#otherwise he does have both eyes uncovered

[galakianexplosion]

💠Gijinka chaos again💠

Could you believe it only took me 26minutes??? Damn i was FAST. Also this wasnt meant to be anything big or super detailed. I love the expression i gave him. Also idk why im such a big fan of my own creation but im his number 1 fan even tho i made it🤲

Also weirdly enough i decided to put roses everywhere in the bg idk

[easy-there-leftovers]

Magnum Opus (Ch. 1)

When an MIT prodigy on their gap year is contacted by the FBI regarding her potential involvement in a series of murders in Washington D.C., she must now cooperate to uncover how her paintings are mysteriously appearing at the crime scenes.

(Written with Season 1-4 Spencer in mind, but the timeline could be anywhere pre-season 12. No mentions of past cases)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Artist! reader|cw: Canon-typical violence|word count: 2k words

Also on Ao3!!

Series Masterlist

While Aaron Hotchner remained vigilant as he drove the black SUV, the constant flipping of Spencer’s case files seemed to be louder than the car’s air conditioning. 

He had directed Morgan and JJ to touch base at the MPDC, and had Rossi and Prentiss survey the crime scene of Jonathan Edwards; the identity of the previously unknown man in the vacant apartment.

This left him with Reid in the passenger seat to conduct an investigation on their only lead so far. 

From the update Garicia had given them, Y/n L/n was a prodigy a year younger than their very own. Having graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology a year ago, she moved to Capitol Park Plaza and Twins Apartments in Washington D.C., and is currently unemployed. Occasionally selling her paintings out of her unit under an anagram of her name.

 But something bothered him.

And it seems like Reid has picked up on it too.

“Do you think Dr. L/n is the unsub?” The unit chief asks.

Spencer hums before answering.

“While we can’t rule it out just yet, the possibility of her being the unsub is totally unlikely. The thing that’s throwing me off is that everything is too convenient. I mean, why would the unsub use something so publicly personal to them as part of their signature? It’s as if she’s overtly incriminating herself.”

Spencer checks back onto the pictures of the victims, then lifts his head up to look at Hotch to continue.

“Based on the way the victims are modeled, an immense amount of care was put into them. All for the purpose of making them look like the subjects in their paintings. Actually, the fixation on changing the bodies’ posture and keeping them clean is typically done out of remorse. But the added elements, like the placement of the paintings, creates an image of an unsub more on the narcissistic side. By creating two 'artworks,' they're prompting the viewer to decide which version of it they prefer. Mocking the original artist in the process.”

“So the paintings were done before the murder?”

“I have no reason to believe otherwise.”

His unit chief sighs and pulls over to the curb. “Well, we’re about to test that belief.” Spencer hurries to take off his seatbelt as Hotch closes the car door with a thud. 

—------

Hotchner nods at Reid as they find themselves in front of the written address Garcia gave them. He lifts his hand to knock firmly on your door, and waits for a response.

A thud from the other side causes both of them to assess each other before Hotch tells Spencer to stay behind him. Gun in hand until something, or someone, comes running at them.

But instead a muffled, “sorry” is heard right after, which causes him to lower his gun.

The door finally opens a crack to reveal a very tired twenty-something woman, some dark pigment or makeup smudged on their lower eye lines as they rubbed at it. She immediately fixed her posture however at the sight of the unexpected visitors. Eyes wide with concern.

“Dr. L/n, I’m Aaron Hotchner with Dr. Spencer Reid of the FBI.” He highlights his statement by showing his badge. “We’d like to ask you some questions.” 

“Oh, um,” The woman blinks rapidly and shakes their head before immediately saying, “Of course,” with a nod and opening the door wide to let them in.

A quirk that does not go unnoticed by Spencer, who observes how different she looks to her more formal ID photos.

—-----

You let the FBI agents into your apartment, but are now suddenly aware of the state of disarray you left it in last night. Not to mention the state you were in. 

You had just woken up and your brain wasn’t quite all there yet. If you had known you’d have guests over, you would have at least put some of your books and papers back onto their shelves rather than on your floor.

“My, uh—” You start, “Apologies! For the room and the um,”

You inhale deeply and gesture to yourself as you try to find the words before settling on an exasperated, “me.”

“No worries, miss. We don’t really call in advance.” You nod at the older man’s explanation vacantly before coming up with a response.

“Would you like anything to drink ?” You move to your fridge to get water to wake you up, and decide that it would be rude not to offer. The two decline, with the younger more busy observing your living room bookcase than the older one that sat on your couch. 

You notice that something must have interested him as he lingers on certain shelves. That section in particular had prints of dissertations you had been meaning to read, or have already read, in clear folders.

You wonder if he found his work there or something before returning with water for yourself. 

“So what can I help you with?”

“Dr. L/n, are you aware of the current string of murders that have been happening as of this year?” 

You blink rapidly again. The question catches you off guard, but you shake your head. 

“I know it’s a bad habit, and that I should, but I don’t really listen to the news.” Feeling your eyebrows quirk, you rub your hands together slowly. Making direct eye contact with Hotch, before looking at the younger man as he takes out a few papers from the folder he was holding.

“Are you familiar with these paintings then?”

 Now that piques your interest.

Dr. Spencer Reid, who sees a flicker of recognition in your eyes when it meets his own, presents various pictures of your artworks in what seems to be dimly lit areas. They’re a little dirty, but otherwise you would recognize them as your own.

 The thought instantly made something in your stomach turn.

“I–” You start, but shake your head subtly again. Unsure of what to say and how to say it next as you stare at the images. “am.” You turn your head to look back up at Spencer who nods thoughtfully.

“Recently, your paintings have been showing up at crime scenes in the D.C. area. Specifically, victims of an organized unsub that seems to be targeting people who accurately resemble the subjects in your work.” If your eyes weren’t wide enough, that bit of information had certainly opened them wider than ever before as you stared up at him.

“That, combined with the concentrated traces of 5-durastalene found in the pigments of the paint used, have led us to suspect your involvement in these murders, Dr. L/n.” You heavily feel the blink of your eyelids and rest your fingers on them to keep them closed before looking back at the two of them.

“I’m sorry,” you smile incredulously. “So you’re telling me that not only has Lunacite been identified on the paintings you’ve found, but that people who look like the personas in my private works actually exist and have since been–” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Murdered?”

“Well that shouldn’t come as a surprise, they were your muses, weren’t they? You were commissioned?” Hotch is the one who asks and you shake your head with wide eyes.

“I didn’t even know these people existed. They were just– faces I came up with mentally with the visual library I’ve amassed over the years. I don’t really make it a habit to paint from reference. Like I said, they were private.”

“And the chemical?” You thought for a moment before your lips thinned into a line.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Agent Hotchner, but I haven’t touched anything regarding that compound in over a year. I’ve only ever worked on it in my lab on university grounds, and I don’t make a habit of bringing work home.” You scratch the hairs near the base of your hairline.

“More importantly, hundreds of students and lecturers have access to my work, my research, and my lab space. Not to mention the people who might have heard my work through academic conferences.”

You move away from your position near the living room coffee table Spencer placed the pictures on, but picked up one before you did and shook your head.

“Besides, these paintings? No one should know about them, let alone have them. I didn't sell these.” That made Spencer’s brows furrow as he looked at the other photos still on the table.

“Do you have proof?” You stay silent, but then motion for them to follow you to the door of your room.

“Well, for one, I’m sure you’d understand that most people don’t make copies of their artwork traditionally, right? Expenditure of time, work materials, effort, human error, and many other variables. It just isn’t practical nor convenient.” You ramble and look back at them to continue.

“I also don’t make the majority of my art known online. Only a good 30% makes its way to my portfolio, and the others are never to be seen by anyone else.”

“They're studies. They’re made with cheap paints, they’re subjectively not appropriate for commercial use and-–I just wouldn’t be comfortable charging anyone for them.” 

They follow you across the room, and make themselves apparent behind you.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“So if my ‘commissioned paintings’ are currently on D.C. crime scenes, and possibly in MPDC evidence,” You open the door to reveal your studio to the two agents. 

Various paint tubes, books, and brushes littered the floor, table, and boxes. A lone easel was situated near your apartment window, with an unfinished painting on it. And various canvasses, not displayed, but instead kept on tall shelves. Only the differently colored edges indicated that they were ever used.

What surprised them both however, were the same paintings in the pictures staring back at them.

 Some on the walls, some on the floor, but what was most important was that they were in this room, they were clean, and there were more of them.

You turn to look back at them with shaky eyes. “So why are they still here?”

—----

Hotch and Reid stood outside of your apartment door as you cleaned yourself up. Hotch made the call to bring you to the precinct for further investigation and for your own safety, but allowed you to freshen up before leaving with them. Not that he told you about the safety part.

You were hard to read, given your erratic reactions. It unnerved him, but he supposes it comes with the territory of being gifted. You also offered to bring in your paintings and a few other materials for forensics to test, to which while he was suspicious of, was not ungrateful for.

He made a quick call to Garcia to check attendants of any academic conferences you’ve spoken at and if anyone had been more interested than the others. When he was finished, he looked to Reid who was crossing his arms and staring at the carpeted hallway before looking back at him.

“She’s uncomfortable.” He stated plainly.

“Reid, most people would be if they just found out their hobby had been getting people killed.” Hotch said as he kept looking at his phone for anything new from the others.

“There’s certainly that, but I meant her title. ‘Doctor.’” He said in quotes, and Hotch raises his eyebrow at that but allows him to continue anyway with a curt nod.

“I mean, every time we’ve addressed her with her title, she blinks faster. Did you know it’s a common attribute that’s directly related to an increase in heart rate, which is why they’re usually correlated with lying? Initially, you would think that she faked her experience to get those credentials, but given her educational background, she must have not been given an opportunity to be referred to as such for a long time. Also, the gap year she took could’ve only exacerbated any insecurities she might have about her intellectual achievements. Plus, the lack of organization in her own home, while not wildly uncommon amongst people her age, could suggest the sincerity of her belief about compartmentalizing her work and her private life.”

“And what does that tell you?”

As Spencer was supposed to answer, a thud much like the one they heard before they entered earlier was heard again, followed by a similarly muffled, ‘sorry.’

He turns to look back at Hotch again with a small, victorious smile.

“That she doesn’t fit the profile.”

——-

taglist: @littlewolfieposts

[lovelykhaleesiii]

The Wolf & the Stray Girl. Chapter #1 The Grieving.

PAIRING: Werewolf!Aegon ii Targaryen x fem!Reader [Little Red Riding Hood AU]

WORDS: 1942.

SUMMARY: Nestled in the outskirts of a desolate village, it was known that the woods were a dark, fearsome place not to be ventured. Yet something enchanting lived amongst its shadows, you were certain. And some may call it your bold willingness or others, your naive curiosity, would ultimately uncover the truth.

WARNINGS: mentions of stalker tendencies, mentions of murder/intrusion.

A/N - apologies for the long wait, I took some time away from writing. I sometimes feel my place in this fandom is non-existent. I realise now, that it does not matter. I came here to write for characters I love... that is what I intend to do. thank you for your patience, to those that continue to support me x

The long, treacherous road that laid ahead of you, the further you would venture into the dark, enchanted woods was not one to be taken lightly. Although, far from harm's way so long as you remained stagnant in your pathway: not befallen to whatever temptations lurked in the shadows beyond the winding, cobblestoned thoroughfare. Your final destination was intended to be a quick visit to your beloved grandmother, with the hopeful, pleasant exchange of goods. Her cinnamon cookies were divine, especially when and almost always freshly baked.

