#thread (Sable)

[starlessleep]

STELLA KWON ☆ SABLE HART

" — And so I said that he needs time, you know, because his sister had just passed away and he could come down and look at her whenever he was ready and..." Stella's story drifts off. "And he would be so surprised to see that his sister grew wings and flew away into the night." When Sable doesn't reply, Stella snaps her fings. "Hey. Are you listening to me?" Her eyes narrow. "...You've seen Richard again, haven't you? I can see it on your face."

@sable-hart

[umbral-stigmata-unbound]

Closed Starter | Nero and Weiss | @sleeplesswork

The echoes, whimpers, and cries were endless lullabies and torments to Nero's mind and ears, but given how they had been with him through all his years of living, he'd managed to live with it. And he would not fail to notice when those whimpers seemed a bit more shaky, or the cries occasionally more angry.

Something was stirring. Distant and unclear, but it was clear to him. However, it mattered very little. Why should he care for the whimpers and whines of the planet? It cared not for his own all this time. No, his focus was ever one the walls he was trapped in, and those trapped with him. Deepground, and most importantly, Weiss alongside him.

The mock freedom they were allowed, in the desolate kingdom that was Deepgrounds fortresses and valleys of broken earth, crevaces, and valleys. There was no life here. Only dirt, dust, steel, rust, and blood. It was home.

But not for long. They would claim a new kingdom, soon enough.

"Tell me, brother," he spoke, the familial title spoken with tender praise, "Are you still running scenarios in your head? Or have you settled on a concept of our salvation yet?"

He knew why his brother was here, brooding on a desolate outcrop of steel, overlooking old forsaken buildings of ShinRa and the Republics passed that Deepground had been build upon and over. This was one of the more secluded locations they were allowed to wonder, in their designated areas to roam when not expected to be stowed in their rooms or labs, or for lack of a better title, detention halls. The Restrictors knew well how corner them, but Nero was itching to pay back some pain and cruelty in turn. It was only balanced, and something in his core ached to let loose the hungry void permeated with his soul and self at all times.

He knew, here in this place, they may yet forge together their future. They would make their plans, they would plot their rebellion, and together, they would face anything and everything until it was conquered.

[graverises]

❛ your heart is beating so fast right now. ❜ louis & sable!

THERE’S  A  HUNGER  IN  HIS  EYES  that  makes  her  stomach  twist  at  the  sight,   blown  pupils  overshadowing  that  unnatural  shade  of  blue  as  his  stare  pierces  right  through  her.   even  with  his  long  fingers  curled  tight  around  her  throat,   the  pad  of  his  thumb  brushing  against  her  pulse  point,   sable  finds  herself  awestruck.   how  he  manages  to  make  violence  look  so  ethereal  she  doesn’t  know;   maybe  her  head’s  a  little  fucked  up  to  even  think  that  right  now,   with  her  life  quite  literally  in  the  palm  of  his  hands.   regardless,   she  melts  beneath  his  imposing  aura,   nostrils  flaring  at  the  effort  to  breathe  despite  his  vice - like  grip.

“   i’m  no  stranger  to  being  threatened.   ”     she  rasps  out  between  shallow  breaths,   blatantly  ignoring  his  astute  observation.   the  air  is  thick  with  anticipation,   a  dangerous  tension  drawn  taut  within  the  small  space  between  them.   sable  can  feel  his  hot  breath  against  her  cheek,   the  constriction  making  vision  fuzzy  at  the  edges,   balancing  on  the  precipice  of  unconsciousness.     “   you  won’t  break  me.   ”

send prompts to my muses. always accepting.

[shegoxwrites]

muse tag dump part 3

[msb-lair]

Clutch #3535 - Russula/Morel

Mated On: 2024-03-28 # of eggs: 2 Hatched On: 2024-04-02

Progeny:

Hatchling 9408 - Aether Male, Hickory Laced/Murk Thread/Sable Scales, Rare - 15,000 on 2024-04-08

Hatchling 9409 (Sierra) - Aether XYX Female, Latte Spool/Spring Edged/Latte Scales, Rare - 15 gems on 2024-04-07

Comments: 

[bowiepens]

closed starter ; @cardigaen / este + sable.

meme ; ❛ cook .   present my muse with home - cooked food.

"este," she began with a teasing smile, "i'm starting to think that i should just marry you for your cooking." the delightful aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air, making her stomach growl in anticipation. truthfully, even if este’s cooking wasn’t anything special, it still would have been special to sable. home cooked meals weren’t exactly something she had growing up. she didn’t blame her mother, not really. she did the best she could considering the circumstances. but there was something about a home-cooked meal that made sable feel so incredibly loved. "sorry, that might’ve been a little dramatic. but your food is good. and sometimes i struggle to express… how appreciative i really am. of all the things you do for me. you know if it weren’t for you i’m sure i’d have died from exhaustion and… lack of general happiness. and i’d never get close to finishing this goddamn phd."

[gildead]

Oh, Annie. If only you knew how loaded a question 'are you alright' was for Gold...

Actually, wait, she did know. Group chat and everything. The woman practically demanded that he get some rest after everything that happened.

"Of course I don't!" Gold wrings his sleeves excitedly and floats aside, allowing Annie to enter and make herself at home. This was practically a dream come true. The coolest, strongest woman in all of Boiler City, if not the world, was here. And she was standing in his apartment as Hurry sniffed at her curiously.

Hurry isn't the only one, though. Forever looks up from his chew toy and politely sets it down, his tail wagging fast enough to potentially sprain. Sable gives a relaxed smile at the guest, her Unown posse quickly coming together to spell out a quick 'Hello friend!' to Annie. Even Noa and Away pause their tense stare-off to wave at her. The newest member of the party, a Phantump, floats around down the halls, carrying a tiny Igglybuff in its arms.

Gold, for his part, continues to float around, excited. "Can I get you anything, Miss Annie? A drink? Some snacks?"

"We've got an electric kettle! I can put it on and make some tea if you want..."

Yeeeah, she kind of expected Gold to be at least a little excitable when she revealed her arrival--and goddamn, she wasn't wrong! Being the sole witness to the tremendous bumbling that was falling flat on his face (well, aside from his little creature), it was... an interesting showing, to say the least about it. Annie had to stiff a snort faster than the speed of light, but she'd manage.

"A--are you alright, kiddo??? Jeez--!" Ohhh, Annie was trying her damndest not to laugh. Thankfully he didn't seem too hurt by his tumble, considering--

Oh. Oh, that's. A hug. Sheesh, Gold just about bounced back up to throw that embrace around her--and to be fair, it did catch her off-guard! She'd emit a small "whoa!", blinking once or twice before not only finally allowing some of her laughter to escape... but tossing her own arms around him, too.

"Hey, I said I'd come over, soooo... just followin' up on that." Turning away to cough into her shoulder, she'd then smirk. "You don't mind if I hang out a while, do ya~?"

[starlessleep]

STELLA KWON ☆ SABLE HART

"If you're not doing the dishes...and I'm not taking out the trash...then who isn't sweeping the floors?" Stella sighs at the mess surrounding them. "...Do you think anyone will care if we don't straighten up before leaving?"

@sable-hart

[cressidagrey]

Holy Ground - Chapter 2

Summary:

Nobody knew that Azriel found his mate. Until she nearly died. This is the aftermath.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), Inner Circle Bashing (kinda), Referenced/Implied Sexual Assault, Referenced/Implied Domestic Violence, Discussion of Religion(?), Chronic Injury/Pain/Illness, Minor Character Death (It's probably nobody you love), Magical Work Accidents, Explosions, Injuries

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

Azriel’s shadows liked to spoil his mate rotten.

Not that Azriel could find anything wrong with that.

She deserved more for putting up with him. 

More than new tea from the Dawn Court and her favourite chocolate covered, wafer thin cookies from a small bakery near the Sidra…more than the occasional embroidery thread they snuck her…More than whatever animal he went to go hunt, to cover his bed in even more furs just for her. 

He nearly had enough Sable furs to have a blanket made for her for Winter Solstice…

Azriel also had half a mind to go sneak in her office later that day. 

