#ooc: I licked a bone for this post

[legendsobsessions]

okay so you went to archaeology school for anthropology right? spill the tea. what's the best, worst, and weirdest lesson you've had? what's the most cursed fact you've learned that's fundamentally altered how you interact with society? what's the most blessed?

I went to the University of Veilstone, as a matter of fact—they have a very good anthropology program, I even was lucky enough to be invited to teach a class on mythology once as a guest professor. Can't speak for anything else, my roommate in undergrad was also an anthro student.

Best lesson: One of my professors in undergrad really did not feel like lecturing one day, so he decided we were going to take a field trip to the meteorites. Strictly speaking not anthropology, but still very cool, and quite relevant for the city's early years!

Worst lesson: A particular professor who shall not be named spent an entire lesson ranting about one of his colleagues who was getting more academic recognition than him. It was, however, within the first week of classes, and I was delighted to discover that the colleague he'd been complaining about had a couple open seats in a class during the same timeslot.

Weirdest lesson: Professor came into class, looked at his lesson plan, then gave a lecture about ghosts and Ghost-types. Two minutes after the lesson ended, a classmate happened to check their email and discovered that the professor had in fact been sick and apologized for being unable to attend... it was a fascinating lecture, regardless!

Cursed fact: One way to tell the difference between rock and bone is to lick it. Bones tend to stick more because they're porous.

...Yes, I have licked both before.

Blessed fact: Ever been to the Solaceon Ruins? I'd recommend the trip; the Unown tend not to disturb visitors so long as they aren't particularly loud (and, for the love of all you hold dear, DO NOT LITTER, THEY WILL NOT LIKE THAT) and the inscription there is, regardless of which translation you prefer, a particularly powerful one.

The two main translations, in no particular order, are: All lives touch other lives to create something anew and alive. When every life meets another life, something will be born.

I personally think that both translations have their own merits, but the debate is an ongoing one in academia.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Hello!! I just started reading your works recently and I think it's safe to say that I have fallen in love with them <3 the way you write both the cod guys and the reader feels so real and poetic that I just, eat it up everytime. I read your Barbarian! König post and it got me thinking about something.

König and Ghost are kinda opposites when it comes to their darlings. König likes darlings fiesty and snippy but Ghost likes his darlings as more agreeable or soft but not weak, ykwim??

And it got me thinking about Barbarian! Ghost. Whereas König got his darling bc he killed her husband and she was there when it happened, I see Ghost as going to take one girl originally but then the darling steps in front of said girl and says to take her instead, saving the girl and sacrificing herself. Idk but I think he would be very attracted to that, and unlike König who gently picks you up and puts you upon his horse while you kick and bite him, Ghost grabs you and lays you stomach first against his horse harshly, keeping a sturdy hand on your back as he rides away.

Sorry if this is weird or ooc!! But it was just a thought that came to me!

Oh Barbarian!Ghost would be sooo disinterested on the outside. He only saves her ass discreetly, but saves it more than enough times to spark her curiosity.

Why does he come to her rescue and then abandons her to her own devices?

CW: Minor violence (bruises), noncon groping, fear of SA, blood, cuddling & snuggling, Ghost being a complex PTSD weirdo who has a fascination towards bones.

It’s actually she who approaches him first, not the other way around. He allows her to seek protection by staying near him and thus get the others off her back: he might even throw her a piece of roasted lamb as if she were some stray cat, lurking about his campfire. But there’s not much more than that on offer for her: only a few sideways glances that tell her he regards her mostly as a nuisance and a liability, accompanied by a few scrap bones that luckily have some meat and fat still on them.

He shows her how to snap the bigger ones in half to get to the life saving marrow, and that’s when she realizes he regards her a bit dumb, some pretty royal girl who doesn’t know how to survive without a man.

And who’s to blame for all that? Clever men who have forced her to learn poetry and songs, pluck chords and recite philosophers from memory. No one ever even taught her how to ride a horse, the only things she can do is chat about the latest political turns and whether it’s old-fashioned to style your hair Southern style.

Now she’s supposed to strike a conversation with a barbarian who dresses in furs and wool, who collects the knuckles of his fallen enemies and looks at her like she’s the uncivilized one here. He probably plays dice with those bones, and she’s never seen him force a woman under him; she’s never seen him take a woman at all.

He’s probably half dead already, some ghoul raised to ravage this earth. But everytime she gets drooled over or spat upon, groped or squeezed or slapped on the soft flesh of her butt, she makes her way to him and only him. To become one with the shadows too, or to disappear, perhaps.

He gives her his biggest, thickest pelt to wrap around her shoulders, to cover those assets that make these wartorn men so crazy. Or then he doesn’t want to find her frozen to death at dawn... Dark, vast eyes look at her in the early morning fog, up from above from the highest heights, as if asking why she overslept again.

A rabbit is thrown at her feet, but she doesn’t know what to do with it: she knows he wants her to skin it, yes, but how? Even with the knife he provides her, she can only stare at the soft creature helplessly, lick her dry, creaky lips until he sighs and comes to wrench the blade away, taking the hare before it turns too stiff.

She’s almost certain he’s not even interested in women until one day, someone goes a bit too far and grabs a handful of her to squeeze. The spitting, jerking and screaming turn into a whole fistfight until she gets drawn to her knees by her hair. He’s about to rip her scalp off, of that she is sure from how much it burns.

Tears stream down her face from pure pain alone, but this time, the bone marrow man doesn’t only save her. He walks to the scene like a shadow, yanks her gropers head back, and slits his throat right then and there. The others take a few steps back, mist rises from their gaping mouths as he lets go of the bleeding slump, looking at the pulsing, open vein as if he intends to drink from it. But it seems he only wanted to confirm that the dead stay dead because his interest in this man fades as quickly as it was aroused.

She rises to her feet, only to get swept off them as he dives for her hips and raises her to a crude carry, mainly meant for wheat sacks and sheep.

With a wide palm resting on her butt, he hauls her back to his fire, further away from the open field, and she doesn’t dare to utter a word. He doesn’t squeeze her, he doesn’t grope or slap or force her, but he does throw the fur away from her shoulders to check her body for bruises. She stays silent for the whole inspection as he moves her joints and limbs to check if anything’s broken, carefully like she indeed was only a little lamb. Brushes the pads of his fingers across the darkening spots that tell a story of violence, and it makes her shiver.

They’re just bruises, but they’re also evidence that her body is not her own anymore. Still, this clinical inspection feels far more intimate and warm than the rough hands and demanding mouths from before: it’s not just the intention behind the touch, it’s his presence.

You’ve never felt so thoroughly seen.

A low rumble rises in agreement to you taking his probing so well, and you kind of wish he would hold you tonight.

Just… Hold you.

When he withdraws, content with finding you relatively intact after the attempted assault, you grab his wrist. His head snaps back instantly, but he doesn’t pry himself away from your insolent little fingers. If anything, he’s curious.

You don’t know his words, and he doesn’t know yours, so you decide it’s best not to speak at all.

Pulling his palm back, you bring it to your hip, then further up to your waist, trying to make it clear that it’s only closeness and body warmth you seek. You leave it there, and it stays there, out of its own free will. A thumb brushes over your ribs, explorative. His eyes travel, they move down the line of your neck and try to decide what you might want from him, but then you see the fathomless depths he’s been hiding. His eyes come alive, and there’s such darkness there, an unquenchable well of want that shoots fear straight down your stomach.

You were wrong about him, so wrong…

He’s not disinterested, he’s just been holding back a tide as if it’s no big deal to fight back the very gods on his own.

His palm feels like fire, but he doesn’t move, only battles with his demons for a while. You lie there before him, feeling utterly idiotic for thinking he’s different from the rest of the men.

But then… The fur gets drawn over your half naked body. Slowly, deliberately. He’s not reverent: he only knows the consequences of his actions, and this is a path he does not wish to take.

It doesn’t prevent him from laying himself down to sleep next to you, however.

It doesn’t prevent you from slowly reaching an arm around him, the rigid form that slowly, so slowly turns lax. You risk to curl against him: not safe, only warm. A stray royal cat and a ghoul who collects bones, you think, but then the ghoul sighs and turns. You should feel rejected from the way he presents his back to you, but you suspect that it has something to do with him coming alive downstairs.

And you cling to him.

He doesn’t rip you off of him as you slip a hand under his arm and bend against him, like a river otter who just found a fat clam. His solemn breaths lull you to sleep, and he stays still for you: all night until the birds start to sing and the sun warms your face, the whole heap of you two.

Like a big pile of snow, melting on a summer’s day…

[z3nitsusgf]

paper bag

roman roy | reader

tw: fem!reader, toxic relations, manipulation, l*gan roy, romann is sick in the head, Roman says a slur (unsurprising), dog motif, teasing, dirty talk, ooc roman bc he's scared of pussy irl, this shit long af I’m sorry, backwards storytelling bc I’m inconsistent

The room is sticky. Sweltering in a post-august heat. The box fan churns and spits out whatever puffs of air it can muster, but the both of you still sweat on the linens of the motel bed.

The walls are stained from years of misuse and neglect, tinged a dirty yellow. You can’t tell if it’s oil or something more debauched that clings to the plaster, probably the latter.

It’s late into the night, too late for anything to be open and too early for it to be acceptable to up and leave. So the two of you are rooted here, stuck till daybreak.

The sounds of people arguing, a car horn blaring, and the buzz of fluorescent whir through your head. There’s a small box TV, it fizzles and pops every time you try to change the channel. Gurgling in a pre-2000s war cry. You could almost laugh at the circumstances.

You wonder how the fuck you’ve managed to snag New York’s brattiest billionaire, even more at how you’ve convinced him to fuck you in a shitty motel just outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Or to even fuck you at all, you only know rumors of his… strange bedroom endeavors.

You stifle an un-humored chuckle, Roman is lying like a royal Persian cat across the bed, shirt long gone and covered only in his boxers. A brand you've never heard of laces his hips, something expensive and out of reach. Just like most of him.

“What?” He asks, head resting on a closed fist. He draws shapes on your leg, neat nails dragging along the soft skin. He likes the smell of your lotion, something girlish and fresh like linen. Almost like something Shiv would wear, or a nanny from his memory. All he knows is that he likes it.

“Nothin’, just thinking.”

He likes your accent. It reveals your upbringing, obviously not the stupidly refined wealth that Roman inhabits but something humbler. It’s a little rough around the edges but not crass. Your words are straightforward and clear, unlike his family's. The bubbling words they offer to air up a conversation, you cut straight through that.

“Thinking about what?”

You give a smile, taking a long drag of your American Spirit and tipping your head back to blow it up to the stained ceiling. The smoke curls and swirls around before dissipating into nothing. He's not used to the smell, it gives the air a hint of pine-tinged outdoorsy aroma. Warm, comforting, familiar, and terrible all at once. Like something Logan would smell like when he came home, on the rare occurrence Roman was around him long enough to get a whiff.

“How I just bagged the Roman Roy, and how it’s gonna look in the papers.”

You joke, obviously. You’d never tell your endeavors to the pressing public or the sneaky little journalists that gripe for your small breadcrumbs about the family. Even if it is technically your job.

Roman hums, “Waystar son indulges in debauched acts with local journalist slut.”

He makes a gesture with his hands, eyes lighting up and going wide. A dopey grin rested on the plane of his cheeks, a row of sparkling whites glimmering under the citrusy glow of the lamp.

“Fuck you.”

You kick him haphazardly in the chest, his laugh rings around the room like a bell. Roman grabs your ankle, curling his fingers around the bone and yanking you down towards him. He’s uncaring of how you slip down the headrest, watching how you squeak and mumble small profanities.

“Prick could’ve dropped the ashes on me.” You mumble, not serious in the slightest.

“What would your father say?”

You snip, reaching down and dragging a hand through his hair, tussling the already licked-up sweaty strands. He practically melts into your touch, eyes closing and lips parting at the contact. He memorizes how your nails feel on his scalp, visualizing the soft pink of your polish running through the strands.

It feels good to have you touch him so effortlessly. As if he was nice to hold and caress, something soft to be sentimental with. Not a bad dog locked in a kennel for once but allowed to curl up on the bed.

But that's exactly what he is, isn't he? He is the dog that sleeps on the floor at the edge of the bed. Curled in on himself, happy to just be close. Nosing at the sheets, contempt with the presence of its owner. Even if he's cold, shivering from the floorboards - you just being there is enough to keep him warm. The few pats on the head allow him to sleep through the night. He is the dog that never leaves your side, sitting off to the right of you and waiting.

He lets out a bitter giggle, a small grimace twitching his lips. It hides the shimmer of despair that is pooled in his head.

“He’d probably be glad I got some pussy for once. Maybe he’ll stop calling me a fag.”

He laughs when he says it, even though a part of you knows he’s dead serious. You've come to learn he always is when it comes to his father.

The sadness cuts through the raunchiness of his words and you fight off the frown that wants to stitch itself across your face. A part of you wants to reach out and mend together the brokenness, another wants to pull out your journal and backlog it for later. A rotten, benign part of you wants to take this man apart and study it to smithereens.

Roman doesn’t say much, surprisingly. He’s reserved in his intimacy, holding back all the love and care that he wants to pour out. He's been starving for decades, yearning for a love that won't come. He's resigned to the fact he is broken. Besides, he’s not here to cuddle up to you for anything more than to get you to not publish your story on the Roy’s. You're both fighting for the same thing, just on different sides.

You respond the only way you knew how, “Fuck, that’s really fucking depressing.”

Roman admires your brutal style, honesty is a rarity that he treasures when it comes. It's why he noticed you in the first place, your articles about the wealthy family in the tabloids caught his eye. Especially the ones about him -it sounds different when you say it, not like you're vying for an undercut but like you're genuine.

He laughs.

You both laugh. Tipping your heads back and howling with laughter. He's got tears in his eyes, and you can't breathe.

///

“Not really your cup of tea, huh?”

You teased, flinging off your shoes and laying on the questionable sheets.

He gives you a snarky grimace and raises a brow, “Careful, you might get scabies or a fucking STD just from breathing in the air.”

It’s not the sort of place you’d expect to see Roman Roy occupy. You can hardly even wrap your head around the fact he’s here now. You imagine the Roy in lavishness, draped in silken white and cashmere. Sipping champagne from a crystal glass brought by room service. Watching the glittering of New York from a floor-to-ceiling window on the billionth floor of a hotel that costs your entire paycheck for just one night.

No, you can’t even pretend that Roman doesn’t look completely out of place here. With his no-tie, popped collar, Tom Ford wannabe pretentious ass. He’s comically out of place. It makes you want to giggle to hell at the way he looks so uncomfortable.

A pretty little rich boy who’s never had to worry about being in anything other than a 5-star. Who now stands in a seedy motel that looks more like a crack house than the Arlo in Midtown. And in place of the champagne, he chugs your shitty beer and water bottle vodka. Cracking open a six-pack of michelob’s and cringing at the taste. It’s painfully cheap, but alcohol is alcohol.

“Come on, don’t act so high and mighty. Relax.”

You pat the empty space next to you, scooting over so he can tentatively sit. You have your thick black journal resting beside you, inside containing all the juicy details and bits about the Roys that would burn down empires and topple over conglomerates.

You’ve hidden most of it well, you’ve had to, or else you get a hit put out on you from the man himself, Logan Roy. Using different names when publishing your work, making interviews anonymous - hell, you feel like Batman with the way you work in the shadows.

Roman inches onto the mattress, eyeing the notebook at your side. He knows, vaguely, what it contains. The secrets, the stories, untamed facts about the company and his family. Usually, he wouldn't give a rat's ass about what a snoopy little journalist had to say about him and his family.

He’ll admit your stuff is good, great even but it's all fluff, a buffer that fills up the sides of newspapers so they have more meat to them. And most of the time it's always the same thing; how horrible his father is, the treatment of Waystar employees, how disconnected the children of the billionaire were. But you- you dug deeper than that.

He never had a reason to look into you until now.

Your stories were revelations for the public. The lies, the coverups, the shady business that their media team works day and night to conceal. You spill it all. And now that you're gaining more traction, more popularity, they're losing revenue quickly. Business deals are turning to dust, stocks are dropping, and employees are quitting on the spot. It's making Waystar crumble from the inside out. And Logan refuses to lose from a puny little journalist, let alone a woman.

When Gerri and Karolina uncovered who was behind the articles, they wilted. If they had told Logan who you were - what you were - he would've squashed you like a bug. Completely ruined your life till you had nothing.

So they took a different approach, a softer more merciful route. They sent Roman after you, and like the loyal dog he is, he went. Mingling with over-eager, latte-sipping, pretentious journalists to get your contact info.

It wasn't as easy as he thought, more work than he wanted to put in. But regardless, he eventually a friend of a friend of a friend gave you up. Not soon after you got a very informal email from the COO, asking to meet up for an "interview" on the pretense of discussing your stories. Or your "allegations" as he liked to call it.

To say you were surprised was an understatement, you nearly passed out in disbelief. It started with meeting him on neutral ground, a coffee shop. Somewhere public and clean, nothing seedy or easily misconstrued.

And when Roman strutted into the small shop, you were very aware of how real this was all becoming. The starkness of his wealth is evident in comparison to the rest of the shop.

"Ah, if it isn't the little paper-pusher I've heard so much about."

Those were his first words to you.

“Mr. Roy, a pleasure to meet you.”

He sat in front of you, pulling off his jacket and haphazardly throwing it over the back of the chair. You're 100% sure it costs more than your yearly salary. At your words, he gives an obnoxious giggle.

“Please, don’t call me that. Makes me think we’re in some sick porno.”

You raise a brow at his crassness, “Ok.. pleasure to meet you, Roman.”

He stifles another giggle but reaches a hand across the table, shaking yours.

Once he’s pulled back he claps his hands together, “Alright, what do you get from this shithole. And don’t tell me you’re one of those hipster-loving morons who gets like matcha or some shit.”

Your eyes widen at how loud he’s being, uncaring that staff or other customers might hear his openness. You know what kind of person he is, you’re just not used to the oozing brattiness in person.

You can only gawk, “Well, um, usually I get a macchiato or just a regular cup of coffee.”

He nods, “Hmm, I see. Ok. I’ll get whatever you get. Throw in a Danish too, I’ll pay.”

You blink vigorously, “Oh no, it’s alright Mr. Roy-”

“Roman.” He corrects, giving a cheeky grin.

“And don’t worry about it, you’re not gonna break the bank with some cheap-ass coffee.”

You wonder if this was a good idea at all, but you quickly come back to reality. You’re here for business, you can’t treat this like a nightmare date from hell. Even if that’s what it feels like. So you do as he says, ordering the coffees and two danishes, even getting an extra muffin to-go.

Time quickly flew by, as much as you hated to admit it. You managed to tug the man back into the conversation you came for - Waystar. Though Roman was more elusive than anything.

