, but the scene was incriminating enough on its own.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” you snarled. Childe took a step back, hands up to show he meant no harm.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss and I’m sorry for that girl but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re looking at yourself. Your future, if you continue with this.” The eyes that met his were full of grief. He regretted saying anything.

“Please just leave me alone,” you implored. Childe shook his head.

“You know I can’t do that, [y/n].”

“Then leave me alone for now. Let me ease my friend’s crossing. Just give me that much,” Childe’s gaze was drawn back to the corpse on the table. Her hair had been brushed back and her face was peaceful enough that she could have been sleeping. He wondered for a moment if it was Zhongli or you who had sewn her eyes shut with such finesse.

“Okay,” he agreed, taking a business card from his coat pocket. “My address is here. I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay by yourself,” Childe dropped the card on the table by the door as he made his exit, hoping you’d take his words to heart. On the way out, he saw a flash of gold rounding the corner of the street.

“Zhongli!” Childe yelled, rushing to catch up to the elusive Consultant. He turned the corner a little too quickly and nearly ran into the older man.

“Childe,” he looked only mildly surprised. “What are you doing here?” The Harbinger shrugged, not having a great answer that did not involve you. “Would you like to come back to the Parlor with me for some tea? [Y/n] has been holding vigil, I am sure she would appreciate the company.”

“No thank you. I have other business to attend to,” Zhongli nodded in understanding. “Actually, I was looking for you—do you know what the poison was exactly?” Golden eyes narrowed and Childe could not tell if he was annoyed or confused.

“It was Archon’s Trumpet oil,” he finally answered, his expression carefully neutral. “Childe, I have nothing but respect for you, but you must understand my professional and personal position in this matter; please refrain from involving yourself.” Childe frowned, he’d never heard Zhongli use such a stern voice before.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said, trying to nudge a clarification out of the man.

“Professionally it is highly unorthodox for a foreigner to involve himself in the sacred rites of burial—” Zhongli lifted on hand to stall Childe’s protestation, “ personally I care a great deal for [y/n]. I have no issue with you pursuing her but this is a difficult time, your discretion would be appreciated.” Childe felt like he’d just been scolded by a schoolmaster. He nodded.

“My apologies, Master Zhongli,” Childe used the honorific he’d long since abandoned.

“Think nothing of it,” the Consultant smiled at him. “Now if you would excuse me, I have some flowers to source.” The two men said their goodbyes and went their separate ways: Zhongli to the market and Childe to his townhome. Normally he would offer to accompany the man (considering his penchant for forgetting his wallet) but he had far too much to think on that afternoon to be out in public and distracted.  

It was late that evening when Childe heard a knock at the door. He wondered—briefly—who it could be, though he could make an educated guess.

“Hello?” Your muffled voice called out.

“Coming, coming,” he yelled in reply, tugging on a soft pair of drawstring pants. He opened the door for you, lips pursed as he took in your appearance. He didn’t know it was possible, but you somehow looked worse than you had that morning; you still had not changed clothes, and though your face was scrubbed clean of your smeared makeup it only highlighted the hollowness of your cheeks and dark circles under your eyes.

“...Well are you going to let me in?” Childe stepped out of your way, gesturing towards the living area.

“I didn’t—”

“Think I would come? Yeah I’ve heard that one before,” you sighed, leaning against the wall of the entryway to steady yourself as you removed your heels. “I wasn’t planning on it, honestly, but someone tripped the wire in my apartment,” he raised one brow in askance.

“You rigged a bomb in your apartment?”

“No, like literally tripped a wire; it’s really more like a thin string across the threshold of my front door. If it’s there, I’m safe, if it’s not, time to run,” you explained. Maybe Childe had underestimated you.

“...um, okay,” he started, trailing after you into the living room.

“Do you mind if I use your shower? And maybe borrow some clothes? I’m sure you haven’t noticed but I’m a little worse for wear.” There was the barest hint of humor in your tone; the Harbinger could recognize an olive branch when it was offered and he readily agreed.

“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left. I’ll leave some clothes by the door,” you nodded once before heading in the direction he’d pointed. Childe watched you go, ears at attention in case you decided to go wandering.

But that was stupid, you had to be desperate if you were actually here and there was no way you’d be ballsy enough to try something in the home of a Harbinger of all people. Shaking himself from his thoughts, Childe made his way to the bedroom and began to rifle through his clothes. There was nothing that would fit you, so he wouldn’t even try; the best he could hope for was something that wouldn’t be actively falling off.

His fingers closed around a cotton sleep shirt, long enough that it would probably be a dress on you. Regardless, he also fished out the smallest drawstring pants he could find; he felt it would be a little presumptuous to give you something so provocative to wear, especially considering how uncomfortable you probably already were.

Folding the garments carefully he left them on the floor outside the bathroom door. He headed towards the kitchen, intending to rustle up some food, but sighed when he was confronted with an empty pantry. He’d forgotten to go to the market.

With a groan he shrugged on a light jacket and headed out the door. There, at the end of the hall, was a Fatui agent. He motioned for the boy to approach.

“Ah, y-yes, Tartaglia, uh, sir!” He stammered and Child bit back a laugh.

“Go to Wanmin Restaurant and get two orders of Jueyun Chili Chicken. Tell them to put it on my tab.” The boy nodded once before turning towards the stair (nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste). Satisfied to have arranged a dinner, Childe returned to his quarters where he poured himself a drink and picked up a book to wait. Or, well, arranged himself on the couch to appear as if he wasn’t waiting was more like it.  

It was nearly 45 minutes before he finally heard the telltale sign of the bathroom door creaking open as you grabbed the clothes from the hallway. The food had arrived some time ago and Childe was beginning to worry it would be cold by the time you’d finally emerged. He’d grown up with sisters, so he was acquainted with the female proclivity towards bathroom hogging—but he also had many sisters, so the hogging was usually kept to a minimum.

“That smells good,” you spoke, startling the Harbinger from his thoughts. Archons you were a quiet little thing.

“Leave any water for the fish?” He ribbed, not looking over as you made your way around the couch.

“Oh, no, was I supposed to?” You volleyed back, sinking into the cushion next to him with a sigh. You practically swam in his clothing. With your wet hair dripping down the fabric of his shirt and the pant cuffs rolled up the way they were you looked painfully innocent. Childe thought he preferred this look, as lovely as you were in the gown.

“So, dinner—” The Harbinger rose from his seat just as you sat down, eliciting a raised eyebrow from you. Had to nip that line of thought in the bud, after all. He snagged two plates and another glass and set the table, depositing the wine bottle in the center.

“Don’t you have any chopsticks?” You asked as you watched him dig through his cutlery.

“Of course not, you’ve seen me try and eat with the damned things. I’d starve to death!” He joked, smiling at the quiet chuckle that was his reward.

“You’re going to tell your superiors that I’m here, aren’t you?” The pivot in topic was sudden and Childe found all he could do was shrug.

“You know how this works,” he answered, filling your glass. “You don’t have to worry about the Fatui here. I’m the highest ranked field agent in Liyue, no one will lay a hand on you,” he assured. You did not look comforted.

“Unless you had anything to do with Ming’s death I don’t think it’s the Fatui I have to worry about,” you sipped at your wine.

“It wasn’t us,” he propped his chin up, one elbow on the table. “And if it wasn’t us and it wasn’t you , then that leaves the Guoanbu, the DGSE, the Knights of Favonius and the Kōanchōsa-chō as the most likely suspects,” he rattled of the intelligence agencies of Liyue, Fontaine, Mondstadt and Inazuma respectively.

“Do you know who she was working for?” You asked, Childe shook his head.

“Currently under investigation. It would help us narrow down the list, that’s for sure, but no—I’m as much in the dark as you are,” you looked disappointed at that answer.

“I don’t think it was the DGSE. I would know if there was another Agent operating out of the Harbor,” you mused, unintentionally confirming your association with Fontaine. Your poor training was honestly starting to concern him, how had you even stayed alive this long?

“Then that leaves the Guoanbu, the Knights and Kōanchōsa-chō,” he mused, spearing a hunk of chicken with his fork.

“I only know of three Inazuman Agents here, but that might have changed… Regardless, I think it was the Guoanbu.”

“And what makes you say that?” Childe inquired, trying to suss out or line of thinking. You shrugged.

“Instinct, really. I just have a feeling. I’ve learned to rely on instinct these past few years, it’s usually the only thing between me and an early grave,” Childe wanted to beat your Handler within an inch of their life.

“That… I’m pretty sure that’s not how espionage is supposed to work,” he deadpanned.

“Oh come off it, Bagman.” Childe choked on his chicken.

“Firstly, fuck you very much; secondly, I’ll have you know I don’t just bribe people.” The amused smile that formed on your lips was the most sincere expression of happiness he’d seen since the banquet.

“Then how would you describe your line of work?” You leaned across the table to nab the bottle of wine.

“I’m—uh-uh, nope, I’m not the amateur here, you won’t get me that easily,” he shot back, pushing his own glass forward for a refill as well.

The two of you shared a laugh, one that perhaps veered a little too close to hysterics, but a laugh nonetheless. As the chuckles died out a serious look came upon your face.

“This is kinda fucked up, huh?” Your remark was quiet, subdued.

“I don’t follow,” Childe replied.

“This—us—it’s not normal. I’m not eating dinner with you because you like me, I’m eating dinner with you because someone high up in your government wants to turn me traitor,” your smile had turned melancholic.

“That’s not entirely true,” he corrected. “You are here because I like you. If I didn’t you’d already be on a boat to a Snezhnyan Gulag.” That… wasn’t technically the truth. He may have suggested trying to turn you, but it’s not as if he had to fight hard for it. You blanched.

“Thank you, that’s very comforting,” the snark in your voice did nothing to cover the fear in your eyes.

“It wasn’t meant to be. Have you given any thought to my offer?” Childe stacked your empty plates before depositing them in the sink.

“Haven’t had much time to,” you replied honestly. He grabbed the half empty bottle and made his way to the living area. No need for difficult conversations to take place on uncomfortable chairs after all.

“You know I’ll need an answer eventually, right?” He sank into the couch. You shrugged, not following him.

“What happens if I say no?” Standing there, glass in hand, eyes locked on his, swimming in those borrowed clothes… Childe wanted to lie, but could not bear to.

“Nothing good,” the silence between you was heavy. You gave a single, short nod of understanding before sitting sideways on the couch, your legs thrown over Childe’s own. He was surprised, but hid it well.

“Then do I really have a choice?” You pondered aloud. The Harbinger didn’t think you were looking for an answer, but gave one anyway.

“You always have a choice. They’re just not always equal choices,” he traced the vein on the inside of your wrist with a featherlight touch, pretending not to notice the way it made you shiver.  

Report;

Agent Pisces believes me to be DGSE. Please supply corresponding Pocket Litter to Ferryman drop.

Boarding with Pieces, cease all direct drop contact immediately. Brush Passes in the flowers still clean, will debrief after Opera.

Swallow

[hoodoo12]

Roses and Rot

This is based of a loose prompt: “Jealous and possessive Keatlejuice where the boy goes feral”. My pals @vicunaburger (Last Train Home)and @clairjohnson (Night Out) also wrote for this prompt; go check them and their fine stories out!

NSFW. Possessiveness, extreme violence and gore, smut, minor bondage, dub-con. This is a darkfic.

~

There hadn’t been any sound. No warning, and that was the scariest thing of all. There was some asshole douchebag who’d been catcalling you and who jogged after you down the sidewalk, even though you’d made it plainly clear you wanted nothing to do with him. The guy had the balls to grab your shoulder, and that was the end.

He’d been torn away from you so abruptly you’d been jerked back too, stumbling and losing your balance. You shouted, because you’d first thought the guy had done it himself, but when you gathered your wits your shout died in your throat at the sight that met your eyes. The douchebag was on his back and screaming, although his voice also went the way of yours. For a different reason, however: it was hard to scream when there was no breath capable of being drawn after the hand shoved in his gut ruptured his diaphragm and was now elbow deep into his chest. “Heart’s still beatin’. Pity,” Beetlejuice laughed. “Not for long though, buddy.” Straddling the man’s legs like they were wrestling or they were lovers, he extracted his hand slowly, like that would be a kindness to make it hurt less. When just his hand was still inside, he cocked his head. “I think that’s your liver. Spleen feels a little less smooth, an’ if I’d gone through it--whoa! You’d have bleed out way too soon! Oops, looks like my damn ring is caught on something--”

With a more violent jerk than maybe needed to happen, he yanked his hand out of the guy with the thickest wet sound you’d ever heard. You retched involuntarily as Beetlejuice examined what looked like a rope of intestine in his hand. Your gag caught his attention. Quick as a snake, he looked up and caught your eyes. Typically pale blue, his eyes were blown dark with what you would have classified as arousal, except he was drenched in blood and was pawing through a person’s innards like picking up candy from a destroyed pinata. Beetlejuice grinned ferally at you, licking his teeth. He seemed to realize he’d gotten some blood sprayed onto his chin, because he licked further down to remove it. You weren’t sure what to think. Or say. Or do. You felt frozen, a rabbit, pinned by a predator’s gaze. Your choices were to not move and maybe he’d ignore you, or run and hope he was having too much fun with the soon-to-be corpse under him. “What’s the matter baby?” he said with much too much amusement in his voice. “I did this for you.” You could barely wrap your head around that, and you shook your head slightly because of it. The amusement on his face melted to a scowl, and you flinched. Luckily, Beetlejuice seemed to believe it was due to the man twitching and still trying to draw breath underneath him. He turned ferociously back to him. “You fuckin’ cocksucker--you apologize to the lady!” he spit, literally, in the dying man’s face. 