Just as a treat for not killing either of his brothers. For being civil. 

Rhys had come over for sparring, unnannounced. 

Azriel had hoped to have some peace and quiet today, but it seemed like Rhys had other plans. 

Currently Cassian and Rhys were wrestling with less sense than they had had when they were just kids, and Azriel was cleaning his weapons, watching from the sidelines.

Azriel couldn't help but roll his eyes at the sight of his brothers roughhousing. It was typical of them to turn a simple sparring session into some kind of ridiculous competition. He focused on sharpening his knives, trying to ignore their antics.

"You know, we could also actually train properly," he called out, his tone dry. "Instead of wrestling like a bunch of children."

Cassian looked up from his grappling with Rhys, grinning. "Oh, come on Az. Don't be such a stick in the mud. Loosen up, have a little fun for once."

Azriel's expression remained impassive. "I'm perfectly capable of having fun, Cassian. But I prefer to do so without rolling around in the dirt like a wild animal."

Rhysand chuckled, standing up and clapping Cassian on the back. "It's good to let loose every now and then, Az. You should try it sometime. It might make your brooding sessions a little less depressing."

Azriel just grunted in response, not willing to engage in a verbal sparring match with Rhys. He continued to clean his weapons, hoping that the training session would end soon so he could escape his brothers' teasing.

“When did you even come home yesterday?” Cassian asked him.

Azriel looked up from his work, his expression neutral. "Around 11," he said simply.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Rhys pointed out. “You were missed.”

He highly doubted that.

And maybe he had made that mission in Dawn just a little while longer, so that he knew that dinner would be over and when he came home, he wouldn’t need to be alone.

Azriel just shrugged. "I was busy," he said, offering no further explanation. He knew his brothers were just trying to rile him up, and he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of a reaction.

*Are you still pissed of at me?* Rhys asked him mentally with a sigh. *I get it. But you don’t need to avoid everybody else, just because…*

*I’m not avoiding anyone,* Azriel replied, his mental voice tight. *I’m simply choosing to spend my time how I see fit.*

“I was busy,” he repeated aloud.

Cassian rolled his eyes. "You're always busy, Az. You know, there's such thing as taking a break once in a while. Spending time with your family."

Or he could spent time with his mate. He could spent time with his mate, who let him brush her hair and even braid it …who pressed kisses to his horrible scarred hands and smiled at him. 

If it was a choice between Irena or a family dinner where he didn’t want to stay longer than an hour or two, because he was still too fucking pissed off at Rhys…the choice was easy. 

“Or is there a special somebody?” Cassian teased him.

Azriel glowered at him. "It’s none of your business." He went back to working on his weapons, his expression tense.

*You can’t keep panting after Elain for the rest of your life,* Rhys said mentally. *Look, I know I didn’t…I am sorry. But she’s happy with Lucien and…*

*Don’t worry, I’ll go to a pleasure hall and pay for it if I want to fuck somebody,* Azriel shot back viciously.

Or his own hand would suffice. More than suffice, especially if…especially if Irena had let him kiss her the evening before…sometimes he waited until she disappeared into her room, and he buried his face in the pillows that smelled like her, fisted his cock and rutted like an untried boy for seconds before he came all over himself. 

It was still better than any other sex he ever had had before.

Cassian raised an eyebrow at him. "It sounds like you need to get laid," he said, chuckling. "Maybe that'll help with your bad mood."

Azriel shot him a glare. "Mind your own business, Cassian. My love life is none of your concern."

Rhysand gave him a sympathetic look. *We just want you to be happy, Az. You deserve happiness.*

“Ohhh, touchy,” Cassian said with a snort.

Azriel just gritted his teeth, his temper rising. "Cassian, if you don’t shut your mouth right now, I swear to the Mother, I’ll shut it for you."

Cassian just grinned at him. "Come on, Az. I’m just teasing you. Lighten up."

Azriel's grip on his weapons tightened. "I don't like your teasing, Cassian. And I certainly don't appreciate you making assumptions about my personal life.”

Mostly he just wanted his brothers to leave him the hell alone.

And then...then before he could say another thing...he felt the shaking.

And then the sound came. An eardrum shattering explosion, the very foundation of the House of Wind shaking. It was terrifying him.

Irena was down there in her office. Nesta was in there. 

He was moving before he was even thinking. 

*Merrill's office, Master!* the shadows screeched.

Azriel was already running.

Cassian hot on his heels, so was Rhys.

Azriel was faster, heaving shadows around his limbs as he rocketed down the spiral stairs of the House of Wind.

Level Two, Straight to the right. Clearly...Clearly the epicenter of the blast. Of the explosion…of whatever had happened.

He pushed as hard as he could, legs burning as he hurtled down the hallway to Merrill's office.

He wasn't the only one. "Merrill!" He could hear Gwyn's shrill voice screaming, coming to a stop in a hallway of what had once been Merrill's office but now was just...

It was a mass of wood and rubble.

He barely slowed down, scrambling into action. Gwyn was already digging through it, so where Nesta and Emerie. Cassian landed behind him, immediately moving some of the debris.

His shadows swarmed as he and the others quickly dug at the rubble. Looking, desperately looking.

He moved another piece of rubble out of the way...a piece of blue cloths. The same blue cloth that he knew covered Irena's body, the scent of poppies clinging to her...Without a thought, he grasped and then dragged, a hoarse shout that was her, that was her...

He felt as if he were choking, as if he were drowning as he dragged out her body. Bloody, bruised, broken but still...still there was a faint flicker, a faint, thready heartbeat.

His heartbeat pounding in his ears, he tried to pick up on her heart. There was barely a flicker. Too fast, too faint, she was barely holding on. Barely hanging by a thread.

There was blood pooling on her abdomen, dying the blue dress she wore bright scarlet red, He put pressure on that wound immediately, leaning on her with nearly all his weight, his fingers slick with blood. "Damn it, stay with me, love," he demanded sharply.

Azriel felt like he could barely breath. Like he was falling, tumbling down as he tried to will her to stay with him. Stay. Stay. Stay. Please stay. Stay...

Rhys was there suddenly, checking her pulse. "Breathing is erratic. She's in shock," he told Azriel with a grimace. "Mor is getting Madja..."

"Az..." her voice was so weak, but he turned to see dark brown eyes watching him, brows furrowing.

"Just keep breathing, Love," he told her, trying to stop his voice from shaking.

He could barely hear what was going on around him. It was as if he were in a bubble, a world of just himself and her and the desperate beat of her heart under his fingers.

"I am sorry," she whispered.

"There is nothing you need to apologise for her, Irena," he promised her sharply. "Absolutely nothing."

Irena's eyes drifted shut. Azriel felt like something was dying inside him as her heartbeat fluttered against his fingertips. His world was collapsing, shattering into pieces as her breath stuttered.

"Stay. Just stay..." he was barely aware of what he was saying, his eyes frantically searching hers. She had to stay. He would do anything to keep her here. Anything.

"I am still owing you that flight," he told her. She hadn't let him take her flying yet. They had snuck away in the library...in the rooftop garden...in her office. But he had never gotten to take her flying. He had never gotten to take her out into Velaris. They had never had a date at a fancy restaurant, had never gone to see the symphony. There were thousands of things that he hadn't yet gotten to do with his mate, because they had all the time in the world.

Irena just stared at him, her eyes pleading, as her heartbeat slowed, fluttering weaker and weaker. Azriel felt a sharp pain in his chest as fear clawed at his spine. "Just hold on a little longer, love," he whispered. "Please."

And then there Madja. Thank the cauldron. There she was.

Azriel could barely manage to let go of her, his mind consumed with the singular thought of Irena's laboured, erratic heartbeat as he moved back. Madja immediately set to work.

He lunged for her head, lunged to pull it on his lap, to touch her with blood slick fingertips, her normally rosy red lips pale, her skin even whiter than usual.

"Hurts," she whispered, as Madja set to work, barking orders.

"I know, I know, love," he whispered, touching her cheek with his fingertips as Madja got to work.

