#uncanny last ward

[indatsukasa]

Pernicies Ranunculus intentus e gurgite ignaro venit.

[merakiui]

タコの花嫁。

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, arranged marriage, oviposition, breeding, royalty au note - in an effort to bring peace to two warring sides, you are engaged to the sea queen’s son.

If anyone is to blame for the abysmal diplomacy between the Land and the Sea, it would be your ancestors. Pompous and foolhardy, they thought they could rule the grand seas stretching out from the harbor, beyond weather-worn docks with their rotted, seaweed-strewn planks and briny fetor. The ocean was vast, unexplored territory—a dangerous, deceptive beauty harboring life far beneath unruly waves.

And your ancestors intended to claim it.

Sailors would recount tales of fishfolk—uncanny creatures who looked more marine than the two-legged mammals of the land. They’d raise mugs, each overflowing with ale, in drunken merriment, terrifying themselves with the mysteries of the deep, dark sea.

“It ought to give ya a proper scare straight to Davy Jones himself!” they’d say, voices lowered conspiratorially. “Soon as yer candle goes out and all ya’ve got’s the moon to guide ya… You’ll hear ’em slip through the water if yer listenin’ well enough.”

“You ever go and spy one up close?”

“I’d sooner see the Devil himself and let him keelhaul me before facin’ those cursed beasts!”

“The cut of their jib ain’t so pretty. Enough to give men like us a fright and we’ve seen all sorts of somethin’.”

“Monsters, I say! Monsters!”

Festivals were held to keep these beasts at bay—to prevent them from gathering the courage to creep up onto the land. Every year, during the summer solstice, pits were hollowed on the shore and bordered with stones. Flames licked towards the sky, red-orange fingers clawing for purchase amidst the stars above. Townsfolk would sing and dance late into the eve, bellowing songs passed through the generations. Children would skip up and down the beach, torches in hand, and cry out an old chant: “Fish for you and me are meant to stay in the sea! Should you see one on land, may the Heavens strike it down with a gentle, loving hand!”

Their excitement did well to ward off the fishfolk. Sometimes the lone child would spot one in the distance, peeking out from between the rocks before diving back under in a splash.

On land, humans were safe. On land, the fishfolk couldn’t catch them.

It was different in the sea.

Ships were destroyed in terrible tempests. The waves tossed them around as if they were nothing. Many sailors would find their demise at the bottom of the ocean, torn to shreds with shattered skeletons. Viscerally brutalized, they died with secrets on their tongues—secrets of the strange fishfolk who’d drag them down, down, down to a watery grave.

On one cold February afternoon, the octopus prince was brought into the world. In shadowed fathoms, a grand celebration was held. After so much time—misfortune after misfortune—one fry survived out of the entire clutch. He was round and soft and small, colored blue from exertion and fighting through the tug of the current to reach home. The Sea Queen met him halfway and embraced him, ecstatic tears in her eyes, for a mother’s love is stronger than any political power.

“My little Azul,” she said, stroking a hand along his cheek, “how precious you are.”

No ships were sunk; no lives were lost. It was a peaceful day for both the Land and the Sea. And it would continue to be so in the future. Every year on that same February, it was made a day of peace to honor the little prince.

A day of life, not death.

It was on that same February eleven years later when you were tossed into the frigid depths like a hatchling cast out of its nest. Similarly, your birth had been a wondrous occasion. Your parents brought five boys into the world, each just as adored as the last, but they had been hoping for a daughter. It was a miracle when their fervent wishes were finally granted. You were spoiled as all daughters often are, pampered and doted on by your family and the palace staff.

Your brothers, though protective and caring, were a troublesome and rowdy bunch. Kyffin was the eldest. Two years younger was Emyr, and another two years behind him was Owin. A year younger than him were twins Morcan and Martyn. They picked on you as all immature boys often do when caught up in sibling rivalries, aiming to be the only one their parents see. To prove themselves as the best, the strongest, the wisest.

So it was with a half-cruel heart that Emyr tossed you into the waves from where he stood in the rowboat.

“Only way to learn is with exposure!” he called down to you, watching as you struggled against the push and pull of the sea. 

“C-Can’t!” you shouted back, choking on salt and flailing about. “E-Emyr, I can’t—can’t swim!”

“Don’t be silly,” Owin added with a sweet smile. “It’s how we learned. That old sod threw us right in. You’re lucky it’s us and not him. He was awfully mean with it, wasn’t he?”

“Terribly so.” Emyr watched your struggling a moment longer and clicked his tongue. He held the oar out just before you could slip under, and you clung to it with shaky hands. “Come on—let’s get you up here. You’re not gonna get it today.”

“Fin got it on his first try.”

“Fin gets everything on his first bloody try.”

Relieved, your heart pounding like a drum, you peered up at your brothers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get it…”

“Nothing to apologize for. You’ll get it one day.”

“We’ll keep trying until then. And once you do, we’ll throw you a big party.”

“Really? Will you really do that?” Your expression brightened, but your brothers’ faces darkened. They saw the shadow before you did. Saw the webbed hands reaching out, the serrated teeth glinting in a sinister smile.

And then—

Owin leaned over, his arm outstretched. So fluid was his motion that it took you by surprise. “(Name), grab on! Hurry! Before—”

The rest of his warning was muffled by the water. You hardly had any time to brace yourself when you were yanked under, your nails raking across the wood of the oar as you went with the force of the pull. Salt stung your eyes when you cracked them open, peering frantically at blurry surroundings. Teal-green specks slid silently through the shadows, mismatched eyes flicking over your form. And then there was a high, raucous sort of chittering. Like a dolphin’s cry, loud and piercing. You squeezed your eyes shut and pressed your palms against your ears.

It only lasted a few mere seconds, but it felt like an eternity trapped in the coils of a creature you couldn’t comprehend. One moment you were holding your breath and the next arms were hooked around your torso, and you were pulled up and into the belly of the rowboat. Your hands flew to your throat, and you coughed up seawater while Owin patted you.

“It’s fine. It’s…okay,” Emyr muttered, his voice shot through with fear. It was the most shaken he’d ever sounded.

Blood fogged in the water, staining the tip of his harpoon. He gazed down at his hand. A deep, jagged gash ran angrily from palm to wrist. He hissed and closed his fingers in a tight fist.

“We gotta get back,” Owin was saying, still rubbing soothing circles into your back. “I’ll row. You rest.”

“Not good,” Emyr said instead, shaking his head in dismay as he watched your attackers retreat.

“We’re still in our waters, right? We didn’t go past the boundary, did we?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“We didn’t, right?”

“Let’s hope—” Emyr paused, collecting his words. “Let’s hope those monsters were in the wrong.”

“Father’s gonna kill us.”

“If not us, the monsters.”

Both brothers looked towards you. Your tunic was torn, stained through with saltwater and blood. You shivered all the way to shore.

Following that mishap, an official meeting was called between the Land and the Sea. The King—your father—met the Sea Queen at the border. He stood proud on his ship, peering down at her with fire in his old eyes.

“Your Majesty.”

The Sea Queen was just as formidable as those who came before her. Her tentacles unfurled as one, and if you looked at them long enough they almost seemed to take on the shape of an obsidian-colored crinoline.

“I believe my mother and your father made the terms quite clear all those years ago,” she said, a wave lifting her to meet the King at the deck of his ship. “So then, with that in mind, there should be no reason for us to meet under these circumstances.”

Emyr and Owin stood just behind their father. You peered through their legs at the Sea Queen, silently amazed. You’d never seen anyone quite like her before. At least, not a real person. You’d seen her in storybooks, depicted as a fearsome beast with devilish features, and though there was something intimidating about her gaze and build she appeared understanding enough. Her grey skin was sleek in the morning sun, her long, silvery strands tied up and pinned with an ornate hair ornament. She looked beautiful in a magical, enigmatic way.

“I couldn’t agree more,” came the clipped response of your father. “Alas, misfortune has brought us here.” He stepped aside to allow her to behold Emyr’s bandaged hand. “Harm has befallen my son and daughter. I suppose you might have an inkling as to why they find themselves in their current state?”

She frowned, but you couldn’t tell if it was out of sympathy or some other emotion. “Perhaps one of them can give reason to the wound now marring one of my subject’s sons.”

Your father glanced overboard at the snake-like merman cradled in the arms of another merman. They looked near-identical, their features unmistakable. He glanced back at Emyr, his gaze hard. “Go on then. Explain yourself.”

Emyr stepped forward. “With wholehearted respect, Your Majesty, it was out of self-defense. Your kind—they attacked us first.”

“You were in our waters!” one of the mers exclaimed, pointing a clawed finger towards Emyr. “It’s all your fault Jade got hurt!”

Owin hurried ahead, his hands gripping the taffrail. “He’s playing it up! It was a graze!”

“He could’ve died! You almost killed him!”

“That is enough,” the Sea Queen said, jutting an arm out to silence both sides. “I understand everyone is hurt here. Our feud lies in misunderstanding.” She gazed at you next. “Little one, we have yet to hear your story. Do share.”

You glanced at the guards, at Owin and Emyr, and then at father. He nodded encouragingly. “U-Um!” Shyly, you approached the Sea Queen. “My brothers were teaching me how to swim. I don’t know anything about whose water is whose. I just wanted to learn how to swim.” You met the fierce scowl of the mer holding his twin brother and quickly looked elsewhere. “He grabbed me before my brothers could pull me up.”

“Because you were trespassing. Anyone who tresspasses ought to—”

“Floyd.”

At the not-so-subtle warning in his father’s voice, he shut his mouth and snarled. His brother—Jade—was handed off to their father, who assessed his state with a frown.

“He will live, but it will take time for him to recover. My son is right. Your son could have killed him.”

“Just as your sons could have killed my sister!” Owin shouted, glaring.

Floyd stuck his tongue out, remorseless.

“It is impossible to know which side is in the wrong,” your father began, turning towards the Sea Queen. “Seeing as both have been injured, I am willing to apologize on behalf of my sons.”

“What?!” Owin’s head turned towards his father. “You’re bloody mad! Have you not seen—”

“Father,” Emyr interjected evenly. “We have nothing to apologize for. We were within our waters. We had no ill will towards the others. It was completely innocent.”

The Sea Queen hummed her contemplation. “The boundary was drawn for a reason, decided upon by those who came before us, and yet it does more harm than good. It is not for safety’s sake. It is to keep us divided—to ensure that neither side will ever know peace.”

“And you’re implying that we get rid of it?”

She nodded, quite serious. Everyone looked on in equal parts shock and disbelief. “Why do we continue to fight? It does nothing but open old wounds, rendering them incurable. Innocent lives are lost in petty squabbling. And for what?”

To that, no one could offer a smart reply.

“Therefore I propose peace. A union to welcome a new era—one in which we embrace one another as allies without animosity.”

“A union?” Your father raised a brow, suspicious but willing to listen. “I suppose it would be beneficial. My people would be free to travel the seas at their leisure.” “And mine would no longer have to live in fear of being thoughtlessly slaughtered and taken as trophies.”

“Unbelievable,” Orwin muttered.

Emyr elbowed him. “Knock it off.”

“We’ll collaborate on a contract. One that dissolves the invisible boundary that has been the cause for so much suffering. In order to attain true peace, I shall offer you my only son.” She glanced at you and then back at your father. “Your daughter shall marry him when they are of age.”

“What?! No way! Ew! Gross!” Your voice came out shrill and you shook your head in protest. “I don’t wanna marry an octopus! No, I won’t do it!”

Your father stood in front of you. “She’s my only daughter. If something were to happen—”

“Which is precisely why I bring up this engagement. Should they be betrothed, we as their parents will promise to uphold peace to give them bright futures and they will act as the first example of a human-mer alliance. Unions between humans and merfolk are unheard of, but is this not the best way to foster harmony between the Land and Sea?”

“I won’t do it! No! Don’t make me marry a gross—” Emyr gathered you in his arms, holding his uninjured hand over your mouth.

“Let the grown-ups talk.”

Owin frowned. “I still don’t agree with this…”

Your father mulled it over, his eyes glazed in thought. “Very well. We will create a contract—an official peace treaty.”

Both leaders shook hands and planned to convene at the end of the week to discuss further.

You watched the mers depart, each one slipping under the sea. Floyd was the last to go, staring at you with a mean sort of vitriol. And then he, too, dove under.

“He didn’t mean it, right?” you whispered to Emyr after your father gave the order to turn the ship around and head for land. “I won’t have to marry an octopus, right?”

Emyr could only offer a commiserate frown.

“She’s a brat,” Floyd spits. “Stupid, evil Two Legs.”

Jade chuckles and runs his fingers over the scar. “I consider it an honor.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s messed up. She’s the reason you can’t ever swim naturally again. While she’s up there in her pretty, little tower, safe and sound, you’re still hurting.”

“It’s not as much of a hindrance as you may think. I’m not weak, mind you.”

Floyd grumbles. “Still. She’s mean.”

Azul gazes up at the palace, sighing dreamily. “She’ll be my wife someday. That’s what humans call it, yes? Husband and wife… What wonderful words.”

It’s been one year since the peace treaty. Since then, humans and merfolk have made an effort to get along. This is the second time Azul will be meeting with you. He’s nervous. The first time you went out to sea to greet him, and he’d gotten so anxious that he inked right then and there. His mother entertained you from where you sat in the boat with your personal guard. It was a mortifying experience—one that had taken him months to recover from.

Now he’s going to try to meet you in the shallows. Try is the key word here. He’s scared, all three hearts beating as one. Is it too late to reschedule?

“I can’t believe you’re actually okay with this. You that lonely?”

Azul turns to scowl at both twins, but it’s mostly directed at Floyd. “I never asked you to tag along. Leave me alone.”

Jade smiles. “And let the Queen’s little prince swim to his death?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can. But what about when Two Legs gets ya? What then?”

“She wouldn’t do that.”

Floyd rolls his eyes. “You saw what her brothers did to Jade.”

“Because you tried to kill her.”

“Because she was in our territory!”

Azul huffs and pushes him away with a tentacle. “Regardless, we’re supposed to be on good terms now. You’ll break the contract if you try anything dangerous.”

“He’s right, Floyd.”

“Ugh. Whatever.” Floyd turns away, stubborn. “This is lame. I’m not stickin’ around.”

Jade lingers long enough to observe the way Azul lights up when he spots you on the stone steps. And then he disappears beneath the water.

Barefoot, holding your dress up and out of the way, you pad across the beach.

“Why are you here? I’m busy. My brothers are taking me into town.”

The smile that had been fighting to break out on his face frosts over. “Oh. I… Um…” Azul fumbles with the conch shell he’d collected on the way here. A gift for you. He made sure to study human speech patterns in the months leading up to this meeting. He’s fully prepared! And yet you look so displeased. “F-For you! I found it…”

You stare at the shell clutched in a dark tentacle. Tentatively, you reach for it. “Why?”

“Ah. W-Well, my mother says gifts are an important part of any bond. In the sea, we give gifts to the ones we care about. To friends and family and o-other halves…”

You turn the shell over in your hands. “We’re not friends.”

“Not yet,” he tries, but you shake your head.

“You ran away from me the last time we met. That’s not very friendly.”

His face flushes blue and he opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. It wasn’t on purpose.

You’re already turning on your heel. “I don’t have time for this.” You toss the shell over your shoulder. Azul watches it land in the sand, just out of his grasp.

“W-Wait! I… I want to talk to you. Please don’t go. You’re going to be my other half one day, so I’d like to—”

But you’re already dashing across the beach to get to the stairs.

Azul deflates against the rock. Tears overflow in floods. Is it because of him? Is he to blame? Why don’t you want to be his friend? Is it because of the peace treaty? Why?

Why? Why? Why?

Azul doesn’t want to think negatively of you. Humans are sensitive creatures. He reads up on them in the palace library, poring over literature and textbooks in an effort to better understand you. But as the months pass and you seem to simply tolerate him for the sake of the alliance, he begins to suspect something.

It’s made apparent the next time he sees you, where you walk right past the beach to catch up with your brothers. He hides behind the rocks, two blue eyes following your figure until you’re out of sight.

Floyd was right. You are a brat.

And yet he can’t hate you.

On the eve of your eighteenth birthday, Azul meets you in the shallows.

Nowadays you send letters, preferring strained long distance over the personal intimacy of face-to-face relations. These exchanges are purely diplomatic. But now that he’s asked to meet with you, a rare occurrence, you’ve deigned to greet him in person. It’s the least you can do after he’s gone through the trouble to travel here. It’s been so long since you’ve seen him that he’s almost unrecognizable. You remember the round, baby-faced octo-mer from your childhood. The one who lounges against the rocks is leaner now—his features defined, jawline as sharp as his eyes. They cut through the gloom to find you.