Despite having travelled this familiar road many times before, both with the thorough guidance of your father and your now presumed late elder sister, it never ceased to feel eerie. A nauseating sensation in the deepest pit of your stomach would always churn and writhe with suspicions that curious, watchful eyes lingered over your every move, your every trail. A terrible suspicion that some of these eyes intended to harm you.

The harrowing, cold tone of your father’s stern words had been etched into your malleable mind, like a carving in stone.

“Stay on that path, girl… Or we have lost you already.”

Your father had grown much old and weary of late, since your elder sister had been declared missing. He scouted relentlessly day and night himself, into the woods. Only to return empty handed, with proof of his exhausting endeavours saturated across his seldom face. His eyes once so lively that gleamed bright with joy: a man that could once smile with his eyes, now only distraught with the strained look of grief and despair.

It took you countless attempts to persuade him otherwise, to allow you to venture the journey yourself, until he finally agreed, although with great reluctance. He knew you were much more diligent and obedient than your elder, always adhering to orders without the temptation to cross a boundary. Your father trusted you, however he did not trust whatever creatures laid abed in the lush dark green canopy of the woods.

“Stay on the path, Y/N, my dearest… Or else I cannot bear to live a life where I lose you too.”

The luminescent indigo pigment of the petals had immediately caught your attention. Your active eyes would wander with marvel, fleeting from the defined path that laid ahead, to beyond the stretch of woods.

"Ocean tears" You breathlessly whisper, your eyelids widening with intrigue as you lust over the rare sight. Ocean Tears were a sacred commodity to come by so naturally: used for medicinal and curative remedies, your mind immediately soared to the sickly, malnourished state of your father. The toll of his insomnia, poor appetite and overall dejected state had been taxing to his health, since the disappearance of your sister. He was not the once formidable, strong man he had once been in the previous years...

The treasure itself was only a few short paces off the pathway itself. Your mind began to scatter, trying to outweigh the risks against the pros. Despite wearingly trying to convince yourself to stay on path, desperate to strain every brain fibre to obligate your body to adhere to your father's wishes, you unconsciously felt your body pacing forward, reaching the very edge of the elevated path. Your eyes darted from each side of the vast forest vicinity: delicately scanning every inch, crevice and shadow of the engulfing green and wooden shrubbery [with the Ocean Tears being the only source of colour in the portrait].

"Forgive me, Father," You utter beneath your breath, before taking a careful leap forwards. Now both feet firmly planted on the soft, soiled grown, the earth beneath felt somewhat alleviating. Having spent a few solid hours, with nothing but the rigid, uneven rocky stones beneath your feet, walking uphill and down, this mundane sensation was a relief like no other.

Only a few seconds had need passing, as you slowly began to regain your instinctual senses, realising the daunting extremity of your decision. Without wanting to spare precious seconds more, you hastily pace forward towards the vibrant flower, basking in the alluring scent, as you push aside the straightened flaps of your crimson red hooded cape. Delicately you begin to pluck at the petals, one fallen strand landing into the base of your woven, wooden basket.

Disciplined in your actions, your once whole and lively senses had once again melt away, unaware of a figure creeping up from the shadows.

"It seems someone has lost their way from the path..."

The unthreatening tone was low and husky, and yet its sudden volume shattering the vast, swallowing silence was frightful: dire enough to freeze your entire being in time.

Your fearful eyes met the immediate, still gaze of the strange man: a handsome, ethereal looking one, nonetheless. With moonlight tinged hair, short, silver strands almost blinding in the radiating beams of sunlight, his unfaltering lilac orbs were encapsulating. Conflicted to stare, yet unable to maintain constant contact. Although there was some distance between you both, you could tell he was a few, solid inches taller than yourself, his physicality sturdy, and robust appearing. There was no doubt, if he caught you in his midst, it would be meaningless to fight agains him. He practically oozed might. Although his facial features softened, almost angelic like, the healed yet evident scars slashed across his pale skin, made him look rugged: proof that he was no stranger to brute savagery.

He took a cautious, slow step forward, almost hesitant to, yet determined. In rhythm, you took a step back instinctually, causing him to take no further step closer.

"I wish not to harm you, I only wish to speak to you."

Although the nerves rattled you, his tempting words had somewhat puzzled you.

Who was this stranger? Had he been watching you from afar this entire time? Why the desire to speak?

"And why would I do that? Do you think of me as some naive prey? You are nothing but a stranger to me, what makes you think I will take your word?"

His endearing glare remained fixated on you this entirety, although you struggled to reciprocate, its enticing nature was captivating. His stout chest heaving generously, before exhaling a defeated sigh.

"You have no reason to trust me, Y/N... Although I have been watching you from the distance, since the moment you departed. I know where you sleep, I know where you seek solace... If you think you can wave me off, just know, I will be lingering. Your scent-"

Once more, he takes a solid pace forward, although this time with a dark, menacing tinge in his eyes, as he looms his head down to your eye level. Another pace further, as you try to maintain the distance between, taking a step back, as you firmly grip your basket's carved handle.

"W-What are you? W-Who are you?" You shamelessly stutter, your skin growing cold, sensing a drop in temperature in your body.

"I could smell you from miles away: that intoxicating scent. First hit me, when you first ventured these woods, that year ago. No matter how hard I tried, and I had tried to fight against it, yet I could not bear to ignore it any longer. From the countless sleepless nights, and long days, I had no choice... And seeing you now... You did not disappoint."

"G-Get away from me!" You recklessly shout: your yells could either result in aid working in your favour or against, drawing more unwarranted attention from dark figures. Your head paced backwards and forwards, from where the man stood ahead of you, inching in closer and closer, as you desperately tried to move yourself back to the footpath.

"I am no ordinary man, Y/N. I am Aegon. And you... You have no ordinary fate."

"Do not speak of my name again, fiend! Leave me alone!"

As you hastily turned your back, taking a risky lunge forward, planting your unsteady foot on top the solid ground of the pathway. You had only turned momentarily, and yet as you resumed your stance once more, you were faced with only the empty, glooming green of the forest, and its chilling silence. A few solid minutes had passed, your attention spanning across the shrubbery, inspecting every inch, for an ounce of proof that this Aegon, remained close by.

Although your body felt rigid and tense, sensing the hot blood coursing through your vessels. Your dense breathing felt heavy and restricting across your chest, as you tried to regain control.

Without a second to spare, you resumed your stroll, although with greater speed. Your mind fled to the echoing, harrowing voice of your father's words, and the guilt began to stir. You rebelled against his advice and the repercussions were close to fatal.

As your mind pondered over Aegon's words, your body carrying itself with each heavy step: your only intent was to make it in one piece...

The sight was unlike anything you had ever seen... The dark, dried traces of blood smeared across the walls and homily furniture, the broken pieces of wood and stained glass scattered messily across the floor, each careful step, an audible crunch beneath your weight. All details pointed to an intrusion, you had conceded. Your broken voice hopelessly calling out for your grandmother, as you slowly paced across the hallway, eyes peering across the vicinity for a remote sign of her. And yet, only silence had responded.

The hot tears swelling in your eyes had blurred your vision, as you took in each inch and crevice of the household. The day had been a harrowing one indeed, and to be met with this tragic fate, did no justice to ease your mind. As you crept towards the end of the hall, the familiar door to your grandmother's cosy chamber slightly remained unlock, only the disappearing sunlight lurking through. As you steadily pushed over the door, creaking in its hinges as though the house had not been vacant and unkept for years, you were met with a horrifying sight indeed. A pungent, horrid smell wafted through your nostrils, as you captured a glimpse of her unmoving, blood curdling body across the flood board. Suddenly, your vision had darkened into an abyss, the sight disappeared.

"Y/N-" The call of your name was unforeseen, yet its voice sounded eerily familiar. The hand that was stationed over covering your eyes, was sudden yet brought some relief, sparing you the gruesome sight. Your hand clutched at your heart, above your tender breast, as you felt your body being handled, gently guided to turn towards the direction of the voice.

"A-Aegon-" Eyes widening in disbelief as the hand released its clutch over your eyesight: you felt numb towards his presence as the over-looming sense of grief drowned you, otherwise. Your father had suffered enough anguish thus far, you could not bear to bring him the burden of more sorrowful news.

What has become of your family's fate? Had some curse plagued your family? Had some ill-minded person wished nothing more than to bestow such affliction unto you all?

"Y/N, dearest- You need to come with me, right now-"

With no caution to his actions, his warm hands, its raw texture rough felt against your soft palms, as he held your cold peripherals tightly. Reassurance oozed from him, as his large hand further reached over, tenderly brushing aside a fallen, misplaced strand of hair from your face, before his thumb caressed the fallen tear away.

You knew better than to show an ounce of trust towards Aegon, and yet, you felt somewhat protected in his presence.

"Y/N, please-"

taglist [for this series] - @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @heavenly1927 @snowprincesa1 @trifoliumviridi @fulltacoparadise @qyburnsghost

general taglist - @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @aegonslawyer

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for divider - @/firefly-graphics

[m4ng0-gh0st]

Request: Do you think you could do a smut with the weasley twins where the reader picks on gay students to hides their feelings and the twins teach him a lesson or something??? 😀😀😀😀

Character as bot for this:

Weasley twins x Male reader

Content: Gay amab male identifying reader. There is no sex. Not really a lot of homophobic remarks otherwise y/n would sound like a elementary school bully. Sub reader, Dom twins.

It was lunch at Hogwarts and you were picking on the well known gay kid (Not going into detail otherwise we will have some dhar man ass lines)

The twins spotted you from across the room and they decided to put a stop to this so they approach you.

Fred slings his arm over your shoulder. “Hey, they’re L/N, mind if we have a word?” He asks already pulling you away anyways without you answering yet.

George and Fred drag you to an empty classroom. George slams the door behind you and they lock the door so you can’t escape. They turn to you, crossing their arms in disappointment.

"What the hell you guys" You say with a frown. This wasn't ideal... Being in alone in a room with the two guys who you've worked so hard to repress your feelings for.

“Oh don’t act like you don’t know why we brought you in here.” George says, raising an eyebrow as he speaks. They weren’t too impressed with you.

“So, tell us,” Fred says, he reaches over and grabs you by the chin forcibly making you look at him. “Why do you find it so entertaining to make fun of gay students?”

"Don't touch me" You snap as you move your face away from his hand. “Because I can” You most definitely weren’t going to tell

them the reason why you made fun of those kids. You’ve worked too hard for it all to crumble now.

“So you bully them because you can?” Fred repeats, crossing his arms again. “That’s messed up you know that?”

“Yes.” George agrees with Fred. “Why do you have to make fun of them just because they’re different?”

“Are you scared?” Fred taunts with an amused smirk. “Are you scared that you might be gay and that’s why you feel the need to make fun of them so no one would ever think something like that about you?”