His eyes searched hers as he murmured those words over and over, as if he could somehow hold her in this world through sheer force of will alone.

"We haven't had enough time," he whispered desperately, leaning his forehead against hers.

She was slipping away. He could feel it. Feel her slipping, feel her heartbeat slow. Feel the thread that tethered her to this world fray, fray, fray...

No. He couldn't lose her. Would not let her leave him. He had waited far too long for her. Far, far too long to let her slip through his fingers.

"Stay with me," he pleaded. "Please stay with me."

But her eyes were slipping shut, her head lolling to the side. He gently patted her cheek, trying to urge her back to consciousness, but he didn't think he was even really aware of what he was doing, where he was. The world had boiled down to a desperate litany, in his head. Stay...stay...please...don't you dare...

“I am going to be so furious with you if you die. We may have our first fight,” he told her fiercely.

He needed her to know that he would be there to be furious with her if she dared to die, that she couldn't die. Couldn't. That she had to stay. Had to keep fighting. There were too many things ahead of them...a wedding to plan, children to have, years and years of life to live.

“Az,” she breathed his name, her eyes not even open anymore.

“Open your eyes, Irena,” he demanded. “Look at me, love,”

Her eyes finally fluttered open at his command. It was barely more than a slither of brown, but he latched onto it, taking it for what it was. A chance. A moment to get through to her.

He wasn't sure what he was saying, but the words spilled forth from him, a litany, a desperate prayer. "Please," he breathed, "don't go...don't you dare..."

He was dimly aware that the others had gathered, but he didn't dare look away. Didn't dare look away from her as he cradled her head, trying to pour all of his prayers into those words. All of his hope and desperation.

"You can't go." A statement. An order. An absolute certainty in his voice. "I will not let you go."

He wouldn't. Would never, ever let her go. Would drag her back from the Cauldron's grasp with bloodied and broken hands if thats what had to be.

She didn't speak. Didn't need to. He could read her answer in her eyes, the determination in those brown eyes as she tried so, so hard to stay.

It was as if she were holding on for him, because he had asked her to. Because it was him there with her. Like she would fight until her last breath because he told her too. He didn't deserve this beautiful creature, who was willing to fight for him, willing to live for him.

It was something primal, something desperate, something fierce as he whispered those words over and over, like a prayer. "Fight. Fight. Fight."

And she listened. She did. He could feel her hold on, just barely grasp hold of that tether that kept her in this world. Just barely keep her eyes open.

Just look at him.

And she did, those dark eyes unfocused but open, staring up at him, watching him. Trying so, so hard. It nearly made his heart stop in the most terrible way that she was struggling for him.

And he was so proud of her. Of the way she was fighting like she was. Of the way she was grasping, hanging on to life like she was.

The seconds stretched too thin, feeling like eternities and only the slightest of moments. But her eyes were open, if only barely. She hadn't given up. Hadn't let go.

He was dimly aware of the others, Gwyn hovering with a worried expression, Madja murmuring quiet instructions to the others, Rhys kneeling not far away. But he barely glanced at them, barely dared to take his eyes off Irena.

He was certain that if he looked away, if he let this tenuous thread sever, that she would die. That as long as he kept her here, she wouldn't slip, wouldn't let go.

He had one hand on her cheek, her skin still clammy and pale, as her eyes slipped open and shut. But everytime, they would find his face. His eyes, like he was the only thing tethering her to the world. It hurt. Hurt so much to see her barely holding on, only that last sliver of determination keeping her here.

"Please," he pleaded, whispering those words like a prayer, like he would be praying to a vengeful god. Those moments felt like eternities, stretching on and on with only his desperate whispers. "Please..."

The world felt so still, so silent as if the world was holding its breath. Azriel's eyes locked on Irena, silently begging her, asking her to please, please...

Live, live live... he whispered those words over and over, a desperate plea to the Mother, the Cauldron, to anyone who would listen. To Irena, the only person in the entire world who truly mattered in that moment.

Her eyes were growing glassy, slipping closed only to jerk open again. Stay he demanded. Keep looking at me. Please.

She tried. Mother, she tried. Her eyes drifted to him, the smallest hint of life, of a spark there in those dark brown eyes.

He hardly dared to breathe, hardly dared to move. Afraid that any wrong move could tip her over the edge, could pull her into that chasm of non-existence that she was desperately clinging too.

He felt something pricking at his eyes, felt something in his chest cracking, breaking at the sheer intensity of emotions thrumming through him. It hurt. Hurt so much to see her like this, so pale, barely holding on, barely conscious...

“Alright,” Madja said quietly. “Good girl. You were so very brave.”

"Will...will she be alright?" He asked, voice hoarse.

He didn't let his eyes drift from Irena's face, her half lidded eyes staring at him. It filled him with such an intense pang of relief and fear at the same time. Relief, because she was alive...and fear, because they had been so close to losing her.

"She's not out of the woods yet," Madja warned. "But she'll make it. She lost a lot of blood. It will take some time to get her vitals stable again."

He felt like he could breathe for the first time. It was almost dizzying, the sheer, intense relief that flooded through him. Irena was here. Irena would live. It filled his veins with an almost drug like euphoria, that made him light headed, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips.

He barely managed to keep that feeling in, the pure euphoria from showing as he smoothed a strand of hair back from her face. "Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse, eyes finally dragging away from Irena's face to look at Madja. "Just...thank you."

He looked back at Irena, taking in her face. Alive. Still alive. Still here with him, not gone. The tension seeped from his shoulders, a strange sort of exhaustion taking over. As if all the adrenaline that had fueled him, the fear, was slowly draining out of him like water.

“Merrill,” Irena whispered, her voice near silent.

Azriel felt his fingers brush her cheek, just the gentlest touch as he tried to keep it together. It had been too close. Too, too close. He couldn't stop the overwhelming feelings flowing through him of elation and fear as he looked down at her as he looked down at her, alive. Alive and breathing and whispering soft words. "Shhh," he whispered softly. "Save your strength. Don't strain yourself."

He looked up finding Cassians gaze who just shook his head. Merrill was dead.

Azriel couldn't quite process that information, not in that moment. His eyes were still drawn to Irena, still unable to take his eyes off of her for more than a moment. His fingers brushed her cheek again, just the faintest touch as he pressed a small kiss to her forehead. "Rest," he instructed softly. "I'll be right there.” He promised.

“Being here to her room,” Madja said quietly.

“My room,” he corrected.

The priestesses dormitory was locked from males. If he even tried to get in there it would’ve end well for him. And he wouldn’t leave her side.

“Your room?” Gwyn asked sharply.

“Gwyn,” Rhys said quietly.Azriel didn't even acknowledge Gwyn's words, didn't have the energy. All he could focus on was the way Irena's eyes had drifted shut, the steady rise and fall of her chest. She would be alright. She was going to be alright. She was alive. Right now, in that moment, thats all that mattered.

“Az, how long have the two of you…” Cassian asked hesitantly.

Azriel just shrugged, his hand resting on Irena's hair, smoothing back from her face. “Two years. She’s my mate,” he said flatly as he gathered her up. 

“Mate,” she rasped. “Mine.”

“Yours,” he agreed softly.

[graverises]

❛ I recognize your footsteps. ❜ sable!

" ah, here i thought i was as quiet as a mouse. " she pauses at the entryway of the room, the lilt in her voice teasing as arms cross her chest, awaiting @eatbitch's silent permission to enter past the threshold. " so much for being stealthy . . . "

IT HASN'T BEEN EASY, out here in the wilderness, forced to reckon with the ugliest parts of yourself as you fight for your own survival. this place tears you down, skins you to the bone and picks apart every sliver of weakness buried deep to the marrow. it's not the first time sable has been this close to death. maybe that's why the sinister nature of this place doesn't affect her as much as the others --- or she's just another fucking lunatic in these woods, the answer isn't very clear. what she does know, however, is that at least she isn't alone.

her gaze softens as they follow shauna's movements, the pit in her stomach churning the longer the silence lingers. something is off --- she can feel it, like some sort of weird sixth sense that's impossible to explain to anyone else who wouldn't get it. " hey, " her voice is just barely above a whisper, leaning into the door frame and allowing her arms to rest by her sides. " what do you need right now? "

DUNE 2021 SENTENCE STARTERS. accepting.