It was unfathomable to you the amount of pain and shock the guy must be in, with his guts systematically being pulled from the hole Beetlejuice put in him. When he didn’t respond to the order that had been given to him, the specter snarled and used his unoccupied hand to grab the guy’s chin to twist his head up and over awkwardly to look at you. “Fucking apologize,” he demanded again. He held on with so much force his nails cut into the man’s cheeks. The guy who may or may not have assaulted you given the chance, whose only ‘crime’ was being a prick in public and daring to lay a hand on you, managed to raise his eyes enough to meet yours. He was crying, but still no real noise came from him; collapsed lungs didn’t provide enough air to pass through vocal cords. He wheezed, a little. 

Beetlejuice cranked his head back to a more proper position. “That’s much better,” he said brightly, like a teacher praising a pupil that finally understood something complex. “I’m sure you’ll never do anything like that again, will you?” The guy wheezed again, and you could see that his tears made clean tracks through the blood on his face. “WILL YOU?!” Beetlejuice screamed suddenly, dropping his face within inches of the man. 

The guy still had enough strength to flinch. That made Beetlejuice laugh again, and he planted an opened-mouth kiss to the man’s mouth. It prevented you from seeing what his hands were doing, but you didn’t miss the specter sucking in like he was stealing the last of his victim’s breath. When he sat back up, a string of bloody saliva bridged between the two men’s lips. With one hand on the man’s chest and the other still running intestines through his fingers like fine silk, Beetlejuice cocked his head. “Heart’s giving out, buddy. Maybe, if I’m quick--” And again, with no warning, he torn into the man’s torso with a frenzy. You’d never known how strong he was; you’d never considered how strong he was, but skin and muscle split and ribs were cracked, and before you even had the chance to look away, Beetlejuice had his prize: exposure of the guy’s heart, still in his ruin of his chest, beating erratically from blood loss and rapidly dropping blood pressure. Beetlejuice looked up at you, gave you a wink, and gave the heart a vicious flick. Luckily the guy didn’t feel it; he was obviously dead. Hawking something up from the back of his throat, the specter spit a gob of mucus directly into the dead man’s open chest. You’d never seen someone die before. You’d never seen such frenzied carnage. If you could have torn your eyes away from the show of wanton destruction, you would have. You felt numb and shocky yourself, like you wanted to vomit and curl into a fetal position all at the same time. All your limbs were cold. The fact that it was done so casually, that Beetlejuice looked just as he’d always looked--grimy, moldy, the corners of his mouth always just about to turn up like he was always one step ahead of anyone else around--he didn’t look monstrous at all except that his favorite suit was now that start of a joke--what’s black and white and red all over--

--your thoughts felt fractured, a skipping record, and a giggle slipped out of you, less for amusement or approval and more because you had no reference on how to respond to any of this.

Beetlejuice took your giggle the wrong way, of course. In a flash, between one blink and the next, he was at your side, arms around your waist to hold you upright and against him. The blood soaked into his suit felt clammy and left smears on you. There was still a feral light in his eyes, and pressed this close, it wasn’t any secret he was aroused. “Nobody gets to touch you but me, baby,” he informed you. Just as he leaned down for a kiss that you dared not refuse him, he continued, “You’re mine.”

His mouth covered yours and you held your breath. The taste of him, damp soil with base notes of roses and rot, was familiar; the new flavor of iron from the residual blood on his face was not and you did not care for it much. Naturally, he didn’t care. While you squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to act too put off in case that made him angry, an odd pressure surrounded you and when he released you and you opened your eyes, you were back in your bedroom. You didn’t dare point out that if he could just remove you from the situation on the street he didn’t have to tear that guy apart. 

Wiping his thumb along his lower lip as he stared over you with hungry eyes, he repeated in a low voice, “You’re fucking mine,” as if you’d argued. 

He still seemed to think there was some disagreement, however, maybe because you were still shocky from the events and you weren’t as responsive as typical to his advances. He lifted his lips in what you thought was supposed to be a smile but came off more as a snarl. “Men. Always sniffin’ around, always thinkin’ they can touch whatever they want without consequences. Never thinkin’ that what they’re touchin’ might belong to someone else!” he ranted. This was not the time to try and educate him on the fact that the word “belong” was offensive and demeaned you into being property. 

He took a breath that you know was for show because he didn’t actually breathe any longer, and focused on you again. “I know you didn’t flirt with that guy, baby. I know you didn’t ask for him to follow you and touch you. He was just a prick who got his just reward. But I gotta say . . . seeing him try and get your attention . . . it got me a little possessive.” Once again you held your tongue, although that was damn obvious. You weren’t against possessiveness, per se, and had occasionally breathed into his ear that you only wanted him, you were his, those sentiments and the like slipping from your lips as he fucked himself into you, but this was a little more than typical. The standard thrill of his aggressive behavior was there, even if your pulse also pounded out of fear. Beetlejuice gave you a much softer smile, and it almost made you relax. When he stepped up to you again, however, the smile slipped and a rock settled in your gut because your subconscious better recognized the not so sweet intent behind him coming close again. He grabbed the back of your head, his ragged nails catching in your hair. That was not uncommon; his hand being tacky from mostly dried blood was. You gasped and automatically pulled your head back in response. That only made him laugh. “Gotta be a way to show assholes like that you’re mine--” he growled half to himself, but loud enough for your ears too. “Gonna show them you’re mine--”

With that, he spun you around. Off balance because you weren’t expecting it, you fell front first onto the mattress. Before you could twist or protest or anything, you found yourself without a stitch of clothing on; one of his ‘parlor tricks’ that sometimes you liked very much. A new element had been added, however: your arms stretched forward and wrists restrained with exactly what, you didn’t know. You didn’t keep any ties or shackles in your bedroom; there’d never been any talk of tying up or restraint--

“--gonna prove it, I know you know you’re mine, baby, but other people, other people need to know--”

His obsessive rambling didn’t calm you. He drew his tacky hands down your back to the swell of your ass, and he kicked open your legs, putting you in a more precarious position without your feet under you. You heard the soft noise of a zipper, even with both his hands still on you, spreading you open so your pussy was exposed. 

“--I’ll show ‘em, it’ll be a giant neon sign announcing to the world--”

You had no idea what he meant, but could only imagine it was some sort of other phasmagorical trick he could conjure. Maybe he’d brand you with his name? Maybe he’d claw you till you were bleeding, leaving scars which would give other people pause to even talk to you? His cold fingers dragged themselves through the folds of your pussy and automatically your back dipped to allow him better access. He chuckled through his word vomit and now the head of his cock, wider than his fingers, followed their same trail. You relaxed as best you could against the restraints stretching your arms, knowing what was coming next. With one hand still gripping your hip, when Beetlejuice found where he wanted to be he thrust forward and filled your cunt with one motion. With zero preparation and a slaughtering as foreplay, the friction was immense and you cried out. You’d fucked him often enough that he opened you up easily, and the tight drag and pull lit up your nerve endings anyway. Your cry of surprise that devolved into a moan made him chuckle again. The hand he’d used to hold the base of his cock while he seated himself inside you came up and slapped your ass more sharply than you expected and you jumped and yelped, which only spurred him on more. He did it again, this time spanking you lower on your ass. You felt the extra sting of his ring making heavy contact with the thin skin of your upper thigh. 

Through it, he fucked you at a blistering pace. 

You cried out with each thrust; you groaned each time he pulled back. You’d have reached behind yourself to grab at him, to hook your fingers into his waist, or slipped a hand under you to finger your own clit, but neither of those were options since he decided he wanted all the control himself. You had no choice but to enjoy the rough ride. Beetlejuice hadn’t stopped talking, although it was now interspersed with his own guttural groans. “--fuck-fuck-fuck, your fuckin’ cunt is the best, baby--it’s mine an’ I’m gonna make sure people fucking know it--”

Going to your tiptoes, even with your legs spread to accommodate him, helped tilt your pelvis so he managed to thrust against the perfect spot inside you, even if he didn’t do that on purpose. Drool made a wet spot under your cheek on the mattress, because he drove such pleasure into you it was difficult to remember to do something like close your mouth or swallow. “--gonna fucking fill you up, fuck! Gonna, gonna--” Beetlejuice leaned over you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress. He hadn’t shed his clothing, you learned with a start, as the still damp-with-blood fabric of his jacket and shirt chaffed over your back. You wiggled more out of disgust than pleasure at the feeling of it, but he didn’t seem to recognize that subtle difference, or he didn’t care. He moved one hand to entangle itself into your hair again, to steady himself and stretch you back towards him. With his face now against your neck he grunted, “--gonna fill your cunt with come, baby--”

You gasped at those words, and he laughed again. “--oh, you like that? You like the idea of this dead guy’s come up in your pussy, smelling like me, huh? No one’d mess with you then, so full of rot--gonna flood your cunt--”

Was that even possible? Typically he liked to pull out and come on you, and yes it didn’t smell great but it was easily washed away. If he came in you, would the stench linger? The thought terrified you. The thought also excited you. You should be ashamed and alarmed, but just couldn’t be; him positioned on top of you, his cock still hammering into you, throwing sparks of bliss keep into your belly, promising that no one else would want you, you couldn’t do anything but take what he gave you and it was so, so good--

With a howl, you came around his cock, your pussy spasming even as he continued to thrust into you. He was still talking but your ears were ringing, and in another few moments, while you worked to catch your breath, Beetlejuice yanked your hair hard enough to make you cry out, and shoved his hips so hard into you it actually hurt, and groaned during his own release, deep inside you, just as he’d promised. 

He didn’t immediately pull out and roll off of you either, as typical. He stayed right where he was, rocking his hips through his orgasm as if actively working his come to where it needed to be to leave your pregnant. After several moments and slowly feeling like you were going to have to struggle to get him off you so you could draw a full breath, he pushed himself up and back. You heard him fiddling with his fly again, and wondered if he even dropped his trousers during at all. 

As his cock left you a gush of wet soaked you and the edge of the mattress. Beetlejuice grunted and shoved his fingers up against your pussy as if to push his come back in. You stretched and wiggled against the restraints on your wrists, and suddenly they were gone too.

You rolled over, not caring that whatever bloody mess he’d transferred to you would be on your bedding now. You weren’t sure how you were supposed to feel.

The specter still looked like he worked in a particularly unsanitary butcher shop. Instead of stripping or anything else remotely politely human, he dropped onto the bed bedside you and spooned into you, like all this had been normal.

“I fucked up, baby,” he whispered, to your amazement. 

Oh! Maybe he did see that he went overboard and unnecessary!

He sighed and kissed your shoulder. You felt the imprint of his teeth, but he didn’t bite you. In an even lower voice, he continued, “I should’ve kept that guy alive so he could’ve seen all that we just did there. Then I shoulda fuckin’ offed him.” You kept your mouth shut once again, and just lay with him like he wanted. 

fin

[queen-of-my-goofball-army]

Big Announcement

You might have noticed if you follow me very closely that I have been reblogging a lot of artwork lately of characters that nobody has ever seen before. Well there is a reason for that!! I am working on my first ever cartoon that is my own idea!! Right now it’s currently just a script of episodes and an idea of how I want things to pan out. 

Young Elise Elderheart is a teenager in high school with aspergers. She is also an incredible artist. When she was in kindergarten during an art competition she drew a dragon lighting a teakettle with his fire. She named him Harold. Over the years through being an outsider and being bullied she shut herself off from a lot of people and doesn’t have any real friends. One day she finds a sketchbook in the trashcan and decides to take it home with her. Late that night she draws Harold in it only for her childhood imaginary friend to come to life. There is also Peyton, a hotheaded but softhearted penguin and Bernie a bunny that can do parlor magic tricks like cards and slight of hand. 