Tapping on the table, leaning his chair back, and distracting you with other topics that most certainly were not work-appropriate. Like if you were just making all this fuss because you just wanted to get finger-blasted by the COO. That one made you flush and snap at him like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

But he was so charismatic, in his own twisted way. Like a car crash, you couldn’t look away from, the smoldering flames and heated looks were more than you thought he was capable of.

After hours of talking he drew out your more playful side, the snarky little wit you don’t usually use with the people you’re working with. It was inevitable. And soon, it was late into the evening. With the coffee shop getting ready to close for the night.

“Looks like it’s time to wrap it up for the day.”

You moved to stand, dusting off crumbs from your lap. And Roman is quick to jump up, “Aw, you sure? I mean it’s not that late, wanna maybe head out somewhere?”

He’s vague with his words, you give him a smirk.

“Are you trying to get me alone with you, Roman?”

He chuckles and puts on his jacket, “Of course, I mean, how else am I gonna murder you?”

You both laugh, “Murder me? Sweet little me? What for?”

The two of you walk onto the sidewalk, the crisp night air breezing through your hair.

“We both know you’re not sweet.”

You smile, tucking a lip between your teeth. He’s magnetic, in a venomous and dark way. You know it’s wrong to do this, to get close like this. But sometimes you have to do things in order to get what you want.

“I know somewhere we can go.”

///

That’s how you got here, at least how you remember it. It’s all blurred from the copious amount of alcohol you’ve drank.

Now you have a very not sober Roman Roy on top of you.

He’s flushed, there’s pink smattering across his heated cheeks and he’s got blown pupils the size of the moon. He leers over you, his hand cupping your throat. He’s close, too close.

You can feel the curve of his lip on your cupid's bow, the prickle of his stubble. He smells like Costa Azzurra, citrusy and woodsy. It clouds your drunken brain, making you want to pant and sink your teeth into his neck.

Roman is mumbling, you can’t quite make it out but you feel the warmth of his breath across your cheek. It feels dizzying, like a waking dream.

“I’m gonna kill you. Not gonna let you leave, you’re stuck with me.”

He huffs against the warm apple swell of your cheek. You giggle at that; he feels the warmth of your laugh. The scent of lime and lone star on your breath. There’s a certain giddiness that flutters in your tummy at the words, a sick satisfaction.

One that a dark part of you craves. A feral depravity lies in between your teeth. One that aches to chew on his marrow and swallow him whole. When they trust you to completion, it makes you want to crush them completely.

“Oh yeah?”

You’re hazy. Starry-eyed with droopy lids, face hot from the alcohol and closeness. There are bruises in the shape of his teeth. Ringed purple marks that fade into shimmery blue and greens. Speckled aches across your thighs and neck - all from him. Like rabid animals fighting the very nature of their beings, you claw and tear at one another like beasts deprived.

He buries his face in your chest, trying to hide himself within it - claw his way in and sit inside your heart. Plunging his hands into your back and holding you to him like you were the only ones on earth. He kisses your skin, brushing his lips along your collarbone, down to the center. Straight in your solar plexus, like he could see through it.

As if he could see that beating organ as if he could reach in and take it.

“Yeah. Wanna keep you, like a pet or a girlfriend. What’s the difference?”

You squirm at his hot breath on your neck, the humid air making you needy. You grab his face in your hands, lifting his face up to you and pressing your mouths together in a sloppy kiss. He groans, he doesn’t even wait before he slips his tongue in. Sliding across your lips and flicking on the roof of your mouth. You make a choked sound, the feeling of his tongue invading your mouth.

You can feel the hard bulge of his cock pressing against your stomach, it makes you ache with need.

“Roman,” you pant, “I wanna fuck you.”

He hums, “Wanna fuck you too, wanna fuck your pussy.”

You moan, you want to tear him apart at the seams and eat him whole. Crack that soft apricot heart and bite down into his tissue. You bet he tastes just like it too, sweet and sugary like jam. You want to rip him to shreds, consume each sliver, and savor him like he’s raw slices of strawberries on your plate.

///

He spreads your thighs, gripping your ass in rough hands, practically moaning at the sight of your fucked out pussy. There are silvery webs of slickness that glisten along your cunt. You’re panting into the sheets, fisting them as you shiver from the cold AC.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so wet.”

His thumbs graze along your swollen lips, and you twitch - whining like a puppy that wants a kiss. Hips jerking into the mattress when he grips the fat of your ass and swipes your folds.

“Look at you, so fucked out. And you still want more?”

You nod, humming breathy whimpers each time he gets close to your clit. You let out a sharp yelp when he slaps a hand across your ass, hands flailing and thighs instinctively trying to shut.

He keeps you spread, knee coming up to prevent you from ruining his fun.

“Gotta say it, babe. Can’t read your mind.”

You’re trembling, lips swollen and drooling as you try to push out the words.

“Yes, I want more.” You mumble, face buried halfway into the sheets.

He’s mean with it, pressing the pad of his thumb onto your pulsing clit. Rubbing till he hears the sloppy sound and you’re jerking away with a scampery yip.

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”

You could cry, wet tears pooling on your lash line. Your cunt throbs, empty and flushed and fucking aching.

“Please, please I want more. Want your cock-“

He’s groaning, yanking you back till your ass is in the air. Spine arching and you feel the brush of his cock on your folds.

“Yeah? Want my cock?” You can hear the smile in his voice, hips shaking in his hold.

His tip is kissing along your entrance, and he watches with hearts in his eyes at the way you coat him in slick. Rutting the length between your folds, dipping in to watch you clench on nothing. Wetness clinging to your inner thighs and painting your pussy a shimmery diamond-esque.

“Mmhm, want it. Want you to fuck me, want it so bad.” You moan, half brain-dead with how stupid you sound.

He giggles, high a girlishy. Slipping in fast and quick, hips jerking till he’s flushed with your ass. His pace is like a rabbit, practically humping you into the mattress. You yelp at the feeling, cock splitting you in two.

“Roman-!”

“What was that?”

You can hear the smile in his voice. It makes you whine, gripping the edge of the bed as he slams harder.

“I couldn’t hear you over the sound of you getting fucking pounded.”

You let out a moan when he hits deep. Slotting all the way, flushed against your ass. His tip is kissing something untouched inside you, sticky head brushing along the cushiony pucker of your cervix.

“Fuck you-“

You choke on your words when he bucks his hips. Slamming impossibly farther.

“Huh? Speak up, baby. Can’t hear you, your wet pussy is too loud.”

You bury your face into your arm. Biting at your lip to keep the drool from spilling over your mouth.

“How’s it feel? Feelin’ good? My little paper-pusher like how I fuck her?”

He makes you insane.

You fist at the sheets, nails digging into the soft gray linen. He’s pushing you into a pretty arch, thumbs keeping your ass spread so he can watch himself fuck your cunt.

“God, your pussy is insane.” His hips are smacking against the backs of your thighs. You’re on the verge of tears from how good it feels, you can feel the veins of his cock pulsing in you. Mouth parted and spilling sticky moans.

“Fuck, how are you so wet?” He murmurs, shivering at the feeling of your tight walls gripping along his length. At this point, his thrusts are sloppy and uneven, but the tip of his cock is still able to hit that special spot deep inside of you.

“Oh fuck, Roman, m’gonna cum-”

You absolutely lose your mind when he rolls his hips against you, scratching the sheets.

“Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock?”

You nod, waiting for the pit in your tummy to explode. But it doesn’t come, Roman pulling out in one even jerk.

You cry out, “What the fuck?”

“If you wanna cum you gotta promise not to publish that little article of yours, babe”

You’re hazy and desperate, in the back of your mind you know what he’s doing. And it clips your chest. But the pulsing of your cunt overrides all sanity. And you’re too fucked out to even care at this point, you just want to cum.

“What’ll be, huh? Wanna get pounded till you gush over my cock, or do you want to post a dumb story about me?”

You whimper, you’re dangling on your own leash of longing. He’s pressed against your back whispering all the fucked up things he promises to do to you if you just give in. Just let go, he murmurs.

Temptation licking the back of your heels like hellfire. It doesn’t help that he’s pawing at your tits, squeezing your tender flesh like clay. Cock slipping and sliding against your sodden cunt, slick with want and need. Dripping a honey-thick desire so brutal you’d think he was a demon sent from the inferno.

“Ok! Ok, won’t post it, just fuck me! Please, Rome.”

He groans, a hearty whiny thing that makes you clench around nothing.

“Good girl, good girl.”

It’s immediate, the way he slams back in and drives home. Your sticky skin slapping against his, thighs shaking with burning effort, stretched cunt a dripping mess against his cock. You’re babbling, hands reaching back to grip his thighs, nails digging into his flesh.

It’s not long before you’re gushing, clamping down, and seeing stars in your blacked-out vision. Hearing Roman moan and whine before he’s pulling out to cum over your back. The warmth spreads over your spine. He’s shivering, thighs twitching, and abdomen clenching. It’s never felt that good before.

You both pant and heave, body relaxing into the sheets. You’re exhausted, eyes lidding and drifting, faintly feeling the sensation of a towel wiping across your skin.

“Holy fuck-”

You smile softly, eyes closed. Roman plops down next to you in bed, watching as you roll over and sit against the headboard. He’s sweaty and so very good-looking. You smile in a chagrin manner, brushing a finger against his cheekbone.

“How’s that for an interview?”

You laugh, swatting his arm.

“You’re crazy.”

He smiles at you, strangely content. A pinprick of emotions swells in his chest, and you feel that influx of rot starts to crawl its way up your chest. He’s so beautiful, that you’d hate to see him crumble when he finds out you already sent your paper to your editor to post.

But for now, you enjoy the small moment of peace between you two. You laugh and joke and keep this sweet until morning until he realizes what you’ve done.

[k9wa]

𖧧 𓂃 12:32 AM with ran haitani.

⚠︎ tenjiku!ran, gn reader, probs ooc.

bzzt bzzt.

the vibration and quiet chime of the cell phone to your left pulled you abruptly from the warm embrace of sleep that had just begun to seep into your bones. the crack in the window allowed the night air to overtake the room, leaving a chill across your skin. falling asleep on top of your duvet left one bare and alone to fight against the fall temperature. the sun having taken rest from your corner of the world didn’t exactly aid in providing any warmth either.

sleepily reaching and feeling around for the small device that had disrupted you, your eyes squinted against the harsh light suddenly blasting your pupils, vision blurring and spotting as they took the extra couple seconds to adjust. 

with a huff out your nose and to the count of 3 in your head, out of bed you rolled. you rubbed at your eyes, a feeble attempt at getting them to refocus in the dark as you walked to the window to pull back the curtains. lo and behold, ran haitani was parked just outside, lazily leaning over his bike's handlebars. he gave the engine a rev when you made eye contact. loser.

making little haste, letting ran get just that much more chilly while he waited as a punishment for waking you up, you grabbed your coat and made your way out your front door. your hands fumbled with the keys a little in the darkness when locking the door.

ran watched as you trotted over to him, sitting up while that signature smirk of his came into your view.

“were you sleepin?”

an odd way of saying hello, haitani.

“how could you tell?”

ran kicked a leg over his seat to turn and face you, opening a perfect spot for you to stand just between his thighs. muscle memory did what it does best and brought his hands to their rightful spot on each of your hips. his thumbs teased the hem of your shirt, dipping underneath to rub your skin with uncharacteristic delicacy. his grin melted into one of fondness when your hands also found their place holding his biceps.

“cow lick.” he tilted his head up to gesture at the bump of hair on the side of your head you’d been laying down on. 

your right hand quickly abandoned its post to smack his shoulder and smooth out said hair— hair he hadn’t given you time to brush. it was his doing. deliberately. absolutely.

ran’s chest shook with a low chuckle, moving to help fix the area of frizz.

“what are you doin’ here?” you asked once satisfied with your hair. ran’s hand fell back down to your waist, drawing your body closer to his inch by inch.

“so i need a reason to come ‘n see you now? can’t just stop by to see yer pretty face?” 

“no. a reason for waking me up might be nice, though.”

his braids swayed as he shook his head. through wispy eyelashes and heavy eyelids ran studied you, losing himself in the alleviating quiet that came alongside silent admiration. apparently, he was lost in it long enough to warrant you cocking your head to the left and pinching his cheek to gain his attention.

“quit staring at me like a weirdo.”

ran’s chest rumbled again, the chuckle slipping past his lips. 

“can’t help it, try and quit bein’ so nice to stare at.”

before you could conjure up a response to continue any sort of banter, the hands on your hips pulled you forwards, and a pair of lips caught your own. ran grinned when he felt your hands slide up his arms to hold his jaw, welcoming your cold palms against his skin, and his front teeth nearly knocked against your own.

he held you there for as long as he could, against him, balancing on his bike, fog from hot breaths between kisses puffing into the air for as long as he could. it was only brought to an end because you remembered that, despite the late hour, you were in the middle of the street.

ran chased your lips once you’d pulled away, a thumb on the corner of his mouth gently pushing him back.

“you know, you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”  he gave a melodramatic huff, rolling his eyes. ran haitani, ever the drama queen.

“i told you, i just wanted ta see ya. don’t need a reason other than that, pretty.”

ran threw a leg back over his bike, pushing the keys into the ignition and letting the engine come to life with a roar.

“‘m hungry, get on. we can hit the convenience store up the road.”

you squinted at him.

“i’ll buy you anything you want.”

you squinted more.

“and i’ll carry the bag.”

okay now come on, who would say no to that? 

you quickly hopped onto the bike behind him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist and wasting no time nuzzling into his scarf. for someone so lanky, he was surprisingly huggable.

“you know me so well, haitani.”

ran patted your thigh with the hand not holding his clutch, the wheels beginning to roll underneath you as you took off.

“i know you so well, pretty.”

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[mirasantidotes]

Dance With Me

Summary: You've known Pedro since you were teenagers, and you two have grown up into adulthood together. He's always liked you, but never said anything to you about it until one day, he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed and finally confesses to you.

Content Warnings: self-doubt, fear of rejection, interrupted make-out sessions, fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

A/N: I think this is going to be the last fic I write about Pedro himself, I don't want to make him uncomfortable if he were to ever read it, so I will only be doing fanfics of his characters, either with them in character or slightly ooc! Also, sorry for any grammar / spelling / or Spanish mistakes I may have missed when proofreading!

All of my posts with an * in the title contains smut or at least mentions of it.

—

You met Pedro when you were both teens, and you hit it off instantly. The two of you had met when you and your parents had moved to NYC; you both had so much in common— you listened to the same music, liked the same shows, and both were active in wanting to make it in the arts; you singing, and him acting. You would sing him songs, and he would practice his lines for you. Your friendship blossomed unlike any other you had before. It was apparent to you throughout your friendship he may have liked you, but after some time, he seemed to have moved on, or so you thought— he just became better at hiding it. Even as teens, he would compliment you every day, and say you were beautiful, as you would say to him back. 

He was so afraid of rejection, he’s never said anything to you about his crush, even after all these years. You two have now lived together for 5 years; both of your careers have become successful, he’s been in several big-hit HBO projects, which you knew he grew up on and meant so much to him. You, a successful singer with a Grammy trophy for album of the year sitting on a shelf in your room. 

As you do once per week, you wake up earlier than the sleeping birds outside to cook him some breakfast in bed; he loved your cooking— he always complimented it, and never disliked anything you made, even if he was picky with what he ate. You couldn’t find your earbuds to listen to music, so you opted to just play your playlist on the radio on the lowest volume. Though, once your favorite song came on, you came a little too excited to dance around your kitchen while cooking and had turned it up just a tad too loud for sleeping Pedro’s comfort. 

While you’re lost in your thoughts, cooking a large breakfast for the two of you and swaying around your kitchen, you don’t even hear Pedro walk up behind you until you feel his hands on your hips, spooking you. You yelp in surprise, “What the hell, Pedro!” you raise your voice through soft chuckles, hitting his chest playfully, as he smiles brightly and his rich laugh escaping his lips at your reaction; he was always good at sneaking up behind you when you didn’t realize it, making your bones jump out of your skin. The sun through the window lightly illuminated his bed hair and scruffy beard— his strong nose casting a shadow on his face; you get lost in his features, before clearing your throat and turning back around to continue cooking, with a small smile on your face. 

A few minutes pass, and you’re still cooking, but causing small shenanigans to get back at Pedro; when he isn’t looking, you grab the whipped cream from your fridge, you ask him to look at you, and spray some of it on his nose, letting your laughs escape your mouth, as he starts smiling. He takes his finger and cleans his nose off with it, before shoving it in your face, getting some on your nose too, before he licks the remaining of it off of his finger and cleans the rest off his nose with a paper towel. Laughter fills your early morning home, the sun beaming through your curtains, to cast rainbow lights into your shared apartment, the smell of bacon, pancakes, and the making of scrambled eggs in the pan below you as you’re back at the stove, trying to focus on cooking through Pedro’s nonsensical actions, trying to make you laugh. How he loved that sound more than anything and would do anything to hear it— and he always knew how, no matter what you were going through, he was able to be the light that would shine through your darkest times. 

As he leans on the kitchen counter next to you, watching you cook, arms crossed. He stares at your face, your features causing him to almost fall into a trance. He opens his mouth to speak, “You look beautiful today, querida (darling),” he murmurs, still looking at your face, shifting his focus from your eyes to your nose, and your soft, rosy lips. Your eyes slightly widen at his words— sure, he compliments you often, but he never calls you nicknames like that, so it took you by a slight surprise. 

“Thank you, querido (darling),” you giggled back at him, sneaking a small smile in his direction before returning your gaze to the eggs below you, continuing to cook. You don’t see it until it’s happening, he steps closer to you, and strings some of your hair behind your ear, so he can see your soft features. You glance up at him, once more— his hand laying softly on your jaw. Once more, he scans your face, for any sign of discomfort. His smokey, kind eyes look into yours, then to your nose and lips, and finally back up to your eyes. A light flush of pink creeps up his neck and into his cheeks, as does yours. He steps closer slightly, still worried he’s going too far— but you don’t move back, and he takes it as an initiation to move even closer.

He leans in and rests his forehead on yours, both of your eyes closed, and just before his lips touch yours, a soft “Can I?” escapes his mouth, and you just slowly nod, granting his permission. And with that, he lifts his hand to your cheek, slightly tangled in your hair— he presses his lips against your own. You kiss him back, tasting the bitterness of his coffee from earlier on his lips. He lifts his other hand to hold your neck, pulling you closer to him. Sparks fly all over your body with the way he touches you. 

Though you didn’t want this moment to end, you pull away abruptly when you smell the scent of burning eggs and light smoke filling your lungs. You two start laughing as he quickly opens up a window to let some of the smoke out the window before turning back around swiftly to start chuckling at your panicked face. You turn off the stove, and once you finish throwing out the now unrecognizable eggs into the trash can and airing out as much of the smoke as you can, you press your back against the counter, crossing your arms, looking at Pedro— “So what was that kiss about?” you say gently, looking into his eyes, the corners of your lips upturning slightly at the thought of it. 