“You wished to see me?” You’re in your nightwear, a silky gown with an even softer robe. A cool breeze blows across the beach, and you wrap your arms around yourself for extra warmth. “Azul?”

He hesitates, his gaze trailing up your legs. You’ve also changed a lot in the time you’ve been apart. You’ve grown taller, filling out in places he didn’t know humans could fill. What he’d give to hold you… His mother says he needs to be patient. Fickle thing that you are, you’re the reason he’s spent six years trying to appease you through letters—to win you over and be anything more than that “annoying octopus” you’re doomed to marry. Perhaps it would have been easier to act just as you do if it weren’t for the fact that he’d been elated at the premise of having someone to love. When his mother broached the idea in the days following her meeting with the Land King, he’d stared at her with wide, excited eyes.

“There’s a human girl who wants to be my friend?” he asked, to which his mother smiled and nodded.

More than a friend, actually, but then all he was focused on was finally getting to experience the one thing he’d never known or had: friendship.

Sighing, he foregoes formality and holds out a necklace. It dangles from the tip of his tentacle. Strung on a dainty, silver strand, pearls wink back at you under the moonlight. Azul averts his eyes, his cheeks a pleasant periwinkle.

“Happy birthday…”

“Oh.” You move in closer, taking the necklace from him. His tentacle pursues you, twining delicately around your wrist. “Um… What is it? Do you need—whoa!”

Azul tugs you closer. The sea laps at your ankles. Beneath a tapestry of stars, you meet his azure stare. His features are set with a determination you’ve never seen before.

“I want to start over.”

“Start over?”

“I’d like to be on friendly terms with you. We’re so cold. Distant…” Azul frowns, seeming unsure of what to say or do next. The tentacle laced around your wrist like a bracelet tightens its hold. “We’re to be wed one day. I want to make this work.”

You blink at him. He thinks he may have gotten through to you, having finally broken through layers of stone and ice, but then your nose scrunches and odium shimmers in your gaze.

“That’s impossible. I’m a human. How am I supposed to live with an octopus?” You shake him off with a huff. “I’m not sure what our parents think this will accomplish. I don’t want to be a pawn to be moved around for the sake of peace. I’m my own person.”

Azul’s expression sours. His lip curls up into a sneer. “Well, I don’t find it very enjoyable either. You’re not the only victim in this scenario.”

You exhale an exhausted breath. “Azul, I appreciate the gift, but it doesn’t mean anything if you’re only giving it to me to curry favor.”

I wasn’t, he thinks, but he doesn’t say that. Admitting it would be a weakness. Admitting it would mean coming to terms with an unrequited opinion.

“At least one of us is making a conscious effort.”

“At least one of us isn’t trying so hard. It’s pathetic.”

“You’re not obligated to accept my goodwill.” He smiles, smug. “Yet you do every time. I’d wager you enjoy my materialistic affections.”

“As if.” Despite this, you hold the necklace out of his reach when a tentacle flexes towards it. “It’s mine now.”

“So you are fond of my ‘pathetic’ ways!”

“I’m not!”

You jerk away with a vicious scowl, but your foot catches in the sand and you quickly find yourself tipping backwards. If not for the tentacles that coil around your waist to steady you, you would have fallen on your rear. Your chest heaves with adrenaline. Stunned, you stare at Azul.

“You…caught me,” you breathe, lips parted in awe.

“Did you think I’d let you fall?” He cocks his head at you, grinning playfully. “Why, I’d never! Unless it’s me you’re falling for, in which case I gladly welcome the—”

“You’re such a pest.” Untangling yourself from his grasp, which he allows without scrimmage, you step away from the water’s edge. He watches you secure the pearls around your neck, and his hearts stumble in his chest when you point an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t delude yourself with foolish nonsense. I have no interest in you.”

With an indignant harrumph, you start towards the palace.

“May we meet here tomorrow?” Azul calls out after you, testing his luck with what little chance he has.

“Don’t push it.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Good. Keep waiting, dummy!” You break into a sprint, hurrying off into the shadows.

Azul smiles at the empty beach. Whether or not you like him, it doesn’t matter. You’re to be his one day. You’ve always been, ever since he was eleven.

He’ll wait, even if you won’t show.

Ostensibly, twenty-one years wise, you’re getting married today.

Your gown is just as exquisite as your hair and makeup. Pearls cling to your throat and arms—classic wedding attire for merfolk. A thin veil shields the scheme in your stare.

This was an inevitability, but you’re determined to fight it until the end. No matter how quickly time seems to pass, you’ll do everything you can to stall and slow it.

Gripping a sharpened dagger in a resolute fist, you drag it through the long, sprawling train of your gown.

“As if I’d marry an octopus,” you grumble, cutting fine fabric until you’re permitted smoother movement. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you scowl. “I’m no one’s bride.”

By the time the maids arrive to check on you, you’ve already stolen out the window.

The rowboat sways on choppy water. You’ve watched your brothers do this enough times to have the technique engraved in your memory. Your arms strain with the oars, every muscle screaming in protest, but you fight through the pain. The palace looks smaller and smaller with every passing minute. Eventually, you’re so far out that the land is but a mere speck.

It’s going well. You’re escaping towards a better future—a future without the octopus prince.

You glance towards the horizon. Your boat undulates with the waves.

You’ll miss your brothers, your maids, your personal guard…

Water slops over the edge. You yelp, startled. Have the seas always been so rough?

Despite everything, you’ll miss your father.

Just as you think this, your boat rocks to the side. You grab onto the edge to steady yourself, but it’s already too late. It tips over and you go with it, careening into the sea with a noisy splash. Twin shadows cut seamlessly through the murky water. You catch sight of a yellow eye before you propel yourself towards the sky, coughing and heaving once you break the surface. You grab onto the overturned rowboat, your dagger clutched in one hand.

You search the surface for them, eyes flicking to and fro in a frantic panic.

Somewhere… Anywhere… Where are you?

And then you find them, peering at you from the other side of the boat.

“Go on then,” you spit, glaring. “Kill me.”

Floyd bares his teeth at you. “This time I ain’t gonna leave a scar.”

“You know we mustn’t. That’s not why we’re here.” Jade smiles at you, but there’s something in his eyes that unnerves you. “Your Highness, you should know it’s poor manners to leave the groom on his special day.”

Floyd circles you restlessly. “S’not fair we gotta be nice when you’re so mean.”

“I’m not going to marry him.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in that matter.”

“What’d Azul ever do to you?”

You attempt to answer that before realizing the truth. Nothing. He’s done absolutely nothing but be kind and understanding and patient. And I took that, chewed it up, and spat in his face.

“If you used that brain of yours, you wouldn’t have thrown yourself to the sharks. We can’t get to you on land.” “But it’s fair game in the sea,” Floyd finishes, every syllable dripping with pride. “Stupid Two Legs.”

“I’m inclined to agree. You’re not the brightest human. A pity.”

“My brother should’ve gutted you when he had the chance. Maybe then—”

You see the whites of Floyd’s eyes when he strikes, launching himself at you with a clawed hand, sharp, pointed teeth aiming for your jugular.

This is it. You’re dead.

…or not.

The searing pain never comes, nor does the impending laceration. You cling to the boat and watch dark tentacles rise from the depths to close around Floyd, ensnaring him in a firm hold. He thrashes, snapping his jaws like a deranged beast.

“Let go of me, Azul! Lemme at her! She’s a bitch! I’ll kill her!”

“There will be none of that.” Azul tuts. “I don’t intend to marry a corpse.”

Jade swims over to you. “My feelings aren’t hurt in the slightest, Your Highness. If it weren’t for your status and connection to Azul, I’d have disemboweled you ages ago. Quite a relief for you, yes?”

You swallow your horror, allowing him to detach you from the boat so that Azul can turn it over. A tentacle curls around your waist, lifts you from the water, and places you back in the boat. You stare at your hands. They’re trembling. You can hardly hold the dagger properly.

It takes some convincing and a lukewarm apology from you, but Floyd promises to be good. He doesn’t do anything as you’re pulled back to shore, but he does stare at you for the duration of the trip, his eyes tracking your every movement. You press yourself into the belly of the boat, defeated and riddled with anxiety.

Your father isn’t pleased. When you see his enraged expression, the debate dies on your tongue. “You are to marry the prince,” he seethes, pulling you aside, “or else you jeopardize the peace of our kingdom.”

You’re washed and fitted in a new dress. Guards are stationed at all possible routes to prevent another escape.

When you walk down the beach to meet Azul in the shallows, your veil shields the sadness in your stare.

The ceremony carries on without incident. Floyd watches from the water, lurking like Death. You speak rehearsed vows in robotic monotone, mindlessly floating through the rigmarole like it’s second nature. Azul smiles at you through it all, sweetly smitten.

It’s a nightmare lived in real time.

Humans and mers alike congratulate you, cheering for this momentous occasion. Your tongue is numb by the end of it all. You’ve expressed faux gratitude so many times that it hurts to even force the words. And now, as night descends and the party kicks into full swing, you’re left reflecting on the day.

Freedom feels so far away. You’ll never know it again, will you?

Azul guides you away from the crowd. Firelight grows dim with the distance. Eventually, you find yourself taking refuge in a tiny inlet cut into the beach. A rocky outcrop hides you from the moon’s spotlight.

“I’m not upset,” Azul murmurs, curling a tentacle up your leg. “But Floyd is.”

“His brother’s the one who hurt me all those years ago.”

“That was before the union.”

“I’m not letting it go.”

“Perhaps not now, but you will. One day.”

You don’t believe him.

“Our people are at peace. Aren’t you pleased, my love?”

You shove him away, gathering heaps of your dress to walk in calf-deep water. “I’m not your love.”

“Legally, you are.”

“That means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing.”

Azul sighs. “Even now, after everything, you’re still trying to flee.”

“For good reason. I don’t want to be tied down.”

Azul inches closer. Another tentacle wraps slyly around your ankle.

“You’re so beautiful. I feel like the luckiest mer in the sea. To be able to call you my own… My beautiful bride.” He pulls you closer. You resist weakly. “Now that we’re alone I can finally tell you the very thing I’ve thought of ceaselessly for years.”

A tentacle slides up your leg, straying closer to your inner thigh. You flinch away.

“Azul, wait. I don’t want—”

“I love you.”

You squirm in his hold, attempting to thwart the tentacles that grab at your every limb. You trip over yourself in the process. This time Azul doesn’t catch you. Water laps at your dress, soaking through at once. He’s radiant beneath the moon. Dreading his touch, you scoot as far from him as you can get in the water, hoping to reach land. Azul seizes your wrist and pulls you into his arms. You fight him with more force.

“No… No, let go of me! Release me!”

“Why should I? You’re mine now. Is it not customary for a married couple to consummate their new bond? We do something similar in the sea.” A tentacle brushes your veil back so that he can look upon your pretty face. “I’d take you to a quiet space in the seagrass, lay you down in the sand, and then—”

“I don’t want that! No!” You lash out, swinging blindly. A tentacle shoots out to stop your arm before it can smack him. “Azul, please—”

“I was patient. I waited and waited in hopes that you might warm up to me. I cherished you in silence. I learned your language. Your customs. Your habits. I wrote to you. Traveled to meet you. And yet you look at me as if I’m a monster…”

It’s not the devastated look in his eyes or the edge in his voice that scares you. It’s the startling gentleness with which he handles you. Tentacles loop around your body, exploring beneath your gown. You wriggle in discomfort, yelping when suckers brush against the frilly garter secured around your thigh. Azul hums and holds you up in his tentacles, using two to spread your legs so that he may slide it from your leg.

“I wasn’t forceful. I courted you kindly. You accepted all of my gifts. You wore them proudly and I thought—I knew you would love me, too. You were mine from the moment our parents signed that agreement. And if you leave me, you’ll break a political promise and then our kingdoms will go to war and I’ll be sure to collect the heads of your family first. Each one of them, and you will watch as I bring ruin to the kingdom you love so fondly.”

“N-No… Please stop. Please.”

“I’ve waited ten years for you.” A tentacle hooks around your panties. You thrash again, shaking your head at him. He remains unconvinced, watching with gleeful eyes as your nudity is revealed to him. “And aren’t you an angel? Oh, you’re so pretty…”

Like your hopes, your panties are cast aside.

The tip of a tentacle prods curiously at your pussy. Your breath hitches.

“W-Wait! You… You can’t.” His eyes find yours, and you swallow the rising sob. “T-That can’t go inside… It won’t fit. It won’t—”

Azul smiles. “Of course it will. The human body is capable of marvelous feats.”

Even though it’s pointless, you struggle. “I can’t! Please… Azul, I’m scared. Please don’t do this…”

A lone tentacle slides into your hand. Thoughtless, you hold tight.

“My love, there’s no need to cry. I’m not going to hurt you.” He brings you closer, kissing your tears away. “I’m here for you. I’ve always been here, even when you didn’t seem to need me.”

You hiccup, your chest heaving. It’s not lonely for long, for he pulls your dress down your shoulders. Your breasts spill free and are quickly cradled in cold hands. Azul watches your expression with an intense focus while he rolls your nipples between his fingers. You grit your teeth, refusing to respond. But then the tentacle between your legs finds your clit and a sucker affixes to it, suctioning slowly. You gasp and throw your head back, bolts of pleasure racing up your spine. It happens in a white-hot flash. You slacken in his grasp.

Azul laughs, astonished. “Did you cum? Already?”

“Nooo,” you whine, closing your hand around the tentacle once more. Another one strokes your cheek. “You’ve had your fun. Now let go of me…”

“What a silly demand.”

He tugs on your nipples. You groan, lashes fluttering. “Ooh… Stop. No, stop it… Don’t touch there. Not—haa… Not there!”

“You’re so sensitive.” He drags the underside of a tentacle along your cunt and shivers. “And so wet… Is this your season? Do humans experience such a thing?”

You’ve no idea what he’s referring to, but before you can dwell on it he leans down to take your perky bud in his mouth. Your free hand grabs at his hair, pinning him to your chest. His tongue laves across it, warm and wet. You shouldn’t enjoy it so much, and yet you can’t stop yourself from crying out.

He hums against your skin, beaming like a devil. You can’t hate him. He’s your husband. He’s yours. You shouldn’t hate him.

You’re falling apart in his tentacles, grinding down to chase the bliss provided by the underside of the appendage clinging to your pussy. The sinful squelch of skin on skin fills the quiet inlet. The scent of sex and salt intermingles. It’s wrong and it’s right. It’s instinct, carnal and corrupt. Azul groans against your breast, your teat between his teeth.

“Az—ooh!” You tug on his hair, insatiable. Your brain is fogging over with lust. You don’t want to lose yourself in this madness. You can’t. “N-No more… No more.” 

But he’s not listening. He pinches your other nipple between his fingers, and that’s all it takes for you to unravel.

In the aftermath, the tapered tip of a thicker tentacle squirms between your thighs. Mindlessly, you spread your legs and lift your hips for him. It presses in shallowly, a jarring experience.

“Not inside—don’t! You can’t!”

Azul pulls away from you, his expression scrunched in woozy ecstasy. “Why not?” he mumbles, smiling stupidly. “You’re my bride. It’s only fair…”

Before you can bicker, he kisses you. His tongue pursues yours in a sloppy tango. You lick into his mouth, desperate and dazed. Lost in a sea of salacity, shipwrecked on an island of forgotten inhibitions.

The tentacle pushes through rings of tight, slick muscle. Tears spring to your eyes. It feels weird and foreign, so unlike your fingers. He holds you close, minding his strength and pace. It fills you slowly, reaching places you’ve never been able to feel. The lust numbs your senses and gives way to something animalistic—a base desire you’ve suppressed. Azul rocks the appendage deeper until it’s pushed up against the entrance to your womb, squeezed snugly in your warm walls.

“I-It’s in…” you mumble once he’s broken the kiss, a strand of saliva connecting your mouths. “It’s really…inside me…”

Azul kisses your cheek and pets you with a tentacle. “We were made for each other.”

Surely not, you think, but it feels so when he draws back and thrusts in. Maybe he’s right.

He fucks you gently, savoring every single sound you make. He tells you he loves you, whispers it over and over like it’s prayer. You nod dumbly, grabbing at his hand to hold it. The both of you are gasping in unison, chasing cloud nine. In just a few more deep strokes, his tip bullying its way to your womb, he finally finds his end. A thin substance fills you up in plentiful amounts. Distantly, you think it’s water until he drags your hips further down. Your mouth drops open in a strangled scream as something round and gelatinous passes through. It settles in your womb, and you know right away that it shouldn’t be there.