I also have voice actors in mind when I was creating these characters!! For Harold I was going for subverted expectations of the highest degree. This dragon is not your typical dragon. He loves doing yoga, meditation, braiding Elise’s hair and drinking tea. The voice that instantly came to my mind when I was designing how he would look and sound was Greg Cipes local beach bum and voice of Beast Boy and Michelangelo in the 2012 TMNT. Basically I just thought who would be the chillest voice possible. On the opposite end of the spectrum we have Peyton who is usually angry. I wanted to find somebody who has an iconic angry voice that I always look at and think OH that’s who that is I knew that. My favorite angry voice actor TM is John DiMaggio. He is also able to pull off emotional moments very well and I had that idea in mind for Peyton. Finally for the main character cast we have Bernie the magic Bunny. I wanted his voice to fit his optimistic attitude and who is the man known for the most optimistic character in modern cartoons?? Tom Kenny. I love his voice work and he’s a continual inspiration to me. There are also four side characters that come along mid-season Oswald the Otter who’s voice I had in mind was Rob Paulsen, Carl the Crab voiced by Rob’s best friend Maurice LaMarche, Tanya the tiger cub voiced by Tress MacNeille an absolute icon and Benjamin the Bee voiced by my fellow aspie  Corey Burton. 

I also have the episode list for the first season!! It’s mostly a fluff and slice of life story and I am still writing the pilot episode script at the moment. I am not a great artist so for right now it’s just going to be an original fic of my own design. 

Episode One: Pilot, my friend comes to life?!

Episode Two: Seating rearrangement, first friend?!

Episode Three: Joining the drama club?!

Episode four: Helping my brother with his science project, a handmade radio?!

Episode five: Group presentation, sensory overload?!

Episode six: Peyton goes missing?! Episode seven: Mall meet up with my desk partner

Episode eight: I got invited to a beach party?!

Episode nine: I have a crush on my friend?!

Episode ten: Big drama production, can I do it?!

Episode eleven: Peyton and Bernie dating?!

Episode twelve: I got invited to prom by my crush?!

Episode thirteen: First date?!

Episode fourteen: Four new friends?!

Episode fifteen: First boyfriend?!

Episode sixteen: My first female sleepover?!

Episode seventeen: Oswald and Carl make me a hoodie?!

Episode eighteen: Tanya cuts my hair?!

Episode nineteen: Date to the aquarium?!

Episode twenty: Bernie’s first magic show?!

Episode twenty one: Try making honey cupcakes for Benjamin?!

Episode twenty two: Calvin wants to give me my first friend birthday party?!

Episode twenty three: My parents surprise me with a trip to the pet store, I get a puppy?!

Episode twenty four: My sixteenth birthday, best one ever?!

(This will be my first post of the day, I have something else that I’m doing later this afternoon that I’m really excited about!!) 

[summonerscenarios]

Okay so this may not make sense unless you seen BNA, But How would Guilds of your choice react to the fact that MC is a beastmen, but can switch between their beast form and human form(Going off on that they thought MC was fully human), and maybe a little on Shino would react 😖(cause well..you know when it comes to his past love and the whole-thing) Sorry if this seems like a lot and if you don't want to do it, you can just delete this. Have a good day or night.

Yessss I just started watching it actually and it’s SO GOOD!!! I do hope that these hcs are what you were looking for! Also I’m doing this under the assumption that MC knew they were a Beastman! Enjoy hun~

----

Summoners

With how close you and the Summoners are on a daily basis this was bound to come out eventually, so when they all learn that you’re not entirely human like they had all first assumed needless to say there’s a whole lot of questions. Shiro at first goes off on a tangent, speculating that your sudden shifting ability could maybe be some undiscovered ability of your sacred artifact since all the other transients you guys have met with similar abilities have all been because of their sacred artifact. He lays off when you assure him that you’re pretty sure you were a beastman long before you came to Tokyo but that just brings about a whole bunch of other questions about beastmen types and abilities. He’s honestly so intrigued that for a moment some of his questions probably push the boundaries of what he’s usually like so just be sure to give him a lil nudge to think before he asks.

Kengo doesn’t really see what the big deal is - to him it’s just one more cool thing about you! However even he thinks it’s pretty neat that you can switch between two different forms at will. He’ll ask the obvious questions about the differences between your human and beastman form - does it make you stronger? Give you special powers? Make you look more intimidating? Though he has to remind himself that you can change forms whenever you want because you’ve shocked him more than once when he turns away for a moment and then turns back to find you’ve changed in that momentary time span.

Ryota can’t stop himself from fawning over your new appearance, asking you why you never told them about this before because you look so cute! If you’re okay with it he really wants to feel the new changes that come with your beastman form; he’ll compare his hand to yours and cuddle up to you as he admires your new appearance, the whole time asking if everything’s okay at different intervals. Plus if you have fur fully expect him to give you plenty of fuss because it’s just so soft!

Hanuman is super psyched when he finds out! He’s constantly asking you to switch back and forth to see how quickly you can shift and if you humor him with it he’ll be grinning like a dork the whole time because it is so entertaining. Agyo swiftly jumps in eventually to scold Hanuman into letting up and giving you a break, even as you laugh it off and say that it’s fine. Agyo doesn’t have nearly as much of a reaction as you thought he would, but if you’re some kind of beastman though he makes an offhand comment to himself that you look like you’d make a pretty good guardian dog partner now!

Moritaka, similar to the others, is taken aback when you first tell the Summoners, but doesn’t truly believe it until he sees you shift back and forth with his own eyes - somehow seeing it happen right in front of him suddenly makes you beastman abilities more real than just simple words. He’s equally entertained watching Ryota fawning over your new appearance and Hanuman egging you on with the switching, but acts as a voice of reason if they get a bit too much. To him it’s almost like you’re just like any other therian when in your beastman form, but he goes out of his way to remind his rambunctious friends that even while not being entirely human like they all first though you’re still you. A part of him also ponders how Yatsufusa would react upon learning that the one who holds the soul of his beloved is a beastman, but that’s a question to wonder for another time.

At this point there’s been enough surprises and sudden revelations about you that Toji thinks he’s seen them all. But then you switch from your human form to your beastman form and suddenly he’s right back to being absolutely mystified about just how many surprises you’ve got up your sleeve. Most of the questions he’s asking are about how many people know and if the teachers have been notified and things along those lines but you can tell that he’s looking over your new form pretty damn intensely. You jokingly ask him if he wants to join Ryota in the impromptu petting, and though he refuses the fact he keeps looking back at you from the corner of his eye is obvious he’s considering it. If you’ve only told the Summoners about being a beastman then Toji makes a comment about how this could be useful if you ever need to go into hiding - just about every big player in Tokyo has their eye on you so being able to shift into another species than what they all know you as could play into your favor if you need it.

Berserkers

It doesn’t occur to you that you probably should have given the Berserkers guild a bit of a heads up about being a beastman until you walked right into the Colosseum in your beastman form. You don’t even make it past the door before Garmr all but barrels you over, the joy of seeing you back melting away to alarm and confusion seeing that you aren’t in your human form. The poor therian is conflicted because you definitely smell like you, but you don’t look like you, and he spends so long sniffing and running circles around you trying to determine whether this is some kind of trick to make him think you’re his master that his head is spinning by the time that Bathym peeks his head out to see what the commotion is, dragging an unwilling Andvari out with him. 

Neither of them buy your assurances that it’s really you at first, because obviously you were a full human, right? But then you turn back into your human form and all of a sudden you’re being swarmed by all three at once. Garmr is absolutely ecstatic knowing that it’s definitely you and won’t let go of your arm, Bathym is trying to pry for all kinds of details wanting to get a good ol look at all the changes your beastman form causes, and Andvari is already rattling off the possible marketing schemes this new development could bring in like it’s some kind of neat parlor trick - honestly not the reaction you were expecting.

By the time you actually manage to worm your way inside the commotion has brought some of the other fighters out from the locker rooms, and any hope of keeping that little secret to yourself goes out of the window because of course Bathym’s gonna spill the gossip to them. Ikutoshi’s nonchalant about it really and just assumes that it must be some kind of thing to do with your sacred artifact similar to his own, but he does have a couple questions of his own when he sees you shift into your beastman form.

Nomad nearly has a damn heart attack when he sees you in your beast form, and almost fools himself into thinking that someone must have done something to you to cause the transformation. Do the guy a favor and let him know that you’re a beastman before he convinces himself that he’s got to add someone else to his revenge list; Once you do explain to him Nomad calms down significantly and mostly just makes a comment about how he gets why you didn’t go out of you way to tell the other berserkers since most would probably wanna put your skills to the test in a fight the moment they found out.

SPEAKING OF FIGHTING. Macan takes the whole beastman thing in stride, but he gets super excited if you’re some kind of lion/tiger/cat beastman because. If anything he’s insistent about taking you on in the ring in your beastman form, which when coming from Macan is probably an offer you’re going to want to turn down unless today’s the day you’ve decided who’s gonna eat who. It doesn’t help that Claude is also eager to see your beastman prowess in combat, having been notified by Snow of your presence and the situation during your encounter with Garmr. He desires to see what you’re capable of in this new form especially if you’re one of the bigger kinds of beastmen, and if you agree you’ll probably end up earning yourself a couple more brownie points in his favor, but if you’re firm he’ll relent and leave the matter be for now.

Genociders

You bring the fact that you’re a beastman up to the Genociders so casually, but honestly out of all of the guild’s their response is arguably the calmest. I mean Arc already had some suspicion that there was something about you that wasn’t entirely human, so when you first confide in them that you’re in fact a beastman it only confirms their suspicions. If you’re worried about their reactions about keeping it from them you really don’t need to be because they take it all in stride. 

It takes a little bit of helpful coaxing from the guild master before they’re able to convince you to show off your beastman form around them, and they remind you constantly that no matter what form you take you’re still the same person in their eyes. Arc spends some time talking to you about different kinds of beastmen as well as if you only have the one form (depending on if you retain this information since coming to Tokyo is another matter entirely but Arc still appreciates that you go out of your way to answer their questions in a bid to get to know you better. 

Of course it doesn’t take long for Azathoth to butt in too to get a good look at you, giggling to himself as he asks all about how you ‘unlocked a new skin’ and when you were gonna tell them you unlocked that achievement. Though from the way that he grins and laughs to himself the whole time, you have a feeling that he knew long before anybody else thanks to the previous loops. It still doesn’t stop him from trying to poke and prod at your beastman form, having plenty of fun messing around with your new fur, feathers or scales depending on the kind of beastman you are.

Of course to Babalon and Surtr you will still be their darling child. Upon seeing your beastman form Babalon is quick to dote on you, cupping your face in her hands before smoothing a comforting hand along your ears and cheeks. The way she coos over you is just as motherly as before, but you can tell that she finds amusement in the way you relax into her touch when she finds the spots that ease the tension right off of your shoulders. This is only further amplified when Surtr brings a hand to rub fondly atop of your head, going off on some long winded speech about how you should never be afraid - that you’ll always be his beloved child regardless of if you have feathers/fur/scales etc. Honestly you’re pretty sure that he gets off topic about the whole thing but at least you know that he’s being genuinely kind about it.

Bonus! Shino

Shino is absolutely stunned by the revelation that you’re a beastman. To know that you, the one who carries the soul of his beloved can take on the form of a beastman within these Tokyo walls leaves him feeling conflicted. There is some naive part of him that thinks this could be some twisted fate, that his inability to be with you in your past life no longer barred by his status as a beast, that the version of you here and now is no longer held back by the concerns of the past world. This is also conflicted by his torn feelings about the whole thing however, where he feels as though he still doesn’t deserve his relationship with you regardless of whether you’re a human or beastman. While he doesn’t really make any movements when you change his eyes are trained upon your beastman form, intently watching the way you shift between forms. So intently that it’s easy to feel a little intimidated under his gaze, but he snaps out of his stupor upon hearing your voice calling out to him, bringing him back to the present moment.

[ao3feed-bakusquad]

Sense-Crossed

Sense-Crossed by dandelyre

Shouto is a synesthete who can taste words. He's never thought much about his synesthesia, treating it mostly as a parlor trick. But then he meets Sero Hanta, whose name tastes just like cold soba, and he's certain they must be soulmates.

Hanta is also a synesthete—a painter who sees sounds as colors. One word is all it takes for him to fall in love with Shouto's voice and all its hues. He's determined to talk to him as many times as it takes to capture every color on a canvas.