“Are you that oblivious?” he asks, smiling at you while stepping forward a few steps in your direction before finally leaning next to you on the countertop, his eyes never leaving the sight of you as he crosses his arms.

“Possibly, or maybe I just want to hear you say it,” you speak softly, the smile growing on your face before you turn toward him. 

He pauses for a moment, before finally speaking— “I like you, I always have,” he replies quietly, as he looks down at your feet, pinching his lips together, his cheeks glistening a sheer pink in embarrassment. You catch him off guard when he’s lost in thought, you step in front of him, and you reach your hand up to his face and cup his cheek— his light stubble prickling you in your hand, your other hand pressing lightly on his broad chest— the heat rushing to your cheeks as you lean in to kiss him once more; his arms uncrossing, and wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to his body.

Before you realized it, he was turning you both around and lifting your body, and setting you on the counter, still not breaking the kiss. He pulls away soon after however, and looks you in your eyes before lifting his hands to your cheeks— “This okay?” he whispers, scanning your face with his soft eyes, as he lifts his hands back up to cup your cheeks. You nod, and you glance at his lips and back to his eyes, full of love, as always. You wrap your hands around his neck, pulling him closer to you— his body between your legs that dangle off the edge of the counter. 

Just before your lips touch, foreheads resting against each other once more, you whisper sweetly to him, “I like you too, siempre lo hice (I always have),” both yours and Pedro’s lips are lightly brushing against each other as you feel him smile slightly. He runs his hands down your sides and finally lets them rest on your hips. He leans back in and places another soft kiss on your lips— but before too long into your next kissing session, the two of you feel a fluffy feeling separating the two of you from each other, and you both look down simultaneously after breaking the kiss— you see your cat finally awake from his early morning nap, only to cause another disruption between you and Pedro. 

The sight makes the two of you burst into giggles before Pedro rests his head into the crook of your neck before mumbling a gentle “We keep getting interrupted, huh?” into your ear, sending a slight chill up your spine. 

A light chuckle escapes your swollen lips, “Guess so,” you say before tangling one hand in his salt and peppered hair, the other still wrapped around his neck, hugging him closer to you. Though he doesn’t want to, he pulls back from your gasp and picks up your cat— giving him a few kisses before finally setting him down, causing him to run back, presumably to take a nap once more. He looks back up at you, giving you a small smile before walking back between your legs, with his honey-toned eyes full of kindness,  he cups your jaw sweetly, while brushing a few lost strands of your hair behind your ear once more. He kisses your forehead, making you blush for the millionth time today. 

In one swift motion, he picks you back up off the counter and lays one hand on your waist, and the other reaches for the radio to play your favorite playlist, which had ended hours ago. His hands slide down your body, to reach for your hands. He holds your hands gently in his— he starts dancing slowly to the sound of the music, “Dance with me, mi amor (my love),” he grins at you. You chuckle at his not-so-impressive dance moves, before finally giving in and swaying your hips with his, beginning to slow dance. 

The two of you spend the day listening to the sweet sounds of the radio, sharing kisses once and a while, and dancing throughout your apartment, forgetting about the cold food you cooked earlier that morning.

[ashxrdavenport]

patient zero – self para.

set on the night of may 5th, 1989.

ooc: since i intend on using this story for plot purposes in the near future, i figured i'd post it to his blog.

the taste of fresh blood straight from a jugular is so inebriating that he doesn’t quite realize what he’s doing.

so rich, so satisfying… he had been told it was good. better than the bagged, tomato-juice-colored liquid he’s used to. but this… this the best thing he has ever tasted. and he drinks, and drinks, and drinks until he’s drowning in it. he drinks until he chokes. until there’s nothing left to drain. and still, he keeps sucking, just to make sure he has taken every single remaining drop…

when he lets go of the body, it hits the pavement with a thud. loud and moist, as it crashes against a puddle. its echo rippling through the alley behind the bar.

still engrossed in the high, he doesn’t pay much mind to it. he’s too busy licking the gaps between his fingers, the space under his nails. satisfying himself like a child eating ice cream for the first time.

it’s only when he can’t taste blood anymore that his senses begin to clear. the world begins to spin at its normal speed again. the rush and the hunger start to wear off. his undead heart slows down. his senses relax. his perception returns. and, in between heavy breaths, asher gradually comes back to reality. thoughts start unclogging, things start making sense. humanity comes back to him, replacing that feral, beastly hunger. and, finally, he realizes.

fuck.

fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. fu–

he stares at the body for a while. face contorted into an expression that seesaws between horror and concern. furrowed brows and agape mouth revealing his terror and disbelief at what lies at his feet.

fuck. he just wanted to give the guy a scare. beat him up a bit and get on with his life. that was not what he wanted. fuck no. that wasn’t supposed to–

he has to do something about it.

does he go for gwen? does he tell her he just murdered someone? she must know what to do in these situations, right?

but then again, she has given him all the instructions. she has tried her best to orient him to not become a murderer… jesus, she's going to be so pissed... actually, no. he isn’t supposed to think about that guy anymore. weakens him, apparently. satan, she’s going to be so pissed…

no. he can’t tell her. he has to deal with it on his own. he can’t get into any more trouble.

he looks around, desperate. trying to find something. anything. and as something moves inside a dumpster in the dark, he has an idea.

fucking gross. but time efficient.

he fishes for a trash bag, empties it on the dumpster – the reek of waste and rot torment his nostrils – and sets it next to the body.

cracking sounds echo through the dark street as he breaks bones and ligaments, like a nutcracker, but tenfold. even with his heightened strength – on top of what he considered already high strength, even before he’d become a vampire –, he still has a hard time snapping the forearms and legs in halves.

he doesn’t hate the feeling, though… not that it’s fun, by any means, but he is so caught up in breaking the guy’s body into a foldable little mass, that he almost forgets he just took someone’s life…

when he’s done, he fits it all inside the trash bag. he ties it up and heaves it over his back.

a 6’5 man walking down the streets with a black bag, in the middle of the night. not suspicious at all. nothing to see here! just taking out the trash! into the forest! to throw it in the river! what was he supposed to do? leave a body in the dumpster for a sloppy trash collector to drop it the next day and start a whole police investigation? who would want that?!

when the heavy work is done, he sits by the river to watch a dismembered arm and a leg float away (other pieces had been scattered around the forest in precariously dug holes). and it’s only then that the adrenaline starts to wear off. a different kind, though. not the same ecstasy from choking on fresh blood. but a more human, mortal kind. and it finally starts to sink in.

fuck.

he just murdered a guy.

a guy he had met at a bar not two hours ago. sure, an asshole that he had grown to hate within two minutes of conversation, but a human being, nonetheless.

he’s done his fair share of wrongdoings in his. way too many for his own sake. but that was a whole new level…

all the cliché thoughts start coming. what if they catch me? what if he was just a normal, random guy with a family? what if they catch me?

and as a severed foot disappears in the distance, he feels something tug downward inside his ribcage. it isn’t sadness. It doesn’t make him cry. is it guilt? he figures, but he can’t really tell... It is different. unlike anything he ever felt. and it is so, so strange. because he doesn’t know if he feels for the guy, or for someone he might have left behind. or if he just fears getting caught… but he feels… wrong.

is this what he has become? is this who he is now? 

[xxwithlovefromfaexx]

YOU and HIM

I’m out here bringing my shooters for mc, fuck adam

I actually wrote this before looking back at the YOU and HIM fandom before I posted this and WHOO this one is like...the even worse end for that angst ask that was sent into the vn page imo. This is not a peace offering to adam sjkdbfebfk

Also I’m sorry if Adam seems sort of ooc??? I wrote this purely from a YOU perspective, so if it’s not quite in canon its more bc its how YOU percieve him (at least in this fic, and for the purposes of this one)

WARNINGS: violence, physical abuse (mainly threat of, but you are holding him down here), sadism, guilt, kinda reads like a revenge plot villian arc ngl??? DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT!!

Finally, you held the power. After humiliating yourself to him, servicing the man that held your mind captive for so long.

After giving your sanity to the man that took you from your normal life, stole away your freedom, tore a hole through your regular life just to carve himself into it, you could finally be free.

You could taste it on your lips. It felt liberating, and part of you wished to leave him at merely that. Just to walk out of his life in an instant, as fast as he’d gripped onto you and pulled you into his storm.

But you knew you wouldn't be fully satisfied with that. How could you?

That freedom felt more than liberating, to you. It was intoxicating. And for the amount of pain that he had rattled into your numb bones, this was a feast to your starving eyes. The look of disbelief and shock in his eyes sent you spiraling. You were far from finished. Far, far from satisfied. You wanted more of him.

You wanted his fear to ripple through your body and swarm your insides, coating you in a liquid pleasure. His tears would be a lovely touch, you thought to yourself as you licked your lips at the thought.

You wanted to see him break, just as he'd broken you. You wanted to bridle him and train him just to break him all over again, for daring to think he'd figured you out. Just like he did to you.

“I could forgive you, sure. But, I don’t know if I want to give you that side of me, y’know?” You could hear the smile creeping into your words as you dangled the words so carelessly in front of his calculating eyes. 

Nothing could stop the grin forming on your face now, splitting into the sides of your cheeks. You could tell why he so loved, adored, putting your through this pain.

This feeling...above him now, holding the power he would hold so closely to your throat. The otherwise silent and quick way out- one that he had teased and prodded at you for weeks, months, however long this cat and mouse game had gone on for. 

You had felt so helpless, scrambling for an exit, useless to whatever he had planned for you around the corner. And within it all, you had truly felt yourself give up. You had all but left your body in those moments. It was the only way you could've survived it, in hindsight.

Somehow, your body persisted. It had held strong for that one precious moment, where he finally let his guard down, enough for you to take control. 

For you to allow your mind to once again be present. 

To piece yourself together after every time he broke you. 

Enough for the glint in his eyes to glean with hints of a weakness, that weakness that he would silently admit to you within your most intimate hell. 

That one precious moment that you finally, finally grasped in the palm of your hand. A moment of control.

This feeling, it was...exhilarating. Overwhelming. Consuming. Your body was humming with energy, and you needed to expel it from you somehow.

“You...please...” the soft wobble in his tone was something you shouldn’t have picked up on, had you not been so close to him to hear it. And you wished you didn’t.

You should have been prepared for him to unearth some part of empathy you held for him in you. 

The look of shock had waivered into a look of...regret? As if he should’ve never plunged that knife into you long ago. You should have cackled at that. The two of you were truly past that by now.

It really wasn’t like you to be this...hateful. Resentful. You always tried to understand, regardless of the pain somebody put you through. Because even thought it would never take the pain away, it would make it a far easier burden to bear. Right?

That’s what you had told yourself. Time and time again. From traumatic experience to the painful memories of your past...maybe this was your breaking point.

If he was regretful, if he held shame on the pain and fear he’d caused to you ever since that fateful day...so be it. You wanted to cherish at least some part of that for yourself.

After all, it was him who made you this way. He'd thrust you into this. He thrust you into...this decision...into the actions you’d made, into the person you had become but could barely recognize. He did that to you.

Didn’t he?

No, you realized.

He wasn't capable of that. 

This was a person that you'd let him push you into. 

It was necessary, you'd admitted to yourself. There was no way your weakened mind could handle all of this before his incessant meddling. The high that you were on now was only something you'd achieved through letting yourself break to his will.

So you laughed. You let loose, embracing the shrill, howling laughter that echoed through you, that shook your body to your core. You could feel the vibrations it sent through his body. 

You pushed yourself deeper into his skin, deep enough to bruise. You pushed yourself down onto his elbows, and he let out a grunt in pain. You tutted at the sound, as let your voice drop to nothing but a sweet whisper in his ear.

“Maybe things could have been a whole lot different. If you never thought to put at knife into me, for one,” The growl that followed through with your words made him flinch at the sound. You smiled.

“If you’d never thought to hunt me down to the ends of my sanity. Maybe I’d even try to understand you. To love you,” Your eye twitched as you leaned down close to his, so close you could feel his shallow breath on your skin.

“I suppose I can forgive you. After all, you've given me nothing but time already. Don't worry, darling. I've been through your hell. Now, I think it's time I showed you mine,” You let out a dry chuckle, and sat back for a moment with a deep inhale.

That feeling of power was overtaking your senses, and your legs pushed him into a vice like grip. You couldn't get too cocky now; it would be embarrassing if he knocked you off of him when you were only just getting started here. You knew too well that even this was a vulnerable state to be in.  

You could get lost in it-just like he had, not even moments before.

Back when the tables were turned, when it was you fighting for your life and everything that you held dear seemed to be escaping your grasp like falling sand in your fingertips.

This time you weren't helpless to Adam’s unforeseen desires. Now it was you who held everything. And you didn't want to lose that. You wouldn't fall for the same tricks you played on him.

So where should you hurt him first?

[writermask-0807]

FORBIDDEN FRUIT PART THREE - TEACHER GAKUHO X STUDENT READER

A/n: Hellooooo peoplesss. Writermask is back from the dead! Anyways, I'm finally finished with Forbidden Fruit, and once again, my sincerest of apologies for bad content, but do know that I try my best. I think I'll be lucky if I manage to get even one like to this post, cus I wrote it wayyyy too detailed and I'm pretty sure it's boring... I did try to fix it, and here we are. Hope you enjoy!

Keys: {} for his most prominent thoughts.

Warnings: Student/teacher relationship, OOC Gakuho, cringe writing, (blame my sleep-deprived ass), and most words will be reused, since my vocabulary is painfully short, and English is my second language. Also, a lot here will not make complete sense, and sorta violent Gakuho???

Anyways, enough of my crap. Enjoy!

PERHAPS, at times, your lack of observation was truly a blessing, Gakuho thought idly, lazily twirling the accursed picture between his long, slender digits, rich pools of dark hyacinth drenched with the distant, hazy mists of memories, as he disinterestedly studied the photograph flicking between the gaps of his nimble fingers.

Because earlier that evening, he had barely managed to compose himself at the sight of you, his precious darling, with the glassy glaze of unshed tears brimming thickly in your lustrous e/c hues, as they had swirled with a kaleidoscope of vivid, vibrant colors, rich with a wealth of emotions that unknowingly displayed the inner battle you'd been torn between, the boiling turmoil that he knew was tormenting your soul, coming in the bitter form of the hot, scalding tears forming in your eyes, the glitter of the salty remnants clinging insistently to your long lashes as they fluttered slowly, trying to blink the tears away, and he'd watched, half mesmerized and helpless, brain malfunctioning for a few short seconds, as the pearlescent liquid soaked the delicate porcelain of your reddened cheeks.

You'd looked so innocent then, doe eyes enlarged with the hot, stinging swell of unshed tears, your dainty palms curled around his much broader shoulders for support as you'd collapsed against him, petite, crumpled up form trembling with quaking tremors as you'd shuddered against him, the h/c shaded tips of your hair sticking out haphazardly at odd angles, your bottom lip, pink and dewy and irresistible, wobbling with a barely restrained sob, which he knew was clamping your throat, as shudders licked vehemently at your tender, supple flesh, so vulnerable and delicate, this fragile, fragile doll of a meek, timid girl, all pretty eyes and red lips, blanching flesh and ivory, unblemished complexion, crafted by the most flawless of porcelains, as though sculpted by the hands of Gods, and bred by forgotten deities.

And yet, you'd reeked of unbridled sorrow and misery, that reflected in a sharp flash of that aching, aching hurt that flickered painfully in your glimmering orbs of e/c, as you'd stolen a frightened glance at his impassive facade, and he'd felt guilt ram into him with the wrecking force of a freight train, the sweltering tip of a white-hot rod twisting his insides with a sharp feeling that left him slightly breathless, and in silent bafflement at the sheer amount of roaring emotion he felt, an ache he felt deep in the rattle of his bones, a resounding difference that made him feel as though something inside of him crumbled at the sight of your unwarranted despair.

Guilt pulled at his heartstrings, plucking at the delicate cords of his sanity and twisting and writhing a different sort of hurt within him, one that was foreign in his psyche, but agonizing nonetheless, the painful, albeit bizarre sensation feeling as though someone were sifting a roiling, pulsating mass of what felt like shards of broken glass beneath his flesh, making knots form in the pit of his stomach, rare anxiety twisting them with twinges of nauseating unease, and the guilt ate him alive, slowly but surely, gnawing at the frayed seams of his patience. Guilt at knowing he'd smeared your purity, staining what'd once been the very essence of innocence with the strong command of darkness that followed him in its wake, colored your empty canvas with the morbid, dark shades of his own existence, had taken advantage of your naivety.

{And yet, there was that dark, dark part of him that did not regret anything, a fragment of his twisted, bitter soul that, despite the harsh consequences of dappling in the forbidden, and tasting your ripe, untouched innocence and tainting it for himself, that yearned for more, more…}

And yet, despite all superior pretences and sophisticated masquerades, in the end, he was still unfortunately human, and he was selfish, and addicted to the sugary sweetness in his bitter life that was you. And if he were an anchor for you to remain rooted, you were his salvation, the flicker of hope and the spark of light in the eternal, everlasting darkness his unfortunate existence was doused within.

So, resolve steeling with a rekindled firmness, he'd coiled his arms around your slim waist wordlessly, movements almost mechanical and stiff with abrupt shock, controlled by mere muscle memory and absent will, as his mind reeled at the sight of your beautiful, tear-stained face -{your pained expression had been so raw, so painful to behold and the odd coil of emotion inside his chest tightened, making it hard for him to breathe, and he'd felt cold fury coursing poisonously through his bloodstream, surging like molten lava and threatening to explode. No-one had the audacity harm you, his precious darling, no-one, damnit-!}-, as he'd pressed you tighter against him, steadying your quivering, small form against his larger frame, a broad palm coming to rest at the rigid column of your spine as he'd coaxed you into his firm, but gentle embrace, magenta hues glittering garnet with the heavy promise of impending doom, that he would definitely, and swiftly deliver mercilessly when he would deal with that yellow-hued menace.

{How could it have gone wrong? How could it all have gone to waste, all of his careful planning, all of his efforts rendered useless… How did it all unravel at the hands of someone as- as despicable as him? How did it still end up hurting you?!} And then, a more quiet, melancholy voice chiming in, {Despite all of his wealth and power and intellect, how did he fail to protect you…?} But he knew the answer, felt it deep within the rattle of his bones, and the ache in his thudding heart. {Because he was selfish, because of his terrible craving for your ripe, untasted innocence, and he knew it had been his fault, his fault for staining your untouched, fragile perfection, for tilting your world and painting your reality in a film of darkness. And yet, he was still unwilling to let you go, to have mercy and rid you of his dark presence. But then, it would have hurt him more than you. Indeed, he truly was selfsh, and undeserving of you, an angel in the cruel purgatory he suffered.}

"It isn't your fault. It was never your fault." He'd murmured with a firm finality, voice low and raw as he allowed a thin stream, a fraction of his raging emotions to seep into his velvety tone as he'd assured you, sultry and private and only for you to hear as he'd pressed himself closer to you, arms wound securely around your petite, frail form, breathing in the naturally sweet fragrance you secreted, alllowing the chorus of his drumming heartbeat and fluttering pulse to mingle with yours, as you'd exchanged soft, warm breaths. It wasn't your fault, because he knew it was his.