You panic. “W-Wait… Wha—Zul… Stop… No, I don’t want—”

“It’s all right,” he breathes, his mouth on your shoulder. He soothes you with soft shushes and even softer kisses. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

You dig your nails into the tentacle curled in your palm just as a second orb squeezes through. He groans, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Finally…” He pants, a wobbly smile stretching on his delirious countenance. “Finally, my love, my dear—oh, my beloved bride!”

He cradles you like a mother would a newborn. You lie there as he fills you, your voice hoarse from babbling and bewailing. These things—little orbs of jelly—are stuffed into your womb, and by the time you surpass twenty you lose count and blank out, trembling through yet another orgasm. You’re not sure how many more he has left or how many more you can possibly fit. It feels too good to think about that.

“Bigger. They’ll get bigger. You’ll look so pretty—round and full and soft.”

Dizzy, you glance at the bloated dome that is your belly. Your gown strains over it, an impressively deceptive size that you almost mistake for pregnancy. That’s when it clicks. Eggs. These are eggs.

“I’ll make sure they survive. All of them—as many as I possibly can. I’ll stay by your side. I’ll keep you content. I’ll fill you with love—so much love—an abundance of it, and you’ll never know emptiness again,” he rambles, resting a tentacle over your distended middle.

It’s not just a senseless sweet nothing. It’s a promise.

[lotties-ashwagandha]

Can you maybe write Lisa Rowe x female reader who’s new to the ward? The reader is bullied by everyone because she has a hard time socializing and Lisa defends and protects her?

YOU COULD LET IT ALL GO, IT’S CALLED: FREEFALL

pairing: lisa rowe x fem!reader

word count: 608

notes and warnings: so ive never actually been to a ward lol so don’t come for me. TW//death threats? title from “freefall” by rainbow kitten surprise

Your cigarettes had gone missing.

You were hardly surprised. You had been in the ward for almost a week, but every morning you woke up to one of your possessions stolen. The girl you were sharing a room with had an uncanny obsession with stealing your things while you were asleep. She usually hid them under her bed, but you had discovered her stash last night, and as you had suspected, she’d changed her hiding place since then.

You stalked out into the main living area, and every girl was staring at you — even The Wizard of Oz playing on the TV had been abandoned, and it was a favorite in this part of the ward.

“Where is she?” You asked quietly, asking for your roommate. Your palms were sweating, and under the pressure of all of their glares you felt like fainting. “I’ll call Valerie.”

“Ooh,” one of the girls teased, feigning fear. “Everybody fucking take cover.”

A door slammed from back in the hall, and you looked back to see Lisa Rowe approaching, her eyes almost glowing in unhinged fury.

The energy in the room shifted, everyone silently submitting to the woman standing beside you.

“Where did she go?” Lisa asked for you, her voice cold.

It only took a few seconds for one of the girls to squeak that your roommate was in Daisy’s room.

Lisa sighed, shaking her head as she stomped to Daisy’s room. She began banging on the door, screaming that if Daisy didn’t let her in she would break the door down, that she would tell Valerie about her new collection of chicken remains under the bed.

After a few minutes, Daisy’s door opened, and Lisa slammed into the room. “Where the fuck is it?”

It was then that you realized she had no idea what she was looking for.

Against your better judgment, you joined Lisa in Daisy’s room, and the first thing you saw was your roommate smoking one of your cigarettes.

“Take whatever it is,” Lisa told you, eyeing your roommate, and you knew you wouldn’t have any resistance.

Gingerly, you took back the pack of cigarettes on Daisy’s bed.

Unexpectedly, your roommate lunged towards you — Lisa slammed her back against the wall.

“If you ever touch her,” Lisa said quietly, pinning the girl, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

The girl nodded after a moment, and Lisa backed away, leading you out of Daisy’s bedroom.

“Thank you,” you said when the two of you were alone in the hall.

Lisa only nodded, briefly meeting your eyes before staring vacantly down the hall.

“I don’t really want to go back to my room,” you admitted, stopping in front of your door.

“Come to mine.”

“Really?”

She hummed, nodding. “We can share one of those cigarettes you hold in such high esteem.”

You bit back a smile. “Sure.”

Lisa’s room was at the end of the hall. You were pleasantly surprised at this, relieved that you were so far away from the rest of the girls, particularly Daisy and your roommate.

The two of you sat down together on Lisa’s bed. The mattress was flimsy and the pillows were hard, but somehow being with her took away all of the discomfort, and you felt as if you were staying at the finest hotel in the world.

“Why have you been so kind to me?” You asked after a few minutes of passing a cigarette back and forth. “We’ve only known each other for a few days.”

She shrugged, and after a moment she chuckled. “I like you, I suppose.”

“I like you, too.”

She scoffed, smirking. “Give it a few weeks.”

-

-

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taglist (if you want to be added or taken off, let me know!): @cartoonpeoples @thedeconstructionist @cordeliass @paulsonsratched @traumatisedfangirl @mayfair-fleur @goodeday2u

[greenofhue]

You're my people

just a thorfinn fic I wrote, still a wip so plz enjoy :)

Things are quiet. I watch as the fractured pellets from the bucket bounce off the back of my hands. I clean off the last remains of the fish before hanging it to dry. Smooth creaking of wood as the wind glides along the walls of this cabin. I stare into the fireplace, cracklings as it swelters. Glowing and leaving an orange hue along the floorboards. The silence let's my thoughts flow. Guilt, regret. It's so thick during times like this. I don't deserve the silence, the peace. This cabin isn't mine. We took it, like the people we are-

-Before I know it, the quiet is gone. The wooden door creaks open and from the outside blows in a frigid gust. He's stumbling into the room. Face bloodied and beaten, jaw set like a dog ravaging in all it's misery. For a moment I just stare at this scene. Even though I've seen it dozens of times by now, it still always manages to send my stomach twisting. He's angry, seething almost. His head is downcast as he's stares at the snow clinging to his boots. Blood dripping, blooming like crimson flowers as they drop onto the floor. I catch a glimpse of his face through his hair, a new bruise forming along his eye and cheek. His old dagger clamped in his hand, knuckles going white from the grip.

Another duel lost. Added to the list of many. It's not something new, since we were kids Thorfinn's always done this. Chasing a victory that will never come. Something to put an end to this endless revenge. He's spiraling down something unimaginable. I know it, he knows it too. It's all he is, all he's ever been. One of these days it will cost him his life -yet there's a rage so prevalent it's almost palpable- I wonder if it already has. I can barely even recognize him sometimes.

But he's here now. Standing in the doorway. He hasn't said a word, eyes set on the dagger in his palm; his father's dagger. Uncanny how such an object could hold so much to it. I move towards him. Wood creaking under my boots, filling the silence.

Years of this. Of watching this. I can't stop the frustration from clawing at me.

"Why do you keep letting him do this to you?" I breathe, taking another step closer. "You know how it always ends."

I can see how he sucks in a breath, brows furrowing at my words. But he knows. All these years we've spent together, I'm not one to bite my tongue. Still, he brushes past me.

"You don't know. You'll never understand it." His voice is painfully quiet. Brittle almost. I turn, watching as he rummages through the cabin, searching for something to bandage himself up. His eyes are distant. I know he's a million miles away by now, yet I can't stop myself from pressing on.

"You're the one that doesn't understand." I echo back in sharper tones, hoping that my words get through that dense mind of his. "He's using you."

He heaves in a breath, drawn and centered. "Just stop." His voice is low, warning me to drop it. He's still looking away from me, avoiding me.

I ignore his attempt to ward off the topic, drawing nearer. "How many more times untill Askeladd gets tired of you? Throws you away like some piece of-"

"I have to do this." Thorfinns voice cuts through mine, stopping me in my tracks. He turns to face me. And I can clearly see the damage now, only it's not just physical. "I need to-" he stops as if he's holding something back. "I just have to." His words are loaded.

Perhaps, it is a suggestion far too sudden, yet these fostering feelings I can only wish to suppress are too strong in this moment. "You don't need to do anything," I reason. "You don't need to be here, fighting for him."

"What about you then?" He shakes his head, footsteps echoing on the wood as he approaches me. "You fight for him too. Why don't you leave? Why are you even here?"

My brows knit together. "You know I have nothing for me. Nothing out there," the words are flowing before I can even stop myself. "But you.. You have a family, a life waiting for you."

A family, a life. The words seem to linger on my tongue. Something I can only see in my dreams. Something so fickle, unrealistic for me. But for him- It's real, it's there waiting for him; yet all this time he's been running from it?

His eyes widen, body and stance stiff. From the way his stare bores into mine, I know I should've kept my mouth shut. Still I continue, trying to save my skin even just a bit.

"You can go anywhere, find your family because you actually have one." I pause for a moment, the silence engulfs us. Desperation is evident as I utter the question; "How many else can say the same?"

The words are sharp when Thorfinn finally speaks. "Then you go find them then." His voice is cruel, cracking like embers from the fire. He doesn't mean it when he speaks. "Let them be your family, your people."

And he's pushing me away, pushing everything away again.

Yet my chest is rising, stunted. I finally breathe out the words. Letting them sink as the crackling in my voice flares. "You're my people. Cant you see that?"

And It's way this his stare drops downward. Hands curling at his sides that I can see as his mind seem to fill with lost memories; images of a past long faded away.

The silence is steady, the only thing breaking it was the wind howling around the cabin. Even the fire seems to have died down. Hazel eye stare at the way my hands clench and unclench; his gaze is awfully distant.

All this arguing and Thorfinns still bleeding. Chest struggling with shallow breaths. I swallow hard, listening to the wind in silence. Eventually I drag my feet to the small table, bucket of water and a rag in hand. Cleaning the bruised, bleeding. All the stains of war carved into his features. Deep and shallow. You can't run from it.

This life has no pity on us.

I feel my arm being pulled. He's looking at me now, searching my face. I feel my hand hovering over his chest. Hesitantly, I allow it. Allow for Thorfinn to push my hand closer, fingertips brushing the fabric of his tunic. He places my hand onto his heart. It's warm. It's hammering against my palm. Rhythmic, a force of life. Yet there is something so tired and angry about the way it pulses.

I know it. Maybe he knows that too.

"This is my purpose. I need to do this." He barely whispers. "So let me."

And all I can push out from my chest is, "You're wrong. You always have been."

[bonefall]

So sorry but please ignore my last ask, i somehow managed to send it before being finished! Finally worked up the courage to send in some clanmew translations of some of my ocs names :D

Pinefall -> Nyypfew Nyyp=pine needles few=falling Pine needles falling I couldn't find a word for the scots pine tree, but her name is supposed to invoke the image of falling pine needles anyways, so it works perfectly!

Oh weird, I guess Scotch Pine never ended up in the Lexicon! Oops! That's so strange because it's one of my favorite Clanmew words and native UK trees. It's just Bes.

Well, while I'm at it, lemmie get some words up for some pines, plus Lurchface's new prefix since we nuked larches from orbit <3

Pine = Kuh IMPORTANT: This word does not just refer to the 3 famous native conifers! This is any tree or bush that primarily bears needles! This is a generic term that includes plants like rosemary, yew, the detested sitka spruce, horsetail, and even firmoss!

Scotch Pine (pinus sylvestrus) = Bes Literally the most beautiful tree in the UK don't @ me. Has a sweeping, gorgeous red trunk, sprawling like an acacia, which grows best on poor soils. Pollen is EXTREMELY important as an HRT herb for Molly-to-Tom warriors. Pinestar's name is Bes-shai, for his gorgeous red coat.

Spruce (Picea sitchensis) = Gamnyyr There are few things more beautiful than a sitka spruce in its native range... THIS IS NOT ITS NATIVE RANGE. It is a BLIGHT. A CURSE. The moor-gobbler, the wildlife-starver. The animals of the UK HAVE NOT EVOLVED TO HANDLE THIS THING. It was the uncanny invader that replaced the SkyClan forest, an eerily quiet place in the old Forest only broken by the distant sound of human saws. It is also the plant that can be processed to create the incredibly dangerous, but useful pitch. There are many uses for this wood, as well, but Clan cats regard the tree with great suspicion. The fact that so few birds and animals are found around it give it a reputation for being cursed, in Clan culture.

Northern Firmoss (Huperzia selago) = Fiff Because of how this moss appears on disturbed habitats, particularly near Tallpines and other plantations, AND resembles a spruce sprig, it is seen as a sort of "herald" of coming invasives. Not that it, itself, is an enemy, but a warning. As such, it's often used in divination and warding rituals. For now, I'm updating the Lexicon entry for the Douglas Fir to this native plant. I am going to be doing a bit more research on pine plantations in the UK, so that I can better build out Clanmew around it. I know that since the 90s or so, the Forestry Commission makes sure that no plantations are one single species. I don't know what they tend to plant next to sitkas yet. Firkit has this as his prefix.

Lurch = Olch A major split in a tree, either between the trunk and a large branch, or two diverging segments. A safe area to perch in while climbing, or scouting.

[liquid--sunshine]

起死回生 | Revived from the Dead, Recovered from Hopelessness

Rated T, Paring STSG, Fluff, Cooking, Shenanigans, and Care ensue

Summary: Satoru and Suguru try their best to sort out their broken pieces. They're incredibly, fallibly, human. (OR: 11+k words of Geto realizing he's thirsty, Gojo realizing he's not immune to feelings, and both of them being far too young to parent ten year olds.)

The door silently slides open under Suguru’s hand, he’s thankful for the ways that skills honed for fighting have been able to be repurposed. At this point he could probably start a curse users self help series, which actually… He puts a pin in that idea. If there’s a potential for generating revenue or support, there’s no idea too outlandish to consider.

Ice spills down Suguru’s spine at the wave of cursed energy that greets his senses. Gojō Satoru is sprawled shoeless (How courteous) across his bed playing his old copy of pokemon gold. Satoru, who Suguru hasn't seen in, oh, two years, at this point?

He greets Suguru with a wave and without looking away from the little screen.

"Man, I can't believe you had this this whole time and never let me see it at school."

Suguru leans against the doorway, crossing his arms. Body calm, blood rushing.

"Man, I can’t believe you broke into my home and have been waiting this whole time to...?" Suguru gestures vaguely around the open air and sighs. "What are you doing here Satoru? How did you even find this place?"

Satoru taps on his nose and Suguru knows what he's going to say before he says it.

"Super sniffer." Satoru’s answer comes at the same time as Suguru's very loud and very put-out groan. He should have seen that coming. A little disappointed twinge in the back of Suguru’s mind, that he pointedly ignores, notes how long it really must have been if he didn’t think Satoru would take advantage of an opening like that.

It had been their joke since the summer before second year when they marathoned a bunch of American cartoons in English to see how much they could understand. For some reason that had been one of the phrases that'd stuck.

Suguru takes a moment, if he’s going to be forced into this situation, then he may as well bask in the uncanniness of it. Gojō Satoru, strongest living jujutsu-shi, former best friend, and pop culture enthusiast, is sitting on his bed playing a game they would have poured hours into together, just a few years earlier.

But, the past is the past and a potential threat is still a threat.

"Seriously, what are you doing here?" Suguru says, cold as the fear that gripped him when he first saw Satoru. No mask, no pretense. If Satoru knows where this is, who else from the school does? The girls like this spot, so he likes this spot. He'd rather not upend their lives again if he doesn't have to.

That gets Satoru's attention. He breaks his stare away from the little game and looks at Suguru through the thick fabric covering his eyes.

"Your phone stopped working." Satoru says. "No one knows I'm here." Because apparently he can still read Suguru as well as ever. Something in Suguru delights at that. He does his best to stuff it down because now is not the time.

"My girls dropped it in the pot when we were making Somen last week. How long did it take you to find us? Fuck," Suguru says the word like the wind’s getting knocked out of him. The implication of all of this practically does. “How did you get through my wards?”

"How hard is it to make noodles from scratch?" Which was neither the response Suguru was expecting nor looking for, but he'll go with it. Even Satoru's most tangential thoughts had a way of swinging back around, eventually.

"Depends on the noodle. Why?" Suguru doesn't pretend like he's not interested.

"Teach me to make noodles while I’m here?” Satoru pauses and Suguru notices the way his jaw works as he mulls over something. “I, uh, also stole some kids? Get this: Fushiguro Tōji's son is one of 'em." Satoru looks back towards the game, but doesn’t keep playing. "How fucked up is that." He says, it isn't a question.