Words: 2963, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Sero Hanta, Todoroki Shouto, Midoriya Izuku, Kaminari Denki, Bakugou Katsuki

Relationships: Sero Hanta/Todoroki Shouto

Additional Tags: Synesthesia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Rich Todoroki Shouto, Painter Sero Hanta, Fluff, background kamishin, background kiribaku, Civilian AU

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30650933

[we-rate-tmnt]

Give us the Donatellos!

Donnie is my favorite so Imma be super biased on this one. Maybe I like smart guys or maybe purple is my favorite color, you’ll never know!

Up first, the og ‘hehe turgle’

Donatello (1987)

Yeah I’m sorry for making this 

First of all, not the biggest fan of his voice. It has a bit of a whiny quality to it, and I’m not about all that jazz. His gismo’s look pretty lame a lot of the times, either it’s a grey box with some buttons, dials and flashing lights or looks like it was pulled directly from Lost in Space. Still a cute design but he felt pretty bland and seemed to be used for plot convenience most of the time. To put it simply, he was cute and essential but kinda bland. I’m always really harsh on this version because it’s so painfully dated and cheesy, which ain’t my cup of tea, but what can I say be hehe turgle.

5/10

I had a crush on this Donnie so you know that this is not remotely close to a fair rating but eh, I love him and yall do too

Don (2003)

His voice, such a huge improvement. I’m really sound-oriented and I often like to play a game of ‘I’ve heard the VA before, but which role?’ when I watch cartoons and I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty good at it. So when I heard that soft, caring voice, ten year old me was head over heels. Which is one quality I love about him. His heart is so huge, like I can think back to a bunch of side characters and most of them were introduced through Don helping or knowing them. The Atlantians and the homeless in the show owe so much to Don, but he goes out of his way to make sure that they are alright. In the last season (which everyone hated but I actually really liked so fuck me I guess), Splinter is lost into tiny pieces across the web and Don blames himself and goes without sleep and food for days to bring him back. It broke my heart, and I’m pretty sure a lot of others, to see him like that.

On a lighter note, I vaguely remember this one scene where the triceration dude is like ‘you did this!’ and Don’s like ‘I did? Good for me then.’ and had a very pleased grin on his face right after. I don’t know why, but that killed me. Bless Don and his rare, but excellent, comebacks.

He really does so much and there were quite a few episodes focused on him. He also had quite a bit of character development, not as much as Leo, but whoever gets any more development whatsoever besides Leo?

I love him he’s amazing protect him/10

Next up is the Donnie that helped me love my old gap tooth.

Donnie (2012)

Voiced by the very talented Rob Paulson, this Donnie goes back and forth from really great character to eh. The whole April thing was just kinda strange to me and I don’t really think it added anything other than some interesting Casey and Donnie banter. His crush was really strong the first two seasons and came off as stalkerish almost. Although I’m guilty of having a picture of a crush as my lock screen once as well, so I can’t judge that much. I really liked that they actually addressed this when Bigfoot had a crush on Donnie and he realized how April felt. Yeah, that episode was weird and just didn’t make any sense, but it really helped Donnie gain a new perspective and made him go from super crush to (mostly) hidden pining. He has a nice design as well, especially with the gap tooth. I used to have one and was really embarrassed of it but whenever I saw that Donnie had one, I thought it looked neat and I started to see myself in a more positive light. It’s closed up now, but I can still spray water between the little bit that’s left as a parlor trick. But seriously, what the FUCK was up with Don visiososoos whatever tf his name I I don’t understnad my tiny brain don’t understand why my purple boy tried to kill this dude who looked like he should’ve been wearing a red jumpsuit in the background of a pixar robot love story. Anyway, my tall gap tooth son, ily.

7/10

Then, the barely changed but fantastic

Donnie (Heroes in a Half Shell: Blast to the Past)

Baby but Bastard at the same time purely because of the ‘Anyone who bothers me, ejector seat button’s right there’ line. 

10/10

Now this version has one of my favorite designs out of all the Donatello’s!

Donatello (2014/2016)

They put a lot of thought into his design psychically, the long body, the near-constant look of surprise and curiosity in his features, the gadgets made of common objects, the wraps on his arms, I would love to be able to think of and make those kinds of details! It was all really well thought out and he stood out since he wasn’t as bulky as the rest of the turtles. I really like the little lines and the actor did a fantastic job on the delivery and really made the character come to life. Some favorites: ‘Ohmygod, they have guns’, the little awed, snorty chuckle when he flips a car over with his bo staff, ‘doitdoitoitdoit im not gonna stop til you do it doditdoit’ and when he straight up yeets himself out of a plane. He has a genuine curiosity in everything he does and I think he might be my favorite version. It’s hard to choose when it comes to Donnie because he varies so wildly. But for detail, voice and writing alone, definitely the 2014 Donnie.

8.5/10

Next up is God himself

Donnie (2018)

Chaotic as all hell, like I can’t think of a more chaotic character from ANY of the versions other than this Donnie. I have a lot of thoughts about his character in general, from design, to psychology and complexes. First and foremost, Donnie is a softshell turtle, meaning he has a DOPE battle shell and overall looks pretty damn neat. Although, I think that just the fact he’s biologically weaker has caused him to put up a lot of boundaries between him and his family and friends. He can’t be incredibly strong like Raph, agile like Leo or fast like Mikey and even though he brags about being smart, he feels almost beneath his brothers and strives to outdo them in any way he can. He wants to show them that he’s just as, if not more so, talented and feels overlooked because his inventions become ‘too smart’ or ‘too over the top’ and even the ones that work out incredibly well are written off for flashier projects. 

He depends on technology and feels like that's all he has, and (ironically enough) he’s built up a shield around him. He acts confident and narcissistic and has an almost nihilistic outlook, but he’s frustrated and feels inferior and wants validation more than anything. I came up with this theory when I saw the episode Turtle Dega Nights. I know that the scene was meant for Donnie to express how he feels about Splinter lying about the event and believe that he didn’t genuinely want to hang out with his sons, but that kind of thing feels like it’s been built up over time, like he’s been lied to before about the true meaning behind something. Something like, oh idk, how great his inventions are? Or how helpful he really is? Or how talented he is? Just sayin. Also ngl I might be self projecting a bit, but mmm. Also he has so much purple on him and it’s wayyy more accurate compared to just a purple bandanna bc people who like purple GO ALL OUT. A friend told me this and I thought ‘nah thats not true I like purple’ but then I looked down to find my dyed purple jeans, purple vans and my favorite hoodie, also purple. A really chaotic version but he seriously needs a hug.

9/10

Storytime: One time my friend dressed up as Donnie the same year I was dressing as April O’ Neal and we didn’t even plan it. It was fantastic.

Thank you so much for sending this in! Sorry it’s taking me so long to get around to these! I’m so glad you guys are liking my blog and my opinions!

[lindzem]

BLACK CAT

Jack laughed as he strode down the sidewalk with his sister Emma. They'd had a normal day of school and the chilly october breeze whirled leaves all around. Emma giggled as she bounced into a pile of leaves playfully before jogging back next to her brother.

Jack pulled out his wallet and hummed.

"Ready for some pumpkin ice cream to celebrate you getting an A on your math test?"

Emma twirled and bounced.

"Yes yes yes! Its pumpkin season! Woohoo!"

Jack smiled as he kept walking with her until they both heard a piercing screech from a nearby alleyway. Emma hid behind her brother instinctively with a frown.

"What was that...?"

Jack frowned and paused also.

"The heck...? Hey, stay here. I'll check it out."

"Be careful, Jack..."

The brown haired boy cautiously walked over to the alley entrance. The closer he got to the commotion the worse he heard. A sniggering voice babbled while a few others laughed.

"Let's glue its tail to its back!"

Another voice chimed.

"No, let's pour the glue in its ears!"

Jack rushed forwards to see three male teens a few years older than him had trapped a black cat in a broken cage. They were harrassing it terribly and one of the boys had a bottle of super glue in his hand. Jack couldn't bear what was about to happen.

He yelled and rushed forwards, slamming into the kid with the glue and it crashed onto the ground.

"Leave the cat alone, you assholes!"

Flustered, all the teens watched as Jack threw himself between them.

"The hell?! Go away if you know what's good for you, punk!"

"It's just a stupid cat! Mind your own business!"

Jack growled angrily.

"Leave it alone!"

The tallest teen hissed.

"Get him!"

Jack's eyes widened and he turned around to shield the cat with his body as all the bullies began to wail on him. Jack took the blows and winced, cringing with every kick and punch until they got bored. They left and Jack slowly sat up. His body ached and stung all over. But the cat was alright. That was what mattered.

"H-Hey...its ok little fella...they're gone. Here, lemme get you out of there."

Slowly but surely Jack pried some of the cage wiring back enough for the cat to yank out of it. The feline rushed a few feet away but turned around and stared back at him confused. After a minute it ran away and Jack sighed. He stood and walked back out to Emma.

"Hey, sorry to keep you waiting."

Emma hugged him and he yelped.

"What happened?!"

"Oh, just had to save a cat from these jerks. You know, cool hero stuff~ Now let's go get you some ice cream!"

Emma nodded and they walked off to the ice cream shop.

The next morning Jack awoke much sorer and groaned. He tried to sit up until he saw something at the end of his bed. He rubbed his eyes and blinked. It was the same black cat he saved yesterday. He startled and jerked back, hitting his head on his bedboard. He squeaked and held it.

"Ow! Fuck-!"

The cat merely watched him curiously and calmly, swishing its tail. Jack saw it had such bright gold eyes that stared deeply and intently, but they meant no harm.

"What are you doing here? How did you even get inside my house?"

The cat stayed silent and still. Jack blinked and groaned.

"Alright you gotta go. Come on."

He slowly got out of bed and reached for the cat, but it jumped away from him onto the floor with a chirp. Emma came through the door and gasped when she saw the cat.

"Jack lets go, we're gonna be late for the movie--! Is that the cat?! It's so cuuute!!!"

Surprisingly the cat seemed content with Emma picking it up and hugging it.

"Yeah, but its gotta go. And so do we. Come on then."

He gets dressed and goes with her downstairs to the front door. They walk out and stroll down the sidewalk into town. Suddenly the cat begins to squirm and meow. Emma frowned.

"Huh, whats wrong kitty?"

It jumps down from her arms and meows at them loudly. It rushes forwards and turns around constantly to see if they are following.

"It wants us to follow it!"

Jack shrugged.

"Emma if we go that way, we'll be late for the movie."

She pouted and looked back at him.

"No we wont, come on!"

Jack sighed and followed along. The cat leads them down to the end of the block and stops in front of a black oranate metal doorway with golden painted etchings all over. The cat pushed the door open and ran inside. Emma giggled and followed.

"Wait kitty!"

Jack looked more concerned now, not wanting his sister to rush into someplace dangerous.

"Emma, wait, stop!"

He went in after her and slowed down, seeing all sorts of whacky looking artifacts and trinkets everywhere. The place was only illuminated by candles and everything was mostly the colors of black and gold. Jack was relieved to see Emma staring into an beautiful crystal ball on top of a round table in the middle of the room.

"This place is so cool, Jack!"

Jack walked over to her and kept eyeing around the room.

"Uh, yeah, but it's also a bit creepy. Never too early for Halloween I guess. Where's the cat?"

"I dunno. I lost it. Maybe it lives here! We brought it back home, yay!"

Jack gently nudged her.

"Alright, now lets get back to the movie, huh?"

Emma sighed.

"Aww but I like this place!"

Just that moment a tall man stepped out from behind a drapery of black velvet curtains. Jack gasped and instinctively stepped in front of his sister to protect her if need be. The man was lithe and draped in a gorgeous black silk robe with delicate golden lace all over the neck and arms. He also wore a sparkling golden feathery boa around his neck. His hair was ebony black and his eyes glinted gold in the candle light.

"Good afternoon, children~ How may I be of service?"

Jack felt oddly uneasy about this man and forced a smile.

"O-Oh no, we're sorry to intrude. We were just leaving, really--"

The man tisked his tongue and chuckled.

"It's no bother at all~ Im always happy to have guests. My name is Pitch and I am a fortune teller by trade."

Emma gasped and squealed.

"Really?! Jack, let's get our fortunes told! Pleeeease!"

Jack eyed her.

"But I thought you wanted to see the Perfect Princess Ponypal movie?"

"We can see it next week! Please please please!"

Jack sighed and smiled a little. He couldn't say no to her.

"Ok ok, we can. How much is it?"

Pitch smiled and motioned to the table.

"For you two, I'll make it free. Come, sit."

Pitch sat across the table from Emma and Jack. Jack sat and watched as the man sprinkled some golden powder over the crystal ball. It began to swirl around in various colors.

"Now then. Who's fortune shall we tell?"

Emma piped up.

"Jack's!"