But he was selfish, and he would continue to keep you close to his aching heart.

And he'd marveled at the fact that you reciprocated his selfish desires with a burning need of your own, the thin nails of your fingers biting sharply into the bone of his shoulder blades as your arms curled tighter around his torso, face, still wet with the shimmer of tears, buried into the crook of his neck as you rested your weary head on his shoulder, mind undoubtedly clouded by a haze, and despite the occasional hitch in your stuttering breath, and sniffle catching in your throat, you'd allowed him to soothe your tears, lull your withering despair away, even after all the torture you'd soldiered through because of him, like the brave, brave girl you were. And despite everything, you'd remained happy and content nestled in his arms and swaddled in his scent, and it baffled him, baffled him just how willing you were to offer yourself up to him despite crumbling away, bit by bit, just how eager you were to please, to expose even the most intimate, personal values you held dear to your heart, show vulnerability when he could so easily twist it and turn it against you, dig blades under your flesh and watch you bleed.

But, for some incomprehensible reason, he chose to kiss instead, lips gently grazing across your soft, alabaster skin in a tender, loving reward, watching the heat bloom in a delicate dusting of crimson across your cheeks and crawling down your neck, and the shimmer of relief glistening wet and bright in your luminous eyes.

And then the air had shifted, and unspoken vows had been exchanged with your breathless gasps, and his deep, calming inhales as his mouth met yours, fervent but gentle, delicate and promising, and filled with so many emotions and words that he couldn't quite decipher. The words had streamed soundless and silent, threading unsaid in the atmosphere, hovering slight on your quivering mouth, and his sharp, silver tongue, and though Gakuho knew that neither of you were quite ready to share the words that would bind you both to a proper relationship from this awkward, abstract situation-ship you were hopelessly tangled within, he'd mouthed the shape of a soft, intimate promise against your tender flesh as he'd kissed you in silent reverence, voice inaudible even to his own ears, more of an oath to himself than you- to never let you be hurt ever again, and he intended to fulfill it.

So yes, at specific times, your lack of observation was truly a blessing, as it had been his saving grace, for he'd nearly lost his glacial composure, Gakuho thought, and his jaw clenched at the memory of your e/c orbs glimmering with the delicate coating of tears, soaking your cheeks wet, and the whirl of insecurity and fear and despair he spied within those lustrous, glittering irises.

It had elicted a reaction unexpected from both you and himself, his mouth thinning into a wan, grim line, the sharp slope of his sharp, charming features painted cold with a stinging, forced indifference, bereft of any emotions, a slight twitch marring his furrowed brow, faux calm aura melting into something more sinister, murderous in its stiflingly dark presence even, an unpleasant sensation of scorching beginning to bubble inside his chest, hands clenching into tight fists as the sharp edges of his nails sunk into the flat of his palm, threatening to draw blood, the soft hyacinth of his eyes slowly bleeding into swirls of wrathful crimson and scarlet, spinning with the deepening shade of freshly split blood.

It had stirred an emotion within the deepest core of his very being, the incomprehensible simmer of raw anger pulsing beneath his marble, collected facade, a feeling he'd long since considered futile, the familiar but forgotten surge of molten lava coursing violently through his veins, the coil of anger twisting his guts and boiling his insides with a bloodlust he could not satiate, a roaring, aching hunger scalding his throat with the bitter, bleeding taste of unadulterated fury as it gnawed restlessly at his frayed nerves, rage, an ugly beast rearing it's head, talons digging into the shuddering arch of his spine, making his shoulders quake with barely restrained tremors, though they were from burning anger rather than the despair that reflected from your face.

But despite the abstract whirl of emotions shifting a roiling, contorting storm of twisting turmoil within him, festering restlessly like a plague, and feasting on his frayed nerves, and the bitter remembrance of once cherished memories and the absence of a precious person -{Ikeda, Ikeda, Ikeda, you were still a child, only a child, a child… so why did you do it? Why did you leave, why would you hurt me like this-?!}- the sight of your tears had brought him, and in spite of the yawning rift of anger tearing the fabric of his soul apart, Gakuho lifted the deep, glimmering wine of his gaze to meet the the sight of the yellow-tinted creature before him with a faux, deadly calm that he did not feel.

"Ah, Koro-sensei, how nice of you to finally show up."

He addressed the creature coolly, unfazed by the strong gust of wind that accompanied its sudden presence, the fierce gale rattling the bare insides of his bleak, colorlessly cordial office, as it whipped the brushes of ember-hued hair with a harsh, invisible force. The scalding rage that flooded his mind tightened its grasp upon the sight of the original perpetrator whom he'd stemmed back from all the rumors and photographs, the reason for this hopelessly tangled mess, and your precious, unwarranted tears. The unadulterated fury coiling and snaking around his ribs constricted his stuttering breath at this harsh reminder, and the wild thumping of his frantic, angry heart palpitated stubbornly underneath his ribs, cold fury simmering violently underneath the flawless marble of his flesh, as he felt his boiling wrath pulsing like the undiluted, steady flow of poisonous power through his veins, itching and crawling like the scuttle of insects beneath his skin, a power begging to be released and wrought for ruination and destruction.

Once he'd realized that he'd allowed a trickle of stiflingly dark hostility to stream through the false, composed aura surrounding him, Gakuho hastened to guard his reaction, quickly smoothing out the scathing expression to a blank mask, regaining his bearings. It wouldn't do him well to lose his cool so early on.

However, it didn't mean that he couldn't control it, sharpen and harness it, aim to kill, and the odd, almost feral glint that this sudden dark thought elicited from him glittering uncloaked, and molten garnet in his eyes did not go unnoticed by his rival.

It was with this intention that he spoke, voice as smooth and deceptively unperturbed as always, a honeyed, sultry caress of dark velvet tumbling off of soft lips, sunny tones sounding warm and perhaps even touched by a tinge of invitation, but it was only a well-constructed, honey-coated lie spilling forth from his mouth like the richest of wines, a sickly sweet venom laced with stinging mockery dripping from cold, twisted lips. And though his voice gave nothing away, there was a certain frigidness to his eyes that did not meet his false smile and cheerful tones. Gakuho knew that the creature had detected the sharp, cold accusing undertone coloring his faux cheery voice, poised taut and more than ready to stab and poison, but as polite as always, it didn't let it show, the usually stupid, wide smile stretching from its yellow, bulbous head, showing the rows of pearly white teeth, a thoughtless grin smearing and stretching the yellow flesh taut, as though its head was full of candy and rainbows, utterly remorseless and shamelessly so.

{As though it held no inkling whatsoever to the hurt it caused you, the pain and the chaos it inflicted and injected within your innocent mind, the ache and the world-weariness that clung onto your withering bones, the ghost of the tears that'd pooled in your eyes, the anxiety and the pain and the despair, as though your feelings hadn't mattered at all-!}

It irked him beyond reason, and Gakuho couldn't quite snuff the annoyed twitch marring his brow despite the sickeningly sweet saccharine of the unwavering, false smile twisting his lips.

"My sincerest of apologies, Chairman. I was caught up in a new assassina - " It began with the stirrings of a new excuse, but he interjected calmly, amethyst hues bleeding with the dusty brilliance of the shifting cosmos, painfully sharp and glinting calculatively in the light of the weeping dusk, tone colored with a dark, cold undertone, as he coated the sentence in a carefully constructed rich, baritone timbre, a deliberate bitterness souring each and every word that fell effortlessly from cold, curved lips, dripping acid enough to melt and sear and burn.

"As much as I would love to hear about Class E's most recent efforts on your assassination, I'm afraid I have summoned you here for another reason entirely, Koro-sensei."

Lifting the photograph he'd been absentmindedly flicking earlier between the gaps of his fingers, Gakuho leveled the creature with a blank, scorching stare that would make hell freeze over, with a smile so sickly sweet that it felt bitter plastered on his curled mouth, unadulterated poison gleaming sharp in his piercing gaze as he looked expectantly at the creature, the violet glare of his cosmic-tinted irises glittering molten carmine with the cold, murderous glow of the plaguing rage festering deep within him, and with his head tilted precariously, allowing the light of the dying sun to illuminate one side of his sloped face, drenching the other with a velvety darkness, Gakuho knew he must've looked unhinged, because he saw it recoil a bit, flinching, embarrassment staining a rosy pink to the yellow of its flesh.

"It has come to my attention that a certain person has been spreading rumors about myself and a student, going so far as leaking false photographs… You wouldn't happen to know anyone who is the original perpetrator, yes?" He inquired quietly, voice deceptively calm and soft, but there was a certain frosty chill to his tone that rippled with a silent, compelling authority, as he pinned the creature in place with a frigid, scalding stare that was not quite hostile- not yet anyway, but neither was it very calm. In a way, Gakuho mused, he held a vague semblance dimly reminiscent to glass, because there was a certain layer of fragility to his patience, and it could could break at any given moment.

{But that's the thing with glass. You break it, and you're the one that's bleeding.}

Gakuho assessed the creature with a sharp, almost feral glint burning in the darkening muave of his blood-drenched, moon-kissed eyes, the column of his spine arched rigid, and the sturdy, broad planes of his shoulders hunched taut and tense, posture poised with a deadly elegance, as though he were a predator ready to strike at any given moment, as the yellow-skinned creature recoiled a step back, wincing as his twisted barb hit the nail on the head, and rubbing two of its tentacles together in a sheepish manner as a slight coating of delicate primrose dusted the sunny tone of its skin.

His smile sharpened and tugged taut at his mouth and clenched jaw.

"N-no! Why would you think that?! It's not like I spied on you two on that romantically forbidden evening and took photos and spread them all around the school, and saved extra copies just in case and gossiped with other students while in disguise-...!" It rambled on senselessly, stuttering and stumbling over words, so painfully obvious, apparently paired with the inability to lie, and had Gakuho been another insignificant person in another circumstance, he would've burst out laughing, except he wasn't and knew better, for he didn't find your current predicament a laughing matter, or one to be amusement inducing.

Instead, there was a barely veiled glance of skepticism, and the surge of incredulity, before the familiar upsurge of thinly jaded anger invading through his senses.

The hot simmer of pulsing rage quickened beneath his glacial facade, and Gakuho felt the hairline cracks spidering the surface of his marble mask beginning to deepen, a twisted sensation of murderous wrath worming in through the dark crevices, poisoning his senses and clouding his vision an angry red. The tendrils of poisonous, cold fury creeping through his veins stifled his senses with the sheer intensity of its fierce, white-hot power, twisting and scraping his insides like a red-hot rod, wrenching and churning his gut, squeezing his racing heart with the sharp bite of its clawed talons, each gaunt digit of explosive fury digging deeper into the wild, pounding organ, threatening to make it burst from his contricted chest.

Instead of displaying this surprising myriad of emotions, however, Gakuho simply hummed a noncommittal sound, curling his nimble digits around the photograph, studying the scene playing within it (his lips pressed against yours, an arm snaking around your waist to pull you closer, and your eyes, shining bright with the kaleidoscopic glitter of surprise) disinteredly before crumpling it into a ball.

"Is that so?" Gakuho crooned softly, sarcasm lacing every rich, ambrosia dipped word as they rolled off of his sharp tongue, venomous and ready to stab and twist the bleeding wound for good measure, sugar-coated lies spilling easily from honeyed lips, though they were strangely hollow, and flat. The thread, the delicate gossamer string quilting his fraying patience together, was beginning to waver and threatening to snap, and he turned cold. And as Gakuho raised the frigid, uncaring carmine of his gaze to meet the creature's, cosmic-lidded hues exotic and cold in their magnificent, violet glory, their gazes clashed and collided with enough intensity to produce sparks.

Steepling and threading his fingers together in a calculative gesture, he casually leaned back into the lavish fabric of the chair, though his muscles stretched taut upon his wary bones, refusing to relax in the presence of a being that he knew was intelligent (just stubborn and perhaps even smart enough not to show its sharp intellect), marble mask guarded and unrelenting, as though he were a serpent, coiled and fast and cunning, ready to spring and strike at any given moment, fangs dripping with venom.

Gakuho stared at the creature with a purely predatorial knife edge to his vermilion gaze, honed sharp by the ripple of thick tension charging the air with the violent presence of electricity, his eyes blood-drenched rubies dripping with rich, liquid sangria, as he clashed gazes with the yellow menace, whirling with lost swirls of buried, gentle hyacinth, and the faint glitter of stardust as something dark, and terribly dangerous flickered behind the frame of his lashes.

He stared vehemently, gaze blade-edged and challenging, and this time, the mellow-skinned creature stared back, perhaps even a tad defiantly as it met his gaze head on, no longer drooping and shriveling underneath the chilly frost of his blank stare like a wilting flower, and he absently noted that the pink hue of embarrassment had receded its sunny skin.

No words were exchanged in the heavy, deafening silence that ensued, and both parties refused to acknowledge the killing intent rolling off of him in crushing, nauseating waves of pure, unfiltered darkness, crackling the atmosphere frigid and stifling it with the strong command of darkness that followed him in its wakr. The clear, heavy threat of impending doom descended on the pregnant silence like a vulture to carcass, indescribably hungry and intent upon feasting.

A battle without words, though just as fierce, between two formidable rivals.

There was a heavy, stifling silence that would've knocked the breath out of a lesser mortal's lungs, laced with the poisonous, violent presence of killing intent rolling through the thickening tension, and then, a gentle knife buttering through, persuasive but bracing, - "I can't say I can tell you who is responsible for Y/N's plight, " The creature began carefully, thoughtfully, even, "but I do have a question, regarding the… rumors, if you will. "

"Oh? Do elaborate." Gakuho curtly prompted it to continue, arching a sleek, perfectly manicured brow in question, slowly urging the roiling, sifting mass of darkness to thin, a certain layer of velvet interest veiling his tone, and this time, it was genuine.

"I do not mean to imply anything of the sort, but, do you by any chance," It tilted its bulbous head curiously, and for all the chaos and hell it thought would follow next, its voice was gentle, and soft as it spoke. "Care for Y/N?"

This time, Gakuho truly couldn't mask the ripple of shock crossing his aristocratic, sharp features and widening his plum hues with a distinct surprise at the unexpectance of its genuine question, unconsciously allowing a plethora of emotions to paint the empty canvas of his marble mask, before forcefully schooling his expression into that same emotionless, blank state once more. Ignoring the turmoil wreaking havoc within his mindscape, he weighed the importance of the sudden question imposed on him, guarding and planning his next action carefully.

But despite his rigid frame, the hunched shoulders and the frown dipping the corners of his lips, he knew he hadn't mistaken the sincerity of this genuine, curious inquiry, and he wondered whether or not to answer truthfully, to forgo the anger and the pent-up frustration, to face the creature with the sting of honesty.

And then, the image of your bright smile flickered into existence within his mindscape, the relieving freshness of your bubbly, meek personality, and the simple beauty of your somehow carefree yet timid, shy smile quirking the corners of your plump lips, the chime of melodious bells that accompanied your laughter, the h/c tufts of your rich hair dancing with the cool breeze, the fragments of your innocence, untainted and tempting, and the shimmer of that incomprehensible, tender emotion that flitted in your rich pools of e/c, and the soft, gentle gaze you blessed him with… and then the memory intertwined fingers, whispered promises, a mingled heartbeat beating as one - love, and Gakuho suddenly came to a grinding halt, an unsure decision somehow firm in its sincere honesty.

The words he'd not yet said to you, always hovering on the tip of the tongue, the shape of the intimate promise he'd whispered against your flesh, the tender press of his mouth against yours, the salt of your tears somehow sweet on his lips…

The solemn, magenta gleam of his eyes softened to a warm shimmer in a raw finality, as he raised his head to meet the creature's gaze, the harsh and hollow expression he wore fading into a soft, unconsciously gentle smile tilting his lips as Gakuho finally admitted, as he said in soft, reverent utterance, "I do."

And somehow, Gakuho felt as though such simple, yet meaningful words had made all the difference, and the victory marring the mellow-skinned creature and stretching its mouth into a satisfied grin was unmistakable.

He had planned this, Gakuho's mind echoed with a dawning realization, and before he could say anything else, Koro-sensei spoke first, interjecting. "I see. If it alleviates your worries, Chairman, I shall take care to erase the photographs and such," He turned his head back to face Gakuho's bewildered, questioning gaze, before finishing his sentence with a broad smile, flashing the rows of milky white teeth. "After all, it seems we both care deeply about our students. You more than me, it seems." He added cheekily before disappearing in another strong gust of wind, once again rattling the bare insides of his domain.

He heaved an incredulous sigh, before leaning back in the chair, but despite everything, he couldn't help the small, content smile tugging persistently the corners of his mouth.

"Forbidden fruit perhaps does taste the best, after all."

[swordsxandxshadows]

Since I am sharing...I also mentioned the red strings with Liu Kang and Kung Lao from the 2021 movie and their response was ‘Right their ‘just really good friends’. I don’t look longingly into my friend’s eyes without breaking contact with them. They all the homo for one another sorry.’

[blue-bird-kny]

“Don’t Touch Him”

Yay finally the first post!! please enjoy and always please let me know if you enjoyed it and don’t be afraid to request! Anyhow enjoy~

Warning: Violence, Swearing 

(1k+ words)

It was supposed to be a simple mission: One week in a small village to find why groups of bodies were being found dead and kill whoever was doing it. Something that your boyfriend, Sanemi, should have been able to handle in half the time assigned.

 However, that was ten days ago. No note, no crow, no sign of warning, it was like he’d fallen off the earth. Knowing him and how stubborn he could be, you knew he’d never send any sign of distress or call for help.

This fact only added to the worry that's been gnawing at your insides for the last few nights as you took to pacing  in the garden of the estate you two shared. “We’re hashiras” you thought to yourself as you stared at the sun that was soon to set. “Sanemi can handle himself, he doesn’t need me worrying about him” you continued. Even so, why couldn't you silence the growing voice deep in your mind? “He needs your help, something isn’t right” the voice chanted until finally, you released a frustrated groan as you stood up “That's enough” you told it.

Pulling on your haori (which had been a gift from your hot-tempered partner) and securing your nichirin blade to your hip, you scribbled a small note and sent it with your crow to Shinobu. “Please be okay” you pleaded as you sprinted off to find Sanemi.