“As if.” You say with a scoff… but the look in your eyes and your body language gave you a way…

“Yeah?” George snickers and walks over to you, forcing your chin up as Fred did earlier. “You sure you’re not?” He asks, his body almost pressed against yours. He leans in and is just a few centimeters away from your face. “Are you sure you’re not, Y/N?” He smirks, knowing full well you probably had a lot of internalized homophobia due to possibly being gay yourself.

“Me? Gay? t-that’d impossible” You say trying to hold your ground… Trying so hard to keep them from uncovering your secret… but the way you stuttered, the slight blush on your face and the way your breath hitched at the feeling of how close George was gave you away…

“Mmm…” George hums quietly, bringing his other hand up to you face and tilting your head. “You’re a really bad liar…” He whispers. Both of the twins look down at you amused.

Fred leans against a desk, crossing his arms. “Tell me…” He starts, tilting his head slightly. “How does it feel to bully someone for something you are yourself?”

“I’m not gay! I’m not some fucking fairy” You snap, you’ve worked so hard and now it was call crumbling before you…

George scoffs at that. “Really? You’re not, huh?” He taunts once again, moving a hand down and placing it under your shirt, his cold hand against your skin.

“You have so much internalized homophobia that you feel the need to bully others in the closet?” Fred asks, raising an eyebrow.

A soft little involuntary whine escapes you at George’s hand… Fuck…. All the work for nothing… All thanks to the two men who caused this…

“Yeah? Whining are you?” George asks, a small, amused smile forming on his lips. “You like that when it’s us, huh?” He mutters quietly.

Fred smirks at this, watching your reaction. He was getting some more clarification on why exactly you bullied gay students. He crosses his arms once again after pushing himself off of the table and walked over to you.

“Stop…” You mumble out… You were still trying so hard to stop your defense from crumbling apart…

“You want us to stop?” George asks and Fred leans in and places small kisses all over your neck.

“Are you sure you want us to stop?” Fred whispers against your skin between butterfly kisses.

Your eyes close and your brows furrow… You open your mouth to say something but you can’t form the right words… A whimper escapes you instead…

“You’re absolutely adorable when you’re all flustered.” Fred says, biting down on your neck to leave a hickey.

George leans in and places his lips on yours for a moment, which shuts you up rather quickly when you’re stunned with disbelief and confusion.

It takes a few seconds but soon you kiss back… You’ve been denying yourself of this for too long and now you couldn’t take it anymore...

George smiles in the kiss when you kissed back and moves one of his hands into your hair. Fred keeps leaving hickey after hickey all over your neck. He could see some small red blush creeping into your neck too and that gave him a sense of satisfaction.

A string of whines and whimpers escapes you... Fuck did this feel too good to be real...

“God..you sound so pathetic…” Fred whispers in your ear and George says as he pulls away from the kiss.

Fred moves his hands to your waist, pulling you closer to him against his body as George keeps his hand in your hair, holding you gently, yet firm.

An embarrassing moan escapes you from being called pathetic... He was right... You were... But no one could exactly blame you right now... You've been repressing so many feelings and emotions and now you didn't have to... It was weird and new...

“You should see yourself…” George muttered, running a hand through your hair and pulling at the strands lightly. “You can’t help but moan at me calling you pathetic…” He muttered, his breath against your ear.

George pulls away shortly after and allows Fred to start leaving bite marks on your collarbone. Leaving dark, red and purple hickeys all over your neck for everyone to see...

“You’re so pathetic.” George repeats with a snicker when you moan. “You try so hard to hide your homosexuality with bullying others and look at you.” He says, running his cold hand down your back.

George bites down on the side of your neck, making sure to leave a mark on your skin while he moves his hands under your shirt gently brushing his fingers against your stomach.

They loved how wrecked you were because of them, yet all they had done so far was touch you...

“You’re being so good for us.” George praises quietly in your ear. “So good…” He pulls his hands away from your body and instead grabs your chin, making you look him in the eyes. “You like how we’re touching you?” He asks, looking down at you with a smirk.

“Good boy.” George whispers with a small smirk. He leans down, wrapping one hand around your throat gently and leans in giving you a slow kisses. He could feel your body trembling under his touch. He could hear your breathing pick up.

Fred keeps his hands on your waist, a smirk on his own lips. He loves seeing you like this, how much of a mess you were so easily...

The bell then suddenly rings signifying the end of lunch and that this session had to end...

George groans and pulls away from the kiss, leaning his forehead on yours for a moment. “Damn…” he muttered under a breath.

Fred sighs and steps back, sliding his hand off of your waist. “I suppose we’ll have to figure out what to do from here…” He mutters, a slight smirk on his lips. “For now though…” He cups your cheek and places a small kiss on your lips.

"Been wanting to do that but George just had to hog your lips" Fred says making George chuckle

(Hey guys sorry that this is more lime than smut but I had no idea how I was going to get there and actually write it well. Sorry it took me so long to get this out I've been sorta busy. If you've sent me a request and I haven't gotten to it I will soon since it's almost summer break.)

[the-heart-of-a-monster]

PUTTING THE NEW PAGE INTO THIS ASK AS WELL FOR GHE FIRST TIME BECAUSE THERE IS A LOT TO TALK ABOUT WITH THIS PAGE SO PLEASE BEAR WITH ME HERE

Ima start with the first panel because there’s already so much in that one single panel and it is gonna drive me nuts!

So first up, we have “Secret” Chaotix meeting room. Yes, this place is apparently being kept a secret from the public eye. This could be due to the Chaotix having to handle a bunch of super deep and disturbing cases that, if allowed to spill out into the public, would be catastrophic! Not in the sense that it would destroy the world or anything like that, but it’d certainly ruin their reputation as detectives! Don’t detectives irl have these kinds of cases too…? Or maybe I’m thinking too hard on this and it’s just the place they meet with their friends whenever Eggman does something stupid? Who knows.

I do know though that it looks beautiful and it looks like they’re actually in a room which, as an amateur artist myself, can only dream of achieving!! It looks so cool! I just… I adore your backgrounds and I can tell you put a lot of love and effort into making them, so please give yourself a pat on the back!

And maybe I’m reading too much into a single panel.

But that’s not all that we get to see!!! (No I’m not talking about the Chaotix even though I REALLY wanna talk about the Chaotix cuz they deserve more love and I’m so glad they’re here THANK YOUUUUUUUU) YEAH THAT’S RIGHT, SONIC IS FULLY CONVERTED TO DARK GAIA SONIC LET’S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Well not fully converted, but we can clearly see that it’s taking a huge toll on his body! Not only are the markings now visible on him during the day, but it also seems to be siphoning his energy…? Kind of…? I mean, Sonic has been out cold since “Killing” Omega, and usually he wouldn’t be so out of it otherwise. And I can see a little tiny X over his Gaia eye, so… I’m not too sure, but what I am sure of is that this is BAD for Sonic. The poor guy is gonna have to deal with not only being corrupted during the day, but also at night, and that cannot be good for his psyche. It was bad enough when he had to be in a completely new body for just the nighttime, but now it’s for both day and night in its own way, and… Gosh, this is gonna be torture for Sonic once he wakes up.

Okay now onto the actually lore panels because there is so much to uncover but BEFORE WE GET INTO THE LORE PARTS OF ALL THAT LEMME JUST POINT OUT HOW PISSED SHADOW LOOKS IN THE SECOND PANEL BRO LOOKS LIKE HE WANTS TO PUNT CHIP INTO THE SUN FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER AND HE IS JUST SO OVERPROTECTIVE OF SONIC IT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY I LOVE THIS ANGSTY EDGY BOY SO MUCH BUT I WANNA KNOW WHAT IS GOING THROUGH HIS HEAD RIGHT NOW WHY IS HE GLARING DAGGERS AT CHIP WHAT DID THIS LITTLE CREECHUR EVEN DO TO YOU SHADZ

Okay back to the lore-

So, im still gonna call Light Gaia as Chip because I still see a cute adorable fluffy fairy in those big brown eyes and I think he deserves a real name. Anyhow, Chip now is aware of him being a literal god. He says he regulates the day and Dark Gaia regulates the night. This kind of makes sense. Chip handles the sun and DG handles the moon. Think Luna and Celestia from MLP. And similar to those two as well, Dark Gaia got out of control like Luna did and created an eternal night. But this doesn’t really explain the planet splitting into a million giant pieces. (Not literally a million) Nor does it explain Chip losing his memory. Chip claims that whenever one of them falls out of line, the other will be there to pull them back together. Does this mean Chip or Dark Gaia have lost their memory before? Have the events of Unleashed happened before? How do they reign the other in?

These questions are probably gonna get answered in the next page lmao what am I doing-

Everything else is kinda sorta spelled out to us which I think is a good thing, since Chip is, in the story, explaining all of this to a group of people who had no idea about any of this for their entire lives. The poor Chaotix just got roped into this, they just want their pay. So with that in mind I don’t know what else to really cover…? Maybe I’ll notice something later on and just start spamming you with questions, who knows. For now I’m SUPER DUPER EXCITED FOR THE NEXT PAGE LET’S GO THIS IS GONNA BE SO FUN CANNOT WAIT FOR NEXT WEEK

hell yeah do look out for the new page on monday :3 i love ur little big analysis its always the highlight of my week to see one

btw this goes out to evecryone but the whole scene has a lot of moments for everyone else than sonic and shadow so we are winning

[aha-chuu]

I have this image in my mind of Wriothesley's trial and it goes like this:

So Wriothesley is like,,, 16. He's fresh out of the hospital and still bandaged up. He's only got one eye uncovered, the other blocked by gauze. He's a little street urchin at this point, alongside just being injured beyond belief, so he's not looking Great™.

And of course, no one even knows enough about him to fact check the name he gave the nurse.

It's not an exciting case and the trial is held first thing in the morning, right after Wriothesley was discharged from the hospital. There's not much of an audience and, of the people who are present, they're tired and grumpy and bored.

Neuvillette lists out the charges: two counts of murder, breaking and entering. He says that Wriothesley was found unconscious in critical condition at the scene of the crime, and the Gardes thought he was another victim at first. While Wriothesley was in hospital, they investigated and proved otherwise. The crowd makes a murmer of noise - if only they'd realised Wriothesley was the murderer right then; there'd be no need to have wasted resources saving his life.

Of course Neuvillette calls for order. Wriothesley is representing himself by his own choice,, how does he plead?

Guilty. Guilty on all counts.

And that's boring. Furina leaves immediately, and most of the small audience follows her in the next few minutes. The ones who stay only stay because they think they'll move onto the next trial quickly, and they hope it will be a more interesting one.

But Neuvillette must finish this one first - he asks Wriothesley for his version of events, which he provides clearly and concisely. How he'd attacked first and then one of the victims drew a knife. He expresses no remorse, but says that he accepts whatever sentence Neuvillette believes is just.

The details don't quite add up. Wriothesley never provided his motive, and the evidence shows that there was no attempt to rob the victims' house. It seems Wriothesley just had some psychopathic urge one day to break into a couple's home and kill them where they stood.

Neuvillette asks after his history; he's some homeless teenager. Well, where are his parents? Dead or gone. Left before Wriothesley could ever know them.

The audience gets a little more sympathetic. They invent this imagine in their minds of Wriothesley's tragic life, leading him to eventually snap and kill in cold blood.