Jack rolled his eyes and laughed a little. Pitch nodded with a smile.

"Very well~ Now let's see. Your aura is a beautiful snowy white, my boy. How interesting indeed."

Jack watched Pitch carress the crystal ball with his finger tips and the coloring inside turned all sparkling white.

"Woah, that's cool. What does it mean?"

"You put on a tough exterior show, but deep down you are as soft as the first snowfall in winter."

Jack flustered a tad.

"Eheh, yeah ok. Sure."

Pitch smiled and eyed the young teen curiously.

"I'd like to read your palms, if you'll allow."

"Uh, sure."

Jack held out his right hand. Pitch gently took it im his own and began to trace some lines softly.

"Very interesting. You're going to live a very long fulfilling life it seems. You have untold strength and destiny awaiting you."

Jack laughed a little, not believing it because fortune tellers were always just cheap parlor tricks and observation.

"Wow. Who knew."

Pitch smiled and looked directly at him.

"Give me that ring on your necklace."

Jack's blood froze. It was a gift from his departed mother. He hesitated.

"I...uhm...ok."

He slowly took it off and handed it over. Pitch accepted it and gazed for a minute quietly.

"Fascinating..."

Jack eyed him oddly.

"What?"

"This ring is a treasured memory of yours. From your mother, yes?"

Jack felt a lump in his throat and uneasyness in his stomach. How could he have possibly known that? Unless he'd been spying on them somehow. Was it something to do with that cat? No, that's crazy...

Jack held his hand out urgently, not comfortable being there anymore.

"Uh, thanks, but I just remembered we have things we need to do at home."

Jack took back the ring and stood, grabbing Emma's arm and tugging. She groaned in upset and confusion.

"Jaaack, no we dont-!"

He interrupted her sharply.

"Yes, we really do. Come on, we need to go now."

Pitch stood and eyed Jack with his own sense of unease.

"Jack, please, I didn't mean any harm."

Jack didn't answer. He knew this felt like a bad idea. Just as Jack got to the door, it suddenly locked itself. Jack's eyes widened in fear as he grabbed and yanked at the handle.

"W-What the hell-?! Unlock this door right--"

Jack whirled around, but Pitch was right behind him. It was a split second before Jack felt Pitch's hand on his head. Instantly Jack slipped into a deep sleep.

When the boy awoke he realized he was still in Pitch's home. He jerked up and looked around frantically. Why did he feel so cold? He jumped up off the bed and paused. Why wasn't he feeling sore from his injuries? In fact, he felt better than ever before, like a new energy was flowing through him.

No, he needed to find his sister. Who knows what awful things that creep could have done to her. He rushed out from the small bedroom area and down the stairs into what appeared to be the kitchen. He saw Pitch cooking some eggs and growled.

"Where is Emma?! What did you do to her, you sick bastard!?"

Pitch blinked and glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh good, you're awake! Now we can get start--"

Jack lunged and slammed into Pitch, shoving him down to the ground. The teen grasped his hands around Pitch's neck and began to choke him with a strength he never knew he had. Pitch tried to pull the boy's hands off, but he wasn't as strong.

"What did you to her?!"

Pitch rasped out.

"Sh..She's f-fine!!! Home, a-at your ho--me!"

Jack began to see frost and ice crystalize its way around Pitch's neck and face as he choked him. He suddenly let him go and backed away in fear.

"W-What the hell-!? What was that?!"

Pitch coughed and gasped for air, clutching his neck. He wheezed and eyed the teen cautiously as he rasped.

"Look...L-Look..."

Jack seemed confused until Pitch pointed frantically at a huge wall length mirror nearby. Jack glanced up and then did a double take with horrified eyes. He slowly walked over in mortified shock. His eyes were blue now and his hair was white as snow, instead of both being his normal brown.

"What did you do to me-!? I--I--! Where's Emma--the stupid fucking cat-?!"

Pitch stood up and slowly approached.

"Jack, I am the cat. Im just repaying you for saving me in the alleyway."

[marshmallow-phd]

Midnight Hours

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Wolf!AU

Pairing: Sehun x Reader

Summary: For you, being a good witch was easier said than done. Something dark was lurking inside of you and the others knew it. When you’re forced to tag along with Soomi and help a local wolfpack face a coming evil, you’re sent on a path that breaks into a crossroads. While you struggle with your inner demons, could the wolf Sehun be the key to your ultimate fate?

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I 15 I 16 I 17 I Final

**

Things had calmed down significantly over the course of the next couple of weeks. You found yourself settling in nicely in your spot next to Sehun. No longer did the two of you sit on opposite sides of the room, trying everything in your power to avoid eye contact. Now you sat side by side, his hand on your thigh or your head against his shoulder. You never thought that you could be this happy with another person. Long ago, you’d resigned yourself to always being the outcast, the one left on the sidelines. But that was never your place. And the pack was almost over compensating in making you feel welcome and a part of them after how they’d reacted to the fire incident. 

“(y/n), show Mei the trick you did yesterday!” Chanyeol exclaimed as he flopped down on the floor next to you. The one-year-old was standing at the coffee table, wearing a too-big t-shirt that you were sure was Kris’ at some point, painting on copy paper with child-proof water colors. Evie was on the couch, only partially reading the book in her hand as she kept one eye on Mei in case of any accidents. 

“I don’t think I’m supposed to,” you muttered. Kris was still cautious of you around Mei. He’d let up a bit after learning that you’d easily accepted Sehun as your wolf, but overprotective seemed like an understatement when it came to his daughter. 

“It’s just water,” Jongin encouraged, even flashing you that blinding smile. You’d never tell Sehun, but you were certain that Jongin’s was the most dazzling in the pack. “She’ll enjoy it.”

Too many eyes were on you, waiting eagerly like you were the party’s magician about to make the rabbit reappear. It was a new kind of feeling. Most of them had let go of the fact that you accidentally set the floor on fire once in your sleep. They’d moved on to fascination, constantly asking you to show them something else. Soomi’s disapproving stares could be felt from wherever she stood, but you obliged, for two reasons, mostly. The first was that it made you feel accepted amongst the wolves – a chunk of them anyway. Jongdae kept his distance, then there was Kris, of course. Minseok and Yixing didn’t seem as interested in you or your powers, staying off to the side and rarely joining in on the commotion. Which was fine; you didn’t let it bother you… too much. 

The second reason was why you really gave into their requests. This was the most practice of your powers you’d ever had in your life. Virtual free reign to concentrate and manipulate at least two of the elements to the point where it was almost effortless. Earth still gave you trouble and you refused to play with fire – literally. You were afraid of losing control again. And, even if you refused to admit it to anyone, the last vision still terrified you. 

Nothing else had come to you since that night and you wondered if that was a sign. You worried over it, to the point that Sehun noticed and tried to sooth you through it, saying that maybe it was a good thing and that the course of time was changing. But you didn’t believe it. You couldn’t. The blood moon was inching closer and along with it, the threat that remained in the shadows. 

Taking a deep breath, you focused on the present, smiling at the young girl as you scooted on your knees closer to the coffee table. You said nothing to Mei, simply lifting your hand and concentrating on the liquid in the plastic cup. 

At first, she didn’t notice the swirling, murky orb of paint-tainted water lifting from the cup, too focused in on her masterpiece to care.

“Mei,” Jongin whispered next to her ear. He pointed to the orb in an effort to grab her attention. A few seconds went by before she finally looked up. Then she gasped. 

You couldn’t help but smile at the wonder in her eyes. She followed the ball as you moved it across the room, stumbling and tripping over the dress-like shirt that kept her clean. With a tiny hand, she reached out. You concentrated on keeping the form together as she poked at the surface. A loud squealing giggle erupted from Mei as soon as her tiny finger met the water. She leapt back and clapped her hands. A broad smile of your own spread wide across your lips at her excitement. Several droplets fell from the orb down to the rug as your focus slipped, but you were able to save the rest when you realized what you were about to do. 

“Mo’! Mo’!” Mei cheered after you put the water back in the cup. 

“Actually, I think it’s time for lunch,” Evie said as she put down the book and stood from the couch. 

Apparently not a fan of this new suggestion, Mei stumbled her way over to you, falling into your lap and burying her face in your stomach. 

“Nice try,” Evie said in her practiced mom voice. She walked over, bent down, and plucked her right up. Mei squirmed and pouted in her mother’s arms. The child certainly didn’t want to leave, even sending you a pleading look to save her. But there was nothing you could do. Mother trumped witch every time. 

“You’re going to be her new best friend,” Chanyeol laughed once they were in the kitchen. 

“Until she finds something else more exciting,” you said with a chuckle. Your eyes moved across the room, secretly hoping that Sehun had returned from town. He’d gone with Kris to the auto shop, needing to pick up a few parts for his car. Knowing you’d be bored to death and being very against the idea of sitting in a confined space with Kris for almost an hour both ways, you’d decided to stay behind. You didn’t need to be by Sehun’s side twenty-four-seven, but he certainly did make you feel more comfortable. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like he was back quite yet. 

Your eyes, however, did land on Harper, who stood near the entrance to the front parlor, arms folded over her chest and her eyes planted on the floor near her feet. A sad smile pulled on her lips as she was lost in thought, making you wonder what was going on her head. Before you could come to any conclusion of your own, her smile disappeared, her expression twisting to one of pain before she turned and ran out of the room. Concerned for your friend, you jumped to your feet and followed her. 

Harper had ran outside and made it to just beyond the edge of the trees before you saw her bend over. The sounds that reached your ears told you that she was throwing up. You approached cautiously. “Harper?”

She froze. She didn’t shift to look at you. Her gaze stayed down on the dirt, hands resting on her knees to keep her stable. 

“You know, most people run to the bathroom when they’re going to be sick,” you joked. That actually got a laugh out of her. 

Straightening up, Harper wiped the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. “There’s less ears out here.”

“Less ears?” you echoed. Luhan was gone on a run with the older wolves and you didn’t think anyone else – except for a few of the mates – would be all over her if she simply got sick. While Harper was always the more “suffer in silence” type that you could identify with, this seemed a little out there even for her. “What’s going on?”

A burdened sigh blew through her lips. She pushed a lock of her short hair behind her ear. Almost subconsciously, a hand drifted down to her stomach. 

Oh. Oh. 

 You chewed on your bottom lip. “How long?”

Harper shrugged. “A few weeks at most. I took the test at Hae In’s a few days ago when I started to suspect, although she doesn’t know. She was at work when I did it.”

“Does Luhan know?” Harper shook her head. Well, this was quite the predicament you found yourself in. If you were to list out all the couples in the house and put them in order of who was most likely to get pregnant next, these two would have been near the bottom of the list. “Are you going to tell him?”

Again, she shook her head. “Not until after the blood moon and all this other chaos has settled down. I don’t need him worrying about me when his head needs to be focused on the pack. Once that threat is handled, I’ll tell him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you’ll be able to hide this from him for long?”

“I have my ways,” she said. “Besides, he’s not as observant as he likes to think he is.”

“None of them are,” you agreed with a laugh. 

Harper laughed along with you until it slowly faded out. “Look, (y/n)-”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” you promised. “Even from Sehun. When it’s not mine to tell, it never leaves my lips.” As someone who lived with a constant secret as well, you knew the importance of trust. And you knew you couldn’t tell Sehun. Whether you swore him to secrecy or not, eventually he’d let it slip to Luhan. That was neither his place, nor yours. 

“Thank you,” Harper sniffed. For the first time since you’d met her, you saw a vulnerability in her eyes. A glassy sheen took over them and she sniffed again. “Is it bad if I admit I’m a little scared?”

You stepped closer to her, taking her hand in yours. “Why would that be bad?”

“I’m not like Evie,” she admitted in a quivering voice. “I’m not- I just don’t know if… if I’m capable of something like that. I’m not… I’m not soft. I was raised to hunt.”

“And to protect, if I remember correctly,” you pointed out. Giving out a sigh of your own, you tried another approach. “There’s all different kinds of mothers,” you said. “Not all are good, but most are. And even the good ones differ. You don’t have to be just like Evie. You can be your own kind of mother. I’m sure no matter what, that that kid is going to be one hell of a strong person.”

Finally, a tiny smile. “You think so?”

You nodded. “I’m certain of it. Besides, who wouldn’t want to have a mom who can teach them to fight? And use a bow? That sounds like some great bonding time to me.”

That really made her beam. Pulling you into a tight hug, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“I know you’re not going to magically feel better, but I’m here whenever you need a cheerleader, okay?” You leaned back, adding, “But you really should tell Luhan.”

“I will,” Harper scoffed as she let you go. “I’m going to regret you knowing, aren’t I?”