                                                   ~*~*~*~

Sanemi stood in the center of a clearing in the forest, the blood from multiple wounds poolng at his feet. He’d been carless, he can admit that much.Once he arrived,  he knew that this couldn't be the work of some low class demon and should have sent his crow to inform HQ. After nights of killing low rank demons, he finally weeded out the masterminds behind this sick show. Two ex-Lower Moons stood before him, smiling wickedly as they delivered blows to his battered body. Sanemi would never let them hit him easily and was able to get more than a few good licks on them, but they were not in such dire condition as he was.

“Say, do you think if we delivered the head of a hashira to him, we’d be given more of his blood?” one of the demons questioned. Inhaling deeply, the other responded “I don’t know but his blood smells delicious. I haven’t had a decent meal tonight and I'm ravished” they finished by licking their lips and drooling.

“What is going on, why am I getting my ass handed to me?!” he questioned as he moved to land a fatal attack on one of the two demons, but almost as quickly one of the demons moved behind him ramming their foot into his back. He gasped in pain as he laid on the floor, no doubt he had a few broken bones and torn muscles. “We’ve had our fun, I say we end this here and move on” one insisted as they moved towards Sanemi.

Painfully moving to stand, Sanemi reached for his sword. “Don’t touch him” a strong voice Sanemi knew all too well demanded a few feet away. (y/n) stood tall at the other end of the clearing, a dangerous aura surrounding her. “You’re saved! They’ve sent a little girl to come and rescue you” the demons laughed. Sanemi smirked as he thought “They’re so fucked”. “Well this little girl..” (y/n) started, stalking her prey, waiting for any movement, “has had enough of your bullshit. Frankly, you’re lucky you two are still breathing” she sethed, words filled with rage. “Oh we’re so sc..” one demon started but before they could finish, (y/n) swiftly moved behind them and sliced their head off clean.

Soundlessly landing on the ground, her murderous gaze fell on the remaining demon, who clearly had put his guard up. Sanemi watched from the ground, unwilling to miss a moment as the demon ran towards (y/n) in a futile attack, “Breath of blizzard forth form: crystal rain” (y/n) muttered. Shards of ice began to rain from the sky, impaling the charging demon and pinning him to the floor. “I really should never piss her off.” Sanemi thought to himself as (y/n) calmly walked toward her next target, now stuck to the floor.

“No! This isn’t how I die. Please women I begg..” the demon pleaded as he stared up at her. “No use in begging,” she interrupted “you were a goner the second you laid a finger on him” she explained as she pointed at Sanemi. “She's so hot” he seductively thought as he sat up. “Please!..I” the demon wailed one final time before silence filled the air. In a way that was almost angelic, (y/n) sliced his head off and watched as it rolled away. “Shut up, people like you have no place in this world” she added annoyed before turning her gaze to Sanemi, rushing over to him. “You saved my ass, that was sexy as hell” he remarked when she crouched to his side. “Ever the gentlemen” she chuckled. “Always..” Sanemi coughs, small traces of blood spotting his chin. Assessing his wounds, (y/n) put pressure on some of the deeper wounds “Shinobu will be here any moment, I asked her to come with medics if we weren't back before dawn” (y/n) stated worriedly. Sanemi watched as (y/n)'s face filled with worry as she pressed her hands against a nasty slash on his side, “God I love this woman so much”  he lovingly thought as he began to sit up.

“Wait Sanemi you shouldn’t move till..!” (y/n) was cut off as Sanemi pressed his rough lips against her considerably softer ones. It wasn’t very long nor was it one of their most intense kisses, but the moment their lips touched, they could feel every ounce of passion and raw love they felt for each other. Sanemi pulled away just as the medics arrived hurrying towards the pair, “Thank you (y/n)” he whispered just so that (y/n) could hear, before putting on his usually brave face for the medics tending to his wounds.

“Anything for you, my love” She smiled fondly.

Main Masterlist

I feel like Sanemi was slightly ooc but I'm really trying to get into the groove of writing for each character. Thank you~Amanda

[buddietomytarlos]

Season 5 Episode 3 Thoughts *Spoilers*

Thoughts under cut to keep the tag clean :)

- I heard this ep was pretty awful bc it’s just cop propaganda but here we go kiddos

- Wait if they tied him up like that how did he get out of it to go to the hospital and such 😭😭

- Why would you put that picture in your house it looked so???

- Did he just lick—

- Can we stop attacking Michael for absolutely no reason thanks like damn he’s completely right...

- God poor May having to stay back and work that would destroy me tbh.

- I was about to be like “why didn’t he close the trunk so he wouldn’t know?” but then realized that he would have heard it and known

- HARRY SAYING THE SMARTEST THINGS THOUGH WE LOVE HIM but also ask for their police number! or call the police and ask if there’s a cop nearby and if he’s legit (which he isn’t so)

- it’s fuck COPS not firefighters. NOT CAP DISRESPECTING THE ANARCHIST’S WISHES…. THAT WAS SO FUCKED UP ARE WE SUPPOSED TO BE ROOTING FOR HIM??? And it was so ooc because Cap is supposed to be calm and collected on the job and leave it all at the door. Also so did the people who called 911 not tell anyone in their group that they called for help like I’m sure that’s what you’d do first…

- He really put the same stuff that Harry got out of the first time back on Harry lmao what a dumbass

- This rapist freak hates her because HE attacked HER and in self defense she shot him in the dick??? Pathetic but not surprised...

- Not him putting THAT picture up???

- May helping out by finding a social media post muah she just be solving everything in a better way huh… also thank god that woman actually posted it even though he had a badge like—

- “It’s not your fault, and it’s not mine either” it literally is your fault but okay lol

- Honestly this ep should feel like a criminal minds ep since it’s a kidnapping but it doesn’t bc all it is is pro cop… they really don’t know their audience if they think we want more cop stuff.

- Michael asking questions that Athena the Cop who’s supposed to— SHE JUST LEAVES? WHAT THE FUCK?

- Athena going into the no police zone… but also why is it up in the first place? Because of the outage?? Or is it there like permanently…?

- However I will praise her for that “police” video to find Jeffrey that was smart

- DON’T TELL HIM THAT THE DUDE IS STILL ALIVE? ATHENA JUST FUCKING STOP TALKING. OH THE FIREFIGHTERS HELLO!!!

- JUST ARREST HIM ALREADY? Girl all you had to do was shoot his hand or something, not like five times?!?!!?

- Now that you physically have his car can’t they trace where it went or…???

- Okay but Michael being so good at putting pieces together and such this ep!??! slaps hard

- So… the whole point of the blackout was so we could have this cop propaganda episode…? It would’ve been so much more interesting and better utilized if they showed the struggles of the black out and taking down the hackers instead. It ending like this is just so??? It’s dumb as hell and makes it all completely unnecessary????????

- No but the way Buck was looking at Eddie BYE

- BUCK TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF OF THE BED. “Hi honey, I’m home.” ew

- Harry 😭😭 you’re definitely not going to be fine after being KIDNAPPED

- Maddie… why are you talking like that…….. MADDIE PLEASE DON’T DO WHAT I THINK YOU’RE GOING TO DO...

- ngl I almost laughed “maybe you should go home”. GIRLIE READ THE ROOM? HE DOESN’T WANT YOU HERE YOU OVERSTAYED YOUR WELCOME

- She knows it’s coming LMAO rip that’s kinda sad

- NOT HER USING THE PANIC ATTACK AGAINST HIM?? All he asked was to sit down to make the blow easier…

- But if she’s known he wasn’t into her why continue with the relationship clinging onto something that’s obviously not working?

- Eddie being silent against the fridge with tears brimming bro that HURTS

- EDDIEANA BONES THO!!!

- MADDIE 😭😭

- The next ep looks pretty good tho 👀

[ilovereadingandilovebreathing]

Love in the Time of Tantrums

Human AU in which Logan and Patton are married and have fostered and/or adopted Virgil (3 then & 17 now), Remy (2 then & 14 now), and twins Roman and Remus (5 then & almost 7 now). Logan works for NASA, and Patton owns and manages a doggy day care/boarding facility.

Story: Remus is having a d a y, and he and Patton have some healing to do. (Family slice of life with paternal Hurt/Comfort; probably angst, too lol sorry)

⚠️WARNINGS⚠️: blood, classmate bullying, crying, sibling bullying, hitting, angry/tense speech, yelling/arguing, implied past abuse, mention of The Exorcist ((Please let me know if I missed anything!!))

A/N: I didn’t feel like doing the whole stutter/cry/talk thing, so use your imagination at those parts. There’s a lot. ALSO HUGE sorry if this feels OOC; I went a little wild. I saw some parenting post on Facebook and got emotional.

BEFORE READING: If you don’t know what a five star slap is: it’s when someone hits someone’s bare skin so hard that it leaves a clear five finger handprint red mark.

It’s 3:47pm on a Thursday, which means two things. 1) It’s Patton’s day off, so he’s gotten a lot done at home. 2) The peace of the house is about to be shattered by four of Patton’s five favorite people. This actually means three things if Patton’s excitement to see his children counts, but his building elation is flattened when the car doors are thrown open.

“Oh my GOD, Remus!”

The chaos erupts before Patton can even see the cause, and just as he reaches the door between the kitchen and garage, it’s flung open, nearly hitting Patton in the process. Virgil stumbles through with a whimpering Roman curled in his arms.

“Oh, sh-sorry, Dad.” Virgil stops abruptly, and Roman turns in his brother’s arms, reaching blindly for his father as tears pour from his eyes.

“Oooh, baby.” Patton coos as he takes Roman into his arms. “What’s wrong, my Little Prince?”

“Remus.” Remy trudges in, dragging a violently wriggling Remus in his arms. “We tried to stop him, but nothing we do scares him!” Remy suddenly releases his brother, and the six-year-old falls to the floor giggling maniacally. “You nasty little son of a-“

“Remy.”

“Dad! He licked me!!”

“Remus, what have we said about licking your brothers?”

“Do it all the time! It keeps them clean!” The twin darts back and forth behind his older brothers’ legs, dodging an unseen enemy.

“No, Re...The opposite, actually.” Roman trembles in Patton’s arms as he tries to rein in his cries, and Patton hugs him tightly. “So who’s going to fill me in on how Re made Ro cry?”

Virgil sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Looks like Remus learned a new trick at school today and tried it out on Roman. Multiple. Times.”

“It’s called a five star slap!” Remus announces proudly, squirming out from behind his brothers to pose in front of his father. “You wind up real good like this, and then-”

“Remus. Enough.”

Remus flinches but quiets, still bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Virgil, please get Roman some ice for his back and take him upstairs. I need to talk to Remus alone.”

“Yeah, Dad.” Virgil quietly retrieves a baggy and fills it with ice; he smiles softly as he opens his arms and coaxes Roman toward him. The younger brother whines when Patton’s grip loosens, clinging to his father’s shirt with tears threatening to spill again. “Come on, Ro. We can watch whatever movie you want in the bonus room, okay? Dad needs to talk to Remus. Please?”

Roman sniffs but reluctantly relents, instantly hugging his brother around his neck as they turn and head to the second floor. Roman waves good bye to his father with a sad frown before they disappear up the stairs.

“Remus.” Patton’s voice is ice; his normally soft eyes are hard as stone as he gestures with his pointer finger. “Come here. Now.”

Remy attempts to grab his brother by the arm and drag him over, but Patton puts his hand up and knocks him back with a glare.

“Just Remus. On his own.”

Remus shuffles forward inch by inch with a dark scowl on his tiny features, all traces of the energy from before channeled to frustration.

Some of the kids on the playground tell Remus that he’s a freak for having two dads, and others think he’s lucky. Remus disagrees with both, believing that two dads just means two different types of punishment. To Remus, Papa Logan is more reasonable; he says Remus needs to let his “natural exuberance” and “niche interests” out to maintain his mental health, though sometimes even Papa gets frustrated with him. Daddy Patton is the one who silences and punishes him for being himself but praises and supports Roman for being himself. Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites, but Roman clearly ranks above Remus with Patton, and that makes him livid.

So when he finally reaches Patton, Remus stops just inches away from him in an over exaggerated show of obedience; he looks up and straight into Patton’s eyes, his own set to a spine chilling glare paired with his signature wicked grin. “What?!” The little one suddenly yells out in a manic half laugh half cry.

“Why did you hurt your brother, Remus?” Patton’s tone is firm and level.

“He hurt me first!”

“Oh my GOD; he did not, Remus!”

Patton looks up sharply. “Rem, you wanna go get the mail and help Papa bring his stuff in? I just heard his car door.”

“Not really.”

“Remy, please go.” Patton’s tone takes on a slightly sweet lilt, and Remy sighs before turning to retrace his path through the garage, clearly disappointed that he didn’t get to see his brother get punished.

“Hi, Pop.” Remy calls, giving a single wave. “Dad is about to chew Remus out.”

“What?” Logan’s tired voice filters into the kitchen, and Patton sighs.

“I’m not going to ‘chew your brother out,’ Remy.”

“You really are.”

“Rem.”

“Sorry.”

“Help your Dad.”

“Too late.” Logan enters the kitchen with a laptop bag on one arm, the mail in one hand, and his lunchbox in the other. “I grabbed it as I drove in.”

Remy scoots in behind Logan. “Sorry, Popsquared.” He shrugs and sidesteps past the trio. “I’ll go....Do my homework?”

“Great idea.” Logan smiles stiffly and nods his son up the stairs; he exhales as sets his bags on the bench by the garage door, hanging his keys. “Hello, Dear, Remus. We’ve had quite a day, haven’t we?”

Patton sighs and rubs his eyes. “Father’s intuition?”

“Virgil’s cell phone.”

“Remus hit his brother, and I’m handling it. Why don’t you rest, Love?”

Logan eyes the pair warily, looking ready to protest, but he thinks better of it and nods. “I’ll be in our room if you need me.” The couple exchanges a brief kiss as Logan passes by, and he throws back a quick glance as he goes up the stairs.

“Finally.” Patton breathes, figuring Remus has had plenty of time to stew, simmer, and cool down with the interruptions. “Now that we have some privacy-”

“Just get it over with!”

Patton’s breath hitches a bit, and he looks down to find Remus with the same wide eyes and grin as before, staring at him intently. “Get what over with?”

“My punishment! Just ground me or spank me or make me go without dinner! Just get it over with! Do it! I know you want to!” Remus throws his arms to his sides and stomps, gaze still transfixed on Patton.

“Remus, why are you saying that? Papa and I never hit you or keep food from you.”

“That’s what the other kids said bad kids like me get for punishments!” Remus is still yelling, his body taking on a slight tremble. “They said I deserve to be so skinny you can see my bones! They said I should sit in the corner for hours without a potty break! They said-“

“Whoa, whoa, kiddo.” Patton tries to put a hand on his son’s shoulder, but he shrugs it off. “Who is saying all that mean stuff to you?”

“Kids on the playground. No one you know. It doesn’t matter because it’s not your business!”

“Why isn’t it my business?”

“Because you hate me! You love Roman and Remy and Virgil, but not me! You don’t care about me, and I don’t care about you, so you don’t get to know!”

“Why do you think I hate and don’t care about you?”

“Because you only yell at me and not Roman when something bad happens! When Roman takes my stuff, you just tell him to give it back, but when I take his stuff, you get mad at me and take mine away!”

“That’s because-“ Patton clamps his mouth shut on his retort when Remus’s eyes fill with tears; Patton realizes that his little one is reaching an overload, and he knows that means Remus is not open to discussion right now. He just needs to keep asking questions and let Remus air out his frustrations. Patton lowers his voice so that the boy has to listen, keeping his tone even while adding a soothing overtone. “Do I do that a lot?”

“Not that much...but it feels like it because it’s always me who gets in the most trouble!”

“How does that make you feel?”

“It makes me mad!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not fair!”

“How else do you feel?”

“Angry!”

“What about sad?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“.....I don’t know.” Remus’s lower lip trembles, and his hands are in fists at his sides.

“You don’t know? If you don’t care about me, why does it make you sad? You have to care to be sad.”

“I don’t know! But I don’t care! Because....because I’m not sad right now! I’m...angry!” Tears slip out of the corners of Remus’s eyes, and he rubs at them roughly, making himself whimper with the force.

Patton notices how dark his son’s fingernails are for the first time, and his breath catches in his throat. He takes Remus’s hand. “Is that blood?”

“Maybe.”

“Where’d it come from?”

“No where.” Remus rips his hand from Patton’s and crosses his arms, staring stubbornly at Patton’s shirt now.

“Did you hit someone, Remus?”

“No!”

“Did someone hit you?”

Remus goes stiff, staring straight ahead before he stomps his feet and shrieks, “No! Of course not why would someone hit me I’m not weak like Roman no one can hurt me! Even if that mean ugly teacher doesn’t believe it!” Remus grits his teeth, his little face scrunching up as though in pain. His whole body trembles as he suddenly erupts into loud, whining cries.

“Oh, no...Come here, Remus.” Patton drops to sit on the floor a few feet from Remus, opening his arms for a hug but giving him the choice.

Remus turns away and hugs himself tightly, sobbing into the open air.

Patton lets his arms fall into his lap, but he subtly scoots a bit closer to the crying boy.

“Remus, please talk to me. Who hurt you?”

“No one! I hurt myself!”

“Why did you hurt yourself?” Patton tries to keep the alarm out of his voice.

“I didn’t do it on purpose! I ran into a tree and made my nose bleed!”

“Why did you run into a tree?” Patton scoots closer.

“Some boys were throwing a frisbee and I tried to catch it but it went too high and I didn’t see the tree and I hit it and they all laughed at me and called me a weirdo! They said I’m so stupid I couldn’t see a tree right in front of me! It hurt and I was scared but the playground eacher just said to wipe my nose and stop bothering other people I don’t know!”

Patton’s heart shatters, and he scoots closer again. “Did you tell your teacher?”

“Yeah but she said I was fine and didn’t need to go to the nurse! She said I was being dram-dramo-“

“Dramatic?”

“Yeah! And after school I was waiting for Virgil and one of the boys did the five star on my back and it hurt really bad but he ran away when I told the teacher and she didn’t believe me because he was gone!”

Patton scoots closer, and Remus is within arm’s reach. “So the boys were mean to you a lot, and you needed help, but the teachers didn’t listen? They didn’t help you, and that made you sad?”

“Yeah! They never listen!”

Patton scoots forward one last time, closing the distance between himself and his son. He whispers near Remus’s ear. “Why did you hit your brother, Remus?”

“I don’t know!” Remus wails. “I was mad and I just wanted to!”

“Because the boy hit you and the teacher didn’t care? It made you mad and sad that no one cared about what happened to you? And Roman wasn’t sad or mad, so you hit Roman?”

“Yeah!”

“I’m gonna pick you up now, okay?” Patton reaches forward and scoops Remus into his arms before he can escape or refuse, pulling the boy to his chest. Remus thrashes wildly in Patton’s hold, eyes wide and cries like a wild animal trapped in a cage. “Remus, Remus, Remus.” Patton pulls him closer. “Remus, I’m just hugging you; you’re not in trou-“ Patton groans after Remus’s head flies back and connects with his nose. “Ouch-“

Remus freezes and looks up, eyes wide and horrified when he sees the tiny trail of blood start to trickle from Patton’s nose. Patton grabs the dish towel hanging from the nearby stove before Remus can process what he’s done.