So Neuvillette continues questioning, even though the case is pretty much open and shut. Has Wriothesley been on the streets his entire life? For the last few years. Where was he before that? Foster home. Did he know the victims beforehand? Yes.

And then the motive becomes clear, and Neuvillette asks him to share more. Wriothesley is still young, of course, and desperate. There could be reason to lighten the sentencing. Wriothesley maintains that he should be tried as an adult who fully understood the crime he was committing.

(and it's strange, the audience notices, that Neuvillette is acting more as Wriothesley's Defence than he is as his prosecutor. But Wriothesley himself is more interested in the latter).

Once Wriothesley has explained what his victims put him through, and laid out his reasoning for all to see, the mood shifts. The tiny audience argues among themselves; should this kid be tried at all? It was a vengeful murder, but could it be called self defense? Surely he's not deserving of the full sentence, not after everything that happened to him?

Wriothesley and Neuvillette are both silent for most of the trial, observing the crowd argue among themselves. But no one is really entertained - there's no exciting twists or raucous accusations being thrown around in this case. It's just a sad teenager and his sad life and there's too much nuance to the situation for anyone to really agree on anything.

Eventually Neuvillette has to call for order. Wriothesley is guilty of the crimes, he says. Extenuating circumstances or not, Wriothesley freely admits to having planned out revenge, so this cannot be called self defense. The Oractice has the same verdict, and Wriothesley's only response is to nod at Neuvillette. Some tiny acknowledgement on his blank expression.

Neuvillette chooses the sentence and it's shorter than the technical term. Due to Wriothesley's age and the circumstances surrounding the crime, he's given 15 years instead of 30 to life. Before Wriothesley can argue against his own good, Neuvillette clarifies that this is the most fair punishment.

[jackwolfes]

Wesper with 20 for the kisses ask game?

kisses on a scar (where it doesn't hurt)

CN: past physical abuse, implied sex

In the past two weeks Jesper has learnt many little things living in a Geldstraat mansion. He has learnt that he really rather likes having a private chef, and that he likes the way this chef in particular makes him waffles. He's also learnt that there is a right way to fold your napkin for dinner, a wrong way to dismiss a staff member when they bring up coffee, and that an expensive blanket really does make all the difference. 

Jesper has also learnt that Wylan Van Eck is a fantastic person to live with and love. 

Even though grief has worn them both down around the edges Jesper sees infinite light in his merchling's blue eyes. He hears unfettered joy in his laughter — because Wylan has laughed a lot lately — and savours every soft, lingering kiss. 

He has also learnt that he rather enjoys the other kinds of kisses Wylan gives him. 

Three days after that dreadful day a healer came round, sitting Wylan down and running gifted hands over each battered bruise. Jesper sat with him at his request, not holding his hand but wanting to. He watched each mark vanish, hearing the faint hitch in Wylan's breath as fractured bones knitted back together. Then the healer left them be and Wylan showed Jesper what sort of down payment he wanted to offer. 

Now, Jesper gazes lazily across Wylan's bedroom, still feeling utterly satisfied from the night before. A smile lingers at the corner of his lips as the memories dance across his mind. Wylan is still tucked beneath his arm, breathing easily. The past few weeks have certainly been a learning experience, but Jesper's most recent educational endeavor has been discovering what way Wylan likes to be touched best if they're aiming to make him come. 

Saints, had it been a good night. 

"We can't stay in bed all morning," Wylan murmurs. 

For the past fifteen minutes he's been drawing patterns on Jesper's bare chest with his fingertip. Naked beneath the blankets, the two of them are pressed together against each other. It thrills Jesper, feeling Wylan's bare thighs against his own. The very same thighs he was perched between last night. 

"Mm," Jesper finally replies, trying to force himself to pay attention before he gets distracted and finds his body betraying what he's thinking about. "You sure? I can be plenty convincing, merchling." 

Wylan laughs. He smacks his palm against Jesper's chest lightly, then pulls away. Jesper frowns at him and means nothing by it but joy. He watches Wylan stand, stooping low to snatch up the drawers he allowed Jesper to peel off him last night and tug them back on. He forgoes a shirt, though, meandering across the room to head towards his vanity. 

From the bed, Jesper stares at Wylan's naked back. He is struck suddenly by the fact that he has never actually paid attention to Wylan's body without a shirt on. Until last night they've been sleeping in separate beds. 

There is a scar. 

Wylan has started messing around with some of the lotions on his vanity, head ducked down. It leaves Jesper with a clear view of the scar down the length of his shoulder blade. It is thin and corded, tracking unignorable variation over his pale skin. Jesper hadn't really looked at his back last night when the two of them were naked together, and he hasn't seen much of Wylan naked otherwise. But in this peaceful moment he has a perfect view of Wylan's uncovered skin, and cannot look away from the mark. 

Jesper crawls out of bed, making his way over to Wylan almost cautious. No one can ever describe Jesper as careful, but Wylan is something he wants to take care with. 

"I don't need you distracting me over here," Wylan calls over his shoulder, having spotted Jesper starting to move in the mirror. He catches Jesper's eye in a reflection. There's still a smile in his words, but suddenly all Jesper can imagine is the ache of a boy beaten and bloodied. "Jes?"

He blinks, not having realised just how distracted that train of thought made him or how close he ended up getting. When he looks at Wylan in the mirror again he sees his pale brow furrowed. 

Before Jesper really thinks about it he's lifted his hand and brought his fingertips up to the scar on the back of Wylan's shoulder. Wylan's breath catches, a gunshot in the silence. Jesper freezes. 

With effort, he sees Wylan swallow. He shifts, weight adjusting, but he doesn't edge away from Jesper entirely. His hand stays on Wylan's skin, glancing over the scar. For an eternal second, the two of them are silent. 

Jesper breaks it first. 

"On Vellgeluk," he starts. In the mirror, he sees Wylan shut his eyes. The after-image of regret is obvious on his shut eyelids and it makes Jesper feel awful. It feels like infinite years since that afternoon on Vellgeluk but they both remember the things that were said. The secrets spilled against their holders will. 

Wylan stretches a hand up, brushing his fingers over the back of his shoulder. He can't quite reach it, but brushes against the edge of Jesper's finger. 

"He didn't do it himself," he offers. There is no need to acknowledge who he is. "There was a doctor that told him—" Wylan inhales deeply like the words are fighting him. Jesper wants desperately to tell him he doesn't need to carry on, but he can't bring himself to. Regardless, Wylan presses on. "The doctor said beatings would help. Beltings. He didn't seem to care about folding over the metal. Pain clears the mind, apparently." 

Jesper curses. Wylan's fingers twitch one more time, making Jesper too aware once more about the fact he's still touching something he shouldn't. He goes to jerk away but Wylan moves faster, grabbing for Jesper's hand and keeping it still. He has to stretch his arm backwards over his shoulder to do so but it does what he intends it to. 

"It doesn't hurt anymore. It hasn't hurt in years." His voice is the softest whisper that betrays his vulnerability. Jesper won't say weakness, because Wylan is not weak. He is basalt glass. No acid inside his soul burns him. 

But this kind of vulnerability is entirely different to the vulnerability they showed each other last night. This vulnerability is infinitely scarier. 

Jesper exhales. It makes his breath ghost over the bare expanse of Wylan's shoulder. It ruffles curly red hair and makes the young man shiver. Before he can overthink it Jesper ducks his head and replaces the touch of his fingers with his lips. Wylan gasps, adjusting the hand that had been touching Jesper's finger to brush against the side of his head. Jesper inhales the scent of sweat and lemon soap, leaving his lips on the mark like he can wipe it away.

"Your father is a monster," he finally whispers, lips moving against Wylan's bare skin. Jesper glances up to catch Wylan's eye in the mirror again and sees him smile. 

"Yeah," he says, "but the monsters I'm friends with are far scarier." 

The thought makes Jesper laugh. He wraps his arms around Wylan's waist, hugging him back against his chest and relishing the warmth of him. One more time, Jesper kisses the back of Wylan's neck. 

"Damn straight," he says. "Now, how about we ask your chef to make more of those waffles?" 

[fgfluidity]

mirror | manor (chapter 11)

Summary: After the events of Mirror | Void, a newly-christened Dark has two goals: take revenge on Mark, and, hopefully…

Find the DA.

Pairings: Damien/Dark x DA; Actor x DA (Implied, could be read as gen)

Warnings: none

Tagged: @opprose @volbeast @statictay @otterlyinluv @buc-eebarnes @flerpdederp @mirrorslament @hapikiou (if anyone else would like to be tagged hmu!)

i'm sorry this took almost three years to come out-

find it on ao3 | donate to my kofi

Dark knows the game.

Of course he does— he read the script.

He just expected them to see through it.

Then again... they haven’t seen through anything Mark’s done. They just don’t remember.

He can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.

He sticks to the shadows as they approach, entirely too darling in what amounts to a burglar’s costume, as they wriggle their way inside.

Mark is his own brand of buffoon, and the ‘guards’ he hired match it to the letter, not a drop serious or truly threatening.

(“Sorry I didn’t message you first,” he says, brushing out bits of glass from his hair. “I tried to jam the cell signal and, um… it’s just broken.”)

Imbecile.

Even the dog is there, playing a role. How droll.

Even if she is a very good girl.

All throughout this, he watches for the guard’s radios, for a television screen, for— for anything that he might use to sway the DA, catch their attention without Mark noticing.

If he can just separate them—

The thing is, though, Mark is either ridiculously prepared for his planning, or is completely thoughtless about small, realistic details; throughout the entire museum, no guard has a radio, no wall has a screen.

Not ones that work, anyway— not a connection to anything remotely electromagnetic. Props at best. It’s the least technologically-advanced modern building Dark has been in since…

Well, since he left that manor, but that hardly counts.

The point stands that he’s unable to do much of anything but watch as the DA rolls their eyes and smiles at Mark’s antics, creeps quietly along while the man makes a fool of himself, face set and focused.

He’s seen that look. Pre-trial look. All business.

And they called him too serious all that time ago.

So fondly…

At any rate, their supposed treasure is both easy to get to and utterly unremarkable. A wooden case, carved but hardly special wood, the gem plastic even from his vantage point. A prop, like everything else.

And yet…

Mark lifts the box, and—

This is the end of the script. A successful heist, hightailing it out before they get caught, a seemingly-sincere thanks for help.

But there’s something. Like a little nudge, something like how he feels using the void, how the Earth seems to shift when the Host speaks creation.

The alarm trips.

Mark gives them a choice. Sneak out, or face the guards.

Perhaps... perhaps he overlooked. Perhaps he was given a working script, not the final draft.

Perhaps it’s another of Mark’s machinations.

There was no choice. Why is there a choice?

Why do they get a choice?

It doesn’t matter, really, because the DA picks exactly as he expected they would.

“We have to sneak out, it’s too dangerous, otherwise,” they say, just barely audible over the blaring alarm.

Mark’s face crumbles into a pout. “You’re no fun,” he whines— like a toddler; Dark half expects him to start stomping his feet— but he dutifully uncovers the sewer entrance, grumbling all the way.

The DA just watches, arms crossed. Petty.

They didn’t used to be so petty, but Mark deserves it, if anyone.

Dark very well understands that the entire thing is engineered, a massive staged undertaking to fool the DA and entertain an audience, unseen to his eyes but present all the same.