“Of course not,” you argued. You shrugged, taunting, “Someone’s going to need to be on your side when the rest find out.” Harper’s expression scrunched. She knew you were telling the truth. “Especially once Hae In finds out that you kept it from her.”

“Okay, okay.” She flung an arm around your shoulders. “Lets keep it down. And we should probably head back inside before someone actually notices.”

You nodded in agreement and then turned to head back inside. Then you flinched. Sehun was standing on the porch, arms folded and a curious frown pinching his brow together. 

“About time you came back,” you teased in an effort to distract him. A smirk was his only response. Harper patted you on the back, giving you the go ahead. But you didn’t take off and run to your wolf. Instead, you kept pace with Harper, staying by her side as you walked towards the porch. The confidence in Sehun’s expression wayned. 

“Hey.” Sehun caught your arm before you could head inside. “Is everything okay?”

Your eyes flickered to Harper, who gave you a smile before stepping through the front door. Plastering on your own smile, you replied, “Yeah, of course. Just some girl time. No big deal.”

Sehun visibly grinded down on his teeth. “You would tell me if something was wrong, right?”

“Yeah, if something was wrong with me, I’d tell you.” It wasn’t a lie - mostly. If something concerning you was going on, you’d tell him. He was always easy to talk to, more so than anyone you’d ever met before. But nothing was wrong with you, outside of your normal worries. Outside of the one thing you couldn’t voice even to the wind or the trees. Outside of the thing that scared you most. 

Feeling that lump rising up in your throat that always did when you thought about it, you pushed yourself into Sehun’s embrace. His heart was right against your ear, beating fast from your closeness. He let go of your arm and wrapped his arms around you. 

“I missed you,” he said softly. 

You scoffed. “You were only gone a few hours. How could you miss me?”

“I guess I’m just a sap.”

Rolling your eyes, you leaned back to retort. But you played right into his hands. 

Before you could let out a single word, he pressed his lips to yours, lifting you up and placing you on the porch railing. 

“You are ridiculous,” you murmured against his lips. 

“I know,” he murmured back. “But you love me for it.”

You stilled. That word….

With his thumb, he caressed your cheek. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Of course,” you urged, trying to stay peppy for him. But that stupid word kept bouncing around your head. Sliding down from the railing, you took his hand. “Come on. I’m hungry.”

“But (y/n)-”

“I can hear your stomach growling. Let’s go wolf boy.”

He wanted to argue, but he snapped his mouth shut. Thankfully, he’d save that argument for another day.

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

Yvette x Onyx. Prepare yourselves. Getting together to mourn loss of old troupe/old boyfriend, Yvette finding out about dickhead McGee. Comfort gets more comfortable and then needing to hide secrets from Vinca.

Written by @an-awkward-ghost

Before the fire, there was a special place just outside of Vegas where Yvette and I liked to go. We used to talk about meaningless things or engage in friendly banter. Sometimes we just gazed at the starry night in comfortable silence. Sometimes Vinca or Izaiah joined us, eager to talk about anything and everything.

When surrounded by the stillness of the night, it’s easy to lose yourself in your thoughts. It’s even easier to share them, as if the wind gave the words more strength. Gave them power. Made them real, even if they were only a low, uncertain murmur.

And I thought that would stay in the past. I didn’t imagine it could continue, not when the troupe had fallen apart as it had.

But it did. It was still here, even if now our words carried a guarded, sad undertone.

When I had come here a week after the fire, trying to get away from the deep atmosphere of sadness and hurt that surrounded both the circus and the penthouse, I found I wasn’t the only one yearning the peaceful ambience the night offered.

Yvette was there too.

Neither of us exchanged words, in the beginning. We both knew the calming effect of this place and we didn’t want to deny the other the comfort it brought. We were enemies and yet we didn’t want to hurt the other. Not yet. Not unless we were forced to, in a direct confrontation we knew would come eventually.

It was Yvette who broke the silence first.

“I’m sorry it came to this.”

“…I’m sorry we couldn’t help you.”

Yvette laughs, softly. Shakes her head slightly, as if to say she didn’t care anymore. As I gaze at her form bathed in moonlight, I can’t help but remember, once again, glinting knives and the iron scent of blood. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Yvette? I want to ask you something.”

I didn’t expect her to answer. I expected her to act on the tension surrounding us, to summon her sword from thin air. Perhaps to stand up and leave. But she doesn’t. She draws in her breath, hesitant.

“…Yes?”

“How… how is Vinca doing?”

Her surprise is evident in the way she struggles to come up with an answer. Her gaze tightens, as if she’s ready to deliver a harsh remark, to remind me we aren’t friends anymore. But at the last moment her expression falls. Relaxes. She gazes away from me, up at the sky.

“Why do you ask?”

I’m glad she didn’t decide to push me away. I’m glad she didn’t decide to act like a jerk like Vinca is doing right now, playing her part as a villain perfectly. I’m so, so glad, because I’m allowed to worry about Vinca, even after what she did. And I know I can trust Yvette with what I’ve been experiencing, because she will respect it.

Talking about it hurts. But the night helps.

“…I see him everywhere. Glimpses. In the mirror, in the hallway, in the casino… sometimes I even hear his voice. I know… I know it must be the same for her. Maybe even worse.”

I see the way her expression turns pained. How it hardens not a second later, as if she’s pondering how safe it’s to answer my question. Finally, she looks at me again.

“…She hasn’t been able to sleep for a week, now. Says she… she feels him looming. Everywhere.”

My breath hitches. “…d-do you think…?”

She shakes her head. “I’d like to believe that, Onyx. But he’s gone. They are all gone.”

“You… haven’t feel them?”

“It is as you say. Glimpses. Voices. But I can’t… I don’t feel them. I search, and find nothing. They aren’t there. It’s just… pigments of our imagination, playing tricks on us.”

Another thing about the night is how easy it makes it for the emotions to overflow. I curl into myself, reaching for her hand. She stiffens at my touch, but doesn’t pull away. I find comfort in her warmth; in the way her presence makes me feel protected.

“…Y-Yvette, I’m… I miss him. I miss everyone.”

“…me too.” She whispers those two words, as if the world would punish her for confessing them to me. But the wind carries them to my ears nonetheless, and it makes me think back on the fight Wrath and her had had.

“Yvette, d-do you… really think… it was Wrath’s fault?”

Her eyes flash, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t explode like she did back then. If anything, she seems exhausted.

“…I don’t know what I believe anymore, Onyx. Perhaps… perhaps it was everyone’s fault, in a way. Mine, for thinking I could best Vuzgamad. Wrath’s, for not being more attentive of that woman she called her girlfriend. Dorran’s, for not… n-not…” She trails off, hissing. This time, she does pull away from me, moving to run both hands through her hair. To cover her face. “I… I need to go.”

I nod. I had already accepted this small moment of vulnerability wouldn’t last forever. She stands up stiffly, gives me a tight nod and disappears a moment later, the curt sound of her heels echoing through the night.

…

It happens again a few days later. As soon as I come into view, Yvette shoots up, scowling. It’s clear she’s going to leave.

“Wait.” She does, even if I can see how troubled she seems. “Can we… can we do the same thing we did the other night? Just… just lay in the grass. We don’t need to say anything.”

Yvette looks at me for a long time. Then she sits down slowly, fixing the mantle she had brought with her to avoid burning the grass. And I sit next to her, thankful for her warmth.

It goes like that for a long, long time. Eventually we get back to talking again. Small, meaningless things. An ice cream parlor she had discovered and wanted me to try, or the new parrot in the animal shelter I volunteer in that says the funniest jokes. Things like that. We respect the fact that we aren’t in the same side and avoid topics about demons, Vinca and the troupe.

It’s a semblance of what we had back then. Before the fire. A strong, special trust. Something more. We never acted on it back then, mostly because I was happy with Dorran and Yvette was too caught up in finding Vuzgamad, but now… we both need it. That something.

And we both trust the other enough to try it. Even if we know we shouldn’t. Even if we aren’t in the same side anymore.

“How do you think Vinca would react?” I can’t help asking. Even with the resentment I carry for her, for the way she’s acting and for what she did, the thought of what her face might look like if she found out makes me laugh.

“I don’t think I want to find out.” Yvette winces, shaking her head. “I don’t want the shovel talk, anyway.” She freezes for a second, surely thinking of what she just said and how I might have taken it. The basics of her shovel talk: if you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you.

And Vinca had gone through with that threat before.

“It’s okay, Yvette.” I reassure her, with a small, pained smile. “I know you won’t hurt me. And if you do, I understand. I mean, you’re the enemy.”

Yvette shakes her head once again, with more force this time. “How can you say that? I don’t want to hurt you, Onyx. Even if I’m the enemy. You’re too important.” Her hands tighten around mine. “You can’t just say you’ll forgive me. You… you can’t just say it’s okay.” She pulls our hands up. Presses them against my chest, like a silent promise. “If I ever end up hurting you, it’s unforgivable. You deserve the world, Onyx, not… not a partner that won’t respect you.” Her eyes drop, just a bit. “And I… I know I can’t give you what a normal partner can. What he could. But I swear, Onyx, I swear I will try my hardest to make you happy. To give you the comfort and love you deserve.” Her voice falters, again.

“You’re already doing that.” I need to pull my sleeve over my hand to cup her cheek, but it doesn’t matter to me, so long as I can be near her. “You’re already… so wonderful, so respectful, so gentle. You’re different from him, in a good way.”

Yvette leans into my touch. “How different?”

I purse my lips, thinking. “Well, he was very honest, for one. Oh, um, I-I don’t mean you aren’t. It’s just… remember how stern he was? He used to point out all the flaws I had so I could work on them. He… gave me lists, even. Told me things as they were.”

“He what?” Her eyes had been soft before, but now they flare up. Even so, her voice remains calm. Neutral. She isn’t letting her anger show. “Can you tell me what else he did?”

I blink, hesitant, as I tell her what he used to do. Through it all, Yvette’s expression hardly changes, but I can feel how tense she is. How, with each word, the muted anger in her eyes keeps rising. It’s a bit off-putting, but Yvette quickly reassures me it has nothing to do with me.

Her anger seems directed at Dorran.

I’ve wondered for ages, now. If Yvette can manage to drop the villain act and be civil, why can’t Vinca do the same? Why does she remain a jerk? Why does she insist on pushing me away?

I asked Yvette, once, and she only replied it’s something that isn’t hers to reveal. Being with Yvette means accepting this secret, this horrible, little secret that looms over us like a heavy mantle.

But tonight, she gives me an opening, as part of her promise.

“I swear Vinca and I will find a way to return things to normal. Wait for us. For me, please.”

[straycat-writes]

Look in the Mirror (Osamu Dazai)

Summary: Just an ordinary day, slice of life kind of thing. Reader is sly and manipulative, Dazai doesn’t seem to mind. No plot of any kind to be seen for miles, sorry about that xD

“You’re late. Again.”

“Am I?” You smile sheepishly at Kunikida and make a big show of looking at your watch, “Aw, damn, I was so sure I’d make it today.”

Kunikida rolls his eyes. Both of you know you never had any intention of being on time, but at this point, he has just stopped questioning you. He hands you the files you’re supposed to work on, ones you should have completed yesterday, and leaves as you stroll over to your desk with them.

“Good morning, (y/n)-san!” Atsushi chirps as he sees you.

“Oh, hey, Atsushi.” You smile at him, “What are you up to?”

“Nothing, really. I was just about to go ask Kyouka if she wants to go for some crepes, since I’m done with my reports for now.”

“What? Already? You’re fast, Atsushi!” You say, sounding impressed, “Damn, I wish I was that efficient.

Atsushi blushes a little and scratches the back of his head, “Heh, it was nothing, really, just a few reports.”

“Yes, but that’s tedious work.” You whine and look at all the files sprawled on your desk, “I don’t even know where to begin with all of these…”

His gaze shifts to the papers in your hands, “Those are case reports, right? That looks easy enough, I can do those for you, if you want.”

Your face lights up, “Really!? That would be great, thanks, Atsushi-kun!”

He beams, “No problem, glad I could help!”

You sigh in relief as he leaves with all the files stacked up in his arms. With nothing else to do now, you settle yourself on the couch with your laptop.

“It’s ridiculously easy, isn’t it?”

You hear his voice before you see him, and smile to yourself as you turn around to face him. Dazai has a habit of sneaking up on people, but you don’t seem to mind all that much, since it doesn’t startle you anymore.

“I know.” You chuckle, “Sometimes, I even feel a little bad doing that to him.”

Dazai laughs as he settles himself down beside you, “No, you don’t, belladonna.”

“It was worth a try.” You shrug, “You know those reports are beyond boring, and Kunikida would kill me if I delay them any longer!”