Suguru's composure begins to crack.

Yes. That's incredibly fucked up. It hurts to even think about it.

But Satoru is asking him about making noodles so he can… make them with some kids? And Satoru’s here because his one line of communication was cut off… Something feels like it's turning inside out in Suguru's chest, an old familiar ache.

Because despite everything, he's apparently still horribly, egregiously in love with his ridiculous former best friend.

Satoru idly nudges at the d-pad under his thumb, the little jaunty chiptune music filling the empty spaces in their conversation.

"You know, I think about what'd be like if you hadn't left." Satoru says, uncharacteristically quiet. "You'd love this kid. Completely ridiculous. And you were always the one that was better at people, anyway. I don't think I'm doing too badly though."

Suguru watches Satoru pull down his blindfold and rub at his eyes. The only things physically separating them are a couple meters and half a bed. The distance feels insurmountable in the wake of everything else that separates them.

Suguru steps into the room. "Tell me about him?" And while these few words don't bridge the space between them, it's something.

Satoru smiles, sharp. "Sure, but then you're telling me how to make noodles. Get this, the little asshole's been getting into fights at school. You wanna know what he told me?"

Suguru doesn't think he's ever heard someone describe another as an "asshole" with the sheer amount of love and adoration that Satoru uses now. Suguru's last bit of will breaks and he's pulled bodily to the bed by his traitorous and not at all reliable heart. Satoru grins as Suguru comes over, eyes never leaving the gameboy. But in Suguru's experience, Gojō Satoru has never needed to look directly at him to know where he is.

"What'd he tell you?" Suguru says, resisting sitting on the bed.

If Satoru's plaintive pout is anything to go by, that isn't where he'd thought Suguru would stop. Satoru looks up and pats the space next to him with an energy he hadn't had seconds earlier. Enthusiasm pours from him.

Suguru's resistance falters in record time.

Satoru throws back his head with a laugh and Suguru delights at how limitless seems to automatically register his headboard as a threat. Satoru would have surely brained himself otherwise.

"He said 'They were making bad decisions and someone needed to teach them a lesson.'” Satoru parrots, uncharacteristically sullen. Suguru wonders how old the kid is. “But get this! Then he said 'And our teachers aren't teaching them so I had to.'"

Satoru wheezes out infectious laughter. Suguru is helpless to it.

"Like, I'm not surprised he's getting into fights—he got bad DNA—but the mora~lity" Satoru leans close and wiggles his fingers in Suguru's face.

"I–" Satoru tries to continue, but tumbles back, one arm holding his stomach, overtaken by laughter. "I mean it Suguru, you'd love this kid." Satoru finally gasps out, when he can form words again.

Suguru's used to being pulled into Satoru's orbit. He didn't realize it would still come this easily to him. It's been six years of "chance" encounters: Sporadic meaningless texts (because that was Satoru’s way of keeping them connected) and unwanted 'meet-cute's (because that was Suguru's).

He looks at the man next to him, at both their bare feet, Satoru's dangling off the edge of his bed. Satoru had been incredibly belligerent about always keeping his shoes on when they were younger. Suguru had told him directly, multiple times, that it was 1. Unsanitary and 2. Rude. So, Satoru had done it out of spite. They’d wrestle, Suguru would win because Satoru’s hand-to-hand was shit, and then they’d go about their time together.

He wonders when they left the realm of being 'boys'. Suguru thinks of how grown he'd felt at eighteen, he thinks of how much older he is now. He looks at Satoru and notices how the baby fat around his face has started to give way to the crest of his cheek bones and the sharp lines of his jaw. Suguru wonders what gradual changes he's overlooked in himself. He wonders if Satoru notices them, stark with the time they've been apart.

Satoru's laughter has died down. They both just rest there. No one willing to disturb the delicate balance of their own selective memory at the moment. In the quiet, it's easy to forget how far they’ve walked down opposite roads. In Suguru's pristine room, they're just two men who have cared about one another since their first year in high school. Not that far off from so many other people they share the planet with, in that regard.

Satoru sighs, it cuts through the ambient creaks and groans of Suguru’s house, then he lolls his head over to look slightly above Suguru. Suguru huffs out a little laugh when he realizes what Satoru is doing.

"Does it still look like an oil slick?"

Satoru's gaze travels around Suguru's edges.

"Yep," Satoru says, popping his 'p'. "Forgot how pretty it is in person." The solemnity of his tone, at odds with the music floating from the little 90s relic sitting forgotten between them.

And… oh boy, Suguru is in over his head. He didn't realize they were heading towards vulnerability. Suguru, very. strongly., doesn't believe he's emotionally prepared for that. The realization feels like a cold fist has gripped at his guts.

So, he flicks Satoru on the side of the head.

"C'mon, I thought you wanted to learn how to make noodles?"

┉┉┉

Satoru is no stranger to stare-downs—he has an iron will, they’re inevitable sometimes—so he sets his shoulders and plans to win the three way stare war he's currently in with two ten year olds and his stupid unhinged best friend.

"When I asked you to teach me how to make noodles and you agreed–"

("You didn't ask, you demanded.")

"I thought that meant you were going to teach me how to make noodles."

Suguru smiles sheepishly (guiltlessly, the little liar) and shrugs at Satoru, placating.

"The girls like to help and this is their house as much as it's mine. If they want to be the ones to make noodles with you, they have every right to be."

This is our space, not yours; you don't get to demand here the way you do elsewhere. Satoru hears the unspoken dig. Well, Suguru's got him there. Satoru rolls his eyes behind his blindfold. He waves his white flag of defeat with a loud exaggerated groan and undignified hunch of his whole person.

"Fi~" Satoru drags it out for good measure, "~ine."

He catches the sideways glance Suguru gives him, sly and just on the edge of unkind. This fucker, Satoru thinks.

"And practice by way of teaching is good for communication skills. I mean, look at you now! You should really know the benefits best, right Sato– Ow!"

But Satoru's good at this game too, and he's not one to be one-upped. So, before Suguru has the chance to finish his ~little jab~, Satoru grabs a strand of his hair and yanks. Hard. (Hard enough to pull some of it out, oops.) Then he short distance teleports himself to hover up by the eaves of Suguru's kitchen.

Satoru grins down at the very familiar expression gracing Suguru's face. It's harder now than it used to be, Satoru notes as he takes stock of the way Suguru's face has less squish and more tension than when they were teenagers.

Satoru flips through all the ways he can imagine Suguru responding. All part of the game. Their game.

What he doesn't expect, is to be scolded by one of the ten year olds he'd fully forgotten the existence of.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

Satoru's harsh startled laugh and Suguru's scolding "Nanako!" come at the same time.

Satoru teleports directly in front of the little girl and stares her down. He's curious if she'll yield (there's potential there, if she doesn't). He's curious if she knows who he is yet. What his existence signifies on a grander level for their little family.

She doesn't yield. Not only that, but the quiet one finally pipes up. "You shouldn't be rude in someone else's house." Which, fine, that's very Suguru of her to say. "If you are, they have the right to get rid of you however they see fit. I think one of Getō-sama's curses should eat you." Well now, that's a little less Suguru of her. Or well, actually no, that's still probably pretty Suguru of her, all things considered.

But if they think one of Suguru's curses could do anything to him, then they don't know who he is yet. Good. That'll make making noodles easier.

But first.

"Getō-sama? Really?" Satoru grins so hard his cheeks hurt. He's never going to let Suguru live that down.

Suguru looks like he regrets every decision he's ever made in his life and Satoru, for one, doesn't mind that. There are certainly some decisions he should have gone without making.

"Can we please just make noodles?" Suguru pleads, looking exhausted.

"Yep!" Satoru twitters and slings his arm around Suguru's shoulders. He doesn't know how long this little charade of normalcy is going to last between them, but so long as Suguru keeps giving him inches, Satoru plans to keep taking miles.

"But first, I'm Gojō Satoru, your sort-of-dad's best friend." Satoru wears his irreverence like armor and waits for Suguru's response. He doesn't wait long. Satoru feels the tension that takes up residence in the broad lines of Suguru's shoulders. Satoru also clocks the way Suguru's pulse starts to race. Interesting, Satoru thinks. He'll have to wait and piece together what that actually means, but there's no denial in the face of Satoru’s words, so that's something.

Satoru takes stock of the girls next. They don't seem convinced.

"You, the yelled at one," Satoru squats down to their level and points, "you're Nanako. That makes you," he exaggeratedly swings his gaze and accusational finger towards the other girl, "Mimiko."

Satoru feels himself slipping into teacher mode; play everything up, make the kids feel at ease with his goofiness. "So, I don't know how to cook for shit." Suguru groans and okay, the way Satoru talks to teenagers maybe isn't the way he should talk to ten year olds, but Nanako giggles, so whatever. It's working. "And according to Getō-sama~," Satoru can't help but wiggle as he says it, he might as well act as stupid as as he finds that title, "you two are some special class chefs." Satoru laces every word with as much gusto as he can muster, and he can muster a lot of gusto.

The girls look at one another.

C'moooon, Satoru thinks. Maybe if he just wills it hard enough, he can win over these two little girls. (And maybe if he can win over these two little girls, he can win back some little part of Suguru. All he needs is an in. Let me help you, he thinks.)

After the most excruciating few seconds of Satoru’s life, Nanako looks at him, a massive grin spreading over her face. Satoru feels as light as when he's flying, a big dopey grin spreading over his own face.

"Getō-sama says it's important to help other jujutsu-shi in need, so we can help you. Also, you're kinda weird but pretty funny, so you'll probably be fun to cook with." Mimiko nods with the whole top half of her body in a silent but forceful agreement with her sister.

Satoru positively cackles. He stands, rounding on Suguru and shakes him by his shoulders before flicking himself into existence over where the twins had started heading towards the kitchen shelves.

"Lead the way ladies!" Satoru yells in a voice far too loud for indoors. Nanako grabs him by the wrist and starts rattling off the things she needs him to grab from the high shelves she and Mimiko can't reach.

┉┉┉

This can't be happening, Suguru thinks, entirely hopeless and woefully under prepared. Getō Suguru has become, for all intents and purposes, someone very used to being in control of every aspect of his life. He is an incredibly effective money laundering cult leader. He's magnanimous in the realm of curse users and unparalleled in his ability to garner support, bordering on devotion. Even Satoru breaking into his home to play fucking pokemon gold in his bed didn't feel outside of something somewhat controllable.

This though. This is very much outside of something he can control.

Satoru is good with kids. Satoru is good with his kids. Suguru stands somewhat stunned as he watches Mimiko muster up enough courage to throw a handful of flour at Satoru. It scatters around him and drifts to the ground. The girls titter and howl with excitement, cascading questions at him about how that keeps happening. He keeps up with them beat for beat. Suguru vaguely hears Satoru encourage them to keep throwing whatever they want at him, and that's something Suguru should really nip in the bud, but he's too busy not functioning.

Suguru is going to die. This is it. Not at the hands of a curse, no. Getō Suguru is going to die right in his own kitchen from cardiac arrest at the ripe old age of twenty-four. Actually, no, this is exactly how he thought he would die: At the hands of Gojō Satoru.

He just didn't think it would be at the hands of a bare armed, sweat pant thieving Gojō Satoru covered in flour in Suguru's kitchen.

And then there's that.

When had Satoru gotten arms and shoulders like that? Suguru feels like he's hemorrhaging. Satoru had always been a bean pole, a human noodle. And! Suguru knows for fact that Satoru doesn't exercise. Suguru knows because he lifts—he'd started in school and had found the exertion clarifying—and he'd invited Satoru, more than once, in what Suguru had insisted to himself was not a thinly veiled attempt to see Satoru in fewer layers, but a genuine extension of an enjoyable activity to a friend. Suguru winces at the avalanche of his thoughts and wonders if he's ever going to not be embarrassed by the mortifying ordeal of having existed prior to this year.

But "Flour," had been the one word reason Suguru had been given as Satoru started stripping, right there in front of him and his girls and whatever God people fucking believed in. Suguru had felt more destabilized in that moment than he had in years, but at least Satoru'd had the decency to blink out of existence before taking his pants off.

The sudden silence had been deafening in the wake of Satoru's reign of youth-entertaining terror.

Suguru had caught his girls' astonished looks before Nanako, with possibly more wonder than he'd ever heard from her, said "How does he keep doing that?"

The soft exclamation had pulled Suguru back into his body, carried by warmth like a wave to the shore.

He'd walked to his girls, love spilling from him the way his curses' resentment usually did: Weaving through his fingers, curling through his veins. He'd cupped Mimiko's cheek and gently squished Nanako's, like he'd done when they were smaller.

"Why don't we clean some of this up?" Suguru had said as he released a small curse with a very large tongue onto the floor.

But Suguru's very short lived peace had ended when Satoru popped back into existence upside down above the three of them with a too loud "Missed me?" wearing one of Suguru's sleep masks and Suguru's longest pair of sweatpants.

Mimiko would have fully toppled over if Suguru hadn't caught her.

Suguru would have fully toppled over if Mimiko hadn't provided a much more immediate concern to focus on than Satoru wearing his pants.

So, as it stands, Suguru pulls together pots and cutlery in his kitchen, perishing as his best friend, kids, and kind-of-disgusting cleaning curse ruin his house and maybe also his last vestiges of sanity.

┉┉┉

Check out the rest on a03 ٩( ᐛ )و

[thetcrmented]

CARMEN ALVAREZ ( ADRIA ARJONA ) is a THIRTY year-old HEAD OF FUNDRAISING FOR THE WOODROW FOUNDATION in BOLTON, NY. They were brought under Richard’s care when they were only THIRTEEN years old. They are known as THE TORMENTED because they are IDEALISTIC but also SENSITIVE.

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: carmen juliana alvarez

Nickname(s): carm, carms, alvarez

Date of Birth: march 12

Age: thirty

Occupation: head of fundraising for the woodrow foundation

Current Residence: two bedroom apartment in bolton, new york which she moved into two weeks ago

PERSONALITY & BEHAVIOR:

Strengths: kind-hearted, generous, innovative, empathetic, creative, loyal, steadfast, principled, open-minded, compassionate

Weaknesses: sensitive, emotionally volatile, thin-skinned, naive, easily manipulated, impulsive

Quirks: carmen is a compulsive nail-biter, an anxious tic she picked up as a child and hasn't been able to shake. she's also a notorious note taker and is forever writing up to do lists on scraps of paper that end up stuffed in the bottom of her handbag and strewn across her desk/bedroom/kitchen (delete as appropriate)

Vices: carmen's ultimate vice is her hopeless romanticism and her penchant for running from one relationship right into another. she hates being alone and constantly convinces herself that each fling will be her last and this time they're really the one. though so far she's been proven wrong. carmen is also partial to a glass of wine (or two, or three). mostly it's an appreciation for one of the finer delicacies life has to offer, but carmen is well aware that she has a predilection for dependency, as any daughter of an addict would. she knows she has a tendency to use alcohol as a crutch. she also appreciates a drunk cigarette or two.

INTEREST & HOBBIES:

Interests: travel, world history, learning about other cultures, fine wine, politics, nature documentaries

Hobbies: cooking, running, horse riding, yoga, sketching (though she's not very good), and writing poetry (which she might be even worse at)

Special Skills/Talents: carmen has an uncanny ability to intuit other people's emotions, which is very helpful when she's schmoozing donors for the woodrow foundation. she tends not to use this skill for her own ends in her personal life, though those that know her well are prepared for the fact that she can often peer over people's walls and guards, even if she doesn't tear them down

BECOMING A WARD

tw: addiction carmen was raised solely by her mother, juliana alvarez, her father having left the picture long before she was born and only remaining a presence in the form of occasional birthday cards. her mother floundered in the wake of carmen's father's departure, struggling to hold down a job, and tormented by the abandonment. though she loved her daughter dearly and in her heart wanted to give her the best, the darker forces of life got in the way. at first it was drink, but it quickly turned to more illicit substances. there were days long absences, carmen left alone in their one-room apartment with an empty fridge. it didn't take long for social services to catch on and determine that juliana was an unfit mother, and carmen was taken from her care, resigned to the depths of the american care system. carmen first met richard when she was thirteen and he was paying a visit to the care home she lived in, one of the many in new york state that his foundation helped support. it was not any great intellect or exceptional talent that drew him to carmen. she was never a star pupil nor a brilliant creative mind. but as he watched her interact with the other children and attentively listen to the talk he was giving about the woodrow foundation, richard saw parts of himself reflected in the young girl. there was a good heart in there, thriving despite the challenges and turmoil of her young life. richard wanted to make sure that goodness wasn't stamped out by the circumstances and path carmen had found herself walking. he wanted to give her the opportunity to put that heart to good use, and nurture the young girl so she could hopefully share that heart someday.