It doesn’t stop the trip through the sewers any less harrowing, doesn’t prevent him from using his unique position to draw attention away from the DA if ever they come a hair too close to getting caught.

It might be fake, but…

He doesn’t put it past Mark to introduce some very real danger. He’s a method actor, and he’d want his players to follow accordingly for maximum effect.

Dramatic ass.

They follow dutifully behind the entire way through the dark, though— and he notes it with a point of pride, one he chalks up to just how put out Mark seems— with a good amount of non-verbal sass. They cross their arms, roll their eyes, and stubbornly march right along behind Mark.

Not that Mark doesn’t try to get rid of them— oh, he tries to shake them like gum stuck to his shoe, and it’s a thrill to see him huff and grumble when they simply shake their head. He pouts— at several points! So very childish.

Then—

Hm. Unsurprising that the creator of this convoluted mess would whip up some way to surely remove them; if there’s one possible thing they’d listen to above anything else, it’s a worksite safety sign.

Not for lack of effort, though. “I… I really don’t know if we should split up, Mark,” they say, casting an uneasy glance back at the tunnel they just left. “I know it says only one, but if something happens—“

“Nothing’s going to happen! Nothing bad has happened even once!” His bright grin only gets a— astoundingly dry— look in return. It’s nearly impressive that he barrels on, anyway. “It’s for safety, buddy! You’re all about safety— and! We’re synchronized! In five minutes you just follow me over. Or I follow you, whichever.”

Mark gives them a once over, all while grinning, and if Dark wasn’t looking— wasn’t incensed at the familiarity— he wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have cared. Alas.

It’s too… possessive. Too pleased.

He doesn’t need Damien in his head to stoke his rage, it seems, not anymore. The only thing that stops him is what Mark says next.

“You have a choice, sunflower.”

A choice. There it is again, more choices, as if giving them the power to change any of this. Giving them a say.

So they don’t feel trapped.

Aren’t they, though? If Mark wrote everything, created everything, what kind of choice is it?

However…

They glance back at the shadowy tunnel again, frowning, worrying at the sleeves of their top in a too-familiar pattern. If they turn back, they’ll be away from him. How far apart can they both get in five minutes?

How far apart do they need to be for him to intervene?

This is his chance. It may well be the only one he’ll get, and the margin of error is far too slim for his liking— he must get this right. He must say the right thing— and pray they don’t hate or fear him.

Thankfully, time goes a little off-kilter in the Void, or else he’d have to make a very quick plan.

He’ll have to ease them in. See what they could possibly remember from that night, prod what needs prodding. It’s an easy enough parlor trick to conjure up a memory these days.

After that… what could he say?

Damien— he— was never short for words in his past life. As mayor— as councilman, as law student, as debate captain, as his father’s son— he simply had to be good with them, and he was.

Not quite so smoothly charismatic as Mark, not as bombastic and warm as Wil, but— well, he didn’t make mayor through his familial connections, whatever certain parts of his constituency may have believed. He delivered his speeches, his debates, with calm strength, something personable but solid.

Hell, he—

He used to write them for fun. The person— people, really— standing right outside this pocket of Void once teased him.

How are you writing a paper now? Finals are over! Come on, live a little!

Even I don’t want to spend all summer in a library. Won’t you come with me? There are new flowers in the arboretum!

The memory comes unbidden, and throws him off-balance; thankfully, he doesn’t fall out of his incorporeal state or ruin any of his planning.

Such a memory… but how? That’s more of Damien’s—

He hasn’t heard him. Not since that agonizing split when he entered their dream.

Mayhaps they didn’t split.

Mayhaps—

“Well… if you’re sure, Mark,” they sigh, hardly thrilled at the idea. “But it has to be five minutes. If you disappear on me—“

“Relax! It’ll be okay, you’ll see me. Sheesh, you’re so serious.” Mark huffs— then straightens himself. Smiles, even as they turn away, towards Dark. “Yes, alright! You go down that tunnel, I’ll go down this tunnel. If you see anything, and I mean anything, you just turn that sweet little tuchus around and—“

He’s had about enough of that. With hardly more than a thought, he whisks Mark away elsewhere, wherever elsewhere may be, and rolls out his Hall of Memories.

And prays.

They used to pride themself on being unflappable, before, and he can see shades of it, now: their face remains the same, alert but not startled as they take in the paintings, the dust swirling in the beam of their flashlight.

He knew the truth of that, though, and it, too, remains; you need not look at their face for their feelings, but their hands.

Though one holds the flashlight, all ten fingers are in motion— tapping the length of the flashlight, curling and uncurling in their sleeve, the belt loop, the zippers and buttons of their bag. Moving for comfort, perhaps— certainly no expression of joy, as the rest of them is ramrod-straight, stiff with each step.

He longs— longs, what is happening to him— to say something to ease the anxiety, raise the darkness, but he can’t. This is no matter he can explain with soft, comforting words and a pot of tea. His powers aren’t of light at all.

They can, though, reach an electromagnetic signal, and now that they’re alone, he pushes through his thoughts.

Finally, you’re away from him. Aren’t you tired of it?

What?

He’s running you ragged. Don’t you feel like you’re running in circles?

That’s not what he said— not quite, anyway.

They won’t tell you anything. No one seems to question it.

Why can’t he change it?

I know you’re in there. But I thought you’d see through it.

The final painting, of the monster himself, grinning like a fool. It begins to crumble before them both— they step back, fingers tight around both phone and flashlight— and Dark gets a split second of pure dread before—

Before—

My villain. I wrote everything. Even you.

It’s not painful. It’s not— it’s not even close to the searing split of the dreamworld, nothing to the pain in his stolen body, nuts compared to his shattered leg almost a century ago. It doesn’t hurt at all.

He almost wishes it did.

“Same snake, different skin,” he muses, and something inside him quails at the sight of fear— truly, rare fear— in their eyes when they turn to take him in. “Always spinning his yarns, his webs, his lies.”

He means to say it. He means to say he’s nothing but a monster in human skin, that they’re being dragged one way or another at his whims— he doesn’t mean to sound so… angry. So—

Villainous.

He screams, though it doesn’t come out— not of this body. Instead, there’s the discomfort of a fragment, juddering, lashing void in every direction. He only keeps enough sense to keep it away from them.

Without him— without him!— his body paces, a smile too similar to Mark’s on his face. “Perhaps we’ve met a hundred times already, and you simply don’t remember it. Perhaps you’re tired of me repeating myself over and over and over and over again!”

He’s seen them a hundred times, but have they met? Has he said anything to them, his desperate wish for them to remember and leave simply that, a wish?

No. This is Mark’s doing, but he’s far from the only one with power. Dark pushes past the discomfort, past the fragments that shatter out of him, and tries to touch it. Tries to see what, exactly, controls him.

It’s a web.

Not unlike a spider’s, really, glimmering threads of words in several different directions, coalescing into bright points of light wherever they meet.

Ah, the choices. Planned for, then— prolonging the make-believe.

He sees an island man. He sees a brilliant scientist. He sees a pirate, an adventurer, a prisoner. He sees their end a dozen times, more, always coming back to the start.

He sees himself— but his point, his thread, is loose.

Not so in control now, are you, Mark?

They must know. They have to know.

With what little wriggle room he has, he reaches out— and changes a couple letters. One at each point. Nothing shifts, nothing breaks, but something is different— hopefully, different enough for his clever attorney to find.

They’re the sharpest he’s ever known. If anyone could, it’s them.

He settles back into his body, still speaking without him— without him!— and pacing before a desk. It doesn’t feel so wrong with his newfound confidence… in fact—

“You want answers.” He smiles to himself, happy to have control again, and for the hell of it, picks up the glass of wine— seemingly, so kindly provided for by the writer. “Well, games were always his forte.”

He’s not sure of the vintage, or even sure of the varietal, given the monochrome nature of his Void, but he takes a sip, anyway.

He tries hard not to gag, but can’t hide his wince. For all his budget, Mark hardly splurged on something decent, it seems.

Suppose that’s the loss of his wine cellar at work.

“But allow me this one moment of self indulgence.”

He sets the wine down. Neither of them will be partaking of it.

“Excuse me—“ 

He stops, holding the box— the conduit in this little foray into pretend— and looks at them from atop the desk. They’re— smiling a little. Not big, but it’s theirs, and if his heart still beat— “Yes?”

“Why’d you pick that wine if you didn’t like it?”

He wants to laugh. Oh, he wants to laugh at that, because in the face of— quite frankly— something frightening and beyond their control, they’re teasing it. He loves them.

He loves them.

“I didn’t,” he admits, truthfully. There’s something so warm in his chest, something he can’t prevent from showing on his face, so fond. “Sometimes we take what we’re given, for better or for worse. This game, for instance. This box.

“So much trouble, all for something so small.” He looks to them curiously, smile fading. “Do you want to know what’s inside this box?

“I didn’t imagine we’d have to be in sewers to get it,” they add dryly. “After all this, I definitely want to know, and it has to be something worth it, or else.”

He’d laugh at the thought, them tearing into Mark for dragging them over hill and dale, but he’s seen what lies ahead. They’ll have time to do it, and the nudging at his body indicates he’s rather short of time himself. “Well, I know how much you like a good game, so throughout your… adventures, I’ve hidden codes. Several codes. Find them all, and you’ll get your truth.”

They don’t look especially pleased at that, but the light comes into their eyes despite the slump of their shoulders— the light that kept them up all night with an encyclopedia or three, classes next morning be damned. “More games. Why am I not surprised?”

They eye him for a few long seconds, brow furrowed, even as the Void rumbles and sparks around them both. It’s too familiar, as if they’re reading him down to his core. “You aren’t Mark, are you? Not some character. But… you’re so familiar. Who… who are you?”

He could give them his name. It might spark something for them, kickstart whatever process they need to regain their memory of what happened. He wouldn’t even care if they screamed at him for all he put them through.

The Void, though, shakes and cracks, and he shakes his head with a slight frown and a mountain of regret. He has a modicum of control, still, but not fully. Not right now. “That’s all I’m going to give you.”

They open their mouth, but the Void winks them away, gone to their next run.

All he can do is sit and watch from here.

[andrevalias-tes]

Meet the Character: Stops-His-Heart

Covert Report

Frostfall 12, 2E 583

Your grace: it took considerable digging, but I finally have insights to report on the assassination of Primate Artorius. The Dark Brotherhood sent not one assassin but several to topple the primate. However, this does not suggest that just one of their number is not capable of such carnage as we previously thought. I’ve still no clue as to who delivered the killing blow to the primate, or if indeed the assassins fell upon him all at once (highly unlikely).

I learned the identity of one of the assassins, rather directly I might add. An Argonian by the name of Stops-His-Heart, a shadowscale as it were. Your grace, we’ve every right to be wary as shadowscales are said to serve the people of Argonia. Though he indicated otherwise, I would not be surprised if his loyalty was foremost to his people.

I should perhaps clarify. I met with the assassin directly, albeit not of my own accord. My inquiries were not as subtle as I had believed. He cornered me at the Publick House in Anvil and insisted on buying me a drink. I somehow felt compelled. My fear aside, he was more cordial than threatening. Regardless, I was hesitant to drink even though the waitress poured us both the same drink from the same bottle. An Argonian would always have the advantage at a dinner table.