“D-Daddy?”

“Remus-“

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” Remus is crying and thrashing again, trying to escape Patton’s hold, but Patton tents his legs on either side of the boy and holds on as tight as he can with an arm and an elbow. “I didn’t mean to hurt you! Please don’t hurt me!”

“Shhh shh shh, Remus.” Patton inhales deeply to stave off his own breakdown, too harshly reminded that Remus still has so far to run from his life before this family. “I’m just hugging you; it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m safe. You’re okay. You’re safe, Remus.” Patton mutters the words over and over as he tries to hold Remus close, subtly trying to keep his nose clean. “Please, Remus, just let me hold you. Let me hug you to help you feel better. I’m not mad at you. You’re not in trouble. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re not going to get hurt.”

“You’re not gonna hurt me?” Remus has stopped resisting and is staring up at Patton.

Patton takes a deep breath and silently curses the twins’ first (and second-to-last) foster home. “No, baby. I won’t hurt you, and I won’t let those boys or those teachers hurt you again. I will come to your school tomorrow morning and talk to the principal and those teachers, okay? They won’t be mean to you anymore.”

“But you have work tomorrow.”

“That’s okay. I can go late.”

“Why?”

“Because I own the place!” Patton laughs a bit.

“No, why are you coming?”

“Oh, Remus, because I love you, baby. I love you so much, and I don’t want you to get hurt again. That would make me cry.” Patton’s eyes fill with the pressure of this whole dam of emotions building within him, and he gives Remus a wet smile. “I don’t hate you, Remus. I love you so, so much. Just as much as Virgil, and Roman, and Remy, and I’m so sorry I don’t tell you that enough. I’ll do it a lot more. I promise. I love you. I love you. I love you.” Patton accentuates each “I love you” with a kiss to Remus’s head, and the child only pulls back the first time.

Remus sits back against Patton’s thigh and stares at his father, as if searching for something, some “gotcha,” some trick or hint of betrayal in his father’s eyes, but he finds none.

Patton runs a hand over Remus’s hair and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. “I promise. I love you forever and ever, my little sunshine.”

Something in Remus finally clicks into place, an understanding dawning on his face, and he slowly relaxes in Patton’s hold, letting himself be embraced. Patton pulls Remus toward him with no resistance, and the boy sobs openly into his father’s chest, the pain and relief mixing together in an overwhelming maelstrom in his little chest that he can’t fully understand or articulate. He just sits limply in Patton’s arms and cries himself out, crying every tear he refused to let his classmates or his teachers or his brothers see him cry.

“It’s okay, baby. Cry all you need to. You’re gonna be okay. Daddy and Papa and Virgil and Remy and Roman will keep you safe. We love you so, so much.” Patton rocks him slightly and rubs Remus’s back, periodically pressing kisses to his hair.

Patton keeps uttering reassurances as he carefully scoots backward and grabs a napkin from the holder on the kitchen table; he sets down the dishcloth and carefully stuffs the napkin into his nose with one hand as he keeps holding on to Remus with the other, the boy having calmed down to watch the whole process. “See? It’s okay. Daddy’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

Remus shudders as he breathes, his little body still trembling with emotion as he stares up at Patton, eyes wide and wet and cheeks flushed.

Patton leans over and looks Remus in the eyes. “You okay?” Patton asks quietly, placing a quick peck on Remus’s nose that makes the boy go cross-eyed.

The little one considers for a moment. “N-no.” Remus stutters out, gripping on to Patton’s polo like a lifeline.

“That’s okay. Thank you for being honest with me. What do you want to do now?”

Remus shrugs mutely, unusual for the boy, but...most of this scenario is new for Remus. Honesty and vulnerability are something they’re still working on with the twins, particularly Remus, just one of a handful of carry overs from their first foster home.

Patton taps his chin thoughtfully. “We can...go find Roman and say we’re sorry?”

Remus wrinkles his nose at that; his eyes water again.

“Mmm maybe too soon. We can...go help Remy with his homework?”

Remus quirks a brow at him, perplexed. “I can’t do 9th grade homework.”

“Mmm me either. I’m too old. We can...go see Papa in Daddy and Papa’s room? Papa can hug you, too, if you want.”

Remus considers for a moment, and then he nods.

“Okay, let’s go.” Patton helps push Remus up and then stands himself, moving to go up the stairs when a little hand pulls on the back of his shirt; Remus is staring at him shyly from beneath his bangs. “What’s up?”

“Can you carry me?”

“Carry you?” Patton smiles and turns, bending to Remus’s eye level. “You’ve never wanted me to carry you before.”

“But you carry Roman all the time.”

“Because he asks to be carried all the time.” Patton laughs and holds out his arms. “I never said I wouldn’t carry you, buddy; I’m just a little surprised.” Remus immediately wraps his arms around his father’s neck, and Patton presses a kiss to his head as he straightens, adjusting his hold to this unfamiliar body.

Remus mumbles something as they move toward the stairs.

“What’s that, bud?”

“You never called me ‘buddy’ or ‘bud’ or ‘baby’ or any of those names, either, like you do with Virgil and Roman and Remy.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to. I called you ‘baby’ once, and you got mad and said you weren’t a baby.”

“Because I’m not!....But you’re not really calling me a baby, right?”

“Right, I’m saying you’re my baby. That I want to love you and protect you and carry you.”

“Oh. That’s okay, then, I guess.”

“I’m glad, but don’t be afraid to tell me when you don’t like something, okay? Remember how we talked about being honest a little while ago?

“Yeah.”

“I want you to be honest with me.” Patton pushes open the door to his bedroom, revealing Logan lounging on their bed with a book on his lap. “And you were very honest today, and I’m very proud of you for that. You did a good job of telling me how you were sad and mad and angry.” Patton sits on the bed and looks to Logan with tears brimming, his husband returning a loving if not confused gaze. “You can always tell me and Papa about however you feel, okay?”

“Yes, Remus.” Remus looks over at Logan shyly, seeming to realize his emotional state for the first time. “You can always tell Daddy or me. We love you, Little Nova.” Logan sets aside his book, and Remus takes the invitation, wiggling out of Patton’s hold to sit on his Papa’s lap.

A tear spills over, and Patton quickly swipes it away. Logan meets his gaze, sympathy burning in his eyes, and he opens his arm for Patton to settle in with them. Remus settles easily against Logan’s chest, instantly limp and calm in Logan’s steady presence, and Patton feels a sharp pang in his heart knowing now that he had missed out on growing with his son, that Remus felt so rejected by him. He breathes deeply, trying to stave off a breakdown, and Logan rubs his arm soothingly which only makes him want to cry more.

“I love you, Remus.” Patton whispers.

“I know, Daddy. You said that already.” Remus whispers back, his voice light and airy as exhaustion takes hold of him.

Patton settles back just as their door quietly swings inward. Remy stands in the doorway with Roman in his arms, Virgil lurking quietly in the hall behind them.

“Roman wanted to see you. And Papa.”

The aforementioned boy rubs at his swollen eyes, and Patton’s heart aches. If only he could comfort all of his babies when and how and where they needed to be. Patton sits up and pats the empty space on their bed, gesturing for all of their boys to join in the family cuddle pile. Remy hands Roman over to Patton, and the boy snuggles into his father’s hold, resting his head on Patton’s shoulder as Patton runs a hand up and down his son’s spine. Remy stretches and settles himself at the foot of the bed, his head resting in a crooked elbow as he feigns casualty, but his gaze constantly shifts between his Dad, Papa, and younger brothers.

“Rem, it’s okay, baby.” Patton’s brow creases at the moisture in Remy’s eyes, but that’s a conversation for later, without the prying eyes and ears of his brothers. “Take off the thinking cap for now. Virge,” Patton smiles gently at his oldest son, sulking in the doorway and clearly exhausted from playing baby wrangler after a full day of school. “Touch or no touch?”

“...Some is okay.” Virgil pushes off of the doorframe and crosses to Patton’s side of the bed; Patton sits up with Roman and crosses his legs, and Virgil curls up with his head resting near Patton’s knee. Patton runs a hand through his hair, keeping Roman close with the other.

“Look at us. Like a sitcom family. We’re basically the Brady Bunch,” Remy quips, discreetly slipping on his signature sunglasses.

Patton would definitely talk to him later.

“Something like that.” Virgil sighs and closes his eyes, just letting himself breathe and trying to slow his pounding heart.

“I love it. I love this.” Patton smiles at each of his boys in turn. “I love each and every one of you.” Patton catches Remus’s half-lidded backward glance and gives him a smile and a wink. Seeming satisfied, Remus settles back against Logan, discreetly eyeing Roman in Patton’s arms.

“Hey, so not to ruin the moment.” Remy speaks up from his spot. “But why do you have a napkin stuck up your nose, Dad?”

“I was wondering the same thing.” Virgil pipes up.

“I was, too.” Logan mumbles from his chin’s resting place atop Remus’s head.

“What happened, Daddy?” Roman whispers against his neck, eyes fluttering closed as Patton rubs small circles between his shoulder blades.

“Daddy got a nasty bloody nose.” Remus declares with a yawn, traces of his typical self slowly returning. “There was blood just gushing everywhere.”

Three pairs of eyes turn to meet him incredulously, begging him to continue the story where Remus left off, but Patton just laughs quietly.

“....It’s a long story for another time.” Patton shrugs, meeting each curious gaze in turn. “It was worth it, though.” He meets Remus’s last, holding on for a few moments to let his words sink in. “I had to lose a little blood for a little healing to start, but I’m gonna be okay. We are gonna be okay.”

“Dramatic, but okay. Nosebleeds suck.” Remy cuts in, and Virgil pushes a weak kick in his direction. “And speaking of, no bullshitting, how did you get it?”

“Language, young man!” Remus lectures with a comically lowered voice, wagging a weak finger in his older brother’s general direction before turning onto his side and snuggling into his father for a pre-dinner nap.

“I’m following Remus’s lead.” Patton chuckles softly and carefully lays back with Roman, adjusting both of them before closing his eyes. A couple of snorts sound off when Virgil lets out an indignant grunt at having lost Patton’s hand in his hair, but Patton smiles when he feels his oldest shift and rest his head on his father’s thigh. “All of my heart in one bed.” Patton murmurs with a contented sigh.

“I sure hope so, otherwise you’d die.”

“Remus.” Three sighs and one breathy laugh usher the room into silence as the family relishes in a rare moment of peace, squabbles quietly forgiven and tensions quietly forgotten as they relax and heal together.

For the time being.

20 minutes later, Remus hears the mail truck approach and hurls himself off of the bed, nearly tripping as he runs down the stairs to show the mail carrier his impression of Reagan in The Exorcist. (No one knows how he found out about it; they all hate horror movies. Except for Remus, of course.)

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, MINI! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HIEROPHANT with the faceclaim of ANNA SHAFFER. Wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow. Reading this through from start to finish, and sipping at my coffee -- I felt genuinely at peace. I knew right from the start you pinned down The Hierophant’s character, right from the very first sentence: “When you are brought into this world, a screaming and writhing ball of fury, your mother wails over and over: “I’m burning. I’m burning. I’m burning.”” Boom. Immediately hooked, no hesitation, no doubt. What followed was an in-depth dissection of human anger and rage and what happens when you let a pot boil over. I am fully prepared to let Kithri burn all of Tyrholm down when the time is right. In fact, I welcome the flames.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC INFORMATION:

Name: Hey there! I go by Mini. Pronouns: She/Her/Hers. Age: I am 24! Timezone/Activity Level: I live in New York, so my time zone is EST. I work full time, but my hours are steady and I have evenings/weekends free. One of the things that excites me about this group is the promise of it being writing-heavy, and so in order to produce quality replies I would say that I will certainly be able to get posts up a few days during the week. I am also almost always at least mobile on Discord, and I am really committed to character development — I am frequently around to talk plotting or headcanons. Overall, I just intend to be an active presence! Anything Else: Nope!

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION:

Skeleton: The Hierophant. Name: Kithri Barwin (Pronunciation: ki as in “kiss,” -three, bar-win) Faceclaim: I did send in the message asking after a couple different possible FCs for this character, and I’d say of those that were approved, Anna Shaffer and Jodie Comer are my preferred FCs. I struggle to choose between the two, but I would say that Anna is my first choice, and Jodie is my second. When it comes to Anna Shaffer, I think that her look fits the vibe of the character in a big way. Generally, I almost feel like she fits into the world you’ve created better. I really love her and think she would suit the role nicely, my only hold up for her is that she looks so nice in all of her Witcher resources, and I’d like to have a FC that has range within their resources. But, I can also easily see her fitting the image I have in my head for the character. I’d have to boost her age a bit, probably 3 years — putting the character again at around 31. The thing that I like about Jodie, particularly in The White Princess (which would probably be the source I’d largely draw on for gifs), is that she does an excellent job of portraying this barely-contained rage in her face that I think translates very well to this role. Again, I’d have to boost up her age a bit for the appropriate range — I’d say I’d probably still play the character at around age 31, so 4 years older than Jodie. Really, I’d be happy with either one of them — whoever you see as being more of a fit! Age: 31 Details:

The first line of the skeleton, “you consider the day you celebrate your thirtieth year alive a victory over everything else,” immediately hooked me. What I get from this character is that every moment they live and breathe is something that they view as something that ought to be worthy of awe and admiration; and yet they are met with nothing more than a passing interest, and treated by many as a party trick. They are gifted and captivating, until they are no longer interesting to the people of the court. I also see the “arrogance” perceived in this character as being a huge coping mechanism — what choice do they have but to be proud of their power and the fact that they are living when no one else will recognize it? How can they not be proud, when they feel in their blood and bones that there is so much more power in them than is “appropriate” to display? And what is the point of this power, and the inevitable total consumption that it brings with it, if not to use it? Why do they have to look at their ever-growing scarification, and feel time ticking, if they receive nothing in return? I think for this character, the final straw was the utter dismissal of THE EMPEROR when they asked for the chance to fight at Koldam and show their true power. This was the final sign that neither Septimus nor his son would ever view them as having any more value than being court entertainment. Tyrholm and its King have given them nothing. And if they will not allow this character to embrace their power, then they will burn for it.

On a personal note, I can say that what really draws me to this character is a huge opportunity to play outside of my comfort zone and love doing it. I LOVE fantasy/medieval-type groups, and I tend to gravitate towards noble-class characters, or characters who are political animals. (I am a classic Margaery Tyrell applicant, basically.) But I am so in love with a character who is not only not invested in politics, but seems to almost entirely disregard it as being nothing more than a burden. I also love that they appear to increasingly wear their heart on their sleeve, and both emote and vocalize their disdain — I can only imagine what trouble they might find themselves in because of it. Furthermore, I can only imagine what trouble they might want to create.

And lastly, I did some research into THE HIEROPHANT tarot card. I am very interested in the idea of this card being the counterpart to THE HIGH PRIESTESS, which I’ll discuss further in the plot ideas section. The Hierophant traditionally represents traditional values and institutions, spiritual wisdom, and conformity. I view this character as being a clear representation of the card’s reversal, which represents personal beliefs, freedom, and challenging the status quo.  

BACKGROUND:

Below is Kithri’s backstory. This is my first attempt at writing second person POV for a bio, but I wanted to keep in the style of the skeleton!

i. ignition.

When you are brought into this world, a screaming and writhing ball of fury, your mother wails over and over: “I’m burning. I’m burning. I’m burning.” When you are brought to her breast to suckle, she shrieks and pushes you away and claims “it hurts.”  

Your mother cries for four days until her voice deadens to silence, and her teary eyes go unseeing. The midwives explain to your father that childbed sickness took her, and that it was the fever that burned her, but he does not believe them. He explains precisely two things to the women: one, that you are not his child, and two, that you murdered his wife. On the first, he is unquestioningly right. You do not carry his features, nor do you particularly look like your now-dead mother. Your face belongs to another man — who, your not-father does not know. It only matters that the memory of his wife has been tarnished, and the only piece of her that he might go on to have has not even done him the kindness of bearing her eyes or smile. On the second, the truth is complicated. You were unborn and your mother lived, then you came into the world and she died. Without you, she may have lived on. But is that murder? Your not-father assures you that it is.

He raises you, because he fears and loves the Undying God and knows that you must be his burden to achieve a blissful afterlife. He gives you his surname, even though to do so pains him. He allows you to call him father, even though he cringes every time you say it in your tiny, childish voice. You do all that you can to persuade him to love you, but it is all for naught. You are bad, and there is nothing you can do to be good. It becomes easier to lean into being bad, because then he at least has a reason to look at you. You are loud because it is the only way to avoid being ignored. You whine and cry and begin to throw tantrums until your not-father threatens to throttle you, or to toss your small body into the fireplace that you tend to gravitate to so often; as if it is the comforting skirts of an ever-absent matronly figure. It does not stop you. You beg to be seen, and will take whatever punishment comes with it.

One day, you are so angry and cry so much that it has no choice but to pour out of you: fire leaks from your burning fingertips and crawls up your throat from the black despair of your gut. For the first time, you see that your father does not simply hate you — he fears you. When it happens three more times — the fire finally unleashing itself from your mouth on the last occasion — you can hear your not-father crying to the Undying God for mercy as you pretend to sleep. Despite the tight squeeze of your eyes, you can feel the way the embers from the nearby fireplace pull towards you with something like a magnetic force  — inching closer and closer,  as if to give your fingers a soothing lick.

You are six years old when your father saddles the horse and tells you that the two of you will be going on a trip — a long journey from your home in Koldam to a place called Tyrholm that you know nothing about. You are misguidedly excited. The ride is long and arduous, but you enjoy the forced embrace of your father’s arms around you while you sit in front of him on the horse’s saddle. He mutters often how hot your skin is, but the comments rush over your small head. He brings you to a city much larger than the home you came from, and takes you to an inn where the people do not know you and give you ignorant, kind smiles. He whispers to the husband and wife who own the inn while you eat a hot meal, and later chastises you for your nosiness when you ask him what they spoke about. As you are drifting off to sleep, you think you hear your father remark with a sense of uncharacteristic pleasure: “we are a long way from home.”

When you wake the next morning, your not-father is gone.

ii. blaze.

Your father’s abandonment causes a tantrum unlike any you have had before, and in your grief you nearly burn down the inn that he has left you to. The woman who runs the now-damaged property coughs smoke from her lungs as she grabs you by your wild hair and promises to make you regret what you’ve done. Her husband is more empathetic, and wrestles you from the murderous woman’s arms as he attempts to soothe his wife: “she’ll be dead before long, sweetling — do not test the Undying God’s mercy by killing her yourself!”