LIFE AS A WARD

before moving to woodrow, carmen was always a sweet-natured child, but reserved and painfully quiet. she preferred to blend in amongst her peers, scared to rock the boat or reach out to others. living at woodrow gave her a chance to feel stability and security where she never had before and carmen could step out from under the safety blanket she lived in. she was still kind and generous, but there was a vivacious, friendly side to her personality that had never been there before. she was always quick to laugh, quick to bond with the other wards and became fiercely loyal to those she lived with at woodrow house. she saw her fellow wards, richard and the staff as a pseudo-family, filling the gaps where her biological family had never been. she held onto these new connections and friendships tightly, perhaps too tightly at times. partly because she had never had a chance to feel loved and wanted before, and partly because she was so scared of losing it all and going back to being alone. she looked up to richard in particular, her hero, father-figure and inspiration all in one. it became clear to her from a young age that she wanted to follow in his footsteps, repay the debt she would owe him for her whole life, and give back, to help others who had been just like her. she was favoured by richard for these noble ambitions and he saw carmen as someone he could mould in his own image. she wasn't as gifted or academic as the other wards, but she was the one who could continue his legacy.

AESTHETIC

carmen's style has evolved as she's grown and seen more of the world, allowing the places she's visited and people she's met to influence her. her style now leans towards scandinavian street style; high quality basics, neutral colours and an ever-present classic white t-shirt. she always wears a simple gold necklace, the one item in her possession that belonged to her mother.

EDUCATION

carmen chose to receive her schooling from the tutors at woodrow house. never traditionally academic, she wasn't sure how much she would enjoy or benefit from attending the local private school. homeschooling was a better way to make sure she could study what truly interested her, rather than getting disheartened that she was bottom of the class. the only subject she ever excelled at was spanish, but she had the unfair advantage of being raised bilingual by her puerto-rican mother. carmen also chose not to attend college, instead opting to volunteer with the woodrow foundation during her early adulthood, travelling through south america, asia and africa to volunteer on their various projects and programmes before joining the foundation full time.

EXTRACURRICULARS 

carmen took horse riding and art classes growing up. the former she adored and excelled at. the latter, not so much. she enjoyed both immensely and they're hobbies that she's carried into adulthood.

THEIR LIFE NOW

carmen was the last ward to leave woodrow house, having moved out just two weeks ago. she's spent the last ten years of her life working for the woodrow foundation, climbing the ranks to become the had of fundraising. many within and outside of the organisation considered her to be a natural successor for richard. and she thought so too. she loved the life and the world richard had given her. given she was away travelling so much with work, she didn't see the need to move out of woodrow house. that was until she started having doubts about the life she'd built for herself. a couple of years ago, it started to become clear that her insatiable need to repay richard and model her life after his, had created a life that wasn't hers at all. she looked but she couldn't find any evidence of herself in any of the choices she'd made. she loved helping people but she wanted to do it on her terms. as she'd climbed the ladder at the woodrow foundation she found herself disconnected from the work she'd been doing. she wanted to get back to what mattered most and forge her own path. but she knew giving up her work at the foundation would break richard's heart, and when she told him her decision, her worst fears were realised. they had the first falling out of their seventeen-year relationship. she left the home that had once been her sanctuary and that was the last time she saw richard alive.

[residentsofhollowville]

Howdy, Magnus Archives roleplaying community! My name's Guy, my pronouns are he/they, and I just discovered you exist! I wanted to make a blog to rp with my Magnus Archives OCs, but the trouble is that there's a lot of them, so before I start trying to talk to anyone, I wanted to make a master post to help keep track of them all and establish an organization system, so, here we go.

Cerise Holloway

Avatar of the Corruption, she/her, the seemingly immortal founder of the tiny town of Hollowville, in which the majority of the other avatars live. She typically comes across as generally compassionate and seems to strive for improvement in all aspects of town life, but her idea of kindness is all too often stifling. Posts from her perspective will be tagged with The Widow.

Judas

Avatar of the Desolation, marked by The Flesh and The End, he/him, a contrarian, rebellious young man who moved away from Hollowville after a terrible house fire destroyed his family home. He's recently returned to find his brother missing, and is struggling to find his place in the world and, ideally, make meaningful social change along the way. Failing that, he's perfectly willing to just start throwing rocks through rich people's windows. Posts from his perspective will be tagged with BURN IT ALL DOWN.

Anna Holloway

Avatar of the Extinction, marked by the Corruption, she/her, Cerise's foster daughter and a deeply troubled girl who's quite sick of being told that her generation will have to be the ones to save the world. She's familiar with the startling speed at which the world is deteriorating, and at this point in her life, she welcomes it. Posts from her perspective will be tagged with The Poison Child.

Teddy Lukas

Avatar of the Lonely, marked by the Spiral, he/kit, an odd, quiet, and strangely docile young boy. Supposedly a ward of the Lukas family, though no one's ever seen its patriarch give him a kind word. He's wandered into Hollowville seeking out shelter and hopefully kinship, which he isn't likely to find, given his generally antisocial demeanor. Posts from his perspective will be tagged with The Lost Boy.

Jack

Avatar of the Stranger, marked by the Desolation and the Hunt, he/they/it, Jack recently returned to town after wandering the world for many years, getting into plenty of trouble along the way. He's not unkind, but people have a tendency to get violent towards him, especially after hearing them play their guitar. Their gentle, mirthful demeanor belies a rather uncanny nature. Posts from its perspective will be tagged with "Jack".

The Dreaming

Avatar Entity of the Spiral, it/she, The Dreaming exists purely in the subconscious mind, feeding from the fear provoked by nightmares and fantasies grown out of control. She has the demeanor of a benevolent trickster, but her true motives are difficult to discern. It's something of an enigma, and even those who trust it aren't sure whether or not she was ever human. Posts from its perspective will be tagged with Dream Within A Dream.

Marc Robertson

Avatar of the Hunt, he/him, Marc is a well-respected schoolteacher and generally upstanding member of the community who tends to keep his Hunt-related activities on the down-low. He has quite a temper, by his own admission, but he always tries to be patient and gentle with his students, even once they grow up into avatars of other fear entities. Posts from his perspective will be tagged with The Hunting Teacher.

Mort Graber

Avatar of the End, marked by a frankly stupid number of other entities, he/him, Mort is the last in a long line of gravediggers, serving the only cemetery in Hollowville. He's patient, calm, and unshakably temperate, rarely growing truly angry with anyone. Perhaps the increasing certainty that the fears will rise up and consume this hateful world does him some good in that regard. Posts from his perspective will be tagged with The Gravedigger.

Wichita Falls

Avatar of the Vast, marked by the Hunt and the Spiral, she/her, a religious fanatic with an increasingly intense obsession with natural disasters, particularly those that come from the sky or sea. Her difficult past has left her bitter and vindictive, and she's grown to consider herself a designated bringer of the wrath of God. Posts from her perspective will be tagged with Wichita Falls.

Jones Hollow

Avatar of the Buried, marked by the Lonely and the Puppeteer , any, a seemingly immortal entity who travels from town to town collecting debts. Whether those debts are paid in money or blood is irrelevant to her. She's taken many forms and used many names, but their purpose is ultimately clear. To crush as many people as possible beneath the weight of a debt they can never hope to repay. Posts from her perspective will be tagged with The Debt Collector.

Azazel Blake (Az)

Avatar of the Flesh, marked by the End, the Desolation, the Spiral, and the Hunt, he/they, a local boy who took his quest for perfection via self-modification a bit too far. Something of a flirt, although he tries to avoid crossing any lines, and obsessed with beauty and perfection in all things, including himself. Posts from their perspective will be tagged with Ideal Male Body.

Belladonna Hirschell (Bella)

Avatar of the Eye, she/her, a high-profile influencer and self-proclaimed reputable source of supernatural news. Her entire existence is digitized, repackaged, rebranded, and wrapped up neatly with a bow, seemingly whenever it suits her. Hypothetically, she works for the Usher Foundation, managing their social media pages and uploading as many statements as she can to the world wide web, but her poor conduct and disregard of personal boundaries lead people to question her usefulness. Posts from her perspective will be tagged with Stay Connected!

I do have two others that I doubt will show up much, if at all, those being Black Shuck, an avatar of the Slaughter, and Eris Moonstone (aka The Author), an avatar of the Web. The reason I say that is that Black Shuck is a dog. Just a straight-up rabid animal with little to no means of communication apart from violent barking. Eris, on the other hand, is functionally a self-insert and therefore I doubt I'd have much fun playing him, but if anyone ever asks, I'm willing to give it a shot. Posts in which other ocs are mentioned will be tagged with #(insert tag name here) mention, ex. a post by Judas that mentions his brother Jack will be tagged #burn it all down #"jack" mention, and anything else that's relevant. Posts that remind me of a given character will be tagged with #(insert tag name here) inspo, ex. a really cool photo of a moth would get tagged with #the widow inspo. I have somewhat unintentionally started tagging posts that make me think of all of them with #hollowville inspo, I promise I plan things so well

All images but Anna, Cerise, and The Dreaming are from wxarringtxn's Magnus Archives Fear Avatar Picrew. Anna was created in the catadopteria Picrew, Cerise was created in the Witchcrew (which I cannot for the life of me find an artist for), and the Dreaming is the only one I drew myself. I hope I get to do some cool stuff with them sometime, I hope people like them, and I hope you have a good day.

[heliads]

everything is blue • conrisa space au • Chapter Six: First Day of Many

Risa Ward escaped a shuttle destined for her certain, painful death. Connor Lassiter ran away from home before it was too late. Lev Calder was kidnapped. All of them were supposed to be dissected for parts, used to advance a declining galaxy, but as of right now, all of them are whole. Life will not stay the same way forever.

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Risa Ward cannot be sure that she isn’t dreaming. The uncanny feeling refuses to leave her even hours after she emerges from the darkness of her own self-imposed tomb. Yes, Risa has left the shadowy, confining storage compartment that carried her to safety, she’s even left Cleaver’s ship, but that does not mean she trusts her own mind any more than she did when she wanted to scream forever after being walled up inside.

It nearly killed her and Connor. Of that Risa is certain. Had they stayed inside that tiny darkness for even a few standard hours more, the two distributes who came out would have been utterly removed from the ones who went inside. Even now, she’s not entirely sure that she is the same girl who answered by the name of Risa Megan Ward before the darkness claimed her. The only one who knows her at all anymore, the only one who would recognize her eyes if they were in someone else’s head, is Connor, and he’s no better off than she is.

He’s quieter than he was before. She can tell already. Usually, Connor would have provoked Roland by now, or said some sort of quippy goodbye to Cleaver when they left his ship for whatever new hell this place will be. It’s funny, Risa had so many hopes for what she’d find here, but after their horrific journey here, her dreams have somewhat faded. She just wants to live. If survival is what she finds in the Graveyard, then by all means, she’ll take it.

The Graveyard. It’s a fitting title for a place like this. Kind of. Not really. They’re all dead, legally, and where do the dead live but a graveyard? Cute name. Not a cute place. There are guards posted by the hatch when they dock, but they just look like kids. Older kids, tall ones, probably close to aging out of ever having to fear distribution again, but kids.

As Risa, Connor, and Roland edge further inside the ship, Risa realizes that’s all she sees. A group of tweens is sprawled against a wall, idly gossiping about their upcoming task of the day. Three or four older kids push purposely by them, chattering about new shipments. The ship’s intercom system briefly buzzes on, and the playful voice that warns them about low pressure in an eastern corridor is not that of an experienced engineer but a teenager just like them. Stars, are they all ferals here? Every last one of them?

Risa can’t decide if that’s good or bad. In the end, the only thing she can come up with is another question:  how in all the worlds has whoever’s running this place managed to get hundreds of scared kids to work together long enough to keep each other alive? This doesn’t feel like a utopia, it’s much too grimy. This is no perfect paradise. There’s a reason the galaxy wants its youth dead, and it’s because they cause too many problems to be kept in line. This place is no exception, it’s just that everyone here is a little better behaved because they know the consequences of messing up involve their limbs scattered to the corners of the universe.

Connor whistles under his breath as they walk into what appears to be a central bay of the ship. “Suns, this place is huge.”

He’s right. Risa can’t help but stare, openmouthed, at the sheer vastness of everything around her. The older kids who’ve been leading them through the ship chuckle at their naivete, but Risa doesn’t pay attention. She didn’t get a good glimpse of the Graveyard from the outside, obviously, so she had no idea how big it would really be. From what she can tell of these first few minutes ago, though, this place must be massive.

Risa doesn’t know how long they spent walled up in the darkness of the ship compartments, but it must have been overnight or something, because more and more teenagers are starting to appear. Slowly but surely, they materialize, yawning, out of the metalwork, like so many rustbugs from a desiccating speeder bike. They all seem to follow the same schedule, forming an unruly parade down to what Risa can only assume is the mess hall, before setting off for the day.

The lights brighten as the false morning begins. Doors open, giving Risa a better look at the inside of this mammoth starship. They’ve banked all their chances at surviving to eighteen on an absolute junker of a ship, hardly more vehicle than amalgamation of shoddy joins and bad machinery. It’s a wonder this thing is still intact long enough to stay spaceborne, which must be exactly how it’s stayed under the Juvey-cops’ radar all this time.

Risa walks around in a daze. She never thought she’d find herself anywhere but an unwinding outpost, and now she’s strolling down the barely lit corridors of a behemoth like this. It’s beyond a simple frigate-class, even larger than a cruiser. Sunfire, it’s probably only a few rooms away from being an outpost itself, albeit one that would only fly if its engines were cleaned up a little.

Risa looks towards the mess hall as they approach it, but one of the older kids shakes his head. “You need to meet with the Admiral first. Eat later.”

Risa’s stomach grumbles rebelliously, but she keeps moving with the others. Now is not the time to complain. The thought of being forced out of here in that same dark coffin is not a fate she ever wants to endure again.

As if thinking the same thing, Connor, by her side, asks, “Whoever’s in charge will let us stay, right?”

The kid who’d spoken earlier answers again. “Yeah. He’ll give you the speech, probably try to shake you up a little, but you’ll be fine. Just don’t try anything. The Admiral likes feeling in control.”

Not the best thing to hear about what might be the only adult on a massive ship full of ferals, but Risa’s dealt with her share of power-grabbing administrators before. What’s one more now? They’re led down a few more corridors before stopping abruptly at a door at the end of a hallway. The lights flicker ominously overhead, revealing a placard inscribed only with the same name the kid had mentioned earlier, The Admiral. 

Well, Cleaver had said the guy who decided to save them all was military-type. Maybe he’ll make them salute or something. Glancing over at Roland, who’s still eyeing Connor like he wants him dead, Risa thinks that there might be some among their number who might chafe at the rules. She’ll lecture Connor about it if she has to. They’re not going to split up again.

One of their guards reaches out and knocks sharply on the door. A voice inside calls for them to enter, and after being gestured to go in alone, they file inside. Waiting for them is a man older than most of the faculty at the State Home back in OH-10. His face is covered with deep, lasting scars. Unlike most of the war heroes from the newsreels Risa has seen, the Admiral has not elected to get the scars smoothed out with fresh skin. Then again, if this guy is supposed to be championing the cause of saving the groundsless, the thought of accepting distributed skin probably turns his stomach just as much as hers.

The Admiral leans forward, creasing his faded military uniform. “You three are our newest arrivals, then.”

A silence; Risa isn’t sure if they’re supposed to answer or not, but after a heartbeat the Admiral continues in the same tone, so she decides to stay quiet. He’s probably a member of the don’t-speak-unless-spoken-to camp that was so common back at the StaHo.

“Usually, we get arrivals in bigger groups, but we’ve been slowing our rescues down a bit over the past year. People are starting to pay more attention than they always have. Obviously, we’d like to take every distribute we can, but we have to be realistic. This is not a blind galaxy, nor a safe one. Our first priority is maintenance of the Graveyard, and it always will be.”