[multiimistakes]

❝ It's not like...lying if you don't say anything. No one was holding a gun to your head to say any of that. ❞ this wasn't fun and he didn't want to be there anymore, he decided. If it meant wandering aimlessly until he was pulled away for another bullshit trial...so be it.

❝ That's what people say all the time you know. 'I'm just blunt.' 'I tell it how it is' 'Sorry you can't handle the truth' and then they say horrible shit they didn't need to and when you get upset they laugh at you or tell you what a sensitive lil' bitch you're being. ❞ he glanced elsewhere and then nodded, as if coming to some sudden realization. ❝ You're just another bully. And if that's who you are then...nah. No thanks. ❞

He was bored. He was bored and YEAH the circumstances were shit and yeah most of them were shit people but no one wanted to talk. No one wanted to even entertain his presence. It wasn't much different than before all this for Emmy, but it still sucked. For a lot of the cast, this was some shocking and new place of torment. For Emerick, it was just more of the same. And maybe that's what made him so restless.

❝-—Not that you deserve to know, but what the fuck do you think happens on the other side of the fence? What do you think happens to us when we fuck up killing you idiots or if we just don't want to do it in general? You think the Big Bad just pats us on our ass like 'Aw, that's okay snookums.' ? You're smart enough to call me dumb but not smart enough to assume it's all just the same shit-pie for everyone here? ❞

He had inched back to the door at this point, rested back against it. Truthfully, he was wrestling with the idea of seeing if the door locked. If she liked being so frigid, maybe an extended session in the freezer wouldn't do her any harm.

❝ Dude, you're like a rat who willingly ran into the maze and got lost again like all the other rats. Judge all you want, man. End of the day, as stupid as you think I am and as above it as you think you are...we're both fucking rats looking for cheese that probably ain't there. Which sucks because I really miss cheese. Mozz sticks mainly. Cheese in general though.❞

   “if  it  sounds  mean  then  i'm  not  sure  what  to  tell  you.”  sable  eases  herself  back  to  her  previous  seated  position.  “i  don't  see  a  point  to  lying.  if  you  don't  like  the  truth  then  that's  hardly  on  me.”  she  shrugs.  “as  to  others  -  personally  i've  long  since  given  up  caring  what  others  think  about  me.  everyone  judges.  if  you  want  to  be  true  to  yourself,  then  you'll  never  please  everyone.  in  fact,  the  only  person  you'll  ever  properly  please  is  yourself.  and  that,  at  the  end  of  the  day,  is  who  really  matters.  so  if  people  aren't  going  to  like  me  for  me  -  then  i  don't  want  them  in  my  life.”  she  leans  her  back  to  the  freezer  wall,  closing  her  eyes. 

   “no  one  told  you  that  you  had  to  come  here  and  speak  to  me.  or  even  stay  here  speaking  to  me.  yet  you're  still  here.  are  you  bored?  i  thought  your  kind  were  well  pampered  and  taken  care  of  while  mine  got  the  shit  end  of  the  stick.”  a  chuckle  passes  her.  “learn  something  new  every  day.”  a  pause,  before  she  opens  her  eyes  and  levels  her  gaze  on  him.  “unless  your  fellows  are  not  so  fond  of  you,  as  you  assume  mine  are  not  so  fond  of  me.  outcast  finding  the  outcast?”  a  scoff.  “that's  a  b-tier  romance  movie  if  i  ever  heard  it.  gross.”

[itsabouttimex2]

Eclipse Kings

Part Four: Sweet Little Star

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: Wild Dawn) (Part Four: You Are Here) (Part Five: Constellations)

(Extra One) (Art! Thank you to @lemon-ti)

(The “servants” around this lovely ecliptic pagoda are well-tailored to the needs of their lords, no matter the scenario- including hot meals and tension breakers.

You are the only sanctuary that MK has ever known. Through blistering summers spent as the shores of a rippling blue lake, through winters spent huddled together under a stack of blankets, hidden in a hole of straw-lined mud to try and avoid withering chills.

You are all the “home” that MK knows.

But the two demons who call him are certainly trying their damnedest to make up for lost time… to very little avail.

“Since we found you so late yesterday, we never got a chance to celebrate your birthday, Xiaotian... we can-

“Yesterday wasn’t my birthday,” the boy huffs, fingers deeply kneading the thick cotton trim of his new cape. “That’s not until winter.”

“…Xiaotian,” Macaque says, almost astonished at how confidently incorrect his son was, “you were born in the middle of autumn - who told you that it was winter?”

“Y/N.”

“…ah. No, that- okay,” he huffs, pinching the growing knot on his scarifying forehead- without the crown, his usual gouges were quickly healing - as he quickly pieced things together. “They didn’t know your birthday, so… so they just made that up. You were too little to remember the day, so Y/N lied-“

“Nuh uh! They wouldn’t lie to me !”

“…my bad, kid. Of course not. No, you were too little to remember, so Y/N just… pretended to know so you could celebrate. But your real birthday is in the middle of fall- it was yesterday.”

“No, cause it’s in the winter!”

Wukong laughs as his sable mate sits beside him, nestling into the plush cushions and groaning.

“Easy, moonbeam. Don’t push yourself- he’s still a toddler. We’ll get through to him.”

“I’d rather him just remember us and everything we did together,” Macaque snaps back throwing his head into Wukong’s lap- who, for his part, begins to smooth out the inky tresses of fur laid out before him. They stay there for a minute, quietly enjoying each other’s company, and then-

All of Macaque’s ears stiffen, six sharp points flaring up under his fur, which Wukong fluffs to hide them from sight. As much as he loves them, his mate’s feelings are very dissimilar.

He looks over with both hands over Macaque’s ears, looking to the marble doorway-

And it’s just you , wearing “your” lovely sky-blue hanfu, sash shoddily tied and silk pouch held close.

The umbrakinetic demon stands up without a noise, slowly walking over to you for a closer examination- he had heard about your little fit, and didn’t want a repeat for himself.

“It suits you,” Macaque says, giving an approving look to your new outfit- he reaches for the sash, maybe to correct or tighten it, but pulls away when you flinch, simply saying: “You can keep it. If you want.”

Be polite. You want this outfit. And you want the pouch. Be polite.

“…thank you. And.. were you… talking about his birthday?”

The king rolls his shoulders to stretch them, causing the thick spikes of fur on his head to swish and temporarily dip over his many, many forehead scars- they’re a lot more obvious now that he’s smashed the barbed circlet and scrubbed the dried blood from his forehead. “We were. Xiaotian didn’t know that it was in the middle of autumn. I hear the two of you celebrated it in winter.”

“Well, most of the time- it was just whenever snow fell for the first time in the year- I… I really didn’t have… I didn’t have too much to work with. So it was… usually in winter, or really late fall, one time we got really unlucky and it was mid-spring.”

“…what do you mean, ‘unlucky’?” Asks the Monkey King, standing up from his lavish recliner to replace all his accessories, each string of citrine beads and looping gold chains clinking against each other as he threaded them back into place. “I don’t remember ever hearing the mortals talk about a bad snow during spring- not anytime this century, at least.”

“It wasn’t bad- not for anyone else. We- MK and I,” you start, trying to ignore their little twitches at you using his nickname, “we lived in a little sunken hut. It was always falling apart in place, and- and I had to patch it up all the time- so snow was always really hard, cause it would make the mud I used all wet, and it’d drip from the holes-“

“You were using mud to keep your house together?”

Both of them share the same look, worriedly gazing upon little MK with a sort of regretful hindsight, thinking on how hard it must’ve been for him to reside in that squalid, rotted hovel- though Wukong is the one who speaks up. “So you- you and Xiaotian were living in a little muddy wreck?”