The wife yells more at the husband, and the husband tries again to calm his wife, but all you hear is that you are dying, and the revelation leaves you feeling chilled for the first time in your life. With fear coursing through your veins, you run from the couple. You run even as the innkeeper attempts to take some of the gold coins your father had paid him to toss at your feet. You run even as the innkeeper’s wife screams for the guard. You run until exhaustion claims you, and you sleep that night in a cramped alleyway amongst the muck.

When you wake, you realize that you are truly alone. You do not know the way back to Koldam, and even if you did, you cannot simply walk back. You have no coin with which to purchase passage back to your home — and even if you did, you know with a too-mature sense of realism that nothing awaits you there. You are as good as an orphan, though perhaps that has been the case since the moment your mother breathed her last breath.

You survive on the streets in spite of the stink of death that clings to your skin. You steal to eat when the charity of strangers fails you, and sleep under porches and in hidden shadows. There are brief instances when merciful strangers allow you to sleep amongst their livestock, and even briefer occasions when a bleeding heart takes you under their roof for an evening. No one will hold on to you for long once they have an inkling of what you are. Slowly, you learn what that is. The inferni are the stuff of childhood nightmares, and now you are more horror than girl. For a long time, you strive to ignore the feeling of fire under your skin. For a long time, you wait to die. Despite this, you continue to live.

When the fire inside of you can no longer be denied, and when you are no longer convinced that every day you will die tomorrow, you start to play with the magic — just a little bit, and just to see. You watch as fire dances on your fingertips, and flows from your lips. You feel the way glowing torches and roaring fireplaces call out to you. Slowly, carefully, you find that you can bend the flames to your whim. You sense the innate control you have over the fire, even despite the cautious voice that whispers it controls you.

Over time, dying begins to feel an awful lot like growing power.

iii. wildfire.

You become the topic of whispers in Tyrholm, and you cannot deny that you like it. They whisper that you ought to be dead by now, and they whisper that you could burn a stable and all its horseflesh without blinking an eye. In all your years in the foreign city that has reluctantly become home, you have caused outright destruction only a handful of times, and nearly always by accident. There are few over the years who have cared enough to know your name, and your tendency to hide in plain sight means that you have evaded the notice of the guard.

You have never destroyed a stable with your burning hands, but when you hear the rumor, you know that you assuredly could. But what is true does not matter to the mundane civilians, who view your magic as something that can never be tamed. You have always craved attention, and you endeavor to feed off of their fear if it is all they will allow, but it does not taste nearly so sweet as the awe and reverence you not-so-secretly hope for. You think that if you could only show them all what mastery you have over the fire that flows from your body, they might realign themselves accordingly. Just as you did with yourself, you can slowly show them what you can do, and gradually reveal your power. Beyond the fears of conflagration, there is a beauty to what you can do; your very existence is something to behold, if they would only look your way.

If you cannot convince them to be wonderstruck by what you are capable of, you do not know what other options you have. You are uneducated and without a trade; too short-tempered to be a serving wench and too proud to be a whore. If they cannot see your beauty, whatever time you have left will comprise much of how you have lived so far: a street urchin on the brink of starvation, equal parts hungry and angry. Your very survival depends on a change of their hearts. You know that in order for them to be awed by you, you must act as if you are awed by yourself.

This forced arrogance is your downfall.

You bring too much attention to yourself too quickly, and the guardsmen that the innkeeper once threatened you with as a child finally arrive, albeit nearly twenty years later. You suspect at first that you will be brought to the cells and charged with disobeying the confusing laws on magic set forth by Septimus, but instead you are brought to Castle Tyrholm. Bizarrely, you are told that you will be brought before the King. You assume that this must be because he wants to deliver the punishment to you himself; to make an example out of you in front of his court. You expect to be thrust onto your knees before his throne, and instead find yourself ushered into the reception hall sometime after the King and his nobleblooded guests have eaten their fill. The occupants, Septimus included, stare at you. You stare back. A miserable beat passes, and then the King demands:

“Entertain us, mage.”

You waver for a moment, unsure of what to do, but decide ultimately that if your eternal fate is to die, you would rather do so showing them all some small piece of what you are capable of. You don’t approach the extent of your capabilities, but you allow a fraction of your true power to escape in a pretty dance of flames that causes gasps to erupt amongst the blue-blooded guests. When you tire yourself, you expect to see condemnation on the faces that surround you. The sound of applause is foreign, and you unabashedly revel in it.

You are offered a position at court that evening, and you do not hesitate in taking it. A part of you knows that it is not an offer, but a demand  — you are just too clouded by the heady haze of appreciation to mull over the consequences of that difference.

iv. inferno.

Six years elapse at the King’s court, and you have long-since known that it is not the hub of reverence you had hoped it could be. Not for your kind. Regretfully, it is not even a place where you feel at all accepted or appreciated for who you are. You are not exactly feared by the nobles who occupy the court, but it is not because what you are and what you are capable of does not frighten them. They view you as something wild that the King has broken; a dog on a very tight leash that does tricks for food and shelter. Their laughter is sometimes uncomfortable as they watch you perform your magic in the court, but they are nonetheless comfortable enough to laugh at all. Their applause is sometimes stilted when it is too clear that you are angry as you put on your little show, but they clap when Septimus claps anyway.

You would not dare bite the hand that feeds.

For all the scars that mar your body — the mark of death on your skin over and over again — you are still alive, which seems to impress nearly no one. The only magic that amazes is the work of the necromancers: they give the miracle of life, whereas the miracle of your life resonates with none but you. You are desperate to prove that you are so much more than the other inferni who have come before you, but you have no platform beyond court jester with which to do it. You feel an untapped power swirl in your gut. You grit your teeth and try — unsuccessfully — to ignore it.

When the King’s son prepares to lead the fight against Koldam, you ask — beg, really — for the chance to travel with him. You have no love for the son of Septimus, but you think it may be your only opportunity to show the full extent of your capabilities. Selfishly, secretly, you also have some desire to have revenge against the place where you were born. If your not-father is not dead, then he is old — but you nonetheless dream of him wearing a poor man’s armor while riding atop that same horse he’d taken you to Tyrholm on, burning in your flames.

When you are categorically denied and encouraged to return to your courtly duties, you understand that you will never be seen as you wish to be. You will never be on the same playing grounds as the Court Necromancer, who commands the respect of Septimus himself. There is no more hope to grasp at — there is nothing salvageable in the King’s court. Him and his kind will bid you to be their clown until your fire burns you from the inside out, and you finally die: a legend amongst inferni, and yet not at all remembered by those who beheld you.

At last, you realize the undeniable truth about what must be done. You decide then that if you have to burn up entertaining the nobles, you think it is only fair that they should burn too. For those who are left behind in the wake of your flames, you think your smoldering ghost will tell them the truth they have all so earnestly ignored —

—  a mage is not to be underestimated; an inferni least of all.

PLOT IDEAS:

The first four points I have listed are not so much general plotting ideas as they are specific expansions on the character connections the Hierophant has, with some general ideas I have about how I might develop that dynamic over the course of gameplay. The second four points I have are more general plot concepts that I would be happy to explore with whomever. I am also totally down for  doubling up — that is to say, any of the specific character connections can also fulfill the general plotting ideas.

THE HIEROPHANT AND THE HIGH PRIESTESS: As mentioned above, something that grabbed my interest in reading about the hierophant tarot card was the fact that it is the natural companion of the high priestess. Taking from the skeleton, I imagine that part of the reason Kithri finds necromancers uncomfortable to be around is because they are difficult to read, whereas she is expressive almost to the point of her own detriment. I also imagine that Kithri would experience a profound jealousy towards necromancers, given that they receive not just respect, but reverence. Given the role the High Priestess serves in the court, I believe that she would be the ultimate representation of everything that Kithri resents. I think challenging Kithri’s perception of what necromancers are and what the specific motivations of the High Priestess really are presents a good opportunity for character development. Depending on the route chosen by a prospective HP player, I can see Kithri finding herself manipulated into fighting the inevitable battle fully on the priestess’s terms, or perhaps finding an unexpected mentor. I also think this dynamic will put Kithri on an interesting journey into learning more about necromancers in general, and potentially finding some common ground through their shared — albeit differently expressed — magical capabilities. THE COURT JESTERS: After reading through the sample application for The Star, I immediately thought that Armel could have a really interesting dynamic with Kithri — and much to my excitement, Hierophant was included on the Star’s connections! I think that Kithri is really desperate for some sign of no-strings-attached kindness, or even a basic acceptance of who she is. Despite that desperation, she is heavily guarded and has a wall of defensive arrogance that would certainly shut people like Armel out. I think it’s interesting that the two essentially occupy the same position at court, and despite their different circumstances and upbringings, they’ve arrived at similar emotions and motivations when it comes to Septimus. I think it would be interesting to see Kithri start to learn trust and friendship — I think she could really benefit from having a confidante, especially as whispers of revolution spread. TO KOLDAM, WITH LOVE: I imagine that Kithri’s motivation for knowing what happened in Koldam is incredibly personally motivated. It was her home once, and though there isn’t anything about it that she looks back on fondly, there is nonetheless a lingering connection there. Although her prime motivation for coming along with the Emperor was having the opportunity to display her full abilities outside of the suffocating confines of the court, I think she also wanted an opportunity to have some revenge against her birthplace, which she likely wholly associates with “rejection.” I think the dissonance between the way the victory has been perceived and discussed by soldiers and the evident difference in the Emperor has clearly caught Kithri’s attention, and she feels as though she is owed some information on what really occurred in Koldam. I think this desire to know has the potential to push Kithri out of her typical tendency to be subjugated by the ruling class and brood. Seeing her in a position to gain the confidence to demand answers, even from a Prince, could certainly alter the way she is perceived by the nobles who view her as a trained monkey. THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY: I found it very interesting that despite the fact Kithri and The Fool are on a similar side politically, the character connection situates them as having more of an antagonistic dynamic. I would love to explore Kithri’s feelings on being treated by The Fool as some kind of threat to the order they have established at court — I almost think that rather than cowing her into submission, it might empower her to know that someone recognizes just what all she is capable of. I think that as an overarching plot, this character interaction could be a great way to demonstrate that just because there are people who want Septimus gone, it does not mean that they are all allied or have the same ultimate end goal. I think this character interaction would provide a great opportunity to further develop what Kithri really wants to happen in Tyrholm. Will she stay committed to the idea of burning down the throne room, and the noble class with it? Or will she be swayed into falling into a political agenda? POLITICAL PET: As Kithri interacts with other revolters, I think it would be interesting to explore how she fits in with their political agendas. Kithri is not a politician, and I think she does not put much stock into what comes after Septimus is no more. Personally, I think this lack of foresight is not her being short-sighted — she just knows that the chances of her living long enough to see what happens after she shows Tyrholm what she’s capable of are minimal. Why should she care about what happens after she’s dead and gone? She squarely falls into the burn it all down camp, which differs from many of the characters who seem more motivated to find a suitable candidate to replace Septimus. Will Kithri pose a problem as the plot develops, and a coup is planned? Or is there a possibility that one of the revolters can convince her that acting in accordance with their plans will also give her the justice that she seeks? I’d love to play it out. LOW BREEDS FROM LOWTOWN: After being abandoned by her father, Kithri spent her life prior to joining the court in the streets of Lowtown. I’d love the chance to further develop Kithri’s history in Tyrholm through interactions with other characters who have come from this humbler background as compared to the noble characters in the group. I imagine that Kithri would feel more of a natural kinship with people from Lowtown as compared to the noble class, though she ultimately has still felt rejected by and large. Individuals from Lowtown would be more likely to see a less harsh version of Kithri. Because she defines herself so wholly by the fact that she is an inferni, I think it could be cool to explore a more human side to her. BEAUTY IN HORROR: I would really love to explore the dynamics that Kithri has with the other inferni present at the court. I found it interesting that in the skeleton, it ends with: “you’ll prove you are not a hound to be leashed — no mage is. You’re a powerhouse, and they won’t forget it.” This to me suggests that Kithri is not simply disgusted with her own treatment at the court, but is overall angry by the way mages have been treated by Septimus. Despite the fact that she may not be on the same side as the other inferni at court, I nonetheless imagine that there might be some commonality amongst the handful of them present that is worth exploring. Do they avoid one another? Do they have respect for one another? Do they feel at all like they can confide in one another? Kithri wants some kind of acceptance or validation, and so I think she might be open to fostering relationships with others who might understand what it is to be inferni — even if the other inferni might not have her best intentions at heart. HONEY & WILDFIRE ARE BOTH THE COLOR OF GOLD: As a final plot point, I would love to explore some opportunity for Kithri to show kindness or general soft-heartedness. So much of her is consumed in anger and rage, but I think she is still capable of acts of tenderness and empathy. Beyond that, I think she still desires some kind of a connection. Her life has been defined by her early abandonment, and I think it would be great for her long-term character development to have interactions where her rough exterior is gradually broken through. Whether this be through a romantic encounter or intimate friendship is to be decided by plotting, and I would absolutely love either!

CHARACTER DEATH: If it makes sense plot-wise, and given the caveat that you would ask first, I’ll say that I’m willing to have Kithri killed off!

WRITING SAMPLE:

***I do acknowledge that depending on what FCs other applicants may use, Kithri may not be the oldest inferni in the group — but based off the age suggestions set for the inferni skeletons, and for the purposes of the writing sample, I’m writing as if she is the eldest inferni at court. I hope that is okay!***

For all the profound hatred Kithri had built up in her heart towards King Septimus and his court of tittering noble fools, there was always a blip during her little performance where the utter loathing  she had towards the King and his retinue briefly slipped away. In the moments immediately preceding her entry into the reception hall, she seethed with barely-contained rage: she was not a trained dog, and by the Undying God, she would not do their little dance for them again. Kithri would pace before the large ornamental doors, grit her teeth and clench her fists, and glower at anyone who dared to meet her gaze. Just before she was escorted into the rowdy room by an apprehensive guard, she would allow herself the fantasy of lighting the hall ablaze, and settle herself with the knowledge that she would make good on the reverie one day. As she stepped inside the hall, the candles which lit the spacious area all suddenly extinguished; and the air filled with the scent of smoke and the gasps of her audience.

It was in that darkness she’d created where a shift occurred in Kithri: the rage did not disappear, but instead retreated to the recesses of her consciousness whilst the forefront became consumed by the fire she worked to conjure. A mind which was usually overwrought by powerful emotion and nonstop thinking became hyper-focused on the flames that leapt from her hands and bent to her whim; and for the duration of her performance she allowed herself the momentary pleasure of reveling in what she could do. With what was just a fraction of her true power, she could amaze any and all who were lucky enough to be seated in the room — their delighted murmurs and shocked exclamations were not lost on Kithri’s ears, even as the crackling flames glowed purple-blue with extreme heat. She was reminded of a time when she believed that all it would take to earn love was to prove that there was beauty in her abilities.

The rancor never stayed away for very long.

When her display of magic ended — which did not so much reach a natural conclusion, but instead finished when Septimus opted to cut it off with a sudden burst of clapping — the mage was thrust back immediately to her bitter reality. The momentary empowerment fled, and she was left with only her hatred and resentments, which clung to her skin like a plague. On some nights, in the moments after she re-lit the candles that gave light to the hall, she found herself staring at the occupants of the room: perplexed to find that they looked discomforted by her presence, when she had been so sure that they had been enamored by her only moments earlier. On others, they continued with polite applause even after she had finished, but the return of her own disgust made it impossible to enjoy the noise. No matter their reaction, she almost always exited the hall with some immediacy following the show of magic — she could not bear to linger around Septimus and his ilk any longer than was strictly necessary.

With a stiff and perfunctory bow, the mage had started to make her way towards the doors from whence she’d came when one of the King’s perfumed courtiers leaned over towards him and remarked: “your mage looks terribly old for an inferni — I thought that they all died before reaching adulthood.”

Kithri could not see the King smirk from her vantage, but she was certain that she could hear it in his voice as he spoke. She paused before the doors, glaring at the wood as if it were responsible for her continued presence in the reception hall, rather than the King who spoke at her back.

“Most die young — mine is a rarity. She is not without her own damage, unfortunately...they do all destroy themselves in the end. Mage, come back here. Show us the scars you’ve collected.”

A chill ran down Kithri’s spine at the request, and she felt her stomach sink as she slowly turned on her heel and made her way back into the heart of the room. Coming to a halt in the middle of the space, she uttered in a tone too icy to be appropriate: “they are covered by my clothing, Your Grace.”

Guffawing, the King waved a dismissive hand at her, and bid: “undo the damn buttons, girl!” Septimus looked about at his retinue, and commented with a sneer: “talented with the flames, this one is, but a bit soft in the head.”

Despite the King’s command to partially undress and display the consequences of her craft, Kithri did nothing for a long moment. She did not trust her hands to move from her sides without flames erupting from her palms and consuming the King — and she was momentarily unable to convince herself of any strong reasoning as to why that was a poor idea. Her wandering eyes caught sight of Septimus’s son seated nearby his father, and she remembered. The young heir sought, for some reason, to cut himself in his father’s image — she would be dead on his orders only moments after Septimus burned. Her death may have been an inevitability, but Kithri refused to die on anything less than her own terms. When she at last unleashed her power, it would not just be Septimus who suffered for it.

Only after repeating an internal chant of in due time in due time in due time did she at last allow her trembling fingers to unclasp the buttons which cinched her sleeves taught against her skin. Pushing up the fabric, Kithri revealed her forearms. The flesh was mottled with scarring: some marks were white and smoothed over with age, while others were raised with an angry-red newness. Kithri could feel the heavy thrum of her heart in her chest as she saw courtiers lean up from their seats to have a better view of her destroyed skin, and inhaled sharply through her nose when the King callously demanded: “I want to see the neck — undo those buttons as well.”

Burning fingers mechanically moved towards her neck, and the forced expression of indifference on Kithri’s face began to tip towards a more telling anger as she pulled apart the fabric concealing her neck. Not unlike her arms, the mage’s neck was similarly covered in scars at all different stages of healing — some were still tender to the touch, so much so that she visibly grimaced as she turned her head and agitated the healing tissue. Similar to the oohs and aahs the mage had earned with her performance, the occupants of the hall ogled her disfigurement with equal intrigue. Kithri endured the forced humiliation for what felt like an eternity before she found that she could trust herself enough to speak, and lifted her eyes to meet the King’s gaze. In her peripheral, she could see the necromancer lingering close by Septimus — she knew that the ancient woman had been watching just as closely as all the others in the room, though Kithri suspected it was not her scars that interested the discomforting woman. She hoped against hope that the elder woman thought the same thing she did: all of this should be burnt to rubble.

“If that is all, Your Grace — might I be excused to my chambers?”

Seeming to have lost interest in his pet, Septimus grunted his affirmative response. Kithri all but ran from the room, and when the heavy doors shut behind her she allowed her expression to melt into one of complete and utter contempt. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bard — Armel — looking at her. Whatever his expression carried, be it amusement or empathy, she took it to be a mockery.