Another pause. The Admiral eyes each of them in turn, waiting for one of them to complain. When they don’t, he nods in approval and carries on. “This is your new home, and will be until you turn eighteen. After that, you’re on your own. Follow orders, keep your head down, and when you’re old enough, we’ll ship you out anywhere you want to go. You will be assigned a job and you will complete it with dedication and eagerness. We don’t have space for all the groundsless in the world. If we feel that you aren’t living up to your full potential…”

He lets his voice trail off. Odds are, the actual consequences will be something along the lines of extra work hours or a slap on the wrist, but the ambiguousness of the threat is much more convincing, though Risa can’t help a hot tendril of anger from curling inside her gut anyway. All across the galaxy, it’s the same damn story. There’s never enough to go around. They’ll always have to prove their worth or get cast away. As it was in the State Home, as it is in Centerworld, as it is even in the farthest reaches of the galaxy in a rusting cruiser host only to the groundsless. No one will ever have enough. None of them will ever be enough to make their presence worth it without a fight.

Risa bites her tongue so hard it bleeds, but she manages to stay silent, and the Admiral sends them back out into the hall again, having no idea that he’s already lost part of the heroic image he seems to adore. It’s somewhat ridiculous; the title, the uniform. All illusions of some militaristic ideal that the Admiral must have clung to before distribution kicked up steam and finally forced him to listen to his conscience.

Connor taps her forearm twice, dragging her out of her anger. “Everything alright? You look a little irritated. Should I be nervous?”

He’s trying to make a joke. That’s sweet of him, at least. Risa forces her brow to unfurrow, her face to relax. “It’s not at you.”

Connor pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. “My day is made.”

Asshole. She laughs anyway. One of the older kids who’s apparently only here to glare at them and lead them from room to room folds his arms across his chest. They’ve been outfitted in khaki uniforms not entirely unlike the Admiral’s, evidently to signify their rank.

“The three of you will need jobs. We’ll put you wherever we need more hands and you’ll be cool with it, right?” The guy says. He may have the uniform of his boss, but he’s lacking the power behind the words.

Risa nods anyway. Military boeufs are a dime a dozen on any backwater star system, or so it seems. If she annoys one of them, a whole squad will show up out of nowhere to back him up. The older kid stares at each of them in turn, seemingly sizing them up. “Any of you have any work experience? Hidden talents?”

“What, do you want to know if we juggle or something?” Roland asks, smirking from just behind Risa’s right shoulder. She fights the urge to shudder.

The older kid just glares. “We want to know if you should go with waste management or stacking cans. That decision is up to us, remember?”

Roland steps forward, eyes frosty, but before anything can happen, Connor pipes up on Risa’s other side. “Actually, Risa here has medical experience.”

She shoots him a surprised look. She mentioned it offhand once while they were passing time on the Juvey-cop’s ship, but she didn’t think he’d remember it. He winks at her reassuringly, which shouldn’t work but does.

The khaki boeuf looks intrigued. “Medical experience? Like fixing broken arms and stuff?”

Risa shrugs. “Yeah. I used to help out in the doctor’s office at the State Home.” She was damn near an employee, that’s what it means. It’s a familiar story by now; there were never enough nurses around to help every kid with a scraped knee, and no one picked on her if she could fix them up. One of the nicer doctors had agreed to tutor her in basic first aid since it would get him a little more elbow room to work on the more difficult cases. 

It was a good arrangement for both of them, and it’s still paying off now. The boeufs exchange impressed glances, then the lead one announces that Risa will be starting in the med wing starting today. Certainly better than stacking crates.

Now that Risa’s been sorted, the older kids’ attention turns to Connor. “You don’t happen to have medical experience too, do you?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

This seems to be a disappointment, but before they can say anything, Risa decides to pay off the favor Connor’s pulled for her and interjects, “You don’t want him stuck in a job any starspawn can do, though. You know who he is, right? That’s the Akron AWOL.”

The lead kid’s eyes widen. “No way. You’re really the Akron AWOL? The one who killed a Juvey-cop with his own gun and stole his ship?”

“Yes,” Connor says with the fakest calm Risa’s ever seen, “That’s me. I didn’t kill him, though, I just shot him, and–” 

The bouefs ignore the clarification, and eagerly turn their backs on him to begin frantic discussions. Connor looks at her with an incredulous expression the second all attention is off of him. “What the hell did you do?”

Risa just grins. “I saved your ass, obviously. Like you did for me. After the stuff you did, they’re not going to stick you in waste management. It would look terrible for their image.”

Connor shakes his head, looking concerned. “With the rate this rumor is spreading, I don’t even know the stuff they say I did. Suns, I didn’t even kill the cop. No one can get that right.”

Risa chokes back a laugh, schooling her expression back into a decided neutral the second the boeufs turn around again. “You’ve got a lot more experience out there than some of the rest of us,” the lead kid decides, “You’ll be on exterior engineering. Basically, you’ll fix stuff up. Some will be in space, but that’ll be no trouble for the Akron AWOL, will it?”

He even goes so far as to clap Connor on the shoulder like they’re best buds. Connor looks vaguely irritated by this, but no more so than Roland, who looks ready to throttle all of them. This is only offset when Roland is assigned to work with some of the cruisers shipping the groundsless in and out of here. He could potentially even get a false cosmic license, which is definitely something that freaks Risa out. The thought of Roland piloting a star cruiser is not a thought she cherishes.

When all that’s said and done, it becomes clear that they’ll immediately be starting work. The sooner the better, because, as Risa quickly learns, the Graveyard may be large and full of distributes, but that only drives it closer to the edge. This whole place is on the brink of falling apart. So the rusting outsides reflect the chaotic inner mess. They are all one weak screw, one vengeful AWOL, away from drawing attention to themselves. The Admiral urges them to keep their heads down and do their part, but they all know the truth just the same as him; even years of good behavior won’t be enough to save them if even one Juvey-cop sweeper shuttle decides to take a peek at their massive cruiser.

It is easier to ignore the proverbial grav-sword dangling over their heads, though, so ignore it they do. Risa is separated from Connor, which at first feels something like losing a limb, and introduced to the other exhausted kids in the med wing. They’re all grateful for someone with experience, and after getting a quick tour of what painkillers they have (not enough) and their common cures for common injuries (stop bleeding, set bone, nothing really more than that), she’s given her first patient. 

Most of the kids who come here have twisted ankles or scraped shins, easy fixes. There are a few worse things, like arms shut in hatches or prolonged starsickness, but these again can be prescribed a few antibiotics and longer rest breaks, which the kids are only too eager to accept. Risa starts noticing the same look in all of their eyes, the same kind of haunting wariness that she’s probably gained as well. They are all on the brink of life and death. No one can tell for sure if they’ll make it to eighteen, and although it is easier to forget that in the Graveyard than back on their home planets, it doesn’t make the truth any sweeter to swallow.

Risa makes it through her first work shift. She’s on her feet most of the day, barring a quick lunch break halfway through. Already, new calluses are forming on her hands; she prods them inquisitively, trying to decide if they’ll fade by the next morning or cause her more trouble. She joins the other kids in their shuffle towards the mess hall. The gentle burble of conversation, muted by the weariness of the end of the working day, is a welcome surprise after so long in quiet space.

Risa folds into the line to get food, and looks up to find Connor next to her. He keeps his eyes studiously ahead, and before she can ask what’s gotten into him, he says under his breath, “This is your chance for a fresh start. If that’s what you want, I won’t hold it against you.”

Ah. She knows what this is about. Much like any other school cafeteria, the friends she picks now will signify the social strata she’ll enjoy for her time here. Risa can sit with her peers from the med wing, or find some other group of girls that looks vaguely nice and hope for the best. If she doesn’t want to be shadowed by the Akron AWOL, she’ll pick someone else now.

Glancing around at the scores of kids already eating or waiting for food, though, Risa doesn’t feel particularly called to any of them. Instead, she steps forward so she’s side by side with Connor, and looks him coolly in the eyes. “You’re fine by me. I don’t trust the rest of them, anyway.” Not like you, she means. No one like you. 

Connor’s lips tug into a lopsided grin. “You keep picking my side, Risa. I have to say, it’s only boosting my ego.”

She glances away, unable to hide a returning grin of her own. “Don’t let it.”

“I have to,” he says dramatically, “It’s my only choice.”

“Sure it is,” Risa tells him, picking up her food ration for the evening meal. 

It’s not bad fare, all things considered, probably rehydrated from a nutrition pack or otherwise grown on the cruiser. She has to wonder how the Admiral is able to collect enough food and drink for all of them, not to mention other necessities, but that far up in the military chain of command, he’s probably either good enough to get what they need without attracting suspicion or sufficiently well known that no one would dare ask questions.

She picks a seat at random, and begins to eat. Connor slides into the place in front of her. He eats as well, but his eyes flicker over the surrounding distributes over and over again. He’s just as skittish as her, but Risa’s not the one everyone else is staring at. Risa wonders just how badly the myth of the Akron AWOL has gotten twisted.

To distract him, she asks Connor about his day. “Fix anything interesting yet?”

This, at least, makes him turn back to her in earnest. “Yeah, actually,” he says, “Most of it was just them trying to figure out if I had any useful skills, but apparently I’ll be responsible for the maintenance of the ship. It picks up a hell of a lot of flack with this size, even just sitting here.”

“I noticed,” Risa comments wryly.

Connor grins. “Oh, the rust and dust is the least of our worries. There’s a pretty big chance one of our engines is going to explode the second we have to fly more than a few klicks.”

Risa’s eyes widen, and she does her best not to choke on her water. “It’s going to explode? Suns, Connor, I thought you were going to tell us that we were going to live past eighteen, not the opposite.”

He’s entertained by her panic. “We’ll fix it by then, don’t worry. Besides, this thing hasn’t been used to fly in years. All of its primary power reserves have been diverted to life support and whatnot. Even if we did want to fly, we’d have way more problems to solve before we think about the exploding engine.”

Risa leans back in her chair. “And here I was hoping you were going to say something nice to relieve my stress. I should have known better.”

“What, you don’t think I’m enough of an optimist? I thought you liked my joyful personality. Isn’t that why we keep sticking together?”

Risa rolls her eyes, ignoring an odd rush of heat to her cheeks. “My options were you, Roland, or the tithe. You have to understand that I didn’t have the greatest choices.”

Connor laughs despite the slander. He’s started doing that more and more around her. She’s not entirely sure that the comments she makes are that funny, but he seems to enjoy them anyway. “Devastating. I’ll take it, though. We’re a team.”

“We’re a team,” Risa murmurs under her breath. It sounds good to say, and to have said back to her. Everyone thinks that they can make it on their own, but in the vastness of a great, uncharitable galaxy that wants them dead, survival usually means that you need someone else to watch your back. Despite her earlier jokes, Connor is still at the top of her list.

The Graveyard groundsless are directed back to their sleeping quarters. Risa is given some clean clothes and toiletries. The bathroom is slightly less decomposed than the rest of their ship, which is a relief, and the sight of a real bunk just for her almost makes Risa tear up. She hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since– since she found out she was going to die, actually, and obviously that wasn’t the most conducive environment for rest and relaxation.

Risa shares a dorm room with at least a few dozen other girls. They’re in the hollowed out shell of what might have been a smaller cargo hold. This one was probably used to hold smaller one-man shuttles before being modified to house ferals instead; Risa can make out faded paint outlines of where to park, as well as many large power outlets lining the walls that have long since been bolted down for safety. Bunks line the floor in a perfect grid, and more still have been latched onto the walls all the way up to the ceiling. 

At first, the thought of having to climb all the way up to her bunk is more than a little daunting, but she realizes soon enough that the beds are actually quite secure. What’s more, all the way up here, Risa is far out of the reach of any vengeful girls who might have something against her. Risa doesn’t think she’s made any enemies yet, but she’s been seen close with Connor now, and that’s already attracted a few stares. The girls on the ground seem unprotected, but Risa would hear anyone climbing up the metal ladders on the side long before they reach her.

Secure in the knowledge that she’s safe for now, at least, Risa clambers into her bunk and draws the faded blankets tight around her. It’s cold in space, like all the holo-texts say, and she’s grateful for the slightly threadbare comforter now. After the day’s work, Risa is more than happy to shut her eyes and let sleep take her.

She’s exhausted enough that the night passes without difficulty, but there’s a moment when Risa wakes up in which it all goes south. There are no windows in here, no lights, and when Risa opens her eyes to find herself in complete blackness, she thinks she’s back there again, back in the hollow graves of Cleaver’s ship.

Fighting the panic rising in her throat, Risa reaches out her left hand to tap twice, but she meets only the smooth metal wall instead of Connor’s forearm. Her head splits with the terrifying thought that he left her, after all that talk of teams, Connor left her behind. Risa forces herself through several dizzying breaths. It’s okay. She’s not back there. She left with Connor, not without him. He wouldn’t leave her. He’s just down the hall. She will be fine, and he will be, too. Connor won’t leave her. He never would.

Slowly, laboriously, her heart rate returns to normal, enough that Risa can sit up and look around her. Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness by now without that all-consuming fear to blind them. She knows where she is. She can move without being trapped again. It’s okay.

More sounds make themselves known to her, the rustle of the girls around her waking as well. Soft lights blossom to life around the walls and floor of the room, growing to intensity as a gentle wake-up call. Risa stretches, and begins to make her way down again once the girl in the bunk below her moves. As she heads to the bathroom and pulls on fresh clothes, the same boisterous voice she remembers hearing over the ship’s intercom system buzzes to life again, heralding the start of a new day.

Risa barely listens to the words. It’s sinking in now that this will be her life until she turns eighteen. Three more years of this, of being in the same tin can in the same sky. She’ll speak with the same people until they slowly age out and she’s left alone again. Either that, or they’ll all get caught first. She will heal people when they bleed, patch them up just for them to come back a few days later with fresh wounds. They’ll all wear out like the creaking metal joins of this very ship, and then she’ll be released back into the world. What a life to lead, but at least it’s a life, and it’s her own. 

Risa grits her teeth and heads out the door. It’s time for another day.

unwind tag list: @schroedingers-kater, @sirofreak, @locke-writes

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[ratasum]

Mmm so what are the main bullet points + some smaller things you changed that you particularly like? 👀

LUCKY FOR YOU I WAS JUST TYPING THIS UP. SO the main bullet points are as follows (cuts for minor spoilers):

Interestingly, there's a surprising lot more that I like about SotO than people might think, so it's actually really fun to play with the bones that could make a much more interesting story to me.

Since we had been rping for YEARS like Zojja was still present in the story (if anet wasn't going to write her we might as well), we opted to keep that the same. She'd been in contact with Vezz, and still mentoring (at a much lower level) Taimi and Qirri for a while.

She does still opt to leave Rata Sum, but instead of frustration at being ignored (asuran society is canonically a meritocracy and Particularly Important Geniuses would not get a chance to breathe) it's frustration that no one will leave her the fuck alone. And the council is trying to put her under a stewardship. She ends up reuniting with Leyya and the two head to Lion's Arch together.

Instead of Zojja in Wizlandia, it's Caithe. She gets recruited right after the epilogue (we switched the timeframe so Gyala happens AFTER the epilogue), so it's been a year or two since anyone's heard from her.

Odetta gets the Wayfinder title, but Leyya gets referred to as the Hunter, since her demonic possession allows her to sense and locate kryptis rifts when they're forming. They still require the Heart to open them, but she has an uncanny ability to sniff them out. And that's because...

...Rift Hunters take on a small amount of kryptis possession in order to be able to do the same thing! It's willing, as opposed to Leyya's, but she's now in the ranks of Rift Hunters now. The only difference is she doesn't know that eventually, Rift Hunters will have to be put down. This will change with time.

Mabon surviving! He becomes Zojja's mentor early on, initially at Isgarren's behest but they hit it off pretty quickly, after their arrival as a result of her wanting to help Odetta and Leyya but the chronic fatigue and pain she endures from lasting injuries as a result of what happened in Maguuma keep her from participating directly. She eventually learns to Astral Project so that she can help in Convergences.

Galrath isn't who he seems. That one's complicated but we were both bothered by the fact that a big plot in GW1 was keeping him OUT of the Wizard Tower. Anyway he's mesmer'd to look different; @wall-legion came up with the idea last night.

Other things will LARGELY depend on how the final drop plays out but this is most of what we have so far. A lot of other things largely play out very similarly to how they do already with some small exceptions here and there.

As for smaller things we've changed that I really enjoy:

Leaning WAY more heavily into the Ward being sus as hell. There's something not right there, and everyone can feel it.

Caithe and Zojja both being extremely hesitant about ascension.

The existing wizards being pretty... fucked up by it. Less of the "ohoho I was just joshing it was good" and more wondering WHY they've been feeling this way.

I plan to flesh out Irja. c:

[popitdontdropitwrites]

"Mercy" Engineer/Medic

Summary: Medic has an unhealthy fascination with Engineer's prosthesis and calls him into the infirmary to perform a thorough examination of it. Ludwig goads him into giving him a taste of exactly what the gunslinger is capable of, despite Dell's initial reservations.