Macaque- you can’t read his expression, not quite, stares on with a deeply set frown- if you had to wager a guess, he seems to be some form of vaguely disappointed . Maybe that’s standard for kings when they hear about things like this. You don’t really care what he thinks- not when MK was fed, warm, and happy.

That was enough for you.

If they wanted to pull back and say it wasn’t enough for them, then- oh well.

But that’s not what happens. There is no remand or reproach, nor any discouraging words as to your care of their darling boy.

They just frown, thinking of what you- and more importantly, MK - might have gone through.

And you frown too, caught in a tense silence louder than any storm, more charged than a bolt of lightning forming in graying skies.

It’s simply… too much. There’s been too much everything across too little a timeline to accommodate for proper adjustment, so now everything has wound to a point of near shattering, fractures displayed so prominently across the terse “bond” shared that they were nearly visible to the naked eye.

And it isn’t for a solitary second that the quiet stretches on, heavy and suffocating- it’s pervasive, leaving you all standing there quietly.

You can feel their eyes on you, assessing, judging—not just your words but the years you spent with MK, the choices you made when you had nothing to work with but scraps and hope. They’ve swooped in now, claiming- reclaiming, as the nagging voice in your head reminds - him as theirs, and though you know he’s safer here, better provided for, the thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

He had been fine without them.

He had been fine with you.

Why couldn’t it have just kept being you and- not your “temporary charge” Qi Xiaotian, Golden Star of Flower Fruit Mountain- but your little brother, MK?

Life had been miserably hard. It had been cold and drudging and dreary, and more than once you had come to one of the many peering peaks across the mountain, and sat on the idea of a quick end to the struggling.

And you had met your little “Monkie Kid”, just as cold and alone as you had been.

He had not just been your little brother-

He had been your entire reason for living.

And what did you have to live for now, with two people who could grant him ever luxury and possession a child could desire?

What did you have to live for?

Was there anything you-

“Excuse me,” calls a curt voice from behind, slicing the tension with practiced, professional ease. “We’ve prepared dinner for you, my lords.”

Like a metal door long unopened, there’s a hesitant, straining moment before the inevitable give , and then you all turn to look- at a very lovely woman. Her hair has been trimmed chin-short and styled into thick black waves, pulled to each side of her face to prominently display a golden ferronnière.

“My husband and I have finished cooking, and we wished to call you in before the meal grew cold,” she says, utterly unabated by the gone-cold atmosphere. “So we insist that you come and eat soon- preferably, right now. ”

There is no rolling of heads or smashing of bones arisen from the terse almost-command, and instead the Monkey King nods along with a chuckle and a laugh half-forced. “Of course, of course. Sorry for forgetting-“

“If you were truly sorry, you’d be in the kitchen eating all of our hard work.”

“Ahahaha! Fair enough! Moonbeam, let’s go have dinner. We can talk about celebrations tonight, together- when it’s quieter.”

Without you around to interject, of course.

Because why would anyone care about how long you spent in a crumbling shack held half-together with scraps of scrounged fabric and dried mud when you offered inconvenient things like “makeshift birthdays” and “learned attachments”?

Before your thoughts get too seething, the woman lightly claps her hands, snapping you and MK to attention.

“Since the two of you have… “lived a life of little substance”, let’s say, we’ve prepared a list of softer meals to help you both adjust to proper eating as quickly as possible- in about the course of a week. Sudden indulgence to richer foods could sicken you both- especially Lord Xiaotian. Today we’ve made a honeyed rice porridge with ripe tropical fruit, but I imagine you’ll also see fortified broth with bouillon powder, and… well, we’d be here all day if I laid them all out.

As the woman sends you and your brother down a hall together, before turning back to her eployers.

“And,” she whispers to the two kings, voice nearly low enough for you miss it, “ we’ve set aside some fruit purée and steamed milk with honey, if nothing else will work.”

“You are such a gem,” Macaque breathes, expressly pleased with her loyal diligence. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-“

“Your children are waiting,” she confirms, nudging him along. “Hurry and eat with them-“

And though he starts to correct her, to clarify that you are in fact not his child- the woman is gone in a swish of her long green dress.

You keep your head down, one hand gripping all of MK’s tiny fingers during your unflinching trek down the ornate hall. There’s hand-drawn pictures of many different demons, all portrayed with respect and pride. In one a purple minotaur holds an axe over his shoulder, horns and blade polished to a shine, in the next he’s standing beside a red-robed woman, tears brimming through his amber eyes as they focus on a small bundle in her arms. In another there’s a pachyderm demon, portrayed with thick glasses and a gargantuan stack of books- including one he must’ve been working on when the picture was drawn. The next is a bird with golden wings held aloft, spear dug into a training dummy made of stone. Then a lion, holding as many mortals possible aloft while trudging in waist-deep waters. One after another, demon after demon- though only those same four, aside from the woman.

Whoever they are, the kings clearly cherish them.

And said demons walk in unison just backwind of you, though their steps lack the carefree rhythm of easygoing camaraderie. They are just in steady lockstep, too close behind for comfort. You can hear the faint clinking of Wukong’s gold chains and the occasional rustle of Macaque’s red and black robe as they exchange glances, silent communication passing between them.

And then MK squeezes your fingers at tightly as his little fingers allow- a familiar gesture you’ve known through harsh nights and sluggish days, through famine and sickness and chill.

An anchor of reassurance in the overwhelming storm of unfamiliarity.

The shift you underwent was violent and painful. You had woken up half-paralyzed and nude, being scrubbed down by the two beings you feared most, incapable of speaking or moving- it had left a not-insignificant mark.

But MK?

MK had made a choice. He had chosen to come back, you were sure of it, sure that he had made a deal for your safety and retrieval alongside his own- of course he was going to adjust better than you.

But he was still a little boy.

A little boy who had spent his life in the hollow embrace of mud walls and patchwork blankets, in the firm grip of your scarred arms. This was a kingdom of excess, a world so vast and strange that it overwhelmed just as much as it comforted. He looks up to you, his tiny thumb fiddling with your knuckles, and you know what is being asked.

Are you staying?

You squeeze his hand back.

Always.

Neither of you is exactly cozy , but the air between you feels warmer for that little exchange, the newfound fuzziness lasting until the tall and gilded arc of a lavish dining room stands before the two of you, beckoning in.

Inside, the dining room gleams with you might bitterly call opulence . The long table stretches nearly half the length of the room, carved from a dark wood polished to a mirror’s finish. Gold filigree edges the surface, intertwining in swirling patterns that catch the warm glow of the lanterns overhead. The chairs are high-backed and cushioned, draped in fine fabrics with purple and gold-threaded embroidery. The centerpiece is a grand arrangement of flowers- peach blossoms and chrysanthemums interspersed with glowing lotuses.

The sheer decadence is suffocating .

MK gasps loudly at the sight, his wide eyes reflecting the glittering splendor. You squeeze his hand again, grounding him, grounding yourself. The boy looks up at you, half in wonder, half in unease. You feel it too- the crushing weight of not belonging. This isn’t your world. Not really. Not ever.

Not yet.

A man; dressed as elegantly as the woman that you presume to be his wife, is stocking the table with loaded plates. Not a drop spills onto his gold-lined white tangzhuang, no matter how much he moves.

“It’s an honor to be serving you again, Lord Xiaotian. And an honor to serve his savior, dear child.

He pushes up the bridge of his circular glasses, causing a sharp gleam to roll over them before coming over to usher you both in.

“Now, please- take your seats.”

There’s two chairs set aside specifically, both piled with stiff cushions to help someone of the height-disadvantaged reach the table- MK’s is especially egregious, containing no less than four.

Speaking of the boy, he tugs at your hand again, his curious eyes shifting between you and the chair meant for him. “Can we really sit here?” he whispers, voice laced with awe and a hint of anxiety.

Before you can answer, Macaque’s low voice cuts through the air as he and Wukong stride into the room after you, affably clapping their servant on his shoulders. “Of course you can,” he says, his tone soft but firm as both golden eyes land on you both. “This is your home now, Xiaotian. You can be wherever you want.”