“Go on, then,” she hissed. “Have a look! And dream something horrible about it tonight.”  

ANYTHING ELSE:

Here is a mock blog for Kithri. I’ve filled it with some inspirational posts that fit my understanding of the character. I also have headcanons and a playlist below.

i. headcanons. One of the only creatures in Castle Tyrholm that Kithri shows any outright affection to is Nuria, a nasty tabby cat that serves as a ratter in her quarters within the castle. The cat is missing an ear and is otherwise scarred from numerous fights with other felines and animals within the keep, and has a tendency to hiss and scratch most who come near it. Nuria is sweet with Kithri, which may be because the two are kindred spirits. Kithri uses a gentle hand with the cat, and feeds her table scraps she brings back from the dining hall. As a result of the frequent use of her magic, Kithri often has a smokey, scorched scent clinging to her. Her hair is frizzled at the ends from the extreme heat it is often near, and the majority of her clothes are singed around the wrists. Speaking of her clothing, Kithri often wears dresses and other garments that are long-sleeved and have a high neck. She is not ashamed of the scars she bears — or at least, if someone were to ask her if she was, she would vehemently deny it — but she does not believe that the effect of her magic on her body is anyone else’s business. Kithri has accepted that her scarring is an inevitability of her magic, but she does still suffer some pain from their development across her body. She dutifully applies healing salves to the afflicted areas nightly. She knows that it will not make the marks disappear, but it does afford her some relief from the tenderness and discomfort that comes with newly developed burns and scars. Not unlike the chill that comes from having a sunburn, Kithri often feels cooler than most despite the fact that her skin is warm — or even hot — to the touch. Kithri struggles with sleeping at night, which is largely attributed to racing thoughts and powerful emotions that she struggles to control. Because of this, she has a tendency to sleep during the day time — not for extended periods of time, but she is good for a daily nap or two. It helps that she has a limited interest in interacting with others at the court: she has no qualms with spending her day sleeping rather than out and about. Kithri identifies as bisexual, and has had sexual encounters with both men and women. Sex for Kithri is largely transactional: it is more about lust and release than emotional connection. There are very few sexual memories she looks back on with any sense of nostalgia or affection.

ii. playlist.

I have a playlist posted on Kithri’s mockblog, but I figured I would also just list out the tracks/relevant lyrics here for ease: Prologue: Firebird Suite: The Infernal Dance – Igor Stravinsky. i. Motherless Children – Steve Miller Band (Father do the best he can when the mother is gone, but there’s so many things he just don’t understand) ii. Arsonist’s Lullaby – Hozier (When I was a child, I'd sit for hours, staring into open flame. Something in it had a power, could barely tear my eyes away) iii. Bravado – Lorde (I’m faking glory, lick my lips toss my hair) iv. My blood – Ellie Goulding (And God knows I’m not dying but I breathe now) v. Let the Flames Begin – Paramore (I give it all my oxygen, to let the flames begin) vi. Already Dead – The Pretty Reckless (I’m cold, already dead) vii. Seven Devils – Florence and The Machine (I don’t want your money, I don’t want your crowd, see I have to burn your kingdom down) viii. The Wild One – Suzi Quatro (I’m a red-hot fox, I can take the knocks, I’m a hammer from hell. Honey, can’t you tell?) ix. Destruction – Joywave (Oh my god, there’s no one who can set me right. I’ve been sent to torch the palace down in broad daylight) x. Whore of Babylon – Zheani (I’m naked, dancing frustrated, the brighter flame has you faded) Epilogue: Concerto L’estate RV 315 (The Four Seasons: Summer.) – Antonio Vivaldi.

Thank you so much for reading through all of this. I appreciate your time, and hope for the opportunity to take part in what I think will be a really amazing group! If you opt for another applicant, I would love any feedback you have!

p.s. - i’m just gonna leave this display of Kithri Energy here:

[verdigrisprowl]

Oct 25 Blurr’s Horror Stream - Monster AU - Halloweentown

The monster AU streams continue! Every time shadow Prowl tried to peek out from under/behind a couch something was either shining on him or batting at him so he stayed hidden the entire night. Which was sad, because a shadow monster was the villain and Prowl wanted to see more.

Welcome to the 'speedxstealer' room. The chat room has been cleared by the moderator. S p i r a: (( we're listening to my music ooc so just pretend it's something interesting lol )) Timeline: a small figure pokes their helm into the room "hello?" Timeline: ((lol)) Wing: (TINY SCREAM?!) Ravage: *The sulkiest sphinx returns. This time, however, they do not bother guarding the door. They simply brush the other being aside and turn into a tight loaf* Prowl: ((u say that like Good Vibrations isn't exciting)) Timeline: the small praxian goes into the room as well sitting on a couch Prowl: ((eyyyy timeline, tonight is Monster AU night. we're all playing monster versions of our characters. if u want u can make up a monster version of timeline real quick)) Timeline: (ah I didn't know that I have a demon verstion of timeline that eats sparks from deals so I can do that) Wing: ((oh... well then)) Prowl: ((they'll be in good company. last time everyone ate souls or whole people)) Timeline: ((that had to have been interesting)) Timeline: the  small demon stretches out humming lounging in her spot Bevel: ((Bevel only ate part of that guy and you can't prove it. Timeline: ((pft)) Ravage: *He'd be looking down his nose if he had one.* =What are YOU.= Timeline: ((my doxie is so cute ahh best doggo)) Timeline: "demon, what are you? a kitty cat?~" she asked snickering Ravage: =Sphinx.= *Haughty wing flick.* =I ask the questions here.= Timeline: "sure you do" the demon bobbed their helm to the music Ravage: *Such disrespect. How he misses the fear-soaked days of old sometimes.* Tarantulas changed their nickname to Tara. Timeline: "so if you are a sphinx, doesn't that mean you like riddles?" demons weren't known for respect Tara: (( what the heck LS... bevel and i are not the only two ppl here, i KNOW it Timeline: (hi) Bevel: ((LS plz Ravage: =I like telling them, yes.= S p i r a: / pardon the lights. They're going to flicker and dim down and brighten and flicker. And all the screens too.  / Timeline: the demon looks around "ghost? glitch? who knows" Timeline: (my demanding fur child is on my lap being demanding) Ravage: *Growls and tries to pull even more into himself. If he sees ONE fish bone...* S p i r a: / ghost it is, indeed. A very angry one/ Timeline: she snickered at the growling "oh come on whats the mood for?" S p i r a: / Just claws up from the ground. / Timeline: "now that is an entrence" S p i r a: [[ whenever yall are ready. Lemme know. ]] Tara: *what an awful time for the incubus to slink in, seems spira isn't in a terribly good mood* Prowl: *rides in on Tara's shadow* S p i r a: / growls at Timeline / What are YOU looking at? S p i r a: / hovers with smokey bits cascading off of him. / Timeline: "nothing much, not really catching my optic but nice entrence though" the demon tilts her helm S p i r a: Then look somewhere else before I throw glass in your eyes. /shoots straight up for his lamp and just morphs around it/ Ravage: *If there's going to be flying glass, he's going to move away from the demon and re-loaf.* Mindwipe: /just being a big dragon bat creature hanging upside down from the ceiling/ Timeline: she rolls her optics and looks away still lounging Mindwipe: Hey /waves a wing claw/ Prowl: *there are strangers here tonight. detaches from Tara's shadow to slide invisibly to join the shadows under a couch.* Ravage: *Opens his mouth to ask the dragon-bat a riddle before remembering he's not doing the host any favors tonight. Shuts it again.* Tara: *apparently has no sense of self preservation, goes straight for the lamp and curls a finger around one of spira's smoke tendrils* Timeline: time waves a clawed servo not really paying attention S p i r a: / glances at Ravage/ Not playing riddle me this, kitty kitty? What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? S p i r a: / twists tendril a little and glances at Tara / Hmm. Hi. /grump. Glances at Mindwipe/ ... / lifts claw to wave smokey-like / S p i r a: [[ Y'all ready? ]] Ravage: =Saving them for those who can appreciate them.= Pause. =Or meals.= Ravage: ((ya)) Prowl: ((ye)) S p i r a: Well, someone is still sour. /huffs / Tara: (( yep! Mindwipe: ((Yep!)) Timeline: (yep) S p i r a: [[ kay i set up ]] Mindwipe: Many interesting things in here I see... /He's trying to decide who would be the tastiest/ Timeline: "bet I can solve the riddle" S p i r a: [[ hi welcome to the surprise. ]] S p i r a: [[ we're watching some grade A classic shiit. ]] Bevel: ((omg omg omg Ravage: *Stares at the demon. ... Fine. Give him a moment to think.* Tara: (( omg ive never seen this Timeline: (awesome) Timeline: the demon goes silent watching the film S p i r a: / glancing down at Tara. Curious, but a moody ghost. / Prowl: *slinks to the front edge of the couch to peer out from underneath at the movie.* Bevel changed their nickname to Bevel. Mindwipe: ((good choice!)) S p i r a: / waves a little at Prowl / S p i r a: [[ I want that shirt, tbh. That yellow one. ]] Tara: *tries to tug one of the larger smoke tendrils, then licks it when spira's not looking, totally his way of saying hello* Ravage: =Ancient am I, always rushing but never going anywhere, roaring without throat or lungs.= Prowl: *... slinks out a shadowy little arm to wave back. it shrivels in the light.* Timeline changed their nickname to Timeline. S p i r a: / looks like one of those cartoons where the outlines get all squiggly and then settle back into flat lines / Timeline: (dog pressed keys closed out of the stream) Ravage: ((wb.)) Prowl: ((If she's 13 years old, this is her 14th halloween.)) Ravage: *Ravage cranes his head to try and get a glimpse of Bevel's palm.* Timeline: (yeah but movies aren't normally known for numbers) Bevel: *she spreads her hands out, nothing there* Fireball: -quite literally a fireball here. A will-o'-wisp to be exact- S p i r a: / the lick made him go squiggly. Glances at/ Yes, hello. Ravage: *Hm. Movies don't teach as much as they say they do, it seems.* Prowl: *... would think this is stereotyping of ghosts, but honestly hasn't met a ghost that isn't some shade of depressed.* Tara: *hums happily* It's lovely to see you again, Spira. Ravage: *And it seems the demon hasn't solved the riddle... but he'll leave them uneaten all the same. Sulfur tastes vile.* S p i r a: /exCUSE/ S p i r a: ... Good to see you, too. Fireball: -and in they bob, a bit late and all- Ravage: *Ravage eyes the fireball, tempted to chase it.* Tara: *tries to wrap arms around and scoop up as much of spira as possible* Come, cuddle, dear S p i r a: / shifts a little to better see the movie / Fireball: -don't you dare, sphinx, they'll lead you on a chase and a half- S p i r a: / do it. Chase them / Mindwipe: ... /reaches down to try and poke at Fireball/ Fireball: -bobs out of the way- Prowl: *floating light source. The Worst.* S p i r a: /shuffles down and settles next to Tara's chair. Watching Mindwipe and lookng for Prowl./ Do you need more shadows? Prowl: *shrinks farther under the couch.* Fireball: -oh? what was that? something under the couch? What is it?- Fireball: ((annnnd live chicken in the fridge Timeline: ( ia ma giggling) Fireball: ((wow kid Ravage: ((test)) Prowl: *there is Literally A Floating Source Of Light peering under the couch, Prowl is slinking back away from it.* Bevel: (( test test Bev: ((omg lag plz Bevel: (( teeeeeeeesssssssssssst Bev: ((*pokes ls hard in the face* Prowl: *perks up. shadow creature? there are shadow creatures in the movie?* Timeline: (test) Ravage: *Ravage slinks toward the couch and prepares to bat the fireball* Fireball: -something is moving under the couch, they can see it- Fireball: -and paying no attention to approching sphinx- Prowl: *the moving something under the couch looks like slightly darker darkness* Fireball: ((ls can you not Ravage: *WHACK and possibly a yowl if the fireball is actually hot.* Mindwipe changed their nickname to Mindwipe. Prowl: *although the will-o-wisp probably won't get a good look at it; shadows don't last in direct light.* Fireball: -IS actually mildly hot, and now rolling off along the floor and really NOT happy about it- Ravage: *smacks his paw a few times on the ground to put out any singed bits and curls up to lick it* Prowl: *bolts out from under the couch and hides in a shadow along the back of the couch* Fireball: -is now more of an angry red color, as they bob back up into the air- Prowl: ((i love the cheap glitter on top)) Fireball: ((looks like something from the dollar store Timeline: (i love this) E x s p i r a v i t: [[ any fuccking way. ]] Ravage: *Climbs up the couch and peers over the back. Is the shadow all right there?* Prowl: ((welcome back)) E x s p i r a v i t: [[ Three browsers and it posts on this crappy one. ]] Bevel: (( is my name still bevel :') Bevel: (( omfg Ravage: ((yep)) Fireball: ((LS you piece of craaaaap Mindwipe: ((Livestream whyyyy)) E x s p i r a v i t: / sulking on the floor. A smokey puddle / Timeline: (my interwebs is ccrapping out ahhh) Prowl: *shadowy silhouette peeks up over the back of the couch to watch* Mindwipe: /reaches down to poke at Prowl now/ Prowl: *ducks back down behind the couch.* Fireball: -oh. Was that who was under the couch?- E x s p i r a v i t: [[ i love this guy ]] Ravage: *Swats the poking claw from the dragon bat* Mindwipe: /dangling both wing arms and grinning, trying to reach Prowl, he's having fun here/ Prowl: *welp. hiding behind the couch for the rest of the night it is, then.* Mindwipe: Hello kitty! /turns his attention to Ravage now/ Bevel changed their nickname to livestream is a turd. Fireball: -bobs further up into the air- livestream is a turd: (( heh did it fix my name now Ravage: ((sorta)) Bev: ((yes, hello, livestream is a turd Mindwipe: ((LOL it did)) Ravage: *Ravage hisses and compresses himself into the couch. Try to stop one of the guests from being shrivelled up and get burned and poked for your troubles. Tsk.* Ravage: *One of these days he's going to find a nice warm desert and just stay there.* Prowl: *... wonders what's happening in the movie.* Fireball: -hey, they didn't know they were hurting a guest. It was an accident- E x s p i r a v i t: / groans like a ghost does / Is this a /love/ story? livestream is a turd changed their nickname to IncuTara. Prowl: ((ive never seen this before but the mayor is definitely the villain)) E x s p i r a v i t: [[ omg you've never seen halloweentown?? ]] Prowl: ((no)) E x s p i r a v i t: [ THIS MOVIE MADE My CHILDHOOD COMPLETE ]] E x s p i r a v i t: [[ sort of. Like the kim possible movie. ]] E x s p i r a v i t: [[ this movie is so derpy and campy, but i love it. ]] Mindwipe: ((It's like the definition of campy, but it's such a childhood classic, like Hocus Pocus!)) Timeline: (interwebs crapping out to much gonna head) Fireball: ((g'night then? Prowl: ((Are we supposed to detest the mother with every fiber of our being?)) IncuTara: (( the weiner dude... Fireball: ((don't know if we are, but I kinda do E x s p i r a v i t: [[ I dislike her for the moment ]] E x s p i r a v i t: [[ i like miss reynolds better ]] Ravage: ((Don't know if we're supposed to but - yeah)) Fireball: -bouncing bob, what is this on screen?- IncuTara: *nevermind tara, he'd stepped out of the room for a moment but slips back in now and sprawls near spira* Prowl: ((the fvck gives her the right to deliberately cut off her children from one of their potential futures just because she herself prefers a certain culture)) Prowl: ((especially when one of said children has been desperate to be part of that culture)) Prowl: ((screw this mom)) E x s p i r a v i t: / sprawls out like a puddle of smoke by Tara / Fireball: ((whoops Fireball: ((LS STOP THAT IncuTara: *can smoke be cuddled, tara's gonna try* Prowl: *hears talk about shadow things and can't even watch.* E x s p i r a v i t: */ E x s p i r a v i t: / it can be sort of . IncuTara: *tryna make up for leaving spira behind last time* Prowl: *well. stretches out along the shadow on the back of the couch and tries to get comfortable.* Fireball: -they're now impersonating a light fixture on the ceiling- E x s p i r a v i t: / huffs a little / Mindwipe: /watching the movie/ Humans do such strange things... E x s p i r a v i t: / wrapping smoke tendrils around Tara's arm / Prowl: *... the light shining from the bottom of the couch is gone. sinks back down and underneath.* E x s p i r a v i t: [[ i love this ghost ]] Prowl: *wonders why they didn't just ask for some sweat. they're probably used to helping with spells around town.* Fireball: ((that still looked black as hell Fireball: -mildy excited bobbing again, up by the ceiling- E x s p i r a v i t: / coiling his own smoke tendrils around a claw / Fireball: -what's that, what's that?- Prowl: *ooh. a shadow thing that carries his own shadows around. and corporeal in partial light, too.* Fireball: -oh, a trick! And no treats- Prowl: *brr. never wants to see one of those things in person.* E x s p i r a v i t: That must be a nice town. Fireball: -that was bright! Brighter than them!- Mindwipe: I want to live in the spooky theater... Good place to catch a snack E x s p i r a v i t: That theater looked nice. Fireball: -oh wow! What was that?- Prowl: (("i'm sorry i didn't trust you" fvcker this has nothing to do with trust you chose to cut her off from half her life when she was born)) Fireball: ((and now she choses to change her tune E x s p i r a v i t: I want to live there. /coils up from the ground / E x s p i r a v i t: Seems nice. Prowl: (("oh yeah I forcibly refused to let you even KNOW you could be a witch and cut you off from every opportunity to learn it, but now i'm reserving exclusive privileges to train you as one")) Ravage: =Nothing to eat there.= Ravage: *Streeeeetch.* E x s p i r a v i t: There's nothing to eat HERE, either. Prowl: ((like fvck off you don't deserve that right, let the grandma who was endlessly supportive and wanted to teach her grandkids about the world do it)) Ravage: =You're right.= Prowl: ((like she doesn't even have good justification for cutting off her kids from that world.)) Ravage: *So he'll hop off the couch, shake himself out, and slowly limp toward the exit.* Fireball: -and drops back to the floor. Movie's over- Prowl: ((no "it's too dangerous" or anything. just "meh. *I* like being normal, so I'm never even gonna present them with the option to be otherwise, even if they want it.")) Prowl: *trusts the sphinx not to bat prowl around like a toy. latches onto his shadow to ride out.* E x s p i r a v i t: / swirls up from the ground / Ravage: *Not after the first night. He'll shiver a little, probably won't figure out the shadow is there right away, but will welcome the tagalong once they're noticed.* E x s p i r a v i t: Try not to eat anything on the way out. Fireball: -and zips out of the room. Movie was funny but time to go now. Bye!- E x s p i r a v i t: [[ well idk who is still heere because the stupid chat won't tell me]] Fireball: ((well, I'm heading off, so g'night!