Words: ~2900

CW: Blood, graphic gore, injury, madness, eye trauma, dead dove do not eat, dark romance, sadism, masochism, graphic description, dark.

Titled after KiNG MALA's 'Mercy', which you can listen to here

Madness ran amok in these walls.

The paint, once white, pristine, and smooth to the touch, had cracked and peeled under the unrelenting, obsessive cleanliness of the doctor, unable to bear his abuse any longer. Though the blood and entrails had long been scrubbed from the surface, old, pungent blood had soaked all the way through the splintering, rotten wood and into the very heart of this place like an unseen poison, leaving delirium and mania behind in the fallout. The sordid, stifling air laden with chemical scents did well to mask the decay beneath the skin, casting images of hospitals and wards, though it felt uncanny here, made worse by the infirmary’s sinister smile of sharpened medical equipment, matching that of their owner.

The strange face of this place was often more than enough to put off most of its potential visitors, mostly due to the madman who resided behind its doors. Regardless of what one needed, be it something as little as an aspirin, or as major as getting a leg sown back on, this place was the very last option on the list. But the Engineer had been lured right into the doctor’s maw by a single set of beautiful words spoken from freshly licked lips.

“Your prosthesis,” The Medic had said, his azure eyes fixated upon the metal, his irises nearly glowing with fascination, as if he had just been presented with a new toy. “May I have a look at it?”

And well… if those weren’t just the sweetest words he’d ever heard.

The doctor eased the glove off from his prosthetic hand without even a hint of the fearful hesitation Dell had grown used to. Instead of paling in the face and averting his eyes, he nursed it in his hand, feeling along every segment of his sleek, elegant digits, flexing each backwards and forwards, exploring their full, masterful range of movement. He explored every revolutionary feature with the respect his work deserved, muttering and murmuring praise after praise under his breath. There was a giddiness to his expression, the kind that bordered on being a threat and if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up strapped down to the fella’s operating table.

"Don't give me that look..." Medic tsked. "I am not going to subject you to any impromptu experiments, that is, unless you would like to be." He gestured to the vast array of medical equipment. "I am very content with examining this hand of yours... for now." He gave him a cheeky wink, which again, came off as a little menacing.

“With you, ‘for now’ ain’t that long. You’ll be bored of this pretty little thing in a couple minutes or less.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This will entertain me for days. I will lie awake tonight, thinking of how to improve it.” He replied. “And before that, I need to understand it completely.” He curled the fingers inwards, so that they touched his palm. "How about we begin with a simple exercise? Show me what your gunslinger is capable of, bitte."

Dell rotated his prosthesis completely with staggering fluidity, shamelessly flaunting his machine to the Medic. No words had to be said, for the polished, thoroughly loved device spoke for itself as it was pushed far beyond human limits. Ludwig grinned with only the slightest hint of malice in his smile, the rest, however, was adoration, pure and simple, like milk and honey. There was an innocence to it, genuineness, sweetness, even. He almost looked like a different man while wearing it – perhaps the man he used to be before all of this.

“Gott... it's brilliant.” Ludwig said, in awe of the complex level of movement this machine was capable of. “Can it still function to its full capacity while upside down? Would it support additional digits? Are the fingers retractable?” He asked, sending out a flurry of questions, all of which made Dell smile with pride.

“It does a heck of a lot more than just that, doc.” Dell said, unable to contain himself around a man who shared his passion. “Y’see, I originally intended for it to act like a regular hand, but I figured it’d be a waste not to have it double as some power tools for when I’m puttin’ machines together.”

With the push of a button, the metal seamlessly morphed into an intricate tool and though the lifeless flesh couldn’t detect the warmth of Ludwig’s hands, it sensed the fluttery pressure of every reverent touch. The beautiful stranger before him smiled without the touch of madness that revealed his gums and every inch of his straightened teeth, making him wonder who this echo of the past was and more tragically, where he had gone.

A storm of lovestruck butterflies twirled and danced with one another in the depths of his guts, seduced by the dangerous allure of this old, undying longing for someone who no longer existed. Despite knowing better, he still ached to reach out to Ludwig, to clasp his hands and save him from the crazed monster living in his skin. Save. That word, so innocent in principle and yet, more often than not, horrific in execution. It was the beginning of all catastrophes, of all terror, of all destruction – a contract of blood and misery, written by the most well-intentioned hands.

But not even that dire warning could stop him from thinking that dangerous thought.

Could he be saved?

Dell didn’t have an answer. Humans, unfortunately for him, were not as clear cut as his machines. If he’d been presented with a broken down, malfunctioning automaton, he’d be already elbow deep in its innards, fixing the problem. But he didn’t do that sort of thing with living, breathing things, especially not with men like the Medic. It was… too much for him nowadays.

By the time he’d snapped back into reality, Ludwig had switched his gunslinger between about a dozen different power tools, his pokes and prods hastening out of a hunger to know more. “I can only imagine what powerful weapons you have attached to this incredible device… the possibilities!”

And just like that, that beautiful stranger was gone again, lost in the spiralling, all-consuming void of megalomania, far beyond his reach. Maybe he’d surface again soon, but for now, he’d been thrown beneath the cloying, murky waters to drown – which he never truly did. Dell understood, he’d nearly succumbed to the pull of the waves once, seduced into the muck by the glowing spark of ambition and power beneath its terrible current.

“…Naw, sorry son, no weapons are in this clever little thing.”

“Oh,” His face fell. “Why not? I think a decent knife or two would be a welcome addition to your collection of tools.”

“Ludwig, buddy, I understand all the blood and guts is your cup of tea an’ all, but it ain’t mine, y’know? I’d rather sit back and have a sentry do it on my behalf. It’s a lot… cleaner that way.”

The Medic held his eye, forcing him to gaze into the vistas of cerulean evil and deeper yet, into the darkness of his pupils, the windows to his old, forsaken friend; madness itself. “You are not normally one to care for cleanliness.” He remarked, a scepticism in his gaze. He leant in close, his thumb wiping a smear of engine grease from his cheek. “I would go as far as to say you don’t have any regard for it at all.” He showed him the consequent black smudge on his skin, catching him in his lie. “After all, blood, and oil… they’re one and the same to you… well… not quite. One is simply a cheap facsimile of the other.”

“The hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

He chuckled darkly, a smirk toying with the corners of his lips. “Playing dumb does not suit you at all, my friend. You know exactly what I am getting at.” He clasped his hands together, squeezing just a little, as if to crush this topic before it bored him. “Now, there is something else I would like to test.”

“What do you want me to do, doc?” He asked, his tone making him just a little nervous. He wasn’t exactly used to this kind of attention either. The doctor seemed to be utterly obsessed with his prosthesis, even after toying with it for god knows how long. Most could hardly bear to look at it.

“Oh, it’s rather simple, actually.” Ludwig said casually, gesturing towards his face. “I want you to hit me.”

He stared at him for a moment, mortified. He frantically shook his head, outright refusing his request. “I couldn’t do that to ya in good conscience, doc. You didn’t do anythin’ to deserve it.” He bit his lip, looking at the shining tiles below, to avoid the crushing disappointment on the man’s face. “Plus… if I really went through with it and give ya a good punch, I’m afraid you’d be sufferin’ from a lot more than a black eye if ya know what I mean.”

“The medigun is right there…” Ludwig tempted, a hand cupping his chin and forcing him to meet his eyes. “I can take it. Every day, I am the enemy team’s number one target and needless to say, I have endured far worse than a robotic fist to the face.” He cracked his neck, looking at him straight on, offering his face to be demolished. It was a shame too, with his handsome mug. “Don’t be shy,” He whispered in his ear, attempting to coax him. “Hit me.”

“I… I can’t do that. Y’know I can’t.” He insisted, the falter in his voice giving away the rising conflict within him.

Ludwig put a finger to his lips. “Hush, there’s no need for that… no one is watching. No one will know. These lips are sealed, my friend. Or they will be when you tear my jaw off!” He laughed in a way he likely thought would relieve his stress, but it only did the opposite. He wanted to run from this lunatic, before he too, lost grasp of reality.

But just as he was thinking that Ludwig drew closer, backing him against the wall, preventing escape. “C’mon, doc, don’t do this to me.” The Engineer quietened, but maintained his steely gaze, attempting to appear formidable, despite how his strength crumbled under the Medic’s sinister smile.

“I’m only doing what’s best for you.” He crooned, his breaths insufferably loud from this distance, as if he were about to be bitten. “It pains me so much to watch you shun what you are.” He said caringly, in the same manner as a doting nurse. “I adored you, once. Now… it almost feels like an insult with how dull you’ve become.”

The sudden shift of tone sent an indescribable, confused mess of feelings through him, mostly because he knew it to be true. “The things I did back then, it was all a mistake, alright?” I’m lucky I stopped at my goddamned arm. Chasin’ immortality and power and godhood—” He needed to take a breath, feeling as though he were suffocating. “—It’s crazy, that’s what it is. I don’t care what it makes me now, because I did myself a favour by bein’ dull.” He spat his insult back at him, pretending as if it didn’t hurt him.

“Fear should not bind a man like you and you know it. Yet… you kneel to it anyway, terrified of your own potential.” He said, disdain seeping into his tone, making the words bitter. “Don’t you miss the sweet whispers in your ears, Dell?”

Dell tried in vain to turn away from him, to proclaim to him and the world that this wasn’t what he wanted, that he’d been cured, that he’d been saved. But he was lying to himself again, wasn’t he? There was no remedy for their disease, it was forever locked inside of them, narrowly hidden within cages of pleasantries and thin skins of normalcy, a hand’s breadth from unwinding into full, unbridled depravity. The doctor picked at his seams with masterful effortlessness until he inevitably fell apart, exposing the horrors lurking within him and waking the voices in the dark recesses of his mind.

Ludwig’s voice lowered to a low, impassioned rumble. “Would you be so kind as to disfigure me?”

Now in the colourful, obscene world he’d forced himself to forget, those words tasted sweet, like fruit of forbidden, delicious hedonism. He took in a deep breath and gave a final glance to the Medic’s features, taking a snapshot of his entire face before he rendered it an unrecognisable chunk of flesh, blood, and bones. He waited with a patient, but encouraging smile, one that was easy on the eyes, but soon wouldn’t be.

He squeezed the gunslinger into a tight fist and with a climactic hiss of steam, he swung his prosthesis, the collision of metal on flesh making an unspeakably satisfying crunch upon impact. Skin and muscle caved under his might, crumpling, and surrendering to the sheer force of the blow, the sight bringing a deep, rippling pleasure unlike any other. Bones shattered, cartilage snapped, blood vessels exploded, and teeth cracked in perfect, songlike harmony. Ludwig didn’t even get the chance to properly scream, for his vocal cords were damaged in an instant, only allowing an undignified wet gurgle out.

The Medic stumbled back, his jaw hanging lopsided on his face, as if it could fall off any moment, with threads of weblike flesh stubbornly holding it together, albeit with significant holes and tears providing a crude window into his misshapen mouth. Blood, saliva, and chunks of flesh dribbled from his broken, permanent smile, turning his porcelainlike teeth a rich, hypnotic red. His glasses hung crooked on what was left of his nose, the frame irreparably twisted, and the lenses shattered, with a burst eye hanging from one as if it were a noose, deflated as its fluids seeped into the mass of gore below. He rasped, sputtered, and wheezed, struggling to breathe through the pain and his new features, or more accurately, the lack thereof.

His eyes, both intact and mangled, met Dell’s own, like a river of liquid mercury flowing into a warm beryl sea, slowly poisoning all that lived within. An expression of dear, sincere love lied behind the pained, watery exterior. There was a layer of understanding to it, a celebration of who he had become in a single strike, only corroborated by Ludwig’s smothered, wettened laughter, the force of which sent splatters of poorly mixed blood, saliva, and gore from the hollows in his skin. But despite it all, it was a joyous sound, one of revelry and excitement, almost like an enthusiastic round of applause for the damage he’d done.

The Engineer had been foolish to think that this man had been sick and in need of saving from the merciless clutches of a disease. He had no need for the carcass of the man before this glorious, unbreakable creature. No, this disturbed, brilliant mind was already perfect, and together, they would bring about the end, one of their own design.  

The doctor’s partially blind eyes stared into the bloodied surface of the gunslinger, wordlessly asking if he’d be receiving mercy. Instead of raising his fist for another devastating blow, he wrapped his arm around the taller man, guiding him towards the Medigun. Ludwig walked on shaking legs, pumped full of adrenaline and almost falling before being caught by the strength of the same machine that had obliterated his flesh.

He was about to pull the lever when the Medic’s hands pulled him in with astonishing force, leaving him breathless as his lips met what had once been the other man’s mouth. He was kissed roughly, with wild, almost sickening intensity and he returned that passion, the blood and carnage only elevating the high. He embraced madness itself, losing himself in this heated, animalistic moment of decadence as the twisted fangs of their shared sickness sunk into them both, never to retreat again.

[orime-stories]

2022 Tumblr Top 10

1. 32 notes - Jun 1 2022

Junelezen Day 1 - Introduction

And so it was that I came to know Aurelle Silmontier, Eorzea’s recently named Warrior of Light. Her plain, midnight blue robes marked her as one of Gridania’s conjurers—shapers of nature itself, whose powers manifest in accordance with an ancient pact kept with the elemental guardians of the Twelveswood. Her borrowed coat marked her as one that had come to our city hastily, unprepared for the bitter cold of our post-calamity climate. And her downcast eyes and faltering voice marked her as one mired by a great many anxieties and doubts...

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2. 30 notes - Jul 21 2022

Eorzea Cafe - Heavensward Drink

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3. 28 notes - Jun 10 2022

Junelezen Day 10 - Gaol Break

“My friend!” Haurchefant beamed as she entered his hall. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?” ...

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4. 28 notes - Mar 26 2022

Aurelle Silmontier Fic Masterlist

AO3 collection here, spotify playlist here, tumblr links I’ll keep updated below the cut! Feel free to dip in and out of stuff as you fancy, each piece should hopefully hold up on its own...

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5. 27 notes - Aug 7 2022

Personal Update

Well, this is the last post I’ll make from Japan! (For the foreseeable future at least.) Just got a cheeky wee 15hr flight to London (thanks Putin), then six hours desperately clinging to consciousness in London (thanks cancelled flight), then one last hop over to Edinburgh. Assuming all goes smoothly from here on out. (Please go smoothly from here on out.)

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6. 27 notes - Jun 21 2022

Junelezen Day 21 - Uncanny Valley

The Fortemps family were staunch believers in the Ishgardian sense of dignity. (Most of them at least, but Emmanellain was a man that existed in a world entirely his own, it seemed.) Count Edmont and Lord Artoirel’s faces rarely strayed from their stern nobleman’s masks, expressing their gladness for her presence and their desire for her to feel welcome in their home by courteous words alone. But when she first came to Ishgard, such stoic respect was not a language she understood...

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7. 25 notes - Jun 17 2022

Junelezen Day 17 - More Heroes

“The Lord Commander is in a meeting at present, but he should be done shortly. Walk with me. We may wait for him together.” ...

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8. 25 notes - Jun 6 2022

Junelezen Day 6 - Dreams of Ice

Aurelle burrowed deeper into her woolen poncho. Her clothes were much better suited for warding against the chill these days, but the cold always seemed to find ways to seep into her soul no matter what she did...

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9. 22 notes - Jun 16 2022

Junelezen Day 16 - Lunar Cycle

Astromancy was the vastness of the universe. It was feeling small in the best way, minor problems placed swiftly back into perspective against the grander scheme of things. And then it was feeling like a god as she called upon the stars themselves and they answered, obliterating foes in their diamond brilliance and bathing allies in their gentle light. The comfort of night, with those glittering points of certainty to orient yourself around...

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10. 22 notes - Jun 3 2022

Junelezen Day 3 - A Realm Reborn

“You’ve come a long way, hero!” Cid remarked with fond familiarity as he jogged over to join Aurelle on her return to the Rising Stones. The day had been overflowing with official addresses and expressions of gratitude and giddy celebration, leaving her brain foggy and her heart full to bursting in the aftermath. People who had lived through the horrors of an Umbral Age finally about to witness what lay on the other side, as the Seventh Astral Era officially began...

Created by TumblrTop10

[parfumieren]

Sacrebleu (Parfums de Nicolaï)

At this precise point in the arc of human evolution, it may seem that magic is on its last legs. The smarter we become, the further we stray from the neighborhoods of the divine. Once-mighty gods are now plastic action figures. Ancient religions limp along as superstitions. The Great Pan is dead, replaced by the Sony Playstation.