Home. The word burns.

Maybe it sears even worse than the branding iron that haunts your dreams.

You take the seat beside his, allowing the cushion to sink as best it can under your meager weight, providing a nice abatement to your sore legs- though the cream Macaque had used to clear out grime and dirt had stopped burning not long after it was used, there was a dull ache left from both the concoction and, well… everything , really.

The man with glasses places bowls of warm, sweet-smelling rice porridge before you and MK, forcing your eyes to the bowl. The simple meal is an obvious concession to your past, but the presentation is impeccable, garnished with thin slices of banana and a drizzle of honey. It’s almost too beautiful to eat. Almost .

MK digs in immediately , tiny hands clutching the spoon with the clumsy enthusiasm only a child could muster. His muffled hum of delight sounds out at the first bite, drawing adoring coos from the two kings, and a faint, weary smile from you.

He deserves this, you think. He deserves a hundred lifetimes of warm meals, safe beds, and more love than his little heart could stand to hold.

You, however, hesitate. The porridge is still steaming, the honey forming golden rivulets over the creamy surface, but you can’t bring yourself to taste it just yet. It feels foreign, indulgent in a way that grates against the life you’ve lived- against the life that has shaped you into a scrapes-by survivor accustomed to spare bits of fuel.

You manage to lift the spoon and take a small bite.

The honeyed porridge is warm and sweet, slices of ripe banana on top to add a buttery texture that melts effortlessly on your tongue, imbuing a whisper of richness to each bite.

It’s good. Too good. It makes your chest ache.

Hunger is the world you have known, sprinkled through every aspects of your life in pieces. In the cold of winter on your stick-thin ribs, never enough meat to keep warm. In the gnawing ache that follows you to sleep. In the morning, curling like smoke in your chest as you wake, already weary. Hunger walks beside you, a shadow that stretches long.

A word heartbreakingly uttered from the lips of your darling little brother, spurring you to further and further extremes to keep him fed.

But today you are both full and warm, dressed and clean.

The thought pricks your eyes with tears, and the spoon seizes as a lump grows in your throat.

You could have never given this to MK.

The movement of your unwieldy hand grows faster and faster, shoveling more and more of the sweet porridge into your mouth, smearing it over your lips as tears begin to fall. Your spare hand drifts downwards to cusp the mildly growing curve of your stomach, feeling the meal compound through you. You drop the intricate spoon, and it clatters uselessly to the ground. In favor of scooping the meal bite by bite into your mouth, you do the simplest- and more importantly, fastest- thing possible.

You upend the contents directly into your mouth, the honeyed porridge spilling past your lips and onto your chin and cheeks. You drain it to the last drop and lick the remnants like a starving dog, and then set down the exquisite piece of china to reveal the tears dribbling over the sticky mess across your face.

“I want more,” you beg, voice plain and will broken. “Please, I-“

“ I don’t want to be hungry anymore.”

“…get them another bowl,” says Macaque, looking at you more closely than ever before. “As many as they need.”

”Until they’re full.”

[stonedeadforever]

Painting leather with clean long lasting results. A somewhat in-depth post

Materials used:

For painting: Scrap leather, watercolour pens, parchment paper/tracing paper, leather paints (ROC læderdækfarve is the best one I have ever tried. NO others compare to it), and small brushes (synthetic and sable)

For sewing: scissors, stitching wheel (optional), waxed thread, and leather needles

There are probably other ways to do this but this is what I came up with through trial and error over a few years and it has yet to fail me.

On the left is my reference. I traced it digitally to make a simplified mockup and added a white outline to get a feel for what it would look like on black leather. This isn’t necessary for all designs, but I’ve found that it also gives you a feel for the composition that does help when painting. I already knew that I wanted this on my belt bag so I stretched the image slightly to make the final patch fit it better.

I then inverted the colours and flipped the image. I taped a piece of parchment paper to the screen and traced the lines with a red watercolour pencil. (Shown on regular paper as my parchment paper is brown and does not show up well on camera)

the pencil being water based is important. If it isn't a watercolour pen, it will not transfer at all.

I use my ipad with procreate to create the stencil, but I used to do this on my phone with ibispaint for years, and it works the exact same. If you have access to a printer, you can skip this step and draw directly on the backside of the print if you have a lightsource behind it. Using a printer will make the tracing easier, but transferring with it might be a bit trickier.

Next I slightly wet the leather surface and press the stencil on the damp leather. This takes a lot of trial and error as different leathers need different amounts of water. Too little water and there will be no transfer, too much water and it will bleed into a blob and the stencil will be unusable. But if just the right amount of water is applied you will be left with a usable guideline for your design.

I start the painting process with watered down paint, following the guidelines I have made and referencing the mockup from before closely. After the stencil lines are painted, I wipe away all the excess red with a wet tissue. I also switch from referencing my mockup to referencing the original picture at this point.

Left: one layer. Right: two layers and cleanup

I forgot to take pictures between the guidelines and first paint layer being finished but this is like... the most straight forward part of the process. The most important thing is looking closely back and forth at the reference and comparing your painting to it every few strokes. I use a tiny brush LOADED with paint and a light hand to create pigmented lines and dots. When the first layer is dry to the touch I go in with black paint to clean up any imperfections. The black paint has a slightly different finish to the bare leather, so I do my best to avoid having to use it too much. After that I go in with a second layer of white. The white I use is fully opaque in two layers. I think I spent a total of two hours on this from start to finish.

Most leather paints take up to 48 hours to fully dry. Do not be impatient and cut out, sew, or wear the items you painted before it is fully dry, even if it feels dry to the touch. You WILL ruin your hard work.

I use a stitching wheel to mark out where I want the stitches to go. This is a totally optional step, but I like how neat it makes my stitches look. The thread I use is a thin waxed cotton thread. Don't skip out on leather needles. The type I use have a triangular point instead of a round one and slice through the leather instead of piercing it. Your joints will thank you.

Some of the many other projects I've done with this technique. I used to regularly do jacket commissions but I don’t have pictures of most of them due to changing phones. Both the sisters of mercy/paranoid jacket and the motörhead/znöwhite jacket has had about two years of daily wear and no touchups.

Some other stuff I didn't know where to add:

Your brushes matter. Different brushes are good for different techniques. Small springy synthetic brushes for lettering. Round tiny sable brushes for graphics like the one shown here. Flat eyeshadow brushes for covering large areas with no visible brush streaks.

If you are going to do something that isn't in black and white, you will need a base coat of white under any colour to get full pigment. Otherwise the colour will look dark and dull.

If your leather is a light colour, you can just do a regular transfer with tracing paper and a graphite pen.

Don't use leather that is too dry. If you drag your finger across the surface and it feels like suade, the paint will crack and flake off together with the surface of the material.

You can find scrap leather by thrifting leather clothing items and cutting them up. There are sometimes bags of leather scraps in the crafts sections of thrifts, or if you don't care for the ethical connotations of getting leather that isn’t second hand, you can often buy leather scraps by weight at fabric suppliers.

If you are gonna paint faux leather, you might want to switch from leather paint to vinyl paint.

Treat the finished product with care. As long as you don't scrub at it or keep it wet for a prolonged period, there is a good chance that it will last for years.

[t6fs]

crawling out of the dirt to post the Six Fingers, a Band of Licentiates led by the Sixfinger'd Scrimshander.

Felicity Verity (of the Savage Lily) is a very grizzabella esque woman. A middle aged devil who was once the sweetest cheese in town, now mostly washed up. Formerly a singer, she was sabotaged before a show and her voice is all but ruined, grating, rough and very quiet. Shes a whiz at poisons now, as well as herbal teas and whiskey-based cocktails. Very dry sense of humor. Born the 10th of September, she douses her throat in honey and sings when the band plays together. Dreadfully charming aromantic.

Richtor Mole, the Neurasthenic Assassin. Chronically ill and fatigued, has some spinal issues and uses a cane. Dead shot with a pistol because he hates the sound and doesn't want to have to fire more than once. Frequent migraines. Has a pet sorrow spider he dotes on like a kitten. Irritable. Plays a harmonica, begredgingly. He's actually very good at it. Has a thing for Ernie, the only guy who can make him laugh, and is very morose and dramatic about it. Born the 8th of September, 31 years ago.