He didn’t remark on my reluctance at all and went right into matters. He told me he had heard I had been discreetly looking for trouble. I explained to him—once again, not of my own accord—that I was working for the Count Kvatch (my many apologies, your grace, I know you wished to remain distant from this) to learn more about the Dark Brotherhood. All the while, I found myself staring into his eyes more than was acceptable.

Stops chuckled and said, ‘Count Carolus shouldn’t be so worried about his business partners, but we can forgive the professional curiosity’. I have said nothing of this to anyone else, your grace. He asked me what I wanted to know and this time I felt free to answer. I asked him first and foremost if Stops-His-Heart was his actual name.

He eyed me for a moment, and I could feel the hairs on my neck standing as he did. Then he responded: ‘It’s what I go by. I’d prefer to keep my Saxhleel name to myself if you don’t mind’. I made a mental note to follow up on this, but I regret to say I’ve nothing to report. I can say that of his aliases (of which there are few), Stops-His-Heart is the one I could find him by most. Peculiar to say the least, as I’ve not uncovered the identity of his fellow assassins. Almost like among their number, he is quite brazen.

Instinct begged me to excuse myself. But I looked into his eyes again and I asked him if he was only a dagger for hire. He smirked and shook his head. He explained to me he performed clandestine work for the Order of the Sacred Ashes and the Sekiryu clan. I asked him to elaborate, as I was entirely certain the Ashen Knights were not ones for illicit activities.

He explained, ‘working within the law can only get you so far’. He went on and told me that the Order had a sub-sect of Ashen Knights who were versed in subterfuge. They were called the ‘Peacekeepers’. In his way of explaining: sometimes to track down Daedra and cultists, you need to get information in unconventional ways. Sometimes, to eliminate particular cultists, you need a sharp knife and a deft hand.

As for his work with the Sekiryu clan, it’s more or less cloak and dagger work performed on the battlefield. If all that he says has been true (and I daresay it has), I’ve been led to believe the Sekiryu have battlefield assassins known as ‘Dragon-Fangs’. As we’ve heard of the reports from Cyrodiil, your grace knows as well as I do the Sekiryu fight hard and fast in the name of the Pact. I suppose it should not come as surprise they employ martially trained rogues to assist in neutralising enemy garrisons.

He then gestured to my drink and somewhat ‘commanded’ me to partake. After a toast to you, your grace, he told me that purified chamomile induces a deep sleep. He said something else about Argonians, but I missed it due to loss of consciousness. When I awoke, he was gone but I believe he left a message for you. I’ve enclosed it with this report.

Your Faithful Servant

[ssaeri]

enter the lion's den

☆ tags: fuegoleon vermillion x gn!reader, he's busy and i personally have a headache, a small thing to fill the void til the next release ☆

Fuegoleon’s mouth morphs into a quiet Oh as he sets his pen down. “Sweetheart, are you actually upset with me?” he asks, stunned, the realization dawning over his features.

His face is haggard after days of report writing, and it doesn’t help that the paperwork landed on his desk just hours after he returned from a long expedition. You see concern light up his eyes, shining their way through a foggy gaze, and your heart pangs in your chest as you realize that he’s just doing his best, too.

You finally break the silence with a sigh. “No, I’m sorry. I’m—” You cut yourself off and press the heels of your palms to your eyes, hard enough to see stars, trying to force back the building tears. “I’m just tired. I’m more upset with myself and my reaction, sorry. I’ll let you get back to your work now.”

You hear the creak of his chair and the rustling of his uniform as he steps around his desk.

“No, talk to me,” he says gently, tugging your wrist until your hands uncover your face. “What’s wrong?”

Other than a perfunctory forehead kiss in the hall when he came home, this is the closest you’ve been to him in weeks, but all it does is make you more upset and you feel the familiar pressure of a sob in your chest. His expression softens further, though you can barely see through the tears threatening to spill over your lashes.

His human arm holds you against his chest as he perches on the edge of his desk. His fire arm hovers by your side and warms your cheek. It takes an astounding amount of magic control, you realize, to keep it from burning everything. And suddenly, it dawns on you how tiring it must be for Fuegoleon to keep his strength in check, his powers both a blessing and a curse.

“What’s your schedule like today?” His fingers skim along your skin.

“Mine?” You echo, racking your brain for any upcoming appointments. “I think I have to meet with your brother to go over some logistical matters, but other than that, my schedule is empty.”

He hums. “Consider that meeting postponed until further notice. Give me a few minutes to wrap things up on my end, and then maybe we can get lunch from that one tavern you like.”

“But you hate that place.”

“I don't hate it.”

“Don't lie to me,” you say, managing a laugh. “You're always glaring daggers at that one waiter.”

His arm tightens around your waist. “Because they had the audacity to ask if you were single in front of me,” he insists. “Otherwise, the food is good.”

You press your face into his shoulder to hide your smile. His embrace is familiar, and as much as you hate to take him away from his work, you can’t help leaning into him. “We don’t have to…” you murmur.

But your resolve is weak. You both know this. He only chuckles, kissing the top of your head once more before releasing you. “Thirty minutes, okay? If I’m a minute late, feel free to barge in and knock everything off my desk.”

[suzyandthefox]

Of Smoke And Shadows: Introduction post

I will be copying this into my Masterpost.

What is "Of Smoke And Shadows?"

Of Smoke And Shadows, Or (OSAS), is a Novel -length fanfic I have been working on for two years, it's a passion project combining multiple Fandoms and I will be reposting it on Tumblr until I'm able to write new chapters.

What are the Fandoms of (OSAS)?

G/t, Vampire the Masquerade (only the lore and none of the characters), Scp foundation (only the lore and none of the characters), And the Borrowers! (Again, only the lore and none of the characters)

Wait, how is it fanfic if you don't have any canon characters in there? Sounds like lazyworldbuilding?

It's basically home-brew, I believe in taking pre-existing concepts and building upon them!

What is the premise?

It's the Modern Day, The supernatural are now part of human society, through a system that assigns them to human handlers. These human handlers give "points" to their supernatural creature. The more points a supernatural has, the better they are accepted by humans, the less they have the more they are ostracized.

Supernaturals who are ostracized are forcefully mutated to become more humane looking.

The system is corrupted, and biased. It causes segregation among supernaturals and humans, as well as different species of supernatural.

The protagonist, Lumen, is a Nosferatu vampire who works with the police. He cannot earn points no matter what he does, he only lives to care for his terminally ill brother.

Until he finds a small girl, literally, she is only 3 inches tall and humans would not help her.

This opens his eyes to the corruption of the system, and he begins to take a step toward changing his life, as well as uncovering the many secrets New York has.

Why should I read this?

Asexual and Aromantic representation explored organically by multiple characters.

People of colour written by a Person of colour

AuADHD protagonist written by an AuADHD person!

Unique G/t tropes!

Mystery, Horror, Homoerotic tension, we have all that and more!

Is there's any content I should be aware of?

Nothing much, besides (Fantastical Racism, Violence, Police Oppression, Gore, Child abuse, Mentions of SA, Horror in most of it's forms, kidnapping, dehumanisation, Terminal illnesses such as Asthma, Death (Both animals and people))

You should be at least 17 in order to read

Where can I Read?

If you're impatient, here's the whole thing

Otherwise, I will be posting the first chapter today! And hopefully I will be posting Bi-weekly!

[inherstars]

Gears of War | Midwinter (6 of 6)

Previous section here.

“Did you carry these things all the way from the other house in that bag? Is that why you were in the kitchen so long?”

“Oh my God TALK.”

He sighed.  Fuck.

“Alright.  Did you ever stop to wonder why old-school Gears are built like we are?”

She admitted, moving her tea bag string out of the way for a sip, “I never gave it too much thought, but I I’ll concede that it does seem pretty weird that you all seem to have that in common.  But none of the COG soldiers now are… I mean, they’re muscular, but--”

“But we’re a different breed,” he agreed, relieving her of the awkwardness of having to describe her father and his peers as built like brick shithouses.  “During the Pendulum Wars, I looked more like James does now.  It wasn’t until after E-Day that the Coalition realized Gears weren’t cut out, physiologically, to go toe to toe with the Locust.  You’ve only ever seen them in newsreels, pictures… but they were massive.  The Drones were easily three hundred pounds of solid muscle, and they were the foot soldiers.  We had better speed and agility, but there’s only so long you can dodge and weave.  Eventually you have to hit back.”

He paused to test and then swallow some of his own tea, grunting in apparent appreciation as it eased his throat.

“To cut a long story short, we were given regular stimulants to promote hypertrophic muscle growth. Eventually they introduced another kind of stimulant -- more powerful, short-term -- strictly to use in combat.  It could staunch blood loss, promote healing, knit bone.” He held a hand up when she started to speak, immediately shutting down what he knew would come next. “I don’t know what was in them, or how they worked, only that they did.  And you’ll notice none of us have exactly been wasting away in the twenty years since, so clearly some of those changes were long-term ”

“But,” he said heavily, because she had to know one was coming.  “Once the war ended, and they stopped pumping us full of chemicals, we all got sick.  It turns out fucking with your immune system for seventeen years has consequences.  It was like putting us through a hard reset -- we had to rebuild our natural immunity the hard way.”

“This is… weirdly fascinating… but what does all that have to do with your hand?”

“Old habits die hard,” he grunted. “I didn’t want to be laid up with a broken hand for a full six weeks, so… I asked Baird for a booster.  Whatever was in those combat boosters, he can cook up a dose when he needs to.  It was just enough to knit things together faster than they otherwise might.”

“Ahhh. And that’s why you’re so sick now.”

Scylla sat forward, stacking their emptied plates and mugs onto the tray and relocating it out of the way.  She uncovered his hand from beneath the blankets, turning it over in both her own.  He flexed it open and closed slowly, knuckles crackling slightly in a way that suggested it was -- like everything else -- an imperfect fix.  But a fix nonetheless.  

She left her hand curled around his, head resting to his shoulder.

“Alternatively?  You could have just asked for help, without putting yourself through all this.  Both with your hand and… everything else.  Why does it feel like you’re constantly paying penance for something?”

He didn’t have an answer for that.  Not one he was willing to open up about now, anyway.  His chin lifted slightly, eyes resting sadly on the deep assembly of photo frames lining the mantle before them.

Even when he was too tired to bother with housework at the end of the day, these were the items he took down, one by one, thumbing the dust off their edges and polishing the glass against his sleeve.  It struck him that he’d left them here when they moved to the big house, and the weight of guilt filled his lungs like heavy air that he couldn't push out again.

They were mixed portraits of Gears and Civilians, as well as Gears still in their Civvy clothes.  Neither Cole nor Baird were among them, which seemed strange to Scylla, considering how indelibly the two were inked into her father’s skin.

There was a photo of two men who looked like brothers, one older and one younger, their arms slung across each other’s shoulders.

A wide, goateed Gear with a face bifurcated by tribal tattoos, hoisting an ale to the air in one fist.

A young, raven-haired woman cradling a newborn in her arms, beaming brilliantly into the camera as a toddler looked excitedly over her shoulder. A smaller portrait sat beside it, a baptism, where a young Marcus held the same infant with white-faced discomfort.