He looks amused at that but doesn’t say anything, instead reaching for your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. His hands are cold, like always, and you grip it tighter, trying to get some warmth back into him. He leans on your shoulder and stifles a yawn.

You frown sympathetically and look at his tired face and eyes desperately trying to stay open. You wish he’d take better care of himself, but you know that’s easier said than done.

“Couldn’t sleep last night?”

“Not really.”

He doesn’t clarify any further, and he doesn’t need to. You know the nightmares must have been getting bad again. You never ask him about those, since there’s nothing you can really do to make it better, and also because the only way you know how to deal wit heavy emotions, be they yours or anyone else’s, is by locking them up in a drawer and throwing away the key. It’s not very healthy, you admit, but it works.

“It’s already noon.” You observe after a while of silence, “Do you want to go get lunch?”

He doesn’t answer for a few seconds and you think he might actually be asleep. But then he hums lightly and sits up straight, the cheerful grin back on his face, “Yeah, sure. Let’s go, I’m starving.”

Hands laced with each other’s, the two of you walked back leisurely towards the agency. You had got distracted after lunch and it was nearly evening now, so you made many stops along the way since neither him nor you were particularly eager to go and face Kunikida’s wrath.

“Do you think he’ll scream at me a little less if I get him a new pen or something?” Dazai mused out loud.

You gasp in mock surprise, “You’d try to bribe Kunikida of all people? He’ll kill you.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” He shrugs nonchalantly.

Even though you know it’s a joke, you can’t help but frown at that. You’ve never been too fond of his gallows humour. You’re just about to say something to that when you hear a shuffling noise behind you from an alley.

Rolling your eyes, you inconspicuously let go of Dazai’s hand and fall behind slightly. He turns to look at you once, but then smirks to himself and doesn’t question it any further as he keeps walking.

As soon as there’s some distance between you and Dazai, the shuffling behind you turns to rushing footsteps and you feel a hand grab your shoulder. On instinct, you grip the assailant’s wrist with your other hand, turning around and twisting their arm behind their back, pinning them to the nearest wall. It all happens so fast, the person barely has time to let out a surprised yelp before their face is digging into the wall.

You’re pretty sure the man that is struggling in your grip right now is not from the Port Mafia. Mori would never be stupid enough to send someone after you or Dazai, let alone a lowly goon like this one. But you both have plenty of other enemies.

Pressing the whimpering man further into the wall, you lean in close to his ear from behind, your voice low and icy, “Tell whoever sent you that if they want to touch either me or him, they’ll have to do much better than that.”

He nods quickly, and as soon as you loosen your grip, he turns tail and runs faster than he came. You sigh tiredly as you lightly rub your shoulder. It was going to bruise.

You catch up to Dazai and match your pace with his once more. He nods backwards with his head, “The usual?”

You nod and roll your eyes, “And it was the third time this month. I am so fed up of this.”

“Who was it this time?”

“No one important.” You shrug. Not Mori was the implicit connotation, and if his relieved sigh was anything to go by, he understood too.

“Did you seriously just leave after giving all of your work to Atsushi!?” Kunikida asks exasperatedly.

You give him a sheepish smile, “…Maybe?”

“I can’t believe you.” He says, pinching the bridge of his nose, even though he absolutely can believe it because this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, “When will you – “

“Ooh, Kunikida-kun, is that a new tie you’re wearing?” You interrupt, eyes excitedly scanning said garment.

He blinks once before involuntarily looking at it, “Yes, it is, but what – “

“This one suits you so much better than the last one.” You say, nodding to yourself.

“It does?” He looks unsure, “Yosano said the same thing, but I was hesitant at first…”

“She was right, it definitely looks better. She’s the only one here with any sort of fashion sense any way.” You mutter the last part under your breath, Yosano, sitting right some distance away, hears it any way and laughs to herself.

As Kunikida walks away satisfied in his fashion choices, you turn around and bump into Ranpo, “Oh, hey, Ranpo.”

Ranpo looks at Kunikida’s receding form and smirks, “He’s not stupid, you know. How does he not see through your tricks by now?”

You laugh, “It’s good for me. I wouldn’t have survived another lecture.”

Within the agency, Ranpo was the only one other than Dazai who could see through most of your behavior. You respect and appreciate him for his intellectual ability, it keeps things interesting.

He smiles mischievously at you, “A trip to the ice cream parlor tomoroow, and I’ll keep your secret.”

“Deal.”

You shake your head as Ranpo walks away with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Well, there’s no getting out of that.

With the work day mostly over, you can go home now. But you know you won’t be at peace there either, because there’s something looming in the distance that neither Dazai nor anyone else wants to talk about. You don’t really blame them either, it’s no use worrying about it prematurely after all, before he has even made a move.

But for now, you’ll just stumble back home and drag Dazai with you, because you know he’s thinking the exact same thing and you would rather he doesn’t because god knows his thoughts are already dark enough, but what can you do.

Dazai’s arms snake around your waist from behind as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You sigh.

“Let’s go home, babe.”

[lumikatdraws]

#2: Sway

(Heavenly bodies that held her in their influence.  “Let me help you.”  Rating changes to "E."  Multiple relationships, several snippets from pre-1.0 Calamity to [ShB spoilers] pre-patch 5.3.)

cw: 18+, consensual OCxOC relationship with [in other depictions, unhealthy] BDSM overtones; rough sex, mention of Zenos (scars and injury), Estinien & Samantha being actual animals. Otherwise fluff and feelings.  Many POV shifts, mostly wide third-person POV with eyes belonging to: Raphael, Minfilia, G'raha, Estinien, Aymeric, and Samantha (WoL).

- - - - - - - - - -

- ✧ ☄ ☽ - 

Rain pit-pattered the window.

She swallowed the breath of fragrant mist rising from her teacup—took a scalding, half-steeped sip.  Past the glass, out in the garden, the rosebushes hung their pretty red faces, the downpour making the blossoms gleaming and leaden.

A hum from his desk—that soft, commanding timbre—and she looked up as though summoned or beckoned.

Bewitched, bedazzled, besotted.  

He was thumbing through papers, grim-faced, unsmiling.  

“Come,” he murmured.  He sounded tired.  The word fell from thinned lips like a drop of cool water from storm-laden petals. She rose from the armchair; padded, barefoot, past polished wood floors.  Her long nightgown whispered behind her, a white, frothy slip of a thing—a gift from him.

He stirred at the sound of her subservience.

When Raphael Lemaitre lifted his eyes, Rosalyn Floravale was lost in them.  They were green and golden and haunted with hazel, arcane and enchanting as the aurum of his hair.  He wet his lips and tipped his quill in its stand; pushed his chair from the counter to allow her to perch in his lap.  “Sit.”

Her heart stuttered with butterfly flutters as she climbed astride.  He allowed her one rare moment of abandon, to stroke her hands through his long, flaxen hair.  She pulled it loose of its ribbon.  “You look tired,” she said, timid fingertips tracing his resplendent cheekbones.  She cupped the sharp angle of his jawline; kissed the side of his mouth.  “Let me help.”

He wrapped her wrist in his hand and closed his eyes.  Raphael turned his face to press the hard slash of his mouth against the lines of her palm, the arch of his regal nose caught between her fingers.

“You always do,” he whispered.  It was quiet enough to vanish—to disappear into the grumbling of the rainfall and the wind.  Whether she heard him or not, before he could intercept it, she snatched the bridge of his glasses.  Through his defenses slipped the first flicker of a grin; she cackled as he slipped very cold, very clinical fingertips up the front of her chemise, stiff against her skin.  

Thumbs stained by ink moved directly to her breasts, his feather-light touch nonetheless kindling.  She arched to fill his hands; to beg him, silently, to cast aside pretense.  But Raphael Lemaitre was stern as a statue and nothing could sway him.  As always, he looked up through bronze lashes, knowledge implacable, a stronghold unspeaking, unsmiling, unyielding.  

After long hours lecturing students, he preferred quiet.

She writhed, impatient, in his lap.  He watched a moment in silence.  Hands primed for reading and writing moved, very slowly, down the outline of her body—found her hips and eased into a calculated shift.  Their bodies moved together, and an ugly cry tore from her lips.

“Shh,” he hushed, unlatching his belt.

She held her lip between her teeth to stifle all sound as she watched him.  Unbuckled, unbuttoned, he pushed the immaculate press of his trousers down just low enough to—

Her hot, greedy fingers snatched his length into her fist.  Always so hungry to take him, she hitched herself up, and he hissed to see she was bare beneath the nightdress—completely unhindered.

They were practiced.  So rehearsed, now, she knew the best fits of their bodies; made the frantic struggle of sex into something graceful and efficient.  Her desperation always left him breathless, and in the midst of that rainstorm, his dignified lips fell soundlessly open as she sank to sheathe him inside in one stroke, riding him, unruly and ruthless.

Had her eyes been open in the blinding breath that he filled her—had they been open, not closed for the thrill—she would have seen incomprehensible adoration in his face; the brief, broken instant his chiseled façade collapsed.  But the mask of power clicked back just as quickly—the need to restrain her, outlast her, and conquer.

She clapped her own palm over her own mouth to stifle her ragged cries and he kissed the valleys of her knuckles; let his eyes glitter like sunbeams in springtime.

Good girl.

- ✧ ☄ ✧ -

The Antecedent’s laugh caught, half-through her throat, and she stifled it.  

“What?” Thancred’s scoff was both merry and biting.  He stumbled to a halt, dragging the flabbergasted Hero beside him.

“The two of you look so—” Warde cut herself off.  “Forgive me—” Her sky-pale eyes glittered, filled with bald amusement. The Warrior—Samantha—pushed her dark hair back with both hands, a fiery blush on her swarthy, sun-blemished cheeks.

“Are you laughing at us?”

A giggle escaped the Antecedent’s lips.  She coughed back the cascade that threatened; pinned Waters with a gentle stare.  “My dear Thancred—stand aside, if you please?”

Both of her sentinel's ash-blond eyebrows rose and he lifted both hands, play-acting a couerl-burglar at knifepoint.  “Fair lady,” he drawled, reversing three paces.

Samantha watched in some blend of horror and unabashed fascination as Minfilia swept into the center of the room, reaching for her with unassuming, outstretched hands. “Allow me,” she offered, keeping her voice soft and tranquil, hoping it offered some solace.  “Our friend here of course is an unrivaled tutor, but—” and she prayed her eyes, then, were soothing.  Floravale was full of fire, but skittish, so much promise, so much wild.  “Ascilia remembers the basics far better.”

From her guardian, she felt the heat of his exasperated affection—stern and probing cross-examination—and passed him a heartening glance.  

Stay.  

Samantha crept forward, still possessed of that caged-animal stare.  “Ascilia?”

“My name,” she said, very quiet.  A tiny smile curled her lips.  “The true one.”

“But,” came the instantaneous mutter from the watcher, “If you so much as breathe an onze beyond this chamber—”

His interruption was disrupted.  “I trust her,” said Minfilia, holding the Warrior in her eyes.  Samantha had a fierce and determined appearance—a woman, to be certain—but despite over two epochs of namedays, the sorceress yet moved with self-doubt; exuded a muted and hushed lack of confidence that Ascilia, for all her abundant misfortunes, comprehended very well.

“That would be the Blessing,” offered Thancred, benevolently unhelpful.  

“No.”  Warde beheld Floravale with tender evaluation. They stood close, now; close enough to twine hands.  “Somehow,” she wove fingertips together; locked eyes, light to dark, “I would trust her regardless.”  Minfilia’s voice came out small and wondering, like a child.  

Samantha responded in kind.  “You would?”

Thancred cocked a resigned hip against the well-worn desk and sighed; watched as two would-be schoolgirls burdened by the weight of the known world swung into silent metronome rhythm, the Antecedent’s surefooted actions rendered clumsy by the Warrior’s ineptness.

Ascilia had been told, from the first of her years—admittedly mostly by Thancred, Twelve bless him—that the shine of her grin held the warmth to melt winters; that, perhaps, if she met all of Coerthas with her gladness, she could thaw even Dalamud’s harshest aetherical chill.

She aimed her finest smile at Samantha.

“I would trust you in twelve thousand lifetimes.”  She used her chin to point to their toes, and Samantha tripped across the floor to follow. “Excepting yon loitering observer,” another admittedly unnecessary glance to reassure him, “Rarely have I met a soul I found—so suddenly familiar.”

Samantha’s complexion was olive, dark-freckled, but not deep enough to obscure the hot red of her blush.  “I feel the same,” she babbled.  “Familiar, I mean—as though I knew you long before we ever met.”

Warde spun the two of them to trace the empty Solar.  “Marvelous,” she said gently, and Thancred’s eyes followed them both, serene and tempered.  “We might make a proper friend of you yet.”