Ernie Fowl, the Anxious American. Mississippi born with a perpetual smile on his face. Sharp as a tack, very distracting. All his babies are straight razors, but any blade'll do. Cant sing either but thinks he can. 5'1". Shreds on a fiddle. Devout methodist. Incredibly skilled tap dancer. Learned 89% of german, 75% of Italian, and 63% of French. He cant speak em well, but can understand em for opera guy reasons. His "fiddle" is a stradivarius, not that he cares much. Desperately in love with Vinne, who killed him once by accident. Born the 11th of September, 31 years ago.

Vinne Sable, the Stygian Wire. Keeps a journal of her own deaths, which she repeatedly orchestrates as performance art. Garrote artist, both for murder and also for painting. Pulls her own hair out compulsively. Philosophy bro. Glass is not only half empty but it is cracked and getting everywhere and she's cleaning her paintbrush in it anyway. Has Boatman beef. Plays a rusty baritone saxophone the size of a small child. Very unwell, wants to be taken apart by Byron, romantically or literally is unclear. Born the 7th of September, 31 years ago.

Elodie Roach, the Pyromanic Poet. Clay person with an intimate knowledge of ballistics, physics, and explosives. Master of traps, you will die to the rube goldberg machine. Their "poetry" is actually advanced trigonometry and algebra equations. Romantically in love with the concept of gravity, finds beauty in the gruellingly technical. They have two arms on the left side and none on the right, but still have a right and left hand. Compulsive liar. Plays an old accordian vertically and rather well. Deeply obsessed with Richtor for his precision and grim demeanor. Sculpted on the 12th of September, 31 years ago.

Byron Finch, the Anesthetic Ace. Had her fingers crossed when she took her hippocratic oath. Extremely skilled physician, excessive knowledge of anatomy and incredible surgeon. Can thread a needle with one hand. Glass is half full kind of person. Gets mistaken for a teenager constantly but is 31. Prefers to kill with her bare hands, and ensures it is always painless. Steals silverware by accident. Plays a tarnished silver trumpet, usually with a mute. Has approximately 400 thimbles. Finds Elodie to be the most beautifully imperfect thing in the world. Born on the 6th of September.

None of them have reflections anymore.

[graverises]

HER  MOTHER  HAD  ALWAYS  WARNED  HER  ABOUT  THE  BEASTS  THAT  RULE  THE  LAND.   she  had  described  them  as  these  ruthless,  cruel  monsters  that  revel  in  torturing  humans,   even  going  as  far  as  skinning  those  who  oppose  them  alive  and  using  their  bones  as  fucking  toothpicks.   it’s  a  horrifying  tale  to  put  into  the  minds  of  others,   let  alone  children,   but  sable  had  always  thought  that  her  claims  sounded  egregious.   although  she  had  always  entertained  these  fables  that  had  been  passed  down  for  centuries,   that  doesn’t  necessarily  mean  that  she  believes  them.   they  made  for  excellent  stories  to  tell  in  the  dark,   and  for  years,   that’s  all  it  had  ever  meant  to  her ;   a  safe  haven  to  dip  her  toes  into  the  dark  underbelly  of  existence  between  monsters  and  men.   if  it  had  been  up  to  her,   she’d  have  gone  out  in  search  of  the  truth  a  long  time  ago   —   however,   the  blood - curdling  screams  that  jolted  her  awake  on  that  fateful  morning  a  week  ago  made  her  realize  that  the  time  had  finally  come,   just  not  in  the  way  that  she  would  have  ever  wanted.

MIKAELA  HAD  GONE  MISSING  WITHOUT  A  TRACE  THE  NIGHT  OF  ALL  HALLOWS  EVE,   the  disappearance  so  clean  that  it  was  as  if  the  very  earth  opened  up  beneath  her  friend  and  simply  swallowed  her  whole.   the  lack  of  evidence  disturbed  sable.   it  was  far  too  perfect  and  meticulous  to  have  been  conducted  by  someone  else  in  the  throes  of  passion.   no,   there  was  something   …   supernatural  about  mikaela’s  vanishing.   it  was  an  inexplicable  feeling  that  gnawed  deep  in  her  chest,   alongside  the  pang  of  guilt  and  pain  that  had  made  itself  home  within.   sable  knew  deep  down  that  no  one  would  believe  her  if  she  voiced  her  concerns  aloud,   which  is  why  she  had  set  forth  on  this  mission  alone  into  the  great  wilderness,   impassioned  in  finding  answers  through  her  journey  and  would  stop  at  nothing  until  mikaela  was  found.   whatever  it  takes.

SO  WHEN  SHE  HAD  GOTTEN  CAUGHT  LURKING  IN  THE  GARDENS  SURROUNDING  THIS  MYSTICAL  CASTLE,   she  had  thought:   yep,   this  is  it.   this  is  how  i  die.   she  had  been  starved  for  days  during  her  trek,   the  crimson  fabric  of  her  hooded  cloak  fraying  at  the  edges  as  it  held  onto  the  remnants  of  the  brush’s  thorns.   it  had  only  meant  to  be  a  quick  stop;   pilfer  through  some  of  the  berry  trees  along  the  outskirts  and  then  quickly  slither  back  into  shadows  from  whence  she  came.   unfortunately,   that  isn’t  how  it  turned  out.   now,   she’s  being  forcefully  dragged  through  the  entrance  of  this  imposing  structure  surrounded  by  beings  the  likes  she  had  never  seen  before.   in  fact,  none  of  them  were  human  at  all.   despite  her  wriggling  against  the  guard’s  vice - like  grip,   there  was  a  part  of  her  that  could  barely  contain  the  awe  flickering  within  her  gaze  as  it  raked  across  the  room, examining these creatures.   it  wasn’t  fear,   nor  disgust   —   it  was  curiosity.

but  she  knows  how  the  saying  goes,   and  she’s  not  going  to  let  curiosity  kill  this  cat.

KNEES  CRASH  ONTO  MARBLE  AS  THE  GUARDS  SHOVE  HER  TO  THE  GROUND,   wincing  at  the  shock  of  pain  that  radiates  through  her  joints.   the  smooth  surface  is  cool  to  the  touch  as  trembling  palms  fight  to  keep  her  body  upright.   the  pang  of  hunger  mixed  with  the  rush  of  adrenaline  has  left  her  in  a  weakened  state,   easy  prey  for  any  who  would  consider  themselves  a  hunter.   she  peers  up  through  the  shadow  of  her  hood  to  connect  the  voice  to  the  being  that  addresses  her,   faint  breath  catching  in  her  throat  as  she  studies  them.   he’s  far  more  human - like  than  the  rest  of  them,   but  there’s  something  unnatural  within  his  icy  blue  eyes,   an  eerie  sense  of  foreboding  that  screams:  looks  can  be  deceiving.   apprehension  builds  beneath  the  surface  as  he  closes  the  distance,   swallowing  down  the  words  on  her  tongue  that  she�� wishes  to  say:   who  are  you?   what  are  you?   was  it  you  who  took  my  friend?   however,  sable  knows  better  than  to  lead  this  conversation  with  accusation. not when she isn't the one in control here.

HE  YANKS  HER  CHIN  SO  THAT  THEY  ARE  FACE  TO  FACE,   and  she  lets  out  a  shaky  breath  that  she  didn’t  even  realize  she  was  holding.   there  is  no  looking  away  now.   gaze  follows  the  upward  tilt  of  his  lips,   trailing  across  warm,  tanned  features  before  returning  back  to  his  piercing  stare.   he’s  nothing  short  of  captivating   —   ethereal,  even.   in  other  words:   it’s  suspicious.   the  venomous  threats  that  ease  past  his  lips  only  heighten  this  sense  of  doubt,  and  sable  is  deliberately  careful  in  how  she  decides  to  approach  this  situation.