Soldiers in groups, huddled around the camera.  Gatherings of Gears without their armor, in fatigue pants and tank tops and gleaming COG tags, giving the middle finger as they leaned on Centaur tanks.

His mother.

His father.

Her mother.

Until now she’d assumed there simply hadn’t been an opportunity to meet these people, or perhaps they all moved to the far-flung corners of Sera once the war ended, unlikely to return anytime soon.  Faces came and went from everyone's lives.

But these were the ones who weren’t coming back.  And God, there were so many photos.

They weren’t all just COG tags passed somberly into his fist, or condolences passed to him second-hand.  He’d watched some of them leave.  He’d seen the light go out in their eyes, and heard their last, rattling breaths.  He’d tried to save some of them with his own hands, and washed their blood from them when he couldn’t.  He’d passed at least one of them the very weapon they’d used to take their own life.

And every day for almost two decades Marcus took them down, and polished them, and made sure they were arranged so he could see every. single. face.

These weren’t wounds Scylla could heal for him.  They weren’t bones that could be bound.  She couldn’t reason him free from the shackles of guilt any more than she could love the sadness out of him.  But she could still love him.

Her fingers curled more tightly around his.

“Do you think you can be happy again?”

Marcus didn’t answer, eyes still locked in a half-focus on the mantle.  She squeezed his hand.

“Dad?”

That brought him out of it.  He inhaled, head turning to look down on her, affected.

“Can I…” it was hard to breathe.  “Can I be happy?”

His head sagged tiredly, the tension leaving his face, unexpectedly aging him.  “Scylla.  I know it doesn’t sound like it, but I am happy.  That almost makes it worse.  When you don’t feel like you deserve it, you’re always… waiting for the other shoe to drop.  It’s like a precipice you hold yourself back from walking on, because you know it’s just going to crumble out from under you if you’re on it for too long.”

The fix of his head adjusted slightly, eyes sliding to her.  The hearthlight stole the blue from them, replacing it with soft, lambent gold, as if there was a fire still burning somewhere inside him.

“We go to war, and we come home with different battles to fight.”  His fingers closed around hers, holding to her hand as tightly as he dared.  “I told you, old bones heal slowly.  But they do heal.”

“Sometimes with a little outside help,” she said quietly.  He somehow found strength enough to squeeze more tightly.

“Sometimes.”

He exhaled slowly, freeing his near arm from beneath the blankets, and curled it around her, drawing her against him.

There was no warmer, cozier place than there against the radiator warmth of his side, yoked under his arm, her head at ease to his shoulder.  She finally felt small in ways that made her feel more safe than afraid.

“What can I do to help,” Scylla asked, pulling and retucking the edges of the quilt around her, around him.  He shifted enough to slide more deeply into the couch cushions, resting his head back comfortably.  He’d probably be stiff in the morning, popping in every joint, but he didn’t care.  He’d earned this, surely.

“Stay,” Marcus rumbled.  “If you want to.  Just stay.”

“If I want to?”  Her eyes upturned to him, though her head stayed firmly in place.  “I think I’ve been trying to get exactly here for my entire life.”

Another soft, idling breath escaped him, eyes closing.  “Then that ought to do it.”

She laid quietly, watching the logs shift and settle as they burned, her eyes painted the same soft, molten gold in their radiating light.  After a few long seconds Marcus’s voice sounded from beneath her ear, a low vibration through the bone and muscle and soul of him.

“And, if you want.  You can keep calling me Dad.”

[elvenbeard]

2067

"My childhood, let’s see… Nights spent lookin’ for a star - any star… All dimmed by city lights. Silent lullabies sung by the flickering neon signs of Charter Hill…"

Born into Night City's corporate world to upper middle class managers Marcella and Kousuke Ezaki, Vince lived a very comfortable and sheltered life growing up. Nice corporate apartment in Charter Hill's bustling Grant Avenue, excellent education, always the newest clothes, the fanciest tech, the best cyberware money can buy from a young age on.

It was almost too comfortable and sheltered really. With what they had invested in him and his future, his parents demanded perfection and performance - and obedience. While Vince was eager to deliver at first, being naturally ambitious, it always felt like something was wrong, something was missing... He just never quite fit in, despite trying his hardest.

Vince's father died when he was 13 - by suicide in the company bathroom, or so it seemed at the time. The pressure had gotten too much for him to bear and he saw no other way out; that had been the official explanation. The supposed truth though, which Vince would uncover many years later, was more complex and even darker than that.

On top of it, Vince's parents had never led the happiest marriage, worn down by stress and growing disagreements. It started over smaller issues: which car to buy, when to go on holiday, which school was best for their child. But soon they fought daily, constantly, about everything... And Vince fled into the arms of kids his age and older that never had the best intentions with him, but lured him in with a sense of belonging somewhere finally.

After his father's death, Vince's mother grew increasingly paranoid and controlling - her focus shifted from her husband to her child, whom she did not want to lose as well. Simultaneously though, she refused to accept that Vince had become his own person and would never be who and what she'd wanted him to be. The harder she tried to hold on to him, do her bidding, obey, the further she ended up pushing him away...

Vince through the years (1/9)

Little BTS rambles below the cut here!

Remember these? XD Yeah, I'm finally getting around to doing my "Vince through the years" project I teased a couple months ago. I finally decided on a format! xD I wanted something diary-entry like, but not too long and complex, otherwise I could probably sink months into this, do some cool lorebook-like graphics and whatnot...

I might still do that in the future, revamp some shots, or maybe one day make a character page or something in a more complex graphic style... but for now I just really wanna share some lore actually 👀 And get these shots published before they go bad!! (read as: before I don't like them anymore cause I'm getting better with my VP XD)

Also, a little comparison - vanilla vs edited shot:

Aging him down around 10 years was hard, but also fun XD I did this a while ago and meanwhile I might do some stuff different, but I'll leave them as is now xD But yeah, I tried some other complexions first that look younger than his 2077 one, but they made him look like a completely different person, so I went with the Photoshopping approach instead. Does he look like a pre-T teenager? Eh. If you squint XD But I'll take it!

Back then he already loved his massive coats that made him look bigger and wider than he really is. Hair dyed blond mostly because both his parents have dark hair, for that good old teenage rebelliousness and self-expression <3

I kinda implied it in the text but... yeah his parents were both pretty messed up. They did see him more like an investment than a kid most of the time. It was in the end damaging to all three of them, but most to Vince, leading to him becoming a little fucked up as well.

And when I say "investment" I literally mean, they invested money into making him as flawless as possible. Got him cyberoptics and whatnot installed as a 5-year-old to combat genetic eye-problems running in their families (when glasses couldve done the trick), things like that. His mother had planned some more things for as soon as he would finish school, but he ran away from home before that.

Before that already he went on to destroy all these perfect things they tried to achive with his body, got stick-and-poke tattoos, pierced his own ear, found a semi-shady Ripper who would install him a cyberdeck *he* wanted, not the one his mother got him, etc etc. XD

He spent a lot of time with the wrong pepole, too, but the connection to them at least helped him realize that he's trans - obviously one more thing that his mother did not plan for with her "perfect child" and tries to first ignore then actively shut down as best as she can. This is a hate-post for Vince's mom <3

What really happened to his dad is gonna follow in a post to come ooooor maybe I'll leave it a secret until I finished writing his background story fic 👀

[hedonisticcat]

within eyeshot

closeups + info

this is a lil illustration/out of context comic for one of my longtime stories—both of these characters are actually somewhat new inclusions to the plot and they’re both unnamed. the woman is an ex stunt actress now fighting crime under the radar and uncovering remnants of mafia money laundering (it’s the 70s and gangs are waning, much like the end of the era of cowboy outlaws. some still want to go out with a bang, it seems). the guy’s a regular singer/performer at the main casino of the series and he’s a pleasure-seeking monstrosity and a creep. but he does well to lull customers into the hypnotism of gambling, drinking and laughing away their sorrows. (if you recognize his design inspiration, I give you a high five and also the preface that when I eventually write this comic he’ll have a more different design 😇)

the lost momentum from the ricochet + the angle at which the bullet penetrates his head (not just his eye but his brain!)… well if you know brain parts I want you to guess what happens to this guy in part 2 of the series. anyway this is like the only time I’ll ever have such a lucky shot in the story, I otherwise keep the story pretty rough around the edges and organic, if that makes sense

[xxsycamore]

This is for @weirdwriter69 's second request, featuring Merman!Jean x Pirate!Napoleon~ I had fun writing your requests and I hope you'd enjoy them too! ❤

[ 🌈 part of the character x character or genderbent!character x mc requests🌈 ]

For Different Universe, Same Love content creation challenge, hosted by @queengiuliettafirstlady and me.

𝐏𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞/𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐀𝐔 ┅┅┅Napoleon x Jean

𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄

Pale skin glowing softly in the moonlight, long midnight black hair swept over the swell of one shoulder; eyes like twin amethysts from the treasure chest of the richest kings.

Or at least Napoleon imagines them as two, albeit only one being uncovered in sight. He can't help the way his brain works about those enticing shiny stones after all these years at sea. Although he's never ever seen eyes evoking such fascination.

Jean's right eye is covered by a white, shiny seashell with an irregular shape, adorned with a big pearl in its very center.

"I've never seen a mermaid with an eyepatch."

"And I've never seen a pirate missing one."

Napoleon can't help but show his ugly laughter, entertained by the clever comeback of the otherwise quiet man; it caught him by surprise, and besides, breaking the ice at last feels good. In the short duration of knowing Jean, he's seen both his relaxed and defensive sides well enough to know which one he wants to be on.

If anything, the merman is seemingly quite alright being in Napoleon's company. Plenty of opportunities to drag him underwater and drown him, as the pirate has been roaming the island and is conveniently surrounded by every sea monster's preferred death trap. Heck, he'd gone as far as to swim together with Jean, and nothing happened. A bit more and he'd start believing that Jean truly isn't at fault for the shipwreck that the self-confident captain fails to find a logical explanation for.

"If you trust me, I can take you to the neighboring island where the wreck and your shipmates are. But you have to forget about me."

Being washed away on the beach of another piece of land on a wood board would be... somewhat believable, if it weren't for the fact a few days have already passed, and that Napoleon will return on the same wood board. Of course, even if he were to explain what or who actually saved his life, they won't believe a thing anyway.

"I can't forget about you, Jean. I never will."

Hand placed on the merman's cold one, instead of making Jean look at him, Napoleon's confession does the opposite. It's fine though. Another look into the enchanting gem of an eye adorning Jean's visage and Napoleon will abandon all wishes to be saved.

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @pro-cat-stination @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @keen19thcenturygoatsstudent @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @canaria-blackwell @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @violettduchess @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @my-day6 Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[amor-immortalem]

A Shocking Twist pt 2

Previous

Summary: after her father, who was supposed to have died when she was a child, reappears suddenly one day, Arella looks to uncover the truth of the matter.

A/N: not me actually following through with a part two and finishing a fic… even though it’s been months since I posted part one…

・・・〆・・・

That night Arella dreams of the last day she saw her father alive.

“But you work so hard- are you absolutely sure you don’t want to just spend the day at home, Trevor?” Arella’s mother asks as she watches her husband prepare to leave for the park with their two small children.