Flowers are no exception to the trend of disempowerment. Once upon a time, they were viewed as living missives from the otherworld. Plucking the wrong one could draw the wrath of the unseen; illness, misfortune, and death might visit the house into which a single stolen blossom was carried. For flowers belonged to the elementals -- a.k.a. "fairies" -- savage and unpredictable beings whom one begged for protection and bribed to keep at a safe distance.

Even helpful flowers were host to uncanny spirits. Periwinkle blooms, said to ward off all manner of evil, were yet used to adorn the graves of children. Those in the know called them violettes des sorciers.... witch violets.

But that was long ago. The Victorians and Edwardians stripped flowers clean of all unseemly characteristics and recostumed fairies in gossamer and starlight-- friendly, sanitized and safe for children. What job they started, Walt Disney finished.... and generations of girls like me grew up unaware of a femininity whose power was manifest not in cellophane wings, but in claws and teeth.

I admit I have never been what you would call the flower-fairy type. Even as a little girl, I eschewed things like dolls and frills and the color pink in favor of snake hunting and rock collecting. To my mind, flowers were just one more mark of femininity to which my tomboy self stood in improper contrast.

It follows that in my adult life, floral perfumes have largely struck me as overwrought in one of two directions: syrup or sugar, oversexed or sexless. One is womanhood exaggerated; the other is womanhood sanitized. Neither is natural or (at least to me) appealing. I have long found myself wishing for a floral with all of its dark magic intact-- inspiring equal amounts of desire and dread.

Was I born at the wrong time? Had I missed my chance?

Luckily, every so often, the breath of some age-old spirit reaches us from its hiding place, and we experience a primordial chill of recognition that reaches as deep as our bones. The violettes des sorciers are not all banished-- they're in Sacrebleu, a perfume as close to unseelie as it gets.

Of the several recognized usages of sacrebleu, which one did perfumer Patricia de Nicolaï mean to evoke? On one hand, sacré bleu allegedly refers to the celestial color of the cloak worn by the Mother of God. Taken in this light, the name of this perfume seems almost prayerful. In reality, however, sacrebleu is nothing but a curse-- something to shout when outraged. I like to think Nicolaï intended the latter, for this perfume was designed to provoke.

First came a mighty, in-your-face note of anise-- then nothing. Sacrebleu had simply disappeared. Failing to notice the "back in five" sign (written in the tiniest handwriting imaginable, and in invisible ink), I liberally reapplied to all pulse points. And waited.

Then anise returned-- with reinforcements. Sandalwood, licorice, cinnamon, vanilla. Soon they had me surrounded-- a pack of manic scent fairies spiraling around me in a helix of sparkling aromas.

Outnumbered and outgunned, I surrendered and closed my eyes. The air around me prickled with electricity, shimmered with color. And the scent-- fizzy, hard, and bright, intensifying and picking up velocity with every passing second. I could have been standing in an enchanted ring of violets in some shadowy forest straight out of Grimm... or on one of the rings of Saturn, dodging silver meteorites.

The glamoury lasted all day, most of which I'm sure I spent smiling goofily with my eyes crossed. When I finally landed back on earth, that maddening scent had faded to a nice Choward's Violet Mint sort of thing, dry and pleasantly prickly on the nose. But the fairies had vanished, as fairies do.... and I think the little bastards made off with my wallet.

They're welcome to it. It's a small price to pay for real magic.

Scent Elements: Mandarin, raspberry, blackcurrant, peach, apricot, carnation, tuberose, jasmine, cinnamon oil, frankincense, patchouli, sandalwood, balsam Peru, tonka bean absolute

[loneberry]

What have I done today? Very little. (Secretly, I like doing very little—if I had my druthers I’d spend my days in bed, reading and writing in my journal.)

If I had to make an inventory of my day’s activities it would look something like this:

Megaformer pilates class

Grocery shopping

Reading by the sea

Cooking

*

Yet at the end of the day, as I was crying during the conclusion of Woolf’s first novel, The Voyage Out, all the details of my day surged forth with such a powerful force that I felt, how can I describe it, it was something like pure love. I want to be better. I want to tell my beautiful friends how much they mean to me. How full a day is, even when nothing happens. Isn’t that what Bernadette Mayer taught us in her durational poem written on the winter solstice? It began with a dream. So did my day.

Every night for the last week I’ve woken up in agony—it is the recrudescence of my mysterious autoimmune condition, which waylaid me for 6 months this year. I wake up in the middle of the night covered in hives and can’t go back to sleep. During the day I struggle to focus or function. At night I take four different antihistamines and every otc sleep remedy (magnesium, melatonin, valerian, kava, Benadryl, herbal tea, CBD) plus my prescription sleep med. Nothing works.

When my hives woke me up at 3am I was dreaming. Of Laura. I go to check the time on my phone. Uncanny, the only notification is a text from Laura. She sends a picture of Walter Benjamin’s memorial. Half-asleep, I write her back:

Wow I was just dreaming you wrote a brilliant novel called “diaries of a terrorist” (funny my friend wrote a book w that title)… it was somehow about the geometry of revolt, about an elaborate coordinated action in Red Square that took the shape of a pentagram, aimed at revealing an invisible structure… but the action misfired because there was a flaw in the original hidden design of the structure. There were more points than the five of the pentagram…

Red Square… was it Russia? No, it was somehow Germany. But it looked like the Red Square of Moscow… perhaps because earlier in the day I was thinking about my trip to Russia. Was the pentagram of the dream drawing attention to some latent demonic presence in Russian society? Lord. How I wish I could sleep.

What do I do when I can’t sleep… listen to podcasts with my eyes closed while in bed, my usual rotation of news, political economy, politics, and war. So much emotion in the voices of strangers, how it stirs me. Richard Fierro, the man who disarmed the Club Q gunman in Colorado Springs, is talking about the incident, calmly narrating the actions, when suddenly he starts weeping about the people he could not save. It cuts through everything, like the testimonies of Ukrainians I listen to daily. On another podcast, Ukrainian writer Victoria Amelina speaks beautifully about her memories of Maidan, of the university of the streets, the transformational eros of revolt, and how useless literary writing feels during times of war, how she switched from writing novels to investigating war crimes.

News. It never stops. Ariana’s mother is dead. Bernadette Mayer is dead. A 2-day old Ukrainian baby, dead. More civilian infrastructure in Ukraine has been destroyed by Russian missiles. A maternity ward. All the cities in candlelight. No water in Kyiv. Germany builds an LNG terminal. Meanwhile in Virginia: another mass shooting. Turkey is attacking the Kurds. Who will help the Kurds?

I rearrange my wilting gillyflowers into smaller vases. There’s the smell of clove as I cut the stems. Gilly…I knew you simply as “stock.” Others call you “hoary”—a word I once used in my journal to describe a vision of my future: “…a hoary woman alone in the stone house, clutching her shimmering memories.”

Meditate on Sophrosyne. When will I ever get a handle on this monkey mind? Cook tilapia and pasta. Think about the dead. Call Ulysses. UC on strike. Call from Lily, mom in the hospital again. “Toss a penny to the sky. Heads or tails. Who knows, not I…” Conversations on the pier, while the crows, seagulls, and pigeons loitered for scraps. How the pelicans flew overhead in their enormous formations, then dipped and glided just above the water. The face of the young man with the fishing rod as he looks up when I bike past him.

All the words I read. Free associating in the marginalia, that tender compassion I felt for Virginia Woolf, the exposed nerve that was her mind, too sensitive for the world. I think of the death of her brother Thoby, of the sexual abuse she endured in childhood, all the things she never got over. The sea, the water closing over the head. So much in a day. There are people I can’t protect. You can’t protect the dead. I think of the dead. She died without dignity. Does anyone die with dignity? Yes, some do. “Poetry doesn’t tell you how to bury the dead,” though I often think, as I’m looking at a patch of light while tidying my house, that poetry is the last defense of the sacred.

[gysellas]

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧  :  eel  alley,  visenya’s  hill,  king’s  landing,  the  crownlands. 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞  :  third  day,  second  seed,  300  a.c. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡  :  theon  greyjoy  (  @bloodofsalt​  ).

the  crew  of  the  leviathan  had  expressed  their  intentions  to  set  sail  from  the  iron  islands  almost  immediately  after  the  royal  missive  had  arrived  on  the  shores  of  pyke,  eager  to  wet  their  blades  and  fill  their  pockets  with  the  pickings  that  could  be  found  along  the  stretch  of  sea  that  led  from  the  islands  to  the  crownlands  but  before  she  could  voice  an  affirmative  to  their  demands,  knowing  that  the  journey  would  take  them  through  the  redwyne  straits  in  the  reach,  which  were  always  bountiful  with  wine  merchants  ferrying  caskets  of  the  sour  grape  from  the  arbor,  she  had  been  called  into  a  meeting  with  asha  greyjoy,  pacing  the  length  of  the  room  as  the  plan  to  form  an  alliance  with  the  north  was  shared.  she  had  never  thought  fondly  of  the  northerners  owing  to  the  disappearance  of  her  elder  sister,  gyda,  some  years  back.  her  ship  had  last  been  seen  at  sea  dragon  point  and  any  letters  inquiring  about  her  whereabouts  with  house  mormont  and  house  glover  had  been  sent  back  without  a  response,  leaving  gysella  to  assume  the  worst  but  in  comparison  to  the  other  greenlanders,  the  northerners  were  worthy  of  a  begrudgingly  respect.

(  she  could  not  help  but  wonder  if  the  plan  to  get  theon  greyjoy  back  in  exchange  for  the  service  of  the  iron  fleet  would  backfire  on  her  lady,  especially  if  the  displaced  prince  had  learned  loyalty  at  the  hands  of  his  captors,  but  if  he  proved  to  be  treacherous  to  house  greyjoy  or  the  ironborn  cause,  gysella  could  just  drown  him  in  the  blackwater  bay  and  cite  foul  play.  the  starks  had  many  enemies  in  the  south  and  it  was  not  unthinkable  or  untrue  to  blame  the  lannisters  for  yet  another  death.  perhaps  asha  would  mourn,  but  better  he  die  a  martyr  at  the  hands  of  a  common  enemy  than  a  traitor  to  the  islands,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  people.  )

by  the  time  she  had  been  allowed  to  set  sail,  any  thought  towards  pillaging  and  looting  the  bounties  of  the  reach  were  far  from  her  mind  and  she  had  set  a  rough  pace  to  the  crownlands,  ignoring  the  complains  of  her  crew  in  the  hopes  of  getting  to  the  capital  before  the  northerners  did.  still,  they  had  arrived  just  a  few  days  prior,  able  to  push  their  horses  quicker  than  she  could  will  the  winds  to  her  sails  and  gysella  was  faced  with  the  conundrum  of  how  to  approach  theon  greyjoy  without  startling  him  off  completely.  she  had  been  complaining  into  the  ear  of  her  first  mate,  the  man  rather  unhelpfully  suggesting  she  corner  him  to  see  if  his  stones  were  still  iron,  when  a  familiar  figure  walked  pass  the  open  tavern  door.  the  similarities  to  his  sister  were  uncanny  and  it  made  him  look  rather  pretty  from  a  distance  ─  rising  from  the  side  of  her  crew  with  a  coin  purse  left  behind  to  keep  their  grumbles  to  a  manageable  level,  she  quickened  her  steps  to  follow  after  him  through  eel  alley,  avoiding  the  grasping  hands  of  beggars  and  thieves  alike.

❝  greyjoy  !  ❞  a  few  heads  turned,  including  the  man  that  she  hailed  and  gysella  caught  up  with  him,  panting  lightly  through  the  grin  that  stretched  across  her  features.  ❝  theon  greyjoy  ?  you  look  like  your  sister.  ❞  a  compliment  or  an  insult  and  much  could  be  said  about  what  he  thought  of  his  family  by  how  he  received  it.  ❝  i  wasn’t  aware  that  the  starks  took  their  prisoners  on  trips  with  them.  ❞  another  little  dig  ─  ironborn  saw  him  as  a  captive  but  the  greenlanders  called  him  a  ward,  as  though  putting  a  sweeter  title  on  the  kidnapping  made  it  any  less  cruel.

[awritingcaitlin]

🔍Find the Word Game🌺

@sentfromwolves tagged me for the words: flare, teeth, blue, sound, hiss so let’s go!

From Siege of Berthingtonn (Rinnie, Killian, Nathaniel and co. Book 2)

FLARE

“So,” she said out loud, dropping the ward. “How does the no-hangover serum work?” Rinnie asked. “I didn’t have the brain capacity to ask last night but I’m curious.”

Mica set the supplies on the counter to pay. “Magic!” she answered with a large grin and a flare of her fingers.

“Come on, you can be more specific,” Rinnie said.

Mica frowned. “I’m not sure, it’s rather complicated…”

“Trust me, I can probably understand it,” Rinnie insisted.

Mica cocked her head to one side, as if surprised someone wanted to know finer details. Then she took a deep breath and launched into an explanation. “Well, hangovers are in part because you poisoned yourself the previous night and the rest dehydration due to your body trying to rid itself of all the poison through your urine and your pores. And while I can’t do anything about the alcohol poisoning per-say, especially because the best cure for that is more fluids and we can’t be watering the drinks down too much or they won’t sell… I can do something about where the alcohol gets processed to mitigate some of the dehydration.”

She stopped there and grinned.

“Well, go on,” Rinnie encouraged.

TEETH

Killian smiled. It was the kind of smile Rinnie immediately hoped she would never see again. It was all teeth and no mirth. Rinnie remembered then that many Timernans also had extra canines. This then, was Killian the predator and he was going to enjoy the hunt.

“The truth, Sergeant,” he said. “Is that you actually have no idea what I am. But I know what you are. You are an old- and burnt-out little shit who wishes he was competent enough to have his boss’s job.”

BLUE

He remembered his mission.

“Where is it?” he asked.

Wordlessly, Adler pointed to the table beside Killian’s bed to his left. Killian’s sword leaned against the table. On the table, neatly stacked, were two guns – one of which Killian recognized. His flasks, belt, and belt pouch were also there, along with a small glass vial with shimmering blue liquid in it. He reached out with his left hand, which was less bandaged, and grabbed the vial. He sighed in relief.  

“Where are we?” he asked.

“We’re in the Schmiedish Embassy in Berthingtonn,” Adler replied. “We crashed into the Crater Sea two-and-a-quarter months ago.”

Killian’s blood ran cold. “What?” he asked, no inflection in the word.

Adler swallowed visibly, then launched into an explanation of what had gone on in the last two-and-change months. Killian had spent more than half of it in a coma. The glorious Queen Riselle had crashed, leaving Killian with a piece of metal in his skull. When he’d woken up, via debatably experimental alchemy, he’d been missing eight years of memories.

SOUND

Disgustingly, even if Rinnie had liked running and was good at it, it became obvious she wouldn’t be able to keep up with the two. They would teleport short-range down hallways as soon as they had clear shots. Bernhard also kept throwing back lightning.

Killian fared best with his long legs and uncanny ability to dodge. Cameron kept taking the lightning and sending it to the ground, or letting it be absorbed by neutralizing shields. Once, she sent it back at Bernhard, only for him to bat it back and give it more juice on the return. She swore as the lightning made it passed her.

Without fully thinking, Rinnie dove forward and gathered it before it could go farther. Once she had ahold of it, however, it was clear she couldn’t control it. Rather than forcing it benignly to the ground, it arced and scattered upwards, rolling over Rinnie before latching onto the light fixtures. They flashed for a second before going dark with little pops for sound.

“Well that didn’t work,” Rinnie grunted. There was enough light coming from further down the hallway that she could still see. Even the humans with their not-as-great vision would be fine.

HISS

Realization dawned as Adler recognized the tigrin as one of the mercenaries who frequented the Tom. This one had been in more than one fight against the Nidtrins, including the one that had landed Adler with a knife wound in his leg.

“You are Schmiedish soldiers, no?” the tigrin asked, chuckling a little. To someone who didn’t know, tigrin laughter didn’t sound like laughter. It sounded like a cross between a pant and a hiss.

“What of it?” Adler asked, resisting the urge to correct him. They were Marines.

“Dere iss irony in situation,” the tigrin continued, still chuckling. “Two Schmiedish soldiers asking former Perinathians to help defend country none of us calls our own.”

Reverse tagging @sentfromwolves, as well as @amayalbooks, @botanistweak, and @pinespittinink and anyone else who wants to do this one! your words are: disappear, back, food, bad, and hope.