“   my  friend  is  missing.   ”     above  all,   she  leads  with  TRUTH,   albeit  with  a  slight  quiver  to  her  voice.   she  doesn’t  acknowledge  the  guard’s  claim  when  they  first  arrived;   she  only  said  what  she  needed  to  in  order  to  survive.   can  anyone  blame  her?     “   she  vanished  about  a  week  ago.   i’m  trying  to  find  her.   ”     the  red  hood  slips  off  of  her  head,  revealing  a  mess  of  white  hair  styled  haphazardly  into  two  braids,   flecks  of  mud  tattering  at  the  ends  of  her  hair  on  either  side  of  her  neck.   she  looks  as  brazen  as  she  feels,   violet  hues  patiently  awaiting  any  slight  change  in  his  demeanor.     “   look,   what  you  said  about  humans  is  probably  deserved   —   i’ve  met  plenty  of  assholes  that  make  me  believe  it.   ”     there’s  a  but  somewhere,   but  it  dies  in  her  throat.   instead  she  lets  out  a  resigned,  lackluster  chuckle. if this is how she dies, she's not going to go out without at least a little bit of bait.     “   so  if  you’re  gonna  kill  me,  at  least  make  it  memorable.   ”

open to anyone!! character info here.

open to: f/fem presenting *this one is meant to lead into k.ink/erotic horror/dead dove subjects, so please check my carrd & writing limits first! feel free to come plot or throw thoughts at me!

the plot idea: based very loosely on that one scene in the book king of flesh and bone by liv zander. an au in which, after the fall of humanity, supernaturals are the reigning species and louis rules at the head of them. humans live in declining little towns while the supernaturals have come together to live lavishly, creating something of a grand court in an old gothic castle louis has rebuilt. the only humans allowed in are those in the company of other supernaturals, often kept as bloodbags or playthings, and unauthorized human entry is punishable by death. enter your muse, who has traveled quite far just to meet with him, possibly to beg for food/help/etc for herself and/or her family (otherwise, go fucking wild, tbh). she's caught upon entering, of course, and brought to louis as the court is gathered for dinner, so he can decide what to do with her.

The castle of the supernatural court buzzes with a quiet kind of danger barely disguised by the regality in which those within hold themselves. Vampires and werewolves alike sit around a long table in a space far too grand to be called a dining room. Shadows curl along the high arches like living things, flies on the wall, and the scent of the air is thick with blood and wine. Many sets of unnatural eyes gleam in the flickering light of the lanterns hung beautifully above them, and the table is set with copious amounts of extravagant foods. More than they might need for a week, let alone one dinner.

There's a certain delight about the place as they talk amongst themselves, but conversation stops very suddenly the moment the doors swing open. Two guards enter, dragging a woman between them. It sparks a few hushed whispers as she's dragged to the dais where Louis sits, watching with a cold kind of curiosity. They toss her there at the foot of the steps, caring little about her as they turn to address Louis. "My lord," one announces, "We caught the human trying to enter the castle. She claims she must speak with you."

Tension in the room becomes palpable as several predators begin twitching in their seats at the mention of prey. Silent and watchful, several sets of hungry eyes are quickly attuned to the girl. It's what she is—prey in a den of serpents and wolves, the very scent of her intoxicating as it gradually takes over the space. Louis only regards her with a quiet, subtle interest, half-bored already. He leans back in his chair, fingers curling lazily around a glass filled with red. When he speaks, his voice is smooth as silk, but there's an undertone of a barely controlled anger in the French lilt of his words.

"Pauvre petit humane..." Louis stands, setting the glass on the table beside him, the unnatural blue of his eyes never leaving the little thing kneeling on the marble floor. "You dare trespass on my land? Come into my home uninvited? Did you not think that there would be consequences?"  His steps are slow and deliberate as he descends the steps of the dais to stand before her. "Tell me, chérie, why should I not have your blood spilled right here at my feet, simply for the disrespect you have shown? It would be poetic, really—another human life taken to repay what your kind stole from me."

Louis' eyes narrow, the blue of his irises tinged with a swirling of red and gold—the only indication of a quietly controlled rage. A smile curves his lips—slow, cruel, and beautiful as he crouches down before her, a gloved hand catching her chin in a grip just tight enough to keep her from pulling away. "Look at me," he demands, voice low enough to be intimate. He watches her intensely as if he's picking her apart for weakness—or perhaps for the truth. "I want to see your eyes when you decide if your life is worth the words you've come to speak. Choose them carefully. If you bore me, I'll have to make an example of you... and that tempts me even now."

[nininikki]

logged back in to elaborate on this!!! #toohorny #needthemboth

likeeee you’re folded over on the loveseat in the living room of their swanky new york penthouse (wherein they invited you after an evening of drinks). hands damp with perspiration and desperately clinging to the undersides of your knees, pushing your legs back as far as they could reach in hopes of accommodating the girth of the man standing before you.

eren pumps his dick with all the deliberation of an artist applying brush strokes to a canvas. “shit,” he grunts as he runs his palm (which was wet from a combination of yours and mikasa’s spit) over all seven inches of his cock. “you’re gonna take all’a me, right?”

you eye it once more for good measure, and catch a vein running up the side of his shaft. saliva pools under your tongue, and you’re overcome with the urge to take his cock within the heat of your mouth. before you can nod your head, mikasa perks up from beside you. “c’mon, ‘ren,” she reaches forward and gives his thigh a playful slap. “you’re gonna scare her off.”

eren chuckles, throwing a gaze between you two. “wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“no. ‘specially not with this one.” mikasa purs as she cups your chin in her hand. “just look at how pretty she is.”

eren deals a few shallow pumps to the angry head of his tip until a bead of precum is spilling onto his fingers. “mmmhm,” his eyes become lidded when he murmurs, “give her a kiss for me.”

she obeys almost immediately, tightening her grip on your chin and locking her peach flavored lips onto yours in a messy kiss.

you’re not exactly sure when, but sometime while mikasa was spelling her name on the roof of your mouth with her tongue’s tip, the heavy weight of eren’s cock falls upon your cunt with a loud plat. “mhm, just like that.” he sandwiches his dick between your chubby pussy lips, panting with each new layer of slick painting his length. “you look so good with my wife’s tongue in your mouth.”

an empty feeling settles within you with every piston of eren’s hips, and you’re soon clenching hungrily around nothing in heady anticipation. your growing want manifests itself in desperate little mewls, but each sound is promptly swallowed by mikasa’s lips.

“c’mere, honey.” the command comes from deep within eren’s chest as he gestures to his wife. “i want you to tell me how she tastes.”

she detaches from you, leaving nothing but an iridescent thread of saliva connecting your lips. her body is lithe as she turns her attention over to eren. he taps his length over her softly puckered mouth and they share a look that you can only describe as marital bliss.

mikasa’s lips tug upward in a cat-like smile when eren threads his fingers through the short, sable locks of her hair. before he can even finish saying, “open up f’me,” her tongue is running from the base to the tip in only the most tantalizing fashion.

“mmm,” she smacks her lips as though she’s just taken a sip of the most savory pitcher of tea. “she tastes like a dream, baby.” is all she says before taking eren into her mouth, whole.

truly, if you weren’t in such a compromising position, you’d be taking notes right now. mikasa’s able to go up and down over his length, taking him further and further down her throat until her nose was brushing over the thatch of dark curls above his base. all while only shedding a single tear!

she lasts an impressive amount of time before coming up for air, but is only able to take a handful of breaths before eren deals a few encouraging pats to her now reddened cheek. fresh excitement coats the greys of her eyes, and mikasa practically jumps into her husband’s arms. with a dark chuckle tumbling from his lips, eren murmurs, “yeah, i bet you fuckin’ love this part.” before letting her drop a pearl of saliva into his open mouth.

the kiss they share thereafter is so intimate that you almost feel like you’re interrupting something. that is until eren pinches the soft, pale skin of mikasa’s ass, commanding just loud enough for you to hear, “now go and keep our friend company, ‘kay? lord knows she’ll need it.”

lolllll yeah