“Of course,” Trevor smiles brightly as he helps Arella tie her shoes while his youngest sits on his lap, “I spend all day outside building houses and even more time inside planning the layouts. That leaves me almost no time to spend with the kids. Taking them out to the park would do all three of us some good, I think. You know how restless they get.”

“Still, Miles has just barely begun to walk- a playground will do him no good.” Arella’s mother sighs. “But I suppose I’ll never convince you otherwise.”

“Bingo!” His smiles beams, “You know me so well.”

“Stubborn as an ass, you are.” She chuckles while shaking her head, grabbing two small jackets from the coat rack. “Arella, come here please.”

“Yes Mummy?” She looks up at her mother.

“You behave for your father. When he says its time to come home, I don’t want to hear that you’ve thrown another fit.” Her mother warns as she slips the coat on the five-year-old. “If I do, you’ll have no dessert. Am I understood?”

“Yes.”

“That’s my girl.” her mother smiles as she kisses her forehead.

“Ready, Relly?” Trevor asks as his daughter cheers and heads for the car.

“It’s supposed to storm later so be careful, Dear.” Arella’s mother calls out to the trio. “I love you. Be safe.”

Trevor only gives a wave before he loads the children in the car and pulls off.

・・・〆・・・

“Daddy, why didn’t you tell Mummy you loved her back?” Arella asks as her father pushes her and her brother on the swings.

“Well, I- I- uhh …” Trevor flounders for a moment, “I always tell her I love her all the time, so I figure she doesn’t always need to hear it to know it.”

“But you always to tell me you love me back every time I say it to you.” She stares at him with curious green eyes not buying her father’s excuse.

“Well I’ve known your Mummy for a super long time and I’ve told her I love her thousands of times. I promise she doesn’t need to hear it to know it, Poppet.” Arella’s father stops the swings as he spots an acquaintance of his- and the real reason he’d brought the kids out to the park- out of the corner of his eye. “Here, why don’t you two go play on the jungle gym? Daddy has some business to take care of really quick.

The five-year-blinks as she hops down from the swing and takes her brother by the hand, leading him off to the playscape.

Her curiosity gets the better of her though as the two adults talk. Leaving Miles alone, Arella sneaks over to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“You have the perfect life, Trevor.” The stranger says in a hushed whisper. “A booming architecture business, property worth millions, a beautiful wife and two wonderful children- I can’t understand why you’d want to leave it all behind by doing something so drastic.”

Why does that voice sound so familiar?

“Because it’s not me, Solomon.” Trevor frowns, “This life, it’s not what I want- I’m not happy and forcing myself to live in the closet just to protect my reputation is only making me more miserable the longer it goes on.”

“But don’t you think a divorce and moving out of the country would be far easier than faking your own death? At least then you’d be able to remain a part of your children’s lives.”

“Esther would get everything in the divorce, mate; my money, the kids- everything. And if she ever found out I was in a relationship with my business partner? She’d drag both our names through the mud- demonize me to my own children. Things are just better if they think I’m dead.”

“If you’re really sure, then.” Solomon hands Trevor three necklaces. “Those necklaces will protect you and the children from any injuries sustained in the crash. Yours is also enchanted with a teleportation charm. After you’ve called emergency services for your children, rub your thumb over the pendant and you’ll be transported to anywhere you want to go.”

“Thank you, my friend. You’ve done me a great charity.”

“For your sake,” Solomon frowns, “I hope it all works out.”

Arella’s dream fades away as she wakes with a start. She looks over at the nightstand beside her bed where the business card resides and takes it along with her DDD.

Her father has some real explaining to do but first, she needs to get a hold of that sneaky sorcerer.

・・・〆・・・

“Mark my words, Solomon, I’m going to find a way to kill you.” Those are the words Arella chooses to greet her former teacher with when he picks up his phone.

“And a good morning to you as well, Arella.” the silver-haired immortal chuckles nervously, “What- if I may inquire- did I do?”

“Why did you help my father fake his death?”

“I’m… sorry?” Solomon quirks a brow, “Who are we talking about?”

“My father…” the human lets out a frustrated sigh, “Trevor Thompson. Really tall guy, tan skin, green eyes, black hair, freckles all over his face. He was a prominent architect and contractor here in England in the late 90’s/early 2000’s. You gave him three necklaces on the day he decided to crash his car dead on into a tree going 180 kilometers per hour. Does any of that ring a bell?”

“That’s… oddly specific- how do you know all that?” He’s a little off put as it all starts to come back to him.

“Not important right now. You could have told me that he’s been alive this entire time…”

“Arella, I didn’t even know that was your father.” Solomon chuckles as he takes a sip of his tea. “I mean I’ve never once seen a picture of your family so how could I have put two and two together? Anyway, how did you come to find out he was alive?”

“He just waltzed in the front door like he owns the bloody place- like he didn’t just abandon his wife and children for his own comfort. How am I meant to react to something like that?”

“I wonder how indeed. Perhaps this is something the two of you should hash out on your own- I really have no business-”

“You helped him fake his death so now it is your business. Look, I’m going to meet him for lunch today and I want you there to play mediator in case things get too out of hand- for all that you are, you’ve always helped me keep a level head in situations like this.”

“Surely, your husband would be better suited to something like this or Thirteen even.”

“We’re talking about the same demon and reaper, right?” Arella deadpans. “As much as I love them, Mammon, Thirteen and I all feed off each other’s emotions. If I’m upset, they’ll be just as bad and that will get us nowhere.”

“Yeah,” Solomon sighs, “now that I think more about it maybe they’re not the best people to turn to for something like this… Unfortunately, I have prior commitments today. Do keep me updated though...”

“I see… well, I’ll just go it alone and hope for the best. Thanks, Solomon...” Arella hangs up as Azalea pops her head into the kitchen.

“You goin’ somewhere?” The half-demon asks having heard only the last bit of her mother’s phone conversation.

“I’m having at meeting with your grandfather for lunch if you’d like to join us.”

“Actually, I’d just come to tell you I’d be out for lunch. I met this pretty little witch in town yesterday when I was out, and we agreed to meet for lunch- good luck though.”

“Good for you.” Arella smiles, “Be safe while you’re gone and don’t stay out too late.”

“I will,” Azalea calls out as she heads back up the stairs.

・・・〆・・・

The phone rings and rings before Arella’s father picks up.

He answers with a quick hello- the tell-tale sign that he was knee deep in floor plans.

“You know, for a man who seemed so anxious to talk to me yesterday, you’d think you’d be quicker to pick up your phone.”

“Arella!” Trevor’s voice is surprised. “I- sorry. I didn’t expect you to actually call…”

“Well, I did.” Arella huffs, “You wanted to talk, so we’re meeting at Sandwitches Cafe at noon. This will be your only opportunity to speak with me, so I’d best not blow it if I were you.”

She hangs up without so much as waiting for a response from her father and sets her phone down.

The kettle is whistling on the stove next to her, so she pulls it off and fixes herself a cup of tea.

“Three hours to go.”

・・・〆・・・

The tension is thick in the air as pair sit down to lunch. It doesn’t take long for a waitress to take their order.

“Why did you fake your death?” Arella frowns once the waitress takes her leave.

And Trevor looks like a deer in headlights. Where does he even begin to start with all this?

“I’m sure you must feel very hurt by the revelation that I’m still alive…” he begins clearing his throat. “But there’s a lot that you don’t know.”

“You’re right…” her voice is cold, “so why don’t you enlighten me.” A tension descends over the whole table as Arella rests her chin on her hands. “Well, go on. I’m waiting.”

“It’s…” Trevor looks around the table nervously, almost as if he were afraid revealing his true motives for faking his death might cause the world to explode. “I left because I was afraid of what would happen if I came out. Back then… being gay wasn’t as readily accepted as it is today. Relly, I was miserable in my marriage to your mother and forcing myself to live inauthentically was not helping. After faking my death and moving away to the states with my now-husband, I was the happiest version of myself I’d ever been.”

“So you ran away instead? Like a selfish coward?” Arella frowns. “You know, I’ve always held onto the notion that my father was one of the bravest, caring, most selfless men I had ever known. That was what I’d always told Myles when he asked about what you were like. Guess I was dead wrong.”

“You were,” the black-haired man frowns. “I’ve never been this amazing, outstanding man you thought I was. I am a coward. I was terrified of losing my business, my reputation, you and your brother, so I thought if I just faked my death, nothing would be ruined, and I could find a way to reconnect with you two when you were adults and able to understand better.”

Arella doesn’t say anything back, letting her gaze drop to the table as she contemplates her next thoughts. She doesn’t even acknowledge when the waitress sets her food down in front of her.

“Well, this is unfortunate…” she sighs eventually, green eyes meeting her father’s once more. “Because that’s just what happened. Your death ruined our family. It sent Mum spiraling further into her depression. She became an abusive drunk. She singled me out and Myles became her favorite. Do you know how much she made me hate myself? How much she made me wish it was me and not you?”

“I-”

“I’m not done.” The black-haired woman spits, “She would throw me down the stairs, beat me with ladles, starve me. One time she even bought a cigar and lit it just so she could put it out on my arms while I was tied down to the table. Hell, I almost died from anaphylactic shock more times that I can count. And do you know the reason she did all that?”

Wordlessly, Trevor shakes his head.

“She wanted me to suffer for ‘taking you away.’ Your mother is the only reason I’m still alive today- the only reason I’m here to tell you all of this!”

As she finishes unloading on her father, Arella fists her hands in the tablecloth trying to control the wrath that’s festering up within her soul at the moment. She knows she needs to calm down if the vibration of the phone in her pocket and the burning of the pact mark she shares with Satan is anything to go off.

“I am so sorry all of that happened to you.” There’s genuine sorrow that drenches Trevors voice, horrified at all the struggles his only daughter has had to face in the wake of his departure from her life.

For the first time since formulating his plan to fake his death, the black-haired man regrets what he’s done. If he’d known that his wife would have gone off the deep end like that, he would have taken his children with him in a heartbeat.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I know that I could never begin to make up for what you had to go through but please, allow me to try by being a part of your life now.”

“I’m sorry too…” the black-haired woman frowns deeply, “but I can’t do that. It could take you a thousand lifetimes of you trying to atone for this and you’d never be able to do it.”

Arella rises from the table, her meal forgotten as she shoulders her purse.

“Go back to your family in America and forget about me, Trevor, because I’m not your daughter anymore.”

She leaves him sitting there at the restaurant.

・・・〆・・・

“So that’s what was going on.” Satan says in relief as Arella explained about the meeting with her father. He’d dropped in on the human out of concern after she failed to answer his calls in a timely manner. “I’ll say, when Mammon had mentioned your father had reappeared suddenly the other day, I’d have never guessed he’d draw this type of anger out of you…”

“What could you expect though?” Arella asks with an exhausted sigh. “Here I was thinking my father was this virtuous, wonderful person and it turns out that he’s the complete opposite. You’d rage too, wouldn’t you?” She fixes them two cups of tea.

“Mmm… I’d be irritated for sure, but I don’t think I’d rage over something like that… at least not any more.” the blonde hums as he leans against the kitchen counter. “How do you feel about it now?”

“Better.” She smiles, “Like I’ve let go of something that’s been weighing me down for nearly my entire life.”

Arella hands Satan his teacup as he hums in approval. They chat for a while more, catching up on the goings-on of life.

・・・〆・・・

End