Minfilia pretended not to notice how her partner’s breath stoppered—looked away as Samantha cast a nervous glance to Waters.  Warde was aware of the role he assumed on her arrival in Ul’dah; camouflaged the elation she felt at his aura of pride and protection.  So you adopted her as well, my secret-keeper.

"Scion and associate,” he grunted, feigning indifference—though the look in his eyes was anything but.

The Warrior huffed. “I would love nothing more than your friendship,” she muttered, and the words were rough but honest.  She was catching on to one bar of the dance—Tataru would be delighted.  “But—” She laughed then, nervous.  “How can I presume to join in?”  

Her dark, delving stare flicked to Minfilia’s—smoldering and shy.

“Why,” and the Antecedent lifted both arms to guide her in a pirouette.  “You join in the same as this.”  The Warrior twirled and her uneven skirts whirled in tiers to hug her calves, catching on the buckles of her blonde spinner’s boots, tickling the trims of leather-embellished leggings.

Rosalyn and Ascilia met each other eye-to-eye, the hybrid mage no small margin taller—

And then the woman the Antecedent hoped might fill the old soles of an Archon tripped all over herself and they were entangled, slip to surcote.  With an exaggerated sigh, Thancred bustled over to unravel them. “So much for hoodwinking the Syndicate.”

Above their sudden, wild laughter, Samantha barked.  “I trained in natural magick, not parlor tricks.”

Minfilia was breathless.  “I’ve been cured of misgivings.”

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

His tail swayed back and forth as he looked at the Tower.

There in the distant yawn of that crystalline throne room, the Void yet stretched—and there beyond, through that rift in time and space and aether, Nero—

G’raha Tia balled his hands into fists and squared his center of gravity; felt the heft of eons past and future ghost to settle on his shoulders.  There was something, something—something he was missing.

Something he yet needed to finish.

Like Nero, he hungered for Allag.  For all G’raha knew that his colleagues might deride him—the lash of Scaevan sarcasm was, after all, something far harsher than biting—he almost, quite often, related to the defector; met cold eyes the color of midwinter mornings and saw something brittle tucked behind them.

Brittle, and bitter—substratum primed to crack.

“Raha?”

The barest sound of her voice pooled to tug at his navel.  He turned before she could see the way the dense hairs along his tailbone stood up; loosed a casual grin like a mockery of an arrow.  “You found me.”

“Of course I—” In the darkness, she almost looked frightened.  The plucking sensation dropped inconveniently lower as she trudged up to glare down at his face, a worry line creased between her brows.  “You—” She pursed her lips and spluttered.  “After all that happened—” She flicked one frustrated hand toward the looming, glittering spire.  “Tell me before you run off like that.”

Oh, she was furious—furious and terrified.

For him.

Pleasure stirred in his heart and down between his legs before he could ignore it.  He raised his eyebrows.  “Worrying after me?”

She scowled harder. “You—” Her hands were balled into fists so tight he could see every ridge of her knuckles and half-gloves. “Of course I worry after you, Raha.”

A tremor itched down his back and he ignored the sudden, feral urge he felt to pounce. “As you see,” he said instead, gesturing to himself.  “Whole and hale.”

“Uncharacteristic,” she muttered.  She thrust out one hand, flexing stiff fingers.

He had the choice, then, to continue to rile her—but he wove them palm to palm instead, following back to the outpost.  A thrill marched up his spine as she all but dragged him to camp, his deepest, most animal instincts ecstatic to be chased and claimed.

He supposed he should have known, somehow, that things would shift—change being the crux of existence, the eternal pendulum swing.  But had he known, even after; even granted the gift of both foresight and hindsight, would he have picked another way?

When he thought of it centuries after, he remembered a mirage.  For what else could it be but delirium imagined, delusions he dreamt in the lifetimes he slept in the Umbilicus, the haze of his waking besides?

But wherever it came from, in no past, present, or future would G’raha rob himself of one memory: Her legs, a cage to bind him as he moved, slowly and carefully, inside.

- ☾ ❅ ☽ -

His growl was furious.  “Let me help you.”

She squirmed away from him like an eel but Estinien chased her; pinned her down with the obstinate weight of his body.  He was scalding hot, the gift he stole from Nidhogg affecting his temperature.

“Let go of me,” she growled, trying to kick him, but he curled in a way that placed his long frame at the advantage.  His right hand was encrusted with scales of obsidian, vaguely monstrous, and where he touched her a tickling miasma of aether descended.  Warped crimson and violet levin tangled down her body in gossamer cobwebs, and each felt the other flicker within—that strange place they were blended from sharing the Eyes—however swiftly her tenure had ended.

“Let me look at you,” he snarled, and just as the smoke of his eldritch magick found a crack in the light of her blessings, seeping in, he snatched her wrist in his hand and used the secret she taught him against her.

A cry tore from her throat—arse—and she crumpled, limp, to the blankets.  

Then, with the skilled and ruthless fingers of a hunter, he stripped her bare of skirts and bodice and shucked her free of her chemise, much like he might clean an antelope carcass.

It was rare that Estinien was shocked, but his eyes went wide on reflex at the sight of the wounds on her body—fresh tracks and puckered scars, no few left by Ame-no-Habakiri.  His scale-flecked thumb stroked a path by the lines left by the katana and he shuddered with a convulsion, consumed at once by rage.  Again, both could feel it curl within, an actual, aetherical connection.

Death, came the inward rumble, not from her, but from Estinien.

I will kill him.

She coughed out a laugh.  “Who can kill the unkillable,” she croaked, increasingly convinced that the prince was akin to a demon.  “That man defies all rational definition.”

“Slag him,” Estinien spat, physically shaking.  His eyes were frozen on the places stained by Doma, by Galvus—her flawed and magnificent skin— “How could you allow him—"

“I let nothing,” she hissed, the command of her magick returning.  She huffed a breath to transpose the fire building in her chest and it came out an icy mist.  “How could you allow Nidhogg?”

Hard, dark eyes caught her glare.  They were locked for a handful of hot breaths and heartbeats.  Estinien lunged, pulling the blow just before their browbones cracked together; nestling gently instead.  

His voice rarely hitched, rarely fractured.  “He told me to protect you,” he whispered, and in the depths of it she heard something shatter; a glacier’s melting edge.

Aymeric.

“You are,” she rasped, both hands on his face.  “You do. You did.”

Thought evaporated. Tussle turned to whispers turned to snapping and biting.  His clothes were gone, saltwater on his face.  The source of the tears hardly mattered.

Samantha hooked her knee around his haunches, tossed her head back, and howled.  

- ☾ ✧ ☽ -

The canopy of the Twelveswood swayed above.  

He laughed, and a cackle of crowcall escaped her.  “And here I thought,” she rasped, hoarse, “The Lord Commander was not the type to be prevailed upon.”

A crooked grin twisted his lips.  He hooked his elbow to buttress her back; dipped her low so that the gleaming, star-white fringes of her blanched-bright hair swept almost to the ground.  “But you, my Hero,” he exhaled, “Are prevailing.”  He whorled her upright and was gratified to find her grinning, broad and breathless.  “And I of course admit a certain bias in the case of our affairs.”

She unfurled against his arm and tossed her head; barked another wine-drunk chortle at the stars that glittered far above the boughs.  The lamplight cast the stern angles of her face into shadows impossibly softer, framed by the intermittent pinprick-incandescence of fireflies.

Like them, her splendor shone foremost from within.

“Impolitic,” she teased him, “For a statesman to play favorites.”  And then, without warning, she was deadweight in his hands. The Warrior of Light dragged the Speaker of Ishgard down to dewy cushions of moss and leaf-litter; jerked her chin toward the bottle long abandoned.  “And to ply a weary Scion with drink, nonetheless.”  She quirked a brow.  “Are you trying to intoxicate me, Ser Aymeric?”

He was smiling down at her, beguiled—hers, helplessly, always.  “Not on drink,” he murmured, brushing the tips of their noses together.  “Though I concede I misjudged the—vigor of this vintage.”

She snorted and dissolved into guffaws, and he held her, amused and admiring.

His design was elaborate—ambitious and, to his horror, slightly extravagant—from aperitifs with her parents, to the banquet in the ballroom, to this tour of girlhood haunts and havens, he had plans.

But let her this moment, his skipping heart warbled.  This breath of freedom from Norvrandt.  

Your grandiose suggestions can wait.

- ☾ ☄ ✧ -

He held his frame at an angle away from her.

Distant.

“Close the door,” she begged again.  The Exarch met her stare through copper lashes, the side of shrewd, slitted eyes, and the Tower itself seemed to inhale.  There was a long, gravid pause.

Then, very sudden, very quiet, the access to the Ocular clicked shut.

And they were alone.

The Exarch—G’raha—gripped his right arm like it pained him.  She reached for it on impulse.  “Let me help you.”

It should have been easier, to look and see a friend.  But it was hard to reconcile—to dissect him from her trials in Norvrandt—to blend the ardent young scholar with the venerable, cryptic old man.  Even as he turned and opened his posture to her—even as she took him by the shoulder, the shape so familiar—he was something slightly else. “Samantha—” The richness of his very timbre was darkened, subtly altered, the Exarch ancient in ways that G’raha Tia only wished to understand.

“No.”  Her low voice echoed hoarsely in the room.  “Don’t dispute it.  Don’t speak to me of debts or death or some other damnation imagined.” His right shoulder was hard as granite. She dug in her fingertips.  “You don’t deserve to suffer, Raha,” she muttered. “You never did.”

His face was serene and impassive.  But as she watched—as she poured healing aether through his fractures, letting it slip between the tectonics of him and the Tower—something cracked.

Strong arms hooked the small of her back, his stature humble but packed, dense and deceptive, with power.  He crumpled with a breath and turned to crush his face against her shoulder.

“Say it again.”

Shocked from focus, her spell fizzled—but her grip on him tightened.  She hugged him, hard.  “You never deserved it,” she rasped, one hand cradling his neck.  “Not one bit.”

The hard tips of his crystallized fingers caught between the layers of her bodice.  The breath he took rattled his body.

How long they stood and swayed there was unknown.

- ☄ -

The spell to shield her aether was proving easier to weave, but whether it was effective was a question only Estinien could answer.

It was late by the time she reached the Manor.  Snow fell in flurries, all but stopped, and she took her time shedding her layers, sneaking into the foyer so as not to wake the—

A breathy laugh, far down the hallway.

She froze and craned her neck.  A dim glow from the direction of the parlor.  Sweeping back her hair, now damp with melted snowflakes, she tiptoed down the vaulted corridor, ears peeled for—

“Fury bless it.”

Aymeric’s laugh, again.  “You keep too much tension in your shoulders.”

A grin curled her lips in a reflex like breathing and she picked up her pace, keeping quiet. The heirlooms and artifacts stored on the walls seemed to watch and adjudicate as she crept to the archway, peeking in.

There in the parlor, limned by firelight, the two most eminent figures of her Ishgard were dancing.

Estinien swayed away from his partner, long torso bared to the hips, garbed in ash-colored slacks that hugged his thighs too tightly—a pair nicked from Aymeric, no doubt.  And the lender himself was dressed all in black, the high neck of his collar offering only the barest glimpse of alabaster throat.

Quiet and clandestine, she leaned against the frame, watching as the two of them simpered.

“Poor form,” crooned the lord of the house.

“My arse,” came the clapback.  

With lupine grace, Estinien slunk back, snatching Aymeric’s wrist.  A wicked smirk curved Borel’s beautiful mouth as he followed. “That, I assure you, is formed quite correctly.”

And then Estinien laughed.  It was a raw, candid sound—wide and rambling as the grin on his lips.  At the gleam of his teeth, a wild, uninhibited rapture surged through her, and she realized with a start—

It did not belong only to her.

Before she could think to escape, a hard, towering body barreled for impact.  “You little rat,” Estinien growled—and she caught a glittering wink in his right earlobe as she was lifted from the floor, hefted easily over his shoulder.

She slumped and twisted to find Aymeric watching, smiling bright.  “Ignore me,” she insisted.  “Keep bonding.  I have a mind to go to the—”

But Estinien was already carrying her up the stairs.  “You smell like—” She could hear his nose wrinkle.  “Too much of those damned Lakeland lilacs and not enough like me.”

She huffed. “Last I checked, the world was not, in fact, compelled to smell Wyrmbloodian.”

Trailing behind by several paces, Aymeric followed, laughter lighting the ice of his stare. He pushed the rook-black curl from his eyes and fixed her with earnest attention.  “Welcome home again, beloved.”

Home, again, to stay.

- ☾ ☄ ✧ -